Seeping through the cracks, I'm the poison in your bones.
- Digital Daggers
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He found her in the Library. She wasn't reading, just gazing out of the window, almost hidden in a small nook right at the back of the section dedicated to tomes recording the legal minutiae of Wizarding inheritances through the ages – usually guaranteed to be free of people for days on end. It was one of his favourite spots as well, although not the spot they'd shared earlier that term when she'd read his Transfiguration essay and he'd read hers.
He'd enjoyed that.
That had been the night Hermione had fallen asleep in the potions lab and he'd stolen her book. Paradise Lost, he remembered. He still hadn't read it. She'd never been as relaxed around him again.
He sat down opposite her at the small table. She was paler than usual, shadows under her dark eyes. And she was ignoring him, which he hated, still just staring out the window. He studied the soft pink bow of her lips, the sharp curve of her cheekbones, the faint freckles dusting her nose, the way her thick dark hair shone in the dull November light. He wanted to know every inch of her skin, rip it off and look underneath, dive inside her mind and eyes and body and ransack her secrets until she was flayed open beneath him, empty and open and burning hot.
"Why?" she asked eventually, still not looking at him.
He wanted to touch her face, gently push back an unruly strand of hair that had worked its way out of her bun. It was a strange urge and he suppressed it.
"Why what?"
Say it, he thought. Look at me. But didn't, eyes fixed on something in the distance, or on a memory or on nothing at all.
"Hermione. You don't look well. Let me take you out of here."
Then, at last, she did look. The weight of her cool dark eyes was a relief, like a cool glass of water on a July morning. The slid down him, through him. Reassuring in the accusation they held. But she had something else too, that strange look she got whenever he said her first name. He couldn't quite fathom it, but felt he would like to see it again and again.
"No, thank you. I just want to sit here and think," she said quietly and he didn't like that. She wasn't supposed to be so subdued. She was supposed to be crackling fire like she usually was, as she had been the night before.
He might have slightly fucked up the previous night to be honest. The Mudblood dying hadn't exactly been in the plan, though it wasn't necessarily a complete disaster.
"You can walk out or you can suffer the indignity of me levitating you out with a body bind on," he threatened and there was the barest flicker of a smile around her mouth, as though she didn't believe him. Or perhaps she didn't care. She didn't seem scared of him today. Usually she was so tense, as though he were a snake poised to strike – except in those moments she'd got caught up talking to him and lost herself in conversation. Or when she'd dozed off, lashes a dark bow on her cheek - But she always started tense. Today, when she should have been more so than ever she seemed to hardly feel his presence.
Did you do this? she'd asked him, blood still splattered over her, brown eyes burning with a tenderness he couldn't comprehend, as though she really passionately cared that the worthless girl had died. She had walked away answerless, too dazed to notice the cleaning charm he'd cast at her back,
Now she followed him silently, and he led her out of the castle. He didn't know why he wanted to talk to her, really, except that last night she'd walked into the Hall burning brightly, power radiating off her like heat off a bonfire and then it had gone, snuffed out like a candle.
The wind caught her hair up in its grip and he wondered what it felt like. He tried not to wonder what it might feel like to be warmed by the fire that burned inside her.
The lake, he thought. That was a good place to talk, and he turned down towards it but she stopped him.
"This is as far as we're going." Her eyes were brighter now and she'd tensed up. That was better – she looked more like herself.
"In ten feet there's a ledge. We'll sit there."
"Fine."
They sat in silence for a while. The view was as stunning in late autumn as at any other time of year. Perhaps more so. The forest stretched out behind the lake, bleak and unyielding and vast. The distant mountains were blue-purple-grey against the bruised sky. He loved the jagged harshness of the rocks by the lake, the black oblivion of its waters, the endless promise of the trees stretching away into the distance. He loved the space, so different from Muggle London with its dirt and noise, and the bombs that fell from the sky these days, the ghastly sordidness of the Orphanage. He could breathe here; he didn't feel as though he filled up every rancid space with his raging thoughts. It was home, peopleless and vast and beautiful.
He cast a warming charm when she started shivering. It was a good one, blocking out all but the memory of that lashing highland wind. She didn't thank him, but then he'd hardly expected her to.
"I didn't think she'd die. I thought… I thought you'd stop her."
He hadn't meant to say that. But, oddly, he knew he could trust her. She'd known any way; what harm was there in telling her? He could always deny it. There wasn't any proof anyway.
"I should have. But I didn't. Was it worth it?"
He shrugged.
"I don't know yet. You're here, so perhaps it was." He hadn't meant to say that either. Damn the girl.
You are Lord Voldemort. The Heir of Slytherin, he told himself. He definitely hadn't killed a Muggleborn to get someone's attention. It had been a Samhain sacrifice, a clever plot.
"I don't understand. Did you want people to hate me? Because they don't. They should but they don't. They acted like… like nothing happened. Nothing more than a Mudblood causing a drama, best forgotten."
Actually that was exactly why he'd done it, or at least one of the reasons. He'd watched her too often, seen the pity for them in her eyes. She needed to see the truth of this society, away from whatever sheltered haven she'd come from. She had needed to understand that whatever she thought of him, those she surrounded herself with weren't so far removed.
Tom's own introduction to the caste system had been his first night at Hogwarts and it had made the petty cruelties of his childhood seem relatively tame in comparison. The night had left him in no doubt of his place as a Mudblood in Slytherin house, as unbelonging as he'd always been.
He'd shown them though. He'd always known he was special, that he did belong here, and now every single person in that house knew it too.
It still thrilled him. He'd made them all hurt.
"There is very little sympathy in this school for those raised in a Muggle environment. Not that you'd have seen much of that."
"Were you trying to show me that?" she asked. She sounded baffled. Good.
"I was showing you the true colours of those you've placed around you."
People like Marcus Blishwick, who everyone thought so nice, but certainly never spoke to him until he knew Tom was at least a half-blood. Or Abraxas's girl, who was only not a Slytherin because she was too cunning and ambitious to be marked out as cunning. Or that pathetic creature who trailed after Blishwick as though he were a god, playing down the dirt of her own heritage.
But - he'd also wanted to mark Hermione. Poisition her on his side and not that Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore's. So people would wonder, so the other little Mudbloods would know never to invite her into their seductive world, so she'd be safe from the danger of that place with its hatred and war and destruction, its anonymity, its hideous twisted religion, its prissy and unwizarding morality.
"What makes you think I care?"
"I've seen you. I've seen you stop and help them, seen you stare at where they sit and you care. You go out of your way to help them in a thousand tiny ways each week and I've seen you do it, and I've seen other people follow your lead."
It was unfathomable why she stopped to help them. No one had ever – not a kind word for four and a half years for him but she thought nothing of sending Purebloods on their way, defending pathetic Mudblood children who ought to have to learn to defend themselves like everyone else.
To prove they belonged, to change to fit their new world not change their new world to fit them. That's what that idiot Abraxas had shown him, and it was true – this world was different and the hated teachings of his childhood had no place here.
Here, he was free. Here, there was no Hell.
"When I arrived here I wasn't made very welcome. By anyone. Not one single person in the entire Wizarding world did for me what you did for those worthless children."
He glared at the lake, furiously. What was it about this woman that made him want to slash open his soul for her inspection? Why did everything in him say trust her, she will understand. It was so stupid. Trust no one, and survive. That was sensible. He cast a silencing charm just in case he couldn't control anything else and someone was within three hundred yards.
He'd kill anyone else who'd heard him even hint at being pitiable. Hermione offered no pity though. She didn't even look at him, although she was biting her soft, pink lip, and it was actually really rather distracting and why didn't she react like normal people?
"I fail to see how that leads to a girl killing herself during dinner."
"You don't need to."
Unable to bear it any more he got up and left her sitting there, taking the warming charm with him. That had been – well. Not a conversation to dwell on. He needed to torture something, urgently, and get rid of the ridiculous urge to tell her all about his horrible childhood.
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After taking out his not inconsiderable frustration in the Slytherin Common Room - firstly on a fourth year called Montague, who was actually only partially idiotic, and Orion Black because the girl hadn't been supposed to actually die, and he'd been the one to Imperius her, Tom felt much better.
He hadn't told Orion she hadn't been meant to die and that's why he was being tortured, because all his preening Knights had been so pleased to have a proper Samhain sacrifice they'd been more than usually subservient and fearful and that was very pleasing.
He told them to stay out of the dorm, and lay down on his green-draped bed to have a think.
Overall, he wondered if, overall, he'd fucked up or made a success of the night before. Alphard Black's white-faced devastation was a success (Blacks shouldn't fall for Mudbloods, even if he'd never touched her) as well as a subtle warning to his followers.
The lack of investigation was another success. Not that he'd be linked to it in any way but it was curious even Dumbledore hadn't pressed anything.
Tom had been in the Headmaster's office with the teachers and the Head Girl at the end of the night, reporting the state of the students and the professor had simply called it, "A very sad business."
Dippet had asked the house-elves to put a shock treatment draught in the Pumpkin juice the next morning. The Headmaster didn't like upset students or hysteria - he liked a quiet life and he didn't particularly care how he achieved that. It was one of the man's better qualities.
That had been another success because Hermione hadn't had any and he'd seen her confusion at the lack of reaction her peers had had.
The morning was even less clear – he'd walked away from Hermione Dearborn without the upper hand, much to his chagrin.
That said, successes included now even Dumbledore's favourite – his relative (and not the first, Tom had researched him) was marked out forever now (this would follow her, even just in whispers, doubts in the back of people's minds) as a blood supremacist – which actually lent real credence to his rallying cry as well as (incidentally he told himself) marking her as acceptable to those who might otherwise question his interest. In recruiting her.
Or whatever it was he'd do with all that power and intelligence.
And success because he'd seen her look of horror when she'd looked at her friends and an isolated Hermione Dearborn would be very much more malleable…
On the failure side of things he wasn't any closer to her cursed secrets – the question of why she helped Muggleborns – Mudbloods – so especially, why she clearly worried when no one else gave a doxy's breath for the brats – burnt his lips.
Tom's lack of self-control around her was also disturbing. He'd never actually had the urge to kiss anyone before he met her. He'd had it that morning, he'd had it when they were alone in the dungeons more than once and he'd definitely had it last night, both when she'd walked in burning with magic and when her lost brown eyes had stared up at him from her blood spattered face.
He didn't understand it and he hated how it changed him, hated her because he still hadn't got even half a secret out of her…
All in all the death of the girl dying had, he decided, been for the best. Especially because it had made such a wonderful statement – a sacrifice for Samhain as he'd promised his followers although, actually -
He sat up.
Mabel Jefferies had died toasting Samhain. She had killed herself. A blood sacrifice like that should have had some power but he hadn't been able to access it. Perhaps it still counted as murder as she'd been under Orion's Imperius?
It had been beautiful really. Dearborn had just sat there. She'd probably been too confused to react, but to everyone else's eyes she'd just sat – hardly making an expression… And when she had actually reacted everyone had already left.
Overall, yes, a positive. And she'd looked quite beautiful in green.
Distractingly so.
He still couldn't believe he'd wasted her biddable and subdued mood.
And if he missed the fire in her eyes when she looked at him, well, surely that wasn't enough to count against the rest.
No. A good week's work. He opened his diary and began to chronicle it. He'd concentrate on how to undo whatever spell Dearborn had him under later. It wouldn't do to get distracted now.
o
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three weeks later
o
o
"Legilimens!" he hissed.
The girl's mind was so weakly protected he could easily sort through her memories.
"What happened in your duelling session?" he asked and the images came crowding forward.
Hermione, glorious and – no that was early on. She hadn't worn her hair like that for weeks.
"The most recent one, you imbecile."
Claire's mind was mainly filled with images of that drip Blishwick, which turned Tom's stomach, but she was interestingly focused on Dearborn too and he enjoyed the real hatred she felt for the girl.
He'd imperiused her into meeting him in the Room of Hidden Things, and she was knelt before him, dull blue eyes gazing blankly up at him. He was disguised, even so, because you could never be too careful.
Tom liked looking in her mind. She was so weak and ordinary, which reminded him of his own strengths and confirmed that it was his special Slytherin heritage that made him separate from an ordinary half-blood like this one.
Her internalised prejudice against her own mixed blood was quite boring, though. It largely revealed itself as self-loathing for not being pure enough to deserve that utter twat Blishwick. She was all twisted up with jealousy and it made her hate herself. He liked seeing how her negative emotions were wearing down her silly Muggleish morals.
Any self-respecting witch would have taken some sort of action now – Blishwick had treated her rather poorly, even in Tom's eyes. That wasn't interesting so he ignored most of the details, but her inner conflict was oddly fascinating and he'd started reading her mind more and more often.
She had some interesting if ineffective plans to seek revenge on Hermione Dearborn – none of which would work but might be entertaining. Her hatred was pathetically misguided, and he didn't understand why she was angry with the only innocent party but again, he hardly cared.
The point was her jealousy had made her almost as obsessive as him and it gave him a window into Dearborn's life so he could greedily watch her without being seen to.
He told himself he was looking for signs of her secrets – and today in particular he was looking at her duelling prowess.
It wouldn't do for her to beat him.
Hermione's subdued mood hadn't seemed to continue into the week, he'd seen her conversing relatively normally and she'd answered questions in class but he hadn't spoken to her directly since that Sunday.
Almost three weeks had passed since then and the end of term was creeping towards them.
Her dark eyes had met his across the Hall as usual and he thought there had been more hatred than he'd seen for some time, which was an unfortunate side-effect of having to kill someone to get her - to put his plots into place.
He watched the Ravenclaw final duels through Claire's mind. Hermione was a good duellist, if unengaged in the fight, better than he'd expected.
So was Sophia Selwyn, actually, and he wondered if it was time to have a conversation with her about the future.
No – perhaps it was soon for that. But certainly time to offer the hand of friendship. He would see her at New Year, maybe that would be an appropriate time. (He wondered how much it rankled Abraxas to invite him to the Manor and that was a delicious thought).
He hadn't been surprised Hermione had won her duel – he'd known she'd be good. Nor, really, did he need to see her fight. But… he'd been well, avoiding her, mistrusting himself (and perhaps a little embarrassed to be honest because he had revealed a huge gaping part of his frankly miserable time and that wasn't exactly the sort of thing that struck fear into someone or made them do anything but look at you like a lost Hufflepuff so it had definitely been sensible to not speak to her for so long) but that didn't stop his curiosity about her in general, or in particular how his Samhain stunt had affected her.
Very little, it seemed. She still seemed quieter, removed somehow, but nothing much had changed.
He admired her casting for a moment (she'd be even more magnificent if she was casting something more interesting, but she was Dumbledore's little protégée so one couldn't expect anything too fun) before directing the idiot girl's memories to mealtimes.
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Tom is like, so straight up crazy. I love writing him.
Thank you SO VERY MUCH for your lovely, kind words.
