~*~ Three ~*~
Hermione could hardly concentrate on the buzz of the students in the Great Hall around her. Despite the dire situation and the fact that the entire student body was assembling. No, instead of studying potential classmates and evaluating possible allies, all of her effort was being sucked into not looking at the man who sat beside her at the small table adjacent to the staff seating.
After their uneasy truce over their cover story, they'd set to dying Malfoy's hair a less recognizable color. With the help of several herbs and the heating powers of Hermione's wand, Malfoy was utterly transformed. It had been too dangerous to use a glamour; they both knew exactly how perceptive Tom Riddle could be, so dye had been the only option. Working with what they could find in the greenhouse while Dumbledore enticed the current Herbology Professor away, the only option had been dark, midnight dark. And it made for an extreme change.
Hermione snuck a glance at Malfoy out of the corner of her eye, pulse hammering. Where before he had been pale perfection, untouchable marble, now he was darkly striking, ebony brows and midnight strands emphasizing the contours of his face in ways that remade him. She'd always known Malfoy was objectively handsome, had heard Lavender Brown prattle on about how stunning he'd looked in his dress robes at the Yule Ball for years afterward, but his acidic tongue and sneers had kept her from looking twice. Then the stories had started circulating during the war and she'd hardly been able to think of him as human. But now the blonde boy of her memory was erased and only the enticing angles and planes of his symmetric face were left. Quicksilver eyes that had seemed a storm were now brilliant summer clouds in contrast to his darkness.
She swallowed heavily and looked away before Malfoy caught her staring again. Ever since they'd vanished the remnants of the herbs away, her eyes had been drawn to him, to that face that suddenly seemed so full of possibility, that made her heartbeat do impossible things. She knew her reaction was purely physical, that there was no way a handful of crushed herbs had changed him in any fundamental way, but she was helpless to halt the flutter of her pulse. The stark contrast with her memories made clear that this was a man she barely knew, a man who'd lived through a bloody war, a man who perhaps understood just how ravaged her soul had become. It was a naïve thought, born of a need for physical connection she could not understand, a need that had settled deep in the pit of her stomach after Ron passed and never faded. Her nights with Harry had satisfied the craving, eased the ache enough for her to breath, to fight again another day, but now it burned hotly, begging her to consider the unthinkable.
Clearing her throat, she forced herself to survey the gathering students. The house tables were nearly full, the first years just visible beyond the entrance to the great hall. Hermione had avoided looking at the Slytherin table until now, but she knew that wouldn't last. As much as she'd like to find some way to strike Riddle down without ever looking him in the face, she knew that was a child's dream, the hope of the girl who still shied away from the green light at the end of her wand. The girl who thought everything fit in black and white boxes, who believed the world was good and worth saving.
Sighing, Hermione allowed her eyes to trail across the occupants of the Serpent's Den. The platinum head of hair must belong to the Malfoy relative Dumbledore had alluded to, but beyond that Hermione could identify none of the students at the table. None save the boy at the head, his back toward her, as the boys around him hung on every word he spoke.
Her teeth worried her lip, digging in as Riddle suddenly swung to face the front of the hall. Her breath rushed out of her in a startled gasp. A jolt of electricity raced the length of her spine as cobalt eyes, dark as first night caught hers. Whatever misplaced desire Malfoy's transformation had evoked was instantly eclipsed as Tom Riddle devoured her every feature with a hungry stare that promised dark oblivion. If Malfoy now appeared a fallen angel of darkness, Riddle was the lord of night himself. Soft waves of obsidian hair fell just above those intoxicating eyes, framing a strong jaw and high cheekbones, less jagged than Malfoy, more sculpted.
She'd heard he was handsome, charming even. She'd never believed it. How could the monster with silted nostrils and no lips ever have held even the smallest modicum of beauty? She'd been wrong, catastrophically wrong. No one had ever looked at her the way he did now, a dark promise of possession and ecstasy. Nor had she ever felt the roiling of her blood reach a fever pitch as it answered his call. Ron had been sweet and then he'd died and the war had made her hard. Sex with Harry had been cathartic, an answer to the ache in her stomach and the abyss growing in her soul, but never once had she felt like this, like he would consume her, if only she'd let him.
"Get a grip," Malfoy hissed under his breath and she was instantly aware of the flush sweeping across her body, her breath coming in near pants as Riddle continued to stare.
It took nearly all of her self-control to wrench her eyes away from hypnotic cobalt. Malfoy scowled at her as she fought to regain her equilibrium. Looking at him wasn't much better, but at least he wasn't Riddle. "Godric."
Malfoy leaned into her until all she could sense was the bitter smell of herbs in his hair and the hot puff of his breath against her ear. "You look like a bitch in heat, Granger. Pull it together. Now."
His harsh tone helped focus her, pull her out of Riddle's enthralling grasp. Hermione twisted her hands together under the table, nails digging into the tender flesh of her palms. She shook her head, forcing the heat down with the reminder that Riddle was the reason she'd traveled here, risking everything. Because he was a monster and she was going to end him. It didn't matter if he made her feel like a live wire, like she'd just taken her first true breath, because it was her task, her only remaining task in life, to kill him.
"Sorry," she murmured to Malfoy.
Malfoy's lips remained ghosting over her skin. "Make sure it doesn't happen again. Our situation is tenuous enough without you deciding to shag Riddle."
Hermione nodded, pulling away from Malfoy. He retreated to his half of the table, letting bored eyes inspect the crowd. "Have you given any thought as to what Riddle's going to do when you get sorted into Gryffindor? From what I've heard he hates Dumbledore and anyone else in that ghastly house. Not that I can blame him. Red and gold make a distressing combination."
"I'm not getting sorted into Gryffindor."
Malfoy didn't bother to hide the scoff that followed her pronouncement. "And why, pray tell, is that?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It doesn't serve my purpose here. The sorting hat does let one make a choice. Last time for me it was between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Even Harry got to choose between Slytherin and Gryffindor. I'll just choose Ravenclaw this time."
Stormy eyes blinked once, like an owl. "Did I just hear you right? Potter was nearly in Slytherin?"
"He might actually have chosen it if you hadn't been such a prick," Hermione confirmed.
Malfoy stared at her a long moment, as if the idea of Harry Potter in Slytherin had short circuited his brain. "The sorting hat never asked for my opinion."
"That's because you were a short-sighted snot. Although I suppose it would have been funny to watch your face if it had suggested Hufflepuff." To her surprise a wry grin to match her own ghosted across Malfoy's lips, making his sharp angles soften. She looked away. Allowing her inescapable, twisted need to drive her into Harry's arms had been one thing, but neither Malfoy or Riddle was a viable option. They were the enemy and no matter how much she craved connection, that would not change.
Taking a steadying breath, she was reminded off all the things she'd yet to process. The pitch of Harry's body off the ramparts, the knowledge that Voldemort had won, definitely and completely. That her only ally in trying to save a world that didn't deserve saving was a Death Eater she couldn't trust. It was no wonder her control had cracked and only her baser needs remained. It was bad enough to be in the past where every move could save or destroy the future she desperately wanted. But now she was playing a game she hadn't bargained for, a game where the fissures in her soul were gaining control and Tom Riddle's eyes held infinity in their depths.
Headmaster Dippet cleared his throat, pulling her from the dismal reverie. "Before we begin the sorting process for our first-year students, I would like to welcome two special guests to sit beneath the hat. They join us from the war-ravaged continent to finish their schooling in an environment safe from the Muggle war and from the threat of Grindelwald. Please welcome Miss Hermione Gable and Mister Dacian Mallet."
There was tepid applause from the students at the house tables as whispers ricocheted across the hall. Clearly the student body hadn't been expecting additional members. Dumbledore had indicated the prefects and Head Boy and Girl had been briefed along with Dippet, but the word clearly hadn't gotten out. Hermione shifted in her seat, just curbing the urge to look at Malfoy. With the entire hall staring at her it really wouldn't do to look for comfort from her unwilling companion. So instead she looked at Tom Riddle, which was infinitely worse.
His full lips were curved in a knowing smile, a smile that made unmentionable acts flutter behind her lashes, those lips put to more productive uses. Her mouth was bone dry by the time she realized Dippet was calling her name. Malfoy scowled at her as she abruptly rose.
"Never again my arse," he snarked as she brushed past him on her way to the platform with the sorting hat.
She couldn't fault him for the outburst. Not five minutes ago she'd been promising to keep her urges in check when it came to the magnetic hold Riddle seemed to exert over her. And here she was, drooling like some teenage girl again. With exasperation she plopped onto the stool, which wasn't nearly as high as she remembered it. Then again, she was a full grown woman of twenty years now, a far cry from the twelve year old she'd been the last time she sat on this stool a half century later.
Dippet placed the hat on her head with a wan smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The old hat settled into place, rustling quietly.
I know you. She could hear the humor in the voice echoing through her mind. Although, I don't know this you very well at all. It seems a fair amount has happened, or is yet to happen, since we last met. But never mind that, we've a house to find for you. Your thoughts?
Not Gryffindor. That was all she knew. With Riddle's attitude toward Gryffindor, she'd be screwed from the beginning. And she'd already clearly caught his attention. He'd be too interested if the new girl he seemed to have a passing interest in suddenly ended up in the only house he despised.
Well, definitely not Hufflepuff either, dear. You simply don't have the right disposition. So Ravenclaw or Slytherin? You're a smart girl, Miss Granger, but I'm afraid you've crossed too many lines at this point. Your strength is your ambition, not your knowledge.
Hermione's blood ran cold. Whatever heat had been left in the wake of her inappropriate desire was stamped out by the icy tendrils of terror now piercing her every nerve. No. The sorting hat could not possibly be considering placing her in Slytherin. Anything but that.
My decision is final, my dear. You fit in no other house, not anymore. The hat was silent a long moment, as if giving her a chance to prepare herself for its pronouncement. Then it bellowed for all to hear, "Slytherin!"
Hermione's eyes met Malfoy's as she attempted to retrieve her jaw from the floor. This could not possibly be happening. Her knees knocked as she hobbled away from the stool, barely able to cross the distance back to their table. The tempests within his stormy eyes looked like she felt as she collapsed back into her chair. She barely noticed when he rose to take his seat on the stool or when the hat announced another member of Slytherin. All she could hear was the roar of the blood in her temples and the sudden and complete knowledge that she was in over her head, that the rug had been pulled out from under her feet and now there was nothing left to do but fall.