"Mr. Riddle! Mr. Riddle!" Riddle awoke to the increasingly furious Madam Poole, registering the high pitch of her voice before realizing that his hands were in a bushy mane of hair and he was lying sideways on Hermione's hospital wing bed. Hermione's eyes went from peacefully closed to wide open, and then to even wider open. Riddle finally disentangled himself from the Head Girl and stood facing Madam Poole.
"Madam Poole," her name came out smoothly enough, but the excuse was lacking. He reached to the right and intertwined his hand in Hermione's. "My deepest apologies. I confess that I snuck in last night. I was just so concerned about Hermione; I had to see her, and then I must have fallen asleep," he finished weakly.
"Well," Madam Poole was looking between the two of them suspiciously. "I do remember how distressed you were yesterday about Ms. Prewett's condition. I will look the other way, but I never want to see this behavior again," she said, her voice stern but wavering.
"Thank you, Madam Poole. I greatly appreciate your understanding." Riddle squeezed Hermione's hand and looked at her adoringly for effect. She started back disbelievingly. Madam Poole left them.
"Riddle. Why were you in my bed?" Hermione spoke slowly, but her voice had an edge of hysteria and… fear.
"You have no memory of our conversation last night?" Conversation might be stretching it, admittedly.
"The last thing I remember is Herbology yesterday," Hermione confessed. She looked increasingly distressed. "What did I say?" The question struck Riddle as odd, but he carefully controlled his facial expression.
"Is there something you were worried about saying?"
Hermione glared at him, which only amused him more. "I think I'm supposed to be recovering, so if you could leave me the hell alone, that would be great."
"We are fiery this morning, Hermione. I thought we were friends." Riddle put on a mock-innocent expression that he knew would infuriate her. He was right. "Did I do something to upset you?"
"I don't know, Riddle," Hermione responded through gritted teeth. "Think: Is there anything you have done to me recently that I would find upsetting?" Done to her?
"Are you talking about our conversation after Transfiguration?"
Hermione snorted. "No, Riddle, I am not talking about you assaulting me after I defended you in Transfiguration, though that's just another example." The only other thing I've done is send Abraxas to get information out of her, but she can't know about that. Otherwise, why would she tell him anything?
"I'm not sure I know what you're referring to, then. Care to enlighten me?"
"No, I don't think so," Hermione responded, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Care to leave?"
"As you wish, Hermione. I'll be back with your notes later."
Hermione huffed at that. "There is no need- I'll see you in class."
"Dear Hermione, we both know the effects of Screechsnap on an open wound. I'll give your best to our professors." With that, Riddle left without waiting for Hermione's reply. Unlike their other arguments, this one did not leave Riddle feeling frustrated. Indeed, he felt invigorated.
Hermione had spent the better part of the morning anxiety-ridden about her earlier conversation with Riddle. She immediately went over all of her potions with Madam Pomfrey and their side effects; apparently the one used as an antidote to Screechsnap could cause lower inhibitions and drowsiness. And what would I do if I saw Voldemort with lower inhibitions? Probably yell at him! What if I gave something about the future away? And what if I used his name? What Hermione couldn't work out if how he ended up in her bed if they had gotten into an argument. Maybe to scare me? Send a message? That didn't make much sense, either. If anything, he had seemed genuinely happy to see her. And to make things even stranger, Madam Poole seemed to think Riddle had been concerned about her yesterday. What if he faked concern to spend alone time with me, knowing the effects of the antidote? Her thoughts continued this way for several hours, assembling and dismissing various explanations for the odd state of affairs that had woken her up early that morning.
"Hermione," Lyra's serene voice interrupted her thoughts. The dark-haired witch deftly carried a stack of nearly a dozen books, which she set gracefully on Hermione's bedside table. "I thought you might be getting bored in here."
Hermione smiled, glad to see her friend. "Thanks, Lyra."
Lyra stared out the window in response. Hermione enjoyed the silence while she cracked the spine on one of the texts Lyra had brought and began to read. "Professor Slughorn was asking about you today," Lyra said after a while. "He wanted to know if you were going to his party with slugs on Friday."
"It's not a party with slugs, Lyra," Hermione corrected, amused. "It's just a normal party, really." Lyra looked unconvinced. "Anyway, I suppose I'll have to. I'm determined to be out of here by then and Abraxas already asked me.
"Why are you dating Abraxas when you want to date Riddle?" Lyra asked in the same tone she used to ask homework questions.
"I don't want to date Riddle," Hermione's voice was a tad sharper than she wanted it to be. "What gave you that impression?"
"You did," Lyra responded bluntly.
"Care to elaborate?" Hermione asked, feeling a bit frustrated with Lyra's ability to be straightforward and evasive at the same time.
Lyra shrugged, locking eyes with Hermione. "You're always staring at him. Your expression is a bit like the thestrals when they smell blood."
How romantic. Hermione cocked an eyebrow at that, but it made her think. Did she really look at Riddle with the lust that Lyra was describing? Or was Lyra misinterpreting Hermione's anger? She did think Riddle was attractive, of course. Anyone would with that perfect dark hair, forming circles on his pale forehead with its subtle curl. And his thin but toned arms, with dark blue veins that surface when he's upset. The way his gray eyes crackle when he looks at her sometimes...
Lyra's voice snapped Hermione out of her thoughts. "Just like that expression," Lyra commented with a knowing smile. This is not good...
It was mid-afternoon and after several arguments with Madam Poole, the mediwitch agreed to let her leave the hospital wing early the next morning if her recovery continued as planned, but she couldn't secure an earlier release.
Hermione looked up as someone suddenly yanked her curtains apart. She was surprised to see that it was Riddle, who had apparently discarded his usual grace. The afternoon sun poured through the window behind her, casting harsh shadows on Riddle's face that only highlighted his high cheekbones and the easy curl of his dark hair. Merlin, Hermione, this is Voldemort! Clearly a mixture of exhaustion and the act of finding Riddle in bed next to her this morning had altered her perception of him. And there was also the pesky fact that Hermione had been attracted to Riddle the entire time she had known him.
"Riddle," Hermione greeted him, careful not to betray any emotions. She felt rash and idiotic for yelling at the future Dark Lord to leave this morning, but the conversation had been veering into dangerous territory. She would have to be more careful now, which should be easier as she was no longer in a state of shock.
"Hermione," Riddle responded, dragging out each syllable as though she needed the emphasis to recognize his steadfast use of her given name.
"Please, sit," Hermione gestured to the chair next to her bed, "maybe in the chair instead of on my bed this time," she couldn't help but add.
Riddle smirked at that, gracefully slipping into the designated seat. "I brought you notes," he offered, but made no movement toward his bookbag.
"May I have them?" Hermione asked, determined not to acknowledge his weird behavior.
"Certainly," he replied, handing over copies of his copious notes, written in tidy cursive. Hermione started to look them over. "Don't I get a thank you?"
Hermione shot him a wary look. "Thank you." She took a sip of the tea that Madam Poole had left by her bedside table. "Why were you in my bed last night, Riddle?"
She received a coy smirk in response. "You asked me to sleep next to you," Riddle responded matter-of-factly. Hermione could feel her face grow hot quickly, and Riddle's smile widened with every degree.
"No, I didn't," Hermione's voice came out a bit flustered. She was somewhat less convinced of the truth of her statement after her conversation with Lyra earlier. "I wouldn't," she muttered, more to herself than Riddle, who was still smiling insufferably. She looked up at him, emboldened by his wanton display of amusement. "Did you want to?"
"Yes." Soon those gray eyes were searching her face again, and Hermione knew they likely found desire buried underneath uncertainty and anxiety. When did this happen? How did she not realize she had a huge crush on the future Dark Lord? Why was she not more disturbed by it? Riddle wordlessly laced his fingers through her own, holding her hand for a while silently before leaving in a swirl of robes.
Hermione steadfastly avoided Riddle for the rest of the week. She clearly had feelings for him, but was hoping those would dissipate with distance. It was one thing to fake a relationship with his lackey to get information from him, but she didn't think she could fake one with Riddle. As much as she didn't want to admit it to herself, she knew it would be too real.
It was now Friday night and she was trying to decide what to wear to Slughorn's party. It seemed odd that Riddle sent Abraxas after Hermione when it was looking increasingly likely that Riddle was interested himself, but that still seemed the most likely explanation for the blond's behavior.
She contemplated the odd situation she was in- sandwiched between her late boyfriend's grandfather and future murderer- while she changed into a fetching dark purple dress. It had a sweetheart neckline and hugged her waist before flaring out into a long skirt. It was her favorite dress, and she tried unsuccessfully not to think about what spurred her to wear it tonight.
Once she was dressed, she went out to the common room to wait for Abraxas, not wanting to inspire Riddle's ire once more. It seemed that Riddle had already gone out because even as the hour that Abraxas was supposed to meet her came and passed, the common room was empty of both Slytherins. She waited a full forty minutes past the time Abraxas was supposed to be picking her up before leaving, hearing the click-clack of her heels as she rushed off to the party.
Thoroughly irritated, Hermione stormed into Slughorn's magically expanded office, beelining for the firewhisky and taking two shots almost back to back. She never drank much before she was flung into the past, but something about being dropped into a completely different world made her want to keep pouring, so she did. Hermione quickly realized this was already becoming a repeat of the last Slug Club she attended, only she doubted Abraxas would be propositioning her. "Malfoy stood you up?" Hermione jumped involuntarily and spun around to find herself mere inches away from the increasingly mysterious Head Boy.
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Of course Riddle would be behind it. Abraxas was, after all, acting on Riddle's orders the entire time.
Riddle's face remained entirely expressionless. "Why would I know anything about that? Are you suggesting that I keep tabs on everyone in this school? That I know where those of particular interest to me are all the time?" The last three words came out as a whisper, straddling the line between a promise and a threat that seemed to be home for Riddle.
Hermione voiced her thoughts, tired of a game that she didn't know the rules to. "Are you flirting with me or fucking with me, Riddle?"
"I'm an excellent multitasker," Riddle responded, his expression still slightly bored. He was so close that she could smell his cologne; it smelled like fir trees and vanilla, reminding her strangely of Christmas. "Now if you'll excuse me, Professor Slughorn is waving me over. I don't think it should be difficult for me to find you later." But Hermione wasn't one to wait. She followed Riddle over, too incensed (and frankly a bit too tipsy) to care that he had already slipped into conversation with Professor Slughorn.
"Excuse me for interrupting, but I need to speak with Tom about urgent Head business." Her voice was higher pitched than she would have liked, and "urgent Head business" sounded completely made up, but she didn't care much at the moment. She also realized a moment too late that she had used Tom's- Riddle's- first name.
Slughorn looked exceedingly amused at the interruption. "Of course, don't let me keep you," he said with a chuckle and walked off toward the bar.
Tom also looked amused. "And what is it that you would like to talk to Tom about?" Tom- Riddle! Bloody hell, Voldemort!- let her drag him into the hallway.
Hermione walked and walked, ending up in a deserted corridor, now unsure of what to do with him. Tom smirked and tried to lean forward for a kiss, but she dodged it. He groaned in response.
"What I don't understand is why you are fighting this," Tom's words came out like a snarl. He pushed himself up against the dank dungeon wall that she was leaning against. "You are clearly attracted to me, and most girls in this school would kill to date me."
"Date you?" Hermione repeated aloud. The dark corridor was slightly out of focus.
Tom ignored her, continuing. "Tell me why."
"Dumbledore told me," she blurted out. It was not a good idea to have this conversation drunk, she thought desperately. "I know you opened the Chamber of Secrets. I know you killed that girl. Myrtle." Whatever Tom was expecting, that was clearly not it. His eyes narrowed and flashed red before he broke out in a strange smile. He didn't respond, merely shrugging.
"Did you kill her?" Hermione asked, not sure why. She already knew the answer, after all. Tom's answer was entirely unexpected.
"Does it matter?" Riddle finally responded. Hermione let out a small gasp. Oh Godric, what was she doing here with an unapologetic murderer? "Hermione, you clearly already think I murdered someone and yet you dragged me out here alone. You either trust me or you have a death wish." Merlin, he was right. Why would she drag Voldemort, someone she knew to be a murderer and complete psychopath, into a deserted corridor?
"Well, that's also how I know your feelings on… Mudbloods." Hermione forced herself to spit out the word, to confront Riddle with all of his own hatred right out on the table. She lurched forward as she said the last two syllables like a jaguar jumping for its prey. She didn't even know why she was bothering to have this conversation. She had already admitted she thought him a murderer, and he officially thought she was insane. But there was this small, hopeful part of her- the same part that made her heart beat faster every time she met his piercing gray eyes- that wanted him to reassure her somehow.
"You know, Hermione, for someone so intelligent you can be really thick sometimes."
"Excuse me?" Hermione felt so furious a spark released from the wand she idly held in her right hand.
"I don't care about your blood. I care about you." Those last four words were about the last she would expect to hear from Tom. And to top it off, he sounded so honest, and his gray eyes shone so fiercely she felt they might burn her. He looked a bit unhinged, almost dangerous, but it just made her want to-
As though reading her thoughts, he cut them off with the simple act of raising his long finger to her cheek, tracing her cheekbones, then her jaw, before making her neck tingle with his touch. Tom moved to push her errant locks behind her right ear slowly and sensually, as though he were doing something much more untoward. Without warning, he leaned forward and placed a hot kiss on her neck, his tongue tickling her and his teeth grazing her ever-so-slightly. "Something to think about," he whispered in her ear. As he spoke, his breath tickled the inside of her ear while his lips brushed against her earlobes. Then, Tom backed away abruptly, making her want to grab him and snog him senseless. But he was already gone, robes swishing as he disappeared around the bend of the hallway.