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Eternal love seeps from my pores into your hands. That sounds creepy. Moving on!
When Hermione walked into the Gryffindor common room, there was a bit of an ominous hush, and then people started uneasily talking again. Not to her, though. No one even said hello. She sat by Miranda, who was looking a bit lonely in a red armchair. Miranda frowned and did not greet her.
"Miranda?" said Hermione tentatively, and when the other girl looked over, Hermione was unsettled to see some rarely-surfaced anger in her friend's face. "What is it? Why is everyone giving me these weird looks?"
Miranda sighed and rolled her eyes. "What you're doing, you know – it's a complete insult to Mina's memory," she said.
"What I'm doing?" Hermione said. "What, happening to have feelings for someone?"
"Well, if that someone cast an Unforgivable Curse on her, then yes," replied Miranda stiffly. "I would usually apologize, because I let slip to Godric and Albus that you were healing Riddle, but honestly, I can't bring myself to apologize right now. Mina was right – you don't make any sense at all."
Hermione swallowed the angry words that were threatening to surface. She hadn't known that Tom had cursed Mina, after all. But... but Miranda had just told them? "Why did you say anything?"
"I forgot to take my Rejuvenation Boost, and I went a bit funny in the head, but that's neither here nor there. I'm glad I told them; I don't intend to participate in the secret life of Hermione Granger anymore, not with all this Dark magic and lack of respect for a girl I personally miss very much."
So saying, Miranda sank down in her chair and lifted her book to her face, shutting Hermione out. Hermione's feeble attempts to re-instigate conversation went relatively unnoticed.
So everything was out in the open now. Everyone in Gryffindor knew that Riddle had cursed Mina, although no one seemed to know that Hermione hadn't known that until after everyone else. Everyone in Gryffindor knew that she and Riddle were together. And, apparently, to everyone in Gryffindor, that was a crime punishable by death.
This was so stupid! Hermione wondered how long it would take for them all to cool off.
Hermione walked up to the dormitory. It was cold up there; someone had left open a window. Empty, too, and Hermione suddenly felt like this was exactly where she shouldn't be. The room where she and Mina had stayed up late talking. The room where she'd gotten ready alone for the Christmas Dance. The room that wasn't the same as it had been back on Earth, and did not hold the same comforting connotations, no matter how much she might like to convince herself as such.
She looked out the window. There was someone sitting by the lake, in the snow, a small dark figure alone in a sea of white. Hermione was intensely reminded of herself – a single besmirched figure in a sea of self-righteous dislike.
She needed to get out.
She took out her wand. Accio Nimbus! She didn't feel like going back down those steps, back through that common room. Hermione was infuriated by the whole situation – what did her personal life have to do with any of those people who were giving her judging looks? It was her business. And as far as Hermione could see, she wasn't betraying Mina's memory by having feelings for Tom Riddle. He had happened to have a fit of maladjusted rage, which was entirely anticipated for the Dark Lord, and one single Cruciatus was actually sort of reasonable, by his standards. And then he had spiraled into self-pity, and Mina and Godric had moved on with their lives, put it in the past... so why did it matter so much?
She held out her hand, mourning the loss of logical thought, as the Nimbus 2001 approached the window. The Cruciatus Curse was not okay. It was not all right, and Hermione knew it – but she couldn't bring herself to be angry at the single person who was not angry with her. She slowly got onto the broom, her grip trembling a bit as she looked down a couple hundred feet to the ground. But the broom held her steadily, and she leaned down a bit on the handle, moving away from the bedroom window.
Hermione was still hurting from Godric's duel. The sudden viciousness of the relaxed, friendly boy was unsettling at the least and verging on disturbing at the most. Hermione didn't even know what spell that last one might have been – a temporary Boggart spell? She'd never even heard of something like that – and it was the worst possible spell he could have cast. She'd humiliated herself in front of the entire castle because of that vision of Voldemort, but so help her, the sight of him standing there in the flesh had been entirely too much to handle.
The freezing night air whipped Hermione's hair into a frenzy. She looked down at that figure by the lake and navigated into a shallow dive, landing quietly a few feet from him.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked quietly. "I know I couldn't."
Tom turned his face towards her. He looked striking in the glimmering moonlight. "Just thinking," he said softly. "Would you like to sit down?"
Hermione crunched up to him through the snow and sat down by his side. "Knut for your thoughts?"
Riddle closed his eyes. "I'm having difficulty with the concept of death. It's not pleasant for me to have to admit fear, but I -"
He broke off, not seeming to be able to finish the sentence. "You're scared," Hermione said. He made no move to acknowledge it, but he didn't deny it, either.
"It doesn't seem fair," he said quietly. "All I used to have was the prayer that I might be enjoying a deathless existence on Earth, but I can't enjoy the fact that I've ruined so many lives and killed so many people. In fact, I can't even enjoy the knowledge of my personal benefit, and even disregarding that benefit is strange, for me." He paused and scratched at his jaw absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the snow. "Ever since I first arrived at Hogwarts, it's been me. Everything has been me. And no one else seemed to mind it being all about me. I never got the chance to be treated as an equal, because I was always better than that." He sighed. "I was never treated as a person with faults, because no one ever knew them until it was too late for them, and I didn't grieve over the loss of the opportunity to be treated normally. But now – now I'm – I'm sitting here, and I'm wondering where exactly things turned from... from perhaps simple vanity into idiocy. Into cruelty without a visible point! I mean, Hermione -"
He turned to face her, a lost expression on his face. "I'm renowned as the most evil person ever alive. I'm hated. I'm reviled. And there's nothing I can do about it, of course, but it's unsettling. What happened to my intelligence? When did I start just mindlessly shoving people around without even a thought to coercion? Even back when I was just a Hogwarts student, I was an expert at non-violent manipulation. It's an art. You know, something to be appreciated, learned, refined – and I'm just wondering when I dropped that tack altogether and started killing people left and right."
There was a long pause. Riddle sighed and closed his eyes again. "But there aren't any second chances. Those people I killed are dead forever. Forever. And soon I will be too, if there's only one horcrux left – dead."
The word was hollow and ringing. Hermione swallowed. She hadn't realized all that he was feeling.
"You didn't do any of that," she said quietly.
"What?"
"Tom Riddle," Hermione said, "did you murder Lily and James Potter?"
His dark eyes opened, reflections of the moon glazing them with forgotten light. "Yes," he murmured.
"No, you didn't," replied Hermione. "You hadn't done any of that when you arrived here. You hadn't ordered Albus Dumbledore killed. You hadn't killed –" She broke off, suddenly remembering that he didn't know he'd killed her – but as she said the words, she realized that they were true. This boy, Tom Riddle, hadn't done anything to her. He hadn't done many of his most evil actions yet. In fact, he had done them so little that Hermione had had to show him memories of his future counterpart for him even to know about them. This Tom Riddle and the future Lord Voldemort? Those two people were not quite the same. Just as the Dumbledore on earth and the Dumbledore here were not the same.
"But I've done terrible things," he said. "That's not exactly refutable."
"I know, but you haven't done every terrible thing you've started to blame yourself for. You, yourself – you don't owe me a thing. You don't owe Lily and James Potter a thing. You don't owe Sirius Black anything. You don't owe Albus Dumbledore anything."
The words actually hurt coming out of her throat, because they were so against everything she had maintained so staunchly. A part of her screamed that she was lying, that she shouldn't have been saying the words – but it just wasn't right for him to blame himself for things he'd never done. That burden was massive, and the last thing someone just starting to discover humanity needed was guilt. Though he probably wasn't admitting to himself it was guilt; he would probably want to think he couldn't feel something like that. Life would have been so much easier without guilt.
As she thought the word, a crippling stream of it fought its way through her mind, and she gritted her teeth and shoved it back. Guilt was just a euphemism for an unsaid apology, an apology she was too far gone to make.
He looked unsure about her words. Hesitantly, Hermione reached up and placed a hand on his shoulder, applying gentle pressure, turning him to face her. "Tom, you're in a difficult situation right now."
He let out a breath, which hovered white in the black air. "I know that."
"You can't blame yourself for what you haven't done," she said quietly, "but the only way your soul will ever heal is if you feel remorse. Remorse for what you have done. Remorse for people that you have hurt."
Tom's eyes were inscrutable, but Hermione could tell that he was thinking he could never be apologetic about what he'd done to his father, his grandparents. "I'm not sorry," he murmured. "I will never be sorry for – for that."
Hermione wondered if he knew that she knew exactly what he was talking about. "Maybe you'll surprise yourself. You've surprised me."
A bit of warmth made its way back into his features. His eyes seemed to smile at her as he said, "You're easily surprised."
He leaned forward and kissed her, and every thought streamed away from her mind in hopeless verification of his words. She tipped over backwards with the pressure of his kiss, and he followed her, one gentle hand on the back of her neck as her hair splayed itself out in the packed snow. Coldness flooded into her as she lay flat on her back, looking up at him. He knelt over her, a single snowflake clinging bizarrely to his eyelashes, his straight, serious eyebrows frowned a little in a pained expression of unfamiliar tenderness.
Then he was kissing her again, harder than before, with a sort of hunger behind it, and Hermione felt a greedy want rising in her stomach with a twinge in her chest to accompany it. She reached up her hands, laced them around his neck, and pulled him in, deepening the kiss until she could taste him, breathing in shockingly cold air through her nose which was tinted with the smell of him. His hands rested chastely on her waist. Though her clothes were soaking through with snow, Hermione was perfectly warmed by that fire lighting its way down to her fingertips, a crash of percussive desire thrumming its way out of her heart.
He pulled away, and she sat up, her cheeks pink with cold, her eyes bright. His chest rose and fell lightly, his black sweater soft under her hands, and his lips parted slightly, a small crease between his eyebrows. "Are you cold?" he murmured, and reached out a possessive hand to move her hair back into place.
"A little."
He stood, and then offered her a hand. Taking it, Hermione flicked her wand, sending the Nimbus back to the general area of the Quidditch pitch. They walked back to the castle, stopping every so often to warm themselves with a kiss, and Hermione mourned the loss of Miranda, of Godric. But her jealous heart secretly rejoiced in the arm around her, rejoiced in the touch of his fingertips, and rejoiced every time he managed to make her marvel at his talent for making her forget absolutely everything but him.
It was very late. The hallways were empty, and the pair ambled slowly up to the Head Boy and Head Girl quarters, talking in low voices.
Riddle felt odd about this entire situation. Kissing her felt entirely right, like he was supposed to be doing it, like he was never supposed to pull away. He hadn't even known that could be a feeling that was associated with physical contact. He had only ever used physical things for temporary satisfaction in the past, of course – but whenever he pulled back from Hermione and saw her flushed from kissing him, saw her familiar features lit up with that small smile, he felt satisfaction that was far more than temporary.
Kissing her was like quenching a great thirst, and that thirst seemed to build up every second he was not kissing her, every second he didn't have his arm around her shoulders, every second he was away from her. It was exactly like an addiction. It felt like... it felt like power, felt like when he was casting a particularly difficult piece of magic and reveling in the raw potency of it, felt like the ability to do absolutely everything. And it was incited by this one person, by the hard-won affections of Hermione Granger. It was like conquering the strongest empire in the world. It was like leveling the greatest mountain, like stilling the roughest sea.
Part of him was almost glad that everyone in Gryffindor house was being such a damned idiot about the situation, because it meant she had few other options than him. Of course, Riddle assumed that she would be spending her time with him even if she did have other options, because to think otherwise would just be insulting. Hadn't she always been fascinated by him, anyway? Hadn't she, likely against her better judgment, always come trailing back to him? Surely her attentions weren't something he needed to worry about.
But there was a completely senseless, jealous part of him that felt like every second she was not by his side, she was somewhere she didn't need to be. Riddle attempted to suppress this part of himself, because if she knew about it, she'd probably get unnecessarily affronted and tell him that she could make her own choices in life... but he really didn't like the idea of her having friends if that meant that he saw any less of her than he was seeing now. Especially if said friends were male.
"Why did you leave your dormitory?" he asked.
"I thought it might have been you by the lake," she answered. "Ernest Hemingway."
The door clicked, and Riddle pushed it open. "Any other reason?"
"Well, if you absolutely must know, I felt uncomfortable surrounded by a bunch of Gryffindors who hate me for something that's none of their business."
"Oh." Riddle tapped the knob on his door, and they walked in. The fire was burning low in the hearth, but Hermione flicked her wand and a dry log slid its way onto the grate, picking up the flame quickly. The windows were shut, and reflections of the fire flickered in them gently. There was an intensely calm atmosphere to the neat room.
Hermione threw herself onto the sofa with a tired groan. "I can't believe Miranda," she sighed. "I always thought Miranda would – well, that she wouldn't let things that don't matter get in the way of our friendship."
Riddle leaned over the back of the sofa, surveying her with a smirk. "So I'm a 'thing that doesn't matter'?" he asked coolly, enjoying watching her fumble for a quick defense.
"That's – that's not what I meant, and you know it," she huffed. "It's just that I thought she held more stock in me than letting a boy define who I am. I thought everyone held enough stock in me to know that I'm not defined by a boy, actually."
As Hermione sat up, observing the fire calmly, Riddle came around the front of the sofa and sat next to her. "I wouldn't mind defining you," he murmured, placing an arm around her waist territorially.
"Well, I would mind that immensely," said Hermione. Riddle was not pleased by that sentence. She continued, "I mean, what would you think if everyone in Slytherin just knew you as 'that boy who's with Hermione Granger'?"
Well, that was a reasonable way to put it, Riddle supposed with a bit of a sigh. Hermione carefully put her head on his shoulder, and Riddle felt the sudden urge to kiss the top of her head, but he restrained it.
On second thoughts, he did it anyway. After all, she was his now. She had made it perfectly clear when she had kissed him back for the first time, down in the potions classroom. Physical contact was allowed. Encouraged, probably, given her usual reactions. Riddle allowed a lazy smirk to come over him, and he slouched down on the sofa, sighing contentedly.
"That might irk me," he answered slowly. "So you think I'm 'with' you, then?"
"Well, what's that supposed to mean?" Hermione laughed, but she sounded a bit uneasy.
Riddle shrugged, and she took her head off his shoulder and looked at his dark profile. "I was just wondering if you really think we're... you know, together," said Riddle, and yawned, as if it were the least important question in the world.
He could see her looking a bit mortified out of the corner of his eye, and he restrained a smirk. "I... I mean... you don't?" she said in a small voice.
Riddle turned and looked at her, an amused smile on his lips. "Did I say that?" He really shouldn't even have fallen bait to this topic of conversation, but messing with Hermione Granger was one of the more appreciable pursuits of life, and he wanted to see exactly how much she cared.
A thundercloud seemed to descend over her head. The scowl on her face was utterly comical. "You... are so... infuriating!" she seethed.
"One of the finer aspects of my personality," mused Riddle, and for a second she actually looked like she might hit him.
"I can't deal with your mind games right now." Hermione leaned away from him, slumping onto the arm of the sofa.
He reached over a hand, but she waved it away dejectedly, a moping look of self-pity on her face. Riddle sighed. Waving him away? That would not do. Not at all. "Don't be like that, Hermione," he said, using his best innocent-orphan voice. "You're just so entertaining when your feelings make themselves apparent."
She let out a 'hmph' and didn't look away from the fire.
"Come on," said Riddle, and his tone darkened, a smile entering it. "I can think of far better things you could be doing right now than wallowing."
"Oh really," she mumbled halfheartedly. "Let's hear them, then."
He let his hand trail over to her thigh. "I was thinking more of a demonstration, actually," he murmured, and Hermione looked over at him, a blush darkening her cheeks. There was a long pause, and then,
"Nah," she said disinterestedly, and the blush faded away.
Riddle was horrified by this reaction. What in hell's name? That was not a logical proceeding statement. How could she actually be refusing his advances?
"Well, whyever not?" He moved over on the sofa until his presence was impossible to ignore.
"Just... no." She turned back to him, her bottom lip pouting out a bit. "I just don't feel like it, Tom."
"Why must you be so exasperating?" His face threatened signs of frustration. What was she playing at?
She shrugged and looked at the fire. "I don't know," she sighed. "I guess I just like it when your feelings make themselves apparent." And then Hermione turned back to him, and Merlin, there was a smirk the size of Great Britain on her face, and Riddle grabbed her shoulders and kissed her fiercely, feeling her fight a grin beneath him. Her arms wound around his back, pulling him tight, pulling him close.
He stopped kissing her for a second, brushed her hair back from her face, and murmured in her ear, "I think you very well may be the evil one here."
She whispered, "You'll need quite a bit of work before that happens," and tilted her head back slightly. Riddle's mouth breathed hotly down her neck, until his lips finally pressed warm onto her collarbone. One of her hands wound itself into his hair, pressing him down rather harder than was necessary. He moved his own hands to her hips, lifting her shirt slightly, his thumbs grazing over the smooth skin of her waist.
Hermione tugged at the bottom of his black sweater, lifting it up until he was forced to move back and let her bring it over his head. "Did I ask you to undress me?" he asked.
"Did you tell me not to?" she replied, and threw the sweater carelessly to the rug. She stood up, and Riddle followed, his fingers casually unbuttoning his shirt. Once it hung open loosely, Hermione put her hands on his shoulders a little shyly and removed the shirt from his body. He reached out a hand and unzipped her green jacket, his eyes never leaving hers. "I must say," she said quietly, "I'm glad I fixed your chest."
Riddle slid her jacket off and tossed it onto the couch. "Agreed. Logistically, this would be quite difficult if I were immobile." So saying, he picked her up. She drew in a sharp breath, and he carried her over to his bed, laying her down carefully. He reveled in the sight of her lying on his sheets, expectant, leaving the proverbial ball completely in his court.
He laid himself on the bed next to her. "Well," he sighed, "good night, since you're so... tired." He turned over and laid his head on a pillow. Mentally, he counted to three, and then there was a hand on his bare shoulder, a hand that flipped him over.
"Don't even try that," Hermione said fiercely. "And I swear on Merlin's beard that if you say it's 'just fun to make me mad', or anything to that effect, I will go over there and get my wand and you will become a permanent fixture in the Infirmary décor."
He sat up on one arm. "Don't worry," he murmured, and there was a searing burn in his voice that made Hermione's mouth dry up involuntarily. "For what I was planning, I wouldn't need to say much of anything at all." His smirk was so wide that he flashed his perfect teeth at her, even as her face turned as red as he had ever seen it. He leaned over and kissed her, and as her hands slid their way down his bare chest, he let out an animal noise. Wrapping his arms around her back, he pulled her flush to him until he could feel every curve of her small body against him, and then, and then, Tom Riddle was satisfied.
xXxXxXxXxXx
"What do you mean, it's not Venomous Tentacula?" Hermione seethed.
"Password's changed, darling," the Fat Lady sniffed. "I suppose you shouldn't have stayed out all night, then. Where were you?"
"That is none of your business!" snapped Hermione. The last thing she needed was the damn portraits talking about her. Why had it changed tonight, of all nights, the night she'd decided to stay overnight in the Head Girl room? No one would let her in, that was for sure. Damn, damn, damn!
She stormed down to the Great Hall in a formidable grump, but as she walked in, she was met with another dilemma. Every single person at the Gryffindor table was looking at her like she was the devil incarnate.
Hermione tentatively started to walk towards the end, where no one was sitting, or, specifically, where no one was sitting who was glaring, but something caught her eye. She glanced over to the Slytherin table. Abraxas Malfoy waved her over.
With a feeling that was dangerously close to relief, Hermione made her way over to the Slytherin table. "What is it?" she asked Abraxas. He indicated the seat next to him, and Hermione took it. She repeated, "What is it?"
He shrugged. "I just thought you might like somewhere to sit where no one's looking like they might kill you."
Hermione felt something lurch inside her. Was she really just sitting at the Slytherin table for breakfast, a single person with red-lined robes amid a sea of green?
Well, if that was where the people who considered her a friend were sitting, then she supposed she ought to feel satisfied. Hermione half-shrugged to herself and pulled a plate towards her. Well, fine. If you're going to look at me like that, Godric…
"So, where's Tom?" she asked. He was noticeably absent, although Revelend was to her right and Herpo was across from her.
Abraxas shrugged. "We usually don't question him. Although, seeing as Araminta's missing as well, I'd hazard a guess that he may be under severe harassment."
Hermione's throat seized up. What would Araminta do when she walked in to see Hermione sitting casually across from Araminta's usual spot? She cast a glance over at the door and finished a roll hurriedly. "I forgot Araminta existed," she muttered uneasily. "Maybe I should just -"
But then Araminta flounced through the door, walked over to the Slytherin table, and sat down directly across from Hermione. She said, "Abraxas, I was wondering where the Quidditch team was going to meet after bre-" and then she looked up from her plate, her eyes fell on Hermione, and her jaw just sort of hung open. "I... What are you...?"
Hermione shrugged. "Sorry, Araminta, I know it's not a pleasure to see me, but I'm just relaxing and enjoying breakfast, so I daresay it doesn't merit abuse."
Araminta looked down at her plate with narrowed eyes, as if it had committed a great offense against her. Then she said, "That was very interesting at Dueling Club yesterday, Granger."
Unease spread through Hermione. She didn't feel comfortable talking about the duel, about what had caused the duel, or, if it was Araminta, the time following the duel. "Yes," Hermione agreed. "I daresay it was." Of course, Araminta wouldn't know that it was Voldemort who had appeared in the blue flame – she had seen her own worst fear, not Hermione's.
"What did you do, set fire to Gryffindor's bed?" asked Araminta. They were the first words Hermione had ever heard from the girl that didn't have a distinctly nasty tone of voice. That, of course, didn't mean Hermione was comfortable with them.
"No," sighed Hermione. "Godric took personal offense at something I think it's very unreasonable for him to take offense at."
Araminta raised her thin eyebrows and pulled the bread towards her. "Oh, well, Gryffindor idiocy is always good for a bit of entertainment."
Hermione felt a weird urge to laugh. Even Abraxas was a bit surprised that Araminta wasn't going utterly berserk at Hermione's presence. "To answer your unfinished question, Araminta," Abraxas said jovially, "Quidditch is meeting down the hall on the left to talk over a bit of defense." Araminta's sudden appearance was a bit of an inconvenience, though, because Abraxas had intended to speak with Hermione about something that had been niggling at him quite frequently: Why was she still hanging around with Riddle?
Riddle had told them before he'd gotten cursed that he had what he needed, that he knew what he needed to know, that he had gleaned the necessary information from his target. He had looked so awful as he'd told them, completely untogether, his hair rumpled and his clothes out of order. But these days, he was perfectly composed again, polite and distant in public, dangerous in private, or as far as Abraxas had seen. Abraxas had marveled at Hermione's drive to heal Riddle, after he'd gotten hurt, but though he'd marveled, he had also been deeply disturbed.
How had Riddle gotten that information and left Hermione still wanting to heal him? There had been that weird look in her eyes at the dance, like she was exhausted. She'd said she hadn't talked to him in a week – that had to have been when he'd gotten what he wanted. But when Abraxas had walked in on her healing him... the pair had been talking almost as if they were... well, as if they were friends. In fact, whenever Abraxas had been inside the room, Hermione and Riddle had seemed to be getting along wonderfully.
So Abraxas had just assumed that it was because Riddle was unable to do terrible things to people from his bed, and he'd figured that once the boy was back to his usual self, surely Hermione would stay away out of self-preservation. After all, hadn't he probably done something terrible to her to get what he wanted? What was it that Hermione had known that had sent Riddle spiraling down into disrepair? There were so many questions in Abraxas' brain about the entire situation that he didn't even know where to start.
And now. Now Riddle was awake. And she seemed to be closer to him. And Riddle! Riddle had spoken with Abraxas about helping Hermione get back to her non-invisible state. Tom Riddle had surely never helped anyone in his life besides himself – and the fact that he was doing it in the first place was a sure indicator that there was something else he needed from the girl. But he'd told his followers he had all he needed. What was he doing?
Speak of the devil – up he walked, looking casual, looking perfect, and he sat down in his usual spot, not seeming to have noticed all the stares and whispers that were directed at him. Abraxas almost couldn't believe he'd been so sloppy as to cast Crucio on that Mina girl in the open hallway, where Jared had been able to see him. That was very out of character for Riddle.
When Riddle looked up and saw Hermione, he froze. "Well, hello, there," he said, raising one eyebrow. "Someone's a little out of place today."
"I figured I'd evade the stares," Hermione told him.
"It doesn't seem to be helping," muttered Revelend. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the Gryffindor table – he was right. Her sitting with the Slytherins just seemed to be agitating the situation, although it appeared that Tom was getting just as many looks as she was, if not more. The difference was that he didn't seem to care at all.
"Well, it's better than being in close proximity to them, in any case," she sighed. Revelend nodded in agreement.
Hermione's eyes met Tom's, and she quickly looked away. If the Slytherins didn't know about them just yet, Hermione would prefer that it stayed that way, especially since Araminta was not taking the opportunity to hex her, and that was nice in itself.
But when Hermione looked up again, Araminta's hands were clutching onto Riddle's arm.
And he was doing nothing.
He is doing nothing.
Hermione stared blatantly, but Araminta didn't seem to notice. Hermione felt her ears reddening in anger, felt rage start to simmer in her stomach – and she couldn't think herself out of it. Every logical thought told her that of course Riddle wouldn't shrug Araminta off. After all, he had his oh-so-important image to maintain, and Slytherin house apparently hadn't caught wind of him and Hermione being together, so why would he do anything to remedy that?
After all, she was of inferior birth.
Hermione's teeth clenched involuntarily and she stared murderously at the stack of toast in front of her.
Meanwhile, Abraxas was observing with great interest. Hermione was suddenly fuming. In fact, he didn't think he'd seen her this angry except for once, and that was after Araminta had caught them with his shirt off. Why did she suddenly look like she was about to stab the life from that stack of toast?
Abraxas looked at her eyes. She looked like she was attempting very hard not to look at something – and then her gaze strayed for a heartbeat.
Abraxas glanced across the table. He saw nothing unusual – Araminta was leeching onto Riddle like he was some sort of arm accessory, and Riddle was looking politely disinterested. What was so enraging about that? Abraxas' grey eyes slowly glanced back to Hermione.
Something seemed to slide into place as he examined her expression. It was the expression of the angry, but it was that of the irrationally angry. It was the expression of the jealous.
No, no, no, no, no. Hermione couldn't have romantic feelings for Riddle. That was incredibly dangerous. She was going to get herself hurt, because God knew Riddle couldn't even feel simple friendship, let alone romance, let alone love. And Abraxas wouldn't let Hermione turn into another Araminta, like some sort of brainless succubus whose only purpose was to live on what Riddle said and did. Before Riddle, Araminta had been tolerable. Interesting. She'd had things to say, things to show the world. The same transformation could not happen to Hermione. In fact, the thought made Abraxas angry, and a bit scared.
"Hey, Hermione," he said, "can I talk to you outside for a second?"
Abraxas' voice reminded Hermione of the presence of someone other than Riddle and Araminta. "Sure," she found herself saying. Her eyes stared into Riddle's for a heartbeat, but they weren't giving her anything. It was in public, so his mask was perfectly in place, as usual, not slipping, not betraying any sort of hint as to what the hell he was doing. Rage boiled hot in her stomach even as she followed Abraxas out of the Great Hall. She glanced back at Tom, and now he was looking a bit inquisitive. He cocked one eyebrow, and Hermione's eyes narrowed at him. Then he had the grace to look sort of taken aback.
She and Abraxas walked outside into the snow. "Yes?" she asked.
"I know what's happened," burst out Abraxas.
Hermione frowned. "Uh... what?" But her mind was racing. What did he know? Did he know about the Cruciatus? Was it the kiss in the potions room? Or, worst of all – was it about her past, somehow?
"Well, okay, I have a vague idea as to what's happened," Abraxas said. "I've managed to sort of piece it together, but the bottom line is – it's -"
Hermione examined his look of extreme worry. He ran a hand through his blond hair, his thick eyebrows furrowed in a frown, his grey eyes a bit glazed in discomfort. "What?" she asked gently.
"I know you've fallen for Riddle, and I can't let you do that to yourself."
Hermione stared. "What – how -"
"The way you were looking at him and Araminta, and how you spent so long healing him, and how even after he must have done something to you to – well, that's – but – even after whatever it was that made you... that made you look so uncomfortable at the Christmas Dance, even after that, you're still hanging around him." Abraxas said it all in one big rush, and Hermione was involuntarily impressed, and simultaneously a bit disturbed. What had he been doing, taking tabs on her? She'd never been terribly close to Abraxas – their friendship was almost incidental, hadn't required any sort of work, especially when juxtaposed with hers and Tom's.
But the bottom line? His bottom line? He knew.
He didn't seem to know the whole story, though.
"I... I suppose I shouldn't let you just sit there knowing half the truth, then," Hermione said, her shrewd eyes scrutinizing his face. "Me and Riddle – we're together."
Disbelief spread across his face. "No," he said. "No. That's just what he wants you to -"
"Abraxas," Hermione said firmly, "don't you dare try and tell me you know more than I do about The Secret Motives and Evil Plots of Tom Riddle, because you don't." Then he was speechless, and Hermione gave him a gentle smile. "Look, I know it probably doesn't make much sense, but there are things I can't tell you, and believe me – it's... it's all right."
Abraxas seemed frozen in a sort of stupor, his eyes speaking to his complete disagreement. Then he unfroze a little. "Be careful, Hermione. He's not a good person."
Hermione sighed. "He's working on that," she replied calmly. "We're working on it."
It felt... odd, talking to someone about it, someone who, Hermione felt, could actually borderline understand. She felt like a weight was rising from her shoulders, actually, to have told someone who might get it.
Abraxas still looked puzzled, but then he sighed and his expression cleared slightly. "All right, I guess I know less than I thought I did. But I don't... I don't like it."
Hermione nodded. "That's okay," she told him quietly.
Then the pair walked back into the Great Hall and sat back down.
"What was so urgent?" asked Araminta. Hermione's eyes flew back to Araminta's hands, which were still wrapped around Tom Riddle's bicep –
"Nothing," said Abraxas smoothly. "My wand's just been acting a bit funny, and I thought Hermione might have some sort of idea as to what it was."
"Oh, really? What was wrong with it?" asked Riddle, raising one eyebrow, and Hermione could tell that he had seen right through the lie. She glared into his eyes.
"The handle was just a little out of place," Hermione muttered. "Needed some realignment."
Like your face after we leave breakfast. That feeling invaded again, that feeling like she might actually explode if she had to look at this a second longer.
There was a general scraping clatter as the student population collectively decided breakfast was over. Hermione actually sighed in relief as Araminta's skinny hands dropped Riddle's arm. "Hey, Riddle, I've got to show you something," Hermione said.
"What type of thing?" His dark eyes still didn't show that she was anything other than mildly interesting.
"Something utterly fascinating," she replied caustically, trying to un-grit her teeth with very little success.
"Well, then, by all means," Riddle said dryly, a smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth. Hermione walked out of the Great Hall, and he followed.
Araminta sighed. "I really do feel like Tom's not telling me something about that ."
Abraxas said, "Me too," and looked after their rapidly receding backs with nothing less than blatant suspicion.
They walked around the side of the castle in silence. Then Hermione stopped, looked around, placed her hands on Riddle's chest, and pushed him against the wall, kissing him deeply. He responded a bit hesitantly, and when she broke the kiss, he said, "Was that all?"
Hermione's eyes were angry. He was a bit bewildered. What had gotten her so mad all of a sudden?
"No, Tom, that was not all," Hermione said, "unless you don't count another girl clinging to your arm for the entirety of breakfast as being something of consequence, which – oh, wait! – I do."
Riddle's mouth actually opened a little. He was completely aghast. "Wh-what?"
"Are you serious?" asked Hermione. "You're a smart boy, Tom. Figure it out."
Then his bewilderment changed to understanding as he observed her seething in silence, and he smirked, then, as he looked into her burning hazel eyes, because he suddenly understood exactly what was going on.
"Oh, Hermione," he sighed. "I'd tell you not to be jealous, but it's rather flattering, actually, and feels quite nice, so carry on."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "You have no soul!" she said, without really thinking about it.
"As you know, that is a work in progress."
"I'm not joking around, Tom," Hermione said, her tone positively murderous. "Seeing that – seeing you – like that – it just..." She made a strangled noise, as if kicking something, and leaned against the castle wall, breathing out hotly.
"Araminta Meliflua is nothing to me," Riddle said boredly. "You know that. You understand that. Stop being so -"
"I know! I just – don't try to reason with me, because I still don't quite believe that just happened. And don't tell me to think rationally about it, because I already have, and it's just made me angrier."
Riddle sighed. Girls. "All right. Listen to yourself. You're telling me not to joke around. You're telling me not to tell you to think rationally. You're telling me not to be reasonable. What the hell am I supposed to say to you?"
Hermione stared at him, but did not reply.
"Well, in that case," said Riddle, and he put his hands on the castle wall behind Hermione and kissed her. He was a bit taken back by the ferocity with which she returned the gesture. One of her hands wound his scarf tight around it, pulling down on his neck, and her other arm slid around his back, tugging him tight to her.
He brought his hands to her waist, and then lifted her up. She crossed her legs around his waist, placing both hands on his cheeks as she kissed him furiously, and his arms wrapped around her back tightly, holding her in place. She let her hands slide around to the back of his neck, and the sensitive skin cried out as she rubbed over it. When she broke the kiss, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Do not mess with a jealous girl."
"Evidently," he replied, and let her down, her hands still laced around his neck. His lips hovered just above her ear, his breath ghosting over it whitely in the freezing air. "Don't imply that there's anyone else," he murmured fiercely, and Hermione's mouth opened in shock as his warm lips closed on the edge of her ear. She let out an audible groan and her hands grabbed fistfuls of his green sweater. His lips slowly, torturously dragged their way down her ear, making her completely weak in the knees. She couldn't believe it was her he was doing this to. She couldn't believe she could just kiss him, like she had, and he would not object. She couldn't believe she had him, and he wanted nothing in return. Above all, she couldn't believe how much she wanted him.
His mouth had found the hollow right under her ear, right where the sensitive skin of her neck met her jaw, and she tilted her head, feeling him starkly hot on her cold skin. Then his tongue traced its way down her neck, and she breathed in loudly and embarrassingly, and clutched to him like he was a last lifeline, like he would just vanish, like she would just die, right there in the snow, pressed against –
Uh, pressed against what felt like glass, all of a sudden. What felt like a window.
Riddle looked up. Seven very familiar faces were staring out of the window. He checked Hermione's expression and murmured, "We have an audience." Then he lifted a hand in a wave to the people inside.
Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks were flushed with mortification, among other things. "Why are you waving? Who is it?" she hissed, not wanting to turn around.
"The Slytherin Quidditch team," Riddle said.
There was a second of deoxygenated horror. Hermione considered dropping flat onto the snow and wriggling out of their line of sight.
"Oh, dear Merlin," she whispered, "oh, God." She didn't seem to be able to form a coherent thought. "Tom!"
"What?" he said, looking through the window. He turned his eyes back on her slowly, and then other thoughts gently trickled from her mind. "If you're so jealous for me, then why should you mind if I did this?"
He placed his hands on her shoulders, leaned her back against the window, and pressed his lips to hers, sending hot feeling surging through Hermione. He pulled away, slightly, and his dark eyes were fixed on her as he whispered, "Why should you mind if I did this?"
He bent down, his grip on her shoulders nearly uncomfortably tight, and kissed her neck, painfully gentle, excruciatingly slow, making his way down to the hollow in-between her collarbones. Hermione closed her eyes. Araminta was on the other side of that glass. Herpo was on the other side of that glass. Abraxas was on the other side of that glass.
Even as she thought it, like Tom was reading her mind, he murmured, "By the way, what was that little conversation of yours and Abraxas' about, then?"
He straightened up, looking through the window, his dark eyes fixing on Abraxas, who looked utterly horrified.
"You and me."
Riddle smirked. Abraxas' grey eyes glimmered with alarm.
There was a sort of high-pitched squealing noise. Hermione mused that that was probably Araminta.
"Well, Tom," Hermione said in a hollow voice, "now that you've completely ruined my life, how about we continue this elsewhere?"
He frowned. "I rather like this spot. In particular, I like the view."
"Really." He was moving closer again, and her coherency was suffering. "I think I'd feel more comfortable if -"
"Come on, Hermione," sighed Riddle, "when have I ever liked making you comfortable?"
Then, not just a smirk, but a wicked grin spread across his face, and he slid his hands around her back, and his lips placed themselves by her ear again, where they were getting familiar – and he said, "I'd like them to know – you're mine."
He kissed her, more roughly than he had before, and thoughts of who was watching streamed from his mind as he frowned in satisfaction. Yes. This was right. She wasn't even replying to the entirely possessive words, which was unforeseen. He had expected some sort of fiery protest, but the fact that she made no move at all to counter the statement made sick delight light up in his stomach.
Mine.
He stopped kissing her. She seemed to have slid down the glass several inches, involuntarily.
"You done with your power trip?" she asked wryly, her lips flushed deep pink, her eyes dancing.
Riddle rolled his eyes. "Tom Riddle is never done with his power trip."
Hermione laughed, grabbed his hand, and he allowed her to lead him away from the window – but not before he nodded one last time to Abraxas and the rest of the Quidditch team, who were just standing there, utterly speechless, watching.
xXxXxXxXx
Dinner was as absolutely nightmarish as anticipated. Hermione couldn't remember ever hearing of a Gryffindor being with a Slytherin, and she and Riddle probably seemed like the least likely match in the world. Tall, dark, dangerously attractive, quiet, perfect, Slytherin Tom Riddle, and small, fiery, overzealous, abrasive, unremarkable-looking, Gryffindor Hermione Granger? Not exactly a go-to; not exactly an appropriate match, seemingly.
And the looks from the Slytherin girls. Merlin. Hermione was vividly reminded of the phrase 'if looks could kill' as she scanned their faces. There was probably no hope for a fairly civil Araminta, now. But in fact, Araminta was sitting at the end of the table with Barda and her pretty blonde friend, very carefully not looking at Hermione, which Hermione appreciated. She never thought she would feel gratitude towards Araminta, but she did now, especially given the other (veritably homicidal) looks she was getting.
Hermione slid into Araminta's usual spot, her heart beating a little faster than usual. She couldn't bring herself to meet Abraxas' eyes. In fact, the only person she did seem to be able to look at in the immediate vicinity was Revelend, because he wasn't on the Quidditch team. Kenji Takahashi was to her right, and she was suddenly very, very aware of his presence, as well as that of Eliot Vaisey, diagonally across from her, and Andre Taylor, to Takahashi's right. All these people she barely knew had seen her and Riddle... doing things. The thought was completely humiliating. She cursed her feeble self-control, wishing she had just pushed him away. Great.
Riddle was being his usual nonverbal self, but for once, Abraxas wasn't being a talker. Herpo was quiet and shy, as usual, and the stern Revelend was just sort of looking around, as if praying for escape. The silence was beyond awkward. It was unbearable. It was the type of silence that made one thrash in pure discomfort if they were to watch it occur.
Possibly for the first time ever at dinner, Tom Riddle broke the silence. "So, how was your Quidditch meeting, then?" he asked boredly. Herpo looked relieved beyond all imagining.
"It was pretty good," Herpo replied, his nasal voice unnaturally bright. "I went over some diving maneuvers with Taylor and Kenji."
Takahashi turned a little, ending the conversation he'd been having with Andre and Vaisey. Hermione supposed that when a question was raised by Tom Riddle, an answer was required from everyone in the immediate vicinity. "Yeah," Takahashi said. "The match Saturday's going to be good, I think."
"As long as Vaisey can stay on his damn broom," laughed Andre Taylor.
Vaisey stuck out his chin awkwardly in defiance. "Look, let me explain something to you." Vaisey leaned his tall body back from the table. "Being ordered to hit a Bludger at practice doesn't mean you should aim it into my stomach, Andre."
Herpo chuckled. "It adds to the humor of the situation, though," he said quietly, tucking his stringy black hair behind his ear.
"Shaddup," Vaisey said, and flicked a bit of potato at Herpo, who scowled.
As the conversation progressed, Hermione sighed inwardly in relief. The silence did not return for the rest of dinner, although it seemed to have retreated to hover only around Abraxas, who didn't say a word the entire time.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione had Disillusioned herself, humiliatingly, to sneak her way back into the Gryffindor dormitory to collect a few things – namely, Riddle's letter, which was still under her pillow, and a few books, including a couple from the library and Albus' Runic Spells book. Apparently the new password was "Hungarian Horntail", and Hermione remembered the Triwizard Tournament vividly – Harry's mental hang-up about the Summoning Charm, being pulled out of the lake in Viktor's arms, watching Harry go into that maze, unknowing that he'd be forever changed afterwards...
Riddle, on the other hand, was down in the dungeons, and the conversation he and Abraxas were having was not in the least bit pleasant.
"It's not your business," Riddle hissed, "what my personal life is."
Abraxas' grey eyes were hard. "It is when it's Hermione. She's got no one else. All your plans have completely ruined any chance she had at a normal existence here. She has no friends." He couldn't believe he was finally taking a stand. He couldn't believe he was finally speaking honestly with Tom Riddle – over the safety of a Muggle-born girl.
"She has me." Riddle's wand had suddenly appeared in his hand.
Abraxas let out a sharp laugh. "That's a joke. You don't know how to be friends with someone, not without torturing them into submission – and let me just tell you; that's not friendship. You don't know anything about friendship."
Riddle clenched his wand, but he did nothing. Strangely, he did not feel the urge to do anything. The words that Abraxas were saying were having a weird effect – they hurt. Abraxas had probably never said anything mean in his life; to hear words that could be considered cruel from his lips was appalling. "Hermione knows all about it," Riddle said quietly. "Enough to compensate."
"Don't call her that!" yelled Abraxas, and the words rang around the classroom. Malfoy's eyes were practically vengeful now. "You've never called her anything but Mudblood during our little meetings, and that's not something to be taken lightly!"
"I haven't called her that in a month." Riddle's wand hand trembled a little. "I will never call her that again."
"I don't even know what you're playing at." Abraxas buried a hand in his blond hair. "I don't even know what you're doing. No one does. Why are you doing it? You never do anything unless it's to lie and cheat your way into something you want!"
Then Abraxas was on the ground, screaming in pain, and Riddle's wand shook in his hand. "I am not using her!" Riddle spat.
The curse broke, and he didn't know why. Abraxas sat up, his eyes narrowed, and through his rage he didn't notice exactly how unsettled Tom Riddle looked, how shocked, how pinned.
"You know what, Riddle," said Abraxas fiercely, "the fact is that she's just too good for you."
Riddle's eyes got almost impossibly hard, and he tucked his wand back into his pocket. He gazed at Abraxas with an almost-sadness creeping into his stare, and Abraxas somehow felt his anger draining away. "I know," replied Riddle stiffly.
There was a long, long silence. Abraxas attempted to wrap his mind around the two words, but found that he couldn't. Not when they were from the mouth of Tom Riddle. Not when they were spoken by him.
"This conversation is over," said Riddle, in that same steely tone of voice, and he walked from the room and shut the door behind him.
Abraxas lay his head back on the ground, staring at the ceiling. It seemed nearly impossible that he had been cursed only once – and it couldn't have been for more than five seconds. With all those candid words, well, he had predicted more pain in more quantity than he'd ever imagined, and he'd been prepared for it... but he hadn't been prepared for the truth:
Riddle had changed. However slightly, however subtly, however unapparent it may have been – he'd changed.
xXxXxXxXx
Hermione sat on the Head Girl's bed, looking around. It was a mirror image of Tom's, only she'd changed the bedcurtains to red with gold trimmings, in open defiance of her apparent exile from Gryffindor house. There was a soft knock on her door, and she flicked her wand. It creaked open.
Riddle leaned in the doorframe, looking tired.
"You all right?" asked Hermione tentatively.
He nodded. "Just had an interesting... altercation with Abraxas." Tom walked to the bed, lying down next to Hermione. "Rather disconcerting, actually."
"I hope he wasn't rude," she said in a small voice, because Abraxas' mutinous silence during dinner had definitely spoken towards legitimate mutiny in the future. "You didn't... do anything rash, did you?"
"And what if I did?" Riddle said, his voice dark.
Hermione stared at him. "What did you do?"
Riddle stretched out lazily, looking oddly vulnerable. He didn't meet her eyes.
"What did you do?" Hermione repeated.
"I – just – I just – it's not important what I-"
"I thought we were past this point," Hermione said quietly. "You can't just hurt someone because you feel like it."
"I didn't!" said Riddle, his eyes suddenly hard. "I hurt him because what he said hurt."
And then he flipped over so that his face was buried in Hermione's bed, and she wondered what on earth he meant, even as she leaned down and kissed the back of his neck gently, even as she nestled her nose in his soft, dark hair and kissed the top of his head. Her whisper was light in his ear. "What were you two fighting about?"
"You, of course," his muffled voice said into the bed.
Hermione swallowed. "Well, I don't care what Abraxas said about me."
He lay there, prone, waiting for the words.
"I'm yours."
She didn't care about the nature of the words, found herself not caring about the connotations of them, found herself unable to care at all that they went against everything she'd ever promised herself in a relationship. He was hers, and she was his, and that was that.
He turned over and placed his head in her lap. The look on her face as she gazed down at him – he didn't think he'd ever seen a better look on someone's face. A look of devotion. And Tom Riddle didn't care that maybe, just maybe, that look was on his face, too, not as her nimble fingers brushed his hair back into place for him and moved lightly down his cheek, not as she leaned down and pressed her lips to his, her hair hanging down around them like sweet-smelling curtains, and she drew the actual curtains and they kissed for a while more and were happy.
And that was that.