I do not own Tom Riddle

I do not own Hermione

I do own this encounter

Which sadly was naught to be

Chapter 6: Of Rosewater and Parchment

Tom Marvolo Riddle smoothed his hair, patted his robes, and reached for Granger's discarded wand. His hand, transparent and ghostly, passed right through, prompting a quiet curse. This is why he specifically had asked Lucius to place him in a Pureblood's care—Granger's blood was not solvent enough for the diary to resurrect his permanent, corporeal form.

He looked down at the girl, this Hermione Granger, who had confided in him, who had entered the diary, who had performed dark magic at his bidding. His mouth brutally curved into a sneer. While she had given him far more resistance than he had ever planned, she could not deafen dark magic's sweet call. She look tired, pale, drawn, like he did whenever he had exerted himself with darker spells. Her hair was messy and frazzled, her hands clenched in bony white fists.

He needed to consider his options.

What did he want? To open the Chamber, to kill Harry Potter, to kill Albus Dumbledore, to kill all of those who had left the other half of his soul to wander aimlessly for twelve years, to help the other part of him, Lord Voldemort. He could accomplish all of those feats if he had a body, but he needed someone to help him with the resurrection.

Granger? She certainly had been willing enough to cast Imperio, even if it was out of ignorance and revenge for her Mudblood friend. However, Tom Riddle wasn't so confident in his charm as to provoke someone to disembowel herself in a messy blood ritual for a 'homework planner.' But, perhaps he could convince her that him getting a body would be a good thing, and then, he would just have to wait for the diary to do its magic. He might have to kill her posthaste; it wouldn't do to have such a liability wandering around the castle, telling people about the diary, meddling in things that aught not be meddled.

But then again… she could be useful as a pawn. Tom laughed his high, cold laugh. Wouldn't that be one of the greatest turns in history? Harry Potter's best friend: a willing servant of the person who murdered his parents. Hermione Granger: Death Eater in disguise. It would be humiliating to Potter, shameful to Dumbledore, and most of all, sickly hilarious to himself. He would have control over someone who by all means should hate him, despise him. Wouldn't it be a testament to how absolutely powerful Lord Voldemort was if some Mudblood girl wanted to follow his every whim, untouched by the Imperius Curse, untouched by Amortentia, untouched by everything except his mere presence and person.

Hermione Granger could resurrect him. He knew of a spell, one that required only three ingredients: bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy. It was his back-up plan in case the Horcrux was ever put in a tricky situation such as this. The bone of father was easily enough procured—he knew where that filthy Muggle was buried. The flesh of the servant would be Granger herself, finally making herself useful in this game. And then blood of the enemy would be her best friend, forcibly imprisoned and utterly clueless as to what would come to pass.

Tom could not put this idea away. Fate had dealt him this hand and he was going to play it in the most perverse way possible. But first he needed to have a chat with Granger. He needed to make her believe he was her friend. Even though he couldn't use her wand, he still could use the magic of the Horcrux inside of him, and so with a rude kick of magic, he enervated Granger. She blearily moaned something unintelligible and sat up, back turned to him.

He cleared his throat.

When Granger saw him, her eyes became wide. Her eyes flitted to the diary to him to the diary again.

"T-Tom?"

"Yes, Hermione?" he said pleasantly, giving her his "Slughorn" smile, a mix of a smirk and teeth. She didn't blush or stare dreamily or do the things that girls of the 1940s normally did when he shot them that smile, although he did suppose she was a bit young for hormones. She just looked at him blankly, and he could see the gears ticking in the back of her head.

"Why are you out of the planner? How is this possible?" she whispered, more to herself than to Tom.

"Don't you think that your training would be best supplemented by an actual dueling partner?" he said carefully, tapping his long pale fingers against the sides of his crossed arms. Granger looked as if she were going to faint.

"But, you look like a ghost…" Granger said, holding her head and looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Tom held back a sneer.

"Well, if you were a more suitable—how shall I put it?—host?, then we wouldn't even be having this conversation," he said as an aside. A look of puzzlement passed over her face –God, she was such a Gryffindor!—every emotion so easily displayed. Granger stood up gingerly and gripped the edge of one of the sofas, wand in her other hand; her face flitted between curiosity and anger, suppression and anxiety, before landing on determination.

"All right. Well, don't just stand there. Tell me what I'm doing wrong, Tom," she said in a low voice. Tom arched an eyebrow.

"Yes, well. We were on the Imperius Curse, were we not?" he intoned, and walked around Granger, hands held behind his back. "Say you encounter this monster. You will only have a second to process that you are being attacked, so the motion must become second-nature."

She nodded and bit her lip before flicking her wand in the downwards arc and raising it slightly at the end.

"Don't forget the incantation—you are not nearly strong enough to non-verbally cast spells that are Unfor-" he paused and finished smoothly "-seen." He couldn't have the Granger girl know that he was teaching her one of the Unforgivable Curses (the most mildly regarded, but nevertheless).

"May I?" he gestured to her wand and she hesitantly handed it to him. Surprisingly, it did not pass through his hand, although it still felt wrong to hold it. He examined it. Dragon Heartstring and…Vine? What an unusual combination. He still felt that he could not use the wand against the owner for eventual harm, but a practical demonstration was always a good academic exercise.

"Imperio," he said strongly, and a glazed look passed over Granger's face.

-Look at me- Tom commanded, and Granger looked. Her earthy brown eyes were large and dilated, her skin pale and smooth. –Walk over to me- She did in halting steps, futilely trying to resist the curse. –Try to take the wand from my hand- And Tom held it behind his back so that Granger was left trying to grab the wand to no avail. He looked down into her eyes and his mouth cruelly turned upwards in a smile. This was too easy. He could rape her right now and carry her body to the Gryffindor Tower for Potter to find.

But he couldn't. She had to be a willing servant for the resurrection ritual. Plus, he didn't want to sully himself with a Mudblood. But she's young and pure. She clearly didn't know the basics of personal grooming. But she's smart, perhaps even more than yourself. Tom didn't even know if she had combed her hair during the term. Think of the control you could have over her. You could make her into something great. You could turn her from Potter to you. So dirty and impure, Slytherin would roll in his grave if he knew his descendent was twisting his long, pale fingers through the tresses and tendrils of Hermione's hair, breathing in the scent of rose.

He leaned down, one hand touching her cheek lightly. "You are weak, Hermione Granger," he whispered delicately, "If I were a monster, I would have had my way with you by now."

Her body shuddered and she gazed downwards quickly, red tingeing her cheeks as he lifted the curse. She nodded meekly and looked up again. Ah, so maybe not too young for hormones. Tom inwardly smirked. It would only take a matter of time before Hermione Granger would fall in love with him and be willing to cut off her hand just to be able to hold her oh-so-deeply-caring, never-failing lover, Tom. Perhaps within the year. Perhaps even sooner.

"I will not be weak. T-tell me how to be strong."

"My pleasure. Now, try it again."

After an hour, Tom began to fade, and so he returned to the diary. Hermione collapsed onto one of the couches in exhaustion. Flashes of the hour sprang unbidden into her mind. Tom holding her, weaving his hand through her hair. She shook her head violently-Tom lightly touching her hand making the downwards arc of the Imperius- She scrunched her eyes shut-Dangerous. That's what Tom was. Dark.

Hermione felt panicked inside like a trapped animal. She had a monster to find and destroy, a monster that had killed Justin and would kill her and all of the Muggleborns in the school. Harry, her best friend in the world, wasn't telling her that his scar was hurting. Ron only talked with her to point out her faults. Hagrid was apparently the one responsible. Justin was dead. His parents would come and pick up their son's body today. Hermione curled her body into a ball and felt incredibly and completely alone.

You have Tom. However, Hermione didn't know if Tom could be 'had.' The first thing he had ever told her was that he was not the possession of Hermione Granger, and the planner felt more and more dark with each passing day. The Imperius Curse felt like what Hermione imagined severe muggle drugs like cocaine to be -he smelled of parchment, she had always loved the smell of parchment- She clenched her fists with a spasm. She couldn't believe herself. Of course the first boy she is severely physically attracted to is from a book.

The first time Hermione had seen him in the yearbook, she noticed he was attractive. Dark hair, pale unblemished skin, high cheekbones, defined jaw, perfectly symmetrical and proportioned—she was evolutionarily bound to find him handsome, and Hermione did have a weakness for mere looks (she shuddered at her previous Lockhart infatuation.) Nevertheless, Hermione also prided herself on being a level-headed girl with her priorities straight: books before boys and brains before beauty.

No, it was the fact that Tom knew things. His words were whispered with power behind them, cherry-picked into beautifully pronounced sentences. She could let her self-conscious monologue fall silent—she didn't have to explain things over and over to Tom like to Harry and Ron and everyone else she had ever met. And the way he stared at her… it was like she was the most interesting person alive.

But he was dark. He was dangerous, and Hermione did not know what would come next after him leaving the planner. Would he permanently leave? More importantly, how did Tom know so much about dark magic, and why was there no trace of him past his Hogwarts years?

How long could she keep him a secret?

Hermione stepped outside of the Room and headed towards the dungeons for Potions. Tomorrow, she would ask Tom where she should go to kill the monster. And after that was done, if she still lived, she would find out Tom Riddle's true story –and you'll make him yours. No, she will destroy him as well if he was as dark as she thought –he'll teach you everything he knows. She stomped her foot in anger. She was a good person, and no matter how attractive, powerful, or brilliant Tom Riddle was, she would never compromise her morals to impress a mere boy.

Hermione stopped in her reverie, and looked around the Entrance Hall confusedly. She had sworn that she had heard something…but apparently it was just the stress of the past few days as a high, cold laugh drifted through her senses.

Author's Note: At this point, Hermione is thirteen years old and Tom is sixteen. I think the argument is very strong for Hermione to be physically attracted to Tom—she has a crush on Lockhart in CoS who is only worthy because of his looks. Tom, on the other hand, is canonically incapable of love of another human being, but not of ideas. He can love the idea of being in control, of power, of being special. It's a very narcissistic love, but of course, Hermione doesn't know that when he looks at her like she's fascinating it's because he finds himself as such.

Anyway, next chapter: Tom finds a way to keep Hermione reliant on him. Harry and Ron confront Hermione. Dumbledore grows suspicious.

As always, if you feel that my writing has become horribly out-of-character or that I'm making this too much like Humbert Humbert and Lolita, just let me know!