Good evening. Nothing says professorial procrastination like writing, and you were all so kind in your reviews. Relatela, leave it to you to be thinking ahead to the Christmas break! We shall see!
Do let me know what you think. It's a bit longer because there is a lot to be gleaned from Slughorn's little party... ;)
A week later as Hermione was getting dressed for Slughorn's Christmas party, her roommates' assertions played on an endless loop in her head. Shake it off, Hermione. You have an evening with Lord Voldemort to get through. When she came out of the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror, though, Hermione wondered if she would be able to do this. Sophie fussed over her hair, securing a curl that threatened to escape the half she had pinned up, and she had to threaten Olivia with a hex to keep her from changing her make-up. She had a glamour quite firmly fixed over her scar on her forearm, and she hoped that wearing a dress with three quarter sleeves wasn't a mistake. Lots of girls used glamours over small imperfections, so it wasn't like it was suspicious. She didn't have time to fret about it, however, because Sophie cried, "It's time! Tom is here!"
Olivia and Sophie's excited chatter and exclamations over the dress became bothersome noise when they accompanied her down the stairs to the Ravenclaw common room, where Tom was waiting in a very elegant set of dress robes, looking supremely handsome and cool as usual. When he looked at her and met her eyes, however, for the first time she saw something that made her hot and cold all at once—Tom Riddle was looking at her with lust. The nascent Lord Voldemort was attracted to her.
"You look stunning," Tom said, kissing her hand politely before tucking her arm into his own. Had his lips lingered a second longer than necessary? Hermione wasn't sure. She felt butterflies in her stomach still from the way he had looked at her.
"You look wonderful together!" Olivia gushed, and Hermione noticed that they were attracting interested stares from the mixed populace of the common room.
"Let's go," she said to Tom, and he was only too ready to remove them from her housemates' scrutiny.
"Is that the dress you purchased in Hogsmeade in September?" Tom inquired politely as he tucked her arm in his.
"Yes, it is. I'm surprised you remember it," Hermione said, uncertain whether she should be complimented or terrified by this new twist to the Dark Lord's interest in her. Probably both, she decided.
"I remember everything about you, Hermione," he said, and for the first time she realized he truly meant it, it wasn't just some empty compliment to try and flatter her.
Terrified. Definitely terrified. She was able to breathe a little easier as they joined a small trickle of other couples heading toward Slughorn's party.
"Here we are," Tom said, nodding to the hapless fifth year Slytherin prefect who had been pressed into service by Slughorn as a butler of sorts, vetting the entrants to his little party.
"It's beautiful," Hermione said as they walked into the lavishly decorated room. Christmas trees bedecked with jeweled birds and all sorts of creatures frolicking in their branches were being lightly dusted with magical snow that melted before it hit the floor. A giant ice sculpture of a swan rested on the drinks table, occasionally preening its feathers and causing a spray of frost to sprinkle over the table. Charmed fountains poured champagne punch and fizzy juices, and the students dressed in their holiday best mingled around the room, adding another layer of colour and scent.
"It's good charm work," Tom said, aware of a few envious looks thrown at Hermione from a few jealous girls as his eyes scanned the room. "You are the loveliest witch here. I do not understand why some women cannot ascertain the best colors for their skin tone."
"Thank you," Hermione said, suddenly nervous. He had never complimented her appearance before, and he had done so twice already tonight. Tom could feel it in the way her fingers clenched just briefly on his forearm, and inwardly he smiled to himself. So she was aware that he was physically interested in her at last. Excellent.
"Well, well, well!" Slughorn was moving purposefully toward them, his booming voice drawing even more attention in their direction than had previously been theirs. "You two look remarkable together! Yes, quite the power couple! I'm delighted to see you here together, good work Tom, eh? Snatch up the cleverest witch, good thinking my boy!"
"I thought so sir," Tom replied modestly, stealing a glance at Hermione. "And the most beautiful, too."
"Now I know you're lying," Hermione interjected, incredulous about his behavior and cursing herself for being tempted by such superbly delivered lies.
"Nonsense, Miss Girard! And quite clever of you to snag Mr. Riddle here! Yes, many girls have set their cap at him, but I'd say he was waiting for a worthy match, hmm? Well, I have to go greet other guests, but do enjoy the party—I have a few guests to introduce to you two later, so don't sneak off too early!" He wagged a finger at Tom in a knowing manner, and Hermione mentally cringed at the implicit permission Slughorn was giving Tom to find a deserted classroom and paw her later. Ugh!
"Would you like an appetizer, or would you prefer to socialize for a bit?" He was watching her, and surely his keen dark eyes were missing nothing.
Hermione couldn't have eaten anything at that moment if she tried, so she said, "Chat," and allowed Tom to lead her to Abraxas Malfoy, who had brought a witch other than Druella as his date, she noticed.
"Allow me to introduce my date, Miss Eugenia Pimsfolme," Abraxas said, and the elegant blonde accepted Tom's perfunctory kiss and politely nodded to Hermione. The resemblance to Lucius was keen, especially the nose—or, rather, Lucius bore a resemblance to this woman, who was surely going to be his mother.
Bingo, Hermione thought to herself. Tom didn't miss the tiny upturn at the corner of her mouth, and he shot her a knowing look. Damn it, he is too perceptive, and Hermione found herself once again off balance.
"This is Miss Hermione Girard," Tom said smoothly, and Hermione nodded in turn to the witch, a Hufflepuff whom she hadn't seen before. They conversed politely about trivial subjects until Abraxas drifted away with the icy blonde on his arm, leaving Tom and Hermione alone again. Hermione darted a glance at Phineas and Augusta, but she could tell that Tom had no intention of letting her near her housemates. Herecles was probably here somewhere too, but that was one meeting she was keen to avoid. She didn't need to bring more of Tom's attention to Herecles' desire to be a buffer between herself and Tom.
"That was quite an interesting essay about the rights of magical creatures, Hermione," Tom remarked just as Hermione took a sip of her mulled wine. She nearly spat it out in shock, which was doubtless what he had intended.
"How have you seen my paper?" Hermione asked.
"Oh, as it happened I wrote my essay on the same subject. Professor Cavallo thought I would be interested in some of your points, so he allowed me to read it."
Hermione tilted her head to the side and studied him with more than a degree of caution. "And do you suppose he will let me read your essay in turn? Quid pro quo, you know."
"I would be more than happy for you to read my essay, Hermione," he said smoothly. "I am largely in agreement with you, as it happens. I, too, think it is disgraceful how other magical beings are treated by the Ministry. It is an injustice of the highest order that magical beings such as goblins and werewolves are forbidden from doing certain kinds of magic, or condemned to the outskirts of our society. Rather smacks of hypocrisy, wouldn't you say?"
Hermione's mind was tumbling over itself. Of course he had actively recruited other magical species, but she had not considered that this approach may have sprung from a similar point of view. In his case, she doubted he was motivated by altruism, merely the idea of exploiting another societal weakness to his own ends. Still, it troubled her that her mind could in any way think of something along a similar vein as Lord Voldemort. Thus, she was exceptionally cautious in her reply.
"I think there is a better place for them in the magical community, certainly. There are certain prejudices which are unfairly applied to many in the magical community to preserve the status quo, including that of Muggle-born witches and wizards."
Tom's reply was cool even if he did arch a brow at that. "Perhaps so." Such a spitfire…delightful.
It was then that dinner was served, at which time Hermione realized that Slughorn had placecards set out, and had allocated the tables quite precisely. Hermione and Tom were at the same table as Slughorn, naturally, along with some important guests that he wanted Tom specifically to meet. Being the dutiful Head Boy, Tom promptly engaged the wizards in conversation, leaving Hermione to fend for herself with the dinnertime conversations.
Hermione found it easy to talk to the other witch at the table, a Healer from St. Mungo's by the name of Miriam Strout. She was relatively young, but had already risen through the ranks at the hospital, proving that Slughorn had a good eye for talent. Tom spent most of the meal talking to a senior wizard from the Ministry, as well as a wizard from a large book publisher. As was typical for the era, the invited wizards mostly ignored her, but Tom drew her into their conversations once or twice. Inevitably the conversation drifted back, but this was not disappointing to Hermione. She found Miriam to be even more interesting when she discussed her interest in long term spell damage and novel methods for attempting to reverse it.
"So have you found that a combined potions/spells approach is beneficial?" Hermione asked, and she knew Tom was listening in during a lull in his conversations with the other wizards, Slughorn feeling it necessary to monopolize the conversation occasionally.
"Yes, it is quite promising. Of course there is quite a bit more work in ascertaining whether elements of the spell or potion will work against one another, but with a strong enough background in both subjects and magical theory it becomes quite beautiful magic." The witch smiled at Hermione, then added, "Have you considered what you want to do when you graduate, Miss Girard? You seem to have an alacrity for several subjects."
"I have not considered it fully, but I am interested in Potions, and Healing, and possibly Spellmaking. I might pursue a mastery in one of those subjects," Hermione said truthfully. She had only occasionally thought about what she would do for a career, but now it was completely muddy. Even if she was here long enough to complete her seventh year, what would her NEWTs say? Member of the class of 1945? And that was assuming that the man beside her didn't get his way and impose the exile of Muggleborns or worse. The outcome of the final battle had seemed good, but then everything had gone dark and she couldn't be sure what happened. It was just another dark question mark over her future.
"Yes, very wise," Miriam remarked. "It takes time to find your feet after you graduate. Too many witches rush to get married these days, and they could be quite productive in a career first."
"How do you feel about the current practices which restrict what a married witch may do, career-wise?" Tom interjected, his tone politely interested. His expression and eyes were a mask, and Hermione had no idea what he was getting at, bumping into the conversation.
"It's unfortunate that old prejudices persist, but a married witch is less likely to be promoted, and certainly our society expects her to raise her children," Miriam said matter of factly, then addressed Hermione, "But not to worry, dear, career hiatuses to see one's children off to Hogwarts are not uncommon in some fields. I daresay within the next fifty years they will not even be frowned upon!"
Hermione bit back her instinctive response to this type of inequity and made herself murmur politely, "Of course." Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Tom's mouth turn up minutely at the corner for a brief moment, but when she turned her head to look at him he had picked up his wineglass to finish off the last of it with an elegant flourish.
She was relieved that the dinner was over and the guests were free to once again mingle, dessert being a buffet style assortment of small bites. The Healer excused herself and Hermione sought refuge at the drinks table, leaving Tom to fend for himself as the wizard to his left once again engaged him in conversation at the dinner table. She felt terribly uncertain of herself. Up to this point the evening had been very pleasant. Her eyes flicked to Tom, who met her gaze briefly before returning his attention politely to the older wizard next to him. If she hadn't brought a whole history of a bitter, dirty war instigated by the man that boy was becoming, she would have put it as one of the most pleasant dates she'd ever had. And this jarring dichotomy was driving her mad—how could she even enjoy his company at all? And yet sometimes she did! She knew it was so wrong, and at that moment it seemed that the only answer was to run away, just get away from him for good and forget about trying to go back home.
"Having a good time?" Tom asked quietly in her ear, his proximity setting off all kinds of alarms.
"Of course," Hermione replied automatically, setting down her cup of coffee with what she hoped was a casual manner to disguise the sudden sense of impending disaster from how closely he stood behind her.
"I rather got the impression that you were not," Tom said, slipping her hand easily into his own as he caught sight of Herecles Potter attempting to make his way over to them, and being obstructed in that quest by Abraxas. "We could leave if you like."
Hermione's pulse skyrocketed, a flush suffusing her cheeks. "No, I'm fine—"
"What is this?" Tom asked, his fingers skipping up her forearm. "You have a glamour on here—why?"
"It's nothing," she said, trying, but failing, to keep a hint of defensiveness out of her voice.
Tom's voice deepened knowingly. "Oh, I think not, Hermione. Come."
There was nothing she could do without making a scene, and even that would doubtless fall in his favor. His grip on her hand was tight, and Hermione found herself saying good evening to Slughorn near the door, her professor giving them a knowing wink. God, it was mortifying! Tom pulled her along surely, the destination he had in mind nearby but quite well concealed, so even if that nuisance Potter pursued them, he would not be able to find them.
"Here we are," he said, pulling her through a passageway that gave out close to the Heads quarters. It would be deserted at this time of night, and it gave him options for the conclusion of their date.
"Where are we?" Hermione asked, resolved not to be afraid. He hadn't cursed her the last time they were alone together. The rational part of her brain said that wasn't the only way he could hurt her, but that just made her pulse jump crazily.
"Near the Heads' quarters," Tom said. "We won't be disturbed here…now, about that glamour, Hermione—" he grabbed her arm so quickly that she flinched, then tried to pull away from him. It was too late, however, his murmured "Revelio" showing the ugly word marring her skin. He looked at it closely, tracing a fingertip over one of the letters, the gentleness of his touch stunning her into silence, inaction. Finally he raised his head to look at her, his eyes blazing with a myriad of emotions, including cool calculation.
"How did you get this?"
"You don't need to know that," Hermione began, but she felt his magic swell, the air around them becoming ink black, magic swirling through her hair, practically climbing up her nostrils.
"How?" he insisted. "Tell me or I will find out myself, Occlumency or not."
"Please, Tom," Hermione said, tears welling up suddenly in her eyes. "I can't tell you."
"You WON'T tell me," he said, placing his other hand at her elbow and stroking his fingers down, gently but insistently. "But that is not necessary—because Dark magic speaks to itself, Hermione. Watch and learn."
His tone was intent, and Hermione felt his magic shift, probing and pushing at the scars on her arm. The scars began to heat up, and Hermione tried to wrench her arm away from him, but he was relentless.
"Don't," he said warningly, his eyes darting up to hers, then flicking back to the scars, his fingers moving swiftly now, pushing around the residual magic there, wordlessly casting a cooling charm on her skin before it began to blister. "It was a woman…a bit unhinged…skilled with Dark magic…she was questioning you about something."
"No!" Hermione cried, making a final attempt to wrench her arm away, but Tom was prepared for that, held tight as his fingers pulled the ebbs of Dark magic forth. "Her name was—Bellatrix Lestrange."
He let her pull her arm away, watched her carefully as she turned away from him, her arms clasped around her waist. "Who was she?"
"It doesn't matter. She's dead now," Hermione said, her voice clear and strong. She was proud of that, that she could remember that day, those hours, and not crumple, even in front of the man who had directly caused it.
"I could heal that," Tom said, from close behind her, too close.
"No," Hermione said sharply, turning her head to the side quickly. "It's a good reminder. A reminder that only fools think blood status matters more than magical ability. She's dead and I'm not."
The words were out of her mouth before she could edit them, think about who she was talking to. But she couldn't regret them, their bitter truth needing to be heard.
Tom was struck by the vehemence of her words. If he didn't know that he had sent her back himself, he would have been furious, a curse the requisite response. But if he was correct, this witch was a failsafe, designed to make him rethink at least one key thing. Perhaps this was it. On the one hand, it angered him, the antithesis of everything he was convinced of concerning the distinctions between Muggle and wizarding society. He had suspected her to be a mudblood, and here was the proof.
On the other hand, he knew she was from the future, a future where this skilled Dark witch had met her end, and this mudblood Muggleborn had not. Hermione had just drawn the distinction with a sharp knife edge, and he would be a fool to not pay attention no matter his natural inclinations. He decided to probe her further.
"And would you toss out centuries of wizarding tradition? Tradition which has protected the wizarding world from the Muggle one, which is even now enmired in a conflict designed to destroy as much as possible without regard to the future?" Tom's voice was even, almost deadpan, but he deeply wanted to hear what she had to say.
Hermione considered her answer. At this point she was as confident as she ever could be that he wasn't going to curse her now, his aims softer but no less devastating. Maybe he needed this, to hear a viewpoint contrary to his own coming from someone who was a peer and not an authority figure attempting to impose it on him. Her own position could not be much worse, and perhaps it would make him angry enough to forget about whatever plans he had for her, to move away from what increasingly seemed like extremely acquisitive behaviors…or to quit playing with her and dispose of her.
"Of course not," Hermione said over her shoulder. "But neither should wizarding society ignore the value of fresh blood, bringing new life to the magical community, keeping it from withering and dying. Weakness is produced from inbreeding, from not valuing or protecting the right things. Look at the hidden Squibs of pureblood families, if you dare."
"The pureblood families don't have so many Squibs that they hide them," Tom scoffed, then tilted his head, studying her. "It's more likely that mudbloods steal magic from those poor purebloods."
She turned at this, suddenly incensed at this wizard, this man, who caused so much suffering because of a racist and outdated ideology. Her tone was bitter and vehement, the suffering she'd been through pouring out uncontrollably from her mouth.
"You've said it yourself—magic is magic, Tom. How the hell would you think a baby could steal magic from a pureblood? Hasn't it occurred to you that it's a trait, like hair color or eye color? One which rolls around in our DNA, expressing itself even occasionally in non-magical families? I know you're not that thick to seriously believe that!"
He did get angry at this, his magic buffeting against hers like an angry sea. He pressed her against the wall, hard, his angry expression matching the way his magic was attacking hers. Hermione held firm, however, her natural gift of stability balancing her magic and her body against his unspoken assault.
"What the hell would you know about it, Hermione? You're just a mudblood, a piece of filth like the rest of them."
"If you really thought that you wouldn't be interested in me!" she tossed back. "You know I am a better witch than most purebloods at this school, or anywhere! I don't fit your narrow worldview, and it drives you crazy. Well maybe, Tom Riddle, you are wrong. You should be judging on the basis of talent, not a family history, however rich, which can be rendered worthless by incompetence and sheer lack of ability!"
His eyes were narrowed and the magic roiling the air around them both was by no means peaceable or quiet. Hermione pushed back with her own magic when his sought to punish, intrude, conquer. She was smart enough to know she could never overcome him if she tried to attack, but she would defend herself against his intrusion. It was a wandless, wordless struggle, his hands firm on her arms, her own clenched tightly on his forearms. Again Tom was faced with a choice: he could win, but at the risk of damaging her.
"You're so stubborn!" Tom said with a hiss of irritation, suddenly breaking free from her and turning away in the tight corridor. Hermione kept her Occlumency up, keeping herself centered in case he turned back to attack again. Tom forced himself to calm down. He wasn't used to people not submitting to his will, his authority.
"So you're saying power should come before blood in the wizarding world."
He forced himself to say it slowly, rolling the idea around in his mind, forcing his natural anger back to try and at least consider the idea. What the hell does she know, anyway? She has no idea what my life has been like, how Muggles have treated me my whole life! They are dirt, not even worth considering, and here she is, saying that those born of them are worthy of my time! Yet he could not reconcile that notion with her. She was fascinating, and she was a fucking mudblood!
Hermione heard the anger that he was working hard to suppress in his voice, and it tempered her own more quickly than anything else could have done. She couldn't let the subject drop, it was too important; but her tone was more even when she answered him, her words more carefully considered.
"Why does it even matter? You're either magical or you're not. You're a part of one world or the other. The difficulty lies in integrating Muggleborns into the wizarding world earlier, not in their very existence."
Her words hung in the air in the potent silence that fell between them. Hermione wasn't sure what he was going to do, but she had made her stand and she wasn't going to retreat from it.
He turned away from her, lost in his thoughts, so Hermione held her breath and started inching away. She watched him the way you'd watch a panther about to spring, sure that she wouldn't escape his anger unless she tried to leave now. Perhaps he was distracted enough that she could retreat from the field of battle unscathed. She had moved a full ten feet away now, inching backward, and still he had yet to notice her departure.
Several streams of thought were now running through Tom's mind, but he needed to think again about what she had said, what the scar revealed about her. She was a fighter, clearly—here was more evidence, as if he had needed it. And she was brave, almost to the point of foolhardiness. No one else would dare to say anything like that to him, and even though he had never discussed his beliefs with her, it was laughable to think she didn't know what his views were. The fact that she still spoke her mind and disagreed with him was incredible. He was not suffering from any sort of delusion that he would weaken in power in the future, so she must know what he was like! And still she dared!
Tom forced his mind to move past that point of incredulity and get back to the practicalities of the situation. He had time with this witch. Most crucial at the present moment was the fact that the presence of someone else's Dark Magic in her was going to interfere with his plans. Therefore, he had to remove it with or without her consent. The rest he could consider in private, and plan his next moves. He turned to see that she was quietly but quickly walking away, nearly to the mouth of the passageway that doubtless she thought represented her freedom. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he silently came up behind her. Foolish girl…they weren't finished yet.
"Hermione," Tom said, his breath feathering warmly against her ear as his hand slipped around her waist, pulling her back against him. Hermione felt her heart rate speed up, and she could almost see his smirk against her neck, his fingers spreading out in a possessive manner she did not like at all. She had been prepared for his anger, for another battle, but she hadn't expected this forceful intimacy, and it scared her more than his magical intrusions.
"Let go of me Tom," Hermione said, hating the breathlessness of her tone, the way her heart was pounding scandalously from his closeness. Tom pressed a kiss on her neck, his hand warm on her waist.
"No."
"I am not your plaything," Hermione said insistently, trying to ignore the feathers of sensation spreading from where his lips caressed her flesh. She hated him for doing it to her, and hated herself for responding to his charm, even knowing what he was.
"I agree; you are so much more than a plaything, Hermione," Tom breathed into her ear before he nipped and sucked on her earlobe. "You are a lovely, desirable witch; and I will never, ever let you go."
"Someone could come along," Hermione said, trying to think of a reason to get away from him, to get out of this crazy situation. She tried to pull them both forward, but he was immovable. It was bad enough that he was so fixated on her, and she suspected he knew she was a time traveler—but now he was taking his interest to a different level.
"I can fix that," Tom said, shuffling her forward into an alcove behind a suit of armor. She felt the flicker of magic as he cast a silencing spell and disillusionment spell on the alcove, then he turned her around to face him, his hands holding her firm at the waist. "That's better."
"What makes you think I'm going to—" Hermione couldn't even bring herself to say snog you, "—go along with this?"
Tom tipped her chin up so she had to look at him in the dim light filtering into the alcove, then he dipped his head to kiss her throat. "Because your heart and your magic race when I do this, and this," he whispered, kissing beneath her ear and along her jaw. "Despite your doubts, despite whatever you think you know of me, you're attracted to me."
Hermione pushed ineffectively on his chest with both hands, a reflection of the turmoil between her brain and her traitorous heart, which was indeed racing, her senses swimming from the smell of him, the feel of him.
"I am not," she protested feebly. Her mind screamed, This is Lord Voldemort! The darkest wizard of the millennium! Get away from him, whatever it takes! while her treacherous heart said, Not yet, he's still just a boy in some ways, you should encourage those boyish feelings while he still has them—it might make a difference. "How could I be attracted to an arrogant, rude—"
"Liar," Tom said softly against her lips before he kissed her, his lips moving cleverly on hers, softly insistent and as smoothly persuasive as the wizard himself.
Hermione was incredulous at first, then her mind automatically compared the kiss to others she had had, and she admitted Tom's kiss was quite different from anyone else's…and suddenly her lips softened, moving just a bit, echoing his coaxing caresses, until it didn't matter anymore that this was Tom Riddle and it only mattered that a wickedly clever and handsome boy was snogging her senseless. His hands pulled her closer at the waist as her own hands relaxed, holding onto his robes on his chest as his mouth persuaded hers to open and his tongue swept in to conquer and set flame to her senses.
As soon as she started participating in the kiss, Tom swept his hands up her arms and focused his magic on the pulled flesh, his fingertips calling forth and singeing the Dark Magic exuding from the lines, shredding it as easily as he was shredding her self-control. He didn't try to remove the marks today, but they would heal completely now. He was exulting in his success, the taste of Hermione's mouth made all the sweeter by the fact that he was manipulating her and she couldn't resist him.
Still, he was unprepared for the visceral response of his body when her tongue stroked his and her hands crept up around his neck, her fingers playing with his hair at the back of his head. He had always exerted the utmost control over his body, even spurning meaningless kisses from the idiotic girls he had sweet-talked into sex because he occasionally gave in to his hormonal urges, a fact he lamented and was sure he would outgrow. None of them meant anything to him, just a willing body to use and discard. This, however, felt different, the layers of importance attached to this girl, the perfect way her magic met his unyieldingly…it was shading his physical responses in a way he'd never experienced before.
It was this uneasy realization that made Tom break off the kiss, listening to Hermione's rushed breathing as he tried to calm his own racing heartbeat. His hands had shifted to her hips, the feel of them pulled tight against his body deliciously appetizing. His body was keen to claim her sexually, to have her body writhing under his, completely at his mercy. This meant that he would not do so now, of course. He had to think about his response, his own breathing appearing far steadier than he truly felt.
Hermione could not believe she had let things go as far as they had, her hands slipping away from Tom's neck with shame. He hadn't let her go, so her hands rested on his chest while she tried to regain control of her breath and her raging senses. Her cheeks flushed hot as she thought about the comparison she had drawn between Tom and Ron. She tried to push him away at that, but he wordlessly tightened his hold on her hips, and she stilled, like prey in a snake's coils. He dropped his head, almost pressing his lips on her hair in a kiss, but of course Tom Riddle would never be that tender.
"I'll take you back to Ravenclaw Tower," he whispered against her hair, but before he let her go, he added, "This is far from over, Hermione."
Hermione's mind was whirling. She hadn't just done that, had she? Insulted his beliefs? Let him snog her senseless? Snogged him back? Hermione was horrified with herself, reached for her wand but realized he hadn't cast any spells on her. He had seduced her with his words alone, and that fact made her tremble. She let him take her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers in a new portent of where they had climbed in their unfolding, twisted relationship.
"I don't want to see you again," she whispered at the door knocker. "Please."
Tom recognized the panicked retreat for what it was. "And yet, you will. Good night Hermione. You remain the most fascinating witch of my acquaintance—and I assure you, that is a high compliment."
Both of them looked down the hall, where Phineas Longbottom was making his way back from the party. He spotted them and called out, "Oh, Hermione! Brilliant party, wasn't it?"
Casting one final glance at Tom's knowing eyes, Hermione fled through the door to the common room, the knocker having a personal policy of not interrogating crying witches.
"Why did she run away like that?" Phineas asked absentmindedly, then blanched as he realized who he was talking to.
"She is tired." Tom didn't say anything else, merely walked off toward his own rooms to ponder the evening's turn of events.
"Well then," Phineas said, answering the door knocker's riddle easily. "S'pose I shall take myself off to bed!" He never noticed the disillusioned witch crying in the corner of the common room.