Quick update, yay! I love vacations. Relatela, hee hee-yes, he is mad! See what he does here...
Now, as I said initially, I'm not going to use author's notes to explain, but bear with me as a new element is added. It's not a flashback, more of a flash-forward, if you will. The reasons why will become apparent over the next ten chapters or so as the plot moves along. Just wanted to warn you as it's the first time it's been necessary...hehe. Also, the chapter title means what it says. Buckle up, it's going to be a bumpy night!
June 25, 1951
Tom Riddle sipped his cocoa, which was far too sweet. It was really quite a vile drink, but Hepzibah Smith was enamored of her afternoon chocolate and biccies, and he found it a good time to visit her and butter her up.
"Now, Tom, I was thinking that perhaps I would like to show you my most valuable items. These are things which have come to me through various means, nothing truly illicit of course, but when the opportunities presented I had to take them, of course…" she paused to nod her head at Tom, who had taken another piece of the fruitcake she favored. It, too, was overly sweet, but Tom was willing to put up with a good deal to see what interesting items she had…and it wasn't for the benefit of Caractacus Burke.
"Oh, I assure you, dear lady, there is nothing I would enjoy more than to see these special pieces you possess."
Hepzibah Smith beamed at Tom Riddle. 'Such a charming young man, and so interested in history too!'
Tom obligingly wheeled her chair into her 'gallery', as she called it. Hepzibah couldn't see very well, but her wandwork was still efficient and she unlocked the case which held her most valuable treasures, then gently reached in to lift out first Salazar Slytherin's locket, then Helga Hufflepuff's cup. She set them gently on the table at her side, not able to see the avaricious gleam in Tom Riddle's eyes.
"I have always admired the workmanship in the gold, just here," Hepzibah said, holding the locket close to her face to make out the wrought serpents.
"It is an enviable piece," Tom said, lifting Helga Hufflepuff's cup to inspect it, "as is this. Do tell me how you came to acquire them."
Hepzibah's eyes tracked upward, her face full of fond remembrances.
"Well, this necklace has an interesting history, as I'm sure you know…"
She didn't see the yew wand slip into his hand, and didn't feel a thing as the green light hit her. Tom stumbled forward into the table, the sharp edge pressing hard into his belly as he viciously recited the spell necessary to lodge a piece of his soul inside the cup clenched in his hand. As he finished the spell he added a little twist, something that would be necessary at some point in the future. Forcing himself to stand despite the agonizing pain, he turned, wand in hand, to deal with the house elf tottering in, the magic cast calling her feeble body to defend her dead mistress. Fortunately, he was already a dab hand at memory spells.
Hermione was feeling slightly apprehensive as she watched the vast majority of her housemates leave the next morning, eager to catch the train and go home to their families. It made her feel homesick and heartsick, and she was pathetically grateful for the gruff presence of her Head of House as he bade farewell to the majority of his charges for the next two weeks, a motley assortment of five Ravenclaws scattered across nearly as many years the only ones left at the castle for the holiday.
"Come along then, time for breakfast!" Professor Beery said, herding the younger students ahead of them as they reentered the school.
As she sat down to breakfast with the other Ravenclaws, Hermione noted that only a handful of other students remained from the other Houses. Hufflepuff and Gryffindor between them could field perhaps twelve students, while Slytherin boasted the largest complement with thirteen. Tom Riddle supervised them all, conveniently the only prefect left over the holiday. As such, Hermione had no doubt that Tom had been given free rein of the castle, and likely had volunteered himself for whatever leadership duties were necessary. Hermione had never stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas, which made the experience all the more jarring, emphasizing the disconnect from her life in her own timeline.
As he had indicated, Professor Dumbledore was traveling away from the castle for the holiday, so Hermione found herself relying on Professor Beery to run a sort of guarded interference for her with Tom. Slughorn had taken himself off, presumably to one or more innumerable connections' houses for the holiday, and Dippet presided over a reduced staff and greatly reduced student population.
Tom played his usual role as Head Boy, especially with regard to the younger students. It was a good opportunity for him to check for talent among the youngest of Hogwarts population, ones who were too young to attract his notice otherwise but who were amazingly loquacious when he was just a tad bit friendlier to them under the pretense of the holiday. Some were the children of diplomats abroad, or orphans like himself, or simply the product of negligent parents who couldn't be bothered to retrieve their child from the school for the two week Christmas break. It was these who were the most chatty, he found, and it was quite simple to take note of any that were particularly talented at an early age (of which there were few), or of those they spoke of in their own Houses who were a few years behind Tom but who showed promise.
Remarkably, Tom left Hermione alone for the six days leading up to Christmas, which was not what she had expected. Rather than put her at ease, it increased her agitation. She knew he was still furious about the incident in Knockturn Alley, and she had noticed MacNair walking with a limp to the station. It didn't take a genius to deduce that Tom had punished him for losing track of her.
For his part, Tom had no intention of dealing with Hermione until she had fretted herself to pieces over it first. She was a clever girl, and she was well aware that the shopping incident hadn't been properly dealt with. He watched her surreptitiously, inwardly pleased that she was bothered by the situation. It boded well for what he had planned.
As Tom continued to ignore her, Hermione began to consider whether she would ask Professor Beery for help dissuading Tom if needed, using the excuse that they had a bad break-up. However, she didn't think it would do any good to continue waiting, and tried to track him down for a confrontation two days before Christmas. Tom, however, was clearly avoiding her, and Hermione found herself thwarted by his Head Boy duties and his 'mentoring' of the Slytherins in the absence of their Head of House.
By the time Christmas Eve came around she had barely any appetite, despite the air of festivity that the rest of the students and even faculty were exhibiting. The professors were scattered among the students, and she was seated almost exactly opposite Tom. He didn't look at her at all, and this reinforced her nervousness. She could only hope that time was diffusing Tom's anger, and thought again about just keeping Ovid for herself. The bird tolerated her, and Hermione decided to wait and see if Tom gave her anything for Christmas.
During the dinner on Christmas Eve Tom smirked to himself at Hermione's obvious discomfort. His innate response to punish and domineer was being forcibly tempered by the flashes of precognition she offered him, and that was forcing him to pull back a bit and explore other means of control. She was actually a fascinating case study, a test of his powers to control himself, diversify his methods. He wasn't quite sure he could turn her, but he was confident now that she would die before she broke for him. That made her all the more attractive. A witch who could stand up to him was a rarity indeed. He wondered again at why he had sent her back to himself. It was just another puzzle he was determined to solve. He wondered what Hermione would make of his gift to her, and smiled to himself at the thought of her reaction. Now wouldn't that be amusing?
"Wake up, Hermione."
Hermione tried to brush away the buzzing voice at her ear, but it repeated itself. What really woke her, though, was her hand being captured by another…a strong grip, slender fingers… Hermione's eyes flew open, and she repressed the urge to scream when she made out Tom's face in the dim light of her bed.
"We're going to have a little chat now," he said quietly, his brain oddly noting that she preferred pajamas to a nightgown. "About what happened at Borgin & Burke's."
Hermione was sitting up now, warily letting Tom pull her upward. "What are you doing in my room?" she whispered.
He quirked an eyebrow, and Hermione's befuddled brain clicked fully on. He had obviously cast a silencing spell, and who knew what else. There was nothing she would put past him.
"Did you honestly think I would let you continue to avoid me?"
It was impossible to see him clearly with the bed curtains being shut, and Hermione slowly reached under her pillow, then cast a soft "Lumos" while Tom watched her like a hawk. It was a mistake, she realized, as it made it more intimate, details she could ignore when it was dark and fuzzy now standing out in glaring relief…his leg pressed close to hers, the fact that she was in her pajamas, which surely had not escaped his notice…the fact that he was still holding her left hand, his thumb casually tracking across her flesh in a manner that was provocative, yet oddly reassuring.
"I was not avoiding you. You've been avoiding me!" Hermione said. "I can't believe you killed him!"
"Isn't it interesting how you are so willing to believe the worst of me?" Tom said idly as he pressed a kiss on her hand, his eyes flicking upward to capture hers. "Perhaps it was just something I said to shock you, to capture your attention regarding the gravity of your error."
"Was it?" Hermione asked, her eyes challenging him, while his gaze remained hooded.
"Does it matter? He was a nasty individual, who had already committed numerous crimes. Isn't the wizarding world better off without individuals such as he?"
There was a hidden layer of meaning beneath his question, and Hermione recognized the danger. If she agreed with him, she was giving him tacit permission to be judge and jury, but if she disagreed with him, was she saying that she was okay with knowing there were wizards out there perpetrating heinous deeds and getting away with them? No, of course not! Clearly her brain was still fuzzy from lack of sleep, and she shook her head, determined to keep the conversation within some expected boundaries.
"That's beside the point. The point is, I am capable of taking care of myself. As sweet as my roommates found your behavior, I cannot help but find your stalker tendencies creepy."
"My stalker tendencies, as you call them, saved your arse! Do you have any idea what they had planned for you?" Tom let a bit of his simmering anger loose now, his magic swirling into the air between them. Hermione leaned back involuntarily, and Tom grabbed her arm, pulling her firmly toward him, burying his other hand in her hair. "I don't think you understand yet, Hermione. You. Are. Mine."
There was no retreat from him this time. His mouth claimed hers with brutal efficiency, the strength of his will a tangible thing between them as his tongue mapped every inch of her mouth. This was different, a sense of panic suffusing Hermione as she felt his magic playing with her, calling to her, seeking to entwine itself with her own. What was he doing to her? His fingers slipped underneath her top, the contact of skin against skin causing the temperature in the bed to leap twenty degrees. When his hand slid up to her breast, the panic button was well and truly pressed in Hermione's brain, and she broke off the kiss with a gasp. Her brain was suffused with shame, her thoughts unwittingly falling from her lips.
"Please…no…I can't—you're Lord Voldemort!" She stilled instantly when she heard the words in the quiet hush, felt Tom tense like a defensive animal, his hand hot on her rib cage beneath her pajamas. Her eyes met his, the shame and guilt writ large in hers, desire, irritation, and a nameless want in his.
"Where did you hear that name?" he asked, the deadly intent of his voice her only warning before he was suddenly there, in her mind, his eyes locked on hers. He had locked in on her memory of the Hogwarts Express, heard Ron saying, "You can't just call him by his name! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is what most people say…he's just too scary to talk about!"
Hermione was trying to push him out, retreat into Occlumency, but he had found the thread of her memories now and slid along to the actual instance of his chosen name. She was reading in her bed, just a slip of a girl with bushy hair, her mind devouring the words on the page. He took in the sentence, "And thus begins the rise of arguably the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort…" She tried to cut him off, push him out, but he forced her to show him the title of the book emblazoned at the top of the page: The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. His mind locked on that word, Fall, and she was finally able to push him out of her mind and away from her body at the same time, moving backward on her bed until she was pressed against the headboard, her wand clutched tightly in her hand and pointed at him.
Inside, he was seething. He had lost! Somewhere, something went wrong, and he failed. He must have—died. He had half thought it was possible, part of why he had sent her here—but to have it staring him in the face from the cold copperplate script of a book…
Tom felt hot fury that such a fate befell him, the one thing he was determined to avoid at all costs. Apparently he had not been clever enough. He finally noticed how his magic was spontaneously roaring off of him, his lack of control causing Hermione to shrink away from him.
"I won't hurt you," he growled harshly. "Don't you understand that yet?" He held up his hands to show that he wasn't going to try anything, his mind racing through the implications of her memory. Damn, but she was infuriating, keeping that to herself these many months!
Hermione didn't know what to do. He knew she was from the future, here was incontrovertible proof. He had cleverly danced around it, implied it, but now there were no illusions left between them. And he had decided that she was too valuable to let slip away from him, or perhaps he had known ever since he had tortured her. It had marked the turning point in his attentions to her, and Hermione shivered again at the thought of what could have possibly happened to cause such a sea change in the future Lord Voldemort's behavior toward one he knew to be a Mudblood.
"Why not?" she asked defensively, trying to keep him talking so she could think of a means to get away from him. "Why won't you hurt me?"
"We both know why not," he snarled, running his fingers through his hair in an unusual sign of agitation. "Damn it, Hermione, how could you keep this from me?"
"How could I not?" she cried. "You're my enemy, I shouldn't even be here!"
"Your enemy then," Tom insisted. "Or do you really think I'm your enemy today, now?"
"How could you ask me that? I don't even know what you've already learned! You tortured and Obliviated me, and have been manipulating me since. I should have left the second I realized your intent—I've made such a mess—" Hermione shut up when she realized she was talking to Lord Voldemort, whose eyes turned murderous at the mention of her leaving.
"You will NEVER leave me, do you understand? NEVER." He wanted to tell her he had conquered time to acquire her, claim her, but he couldn't. He hadn't finished claiming her yet, was still in the middle of his long game—and she might slip through his fingers if he wasn't careful. "DAMN you, you're an irritating minx!"
"And you're a bloody Dark Lord!" Hermione yelled back at him, her chest heaving from the adrenaline coursing through her.
Tom paused. He couldn't allow her to retain this streak of rebellion, but another Obliviate would stick out like a sore thumb. His wand was pointing at her easily, quickly, and he saw the resolve in her expression, her own wand at the ready. "You will swear an Unbreakable vow to me, here and now, that you will not run away from me for the remainder of this school year."
"Like hell I will," Hermione said fiercely, but Tom had expected that. His wand flicked while she was talking, disarming her and causing her wand to fly to his hand. He had expected, too, that she would bolt, and he plastered himself on top of her, pinning her back to the headboard.
"Enough!" he hissed, his magic still roiling the air around them. "A blood oath, then. I don't care if it's voluntary or not, but I mean it when I say you won't be able to get away from me."
"If you think I will bind myself to you willingly, you've got another think coming," Hermione retorted, her own magic flaring uncontrollably. Tom pressed his body into hers, his magic forcibly subduing her own. As with everything, the control he had over his magic made the difference, while Hermione's flare was powerful but only instinctive.
"You weren't terribly unwilling moments ago," he said snidely, "but have it your way. Like so many others, apparently you want to make this more painful for you than it needs to be."
Hermione tried to move, but she found that he had immobilized her quite effectively. She could, however, still speak, even as she watched him produce a small dagger, the blade gleaming briefly before he cut a wide line on his own left palm, then turned the knife edge toward her hand, his eyes flicking toward hers.
"If you do this, you won't ever be able to kill me," Hermione said, but he just gave her a small smile, quickly cutting her right palm in an identical manner, ignoring the grimace and gasp of pain that escaped her lips.
"So clever and you still haven't figured it out, have you?" he murmured, pressing his hand firmly to hers, intertwining their fingers roughly so their blood could fully mix, mingle. "I already can't kill you. This is not the first time my blood has mixed with yours."
Hermione didn't know what spell he used, she only saw it fly from the end of his wand and encircle their hands, his mouth hissing in speech she recognized as Parseltongue. There was a flash of white indicating that the bond was formed, a strange tingling spreading throughout her body as he removed his hand from hers, then healed them both.
"That's better," he said as he looked at her, then added quietly, "Sanguinem invocabo," pointing his wand at his palm. Hermione felt the tingling spreading throughout her body as Tom moved deliberately away from her, watching her closely. She closed her eyes and scrabbled up, away from him. The tingling got worse, her breath beginning to hitch. She needed something, her blood pushing her, trying to get her body to move.
"What have you done?" she asked, fighting the impulse to make contact with him while he dispassionately watched her.
"Taken the necessary next step," he said, waiting. She was stubborn, but this spell was quite useful. It could be subsumed later when she was willing to cooperate, but for the time being it ensured she would not be going anywhere.
Hermione felt like her blood was about to pour out of her skin, she was so desperate to touch him. She would not give him the satisfaction, however, and she watched the corner of his mouth turn up.
"I'll just be going then," he said, and made to stand up from the bed.
"No!" The cry was wrenched from her mouth without her permission, and she actually felt several blood vessels pop in her eyes. He watched her with an expectant gleam in his eyes, and Hermione finally reached out to his extended hand when she began gasping for breath. The instant her flesh made contact with his, she felt the drumming in her blood quiet, closed her eyes to regain her equilibrium.
"I see you understand, Hermione. If I call you, you will come." Tom flicked his wand and the spell ended, and he set down their wands to grip her face with both hands, looking at the sclera of her eyes.
"Episkey," he breathed, very close to each eye, and the burst capillaries healed themselves. He pulled back and looked at her. "Don't try my patience again."
Hermione's thoughts were a whirlwind, her emotions strong and potent. Over it all was a clear, clean anger that he could treat her thus, and it dictated her first response, her emotions getting the better of her.
"Sanguinem invocabo," she hissed, her fingers closing around her wand as she cast a strong, wordless Repulso charm and sent him flying into the bed curtains, which fortunately he had charmed shut. The fabric ripped alarmingly, his blood humming in response to her inelegant casting of the spell. Later he would reflect that it was admirable that she had managed to wrangle the spell, the Dark magic swirling in a heady manner around the infuriating witch. It was a tantalizing glimpse of what she could do.
He should have been furious, and was on one level. On the other, he was viciously amused that she could behave so even knowing he could make her completely miserable. Magic wasn't always necessary to control, but it was the far superior method for most people. Hermione, however, wasn't most people. He didn't want to break her, he wanted to use her…and that included her strong, if rebellious, magic. Nonetheless, rebellious outbursts could not be tolerated. It time to show his witch exactly what he was capable of already.
Hermione didn't know precisely what the sudden flash of red in Tom's eyes meant, but it could only be bad. He didn't say a word, simply slashed his wand and she knew instantly that he had canceled the effects of the blood spell, feeling the recoil like whiplash. His wand slashed again, and Hermione felt a squeeze on her lungs, as if she had suddenly been compressed, her magic itself folding in on her in a highly unpleasant manner. Tom lazily crawled down the bed toward her and plucked her wand from her hand, canceling the oppressive pressure after he had done so. Yet again in the space of a few minutes Hermione was disarmed and left to Lord Voldemort's less than tender mercies, and he had no intention of being merciful. He gripped her arm hard and focused, using a skill that he rarely had occasion to need. He turned into himself, taking Hermione with him, the muffled crack of disapparition resounding like thunder to Hermione's stunned ears at the top of the Astronomy tower.
Hermione was panicked. "You can't disapparate within Hogwarts," she protested, even though that was clearly what he had just done—and side-along as well.
"Founder's Heir," Tom said in a clipped tone. "We're not done yet."
Hermione had never wondered how the Death Eaters flew, had never wanted to pick up a skill that caused such terror and involved one of her personal phobias. Tom Riddle knew none of that, however, and he took her with him, stepping off the tower as if it were nothing, both of them dissolving into fast flying tendrils of black smoke, the destination known only to Tom. Thankfully he didn't take her too far, and Hermione resisted the urge to throw up when they landed in the same clearing where they had had their DADA trial, the Forbidden Forest quiet and dark. She did clutch her stomach, just barely stopped herself from putting her head between her knees to stop the nauseous rolling of her stomach.
"Don't like flying, do you?" Lord Voldemort said shrewdly, circling her with his wand in hand, casting another spell on her with a rapid fluidity that showed just how dangerous he was already. Tom Riddle had been subsumed into his alter ego, and Hermione found the change terrifying.
"Now, I believe this setting is more conducive to reaching an understanding about this improvement to our relationship. Before you open your insolent little mouth, I want to remind you that you have just shown me a very distressing memory, one from which I have drawn the most depressing conclusions. Furthermore, I am no longer going to dance around the fact that I sent you back to myself, for reasons that, if they are not obvious to you, I will not make plain."
"I know why," she said hoarsely, grabbing her midsection with both arms. "You want a road map, to analyze and see where you went wrong."
"Very good, Miss Girard…although that's not your name, is it? Tell me, what is your real last name? Not that it matters, I doubt many Hermiones will pass through the gates of Hogwarts in the future."
"I don't have to tell you anything," Hermione said, steeling herself when he lifted her chin with his wand. His eyes were that terrifying red, but there was a glimmer in them that boded very well, or very ill, for her future, depending on your point of view.
"No, you don't. And I can't force you to tell me—a little hiccup that I foresaw, because the helpful little note I sent to myself gave me quite precise information regarding how I was to dispose of you, Hermione."
Hermione did shiver with how he pronounced the word, dispose, but she bravely kept her eyes locked with his. His lips quirked upwards, that glimmer in his eye taking a decidedly different bent. "Yes, I can see many reasons for the…instructions I gave myself. But I won't toy with you, because believe it or not, I am quite fond of you, in my own little way. Therefore, I want to hear you acknowledge our new footing, as it were, in your own words. Let's just say, I want to be sure you've heard what I told you."
Hermione recognized a test when she was given one. Bastard, she thought to herself, grateful at least that his little speech had given her time to rebuild her mental walls, re-equilibrate herself.
"You have created a blood bond between us," Hermione said bitterly, and Voldemort nodded his head, a clear implication that he expected her to continue. "And I won't deliberately try your patience again."
Voldemort walked over to her, his intent clear. He pulled her in tightly by her waist, causing her arms to fall to her sides, her head falling back to keep eye contact with him. He was an absolute mix of Tom Riddle and the fearsome Lord Voldemort, both dangerous and dark. "And what about our relationship, Hermione? What will you do about that, hmm?"
She could almost hear his voice in her head, Don't lie to yourself, as he studied her, his eyes too perceptive, too knowing. Hermione felt the upswell of an angry panic again, fought to keep tears from rising in her eyelids, bravely keeping her eyes locked with his. She knew obfuscation and delaying would do no good, so she tried the last weapon she had: absolute honesty.
"Please don't push me faster than I can go."
It was a naked plea, a cry for delayed payment, for time to wrestle, suss out exactly what he meant, what he intended, to get away if she could. He cocked his head slightly to the side, as if thinking about it, then kissed her. She knew he would, could no more stop him than she could stop the tide or moonrise. She tried to keep her response to him minimal, just let him take what he wanted, but that wouldn't do for Tom, both his magic and his mouth subtly compelling her body to respond, her mouth to begin moving against his. In her mind, however, Hermione remained withdrawn, and it was this that made Tom draw back. It would take time to rebuild that. It's always two steps forward, one step back with her.
"I'll take you back now," he said, walking away from her to break off a slender rod of birch from one of the trees. He didn't say anything else, just took her in his arms and flew with her back to Hogwarts, this time to the clock tower. He looked at her briefly, noticing the way her nipples were pebbled hard from the cold and the slight chatter of her teeth that she was trying valiantly to disguise. He wordlessly cast a warming charm on her, then tucked her wand into her pajama pocket. She looked up at him and said,
"Thank you."
She honestly meant it, he could tell. Would the surprises ever end with this witch? He hardened at the thought of having her, realizing how very much he wanted her complete surrender to him.
"Good night, Hermione," he said, before apparating them both directly to her bedroom, then disappearing again directly. When Hermione sat back on her bed, she realized she was crushing something. She turned and withdrew the birch branch, covered in the bright green of spring leaves. Tom Riddle had given her his deadline.