"Tom! Over here!"
Malfoy motions to him from across the common room the moment he enters. Tom moves to where he can see him, Mulciber, and Nott waiting for him in a secluded area. The other Slytherins know better than to crowd around them. Before Tom can sit down in a leather armchair they reserved for him, Malfoy informs him that they have already debriefed Nott on what happened in Transfiguration class.
Felix Nott is a sixth year and a prefect, but also, more importantly, a Knight. The Notts are a well-connected and ancient pureblood family from Wales. Originally Norse, and incredibly wealthy. Nott has beady blue eyes and blond hair that is cropped close to his scalp. His hair is so pale and so fine that it gives him the appearance of being bald and draws all attention to his recessed chin. Tom thinks of him as a less handsome but cleverer version of Malfoy. Bastian Lestrange himself had recommended Felix be brought into the fold even though he was only a third year at the time. It was Lestrange who had taught Tom that everyone had their uses, regardless of age or inexperience. Lestrange is at the Ministry now, having graduated two years ago. He is still a Knight, and he still comes to all meetings.
The group looks expectantly at Tom, waiting for him to say something about the incident. He instantly decides he won't tell them anything about the conversation between Hermione and Professor Dumbledore, or the empty seventh floor hallway.
"She is… interesting." Tom admits, shifting in his seat. He looks out into the murky green lake, imagining he can make out the outline of the giant squid.
"Interesting?" Malfoy scoffs, "She's bloody insane. Imagine setting off a whole crack of lightening in a classroom! It sliced Tom's desk clean in half, you know." He looks toward Nott, nodding sagely.
Tom fixes him with a pointed stare. Malfoy seems to shrink in his seat.
"As I said, Abraxas. She is interesting." Tom repeats stonily.
Nott leans forward in his chair, looking earnestly at Tom. He asks, "Do you think we ought to keep a close eye on her? Where would she have learned such advanced magic? What school in France did she say she attended again?"
"She didn't." Tom replies, leaning back and crossing his ankle over his knee. He is the epitome of ease. Only the tapping of his fingers against the leather armrest betrays his internal disquiet.
"Should we start tailing her?" Nott presses, much to his annoyance. Tom does not like the idea of anyone else following her.
He does not answer right away. It needs to seem like he considers suggestions to maintain order. In the end, however, he always has his way. It's a special talent of his.
"No. Not yet."
Nott sits back, seemingly accepting Tom's decision. Something inside Tom relaxes again.
Mulciber chimes in. "I say we just cut to the chase and pulverize her. She's fucking annoying."
Malfoy immediately play-punches Mulciber in the arm, "I bet all it would take is one hit."
"Yeah. Scrawny bitch. I would love to get her back for that sucker punch."
"I bet you would." A new voice chuckles. Tom looks away from the great lake to nod to Cillian Avery, who has just joined them. He sits cross legged on the floor by Tom's leg, like a pet dog. He is a fourth-year Knight, also sacred twenty-eight. His family squandered their wealth years ago, but are still diligent to keep up appearances and move in the best circles. Avery looks up to Tom like an older brother; he never requires persuasion. He is a good little soldier.
"I bet she wouldn't even mind if I messed up her face a little." Mulciber makes a crude gesture to indicate his meaning, "She'd probably be grateful, honestly. She's not that pretty." he continues, oblivious to Tom's building rage.
Malfoy shrugs. "The hair makes up for it. Plus, she has nice legs, and a nice, tight, shapely a—"
"Don't be vulgar."
They all turn to look at Tom in surprise. While Tom doesn't participates in this type of talk, he's never before prevented them from graphically recounting a girl's so-called attributes.
Malfoy shifts in his seat. "I didn't mean—"
"Just watch your mouth." Tom snaps again, standing to leave.
"Tom—"
"I have to go." Tom interrupts coldly, then turning to Nott, "Don't forget about the prefect meeting tonight after dinner."
His eyes flash red as he stalks away from them, frightening a couple first years who are unfortunate enough to be in his path. His fury is incandescent; pure fire. It threatens to burn, to consume everything around him. It builds with such intense speed that Tom's head aches with pressure. He cannot let the rage win. Tom must dampen it, or it will eat at his insides until he is only a shell. A murderous fragment of a soul, clinging to his body for a senseless life.
Tom does not want to succumb to the madness that the horcruxes demand.
Tom wants to live. It is the only instinct his mother gave him.
He is almost at the portrait hole, almost at his salvation, his escape. He needs to destroy something, he needs to be somewhere safe, somewhere private. He needs the chamber.
His vision is beginning to blur. Tom feels his consciousness fading. His heart is in his throat. He knows what comes next. He can't afford that here. Anywhere but here.
He practically runs through the opening portrait, slamming into something small, but solid. The force of the collision causes him to tumble forward, with what he realizes is a body beneath him. Tom hears a rough crack against the stone as the portrait swings closed. He instinctively reaches for the head crushed under his chest.
"Ow," a muffled voice protests from under him.
Tom pushes himself up on his hands to peer into the face of Hermione Birch. He stares at her for a moment before he registers that her face is in perfect focus. His vision is fine. His hands aren't shaking. He's certain he is awake and aware.
Tom is stunned; he didn't succumb to the darkness this time.
Her dark eyes are watching him process his own sanity. Her long eyelashes frame her large eyes like natural kohl. He is close enough to notice each lash is blonde at the tip.
Tom rips himself off her when he realizes their pelvises are exactly aligned.
She sits up just as quickly, flushing as she adjusts her shirt and her hair. She hands Tom his wand, which had rolled a bit when they fell into each other. When their gazes meet again, Tom sees her eyes dilate until they are full black, her pupils swallowing her honey brown irises almost completely. She looks down and licks her lips. Tom is struck dumb.
She opens her mouth to say something, but Tom doesn't hear her.
He can only think: Mulciber is wrong. She is very pretty.
He clears his throat.
"Er. I'm sorry. I was rushing and didn't see you there. Is your head alright?" He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
She doesn't look at him.
"It's fine."
It's the most distant she's ever been towards him.
A sudden and familiar feeling of self-doubt seizes Tom's throat. He has miscalculated. She despises him. She is disgusted by him. Her pupils aren't dilating in desire; they're dilating in disgust. Who would ever want him? He is a vile half-breed, a repulsive killer, an evil, unwanted orphan…
"Did you do the arithmancy homework?" she asks abruptly, interrupting his stream of vitriol towards himself.
"Yes," Tom answers unthinkingly. They are still sprawled out on the floor. The common room portrait snake turns and turns in place, looping over itself until he can focus a single eye on Tom. It sticks out its tongue to taste the air.
"Oh." She responds, looking down at her lap once more.
Tom clutches at straws. "Did you need help?"
She looks up in surprise. "Oh! No." and then sheepishly adds, "I was going to ask you if you needed help."
Tom laughs. "I've never needed help in arithmancy before."
She grins. "Maybe, but I was looking over your shoulder at your runic translations today and I noted mistakes."
"Mistake? Me?" Tom pretends to be affronted.
"Mistakes." she says, emphasizing the slike a serpent, "Plural."
"I don't believe it." Tom denies, greatly enjoying the back and forth, and wanting to say anything to keep her speaking to him in this way.
"Are you even taking arithmancy?" he adds, wanting to avoid a lull in the conversation. He thinks if she stops talking to him, he might disappear.
"I'm not. Not here." she elaborates, "Headmaster Dippet said I couldn't."
"Why not?" Tom is surprised that he isn't faking interest. He actually wants to know.
"He said I was too advanced for your curriculum."
Tom laughs again, and stands, pushing himself to his feet before extending his hand to help her up as well. She grins up at him before taking his hand. Unlike their first handshake, this time her hand is warm and firm in his grip. A burst of static electricity stings his hand, and they both pull away quickly.
"Sorry," she says sheepishly, smoothing her hands over the massive pile curls draped over her shoulder. "Sometimes my hair conducts electricity."
Tom pretends to test her statement by picking up a curl and examining it between his forefinger and thumb with a critical eye. Her hair is silky and soft. He fights the urge to move closer to her. With a jolt he realizes he wants to feel her under him again.
"Its voltage can't be very strong." He observes, releasing the long strand so that it lays with the rest of her hair.
"You seem to know a lot about electricity for someone who claims to hate muggles." She smiles at him, her eyes shining.
Tom turns away. "Why do you assume I hate muggles?"
"I heard you and your gang speaking about it. You seemed… rather passionate."
"I don't have a gang." Tom scoffs, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms. She looks lovely under the flickering lights of the wall sconces that line the dungeons. It makes her features appear softer somehow.
"They seem to hang on every word you say," she pushes, moving closer. Tom eyes her carefully.
"Most people do."
"Because you're so popular." She grins. Tom wonders what the joke is.
"I am." He agrees seriously.
She continues to press him. "Do all Slytherins hate muggles?" She is almost within arm's reach now.
Tom gives her a stony glare. "And muggleborns too."
She does not respond. The light of the flame casts long shadows over her face at this angle. It makes him uncomfortable to see her swallowed by darkness.
"Is that a problem?" Tom asks. His voice is steely, even to his own ears. He finds he wants to intimidate her. He doesn't like being interrogated.
"It isn't like that in France." She finally explains, playing with her fingers nervously. She looks up to meet his gaze. Something inside him melts. She is close enough that Tom breathes in her scent. Jasmine… no, vanilla. Something sweet mixed with something rough... a hint of tar. She smells heavenly.
"Is that why they resisted Grindelwald for so long?" Tom softly mocks.
"We continue to resist." She looks at him earnestly, "He may have taken France, but he doesn't have the people's hearts."
"What use does he have for hearts? He has power."
"Power is temporary… he will fall. Men like Grindelwald always do."
"Not if they're smart. Power will always be there for those brave enough to seek it."
"So the unintelligent and weak deserve to be oppressed?"
"It's not a question of whether or not people are deserving, Hermione." Tom explains patiently, "It's a matter of water and oil. The best will always come out on top."
She laughs, but it is humorless. "You can survive without oil."
"Poor metaphor, excuse me." Tom replies coolly, "What I mean is, the magical deserve to reign supreme. Especially the magically talented."
"An interesting theory." She doesn't seem convinced.
"If your mother was magical, she would have been able to fight back against Grindelwald," Tom reasoned. If only she would understand.
Before Tom can touch his wand, she's got hers at his throat. It rests lightly against his Adam's apple. Tom thinks she's almost gentle, if not for the horrible sneer on her face.
"What do you know about my mother, Riddle?" she says in a hiss.
"I know a muggle doesn't stand a chance against a wizard."
She edges her wand a little further into his throat. He likes the way her hair tickles the skin on his collarbone. Rough stone cuts into his sweater, painfully digging into his back as she pushes against him.
"Muggles have guns, Riddle. They can kill, too."
"What's a bullet to a spell? Easily deflected."
"And what if it's a machine gun? Can you stop hundreds of them?"
Tom grins. "I think I could. Can you?"
"There's no telling what I could or couldn't do."
"I bet." Tom thinks of how she conjures tempests without a wand, duels dirty when she's overwhelmed, and casts curses that can't be cured. He thinks of how spiteful she can be, and how cunning she is. He thinks of how she calls his most hated professor by his first name. He thinks of how she has the gall to corner him in the dungeons, his dungeons, out in the open where anyone can see. His heart sings her praises even though his lips can't.
"Don't talk about my mother again," she demands.
"My apologies."
It does not pacify her. She pushes her wand further into his throat. He swallows.
"I bet you wish you could be like Grindelwald, Riddle. Wreaking havoc wherever you go. Murdering innocents in the name of a new world order. A world where muggles and muggleborns know their rightful place."
Tom folds his fingers over hers slowly, so that both their hands hold the weapon at his throat. His other hand snakes around her waist to pull her even closer. Her face is near enough to count each freckle splattered over her delicate nose. She feels so good against him. He knows he must be turning purple for lack of breath, but he doesn't mind letting her play at threatening him. It isn't as if she can do anything. Not to him.
She doesn't know what she's up against.
He smiles, playful, so playful with his little kitten.
His voice comes out in a whisper, "Sounds pretty good to me."
She jabs her wand so far into his throat, Tom has to resist the urge to choke. She looks like she is about to hex him, but just as she opens her mouth, the portrait begins to swing open, a mix of babbling voices carrying through the widening opening.
She steps back quickly, tucking her wand up her sleeve before Tom can even blink, and moves toward the portrait hole to enter.
"Oi! Birch. We're going to dinner. Come with?" A fifth year called Astor calls out to her. Tom does not know much about him. But he already hates his guts.
"I'll be there in a few minutes, Derrick, I just need to run to my dorm first." She shoes them off. She does not even look at Tom; it's as if he doesn't exist. Tom can feel his anger rising.
How can she go from flirtatious, to threatening, to icing him out in the span of five minutes?
Students mill around them and in between them. Tom is motionless, staring openly at her retreating form. He is unaware of the looks and whispers of the others, making surmises about the Head Boy and the new transfer. Inside Tom is storm of emotions he cannot place. It is a mix of intense longing and despair.
It makes Tom feel worthless.
That night, Tom dreams of Hermione. She is lying in the grass by the black lake. Her hair is fanned out around her like a dark halo. He lies down next to her, inching closer until he can rub his nose into her curls, inhaling her like precious oxygen to a drowning man.
In her hand is a knife. She presses its point against his throat. He bites back a mouthful of blood.