He'd sent an owl to meet in the empty classroom which he had cleared for the purpose. It was on the larger side, dusty from disuse. Tom had always wondered if there was a time the castle had ever filled the space allotted to it; it seemed every year there were fewer students roaming the halls.
He dispersed the dust, vanished the useless furniture, and transfigured the teacher's desk into a thick mat for dueling. By the time the shy knock sounded exactly seven minutes before the appointed time, the stage was set.
"Enter."
She was in a light robe thrown over a blouse and fitted trousers, every inch the pureblood ward.
"Hermione." He smiled at her, widening to a grin when she blushed prettily at his welcome. "No need for robes today. I'll be inspecting your form first, and they may get in the way."
"Of course, professor." She swept off the lengthy cloth and draped it over a chair he'd left for that purpose; his own was already set there as well.
Tom allowed himself to look over the girl as she was distracted; Hermione would turn sixteen this month, and she had bloomed further during the long summer. Her long hair was glossy with care, the curls tamer with weight as they fell to her waist. She was braiding it now, and twisting that into a bun on the back of her head. It was streaked with honey blonde from the sun, her skin dusted with freckles and tanned to a warm peach. Her breasts sat high under the silky white blouse, and the high-waisted trousers emphasized the smallness of her waist and the soft curve of her hips.
"Now, show me your dueling stance."
It had been some time since they had covered dueling; this little club would be the first time most of them would duel in truth, as that was typically reserved for seventh years. Horace believed it would be too limited for younger students and too dangerous for those who weren't or would not soon be adults. It had taken only a little effort on his part to get special dispensation for the club.
"Mm, you want to bring your non-dominant foot back and in line with the other, create a smaller target for your opponent." She circled the leg back. "Wand up so any shield you cast will be in place in front of you. Now keep your weight evenly on your feet. Many assume you want to be on the balls of your feet for quickness, but you are harder to knock over if you're balanced."
Tom walked around her, hand on the flat of her back to help nudge her in place. "Cast the stinging hex."
Her shoulders squared up. "Stupefy!"
He nodded as the practice dummy flew into the wall. "Not bad. But would you like to hear a secret?"
Her doe brown eyes lit with eagerness. "Please, professor," she implored.
"You are thinking of your wand as a tool. And it is, of course." Tom slipped into lecture mode as he raised his own wand and twirled it before her. "It is a conduit for our magic, an amplifier and focus. It helps us direct, shape, and increase our spellwork. But the magic does not come from the wand; it comes from within us and moves through the wand." Tom gestured silently, his arm moving elegantly and a red spark flew at the dummy, the fluff inside the limp thing bursting. "But your wand is not just a tool, Hermione." Her lips were parted, breaths shallow, so enraptured. "It is an extension of self. And you should treat it as such. Do not cast with a flick of the wrist. Put your whole self into it. And you will find your magic further amplified."
He tipped her chin up with the tip of his bone white wand. "Do you think you can do that?"
A pink tongue flitted across Hermione's bottom lip. "I can try." Her voice was soft, intimate. It made the corner of his mouth tug up in a smirk.
"That's my girl." He stepped away and she seemed to deflate with the removal of his wand, her breath rushing out of her. Tom absently righted and repaired their practice dummy, eyes never leaving the girl.
Hermione blinked, righting herself and turning to the dummy. Her eyes fluttered shut, the smallest frown forming between her brows as she got into position, wand up before her. When her eyes opened once more, she seemed determined. With a swish of her wand, she cried out, "Stupefy!"
It knocked against the wall violently, certainly more powerful than previously, but not significantly.
"You're too tense," he murmured, stalking around her. "You need to relax, Hermione. You need to feel your magic, trust it. It's there. You don't need to force it through your wand. You need to let it flow."
This time his wand was tucked away and his hands laid on her shoulders. She flinched slightly under his touch and Tom resisted the urge to clench his jaw; she was perhaps not used to casual touch, he had to move slowly with the girl.
His thumbs massaged into her trapezius muscles, urging her to relax in his grip. "I know there is power locked away in there, Hermione. It shows in your perfect control, how your spells always hit their mark. And it shows in that fiery Gryffindor temper of yours, flaring out around you with your wild curls."
"Really?" It was more of a whisper than anything, her insecurities written across her face.
"Yes, dear girl. You're stronger than you know, stronger than the paltry restrictions your pureblood masters would place on you." Her breath hitched. "I would see you find that power within yourself and learn how to harness it."
"You make it look so simple," she countered.
"Years of practice." The downplay came smoothly to his lips; Tom had had a muggle lifespan practically to blend in among the rest of the wizarding world. He might plan for the little witch to see the truth someday, but she was not quite there yet. "Now, sweetheart, try again."
He had her fling the spell at the practice dummy until her beauty charms wore off and her hair fuzzed out of the tight braid in defiance, until a vein pounded in her forehead with frustration, until the poor girl was ready to toss her wand across the room.
"You are attempting to learn a new way to cast," he reminded her gently as they leaned against side-by-side desks. "It won't happen in a day."
"I could cast spells when I first got my wand and spell books," she complained.
It was adorable, really, her eagerness to prove herself. As well as her abilities in magic, of course. But that fire was the core of who she was. Had the girl not been muggleborn, she might have made a decent Slytherin.
"This is more than that, Hermione." He stroked an arm down her back, relishing the smooth silk over her warm skin. Tom didn't produce much warmth himself, so the girl nearly burned hot as she was with exertion. "Have you ever been particularly athletic?" At her flush, he smirked. "As I thought. You're using your whole body. Dueling isn't just mental and magical, sweetheart. It is intrinsically physical as well. And you have not cultivated your body quite the same as you have your mind."
She was chewing on her bottom lip in a most unladylike way, a habit he had noticed she disliked in herself, given how Hermione would freeze, flush, and otherwise carefully monitor her mannerisms when she caught herself doing it. "I take care of myself."
He hummed, eyes flicking down her shapely form and back to meet her abashed gaze. "I'm sure you do. And you're hardly in poor shape, darling. Running up and down these stairs all day does wonders. But you could still benefit from exercise. Running, swimming, stretching. Anything that works agility and endurance."
She nodded earnestly up at him, head tipped to one side, showing the long line of one muscle, eyes wide.
"It will help. I take a run myself every other day, and swim in the lake when I can manage the time."
"You do?" She went to bite her lip again, but paused. "Do you think, sir, maybe…"
One brow quirked in encouragement.
"Perhaps I could run with you sometimes?"
Tom practically purred. "You know, that is an excellent idea, Hermione. Shall we start with once a week while you get used to it? As you progress, we can add in more time, sprints, et cetera."
Hermione glowed. "Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you so much. For- for all of this."
Tom stroked a hand over her shoulder. "You are a remarkable young woman, Hermione. You deserve this and much more." Her cheeks stained red again and something flinched about her eyes. "Do you not realize that?" He tipped her chin up when she tried to look away, fingers gentle against her smooth skin; it wouldn't do to frighten her.
"I know I'm smart. Academically, I mean," she amended hurriedly. "And I work hard to ensure my grades stay high, and that I perform to the highest of my ability. But I know I'm not much of a witch naturally. It's all hard work. And I cause problems. Harry, Ron, Draco and I get into trouble. And I cause as much at home as Draco does. More, maybe." Her eyes shone suddenly, almost staring through him.
"Did something happen this summer?"
She blinked, refocusing on him as the tears spilled over. "Oh." Hermione pulled back, hastily wiping away the tears. "Nothing. Really."
The hand that had been on her shoulder tightened, the other flying up to mirror it, holding her near him. "Did Malfoy do something? I was under the assumption that he thought of you as a sister."
She jolted in his grasp. "He does! Draco didn't do anything. He wasn't even there."
Tom rolled his jaw, lowering his face closer to hers and staring into those deep brown eyes. "What. Happened."
"Please, sir," she murmured. "It's nothing-"
"Don't lie," he hissed. "I despise liars, Hermione. You don't want me to despise you, do you?" She shook her head minutely, as though afraid to turn her head too much away from him, frozen by his stare. "Now, tell me."
She glanced down, eyes flicking back up instantly when his fingers tightened just a little on her small frame. He would have shaken her, but he could see her piecing together the words, trying to push them into sentences. A flash of pain and, even more intense, humiliation screamed through her mind to him and his nostrils flared.
"I…" she began, then swallowed. "One of Lady Narcissa's sisters visited, and she and I got into a bit of a, er, tiff. I threatened her, and Lord Malfoy-" he noted her use of surname for the man, whereas she was more familiar, affectionate, speaking about the woman- "saw and punished me. That's all."
"Is it?" Tom lifted a brow. "How did he punish you, Hermione?"
This was the crux of the situation, he could see it in the way her pulse nearly jumped in her throat. Tom's thumbs soothed along her collarbones, inching toward where the collar of the shirt ended and her warm flesh shone.
"He, erm, used his cane." The words became softer until the last was only breathed in the air between them.
"He used what?" Tom's voice was deadly-low.
"His cane?" Her eyes danced down to stare at his throat rather than his own gaze. Tom had to remind himself she was still a soft little thing, and eased the grip of his hands a touch.
"He caned you?" the man repeated. She bobbed her head. "He did it standing, had you lean against the wall? How did he cane you and where?"
Her hands slid down her thighs. "Not exactly."
Tom was growing weary of her hedging around the topic. "Tell me everything, or I will go in and fetch the details myself."
Her breath caught, but she nodded, more tears falling across her cheeks. She was such a quiet little thing, hardly making a noise. He vaguely wondered if she was always so silent in distress.
He was so patient, so very gentle with her in this moment, allowing her the time to put it all together for him. And he'd seen the belief in her eyes when he'd told her he would use legilimancy. That had been rash, but his girl had taken it in stride.
"He had me brace against a desk in the library. That's where the altercation took place." This part was not too difficult for her by the steady cadence of her voice, but she was trying to compartmentalize, trying to push down the pain. "Bellatrix insisted I pull up my skirt so I could feel the blows adequately. Since I threatened her and she is family."?
"She watched, did she? She always was a little sadist, sent plenty of her peers to the infirmary when she was a student." Tom had liked the darkness in her, though her pureblood obsession made her somewhat unreasonable at times. She had only begun respecting him when she heard a rumor Tom only allowed to circulate among the Slytherins.
"Yes, she was practically goading him." Hermione's nose wrinkled in distaste.
"What did you do to provoke her, hm?" It mustn't have been difficult with Bellatrix's infamous temper.
" She provoked me, " she insisted. "Kept calling me a-" Hermione shook her head. "Implied my magic was not good enough to defend myself as well. So I raised my wand and said that I am not without talent, and Lord Malfoy saw, and that was that."
Tom huffed out a chuckle and stroked her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. "You most certainly are talented, Hermione. And they would do well to be wary of invoking the wrath of a witch such as you."
Her lips parted, pupils blowing wide to shadow those sweet brown eyes. "I'm not…"
"You are , sweetheart. You are a force, Hermione." Tom sang to her, voice deep and eyes burning into hers. "Someday witches and wizards will fall over themselves to proclaim your brilliance. You just need to learn how to let your power out."
All throughout the little speech Tom's hand was roving, ghosting over her jaw and down her throat, dancing at the notch where her collarbones met, trailing so that, at that last word, he laid his palm against her thumping heart.
"Will you let me help you, Hermione?" Her nod was drunken with his words. "Will you help me change this world so it will recognize you for what you are? Will you stand with me against this unjust system?"
"Yes," she promised.
He smiled, thumb once more sliding over her softness. "Good."