She didn't write in the journal for the rest of winter hols. Why should she bother, when every time she glanced toward the journal, her heart ached? All Hermione could think of was the conversation she overheard, how Bellatrix Lestrange prostrated herself before the man, and that long, sweet sigh that come to her ears before she fled.
She knew the implications, and they tore at her heart.
Just what did Bellatrix and Tom have, anyway? Bellatrix was a Pureblood supremacist, and Tom believed in Hermione was— was—
Or he's using you, she thought bitterly. She was integral to his plans, he'd said.
Draco tried pulling Hermione from her languishing, but she merely buried herself in books and told him she needed to study. OWLs were on the horizon.
Narcissa, for her part, seemed content to let matters lie. She was busy with correspondence for the remainder of break. Lord Malfoy was out of sight, just where Hermione preferred him.
It was with a great deal of trepidation that she boarded the Express back to Hogwarts after the New Year.
She shared a compartment with her friends, as usual. Harry and Draco sat on either side of her, while Ron, Ginny, and Neville sat opposite. The twins stopped by in the manner a tornado might pass through a neighborhood, then were gone, and then Hermione had to go to the Prefect car with Draco and Harry as escort.
"I talked with mum," the brunet said as he brought up the rear. "About a proposal, that is."
Hermione tutted. "Harry, I told you I'd think about it."
Draco halted, and she bumped against his shoulder. "What's this? What proposal, Potter?"
"It's nothing."
"Your mum is looking for someone to marry Hermione, right?" was her friend's response.
She wanted to shake him.
"Yes," said Draco. Then his eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. "You? You want to marry Hermione?"
Harry shrugged. "I'm a better choice than most of the stuffy old codgers who flirted with her at your party."
"That's true. But… wouldn't it be weird?"
"We are not having this discussion," she said, a hand on either boys' shoulders. "Not in the middle of the train, not before school has even restarted."
They exchanged gazes over her head, a long moment of silence passing before Harry nodded and Draco murmured, "Alright."
And then they continued to the compartment to discuss business with the heads and other prefects.
It was mostly logistics about the patrol schedules and reminders in case anyone had forgotten rules or directives between the end of the semester and now.
"Granger, you're still receiving lessons with Professor Riddle on Saturdays, yes?"
She startled at the question, her pulse rising with the anxiety washing over her in deep waves. "Er, I—" What was she supposed to say? She didn't want to see her professor outside of classes now, but there was the club and her tutelage and her future and—
"We'll update you as soon as Hermione's spoken with the professor," Draco cut in smoothly. He squeezed her hand before releasing it, and she was grateful.
Prefect duties kept her busy that first night, but classes began the following day, and those made her increasingly nervous until she found herself outside the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
She leaned against the wall to await the arrival of others, knowing that if she went in alone it would be to face him, and she couldn't do that right now. She didn't know what to say.
Should she fling the journal at him and tell him she'd heard everything? Should she make a petty excuse and hope he bought it when she batted her eyes at him?
Nothing seemed right. For the first time in her five years at Hogwarts, she was truly frightened.
She avoided his gaze during the lecture, but sometimes she could feel his eyes on her like a crimson veil, a haze, a weight across her shoulders. Her heart pounded, and her head began to throb.
"Hermione, stay back a moment."
Her shoulders stiffened and a chill ran through her. She nodded and resumed packing while other students began to file out.
Soft tapping preceded the appearance of shiny black shoes in her field of vision. Professor Riddle's fingers touched her desk, but she still kept her gaze down.
"Hermione."
Her fists tightened.
"Look at me when I speak to you." It was a hushed, but unbreakable command, and she lifted her eyes to meet his own. "That's better. Now, why did you stop writing in your journal?"
Her gaze began to drift with the desire to pull herself from his orbit. "I didn't feel like it anymore."
His fingers tapped once, then rose to grip her chin and turn her face forward. "You didn't feel like it anymore?" She gave the slightest nod she was able with his hold on her. "So you disobeyed me."
"I didn't think it mattered," she responded evenly. Her throat was steadily growing tighter, and she could feel the burning, prickling threat of tears if she let herself slip even a little bit.
His dark brows twitched. "Of course it matters. Did we not have this discussion before you left? I told you to write me so I knew you were well. It seems after your party, perhaps you decided you were too good for me? Is that it?"
"And if it is?" Her jaw was clenched so that each tic sent a wave of pain through her head.
She'd never seen his eyes so hard. "I am the only one who knows best for you, Hermione. You know that. Narcissa Malfoy will sell you off unless her husband decides to keep you locked away. Do you realize that?"
It was too much for her. She was only sixteen. "What do you want with me?"
Tom's eyes narrowed to study her more closely. Tears had welled at last, trickling from the corners of her eyes and resulting in clear snot from her nose. But she held back from sobbing, kept still and proud as she asked this man his intentions.
He lowered himself to her level, closed the distance between them until his eyes burned like the night into her mind. She could almost feel him there, running deft fingers through her memories, shuffling through pages of her thoughts. Until he stumbled upon that moment, upon the overheard conversation and her heartbreak.
"Oh, Hermione." His voice was laced with finesse and pity. "My dear girl. Bellatrix Lestrange is a means to an end."
She frowned, and he read the question there.
"You are so much more. You are an end in and of yourself, something worthy— someone worthy of being elevated beside me."
"But Bellatrix—"
He shook his head. He was kneeling in front of her seat now, clever hands wiping away her tears. "Darling, Bellatrix Lestrange is a desperate lackey whom I must manage with great delicacy lest she lay wreckage to my plans and make things worse out of pettiness." His hands felt so nice as they soothes her, his voice imploring her to understand. "She has been infatuated with me since she was a schoolgirl herself, but I have never wanted her. It's always been her pursuing me. I didn't touch her until she was an adult, and even then it's only to keep her on the line and under some semblance of control."
"You— you're intimate with her," she stuttered out, cheeks heated with the word.
Tom chuckled. "I've allowed her some liberties, but not as many as you might think." Soft fingertips caressed her cheek and encouraged her to lean closer to him. "Darling, I have been planning for so long, missing something and waiting, and not knowing, until you stepped into my classroom. You are everything I need, Hermione. I've been waiting for you my whole life."
"Why?" Desperation cracked the word in her throat, homage to her broken heart.
"Because I need someone I can trust, someone strong enough to hold a piece of myself, powerful enough to face my enemies, and clever enough to understand my vision and carry it out should I find myself waylaid. And you, Hermione, are the only person I've met that encompasses all of that."
His words were beautiful and hypnotic, like the elegance of his features and the resonance of his voice. She was so blown away by the admission that he needed her, had sought her out for his whole life. But she kept hearing that sigh.
Tom echoed it, but born out of frustration. "I had hoped to wait until you were older."
Before she could ask, his lips were against her own.
They were cool and smooth, the skin soft, but the muscle behind it forceful as they plied her own until she gasped. His possessive tongue swept across her bottom lip teasingly before it retreated, then he sucked it between his teeth and rolled it through, moving back until it popped from between his own lips slick with spittle.
His eyes were black, the pupils indistinguishable, and she felt dizzy.
"You are mine, Hermione." One of his hands curled around her nape to cradle her closer, and he pressed his forehead to hers. "You have been mine from the moment I saw you. I will abjure all others if you wish, so long as you are mine."
She swallowed through her fiercely beating heart where it thickened in her throat. "Yours?"
"Yes." He smiled, a soft curl of kiss-reddened lips. "I told you, I aim to change the world. And I will do so with you by my side."
She blinked and tried to grasp the thoughts that had flown when he pressed his mouth to hers. "But—"
"We will discuss it soon, dearest, but there is much that must happen first. And today is not exactly opportune." His eyes skimmed toward the door and back. It had been unlocked this whole time, and she could only be glad for their continued privacy. "Saturday we can perhaps talk more."
She nodded and allowed her professor to assist her to rise to her feet.
"Write in your journal for me, love," he said, tipping her face up once more. Gently, this time. She nodded. "That's my girl."