Hermione takes her seat without acknowledging him. Tom can tell she's on edge by the way her spine stays pin straight against her chair. Tom, for his part, can't stop the tapping of his foot against the hardwood floor, his leg bouncing violently as he tries to contain his anticipation.
He's going to duel Hermione Birch.
He plans to destroy her.
He's startled when she presses her hand against his thigh, right above his knee.
It feels incredible.
"Stop it," she commands, looking him square in the eye before righting herself to face the board.
Tom leans forward, surreptitiously shifting his hips and stilling himself so she doesn't have a reason to look down again. He loosens his tie; his neck feels uncomfortably hot. She's suddenly too close and too far at the same time. He wonders if he can get away with adjusting himself, or perhaps putting his book on his lap, when Professor Merrythought walks in.
"Good morning, class."
Tom obediently greets her with the rest of the students. Merrythought begins by waving her wand at the board, the words shields and counter-shields appearing there. She gives a brief lecture on the values of both tactics in battle. Tom uses it as an opportunity to clear his racing thoughts. The shield, she says, can be a valuable asset in a duel, but only if cast competently. The main drawback is that it takes energy to maintain, and is not entirely impenetrable. Exceptionally powerful wizards can damage your shield, allowing even physical forces to enter through.
The counter-shield is essentially any curse that is designed to pass through a competent shield, or destroy it. Many dark curses, including the unforgivables, cannot be blocked by physical shields.
She finishes with the conclusion that the shield is only as powerful as its caster. To destroy a shield is an extremely difficult task, one many wizards and witches never learn to do. It requires focus, determination, and most importantly, raw power.
Tom is practically squirming in his seat. Hermione touches his leg again, pushing her palm down flat against his thigh to force him to still his movements. This somehow makes the anxious energy in his body much, much worse.
Merrythought orders them to partner with their desk mate, and Tom covers Hermione's hand with his. She pulls away, ignoring him as she stands to help the rest of their classmates clear the room for dueling practice.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom is a special one. It is a long cavernous room that extends for almost the length of the Quidditch pitch, though not quite so wide. The hardwood floors are stained oak, while the domed ceiling is made of the castle stone with large wooden beams that hold up the flaming torches that light up the room. Merrythought waves her wand at a cabinet near her and enormous plush cushions sail out to line the walls, marking where each pairing will stand.
"Okay, now! Before we begin, we'll need a pair to do a demonstration. Volunteers?"
Tom raises his hand. "Hermione and I will volunteer, Professor."
Eyebrows raise at the use of her first name, but no one says or does anything except exchange silent looks.
Hermione must know she is left with no choice, because she simply follows Tom to the front of the room, standing between the class and the professor.
"Now, Mr. Riddle. You may demonstrate the shield, and Miss Birch can attempt to cast a counter-shield. I will not tell you which spells to use; it is better to accustom ourselves to using our imaginations in a duel, especially at the NEWT level."
She steps back. Tom turns to face Hermione, who is standing rigidly across from him. Tom moves back slightly to create some space between them, and she takes his cue to do the same. She waits.
He casts a protego. It's almost lazy the way he does it since everyone is watching. She casts an equally lazy impedimenta, and it bounces off Tom's shield, crashing into the floor and bouncing off a few feet away.
Professor Merrythought claps her hands happily, and instructs the rest of the class to take their positions by a cushion and begin practicing. Tom and Hermione stay where they are as the other students move further into the room. It feels almost like a joke to continue to practice, but practice they must. They take several turns casting, hexing, and blocking. It's mindless and repetitive.
Tom is… agitated. This is not how he imagined this moment. This is boring. It is agonizingly slow. Tom feels like a cobra trapped in a wicker basket, forced to contain himself under the pressure of an unshakable lid. Tom has seen Hermione hex before. He knows from the prefect bath how fast she can be. It is as if she is doing her utmost to slow her movements now, as if she is using all her control to simply pretend to be a normal student, pretend to look as if she is learning.
It frustrates him. He's sick of siphoning himself to fit through an inoffensive funnel, only allowing a modicum of his true power through. He knows in his soul—a quarter of the whole, it may be—that she does the same. He wants to free her.
When her impedimenta descends upon him, Tom moves his shield slightly so it bounces back at her, and not at the stone floor. She dodges effortlessly, moving only minimally to the right to avoid the spell, and it strikes the cushion behind her. The cushion erupts in a cloud of feathers, some of them landing in her hair.
She looks peeved, but nowhere near enough to get her to retaliate. She goes to repair the cushion, giving him a scornful look before she does.
Tom has had enough.
He wants to play.
Just as Hermione is turning back around, Tom casts a stinging hex at her cheek. It's a low blow to strike an unsuspecting opponent. Almost as low as a hex to the back. Tom figures he's only playing by her own rules. The force of his hex slaps her face almost physically, and her head swivels under its strength. Some of her hair escapes her braid, and the strands briefly cover her expression. Tom realizes his heart is beating in his throat. When she turns her face to meet his eyes, she looks murderous. A welt is already forming on her cheek, an angry red mark raised against her flawless skin.
She straightens up slowly, making no move to retaliate still. Tom is growing restless. He is itching for a response like some kind of fiend. He needs release.
He sends five more stinging hexes, fired in rapid succession at her arms, her legs, her face.
When Tom was six years old, he liked to read the old books in the orphanage library. They weren't the most illustrious collection of fine hardcovers, but still, the old tattered works were better than nothing. Most of the other children his age hadn't even memorized the alphabet, but Tom was already reading Voltaire, Mozi, and Ibn Sina. Tom was already thinking about his existence, his meaning, his place in the world.
There is a theory in muggle philosophy that had especially peaked his six-year-old interest. It is described by Hegel, a German muggle who lived in the nineteenth century. He defines a concept called totality, in which only the whole can be true, meaning its parts, phases, moments are only partial, which also make them partially untrue. Think of Hermione, for example. She is beautiful, but this is only one facet of her being, so it is a falsehood to describe her as a beautiful woman. She is also clever, and quick, and vengeful, but these are all only one fraction of her being, making them also partially untrue; equally false. The totality is the product of these parts, but the Truth of her is almost entirely unachievable under this philosophy. How can you see every part of a person at once?
Tom thinks she is dangerous. He thinks she is quick as a whip, as fast as the spring of a snake. Tom thinks she hides more than one secret in the ocean of her mind. Tom thinks she is a hurricane, a destructive force to be reckoned with. She is feminine, and soft, and feels incredible to touch. All this—just fragments of a unified piece. All truths, but also untruths, also lies.
As difficult as totality is to grasp—a concept that lets the idea of Hermione slip through Tom's fingers—Hegel's philosophy of negation weaves them together to trap her neatly in his fist. Negativity here signifies that the parts of the whole are to be considered, discarded, made fluid, adapted. To reveal her contradictions forces Tom to absolve her of any solid, unmoving identity. This is far from a mechanical denial, or a clinical opposition. Indeed, Tom challenges her intelligence, he sets himself against her secrets, casting himself as her opponent in her game, forcing her to confront him. By considering her haves and have-nots, he raises her to the whole. He captures her in a fuller sense than if he never crosses her at all.
This is how he justifies attacking her, anyway.
Tom watches as her eyes, black with fury, are illuminated by his rapidly approaching magic. She doesn't flinch. In fact, she barely moves. Her only effort is the languid twirl of her wand, almost like a miniature baton dancing in her left hand. It moves once, in a perfect circle. It seems like an extremely strange thing to do in such a moment, and for a second, Tom thinks she intends to let him hit her, and why, he cannot fathom. It isn't until he sees his own magic pause in midair inches from her nose, buzzing in place before it shoots backwards from whence it came, straight at hisface, that he understands.
All this, in less than a second.
Tom jumps out of the way, hurling a dozen more stinging hexes at her, which she reverses in the same effortless manner. He hurls a colloshoo, a titillando, an entomorphis, a debilis, a buccina lingua. She simply twirls her wand, shooting them all back at him. Tom is jumping, and dodging, and diving to avoid his own attacks. He feels a single bead of sweat gliding down his brow, collecting in his eyelashes like a tear while she performs the laziest defensive magic he's ever seen and it is brilliant; she's brilliant. He casts a secare volnus, a not-quite-so-light slicing charm, swiping his wand at her in his impatience. She redirects it so fast he doesn't have time to dodge out of the way completely. Tom feels it graze the side of his face. He lifts a hand to his cheek. His fingers pull away soaked in is his own blood.
She smirks. She's barely trying.
Despite the rapid back and forth, they're too far from the professor or the other students to garner much attention. In truth, the entire exchange lasts less than thirty seconds. Really, Tom was just testing the waters. He wants to see how much he has to push before she breaks.
Tom decides he likes the way she smirks. He wants to make her do it again.
He enters her mind. It is a smooth, black lake under a dusky sky. He doesn't search for her thoughts as his feet sink in the wet sands. He simply tells her, his tone provoking.
That's it?
Her response takes a moment to appear, the words floating distantly over the rippling water. If she is shocked by his intrusion, she does not reveal it on her face.
That's it.
Her mouth is set in a grim line. She casts a protego, and stands behind it. It shimmers slightly before fully encasing her immobile form. She looks like she's standing inside a shining crystal, as far removed from him as an unattainable, perfect diamond.
Tom aims his wand, sending a spell towards her despite her shield.
The thing about efficient counter-shields that Professor Merrythought failed to mention is that they are almost always cerebral in nature. This is why even the strongest shields fail so spectacularly against the unforgiveables; all three are entirely mental in effect. A shield does nothing to oppose attacks against the mind, and its corporeal benefits can be limited if the caster's energy is drained.
Tom can find no fault in Hermione's casting. She is absolutely elegant with her movements. She makes deflection seem effortless. She is discipline personified. However, if he had to give her a piece of feedback, it would be not to cast her protego so tightly around her body.
His confundo hits her right between the brows.
Her eyes shift out of focus, and Tom approaches her with the intention to slip her wand right out from her loosening grip. An all too easy of a win, if you ask him.
Just when his fingers brush her wand, she comes to.
"Stupefy!"
It's the first time she has had to use a verbal command to cast, and Tom knows it is due to the effects of the confundus charm. It's simple enough for Tom to dodge, but it serves her purpose of gaining a little bit of time to recollect herself fully. Tom ducks low as the red beam flies overhead and strikes the wall behind him, exploding the stone into large chunks and fine dust. His nose itches with a sneeze as he brandishes the rocks, hurling them towards her like misshapen bullets.
They don't hit her, but they're not meant to. They shred the cushions she's already repaired and the feathers escape in a cloud around her once more. Her hair is completely out of her braid now, her hair tie lost somewhere in the rubble. She's distracted and still a little confused, her eyes scanning the ground for her elastic. Tom sees what she meant about the hair cream, now. Her hair is truly wild.
Tom doesn't waste an instant. He enters her mind in a dangerously fast dive, plunging head first into dark waters. Nebulous thoughts and feelings vortex around him, but he doesn't let it distract from his purpose. His aim is singular.
This time he knows to hold his breath.
What is your real name?
Hermione Granger.
It comes to him unbidden. He's already read it before she can even raise a wall of water against him, before the first wave even hits. He's out and safe on his feet on solid ground.
Immediately, he's on the move. He lunges to the left, her curse creating a crater where he was just standing. She is furious. Tom doesn't have to re-enter her mind to know that. Instead, she enters his.
HOW DARE YOU.
Tom is not accustomed to being assaulted in this way, and he holds his ear as if he can keep the thought that is not his from leaking out.
She does it again.
YOU SNEAK.
Tom runs. She's casting and cursing and hexing and jinxing at an impossible speed though her lips never moves and her wand movements are minimal. They are no longer confined to their cushions, and he's sprinting in zig-zags down the full length of the room. It's the only way to avoid her determined strikes. She's walking behind him with measured steps, and her swift long strides remind Tom of a tiger stalking its prey.
YOU SNAKE.
She whips her wand with a curse that lifts him off his feet. He's about to slam head first into the ceiling before he casts a pillow charm that cushions the blow, sending him reeling back toward her as if bouncing off an upside-down trampoline. He blasts a burst of pure fire at her on his way down, hot as dragon breath. She counters it with a wave of quaffle-sized hail that melts on contact. Tom falls through the wall of water and slams into her. They land neatly on the ground, wet droplets clinging to Tom's hair. She's gasping for breath under him, but still, she has the energy to mentally enter him, just to tell him off.
BASTARD.
Tom laughs. She's not wrong.
He scrambles off her as fast as he can, because he senses the shadow of something growing behind him, and he barely makes it out of the way when a heavy wave of ice-cold water laps at her feet. She picks herself up from the floor, still in total command. Tom feels a thrill that she can still attack after such a physical blow; that she still strikes when she's laid out flat on her back.
He is enamored. She uses both her wand hand and her spare to raise another miniature tsunami that almost touches the lofty ceiling, shifting her weight to send it reeling towards him once more. The sounds of the sea ring in Tom's ears as he clambers away. He throws a tripping hex over his shoulder as he slides off to the side, slamming into the wall, and swivels back to hit her with a quick petrificalis totalis. She inches her head slightly to the left and avoids it completely. He's at the ready to throw ten more.
While Tom is dexterous and agile, flying around the room like a moth trapped in a torch, Hermione's feet are planted to the floor, steadfast and firm. She barely wavers, shifting her weight around her center of gravity almost imperceptibly as she strikes and dodges. But her hair. Her hair seems to have a life force of its own, curls flying around her like the twisting snakes of an angry medusa.
Tom can only admire. Gorgeous, he sends her. The thought is sensual and slow, slipping into her mind softly, barely creating a ripple in the eerily calm waters of her mind.
It enrages her further.
She lifts her wand high above her head, and slices the air in his direction. Tom watches in amazement as a visible wall of turbulent wind lifts all the scattered feathers into the air. He hastily casts a protego maxima to protect himself from its cutting force. The winds whistle around his wide shield as feathers swirl around him, obstructing his vision. Tom grits his teeth and prepares himself for the certain pain he will have to endure when he drops his shield for his counterattack. He's struck with what feels like a thousand papercuts when he transfigures the feathers into birds, his cloak billowing violently behind him.
He's absolutely freezing. His teeth clatter painfully as his snow-white canaries fly kamikaze with pointed beaks right at Hermione's head.
Before they can land the blow, they dissolve into whisps of silly string, falling harmlessly to the floor.
Tom changes tactics and each string is transfigured into albino snakes with glinting rubies for eyes, slithering rapidly towards Hermione, one wrapping menacingly around her ankle and sliding up her leg.
Like a conductor she waves her wand, freezing all of them in place, before crashing her wand down and shattering them to pieces.
She kicks her leg to loosen the fragments of stone leftover from the feather that was a bird, then a snake. She rolls her neck, cracking the vertebrae, and pulls her shoulders back before she returns to her even stance.
Tom pauses long enough to watch. The effect is incredibly sultry.
Tom lifts his arm to hex her, giddy with anticipation, and he's grinning, and laughing, and dodging and running and rolling. He's having fun. He's practically manic with sheer delight. Tom wants her to know he's fast too, but in her haste to be quicker Hermione sends her curses at a breakneck speed, using her entire momentum on her attack, which is exactly the trap he is laying for her. Tom casts a potent protego totalum, not siphoning his power at all, and it grows like a globe around him until its shimmering haze reaches her, knocking her back against the wall, her head cracking against it roughly.
She does not drop her wand. Tom lunges forward to help her, not meaning to hit her so hard. He only meant to push her hard enough to surprise her, to get her to loosen her hold on her weapon. She falls forward on her hands and knees, her hair dragging on the floor in front of her face. Just as Tom reaches her to help her up, she rocks back on her knees, whipping her head back so fast her long curls lick at Tom's chin.
Her expelliarmus lands.
His wand flies neatly into her hand.
Tom stares at the thirteen-and-a-half-inch yew tucked safely next to her shorter vine wood, not fully comprehending that his wand is in her possession and not his.
His gaze shifts as he stands over her. She returns his stare with defiance. Tom is torn between bloodthirst and all-consuming lust. She is still on her knees. Only she would have the audacity to win a duel in this way.
He wants to wipe that look off her face. He's so close. All he'd have to do is tangle his fingers in her wild hair; pull her until she's flush against his lips. He wonders what that carefully bridled tongue will feel like in his mouth if she didn't have to curb her appetite, didn't have to have such vigilant restraint.
A furious voice destroys his revery as he contemplates this conviction. They turn their heads in tandem to face the incensed Professor Merrythought. She walks towards them rapidly from the other end of the cavernous room. It is the first time Tom realizes the sheer destruction their duel has inflicted.
"DETENTION!" Professor Merrythought bellows, and Tom notices that the rest of the class is huddled together under a powerful shield charm of her own.
Feathers and dust litter the floor. Chunks of stone and pebbles line the walls, and an entire beam is hanging from the ceiling as if holding on by one last splinter. It waves back and forth in the center of the room, dangling dangerously. Most of the torches have gone out. Everything is wet. Parts of the floor are scorched, the beautiful oak boards charred and black.
"DETENTION EVERY NIGHT FOR A MONTH!" She continues, unable to express her displeasure fully.
"Headmaster's office. NOW!"
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