When Hermione leaves, it is well past midnight.
Tom is beginning to nod off when the door materializes in the same place, and opens to reveal her silhouette cast in gloomy shadows. It's difficult to let her walk away, but Tom forces his self-control to its limits. When he's certain she's gone, he stands quietly, making his way back to the stone wall where he now knows a room can come and go.
He repeats her movements again, walking back and forth three times. He's careful to only walk as far she does, worried he will do it wrong and spend all night pacing. He concentrates carefully, thinking of the hidden room of secret things, where people try to hide their secrets, obscure objects, forbidden possessions.
Tom has a long time to consider this magic while he was camping out behind the statue. First of all, there is obviously some kind of privacy charm on the room, as it does not allow for its inhabitants to be disturbed once they enter. Tom thinks it must not even alert them to attempts at entrance, considering Hermione walked out of the room rather calmly, her wand pointed down at her feet, but still in her hand.
Precautions taken by an above-average spy.
Furthermore, no detection spells work when directed at the wall. Tom even cast a complex series of runes that are meant to show the inside of a room or abode without entering. He spent almost an hour using his wand to draw the runes on the floor, difficult as they are.
It did nothing.
And he doesn't care what Hermione says, his runic is excellent.
Lastly, the room must respond to instruction, as these secret places almost always do. It took him years to open the chamber, simply because he hadn't known to command it. He knows this come-and-go room doesn't respond to parseltongue, probably because it was left by one of the other founders. Hermione had to have ordered it to open for her. Considering the fact that she never spoke, and didn't even wave her wand when she entered it, it must have responded to her thoughts.
Tom thinks very hard now, and stops right where the door will appear. His heart is pulsing in his ears as the stone begins to melt away, revealing a heavy wrought-iron door.
He wants to shout in triumph. Instead, he silently turns the handle.
He enters the largest room he's ever seen. It's bigger than the Great Hall and the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom combined. And it's towering with things. Couches, chairs, tables, books, pots, pans, pianos, and cellos, and even a muggle refrigerator are the first things Tom sees when he walks in. He pushes further into the room, and accidentally knocks over a stack of plates, which clatter loudly to the ground, bursting into multiples as soon as they touch the floor. Tom curses, quickly pulling out his wand and casting an impenetrable bubble around the silver plates which glow red hot. He'd heard of this curse before—it's meant to distract thieves from the real prized object. He assumes some idiot used to it to have more silverware at their disposal, then dumped the dangerous mess into this room.
This space is filled with dangerous messes, of varying size, age, and utility. Tom skirts by a large oak cabinet carefully, now anxious to avoid touching anything. He is moving past a mountain of old parchments and books when something catches his eye.
Rows and rows of clothes. Dress robes. Costumes. Ball gowns. Wigs. Masks.
Tom knows this is not what he came here for, but he's still a teenager, and he has a ball to go to, a girl he's desperate to charm, and a sad lack of adequate funds.
He begins sorting, conjuring up a large mirror.
He's pretty certain this is not what Hermione was doing in here, anyway.
Next time, he'll be prepared with a better plan. For now, his mind turns toward pettier schemes, seductions, intrigues.
He's not ashamed to admit to himself that he wants to impress her.
XXXXXX
The common room is crowded before dinner, with many students working on homework and some simply socializing. Mulciber, Malfoy, and Avery are at Quidditch practice, training frantically at every free moment before the upcoming Gryffindor match in two days. Nott is sitting by the fireplace with Davies, quizzing him on important dates from the goblin rebellions. From what Tom can hear, Davies gets most of the answers wrong.
Tom is seated at a small table by himself. It is situated in front of large window that has an especially interesting view of the lake. Sometimes mermaids swim by, peeking into the common room curiously, but only when the hour is very late and the room appears to be abandoned. Now, the algae-tinged water splashes gently against the glass, its depths too murky to make out anything but the glittering fish that sometimes glide by.
Tom is adding some last-minute changes to his divinations essay when Hermione stomps into the room. This in itself is not shocking, aside from the fact that she is soaking wet, and clad in nothing but a frightfully short white towel wrapped around her middle.
She captures the attention of all, and one by one, heads rise as if recreating a reverse domino effect. Immediately, there are whispers, laughter, pointing, and even some cheers. Someone does a very good rehearsal of a wolf whistle, followed by several catcalls begging for Hermione to drop her towel.
Tom simply stares. It isn't out of place, because everyone is staring. It is the most naked Tom has ever seen a girl, let alone the Hermione Granger. He freezes in his chair, unable to enjoy the view whilst aware it is also being enjoyed by others. Surely, she doesn't think he can to fracture all the arms of the Slytherin boys?
Hermione doesn't pay attention to the noise. Not even the faintest blush tinges her pretty features, but she does appear to be clutching for dear life at the fold of the towel over her chest. Tom wonders at her nonchalance—walking into the common room basically naked. He'd heard France was a liberal place, but this takes the cake.
Hermione doesn't look at him, or maybe she doesn't notice that he's here too. She marches directly to Lucretia Black, her face twisted in barely concealed rage.
"Give me back my wand, Lucretia." she demands, her mouth set in a line so straight that the pink of her lips barely show.
"Did you hear that?" Lucretia turns to the sixth year sitting next to her, "Sounds like a whore got loose in the dungeons again."
This seems to snap Hermione's already thin patience, because she responds by using her free hand to grab a fistful of Lucretia's hair, pulling her up until she's forced to stand. Lucretia yelps, clawing at Hermione's unshakable grip.
"I've had enough of you, Black." Hermione grits her teeth. "I know you stole my clothes and wand while I was in the bath. Give. Them. Back."
The entire common room is gaping at them. Hermione's long legs glisten under the flickering lights of the Slytherin common room. The torch closest to her casts a red glare over her face. She looks possessed. Despite being on the receiving end of her threats in the past, Tom has never seen her this frightening.
"I didn't!" Lucretia wails, "Let go of me!"
This only causes Hermione to tug harder, making Lucretia cry out in pain. She looks around frantically for help. The sixth-year girl she was originally sitting next to quickly looks away.
"Where are my things?" Hermione demands again, shaking Lucretia like a rag doll. Tom is impressed. Lucretia is not so slender as Hermione. Tom likes to think of Hermione as easy to physically overcome, but maybe that is only when she is pitted against Tom. She seems to have strength enough for Lucretia, who is curvier and soft chinned.
Lucretia grimaces, and tries to grab at Hermione's towel to rip it away. Tom stands despite himself, his chair falling backwards behind him. What he intends to do, he's not sure, but he never finds out because Hermione retaliates by moving back and shaking Lucretia's head so hard Tom thinks he can actually hear the strands being ripped out of her head.
"My things, Black!"
"I burned them, you trollop!" she finally confesses, using her hands to grab at her hair instead, obviously in eye-stinging pain.
"Uh, uh, uh," Hermione sing-songs, "I don't think you're in a position to do any name calling right now." She lets go of Lucretia roughly, throwing her back onto the couch. She wipes away at the dark blonde hairs left in her fist, shaking them off on to the floor at Lucretia's feet.
She then holds her hand out to her side, her palm opened expectantly. A first-year Tom thinks is named Hector scampers over to her, extending his wand into her hand. Red sparks shoot out of its tip the moment it touches her palm.
"Mahogany. A little longer than mine. What's the core, Foster?" She barely glances at the first year, instead examining his wand.
"Dragon heart string, Hermione." He says her name with such deference that Tom is briefly distracted from the single droplet of water that rolls down the back of her thigh into the crease behind her knee.
"Perfect. Thank you." Hermione smiles sweetly at him, before turning back to Lucretia, who looks at her with dread and revulsion.
She aims the wand at her towel first, transfiguring it until it grows fluffy white arms and lengthens into a robe. Tom is severely disappointed, while acknowledging the necessity of such a move. He'd rather prefer not to have to obliviate every male in the room at a later date.
"Explain what your problem is with me," she aims the wand at Lucretia now.
"A slut like you shouldn't be sullying the halls of Salazar Slytherin."
"Oh, Lucretia," Hermione sighs, "I'm exactly the type of witch Salazar would desire in his halls."
Some snickers result. Tom feels his neck warm, and loosens his tie. As the only remaining relative of said ancient wizard, he's inclined to agree.
Lucretia curls her lip in disgust. "Is that why you're fucking everyone's boyfriend and a half? Don't even deny it; I saw the bruises on your neck! That might be all good and dandy in France, but in England—"
She's cut off by a swipe of Hermione's borrowed wand, her mouth moving soundlessly before she grabs at her own throat.
"Did mummy and daddy not pay for the best tutors? Or did someone skip geography lectures growing up? We're not in England, dear. We're in Scotland."
She swipes with her wand again, and Lucretia opens her mouth to scream. Nothing escapes but air.
"The less you fight it, the better. Otherwise, you'll just fry your vocal cords." Hermione warns her, pulling at wet strand of hair that clings to her chin. It falls on her neck instead—Tom notices how it's clear of marks. Her skin doesn't shimmer with the obvious trace of a glamour, so she must have healed them.
"Here's what we'll do. You will compensate me for my clothes and return my wand," she leans in until she's only inches away from Lucretia's panicked face and whispers, "Or else, I will indeed fuck your boyfriend. Even though he's not really your boyfriend, is he?"
The room is so deadly still that it's impossible not to hear her. Tom is burning under his wool sweater, the warm coziness of the common room suddenly unbearable. She is a fearsome sight to behold; ruthless, savage being that she is. She's not from France, nor from the British Isles, but from some other world. She sets him on fire; he throbs with unquenchable desire.
"Now, if you want me to release the spell, give me back my wand." Hermione emphasizes the last part of the sentence again, a lingering threat in her words. Lucretia wordlessly pulls a vinewood wand out of the inside of her cloak pocket, and hands it to Hermione, her face twisted into pure ugliness.
Hermione turns around and calls Foster over, handing him back his mahogany wand, handle first. She thanks him, and he flushes with pleasure as he turns back to his friends.
Hermione turns back to Lucretia, who looks at her expectantly, pointing a finger at her throat. Hermione lifts her wand, and then pauses, tapping her chin pensively as if in deep thought.
"Oh, dear me!" she starts, holding a hand to her brow, "I seem to have forgotten the counter curse. Guess we'll just have to wait until it dissolves on its own!"
Her acting is a little over the top, but it gets her point across. Lucretia's already pale skin drains of all color until she looks like a ghost.
Tom feels absolutely no pity for her. She had no qualms trying to humiliate Hermione; she is now simply forced to taste her own brand of poison.
Hermione gives Lucretia one last big smile and walks away, her large strides carrying her quickly out of the room. She disappears around the corner into the girls' dormitory corridors.
XXXXXX
Hermione comes to dinner for the first time in days, as if to prove a point. She's surrounded by her groupies, who hang on her every word eagerly. Lucretia leaves as soon as Hermione sits down, and no one stands to follow her.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Tom remembers when Lucretia ruled the Slytherin girls with an iron fist, always bragging about her family and her money. She is always dressed in the most expensive, latest fashions in Hogsmeade. Always surrounding herself with the most powerful people. Tom knows she used to complain about him being a nobody—he'd heard from Malfoy in their third year that even though she found him attractive, her father would never let her marry a Riddle. What family was that, even?
Tom smirks into his soup. To think she is upstaged in less than six weeks by a muggleborn with no family or name to speak of. She'd be furious if she knew.
At a quarter past seven, Hermione stands to go to detention, much to the chagrin of her companions. She is teaching them the curse she used to silence Lucretia Black, and the smallest boy, the one who handed her his wand—Foster—looks especially eager to master it. Tom hears him muttering about how he plans to use it on a certain Ravenclaw who never shuts up, his friends sniggering and teasing him.
Tom stands abruptly, following closely behind as she moves toward the Great Hall doors. She is through the threshold before Tom can catch up to her.
He doesn't call after her this time, but chooses to half-jog until he can match her stride.
"Good evening, Hermione. Heading to detention?"
"Good evening," she greats him brusquely, "Yes."
Tom peers out the castle windows as he speed-walks to keep up with her. "Looks like it might rain," he remarks casually.
She hums noncommittally.
"Would be a shame if a storm did some damage to the castle." Tom continues, stuffing his hands into his pockets to avoid grabbing hers. The sudden urge to hold her hand is too tempting.
"Planning another explosion tonight, Riddle?"
"Not at all."
She lifts her eyebrows in mock-astonishment. "I'm surprised."
"Why should you be? I have better things to do than command senseless violence and destroy school property just so I can get a few moments alone with the girl I fancy."
"Fancy?"
"Some might say that, yes."
"Who exactly would say that?"
"Half the school is saying that."
"Yes, and the other half is saying you're dating the Head Girl," she counters.
"Well, you can't listen to them. That's the idiot half," Tom retorts matter-of-factly.
She smiles, her eyes gliding up to meet his, lit up with amusement. "Do you always have to get in the last word?"
"That's just rich coming from you."
"Oh, please."
Tom decides to change the subject. "I really liked what you did to Lucretia today. Can you teach me that spell, too?"
She blushes. "I'm afraid you've missed the lesson for today."
"But don't I qualify for private tutelage?" Tom can resist no longer, and grabs her arm, "I don't know if you've heard, but I'm a model student."
She pulls her limb gently from his grasp, and keeps walking. "I just don't have the time—detention, you know."
Tom doesn't get to say anything else, because she's already pushing open the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom door.
"Miss Birch, Mr. Riddle!" Professor Merrythought is waiting for them behind her desk, looking rather harried. Tom looks at her carefully, her hair is messy, and she looks almost flushed. Her cloak seems to be on inside-out.
"I just owled you both moments ago. Your detentions have been cancelled. I spoke to Headmaster Dippet and we agreed that you have both learned your lessons quite thoroughly and that further punishment will not be needed."
Translation: "The headmaster won't let me torture you any longer."
Tom grins, happy to hear his meeting with Dippet was useful for more than just unpalatable tea and unsolicited advice.
"That is fantastic news, Professor." Tom says, nudging Hermione with his elbow to do the same.
"Er—yes, thank you so much, Professor," she stammers, shooting Tom a dirty look.
"Well, we'll be going then. Hermione was just promising to help me with my Herbology assignment, so this is truly serendipitous timing." He flashes a big smile at Merrythought, deeply enjoying her confused expression when he grabs a hold of Hermione's hand and pulls her toward the door.
Before she can open her mouth to protest, he takes off at a brisk pace.
"Is this what we're doing now?" she asks when they're out of earshot, lifting their clasped hands in the air.
"Absolutely." Tom weaves his fingers through hers now that he knows she won't pull away. He's not sure how to account for her kindness, irregular and infrequent that it is, but he fully intends to take advantage of it if she means to let him.
"Did you mean what you said about your Herbology assignment?"
"Yes, I need an extra pair of hands for this next bit of my project, so I will be greatly indebted to you if you will help."
"Well," she smiles, "if only because you'll be indebted to me." She squeezes his hand and looks forward.
Tom feels something dangerously close to affection unfurl in his chest. He tries to remind himself that she's a liar, and a sneak, a hypocrite, and likely a spy—but it does nothing to squash that tremendous feeling that threatens to settle deeply into his bones.
They arrive at the greenhouses just as the first crack of lightning strikes. They rush into the glass building right before the downpour begins, feeling lucky they haven't gotten wet in the onslaught. Tom reluctantly lets go of her hand, and pulls out his wand to summon two pairs of gardening gloves.
He starts by instructing her regarding weeding technique. Tom is serious about his schoolwork and learning, so he doesn't inject any playfulness into his directions. She adopts his attitude and picks up the style very quickly, much to Tom's pleasure. He's contemplating her intelligence and quickness when she asks him a question, pointing to a small fungal growth near the edge of the soil bed.
Tom pries it out, careful to dig a wide berth to ensure he pulls the root out fully. He sets it aside, explaining that the house elves like using this particular species of mushroom for their salves and tinctures, so it's good to save them.
She pauses for a moment at this, and then slowly asks, "You give things to the house elves?"
"No, not really," he answers, returning to his work. He pulls at a rather stubborn vine, elbow deep in dirt.
"Yes, but why save them this mushroom?" she presses him. Tom turns to look at her, slightly confused as to why she seems so interested in having a conversation about house elves, of all things.
"It's just a mushroom, Hermione. It's not like I'm knitting them hats and scarves for the winter." He grins at his own joke. She blushes deeply for some unfathomable reason, and returns to her work as well.
The rain patters soothingly against the glass as they work in companiable silence. Tom feels incredibly relaxed, and when he realizes this, he chastises himself for being too comfortable around the enemy. She's a dangerous witch. He can't let a pretty face and a witty tongue make him forget that. Even if she does smell incredible, and her moans fire blood straight to his groin. She's just a bag of bones, he tells himself. Hair, and flesh, and teeth. She's dispensable, just like everyone else. And what's more—she's up to something. He is only keeping her close to lull her into a false sense of safety, so he can find her out.
He peers at her out of the corner of his eye. She's tying her hair back, to get into out of her face, and she puckers out her bottom lip to blow a strand out of her eye. She's got a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
She's positively adorable.
Tom looks down hastily, cursing himself for being so foolish, so easy to manipulate, so sentimental—
"Tom, what do you want me to do with these branches? Are they meant to be trimmed?"
He looks up at her fully now, and finds the dirt has smudged more than just her cheek. Her sleeves are stained brown, and she's got a green streak through her white shirt.
"Here," he pulls her closer, "Let me roll up your sleeves." He begins to fold her left sleeve when she yanks her arm back. Tom looks up in surprise. She has the decency to look embarrassed.
"I, er, don't like folding my sleeves," she lies, "It's bothersome."
"Okay," Tom says, thinking back to her first detention with Slughorn in the dingy dungeons classroom. She didn't mind doing it then. Perhaps she just didn't want Tom to be able to look at her arms up close?
"The branches?" she prompts again, holding up sheering scissors.
"Let me do it," Tom reaches for them, "The branches can be quite aggressive if they realize you want to cut them."
"Aggressive?" She asks him.
"Yeah. They can whip you if you're not careful."
"What plant did you say this was again?" she asks, studying the tender bark carefully.
"A salix wompus."
"You're growing a whomping willow?"
"Yes, you've seen one before?" He assumes she has from her reaction.
"They're notoriously hard to grow! Especially into adulthood!"
He smirks at her instant recognition of the rare genus. What a know-it-all. "Yeah, it takes years for them to mature fully. About three decades, in fact."
Hermione stares at him in disbelief, then stares back at the sapling they are caring for.
"Three decades," she repeats carefully, as if doing mental math to work out when the tree will be ready to plant into the earth and not cared for in a carefully controlled greenhouse environment.
"1971." He tells her, "I've been working on it for a few years already."
"But why?" she asks the question so earnestly, Tom wonders at her honest incredulity, "You'll never see it planted, you can't mean to come here every day for another twenty-seven years."
He shrugs. "I don't. The first few years are the most difficult period of horticulture—they don't take to the soil well, no matter where you plant them. But I've got it this far, and I know Professor Beery will continue to take care of it when I'm gone." He pauses to look at her, "And maybe I'll come back as a professor, take care of it myself." He grins at the idea. "Plus, they're interesting. One of the few plants that can actually move, and definitely the only one who can move this fast."
She contemplates him in silence as he suits up in heavy leather gear to prepare to trim the branches. Although this young tree is only a few years old, and nowhere near as aggressive as a fully grown whomping willow, it can still whip its thin branches very fast. They've caught Tom once or twice before, leaving long red welts on his back as if he'd been hit with a rod.
Hermione smiles at his outfit, and steps back to allow him space to prune the plant. He gets whipped almost instantly, but barely flinches in pain. The leather does a lot to protect him. After about the fourth whipping, Hermione jumps forward without warning. Tom yells for her to step back, extending his arm in front of her, but she reaches over him, pressing her hand over the lower half of the sapling where a small knot is forming at the base of its bark.
Inertia demands that Tom pull her back, and he stands with his hands on her shoulders for a few moments before realizing the plant did not strike her.
"What was that? What did you do?" he demands, looking at the frozen sapling, now as still as any other nonmagical plant.
"It's just something I read about once," she explains ruefully, shrugging her shoulders.
Tom highly doubts that. He researched just about everything about the salix wompus in order to grow one, and he'd never read a line like that in the entire library.
He pulls his leather gear off, throwing it to the floor. She's still standing close to him, and he notices that way the dirt on her cheek seems to lighten her eyes in contrast. They're a rich honey brown in the rainy glow of the greenhouse. The kind of honey that one cultivates in their own yard, dark with rich nutrients. He rubs at the smudge with his thumb, and she doesn't even blink, meeting his gaze with an intensity Tom has never seen in her before. What was that in her expression? Longing? Or apprehension? It oscillates between a mixture of patience and grief. He doesn't understand it, but it makes him really sad.
He feels very vulnerable in that moment, but he doesn't break their connection, instead shifting his hand down to cradle her face. He remembers how he's grabbed it in the past, bruising her and not caring if he hurt her, wanting to hurt her, and feels ashamed. He thinks with a jolt that she's just like he is: so beautiful and so deceitful at the same time.
He moves closer, surprising himself with the gentleness at which he takes hold of her body, lifting her face to meet his when he stands too near for her to keep eye contact without doing so. He leans down, intending to brush his lips against hers when she turns her face quickly away, showing him her cheek—the clean one.
Tom wonders at the symbolism.
"A little late to be protecting your purity, Granger." He murmurs against her cheek, kissing it before moving lower toward her jaw, then her neck, the spot she likes right before her ear—
"It's—I don't think this is a good idea." She says weakly. Tom thinks it'll be easy to convince her, but she begins to pull away. His grip on her waist tightens, and he pulls her into him, refusing to let her leave.
"Okay. No kissing. Got it." He mutters into her hair, her curls brushing against his mouth, his nose, his chin. He places one kiss into her untamable hair, not able to help himself. "That's the last one, I promise."
"It's better if you let me go," she says against his shirt, but Tom holds her even tighter.
"Let's just—can I just hold you? For a moment?" he asks quietly, feeling oddly shy. After several agonizing moments, she silently snakes her arms around his waist, lightly holding him back. She's small against him this way; it makes him feel massive and strong. Protective. Tom squeezes her against him, as if he can force her physically inside him. Something incredibly tender and delightful burdens his chest.
In response, he tells himself over and over: She's a spy. She's a liar. She's a fake. She's a spy. She's a liar. She's a fake.
He repeats it for so long, the words lose meaning and slur into one another. He can only focus on the feeling, and he wonders how dulled it must be given his situation, and how brilliant it might have felt if he had never killed. He doesn't want to say it feels whole, or that she completes something inside him, but it does feel frighteningly close to when he has his horcruxes pressed against his heart.
XXXXXX
Lucretia Black corners Tom after lunch the next day.
"Do you know who Ignatius Prewett is taking to the ball?"
"No." Tom impatiently replies. He doesn't want to be late to his next class with Hermione. She finally agreed to sit next to him in Ancient Runes. He looks up and down the corridor, antsy that someone will notice him and Lucretia huddled behind an alcove by the staircase.
He has enough rumors circulating about his love life at the moment.
"Well, I do. It's Hermione Birch!" She says her name like a filthy curse. She is holding back tears, and actually sniffles. Loudly.
Tom freezes, his head still angled to look down the hall. He feels almost as if he is floating outside of his own body, watching the interaction as a third party. Hermione? With Ignatius Prewett?
Impossible.
He turns to look at Lucretia to monitor her for signs of lying, and she takes a frightened step back, her eyes widening at his expression. Tom closes his eyes briefly to collect himself.
He tries again.
"What did you say?" he tries to sound pleasant, but his voice sounds menacing even to his own ears.
"I said… Ignatius. He—I thought since we're partners in potions now—" she stumbles over her words, and Tom closes his eyes to block the sight of her from his mind. If he doesn't get away from her this instant, he's in danger of strangling her.
"Where did you get your information from?"
"Ramona Ellewood asked Birch in the common room if she had a date yet. I heard Birch say so myself." She offers the information freely, like it's nothing. In her haste to achieve her own ends, she's lost her ability to manipulate, Tom thinks bitterly. She has no idea how desperately Tom would have paid for such information.
"So? What do you want me to do about it?" Tom asks her coldly, not bothering to hide his malice now.
Her eyes slide side to side, and she looks down. She's holding herself, her arms crossed around her body. She looks mildly like a fiending opium addict Tom saw in London when he was out exploring last summer.
"I thought—last time—I'm coming to you for help."
"Why would I care about your silly little infatuation?" Tom demands, clenching his fist.
"I'll do whatever you ask. Just—make it so he goes with me instead."
"Are you asking me to imperio him?"
"No!" she swallows, "Nothing like that. Maybe you can talk to him. Or—or maybe she can fall down a flight of stairs—nothing deadly! Just—just a very serious injury. Bad enough that she can no longer attend, or maybe… maybe she has to leave Hogwarts to reside in St Mungo's for the rest of the year."
"Oh really? How benevolent of you not to kill her." Tom tries to appear casually sarcastic, but his ears are ringing with revenge. How dare she?
"Tom, please. I'll do whatever you want." She's begging. Tom knows, logically, this is the ideal place to have a powerful pureblood witch. Right under his thumb. A favor like this could open doors for him. She's petty, but she's not insipid, and she's short sighted enough with this obsession that she's just about willing to do anything for Tom.
He inhales deeply, trying to keep it together long enough to finish this conversation. He feels himself ripping at the seams. Betrayal twists and turns in his gut like a hookworm threatening to devour him from within.
"A favor of this magnitude is going to cost you."
XXXXXX
The day of the Quidditch match opens with excellent weather. The sun is actually shining, and it feels almost warm, causing Tom to take of his sweater and tie it across his shoulders. He's dressed in Slytherin green, as is his whole house. There's a decided air of excitement that penetrates the stands, with occasional random whooping and hooting as students wait for the game to commence under the clear blue sky.
Tom waits on the grounds below, guiding students to their respective stands based on their houses. He lets Hermione pass by him without looking at her, even though she's talking to Derrick Astor, which irks him to no end. The only positive is that Astor keeps his hands firmly folded in front of him as she speaks, as if being extremely careful not to accidentally brush against her swinging hand as she walks with him.
Good.
Once everyone is settled, Tom takes his seat in the very back of the Slytherin stand, next to Nott. He's furious that Hermione chooses to sit next to Astor, but satisfied when he sees the fifth year desperately try to scooch away, almost landing himself in the lap of the boy next to him.
She stands one row ahead of him, a little off to his side, so he can easily watch her without being noticed at least. The teams spill out of their locker rooms over the green lawn of the pitch, moving toward Ogg, the gamekeeper. Mulciber shakes Ignatius Prewett's hand, as he is the captain of the opposing team. Tom imagines Prewett trying to match Mulciber's grip—they're about the same height, but Mulciber is much wider. He leans over to whisper something in Prewett's ear, and Prewett pulls back hastily, a disgusted expression overtaking his ginger face. The whistle blows, and fourteen sets of brooms rise up into the air.
The game begins. Tom looks on with mild interest, waiting to see how it will play out, knowing already how it will end. That is, if Mulciber follows his instructions.
Malfoy and Avery are both chasers. They fly together well, in sync in a way that is only possible if they grew up together as boys; which they in fact did.
Within the first two minutes, they've already scored ten points, much to the dismay of the Gryffindors watching. They score twenty more before the Gryffindor team seems to wake up and get moving; egged on by the booing and hollering of their housemates. They manage to commandeer the quaffle for the next quarter of an hour, but are only able to score once during that time. The Slytherin keeper—a third year named Haneul Hak—is quite good.
Tom chants for him like everyone else every time he saves. HAN! EUL! HAK! HAN! EUL! HAK! They emphasize each syllable individually as they wave their Slytherin scarves in the air. Haneul waves a gloved fist back at them, causing the Slytherins to erupt in cheers.
Tom glances over at Hermione, and she's cheering and calling out instructions just like everyone else. Astor has finally managed to switch seats with a fourth-year girl, planting her firmly between him and Hermione. Hermione gives him a strange look, but seems to let it go, giving all her attention back to the game. Tom doesn't see her wand on her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have it tucked up her sleeve.
Tom is so focused on watching Hermione, he is startled when the Gryffindor stands boom with roars. Tom's head snaps back to the game—sure enough, the reds have scored a second time. The score is now thirty to twenty, Slytherin still in the lead. Haneul has his face in his hands, and Malfoy is arguing angrily with Ogg, who referees the game. Malfoy gestures wildly between the Slytherin keeper and the Gryffindor chaser who just scored. She's a tiny thing. Tom thinks he might recognize her—a second year, maybe, but he's not sure.
Ogg brushes Malfoy off, blowing the whistle to restart the game. Malfoy looks livid. He zooms in on the quaffle the moment it's tossed, slamming through the Gryffindor chaser formations. He's flying so recklessly fast that the Gryffindor keeper can only get out of the way when Malfoy jets right through the Keeper ring on the other side—not just throwing the quaffle, but actually flying physically all the way through.
The crowd is absolutely rabid.
Tom is no quidditch fanatic, but he is pretty certain no one has ever scored points like that before. Prewett dives directly over to Ogg, speaking to him urgently, motioning toward Malfoy who still clutches the quaffle to his chest. He does a victory lap around the pitch, and some of the girls throw flowers and teddies at him. It's exaggerated, but exactly Malfoy's style. He's beaming while Ogg nods along with Prewett's points before stepping forward and crossing his arms in the air in a large X, meaning the score will not be counted.
The Slytherins boo so loudly, it's deafening.
"Oh, look. The Slytherins are upset." A small girlish voice carries over the jeers, "Sorry I was late Professor Dumbledore, I think I ate some bad meat loaf last night, because I've been having diarrhea all morning."
Tom sees Dumbledore reaching for the girl's wand, shaking his head no, but she side steps him.
"Alright, Professor. I shan't talk about bodily functions any longer." She promises, her voice still amplified. She's dressed in Hufflepuff colors. Tom has no idea who she is. Several students snicker at her commentating, but most are still upset about Malfoy's incredible score, whinging loudly and shouting insults down at Ogg if they think they can do it without getting caught.
"Well, it seems like Ogg is not going to accept Abraxas Malfoy's amazing dive through the Gryffindor hoop. That was rather incredible, no? I've never seen anything like it. The Gryffindor keeper must be very embarrassed. Are you embarrassed, Cornelius?"
The Slytherins laugh wholeheartedly now, and some of them whoop in support of this unknown Hufflepuff.
Malfoy is not happy with the turn of events. Mulciber is holding him by the shoulders, shouting intently into his face. It looks aggressive, but Tom knows Mulciber is trying to calm him down. Malfoy has a bad habit of starting brawls during games; he's been suspended several times before. It's always a headache to find a new chaser last minute.
"Alright, the game is starting again. Oop, there goes the quaffle. Gryffindor moves it down the pitch. Oh, no. Jamie Lurch just barely avoids that bludger. She's got such pretty hair, but it clashes horribly with the red uniform. Maybe we should let her play on the Slytherin team, instead?"
Hermione is laughing at the commentary, using her binoculars to search the pitch for the snitch. Tom wishes she would have sat next to him. They could have laughed together.
The Slytherins burst into hurrahs as Malfoy scores again. Nott pumps his fist in the air, shooting off green sparks with his wand, much to the delight of the first years who sit in front of them.
"It looks like Abraxas managed to score without flying through the hoop this time. I guess Ogg will have to accept it. Ignatius looks very angry, although he's a very friendly bloke in general. One time he bought me a butterbeer at Hogsmeade, but I think he only did that because he wanted to snog my sister."
Dumbledore attempts to snatch the wand away from the Hufflepuff, but she dodges him expertly, placing it on the other side of her throat. "Don't worry, Professor. She's didn't kiss him. She's in love with our third-cousin. You gotta hand it to those purebloods! Everyone is somehow related, am I right?"
She pauses to argue with Dumbledore, who wags an angry finger at her. He's definitely threatening to prohibit her from further commentating, Tom thinks.
She's only half-listening to his rebuke, partly distracted by the game, "Oh look, Professor Dumbledore; I think Slytherin has spotted the snitch! What's their seekers name again? Berkley? Burgott?" Then pausing as someone who looks like an older version of her whispers in her ear, "Hamburger? No way. That sounds delicious."
After some more ferocious whispering, "Oh sorry. Hanz Burgh. That's his name. Looks like the Gryffindor seeker is after the snitch now, too. Wouldn't it be funny if her name was French Fries? Please tell me her name is French Fries."
Dumbledore is yelling now, and the older girl who was trying to help her before is holding her head in her hands.
"Oh, darn. Her name is Alicia O'Shae. What a shame. Alicia O'Shae, Alicia O'Shae, Alicia O'Shae. Try saying that ten times fast." Right after this suggestion, she tries to say it ten times fast. Ali-sho-shay is ground into Tom's skull. He holds his ears shut just like everyone else to drown out her poorly timed tongue-twister.
The seekers zoom around the pitch, pushing and shoving each other as they sail through the sky, the golden snitch winking at them as it swerves their outstretched hands. Tom looks up to watch Mulciber, who's flying high overhead, observing the seekers carefully. They're almost there—almost—
Just before they fly past Ignatius Prewett, who is floating in a defensive position since the Quaffle is on the other side of the pitch, Mulciber bats an approaching bludger. The loud bang pierces through the ear-splitting cheers, and almost everyone looks away from the seekers to follow the bludger's trajectory.
It slams against the handle of Prewett's broom head-on, smashing through it until he's sitting on nothing but splinters and air.
Screams of shock and fear fill the stadium as Ignatius Prewet begins his descent, his red cape flapping uselessly around him.
"Oh, God! HELP! MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN!" The Hufflepuff girl's voice booms overhead. Tom watches calmly as Ignatius falls, glancing quickly at Hermione to see her reaction. She has her wand out, eyes meeting Dumbledore's for only a fraction of a second before she whips her head back to Ignatius, whispering an incantation which is impossible to hear in the absolute cacophony of noise.
Tom turns to look at Dumbledore—his wand is following the same swirls and flicks, his mouth moving in time with Hermione's.
Slowly, Ignatius's freefall turns into a glide, and then a float. He's about fifteen feet off the ground when Tom loses his temper and shoots a tripping curse at Hermione wandlessly, causing her to lose her balance, and break her concentration.
Ignatius Prewett plummets the rest of the way down. Dumbledore's end of the spell still holds, and it turns out he was holding Prewett's upper half, because his head is spared from the crash. His legs are bent at odd angles on the ground, the grass stained red where he lies. Hermione shoves forward through the crowd, leaning over the edge to look at Ignatius's motionless form below.
The Hufflepuff commentator is crying, her concerned whimpering amplified over the pitch while Matron Consanos, Ogg, and the Professors rush down to help the Gryffindor captain.
Hermione backs away from the ledge, letting her spot be overtaken by other students rushing to get a look, and turns her head slowly, looking directly at Tom. If he thought she looked possessed when she was arguing with Lucretia, he was wrong. She looks demonic now, actually trembling with rage.
She makes eye contact.
In his head, the following words form: You will pay.
XXXXXX
"Tom! What happened?! You weren't supposed to—this wasn't the plan!" Lucretia is delirious, clinging onto Tom's shirt, clawing at him as if she can physically take back her plea to him the day before.
Tom pries her fingers off his collar one by one, shoving her back and away from him.
"Calm down, Lucretia. He isn't dead." He spits, drawing out his desk chair and roughly offering it to her to sit down. She stuffs her fist between her teeth and sobs, but takes the offer, landing roughly in the wooden seat. She closes her hands over her face and continues to cry in earnest.
"Stop crying," Tom demands, throwing his sweater on his bed, "It's extremely irritating."
"I just—I didn't mean for this to happen! You were supposed to hurt her—not him!" Lucretia wails, and Tom hastily casts a silencing charm on his dorm, cursing his stupidity at not doing it the moment she showed up at his door.
"What does it matter which one of them got hurt? They won't be going to the dance together at any rate." Tom answers her bitterly. She really is the most annoying person he's ever met.
"Because!" She yells at him, "I actually like Ignatius!"
"Well, he doesn't like you." Tom mutters quietly. He knows it's cruel, but it feels good to say. She erupts into fresh tears, wailing for a moment before she can control herself enough to speak again.
"How does this make it so he goes with me? If he ever finds out I had a part to play in this, he will never trust me, will never marry me!"
"Don't be daft, Lucretia," Tom snaps, "He'll marry you just fine if your father offers a large enough dowry to the Prewetts. Just write to your family before the year is finished. You will want to throw your hat in the ring before he gets too many offers."
He sneers. Purebloods and their senseless schemes for wealth and power.
"You don't understand. I want him to marry me because he loves me, not just because I'm a Black!"
"Then brew a love potion; I don't care." Tom stands angrily, striding over to the window to look out of it. It's pitch black at this time of night, and he feels like he is staring out at the abyss that threatens to overtake him.
She cries quietly into her hands for a few moments, and Tom rubs his temples in agony. He hates the sound of her pathetic sniffling. He feels the edges of his vision darkening when she speaks again.
It's so quiet, it's barely a whisper.
"I don't know how."
"Is that all?" Tom sighs. She needs to get out of here, because he's about two seconds from slicing her in half. "I'll do it for you, if you want."
"Really?" She rubs her sweater under her nose, resulting in a wet patch of snot by her midriff. Tom scrunches his nose in disgust.
"Yes. Just pay me another thirty galleons," He demands.
"Of course. I—I'll have the money to you tomorrow."
"Don't come here again," Tom warns, then adds, "What kind of love potion do you want?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you want it to induce lust? If you get pregnant, he'll have to marry you."
She turns bright red, her blonde hairs growing invisible under her flush. "No! Nothing like that. Just—Just something to make him take interest in me. Talk to me, get to know me—"
"Alright. Enough. Leave." Tom is looking at her through two pin holes now, barely able to stand without supporting his weight against his four-poster bed.
She's almost out of the room when he remembers.
"Leave a strand of your hair," he orders. He thinks she does as he asks, although he cannot see anything anymore. When he hears the door click open, then closed, he collapses on his bed, writhing in pain, his back arching at an impossible angle.
He screams, and a distant part of him is glad he cast a silencing charm while he was still sane. His wand is somewhere in the room, but Tom has no idea where. He reaches out a hand to summon it, but instead causes a loud crack and falls backward onto the floor, slamming his head hard enough to see stars burst through his pitch-black vision.
"Tom," he hears the softest whisper, "Tom."
Something incredibly light is caressing his skin, and he calls out in agony. Whatever it is, it's burning him. He's scared—truly afraid—when he hears his name again, stronger this time.
"Tom, breathe. Just breathe."
Tom realizes that the thing stroking him is a hand, and he grabs at it, squeezing as hard as he can to get it to stop touching him.
The hand goes away, and for some brief moments, Tom can fall apart in peace.
He wakes up later. How many hours later, he's not sure, but the lake is still pitch black outside his window. There's something huddled next to him. A large lump, or a small body. Tom panics, and tries to lift himself up off the bed, but his arms are too weak to support his weight, so he falls back down into the mattress.
This seems to disturb the lump—who moves under the blankets to reveal a bushy head of brown curls.
"You're awake. Can you see?"
It's Hermione. Hermione Granger.
Tom opens his mouth to say what the fuck, but only a garbled mess of noise comes out.
"Shh. Go back to sleep." Hermione pulls the covers back up over his chin.
Tom tries to ask her what are you doing here, and this time the words sound almost comprehensible, although extremely slurred.
"I came to murder you," she explains sweetly, brushing his hair off his forehead, "But to my surprise, when I arrived Lucretia was just stepping out."
He opens his mouth to ask, but she predicts what he will say correctly.
"Don't worry, she didn't see me." She cradles his face, and the electrical hum seems to transfer energy into Tom's body.
"What did you see?" He rasps.
"Everything. Don't worry about it though, you won't remember this when you wake up." She plants a kiss on his forehead, and Tom wishes he could kiss her back.
"But I want to remember," he protests weakly, "You're in my bed. Are you naked?"
It's a stupid question, because she's obviously wearing his gym class jumper and he can see the black strap of her bra peaking underneath.
"Absolutely not." She grins at him. She looks almost happy. Tom feels the sickly nausea in his stomach ease up a little at the sight.
"I wish you were," he sighs, rolling over on his side, throwing his arm around her waist. She rolls over with him, settling herself deeply into his embrace.
Tom falls asleep.
XXXXXX
When he wakes up, he's alone, obviously. He tests his fingers and hands first, clenching and unclenching his fists. He can see, although everything is a little blurry. His bed is unbearably hot—he wants to get out immediately. He twists his legs over the side, and almost stumbles over the covers. They're strewn haphazardly across the floor.
He makes it to the toilet in time to wretch, releasing last night's dinner with a flush.
He shuffles back to bed, thankful that it's Sunday and he doesn't have anywhere to be when he tumbles back into bed. His nose is pressed into his sweat-soaked sheets, and he almost imagines he smells the faint scent of vanilla wafting from his pillow.
He falls back into restless sleep.
A/N: special thanks to hufflepuffhugs and Guest for leaving reviews! Guest-thank you so much for your lovely encouragement! This chapter goes out to you guys :))
Allsoooooooo- the suspense is building! thanks to everyone for sticking around, it's only going to get crazier from here, LOL.