A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: Violence/physical assault at the end of the chapter.
AGAIN, THIS IS IMMORAL AND WRONG. IT IS NEVER OKAY TO HIT, OR BE HIT BY ANOTHER PERSON! THIS IS A SILLY STORY, NOT REAL, AND SHOULD NEVER BE EMULATED.
THANK YOU FOR READING.

The summer after Tom turned eleven years old, a Hogwarts acceptance letter was sent to the orphanage. He never actually received it, however, as the matron of the orphanage, Mrs. Cole, never gave it to him.

She had never been fond of Tom, and the feeling was returned with equal fervor. Indeed, Tom's earliest memory is of her locking him in a cupboard during his third birthday party. Tom doesn't remember what he was supposed to have done to warrant the punishment, but he does remember listening to the sounds of children playing and laughing while he sat on the grimy floor in the dark. When he was let out of the cupboard, all the cake was already gone.

Eventually, Tom realized she disliked him because of what he could do. This was rather inconvenient, because Tom could hardly stop himself. Indeed, he wanted to talk to snakes, coax the rabbits to play with him, and persuade the mice to leave the kitchens. It thrilled him that he could make animals follow his commands. No one listened like the snakes did, however. They would even talk back, lifting their heads to get a good look at the boy who could communicate in their tongue.

Tom was beaten on more than one occasion because Mrs. Cole found a snake in his sleeve, or wrapped around the warmth of his neck. One time, she found a snake nest under his bed, and he was forbidden from going out into the garden for the rest of the summer. She destroyed the nest, breaking all of the eggs beneath her heeled shoe. Tom had shed thick tears over the ruins, feeling absolutely shattered. What would he say to the mother when she returned to find her home destroyed?

Mrs. Cole is exactly the type of the muggle that Tom would grow to despise. Naturally fearful of what she does not understand and will never be capable of, she persecuted Tom until he was old enough to defend himself. Lock him in the cupboard? Fine. Tom would just set it on fire. Forbid him from meals? Tom would just steal from the kitchens. He knew how to make his footsteps silent. He knew how to hurt people when they hurt him.

Eventually, she resigned herself to his presence, but seemed determined to ignore him. No longer were his birthdays celebrated. He was not included in outings. If there was a disagreement between him and another child, she would always take the others' side. Worst of all, she withheld her affection, which she gave freely to the others. She was his first enemy.

When Dumbledore came to the orphanage, Tom could hardly believe it. He was special. He knew it already, but this was beyond his wildest imaginings. He was a part of something. He'd never belonged anywhere before. He'd never had a home, never had a friend, never had a parent. In Hogwarts, he found all three. Dumbledore did not like him, but that did not matter. No one liked him. But they would respect him. He wanted to ask Dumbledore a lot of questions, but he didn't want to seem weak or needy. He could tell Albus Dumbledore was just a traded-up version of Mrs. Cole.

He went to Diagon Alley by himself. Tom was given an allowance by the Board of Administrators. It was calculated to allow him to buy everything on his supply list, and nothing more. Yet, Tom needed more. He needed many books that weren't on his list: A Young Man's Introduction into Wizarding Society, The Muggleborn versus Muggle Family, Pureblood Families of Distinction, The Fire of Magic Within Us All, Flying into the Twentieth Century of Magic, Political Imbalance in the Magical World, The Muggle West and the Magical East, and many more.

He'd had to steal. It was out of necessity, and he felt no guilt about it. He only felt fear at being caught, unaware as he was of magical tactics to prevent stealing. He couldn't go to Hogwarts unprepared, especially after he found out that there were magical families—children who were raised with magic all around them from infancy. Children who knew nothing of muggle London. Tom could not bear the thought of being the idiot in the class, the one that knew nothing and ogled at even the simplest of spells.

He'd stopped stealing when he realized there was a library in Diagon Alley. It was a dingy place, but held a certain charm to it. The medieval building looked like it was only standing due to the sheer force of magic keeping it together. Long lines of dusty shelves lined the walls, cramped together in such a way that only one person could fit through the aisles at a time. Tom read all summer in anticipation of autumn. He found out about blood classism, about the Ministry of Magic, about the statue of Secrecy, about the trace on minors, about the founders of Hogwarts, about magical neighborhoods and villages. He'd found out about Albus Dumbledore, and all of his incredible magical achievements. He'd learned about potions, and charms, and hexes, and curses, and botany. He'd read about magical marriages and murders. He'd discovered there were other magical creatures; house-elves, goblins, centaurs, vampires, giants, werewolves and hags.

On September first, he was satisfied that he hadn't wasted a moment all summer. He went to King's Cross by himself, and confidently ran through the brick column separating the magical platform from the muggle one. He was prepared. No one caught him looking surprised or in shock when he appeared on platform nine and three-quarters. He knew where to stand while he waited for the train, and he used the time wisely to observe his peers. Surrounding him were dozens of students huddled together with their families, some large, and some small. Tom could immediately pick out the muggleborns, as their parents were dressed in traditional muggle clothes and looking wildly out of place. Tom was already wearing his uniform, and was disappointed to find that many of the students weren't.

Some mistakes were bound to happen.

In the train ride to Hogwarts, he took a compartment with Malfoy and Mulciber. That is how he met both boys. The sniggered at his uniform, but Tom bore it with a mask of indifference. They bragged about their families and their wealth, and Tom listened silently, having no family of his own. When asked where he was from, he replied shortly that he was from London.

Mulciber had sniggered and whispered under his breath to Malfoy that Tom must be a mudblood. Tom had hexed him in response with a jaw-snap jinx. It was the first time he'd ever used his wand. It made him feel powerful, and he immediately earned both boys' respect. After all three of them had been sorted into Slytherin, Mulciber had dropped all questions about Tom's family, and hadn't allowed any of their housemates to ask him either. It was enough for them that he was sorted into Slytherin—it meant he wasn't from the wrong sort, in any case.

Plus, Tom was clever. Malfoy and Mulciber quickly realized they'd need him to help them pass their classes. Tom was relieved that he was performing well—better than his pureblood peers, in fact. The teachers all praised him, but he was careful to appear indifferent to it.

Tom somehow understood how to survive in Slytherin house. Although he could not possibly know all of the wizarding norms, he was born with every Slytherin instinct. He knew when to crush his enemies, and knew when to show clemency. He knew who was worthy of his friendship, and who would be a waste of his time. Every move was calculated. It all felt very natural to Tom, who had grown up in the harsh reality of orphanhood, who had never had an adult to preen over him when he'd skinned his knee. He knew how to take care of himself. He understood loneliness. He didn't cry in the showers for an imaginary mummy and daddy like some of the other first years did. He'd never had that crutch to lean on in the first place.

No, Tom never had any help of any kind. Anytime someone extended a hand to him, Tom had engineered the situation without their knowing. Or worse, the hand was lent with the expectation of something larger in return. This was all Tom knew—the bitter truth about humanity. Goodness came from the same self-serving place where evil is born. If one was good, it was only ever for appearances sake. And if goodness was done in secret, it was because of the self-righteous pride the act would leave behind in the hearts of wicked men seeking to absolve themselves.

This is why it does not surprise Tom when he wakes up in his destroyed dormitory alone. What surprises him is that he smells of vanilla and tar. At first, he wonders if he is about to have a seizure, but when he presses his nose into his torn pillows, he decides the scent is real.

She was here, although he recalls nothing. One look at his wristwatch and the clock hanging on the wall confirm his theory. He runs worried hands over his arms, his back, his legs, searching for bruises or wounds that will surely be there after a night of explosive destruction, but finds none. He rolls his neck—not even a knot or crick exists to prove what happened to him. He stands up carefully to take a shower, feeling eerily violated as he wracks his brain to remember anything at all.

Shards of wood from his desk and wardrobe are scattered everywhere, his clothes and covers torn, and one of the poles on his four-poster bed is speared into the stone ceiling at an acute angle. Tom steps gingerly through the debris until he can access the private bathroom that sits within the Head dormitory. He feels the cold water combating the dullness of fatigue as it runs over his body. He shivers as he closes his eyes to delve inward, to categorize the events of the night prior, but nothing reveals itself. No image of her, no speech, no confrontation. Did she have a part in the destruction, or was she the one who saved him from being speared by the sharp shards that now litter his room? What could be her motive?

A thought suddenly occurs to Tom, and he exits the stream of running water to compulsively check his nightstand, leaving a trail of wet footsteps in his wake. It is miraculously intact. His horcruxes lay unassumingly inside the drawer, looking every bit like unmagical objects of no distinction. His thumping hearts calms, and he realizes she wouldn't know about them, let alone try to steal them. How could she anyway? She would have to know parseltongue to do so.

Still, Tom wonders how he could have unraveled so violently with his horcruxes so close to him. His condition must be getting worse. He picks up the ring and slides it on his index finger to feel its comforting heartbeat in his hand.

He refuses to worry.

XXXXXX

During lunch, Tom checks out books on reparative magic, woodworking spells, and restoration charms. All subjects he'd previously considered a waste of his time and talents. Now he's desperate to restore his furniture before the damage is discovered. He feels clumsy as he practices the wand movements necessary to repair his room, and it takes him a few tries until he is satisfied with the end result. If one looks too closely, they may be able to trace the outline of each splinter, or the slight dent in the ceiling, but Tom is sick of attempting and reattempting such spells. This domestic magic does not come easily to him.

He wants to ask Hermione for help. No, it's more than a desire. It's a reflex. It's a ludicrous idea, but the need to go to her plagues him. He's disappointed in himself for growing so accustomed to her conversation, her wit, her beauty. There's a certain comfort in her arms that he's never before experienced in another person. Unfortunately, she's obviously planning to kill him. He's sure of that now, but he has no idea why she's biding her time.

Nevertheless, Tom doesn't intend to be betrayed twice. She wants to be with Prewett? Fine, she can enjoy the rest of her short life sitting at his bedside in the infirmary. If he can use her death for a third horcrux, all the better.

He's never planned to kill before, but he thinks the twisted knife of disloyalty will kill him first if he doesn't. If anything, he's planning an act of preemptive self-defense. He runs the scheme through in his mind, over and over, looking for faults that must be eliminated. She won't have a choice but to confess when he corners her. And he will corner her soon.

XXXXXX

All of these grandiose plans for Granger's demise come to nothing. The week passes in a daze. Hermione seems determined to act like he doesn't exist (again), and performs the part of a devoted student beautifully. She attends study sessions, spends hours in the library writing essays, and tutors younger students in the common room after dinner. She doesn't skip class, and she's friendly to just about everyone except Tom and the Knights.

This isn't noticed by anyone else but Tom. Mulciber has actually become quite popular since the quidditch match that landed Prewett in the infirmary. His legendary hit is relayed by Slytherin students at every opportunity, much to the chagrin of the Gryffindor house. Tom has subtracted several points from both houses over scuffles in the hallways due to tensions being high. Gryffindor is especially incensed given that Slytherin won the match right before Prewett fell—their seeker used the distraction to her advantage.

Whenever the subject comes up, Hermione's full lips turn into a straight line. Her eyes harden over her page, and Tom knows she is no longer reading. It makes him uneasy to think that perhaps she is making plans of her own.

Tom chastises himself for thinking it would be easy. If she is here on someone's orders—someone even Dumbledore answers to—she is obviously skilled in her trade. It troubles Tom that some unknown force knows enough about him to want to eliminate him—what they know, he isn't sure. He thinks the worst thing he has ever done is make a horcrux. But then why did Hermione leave his horcruxes alone? Because she doesn't know about them, or because she couldn't access them?

It doesn't occur to Tom that he is being paranoid. He spends more and more time in his dormitory, hovering over the ring and the diary. He runs to his rooms in between classes just to make sure they are still there. He charms his door excessively to make sure there are more than one type of magical lock on it, preventing intruders.

It isn't enough. None of it does anything to soothe him.

He traps a snake in the gardens, and commands it to follow Hermione around the castle, and report back to him. The snake slithers away, a harmless garden variety. Tom still itches with unspent energy. If only she would come to him! He longs to comb his fingers through her curls, to feel her compliant body in his grasp, to wrap her around his waist. He twists and turns in his sheets at night, plagued with odd visions and dreams of her. Dreams that feel too real, too much like memory.

In one such dream, he is standing on the stormy shores of Portofino, overlooking the rocky cliffs that line the coast. He is waiting for Hermione to return with something extremely important. He knows what it is, but cannot for the life of him say what it is. He's looking for her on the horizon, and for her only. He awaits no boat, no ship, no broom or other flying creature. Only her. As if he expects her to return to him having sprouted wings. Nothing comes to him except the rolling black clouds of a storm.

Does such a dream even count as being about Hermione? But it is. Her presence colors every scene as it does every waking thought. She threatens to consume him, even though in reality, she refuses to look at him. Tom begins to feel the shift of confusion—what is real and what is not seem to blur. He holds his head in his hands after Defense against the Dark Arts, trying to ward off the intense headache coming on. She's partnered with Mulciber and they're practicing disarming spells. Tom wants to yell at her for not using crucio properly—but it doesn't make any sense. She isn't practicing the cruciatus curse. They're in school. At Hogwarts. They aren't training. What would they be training for?

Tom leaves class feeling like half is body is trapped in an alternative dimension—one where Hermione can fly and he teaches her how to cast an effective cruciatus on Mulciber. She still avoids him, but he finds he can no longer pretend not to notice. Nott puts a concerned hand on his shoulder when whispers start circulating the Great Hall that the Head Boy is outright staring at Hermione Birch. He hadn't realized he'd been doing it. He looks down at his soup, blushing furiously.

"Must have zoned out for a second," he mutters to Nott, who is tactful enough to nod briefly and change the subject.

At night he dreams of them in bed. Her upper body is twisted away from his, but she wraps her legs around his, as if wishing to maintain contact despite the unbearable summer heat. Tom gently lifts her hair away from his face, and leans over to check her breathing before falling back asleep. He wakes up with a headache, surrounded by the October dungeon damp. It doesn't feel like a dream. He almost remembers the window panes cracked open, the transparent curtains fluttering lightly in the warm nighttime breeze.

He restructures his plans. His snake reports back to him, hissing that the girl does nothing but study, eat meals, and sleep. Tom interrogates her until she grows tired of his questions and begs to return to the gardens. Tom gives her a mouse as a thank you treat, and his little snake slinks away.

He finally gets to speak to her himself when they are partnered together by Professor Onai in Divinations. Tom is frustrated by the flutters of excitement in his belly when she sits across from him. He scolds himself; she isn't just a pretty girl. She's a spy. She wants him dead.

She drains her Turkish coffee in three gulps, flipping the silver filigree cup over its saucer and sliding it over to him wordlessly. Tom finishes his own coffee, enjoying the way the bitter liquid slides down his throat before he does the same.

He reads her cup with the manual propped open between them.

"You're going to die a disastrous death. Painful. Prolonged. Brutal, even."

"Fascinating."

"You're going to lose to your enemies. Multiple times."

"Alright."

Tom turns the cup toward her so she can see the splotch of finely ground coffee forming a shape that's meant to mean enemies, death, pain. She remains unaffected. When he is finished with his vague threats of an unforeseeable future, she reads his cup without using the manual.

"You will be destroyed by your own hand."

"How do you figure that?"

She turns the cup to show him its muddy depths, then sticks her finger inside to destroy whatever image it had created at the bottom.

"Let's just call it a strong feeling," she smiles smugly before wiping her finger on the paper they're meant to turn in, crumpling it in her fist.

Tom has never before known anyone with such a flagrant disrespect for divinations. He wants to ask her why she is even in this class, but the bell rings, and she immediately packs her things. She is unbothered by the fact that they will receive a zero, but Tom is not so nonchalant. He unfurls the paper and attempts to clear it of coffee grounds, but it has already been dyed brown in some places. He hastily scribbles some fake readings—Hermione will be rich and marry well, but she'll have to make immense sacrifices. He will have to struggle against a dark force before he can achieve enlightenment. He hands it in, apologizing for the parchment's state to an annoyed Professor Onai.

They get full marks.

Not that Hermione cares. She continues to ignore him, and despite the numerous snakes that Tom sends after her, none return with any pertinent information. The only indicator that Hermione is on her guard is that she grips her wand tightly in her hand whenever he enters the room. Does she really think he's foolish enough to make an attempt at her life in public? Perhaps she thinks he is unstable. The thought bothers Tom to no end.

He struggles with the festering desire to confront her, but he doesn't want to do so prematurely. If only she would look at him! He thinks he would do anything to receive just one iota of her attention. He refuses to accept that he is unstable, but he is willing to humbly accept that he is desperately obsessed.

She is sitting alone in the Great Hall early one morning when Tom breaks into a sweat at the thought of approaching her. Without planning, he practically runs to her, cursing himself as he takes the seat next to hers. He cannot speak for a moment, shocked as he is at his own imprudent, thoughtless behavior.

She's reading a book on primitive clock-making while nibbling on some toast. She doesn't even look up when he sits down. He grabs her wrist under the table.

"What I did with Prewett… it was wrong. I see that now. It was a misstep. It won't happen again."

It's a futile, last-ditch attempt to save his sanity. He knows killing her will destroy him. She's somehow become his anchor to life. He does it out of self-preservation. He is human, after all.

"Until when?"

"Excuse me?"

"Until the next boy shows me attention? Or until the next person gets in your way?"

He laughs, but its eerily empty. "Just who do you think I am? I'm just a regular teenage boy, Hermione. I don't go around plotting murders at every turn."

She forcibly removes his hand from her wrist, unfurling his fingers one by one.

"If you're going to apologize, at least be honest about what you tried to do."

Tom clenches his teeth. "It was meant to be warning, nothing more."

"A warning to who?"

She challenges him with an unflinching stare. Tom is tempted to probe the thoughts drifting behind her eyes, but resists making a scene in such a public place. More and more students are drifting in, and his time is running out.

"You shouldn't have crossed me."

She smiles, waving her hand at him triumphantly, "Ah, there it is! The true confession we've been waiting for."

Tom digs his fingernails into her leg, impatient now. "This is not a joke."

"Agreeing to go to the dance with Prewett is not an act of betrayal."

"Agreeing to go with a pureblood supremacist and Grindelwald enthusiast is."

"What are you talking about?"

"Surprised? Didn't know that the Gryffindor favorite hates all muggleborns and thinks muggles should be subservient to wizarding kind?"

"You're lying!"

"I am not. You can ask anyone. It's an open secret."

She sits still, looking over the Great Hall, now teaming with life, as she thinks over his words. Tom does not wonder at her surprise. It is rather strange that a Grindelwald supporter be found in the Gryffindor house, let alone the Prewett family. He wonders how a supposed infiltrator could miss such a crucial piece of information. Maybe she isn't as competent as she thinks.

She finally turns to him, closing her book with a snap. "This doesn't change anything between us. I still stand by what I promised."

You will pay.

Tom grabs her hand before she can walk away, forcing her to face him one last time. Tom tries not to relish in the feeling of her soft hand in his. He tries to not want to press his lips into her palm, and hold her hand against his cheek. He tries not to think about how this might be the last time.

"The price of reckoning can be quite steep, Hermione. We'll see who ends up paying who."

XXXXXX

In a state of madness, Tom writes her a letter in his dormitory after class, intent to give it to her in the common room after dinner.

To H.G.—

I cannot stop thinking of you. In the greenhouse I realized you are the seed, the sun, the rain. You are everything all at once. A gift. A punishment. A consequence. Despite knowing that it was all by design, you have taken root within me, deep inside my soul. I could not resist letting you take hold. You have invaded my very being, and I am overthrown. I crave but a look, or a word from you. I am suffocating in desire. Do not abandon me now. Take this letter as an admission of love, or defeat. They are one and the same. I offer you all that I have, meager that it is. You are the vine that strangles the oak. Feed off me if you must. Own me, reign over me, but do not let me perish.

Yours,

T.R.

He pretends to lean over the mantle as she reads by the fireplace before he drops the note discreetly into her open book. She looks up at him briefly before he turns to walk away, sitting at a distance away from her, watching her face as her eyes run over his lines. Her expression does not change. When she finishes the letter, she folds the parchment in half and carefully feeds it into the fire. She turns back to her book, never glancing at him again.

Like his confession, Tom burns, trembling in humiliation.

XXXXXX

Tom stands in front of Honeydukes on High Street, watching students enter and exit the shop with bags full of sweets clutched to their chests. It's the last weekend before the masquerade, so Hogsmeade is teaming with students desperate for some last-minute dress shopping. Malfoy and Mulciber disappeared hours ago—they both have dates with a pair of Hufflepuff sixth years and are probably entertaining them at Madame Pudifoot's right now, Tom surmises.

Tom is on duty this weekend, and therefore cannot leave, although he finished his Hogsmeade business after a quick visit to the apothecary on the edge of the village early this morning. He would head back to the castle immediately if he had some excuse, but unfortunately, no such reason has presented itself. He's glad to be alone, at least. This way he can stew silently in his self-deprecating thoughts.

He'd made an absolute fool of himself last night. Embarrassing does not even begin to describe the tail-wagging moron he'd become for a certain person he'd rather not name. Why did she have to come here? Why did she have to disrupt everything? All this—just to reject him? Infuriating as it is, he still believes—no, he knows—she returns his feelings. But why deny it?

"Hullo, Tom!"

Tom is startled out of his forlorn stare to see Yvette Wilckens is standing next to him, holding multiple paper bags in her hands from Gladrags.

"Yvette," he nods simply, not wanting to enter a mindbogglingly tedious conversation. He turns back to stare at Honeydukes, hoping she will get the message that he prefers to complete his Hogsmeade duty alone and in silence, but of course, Yvette doesn't leave.

"Have you decided what you're going to wear to the ball?"

"Not yet," Tom answers, not bothering to ask her if she has. Of course, that doesn't stop her from sharing.

"Oh, you haven't got much time left, have you? I bought my mask today," she holds up a black wiry mask with whiskers and cat ears that sits on her nose and barely does anything to cover her face, "I know, I know, it's very trite. Bernadette has been telling me so all week, but I think it will suit me," she shrugs, smiling sheepishly at him.

Tom still isn't looking at her, hoping she will go away. He wants to tell her it does not suit her at all, her eyes are all wrong—too small and too blue, barely framed by her blonde eyelashes and scant eyebrows. There's nothing cat-like about her.

"Headmaster Dippet actually wanted me to pass on a message to you," she changes the subject, finally catching Tom's interest.

"What did he say?"

"We're to open the ball as Head Boy and Head Girl by dancing the first dance with our dates."

How irksome. He still doesn't have a date. There is no chance for Hermione agreeing to go with him now, and he never thought of asking anyone else.

"Who are you taking?" He asks instead. She blushes and looks down, before looking up to stare at his neck, seemingly unable to meet his eyes.

"I was wondering if you would like to go together, if you don't have a date yet."

At least she didn't stutter, Tom thinks. But still, how distasteful that she would ask him. Tom wonders at her audacity and simultaneous lack of pride. Regardless, Tom is struck with an idea.

"Ah. I wish I could, but unfortunately I'm in a bit of a sticky situation," he begins the lie.

"What do you mean?" she asks, confused and more than a little disappointed.

"It's just that Lucretia—well, it's a rather sensitive subject. Can you keep a secret?" He makes sure to sound hesitant, lowering his voice a little and leaning infinitesimally closer. She nods and does the same. She smells overwhelmingly of rosewater. It makes Tom's insides clench in disgust.

"Lucretia Black and Ignatius Prewett are likely to be married at the end of the school year."

Yvette actually gasps, looking quickly around to make sure no one can overhear them. "But Tom! Are you certain?" her brows furrow in confusion, "I thought Ignatius liked Hermione Birch; he asked her to the ball only a few days ago!"

Tom knows she isn't lying. Nevertheless, he has to calm himself to avoid ripping out her tongue.

"I heard she said no," Tom responds coolly before getting back into character, "It's all very hush hush. Lucretia is trying to get to know him now that the arrangement is being made between their parents. Ignatius should be trying to do the same, but it seems he's set on being a rake."

Yvette blanches at Tom's open insult, but says nothing.

"You know I've never taken to Ignatius much myself, but he's respectable enough, I suppose. Lucretia is trying to make things work, and I respect her for that. I know she would prefer not to enter a loveless marriage, but if Ignatius can't see what a sweetheart she is for visiting him in the infirmary every day, then I can't think of a bad enough word to describe him."

"Oh, that's so terrible!"

Tom nods, as if sadly agreeing. "I want to be a good friend and support her, so I've refrained from asking anyone in case Ignatius is stubborn and refuses to go to the ball with her. It will be extremely embarrassing for everyone involved if their engagement comes to light after he's shown interest in someone else."

"He can't!"

"He's got his pride," Tom shrugs, "And that nasty fall he took didn't help any. Unless every girl in Hogwarts refuses him, I don't see how avoiding an ugly scene will be possible."

"Surely, he wouldn't go against his own parents!"

Tom smiles knowingly, "We're at the age where I hear most like to rebel against their parents."

Yvette grows awkward for a moment, knowing Tom does not have any family to go against. Her own family, at least her father's side, is well-known and respected in the wizarding world. Tom doubts they would want a Riddle in their midst. Yvette's pursual of him is a type of rebellion as well.

"I think I can make it so there isn't a girl in Hogwarts who will agree to go with him," she finally speaks, her hands clenched tightly over the handles of her shopping bags. Tom grabs her wrist, and her eyes widen in shock.

"You can't! The engagement must remain an absolute secret until made public!"

She stares into Tom's eyes with absolute deference, "I wouldn't mention the engagement, I swear."

Tom pretends to consider her. His eyes roam over her face in an act of searching out whether or not she tells the truth. He asks, "How? A rumor?"

She blushes and tucks a stringy blonde strand behind her ear. "I know it is very wrong but I think the circumstances warrant it. Lucretia and I used to be playmates as girls and I hate to think her so unhappy."

Tom grits his teeth, pretending to be uncomfortable with her idea, "It certainly isn't ideal."

She flushes even more red. After a pause of contrived thoughtfulness, Tom compliments her, lest she become too withdrawn and self-conscious. "Lucretia is extremely lucky to have a sincere friend like you."

She finally looks up to meet his gaze with a watery smile. It's important for her to feel like this wicked plan is totally her idea, and that Tom feels unsure about it from the start.

He continues, "If only I could get a few minutes with them alone! I think I could talk some sense into Ignatius. The irony is, they're absolutely alone in the infirmary now, but I'm stuck here on duty," he laughs bitterly. "We'll just have to leave it to fate. I'm sure things will work out in the end. For my part, I have no qualms with taking Lucretia, but it hurts to see her so unhappy."

Yvette bites her lip and looks down as Tom lets go of her wrist. Tom waits silently, letting her think, letting it all sink in.

"I can finish rounds for you, if you want."

"Really?" Tom tries to keep his excitement from flooding his voice, "I'd hate to inconvenience you."

"It's not!" she protests, as if she isn't only helping him for her own self-serving reasons, "You should talk to them while you have the chance. The ball is less than a week away now."

"That would be a life-saver, Yvette, thank you," Tom smiles at her. "If I'm successful, I would love to accompany you to the ball."

And thus, Tom accepts her invitation as he meant to do all along, with the added benefits of getting out of Hogsmeade duty and besmirching Prewett's name and character.

Like a true gentleman, Tom offers to carry Yvette's bags up to the castle for her before he leaves, and she happily accepts. She doesn't have to tell him the Ravenclaw password, because there isn't one. He promises to leave her bags in her common room so she can retrieve them later.

Once he's far enough away, he shrinks all her packages until they're small enough to fit inside his pocket and runs up the cobblestone lane away from the village and towards the castle.

He's going to find Hermione.

XXXXXX

She's exiting the portrait hole just as Tom approaches it. Thankfully, he's already disillusioned, and he's able to deftly follow as she takes the moving stares to the seventh floor. Tom cannot believe his luck. Her ponytail waves to and fro as she climbs the stairs, impatient to get to her destination. Tom is tempted to grab it and yank as hard as he can. He wants to hurt her like she is hurting him.

She walks back and forth three times in front of the blank wall, and Tom lets her. This time, he wants to enter the room of her imagining. He wants to know what she is up to. She's either too preoccupied, or too confident to notice him. He's supposed to be in Hogsmeade, after all.

When he aims his wand at her back, he does not miss. A jet of glass-blue light sinks into her spine, traveling down her legs. She's planted on the spot, unable to move her feet further just as the door appears in front of her. The momentum of his unexpected spell sends her hurdling forward, and she falls with a crack on her elbows and knees.

She's about to open her mouth when Tom rips her wand out of her hand, and silences her. This doesn't stop her from fighting. She lunges at his chest and face, her mouth pressed together in absolute fury, her nails digging into exposed skin. She tears his shirt as he reaches for her hair, roughly pulling her ponytail, extending her neck at a painful angle before he threatens her.

"Stop moving, or I'll scar your pretty face forever."

This seems to get the message across, because she goes still. Tom lifts her by her curls, pressing his wand into her back, and forces them to move backwards toward the door so he can enter first. His compulsive magic causes her feet to take steps against her will, and she begins to struggle against him again. Tom is just about to tell her off when she manages to throw her weight backwards, causing Tom to crack his head painfully against the heavy iron door.

His head spins at a dizzying speed as she twists in his arms, attempting to pry her wand out of his grasp. He responds by striking her, hard.

An angry pink hand-print appears on her cheek where Tom touched her, and it disgusts him to look at it. He's annoyed with her now, and determined to ignore the unfurling guilt within his chest. He uses one hand to open the door, and grabs her arm with the other, throwing her through the opening and stepping in carefully after her. He hears the door close after him as he takes in his surroundings.

They're in the Gryffindor common room. Or at least, a room fashioned after it. Everything is draped in red and gold, and several large fluffy sofas, armchairs, and old-looking couches sit in the center of the room. There are a few shelves lining the wall—half-filled with books, and half-filled with games, cards, and chess sets. A large hearth with a cheery crackling fire is off to one side.

Hermione wipes her bleeding nose on her sleeve as she stares at Tom in disgust. She's lying on a deep crimson rug. The color matches her blood.

"Well, well, well, Miss Granger. What would a little Slytherin transfer like you want with the Gryffindor common room? Why do you even know what it looks like?"

Tom kneels down on the floor next to her, holding his wand against her already-bruising cheek. He traces the mark with the tip of his wand until he can swallow away the nausea that it induces. He unsilences her.

"Explain yourself."

She doesn't answer.

Tom grabs her hair again, pulling her face toward him. She grimaces in pain. "I said: explain yourself."

"Never," she grunts, swallowing thickly against the tears that are welling in her eyelashes now. Tom throws her backwards like a rag doll back against the carpet.

"Fine. Let me debrief you on what I already know."

Tom grabs an ottoman near him and settles in, liking the fact that she's on the floor as he looms over her. He knows her too well to think she'll just stay there, so he keeps his wand trained on her as he speaks.

"Your real name is Hermione Granger. You're English, born into a privileged muggle family who could afford to have you tutored well enough to become fluent in another language. Albus Dumbledore answers to you. You used him to somehow convince Dippet to give you a private sorting. I'm guessing you confunded him into placing you in Slytherin as well. Besides the electric current whenever I touch you, my wristwatch falls behind whenever I'm in close proximity to you. Why is that, Hermione?"

He pauses, to see if she will answer, but when she does nothing but look at him, he continues, "When we first met, it bothered me that you acted like you already knew me. But you weren't acting, were you? Because it wasn't the first time you had met me."

Tom twirls his wand in his fingers, examining it as if it were a sharpened knife. How he longs to enter her mind. But he doesn't need to enter to see the emotions raging across her face. He had promised himself that he would corner her, and so he has. Tom continues triumphantly.

"I think you even wanted me to figure it out. Why else would you earmark Time's soliloquy for me in The Winter's Tale? Now what will become of you? I list not prophecy; but let Time's news be known when 'tis brought forth…"

Tom lets his threat hang heavily between them, leaning forward to lift her chin to look directly into her face. He tuts, "It's easy enough to vanish a scent, Hermione, but you left yours after you obliviated me in my dormitory. I never expected such a tacky move from you, to be honest."

"I didn't obliviate you," she rasps, interrupting him for the first time.

"Why don't I remember anything then?"

"Do you usually remember your black outs?" she challenges him, finally sitting herself up to lean against the back of the sofa, and pulling her chin out of his grasp. Her feet are still planted on the floor, so she awkwardly bends her knees to accommodate Tom's curse, wincing as it stretches her tendons and muscles painfully.

"What year were you born?" Tom asks suddenly.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Answer it, or I will make you tell me."

"1927."

Tom drops down to his knees to press his wand into her stomach. "Don't lie," he hisses, stabbing her with it.

"Fine. 1926."

He hits her with a curse that strangles her intestines together painfully. She gasps in pain and grabs her abdomen. Tom twists his wand, intensifying her agony until she rewards him with a scream. He releases the spell.

"Tell me!" he shouts, only inches from her face. And while he cannot see himself, he knows without a doubt that his eyes are glowing a demonic red, possessed as he is by his anger. He feels like the muscles in his neck tighten and spasm as he holds back the urge to hurt her further, end her, demean her…

"I can't," she moans, her head lolling back, exposing her pale and sweaty face.

"Tell me or I will kill you right here, right now." Tom lifts his wand in a move to slash her neck, disgusted by the idea, but desperate to know. He waits patiently as she takes several deep gulping breaths, and coughs until she spits up blood.

"After you," she finally answers him.

"How much time after me?"

"Quite some time after," she admits.

Tom's eyes grow wide in excitement. It's true. She's from a future time. A dark stone of foreboding falls to the pit of Tom's stomach. Why would someone from the future want to come to him? Would feel threatened enough to orchestrate such a monumental task? Hermione's head falls to her shoulder, signaling her imminent loss of consciousness. Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thin glass tube and unstoppers it. He tilts its contents into Hermione's mouth, holding her jaw closed until he can feel her swallow. Instantly, some of the color returns to her face.

"I want to know more." Tom implores, trying to right her so she will make eye contact with him, but she can barely keep her head straight. Tom lays her gently on the floor, her hair fanned out around her. He begins to cast the healing charm that will reverse his previous curse, gently running his wand over her abdomen once again until she stops convulsing with every touch.

She's still listless when he finishes. After a moment's hesitation, Tom releases the curse on her legs so he can extend them properly. She's on him in a moment, and has her forearm pressed against his throat the next. She isn't even trying to find her wand, seemingly satisfied with the fact that she knocked his out of his grasp. She's looking right into his eyes as she chokes him, and at such close range, Tom can clearly see the sand dunes of her irises. They suck him in, threatening to drown him in the black depths of her pupils.

Tom flips them over, wrestling her arm away from his throat, and pinning it to the floor. She struggles under him until he presses his hand into her stomach, causing her to yelp and spasm away from his touch. She's paralyzed for a moment, more concerned with her own suffering than of him. He leans over and snatches his wand off the floor, wiping sweat and hair off his face before thinking of what to do with the witch who is so unwilling to comply with his demands.

He dreads entering her mind at this state, but sees no other option. Perhaps because she is weakened, she will not be able to put up much of a fight. He stands her up until she can lean unsteadily against the wall. Tom feeds her another pepperup potion to keep her from fainting. Despite her vulnerable state, Tom now knows to be cautious. The wild animal will fight its hardest right when it has lost all hope of winning.

"Open your eyes."

"I won't," she says, turning her head away from him. He rights her, holding her head in both hands with his forefingers on her occiput and his thumbs on either side of her jaw.

"I will pluck out your eyeballs if you refuse."

The threat is short and to the point.

Four beats of silence pass before she opens her eyes. Tom knows not to give her more time to consider.

"Legilimens."

He swims downward, deep into her mind until he feels like his lungs are going to burst for lack of air. She's throwing nonsense at him—shiny, attractive nonsense. Conversations about him with her friends where she admits he's handsome. The day Ignatius Prewett asked her to the ball. Her first kiss—a tall burly teenager with a beard and crooked nose leaning in.

Despite the temptation, Tom does not pause his confident strokes. The water is almost black here. A foggy memory of receiving her Hogwarts letter floats by serenely, and Tom knows he's getting closer. He's dimly aware her hands are clutching at the stone wall behind her, trying to gain some purchase as he lifts her toward him, his hands still wrapped around the bottom of her scalp where it meets her neck. He shuts out the images of reality and focuses on swimming deeper into her mind, deep enough to make blood pour out of her tear ducts, dripping wetly onto his thumbs.

Finally, he deems himself deep enough. With lungs bursting for air, he gasps one word only. Something she would never expect. Something she could never prepare against.

Portofino.

He is immediately accosted with images of her floating—no, flying—over the Mediterranean Sea. The memory floods his senses so quickly he almost falls out of her mind from the shock of no longer being immersed in water. He gulps the salty sea-air greedily, trying not to waste time but desperate to catch his breath after swimming for so long. He watches as an older Hermione's hair whips behind her as she thinks longingly of the coast, wishing to get their faster. She's meeting someone there.

Who? Who are you meeting?

He meets some resistance, but he blocks out the image of a disheveled younger Hermione in her school uniform grabbing at his collar, ripping at his hair as she attempts to fight him off.

Tell me who you long to see, he commands, ignoring the pain of his split lip and broken nose as the Hermione in the come-and-go room slams the base of her palm against his face over and over.

The older Hermione in the vision finally flies close enough to reveal a wizard in a dark cloak standing alone on the cliffs overlooking the green-blue waters. The sea is calm as he calls her back into his embrace. Tom recognizes the man instantly. He's older, but his face is unmistakably his. He holds out his hand, as if waiting for Hermione to fly directly into his arms. She smiles, her face illuminated with happiness.

They embrace. He calls her his Hermione. Out loud, she calls him Tom, but she's thinking another name entirely.

Lord Voldemort.

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A/N: the bits where Tom asks snakes to tail Hermione was inspired by Jörmungandr by honeyskeleton o :) Her Tom is much darker than mine but I love her characterization! Thank you to HuffPuff62 for leaving feedback on chapter 15! I hope you enjoy this chapter as well :)))