Full Summary: He leaned a long arm over the wall above her head, his tall frame sensually looming near. His fingers fidgeted the large black and bronze ring between them, licking his lips in consideration. "I have to admit, I… wouldn't mind allowing you my time again."
"You must be a very busy man."
He smirked knowingly, as if he understood the punchline to a joke she had yet to get – but she knew.
OR
Hermione dies, leaving the destruction of the world she knew behind. Yet she comes to, waking up in a strikingly similar body with the memories of her previous life intact, forced into a different time with a brand new purpose - though she has yet to understand just what that purpose truly entails. All she knows, is that her sights are set on a young Tom Riddle, biding his precious time at Borgin and Burke's... and unfortunately, he's more devastatingly attractive than she'd imagined.
AN: This is not going to be super-duper plot heavy but I'm doing what I can to keep it interesting. I have some plans in mind and the next few chapters outlined but keep in mind this is mainly for the sole sake of Tom Riddle smut and fluff. I am not an expert at all things Harry Potter, nor an expert in Tom Riddle lore though I am constantly researching to make sure I keep it as canon friendly as possible. I will obviously be taking some creative liberties tho :o)
This is only my second Tom Riddle fic so far, and my first ever Tomione story so please go easy on me. It's all just fun, no need to be perfect, but please let me know if I made any serious mistakes. Yips and thank you. I hope this story found you well. With Chapter One, we dive right in.
I'll Let You In
Chapter One: Yesteryear
- : o : -
For Hermione, death had not been cold. It had been warm and had filled her with warmth and the sensation of infinite love had carried her off. For a short time, she was not herself anymore. She was no longer a witch, no longer human. Her misery and all of her memories, the wonderful and the awful, had filtered delicately away and so had she into quiet bliss.
There was no need to think, no need to breathe nor feel anything but tranquility in forever.
Death really was not so bad, for though it seemed to be nothingness and somehow felt like she was surrounded by all things, all at once, she felt completely free.
Fulfilled. Nothing but peace.
Yet then, as if from the ashes of a phoenix – she could still hardly believe it herself – her consciousness, with her memories once again intact, aroused her in a different time, in a different place, in a different person's body.
The room was dark at first, her eyes bleeding with the sleep of yesteryear.
When she was finally able to pull herself into a sitting position, and then slowly stood to look into the mirror before her, Hermione could see that this person's features, though haunted and pale, really weren't different at all. She was stunned to see her own familiar brown eyes gawking back at her.
She smoothed her hands down her stomach, her hips and thighs, turned as she watched herself, the amazement as well as horror escalating all the while. Her body was near identical to her previous one, freckles, frizzy mane and all, except her mane was miles longer and honestly, much to her unbridled joy, only a bit frizzy towards the ends.
She still looked nineteen.
The old-fashioned negligée she wore, along with the eclectic, antique furniture and décor in the clean but somewhat decrepit, lofty apartment she rose in, suggested that Hermione had found herself sometime before or during the midcentury. She scaled back the long, velvet curtain and timidly gazed out the window.
The crowded and colorful cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, so familiar yet far different, sparkled back at her in the wispy, wet summer sun.
But who was she?
Hermione began rifling around the place, sifting through papers on the desk, through apparent personal belongings, searching for a name.
Finally, she spied a large black handbag beneath the bedside table. She took everything out of it, laying it all neatly atop her blankets.
Among the items, most notably, were this person's wand, a folded up letter, a wallet with, gratefully, multiple forms of identification, a pouch full of galleons, sickles and knuts, and a leatherbound journal.
She picked up the passport first to read the name.
Everleigh St. Germain
1424 Pickle Street
Adams, Massachusetts, 01220
That was… interesting. North America? And of course, her name sounded as if she belonged in some sort of ridiculous, fucked up fairy tale. How was it that she could remember most everything about herself, about Hermione Granger, and yet, she no longer was?
She had watched her beloved friends being massacred, had held a dead Ronald in her arms, then she and Harry were holding hands. She'd felt so, so very warm, before everything went black. Then, there was that peaceful nothingness.
She unfolded the parchment and read the letter. The date of it stunned her for a second, as it was Harry's birthday. Surely, that was significant. Obviously, this all was.
My Dearest Everleigh, July 31st, 1945
I will pray every single day for you to find what you are looking for, whatever that may turn out to be, in Great Britain or anywhere else. I just know you will figure it all out. Even if you might not get the answers you hoped for, Eevie, don't lose courage or faith, or confidence in yourself. Some things in our life may remain unanswered, but your purpose will only gain clarity as time goes on.
I can't even describe how much I'll miss you. I know you won't see this until you're gone, but I just wanted you to know, one time more, how immensely proud I am of you. You are my shining light, and my true daughter, the one I had always wished desperately for and never thought I'd actually have. Besides darling Richard, of course, you were the best thing in my life. I know you know it, I just can't help but gush over you. I know you'll do incredible, impossible things, as you always have. You're my Impossible Girl and I love you with all my heart.
Forever and a day,
Your Granny Annie
Well, perhaps it wasn't so fucked up anymore. Granny Annie seemed like a wonderful woman. What could this really be all about? Why had this Everleigh come to England?
Hermione, or Everleigh now she supposed – there wasn't really a choice in the matter – popped the clasp of the leather journal and as soon as she had, a couple of black and white muggle photos slipped out of the pages, one of them falling to the creaky wooden floor.
Tentatively she picked it up. She stared at what appeared to be herself at a young age, in a long and pretty ruffled dress with a matching ribbon holding back her wild hair. She was possibly nine or ten years of age. There was some writing on the back of it, confirming her estimations.
The week we adopted Everleigh, her first Sunday dress, mid-April 1935
Sunday dress? The St. Germain's must have been muggles, or No-Maj's, as she was certain they were named across the pond.
Another photograph of her standing beside a lovely older woman with long white hair braided back into a sophisticated, no nonsense bun. One could only assume this was Granny Annie, and with his arm around her, a tall and gangly, well-dressed older gentleman with a white beard and a proud smile.
On the back it said: Mount Greylock – Everleigh, 13, Annabelle, 55 and Richard, 58 – Eevie's birthday, September 19th, 1939
Her eyes instantly watered of their own accord, weeping as memories that weren't Hermione's but Everleigh's passed through her mind's eye in unmerciful riptide waves. She hadn't even realized she'd fallen to her knees, covering her throbbing skull and her ears.
They were the echoing sounds of an agonizing and sullen childhood where no one cared for her, no one could hear her screaming. She had never known her real parents, the adults in her life giving her nothing good, no joy, the bleak dissociation taking over for a long time until the rising crests of happiness overflooded into a new life on board a ship to America; meeting her new family for the first time, finally feeling loved; learning she was a witch and attending IIvermorny as a Pukwudgie, making a handful of close friends and attending school functions; graduating with outstanding honors and aspiring to be a healer, to study abroad at St Mungo's.
She had an interview next week.
She and Everleigh shared the same birthday.
There was suddenly a great rapping at her window, a pecking, rather, and she jumped into a standing position, completely startled out of her tsunami-like, memory-ridden reverie. She glared wide-eyed at the large Eagle owl who stared back at her through the other side. He had the Daily Prophet with him, and a pouch for payment.
Everleigh cranked the window open, paying the great bird before it dropped the paper and flew off.
August 13th, 1945, was the date, and one of the top headlines on the front page read: Another Muggle Village Decimated – second attack on a muggle village this season has led to rise in belief of unknown radical extremist group conspiring in the shadows, full article pg. 3
The newspaper fell from her fingertips and, knees weak and shaking, she crumpled into the armchair behind her.
She had to breathe, just breathe, and she did. She took several long and intense, and not at all calming breaths.
It was all coming together. She was in Diagon Alley, the summer of '45, right after Voldemort, er, Tom Riddle graduated. This was uncoincidentally, the exact time of his youth when he was working at Borgin and Burkes, wasn't he?
After he'd been declined the job of professor at Hogwarts, he spent almost a year working as some sort of appraiser, or purchasing agent, biding his time while he garnered more and more followers.
He was also very likely already in possession of Ravenclaw's Diadem. That made him at only three horcruxes – the diadem, the diary and the ring. It was to be believed he hadn't yet murdered Hepzibah Smith for the cup and the locket, seeing as Everleigh was sure her death hadn't been until 1946.
Yet, as far as she knew of this alternate reality, possibly anything could and would change or differ.
Her stomach grumbled. Hunger pelted her insides painfully, but there was nothing much by way of food in this flat. She'd have to venture outside.
She'd have to face her greatest fear, the Dark Lord himself.
Again, only he'd be much, much younger, and not trying to actively murder her.
Not yet, anyway.
She wanted to keep mulling this all over, wanted to gain more insight and understanding into what the bloody fuck she was doing alive, physically manifested in someone else's body, in young Voldemort's time… but she was so hungry and she had a slight migraine.
Quickly, she fastened together the most reasonable looking outfit she could muster under so much stress and anxiety, a simple blue dress with white stockings and a long brown cloak. She then laced up a pair of boots and headed out into the daylight with her wand, some money and her handbag.
She'd have to practice with the wand later, to make sure that everything was as snug as a bug between them. She had no clue what wood it was made of, nor its core and both she'd have to know going forward.
A trip to Ollivander's was on her sights, after something to snack on.
Diagon Alley had a great many of the same shops she was used to, but many unfamiliar as well.
Hermione, now Everleigh, ordered a hot coffee and a scone at the never before seen Sugarplum's Sweets bakery and as she ordered her breakfast, couldn't believe her voice. She almost sounded a little more… Transatlantic maybe, if that was the correct word to describe it.
Yes, she was still English and still sounded English, mind you, but there was a weird pull of her mouth which she never had before, one that was forcing her to speak certain words in a strange way, in an American way. She couldn't say she didn't like it, but she definitely couldn't say she liked it either. For her own comfort, she was going to have to make herself annunciate properly again.
After she gobbled up her scone, she headed over to Ollivander's. First thing was first, she needed to figure out what her wand was made of. It was so fundamentally important pertaining to so many things. If she didn't know, it could potentially be something that would give her away.
A slightly younger Mr. Ollivander only judged her a tiny bit, very briefly until she explained that she had recently 'lost her memories and forgot what it was made of'. It was a complete lie, but she couldn't think up something better.
"Ah, Cypress… reasonably supple, an even eleven inches, and dragon heartstring. A most noble wand you've got here, a most noble wand indeed. Those with cypress wands are known to be self-sacrificing, and brave, most of whom might even boldly lay down their lives if they had to, and many known Cypress wand owners of ages past have been recorded to have died a most heroic death."
Her eyes bulged. What if she had already technically went through said most heroic death?
She went for unassuming. Always go for unassuming. "Is that… supposed to be a comforting notion, Mister Ollivander?"
"Well, I suppose its all about your perspective now, isn't it?" He smiled cordially and she gulped, nodding but skeptical. "Now, why don't we see this Cypress beauty in action, eh?"
"Alright," she brandished it, taking a subtle stance. The wand was smooth against her fingers and comfortable in her grasp.
With a graceful, well-practiced wave, and to the wizard's fascinated delight, Everleigh scoured Mr. Ollivander's large sturdy desk and several shelves nearby until not one speck of dust was on them. She had to remind herself to do that to her flat when she returned.
Having gotten what she came for, she bid the graying man adieu and continued on her excursion.
As she sipped and stewed, carrying on down the streets, she found herself uncharacteristically uncaring of her destination. She weaved through the lightly scattered crowds, smiled at strangers and peered into windows but she found she really just was not there, not present.
Her mind was a thousand miles away. However, she couldn't hang onto one coherent thought as she drifted onward, down a back alley and absentmindedly right into the seedy part of town.
And to her terror, had not even realized her feet had landed right in front of the place she was nowhere even near ready to be anywhere near – Borgin and Burke's.
She'd found herself, standing there looking like an idiot, hot cup in hand and a ridiculous look on her face. She could see how dumb her expression was in the window. Why had Merlin done this to her? Who had actually done this to her? God? God? She wanted to laugh, a part of her having died, literally, and the rest gone insane.
And why her? Really now, what made her so special? Was it there was some sort of… strange connection between she and the person who's now body she inhabited? Were they some how related, Everleigh St. Germain and Hermione Granger? Was she like, a doppelganger, or-or a reincarnation or something?
As this went on, would it be harder to differentiate between the two? Would she forget Hermione?
No, that couldn't be. She would never forget. She was here for a reason, a very good bloody reason. Somehow, she was going to have to stop the maniac who ruined the wizarding world. It was all up to her now. She was, apparently, the future's only hope.
As nonchalantly as possible, Everleigh peaked through the sun speckled windows.
Not able to make out much of anything, everything so shadowed and dimly lit, she went in. A bell chimed faintly by the handle as the door opened and closed behind her.
It was larger than expected inside, and somewhat cluttered in the corners. Ominous masks and dark tapestries hung over the walls. There were antique pieces of furniture, large and small littered about with no apparent rhyme or reason, and glittering jewels and relics were proudly displayed, promising to curse with one wrong move.
- : o : -
Tom, who was watching the store that day, had been tottering around in the backroom, not to be confused with the office. He'd been asked that morning to do some reorganization by his superior, Caractacus Burke.
When he heard the bell of the door, Tom picked up a crate full of various, trivial items he needed to put away and stepped out to the front of the store.
Tom felt his eyes widen slightly as he most definitely hadn't been expecting someone so young and so attractive to waltz into this shop. She was in the wrong place, certainly.
He had almost greeted her, but then she was behaving so oddly. An awkward tension lay thick in the air and he found he was stunned to silence.
He put the crate down and with his wand, began levitating bits and bobs from it to their respective corners, eyeing the girl all the while. She idled by the mantel at the fireplace, pretending as if she were perusing the darkly glimmering items atop the shelf. Her charming brown eyes caught his in the light briefly but she looked away, trying to be as casual as she could.
Tom paused his task, clearing his throat. "Is there something in particular you're looking for, Miss?"
She couldn't bloody breathe. His voice was light and cool, and easy to listen to… nothing like the sickening rasping of the man who murdered her.
She hadn't prepped enough for this, she'd just dove right in! Why had she done that? What was she even doing here? Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Okay, it was okay.
Just say something, say something cool, she thought, steadying herself.
"Well… we're all looking for something, aren't we?" She answered, chuckling sheepishly. Oh yes, she had finally cracked.
Though he slightly snorted in amusement, Tom's brow rose in further suspicion. He rubbed his index and thumb together as he pondered this young witch before him, his curiosity rising. "I can't deny that's true." He said, striding slowly over to her. "Then, let me rephrase my question: is there anything I can help you with? I daresay, you look like you just happened to wander in here and you don't even know where here is."
Well, he was wrong about that one.
As he approached her, Hermione's, erhm, Everleigh's eyes, swept up his tall, sinewy figure. She attempted with all she could muster not to let him see inside her mind, not to lock his gaze.
Whatever she revealed to Tom, whatever she let him see, she had to refrain from anything that had to do with her previous self. She could not let on that she knew him, knew about his life, that she knew practically everything.
From here on out, she was Everleigh St. Germain and that was all. Thankfully, for all Tom knew right then, it was merely serendipity that she showed up like this in his shop. Everleigh herself, didn't even know why she was here, she just knew she had to be.
She hadn't replied straight away, her mind racing as she took in his frighteningly subtle and sly presence, his sensual physique. His thick dark hair was uncharacteristically long at the nape of his neck and slightly messy. His angled brows were bushy but attractive, his lips looked pillowy and that perfect jaw could probably cut through glass.
Good gracious, Tom Riddle was handsome. He was so damnably gorgeous, it wasn't fair. She had heard rumors and whispers of how good-looking the evil git was in his youth, but what she wasn't betting on was that he'd be the literal boy of her dreams.
The blighter, how dare he be this beautiful?
"Truthfully?" She asked, secretly simmering in her boots and he nodded in confirmation, patiently awaiting her candor. "I just haven't been to this side of town yet and, well, I guess I was curious."
"Curious?"
"Yep." She squeaked.
"Mm." Tom hummed, not fully convinced. "Well, perhaps you shouldn't be in this side of town. You seem…" His ebony eyes raked over the witch's petite frame, over her pretty face and the pretty clothes she wore. "Out of place."
Everleigh wanted to roll her eyes. He was so judgmental, though he was bloody right. "I'm just a fish out of water," she lightly surmised with a smile and sashayed away from him to pretend gazing at something else, another shelf, a different wall. Anywhere but his eyes, though she could not avoid that forever.
Tom was abashed, "Indeed you are, uh, Miss…?"
"St. Germain."
"Miss St. Germain, resident fish out of water, though I certainly wouldn't say you look like a fish."
Everleigh's brows shot to her hairline, turning away to hide her face from him as she reached her hand out to feel the fabric of an intricately woven black and blood red tapestry.
"Be careful," he warned low and slow, looming menacingly above her. "There's not many things in here you should be touching, not without the knowledge to properly handle them."
She curled her hand back to her chest, a slight shiver running up her spine. What was she doing? She knew better. She knew so much better. He was so close. "Oh,"
"What are you really doing here, Miss St. Germain?" He pressed, snickering, acting as if the jig was up. "Is that even your actual name?"
Eevie spun around to face him, offended. "Of course it is. Everleigh St. Germain, thank you very much and you are?"
Tom swallowed thickly, for the first time appearing very uncomfortable. "Riddle. Tom Riddle."
"Tom Riddle." She over enunciated his name, pretending as if she were hearing it for the very first time, flashing him her snobbiest eyes ever.
"Yes."
"Alright then, Mister Riddle. I'm awfully sorry to barge into what appears to be a very reputable and lucrative business," her tongue was sharp and her chin was high as she did her best to feign an overly insulted attitude. "But I best be going now and leaving you to… whatever it is you were doing."
Tom felt his lips pull into a small smile as he watched her leave, watching her long wild curls flowing behind her. The entire encounter had felt like a fever dream. He hadn't necessarily wanted her to leave, and he couldn't help but admit that she had left him with an indescribable feeling, one of undeniable warmth, humor maybe – the likes of which he didn't recognize.
It was clear he'd upset the witch, not that he'd meant to. She'd been acting so blatantly suspicious. Of course he was going to ask questions and get to the bottom of it. What if she was a little spy, sent to look in on him, sent from one of the handful of enemies he'd gained over the last few months.
There was one wizard, Spider, a filthy ruffian several years older who didn't like Tom after he and his cronies cut him out of a good deal. Spider was a degenerate who didn't like to listen, nor take orders. If he'd had it all his way, he'd be the one leading everyone around and Tom would be the fool.
Instead of getting rid of him for his insolence, Tom had spared the man his pathetic life and kept him around. Spider was more valuable to him alive. After all, he was a direct descendant of Victor Rookwood himself, the late great crime boss that ravaged wizarding Britain during the turn of the century. Yet despite this, if it actually came down to it, Tom would hunt Spider down and solve the issue once and for all.
And there was always the Aurors, some of whom were nosy and some of whom he knew personally. It was improbable, but if he'd caught someone's eye at the Ministry, it wasn't far off that they'd send in someone undercover. He was positive all of his operations had gone off without a hitch, but there was always that chance, however slim.
So, as was only natural, Tom had to be cautious, cautious around everyone, even pretty little seemingly innocent witches on the wrong side of town.
And, spy or not, he hoped that was not the last of St. Germain he'd see – a witch he'd never before glimpsed around here, nor Hogsmeade Valley, for that matter. An outsider? She seemed the same age as he were, give or take, English too and yet, she definitely did not go to Hogwarts. He would have noticed her, unless she was a new seventh year or something, which was highly unlikely, though a rare possibility.
Perhaps a couple of leisurely walks about the streets were in his very near future. Maybe if he did, they'd run into each other again. He wondered if she lived in town.
Yet, a little voice nagged at his ear. Why should he leave it up to chance? Shouldn't he go after her? A strange feeling surged potently through him. Why was he so overcome? He never felt like this.
With a roll of his shoulders and a rippling crack of his neck, Tom abandoned his post, waltzing out into the blinding sun.
- : o : -
Everleigh didn't know what she was doing at all. She should have planned that better, much better, but how were she to do that when she didn't even realize what her goal was, the purpose of this all? Was she sent here to kill him, to get him arrested? Was she supposed to befriend him and become a double agent? One could only guess that at the end of the day, the choice was up to her.
No pressure, or anything.
All she wanted was a sign, a great message spelled out in the sky to tell her she was on the right path, to show her what to do, where to go.
Tom turned a corner and saw her walking far ahead. He picked up his pace, giving himself the mindset not to absolutely horrify her when he got closer and she realized he was behind her.
He opened his mouth to say something, her name on his tongue when a seemingly normal-looking man suddenly dashed from an intersecting alley, snatching Everleigh's handbag from her clutches.
"Hey!" she screeched, and before even Tom himself could react, her wand was drawn and in quick succession, "Stupefy! Petrificus totalus!". The sorry sod had been frozen right in his pitiful tracks. "Unbelievable! Just what I needed," With a great heave, Everleigh pulled her bag from the lump of a wizard's stone grip, still unaware that Tom had been a witness. "Grimy little bastard. Now what do I do?" At least her wand was working wonders. That, at least, helped ease her rising frustration.
"I was wrong about you." A coy voice sank into her ears and she shuffled around quickly to meet the unwavering, penetrating gaze of the young Voldemort. "You handled yourself well."
She might actually be a good person to know, for more than just his previous inclinations, as long as she wasn't a mudblood. Sure, she was obviously appealing and he really didn't think he'd mind seeing her in his bed, but there was something about her. The way she carried herself. She seemed strong, savvy, brainy.
He had literally just met her ten minutes ago. Tom didn't know anything about her whatsoever, but he wanted to, which said a lot. He was intrigued by her. Tom was a restless soul, heedlessly bored out of his mind most of the time, when he wasn't busy with his dark preoccupations or challenging himself. He was always eager to learn, to be the best at everything he did, and he was.
Tom may have held himself at a higher standard than most all, but he was still an eighteen year old young wizard who occasionally needed a little excitement, to tangle up with a warm body just like any other man his age.
Though he knew his calculated self-control left others envious of his inherently disciplined temperament, Tom could feel just as libidinous as they did. He just didn't act on his carnal instincts as much, never spoke about such things nor boasted. He wasn't an animal.
But he was a snake.
He was atrociously picky and famously noncommittal, but occasionally, a saucy little trollop would catch his eye. Yet any and all of these trysts had felt utterly meaningless, just as he'd always expected them to.
"Are you alright?" he questioned, oozing a startling kindness.
"Yes, I-I think so." Everleigh replied, then glared accusingly up at Tom. "Were you following me?" She pointed back and forth to him and the frozen thief. "Did you just – ?"
Tom appeared shocked, maybe a little angry as his brows fused together. "What? Do you think I had something to do with that?" Everleigh crossed her arms, hugging her handbag as she looked him over with a paranoid shake of her head. Tom chuckled deviously, "Ah, yes, that was the plan all along, as soon as I saw you. Only took mere seconds to pay the man and orchestrate the whole scenario, amiright ol' chap?" Tom lightly kicked the brute in his side with a black boot.
A tiny smirk wiggled its way onto Everleigh's mouth as it fell open, aghast. He was toying with her.
He was actually kind of funny. Kind of.
And yes, he was right. She wasn't thinking clearly, everything was happening all so fast.
Tom wouldn't have had enough time to prepare that nonsense, and for what anyway, to see how she'd react? No, she had genuinely almost been robbed right in the middle of the street in broad daylight.
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"No apology needed. And well, I was following you. It was a wildly unsuccessful attempt to speak with you again, at least, one more time, if you'd indulge me."
Everleigh side-eyed him, chewing her bottom lip in consternation. She had heard many stories and legends of Tom Riddle, had heard how beautiful but unnerving his black eyes were before they permanently turned blood red; how he'd been so charming and desirable that hardly anyone ever truly detected, nor suspected his innate evilness, how troubled he really was – no one except Dumbledore, that is.
This was all too much, too soon. Everleigh wasn't even sure how to behave around Tom, was not sure where this was going, where she was supposed to take it.
"Excuse me," Tom was waving down an officer walking nearby on patrol. "Officer, this man here just stole this woman's purse and tried to make off with it."
The man was extremely interested, "Is that so?" He asked, stepping cautiously toward the lying heap on the ground. "And you two were able to detain him like this?"
"Actually, I watched her seize him herself." Explained Tom. "It happened only a moment ago. You just missed it."
"Really?" Asked the officer, staring appraisingly at the younger witch. "Right. Alright. 'Gonna have to get a couple o' statements from you both, then I'll get him outta 'ere and we can all be on our way."
"Of course," said Tom, giving Everleigh an expression of encouragement.
Everleigh couldn't tell what was real anymore. He coveted his true self well, much too well, but she could not allow him to deceive her as he had everyone else.
After all was said and done and the patrolman left with the petrified thief, Everleigh turned to walk away.
"Miss St. Germain." He called out to her and she stopped, staring back at him. His eyes were large, taking on the likeness of a sad puppy. "So you… don't wish to indulge me?"
Everleigh sighed. "What's there to know?"
Tom took a few steps toward her, face to face again. "Who are you, really?"
"I told you already."
"No, but who are you?"
She sniggered, "Mm, no one special, trust me."
"Where are you from? I haven't seen you around before. You're an English witch, but I've never met you before. You didn't go to Hogwarts, I would have noticed."
"You pick up on a lot of… unsaid things, don't you?" She said slowly, subtly. "Very… astute."
"Let's just say I have a knack for it."
"I see."
"You didn't answer my question."
"I just recently moved here from America. Massachusetts. Graduated from IIlvermorny. Anything else?"
"But you're English?"
"I was born here. Never knew my real parents."
"Ah. And so you've come back to where it all started."
"I – well, sort of, yes, er, pretty much. But in the meantime, I was seeing about studying at St. Mungo's."
"Fascinating."
"Was it?"
Tom blanched momentarily, shaking his head with a smirk. This girl was feisty, wasn't she? "I always say what I mean, and I always mean what I say."
"Hm."
It was now time for him to take a step back, one of his strategies at making him seem less obtainable and more interesting while still seeming interested. When he demonstrated this attitude, it drove the witches mad. It would be impossible for her to think him unattractive. All the witches liked him. Young and old, they swooned in his presence. She would too.
"I'm glad to know a little more about you, Miss St. Germain."
He began backing away, hands in his trouser pockets and she turned to him, confusion on her features. "So, that's it?"
Tom tried to hold back a grin, smugness in his swagger. "Didn't you want that to be it?"
She blanched, shifting the weight of her feet, unsure. "I just… expected more questions, is all."
"Do you want me to ask you more questions?"
"No!" She gasped, answering that a little too quickly. Tom gazed at her, surprised, yet the seductive smirk on his lips only blossomed further. "I mean… I don't know."
"Hm. What a dilemma," he cooed softly. "Tell you what, if you find yourself wishing for some… more questions, I'd be happy to oblige you. I'm often too busy with work at the store, but I happen to live directly behind it, back there," Tom pointed towards Borgin and Burke's, to the black brick townhome beyond the establishment. "Sometimes I'm around, sometimes I'm not, but if you find yourself coming by, it's the door on the left. I might answer."
Everleigh didn't know how to respond, her lips pursed as she mulled over his offer. She certainly did not want to have to give in to more of his questions, afraid he'd find out the truth. Her Occlumency was decent but not good enough for what lay ahead.
Inserting herself into Tom Riddle's life, one way or another, was the only goal that made sense to her. She had to be braver, not just for herself but for her fallen loved ones, the bleak future world filled with only death and destruction – all at the hands of this wizard.
Eevie had to get her head fastened on straighter, her path more narrow lest she get herself into some serious trouble. She couldn't let his extremely handsome face distract her from what was important, but he was being so flirtatious, it was positively killing her.
Tom didn't wait for a reply, simply strolled away, waving goodbye with that infuriatingly effortless nonchalance.
What did he mean he might answer?
- : o : -
AN: go directly to horny jail, do not pass go. sorry not sorry.