Content Warning: Sibling Incest, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Read at your own discretion.
July 24, 1942
"Take the damned boy!"
"Now, you know I can't take him inside, Father!" Tom Sr. urged, hands twitching in stress.
"No?" He growled. "Then leave him in the motorcar!"
Matriarch, Mary Riddle, placed a gentle hand upon her husband's arm. "It's fine, Thomas. The boy can stay here-"
"-No, Mary. I've had enough of him and his insolence for one evening," Tom Sr.'s father fumed. "You either get him out of this house or nail his door-"
"-I'll go with Father," Tom entered the room, steps slow and methodical, arms clasped behind his back. He appeared relaxed and unbothered yet carried a sharp gleam in his eye.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes," Tom remained calm, "I'll stay in the car."
Tom Sr. stared at Tom with a blank, searching gaze. Finally, he broke.
"The boy can come." And with that he turned to leave, expecting Tom to follow. Which he begrudgingly did.
Chasing after my father like some orphaned puppy. Pathetic.
The walk from the manor's entrance to the motorcar was brisk and chase, the drive into the city, less so. It was silent the entire ride which suited Tom well enough.
He couldn't help but ruminate, stew, question. He had never joined his father on one of his miscellaneous trips into the city.
What did he do on them?
Tom was rarely 'allowed' out of the manor, never mind Little Hangleton altogether- what the war raging on. His father rarely left the house, himself, but the outings were consistent and never a joyous affair.
Tom was never told what they were for, and could never be bothered with them. His family's muggle affairs were never of interest to Tom… until now.
Tom eyed the bright lights and shady characters from within the motor.
When the motorcar finally stopped at its destination, Tom couldn't help but ask. "What are we doing here?"
His father sneered. "What am I doing here? Business. Nothing that concerns you. Now, stay in the car till I come back, you hear?"
"Yes, Father," Tom gritted out.
Tom Sr. nodded to the chauffeur to help him make Tom keep this promise.
Like he could get in my way.
Tom Sr. stepped out of the motorcar, giving one last look at his son before turning. Tom watched his father enter the building- a burlesque he figured out- and waited a few minutes before wandlessly confounding the driver.
Restrictions were just opportunities to go beyond what was expected, he chuckled, rules were meant to be broken by those who had the ability- the power to do so.
"Stay here, keep a look out for my father. If he returns before I'm back, drive away and blame one of the loiterers outside."
He stepped out of the motor to explore the area. Rarely did he get a chance to do such things in such places.
With his luck, he might even find a new plaything to abuse.
Tom grinned and walked into the shadowy alley beside the burlesque, walked until he heard a voice, sure and brash.
"Got any muggle for me this time?"
Muggle?
And the girl's voice leaned surprisingly upper class for the alleyway of a burlesque.
He immediately disillusioned himself but was still adamant on staying close to the shadows of the wall.
"Nah, sweetheart, been runnin' low… unless?"
Not the same kind of muggle, I assume.
He inched closer until he could see the girl's face.
His eyes widened.
It was a negro girl, a negro girl bossing around a white man.
He shook his head, human races were a muggle invention. A wizard had no use for such nonsense.
Besides, the girl's face was familiar, but how could that be? The only girls he knew that looked like her were witches, muggle maids, and ladies on his father's jazz records.
"Unless what, Charlie? You know my mother would skin you alive."
"What she don't know won't hurt her," the man leaned against the wall beside her.
"Hmmm," she took a hit from her fag, "How I see it, this can go one of two ways," she blew the majority of the smoke in his face.
"You can either take my money or you can fuck off," the girl ended her threat with a well-placed glare.
Curious…
He's heard that before, heard those curses used with the same tone and inflection. He knew this girl.
The young man chuckled, nervously. "Hey now. You know I can't mess with you, doll. Was just kiddin' around, honest."
"Right, so what's it gonna be?"
The man nodded before handing the girl a crudely wrapped fag as she slipped some money in his pocket.
"Pleasure doin' business with you, Charlie."
"Yeah, a pleasure for you, sure," the man grumbled as he walked away.
Tom watched the man leave from the shadows, waiting patiently till he could question the familiar girl.
The alley turned quiet once again, with only the quiet humming of the girl to fill the void.
So he studied the girl's profile. She was of the unconventional sort. Hair, long and free from a style, flowing down her back and over her bare shoulders in tight coils. Even the hem of her dress rode up her thighs far too high to be considered proper.
Who was this girl?
After a while, he decided to make his move.
He removed the disillusionment charm.
"Hello?! Miss!"
The girl's head snapped towards the sound of his voice, eyes narrowed.
"Excuse me, Miss-"
Her eyes narrowed further.
He took a step towards her, towards the light, "But you look familiar. You wouldn't mind telling me where I might know you from?" Tom made sure his words held a charming lilt. He reinforced it with a boyish grin she could almost see.
"What's it to you… Mister," her voice was scathing yet interested.
He stepped entirely out of the shadows, "I just thought I recognized you, that's all. What? A man can't ask questions?"
"A boy."
"Excuse me," he almost sneered. Almost.
"You're only 15, you're still a boy," she smirked and Tom wanted nothing more than to wipe it off her face. To curse her till tears ran down her cheeks and her bright eyes went dull and begged for mercy.
"And how would some girl on the street know that? Good at guessing?" He fixed his face into a playful smirk, unwilling to let go of the facade just yet.
"No. No, we just go to the same school."
He blinked. One time, two times, three-
"You go to…"
"Oh yes," she winked. She spun around to face him directly, taking yet another drag from her fag. "Beetles to buttons, rabbits to slippers, and all that hogwash," she grinned lazily.
"Get it, hog- wash."
He blatantly ignored her awful joke. "Second year?"
His whole demeanor changed… internally that was. She was a witch- a muggleborn by the looks of it- but nonetheless, it was entirely within her right to be arrogant… at least to that lowly street peddler it was.
And she knew him. Or knew enough about him to know his name and age- how he looked at first glance.
He smirked. He couldn't help but preen at her regard.
"Was. Going into third now," she dropped her nub of a fag on the ground, and hopping off the box squished it beneath her heels, flattened it into ash. "Say, what's a fuddy-duddy-"
Fuddy duddy? His smirk fell.
"-like you doing at the back of a burlesque." She walked towards him without fear.
Good. But stupid.
Hmmm.
"Gryffindor?"
"Guilty." She shrugged, ending her answer with a deliberate stare.
He mentally rolled his eyes, but physically raised a brow at her impertinence.
"My father's here on business," he answered stiffly.
"Business," she echoed skeptically, eyes narrowing as if to somehow dissect him. "The only men here on business-" she taunted, face growing pinched in disgust, "-are pimps or rich men with mistakes to make up for."
She was right in front of him now, an arms swing away. It wouldn't take much to hurt her, nothing at all.
Gryffindor bravery, indeed.
"And you know this how? I find it hard to believe a little twelve-year-old-"
"-thirteen-" she stressed.
"-would know anything about such topics," Tom scoffed.
He was offended, not at the insults levied at his good-for-nothing father but at the audacity of some soon-to-be third-year whelp implicating said father and him in turn.
And yet, he couldn't help but respect her boldness. It was defiant but innocent- naive. Tolerable enough for him not to break her.
Yet.
"Oh, but I do. I know. I was practically raised here after all."
Interesting, a witch raised in a muggle burlesque.
Not any more interesting than a wizard raised in a muggle mansion…
Perhaps it was a tad more interesting.
"And how does that work?"
"Not too sure," the girl snarked, "but I can sure cut a rug awful good, that's for true."
"Fun at parties?" he deadpanned.
"The 'funnest'," she grinned.
He watched her rock back and forth in energy, the movement creasing her heels. Her hands clutched the skirt of her dress excitedly. A dress that ended above the knees…
"And what is the 'funnest girl' at the party's name, if I might ask?"
She smiled. A knowing smile- a shy smile. One that only served to intrigue him.
"Hermione," she extended a hand for Tom to shake, "Hermione Granger."