September 26, 1942
The corner of his lips lifted in false amusement, and yet his hand tightened around his fork.
Hermione was a most aggravating creature- smiling, smirking, and winking at him from across the Great Hall.
Weeks had rolled by before Tom could focus his any of his attention on Hermione's constant roguery.
In that time, he'd completed all upcoming assignments, disciplined and trained his knights, perfected his new- less polished- image, and settled beautifully into his prefect role. In order of importance, 'family drama' had never become a priority.
Gone was his smile as he watched the family in 'family drama' smirk, eyes ablaze as the students around her laughed- presumably at something she said.
She was popular in her own right. Not as popular as Tom himself as he older, male, and had the Slytherins at his disposal, but her brand of marketability was effortless, more organic.
His charm was palatable to all, her charm was loveable to most.
Interestingly enough, he'd heard that she was rather brilliant too. At the top of their year and in all their classes, she was known to be an effortless witch. Performing magic and interpreting theory at a rate almost unheard of. Almost. For he had had similar sentiments thrown upon him at such an age.
There was one strkining difference altering such sentiments, however. She was a muggleborn and he was not, making her some sort of double-horned unicorn of the wizrding world.
A miracle, an abnormality, an exception to the rule.
He took a bite of his roast, chewing silently as he planned.
He knew he'd have to find her alone as calling her away from her peers would be too suspicious.
It would have to be done on a Friday night, as the weekend would give her time to recuperate from any of his… exploits and any odd behaviors could go unnoticed.
He might even have to use-
"Are you alright, My Lord?" He looked to his left to find Avery's eyes resting on his plate, a humble look on his face. He had asked discreetly. Good.
"Quite, Avery. I have much to think about," Tom fixed his look on Avery's temple. "Alone."
Tom finished up the last bits of food on his plate, careful not to scrap his silverware on the porcelain.
Placing his knife and fork, side by side, in the middle of the plate, he stood. And after nodding to his knights he grabbed his books and left, feeling the girl's curious gaze follow him down the aisle and out of the Great Hall.
*~*—*~*
September 30, 1942
Disillusioned, he watched as she pulled up her sleeves, bidding goodbye to her friends- or rather- her bodyguards.
They were her constant companions- following her around, glaring at those who would dare to disrespect her.
The glaringly ginger Weasley and the upstart Potter heir were interesting loyalties to have garnered as a muggleborn.
And he was not… too surprised to find her so admired and desired by those around her. What with her fierce defense of the weak and pitiful- Tom internally sneered, her steady amass of house points, shortened skirts, and constant lack of stockings.
She had an all-around disregard of decorum, yet a loose adherence to school rules in the eyes of authority.
She was wild but loyal, spontaneous yet consistent, and they loved her for it.
"Wish me luck," he heard her say, opening the door to one of many abandoned classrooms she frequented.
"Be safe, Hermione, and come back before curfew, you hear?"
"Yes, Dad," she drawled, shoving Potter playfully.
"It's not a joke, Hermione. You need to be careful about this. We can't always be here to protect you. We've quidditch to worry about and-"
The Potter boy nudged the Weasley quiet.
"-ehem- I only mean, we care about you, s'all."
The girl rolled her eyes, "I'll be okay, promise. I've done this loads with no hiccups. It'll be done in a jiffy!"
The boys looked at each other, exasperated.
"Okay, Hermione."
"Alright."
She nodded in self-satisfaction, entering the room, "See you in the common room, boys," she saluted before letting go of the door to close freely behind her.
Without delay, Tom slid in behind her, locking the door as soon as it closed.
He turned to face the room. His brows raised ever so slightly.
The girl had a potion's lab filling up half the room.
Fumes of varying colors and smells filled the air as she reversed the stasis it had been placed under; And the girl- the girl just calmly, yet somehow frantically maneuvered between them all.
"Two alihotsy leaves here, chopped billywig sting there, one ashwinder egg for you…" she sing-songed to herself, curls gradually frizzing from the extended exposure to the fumes.
How fortunate. He'd caught the criminal in the act.
And what an elaborate crime indeed.
Yes, a punishment seemed more than fair.
As she began chopping what looked to be starthistle for her laughing potion, Tom released himself of the disillusionment charm, coming up behind her distracted form with quiet steps.
Tom bent at the waist and craned his head as to avoid her frizzy mane. He bent till his head was practically parallel to hers.
"What ever shall I do with you, Miss Granger-"
She stilled as at the sound of his voice, at its tone, at its proximity to her person.
"-Stealing from the storeroom-"
"-but, I didn't-"
"-brewing without permission-"
"-okay, yes-"
"-using forbidden rooms at your leisure-"
"-forbidden is pushing it-"
"-face it, you've been caught."
She turned, face becoming dangerously close to his. "First time offenders get off with a warning?" She negotiated, abashed.
He straightened his back and tsked slowly, a grin of a most predatory nature stretching across his face, "Usually, that would be the case, but this is a special offense," he purred, "And I have something else in mind."
He'd expected sweating, shaking, pleading, begging.
What he didn't expect… was an eye roll.
Her face turned hard. And so did his.
He almost cursed her then and there.
"You want me to have sex with you? Is that it? Yeah-" she scoffed.
His eyes widened at the accusation.
"-I'm not losing my virginity in an abandoned classroom over some house points or detentions or… whatever else you've got in mind!"
She eyed his frozen expression with a bland look, "Just feel me up and get it over with." She made a grab for his hands which he quickly snatched away.
She gasped at the presumed insult.
"I don't want to touch you, you freak," he wiped his untouched hands on his knitted jumper- just in case.
She gasped at the actual insult.
"You're the freak for not wanting to touch me!"
"What. Are. You. Talking. About."
"That's what you men usually want! So go ahead. Get it over with! I need to finish my potions," she stood still, arms open and expecting.
And the absurdity of the moment stole away his usual ire.
He chuckled bitterly. "What part of 'I don't want to touch you' do you not understand? Hm?"
Idiot girl.
She lowered her arms in confusion.
"So… what do you want?" She said inching away from him.
Tom could only stare.
He still wanted to hurt her. Something about her always made him want to hurt her.
And yet…
He stepped forward, and the little step she took back irked him in a way he didn't yet understand.
"Come here," he ordered.
And she took it as such.
Good.
"Tell me something, Hermione." He fixed her with darkened eyes. "And if you lie to me, I will know and you will suffer for it."
He grasped the wand in his holster and the girl's eyes flickered rapidly between the wand and its wielder.
"Tell me, Hermione," he whispered, stealing her attention, becoming her sole perception. "Do you know my father?"
She stared at him with knit brows and chewed lips, but it took only a beat for her to reply.
"I… know of your father, yes. We've never met, I promise, Tom-"
She hissed, face twisting in pain, hand rising to touch her bloody cheek.
She looked up, eyes wide with fear.
Tom smiled.
She wore fear beautifully.
"Call me Tom again," he relaxed the grip on his wand, "Please, I would much enjoy painting you red."
He watched her jaw tremble with satisfaction. Good, how dare she call upon him so intimately… again.
She attempted a calming breath, but released quite a tenuous one. "Mister Riddle-"
Not quite, but…
"-better."
She nodded shakily, the fear slowly fading from her eyes.
I'll have to remedy that.
"I'd seen him- years ago- before Hogwarts. I hadn't even learned his name- or rather, had it confirmed until a month ago- from another dancer even," she looked up and her large brown stared at him, begging to be believed.
He nodded for her to continue.
"And when I first saw you at Hogwarts, you looked familiar to me, but I wasn't sure why. Not until last month when I saw you at the Burlesque and you said…"
That my father was there on business…
"I thought maybe, just maybe it wasn't him. That the Tom the dancers whispered about, wasn't your father. But when I saw you…" she looked away, seeming genuinely ashamed to share, "I… I realized the man whom I'd seen- the man who I suspected to be my father was the very same man- the very same father conducting 'business' that night." She spat, finishing her words with furrowed brows.
Tom was impressed by the fervor of her words but felt the need to, at least, be skeptical of the substance of them.
Lies were easy to perform when mixed with the truth. And he had no problem remaining suspicious of what she'd said. He sighed.
If only he couldn't tell she was being honest- tell that his disgust with his father was shared by very girl in front of him, earnestly and honestly. Then, he could enjoy punishing her, now, the thought just seemed like a chore.
"What did the other dancer tell you- tell you to make you truly believe he was your," he paused, "father," he continued, studying her guilty gaze.
"She told me he had come every month that my mother started showing, and that he never missed a day…" she clenched her fist.
"My mother never said anything to confirm or deny but- her silence was truth enough," she whispered.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should've, but I was scared of what that would mean for me," she looked up with red, glossy eyes and he almost took a picture with his mind.
"I grew up knowing I had a…" she hesitated before continuing, "a father somewhere out there, and maybe a part of me hoped that he was a wizard- that I wasn't a… but to have it practically confirmed…"
He clenched his jaw in unwanted understanding. He would hate to have his parentage remain unknown. At least he knew his mother- knew he descended from Salazar Slytherin, even if the how that came to be stayed hidden from him.
"But it doesn't matter anymore. I don't care. I'll prove all those puritist bastards how great a muggleborn can be," she sniffled quietly.
He looked at her, his crying muggleborn sister, and he felt something foreign and warm grow in his chest.
He shivered at the strange new feeling, but it was quickly followed by a bout of nausea.
"Heal your cheek before you leave," he rasped, unable to look at her.
His head felt light, but his legs felt heavy, and all he wanted to do was crush her under the weight of his confusion.
"Glad to know you care, brother," she tried for a smile but winced, unsure of how the title would translate- unsure of how to feel about him.
"Your potions are burning."
The girl cursed, focusing her sights on the lab. And he lingered for just a moment, watching her assess each potion, using…
Using sixth-year advanced potions technique to-
Where did she learn to reverse the affects of multiple burnt potions? Advanced potions at that.
Tom turned away without another glance- without another word. And he left the classroom more fascinated and more infuriated than ever.
He was more sure, now, of their familial ties than ever and even surer that he wanted to tame her. To subdue her.
To own her.
He suddenly stopped, the bottom of his shoes scuffing against the hall's marble floors. Tom furrowed his brows at his own impassioned thoughts- not used to expressing such intensity or placing such emphasis on one, singular human being.
It agitated him. It continued to fuel the unease and churn at the nausea felt low in his belly. Yet all he could think about was his sister and her insolence and her ability to make react so out of character-
Tom shook his head in an attempt to shake off these unnaturally heated thoughts.
He wouldnt let her consume him- he couldn't.
She was his to consume, his to toy with. Just as all other were if given the chance.
She wasn't special.
Tom huffed quietly to himself and continued to make his way to the dungeons.
No more talk of relatives- no more talk of sisters, he told himself.
It was time to meet a good night's sleep and be rid of such headache, and more importantly, such nausea.