"Hermione." Something nudged her arm, but she turned aside and curled in on herself more tightly. "Hermione, c'mon."
Whoever it was wasn't going away; she grumbled as she rose stiffly from the pillow of her arms. Hermione scrubbed sleep-sanded eyes and glared up at Draco. "I was just closing my eyes for a mo'."
Silver eyes rolled heavenward. "Yeah, sure. Now get up; the feast is about to start."
"Feast?"
"It's Halloween."
She stood and stretched high before packing up her schoolwork. This was becoming a habit, falling asleep in the library. She slung her bag over her shoulders and followed her friend down to the Great Hall.
"You need to go to bed earlier," he lectured as they passed a few other stragglers. "I know you want to get in more studying, but you're top of the class, Hermione. If this keeps up you'll start performing worse from lack of sleep."
Hermione couldn't tell him that she sneaked out once or twice a week to spend time with their professor, usual study habits aside. Her evenings with Tom were often spent reading or discussing books he'd lent her, or practicing more advanced magic. Physical interactions were kept modest lest they become out of hand.
That's what Tom said. She wondered if he was meeting those desires elsewhere; he was so unruffled by it all. Then again, he was much older. He had experience, and had probably encountered times he couldn't indulge in anything carnal for periods of time. After all, he worked at a school.
As she slid into the seat beside Harry, previous conversations came to mind. "Harry."
He glanced over from the pumpkin bread he'd slathered with butter.
"When you told me Professor Riddle is older than he looks, how old do you mean?"
Harry set down his food and wiped away any crumbs, his emerald eyes thoughtful. "You've never looked into his records, have you?"
She'd never needed to; Tom would answer any question she had. "No."
"Well." He was stalling. She lifted a brow and his cheeks tinged pink. "He graduated in the 1940s."
Hermione frowned, unsure she'd heard him correctly. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and clarified, "I'm sorry, did you say the forties?"
Harry nodded.
"The 1940s," she said again, and he again nodded. "That's ridiculous."
Her laughter drew in the others. "What's this about then?" Ron leaned forward to watch her shake her head.
"She doesn't believe me about Professor Riddle," Harry told him.
"What, that he might be an evil git?"
She stopped laughing to glare at Ron. "Don't talk about your professors that way. And no. I hadn't heard that."
"His age." Draco's cheek laid against her shoulder. "It's that, isn't it?"
"Yes." Hermione studied the boys in turn. "Harry said— well, he'd have to be in his sixties."
"I think around seventy," Ron confirmed. "Dumbledore said he graduated in '45."
Her frown returned as she puzzled through this new information. "No." Hermione tried to shake the idea into nonexistence. "No, absolutely not. You're all having a go at me."
"We're not," Draco murmured, his pale features as solemn as marble. "You can check for yourself."
"Fine." Hermione stood only for Harry to catch the edge of her robe.
"You're not leaving already?"
"I'm going to go check the records," she said.
Ron looked affronted. "But it's the Halloween Feast!"
"And it will be the Halloween Feast still in an hour, and next year for that matter." She neatened her uniform and headed back toward her favorite part of the castle. Madam Pince merely raised a brow when she passed through the double doors and returned to the stacks.
It didn't take long to find what she was looking for; the records were organized chronologically, so all she need do was take out a volume that would cover the time Tom would have been at school, refer to the table of contents, and find out.
The 1944-1945 school year was toward the back. At the head of the ledger of students were the heads and the prefects, and there she found a familiar, if younger, face staring up at her. Underneath read: Tom Riddle, Slytherin.
Hermione backtracked to the previous year and saw his name under the heading for prefects. He was a prefect the year before that, and then his name appeared in the list of students until the 1937-1938 school year. Shaking hands closed the book with its aging yellow pages.
Harry had been telling her the truth; Professor Riddle was, based on the birthday he'd told her, sixty nine years old.
The Weasleys were younger than that and he looked closer to their age.
Hermione was lightheaded as she stood and used a shelf to balance herself. The world was skewed to her vision and she was trying to talk herself down from a panic attack. She was also a bit queasy.
"I should go lie down." She would be alone in the girls dormitory, as everyone else was still at the feast. It would be quiet and she could draw the curtains of her four poster bed and be alone.
Dark, safe, familiar.
As she walked to Gryffindor Tower, mind in a daze, she didn't even realize she was clutching the ring. It seemed to pulse and warm beneath her clothes, but she was too far away from herself to further investigate.
Upon arriving to her bed, she stripped off her robe and removed her tie, then curled up on top of the scarlet-and-gold tooled duvet.
Doubt threatened her attempt at dissociation, but she continued to stare ahead and focus on her breath until she fell asleep.
"Well, isn't this a surprise."
Hermione frowned and glanced around herself. She wasn't in the castle at all. In fact, this place was strange even for the magical world.
It was almost outdoors, but there was a flatness to the misty blue "sky" that spoke of walls. The ground was reflective and rippled like water when she stepped toward the figure ahead.
He was unspeakably handsome, dark eyes drinking her in as she approached. The finely sculpted features were familiar and strange all at once. He looked to be around her age and wore a Hogwarts uniform complete with shining prefect badge.
"Er, who are you?" Her voice echoed in the alien landscape.
The boy smirked. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"I should think not; it's my dream," she retorted hotly. Hermione crossed her arms and waited.
His midnight eyes flicked over her again, gaze lingering on her bare legs. "Is this your dream? How utterly dull. How about we change it up?" The stranger gestured to their surroundings and the dreamscape swirled and darkened until it snapped into focus as what seemed to be the Slytherin Common Room.
The fireplace cast eerie green light across the room and tall windows shone only swaying darkness beyond. Her lips pursed as she took in the snake motif, then rolled her eyes at the imaginary Slytherin prefect. "Rather dreary, isn't it?"
He shrugged and fell into an armchair. "You could have dreamt something more to your liking, but you chose not to."
"Is this really how the Slytherin Common Room looks?" She took one of the sofas for herself and leaned her elbow on the arm.
"You don't know?" He raised one devastatingly perfect brow.
She laughed. "I'm not a Slytherin, so no. I do not."
"What house are you in, then?" He eyed her speculatively. "Ravenclaw? I can't imagine you're a Hufflepuff."
"I am a Gryffindor." She was affronted he hadn't considered that possibility, especially since they were in her head.
He frowned and studied her again, then shrugged. "The hair fits."
Hermione fingered her curls self-consciously. "Now, you still haven't answered my question."
"And you haven't answered mine."
Since Hermione was unwilling to give in first, they were at an impasse. "We will just need to conduct ourselves civilly without."
"Very well. I have no issue with that." The Slytherin leaned toward her. "Well, Miss Gryffindor, what do you usually do in your dreams?"
"Er, all sorts of things, I suppose. Study," she said.
He chuckled. "You study in your dreams? Are you sure you're a Gryffindor? They're usually idiots."
"I'll have you know I'm top of my year." Hermione's chin jutted out with all the pride a lion should have.
The young man's eyes glimmered in amusement. He brushed some of dark, perfect hair back from his face and hummed. "I'd rather use this time for other things, things we might not have time for while awake."
"Like what?"
He stood and took the single step to stand in front of her. Long, pale fingers tipped her chin upward; they were cool against her burning flesh. "Like seeing if you taste as fiery as you look."
"I—" Hermione swallowed thickly. "We don't even know one another's names."
"Does it matter? It's a dream?" With that, he leaned in to press soft lips to hers.
How could something be so soft and firm at the same time? He tasted like cool water in a desert, like sunshine through rain clouds, like Amortensia smelled.
She groaned and he was suddenly hovering over her with her laid across the sofa.
"I'm beginning to understand," he murmured when they parted for breath.
"What?" Her amber eyes were wide and nearly black as her pupils dilated. In the dim light, she couldn't see his at all. They were pure, slick darkness.
One corner of his mouth ticked and he brushed aside one of her curls, then descended again.
Despite his taller, broader form, he wasn't heavy on top of her; if anything, the weight of him was perfect. One pale hand stroked her thigh and eased it so her foot rested on the floor. He insinuated himself in the cradle he'd made between her legs. When he rolled his hips against hers, she keened. Her hands threaded through soft hair; as his body became more insistent, she tugged until her fingers curled into fists.
"Ah, darling. Keep that up and I won't be able to control myself."
His cheeks were flushed and his hair was ruffled, but he looked otherwise unphased. Hermione was sure she was a mess.
"Were you intending to?" she murmured breathlessly. "Control yourself, I mean."
He chuckled. "Usually, yes. Perhaps I can make an exception this once." He kissed down her jaw and nibbled the sensitive flesh of her throat. Buttons loosened to expose her chest, one greedy hand touching every new inch. When the ends of her blouse fell apart, he pushed up the cups of her bra. "Beautiful." His mouth enveloped one nipple as he played with the other, and Hermione arched up into him. "I want you."
She whined and returned her grip to his hair.
The Slytherin sat up to leer at her prone beneath him. At his smirk, her blouse and bra both vanished.
"What— how—"
His fingers tickled at her thigh until he could feel her slit through thin cotton. "Magic? Dreams?" He clicked his tongue. "Already so wet for me, little Gryffindor?"
Hermione spread her thighs further apart; if this was a dream, there was no shame in acting on her desires. Right?
"Such a good girl, too. I'm sure your professors love you."
"Are you just going to talk?" she said tartly.
His expression hardened and his flared. "You'll regret not letting me take my time." Hermione hummed. He tore the little cloth away and unbuttoned his trousers, leaning over her before she could catch sight of him.
Something nudged at her lower lips. She raised a brow in the face of his narrowed eyes.
His teeth flashed as he pushed in.
Breath tore from her chest in a creaking hiss. "Is it too much for you, darling?"
Hermione grit her teeth. She hadn't expected him to be so wide.
"Say 'please,' and I'll make it easier for you." When she refused, he backed up and slammed into her another inch. She flinched. "One little word, sweetheart, and I'll make you feel so good."
He stroked her cheek and watched the tears that slid from the corners of her eyes. He was so beautiful it hurt.
"Please."
His smile said condescending thoughts for him. He eased out, spat on his hand, and rubbed it over himself as lube, then again. He began to push into her again, but one hand settled on her lower stomach, over her flipped-up skirt, and his thumb played with the bundle of nerves there. Within seconds, she was moaning again.
It still took several thrusts for him to lodge fully inside her, but by then the stretch was sweeter than it was painful. They both moaned when their bodies met.
Who initiated the kiss this time, she couldn't say. It was a mess of tongues and teeth; her hands slid up his toned back to rake her nails down his flesh. He snarled into her mouth. The hand not between them rested on the column of her throat, a threat that urged her closer to the edge. He tightened his grip and she gasped for air.
When he released her neck, she threw back her head and screamed. He continued through the waves of pleasure, then groaned and collapsed against her.
Even in a dream, they were sweaty. Their flesh perfumed the air with sex and she could follow steam curling from them in the cool dungeon room.
The Slytherin kissed her throat again and pulled back to watch her. "You need to rest, little lioness."
"I'm already asleep."
He smirked. "Hm. Close your eyes anyway."
She let her lashes flutter shut.