Author's Note:
Happy Ramadan to the Muslims out there...though I'm not sure that's actually the correct phrase to use. I mean, a month of daylight hunger pangs and thirst doesn't sound all that cheerful to me, but that's just me. Good luck to your fasting if you do, especially the farther north in latitudes you are.
Story-wise, I'm pretty sure there are some other things that might be useful to add to the end notes, but my brain isn't cooperating right now. I'd be freer by next week, though, so that at least is some good news. Thanks for everyone who'd left a comment, even though I suck at replying to them when it's not from a registered user.
'-
58 On Blood andHeartbeats
Pillow talks and blood magic. A gathering of pureblood ladies breakfasting on Saturday. Even Stephanie Selwyn has her enemies. Tom. Auguste. Hogwarts' carriageway. In which Hermione realises that there might be some things that Tom's not honest with himself about.
'-
It was the light kiss at the back of her neck that woke her.
Her eyelids flickered open as Hermione slowly drifted to awareness. The light was low in the room. She was lying on her stomach with her face on the silky linen pillowcase. Fingertips stroked scribbles on her naked back. She still didn't bother to move as she remembered intentionally staying in the Royal Suite after they arrived back from the Ministry dinner. The next kiss on her spine raised the goosebumps on her arm and she shivered with delight.
"Tom?"
"Hmm."
"What are you writing?"
"I was thinking of writing a locator spell in my blood here." Hermione could feel the lightest touches at her waist.
"I hate those blood pens. They always hurt." She murmured, still only half-awake.
"That's not actually a necessity—only the blood used as ink is the requirement. A brush would do as well if the preparation is right." His tone was low and hypnotic.
"You need some anti-coagulant mixed in the bowl."
She could hear him scoff. "I know. I've done this before, Hermione. Otherwise, I'd be trickling clumps of blood clots instead of blood. Not exactly conducive to a legible handwriting, is it?"
Hermione had the oddest realisation that she preferred it when his voice was roughened by sleep. It was probably because his usual polish and façade were gone and she second-guessed herself less about what exactly he meant behind his anodyne words.
"What's the sacrifice? A couple of deer? A warthog? Perhaps a short trip to Europe to find a wolf?"
She closed her eyes again. The straight lines he was making earlier was recognisable to her as probably something runic. The ones he was doing now as he went higher still used straight lines, but they were…different. Not the verticals and angled-lines of the runes, but she didn't know what. Never mind. I'll probably realise what it is once I'm more awake.
"Ah, it didn't occur to me to find a wolf. Yes, that would be powerful, isn't it? Especially if you try to fight it somewhat fairly instead of trapping it? To emerge victorious in a martial combat." He mused.
"Mmmhmm."
Hermione still couldn't stop feeling bad for the poor critters that would end up dying this way, even if she knew it was a necessary component of blood magic. There was a good chance that she'd probably end up digging graves for them, gravestone included. The brunette didn't really care if he would think that it was weird or too sentimental.
She ignored the occasional detours he made lower, to her hips and backside. It was nice, but she was still too lazy to move.
"Are you sure I can't persuade you to use an Azkaban convict about to be Kissed as sacrifice?"
"Tom!"
Looking over her shoulder showed one innocent-looking and unrepentant Tom, lounging on the bed, hair falling over and almost covering one eye.
"What? They were going to die anyway, Hermione. We're just making sure that they die for a higher purpose. It's efficient."
"Dammit, I'm too sleepy to start quoting Beccaria." She plopped her head on the pillow again.
"Then don't."
He was a warm presence at her back when he kissed her shoulder and she arched back, her skin seeking his. Tom didn't stop her when she turned around, staring back up at him. His hand had been carefully creeping upwards following the curve of her hips and then inwards.
"Look, by Utilitarianism, punishment is of the greatest use when a) it happens close in time to the crime, to emphasise its cause and effect in the mind of the criminal, and b) that it can act as a deterrent to other, future possible criminals from doing the same. The problem is after a certain point of 'heavy punishment', the human mind doesn't always assess increasing punishment linearly and just considers it more-or-less the same."
She was getting distracted by his questing fingers and he knew it.
"Your point being?"
"Capital punishment—being killed—might not really be considered by most people as that different than being jailed for 30, 40 years. And yet death takes away a potentially productive member of society too, something that imprisonment does not."
Hermione had sat up to gain more focus, but his hand still followed their previous path up her thighs. His tousled hair and that smirk still managed to get her heartrate up.
"But it's not our fault if the wizarding world still wants to use the Kiss as punishment." He pointed out.
"Yes, but if our idea took hold, of making the deaths productive, it would be the beginning of a new wrong on top of the old one, doubling it."
"How?"
Tom was so close that the question might as well be whispered to her lips. She took a deep breath (faint…oak, with a hint of citrus and something cooler that's distinctly Tom), her head feeling light with his scent and closed her eyes as his fingers slipped in again. Not truly active, but merely a casual caress.
"In production, the priority is in the availability of raw materials for productive purposes." She accepted his kiss easily, understood the way he still wanted to assure himself that she was still here. Hermione could lose herself in him yet again, as she had several times already earlier—he was nothing if not a meticulous and observant lover, but they were in the middle of a discussion here and she hadn't forgotten that. Reluctantly, she drew away.
"If you turn people into raw materials, even people condemned to death, then there would always be those trying to ensure there's a steady supply of such people. The prison becomes a production line—Ah!"
She took a steadying breath, a single drop of sweat trickled down her temple. Her hand went down to grasp his wrist. He complied with her wordless request to pause for now.
"Conflict of interest occurs, because I'm sure someone would start to…incentivise the court in some way to keep the supply of guilty people coming." She sighed.
"Even if most of the Wizengamot are good people, all it takes is a few rotten apples to get the scheme started."
"Incentivise…that's a nice word to use. I'll remember that next time." Tom mused.
Hermione snorted, deciding that she wouldn't feel guilty merely because she had just led him down the road of Orwellian words that she knew as 20th century management-speak.
She shook her head, even as her hands explored his chest, affixing him in sense-memory. "I refuse to be the beginning of such a system."
He sighed to her neck, his breath light on her skin. "Too bad."
"Mmmhmm."
He curled his fingers again once she deepened her kiss.
Words floated away for a few moments as Tom went for the practical test of his powers of observation—just how fast he could make her orgasm with only his hands. The answer was that he could definitely do it faster if his mouth was the one most active, but she was far from complaining. Not when her head was still pleasantly fuzzy.
It was when he was on top of her and about to enter her that she remembered the question she had earlier.
"Why choose a locator spell?"
"I'll always be able to find you if you were kidnapped again."
Hermione knew he was partial to her, but that was an abstract knowledge. She was still surprised whenever she could actually see that fondness reflected in his eyes—or when they lost themselves in each other like now. It felt like an impossibility when compared to the Voldemort she knew in the future. Everything felt slightly less real, as if she was merely dreamwalking all this time, or had somehow lost herself in an opium den.
She gasped when he sheathed himself in her to the hilt. Her thoughts had begun to lose the sharpness of their focus as the light buzz of pleasure started to spread.
"I'll consider that…if you'd consider allowing me to write the same blood spell to your back, written in my blood. That way, I'll be able to locate you too when someone kidnaps you."
He huffed. "Stubborn witch."
Tom hadn't tried to move yet even as their breath was quickening. She hadn't realised how much she enjoyed this game of seeing how long they can keep a normal conversation up (mildly torturous for both of them when he was already in her), until she was actually in a relationship with him.
"If I'm tying myself to you, it's only fair if you tied yourself to me." Her voice was low and breathy, and she didn't miss the way he was distracted by her lips then.
It truly wasn't an issue of the blood magic to her (and even from the beginning, she'd already predicted and later confirmed that he was neck deep in studying blood magic, hadn't she?)
"If that was to be the case, I think it's simpler if we get married now. There are dozens and dozens of rituals tying to parties together in blood and I'm sure half of them has a sophisticated locator spell woven in."
"Marriage?" She asked in mock outrage. She couldn't stop her voice from turning into a purr, and neither did she miss the movement of his Adam's apple a moment before he spoke.
"Please. It's what most of those…blood rituals binding different parties together are actually titled."
It was hard to stop her eyelids from closing as the pleasure rose when he started a single retract and thrust in agonisingly slow motion. Just once and nothing more before they were staring each other down again.
Tom wasn't wrong. That was what old magical marriage rites came down to—blood rituals to tie the involved parties together with varying degrees of entanglement. Sure, some had love as part of the component, but she was cynical enough about human nature to know that love wouldn't have even entered the equation for most of the rituals. After all, who would've been most obsessed with tying people in blood? Old pureblood families. And just how often does a society marriage involved love, particularly at the beginning?
She felt like laughing right now, perhaps tinged with hysteria, simply because a small part of her has yet to be reconciled with the idea that she was Tom Riddle's lover. It didn't help that it was the best and most pragmatic plan of hers once she realised how he was still sane. The situation was made worse (better? She was in no position to judge) when she realised that he was a witty, intelligent and attractive wizard—he was uncomfortably placed in the middle of the Venn diagram of her personal preferences for a lover.
"I don't know," she mused out loud.
He raised his head, "Are you regretting giving me your years?"
"No, it's not that. But you don't even trust me—oh, I know you do, Tom. You wouldn't have introduced the Knights to me. But I wasn't talking about the usual trust."
Hermione grabbed his backside and slammed him in. Hermione heard his sharp intake of breath, saw the way the muscles of his arms tensed as he struggled to kept himself up. It was rather rewarding to see him taken off-guard that she didn't care for his unamused expression.
"You don't trust me fully, not yet," she whispered to his ear. "Not for the very important things. Which is fair, because I still struggle with the big trust when it comes to you too."
Her left hand was running through his hair, caressing. "And that's alright—we haven't really known each other that long, have we? Not much to do…but to let more time pass. It wouldn't be fair to either of us before we're both truly comfortable with it."
She'd surprised him again with her frankness. Hermione didn't consider that a bad thing. Raising herself up on her elbows to kiss him, he responded instantly, his mouth devouring and his whole body now pressed fully against hers with a desperation she was starting to feel.
There were no more conversations to be had between them for a while.
'-
"How's your sleep?" Lakshmi asked Hermione when she entered her dorms, her tone deadpan.
"Oh, very well, thank you." Hermione replied just as casually as she opened her oak chest and picked clothes from it. "Proper sleep is very important to memory formation and knowledge retention."
Lakshmi snorted at that. "Like you'd remember that when you're kissing the life out of someone."
Hermione only blinked innocently back, even as the corner of her mouth kept twitching upwards. She was starting to get used to Lakshmi's style that she was getting startled less these days.
Lucretia had only looked up from her correspondence to greet Hermione good morning, which she promptly replied, before she turned her attention back to her letters.
It was Eugenie who was surprised when she stepped out of the bathroom.
"Hermione! You've just gone back? I didn't think I see you last night!"
"Well…"
Lakshmi came to the rescue. "Ah, you know how Hermione is, Eugenie. She's usually off to who knows what meetings with the Society, and even if she's not, she feels there's nothing wrong with waking up in the middle of the night to go brew a potion just to get the optimum hour, or go picking some herbs. Take your pick."
"I see." The blonde nodded thoughtfully.
Hermione couldn't completely shake off the guilt of misdirecting one of her friends that way.
"Actually…" she began, before floundering at the words. What was she supposed to say, anyway? Yes, I went out to sleep with Tom Riddle last night? Eugenie was curious.
"Actually?"
"Actually, if I was her, I'd drag Tom Riddle to a spare classroom and shag his brains out. I'm sure even Hermione is thinking about it. But I don't know whether she has the guts to do that or not." Lakshmi winked at Hermione.
"Lakshmi!" Eugenie cried, her cheeks turning beet red.
Hermione had no idea why she was still stupidly blushing about it when she'd been guilty of worse. (How many people would even guess that their ties were doing double duty other than as neckwear? Add the oh-so-very useful Geminio Charm and you were set for a lot of things). She was sure she didn't imagine the smile on Lucretia's face when she tidied up her desk.
"Hermione?"
"Yes?"
"Would you mind having breakfast with me and Walburga?"
"Um, well, I don't really have that many plans for this morning…"
"Excellent! I'll let her know that you're coming with me."
'-
The figure sitting daintily on an armchair in their common room was as out of place as a Dresden figurine dropped there. She was too well-turned out for the comfy sitting room that was nonetheless used often and with surfaces worn by thousands of hands. The layers of lace at her sleeves were as intricate as snowflakes, exquisitely laid that they form a mesmerising cascade.
Stephanie Selwyn crinkled her patrician nose the moment she saw Hermione walking next to Lucretia. Hermione herself only raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing.
The Black heiress must have an interesting expression on her face just then (not that she could see it from her position), as the Stephanie hastily rearranged her own expression not long after. Currently, Hermione was more distracted by the fat curls Selwyn seemed to prefer styling her hair in. And here I thought those hair sausages went out of style with the French Revolution…
"Are you going to Walburga's, Lucretia?" She asked.
"Yes, Hermione and I are going there. Are you coming with us?" Lucretia's tone was casual, but Hermione couldn't help but consider it a gauntlet thrown as she included Hermione with herself in the sentence. It was challenge.
Squaring her shoulders, Stephanie nodded firmly. "Of course. When have I missed it willingly?"
'-
"I thought," Stephanie began in low voice. "That this is a pureblood gathering."
Hermione didn't bother showing any evidence that she'd heard that, other than a slight heavenward gaze.
"Indeed, it is." Lucretia answered without losing a beat.
A few seconds passed before Stephanie made another attempt.
"But of the three of us…"
"Yes?"
"Well, we…there is usually just the two of us."
"Oh, have no worries, Stephanie. Even if we're going to Walburga's usual tea room, there will be enough space for just one more person joining." Lucretia assured.
The blonde fell silent again. Hermione saw her worrying her lower lip for a while before Selwyn realised what she was doing (and that a commoner like her noticed! The horror!) The seventh-year had stopped, giving her a suspicious look. Hermione had to bite back her grin lest it was misunderstood. The pureblood's frustration was nothing if not somehow entertaining to her.
"Lucretia?"
"Yes, Stephanie?"
"Why is Hermione joining us?"
"Why, because I wish to introduce her to everyone else, of course!" Lucretia cheerfully answered, somehow not hearing the sudden choking that the other seventh-year experienced. And here I thought that choking on your own spit shouldn't be that easy… "It's not that surprising, dear. Alphard had already introduced her to Walburga on Friday."
"Walburga knows?" Her voice went up by half an octave at the end of the sentence. Hermione acted as if they weren't actually talking about her while she was in their company.
The dark-haired witch nodded. "Certainly. It wouldn't have been polite to bring a guest that Walburga doesn't even know. I know that Walburga is my cousin, but I couldn't possibly impose on her company that much, could I?"
"No, no! Of course not. You would not have performed such a faux pas," was Stephanie's hurried answer.
A snort had escaped from Hermione's lips before she turned it into light coughs. She stared straight ahead yet again when she thought she could feel the blonde witch glance in her direction.
Lucretia didn't say anything for a while, and Hermione was having enough fun of her own of trying to observe a fidgety Stephanie unnoticed that she hadn't realised she'd been staying silent either, instead of making polite small talk. Fortunately, before she can even mentally facepalm, the blonde had decided to speak up once more.
"Has Curie contacted her…wizarding family?"
Hermione looked up, curious enough about the mention.
"Yes, I was wondering if you've done so." Stephanie clarified—she was not crass enough to talk over someone present.
"Have you, Hermione?" Lucretia asked, her thick eyelashes fluttering lightly as she blinked.
The brunette shook her head. "No, of course not."
"Why not? I mean, her family is…"
"Is…?" Lucretia prompted, but made no move to say anything more even as the silence extended more than four beats.
"They would be able to support her in Society, wouldn't they?" Selwyn answered quickly. "So, it's an excellent idea to contact…"
She stared at both of them expectantly. Hermione simply raised both of her eyebrows in return. Lucretia seemed barely fazed.
There was an undercurrent there that Hermione didn't quite understand but wasn't too worried about. If Lucretia wasn't worried, then she wouldn't be, as she can certainly trust the Black heiress' social aptitude and skills. Her dormmate turned to her, waiting for her answer too, and Hermione shrugged as she realised that the seventh-years were asking her about the pureblood Grangers. It still boggled her mind that they existed, and her answer was precisely what she'd thought about it before when she read Starkey and Pendleton's work.
"It wouldn't be fair to them, wouldn't it? Who am I? No one they know or have heard before. How would they tell the difference between me and the next swindler claiming to be a long-lost relative to them and went asking for assistance? Especially if that swindler was still a long-lost relative. I'd much rather make my way on my own for now and meet them on equal terms later."
"If they're curious about me right now, they already know where to find me." She finished.
Stephanie opened her mouth but no sound came, before she shook herself out of the stupor. It did not mean she stopped glancing at Hermione oddly.
It continued all the way until they were than two thirds of the journey to the Great Hall. Hermione had only realised after a while that Stephanie was continuously fumbling to find a way to get someone to admit that Hermione wasn't exactly of sangre azul, while Lucretia was determinedly oblivious. In the end, she was the one who decided to take pity on the Selwyn heiress as Lucretia didn't seem inclined to put her out of her misery any time soon. That was when she concluded that her friend was still a Black deep down. I suppose Lucretia does have some sadistic streak of her own.
"Selwyn," she began, waiting. It took a few seconds before an answer came.
"…Curie," Stephanie replied, wary.
"You were wondering about my parentage, weren't you?" The brunette asked.
"…I wouldn't dare to impose."
Lucretia sighed, giving Hermione a mildly disappointed look. Hermione's lips curved up at the corners and her cheeks dimpled.
"I'm not as cruel as you are, Lucretia."
"Oh, very well. Stephanie, since Hermione had outright mentioned it, I suppose I can dignify that with an answer. Now, how much do you know about the Grangers before they married into and merged with the Dagworths?"
The fifth-year had half-expected Lucretia to spin a yarn. What she hadn't expected was for the Black Princess to have remembered so many details from the genealogy work that Vespasian and Pendleton had come up with. It took a while, but she managed to cover all the main highlights.
"A disinherited squib that intermarried with muggles?" Stephanie gasped, one hand pressed to her heart. There was no way to tell whether the shock was due to the squib part of the sentence or the muggles. Or both, Hermione thought dryly, we can always go with both.
"And magic came out again later on." Lucretia replied.
"But…this is too extraordinary! Surely you don't think…"
Lucretia had glanced at Hermione once, her expression seemed to be waiting. An odd…question? Request? The brunette nodded slowly, unsure what it was that her dormmate was looking for.
The Black heiress laid her hand over Stephanie's arm, "Well, which one do you find more believable? That muggles can actually carry magic in their blood, or that it was just a matter of waiting until the…hmm, what was the word they used? Recessive. That it was only a matter of waiting until the recessive blood of several magical lines came together again and created a spark that flared up once more?"
Hermione only needed to glance once to know what Stephanie believed, hence, it was clear what truth she accepted.
"Ah! I see. It makes perfect sense, Lucretia! Of course, Curie is the estuary of several magical lines that had previously been weakened…"
Lucretia had turned to Hermione again at this point and mouthed a silent 'it works' to her—regardless of how it was mostly the result of her own persuasion, her expression was still of disbelief and bafflement. The fifth-year grinned but managed not to laugh and silently mouthed back her reply.
Thank you.
'-
A sitting room with tall windows that let in plenty of natural light and French windows that presumably lead to a balcony. The table was set finely with lacy tablecloth, napkins in perfect folds lay for each seating. Crystal bowls sparkled under the light of morning sun, holding an assortment of summer fruits in what was supposedly wartime autumn. Fine sugar glimmered like frost from where they fall over petit fours.
At this point, she was done being fazed. Hermione had stopped asking herself about just how many rooms exactly does Hogwarts have that she had never visited before.
There was only one person at the table and she was decidedly not Walburga—her nose wasn't permanently stuck pointed up in the air, for one. A thick tome shut with a solid thump and the witch reading it looked up. The Ravenclaw didn't know whether the shadows under the other witch's eyes were due to lack of sleep or whether they were there permanently.
"Ah, you're actually joining us, Curie! Good, perhaps I wouldn't be burning brain cells by the minute while you're here."
Solid-boned and still interesting, she was a Gryffindor and a…friend (?) of Rajesh, but that was all Hermione could recall about the blunt witch in front of her.
"Uh, alright? I'm not sure if I'll be much of a help…"
"At least you'll get bored as fast as I do. Ha! Morning, Lucretia. It's not that I'm insulting you for being a poor guest, but sometimes I wish you don't coddle the fluff brains so much." The witch said again.
Lucretia made a pointed throat clearing and silently stared at the other witch. She threw her hands in the air, shaking her wavy hair. "Oh, bother. Alright, the other, more boring, girls. There, does that meet your standards, Mother? Thank hell."
"Where's Walburga?" Lucretia asked.
"Your dearly dreary cousin? Off to check the cakes for a while. She'll be back soon." The blunt witch answered again.
The Black heiress remained undisturbed as she turned to Hermione.
"Hermione, you've been introduced to Lysandra Burke already?"
Ah, so that's who it was. The witch from the family with the largest private library in England. Hermione nodded.
"Yes, we've been introduced."
"Yes, yes, we have been, Lucretia. Please, no need to hover. Relax and take a seat yourself, you're also a guest, not the hostess," Lysandra said this with a huff. "Now, Curie, please sit near me before I start considering peeling the back of my hand and watch the blood flow as a nice distraction from whatever it is that people would be droning on about today."
'-
"Ah, Lucretia! And… Curie, too. Welcome. It's an honour to have your presence here…"
Walburga's eyes might narrow a fraction for a moment when she came back and saw Hermione seated between Lysandra and Lucretia, but that was it. She welcomed her cousin with actual warmth, for one, and even if her greeting to Hermione was cool, it was completely polite.
When the disparate and frayed corners of Hermione's memories finally managed to connect the familiar words and gestures that she'd replied to (and just mimed from the shapeless memories), Hermione had the odd realisation that yes, Walburga did just greet her like another pureblood. She realised then that Ves and Pendleton had been informative—Lucretia did indeed hold the keys to the kingdom, and she had decided to accompany Hermione all the way in.
'-
"Why is Curie here?" Gamp hissed at Walburga.
The Slytherin prefect did not seem friendly, and neither did her friend who was…hmm, she looks familiar, Hermione mused. The prefect badge at the lapel of her dress reminded Hermione that she was the other Ravenclaw witch who was a prefect apart from her friends. Seventh-year, then.
"Obviously, she's here because she's a pureblood. I didn't know that you can be a prefect without an independent thought in your mind…oh, wait, I think that's actually a requirement these days."
It had surprised Hermione to see Stephanie of all people to deliver that jab.
The two recently-arriving prefects paled. At first, Hermione thought that the Ravenclaw witch was trembling, but closer observation told her that the prefect was probably shaking in anger and she was glaring at Stephanie.
"Selwyn." She spat out.
"Fitzpatrick," Stephanie answered coolly. "Please, do sit down…you're blocking the sunlight for all of us."
Walburga rolled her eyes but didn't bother addressing the snapping from either side as she welcomed the newcomers and offered them their seats.
Ah, old rivals, Hermione nodded with satisfaction once she figured out Stephanie's motive. Her presence was simply another battlefield they can square off against each other in.
"Stephanie was almost the Ravenclaw prefect of her year, you know? Many people expected so. Yet, voila! They announced Cassia Fitzpatrick." Lysandra commented slyly to Hermione. The Ravenclaw noticed that her neighbour had opened the thick tome she'd been reading earlier once more, this time on her lap instead of on the table.
"Really? What happened?"
Across the table from them, the metaphorical hissing and baring of fangs and claws continued.
"Pureblood? Please. Don't tell me you're such a simpleton to believe her claim." Cassia snarked. Stephanie's smile was as sharp as a canary-eating Siamese cat, blue eyes just as cool.
"Ah, but I heard it from Walburga and Lucretia…unless you think you somehow know better than the Blacks?" She idly observed her nails, looking for the slightest chip. "If that's so, oh well, what can I say—"
"No. But that's…" Cassia found no words herself.
Walburga pinched the bridge of her nose. "Yes, yes, I heard it. I didn't just hear it; Lucretia came and brought some papers once and did you know that the Grangers…"
"The Selwyns cannot be as free with their investments as the Fitzpatricks. They are very traditional and mostly tied to their land." Lucretia murmured to Hermione while most of everyone's attention was on the Ravenclaws facing off each other.
"Uh, alright?"
Lysandra had started fake-coughing at Lucretia's answer, one that sounded suspiciously close to a chuckle. "Lucretia is too diplomatic! What she meant was, they don't have enough funds to make a super endowment to Hogwarts quickly that summer, and thus the Hogwarts Board decided…otherwise."
Ah. Well, she really wouldn't blame Selwyn for still being bitter about it if that was the case.
'-
"Welcome, Augusta," Walburga was the first to welcome her.
"Hello, Walburga, everyone."
"Augusta, I thought you would have arrived with Lysandra already." Lucretia said by way of a greeting. Hermione gave a more standard 'good morning' along with everyone else. Personally, her neck was going to develop a crick in it if she had to look up to Augusta's lofty height for too long—which fortunately wasn't much.
Augusta exhaled slowly even as she sat down, her Gryffindor prefect pin can be seen on the collar of her dress, just under her robes. Hermione wondered why a part of her seemed to think that Augusta lacked a traditional, wide-brimmed witches' hat with…a bird on it? What?
"Oh, there were some prefect business I need to take care about." Augusta said, unaware of Hermione's bizarre imagination.
"I have no idea why she bothers to come when half the time, she'll just fall asleep halfway through if she's too tired," Lysandra commented to Hermione in a conversational voice.
"Hey! I heard that!"
Lysandra grinned at her Housemate. "You were meant to."
Augusta's stare was nonplussed. "And why do you even bother coming?"
"My mother would cut my book budget otherwise." She answered without guile.
"You can just use your daily stipend."
Lysandra stared heavenward; her left hand waving in impatience. "That is my book budget. What else do I need to buy but books, anyway?"
Augusta snorted, her tone dry. "Right. I fail to remember that you'll forget eating altogether if you don't have house elfs to shovel food into your mouth."
"Why else would you need to have house elfs?" Lysandra's question was actually one of genuine bafflement.
Hermione mentally winced. She couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of old guilt to Ron who'd had to face her hyper-focused mode several times.
'-
Hermione might not have met Tom that morning before she had breakfast with Walburga. He was, however, right outside the door of the sitting room when she exited with the other witches. A sleek black suit under his lighter, non-uniform robe, the only colour on him was the cobalt blue tie. It brought out his irises, the colours blending as subtle as opium smoke; just as capable in building a dream as well as robbing a person of their consciousness.
"Good morning, Ladies."
The bow he sketched was to all of them, but after the first eye contact that he made with her, his attention was now on the Black ladies. Everyone returned his greeting with various deliberation.
"I'm afraid I have to steal one of your own for the moment."
"Planning your leisurely Hogsmeade weekend, Riddle?" Walburga asked, her tone rather dry.
"Hardly. It's mostly Society business."
"What?" Augusta yelled.
Hermione was surprised to hear her outburst, and so was Tom from the way he'd also turned to the prefect. "Dammit. Rajesh was supposed to tell me if there were any!"
The Gryffindor was unaffected by the sound of disapproval that Walburga made.
"Perhaps he'd merely forgotten." Tom offered. "If that were true, then I suppose the precise directions to the location would be useful."
He pulled a scroll out from one of the pockets in his robes, tapped his wand on it, and then proffered it to her. She accepted it gladly and opened it on the spot.
Hermione saw how he twisted his wrist just so in the last moment that Augusta's reaching hand didn't touch his by accident. It was such a minute change that no one else had probably noticed but her.
"The actual invitation! Ah, the map is very clear here. Yes, thank you, Riddle." Augusta was clearly satisfied.
"My pleasure. Now, Hermione, if you may grant me the pleasure of escorting you on this fine morning?"
Her head had tilted slightly to the left in thought even as she stepped forward without much deliberation. Tom might have been polite, but he was never overly so. It's this crowd of pureblood, she concluded for the time being, it brings out the dramatist in him. She didn't miss Lysandra's snort and muttered 'love certainly makes fools of us all', right before she opened the thick tome she'd been carrying before. Hermione felt like holding back the urge to cover her face with her hands and avoid this act that Tom was setting.
She took a deep breath instead and reminded herself that there was a price to pay for all paths, and the price to pay for this one was to be neck deep in pureblood culture.
Hermione took his hand and stepped up to his side. She could feel all the eyes observing every minute detail of her movement.
"Of course, you may, Mr. Riddle."
"Tom."
"Very well, Tom."
'-
Hermione did not seem to have enough attention to spare on anything else but Tom Riddle, and he was just as similarly focused on her once he'd paid his dues in greeting them all. Lucretia found all these little details amusing, and as she still stood a little to the back from everyone else, she had a clear view of most other Walburga's guests. It's truly very convenient to be tall, she thought.
The black-haired witch saw that Clytemnestra had paled at first, before now looking rather furious herself. That she hadn't said anything might be related to how the Slytherin had opened her mouth earlier only to have no words come out of it.
Lucretia weaved around the other witches carefully as they bid each other farewell, threading a path for herself to reach the sixth-year prefect. From where she stood, she could see the other witch's back being too straight and tense.
"Clytemnestra? Is anything wrong?"
Clytemnestra Gamp shook her head, pale strands of hair falling down her forehead. She was surprised by the greeting and Lucretia was slightly put out by that. Yes, they were not bosom friends, but was it truly that odd for her to greet Clytemnestra? They met each other often enough at various family functions during the summer holidays to be friendly.
"Lu-Lucretia? Oh, it's probably nothing. They're just working together…yes, that's it."
Both of her eyebrows rise slightly, but the Black heiress did not immediately comment as she checked for signs of infatuation.
"You are not one of Riddle's admirers…are you?" She asked carefully. Clytemnestra's chuckle actually sounded relieved.
"Oh, no! Nothing like that. At the very least, it's only true in a literal sense. He has the potential to take our House far and so I have faith in his abilities. But his association…" the worry that had creased her brows before returned. Whatever melancholy had struck her earlier was once more in full force.
"I'm sure he's very talented, but I don't think that's your concern, is it?" Lucretia's question was gentle and yet still shrewd in observation. "What ails you, Clytemnestra?"
Her jaw tightened when she looked up. "Curie is you dormmate, isn't she? I heard she came with you."
The seventh-year saw no reason to hide her friend and answered without regrets.
"Yes. She accompanied me here."
Lucretia waited for a moment, to let the prefect collect herself, her emotions apparently still mutely roiling underneath the surface.
"What is it?" She asked again.
The blonde Slytherin did not exactly give an answer, only looking down and away.
"Nothing. I'm sure it's nothing for you to worry about."
'-
Hermione sighed when she saw the number of people who'd started to pile up in the castle's carriage house. It was not packed yet, but already inconvenient enough. This was why she preferred to go right after an early breakfast—most people preferred to sleep in on Saturdays that it was emptier then. Now, they have to wait in line. She made herself smile for a bit to greet the Housemates and classmates she can recognise (at least by face if not by name) before moving to follow the direction that Tom was guiding her arm towards.
"Hermione! Finally. I've been trying to find you everywhere."
Hair in fashionably neat waves and a profile that Hollywood would pay to get into theatres, the urbane figure of one Auguste Murat moved through the loose crowd easily to reach her. Witches and a couple of wizards turned their heads as he passed, trying to catch another glimpse of his navy suit jacket. His claret tie added a bold contrast, and the bronze pocket square a lively complement.
(Dammit, how did she even notice all that about menswear? It was the same way how she'd started to recognise dress cuts due to Daphne. She had the feeling that she'd also hung out with Draco too often.)
The few seconds it took for her to be impressed by his sartorial flair was apparently a few seconds too long to lose track of the situation. Tom's left hand was no longer entwined with hers but laid over her hip. He'd gripped hard for a split second before he loosened his hand again. She turned her head slightly, eyes tracking his face.
His smile was patently not real. (Why many people didn't seem to notice that, she had no idea).
"Yes, Auguste?" Hermione replied. She didn't step away from Tom even if she felt that he was standing slightly closer than she preferred.
"You did say that you didn't mind going out on a lunch." He'd come to a stop in front of them. Auguste was not a senseless wizard—certainly a credit to his future career in politics or the diplomatic corps. He'd spotted Tom's hand and noted their closeness within two seconds and held back from approaching any closer.
Her fellow Ravenclaw sighed. "You forgot, didn't you?"
Guilt grew like a lead weight in her stomach. Hermione bit her lip.
"Um,"
She almost took another step forward if she didn't feel the twitch in Tom's grip.
"The Society meeting was about to start after lunch, wasn't it?" She turned to Tom.
"At precisely lunch. It's just a chat, really, nothing compared to what we'll have tomorrow."
The Ravenclaw witch didn't have the time to try to parse his too-neutral face yet. She turned to her housemate, "it's friendly meal, right, Auguste?"
"Yes. I'm just annoyed enough at an idiot or two to teach them a lesson, like I've said." He replied with ease. Yet his side-glances returned to Tom from time to time.
Hermione had taken two steps away without thinking when she felt the yank on her waist; it would've unbalanced her if she was the average Hogwarts fifth-year. It had stopped, so she was only mildly annoyed instead of pissed. As her boot-clad feet automatically fell to one of the opening fighting stances she was comfortable with, she turned around.
Surprisingly enough, Tom wasn't looking at her or even Auguste. He glanced in bewilderment at his left hand, as if it had started to make some decisions on its own without his input. Maybe it was saying something about wanting to jump off and join a circus.
It was surprise that she saw on his face. So unexpected it was that she could only stare back silently before his control took over a split-second later. The neutral-blank expression she knew well by now slammed down immediately. From a quick glance, she could see Auguste carefully kept his attention at both of them. Wise decision.
"What is it, Hermione?" Tom asked. "You're going with Auguste for lunch?"
She saw the passing flicker of tension in his jaw yet it never changed his expression. Even now he only seemed mildly wondering.
"Hermione?"
The witch raised her left hand to his cheek, shutting out everyone else around them as she focused on him as she spoke in a low tone. "You know we'll just be talking about the Society yet again, don't you? If the Society's casual meet starts with lunch, it's not going to be lunch. I'll just take brunch—I mean, elevenses with him. It's not as if I was calm enough to eat much at Walburga's table, other than some fruits."
As she said all this, her hand had moved down in a caress, past his jaw and to the side of his neck.
Her eyes widened in surprise when she'd felt and counted his heartbeat. This pace is…somewhere between 80 to 90 beats per minute. Neither of them had been doing any strenuous physical activity—they'd only been walking! And yet… it was not his resting beat. She'd know.
He can misdirect, but his heartbeat doesn't lie.
Tom only blinked, unaware of what she'd just noticed. She did feel how his hand at her waist held her far too securely to be fashionable—blatant attachment wasn't de rigueur pureblood behaviour. She hadn't really realised how putting his public persona on was second nature to him, had she? Memories from the last month flickered past.
Tom casting aspersions on her sandwich-making skills even as he cut a loaf into slim and yet very even slices with a bread knife. Ves' story of their past, on how Tom had once been a mere pen-using muggleborn first-year to the other Slytherins. The things he'd read that still surprised her.
"—I don't have a penny to my name—"
"Have you decided to stay, Hermione?"
It was only when she was here that she realised the muggleborn orphan wasn't exactly the façade that Voldemort hid behind like she had sometimes suspected in her past future. It was a real facet of him, among all others. We all contain multitudes, she mused,
…and the orphan is still Tom.
"Tom? You know that this is all probably mostly for a prank, don't you?" Her voice was gentle this time.
"Well, you can certainly do what you wish, Hermione." He said, too polite by a half. Her hand stayed where it was, curled around his neck; his heartrate still higher than usual. One of these days, she mused, if he didn't watch this habit of his, he's going to smile right up the second he killed the person who'd been trying his patience and then he'd wonder why he'd been so annoyed.
Hermione did not see any other solution right now and threw caution to the wind. She pulled him down for a kiss. It wasn't a light perfunctory peck or somehow still within mundane expectations. No, she'd opened her lips and embraced him with her whole body. If he started with being polite, she poured her concern and care into it. It was raw, more honest than she was comfortable with, but she saw no other way to pull him out of his mask. Her emotions were a jumble of both expecting and dreading the possibility of completely falling in love with him; she tried not to pay attention to them too much lest she felt nauseous from the extreme swings.
It was why he only managed to be perfunctory for one second before he also jumped headlong into the current that had already carried her away; to hold her close and lose himself in her like she was losing herself in him.
Impatience and excitement warred with cynicism and pragmatism inside her and it showed. It was there in the cycle of her passion and hesitation. Yet she couldn't stop herself either. He needed to know and it was why she kissed him until her hands were shaking. Her heartrate ratcheted up with the intensity of his grip and his unwillingness to let her go. Wordlessly, he allowed what he felt to trickle forth and let go of the fiction that he'd been absolutely fine.
He was not fine.
It was there in how he used his knowledge of her preferences to successfully blot everything else out of her mind with kisses as darkly sweet as oblivion. His hold on her was firm even when her knees weakened. It was clear that he'd rather they spend the entire day in a room of their own with no one else to intrude or bother them. That he'd really rather not share her with the world.
Yet the world will intrude anyway. Just like the throat clearing that made them reluctantly pull away from each other.
"Well, I guess that answers the question, doesn't it?" Auguste said. He only had one eyebrow raised, completely unsurprised by what he'd just seen it.
"Oh, you misunderstand!" Hermione said, even as she valiantly ignored the heat in her cheeks, or the occasional gawking Hogwarts students in the background. Focus, focus, focus. There is no audience, there is no audience, there is no… "There were some things we needed to talk about, and it's done."
"You've managed to…talk." Auguste stated dryly.
"Yes." The brunette nodded firmly, as if it was the only thing they were doing and that it wasn't up for question. She and Tom was still standing very close to each other, his hand around her waist. The difference being that this time, she'd slung her arm casually around his back and laid her hand over the hip. "I'm sorry I can't have lunch with you this weekend, since there is already a Society event at lunch and even…tomorrow?"
Tom nodded to confirm at her side-glance. "Yes, the larger event is tomorrow."
She turned back to Auguste. "I'll accompany you for elevenses, how about that?"
"That would be just as well, Mademoiselle."
"Good. See you later, Tom." She only hesitated a moment before pecking his cheek. She'd just done worse, this shouldn't be much of an issue, right? Her flaming face still disagreed with her. Urgh.
"Certainly, Hermione."
"Riddle." Auguste nodded to him.
the Slytherin replied with more ease than he'd shown earlier.
"Murat."
'-
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End Notes:
List of Stuff One Might Try to Look Up:
Cesare Bonesana di Beccaria, Marquis of Gualdrasco and Villareggio: (Criminology, Legal theory), (15 March 1738 – 28 November 1794), Italian criminologist, jurist, philosopher and politician considered one of the greatest thinkers from the Age of Enlightenment, he's well-remembered for his treatise, On Crimes and Punishment* (1764), the first full-scale work to tackle the reform of criminal law. He takes the utilitarian approach to punishment, in that the punishment should serve the greatest amount of public good/increase the total amount of happiness in the world.
His work greatly influenced the Englishman Jeremy Bentham to develop it into a full-scale doctrine of Utilitarianism. (Look him up in Wikipedia if you're still curious to read his full article).
*Yes, that may very well be the source of the title of Dostoevsky's novel, considering that one of the themes of the novel was a criticism on Jeremy Bentham's utilitarian ideas of justice.
Sangre Azul: (Spanish) literally 'blue blood'. Not to be confused with a hard rock band with the same name.
'-