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“Hermione.”
She freezes.
It’s as if her name holds the power of a spell, with how effectively it brings her mad-dash past him to an abrupt halt. Steps away from safety, but that one word locks her into place. Her eyes are wide as she stares at her fingertips grazing the doorknob to her bedroom. Did he really just call her—
“A lovely evening, isn’t it, Hermione?”
He did.
She flinches when he says her name a second time. She’s usually better about ignoring his bids for her attention, but this is an unprecedented maneuver from him. It’s effective, she begrudgingly admits— despite the dread coiling in her belly, Hermione feels her curiosity winning out over her wariness. What is he on about now?
She lets her hand fall away from the doorknob, already kicking herself because she knows nothing good will come of this. Clutching tightly at the strap of her bookbag, arm crossed over her chest like a futile shield, Hermione turns to meet the burning gaze of Tom Riddle.
He’s closer than she realized, lounging on the navy velvet sofa in their sitting area, body relaxed and angled towards her. He's still in his school uniform, though she spies the pale hollow of his throat peeking out from his loosened green and silver tie. His legs are crossed with one ankle perched on the other knee, sock garters just shy of visible with the way he’s let the hem of his trousers ride up. Cheeky boy. One arm is draped along the sofa back, where the drumming of his fingers is muted by the plush upholstery, while the other holds a book in his lap with a thumb tucked between the pages.
Her thoughts scramble when she sees his expression. He’s smiling pleasantly enough, his grin turning smug when he sees that he’s captured her attention, but his eyes… have they always been that dark? That intense? Would it kill the bloke to blink?
As if she'd spoken aloud, his head dips, granting her a brief reprieve as his eyes flit down to his book. He huffs out a laugh and smirks, as if reminded of something. The muffled thumping of his fingers is the only sound in the room; Hermione notices for the first time how dreadfully quiet it is otherwise. Every breath she takes is now deafening to her ears.
That breath catches when Riddle looks back up, pinning her in place with his gaze like a doomed butterfly. Thu- thu- thu- thu- thump. Thu- thu- thu- thu- thump. A rhythmic fluttering of his fingers in her peripheral vision. He's looking at her expectantly. What does he want?
Oh, Merlin. Um— her evening. Riddle had asked about the, er, loveliness of it. He’s been… confoundingly patient this whole time, waiting for her answer.
Finding herself feeling more compliant than usual, she responds, “Um, yes. The evening is fine enough. Could do with a bit of weather, I suppose.”
If only to break up the oppressive silence! Some howling wind would be most welcome.
Riddle tilts his head, smiling congenially. “Just came from the library then? I hope those overgrown twats showed you the appreciation you deserve.”
Hermione suppresses a shudder. Predictable barbs for her friends, but oblique praise for her? Wrapped in a question he knows the answer to? He's pushing them further into uncharted waters, where she has no desire to follow. They do not chit-chat, and Riddle never bothers himself with her daily affairs, let alone praises her for them.
“Yes, as I usually do on Thursdays. Their spell creation theories are coming along nicely for charms. Little help was needed from me, actually, I’ll have you know.” She lifts her eyebrows at him, as if to say: ‘What are you on about, nosy twit?’
He releases an amused hum, completely unabashed. “Typical lions, forever benefitting from the generosity of their lioness. Putting the needs of others over her own.” His grin spreads, showing pearly teeth. “Well, now that you’re back, I think you’ll enjoy sitting down with me for a cup of tea. I brewed a lovely Earl Grey for us. Join me, Hermione my dear?” His arm creeps down from the back of the sofa to the cushioned seat, patting it a few times to underscore his invitation.
She hardly notices— her vision is blurring as her mind reels. She suffers a new blow every time he calls her by name or casually flatters her. ‘Generous Lioness?’ “Hermione my dear?’ As if he hasn’t spent their seven years of school together treating her with varying degrees of scorn and apathy. Treatment she'd expected to continue— had welcomed it, in fact— when she learned they’d serve as Hogwarts’ next Head Boy and Head Girl. After all, she’s felt much the same way about him all these years. Avoiding him had become second-nature, even when they started sharing a living space.
This barrage of compliments, though? The assail of congeniality as of late? These absurd invitations to spend time with him? They have her utterly gobsmacked. She misses the days his dark eyes would pass over her instead of this weird intensity he's inflicting upon her now. What changed his opinion of her? Why this targeted campaign, and to what end?
Well. Nothing is making her stay to find out.
However, just as she’s preparing to leave, he shifts in his seat and the cover of his book catches her eye.
“Is that…? Hold on. Is that The Fountainhead?” Hermione sputters. Of all the Muggle books for him to be reading while he waits for her in silence like a creep!
Riddle looks down at the book fondly, then flicks his gaze back to her. A flat smile still plastered to his face.
“That’s right. I've been watching you read it. You have the strongest reactions whilst reading; I just had to see what the fuss was about.” The hand he used to pat the seat next to him begins to sweep across the velvet, making contrasting patterns in the nap and pile with each stroke. Hermione’s thoughts race as her eyes drift to his fingers, watching them brush back and forth, back and forth. Like an undulating swell in an ocean of navy blue. The notion of escaping– hm. The gentle rocking motion of his hand keeps pushing it further away.
Riddle gives her an indulgent smile. “You were huffing and puffing so much! It was adorable, frankly. Watching you… lose yourself, so completely. I couldn’t resist finding out which one of your beloved books had gotten you in such a tizzy.”
Condescending twat. She knows he’s baiting her, but she’s too distracted to muster a decent response. Squiggly lines trail from his fingertips. A sweep of his hand erases them. They rematerialize elsewhere. Light, then dark. Dark, then light. Her eyes track them, chase after them.
“When reading, Hermione dear, you often find yourself helpless but to… drop deeper and deeper… into a story, yes? Which of Ms. Rand's incendiary philosophies made you… empty your mind, made all those other thoughts slip away? I found it fascinating, when I watched you, how this book would… demand your entire focus. You sweet thing, so often I'd watch you… slip away unthinkingly.”
It should be simple, walking away. Retreat to her room and slam the door. She never takes his bait; he unsettles her far too much. Her escape to safety would've been achieved before he even had the chance to mention a Muggle novel they'd both inexplicably read, let alone one that had only been recently published in the UK.
Now, though, she’s alarmed to find her usual resistance out of reach. Her head is a churning vortex, filling rapidly with alternating shades of navy velvet. His voice— why's he talking like that? Riddle's lilting words are taking on a layer of silt, smooth and slippery, clouding the waters of her mind.
It takes a disturbing amount of effort to drag her eyes away from the mesmerizing patterns he’s making. Eventually she manages, blinking a few times, then looks back to him. She jolts when she sees his face: a yawning darkness has settled over him, raw and hungry as his eyes dance up and down her body.
Sure that she’s imagining it, Hermione blinks again and shakes her head. When she reopens them, Riddle’s expression is once again arranged in a pleasant and open configuration. That was strange…
Still, her lips part obediently to answer him. “The book was infuriating. Bombastic twaddle, relentlessly pretentious and verbose. I’ve no idea how it gained so much popularity in the states. Howard Roark’s radical individualism and self-interest was as exhausting as it was damaging to those around him.”
Riddle dips his chin in acknowledgement, smiling broadly. “I’m not at all surprised that you feel that way, my dear. Your transfiguration research certainly indicates as much; your intention to use your magic to help Britain with her post-war efforts.”
Hermione’s heart skips a beat— he remembers that from class?
He continues, “I, on the other hand, found Howard Roark’s philosophies rather enlightening. His views on selfishness and ego, and especially his refusal to pander to others, had a surprisingly profound effect on me and my plans for the future. I think you'll find, Hermione, that perhaps… your way of thinking will be irreversibly changed as well. Hmm, what was it he said again?”
Pages shuffle. He must be thumbing through the novel.
“Ah, yes. ‘Men have been taught that the ego is the synonym of evil, and selflessness the ideal of virtue. But the creator is the egotist in the absolute sense, and the selfless man is the one who does not think, feel, judge or act. These are functions of the self.’”
His voice resonates throughout the Head Dormitory. She hears him close the book once more.
“The selfless person: just an empty vessel, devoid of thinking, waiting for the prompting of a more creative and self-realized thinker. To serve those with stronger minds than their own. Hmm. Hermione, you are rather selfless, aren't you? It’s actually a lovely virtue to have. No thinking, no judging. Always ready to serve, ready to obey. It’s uncanny really, how accurately this describes you!
“Now, I don't agree with every point of his, and by extension, Ms. Rand’s, of course.” He laughs lightly. “The way collectivism is disparaged, the way Roark refuses to ask others to exist for him— No no. It’s a balancing act, yes? I know you agree, my darling altruist. Such admirable facts about yourself: that you are eager to obey the needs of your community… that you desire to serve others. That your very existence demands that you serve me. I may be an egoist, but I am a grateful one— so very happy that you serve me so well, without a second thought. How fortunate am I, that you are mine, Hermione! That above all else, making me happy brings you pleasure."
Hermione's chest rises and falls steadily, her breathing calm and even. A warmth might be blossoming there, but she can't be sure— navy swirls have ensnared her focus. Endless loops and whorls come together and split apart, the pads of his fingers sinking further into the dense pile.
His words have an odd tempo and cadence, making it difficult to catch their meaning before they're swept away in the waves of patterns and phrases and irrefutable truths crashing against her psyche. They slip beyond her reach, burrowing deep into their new home.
Silence has reclaimed the room; it belatedly occurs to her that he's stopped speaking. She blinks and takes a loud, stuttering inhale. The curving lines and looping spirals begin to dominate your mind, spinning dark to light, light to dark.
Wait.
When had her eyes wandered back to Riddle’s hand?
…what were they talking about again?
Oh, right. The Fountainhead. Howard Roark. American architect. An affronting, selfish egotist. Much like someone else she knows. Someone with a pretty voice. She hears it all around her. All around… oh… he's speaking again! Drat, what has she missed?
With enormous difficulty, Hermione lifts her eyes to his once again. She’s… confused. Why does her body feel so heavy? Like she’s stuffed with cotton. Or velvet. Brushing back and forth. Patterns twisting, multiplying. No– not that. Something warm and leaden, weighing her down, like an anchor nestling into rippling sand. It’s… lovely. It feels good, doesn't it? It feels so good when you listen to my voice. Everything else is floating away. It's so simple– to relax, to let go. Everything except my words, sinking into your mind, taking you down, down, and deeper down.
Hermione's eyes are locked with Riddle’s. She keeps expecting their dark color to change with every sweep of a palm against plush upholstery. No— not a palm. Not fabric. Each sweep of her eyelashes, each time she blinks. Not him. Has he blinked at all? His eyes look hungry. Two ravenous onyx voids, dragging her closer. And closer. And… closer…
Dark, light. Light, dark. Breathe in, breathe out. Little steps. A few more, yes. Good. Good Hermione. Right here. Oh… look at you… you're so sleepy, so soft, my pretty pet. Sinking into my arms, smelling… mmm, smelling so good, ready to let all your thoughts drift away. Ready to let me take care of you, to trust me and the words I say. Breathe in, sink. Breathe out, drop. Drop even further. You feel that your head is emptying, making room for my words. All your tension is draining away, knowing that I will tell you what you need to know. Your mind empties even more. You sink further into my words. You drop deeper into your mind. It makes me happy, when you drop even deeper, and deeper for me…
Isn't it interesting, how good you feel when…
…
When…
…
Hmm.
…
What was that again?
…
I understand.
…
::gasp::
…
My Lord, please! Master–
…
3
2
1
– S N A P –
Hermione’s head jerks up with a choking gasp.
She gulps huge breaths of air, as if resurfacing from a fathomless ocean. Strands of her curls catch on sticky lips. An unfamiliar taste lingers in her mouth, coating her tongue and throat.
Her body feels jittery, sweaty, her muscles wrung out from unknown exertion. A flat expanse of hard wood presses along her spine. She’s… sitting, slumped against her bedroom door?
Hermione jumps to her feet, eyes flickering wildly about the room. She locates her bookbag on the ground. Merlin! Her wand! She clutches at her skirt, the pocket now slightly askew— right, still there. She splays out the fingers of her right hand— the stone in her ring is still a flat grey. Hmm.
Pulsing. Her core is… oh gods, her clit! It pulses with faint throbs, ebbing like a retreating tide. Hardened nipples rub against her bra, and her knickers feel …
Hermione’s eyes snap to Ridd— Tom’s. He’s still on the sofa but is perched on the edge, hands resting on his thighs, feet planted on the floor. The patterns he'd drawn on the upholstery next to him have been smushed and scattered. His cheeks are rosy and his eyes are glittering.
He’s smiling at her.
He looks invigorated. Happy.
She made Tom happy…
Her thighs clench. Something oozes out of her, adding to the mess collecting in her knickers.
Wait— what!
She's shocked out of her reverie, utterly mortified at… what exactly? Foamy panic floods her as her thoughts distort and refuse to take shape. Sticky thighs— but, that’s all right, isn’t it? Tom is happy. She feels good when…
A groan tumbles out of her. What is happening. The edges of her vision crackle as she cradles her face in her hands.
Tom tuts in sympathy and rises from the sofa. “There there, pet. You're just fine. Everything you're feeling is completely normal. Trust me.” She's never seen him this animated before. Like a veil has suddenly… dropped. He leans down when he reaches her, peering at her through the slats of her fingers. “Oh…” he breathes, ”what a pretty sight. You’re taking to it so well already, aren’t you?”
Hermione quakes, unable to respond. She feels wholly unlike herself. His feverish praise summons tendrils of warmth, but cold dread creeps after it. The intellect and intractability she’s well-known for feels impossibly out of reach. Incongruities abound, threatening to pull her under once more.
Tom curls his fingers around her shoulders. Contentment and fear collide within her at his touch.
“A little confused?” Tom asks with a crooked smile and a mocking tilt of his head. “My poor girl.”
His tenebrous voice locks her further into place, as do his eyes– heavy-lidded and gleaming with triumph. One of his hands lifts from her shoulder. A wooden creaking cuts through the silence between his words: her sanctuary, breached at last. No, not breached— opened. Opened at last.
“Let’s get you inside.”
Tom bends down to retrieve her bookbag and slings it across her chest. Replacing his hands on her shoulders, he slowly spins her around until they both face her shadowed bedroom. He presses his body against her spine as he pulls her tight to his chest. Her breathing steadies, matching his, which gusts against her skin as he lowers his head to speak directly into her ear.
“I’d tuck you in myself, if I were able,” he murmurs, voice suddenly spiking with ice— Hermione’s eyes dart to the runes etched into her doorframe— “but no matter, soon enough. Time for bed, pet. You have a few things to do before you turn in.”
Does she? Just the usual, what’s he…
The thought dissipates the moment she feels his nose tucking into the soft spot just behind her ear. His lips part and move back and forth, nestling into that tender crevice of hers. She stays nice and still for him; a field mouse trapped in the snake's coils, staring blankly at her nest, his tongue flickering out to scent her as he wraps her up tight.
“Good night, Hermione. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“… Good night, mmm, er… Tom.”
She feels his smile curving against her skin and the humid warmth of his shuddering exhale. Tom releases her with a kiss to the hinge of her jaw and a gentle push forwards, making her step obediently inside. He closes the door softly behind her. The last thing she hears is a low, pleased chuckle before the door latches shut.
Alone at last. Sanctuary achieved. But why does it no longer feel safe? Why… what…
Something has changed! Swaying on her feet, Hermione looks down at her ring again. She's enchanted the grey labradorite gem to shift in color when someone else aims a spell directly at her. With the way she's feeling, it should be lighting up like a prismastic kaleidoscope.
Glaring at it does not yield a different result; not even a hint of a change can be seen in the grey stone. Which means…
Tom hadn't used any magic on her just now. Even a wandless memory modifying charm would be detected by the ring’s enchantment.
She grimaces and clutches at her scalp, the heels of her palms digging into her temples. She makes a strangled sound through gritted teeth. Her body throbs and aches, especially between her legs. Why does it feel like she’s— ahh! She gasps in pain, that particular thought threatening to split her head in two.
Catching her breath, she moves on to the next glaring problem, then: all the parts of the evening she’s missing. What did Tom do? He hadn’t used magic and she hadn’t ingested any potion, so how could he have done it? He couldn't have. It’d be impossible. She hasn’t forgotten anything; everything is right where it needs to be in her head. Deep, deep down. He tells her what she needs to know, and anything she doesn’t know means she doesn’t need to know it. Which is good. Mmm, good. Wait. No, no it’s not!
Hermione’s vision swims as tears prick her eyes. It’s simply too much. Melting down at her room’s threshold clearly isn't helping. Perhaps things will make more sense in the morning.
All the same, she grabs her wand and casts a modified diffindo at her hand, creating a small slice on the meat of her palm. Whispering a spell, she presses her hand to the runes carved into her doorframe, leaving a crimson smear on each one. It’s redundant at best, a comforting yet futile act, this fresh application of blood— she’d already reinforced the protective enchantments during the last full moon. No one may enter her room unless she specifically invites them. Still, she’d hoped the small ritual would help calm the maelstrom roaring in her head.
It does nothing of the sort. Chaos continues to reign there. She tries not to dwell on that fact as she heals her hand and lights her candles, taking wobbly steps into her room.
As soon as she places her bookbag on a hook near her desk—
…
– S N A P –
…
Her mind is wiped clean.
All her worries vanish.
Her body’s ailments no longer torment her.
It’s like a lever has been pulled in the depths of her psyche, simplifying everything in an instant. Hermione exhales in relief. Oh, sweet Merlin! This is indeed better.
Right.
Time for bed.
Hermione pivots on her heel and heads toward the en-suite. With her brisk movements and stalwart expression, she more resembles a wizard chess piece with new marching orders rather than a witch coming apart at the seams.
She undresses for her shower, spells away her body hair, and cleans herself thoroughly. After she’s toweled off and applied her body lotions and curl creams, she walks over to her chest of drawers. There, she digs out a practically new silken nightgown from the back of a drawer and drapes it over her body. Opening another drawer, Hermione vanishes all her knickers, closes it, and moves to her study area.
Unlatching her potions kit, she retrieves a bottle of black salt, its iron flecks glinting in the candlelight, and a long silver dagger. With an expression of vacant tranquility, Hermione then kneels in front of her doorframe, adjusts the dagger’s hilt into a two-handed grasp, and plunges it deep into the topmost rune. The rest receive the same treatment: a rhythmic stabbing and carving as calm as her breathing, a pile of coiling wood shavings collecting around her bare knees on the floor.
Once the runes have been properly sundered, Hermione reaches down for the black salt and packs it into the gashes and furrows and seals it with a spell. Her demeanor doesn’t change, but as soon as the enchantment is complete, her body jerks forward in the sudden vacuum of energy created at the threshold of her room, like something immense just blinked out of existence and tried to drag her with it.
Hermione simply stares. Then straightens her legs to stand.
She twists her torso to aim her wand at her candles once more, blanketing the room with darkness. Then, swiveling back, she opens the door to her bedroom and bends down to place her wand on the floor, right where Tom had been standing earlier. She slips her labradorite ring off her finger and places it by her wand. The gemstone is still grey.
The fine hairs on her neck rise. Some part of her brain detects a menacing presence in the shadowed room beyond, watching her, but the part currently in charge just blinks and returns to her room. The door remains wide open.
After putting the salt mixture and dagger away, Hermione tucks herself into bed, feeling the novelty of silk against her skin. A far cry from her usual worn flannel pajamas.
She’s fast asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow.
❖❖❖
Hermione blinks into the golden light streaming through her curtains the next morning. Her room seems rather bright; how late is it? Her wand is charmed to alert her when it’s time to wake; she never sleeps through it.
Rolling to her stomach, she reaches for her bedside table and is surprised when she doesn’t feel her wand with her searching fingertips. Hm. As she retracts her hand to shove it under her pillow— did she stick it here for some reason?— a dense, murky tide rolls in, saturating her mind, coating every thought. The twisty pieces of sediment swim in her vision, making swirling and looping patterns as she stares at her pillowcase. Her breathing becomes deeper, and deeper… your mind emptying, thoughts drifting. You’re doing so well, getting yourself nice and empty for me. Don’t worry, Pet, I will fill you back up. I will be so happy to fill you, all the way to the brim, once you’ve let all those thoughts drift away.
Drift. Empty. Fill.
Happy.
Pleasure.
It brings you pleasure when you make your Master happy.
And your Master is happy when you let him think for you.
Hermione moans, letting her forehead sink into the pillow as her hips jerk forward. The foamy waters billow around her. She lets her thoughts get caught in its swirling eddies, the spark at her center burning brighter as more and more get swept away.
She doesn’t think about how unusual this is, starting her day ridiculously aroused. She doesn’t wonder why her engorged clit screams with sensitivity and overuse, nor why she feels a large puddle of fluid already pooled beneath her, some of it dry and flaking. As soon as such ruminations pop up, the tide carries them away.
The search for her wand forgotten, Hermione shoves her hand between her legs. With no knickers in the way, her fingers apply fierce pressure to where she needs it most as her cunt grinds against the mattress, creating much-needed friction.
It feels good, making him happy. Letting him think for her. If there’s something she doesn’t know, she’s not meant to know it. Emptying herself to be filled with more of him. Tom filling her. Oh, gods. She needs him to fill her! Again and again and again, nghh, Master—
Hermione’s artless humping reaches an underwhelming climax. The firm press of her fingers against her throbbing clit does nothing to assuage the unsatisfying ache of clenching around nothing. However, as the weak pulses of her orgasm ebb away, so too does the mental tide.
Awareness slowly flows back to her. The room is even brighter now. She’s pretty sure she'd meant to be up hours ago… but that notion fades away, along with the concern that her fellow Gryffindors will be curious why she didn’t meet them for breakfast. Hermione just breathes, matching a rhythmic tempo some part of her brain registers coming from the open doorway.
Right. Up she gets.
Hermione rolls out of bed, head clearer but with a body trying to alert her of numerous unexplained aches and pains. The alarms dwindle to nothing as she moves to the en-suite to wash her hands and face. She’s unable to style her curls like she usually does without her wand, but she makes do with a wide-toothed comb rescued from the back of a cabinet.
When selecting new clothing for the day, muscle memory has her opening the topmost drawer for a clean pair of… nothing. The drawer is empty. Hm. Never mind– Hermione moves on to her wardrobe for a fresh blouse and woolen pleated skirt.
Tick tick tick. Inhale.
Tick tick tick. Exhale.
Tick. One button.
Tick. Another.
Tick. Last one.
Tick. A methodical fastening of her maroon and gold tie to top it all off.
Hermione grabs her bookbag and walks to the common area of the Head Dormitory. She breezes past the blackened and charred gouges marring her doorframe without a second glance.
A hand slides around her waist just outside her open door.
It swivels her body around until her face meets the broad expanse of a warm chest, the heady scent of boy and clean skin and starched laundry crashing into her. She feels her head being tucked under a smooth chin as the hand at her waist continues to slide until it forms a strong band across her back. The other hand travels up her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake as it slips under curls to cup the base of her skull.
Tom releases a contented sigh. Minty breath gushes over her.
“Hermione.” Her curls ruffle as he buries his nose into them. His breathing is noisy as he snuffles about, taking her in scent.
He shuffles them backwards until she's pressed against something hard and flat– it jostles a bit at the impact, a glass and metal sound.
Tick tick tick.
She's frozen, again with a single word. He's quite good at that, isn't he?
It feels differently from yesterday, though, when he first robbed her of escape by speaking her name.
Wait, yesterday? Escape? She doesn't want to escape. She's wrapped up tight in his arms– this is fine. What did she feel like yesterday? Did something happen?
Tick tick tick.
Every mechanical tick scatters her thoughts until one remains, demanding her entire focus: What's that ticking sound?
As if sensing her bafflement, Tom pulls away to look at her. His eyes dance about her face, taking in her blank expression, and he—
Bursts out laughing.
It’s a warm and robust sound; a stark contrast to the mechanical ticking. His chest heaves as he creases up, burying his face in the crook of her neck and folding his body over hers, nearly breathless with laughter.
A strange thrill courses through her— she’s never seen him go on like this. She’s still confused, though. Deeper than that, resentment bubbles. What’s so hilarious?
When Tom’s amusement dwindles down to a callous snigger —tick— a fond chuckle, he lifts his head again to soak in the sight of her. His eyes glint with cruelty —tick— sparkle with mirth. Deciphering his mood is a murky task; a lance of pain shoots through her skull as she stares miserably back at him.
“Ohhh, pet— your face!” he croons, ending with a smile full of teeth. He presses up on her slackened jaw with a light touch of his finger, making her teeth click together. His hand slides back to her neck.
“Forgive my outburst, but— sweet Salazar. You look so… fucking stupid. Mouth lolling open, looking like an absolute plum. The indomitable Hermione Granger— well. Not so much anymore, hm? You’ve made yourself nice and empty… all for me.”
She yearns for understanding, but all she receives is that wretched ticking. Her skin feels too small for her body, containing roiling depths with conflicting currents.
Every tick prevents her from diving down to retrieve those feelings. The swirls and loops Tom begins to draw with his fingers of each hand— one twirling the fine hairs at the back of neck and the other low on her hip— lock her further in place, trapping her on the surface, mooring her to the source of that maddening sound.
His smile grows even wider when he sees her struggling to respond, and he huffs out a delighted laugh. “Ah, what fun, seeing you like this. I should bottle it up to revisit over and over again. Admittedly, monologuing at your drooling face isn't the most intellectually gratifying pastime, but I will still treasure my daft little pet while I'm able. Can you imagine, if I paraded you in front of your precious Gryffindors like this?”
Tick, tick, tick.
She cannot imagine.
Tom clicks his tongue. “No, don't fret, pretty girl. I won’t do that. Plus, you won't always be like this— how frightfully dull that would be! We just have to make a few changes, first.” He tilts his head from side to side, considering. “Well, more than a few, actually. Busy day ahead of us.”
Hermione blinks.
Tick, tick, tick.
Empty. Nothing.
She's listening, but his words swish past too quickly for her to grab their meaning. That relentless noise has drowned out every other thought. What is that? Their common area doesn't usually tick. Does it?
A plea rises from the depths of her logical mind, begging her to ask a more crucial question— but it's too weak to breach the surface. Hermione turns her head, trying to glance at what’s behind her. Straining her neck, she asks, “Hey, err, Tom. When did we get a longcase clock?”
His responding smirk is chilling —tick— smile is radiant.
A palm curves around her jaw; the clock slinks away until all she can see is Tom’s looming face. “Never mind about that, darling.”
If there’s something you don't know, you're not meant to know it. The words spiral around her then twist away.
Tom continues, “Just a family heirloom I brought up once we’d finished last night. I can't be drawing pretty pictures for you all the time!” His tone is sickly-sweet, as if speaking to a toddler. That sunken part of her bristles. “This will help as you get settled. Here, you wanted to see the handsome little snakes?”
He pivots them to give her a better view, his hand still cupping her face. She finally sees it: the gorgeous antique that's been hugging her spine and battering her eardrums since she left her bedroom. Hermione tracks the swinging pendulum, curiously sculpted to resemble a coil of snakes.
Her eyes narrow as she focuses harder on the pendulum. Beyond the ticking, is that… whispering? The snakes are moving too quickly to tell, but a strange, hissing sound seems to be emanating from them— it overlaps on itself and drifts in and out of her notice despite how closely she's tracking their swinging movement.
Tick, tick, tick. Back and forth. Sibilant commands slipping past her preoccupied mind, burrowing deep into its recesses in a swirl of navy velvet upholstery and grinding clockwork gears.
Tom watches her with overt fascination and glee, then leans in to trace her hairline with his lips, like he can't help but to have his mouth on her. A predator playfully mouthing at its prey before the feast. He hums, pleased, sending a shiver down her spine and pulse of want straight to her core.
Hermione’s sensory faculties are besieged. The pendulum swinging and its curious susurrations, the warmth of his constricting grasp and the smell of mint oil and menthol gusting over her skin as he nuzzles at her temple, the coil of heat pooling at her center as she senses how happy he is with her— it's all too much.
It's easier to let go, to not think; to ignore that distant part of her, fathoms away now, that's screaming… screaming? No, no no. There's no screaming. No worrying. Just listening and obeying. Floating and drifting. Letting your worries and thoughts sink deeper and deeper. There's a good pet. Listen and obey. Just like that, yes. Isn't that better? When you drop for me.
Time ebbs and flows, sensations peak and dwindle, secret messages burrow and take root. Finally, she's brought out of her reverie with a—
— S N A P —
—and a proprietary pat on her bare bottom. She’s panting and clutching at his arms. A pulse at her apex beats in time with the swinging coil of snakes.
Tom chuckles. “Right, that’ll do for now. Come on, let’s be off. We’ve a busy day ahead of us.” Tom removes his hand from underneath her skirt, and groans as he reaches down to adjust something at the front of his trousers. “Mmph. Sooner the better, pet. Sweet Salazar.”
He unwinds her from his grasp and leads her forward with a palm on the small of her back. His fingers stick to her blouse, leaving tacky residue as he winds her arm with his.
“Busy day?” Hermione parrots. It’s Friday. She’s empty, blank— but one rebellious thought manages to wriggle to the surface. “You mean classes? I’m tutoring Rubeus during breakfast, and then we have charms—”
“—No, Hermione.” Tom grabs her jaw with his free hand. “No classes today. No thinking today. How did a thought like that even manage to pop up? After promising you'd be my good girl?”
Hermione cowers, a reflex from his cold tone and narrow assessment. His fingers dig into her cheeks. She doesn't have an answer for him.
After some consideration, an exaggerated sigh rushes out of him. He releases her chin and gives her cheek a gentle pat. “Of course, I should’ve known— if anything was strong enough to break through, it would be your obsession with your timetable. How adorable: my little swot thinking she’s attending classes today.” A firmer pat to her cheek, nearly stinging, then his hand falls as he leads them forward with his other arm entwined with hers.
“No more thinking without permission, pet,” Tom admonishes with a sideward glance and tilt of his chin. “You’ll still be putting that brilliant brain to work— but only when I say so. Hogwarts will be fine without its Head Boy and Girl for one day; your perfect attendance is a low priority, I’m afraid.”
Hermione has the niggling sense that she’d normally have much to say about this… but it dissolves as she focuses on Tom’s steps and the feeling of his muscular bicep rippling under her fingertips. Tom covers them with his free hand, tucking her close to his side as they walk.
“Say, let’s give it a try, right now. Plus, I find I’m already missing you go on like you usually do; isn’t that funny?” He squeezes her hand extra tight. “Hermione, tell me about your transfiguration project. It’d make me happy to hear what you’ve accomplished so far.”
It’d make him happy.
Make Tom happy.
It’s a one-two punch to her battered psyche.
Hermione audibly moans and her steps falter as she clings to him. The rush of pleasure she feels for pleasing him is strong but unsurprising. His words, though! Simply spoken yet clearly magical in their own right, unlocking a hidden depth within her and letting it rise, allowing her temporary access.
She’s immediately overwhelmed by the onslaught of knowledge flooding back into her, this unexpected reunion with that intrinsic part of herself she hadn't realized was missing. It sends tingling currents throughout her body; a fizzy sensation, as potent as blood returning to a sleeping limb.
There is still much that he has locked away. She may be able to suddenly recall her time spent in war-torn London helping her parents, but she doesn't think to ask about her wand, or why her ring is missing, or demand the return of her knickers, or why they’re walking briskly down a second-floor corridor. Those locks hold, anchors firmly settled.
Still, her steps are buoyant as she eagerly makes her report.
“It worked, Tom! It took all of Easter hols, and they still need to procure some equipment, but my parent’s clinic is fully rebuilt!”
Hermione can’t remember if she mentioned that bit in Professor Dumbledore’s class— that the entire purpose of her transfiguration theoretical research was to rebuild her parent’s dental clinic out of surrounding rubble, bypassing the deferment they’d received from the borough council that would’ve made them wait years for reconstruction, their practice infuriatingly designated a ‘non-essential service.’ Tom is smiling and doesn’t seem lost, though, so she must’ve told him at some point, probably? Surely.
She continues, “I know how unhappy everyone was to hear me go on about the tenets of Panpsychism and Hylozoism and how they could augment our understanding of transfiguration, but— honestly! It was the cornerstone of my success! How could it be anything but a boon, if we considered the potential for consciousness or life in the materials we transfigure? It changes everything.”
Tom hums, which gives way to a wry chuckle. “Perhaps because of the heavy mental burden that awareness would bring? Say we did believe that all matter has consciousness or life. Now, imagine asking a firstie to transfigure a mouse into a snuffbox. How heavily will that weigh on their souls? That they forced a living creature to take the shape of an inanimate object, cursed to live countless days remembering its former life as a mouse? What about the students who fail, and the snuffbox still has whiskers or ears? Can it still hear? Feel pain when snapped open and closed?”
Hermione stares ahead as they walk, horrified by the implications. She shudders and shakes her head. “All right, that’s a fair point, I must admit.” Tom smiles brightly at her swift admission. “But! I maintain that it was brilliant for coaxing rubble back to usable materials for the restoration of my parent’s clinic.”
“Which philosophy did you choose, in the end?”
“Hylozoism! Believing the rubble had life and could be guided back into a unified form, thus healing the damage sustained from the bombings rather than relying on brute-force to change it, helped magnify the intent needed for the ritual. It was beautiful, Tom— I was like a shepherd for all those wayward pieces of debris! The Vitruvian Triad and the complementary runes I proposed in class did the trick, though I did sneak in a Reversed Raidho to help misdirect any borough official that comes sniffing around the clinic, wondering how it's already been rebuilt. The result: sturdy building materials for my parents, with the Ministry of Works none the wiser!”
Tom has her arm in a tight grasp and there’s a frenetic energy to his steps. "Wonderful, wonderful pet. And our Ministry? They took no notice of your magical activity?”
“None at all!” Hermione chirps. Chirps? Her enthusiasm is not unusual, but the… bubbliness? That— well, the concern washes away as she continues, “London's a frightful mess, as you well know, with no one from our Ministry surveilling like they’d have us believe. My being of age helped, but I even waited until Muggles were nearby to transfigure a particularly large rubble pile, and— nothing. Not a single Auror or Obliviator arrived to investigate.”
“Ha! That is delightful news indeed.”
Hermione glances at Tom. His entire being seems to be vibrating, like a pressure is rapidly building inside in danger of bursting at any moment. Even the structural integrity of his perfectly coiffed hair seems to be under threat, with stray locks of hair now brushing his forehead.
How remarkable; this is the most positive reaction she's ever received to one of her discoveries!
“You're not much of an architect though, pet. Who did the actual rebuilding of your parent’s clinic?”
Hermione giggles. She's actually… giggling. “Fair point, there! That bit was brilliant, too. You know Myrtle Warren, fifth year Ravenclaw?” Tom mumbles some sort of assent, that yes he does know her, so Hermione continues, “Well! Her father put us in touch with another Muggleborn student's father, a military engineer who’d just returned to London and was looking for work. Between them and a few other Muggleborn family members we reached out to, it was done lightning quick! Especially with my spell assistance, lightening the load and such.”
“Muggles, doing the work for you. Utilizing their skills for your gain. My clever girl. Oh, this will work wonders for us.”
There is something she finds disturbing about his choice of words and fevered tone, but it keeps slipping through her fingers. It’s easier to clarify the simpler matter.
“Well, Muggles with direct associations to the magical world— an important distinction, at least for the Ministry and the Statute of So On and So Forth. We did pay them for their time and labor, though with my parent's compensation from the War Damage Commission, but that's another matter entirely and one I’m still feeling quite uneasy about. No one will notice— I’ve made sure of it— but there has to be a more conscientious way to procure payment for them. I want to keep helping with other reconstruction projects, but getting the money… hey, Tom, speaking of the Warrens, isn't this the lavatory Myrtle usually—”
Tom steals her next words with a kiss.
Her back meets the stone wall as he crowds his body against hers while waving a lazy hand at the heavy oaken door, locking her inside with him.
Despite how frenetic he seemed earlier, his lips are gentle on hers, though no less insistent. He cups her jaw with both hands and devours her slowly, indulgently; his tongue stroking against hers like she’s a treat he’s been waiting all day to enjoy.
Hermione is… at sea.
Not knowing what to do with her body, she clutches awkwardly at his wrists and lets her legs part when a firm thigh slots between them. She returns the kiss distractedly, letting him invade her mouth while trying to make sense of this abrupt turn of events.
What's going on? Why is Tom snogging her in the girl's lavatory? Why did she instantly start grinding against him, like this a dance they’ve done before?
How is she already this wet? She can feel how damp his trouser leg is becoming as it rubs against her heated flesh. Wait, her knickers, where—?
With a parting nibble to her lip, Tom lifts from her mouth and moves to her neck, scattering her thoughts once again as his arms wrap around her. She moans as he dots kisses underneath her jaw, dragging his nose down the line of her throat until he reaches her racing pulse. His mouth clamps down on that fluttering vein, biting and sucking and driving away any hope that her storm-tossed brain will soon make sense of this. She feels the hard line of his clothed erection pressing into her hip with every rock of his body against hers, sparking a frantic need within her.
“Uh… err… Tom? What is… hm?” Hermione gulps the saliva gathering in her mouth as Tom suckles at her pulse. With her arms clinging to his shoulders for support, she humps mindlessly at his leg while baring her neck for him.
She feels his lips curve into a smile. He unlatches from her throat, looking at her bruised flesh with a satisfied smirk before meeting her glassy stare. His eyes… Hermione can barely look at them. So dark in color, but burning with an unwonted brightness that makes her want to cringe and hide. A quivering prey animal, trapped but unable to look away as the delighted predator basks in their fear as an olfactive appetizer before the main course.
But— no, that’s not right, is it? She’s right where she’s supposed to be, in his strong arms. Pleasing him. Strong currents bring these notions rushing to the forefront of her mind, making her dizzy. Him crushing his thigh to her engorged clit further agitates the whirlstorm tearing through her.
Tom’s expression turns mocking as he looks down at her and tuts. “Tsk, my poor pet. Feeling bewildered, hm? I bet you never would've imagined your research and subsequent success would result with you here underneath me. The same goes for me, actually. Isn’t that interesting? Both of our lives changed that day.”
Hermione’s brow furrows as she tries to decipher his meaning. Her head is already a mess of swirling, conflicting notions, with every lingering brain cell locked in on her needy cunt. If he could angle his body just a bit, a better alignment for that firmness he's teasing her with…
Tom chuckles at her scrunched expression, and continues, “That's right, dearest. It’s no surprise you bored our classmates to an early death— none of them can ever be made to care about the Muggle world. Usually, that'd apply to me as well… until I alone recognized the potential in your work.”
His warm breath gusts by her ear as he dips his head. His voice is low, heavy with grit. “What I saw was enough to change the entire trajectory of my future plans, Hermione. It cannot be understated how momentous that is, how many things I had to rearrange because of you… the insufferable mudblood-shaped pebble that’d been caught in my shoe for fucking years. The witch who, despite past irritations, has proved herself valuable enough to keep by my side for the rest of your days,” Tom hisses through clenched teeth. He catches her earlobe between those sharp points and bites down.
Hermione shudders, pain jolting through her. The bite of his words hurts just as much as his actual bite. Mudblood? His thigh is still shoved between her legs, but her rocking has slowed down. The rest of her days? Spent with…
Tom Riddle?
As his mouth moves to suckle at the tender skin below her ear, she gathers the wherewithal to ask, “But… huh? What are you saying, Tom? All I did was propose different methods of transfiguring rubble to strong building materials, what with the lumber and steel shortages and all, and bureaucratic nonsense holding everything up… ”
Tom makes a frustrated noise as he drags himself away from her neck. The look he fixes on her drips with disdain. “That’s just it, you stupid girl. My dumb little pet, completely unaware of the wealth of potential you’ve stumbled upon. What would you do without me, hm? Oh, right: you’d run yourself to the fucking ground, helping miserable, worthless Muggles to no gain for yourself. Wasting your talent, your magic. Altruist. Collectivist. Selfless. Fool.”
Rage fills Hermione as she glares at his sneering face, even if a disturbingly large part of her wants to cower at his displeasure. Having two parts of her mind at war with each other is exhausting, disorienting.
She manages to spit out, “It is not foolish to want to help others! How could you, you selfish wanker! My magic was frankly astounding, and did more for my parents in a week than their government would've for years! And never mind our own Ministry, where I'd be wasting away as some Pureblood git's secretary instead of—”
“That’s enough, pet,” Tom sharply interrupts as he grabs her tie and stuffs it into her mouth, then forces her teeth to clamp down on the silk. With a touch to the hinge of her jaw and the whisper of a wandless spell, her mandible is immobilized. She pushes at the invading fabric with her tongue, saturating it with saliva as it bunches against her clenched teeth. Thrashing her head is no use with the tie still securely knotted at her throat.
She lets out a muffled gasp as she feels his hands dip under her skirt to squeeze handfuls of her arse, kneading her naked flesh. Then, after securing a tight hold on her, she’s lifted up into his arms. Her legs reflexively wrap around his waist as her hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders.
As he turns to move, Tom shushes her, rubbing a hand up and down her spine. Hermione deflates, tired of feeling mocked by him. “Yes, yes, pet. You are rather astounding. It’s why I consider you worth this effort. It’s why you’ll help me use Muggleborns and their families, which is far more profitable and efficient than… ha, well, than my initial plan for them. It’s why you’ll keep finding loopholes within our own cack-handed Ministry for us to exploit.”
They stop in front of a sink. She doesn’t bother fighting her tether to swivel her neck for a better look. Her head is spinning enough as it is.
He croons to her, “Such a brilliant mind… you can trust me to take good care of it. I’ll be taking care of everything from now on Hermione, including your needy little pussy.”
He plops her onto the cold edge of a porcelain sink.
Hermione’s eyes widen as she rears her head back as much as she’s able. She looks at him imploringly, frantically. What is he doing! She’s never had— they’ve never… haven’t they? Her cunt clenches in alarming contradiction as Tom situates himself between her legs.
Tom’s face lights up with a feral grin when he sees her confused alarm. He laughs as he rearranges their limbs, one arm hooking underneath her knee and the other reaching down to his trousers.
“What, losing your nerve already? Pet… do you think you’re still a virgin?” There’s a mean glint to his eye as he unfastens himself with one hand. “Of course not, darling. I fucked you on the sofa last night. You were louder than a whore with a bull horn; you, the frigid swot—it was glorious! Then you cleaned my cock with your mouth, and thanked me for ruining you before crawling back to your bedroom door. Oh, how I adore how malleable your mind is proving to be. You were destined for this, to be mine, to exist solely for me, Hermione.”
Hermione barely takes notice as something warm and hard dips between her folds. She’s drowning in turbulent water; swirling with spirals of navy; ticking with swinging snakes. She can’t dredge up memories that match his words, but her body seems to remember just fine with the way her heated blood is coalescing at her center, pelvis tipped and soaking and ready to receive him.
Tom drags his cockhead through her slit, letting the lewd squelching echo throughout the lavatory. Hermione moans as he applies delicious pressure to her clit, teasing her with firm circular motions.
“Listen to you, Hermione. How fucking wet you are. How wanton you sound! You think you’re a virgin? Salazar. No. Most of this is my cum from earlier this morning, in fact.”
He slides his cock back down to her entrance, then hooks his arm under her other knee. “That’s right, pet. The Prudist Witch of her Age, Hermione Granger, reduced to a needy cockslut for the Lord Voldemort. Your Master. Right where you fucking belong.”
And with that, he surges forward, burying himself deep within her with a savage thrust.
Her hands fly off his shoulders, slamming onto the porcelain on either side of her as her head knocks back onto the mirror, her entire body forced back as he begins to pound into her.
The way her body opens up for him, offering bliss rather than resistance…
The way her cunt sucks him in, the deepest parts of her demanding his claim, to be reshaped by him…
The way her very soul seems to know this feeling, him sinking beneath her skin, bringing their beating hearts even closer together…
How could he be lying?
She's done this before.
This isn't the first time she's been thoroughly fucked by him; the boy who used to overlook her. Who used to hate her.
Who is now hunched over her, fingers digging into her legs, using them for more leverage to brutally drive his body forward as he picks up the pace. His hair in beautiful disarray, his eyes illuminated in a way she’s never seen before. His hatred for her transformed into frenzied hunger. Her cunt clenches around him at the sight, adding to the crushing pressure building inside her.
When he tilts his body forward, leaning into her and offering exquisite friction for her throbbing clit, Hermione's body…
Shatters.
And so too, does her mind.
She stares blankly at the wall behind Tom as his pace stutters, his cock swelling inside her until he slams his body into hers, flooding her cunt with his pulsing release. A satisfied groan rumbles from his chest as he dips his sweaty forehead to rest upon her shoulder, his panting breath moistening her blouse.
Tom called her brilliant, her mind astounding.
How could that be?
Hermione doesn't feel brilliant.
She can't even remember her first time having sex.
Or how she ended up here in the first place.
She feels herself sinking back down, even as he slides out of her and lifts away, placing a kiss on her forehead as he goes. His spend trickles out of her as he rearranges her limbs again, lifting under her bum to hold her to his chest. He must not mind the mess she's smearing onto his clothing.
Tenderly, he releases the spell on her jaw and retracts the fabric from her mouth. A wave of his hand vanishes the ruined Gryffindor tie. She smacks her saliva-slicked lips together absently, then tucks her head under his chin and rubs her face against his collar, adding to the fluids collecting on his shirt.
Tom makes noise above her, a strange sort of hissing. It's met by the booming sound of metal grinding against stone.
She barely hears it. The curiosity she's known for fails to materialize.
There's a vast disconnect between her brain and body. She's already diving for the depths of her psyche, those safer, less complicated trenches he created for her, when he begins to move. His steps mirror her mental descent; the path forward from where he fucked her sloping down, below the floor and into the belly of the castle.
Hermione clings to him as he carries her through the long, narrow passage, squeezing her eyelids tight. His words echo off the slippery stone walls when he begins to speak, his voice lilting and smooth.
“I could take it all away, you know? Make you so, so stupid. Siphon every drop of your intellect. Make you forever my dozy little plaything, make you nothing but a drooling, dripping, warm hole for my cock.
“I'm not, though. What an unforgivable waste that'd be.
“No, I'll let you keep your brilliant mind. It's what brought us here, after all. I'll hand you your wand, your meddlesome ring, and turn your brain back on. Like flipping a switch. My pretty automaton. Turning on, then off. Operating as I command.
“I'll let you pass your classes, do nearly as well as me when we sit for our NEWTs, ranking just behind me of course. No one will dare to question the brilliance of the witch I've chosen to be at my side.
"You'll introduce me to your parents, your hodgepodge community of Muggleborns and their families, and none will be the wiser how mindless you've become for me. How much I've changed you.
“I'll relieve you of your wretched morality, your reluctance to explore your full potential. I'll assign your research projects now. You'll accompany me while we travel the world. Be on my arm as we enchant Britain, be at my side as I bring them under my thrall.
“You showed me a path that doesn't involve pandering to Purebloods. Like Howard Roark from that book, my fellow selfish and uncompromising innovator, I'll make them come to me. I'll make them crave my approval, the so-called elites of Wizarding and Muggle Britain, all made the same when they grovel before me for the rest of time. All thanks to you, dearest Hermione.”
The path continues to slope downward. Hermione is fairly certain that his words should be sparking maddening outrage, swamping her with debilitating dread… but they simply float on by. The rhythmic sound of his loafers against stone, the soles going click, clack, tick, clack, tick, tick, tick as he walks, fills her mind— offering a steady anchor line for her to focus on as she swims down.
One more question manages to bubble up from the swirling waters of her psyche. It's the extent of what her brain is able to cobble together before he douses the rest of her consciousness.
“Why this way?” Hermione croaks, voice raspy from disuse. She swallows and tries again. “Why not use magic? Is this… hypnotism? You're hypnotizing me?”
“In so many words: yes. I thought you'd appreciate the Muggle approach!” Tom laughs at her responding silence and nuzzles her curls. “I could've used magic, but I didn't want to merely control your behavior — I want to change your behavior. Who you are as a person. Melt you down, neutralize your very essence, and reforge you as I see fit. Until you're perfect for me. And look how well you're doing already, pet! Keeping you aware thus far today has proved how beautifully your mind is coming along. How happy you're making me, and we've only just begun!”
Make Tom happy.
She's making Tom happy.
That's all her brain can muster at his response. She can't even summon the tiniest bit of curiosity for where he's taking her. Just the involuntary curl of warmth at his praise, for a job well done, a job she has no choice but to accept and assimilate.
He resumes speaking as she sinks, his voice taking on a mesmerizing cadence that drifts directly into her ear, adding more crushing weight to her descent, pushing her waking mind further down with every word.
When he tells her to drop for me, she is already fathoms below.
And when he begins to count,
5
4
3
2
1
—S N A P —
…
…
…
Hermione is already asleep.