Chapter Text
The whole ride over, it’s in her lap:
One special invite for one very special fan.
Cursive, of course. Gold leaf, like on a wedding invitation, only more expensive than most folks would ever spend on a piece of paper. The paper doesn’t even feel like paper, but like fabric. The letters, embossed instead of simply printed. The envelope, wax sealed.
It came addressed to her. Not her parents, which is how she justified keeping it a secret from them. It’s her mail.
Luna’s open hand plops onto Hermione’s thigh, only a lipstick’s distance from the invite.
It’s all Hermione can do to slide the card safely out of the way instead of snatching it. “Have all those drives with Ron conditioned you?”
One hand on the wheel, Luna stops groping at her thigh and turns her hand over, her fingers a gaping maw. “I forgot the exact number on the address.”
Hermione picks up the hand by the thumb like it’s a dead bug and drops it on the console, then gently turns over the invite to read the glimmering disco ball of an address on the back. “It’s 59 West Tantamount, but I have a feeling we’ll know it when we…”
Luna takes the corner wide enough to bump one wheel against the opposite curb. She doesn’t seem to notice or care, but frankly, neither does Hermione.
It’s not the house. In fact, they can’t even see the house from here. But what they can’t miss is the iron gate at the end of the road up ahead, the bars so tightly woven that hardly anything of the property within shows through.
“Well, we won’t need the house number,” Luna says softly.
Where others might carve sharp points in the metal, ornate text swirls along the top of the gate: The Riddle Estate.
Of course, it’s only him in there. No family to speak of, if the tabloids are anything to go by, and these days their investigators dig deep. Word is that Tom Riddle was born into this world with nothing and no one—which, of course, makes his success all the more inspiring.
Suddenly Hermione’s checking her dress. Neckline straight, sleeves in place, hair unrumpled in the rear view mirror.
“Oh, god, I’m so nervous!” Now she’s the one doing the groping. “Thank you for coming with me, really, I think I’d be too freaked to go alone.”
Luna smiles dreamily at the gate as she pulls up. “What are friends for?”
The wrought metal doesn’t open, but a little round-topped door hidden amidst the vines off to one side does. A woman strides out, her hair pulled back in a tight bun and her face covered with a face mask and sunglasses that reflect Hermione’s shocked face right back at her.
The woman opens the passenger’s side door. Hermione doesn’t even think about how weird it is until she’s already out and standing there, the invitation still clutched in her hands and her purse swinging from one elbow.
The car door slams shut, and the woman makes a motion to politely shoo Luna back down the road.
“Oh,” Hermione says. “So I’d actually invited her to—”
But the woman shakes her head and motions at Luna again. Maybe it’s how the woman’s suit strains at the biceps and thighs, but Luna only shrugs through the windshield and puts her car in reverse, that dreamy smile still plastered on her face.
They stand there, the two of them, until the car disappears around the bend. Then the woman leads her through that door in the wall.
No one would ever call this a yard, just like they wouldn’t call that mansion a house or call the size of that swimming pool reasonable.
Gazebos, trampolines, swingsets, basketball hoops. At the center, that swimming pool twists in some artsy shape, the water crystal clear and dotted with king-sized floaties. A red brick road winds through it all, the bricks worn like it was built generations ago. Old growth trees and colorful flowers fill in any gaps. Everywhere she looks, it’s beauty and spent cash.
And yet...quiet.
Bunches of balloons dot the attractions, bouncing softly against each other in the breeze. Large platters of sandwiches and snack foods crowd every available surface, every picnic table. Just to her right, there’s a whole mountain of different party hats, each with their own shimmering design. It’s a party stocked for hundreds of people…
...but she’s the only one here.
That bodyguard lady is nowhere to be seen. She must’ve slipped through some other secret door. So Hermione does the only thing she can think of and explores. She doesn’t touch a thing until a punch bowl full of taffies tempts her, but just as she’s reaching out for a pink one—
“It won’t bite you.”
She startles so hard she knocks the edge of the bowl. It wobbles, then tips straight over the edge, smashing to pieces on the red brick path behind. Taffy flies everywhere.
Hermione whirls around, both hands over her mouth.
A man leans against a half-height sculpture of a dancing dog. His outfit hugs his tall, lean body, cut straight out off a military uniform, except with far too much shine involved. Leather, velvet, tassels. Above that, long, black hair curls down in front of his ears and follows his neck, the tips barely lifting.
It’s him. It’s Tom Riddle. Looking straight off the stage.
Hermione can’t move. She can’t speak.
He approaches, his shoes clicking against the brick. “Have anything you want,” he says. “I’ve got plenty. It’s a party, so you’re supposed to enjoy yourself. Have you been to a lot of parties?”
She finally manages a slow shake of the head. Some stiff bone at the base of her neck creaks in response. From behind her hands, she says, “Sorry about the bowl.”
Tom laughs, all straight teeth. He bends and picks up a couple pieces of taffy, then unwraps one and offers it to her.
Feeling numb, she accepts it. Strawberry flavor. Just what she’d been reaching for.
He pops the second into his mouth, a green one. Green apple, maybe. “Still good,” he says. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to yell at her.
“Where is everyone?” she asks.
He adjusts his sunglasses, the light bouncing off the wide lenses, then makes a show of looking around. The wind softly rustles the curated trees and shrubs, flowers dancing. Birds chirp as they peck at their branches, the brave ones hopping down the brick path.
For a moment, Hermione imagines cheering crowds of hundreds, thousands, millions. The cacophony of it.
“This is nice,” she blurts out. “Peaceful. I had a quiet birthday party, too. Just me and my best friend.”
Tom gives her another smile, and her knees hollow out. Wow.
She follows him down the winding path, the two of them sampling snacks and cupcakes while he points out his favorite plants, or names whatever artist from across the world crafted this and that decoration. It’s all straight out of a movie—all of it, except for her.
For the umpteenth time she checks that the back of her dress isn’t riding up. If only she could pull out her pocket mirror to touch up her lip gloss without him noticing.
They end up at the largest tree in the place, as wide as it is tall, with branches ready to give her a great big bear hug. Scraggly, knotted things, but full of leaves bigger than her hand.
“This one’s my favorite,” Tom says, patting the trunk right where it splits into three. His glove catches at the bark and he patiently works it free. “When it’s really breezy, I climb up as high as I can go, until all I hear is wind.”
She gapes up at him. “You...climb trees?”
“Don’t you?”
She laughs. “Sometimes. Not so much anymore, though.”
He gives the tree another pat. “Give it a go.”
“Um,” is all she can muster. Her cheeks heat, and there’s no way he doesn’t notice, which makes her blush all the harder.
He tilts his head. “Are you afraid you’ll fall? Don’t be. You never forget how to climb a tree. It’s like...an innate instinct. But if you do fall, I’ll catch you.”
Yeah, right. But Hermione takes a deep breath. “Okay.”
It is his birthday, after all. It’d be rude not to.
She shuffles forward and takes the tree by its thickest branches, just barely within arm’s reach. Tom’s presence behind her gets her itching to turn around, but then she’d be face-to-face with him, right up close. Instead, she plants a foot on the trunk and heaves herself up into that crook where the tree branches out.
“Beautiful,” Tom says from below.
She climbs a little higher, just to prove to herself that she’s not afraid of looking stupid, then glances back down. He’s staring, smiling, his hands held palm-up in front of him like he really is willing to catch her, should she lose her footing.
The breeze rustles her skirt. She enjoys the tickle of cool air on the backs of her thighs until she realizes he must be able to see right up her dress.
Oh. Oh, no.
She scrambles to turn around. Thankfully one winding branch makes the perfect seat, otherwise she was prepared to throw herself into the abyss.
Maybe he wasn’t looking. He’s a gentleman. The magazines all say so.
She’s hot all the way up to her scalp and down to her neckline now. Why couldn’t she have worn ordinary underwear?! So what if he’s her idol, her favorite artist, her hero? Stupid to wear her skimpiest underwear, the pair she hides from her parents in a shoebox under her bed. Bright red, all lace, with a bra to match. As if she was going on a date and not attending a birthday party for someone nearly a couple decades older than her.
Her pitiful attempt at convincing herself he didn’t see up her skirt is interrupted when he hauls himself into the tree after her. Not even a grunt of exertion, so he must’ve been telling the truth about climbing up here all the time.
He folds his long body into a solid branch like she has and says, “Reminds you of a snowglobe, huh?”
He’s right. When she forces all those humiliating thoughts away and focuses on how the branches seem to surround her on all sides, the leaves fluttering like snow suspended forever…
“I wish I had a tree like this in my yard,” she says.
“You can borrow mine anytime.”
The ends of his hair flutter in the breeze, light as the leaves surrounding them. Maybe he’s got it carefully combed through with ten different high-end hair products, but she’d never guess it. Looks like he woke up that way. Like he was born perfect.
He catches her staring, but smiles so softly that she can’t find it in her to be embarrassed about it.
“Let’s race to the pool,” he says.
He gives her a head start. Says it’s because she’s up higher. It doesn’t matter, because his long legs overtake her not halfway there. He doesn’t stop at the edge of the pool and flings himself into the air, flying for a moment.
Hermione doesn’t stop herself either. She doesn’t want to stop. With a scream, she leaps after him, cradling her knees right as she hits the water.
Cannonball.
Water rushes into her ears. She opens her eyes and finds Tom staring back at her through the water, his sunglasses gone.
His eyes cut through her. Like a curled finger, those eyes.
Hermione gasps, then shoots to the surface, coughing pool water down her front. Tom resurfaces a second later. She doesn’t notice the rhythmic slap of his hand between her shoulder blades until her windpipe runs dry, albeit a scratchy sort of dry.
“You’re good,” he’s murmuring. “You’ve got it. Just breathe.”
She breathes. It hurts, but she breathes. Her curls stick to her face in a knotted mess. One impulsive jump in the pool, and she’s completely ruined herself. Hell, her makeup’s got to be running, her lip gloss a wreck—
“Nobody’s ever jumped in with me before,” Tom says. He sounds impressed.
She gives another halfhearted cough, then turns. He’s closer than she’d thought, and that hand he used to pound the water out of her lingers at her shoulder.
Of course his wet hair curls around his face in the most alluring way, highlighting all his best bone structure. Of course.
But Hermione forces a smile anyway, because he doesn’t seem to care that she’s washed herself into a total mess. She imagines him inviting friends over, famous pop stars and rock stars, politicians, whomever. Time and again he runs and jumps into the pool, and they never follow. She believes it.
“I like the pool,” she says, feeling dumb.
He slides a particularly thick clump of hair away from her face, then pushes away, his legs slowly working to keep him afloat. His sunglasses bob in the water. He ignores them and peels his gloves off, then tosses them away.
Face to the sky, he says, “I wish I could sleep like this.”
Hermione bites her lip, then tentatively swims his direction. “These floaties look pretty comfortable,” she says.
He laughs and pushes one away, a big turtle with handles on the shell. “Believe it or not, I’ve tried. A few times.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but people get scared I’ll roll over in my sleep and drown.” He spreads his arms and sighs. “Besides, it didn’t work, anyway. I don’t sleep much.”
They don’t talk about this in the magazines. “Why not?” she asks.
“I get lonely,” he says. “It’s a big house. When I was in foster care, I always had to share a bed, or at least a room. But now, it’s just me.”
“Wow,” she says after a moment.
“What?”
“I just…” Her face heats again. “To be honest, I wouldn’t think you’d have that problem. I mean, anyone would be happy to keep you company.”
His eyelids flutter, dropping from the sky down to the rippling surface of the water. “No, not really.”
He’s lying. He has to be. Except he looks so sad, the pool water dewing on his eyelashes. With skin that pale, he’s no better than one of the carved marble statues decorating this place. Eyes carved open, never sleeping.
He’s not lying. He’s lonely. She feels it deep in her gut, just the same as she knows no CEO would ever jump into this pool after him.
“I would,” she says.
“Really?” He treads water. That sad smile lifts. “Would you really help me like that?”
How can she possibly say ‘no’ to him?
“Yeah,” she says. “Totally. I just...um, need to borrow your phone first.”
He has a phone outside, because of course he does. It’s located in one of the gazebos, bright blue with a curly cord long enough to stretch halfway around the yard if she wanted to go walking.
She dials Luna’s number, and thank god she’s home to answer it.
“Hey,” Hermione says, lips pressed against the receiver.
Water runs in streams down her legs, turning the gazebo into a total lake. Her dress weighs at her shoulders, the ruffles dragged flat.
Tom’s here, too, water rushing out of his clothes and contributing to her lake. He leans against the side of the gazebo and folds his arms.
“Need me to pick you up already?” Luna asks. “I thought we agreed you’d be on your very best behavior.”
“Yeah, actually—I think I’m going to, um...stay over.”
There’s a gap in the line, and then Luna says, “Really?” in this long, singsong way.
Tom’s not just idly standing around. He’s very specifically staring at her with this faint little smile on his face. Staring like he doesn’t care if she notices, and obviously she notices. He’s looking at her sopping wet dress as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen all year.
“Really really,” Hermione says. She kind of wishes he’d go away for just a minute so she can squeal with Luna in private, but then again, he’s staring. At her. “So would you mind letting my parents know that I’ll be at yours tonight? Pretty please?”
“And you’ll tell me everything tomorrow?”
Tom leans his head back against the wall. His eyes linger somewhere near her chest.
“Yeah, promise. Pinky promise.” Hermione pretends to scratch an itch on her throat, but really she’s checking her neckline. Seems to be in the right place.
She hangs up with a clatter before Luna can try and drag any embarrassing details out of her. “We’re set,” she says. “Um, but I didn’t bring any…?”
He waves her away. “I’ve got dry clothes. Come on.” With a squeak of his wet boot, he turns heel and strides towards the house.
Hermione looks down at herself—and just about faints.
The water made her dress completely translucent. It probably wouldn’t be such a huge deal if she wasn’t wearing the world’s most garish red lace bra. Hell, she can trace the red of the straps all the way up her shoulders. Even the hips of her underwear are visible through the wet fabric.
She bites her fist to stifle a groan. This is the most humiliating—
Wait.
He was staring, wasn’t he? And smiling?
With a start, she realizes he’s already halfway to the house. She hustles after him, her wet dress sending water droplets flinging everywhere. Her heart pounds all the way down into her toes.
He was staring.