Chapter 4
Hermione had returned from the bar with a tray of food balanced skillfully in her hands. Looking around at her now silent companions, she tilted her head slightly to one side in mild confusion. She distributed the food amongst them and then turned towards Tom.
"Tom," She started uncertainly.
"How much do we owe you?" Tom's charming smile was back in place.
"Oh, no, this is my treat!" Hermione never looked happier than when she could give.
His companions—damn them—weren't complaining, but tucking in.
Purebloods.
Tom both wanted to be one of them and despised them.
"You can let them pay for at least some of their own food, Hermione," he drawled. "You don't have to preen like a peacock like Lockhart in all settings."
"You're only saying that about Lockhart because you're jealous, Tom," Hermione said sternly.
Abraxas choked on his drink.
Unseen to Hermione, a flash of red burned briefly in the handsome eyes of Tom Riddle.
Jealousy and rage, tangled together in a poisonous cocktail. But he quelled it quickly when Hermione turned back to look at him, replaced instantly with the polished veneer of calm and charm she knew so well.
His smile was as brittle as porcelain. "Jealous? Of Lockhart?" He chuckled, eliciting a round of laughter from his friends. "Oh, Granger. Quite the imagination you have."
But the dismissal didn't quite reach his eyes. A dark undercurrent stirred beneath the surface - a storm brewing in an otherwise clear sky.
"Jealous?" Tom echoed, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he turned to face Hermione. "What, pray tell, would I have to be envious of?"
"If it hadn't been for Lockhart's untimely death, he could very well have been the only one to rival you magically, Tom."
A flicker of something dangerous sparked in Tom's gaze, drawing a collective intake of breath from the men around him. Offering Hermione a smile that didn't reach his eyes, he said, "Is that so?"
Hermione gave him a steady look, the hint of a challenge sparkling in her chocolate orbs. "That's what the facts suggest," she stated firmly.
Nott chuckled darkly from his side, taking a swig of his drink. "Dipping into dangerous waters, aren't we, Granger?" he asked, his voice oddly cheerful for the tension that was coiling around them.
"Not to mention his good looks," Abraxas added with a smirk, clearly enjoying the discomfort on Tom's face. "He was the only one who could rival you in that department, too, Tom." This drew a round of laughter from the rest of the men.
"Yeah, Granger certainly thought so," Goyle said, munching. "She wrote 'Mrs. Gilderoy Lockhart' on the inside of all of her textbooks, didn't she? Where she used to write Mrs. Tom Riddl—"
"Goyle!" Hermione barked, her cheeks burning a fiery red. "That was private! And none of your business!"
Goyle simply shrugged, continuing to munch on his pastry with a satisfied grin on his face. The group erupted in laughter, the tension momentarily forgotten.
Tom chuckled along with them, but it didn't reach his eyes. His gaze remained fixed on Hermione, watching her every move, every reaction. His dark eyes narrowed, the amusement previously reflected in them now replaced with something darker.
"Remember, Tom, we told you about it?"
Tom's gaze flicked toward Goyle, the man's usual witless look was replaced by an expectant look. "Yes, I recall," he said with enforced calmness, his eyes still fixed on Hermione.
"I don't see why it's such a big secret, Granger," Crabbe chimed in, his words slurred around a piece of tart. "Everyone knows how you felt about Lockhart. That you fancied him like mad."
"I'm not denying it," she began softly. Her gaze didn't waver as she continued, "Lockhart was . . . a good man."
Tom's grip tightened around his glass, the knuckles on his hand going white.
And then she continued: "I am not ashamed of my feelings for him . . . he was brave, kind, humble . . . "
A murmur of disbelief spread across the table at her words. The men eyed each other with sidelong glances, chuckles rippling beneath their breaths. Everyone knew of Lockhart’s vanity, his pompousness – traits that clearly marked him as anything but humble.
"Careful, Granger," Malfoy warned, a note of amusement in his otherwise stern voice. "Your Gryffindor naïvety is showing."
"Lockhart," said Tom, his voice a shade darker than usual, "was a self-aggrandizing imbecile."
"Be reasonable, Tom," Hermione said in her best Sensible-Hermione-Voice, which had the ability to irk him at the best of times. "How would people know how great he was if he didn't tell them about it? Think about everything he had accomplished already! The banshee, the ghouls, the hags, the trolls, the vampires, the werewolves and that yeti!"
All eyes were on Hermione as she defended Lockhart with a level of passion that was oddly endearing and utterly confusing to the men. They exchanged glances, some smirking, others looking on in shock as Hermione’s cheeks turned a soft shade of pink from her passionate rambling.
Tom’s eyes darkened as he took a steadying sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving Hermione. “Lockhart,” he said again after a moment, rolling the name around his tongue like a curse—his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. “A man who was more concerned with his own image than the lives he was supposedly saving.”
Hermione’s mouth opened to retort, but no words came out. It was rare for her to be left speechless—rare for anyone to challenge her like this—and in that moment Tom relished in it.
“You can’t possibly believe every word that came out of Lockhart’s mouth, Granger,” Malfoy interjected, leaning back in his chair and casting her a condescending look. "You're smarter than that."
But Hermione didn't look defeated, or embarrassed. Instead, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin higher. "I believe in the good in people, Malfoy," she said firmly. "And—" here a blush spread across her cheeks, a bloom of defiant color, "—and I'm not ashamed to have believed in Lockhart. Nor am I ashamed to say that I cared for him deeply."
Tom's glass all but shattered in his grip.
The blush crept up her cheeks again, drawing the attention of the men at the table. "—And I believe in love. Professors get together with their students all the time and who knows what might have happened if Lockhart had lived? If he hadn’t died? Maybe we would be together now.”
It was as if a spell had been cast over the room, silencing everyone. The men at the table stared at her, stunned by her impassioned speech. But, it was Tom's reaction they were all waiting for.
His handsome face, previously gleaming with amusement and mockery, was now hardened into an unreadable mask. His eyes were like shards of ice staring right at her.
For a few beats, the room was almost hushed. All eyes were on Tom now, wondering how he would react.
Everyone, except Hermione, who kept obliviously prattling blithely on about the virtues of love and Lockhart's supposed potential, her voice a sweet melody that cut through the deafening silence.
Tom remained silent, his steeled gaze still locked onto Hermione. His knuckles were as white as marble as he gripped his glass tighter, and it was as if the air around him had suddenly become colder.
"I mean, in fifth year I was already sixteen, going on seventeen," she continued with a shrug. "We could have become an item. Love is love, no matter who it is between."
The men around the table shifted uncomfortably at her words, eyes nervously flicking towards Tom. Nott took another long swig of his drink as if wishing to drown in it rather than face the wrath of a scorned Riddle.
"Yes, who knows what Lockhart would have gone on to accomplish if he hadn't been eaten by a giant snake," Tom added, his voice dripping with derisive amusement. The group erupted into laughter at the jab, wanting the tension to dissipate like a popped balloon.
Hermione held her ground, her lips drawn in a tight line as she watched Tom. She wasn’t laughing. "We don't know what kind of beast Hagrid had," she said primly. "At the time, Tom, I guessed it was a snake because the monster once belonged to Slytherin, but it could've been any number of creatures."
Tom placed an elbow on his leg as his head lazily rested on his hand.
"And he died so very bravely," Hermione sighed softly, her eyes misting over with unshed tears.
"Or, you know, begging for mercy," Tom murmured under his breath, the vitriol in his tone enough to curdle milk.
Hermione blinked back at him, her eyes wide and startled. "What?" she asked, genuinely shocked by his statement. Her rosy lips parted in disbelief. "Lockhart did not beg for mercy," Hermione protested furiously, rounding on Tom. The backwash of her pain and anger hit them like a tidal wave, halting any laughter that had started to bubble up at his statement.
"Considering none of us were there—" Abraxas said, giving Tom a significant look "—we can't really say what happened, can we?" He finished the sentence smoothly, effectively putting a damper on the brewing argument. Tom's glare transferred to Abraxas, but he seemed to consider the words and simply nodded, taking another sip of his drink in silence.
Hermione’s anger was palpable, her hands clenched around the edge of the table. Her voice shook with raw emotion as she said, “Lockhart did not beg for mercy. He faced death bravely.”
Despite the tension, Malfoy couldn’t help but scoff at her persistent belief. “Granger,” he sighed. “Lockhart would’ve done anything to save his pretty face.”
"That's not true," Hermione protested, her voice shaking with emotion. "He died saving lives!" Hermione added, her voice taking on a wistful quality. "He saved all of those students . . . He died a hero."
A choked sound came from Malfoy, his disbelief overpowering any semblance of etiquette. A hero? Lockhart? He exchanged a glance with Nott, who wore an identical expression.
But the silence surrounding Tom was louder. It reigned, expanded, swallowed the room in its icy grip. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed to echo around them, cold and precise.
"Lockhart," he said, his voice controlled, "was a self-absorbed charlatan." His gaze was fixed on Hermione, cutting through the murmur of her disbelief. "He cared for nothing but his own glory."
Every man at the table turned to him, their shoulders stiff with anticipation. Some of them were smirking, while the rest wore masks of curiosity or quiet surprise.
"You can believe what you will, Tom," Hermione said generously. "I know the truth in my heart," she added, reaching up to swipe a single tear that had escaped, trickling down her cheek. "I will always remember that moment . . . his courage . . . his selflessness."
Tom's grip on his glass tightened to the point where it seemed like it might shatter in his hand any second. He swallowed hard, the vein pulsating in his forehead giving away the strain he was under. His eyes bore into Hermione with an intensity that could have pierced steel.
Around them, the room had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. The men at the table watched the scene unfold in wide-eyed disbelief, their drinks untouched and conversations forgotten. The tension in the air was palpable, a heavy blanket that hung over them all.
Hermione seemed oblivious to this as she continued speaking, reminiscing unabashedly about Lockhart. "He died saving the Muggleborns—me," she said softly, her voice quaking with emotion. "I'll never forget that."
A brassy chuckle escaped from Lestrange, earning him a sharp glower from Nott. Even in his drunken stupor, Nott knew that these were treacherous waters they were treading. The atmosphere around the table was tense, the silence broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair or clink of glassware.
"The monster would have never hurt you, Hermione," Abraxas Malfoy said suddenly, his voice unnervingly calm. He turned his sharp gaze onto Tom, challenging confidently. "We all know that."
The other men shifted uneasily while Tom's gaze never left Hermione, his dark eyes flickering with an undecipherable emotion.
"No one can guarantee that," Hermione replied, her voice trembling. "That girl—Myrtle's—death, that was an accident, wasn't it?"
The question hung in the air, echoing through the silence with a dark resonance. The men exchanged glances. Faces drawn with unease.
A chorus of nervous agreement echoed her words. A hesitant nod here, a murmur of "Of course" there. Every man at the table seemed to be in agreement, except for one.
Around them, the tension rose, thick as smoke, choking. The men at the table collectively held their breaths as they watched their leader's expression shift. A deadly smile curled on his lips but his eyes were devoid of warmth. Cold. Calculating.
Tom hadn't spoken a word, his face as solid and impassive as a marble statue. He simply observed Hermione, his dark, probing eyes never wavering from her flushed face. The intensity of his gaze made her squirm uncomfortably in her seat, but she didn't look away from him.
"Yes, Myrtle's death was an accident." Tom smiled.
"Well, the attacks stopped immediately after Lockhart's disappearance, didn't they?" Abraxas asked, an attempt at levity that fell flat.
"Yes," she finally answered, her voice steady despite the tremors running through her body. "The attacks stopped after Lockhart's death."
Tom blinked, his fingers flexing around his glass before he finally released it. The crystal tumbler clinked loudly against the wooden table as he set it down, the echo resounding through the thick silence. "Accidents happen," Tom finally said, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was calm, controlled, but there was an underlying edge of something dangerous lurking beneath it. "Lockhart, though, was no accident."
The implication hung heavily in the air.
"Oh, Tom!" Hermione said. "That's a horrible thing to say! Of course you can’t possibly mean to say that you think that Hagrid actually meant to kill anyone! But monsters don’t make good pets. It's like you said, he must have just let it out for exercise and—"
She broke off abruptly, her words leaving an uncomfortable silence in its wake. Her eyes were wide and innocent, expecting the men around the table to agree with her.
Malfoy snorted into his drink, his amusement evident in contrast to the heavy tension. Nott grimaced at him but said nothing, his gaze returning to Hermione. She was watchful, wary of their reactions.
"How about Hagrid being the Heir of Slytherin?" Abraxas suggested, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He exhaled a hearty chuckle that bounced off the stone walls of the room and offered no relief from the tension.
At last, Tom released a low chuckle, the sound devoid of any real humor. "The giant oaf could barely string together a coherent sentence," he said, leaning back in his chair with a casualness that contradicted the intensity of his gaze on Hermione. "So, yes, I do find it hard to believe that he could be responsible for such an incident."
"Now you are being frightfully unfair," Hermione retorted, her cheeks blazing with indignation. "Hagrid might lack sophistication but he's not stupid. He'd have to be awfully clever to have found the chamber."
"Well, that's true," Tom acknowledged, stretching out each syllable in a slow drawl.
The men around the table chuckled appreciatively.
"Yes," Hermione said, eager now that she had their agreement. "The chamber remained hidden for centuries . . . only to be stumbled upon by Hagrid? He'd have to be brilliant."
"Again true," Tom conceded, a flicker of amusement igniting in his cold eyes. His gaze drifted to the men surrounding the table, each one holding their breath as they waited for his next move. "But clever isn't quite the word I'd use to describe Hagrid."
"And Lockhart," Hermione added, making Tom's teeth click audibly together. "But we already knew that he was a genius."