Chapter 5
The room around them seemed to shrink, the voices of the men enveloping them into oblivion. It was just him and Hermione now. His dark gaze was fixated on her. He saw the glimmer of resolve in her eyes, growing brighter with each passing second.
* * *
"What? Lockhart?" Hermione whispered.
Lord Voldemort stood over her twirling his wand. "I want you to admit that Lockhart was nothing compared to me."
"Admit it, Hermione," he commanded again, a cruel edge sharpening his voice. "Admit that Lockhart was a fool compared to me."
Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes, her gaze steady despite the tremors coursing through her body. She looked at him defiantly and for a moment, Tom thought she would refuse. But then, she sucked in a shaky breath, steadying herself and said, "Yes."
His lips curled into a triumphant smirk. "Say it," he demanded.
Her voice trembled as she forced out the words. "Lockhart was . . . a f-fool compared to you."
The room seemed to go still at her words. There was no laughter or mockery this time. Tom reveled in Hermione's admission.
Tom sneered at her, drinking in her vulnerability like a starving man. But even as he basked in victory, he couldn't ignore the sparks of doubt.
If he had told Hermione to say: "I am a koala bear," she would have probably said it as well, just to soothe the temper of the man holding the most power—him. The idea was amusing yet chillingly disconcerting.
And she would have. Given the facts. The truth, cold and hard as it was. The realization sent a chill down his spine and he found himself searching her face for something—anything that wasn’t the absolute terror he could see right now.
Her apathy was a blow to his ego, a stark contrast to what he had imagined earlier. The realization that he had forced her into submission didn't sit well with him. He wanted her respect, not her fear.
Well, he wanted her fear, too, but also her respect.
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line, holding back tears.
He needed her to know that it was the truth. That they were nothing compared to him. That he was the greatest sorcerer the world had ever seen, the most brilliant mind to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts.
"Admit it, Hermione," he said again, his voice low and dangerous. "They were nothing compared to me."
"Tom . . . " Hermione's voice trembled as she spoke his name, a hint of desperation in her tone.
Her eyes were glassy orbs, reflecting his dark figure and the flickering lights of the room. But there was no backing down now.
"Of course they were nothing compared to you. Brilliant, clever, handsome Tom Riddle." Hermione's voice broke on the last word, a sob hitching in her throat.
It had been an easy thing to lure her down to the Chamber. She had been thrilled to accompany him, feeling privileged to be asked, to be singled out from the rest by Tom Riddle himself.
He had always wanted to show her the Chamber of Secrets. It had annoyed him that he couldn’t share it with her. It had been the first thing. Only the fact that he felt that Hermione would strongly object to killing a major amount of the school’s population had prevented him.
"But . . . Tom . . . " her voice wavered, sounding more like a plea. She was quaking, eyes darting nervously between his face and the monstrous serpent behind him.
The cold, sinister smile that bloomed on his face did nothing to assuage her fears. Hermione's judgement may have been impaired by terror, but she wasn't blind. He watched as she paled upon taking in his nonchalant posture and the wand pointed at her.
"So, you want proof? Is that it?" he enquired, feeling a sense of dark exhilaration rush through him. His voice echoed ominously around the chamber walls like ripples spreading through water.
"I . . . I don't . . . Tom, please," Hermione stuttered out weakly. She appeared tiny, trapped in the vast expanse of the Chamber.
A low chuckle escaped him as he gestured towards the Basilisk with his wand. The snaking creature began to mirror his movements – calm and controlled, its lethal eyes averted from the trembling girl. Its gigantic frame slithered around him, a deadly dance of intimidation designed to emphasize his power.
Her breath hitched horribly as the beast's towering form weaved gracefully through the stone and shadow, an embodiment of deadly charisma. The girl lay petrified, her pleading eyes mirroring the flicker of magic-lit torches on damp walls.
"Will this do?" He asked, a gleeful edge to his voice. He could feel her fear radiating out, coating the chamber with the scent of their impending game.
The Basilisk shifted, its huge body coiling closer. Tom watched Hermione's face blanch at the sight of the enormous serpent. He reveled in her horror, absorbing it as proof of his power, his control.
"No!" she cried out in response but the cry was cut off by a low hiss. The Basilisk arched its head, forked tongue tasting the air between them. She recoiled, crying out again but louder this time.
"Or perhaps you've seen enough?" he asked with deceptive sweetness. He flicked his wand again; the Basilisk stilled, its predatory gaze hidden under its lids, but still locked onto Hermione.
Tom looked at Hermione's terrified face once more. His heart was pounding with lunatic glee but beneath it all lurked a longing for satisfaction. She would have to give him his due, now.
"I'm not asking you to fight the Basilisk, Hermione,” he said, his voice dangerously low. His gaze carved into her very soul as he slowly began to circle her, like a predator stalking its prey. “I'm simply asking you to acknowledge reality."
The annoying thing was that Hermione seemed more concerned with being eaten by the giant snake than she was in giving him his due. “The snake won’t attack you unless I tell it to,” he said, annoyed.
"And what if you tell it to?" Hermione retorted, her voice fraught with tremors.
He took a step closer to her, the flickering light causing sharp shadows across his face. "Then I suppose you'll have to trust me."
She swallowed hard, a whirlwind of fear broadcasting in her wide eyes. And yet, she held her ground, staring at him defiantly. As the silence deepened, their breaths filled the air—his calm and steady, hers quick and shallow. It was an intoxicating symphony that showcased their drastically contrasting states.
The ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "Oh, don't look so frightened," Tom said, his tone lighter than before yet still bearing the chilling edge. "You know I won't let it hurt you."
She looked away first, her lips pressed in a tight line as tear drops trickled down her reddening cheeks. Words meant to placate him echoed in the silence, but they rang hollow. Hermione’s eyes betrayed the lie. They told a tale of fear, of a girl trapped in a cage not of her own making.
“I told it, way back then, not to hurt you.”
“I-It was really you . . . Not Hagrid. Lockhart, Myrtle . . . It was you. Tom," she whispered, dragging his name out painfully slow like a sickening mantra.
She had been a bit hazy ever since he put her under the Cruciatus Curse. He cursed himself for his lack of foresight. He had just been so angry. It was an appropriate punishment.
She had fallen on the way to the Chamber. For a moment, Tom had been worried that he would have to interrupt his plan, but she had assured him all was well, promised him, clutching her side underneath her breast.
"Good girl," he purred, his voice honeyed but laced with an edge sharper than dragon scales.
Laughter, harsh and mocking, fractured the silence like shattering crystal.
Her voice was nothing more than a whisper now, muffled by the heavy silence in the room. "You've always been the best, Tom." She trailed off, her gaze darting between his sneering visage and the approaching monster. She was shaking now; whether from fear or anger, he couldn't tell.
Then she simply closed her eyes.
When he touched her hand, it was cold. He frowned. It must be the chill from the stone floor.
"You are an amazing wizard, you always w-were.”
"Look at it, Hermione," Tom ordered, his voice cutting through the tense silence. But Hermione’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaking down her dust-filled cheeks, her whole body trembling uncontrollably.
His gaze was trained with cruel patience on the quivering girl.
As much as he reveled in her terror, something about her reaction chafed at his ego. Tom inclined his head to one side thoughtfully.
The way her eyes lit up as she took in the sinister beauty of the Chamber, it had been both thrilling and alarming. The fact that she willingly followed him into the heart of danger stood as a testament to her trust or, perhaps, recklessness.
That was what he wanted. The fact that she now refused him his due, that adulation of hers that had always been his, vexed him.
"Admit it one last time, Hermione," Tom's voice echoed throughout the room. "They are nothing compared to me."
There was a pause in which he stared at her: a silent entreaty against stark ultimatum.
At last, Hermione nodded stiffly, her lips moving slowly to form the dreaded words that would seal her fate. "Yes . . . they were nothing . . . compared to you."
Tom smiled at her confirmation although it felt hollow and somehow pyrrhic. "Yes," Tom agreed readily with her compliment, though his lips twisted into a smirk. It wasn't enough.
Though . . .
His lips twisted in satisfaction as he heard her words. Her compliments ricocheted through his mind, feeding his destructive ego. Tension crackled between the two of them like static, filling the air with an energy that was both thrilling and terrifying. His grip tightened on his wand, but he did not strike. Not yet.
"I . . . " Hermione seemed to swallow around a lump in her throat that hadn't been there before, but she pushed forward. "I believe you have the potential to be great, Tom."
Tom's smile was mirthless and cruel. "Potential?" He echoed back at her, his voice a low purr of amusement.
"Yes." Hermione gave a weak nod. "Incredibly so."
"Then swear your loyalty to me," he demanded, taking an intimidating step towards her. "Pledge yourself to me, and you will live."
"What?" Her voice was a mere echo in the cold chamber.
He closed the gap between them, towering over her small form. He lowered his face to hers until their noses almost touched, his dark gaze boring into her bright ones.
"Swear your loyalty to me, Hermione. Only then will I spare your life," He repeated, his voice firm yet soft like a lover's whisper in the dead of night.
With that, he drew back slightly so he could see the myriad of emotions splashing across her face. It was the fear that shone the brightest, giving him a sense of cold satisfaction.
Her lips parted as if she were about to say something. Then closed again.
The silence in the Chamber settled over them like an unwelcome guest. He watched her.
“You—You always had my loyalty, Tom,” she whispered labourously.
He should feel victorious. He had won, after all; He had had her say what he wanted—not what he feared above anything else, except death—to hear. But it felt too simple for Hermione, somehow.
“But I c-can’t support you in this,” she breathed out hoarsely, each word twisted with conviction, even if her body was shaking from pain and exhaustion.
His smirk grew wider at the flicker of defiance she struggled to maintain, even as pallor ghosted her features and her voice trembled with fear.
“Perhaps another dose of the Cruciatus will change your mind.”
“No-o-o!” There was real fear in her voice. She coughed weakly, turning her head away from him.
He really hadn’t expected Hermione to be this feeble, she was usually tougher than this. Tom was familiar with the after effects of the Cruciatus Curse—very familiar—and this seemed . . . a bit excessive.
It had been a mistake, he admitted, to subject her to the Cruciatus Curse before getting her to admit that he was the greatest sorcerer in the world.
Since she wasn’t doing it, he had to take over the praising of himself, himself.
After a while he thought her stillness was downright rude.
“I can break you, Hermione,” he said quietly. Yet he didn't move to touch her. “I can give you all the pain in the world until your mind shatters and whatever left of you kneels before me.”
She was still quiet. She didn’t even turn her head towards him.
Well, if she weren’t even going to do him that courtesy . . .
"I guess one last time won't hurt," he sneered cruelly, raising his arm dramatically before lowering it in a swift motion. "Crucio.”
She didn’t move.
Her hand when he touched it was ice-cold.
A small stream of blood ran from the side of her mouth she had hidden in her wild hair.
The Matron and the Healers from St. Mungo’s all agreed, when he had returned with her dead body, that there was nothing he could have done. The broken rib had pierced her lung.
Why she had not healed herself was anybody’s guess. She must have lost her wand. Maybe that was what had happened. She had pierced the lung looking for her wand. A broken rib was ordinarily not that dangerous, unless some physical exertion caused it to pierce another organ.
* * *
She would've said it too. The words that had crossed her trembling lips would have meant nothing, they were in truth mere echoes of his own will.
His thumb traced the rim of his glass, the ice inside clinking against the crystal. Hermione, all flushed cheeks and wide eyes, was carefully avoiding his gaze now. She looked at everyone but him.
"Enough about Lockhart," he commanded, voice cold as ice, cutting through the thick silence like a knife. His gaze never left Hermione, studying every flicker in her soft brown eyes. "He is not the one sitting among us."
A nervous murmur resonated through the room, their laughter a pathetic attempt to lighten the atmosphere. But none could ignore Tom's chilling words. They were reminded suddenly of who they were dealing with—a man capable of unspeakable darkness. Which, truth be told, was how Tom preferred it.
Hermione’s eyes flickered towards him for a brief moment before looking away.
The corners of Tom's lips twitched upwards in an unconsciously sinister smile as he raised his glass for a toast. "To our lost Professor Lockhart. May his remains one day be found."