We'll never get free
Lamb to the slaughter
What you gon' do when there's blood in the water?
The price of your greed is your son and your daughter
What you gon' do when there's blood in the water?
_________________________
* * * NOW * * *
To Tom Riddle life is all about power.
He yearns to harness it. To possess it. To master it.
The need lives in him, it ignites him.
He feeds it with his rage, his fury. Sacrifices his anger on the altar of control. And wields it over every aspect of his life.
Even this one. Though his dominance is hard-won. And rare is the thing that Tom Riddle finds difficult. But if she is anything she is that, difficult.
She swallows and his hand flexes involuntarily as he brings his focus back to the woman squirming beneath him.
That fire that so drew him to her from the moment he first caught a glimpse of it is burning bright. Still alight in whisky eyes, half concealed beneath a tangle of wild honey hair as she continues to fight, despite the fact that she is clearly losing this long drawn out battle of theirs.
For once and for all.
His fingers tighten reflexively as she moves. That thrumming pulse jumps, quickens. An erratic staccato beneath his palm.
Her gasp is short and sharp yet it thunders through him. Raising the hair on the back of his neck and turning his blood molten.
Her hands are caught, a sticking charm keeping them useless above her head. Though her chest heaves, expanding and contracting. Hypnotic, captivating as she shallowly breathes in and out, as careful as she can be of his grasp on her throat. All too conscious of his body holding her down, thighs braced against the outside of her own as he looms above her.
She shifts in his grasp again despite her vulnerable position, eyes blazing at him. Her hips twist and her bare feet search for purchase as she growls and attempts to buck him off her body.
How he can ever have thought her to be a scared little mouse escapes him. She is passion and heat, hidden behind a wall of ice so thick he almost missed it.
In fact they are more similar than he could have ever expected. The surprise of it is a shock he is unaccustomed to.
In reality there is little that Tom can truly feel. Surprise, sadness, joy. Mere words on a page, something to study, to learn. Something to mimic. True emotion doesn’t come easily for him. They say he was born without it, without the capability to feel. But Tom knows better.
There is one. One emotion he can’t tame, that he can’t escape.
It burns in him. A flame perpetually lit. An uncontrollable fire in the pit of his belly. A heat that when let loose can consume the world and raze it to the ground. A rage that powers his every action, lingers behind every emotion he emulates from others. A fury that he has long thought unmatched.
Until now. Until her.
That same rage lives within her. He can see it. He has watched it manifest, that same lick of flame. He’s watched it rise up and vibrate through her, even if no one else can see it. She has a hunger for violence. For retribution. For supremacy. Like him she has killed before. Maimed. Punished those who would defy her. Brought down those who oppose her. And like him, she too can ignite with nary a spark.
That in itself is perhaps not so novel. Tom has met many a furious soul in his life. Many who would choose violence. Who dwell in the darkness until it consumes them.
But Hermione, somehow, does not.
He has seen her compassion. Witnessed her small kindnesses in everyday things. So seemingly good that her light shines like a beacon. So bright she can so easily be dismissed as nothing more than kind. And to Tom’s chagrin he almost does.
But it’s there, the rage. Just as deep and foundational as his own. And all the more potent for the light it’s tied to.
It fascinates him. The force of her anger. And the depths that she will go to. They’re both willing to do whatever it takes for the ones they care about. It just so happens that Tom only cares for himself.
And it shows. No matter how he tries there is an energy within that wizards can’t help but feel. Power emanates from him, a menacing aura that all the charm and smiles in the world cannot mask. People fear him, some without even knowing why.
But Hermione? Her facade is flawless. She invites kindness and confidences. He watches as the older staff seek to nurture and protect her, like some poor wounded creature. When inside she is a wild thing, feral and without mercy when provoked. And Tom finds himself fascinated by the deception. The intricate weave of her darkness through the fabric of who people think she is. The artistry of it. The sheer poetry of her hidden rage.
But when she lets it loose she is fierce in it. Incandescent. Blinding. She is the foil to him in most everything but that. Her soft shell hides an inner warrior. A fighter. Determined to win, at any cost. And she has chosen him as her opponent.
Tom can respect that. A razor-sharp smile slashes his face as his gaze bores into hers. His slightly too long hair curling over his eyes, yet doing nothing to mask the lick of red dancing within them. The shudder that racks her body echoes in his own, setting him aflame in a much different way.
Like the prey she is, she scents danger. Twisting once more futilely beneath his hands and his body. Fighting for breath, for escape. For control.
But what she hasn’t realized is that she is fighting a god.
Point: Tom
_____________________
Look me in my eyes
Tell me everything's not fine
Oh, the people ain't happy
And the river has run dry
_____________________
* * * BEFORE * * *
It was all coming to a head. This little game that they played.
She tried so hard, his little mouse, her gaze skittered away from his piercing one. she hoped to evade, to elude him. To escape the inevitable.
She never took the same path twice from her quarters. From Binn’s old classroom, to the hall or the library. He knew she hadn’t attended Hogwarts with him so how did she always seem to know just where he would be and how to avoid him?
It was maddening. Infuriating.
It was exhilarating.
Having her on the back foot. Afraid, still with that touch of anger and heat whenever their gazes met. If only fleetingly. Too aware of all she would give away if he was only given the opportunity.
But it would all end soon. The running. The hiding. He would peel her open, carve her out, and spill her secrets. Willing or not.
She had run from him again that evening but he had her now. In his sights, oblivious to his presence, at one with the shadows in the room. Invisible even if she were to wake before he was ready.
He had finally cracked the warding on her quarters. Combinations he had never seen, even with his extensive research and travels. Some even more gray than he expected, borderline dark. Layered with curses. Ones that scarred and maimed. Cruel. Beautiful.
She looked so peaceful in repose. Her mouth slack, those amber eyes veiled by inky lashes on fair cheeks. The hair he once thought ordinary and dowdy, alive in russet and gold tones of chaotic whorls spread across her pillow. He wanted to grab the coils, to pull tight until whisky eyes watered and her mouth gaped in a gasping cry. He wanted her in chaos. He wanted her pain and tears. He wanted her to fight. His spine tingled and his muscles tightened, the anticipation building in him as she slept on.
So calm. So unaware. So vulnerable.
He had only to fit his eager hands about her throat for her eyes to whip open and he was inside. Bursting through like a battering ram, her shields crumbled easily in front of such an unexpected aggressive attack. He moved through her mind fiercely, quickly, tearing down doors and walls. Searching, seeking the answers that had eluded him these past few months. Her desires, her fears, her secrets. Every single one of them. Wanting to take everything, until she was raw and wounded and flayed open.
He was through the final barriers in a heartbeat. Days, weeks, months to get there, and when he does he finds himself not swimming in memories but instead standing on the shore of a glassy lake. Familiar and yet eerily other. The Black Lake, but instead red, blood red. Still and silent. And at once he knows that all her secrets must lie beneath the deceptive calm of the shadowy depths.
Tom took a step into the crimson waters and suddenly in the stillness she was there. Calf deep in the shallows. Wrapped in the stark white gauzy material that she had been wearing in her bed she stood unafraid. Her back straight, shoulders squared. Her gaze was direct, there in her mind, in a way she had been desperate to avoid before for fear of this very thing.
This was her last stand. And with the knowledge and the acceptance that she would fight him to the very bottom of the lake, to the very last breath he was filled with something that he could only call glee.
Finally, a worthy opponent.
Their battle was fierce and brutal, the pain resonated in his own head even as he hammered at hers. It was the hardest he had ever fought but ultimately, as Tom had known he would, he prevailed. Breaking through the now roiling surface she gasped one last time as his hands pushed her down. Her limbs weak, tired, resigned to her fate as she succumbed. Finally.
And she did, completely. She gave him everything, but in a way that only she could, fiercely and with all the strength she had left. Throwing it at him so quickly he could barely process it. Battering him with it. His past, his future, all she had done in the present to thwart him, all he had done in the future to breed her rage. All the death, pain. The madness. All his triumphs and his ultimate mistakes. And more, all he could do to be different. Better. To win.
As he dragged her below the glimmering garnet surface he found it odd that of all the information he sought to glean, the mysteries of past, present, and future that had been blown wide open to him it is her name that he sought first. Her true name.
Hermione Granger.
Sent to fix the past. To prevent a war. To destroy him. Only to be the one to have given him everything. All tied up in a bow.
What a gift, his Hermione.
Point - Tom
_________________________________
You thought you could go free
But the system is done for
If you listen real closely
There's a knock at your front door
_________________________________________
* * * NOW * * *
She writhes beneath him and his blood begins to boil. In a decidedly different way than it had just moments before.
She has lost one battle, his Hermione. All her plans. All her sacrifice is for naught. She can’t fight the knowledge. But she is a fighter. And she fights still.
But like him that fight has become something else. His rage is turning to something more. A more that he sees reflected in her tawny hooded eyes glancing up beneath wildly coiling honey locks. In stuttered gasping breaths, an erratically beating heart and soft parted lips. And Tom is suddenly and wholly overcome with a need to capture them with his own. To nip and bite. To make her cry and moan. To hear her sob.
In pain? In pleasure? Perhaps both?
So he does. Leaning in to capture those warm parted lips with his own.
Hermione surges up as much as she can just as he swoops down. Their meeting is vicious. The war continued. She's eager and wicked as she suckles and nips at him, her bite a sharp sting that has him pulling back abruptly his own chest heaving.
He sits up one hand fists in her hair pulling her head tightly so that her back arches sharply, her breasts thrusting towards him, her body quivering from the assault. His other leaves her throat, his touch imprinted raw and red on her skin to swipe at his mouth. A smear of red there and the taste of copper ignites him and he swears viciously. The pain is short lived but he feels. He feels. And she has done this. Brought him an ache that burns deep in his soul. Or what’s left of it.
He watches as her mouth twitches in satisfaction, even in her vulnerable position. Her sly tongue darts out to moisten dry lips and sweep a droplet of ruby red into her mouth. Her groan when it comes is guttural. Hips moving restlessly beneath him.
And suddenly Tom wants . He wants desperately.
That wicked tongue, that sinful mouth on him. He wants to fill her with himself. He wants to further enmesh his fingers in her hair, tightening until tears pool in her eyes. And he wants to watch those tears fall as she swallows him down. Red rimmed and glassy eyed as she chokes on him.
When their eyes meet, glacier blue to amber fire he can tell she wants it too. The game they’ve been playing has changed. This battle between them two alone.
There is still rage in her eyes, in the taut line of her body as he releases her hands only to notch them together at the small of her back. But there is desire too, a yearning to be used. And to use. She shudders, a mixture of fear and need, as he pulls her to her knees simultaneously delving into her mind.
That same scarlet lake is no longer placid and smooth. The waves are roiling with the chaos in her mind. But the heat, the heat is palpable. Her passions still burning, a fire that not even he can snuff out.
She watches every move he makes, eyes heavy lidded as he unbuttons his trousers. He would think she despises him if not for the way she licks swollen lips like a woman parched … for him . Her body trembles in anticipation as he pulls her forward. His own echoes her excitement.
He revels in how eagerly she opens her mouth, tongue out to catch that first salty sweet drop at the tip of his crown. He feels in her mind that rush of fire that flows through her body straight to pool molten at her core as he pulls those moist soft lips down his shaft until her nose touches flesh. Her throat constricts as she gags and Tom can’t help but groan. His body is beyond his control but he can’t bring himself to fight it. He’s enraptured by the crystalline tears that drip down smooth porcelain skin as he moves her over him again and again.
Her gaze paints her a fierce resistor but her guttural moans and the desperate suction of her mouth betrays her. Warm, wet and longing to wring every last drop from him as if she can siphon out his soul. And when he reaches the point of no return, lightning striking up his back, his knees locking as he bends over her with a hoarse shout, Tom can almost swear she does just that.
Point : Hermione
_____________________________
We'll never get free
Lamb to the slaughter
What you gon' do when there's blood in the water?
The price of your greed is your son and your daughter
What you gon' do when there's blood in the water?
When there's blood in the
(Uh, uh)
When there's blood in the
(Uh, uh)
______________________________
* * * BEFORE * * *
She hated him. Of that Tom was finally certain. She had seemed disinterested at first. An emotion that Tom could not recall ever having inspired before. But it had become clearer as time had gone on that the new History of Magic Professor truly despised him.
For a woman he had barely interacted with outside of staff meetings and quick greetings in the hall or at mealtimes, it was curious.
His facade since returning to Hogwarts had been commendable. Having the oversight of the newly appointed Headmaster Dumbledore looming over him incessantly necessitated it. And so Tom had gone to much trouble to keep his more nefarious tendencies strictly beyond the school walls. His position as DADA professor was precarious, there was no doubt that he had been given it under duress, but necessary for his plans. To keep him beyond suspicion in wizarding society as he went about enacting his goals by any means necessary.
Dumbledore however, to Tom’s surprise and despite the wizard’s warning to the contrary, had rarely crossed his path in the past months.
However she, Helena Greene as he learned the new Professor was called, she was everywhere.
They rarely exchanged a word. But he could feel her. Her eyes on him. Always.
A mere irritant at first. Almost an insult , Tom had thought. That Dumbledore believed him so little a threat that he left his pathetic little underling to keep tabs on him.
But that was before .
Before Dumbledore had suggested practical demonstrations in DADA. An idea Tom had initially scoffed at for who truly could hope to keep up with him? But at the wizard’s insistence Tom eventually relented, resigned to holding himself back. An idea he inherently despised.
Before she had walked into his classroom as unassuming as ever and declared that she would be his opponent.
Before she had parried his first assault, silently. And reciprocated wand-lessly. At the same time.
Before he watched her once mousey features transform. Her eyes lit with fire and fury, her hair wild and sparking, falling out of the perfectly coiffed style that witches preferred and growing by the minute.
Before he watched her hurl seemingly innocuous spells and charms in far more dangerous ways than most would use curses and hexes. Things far more gray than he would have expected and others borderline dark.
Before a simple cutting spell meant for cloth and household chores found him with her initials, HG, carved into the back of his hand. Permanently.
Before at first blood, in front of all his Newt- level students, Tom Riddle had found himself having to claim defeat or risk taking her life in a thunderous rage right then and there.
He watched her then, eyes flinty, the sharp lines of his jaw tight. Teeth grinding together. Holding himself back, pushing down the humiliation and reassuring himself that if he had not had to pander to these children and Dumbledore that she would never have gotten something so simple past him.
And he was almost able to believe that he had imagined it all. That she had just had a lucky shot while he was working to not give himself away. Her entire demeanor in the aftermath once more cowed, and quiet. Her shoulders hunched as she tried in vain to pull her hair back into some semblance of order.
But their eyes caught, for a moment. Two, before her gaze skittered away, her hands nervously fluttered as he thanked her for her assistance and the children fared her well as she scrambled to reach the door.
But in that one moment he saw everything. Saw that she was much more than what she portrayed. For in that brief heartbeat where their eyes held and lingered hers were full of fire. Of fury. Alight with that red lick of flame that he saw each day in his own mirrored gaze.
But even more was the hint of satisfaction. Of pleasure in his shame and his defeat. In his anger. A glee that seemed so at odds with the persona he had come to know that he paused a moment too long, and she was gone.
It was of no matter. Even in a school as grand as Hogwarts she wouldn’t be difficult to find.
And now Tom knew that there was something different about Helena Greene. Something possibly as dark and twisted as what lived in him. The memory etched in his skin forevermore.
And now Tom would be watching her too.
Point - Hermione
_________________________
Beg me for mercy
Admit you were toxic
You poisoned me just for
Another dollar in your pocket
___________________________
* * * NOW * * *
He watches her still as he catches his breath. Sweat beads on his brow and is running down the smooth lines of his back, cooling quickly and pimpling his skin to gooseflesh. His hands have gone slack, his whole body is boneless in fact, and she pulls away from him easily. Rocking back on her heels she licks puffy lips and hums, guttural and satisfied. The sound moves through him in a tremble he can’t hold back that rolls down his spine.
His gaze is hooded as he marks the tear tracks drying on her face. Her mouth bruised and swollen, hair knotted in tangles about her face. There is a wicked glint in her eye and a sensual twist to her lips that stokes the embers of the heat he has thought smothered only moments before.
It comes to Tom quite suddenly that she is, in fact, beautiful.
An odd thought, one he has never had before.
Tom knows, empirically, that he himself is considered by many to be handsome. It is a fact he has used to his advantage a time or two. Though he hardly understands it. Of course he can recognize when something isn’t pleasing to the eye. Aesthetics are one thing, but beauty? Beauty escapes him.
Yet looking at her now it is clear that Hermione is beautiful. Though he can’t pinpoint exactly why.
Her skin is soft and smooth, like silk beneath his calloused fingers.
Her hair is wild and almost sentient. He loves the feel of it tangled around his fingers, as if it doesn’t want to let him go.
Her eyes are honeyed amber until angered, when passion deepens them to a malted whiskey. The very color they are now, highlighting the smirk that rests on her face.
That sultry gaze is fixed on him, traveling up his thighs to where his trousers are still open and pulled low on his hips. To the disheveled state of his shirt, buttons and tails untucked.
He can feel the tight clench of his jaw and the still erratic beating of his heart as her eyes trace over the pulse pounding there. His own hair is in disarray, the normally artfully tousled curls are slick and stuck up every which way, and he fights the urge to run his hands through and set some order to the locks. A nervous habit he has long outgrown. He has come undone and it irks him that she is there to witness it.
And while the tension within him seems to wind ever tighter she does the thing he least expects.
Satisfied in her power and in the very proof of his loss of control before her, she laughs. Her head thrown back in abandon, a burst both sinful and sharp. The sound making those embers that simmered away in his pelvis burst once more into a burning flame.
Tom suddenly growls, swooping down to lift her from the floor. The laughing stops but a fierce little growl escapes Hermione as he tosses her none too gently onto the bed behind her. The cry spurs him to urgency as he rucks off his trousers before he follows her down to the soft bed and rumpled sheets where only moments before he had held her very life in his hands and delved deep into her mind.
Now he wants to plunder her in a completely different way.
Peeling off his shirt he follows her down. The spell holding her hands has dissipated along with his brain matter. She lays braced on her elbows, her thin satin nightgown bunched about her waist, one leg slightly bent up at the knee. Sloe eyes watch him carefully, with an intensity that has never been wholly focused on him before, not without fear or pain. Her gaze holds neither, only the passion that he wants to harness, to consume, to keep for his own.
She is a goddess and for the first time he wants to worship something.
His calloused fingers smooth up silken calves to knead at firm thighs, his lips following in their wake. She is warm and alive, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon cling to her skin, a delicious combination when paired with the shuddering trembles she cannot seem to control.
He can hear her sharp gasp as he delves beneath her satin shift with questing fingers, ripping at the flimsy cloth barrier hiding her center from him.
Tom does not wait, needing more than anything in that moment to have his mouth on her. Slotting his broad shoulders between her thighs he uses one hand to clutch at the creamy flesh there keeping her open for him. His other arm bands across her waist to keep her still just where he needs her.
He bites at the flesh just at the junction of her leg and her pelvis. Hermione tries to sit up sharply to no avail. Her piercing cry is almost drowned out by the rush of blood to his head at the thought of marking her. He soothes the sting with his tongue mapping the little indents before blowing softly across them. A smirk crosses his lips in a crimson slash as her incoherent babbles reach his ears.
He glances up, still blowing softly on her while nuzzling lightly at the heart of her with his nose and the light stubble on his chin and cheeks, not enough to stimulate her the way she needs but just enough to make her crazy.
She is a vision.
Her back arches, chest heaving and flushed as she tries to get closer to no avail. She has pulled a strap of her creamy ivory gown, just a shade lighter than her skin, below one softly rounded globe. The smirk falls off his face as he watches her pinch sharply at one rosy nipple, her other hand curved around his restraining arm in a vice-like grip.
Her lashes flutter open, eyes dark and deep when they meet his own. His heart rate kicks up a notch watching her, watching him. He holds her gaze as he finally bends his head and deigns to give her some release, showing her who is truly in charge.
The first taste of her is divine, sweet and musky on his questing tongue, and Tom already knows it is one he will crave forever.
Both hands have moved to her restless hips to hold her steady, and Hermione takes advantage of the new-found freedom to wrap her legs around his back. Her fingers tunnel in his hair, at turns pushing and pulling at him, in time to the symphony of moans coming from above. Her eager response is an aphrodisiac all its own, sending sparks of need shooting through him once more.
It occurs to Tom that he could die happily like this, smothered by her thighs and her quim. Nipping, licking and suckling to the tune of her body as she moans and rocks into him as much as his tight grip will allow.
He knows she is close, he can feel her limbs trembling and he pulls away to the sounds of a keening wail. Tom raises up to his elbows, her legs splayed wide as they slip from his shoulders down his arms.
Hermione is disheveled, undone. She wears her gown like a belt crumpled under her breasts. Her creamy skin is painted in purples and reds. Bruised from his fingers, on her hips and legs. Her thighs raw from his kisses and the rub of his stubble on their satiny softness. Her hair lays about her in a damp tangled weave. And her eyes? They burn.
She is totally and completely infuriated. Her nostrils flare and she bares her teeth at him. Her nails rake at the skin of his forearms, drawing blood, trying to pull him down and pull herself closer. She is almost feral in her desire. And Tom revels in it. Wants to consume her fury, to drown in it.
“What do you want, Hermione?” he asks softly, calmly. As if he doesn’t know, as if he doesn't have a care in the world. Knowing it will only enrage her further but needing the answer.
She shrieks at him and tosses her head back, eyes lifting to the ceiling. The sudden silence is telling. She tries to ignore it, what brought them here, what brought them together. Who they are.
But he doesn’t want her to forget. He wants her to give in.
It takes time. Too long perhaps, and Tom is swamped with the sudden and inexplicable urge to fidget. He tamps it down ruthlessly but it is there, tunneling beneath the surface. An itch between his shoulder blades. Wanting is horrid. He has always hated the wanting of something. He obtains, as a rule. He rarely gives himself the time to want. But he wants her. Moreover he wants to know what she’s thinking but the waves in her mind have settled again.
Is she turning over the confirmation that he knows her true name perhaps? Deciding how to escape him, elude him maybe? Is she cursing him for winding her up so completely, only to stop? Is she planning revenge? Or contemplating his death once more in the myriad of ways he has learned from her plundered thoughts she has done idly all these long months.
Or is she weighing the merits of giving in? Of giving herself over to him. Is she as desperate as he is? Because he knows, as she does, that this - giving herself over to this thing between them - will change everything.
He waits. Patience has ever been his strong suit, and it will not fail him today.
When she finally locks eyes with him once more the passion is still there, the fury and the anger and he knows. He feels it in her heated gaze as it drifts down to linger on his parted lips and to the straining cords of his neck. Over the smooth expanse of his chest, to dip down further to his aching cock that has become like steel between his thighs. It's in her grip as it tightens, nails digging deeper into his arms, the furrows opening further. Her legs tightening, heels digging into his back sharply, the pressure pulling him forward.
But he knows he’s won when the words slip from her mouth, frustrated and furious. But still needy. Her pelvis bucks almost as if her greedy cunt echoes her plea, “Tom, pleeeeeasssseee.”
His smile is wicked as he obliges.
Point - Tom.
______________________________
Now I am the violence
I am the sickness
Won't accept your silence
Beg me for forgiveness
______________________________
* * * BEFORE * * *
She’s a quiet little thing. Tom thought to himself as the woman scurried past him with barely a greeting once more.
Term had yet to start but he had seen a disproportionate amount of the brown haired, brown eyed slip of a girl. He assumed she was a professor but their first staff meeting was scheduled for the next week so he could not be certain. There had been some notable changes at Hogwarts since his own school days. With Dumbledore’s appointment as headmaster so too had come some fresh blood.
Yet Tom couldn’t complain as he was one of them. Newly minted Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Or DADA for short, though he hated it, the juvenile nickname. It cheapened the position somehow, the prestige of it. The merit of being someone so knowledgeable of the dark arts that he could be expected to teach young minds to defend against it.
The position was merely a stepping stone, of course. A way to research and acquire knowledge and artifacts that may otherwise be considered suspect. He had gone as far as he could with Borgin and Burkes, and had achieved less than he cared to admit when he had ventured off on his own. Hogwarts, and being a professor there, brought with it legitimacy. And he hated to say opened doors that not even Abraxas’ money could tap into without a certain unwanted regard.
He had been proud to be one of the youngest members on staff. Though he would never have admitted out loud.
However this woman seemed even younger. And it grated.
Dippet had turned him down shortly after graduation, citing his age. And this slip of a girl looked barely out of the school room. He hoped that she was merely an apprentice, perhaps with the medi-witch? Or divination? Which was a laugh as a class, as one either had the sight or didn’t. It couldn't be taught.
But whoever she was, she was everywhere. In the dungeons, in the library, the Great Hall. Everywhere he was, she was there too. A quiet, dull little mouse, she would have almost faded into the background except that there were only a handful of people at the school. She would scarper past him in the halls, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched and body turned away as if he had a disease she could catch just by looking at him.
As a rule, people’s opinions didn’t bother him. They were insects, why would he care what an insignificant pitiful creature thought of him? In truth, the only time he had ever truly been angered by someone’s perception of him had ended rather poorly for them. And left him with some rather beautiful heirlooms and a step closer to immortality. A win really, in Tom’s books.
But something about this girl bothered him. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly. The specifics eluded him. But it was there all the same. Like an itch between his shoulder blades. He could feel it but he could not quite reach it. And it irritated him.
Tom didn’t let much frustrate him these days. It either didn’t affect him at all or he took care of it.
But it would be mighty suspect if even before his first day teaching a member of staff ended up missing. Or worse.
And all for what? A niggling feeling that there was something off with this woman? A woman whose name he still didn’t know, even a few weeks on? Just a few short days out from the start of the school year.
He didn’t care of course. She was nothing. But at the same time … Tom didn’t like not knowing things. He had been kept in the dark about his power, his father. He despised the feeling. The uncertainty.
It didn’t help that she seemed to be on friendly terms with everyone else. Even that oaf of a games keeper, Hagrid. How the old fool had ever let that bumbling idiot back into the school in any capacity Tom would never know. The very thought of having possibly been denied a position when that towering buffoon was welcome set his blood to boil and curses piling up in his head.
Luckily it was not a thought to be borne.
But it irked him. That she would smile and touch his arm when he spewed on about his blasted creatures. That she gossiped with Minerva, and laughed - even despite herself at times it seemed - at Hooches’ bawdy jokes.
She spoke earnestly with Flitwick and he seemed to see her as a peer despite the gap in age. And even Ol’ Sluggy, as they had liked to call his former head of house, fawned over her in a way that Tom had only ever seen the man do for him.
It was disconcerting to say the least.
But the worst had to be Dumbledore. This unknown witch had his ear. He found them often, in quiet corridors. On the grounds walking, heads bent together. Even once he had seen her slipping from the almost impenetrable swirling staircase that led to the Headmaster’s office.
If he hadn’t known better, he would have inferred that something a little more was going on between the two. With a wizard’s longevity the difference in ages was almost negligible, but Tom did know better. Though why the thought still poked at him he didn’t know.
In the end he resolved to let the matter rest. The girl with her dull brown hair, and meek demeanor, who could not even bring herself to lift her gaze much less wave a hand in greeting, was nothing.
What color were her eyes? Tom wondered as she slipped by him again, those thick lashes hiding her from him once more. Were they same honey dripping over chocolate as her soft looking hair? Or more a hazel green like the Scottish hillside in the fog? He couldn’t picture her with eyes like the sky no matter how hard he tried.
He shrugged and resigned to never know and vowed to toss the thoughts away as insignificant. Timid little mice didn’t interest him one bit. Not even ones with smooth looking porcelain skin, who when she passed left behind an enticing scent, vanilla mixed with something wild and hot and sweet.
Not one little bit. He thought to himself. More times than he cared to count in the coming weeks.
Point - Hermione
_________________________
We'll never get free
Lamb to the slaughter
What you gon' do when there's blood in the water?
The price of your greed, your son and your daughter
What you gon' do when there's blood in the water?
When there's blood in the water
(Uh, uh)
When there's blood in the
(Uh, uh)
___________________________
* * * NOW * * *
Triumphant Tom came up to his knees, her legs slipping into the crook of his arms as he pushed forward.
“Guide me, “ he growls at her. Impatient. On fire. Needy and almost desperate. To feel her warm sheath surround him. To have her grip at him as he fights his way in.
It is clear that Hermione is too, for her hand is around him before the words finish leaving his mouth. She is still slick and ready from his earlier ministrations and she pumps him only twice before notching his thick head at her entrance.
He goes slowly for a heartbeat, just the tip pushing his way inside. But his name bursts through her lips on a wail, a plea, a demand for more. Now. And he has no more patience. No more ability to think. His control has dissipated completely. It is all her fault and Tom intends to punish her for it.
His hips snap sharply into hers until he is lodged so deep inside her greedy grasp that he doesn't think she will ever let him go.
But he pulls back almost to the tip all while she clenches and grips him tight. She’s panting below him, slick with sweat and red from exertion. He fears he looks no better, the thought melting quickly as she uses her heels wrapped around his lower back to try to impale herself on him.
He refuses her demands at first. Teasing her with short shallow thrusts. Building her up in slow torturous increments. He wants to drive her wild, and he seems to be succeeding as she gets even more aggressive and demanding in her movements. Her head is thrashing back and forth as she babbles incoherently. Some mixture of yes , now , please and more . Praying to the gods, and Merlin, and him. The floodgates have opened up and Hermione no longer cares who she is begging, so long as she gets relief.
Tom tells himself that he takes mercy on her but the truth is he’s drowning. Her grasping channel wants to suck him dry and he wants to give everything to her.
He scraps any thought of teasing, of torturing her in that moment. If she is the fire then he has been lit. He is burning from the inside out to possess her. Every inch of her.
As he drops her legs, bracing himself to press closer to her, push deeper within her until they are pelvis to pelvis, chest to chest and mouth to mouth, he sees that same desire in her. That fierce huntress that she has tried to hide. She is a force to be reckoned with, but together they can set the world on fire, and joyfully watch it burn.
She catches his lips between her teeth. A piercing pain, sharp and sweet, tunnels down straight to his groin as she soothes the sting. Tom feels himself growing almost impossibly harder within her.
He will not last much longer and he knows from the sharp bite of her nails at his shoulders and the scent of copper in the air that she will not show him, nor expect, any mercy.
He pulls back and pistons into her, his thrusts steady and fast, almost brutal. But she loves it. Soaking and clenching around him. Hermione being who he now knows her to be is not idle in the least. Her hands grasp at flesh, pull and tug at his hair. Her lips and teeth nip over his ear and the tender flesh at his neck as he relentlessly pounds into her. Winding them both ever higher towards that jagged precipice that will tear them apart, not knowing how the pieces will come together afterwards.
But neither is of a mind to care.
When the pressure that has built up at his spine releases it’s with a thundering roar before he bites down at the crux of her neck where it meets her shoulder. Wanting to mark her, to hurt her, to make her feel as out of control as he does. Her sharp scream as she spasms and shatters around him only moments later tells him that they are one and the same.
His forehead is pressed to her clavicle as he comes down from the ether he has drifted to after his release. Their bodies are cooling in the chilly castle air, and while Tom can cast a warming charm it somehow does not feel right. As if magic can ruin this ephemeral reality. Can somehow erase the raw feeling of release, and acceptance that has drifted over them.
Hermione seems to think the same as she makes no move to cover herself, or clean up. Or even move. Instead, she lightly strokes her hands alternately through his hair and down his back. A feeling as foreign to Tom as it is surprising. But to his shock it is welcome. Her movements are in such juxtaposition to what had come before that he is almost hypnotized by them. Slow, leisurely, tender, as if they have all the time in the world. And they very well may.
He lays there catching his breath, being touched gently, he would dare say almost lovingly. Though he has no practical experience upon which to call. But it is selfless, without want of anything. No favor, or fear, Not even desire. Just connection, for the first time in his life.
In that moment of total serenity Tom has a thought.
More a feeling, though he will never deign to admit it. They fit somehow, he and Hermione. Two misfits, full of power and ambition. A thirst for knowledge and an endless need to be and do better. Neither one really belonging to this world, or the muggle one they come from. Both yearning, searching for their place.
He knows all her secrets. Has waded deep into the blood red lake that hides her every thought, and hope, and dream. And she obviously knows his own. In fact, she knows him better than any other person in his life, though few have ever been close enough for even the smallest of confidences.
But being in her mind, Tom knows that Hermione has accepted him. Or at the least is resigned to him. And they need each other.
She is lost, adrift in time. There is no way back and no one here who can ever truly understand her or replace what she has lost. Except him. He has seen her world of madness. His ultimate defeat, and all the missteps he has made along the way.
Tom is not a humble man, he does not admit defeat or mistakes easily, but he is a smart one and hubris is not going to get in the way of his ultimate goal.
He turns his head slightly on her chest, careful not to disrupt the flow of her hands. Wanting only to listen to her steady heartbeat. He stares at the juxtaposition of her creamy softness, against his rough calloused skin, the remnants of a difficult childhood that not even magic can erase. But his hand slots perfectly into the dip of her waist, and his heart has slowed to match the rhythm of hers. Her spells and thoughts are different and more creative than any other has encountered. She yearns for knowledge and her passion fuels her in a way that intrigues him.
They aren’t the same, not even remotely, but somehow they fit.
He needs her knowledge of the future, of his mistakes. He needs the control, the power. Needs it to feel anything. And not just over his own life. Over her, Hermione.
It is her strength, her magic, her rage that fulfill him. He needs her to fight, to kick and scream. He needs her wicked laugh and sinful eyes. Her nails raking down his back and the sharp bite of her teeth.
He needs her to work with him and he is going to keep her. Because she needs him too.
He is in her mind, and she needs what he can give. She needs his control. A firm hand and a lick of pain. She is spiraling, lost. Her mission has imploded or so she thinks. Listless, without a goal she has lost her purpose.
But Tom alone knows that she has accomplished it. She has been put before him here, not to defeat him, that is impossible, but to caution him. He has seen the future now and will heed the warning. He will change things. And he will do it with her by his side.
Now that he knows they have a similar goal.
Hermione wants her friends and family to grow up in a world free of war and persecution. And Tom wants everything. Though he prefers not to descend into madness and perish at the hands of a child in the pursuit of it.
Together they can make both happen. They need each other.
And if traveling this new path together comes with more nights like this? Well who is he to complain?
It may always be a fight, but they two were forged in fire and made of fury.
Final - DRAW
____________________________
I am the people
I am the storm
I am the riot
I am the swarm
When the last tree's fallen the animal can't hide
Money won't solve it
What's your alibi?
What's your alibi?
What's your alibi?
What you gon' do when there's blood in the, blood in the water?
When there's blood in the water
(Uh, uh)
When there's blood in the
(Uh, uh)
When there's blood in the water