Funeral fun
Rain and tears flowed tandem down the girl's reddened cheeks. Hermione was glad for the rain to wash away the evidence of her vulnerability before the salty tears could leave irritated tracks down her sensitive skin. She certainly didn't possess the will to lift a hand to wipe them away. He would always have this look of cruel satisfaction when he saw the evidence that he’d made her cry like he’d finally won. Her teeth ground together.
The headstones of Mr Riddle and Mrs Riddle (nee Granger) were adjacent as they'd wished them to be when they married just eight years prior. Though Hermione doubted they’d expected that wish be granted quite so soon.
The funeral had been as expected. A few distant family members appeared and gave her their condolences, representatives from her parent's work doing just the same. Some wishy-washy words are said by the priest about things he knew nothing about. Like how Mr Riddle was a loved husband (true), son (for the most part), and finally father (Hermione harboured serious doubts).
The final words had ended a while ago; all others had disbanded. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to track the time she spent looking upon her mother and stepfather's grave. It was certainly preferable to seeing their corpses at the mortuary. They hadn't burned beyond recognition which was somehow worse. What she had foolishly wished to see was a pair of charred skeletons like the fake ones put up for Halloween. Something she could distance herself from mentally. Not the melted flesh and faintly recognisable features of her mother. The fire hadn't been hot enough to disfigure completely- she’d been informed that they had died from cyanide poisoning first.
Hermione had promptly thrown up and made a mental note to cross forensics off her careers list.
Her mother had once been so beautiful, so graceful that even the lonesome bachelor Tom Henry Riddle had fallen for her charms. It was odd to think such a person was able to be reduced to a marred, burnt corpse. Demoralising and humbling in a way.
That was what lay before her—two metres under the packed earth.
She imagined a third grave. One with her name on it. A loved daughter, friend… sister. By all rights, it should be there. Her singed corpse should reside right under where she now stood. That night she was supposed to be tucked safely in bed in their holiday home, but she had snuck out to a party. Something she had never done before, something that no one would ever have expected her to…
Hermione wasn't quite sure if it was a lucky outcome. She felt like a loose end with no real point or direction but the one she had narrowly avoided, like their house which no longer had a purpose as a family home.
She couldn’t feel her legs having stood still for so long her brain seemed to have forgotten them. She wondered if she’d be able to walk if deciding to. Or would she fall into the earth where she belonged and an unignorable part of her wished to be?
At least she hadn't had to plan the funeral, not that it particularly defied standards in its procedural fashion and empty words of prayer.
Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what lay ahead for her. Being sixteen, she legally needed a guardian- there was only one person that that responsibility fell on. Her stomach churned just thinking about it. Despite her stepbrother's angelic looks, he was anything but.
She sighed resignedly. Thinking about such unavoidable things made her upset and flustered. Currently, she felt as if she were burning alive from the inside out. Tilting her head to the unenthusiastically grey sky, she let the rain pour over her face, down her neck, and beneath the collar of her dress. Savouring the feelings of cool droplets leaching the warmth where they trailed down her feverish skin, she closed her eyes and let her head drop forwards in exhaustion.
Then the comforting cover of rain stopped, the dim light reaching through her lids dissipating- she opened her eyes. In the peripherals of her vision, she could see the outline of a black umbrella and the long fingered hand gripping the handle. Hermione didn’t dare turn in greeting. The hairs on the back of her neck raised, and her back was stiff in apprehension. She was always aware of him when he was around. When his unforgiving gaze and unfortunate attention focused solely on her. Ever since they met when she was just six and him thirteen. And now there was no Riddle senior to tell his teenage son it was impolite to hit or tease his younger, naive sister. No mother to comfort her when his insults cut into wounds, she hadn't known existed till he peeled the fake skin back.
She fought back a flinch as a large hand came to rest lightly on the small of her back. “Hermione.” The syllables of her name fell smoothly off his tongue; the purported gentleness lacing his voice served only to set her teeth on edge. She could never tell if that was his intent or not.
“It has been far too long sweet sister.” She stiffened as his thumb rubbed ‘comforting’ circles over her taut spine, knowing he could feel the muscles jump under his touch.
Hermione pushed down her incredulity at his claim to familial fondness and forced herself to turn towards his towering figure. Her hopes that the low light would make meeting his eyes more bearable were viciously crushed beneath his heel as his pretty, obsidian eyes bore into hers demandingly.
Unable to hold eye contact any longer; but smart enough to know not to look away completely- given his attention-seeking issues- her eyes flicked assessing over his face and body. Not much had changed over the four years she’d seen him last; everything was impossibly more intense. He was a few inches taller, and she could tell he had filled out some, leaving his adolescent lankiness far behind. The last traces of puppy fat gone, his jaw and cheekbones creating the harsh and beautiful contours she used to stare at, entranced.
His perfectly shaped, red lips and carefully controlled black curls made the comparison with his unblemished, alabaster pale skin even more stark. He looked absolutely devastating.
She stifled the urge to scowl unpleasantly.
Hermione had no idea what greater power decided to make Tom Riddle not just a manipulative psychopath but an unbearably attractive one too. If she were religious like her mother, she’d probably put it down to a demon and an angel bearing offspring and discarding the babe on Earth. There was little other human explanation for the inhuman, diabolical face he had shown her many times when no others were looking.
Unfortunately for her, he’d always known how to utilise his good looks and easy charm for the desired effect. Shy, modest looks from the unbelievably pretty boy had most of everyone crumbling before him. Hermione hadn't been an exception before witnessing malice and vile delight twist those gorgeous features into something indescribably gut-wrenching.
Behind the blank, composed mask he now wore she could see traces of his true emotions that leaked through the cracks. Perhaps if she had not been exposed to his every negative emotion in the years, they had lived in the same home she would be blissfully ignorant of the flashes of enmity he could never truly hold at bay around her.
She sucked in a harsh breath as his lips stretched into a soft smile, somehow even managing to replicate a glint of fondness in his eyes. She was almost fascinated.
Years ago, she had learnt his performative expressions; the specific way he forced his eyes to crinkle as if genuine, the way the lines formed attractively around his mouth and his eyes lit up compellingly. It was nothing like his real smile. For that, at the very least, she was grateful.
Forcing her features into what she knew to be a poor imitation of his infuriatingly innocent expression, she spoke, voice wavering dangerously, “Tom.” She consciously steadied her voice, “I’ve missed you.”
The lie tasted foul on her tongue and her body seemed to shake in dissonance with her words. His eldritch smile, however, only widened. Dark eyes drew her in even more as his honeyed tone assaulted her ears once more.
“And I you,” He placed his hand between her shoulder blades. “We should go home.” He turned and began leading her towards the old church and car park.
“Home?” Her voice was distant, confused. Home would never be with him.
He turned back to her, wearing a condescending, imperious expression. As if she were a clueless child, “Of course. You didn’t really think you’d be living in that big scary house all alone, did you?” His voice was so utterly patronising, his expression almost mockingly concerned for her disillusioned state.
She wanted to slap that falsity off his face and rip out his voice box with her teeth so he could no longer spin such convincing lies that always had herself and others questioning her sanity instead of his. But she just nodded. At her reluctant acquiescence, he chuckled and chucked her under the chin in a mockery of the affectionate gesture that his father always did to her; she felt ill. “Come on then, little duck.”
Her nails dug into her palms as they walked to the car. Oh, how she hated that name. It was what he would call her endlessly when they had to act pleasant in proper company. All the adults would coo at the perfect pair of siblings that never fought. She never had a choice but to accept his posturing behaviour and maddening moniker for her.
********
Tom Riddle stared unabashedly at Hermione. He hadn't seen her in four whole years. Now he allowed himself to observe all that had changed about her whilst she pointedly avoided meeting his surveying gaze; choosing instead to stare fixated at her glass of water. That was another thing that had changed. She had always had such a stubborn fiery personality. Never backing down to him no matter what he did.
When they were younger and he would be accused periodically by his father or her mother of some wrongdoing he would accept and repent (they would never believe him no matter how convincing or even honest, in some cases, he was) pleading guilty always lessened the punishment.
However, sweet Hermione would never accept the accusation that she was wrong. She would pointlessly stick to her ideals and perspective of the situation no matter the increasing consequences. Tom had both admired and looked down on her for that.
His step sister had always been so emotional and principle-driven- it made her so predictable, so easy to trick and manipulate. Now though, she was closed off. Her body tensed; eyes trained on the barely eaten meal placed in front of her. It could be the grief, he mused distantly, serving himself some salad.
Tom couldn’t truly imagine what such a person as Hermione- so invested in forming emotional connections with those around her- would be feeling at such a sudden loss. He could tell she was wary of him. Always holding back flinches and urges to flee, never one to appear weak (one of her worst nightmares). She was right to be frightened, of course. Especially considering he hadn't decided what to do about her yet.
He had to admit, the vision of her standing alone in the downpour had momentarily frozen him; The cold had reddened her cheeks, soaked curls clung desperately to her face and down her long neck, drops of rain dripping distractingly from her red, parted lips. He thought she would make for a devastating oil painting as he watched her stare helplessly at the graves. It was the kind of look he would remember forever. He was torn between taking a picture of her or killing her instantly so she could be frozen that way forever. This was the expression that had filled his dreams for so long. The one he had spent his entire time knowing her trying to procure. He had finally succeeded.
She had worn a black blazer dress of sorts. It had widened her slight shoulders and cinched the length of her small waist. The piece was fastened closed by two parallel lines of three ornate, gold buttons. His eyes had followed where it flared out at her hips like the pleated skirts part of her mandatory school uniform. It was shorter than anything her mother would have allowed her to wear out the house when alive. Errantly, he’d wondered if it was some sort of private rebellion.
Now, he leaned back in his chair, eyes moving to assess her rigid once more. Her now dry and frizzy curls were a blend of various browns, the slight auburn tones made more visible in the gold and red tinged lamp light.
Hermione still stared discontentedly and somewhat incensed at her bole. He smirked.
“Is carbonara no longer your favorite meal.” Indignation and anger flashed in her fiery brown eyes when they locked onto him before she blinked the revealing emotions away. Tom restrained himself from letting the growing malice shine in his eyes. He blinked innocently at her, meeting her guarded gaze. “I didn’t poison it. I promise.”
Hermione gave him a fleeting look as she swirled some of the tagliatelle around her fork and pushed it into her mouth. By the belligerent look in her eyes as she stared him down he was pretty sure she secretly hoped it was. Only by his impeccable self control did he stop his eyes from leaving her own to watch the motion of her neck as she swallowed. And she stared back at him as she chewed a sensible amount of time on her food, speaking only when she had swallowed it all and washed it down with a sip of water. “It’s delicious, thank you,” She smiled politely.
“My pleasure.” Tom took a sip of the red wine, savoring the tastes of cherry and blackcurrant he could pick out. “Though, I doubt it’s quite the same as how your mother made it.” His voice was light-heartedly droll despite the word’s unmistakable cruelty. “Such a good cook she was. I’ll surely miss her for it.”
She had frozen, fingers stilling where they traced the stem of her otherwise untouched wine glass. Her lower plump lip was quivering in anger, reddening where she had bit down on it. Likely an attempt to stop herself from saying something she knew well that she’d regret. “No, Mum added cream.” She stated matter-of-factly, but her eyes were cold.
With that, she stood up, the chair making an awful, ear-piercing noise as she pushed it back across the polished wooden floor. “I should get ready for bed. I’ll clear this up. Thank you for dinner.” The rushed spiel tumbled from her lips as she grabbed her plate and cutlery.
Tom simply raised a hand,” Don’t worry about clearing up.” He stood and walked the length of the table. She looked up at him, slightly wide-eyed at his approach. He laid one hand on her shoulder, trying to quiet that insistent part of his mind telling him to move his hand a little to the right and wrap his fingers around her long, delicate neck. He wouldn’t have to squeeze hard. The part of his mind that he couldn’t fully ignore hoped her nails would leave distinct scars where they would inevitably scratch desperately at his forearm and neck. He brushed the pad of his thumb over her pulse point, savoring her fearful shudder and the telltale jump under his skin.
“Tom” Her shaky voice immediately shook him back to reality. Her brown eyes exuded potent fear. He shook his head before his thoughts could run off on him once again. Hermione must’ve seen some of what he was thinking if she was now willingly displaying weakness in front of him. Tom had to use more self-control than usual to stop himself from pursuing more.
She looked away and tried to pull back from his grip. Not yet, he thought. He held tight, ignoring her pained expression and gripping her chin with his free hand. Annoyed at her eyes fixating on the wall, he roughly pulled her face up towards his at what he imagined was a rather uncomfortable angle, though he didn’t care, and Hermione seemed too proud to show it.
Hermione was trembling on the inside, but she stared unflinchingly up at him, ignoring the growing ache in her neck; she wouldn’t be intimidated or manipulated by him.
His gaze flitted all over her face like he was searching for any revealing flicker of emotion.
“We must take care of one another. You’re the only family I have left” He spoke softly, and her eyes flashed dangerously as he stroked a finger tenderly under her chin. His bottomless eyes bore into hers despite her challenging glower. “And I’m all you have left.” He spoke firmly, fingers digging into her skin to impose his point.
She blinked, before tearing herself from his hold and taking a step back. He had seemed reluctant to let her go. She knew he could stop her if he wanted to. It was infuriating.
The reminder of his legal and physical power over her brought a whole new wave of anger and hatred bubbling to the surface. Her cheeks were likely red and splotchy from the overwhelming emotion. “Yes, well I’m sure it’s been a trying day for you just like it has for me.” She quipped viciously, knowing her cruel intent would have little impact. He would not be insulted by her calling out his lack of care about the day's events. Tom Riddle did not care to fit in and be neurologically average.
Something flashed in his eyes before they were back to impassivity. He gave her an affirming smile, “Of course. Get some rest now.”
He was still too close. His tall and threatening frame leaned imposingly above her. She could smell his aftershave, and at this proximity, he could reach out and grab her again. At that thought, Hermione took another step back and fled to the hall. She felt like a scared little girl again. She always asked to leave the table early so Tom couldn’t wait for her in the hallway and ambush her. Walking purposefully slowly towards the stairs, she fought the achingly familiar urge to run up the stairs drag her wardrobe in front of the door and hide under her duvet covers. Instead, she took slow, measured steps and forced her racing heart to calm as she made her way to her room.
Her bedroom was on the second floor, the same as her mother and stepfathers had been. Toms was the only bedroom on the top floor, away from everyone else. She hoped he wouldn’t decide to claim the master bedroom across the hall from her.
Hermione walked through her room and to her little en suite. It was in accordance with the rest of the manor's Tudor and Renaissance designs. She ran the bath hot and deep. Usually, she was concerned about using too much hot water and chemicals, with their adverse effects on the environment and such. Today though, she could not bring herself to care. She poured the lavender and bergamot bubble bath and bath soak her mother had bought her only two weeks ago. Lighting some candles before turning off the lights and drawing the curtains. With her headphones on she listened to her favorite Nirvana album and closed her eyes, effectively shutting out the world till the world came to bother her.
The feeling of her headphones being removed startled her out of her stupor. Before she could scream in fright, she felt his hot breath fanning down her neck and lips lightly brushing her ear as they moved to form words she couldn’t immediately hear over the buzzing in her mind. “Isn’t it dangerous to wear electronics in the bath, little duck?”
Alarmed, Hermione looked down at herself, anxiety only slightly alleviated by the slight of bubbles covering her body to the tops of her breasts. She turned her head slightly to the left where he had moved to crouch by the tub. He had placed her headphones on a chair and now assessed her with a playfully admonishing look. It gave him the distinct air of a parent amused by his child's thoughtless behaviour.
Dark eyes traveled over her mostly covered body; Hermione thought he looked disappointed. Surreptitiously, she moved more bubbles her way.
“No rubber ducky I see. Grown out of it have you.” She decidedly didn’t like the suggestiveness in his low voice.
His nail began trailing patterns absentmindedly on the back of her neck, making her shudder. She silently cursed her earlier decision to tie her hair into a bun to keep it from the water and bubbles.
Hermione swallowed, throat suddenly dry and when she spoke her voice wavered pathetically with her deep-seated fear. “What are you doing?” She knew it was pointless to ask a rational question to someone not held back by common boundaries and general rational thinking, but Hermione didn’t know what else to say to him.
Tom’s face lit up at her question as if he had forgotten. “Oh, well I wanted to bring you hot chocolate. With whipped cream, nutmeg and marshmallows. Just how you like it.” (How mum made it.)
He presented her with her favourite dark green mug, from the set her mother and her had made at the pottery workshop two years ago. At her lack of action to take the cup, he reached over her and placed it on the side.
“Thank you.” She gritted out, as he drew back, feeling too vulnerable and exposed to not play along with whatever charade he insisted on. He paused at the words, face turning towards her. He leaned close, pressing a searing kiss to her forehead that lingered far too long for her liking. Hermione squeezed her eyes tightly shut as he whispered cursed words against her skin. “I told you I’d take care of you.” Tom then leaned back and observed her as he had before.
He wasn't leaving.
While she knew better than to directly confront the issue, she was having a hard time not snapping at him to fuck off. It also wasn’t comforting that one of his arms was slung over the side of the tub, fingers hovering a few centimeters from the water below. His sleeves rolled up, revealing muscled and veiny forearms that she could remember being pressed restrictively against her windpipe as he had her repeatedly pinned to walls like an insect.
Tom gave her a serious look, his refined features pulling the expression off expertly. “I also wanted to talk to you about school. They have given you the option of leaving for two weeks for grieving, but you can stay with m-”
“I’ll go in.” Hermione blurted out and wanted to sink completely under the bubbles at his questioning glance. She couldn’t spend any more time than was necessary alone with him, but her eagerness had caught his attention. The glint in his obsidian eyes was a distinctly darkly amused one.
“Oh?” At his innocently curious tone, she wanted to punch his stupid, perfect face. He knew perfectly well why she wouldn’t want to spend any time with him. “So soon.” He mused, looking convincingly dejected as his fingers slid past the fading bubbles and into the water, swirling it around forming a bubbly eddy that seemed to transfix his attention.
Hermione’s entire body was tense. She could feel the moving water against her thigh and knew his hand was close. He looked back up at her and she forced her worried gaze to leave the area of steadily clearing bubbles to look at him.
“Tomorrow?” He asked in a suave tone, with an unmistakably mocking quirk of the lips. She nodded firmly. A finger brushed her thigh. She gasped, shooting an accusatory look his way. Instead of moving his hand away, Tom just smiled blandly, trailing his knuckles from her knee to mid-thigh and back in a “comforting” manner. He seemed content to ignore the rather telling fact that the muscles beneath his touch were fully tensed.
“Well then.” He pulled his hand from the water before too many bubbles cleared and she let out an internal sigh of relief. “I'll drive you in tomorrow.” Before the protest could make it past her lips he continued. “I have a meeting with your headmaster. He wants to be sure I’m a good guardian and will ensure your happiness in such a hard time.” His soapy hand traced up her cheekbone. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to convince him.” Now his grin had a shark-like quality, perfect white teeth that her mother had positively adored flashing threateningly in the flickering candlelight. His dark, pitiless eyes alight with a quality she couldn’t quite identify, was she pressured to decide on an emotion, it would be anticipation.
His finger continued down her face and along her jaw to her chin which he lightly pushed upwards so her eyes fully locked onto his demanding ones. “And so will you.”
Her breath caught in her throat. His dark eyes were so commanding. They reminded her how little power she had in all this.
“Won’t you?” He pushed her chin up a little higher with his index finger. Hermione couldn’t pull her eyes away from his they seemed to look through her and latch onto her very soul, promising to tear it to pieces should she test him. Belatedly realising he wanted an answer, Hermione nodded slowly, fruitlessly trying to suppress her deafening feelings of defeat and weakness. She could feel her eyes, begin to water at her hopelessness.
His lips stretched into a contented smile as he cradled her face with his large hands and wiped the lone tear she’d been fighting to hold back. “Good girl, Hermione.” Tom praised, looking and sounding sickeningly pleased with himself. His eye fluttered shut as brought the tear-covered thumb to his parted lips. An obscene, low groan sounded in his throat as he sucked on the digit; like he couldn't help himself. Not for the first time today, Hermione fought the urge to flee.
Opening his eyes, he slowly rose from his crouch. “That’s all I had to say.” His placid gaze swept over her stricken face and mostly covered body once more before he turned to leave. “Sleep well, Hermione,” Tom called as he shut the door behind him.
Despite the residual warmth of the bath, Hermione was now shaking. She didn’t get out of the water till its temperature dropped to that in her chest.