Peremo

Along with the Christmas break, came the mid-season Quidditch break. It made for a quiet last few weeks of term in the infirmary, giving Hermione a surplus of free time in which to mope about her lack of success with Tom.

She circled around it from every angle, and no matter what direction she came at it from, she couldn't think of another way to have herself recruited.

If a friendly approach wasn't good enough, if taunting him about the founders' objects and Slytherin's chamber wasn't good enough, if proving herself wasn't good enough...

Then that only left one other option. Her original plan, right from the beginning.

Avery.

That Friday, Hermione didn't step foot into the infirmary. Instead, she spent the entirety of her time preparing for the evening. She took twice as long showering as she usually would, put particular effort into her hair, and she even brushed herself with a light layer of makeup. She ummed and ahhed over what to wear—eventually settling on a modest black dress and cardigan—and spent a whole half hour transfiguring her shoes until she was satisfied they were a perfect match.

Usually, Hermione agreed with the sixth years, in that the best thing about Slughorn's gatherings was the free champagne. His parties were flamboyant, obnoxious, and far too crowded for her liking. But this year, this time... she was practically buzzing with anticipation.

She hadn't had a proper date in years.

Hermione stared at her reflection. Her eyes were tired, worn, but the rest of her scrubbed up reasonably nicely. The overriding theme of the fifties was modesty, and modest, her dress certainly was. Although it was fitted, the lace dress came down to her knees, and paired with her long-sleeved cardigan, she certainly didn't have too much skin on display. She'd fit in perfectly.

Her hair, however... was another story. She didn't try to tame it—Sleekezy's hair potion wouldn't have the strong formula she was used to for another two decades—and instead clipped some of her frizzy strands back in a sort of half-updo. It didn't resemble the waved, loose bun that was currently fashionable, but it was the best she could do.

"You look as fine as a Philippine Eagle," her mirror cooed.

Hermione glared at it. Taking that as a clear sign that she'd been staring at herself for too long, she grabbed her beaded bag and headed out of her room.

As she stepped out into the first-floor corridor, she realised that she hadn't made solid plans with Avery as to where she was supposed to meet him. Shoot.

Making as good a guess as any, Hermione hurried down to the Entrance Hall. To her luck, there was a tall figure waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

"Good evening, Ma'am. I am on a quest to find a Miss Hermione Granger. She is this tall—" The intruding man held a hand to his shoulder, "—and she has hair this big—" He held his arms as wide as they could go. "Have you seen her?"

"Stop that," said Hermione, sleeping closer so she could whack him across the arm.

Avery laughed. "You look wonderful."

"You look... nice, too."

He did look nice. His silken robes were a deep black, lined with white, and his usual shoulder length, sandy hair was tied at the nape of his neck. There was a small, golden lapel pin on his left side in the shape of a rose. He looked neat. Proper. It was clear he came from money.

"Thank you," Avery said, offering her his elbow. "How are you?"

"Ready for some champagne," she said honestly, falling into step with him as they veered toward the dungeons.

He laughed at that. "You never replied to my last letter," he said. "I wasn't sure if we were still on."

Hermione winced. Right. She'd been meaning to write back, but then... hadn't. She'd let her slump get to her.

"And yet you showed up anyhow?"

"I'd never stand up a lady."

"That's most upstanding of you," she said. "I meant to write you back. Sorry, things have just been..."

"There's always a rush before Christmas," Avery provided for her. "It's no problem, I get it."

As they reached the bottom of the stairs and turned down the main dungeon corridor, she caught sight of a group of Slytherins heading toward them from the other direction. Tom was at the back of the group.

Great. Just the sight of him was a sharp reminder of her failure.

They slowed down, letting the group of students pass them.

"Good evening, Hermione," Tom greeted when he reached them. "Avery."

If she thought Avery looked nice, then Tom looked... Um. Quite nice.

Tom had gone with all black, and from underneath his collar, she could see his jacket was lined with a deep green. He was cleanly shaven, and now that he was with them, she could smell his cologne.

It was... also nice.

She tried not to think about his ring in her wall.

"Tom," Avery reciprocated.

"Couldn't stay away, could you?" Tom asked with a grin, joining them on their walk in the direction of Slughorn's office.

"And miss a Sluggy party? Not a chance."

With Tom on one side and Avery on the other, Hermione felt quite short.

"How's the family?" Tom asked politely as they walked.

"All well. Clarissa's to be wed in February, and my mother's just short of losing her mind with the arrangements. Not two weeks ago, she ordered fourteen swans for the manor lake. Fourteen, can you believe?"

"That doesn't sound at all like Genevieve," Tom quipped.

Avery laughed. "Yes, most unlike her."

The tell-tale cheer of Christmas music caught them before they reached Slughorn's office. It sounded like dancing.

Hermione really wasn't in the mood—the music was bouncy—but with any luck, a bit of alcohol and Avery's company would warm her up and worst case scenario, she'd have a nice date.

Veering into the done-up potions classroom, Hermione was impressed. It might've been Slughorn's best work yet. He had—as per usual—had gone all out. A band by the curtains were playing carols as snow gently rained down from the ceiling, holly, ivy, and mistletoe decorated the room, and there were at least five Christmas trees scattered around the room.

In the centre, where his demonstration cauldron usually stood, was a long table with an elegant, glass punch bowl in the centre. A banquet of food surrounded it, filling the full length of the table, with candles levitating over the top. It was beautiful.

And the room was packed! Hermione only recognised about half of the guests, being students and professors. The others must've been Slughorn's ring-ins, past students and acquaintances. Many of them were middle-aged and well dressed. Ministry workers, she assumed.

"I'll get us some drinks," Avery said speedily, and ducked into the crowd.

Suddenly left on her own with Tom, Hermione cleared her throat. Aside from pleasantries, she hadn't had the chance to speak with him since their evening with Hagrid. She dared a glance at him.

He was watching her in bemusement.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"Nothing."

"No, what is it? Is there something on my..." Hermione rubbed at her chin. Had her lipstick smudged?

"There's nothing on your face. You look lovely."

Hermione laughed nervously. "Oh. Um. Thank you?"

"I was just wondering what Avery told you to convince you to invite him along tonight."

Hermione frowned. She was beginning to get the impression that Tom didn't actually like Avery at all. That... might prove to be quite a problem.

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged.

"No, what do you mean?" When he still didn't elaborate, Hermione gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow. "Why wouldn't I invite him? He's been a good friend to me."

Tom didn't miss a beat. "Has he told you about Sylvia?"

Hermione didn't say anything, but apparently, she didn't need to, because Tom just looked at her and nodded. "I didn't think so," he said.

She suddenly couldn't think fast enough. With just a few words, her stomach was dropping. Sylvia. Who was—

"One champagne for the lady," Avery suddenly said from her right.

Hermione took the offered glass with a tight-lipped "thank you."

"And one firewhisky for you, good sir," he said, handing Tom the short glass.

Tom nodded in thanks, but then raised his eyebrows in a way of greeting one of Slughorn's guests behind them that Hermione didn't recognise. "I'll catch up with you two later. Enjoy your night. If you'll excuse me," said Tom, and with his grenade successfully thrown, he left.

Hermione took a deep swig of her champagne.

"It's bizarre being back here," Avery said conversationally, sipping at the butterbeer he'd gotten for himself.

"Mmm?" Hermione sounded, trying to keep calm.

It was nothing to worry about, she tried to tell herself. Tom was just trying to mess with her. That was exactly the sort of thing he would do. He was just trying to dampen her night.

But her brain was suddenly fixating: who the fuck was Sylvia?

She shouldn't let herself get carried away. It was probably nothing. This was the fifties. If Avery were seeing someone else, surely he wouldn't be being so open with her. People talked, and promiscuity was still frowned upon.

...Wasn't it?

"The students're all so little." Avery laughed to himself. "Look at 'em!"

But he was here as her date! She'd informed Slughorn of as much, and he hadn't seemed at all fazed. Surely if Avery were seeing anyone else, Slughorn would know about it? Slughorn knew all the ins and outs of the prominent wizarding families.

"One year, Sluggy had a champagne fountain going, you know, with the glasses stacked onto each other?" Avery was saying. "It was a disaster. Macnair pulled one of the glasses from the bottom, and whoosh," he said, gesturing with his hands.

But Hermione barely heard him. Sylvia. Sylvia. She couldn't recall meeting a single Sylvia in her entire time here. Maybe she was an ex-girlfriend? That would be fine.

Yes. That must've been it.

"I see he's learned his lesson this time." Avery chuckled.

But what if she—oh, bloody hell. Hermione couldn't take it anymore.

"Get some air with me?" Hermione asked, finishing off her champagne in a large mouthful and taking Avery by the hand.

He smiled in response, and so Hermione pulled him along out of the classroom and down the hall, where the sounds of the party started to muffle.

"We've only just gotten here," Avery said in a feeble protest as the distance between them and the party grew. Hermione ignored him.

She led them further down the corridor, and it wasn't until they'd made it to the dungeon fountain that she finally turned on him.

"Who is Sylvia?" she demanded, doing her best to keep her voice level.

The smile Avery had been wearing slowly fell from his lips. It told her all she needed to know.

Fucking hell.

"Right. Of course." Hermione nodded. "How utterly stupid of me."

Avery reached toward her, but Hermione stepped back. "No—Hermione, it's not like that," he gushed.

Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. "Then tell me, what's it like?"

"She's..." Avery looked pained. "My parents arranged it. But there's nothing there! Not like..."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Her stomach was in knots. She hadn't felt this sort of ache since her bloody sixth year of school.

And—Jesus Christ. Bloody fucking fuck. He was supposed to be her way in with Tom. But he—he was engaged! And yet he'd been so forward, so openly interested in her. What sort of person does that?

"I think it's time you left," she seethed.

"Come on, Hermione, just—hear me out," he said. "I don't see her like that. I never have, and she doesn't see me that way either. We grew up together, but that's it."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" she hissed. "Silly me. You're only engaged to be married. No problem at all."

"Hermione—"

"No! What is wrong with you?!"

"Hermione, this—you have to understand, it happens all the time," he insisted. "It's been arranged, yes, but it's not set in stone. There's room for negotiation with my family. It's not until my twenty-seventh birthday that I have to marry."

"So, what? You thought you would just string me along until then?!"

"No! It's just—I like you, I want to get to know you. And if it goes well, and you feel the same way about me, then I'll speak to my parents. I'll back out of the arrangement," he said as if it were simple.

"Are you—are you kidding me? You're not interested in your fiancée, so instead of calling that off, your plan is to find yourself another girlfriend, all the while remaining engaged to another woman?!"

Avery made a sound of exasperation. "You don't understand because you're not in the circle, but it's really quite a common—"

"Oh," Hermione reared back. "You mean, I wouldn't understand because I'm not a pureblood?"

"I—" Avery fumbled, and he didn't look like he knew the right answer. But then, he settled with, "yes."

Hermione snorted. "I think it's best if you leave."

"Hermione—"

"I don't want to hear it."

"Will you at least— can I— who told you?"

"It doesn't matter who told me!" she just about shouted.

"Was it Tom?" Avery pressed.

Hermione huffed. She hadn't been intending on revealing who'd told her, but then, it was obvious, wasn't it? And she didn't owe him anything, so she shrugged and murmured, "he might've mentioned it."

"He might've..." Avery repeated. "Fucking... of course he did," he mumbled to himself.

Hermione crossed her arms across her chest.

"What else did he tell you?" Avery asked, tone sharp.

She scowled. "What else do you think he told me?"

Avery shook his head. "This is just—typical fucking Riddle. I should've—I saw the way he was looking at you."

Hermione actually laughed. Was he—oh, for goodness’ sake—was he jealous? "Oh, please," she drawled between her chuckles. "Don't you try to turn this back around on me! You know as well as I do that you've absolutely nothing to worry about with Tom."

"Don't I?" Avery countered.

"No!" Now that she'd started laughing, it was difficult to stop. "Please! That's completely ridiculous!"

"Well it wouldn't be the first time!" Avery snapped.

Hermione's laughter grew louder. "What are you talking about?"

Avery huffed and pushed back a loose strand of hair. "Look. I don't like talking about this, but when I was in sixth year, I was going out with Celeste Greengrass. We'd been seeing each other for months. I... I thought I loved her, thought I'd manage to convince my parents to allow me to marry her."

Hermione brought her hand to her mouth to muffle what was left of her giggles.

"And then, one day, I couldn't find her. We were supposed to meet up for lunch, so naturally, with all that had gone on with Warren the year before, when she didn't show, I was worried. So I looked everywhere, everywhere I could think of, and then, I find her down in the boathouse by the lake. With Tom."

"With Tom," she repeated with a lingering snort. "What were they...?"

"Well they certainly weren't having a round of chess, if that's what you're asking!"

Hermione's eyes widened. "Oh. That's—you don't mean...?"

Avery nodded.

"...Oh." Hermione's smile slowly fell. "Oh."

"Yeah," said Avery.

All of a sudden, Hermione was having a hard time staying present in the moment. All of the pieces of the puzzle in her mind were shifting. Because this—it could change everything. She thought she'd prepared for every possible scenario, every single thing, but a young Voldemort with hormones, was... absolutely not one of them.

It was completely out of left field. She just didn't think he'd be interested in... in sex. At all.

Jesus.

Hermione suddenly tried to rethink all of the times they'd spoken, when he'd winked, when he'd complimented her, when she'd playfully nudged him, their playful banter, when he'd invited her to the library with him. And all of his snide comments about Avery...

Maybe... maybe she'd been coming at him from the entirely wrong angle.

Her best guess at where he was keeping his diary was in his belongings—in his chambers! And what was the best way to get into a man's chambers?

He was a twenty-six year old man, after all.

Maybe... she'd catch more flies with honey.

Hermione thought she might vomit.

"And he's been like this ever since bloody second year of school!" Avery was saying. "He blatantly stole my books and quills all the way through, he ruined my chances with the Department of Mysteries which he knew was my first choice out of school, he comes to my home and is completely inappropriate with my mother and sister at every opportunity even though I've told him it bothers me—"

"Avery—"

"But you know what? I'm done! I'm not taking it anymore! You want to know about Slytherin's precious locket?!" Avery asked. "Why don't you go and ask Tom about it," he spat. "You want—"

Hermione's eyes became wide. "Avery, stop—"

"—to know about the chamber, and what really happened to Warren? Go and ask Tom!"

"No, no, you can't tell me this—"

"I'm sure he's just dying to hiss at you, to tell you all about—"

"Stop!" she yelled.

Avery glared down at her, so worked up that he was just about panting. "What?!"

"We can't talk about this," she hissed slowly, glancing around the corridor to make sure they weren't overheard.

"What do you—" Avery frowned, but then a gradual, surprised look of understanding started to cross his features. "You... but you already know," he murmured. "Don't you?"

Hermione gave a deep sigh, stiffly shook her head. "We can't talk about this," she repeated.

"How do you know?"

"We are not talking about this!" she hissed, bordering on a panic. "If he finds out that we even came close to having this conversation, that you said anything at all to me..."

Avery rolled his eyes, gave a bit of a snort.

"I mean it!" she insisted. "He cannot find out. Under any circumstances."

Seeing her seriousness, Avery put his hands up. "Okay, okay. I won't say anything."

"Promise me," she urged.

He looked unsure, but still, he said, "all right. I promise."

Hermione sighed and covered her eyes with her hands.

Merlin. What an absolute mess. While she was constantly managing her worry of Tom using legilimency on her... now she had to worry about him using it on Avery, too.

"You should just... just go," she said. The more distance between him and Tom, the better.

"Hermione—"

"Just—please," she urged. "I'll... I'll have a think about things. Maybe I'll write you. I don't know, it's a lot to take in, just let me think about it. Please."

Avery's features were pained, but eventually, he nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should've told you. You shouldn't have heard it from him."

"No," she agreed.

"But if—if you forgive me, I'll make it up to you."

Hermione rolled her eyes. She didn’t know which way to think, and that nauseous, heavy feeling of betrayal was still in her stomach.

She didn't want to look at him.

But, should all else fail... she might still need him...

"We'll see," she eventually gave him.

His face lit up ever so slightly. And then quickly, before she could step away, Avery leaned in and pressed a light peck onto her cheek. His lips were warm.

And then without another word, he turned and left.

Hermione sat on the edge of the dungeon fountain after Avery had left, elbows on her knees, and her head in her hands.

What a night. And it wasn’t even eight yet!

She didn't know how long she sat there for. She thought about going back in and getting some more champagne, try to salvage the evening and make the most of the opportunity to speak with Tom.

But what was the point? She wasn't getting anywhere with him. With the students due to leave the castle the next day, maybe it was time she took a break, recoup her spirits, and all that. Ron had always said she didn't take nearly enough breaks.

But she was just so annoyed at Tom. He'd known she was keeping touch with Avery and he'd had all of the time in the world to mention Avery's engagement, and yet he'd chosen to wait to throw it on her then and there, in public, while she was on a date with him!

How humiliating.

She was honestly starting to really like Avery, too. When she'd decided to give up her life as she'd known it for the greater good, she knew that it likely meant forfeiting her chances at falling in love, at family, at a normal life. While she hadn't exactly thought she'd have those things with Avery... she couldn't help it. It was still a fleeting thought at the back of her mind.

And then Tom had gone and thrown iced water all over it!

She supposed in the scheme of things, it was a far cry lower on the evil scale than murder, but honestly. What an arse.

"Marvin's left already?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. His timing was impeccable. "If you've come to gloat, I'm not in the mood," she mumbled.

Tom didn't say anything though. She heard the empty sound of shoes on stone, and then he was sitting next to her.

"You all right?" he asked.

Ugh, what was he doing? Hadn't he done enough?

"Fine," she grumbled, stubbornly focusing on her shoes.

"You don't look it."

Hermione sniffed. He smelled like firewhisky and caramel. "I don't want to talk about it."

As it became quiet between them, she tried to distract her thoughts with inconsequential tidbits, just in case. She couldn't ponder on her conversation with Avery, couldn't risk Tom finding out.

Black space.

Open ocean.

Empty fields.

"I just thought you had a right to know," Tom said after a long pause.

She scoffed. "Yeah. Right, I'm sure that's what it was."

They sat in silence for another few minutes, the sound of the trickling water of the fountain echoing around them.

"I can walk you back to your room, if you'd like to call it a night," Tom went on to say politely.

It was a kind offer. Gentlemanly. But oh, there was just something about his tone, that fake, smug, lathered on tone that was the final nail and had Hermione's brain hot wiring, had her seeing red.

"Why are you even here?!" she snapped, unable to stop herself.

Tom blinked. "I'm just trying to help you."

"Well I don't want your help!" she just about yelled, rising to her feet. "I'm not some poor, helpless girl you can swoop in and manipulate with a rude word here, and a polite compliment there!"

There was another pause as Tom stood. "I didn't mean to give you the impression—"

"God, I thought you and Avery were friends!" she went on. "And yet, you somehow manage to speak poorly of him at almost every opportunity, and so I've been wondering, why is that? Avery said you've known each other for thirteen years. And you know, I actually thought, for a split second, that maybe you were jealous because of me. But it's not me at all, is it?" she said, prowling in on him. "It's Avery. It has been this whole time, hasn't it?"

Tom was still, but there was a light furrowing between his brows. "I think it's time you got some sleep."

"You just can't handle someone choosing him over you, can you? I bet it eats you up."

Tom nodded. "I understand. Deflecting is a natural reaction in times of emotional stress."

"He's from a well-known, pureblooded family," Hermione went on as if he hadn't spoken. "He's had everything handed to him on a silver platter. He's never had to work for anything in his life, and then... there's you."

Tom stared. He didn't say anything, but Hermione was taken over. She didn't care to be careful anymore. She wanted to know how far she could push.

"Of course you want to be him, it makes perfect sense! You had to work for everything, didn't you, while he had it so easy! You came from nothing, and then you were sorted into the house of snakes with a muggle name—"

He struck.

Tom pinned her back into the wall, both of his palms slamming into the wall next to her head, trapping her in.

His eyes bored into hers. They were still brown, but this was the first time she thought she could see something more in them, something warm.

"Go to bed, Hermione," he stated, words low and calm but heavy with restraint, "before you say something you'll regret in the morning."

Her heart rate spiked. The threat was plain.

She knew she was being reckless, stupid, but she could see it now—a fraction of a glimpse at him, the real him. Hermione wanted to dig her fingers in and pry it open, wanted to see more, and she was just so sick and tired of the fifties, of him, of Avery, of her whole damn situation that she couldn't stop herself.

"What's the matter? Have I hit a nerve? Are you scared to hear it how it really i—"

She gasped as Tom's hands moved from the wall to her throat. They were wide enough that they circled the entire circumference of her neck, his thumbs digging underneath her jawbone. He pushed down, enough for it to hurt, but not quite enough to obstruct her windpipe.

Hermione watched as his mouth twitched. He closed his eyes.

He was hanging by a thread.

"Th-the truth can hurt. Can't it?" she breathed boldly, stupidly, and then although it wasn't at all funny, she laughed. "What are you going to do? Do you think this is enough to scare me?"

Tom breathed a short laugh, one that wasn't humorous at all. Then, he leaned into her ear.

"Has anyone ever told you, Granger," he murmured slowly, "that you're a real fucking bitch."

It was supposed to be an insult, there wasn't any doubt in that. But there was just something about the way his breath brushed the shell of her ear, something about his barely-there restraint, and the elation in having finally found a chip in his facade that gave Hermione chills.

Not entirely unpleasant ones.

And so, Hermione turned her head towards him, and the action brought them so close that their foreheads touched. She didn't know what had gotten into her. In that moment, she didn't know herself. Her anger, her frustration took over her, and all she wanted was to see perfect, flawless Tom come undone, just for a moment. She wanted to win. So, without a sliver of a thought for the consequences, she breathed, "But you like that." A smile toyed at her lips. "Don't you?"

Tom's grip around her throat tightened. It hurt, but it was only for a moment, and when he relaxed, he made a coarse sort of groan, and then he was kissing her.

But it wasn't a nice kiss, not even close. It was rough and angry and unrestrained. There were teeth and tongue, and it was urgent, his hands releasing her neck to tangle into her hairline, nails dragging into her skin. It was consuming and Hermione clung onto his wrists as though they would save her. All she could think was that she hated him, she hated him, and she bit down onto his lip.

He groaned into her mouth and it was obscene, that sound. It had her light-headed, had her fumbling at his tie, pulling him closer, and he had no business making it in a public corridor where anyone could—

Hermione tried to pull back, tried to get some space. She breathed like she were starving. "Someone," she whispered raggedly against him. "Someone might—"

Tom moved fast. He spun them around, backing them down the corridor a few paces and into an empty potions room. He kept kissing her, one hand over her collarbone while the other gripped at her hip, and pushed them deeper into the room until her back hit one of the brewing benches. Hermione groaned into his mouth, feeling him pressing hard against her.

And Merlin, she—she'd never had sex before. Should she—should she tell him? Did it matter? Is that what was going to happen? She didn't want to lose her virginity with Tom of all people, but maybe it would be the best way forward, the best way to get to his—

"Ah," she moaned against him as he shifted in just the right way, his thigh putting pressure between her legs.

His chest rumbled beneath her hands and he took her lip between his teeth, sharply tugging at it. "Not so talkative now, are you?" he murmured.

Hermione only whimpered, pulling at the collar of his robe.

He pulled her cardigan off and hoisted her up by her thighs, putting her on the edge of the bench. His hands started at the bottom of her dress, pushing it up and up until he'd bundled it around her waist. His hands were hot on her skin and—oh fuck—the moment he dropped to his knees, Hermione decided she didn't care. He was on his knees for her. The sight of it alone had heat pooling low in her stomach, enveloping her in a way she'd never felt.

His lips pressed into the skin her exposed midsection, down over her bellybutton, over her hipbone over the line of her tights, alternating kisses with scrapes of his teeth.

Tom's hands started at the hem of her tights. He started to pull and, Hermione tipped her head back, and—

He stopped.

Hermione gasped. "What... what's wr—"

"What's this?" Tom's hands gave up on her tights, and instead, he reached out and took her left arm, pulling it closer.

Oh, no, no, no—

The instant she realised what he was doing, Hermione tried to yank her now-sleeveless arm back, but Tom's grip was tight.

"Could you— just let me—"

"Stop—"

Tom managed to turn her arm over, and Hermione gave up on her struggling. It was too late.

He'd already seen her scars.

Mudblood.

She swallowed.

"I..." she stammered, still breathing hard, "I don't like to..."

"How did you get this?" he whispered, frowning down at the scars.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said, tugging on her arm again.

"Stop, I'm just trying to—"

"Let me go."

"—look at it, Hermione—"

"Let me go!"

Tom released her, and Hermione hurriedly shuffled off the bench, pulling her dress back down over her hips.

Sheer, pure panic started to set in, deep down to her bones. This was—she'd fucked up. She'd astronomically fucked up, even moreso than when she'd talked Dippet out of hiring Binns and allowed Tom to teach. But she'd completely forgotten about her scars! It'd been years since her run in with Bellatrix and they'd become a part of her. She didn't even think about them anymore.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—he'd be furious, irate. Not only was she a muggleborn, but she'd lied about it.

But as Hermione mustered the courage to look at Tom, she didn't find what she expected. He didn't look murderous.

He was looking at her almost with—concern?

"You..." Hermione whispered unsurely, "you aren't... mad?"

He blinked, a slight furrowing between his eyebrows. "Mad?"

Hermione scoffed. She didn't want to say it. I lied to you. I'm a muggleborn.

"I didn't..." She didn't know what to say. "I didn't mean to lie. I just... with Grindelwald... it's not a good time for someone like me to own up to my... heritage."

"That's..." Tom shook his head as if to say, 'doesn't matter'. Hermione thought she might've been imagining things. "That is... dark magic, Hermione," he said.

"Yes, I know, thank you—"

"No, I mean, it's cursed."

"Yes, I know. Do you think I keep the scars because I'm fond of them?"

Tom's frown grew deeper. "Who did this to you?"

"I don't like to talk about—"

"Who did this?"

"It was—" Hermione sighed. "It happened years ago. During the war. One of Grindelwald's... I don't know what you'd call her. One of his followers. She's dead now. Not worth thinking about."

Tom looked thoughtful as he stepped back, and he started on adjusting his tie and the collar of his shirt.

Seeing the action, Hermione felt a firm shove right back to reality. She moved quickly, snatching up her discarded cardigan from the floor, pulling it back on, hiding the scars away once more.

"We should probably—"

"Might be best if—"

They both stopped, giving the other the chance to speak. Hermione wiped at her lips. They felt raw.

Her cheeks were hot, the sensation of shame starting to set in. What had she been doing? She’d only been a bee’s whisker from… with Tom…

“I’m going to go,” she mumbled quietly, and with that, she all but ran out of there.

“Hermione—”

Hermione didn’t stop, didn’t turn back even though he called after her. She hurried through the castle, avoiding eye contact with the students she passed on the staircase, and she didn’t stop until she made it back to her room and locked the door behind her.

She beat her head against the wood of the door.

Bloody hell.