Peremo

Between almost being murdered and destroying one of Tom's horcruxes, Hermione had been so busy over Christmas, that something important had been forgotten. It had slid through the cracks, and now, she was suffering the consequences.

When she entered the infirmary Boxing Day morning, Edward, still the only occupant, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and rolled over, turning his back to her.

Oh dear.

"...Edward?" she said, wincing as she reached his bed.

He made a grunt.

"I'm... I'm so sorry about yesterday," she gushed. "I got tied up late on Christmas Eve, and then yesterday I was just so busy that I just..."

Another grunt.

While Hermione knew that being snubbed by a fourteen year old boy should be the very least of her worries, it still didn't feel very good, especially now that she'd gone and tweaked the memory of the only other friend she had. And so, determined to make him come around—she needed one friend, damn it—Hermione summoned the infirmary's Christmas tree over a bit closer to his bed and spelled its lights on. She closed the window curtains and lit the candles on his bedside dresser. Then she spelled on the nearest radio, having it play some soft Christmas carols.

"I have a gift for you," she said in a sing-song voice, drawing his shrunken gift out of her bag and returning it to its usual size. She reached over him and dangled it in front of his face. A gift to a child, was like a bone to a dog.

There was a long pause—

Edward slowly started to roll back over. "Oh?"

Hermione gave him a sheepish smile as he hesitantly plucked the gift from her hands.

"...You didn't have to," he said meekly.

"I know. But I wanted to."

Edward smiled grudgingly as he pulled on the ribbon of his gift. "...Thanks, Miss."

"Of course," she chimed. "Now. Nispy?" she called out to the room at large.

Moments later, there was a loud crack, and a short, wrinkled house elf appeared with kind eyes and a lopsided tunic.

"Miss called?" the house elf called Nispy squeaked.

"Yes," she said. "I was hoping you would be so kind as to pop to the kitchens and fetch Edward and myself some Christmas pudding?"

"But it's not even ten—"

"Oh, yes, Miss!" Nispy exclaimed excitedly over Edward. "Nispy will just be a moment!"

Another pop, and Nispy was gone.

"It's a bit early for pudding," Edward grumbled fingers neatly plucking at his wrapping paper.

"It's Christmas." Hermione shrugged.

"It's Boxing Day."

"Hm. Okay then, if that's a problem for you, I can have your share and see if we can get you some more cold toast and yog—"

"No, no," he said quickly at the threat of more of the hospital wing's standard food. "No, pudding's fine."

Hermione beamed. "Happy Christmas, Edward."

Edward's face lit up as he pulled the paper back to reveal his chess set. "Happy Christmas, Miss."

Hours later, Hermione freed herself from the infirmary and took her late lunch out into the courtyard, one of the castle's busiest spots for that time of day.

There wasn't much wind that afternoon, and so, despite the snow, there were a handful of Ravenclaws over by the fountains with their heads collectively over a book. Professor Shrew was reading over on one of the benches, and Beery was over with a troop of Hufflepuffs boasting about back in his day.

Choosing a spot far enough away that she could tune it out, Hermione found a bench under the eave of the castle's west wing.

It was nice, the cold fresh air, the white noise of the other people. It helped her to imagine that all was well, that she wasn't entirely alone, that she wasn't living in a caste with someone who wanted to murder her, that didn't have a Hallow tucked away underneath her pillow.

Hermione wasn't actually hungry. The pudding she'd had earlier was filling, and the sandwich she'd brought with her had peanut butter on it. Not her favourite. But she forced herself through it regardless; they said that diet was important for maintaining one’s mental health.

Hermione was only halfway through her sandwich when her heart skipped a beat. From across the courtyard, she could make out Tom's tall form coming from the Entrance Hall. It was the first she'd seen of him since the previous night, and she wasn't exactly surprised. She knew he'd come looking for her soon enough.

And just as she expected, he moved in a way characteristic for someone looking for another person, until—there.

His eyes fell upon her.

Her stomach twisted, and she had to force herself to take another bite as he started in her direction. She watched him approach, her chewing slowing down, intentionally keeping her eyes steady. Eye contact worked for lions and magpies—maybe it would work for him too?

Instinct urged her to get up and run, but— it was fine. She couldn't hide from him forever, and at least here, they were in public, in plain sight. What could he possibly do?

It was fine.

Ah, and it seemed that Tom more resembled a leopard than a lion, because the eye contact didn't do a thing to deter him. And when he reached her, he didn't say anything, just sat down on the bench beside her, leaving a comfortable distance between them.

See? Fine. It was fine.

Still, Hermione continued to stare. As though he didn't notice her, Tom leaned back into the bench, a long arm stretching out onto the back rest. He didn't pay her any mind—his focus was seemingly on the Hufflepuffs, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he winced at the way Beery was smirking at the underage girls.

Hermione swallowed her mouthful and cleared her throat.

"Can I help you?" she eventually asked.

There was another stretch of quiet. It was uncomfortable, and she was right on the brink of getting up and leaving when he finally spoke.

"That's how they kill lambs, you know," Tom mumbled vaguely, still not looking at her.

Hermione's brows drew together. Now he'd been next to her a while, she could smell him. Whatever the scent was that he was wearing was... well. She'd be lying if said it wasn't nice. It reminded her of the night in the dungeons, before he'd tried to poison her.

"They hoist them up, make a slit to the throat, and..."

"Yes, I know how animals are slaughtered, thank you."

Tom turned abruptly, facing her at last. His eyes were sharp, his mouth a thin line.

She wanted to shrink, disappear on the spot.

"They're strung up so that they bleed out faster, makes it humane." His eyes roamed over her, and she could feel herself flushing—with anger, terror, and, oh, maybe something else, she wasn't sure. "But you didn't string Mulciber up, did you?"

Despite it all, her tangle of emotions, Hermione willed herself to stay solid. "No," she said, as though the way he was staring wasn't bothering her. "Like you said. That would've made it humane."

Tom's lips parted, the slight movement catching her notice. They looked soft, smooth. Deceptive.

"I don't believe you," he murmured.

She frowned. "I didn't string him—"

"That's not what I meant."

Hermione rolled her eyes; there wasn't a hope of withholding it. Exhausting. "Then would you for once care to speak plainly?"

Tom's eyes brightened, those lips picking up. He looked exceptionally amused. It was impressive, how his demeanour could change so quickly. "I don't think you killed him. I think you're lying to me, but I don't—" he glanced away briefly. "Was it Avery? Are you claiming it for him, trying to protect him?"

"Do you think it couldn't have been me because I'm a woman? Besides, Avery—" She tried to choose her words carefully, "Avery wasn't even there."

Tom smile became closed-mouthed. "How long did it take you to learn Occlumency?"

At yet another abstract statement, Hermione felt her eye twitch. "About a year," she ground out, begrudgingly humouring him. "Why?"

"Then I'd like to offer my condolences to whomever spent that year teaching you. Shielding one's thoughts is a complete waste of time when one is a horrendous liar."

"I'm not lying."

Tom hummed. "Do you think lying to me will protect him?"

"I'm not lying."

"You're only irritating me further."

"It's true."

"Initially, I thought I'd just slit his throat—an eye for an eye, and all of that—but with every word that leaves your mouth, you're making me want to drag it out."

"Avery had nothing to do with it."

Tom raised a neat brow. "No?"

"No."

"All right," Tom said simply. "Imperio."

There wasn't a hope of stopping it. It was so sudden that she barely comprehended what he'd said before the wave of ease from Tom's spell washed over her, each of her muscles relaxing completely.

And she felt—oh, it was like she was being held up in a cloud, a soft yet firm padding around her mind. It disconnected her from her body, and it was blissful, the lack of thought, the sudden lack of care, the absence of worry.

There was a cool, gentle touch on her cheek, one she barely felt, and Tom turned her head toward him.

He was smiling at her, perfectly politely. "Hm," he hummed, a low, soothing sound, one that echoed as though spoken from the other end of a long tunnel. "Now. I'd like it if you could answer me truthfully, Hermione," he said quietly, his hand lowering from her cheek to take hold of hers. "Can you do that for me?"

A gentle, yet wilful voice in her head nudged her forward. "Yes, of course," she heard herself say.

"Was Avery with you the night Mulciber died?"

"Yes," she provided at once, uninhibited.

"Ah," he sounded brightly, "would you look at that? Rather clever use of the curse, wouldn't you say? I really ought to thank you. I hadn't considered it as a work around to Occlumency before, until you showed me..."

Hermione felt herself smiling distantly.

There was a soft voice at the back of her head, the beginnings of protest— no, we shouldn't be smiling, no, no— but Hermione struggled to hear it, because it was euphoric, not having to worry. Why should she listen when things could be so calm and stress-free instead?

"Tell me," Tom went on in a purr, his fingers stroking the back of her hand. "Did Avery kill Mulciber?"

"No."

His brows shot up, his fingers slowing their ministrations. "Did you?"

"Yes."

His smile started to fall. "Did Avery... help you?"

"No."

"Huh," he sounded, frowning a little bit as his fingers stilled. "Well then, if he wasn't responsible for Mulciber... why lie?"

Hermione opened her mouth. There was that voice again, that small one in the back of her head, and it insisted she be quiet, insisted that she not answer him. But another supportive nudge from Tom's spell, and it was effectively silenced.

"I don't want you to hurt him. I thought if you knew he tried to protect me, then you would punish him."

"Ah." Tom lifted his chin, the beginnings of a nod. "I've known Marvin for many years. What is it that makes you think I'd... punish him?"

"You threatened him so plainly over dinner, and Mulciber tried to kill him. He wouldn't have done so without your instruction."

"...and what is it that makes you think that?"

Don't say it. Don't say it, don't say it, don't say—

"Mulciber was your Knight," she said simply. "He would only do what you told him."

Tom looked away. His hand tightened around hers and the muscles of his jaw tensed.

Hermione continued to watch him, smiling blankly.

"Where did you hear that?" he soon asked, taking his time with each word. "The word, 'Knight'?"

The voice in the back of her head was becoming louder, getting more insistent. Don't. Don't say it. Say anything, anything at all, anything but—

"Dumbledore," she heard herself say brightly.

Tom's eyes snapped shut. She heard him breathing through his nose. He stayed like that for several moments. The voice in her head was whining, at her, close to yelling, but it was muffled.

"Come," he suddenly ordered, pulling her up as he stood, his hand clasped tightly around hers.

He held her tightly enough that through the fog of the curse, she felt that it hurt. Hermione let herself go with him, though.

He pulled her along at a quick pace, heading back into the castle and he didn't release her as they walked. She followed him through into the Great Hall, starting up the staircase. They passed a couple of students on their way, and Tom greeted them politely as they went.

Her hand remained firmly clasped within his.

He veered them off the stairs into the third-floor corridor, and they continued on past the charms and history classrooms, until they came to a large picture, one as tall as she herself was. In it, was a large, beautiful, antiquated church in the night, a bishop standing on its front steps.

The bishop straightened at the sight of them. "My Lord," he greeted with a polite nod of his head, despite Tom not uttering a single word.

There was a hollow sound of a click, and the picture swung from the wall, revealing a pointed archway. Tom pulled them through it.

The short hall led into a bedroom. Inside, the rug and upholstery were dark shades of green and even in the dim light, it was plain that the room was immaculately kept. Hermione was dimly aware that it smelled incredibly pleasant, and somewhere deep down, she was excited to be there.

She couldn't for the life of her think why.

"Stay there," Tom ordered, leaving her standing in the middle of the room by the bed.

Hermione obediently waited while he left her field of vision. There were the quiet sounds of rummaging, and when Tom came back, he had a sharp knife in his hand. He tossed it onto the bed before her before he loosened his tie. He shrugged off his jacket and rolled his sleeves, before he finally took his time in seating himself on the end of the bed in front of her, leaning himself back onto one arm.

He tilted his head as he seemingly considered her.

"Take off your robes, and your shirt," he said suddenly.

At the clear order, Hermione immediately shrugged off her outer robe, dropping it to the floor without a care. Her fingers quickly got to work on the buttons of her shirt.

"Slower," he instructed.

Her fingers slowed.

"Slower," he snapped.

"I'm sorry." She slowed down even further, her hands moving at an unnaturally slow pace—

Tom leaned forward and grabbed her arm, pulling her roughly downward toward him. His other hand caught onto her jaw, his fingers digging in painfully tightly. "I'm sorry, what?" he prompted.

She didn't know what to say, but then a smooth, calming voice that wasn't her own urged her on, gave her the answer. She liked the voice. It was comforting, gave her surety, and it was nicer than her own. Why wouldn't she like the voice?

"I'm sorry," she repeated, this time adding on, "My Lord."

Tom smiled slowly, loosening his hold. He licked his lips. "Better."

He released her jaw, and Hermione straightened, continuing on with her buttons. When they were all undone, she slowly peeled her shirt back, dropping it to the floor onto her robe.

She waited, left exposed in her thin bra, her arms dropping by her side.

Tom's eyes roamed over her, and she felt a prickle of anxiousness—but it was only fleeting. As soon as she'd felt it, his curse squashed it right back down.

Tom's next instruction was, "give me your arm," and he held out his hand expectantly. "That one," he added, gesturing to her left.

She obeyed.

He gently pulled her closer, bringing his free hand up to her forearm to lightly brush his fingertips along the lines of her scars. He did that for some time, tracing back and forth over the letters, inspecting.

Hermione waited patiently. She didn't mind it. His fingers felt quite nice.

"I'd like to try something, I think," he eventually said, and it seemed as though it was more to himself. He released her arm and plucked up the knife that was by his side. "Another idea from you, actually," he told her. "Your scars. Is this how they were made?" He gestured with the knife. "Initially I thought it must've been a wand, but I couldn't quite manage to string together a curse with a slicing hex—not in a way that would leave such controlled markings, at least..."

"Yes," she answered manner of factly. "It was a knife."

"Good... but before we get started..." he said, pulling her other arm—her right one—toward him. He touched her skin with the cold blade of the knife, just lightly enough for her to feel, and not hard enough to scratch the skin. "What does Dumbledore know of Slytherin's Chamber?"

Tom's spell nudged her forward and she opened her mouth to speak, but she stalled. It wasn't a clear enough instruction; he hadn't specified which Dumbledore he meant. Her Dumbledore, or his Dumbledore?

The will from Tom's spell started to push harder as he became impatient, and so, the knowledge that Tom only knew one Dumbledore had the decision made.

"That it houses a monster," she said, "one only controllable by Slytherin's heir. He doesn't believe this to be Hagrid. He thinks it's you."

Tom's lip picked up, a light sneer. "And does he know what monster lies in the chamber?"

"No."

"Do you know what monster lies in the chamber?" he asked, stroking the knife gently up from her wrist, all the way to the crook of her arm.

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"I deduced it. I've only read of one creature that will have spiders fleeing in such an organised manner, and there is only one creature larger than an earthworm at risk from a rooster. While Myrtle Warren died, several other students were petrified. There is only one creature I know of that can petrify like that, and kill without leaving a mark."

Tom hummed. "A right little bookworm, aren't you?"

"Yes. Many in my life have called me that."

A laugh broke through Tom's displeasure, and his grip around her wrist tightened. He centred the blade in the middle of her arm and instructed her, "hold still."

He started to press down, driving the blade into her skin. Blood pooled around it, quickly trickling around her arm.

It hurt. It hurt a lot. But even though she felt it, each and every nerve ending being severed, she also... didn't. It was strange. Like she couldn't act on it, like she was screaming, but only on the inside.

Tom cut agonisingly slowly, taking his time before he lifted the knife, and looking down at it, she saw he'd cut a neat, straight line.

"Hmm," Tom hummed thoughtfully, inspecting his work. He seemed to contemplate it, and then he brought the knife back, continuing on to extend the line into an 'L' shape. Next to it, he proceeded to cut in a neat 'V'.

Finally lowering the knife, Tom watched the blood running down her arm, pupils blown. "Good." He let her go, leaned back onto the bed. "Now, heal it."

Hermione crouched by her robes, arm throbbing, and fished through them with her good hand until she found her wand.

"E-episkey."

Nothing happened. The wound remained, the blood continuing to flow.

Tom grinned. "Good. Now try this," he said, summoning over a small jar and offering it to her. She didn't examine it, just obediently applied the ointment to her arm.

The bleeding gradually started to slow, but the wound didn't quite close.

She was starting to become light-headed.

Tom made a satisfied sort of laugh. "I thought so," he muttered to himself, eyes trained on her arm. "Such a simple method... so effective." He abruptly looked up. "That just about kept me up all night, you know?"

"I'm sorry, My Lord."

He barked a laugh, pulling at his lip with his thumb and forefinger; a thoughtful, subconscious action. "Who gave that to you?" he asked.

"A witch called Bellatrix Lestrange," she said.

"Bellatrix Lestrange…" he said, tasting the name, his brows lowering in thought.

"She's not from here."

"Hm." Tom watched her arm. She could feel it continuing to ooze, her blood slowly dripping from her elbow. "How did you get it to heal, in the end?" he asked. "Your other arm?"

"My friend's brother had years of experience as a curse breaker. He couldn't be rid of the curse, but he managed to expel it to the epidermis, contained it there."

Tom frowned a little bit. "Clever," he eventually remarked. "Let me try it."

She obediently passed him her arm again, letting him get to work.

A deep burn set in, like alcohol being rubbed into split skin. Tom worked for a few minutes, murmuring to himself as he did so, and the final product, just like her other arm, was ugly. The wounds weren't open anymore, and the resultant scars were raised and red, but at least the lines of his letters were straight. Bellatrix hadn't put in nearly as much care.

Tom looked it over, admiring his handiwork, and stroked back over the finished product.

"Clean this up," he instructed her when he seemed satisfied, gesturing to his blood-stained rug before he stepped away to take the knife back over to his dresser.

His curse pushed her on. It took a couple of charms to get the floor clean—one for the rug, and another for the stone beneath it. Blood was always trickier than the usual spills.

When she was finished, Tom was already back waiting for her by the bed, arms folded, eyes scrutinising.

He stared at her silently before he murmured, "why are you doing the old man's bidding? Dumbledore's?"

Her arm throbbed, but despite it, she felt herself smiling politely. "Because it's the right thing to do."

"Do you truly believe that?" Tom asked. He sounded, almost... sad.

"For the most part, yes."

He nodded, sighing through his nose. "A shame."

Without instruction to act on, Hermione remained where she was. Tom approached her, bringing his hands to cup her face. She had a quick urge to step back, and there was that small voice again—no, don't touch me, don't touch me—but Tom's spell squashed it down, held her in place. And his touch felt nice. Why wouldn't she like it?

Tom smiled like he knew what she was thinking, and then he turned her head up toward him, and kissed her.

It was remarkably gentle, almost tender, and urged on by the encouraging nudge in her head, she kissed him back.

While not thinking was amazing—it just what she needed—the kissing made it even better. The whiny, grating voice in her head chimed in that no it didn't, no, stop, but why should she listen to it?

Tom's tongue passed over hers, tasting like warmth and comfort, and his hands slid down from her jaw down to circle her neck.

By instinct, her heart rate spiked when he squeezed, but it was only a few seconds. Tom groaned as he released the pressure, pulling back to rest his forehead against hers.

"Ah," he sighed, his breath brushing against her skin. His thumbs stroked over her cheekbones. "I would like you… to put your clothes back on and go, take a walk up to the Astronomy Tower," he murmured. "Greet those you see on your way up as you normally would, but don't linger. Once you've made it there, go up to the viewing deck, and wait there for twenty minutes. When your time is up, I'd like for you to climb up onto the ledge of the western facing window. Once you're up there, I'd like you to leave your wand, and throw yourself out—no cushioning charms, no apparating. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, my Lord," she heard herself murmur.

"Good." He leaned in, kissing her again. It was slow and leisured, and spurred on by the spell, she leaned into him.

His hands roamed downward, passing down her neck and over her breasts. While one of his hands circled around her waist, settling into the small of her back, his other slipped down between their bodies, down over the fabric of her skirt. He pulled it up, sliding his hand along her thigh to cup her between her legs. Hermione pushed into his touch, ignoring the quiet protests—get off me, get off me—from her annoying inner voice. It felt good. Why shouldn't it feel good? The curse spurred her on, and she moved against him, rocking to get some friction—

Tom pulled away again, all too soon. "Go on," he instructed coarsely, but still, he didn't let her go. "Before I change my mind."

"Yes, My Lord."

Tom closed his eyes, sighing deeply. He squeezed her hip and ran his fingers along her underwear, along the lines of the lips of her cunt. "Say it again before you go."

"Say what, My Lord?"

He groaned softly, and he leaned in to bite her lip while his fingers teased at her entrance through the fabric. "Go."

The curse stepped her back, cold now that she didn't have his body heat against her. She shook out her shirt and pulled it back on, the raw skin of her arm stinging as the fabric passed over it. She pulled her robes over the top, and without another word, she was driven by the spell to leave.

It was colder out in the castle’s corridors, and Hermione passed through them blankly, greeting the few students she passed as instructed. When she passed Professor Poppyworth, she seemed to want to stay and chat, but Hermione politely excused herself. She had somewhere to be.

She passed up and along the seventh-floor corridor, and started up the astronomy tower's steps, not slowing even when her thighs started to burn. She didn't stop until she reached the top, moving to take the ladder up to the viewing deck.

At the top of the ladder, at the top of the tower, it was freezing. It didn't stop her though, and the voice in her head was yelling—stop it, stop it, Hermione, turn around, please—but she just couldn't. The insistent push of Tom's curse wouldn't let her.

She found a spot over by the window and started to count the seconds.

Eleven hundred and ninety-nine...

Eleven hundred and ninety-eight...

Eleven hundred and ninety-seven...

Stop it right now, Hermione, stop it—

We're stronger than this, don't do it—

Turn around. Turn around—

Seven hundred and thirty-four...

Seven hundred and thirty-three...

Seven hundred and thirty-one...

Her body was quivering from the cold.

It can't end like this, we've worked too hard!

Don't, Hermione, don't—

Three...

Two...

One...

Hermione took her wand from her pocket and placed it on the ground by her feet.

Please, please stop, we don't want to do this, what would they think—

She stepped up onto the ledge.

What would they all think, what would Harry think—

She looked down.

Everyone's relying on us, they need us not to do this—

The grounds around the tower were quite far away. The trees, the boathouse, Hagrid's hut, all looked tiny, and Hermione—

She hesitated.

Because wasn't just a shrill, grating voice in her head anymore; there was also Harry's. I'm so proud of you. You've come so far.

Tom's spell gave a harsh, insistent urge forward, pushing her to jump, but the other voice in her head—her voice—was shrieking now, don't do it, don't jump, don't jump, we can't let him win—

Hermione felt a snapping sensation, like the stretch of a rubber band, and she all but jumped backwards.

Landing back onto the safety of the viewing deck, she fell to her knees, gasping for air as clarity and pain came rushing back in full force. The sudden onslaught of pain from her arm where he’d cut her drove a whine through her teeth, and she clung to the floor as a wave of vertigo hit.

Her head was spinning, like she'd woken up drunk. The wind at that height was far harsher than it’d been on the ground, and it felt like the tower was spinning too.

She'd— she'd nearly—

She clambered to the side, scooping up her wand. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She'd sworn he would never disarm her again, and there she was, dropping her wand willingly.

She squeezed its hilt, breathing fast and deeply. Jesus Christ, she'd just about done it. A few seconds more, and she would've fallen to her grave, and God. He'd kissed her, put his hands on her, and she'd let him. She hadn't been close to stopping him, she would've let him do anything—

Hermione threw up.

It burned and it was lumpy, and— oh. There was the peanut butter.

She shuffled back away from her mess and lay herself down, splaying herself across the floor on her back.

She swept her hand through her hair and pulled it, and the flood gates opened. She didn’t have a hope of stopping it, and so, for the first time in weeks, she sobbed, properly letting it all out.