Musings
She’s prettier than he remembered.
That was the first thought that filled Tom’s head as he sat in the library, twirling his wand absentmindedly as he did. Her hair was still as wild and untamed as ever, but the curls seemed more defined than he’d remembered, as if in her brief adulthood Hermione had found a way to take care of her unruly mane.
But her eyes were the same amber pools that he’d known in youth; the same smattering of freckles covered her long, slightly upturned nose. Her front teeth were not as large as they’d been upon meeting as children, but that had been an improvement she’d undertaken while they were students at Hogwarts. And while there was much about her that was still the same, Tom was still struck by how pretty he’d found her.
When he’d told Abraxas and the others what they were going to retrieve for him, they’d all chortled and suggested other muggleborns for him to choose. ‘Anyone but Granger,’ they’d chorused. But there was no one quite his equal, pure-blood or not.
She’d always been remarkable, even in their first year at Hogwarts. And while their paths quickly changed and morphed into diametrically opposed ones, he’d never been shy about pointing out her strengths to others, even when he had a reputation to uphold amongst his peers. In three years’ time since their graduation from Hogwarts, it was clear that, while her dueling skills would need improvement, Hermione had not lost any of her talent.
It made him want her even more.
Abraxas sauntered into the library with a look of defeat plastered on his sharp features. Tom frowned slightly and raised a brow, not bothering to ask what was wrong.
“She’s refusing to eat, My Lord,” he explained.
Tom wasn’t surprised; knowing Hermione, she would make a good show of protesting what she was about to be a part of. Even when they were students, social outrage had been one of her talents; he still remembered her unfortunately-named campaign for elvish welfare, of which she had been the sole champion amongst their peers.
“She will want to eat eventually,” Tom hummed. “I’m sure having you deliver her food didn’t increase her appetite any.” With a snap of his fingers, Tom summoned a house elf; they had been hired upon the untimely death of his father and grandmother. “Wimsy, would you take Miss Granger her supper, please?”
“Of course, master!” the elf squeaked, disappearing with a sharp pop.
Abraxas shifted slightly on his feet and Tom tried his best to hide his annoyance. “What is it, Malfoy?” he sneered.
“I... I was just wondering whether you think you’ll get her to turn around,” Abraxas stated. “Without... Without having to resort to more... extreme measures, that is?” Tom scoffed and rose to his feet. He scanned the bookshelves, looking for one of the volumes he’d stocked personally when Riddle House had become his.
“And what if we do have to resort to extreme measures, Malfoy?” he inquired.
“I... I just thought that because... well, because of your mother, My Lord—”
Tom turned on him in an instant, his wand tucked under his chin. His face was contorted in an anger that even his closest followers were rarely witnesses of; while Tom had never truly loved his father, the man had been good enough to him to be useful (for a time) and was worthy enough that he continued to bear his name. His mother, on the other hand... she’d proven her a disgrace to the name of witch. How Abraxas thought he would dare lower himself to her standards was beyond him.
“Don’t speak of her,” Tom hissed. “Just because I have reaped the benefits of her family’s old, albeit disgraced, name doesn’t mean I wish to think or speak of her. Am I understood?”
“Yes, my lord, but—”
With a huff, Tom turned away and found the book he’d been searching for. “Your concern for Hermione is admirable, Abraxas, but if we must resort to using potions I will not be brewing a love potion,” he explained, plucking a book from the shelves. “Ah, here we are... As I was saying, I won’t resort to creating any sort of artificial feeling; I’ve developed an alternative.”
“Which is...?” Abraxas inquired.
“I have developed an alternate version of Amortentia. Rather than creating feelings of love for whoever administers the potion, it merely... draws genuine feelings that might otherwise be repressed.”
The statement made Abraxas frown. “But My Lord, what if Miss Granger... doesn’t—”
“If she does not, then there will be no effect whatsoever,” Tom said. “And then we must, unfortunately, do away with her and start from scratch. Of course, there are other alternatives, but I find them most unpleasant and worthy of someone like Greyback, not myself.”
Tom himself did not hold with rape; when dealing with Fenrir Greyback, it was the classic case of “hate the sin, love the sinner.” (He also found most of the carnage Greyback was prone to leaving rather unseemly, but once again, he was nothing but efficient — and Tom could appreciate efficiency.)
It would only truly be a matter of time until Hermione was practically clawing the door down to reach him — or at least, she would be putting on a guise of civility so she could be taken to him. The meals she was being taken were all laced with Tom’s new potion, and she would eat.
Of course, the potion would also need to be altered over time; its original state was merely to encourage her into his bed. There was the other question of actually ensuring that their... union... would result in a child. While Tom wasn’t a master at potions, he knew quite enough from being around Slughorn all those years that the alternation would pose little difficulty.
All he had to do was wait.
Upon dismissing Abraxas, Tom rounded his desk and opened the lowermost drawer. Buried beneath stacks of parchment was an old muggle photograph from the second summer Hermione had visited all those years ago. It captured the two of them after one of their many bicycling adventures; Hermione’s grin was still all teeth then, and her hair had been blown into a gigantic cloud of frizz. Tom was beside her, the faintest of grins on his otherwise stern face.
How different, he mused, they would look when they would grace the front page of the Prophet when he became Minister for Magic, and she his brilliant but doting wife.
Because Tom had never, not once, imagined rebuilding the world without Hermione by his side. He could watch the whole world burn, as long as it meant she was at his side. Even when he learned that he was indeed Slytherin’s Heir, tasked with ridding Hogwarts of all its muggleborns, he did not cease in picturing a new world with Hermione. And while her place in that world had evolved and changed since they were children, there was one thing and one thing only that Tom was certain of, one thing that brought some semblance of balance to his world.
He had her.
And he’d be damned if he ever let her out of his sight again.