Familiarity
She’d have thrown herself out of the window if she wasn’t so sure Tom had charmed them not to shatter.
All other more permanent routes of escape were out of the question, to Hermione’s reluctant relief. She wanted to believe that she could still potentially reason with Tom; that maybe she could talk him out of whatever his grand scheme was. But if there was one thing she knew about Tom Riddle, it was that once his mind was set on something, nothing would stand in his way.
Her eyes drifted to the tray on her small vanity table; the lovely supper remained untouched, though every time she looked at it, Hermione’s stomach grumbled a little bit more.
She couldn’t trust it. Not even the plain glass of water.
A knock at her door drew her attention away from the too appetizing meal. Hermione hoped it wasn’t Malfoy again; dealing with the tosser at school had always been unbearable, but having him be her handler while captive was almost laughable. She heard the door unlock, and turned her head away to stare absentmindedly out the window.
“You haven’t eaten,” a familiar voice noted.
“I don’t trust the cooks,” she quipped. A warm chuckle came from her visitor and Hermione shivered; how a man so rotten could make such a normal, such an attractive sound was beyond her. It wasn’t right.
“I employ some of the best house elves in Wizarding Britain,” Tom stated. “I even pay them a living wage, if that makes it any better.”
“It doesn’t, because they still listen to you,” Hermione snarled.
Tom ignored her biting attack and entered the room further, striding around so he stood in front of her crouched figure. He leaned against the dresser with ease, and when Hermione stole a glance she was struck by how much he truly resembled his father. How upset, she mused, Tom Sr. would be if he knew how his son was treating the daughter of one of his best friends. But alas, Tom Sr. was (almost too conveniently) dead, and all that belonged to the Riddles had become Tom’s.
“I’ve often wondered exactly where we finally became enemies, Hermione,” he hummed. “Or when, I suppose, is the more appropriate question.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione mused. “Perhaps when you murdered one of our classmates? Or when you killed your entire family? Patricide is messy business, Tom... never ended up well for the Greeks.”
“And even if I did kill them all, how would you ever prove it, Hermione?” Tom inquired.
She looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t have to. I just know, and knowing you did those things is all I need to know I never want to think of you the way I did when we were children, or in any other positive way for that matter,” she snapped. “There is no way you will ever get me to love you, Tom. Unless, of course, you decide to take alternative action. And that worked so well for your mother—”
Hermione suppressed a yell of pain when Tom lunged forward and grabbed her by the arms. He shoved her against one of the posts of the four poster bed, his face mere inches from hers. When she refused to make eye contact with him, he grasped her face with one hand and turned her head forcefully to hold her there.
“Don’t you dare speak of her,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare speak of that embarrassment. I will not lower myself to such desperation, Hermione... because you forget one thing.”
“What’s that?” Hermione grit her teeth.
“You loved me once before,” he reminded. “So you can love me again.”
With an exclamation of disgust, Hermione pushed Tom away as hard as she could. He faltered and took a few steps back. She let herself take in his appearance and felt a chill run down her spine.
He looked positively wild, like Heathcliff after a day wandering the moors. His eyes shown with both rage and perhaps a bit of lust, and his shirt was slightly disheveled from how hard she’d pushed him away. Beneath the white cotton, his chest rose and fell heavily, another sign of the unparalleled rage he was feeling toward her. A small voice in the back of her head sung in victory at getting him so riled up, but most of Hermione only felt fear at the sight of him.
When the silence felt almost too heavy, she broke it.
“That’s not how love works, Tom,” she murmured. “I loved you once, yes, but you were like my brother. You were the only person I knew who understood what it was like to be... different.”
“And now?” he questioned.
“And now?” Hermione echoed, a laugh almost bubbling up in her throat. “Tom, no one can learn to love their captor. That sort of thing only happens in fairy tales.”
It did almost feel like a fairy tale, though. There, before her, stood the wild, arrogant prince, demanding her love in exchange for some semblance of freedom. And she was, for all intents and purposes, the damsel in distress. While she was loath to admit it, once upon a time Tom had been the Prince Charming in her childhood fantasies; but now he was the wicked prince, determined to keep her from a better life.
He said nothing more, simply looking at her for a moment longer before retreating from the room. As soon as the door locked behind him, Hermione let out a shaky breath and collapsed on the bed.
Hermione had recognized the room she was locked in as the one that had always been hers when she’d visited the Riddles; she was sure that had not been done on accident. It was all part of Tom’s plan to draw some sort of positive emotion out of her. She imagined he thought the familiar surroundings would bring back happy memories. He was wrong, of course; it only gave her pain.
Curious, Hermione reached for the nightstand; inside its drawer was a worn copy of the King James Bible. But, if she turned to the right page, she wondered if it was still there.
Hermione turned to Genesis 29:25 and, sure enough, the object she’d tucked away years ago was still pressed between the pages. Carefully, she removed the old black and white photograph and looked down at it. Staring back at her were two children she hardly recognized; one had a mess of frizzy dark hair, while the other had perfectly groomed hair that was darker than the other’s. They stood in the drive, bicycles at their sides and smiles on their faces.
Gingerly, she brushed a hand over the image of the two happy children, wondering what had become of them. It pained her now to know the answer.
As the sun sank lower and lower in the distance, Hermione ignored the rumbling protests of her empty stomach and rummaged through the wardrobe and dresser until she found a comfortable enough nightgown.
Once she was dressed for bed, she pulled back the heavy green comforter and slipped between the sheets. The old photograph was tucked beneath her pillow, and she kept one hand over it as she softly cried herself to sleep.