Memory
Three days had passed and Hermione still refused to eat or drink anything. Tom hadn’t gone to see her since their interaction the day she’d been brought in, but he was growing frustrated with her and decided that enough was enough. She would eat and drink that day. She had to, or else she was going to likely die from dehydration; something Tom would rather not witness. Such common and mortal ways of dying were unappealing, especially when he found there were much more creative ways to make sure someone met an untimely end.
Rising from his seated position behind his desk, Tom strode out of the study and in the direction of Hermione’s room. He didn’t bother knocking, bursting in like he owned the place — which, of course, he did.
She was curled up on the bed, looking, for lack of a better description, like death.
Her face was pale and ashen, and there were prominent dark circles under her eyes. And she was too weak to truly glance up at him, her half-lidded eyes looking at him for only a moment. Tom bit back a sigh and picked up a glass of water from her vanity.
“No,” Hermione mumbled as he sat beside her, holding the glass to her lips. But she was too weak to push him away.
“Hermione, you can’t go on like this,” Tom reasoned. “You’ll feel much better if you drink.”
His wand hand itched; while he was above using an actual love potion on her, he wasn’t above using the Imperius curse to get her to take care of herself.
She shook her head again and Tom pressed the glass more insistently.
The contents splashed onto her chapped lips and he watched as her dry tongue peeped out and cautiously ran itself over the moisture.
Tom’s eyes lit up with the familiar glow of victory. And the effects of the water, thanks to it being charmed, were almost instant; Hermione looked herself again, and sat up slowly. Her eyes had yet to meet his own, but he knew when they did that it would be all over.
She would be his.
It was something Tom had pondered often, at least since he was old enough to understand what desire was. While he didn’t necessarily feel the desire that his peers had felt (it had often seemed to him that Abraxas would rut against anything that moved), Tom’s wanting for Hermione had been nothing but constant.
Because she was his; he’d, admittedly, known it since they were children. When her magic appeared due to her anger toward him, he’d been struck with the fact that, at the time, they were the only two people in the world with such powers.
Of course, he’d been wrong. But during school, he learned that she was truly the only witch capable of displaying a caliber of talent somewhere close to his own.
And when the scourge of teenaged hormones that even Tom could not avoid were mixed in to his appreciation for Hermione... well, the combination had all but sealed his fate. But the expectations placed upon him as a member of Slytherin kept him from truly doing anything about his desires until they were well-removed from school.
He almost had done something, when they were seventh years.
Tom was lounging in the Head Common Room, his potions homework well-forgotten on the coffee table that separated the sofa on his side of the room from the two overstuffed armchairs that Hermione had claimed as her own.
The door to the common room swung open and he glanced in its general direction, raising a brow slightly as Hermione marched in from the Prefects’ bathroom.
She was wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her curls now damp and hanging around her face rather limply. The scent of her soap hit his nose and Tom quietly cursed the smell of roses; when it wafted up from the Amortentia Slughorn had shown them in sixth year, Tom had sought out the culprit of such a smell for weeks until he discovered it was, indeed, Hermione.
Not a word was spoken between the two as Hermione made her way toward her dormitory; it wasn’t unusual for them to not exchange a single word unless it was for their duties as Head Boy and Girl.
The lack of spoken word did not stop Tom from taking a good look at her, of course.
His gaze wandered up her legs, which appeared freshly-shaved, to the edge of her towel. Tom’s eyes darkened when he thought of how it would be so simple to make that towel disappear; just one flick of his wand and it would pool at her feet...
His wand hand twitched.
It would be worth it to see the shock and embarrassment on her face, and to finally get to see her in the way Tom had only dreamed about; of course, she’d quickly cover herself and likely turn on him with her own wand, which would only fracture the mild peace they’d established in their shared living space. So he simply twisted the Gaunt ring on his finger and watched her retreat.
How he longed to follow after her! Tom wondered how she would react; any other girl in the castle would turn into a puddle at his feet if he followed them into their dormitory. But Hermione?
He was never sure. He suspected she knew that Hagrid wasn’t responsible for Myrtle’s death, and he was sure she suspected him of being guilty of his grandfather’s death, but did she know?
Did she know who he was? Who he truly was?
The thought sent a thrill coursing through him. Asserting his power, his true status over Hermione was one of his most frequent fantasies; to have a talented witch like her under his thumb, to make her completely vulnerable to him... it was too much.
And all that kept him from truly going through with it was the separation of a door.
Tom couldn’t bear it; he rose to his feet and crossed the distance to her door as swiftly as possible. He contemplated knocking, but instead reached for the doorknob. Just as he was about to turn it, the door swung open.
The lack of space between them made his heart pound. She looked up at him, and her eyes shone with an emotion he couldn’t quite read.
“Goodnight, Tom,” she murmured, her eyes searching his for a moment. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
He swallowed hard. “I just wanted to remind you of the potions homework due tomorrow,” he stated. “I know your grades haven’t been anywhere close to mine this term, so I thought you’d want to work a little harder to catch up.” The mask he wore slipped perfectly back into place.
Something in her gaze faltered, as if she expected something else. “Of course,” Hermione mumbled. “Again, goodnight...”
And without a word, she quickly closed the door.
He’d missed his chance then, but Tom would be damned if he missed it now. Now, since it was practically in his grasp and there was nothing that could stop him this time.
“Hermione,” he breathed, his voice low and rough. “Look at me.”