The Ruined Slope
She’d spent the better part of her adolescence loving him, she knew. That too-serious boy with the stormy eyes and shiny red bicycle. She’d even loved him throughout their first years at Hogwarts, huddling together in the library when he got away from Quidditch practice or the other Slytherin boys just long enough to go over each other’s Transfiguration essays. Hell, even as the first petrifications occurred and rumors flew around the castle, speculations and murmurs erupting as furiously as spots and lust and all those miserable signs of burgeoning adulthood amongst their year, she’d loved and trusted and believed him — believed in him, too, as he’d sworn to get to the bottom of all this.
Then she’d found him standing over Myrtle’s body.
Tom had sworn, of course, that he hadn’t done it (‘I swear, Hermione! I was just making my rounds. Why would I hurt Myrtle? She was your potions partner!’). Why would noble, brilliant, athletic Tom Riddle hurt as insignificant of a student as Myrtle Warren, after all? (‘I don’t even think about Myrtle ever — why would I want something bad to happen to her?’) She was just overreacting, a stress response to the terror of the petrifications. (‘You’ve been trailing behind me in Charms all term, Hermione. That never happens.’)
But she couldn’t believe him. She wasn’t sure why; maybe it was because of her own insecurities and jealousies — by fifth year, Abraxas Malfoy and Anastasia Greengrass had replaced Hermione at his usual study table. Anastasia had personally cornered her in the Prefects’ bathroom to proudly inform her that Tom no longer had any need of her company.
So, she stood her ground and his story changed.
(‘I didn’t mean to hurt her, Hermione; I was just getting curious; you wouldn’t fault me for being curious, now, would you? I had to see for myself, see what it all meant, see why I can do things that others can’t. You understand, don’t you, Hermione? You’ve always been curious. Just like me.’)
He’d reached for her, pleading and desperate. She could see he’d been crying, tear stains on an otherwise flawless face. She remembered telling him she would have to get a professor, perhaps Professor Dumbledore.
(‘Don’t.’)
And so she’d ran. She’d ran for years; thinking only briefly of him when word came of his grandfather’s death, and then his grandmother’s shortly after, and then, finally, his father’s. She flinched away from copies of the Prophet plastered with that Davidian face of his, fair like Carrara marble and severe in its gaze.
Once or twice, Hermione had wondered about telling someone about that terrible night. But who would have believed a lowly muggleborn shopkeeper? Who would ever have taken her word over Tom Marvolo Riddle’s, heir of the House of Gaunt?
(The answer was likely Albus Dumbledore, but Hermione knew she’d disappointed him somewhat by choosing obscurity over the sacrifice of public service.)
All these feelings roiled deep in her gut as Tom held her chin, the reviving dampness of water still wetting her lips ever so slightly. Hermione thought of the photograph under her pillow, of her father and mother back in Oxfordshire, completely oblivious to her whereabouts and the monstrous toying with fate Tom had committed. Her face grew hot under his lingering gaze, and while a small, traitorous part of her suggested it would lessen if she met it, Hermione’s very soul screamed at the thought.
If you look up, you will burn.
“Hermione…”
But would she burn? Was insatiable, damnable love not the least harmful of the sins? Her fate, were she to finally see Tom for who he truly is, to look upon him in whole, would not be to burn. Was the second circle of Hell not equivalent to the tempest she felt now, tossing her very spirit, her very heart, to and fro as if her core, her purest essence, contained all the winds of Cape Horn?
No, she would not burn. She would surrender to the whims of the air and sea. She would surrender to those stormy eyes, lashing her with their torrential demands.
She would surrender to the storm.
—————————————————
In truth, Tom wasn’t entirely sure what he would do when Hermione finally looked up. He had fantasized about it, certainly; he spent days wondering what her skin would feel like under his fingertips, how her mouth would feel slanted against him in an embrace long overdue.
Much of his fantasies depended on Hermione responding to his new invention with enthusiasm, with a joyous sense of love and affection overtaking her, making her insist he touch her, explore her, claim her as his — something Tom knew she had always been destined to be. So when fiery amber met the dark blue-grey of his gaze, Tom held his breath in anticipation. Those on-again-off-again nights with Anastasia Greengrass might finally pay dividends, he’d once mused.
Instead, Hermione burst into tears. She clung to him, cupping his face in her hands, and sobbed.
“What has become of us, Tom?” she questioned.
“I… Hermione, you’re home,” he tried to soothe. His hands rubbed gently up and down her arms as she clambered into his lap, her own hands exploring the planes of his face as if she’d forgotten him. “There’s no need to cry, Hermione… you’re… you’re safe again. Nothing bad will befall you so long as I am with you.”
“I protected you!” Hermione cried. “That… That night… Even when I was terrified of you… Oh, Tom, what has become of us?”
Shoving the lazy, dispassionate side of him that was beginning to wonder if traditional Amortentia might’ve been much less… annoying… Tom said nothing and crushed her to his chest. Hermione shivered, the plain cotton nightgown doing little to warm her against the draftiness of Riddle House, and Tom murmured a gentle warming charm into the soft skin of her shoulder. He ran his fingers through her curls, gently working through the snarls and tangles they caught against as he did. Slowly, Hermione’s sobs dissipated. She pulled away from him as far as his bone-crushing embrace would allow, her nose brushing against his.
“I should’ve… should’ve known you’d never let me go,” she whispered. Her reddened, watering eyes sparkled with something Tom interpreted as affection. “Even when we were children, you…”
“There has never been anyone else for me,” Tom swore. “It was always you, Hermione. You know that to be true, do you not?”
“Of course I do, Tom,” she exhaled. “I… I have always loved you, truly. And I know you have always loved me in your own fashion. But…”
Tom’s expression darkened and he tightened his hold on her.
“But,” Hermione continued. “If… If we are to reunite… I have some conditions for you. First, you will allow me to come to you… in that way… in my own time. No more meddling with my food, Tom.” He gaped, wondering how the potion had worn off so quickly, or how Hermione had so deftly fought it off. “Second, I would like to have some say in how you conduct your political dealings. Both those known to and concealed from the Wizengamot. If I am to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into your world, I’d like to be able to exercise some semblance of agency.”
Tom exhaled heavily through his nostrils.
“Your requests are not unreasonable,” he conceded. “Do you have any more?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Hermione hummed. “I would like you to apologize to me.”
Tom’s brows knit together.
“For… kidnapping you?” he guessed.
“Among other things,” she stated. “I won’t be telling you any other reasons why I’d like you to apologize to me. You need to figure the rest of them out, on your own, without any use of magic beyond trying to recall your own memories of events. Until you think you’ve figured out just what I would like for you to apologize to me for, I wish for you to not speak to me."
“You…” Anger brimmed under the surface at Hermione’s herculean demand. Tom squeezed her even tighter, supple skin bruising under his fingertips. “If you think that—”
“Ah, ah,” Hermione chided. “Your penance, Tom Riddle, begins now.”