Chapter Text
It is late in the summer, O.W.L.s. long completed. Hermione has spent every waking moment out in the sun in her parents’ garden, soaking up the last rays of August sunshine, a book in hand and something sweet and fizzy (sugar-free, albeit) beading condensation next to her. She’ll turn seventeen soon, and with that comes the next steps for her future …
She’s only given them scant details, glossed over the terror inside of the castle, but for the first two months of the summer, Hermione’s parents had barely let her out of their sight. Hermione had thought she’d been exceptionally clever with her warding and protective spells, thought she was close, along with Harry and Ron, with figuring out what could possibly be attacking students - but not clever enough. Spending three weeks Petrified in the Hospital Wing would damage any ego.
But -
- Today, the sun is hanging low in the sky on a lazy Friday evening. Hermione guiltily turns the page of the cheap paperback hidden inside the pages of the thick tome, propped up on her elbows, glancing up furtively to see if anyone spots her. No, her parents fondly bid her farewell this morning, off to Italy for a small break. She’ll see them again in a few days, reluctant to interrupt their time together, and grateful that they are finally happy to leave her by herself.
And besides -
- The book she is clutching, borrowed from Ginny in a fit of nervous giggles, oh, it has been so difficult to steal time away to read it in complete privacy -
Hermione considers herself liberal, forward-thinking, a feminist, burn-the-bra, equal rights and equal opportunities for all, wizard, muggle, Magical Creature - but she is terribly embarrassed at even the thought of being caught reading the filthiest bodice ripper Ginny could source.
Hermione’s face is hot as she finds her place once more. She knew, even from the first page, that this book is completely ridiculous. The heroine, courtly widowed Lady Benneton (and yes, she rolled her eyes at Ginny who laughs and says trust me, Hermione, wait until Chapter Fourteen) has been pursued by a variety of swashbuckling, handsome, daredevil men (and yes, she also rolled her eyes at the obvious mismatch in character, the impending expiry date of such relationships). Hermione has read six chapters of questionable plot, but now -
“Mrs Benneton,” purred the low voice behind Annalise. She gripped the stem of her wine glass, heart beating staccato against her ribs.
(Hermione wonders idly if a doctor ought to be called. She thinks that Ginny would find her observations amusing.)
She shivered at the light touch of his fingertips skimming her waist. Her bosom heaved of its own accord, and she felt the warmth of his broad, muscular chest press into her back. Lower still, she felt proof of his intentions -
Hermione is comfortable, warm. She lays down on her blanket, secluded in the garden. She closes her eyes and allows her thoughts to drift to all the boys who had ever shown her a passing interest.
Her first thought is to Viktor. Viktor, who had liked her for herself, for her brains. He had kissed her so longingly at the end of her fourth year. Hermione had thought she’d rather like to kiss him again, but then -
Her second thought is to Ron. Tall, loyal, funny, who made her cry no less than four times last year, who called her brilliant, so smart, ‘Mione, can you just read through four feet on the Goblin Wars, I just can’t get my head around it -
Her third, secret thought is to Tom Riddle, and she falters.
Hermione slowly traces the inside of her thighs.
Riddle - she hadn’t imagined it, had she? Him looking at her throughout the year. She’s not quite sure where she stands with him. He certainly seemed pleased when the Petrified were revived and the attacks abated. They'd even agreed to write over the summer, to finish an extra project for Slughorn. She had caught him just once, staring at her with a flash of danger in his eyes - danger of what, she’s not sure. But she knows, swears, there’s something more to him than Perfect Prefect Tom Riddle.
She snidely thinks of how prim, how proper he is. How immaculate his hair is (so unlike hers), even, inexplicably after Duelling Club. How regimented he is in daily life, precisely the same breakfast at precisely the same time each morning. Polite, clever, handsome. No rumour of a dalliance with any student -
- Hermione would quite like to rake her hands through that carefully parted hair -
And oh, what a terrible person she is, to think of him like this. Despite his unfortunate choice of housemates and their slightly (read: very) rocky start, Riddle has been a surprisingly good Herbology partner, has shut down Malfoy’s coarser torments, even danced with her at Slughorn’s Christmas party, just once, hand not deviating from the prim, proper position on her waist …
Her face blazes with shame as she brushes damp curls. Her bare legs are so warm against the picnic blanket. She thinks of his hands, long fingers, clever with his wand work. She thinks of his height, of his narrow frame - the closest they’ve been is when he has held her from a distance, spinning her (awkwardly, Merlin, why is she so awkward), him, half-smiling drolly down at her -
She has touched herself before, of course, almost perfunctorily, half images of faceless boys have featured. But Hermione cannot remember ever feeling this strung out, this on edge. Her fingertips carefully trace her outer lips. Her heart hammers in her chest as she breaches the slick -
She hears the distant knock on her front door and wrenches her hand away from between her thighs, panicked. Her face is burning as she leaps to her feet, tugging her dress back into place.
In the garden, out in the open had felt risqué, delightfully so - but to be almost caught in flagrante delicto (only ever with herself, the mean little voice in the back of her head says pointedly) is a metaphorical cold shower.
“Coming!” she calls loudly, hoping her voice doesn’t shake. She dashes through her back door, pausing in the kitchen to fling her hands under the tap. She swings open her front door and feels her clit throb traitorously as Riddle himself is waiting, perfectly composed, by her Muggle parents' front door. A bicycle is propped against the bricks of her home.
What?
"Riddle - hello - what are you doing here?" Hermione manages to stammer out. She is distracted by the sight of him in jeans and a polo shirt. Tom Riddle is outside of her Hampstead home in jeans and a polo. The cognitive dissonance throws her entirely.
"Evening, Granger," and Riddle shifts a backpack. "Sorry - had to return the owl I was using, so I brought these by more pedestrian means. I hope you don't mind me dropping by but I didn't see how to give you notice. I do apologise for the intrusion."
He sounds so entirely reasonable, so earnest. Hermione almost agrees, as if by instinct, but -
"Hang on - school starts in two weeks! You could have brought them … then?" She trails off as he kneels to unzip his backpack. She doesn't know why she notices the tan on the back of his neck, then paler skin stretching over the bumps of his spine disappearing under his collar as he bows his head. She's never thought of Riddle as outdoorsy. She's never considered him as existing outside of Hogwarts.
He smiles at her, pulling six heavy tomes out. Funny, they shouldn't really fit in such a small backpack.
"Extension charm," and he winces as though he's been caught, as though he's in collusion with her. "Undetectable. Hard to hide everything otherwise from the Muggles. Don't mention to anyone, would you?"
He hands over the stack of books. Their hands don't brush.
"Well, I ought to be -"
"Did you - did you want a drink? Sorry, I've forgotten my manners," Hermione blurts out. "You must have come far, and it’s so hot today, and on your bike! Yes, come inside for a bit,” she speaks firmly, assuredly, and holds the door open.
Riddle smiles very evenly. “Thank you Granger, that’s awfully good of you. Not for long; I need to get back - curfew and all.”
Hermione is quite certain that she has made him genuinely laugh before, a wry, reluctant twist to his mouth so unlike the smile he is wearing now. Her droll commentary muttered in the library over reams of parchment, quills scribbling late into the night as they debate minutiae surrounding the Dissolution of the Wizards’ Council in 1707, and the subsequent structural reform leading to the formation of the Ministry of Magic (they agree on very little other than further reformation is desperately needed).
The sun is low in the sky, orange light catching his eyes. Hermione doesn’t know why her breath hitches, the way he’s looking at her, so at odds with his well-mannered words, his dark eyes flash warm, heated -
She blinks, he’s stepping over the threshold, a respectable distance between them. Hermione suddenly feels dirty, thinking of her classmate like this, and defaults to hosting.
“Right - the bathroom is just upstairs, to the left. You can leave your bike in the hall - no helmet?!”
“None,” he agrees. “Seventeen soon - then no more need for this contraption.” Hermione eyes the bike - it’s spotless, well-maintained. She has a faint memory of him in first year Flying lessons, gaze fixated on Harry who was first to summon his broom.
It is very strange seeing Riddle in her home. He is taller than her father, just, and the hallway seems too small for him. “I won’t stay too long. I had promised myself that before the summer is over, I should take a trip up north. I believe that’s where my father’s family is from.”
Hermione perks up interestedly. “You’ve never mentioned your parents - when are you going?”
“I’m on the last train today, incidentally. Thought I’d stop by on my way to Euston.”
He heads upstairs, and she busies herself in the kitchen to distract herself. A pitcher of lemonade, a thick slab of fudge, cold cuts, bread from the bakery (slightly stale, she tuts). Hermione drags a kitchen chair to the top cupboard, intent on pulling down jam made the summer before, stored at the very back. She stretches as far as she can on tiptoes, scrabbling blindly with one arm.
She doesn’t hear him enter and loses her balance as she turns around. Wobbling, she feels a hand catch her elbow, but it is too late. The jar of jam slips out her hand and smashes thickly on the kitchen floor.
“Oh no,” Hermonie moans as she steps off the chair.
“Leave it.” Riddle’s voice is unexpectedly commanding, and he doesn’t move back. In fact, he continues to hold her firmly by the elbow.
"Excuse me - what-"
She falters as he steers her towards the kitchen counter. She wants space to think but instead, Riddle moves forward. His eyes bore down into hers. The hairs prickle on the back of her neck. Hermione inexplicably feels hunted - she doesn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer -
- How did a wand appear in his hand? He traces her collarbone with the tip of it. She notices, suddenly, an old book on the counter, something crimson streaked on the pages -
“You know,” he murmurs, “I almost regret this.”
His other hand comes forward and touches her neck. Hermione doesn’t know whether to scream or run; her feet are rooted to the ground. Her heart thuds in her chest as his fingers linger over her pulse. This is the first time he’s ever touched her of his own volition, the closest he’s ever been. Hysterically, her mind flashes back to the garden, naive daydreams of his hands she had never before permitted, her own hands skimming her thighs -
Riddle pauses, a fraction. He’s still staring at her intently.
The tension in the room is thick, as he lowers his wand. His hand rests on her neck, lightly.
"Tell me, Granger," his words are quiet, and she feels his breath on her face. "What were you doing in the garden?"
He's close enough that Hermione can feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint scent of his soap. Hermione feels as though she is swaying on the edge of a precipice. Riddle's eyes are telling her to jump. She exhales shakily. The Gryffindor in her rises up.
"What won't you regret, Riddle?" She bravely demands, pushing him away slightly. His heart beats lazily under her palm. "What did you really come here for?"
Something in the air shifts. A tiny movement of his hand against her throat, her pulse flutters wildly. He runs a fingertip down the side of her neck, and she shivers. Riddle watches her - has anyone ever paid this much attention to her before? - and suddenly, inexplicably, he touches his lips briefly to hers.
Hermione's brain short-circuits. His mouth is warm and much softer than she had imagined (and now that it's happening, it seems silly to deny that she has thought of kissing him before). She wonders if she should bite him, scream, punch him. Instead, her eyes drift shut and she kisses him back, slowly. Her hands clench and unclench in the empty air, until caution is firmly out of the front door, and she rests them uncertainly on his shoulders.
Riddle has no such qualms. Has she ever seen him hesitate to take anything he wanted? The hand around her neck tangles roughly into her hair, and he holds her in place. The long line of his body burns a scant inch away from hers.
She's kissing Riddle. She's kissing Riddle in her kitchen, sticky red jam and glass shards spattered on the kitchen floor; did she even lock the front door? His arm is sliding around her waist as he leans over her. It's not a bad kiss, it’s an excellent kiss. He smells like hot summer sun, like embers, so alive -
He tightens his fingers in her hair, pulling, and the sensation sends a jolt from the base of the skull, down her spine, all the way down, pooling deep in her belly with a heat unknown. He likes this. She breathes a gasp against his mouth, and he chuckles, low and dark.
“Nothing to say for once?”
She breaks away solely to scowl up at him, the ferocity somewhat tempered by her fingers clutching his collar. He’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending, and she notes with triumph the flush tracing his cheeks, that he is careful to keep his hips from pressing into hers. His eyes are bright and his palm hot through the thin fabric of her dress. Riddle seems painfully human and she does not know what to make of it.
“Where,” she begins, trying to seize control of the situation, “did that come from?” She’s still holding him close and instructs her traitorous hands to push him away. Instead, they slip just barely against the skin of his neck. His nostrils flare imperceptibly, but this close, she can see every freckle, the beginnings of stubble on his chin, the sharp, handsome curve of his jaw, his blown pupils, each long eyelash -
"I wanted to see what would happen," he offers blithely, arrogantly, wicked hands tracing each bump of her spine. Hermione shivers as his fingers skim lower. She doesn’t know why she lets him slowly ruck up her skirt, doesn’t know why she stretches on tiptoes as she pulls him down to kiss him again.
He really is appallingly attractive, she rues. This time, she decides she's in for a penny, in for a pound, and allows her hands to explore his shoulders, his back, twist through his thick hair. He licks the seam of her lips and she sighs into his mouth, lost.
What would the Slytherin girls think of this, Riddle deigning to slum it in such a way with a dirty Mudblood -
Would they believe Hermione, if she can even begin to find the words to describe Tom Riddle groaning into her mouth as he cups her rear? The words to describe Tom Riddle finally pressing his lean body to hers, utterly shameless? His fingers are tantalisingly close to her core. She arches her back, half-drunk with lust, urging his fingers closer, closer -
"What colour are they, Granger?" He pants in her ear, thumbs smoothing over the soft fabric of her underwear.
"Why, Riddle," she baits him, boldly. "Have you been thinking about my knickers, all this time?" He licks her neck, then bites down, hard.
She yelps, and he laughs softly.
"I would rethink your tone. My interest in your knickers -” he ghosts over the crotch of her underwear, and she instinctively jolts towards more, any friction “- is the only thing keeping you alive right now.”
It’s as though she’s been plunged into an ice bath. The tension shatters horribly.
"How - how dare you?" She stammers, pushing him away with both hands. Riddle backs away as though she is brandishing a hot poker, a horrible little smile on his face. Her thighs burn white hot from where his hands have been trailing up. Hermione yanks her dress down and continues, finding her voice through the fog of insanity that has clouded her judgement. "How dare you just show up to my house and threaten me, then kiss me!"
"In my defence," Riddle says mildly, with a strange expression. Hermione tries very hard to keep her eyes trained on his face and wand arm (when did he draw so quickly?), and very firmly above his belt. "I only planned on the first."
"That is a dreadful defence!"
He twirls the wand (she jolts when she doesn't recognise it as his wand) in his hand. She wishes with all her might to summon her own wand silently from her bedroom, and after this, if she's still alive, she will keep it permanently holstered on her body at all times.
"I presume you have a preference for one rather than the other?" And this expression she knows well; Riddle is terribly smug all of a sudden.
"And how do you dare presume what I-" Something clicks in an instant, the intense eye contact, the knowing looks. "You're a Legilimens," she breathes, instantly staring at his tousled hair (the only victory today, an entirely inappropriate voice cackles in her head). "Oh god - and to think - you've been violating my privacy-"
"I rather feel violated by those fantasies of yours, Granger." He smirks at her, and she flushes angrily.
"Those are my private thoughts! I can imagine you dancing the can-can in only a feather boa if I like!"
"That will certainly not be arranged," he retorts archly. Good god, is he enjoying this?
Hermione looks around, desperate for a change in topic. She sees his book, and rifles through. The pages are now curiously blank, with the year embossed in gold on the front. Inside, written in black ink, 'T. M. Riddle'.
"And why have you brought your diary, Riddle? Going to confess your deepest feelings for me? Maybe I can plait your hair during a sleepover." She waves it in his face, heart hammering. Is she insane? She’s wandless - arguably witless - Riddle has a good fifty pounds on her - there must be a way to come out of this intact -
His eyes narrow and with a wave of the wand, the book flies into his hand. Something ugly flits across his face. Hermione cannot believe she once found him attractive, was seconds away from letting him -
“You’re not going to hurt me,” she states, trying very hard to sound commanding. He arches an eyebrow. “No - you would have done that already if you were actually going to. And - Ron and Harry, they saw me give you my address at the end of term. They knew you borrowed books. I’ve already been Petrified; there’s a target on me. No one is going to think this was an accident.”
It is the best argument she can come up with under pressure. It is not a very good one. But surprisingly, he seems to consider this.
Think, Hermione! She just needs to buy time, gain his trust. And then, once he is gone, she will alert the authorities, Dumbledore -
“Hm, no I don’t think you will tell the old man,” he says carelessly. Goddamn Legilimens! Hermione could scream in frustration. “You see, you’ve been awfully trusting, inviting me inside. Don’t you keep your bedroom door locked?”
“Excited? Your first time in a girl’s bedroom, Riddle?” Ginny is clearly rubbing off on her. Shame it’ll get her killed. But her mind is racing. Why did he go into her bedroom?
"How forward of you, Granger. I couldn't imagine what your poor Muggle parents would say. Especially when they get back and see the corpse of their precious daughter on the kitchen floor. Maybe she broke her stupid neck falling from a chair."
All levity leaves the room. “How,” Hermione says, evenly, “do you know that my parents are away?”
He sighs, theatrically. “Oh, Hermione,” and her name on his tongue makes her blood chill. “Do you really consider me an amateur?”
“No,” she breathes out in horror.
“Yes,” he says, almost cheerfully. “I’d be very careful of speaking any word of this encounter. Who knows how your parents will know to get back home …”
Her loving parents absolutely cannot be involved with whatever Riddle is plotting. Are they safe? Has he hurt them? Imperioed them to walk off the nearest bridge? She’s desperately thinking of curses, hexes, jinks, what spells could he know, cast, to with such certainty have her compliance?
But Riddle is no longer answering her questions. He draws another wand from his back pocket.
Her wand.
“You’ll get this back at the start of term. I’ll be in touch - there are a few things I need from you, after all …”
He kisses her on the cheek in a mockery of intimacy, and disappears out of the door. She sinks to her knees on the cold kitchen floor and stays there until the sun goes down.