Chapter Text
The clock ticked monotonously in the background, a centring force as Hermione remained rooted to the spot beside a porcelain feline perched on a shelf. It’s yellow eyes peered at her, all wide dark pupils that were unseeing, all knowing. It watched her squirm as the blood thrumming through her veins continued to subside to a normal level.
They were far too predatory, those eyes, for something encased in such fragile, beautiful material. Watching, cataloguing; omniscient almost.
(from the corner of Hermione’s gaze they appeared almost black)
She stepped away from the wall.
“Well she simply must continue this line of questioning,” Umbridge had been tittering the same tune for almost half an hour, ever since they had left the cell. “Neither the police or my psychiatrists have been able to get even a word from him and yet she- ” A vague gesture in Hermione's general direction. “-Is able to engage with Riddle. Yes, that settles it. She must continue interviewing him.”
Zacharias had been bone white since they had left the dingy concrete box, barely speaking a word to Hermione on their traipse back to Umbridge’s pink purgatory. His pale eyes bounced around the room as he spluttered, trying desperately to get a word in between Umbridge’s greed stricken diatribe.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Madam Umbridge,” Zacharias began hurriedly before Umbridge was able to latch onto the conversation, a leech with a too wide smile. “The psychological profile we were provided clearly states that Riddle’s violent tendencies are more predisposed to women, thus, allowing Hermione to interview him alone wouldn’t only be unwise but down-right negligent.”
Hermione understood his view, appreciated it even. It was a nice change of pace from Ron’s abrupt infantisation of her and Harry’s pearl clutching at the thought of a woman having more brains than breasts. That being said, being disregarded using reason and academics was still being disregarded, brushed aside to allow a less qualified individual to do a job that Hermione was certain -when the stress wore off- she could do.
Madam Umbridge leaned back in her cushioned, high backed chair.
A viper rearing her strike.
“Well, Mr Smith, why don’t we ask Miss Granger her opinion?” Umbridge pointed a tight lipped smile at Hermione. There was no warmth in her sickly sweet voice.
Zacharias turned in his chair, crooking his neck at an awkward angle. With this view of his face -all sharp planes and slender lips- his eyes looked almost pleading. Hermione only allowed the briefest flicker of confusion to shadow her judgement before meeting Umbridge’s pertinent gaze.
“I can do it,” Hermione stated, determined. “I know it’s dangerous but surely… surely we have to do something if we’re ever going to get justice for those women? You said yourself, Smith, he has powerful connections. He could get off!” Hermione was now fully directing her speech to Smith, somehow latching onto this skinny, tall, snivelling man as a life raft, someone who needed to understand that she was capable.
(she needed someone to understand)
(anyone)
“You know I can do this, Zacharias.”
A beat. A pause. A rush of blood in Hermione’s ears.
“Okay.” Zacharias gave the briefest tilt of the head, the slightest inclination of agreement.
Hermione allowed a weak smile to part her lips, a feeling of immense relief clouding her judgment. Excitement thrummed in her veins.
And so the Lamb continued onward to break the seventh seal.
***
Hermione nested in a crowd of plush cushions, rich reds and luxurious golden thread. Her thick duvet pulled high up her chest as she proceeded to make herself more comfortable. She had only just returned from Azkaban, adorned with extra reading courtesy of Zacharias and her new pink prison warden.
Crookshanks was curled in a tight ball of bright orange fur beside her. When the light from the yellow streetlamps hit him just right it looked like a crown of fire adorned him.
Hermione brushed her fingers slowly down his coat.
The aforementioned lights were still on, despite the late hour, despite the war, despite her exhaustion. She had her first proper interview with Riddle tomorrow and Zacharias had given her some homework under the guise of preparing her for what was to come.
Sensationalist headlines peeked out at Hermione as she continued to lazily stroke the bundle of flame beside her. Pictures of a handsome young man shaking hands with a Minister as he handed him some crystalised pineapple, the portly older man beaming ear-to-ear at the gesture whilst the younger donned an almost modest smile, head tilted downward to give the illusion of respect; perhaps even embarrassment at the attention from the flashing lights of photographers and yells of reporters. All of them wanted a glimpse at the man who had been tipped to be the next Prime Minister.
But those eyes, once again, stood out so starkly. Onyx even in the grayscale paper, seeming to envelope all light that dared gaze upon them with a succinct whisper of violence. A modern day Medusa , Hermione mused silently. Her eyes moved to the headline.
MINISTER REFUSES TO COMMENT ON ALLEGED TIES TO ACCUSED SERIAL KILLER LORD VOLDEMORT!
‘Tom Riddle, described by peers and co-workers alike as charismatic, intelligent and -most of all- handsome, has been arrested on some 13 counts of murder-’
Hermione could hardly help the huff of indignation as she read the words before her. She threw the newspaper on her bedside table along with the other read (and swiftly discarded) articles. She huffed, Crookshanks ear twitched. Imagine a world where journalistic integrity continued past a pretty face, how much could have been were it not for the media to be blinded by Riddle’s artificial beauty.
She glanced over at the bedside table, at that searing envelope containing the gore, the true violence that Tom Riddle was able to produce.
Hermione took a steadying breath.
Her fingers darted out for the envelope before her mind could reprimand her curiosity. Surely , Hermione reasoned with herself idly as she picked at the seam of the paper, if she wanted to get a good idea of Riddle and his certain… proclivities she would need to ready herself with all the gruesome details. A certain analysis was needed beyond the horror, was it not?
Hermione opened the envelope swiftly, her fingers still trailed the fur on Crookshanks back. With her free hand she drew out a picture at random.
A nude female form, her back arched in such a provocative manner that made Hermione almost look away.
(almost)
Contained within a luxurious, claw footed, porcelain bathtub, the woman lay in a pool of her own blood. What may have begun as a slender cut from sternum to navel had been torn asunder, resulting in the woman’s arched back opening her ribcage widely, giving the impression of a morbid butterfly. Her skin was almost clinically peeled back to allow the true grandeur of her ribs against the black stains of blood to be witnessed.
One hand had been drawn down between her legs, fingers languidly between her folds.
Where the organs should have been was simply a nest of snakes, different kinds from the view of the markings. Serpents whom writhe within her drained form, making a nest in her spatchcock ribcage.
A home where her heart had once been.
Crookshanks screeched as Hermione dug perhaps a little too hard whilst stroking the feline. She barely registered.
In a stark contrast to Lavender Brown’s scream of terror, Parvati Patil’s face was one of ecstasy, her mouth open in a silent moan, her eyes rolled back into her head. An intentional mockery of la petitie mort.
Hermione studied the photo for a long while, unable to tear her eyes away from the juxtaposed gore and sensuality- there was something so intimate about this crime- a lover's revenge perhaps? Riddle was known to have bedded many women during his adulthood, thus, the idea of a lovers spat would not be so far fetched.
She shook her head, physically ridding herself of the thought.
It was far too clinical to have been someone Riddle knew, no fervent passion that usually lay within crimes between lovers. No, this was done quietly and with a specific attention to detail.
From the two pictures that Hermione had been able to examine, she had come to the tentative conclusion that the crime scenes weren’t done to the victims, not for their pain. No, it appeared that Riddle, after he was through with using the women, wanted to pose the women in such a manner to shock those who would meander across the body. Whether that was a housemate, in Lavender's case, or a cleaning lady in the upscale hotel that Parvati had been found in. By extension, they were made to shock the police.
Hermione took one last glance at the girl who would be remembered for her gruesome crime scene. She pushed the picture back into the envelope.
The air raid sirens began screaming outside.
Hermione absently wondered whether Parvati had sounded like them.
***
“Hermione!” A voice called from behind her, halting the clicks of her heels. Hermione turned around, pushing a wild lock from her face.
“Yes, Smith?” Hermione asked, an eyebrow quirked.
“Scotland Yard sent over some questions this morning, here-” Indeed, Smith held out a simple folder. Hermione took it gingerly. “They heard about your breakthrough and wanted to capitalise.”
“I see.” Hermione flicked through the pages idly, her eyes scanning the questions with an increasingly quizzical stare. She frowned. “These are-”
“Awful, I know,” Zacharias appeared tightly strung, an arrow ready to loose at the slightest provocation. “Apparently Potter- and Weasley no doubt- masterminded them.”
Hermione sighed, closing the folder with a slap. Of course Ron and Harry would force themselves further into her investigation, once again proving that they didn’t trust her, a qualified psychiatrist with hundreds upon hundreds of research hours. Unlike them, her work entailed critical thought, something that was evidently amiss from these questions.
“Jesus Christ,” Hermione cursed under her breath. “How am I supposed to go in there and- and-” She raised her arms, exasperated. “Ask a man who butchered these women what time the crimes took place? For one, he doesn’t even admit to murdering them!” Hermione’s voice slowly grew to a crescendo, a screech of indignation.
(if she wasn’t careful, something other than those dull, concrete walls would listen in)
“I know, I know,” Smith stated, raking a tired hand through his hair. “They’re the orders though.” he shrugged.
Hermione nodded solemnly, attempting to allow the frustrating turn of events to wash off her, baptise her in the new opportunity.
Fucking Scotland Yard.
“Good luck,” Zacharias stated, his voice quieter, lacking his usual pride.
“Is that genuine worry I hear, Smith?” Hermione goaded, though -if she were being honest- her heart wasn’t in it. “Going soft?”
Anxiety writhed in her stomach like a nest of vipers.
“Good god, you make it so hard to be nice sometimes,” Smith coiled tighter still. “Can’t you just take it for what it is: someone trying to look out for you.”
Hermione frowned. In all her time working for this snivelling excuse for a psychiatrist he had never been open. Never had this kind of respect for her. It was… off putting. She gave a short nod.
“Thank you, Zacharias.”
“Hmph,” Smith grunted in reply, his hands shoved deeply into his blazer pockets. A reprimanded child.
He mirrored her brisk nod, a short gulp, a bob of a protruding Adam’s apple. With that, what unsettling honesty had accompanied their exchange was broken as Smith turned on his heel and moved down the corridor, shoulders still slightly slumped.
Hermione attempted to push the brief encounter aside, push the crawling feeling that something wasn’t right down, down, down until she could no longer acknowledge its existence.
For she had more pressing matters to attend to, did she not?
Hermione continued forward, down the concrete corridor of despair, groans and screams emanating throughout the ward. Thankfully, in this area of the prison the doors were heavy, no bars to be seen, so the only thing that remained of those held within was the maudlin wails that had since haunted Hermione’s dreams. Her nightmares.
In what felt like seconds she was at the iron door, two guards standing sentinel beside it. They did not meet her gaze. Moments like this she was reminded of her appearance, a neat plaid skirt exposing the expanse of her calves, a plain beige jumper accompanied by a fitted dress shirt. Her hair was thrown up in a messy bun, unruly curls framing her face as she watched the door. Her knuckles bone as she clutches on the meagre file of unhelpful questions, a supposed lifeline in this tumultuous sea.
She gulped.
She nodded.
The guards opened the door.
Riddle remained seated where he had been during the last interview, only now he appeared more eager. He leant forward in his chair ever so slightly, his head quirked to the side like a curious child wanting to make sense of a particularly evasive puzzle. His eyes however remained closed off, flat almost- two pools of Stygian darkness.
Hermione shivered.
Riddle smiled.
“Please, take a seat, Miss Granger,” His sinful tongue curled around her name. “I’m glad you took me up on my offer.”
His whole air was different now, welcoming. As if he were simply beckoning an old friend to have a nice chat over steaming tea. As if his hands weren’t bound by a thick chain, looped around his waist and anchored securely to the table separating sinner from saint. Confidence oozed off him like fine perfume.
“Mr Riddle,” Hermione acknowledged, settling in the stiff back chair and organising her folder. Her heart continued to beat, her pulse fluttering beneath her skin.
Riddle dampened his lips.
“There’s no need to be nervous, Miss Granger,” His restraints clinked as he moved, steepled slender fingers beneath his chin. “And please, call me Tom.”
“I’d beg to disagree, Mr Riddle. And I hope you’ll excuse me if I continue with formalities,” She lined up the folder, finally meeting his piercing gaze. A flicker of anger, a glint of fury etched in that stoic gaze before it was abruptly snuffed out.
“I understand,” he leaned further forward in his chair, a slight creek echoed throughout the room. “One wouldn’t want to appear too familiar with a man such as myself,” A flash of canines, a predator hiding it’s true intentions beneath colourful displays of casual ease. A cobra confronted with a mouse.
“No,” Pause. He watched her closely, his gaze a physical presence on her being, a tangible weight ready to drag her down into the depths. “Now, Mr Riddle. As you know, I’ve been sent here on behalf of Scotland Yard to ask you a few questions concerning your alleged involvement in the murders of thirteen women and girls.”
Hermione paused, expecting a reprimand, a denial, anything . He simply met her with an amiable smile. He gestured forwards, encouraging her to continue.
“I assume you’ve been read your rights?” She asked, brow quirked as she moved through her checklist of questions.
“Yes.”
“And you’ve waived your right to have a lawyer present, correct?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, all correct.” Riddle waved his hands, disinterested in such formalities. His chains rattled. “ Now, what question do you wish to ask me, Miss Granger?” He continued leaning forward, an anticipatory glint in those dark eyes.
Hermione bristled, leaning back a modicum. Riddle picked up on the movement, matching her inch to inch, millimeter to millimeter.
“I’m afraid it’s the questions that Scotland Yard has for you, Mr Riddle.” Hermione gestured to the folder in her petite hands.
Riddle narrowed his eyes. He cracked his knuckles, a rhythmic chime ringing out with each split. Whatever lighthearted amusement which had been playing along the charming lines of his face had vanished. His expression was blank- there was… nothing. No discernable emotion on his face. This sudden switch was more jarring than the unnerving familiarity.
“Now, Miss Granger,” He began. “I’m sure you understand, if not Scotland Yard, that the reason you’re here with me right now is because I wish to hear from you . Not them.” No, there was an intensity to his gaze. A heat that emanated outwards, almost hypnotic. “If I wanted to answer their questions I would have done so months ago. Surely, such a bright young woman such as yourself would understand that.”
“I know but-” Riddle raised a hand, silencing her in one swift motion. As if that hand had curled around her vocal chord and crushed .
He tutted.
“Thus, if the Yard knows what’s good for them, for their investigation, for those girls , they should be wise to allow you to ask your own questions.” He leaned forward across the table. “Besides, I’m sure you would be far more enlightened by my answers than them.” A smile graced his lips once more.
“Assuming you even answered them,” Hermione looked up from the questions.
The shadow of a smile continued to play on Riddle’s face, not high enough to reach his eyes. No, there was something dark there- a hunger, animalistic almost, in the way he watched her. Like he could see the thoughts as they entered her brain. Like he wanted to place her out on a table and dissect her: mind, body, and soul.
Like he wanted her-
“What if we came to an agreement?” He asked after a moment’s thought.
Ah, and the venus fly trap opens it’s jaws.
“An agreement?” Hermione echoed.
The curious butterfly flaps languidly toward it, unthinking.
(ravenous)
“Yes. You ask whatever questions you want and I’ll answer, honestly.”
Fluttering closer.
“And what if I simply asked whether you killed those women? Put an end to this now.” Hermione prodded.
Closer.
“I don’t believe you to be so naïve to cut off talking to a subject such as myself, a wealth of information into the mind of an alleged serial murderer gone with a simple sentence? No,” A beat. “Your greed for knowledge is too insatiable for that, isn’t it, Hermione?” His tongue caressed her God given name.
(how did he know her name?)
The butterfly hovered above the sweet trap, forgetting the teeth, the hooks, her fear.
“And the catch?” Hermione ignored his use of her name, ignored the flush of her chest. She played with the simple ring on her finger.
A soft landing.
“I get to ask a question in return and you have to answer honestly.”
Engulfed.
“Deal.”
Hermione didn’t even think before speaking, finally understanding what the newspapers discussed. His presence, his attention… it was intoxicating . This was how he got away with it for so long, how he managed to fool all those around him despite the gruesomeness of the murders. A charismatic, personable young man such as himself surely could never commit such heinous acts.
Hermione thought back to the bodies, the faces, the mockery of two women gone.
Deep breath.
“Well then, I want to ask you about your benefactors: the Malfoy family seem set on your release, don’t they?” Hermione asked, shoulders straightened.
“I don’t see a question there, Miss Granger,” Riddle tutted.
“What do you think your chances are of getting out of this ,” She gestured vaguely at the room. “Especially considering the help of the Malfoys and their ‘newspapers’.”
“Ah, don’t think highly of The Prophet then, I assume?” Riddle asked.
“No, Mr Riddle. I don’t. It barely constitutes a paper let alone one that informs on news . It's clear what they’re trying to push with regards to yourself and yet most of the British public can’t see through it!” Hermione rushed out, frustration clasping her vocal chords. “It’s preposterous.”
“Indeed.” Riddle held a quizzical, almost tentatively pleased look upon his sharp features. Hermione frowned.
“But my question.” Hermione prompted.
“Ah, yes. Well, Miss Granger, I believe that my chances of getting out with the help of- what did you call them? My benefactors?- is almost certain.” He stated, raking a hand through ink black hair.
“Certain?” Hermione began frantically scribbling her notes in chicken scratch.
“Yes. You’ve seen my connections I assume, Miss Granger. You wouldn’t walk into the room with a killer- excuse me, alleged killer,” He fucking winked. “Without aptly preparing, would you, Hermione .”
His use of her name was lethal . All dripping blood and gore with the sensuality and subtly of a knife. It rattled her with every syllable, terrified her with every curl of his lips as he measured her reaction.
“For, if I remember correctly, the Minister of Justice has a certain propensity for Crystalised Pineapple.”
Hermione blanched, assuming, hoping, praying that it was simply a coincidence that, out of all the newspaper articles written about the stranger opposite her, he chose to reference the one she had been reading one night prior. Yes, it had to be a coincidence, a happy accident.
The feeling of her flesh crawling like worms beneath her skin did not subside as his gaze intensified.
“So, Miss Granger, I believe it’s merely a matter of when, not if.” A sweet, innocent smile. It wouldn’t be misplaced on a Propaganda poster, declaring ‘ We can do it!’ .
And yet.
"How do you know my name?" Hermione asked tentatively- though she believed she already knew the answer.
“Ah, ah, ah." He tutted. "It's my turn now,” He leaned forward further still in his seat, chasing her shrinking visage as she continued to register his words.
Riddle truly was insane. A psychopath with violent tendencies. Antisocial Personality disorder was a given, a sadist with a flare for the homicidal. And most worrying of all, a true narcissistic view of himself that, despite all he has done, he would get off scot free- maybe a slap on the wrist.
“Yes?” Hermione asked, anxiety coursing through her lifeblood. Riddle smirked. He knew.
“What’s the densest question on that list?” Riddle moved forward, Hermione flinched. He held up his hands, a mock surrender, before slowly moving a slender finger to point at the idiotic list of questions from Scotland Yard.
“Why?” Hermione asked, taking the paper slowly from under his grasp.
“I want to know what imbeciles wrote this and what, in your professional opinion, is the worst question to ask a man such as myself.”
“Such as yourself?” Hermione repeated, looking up at Riddle from beneath thick lashes.
He tapped his nose, tutting and shaking his head slowly. Reprimanding, that was the only word that could begin to describe his air: reprimanding.
“It won’t be that easy, Miss Granger. You have to wine and dine me before getting me to spill my guts,” A fucking impish smile. Like this was a joke. Like those women were a joke .
“Is that what you did to them? Those women?” Hermione asked swiftly, anger inflected within her clinical tone. Riddle only deemed to smile more.
“Now, Hermione. You’ve asked your question. You know the rules.” A beat. “Now answer mine.” His tone left no room for question, a gazelle with a lion's jaws necklace would have more options now. No, it was an order.
“ ‘Why’.” Hermione stated vaguely. Riddle raised a brow. “ Why did you commit your crimes : that’s what I believe to be the stupidest question on this list.” She threw the paper across the table to him, though he took no mind to it anymore.
He rested his chin on steepled fingers.
“Explain.”
“Well…” Hermione cast her mind around for the reasons why that particular question had gotten under her skin. “It’s just… preposterous isn’t it? The idea that you’d answer something like that. For one, in all the past trials and case studies I’ve read the subject was either downright unwilling to respond, blamed it on a higher power or wasn’t well enough to fathom the question.” Hermione huffed.
Speaking to him felt like talking to a colleague- no, no it didn’t. Her colleagues didn’t care about her observations with regards the field of criminal psychiatry, no, they would brush her aside like a discarded toy whenever she deemed to make a point. In contrast, Riddle appeared engaged and, above all, interested in her views.
This, she absently supposed, was how he got his victims to trust him. Why it took so long for the police to charge him. That damned charm making you feel like you were the world and he the gravitational pull that kept you from drifting into the abyss.
No. He wasn’t the gravitational pull: he was the black hole.
“And that doesn’t even account for the fact that you specifically wouldn’t answer the question as it would result in admittance of guilt.” Hermione finished with a grave shrug.
Her eyes moved to meet his, those pitch dark irises. They were still directed at her, watching her face, ravaging it as she spoke. That animalistic intensity was back as his gaze trailed her eyes, her lips, her throbbing jugular. Suddenly they were back to her and she felt like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard.
“Power.”
“What?” Hermione asked, believing he misspoke.
“The only reason people like me kill is for power. It’s just power.” His words were chosen deliberately, such care to enunciation. “That’s all there ever is.”
Hermione began writing frantically.
“Whether it’s power over a jilted lover or a stranger, nothing quite replicates that high of knowing someone’s entire being is in your hands. All their memories, their future: all of it in the palm of your hand. And then it’s not-” Riddle closed his outstretched palm. “And you realise that you took something from this world, something irreplaceable. Isn’t that true power? Taking something away that can never come back?” He peered at Hermione.
“There’s a strange intimacy to it. Really, it’s the only intimate act, isn’t it, Hermione? Holding someone’s life in your palm. Yes, there’s sex and love, one can argue- but nothing compares to that. That… power -” He tasted the word, allowing it to slosh around his tongue like fine wine.
“-It’s insatiable.”
***
She winced and oh how beautiful it was.
Miss Granger really should learn to guard her emotions closer to her chest. The fleeting subjects of anger and incredulity were both so rich on Tom Riddle’s pallet that he could barely conceive it. She was playing with her ring again, that small, simply silver ring on her right ring finger. She did it when she was nervous, Tom rationalised.
When she felt unsafe.
Oh, and she was. Make no mistake, no matter how many chains Tom Riddle was held back by, he was still deadly. Fine tuned and elegant as a butterfly knife, likely enough to cut at the wrong word, the slightest wrong move.
She was exquisite when she was hiding her fear. That quintessentially British ideal of stiff upper lip , though her body language said it all. How she scampered from his movements, Little Red Riding Hood confronted by the Big Bad Wolf. It was truly intoxicating.
Tom wondered how she looked when she wasn’t wearing a façade of confidence.
Oh how he wanted to tear it down, fissure it and see that terror in her eyes.
It would be beautiful.
“I think that’s our time for today, Mr Riddle,” Hermione stated, drawing him from his trancelike state. She collected her meagre folder and held it before her chest. “It’s been… enlightening.”
She made to leave, her heels clicking delicately across the floor. Hermione turned briefly, watching as Riddle flashed his most charming grin. There was a simple pleasure in those dark eyes, a delectable hunger within them. He would not stop until he had eaten her whole, engulfed her.
Made her his.
“Goodnight, Mr Riddle.”
“Goodnight, Hermione.”