Chapter Text
Just 29 hours until he would be seeing her again. 1740 minutes. 104400 seconds.
Yes, Tom had been counting down since their last court-arranged appointment, but who could blame him? She had become the one tiny, blinking light in this dark sky of nothingness: she was his true north. Something to occupy his waking thoughts between these concrete walls of despair and squalor.
She was a challenge, if you will. Something to keep his festering brain occupied. Keep it sharp.
Tom pushed the slop on his plate idly, mushing it further until it resembled something closer to vomit than edible food. Other inmates moved around him, too weary of The Dark Lord to actually speak to him. He had garnered himself a nice little name in prison, some sort of reputation from his - alleged - crimes. He’d almost be sorry to see it go.
Almost.
Thus, Tom sat alone with his thoughts. A hand trailed softly from his cheekbone down his unkempt face until it rested squarely on his chin. He played idly with the beginnings of the scruffy stubble.
Tom often thought of Hermione. She demanded most of his waking thoughts, if he were completely honest. All other subjects derailed by her wild hair and determined eyes, almost as dark as his.
He thought about what she’d look like afraid, crumpled in a corner, bundled in nothing but a thick layer of fear. See how wild her hair was after his deft fingers had run through it, pulling it, grabbing it-
He dropped his fork with a loud clatter.
The way her body would be painted in crimson, slick as an oil spill. She would be magnificent, an angel of death christened with punctures and cuts and gashes. He would be careful with her- he was careful with all his victims but Miss Hermione Jean Granger would be a special one. She would be the final notch on his proverbial belt, the final oat sowed.
Yes. Her death would be one even the Ripper would be envious of.
These thoughts, day dreams, were intoxicating- arousing. Many times over the past days had he come undone by the thought of her body -her corpse - to be his and his alone.
It was the dreams he had when he was asleep that frightened him.
When Miss Granger was very much alive, on her knees before him. The way she took him into that petite little mouth of hers and licked and sucked until there was nothing left within him. The thoughts that scared Tom Riddle the most were when she was positioned above him, almost liquid in how her body moved to match his: exact, precise, like everything she did it was calculated. Her fingers would snake around is throat, pulling taught at the tendons that met them there and her fist would close, tightening and tightening and tightening until-
“Jesus, Riddle, what’s got you lookin’ like you’ve seen a ghost?” Fenrir Greyback -serial rapist- stood opposite him, a knowing smirk caressing a mouth of yellowed teeth. A certain stench followed the man wherever he went, clinging to his matted, wolf-like hair.
Riddle simply looked at him from beneath thick lashes. His right hand bone white around the blunt dinner knife.
“Thinking about yer new broad, are ya?” Greyback sniggered. Riddle felt his blood begin to boil, rage flooding his synapses, fuelling him. “I would too if I were you.” Apparently Greyback took Riddle’s silence to be a motion to continue.
Riddle wanted to tear his throat open with his own hands, ripe at his jugular with his teeth, eat his heart until blood dripped from his tongue and he was finally sated.
Tom sat still, watching as Greyback leaned forward conspiratorially.
“What I wouldn’t give to have a taste of that cunt,” A pause, an lightbulb, an idea. “Maybe once you’re done with her you can leave some for me, eh?” Greyback winked before moving away.
Tom Marvolo Riddle was never one to share.
***
Hermione sat perched on a tall bar stool in a beautiful, upscale establishment that had been, thus far, lucky enough to escape much of the bombing of the war. All dark wood and emerald green tones, the room felt bizarrely otherworldly- as if it would be sooner found underwater than in a sidestreet in Chelsea. Hermione sipped delicately at a strong glass of scotch, revelling in the burn as it traipsed lazily down her throat, a welcome heat to the goosebumps that climbed her skin as she surveyed the almost empty establishment.
An older woman with a gold accented smoking pipe sat engulfed in a comfy viridescent armchair. Two young men sat laughing over glasses of wine, positively tittering at some mundane subject or another, myriad of empty bottles lay discarded on their table. The barkeep kept idle hands waiting by cleaning the same ornate gin glass for the umpteenth time, eyes darting around the room as if waiting for something.
Hermione had arrived wearing a deep red dress, almost the colour of blood in such a low light. It clung to her waist whilst allowing a modest neckline dipping only as low as her collarbones. It was a cheap fabric, nylon rather than the smart, smooth satin that most women this side of town donned, but it was the best she could afford during wartime.
She was sat at this upscale establishment, a fish out of water, gasping air that would sooner serve to suffocate her, all due to an articulate envelope which arrived through her letterbox that Saturday morning. Amongst regular bills and newspapers (Hermione had a subscription to almost every single one the city could provide) was a wax sealed letter with an eloquent letter M flanked by two sea dragons, all upon a bottle green seal. Inside was an invitation.
Dear Ms Hermione Granger,
It would be my pleasure if you were to meet me for drinks at Salazar’s Commons this evening, 8pm sharp, for drinks and conversation. I believe we have some mutual interests that require discussion.
Yours,
Abraxas Malfoy
Thus, Hermione found herself rather out of her depth, sat in the vipers nest as she sipped her drink at 7:50pm. Early, as always, so she could have a brief scan of the room and decide whether the most eligible bachelor in town, Mr Malfoy, was worth even half of what his dregs of a paper toted him as.
“Ah! Miss Granger,” Speak of the devil and he shall appear, “Early I see.”
Abraxas Malfoy wore a smile like it was an art, all teeth and crinkled eyes, genuine joy to make her acquaintance. Dressed in what would have been an elegant black suit, were the blazer not thrown haplessly over his shoulder, his tie loosened like a hangman's noose around his throat and his crisp shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair was longer than was the fashion, silken smooth and so blonde it would appear white under the afternoon sun- though now the greens of the bar gave him an odd mint halo. He appeared to have mastered the effortlessly eloquent bachelor dishevelment which had half the women in London craving his attention.
“Whenever a mysterious envelope from the most sought-after man in town arrives at my doorstep I tend to want to find the exits before he arrives, Mr Malfoy.” Hermione quipped back.
Hermione stood up to greet him, holding out a stiff hand for shaking before being swiftly taken aback as old-money-Malfoy took her delicate fingers between his ring adorned ones and brushed a soft kiss upon her knuckles.
“‘ Most sought-after man in town’ ? Oh you flatter me, Miss Granger.” He winked, the smile still not faltering. “Please,” he motioned for her to retake her seat whilst the barman scurried over and handed Malfoy a glass of wine as red as her dress. “I must say, Miss Granger, you look truly stunning this evening.”
“Please, Mr Malfoy-”
“Call me Abraxas.” His mouth was stained scarlet from the wine, almost vampiric, Hermione mused.
“Abraxas, why am I here?” Hermione asked, swirling her scotch glass idly, anything to keep her hands busy.
(she never knew what to do with her hands)
“Ah, straight to business, I like that in a woman-” Another wink. Hermione was beginning to question whether the man had the ability to stop smiling. “I’m under the impression we have a mutual friend, do we not?”
“That depends, would you consider a murderer your friend, Mr Malfoy.” Hermione’s lips formed a tight line. Eyes narrowed as she took a brisk sip from her amber drink.
“Oh, Hermione-”
“Miss Granger, please.”
“Miss Granger, I’m surprised you believe what those gossip rags are saying about my friend. Tom has been nothing but courteous toward women; I saw it at school and I saw it in our careers: he’s a true gentleman.” Abraxas waved her off, pulling his tie looser still.
“Are you -the owner of The Daily Prophet- really calling other newspapers ‘gossip rags’ ?” Hermione asked, incredulous. Setting her glass down with a soft tinkle, far too aware of the silence throughout the room, the heat of eyes on her neck.
Red perhaps was the wrong choice of dress in this sea of serpentine green.
“Now, Herm- Miss Granger, surely you wouldn't resort to insulting my livelihood, would you? I personally think very highly of your line of work; especially considering your sex- you’ve come so far.” Abraxas' tone was placating, patronising as he aerated his wine lazily in one hand, the smell wafting to Hermione’s nostrils.
(oak, a touch of leather)
“And that wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I may be the key to your friend's acquittal?” Hermione asked, crossing her arms over her chest, resolute.
“You wound me!” Abraxas held a hand to his heart dramatically.
Suddenly, however, his air changed drastically. Abraxas moved forward, leaning closer to Hermione so that they were only a hair's breadth away. His thick blonde hair a white curtain between them and the rest of the occupants of the bar. His smile wasn’t gone per say, just lessened, loose like his tie. His teeth were stained crimson ( wine, not blood, wine ) and that jovial nature held within those crystal clear eyes was suddenly replaced with something far colder. Hermione had to suppress a shiver, as if the increased proximity had shocked her to her very core, as if the acute fear deep within those sky blue eyes juxtaposed with a slight upturn of the lips wasn't chilling.
“Miss Granger, I believe it would be best for you and those around you if you were to have a more… how can I put it?” A rhythmic tap along the dark wood beside them. “ Understanding approach to our friend, hm?”
“Are you threatening me?” Hermione whispered, an eyebrow quirked.
“Of course not, Hermione,” Abraxas lazily traced a finger along the rim of his wineglass, a serene reverberation beat against her eardrums. “Simply advising you, friend to friend.”
“You know he skinned a girl." A pause: let it sink in. "Have you seen the pictures, Mr Malfoy?” Hermione asked, her voice still low, a cruel imitation of intimacy. “A police officer pushed past it, thought it was a curtain . A wet curtain.” Hermione needed him to understand the man they were discussing, needed him to know that the worst case scenario would be for Tom Riddle to be back on the streets. “Did your old school friend tell you that ?”
Abraxas smiled, that glint of fear still present in his eyes.
“Do you really want him getting out?” Hermione asked lowly, searching those pale features.
“It’s not about what I want, Miss Granger,” A beat. “It's simply about the greater good.” A pause as Abraxas leaned back to his previous, more dignified position. The air of bravo returned like a thick smog of cigar smoke. “Tom would be most pleased if you were to help him during this… tumultuous chapter.” Blood dripped from his lips, curried swiftly with a thumb into his pink mouth where he sucked obscenely at the spilt wine.
A pop as he withdrew his thumb from his mouth.
“Have you been speaking with him?” Hermione asked, her eyes widening.
Riddle shouldn’t have any communication to those on the outside other than his lawyer and those deemed with the troubling task of caring for him. The very idea that he could be communicating with those outside the prison, those who were so interested in his acquittal, was a massive breach of prison policy and would need to be reported immediately.
Malfoy took a sip from his wine, a coy smile upon his face.
“Abraxas you have to say if-”
“Hermione! What a surprise meeting you here!” A head of ginger hair cried from behind her.
Ronald Billius Weasley (a soon to be dead man) was stood just behind Hermione’s stool, a hand firmly grasping her shoulder as Abraxas Malfoy moved away from her, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
Hermione believed wholeheartedly that she could have murdered both men in that moment, such frustration which had built up in her making her see red. She attempted to keep her composure, clasping her hands in her lap, trying desperately to hide the reddening of her face, the whiteness of her knuckles.
Yes, she would kill Ron herself.
“Ronald,” Hermione ground out.
“Miss Granger, it was a pleasure meeting with you,” Malfoy placed a chaste kiss on her cheek as he stood. “I hope you’ll give some thought to our mutual friend and I's proposition.” Blazer slung low on his forearm, he moved swiftly from the room with the elegance of a dancer, the grin of a hyena.
He never even finished his wine.
“Ron what the fuck?” Hermione exclaimed in a furious whisper. “Are you following me?” She asked, anger plain in her voice.
Ron groped for words, for anything.
Nothing appeared to him.
“Jesus Christ,” Hermione shook her head and stood. She dropped a few pounds on the counter and walked to the exit, blood boiling in her veins as she did so.
“‘Mione please, just wait!” Ron called as they both exited into the night air.
Their breath fogged before them, little ghosts Hermione thought mundanely.
“What?” Hermione whirled around, a hurricane of wild hair and red skirts. “What, for the love of God, is it, Ron?”
“Harry and I are worried about you talking to Riddle,” He blurted, a couple metres away from her.
Hermione gawked. Opened her mouth, closed it, opened and closed. A fish out of water. Suffocating.
“Again?!” Hermione asked after a brief moment of pause, of incredulity. “We’ve talked about this, Ronald!”
“ I know but Harry suggested-”
“He suggested you follow me, did he?” Hermione asked, walking toward him. Heat radiated from her in waves. “Stalk me?”
“ N-no! ” Ron spluttered, taking a step back from her approaching form.
He had always hated when she got angry, even when they were 11. Hermione had trouble regulating herself, she made a habit of diving head first off the cliff of rage, ready to drown in the depths of fury, seething, choking on her anger until it consumed her whole. Until, like a star, she burnt out to nothing. She had gotten better at regulating her anger with age, could distance herself from those unwelcome feelings that came when she was underappreciated, underused, underpaid.
Now, however, was not one of those times.
“This is what he did, Ron,” Hermione spat, venom on her tongue. “You know that, don’t you? He stalked Lavender Brown before decapitating her. Followed Myrtle Warren before skinning her.”
“Hermione, you can’t seriously be comparing me to him ?” Ron exclaimed, his ears tinging red. Ah, a nerve- how lovely. “Don’t you think I know that, ‘Mione? Don’t you think I fucking know ?! I found Myrtle Warren- her skin …” his voice trailed off.
Hermione had the bleak realisation that she had gone too far.
Ron looked at her, hurt apparent in his gaze. He just wanted to help. He was just a boy trying to help a girl, his friend. He just wanted her to be okay, just wanted her to be safe. And Hermione had thrown it back in his face, compared him to a serial killer, a depraved murderer.
“Ron, I-”
“Harry wants me to start accompanying you to Azkaban,” Ron stated, a waver in his voice. An aftershock to her earth shattering words. “We’ll get it cleared with Dumbledore by Monday.”
“Ron, I’m so, so , sorry,” She was deflated. Undone. “I’m just stressed-” Hermione reached forward to place a hand on his forearm but he pulled away, burnt.
“We all are, Hermione.” Ron stated, not meeting her gaze. Cowed by her wrath. “But you’re my friend and I don’t care if trying to keep you safe makes you angry at me, I don’t care if you hate me, yell at me, scream at me. I’m going to keep you safe.”
He finally met her gaze- the tall, lanky boy from school was dead, died when his fingers scraped Myrtle Warren's bloody skin. This broad, hardened officer stood before her, dark half moons under each eye. The weight of the world on his shoulders.
“I couldn’t keep her safe, so I’m going to keep you safe,” His voice was almost a whisper. She almost couldn’t hear it over the rustling of the trees.
“I know, Ron. I know.”
Hermione moved forward, testing the waters. Feathering her fingers lighting over his arm, no reaction. She pressed lightly against him and, all at once, like the strings of his marionette had been cut, Ron collapsed into her arms, engulfing her. He held her like a starving man, his arms wrapped around her waist. He held her so tight, so, so tight like she would fade away at any moment. Like she would disappear into nothingness if he didn’t anchor her.
She felt a dampness begin to seep into her shoulder, a heaving breath.
Hermione didn’t know how long she stood in that alley, brushing Ron’s hair slowly, tracing circles on his back, whispering meaningless words in his ear.
She could not bring herself to care.
***
“ Please! Please, no! I was joking! I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it!”
Words, complicated airflow, nothing. Just pleas from a man who wouldn’t be long for this earth. This was Tom’s favourite part- well, second favourite part- when they believed that if they screamed, if they begged , they could get out of their predicament alive.
“I wouldn’t ever touch ‘er! No one will!”
Pitiful.
Times like this, despite his personal apathy, Tom hoped there was a God, a maker. Someone for Greyback to meet when his slow, sordid demise finally reached him. He hoped the talk of eternal flames and damnation were true, hoped that Fenrier's suffering would continue after he had left this plane. But then again, it didn't really matter: Greyback had become well acquainted with pain in these intimate moments with Tom.
“I know,” Tom replied between quickened breaths.
No one would touch Hermione Granger, no one would speak her name on their tongue. That privilege was his.
She was his .
Tom held the blunt, makeshift shiv over the broader, bigger man. His face was already bruised beyond recognition, bludgeoned black, blue and purple. Tom had always loved that combination of colours, even from a child. The violence they whispered to him.
It was truly beautiful.
Tom smiled and for once that happiness, that eagerness, it met his eyes: it was genuine.
He was grateful for the bluntness of the weapon as it pushed through sinew. Punctured each lung with the brute force of a bull. Tendons and ligaments, all undone by the actions of a single man. A God. Tom revelled in the screams that emanated from Greyback. The way they blended in with the other damned souls in the prison. Again and again and again he punctured the man until there was no more movement left. Until his screams turned into wet gasps. A strangled gurgle emanated from the man's mouth, the final rush of air before oblivion.
Tom Riddle lapped it up.