Chapter Text
Monday. The start of a new week. A new day. All that lay ahead were opportunities to learn, to excel, to succeed. To prove herself to be more than anyone thought, than Harry thought, than Dumbledore thought.
(more than he thought)
These were the thoughts bouncing around Hermione’s brain as she walked into the imposing prison grounds on the crisp Monday morning. It was the first frost of the year, the neatly trimmed lawn was a blanket of silver and white: a winter wonderland- a fine government investment for the rehabilitation of the men within.
Hermione scoffed to herself.
“Hey ‘Mione! Wait up!” Ron called from down the icy cobbles.
Ah yes, her own personal prison guard had arrived just on time. He briefly lost his footing when racing to catch up with her, a deer standing for the first time, Bambi. Donned in his usual dress shirt, loose tie and dark red blazer Ron moved toward her. A light blush dusted his cheekbones and ears, due to cold or embarrassment Hermione wasn’t sure.
After the night before, after Hermione had held Ron in her warm embrace for what felt like hours in that dark, shabby alleyway, they had moved their separate ways. Both had reached the mutual understanding to not discuss the night prior, Hermione and her insensitive words to her best friend and Ron’s tears and fear, most unfitting for a Scotland Yard detective. It was the course of least resistance and allowed them both to simply do their jobs and try to protect one another in whatever way they knew how.
“On time then?” Hermione asked, fiddling idly with her skirt. “Are you okay?” She asked after a second, hushed before entering the building where even the walls had ears.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ron replied awkwardly, running a hand through his ginger locks. His gaze was squarely focused on Hermione’s ruby red shoes. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine, really.”
They stood there, a thick sense of mutual embarrassment smothering them. Neither met the other’s eyes. It was like they were fourteen again and Ron was asking her to the school dance, his face redder than his hair and Hermione wishing to sink succinctly into the ground, six feet under until her only company were the worms feasting on her flesh.
“Ah, you’re both here. Good.” The nasal tone of Zacharias Smith called from just within the wrought iron gates. “Come on, we have to talk.” Smith motioned to Hermione.
“Where she goes I go, Dumbledore’s orders,” Ron stated swiftly, whatever teenage demeanor falling from him as swiftly and succinctly as youth slipped into adolescence.
Hermione was sad to see it go.
Zacharias raised an eyebrow at her, a slight, amused quirk to his thin lips as if to say ‘ really?’ . Hermione couldn’t help but agree with his scepticism, no matter how much she loved her friend.
“What happened?” Hermione asked, pushing past Ron’s imposing form to walk beside Zacharias.
This was her domain, in the walls of this prison she was judge, jury and executioner. Ron could use however much brute force he wished but she was still the one who had the power within these four walls. Ron was simply an unhelpful fly, getting in the way with incessant buzzing, stopping her focus. No, her intelligence would be her venus fly trap. Ron would be wise to ignore the sweet smelling honey before interfering with her duty.
“A man was killed last night, Riddle’s cell block.”
“What?”
“They found him with thirty-six stab wounds- all from a blunt instrument.”
“Anything else?”
“They haven’t been able to locate his eyes or tongue yet.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ron exclaimed from behind them, attempting to keep pace with the two psychologists and their brief explanations. “Who was it?”
Zacharias turned to eye Ron with a hearty look of disdain in his face, “Fenrir Greyback, a serial rapist.”
“Was Riddle accounted for?” Hermione asked before Ron could interject.
“He was seen speaking to Greyback at dinner and apparently left his food after the conversation, but he was in his cell at lockup and there at morning call.” Zacharias turned his attention back to Hermione, shrugging.
“Was the corpse posed at all? Or did it have any serpentine imagery?” Hermione asked, worrying her bottom lip absently. They were approaching Riddle’s cell block, they didn’t have much time to discuss. The clock was tick, tick, ticking as Hermione’s heels clicked along the concrete,
“The body hasn’t had an extensive autopsy as of yet and I wasn’t allowed access to the crime scene, Umbridge’s orders.” A brief pause. “But I overheard an orderly talking about how ‘ Lord Voldemort’ looked worse for wear this morning, lack of sleep allegedly. And apparently he’s refusing to see anyone.” A beat. “Anyone but you.”
“Christ,” Hermione murdered, more to herself than anyone.
“Wait,” Ron appeared to be slowly connecting the dots so abruptly drawn by Smith and her. “You can’t seriously think that Riddle got out of his cell and- and murdered Greyback? This is a maximum security facility. It’s- well, that’s impossible!” Ron exclaimed.
The final turning before Riddle’s cell was approaching. Hermione’s heart was beating, a rabbit chased by a fox, a wolf.
Neither Zacharias nor Hermione acknowledged Ron, simply exchanging knowing looks.
“He only wants to talk to me?” Hermione asked, standing stationary just before the door. That thick layer of iron felt inadequate at protecting her from the monster within. Perhaps salt would do the trick? A crucifix?
“Yes.” Zacharias nodded. He had since learnt not to disregard Hermione Granger and her insatiable need to please, to prove herself. He knew that ignoring her almost pathological need for respect would lead to more problems down the road.
It would be her downfall.
“Well then,” Hermione rolled her shoulders, a slight crack to her bones. “Let’s not keep him waiting, shall we?” A weak smile, a strong push and Hermione moved into the cell.
Or, rather, she would have if Ron’s large hand had not closed around her forearm just as the door swung open. Riddle sat in his usual position, waiting, watching, always cataloguing his surroundings. His eyes sharpened when he saw the touch, the way Ron so easily held her back. He sat straighter in his chair, a hardness in his face that set all of Hermione’s nerves on fire.
“‘Mione, just- be careful.” Ron leaned down, his lips at the shell of her ear.
She wasn't looking at Ron, no, her eyes were firmly set on Riddle. Where there was usually cool disinterest now held fury of the like she had rarely seen- so hot, so strong that she was surprised even Ron didn’t notice it. Daggers fired into his back, carving his skin like a pumpkin on Halloween. Flayed and burned alive until all that was left of him was rot and ash .
No, Ron didn’t seem to notice as his hand trailed down her arm before giving what she supposed would be a reassuring squeeze to her hand. She was clammy, fear clogging her arteries. He didn’t realise what he’d done, didn’t know what he’d brought upon her, upon him, he didn’t know-
The door shut with a loud rattle.
They were alone.
Hermione moved to sit down, attempting to regain whatever composure she had before their brief, voyeuristic interaction. She began to organise her folder, her notebook, her pen, all the while feeling that gaze rapt upon her. Riddle had such a knack for making her feel like the only thing in the world, allowing her a place on a pedestal that many of his victims and enablers had felt before, Hermione presumed. Now, however, she felt petrified under that scrutiny. Her clammy hands held a slight shiver as her heart beat a traitorous pace.
There was no smile to his face when Hermione raised her eyes. None of his usual cocky, charismatic charm which he would play upon to get what he wanted. No. There was simply wrath.
“Good morning, Mr Riddle,” Hermione began, relieved to find her voice steadier than her fingers. “I’m surprised you wanted to see me, after all, you must have had a stressful night.” She waited for Riddle to speak, to interject, to do anything, but he simply remained silent. “Ah- uh, after all, your fellow inmate was found dead last night- rather gruesome too, wasn’t it?” Nothing. “Especially after your discussion at dinner-”
“Who was that?” Riddle’s voice was low, a purr low in the lions throat before the roar.
“I don’t believe that’s pertinent to our discussion, Mr Riddle.”
His hands were beneath the thick table between them, it was unnerving. Usually Riddle would emote with his long, slender fingers- always moving, always illustrating what was truly in that sick head of his. But now the chain that bound them slinked off the table like a snake.
“What did you and Mr Greyback discuss last night?” Hermione asked, leaning forward on her elbows, almost conspiratorial in nature. The priest attempting to coax a confession from the sinner.
Silence.
In this light his eyes almost looked red. Perhaps it was simply the reflection of her sweater.
(she hoped it was the reflection of her sweater)
“Fine.” Hermione muttered after a moment of prolonged silence. She clasped her hands together on the desk. “Your friend confronted me yesterday; Abraxas. He seemed to be trying to recruit me to your cause,” Still nothing but those Stygian eyes boring into her very being, her very soul. “He’s not very subtle, you know.”
Riddle quirked a brow in response.
She could work with that.
“He insinuated he was in communication with you. Not directly, of course, but he did seem to underestimate my intelligence due to what’s between my legs.” No response. “He also tried flirting with me- well, I suppose that’s what London’s own most eligible bachelor does, doesn't he?” Hermione twisted a finger around a stray lock of hair, a façade of absence, of ease to her voice, to her stance.
“Abraxas didn’t tell me that.”
“So you are in communication with him?” Hermione jumped upon his response with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. Riddle noticed. He smiled.
Wrath was still alight in his eyes.
“Miss Granger, I do believe we came to an agreement a mere two days ago about our arrangement ,” Riddle began. “A question for a question. An answer for an answer.”
“You’ve yet to answer any of my questions,” Hermione retorted indignantly.
Riddle tutted , like she were a petulant child asking for another serving of dessert when she had yet to finish her vegetables. A mild annoyance that could be easily overridden with sweet words and false promises.
“If I remember correctly -and I’m sure I do- you were the one to ask the last question, Miss Granger.” Hermione sat, open mouthed. “Does ‘ why’ ring a bell?” A self satisfied curve to thick lips. She spluttered a nonsensical retort. “Ah, ah, ah. No, Hermione. You wouldn’t go back on your word, would you? A man’s word is sacred, but if you’re willing to retract your agreement then I will happily put an end to this tenuous arrangement now.”
With that, Riddle raised his hands from beneath the table. Purple, blue and red bloomed over his knuckles. Bruises painted his pale skin like a foreboding sunrise. Hermione was reminded absently of the old idiom: Red sky at morning, shepherds warning. It felt oddly fitting as she spied the deep rust beneath his nails.
Greyback did not go easy into that good night, it would seem.
“No,” Hermione stated.
“No?” Riddle inclined his head forward ever so slightly, cupping one of those grazed hands to his ear.
“No… I’ll answer whatever question you want.” Hermione watched Riddle through thick lashes, her eyes tracing the blossoming colours adorning his skin.
It was oddly beautiful.
“Then, Hermione ,” A stabbing pain in her chest as his tongue curled sensuously around her name. “ Who was that man?” His voice was low, dangerous. He enunciated each syllable with a bloody dagger.
“A friend and a colleague,” Hermione stated plainly. “Now, how are you talking to Abraxas Malfoy?”
Riddle smiled ruefully, though there was no humour to it, allowing out a harsh laugh and wagging his finger at her.
“Hermione, Hermione, Hermione… After how good I’ve been to you. Answering your little questions, letting you play doctor : and yet you you treat me like this?” Riddle leaned back in his chair, long legs stretching under the table with a jangle of chains. “If that’s all our arrangement is worth to you then I suppose all the other girls were worth even less,” He slouched in his chair, hands intertwined on his lean stomach.
A master chess player waiting for his opponent to make her move. Ready to capture the Queen.
“ Other girls ?” Hermione echoed quietly. “Other than the thirteen found?”
Her stomach dropped like a stone into the deep, murky waters that was Tom Riddle. She was trying desperately to breathe, to find a way out, and yet all she could hold onto was that serene, sinful smile that caressed his lips like God Himself sculpted them.
Riddle’s smile only grew, canines flashing under the light.
Hermione noticed his lip was split.
“His name is Ron-”
“Ron…?” A wave of the hand, a ring of chains.
“Ron Weasley.” Hermione surrendered her friend's name like a confession. Riddle leaned forward, beaming. Oh, she had his attention now, rapt and lapping up every word she spoke.
“And your relationship with him?” Riddle dampened his lips, tongue digging into the cut there.
“Childhood sweethearts,” Hermione stated blankly. She dug her nails into her palm until bloody half moons adorned them- a gruesome constellation. Riddle, evidently unsatisfied, gestured for her to continue. “We met at school at eleven, he was… a character . We only started going steady in our final year.”
“ And ?”
“ And after a couple of years we decided it wasn’t good for either of us. We mutually decided to go separate ways,” It was Hermione’s turn to shrug. “There. Happy?”
“Did you tell him that it was mutual?” Riddle’s eyes twinkled in genuine amusement.
“Sorry?”
“He’s infatuated . Looks at you like a lost puppy,” Riddle was almost laughing. Hermione’s blood was boiling. Suddenly, all humour drained from his face. His eyes flat, his face blank except genuine disgust curling his lip. “It’s pathetic.”
Hermione had to suppress a shiver at the words, at the pure rage held within them. She rustled her papers, drawing him out of his private reverie.
“Now my question.” Hermione stated, half moons still dripping iron from her palm.
He gestured ahead. His eyes weren’t soft, per say, but had dulled from the sharpness and agility of the butterfly knife to the brute force of a blunt dinner blade. More subtle, easy to miss amongst the mundane. Hermione bristled slightly, dipping her fingers in scarlet to ground herself.
“Were your alleged murders premeditated?” Hermione asked, pen in hand.
“Now, Hermione, surely you understand that I can’t answer that with a clear conscience. The nature of incriminating confessions is a very complex one, as I’m sure you’re well aware, so I will unfortunately have to pass on that particular line of inquiry.” He spoke with such an even tone, so mundane in his mannerisms. It was almost like he wasn’t discussing the murder of multiple women.
“But-”
“However, I’m nothing if not gracious-” Hermione had to hold in a huff of laughter at his incredulity. “For your kandor I can discuss my actions at Wools.”
“Wools? As in the orphanage you grew up in?” Hermione asked, surprised. There was no information on Riddle’s time at Wools, he had never spoken about it.
“Yes.”
It appeared he knew how valuable this information was.
“Is that where your violent tendencies started?” Hermione asked, her voice low, breath baited.
Riddle paused, whether thinking or merely for dramatic effect Hermione didn't know.
“Billy Stubbs had a rabbit, it’s fur was so soft. It was so… trusting . All the children would pet it and watch it run around the orphanage. It never really took to me though. No…” he seemed almost lost in memory. It was mesmerizing. “One day the thing nipped me when I tried to stroke it. The fur just looked so soft, I had wanted to touch it. I didn’t like that very much.”
“I strung it up from the rafters. It screamed so loudly, wailed and wailed for it’s precious Billy Stubbs. I had managed to stay off a weekend trip, you see, so I had the orphanage to myself. Mrs Coal was a few too many drinks in to take much notice of a sweet young boy and a rabbit playing. She suspected me, I suppose, but could never prove it.” A pause. His eyes appeared to roll into his head, seemingly reliving the experience: pure ecstasy.
“I won’t ever forget it’s screaming, Hermione. It was beautiful.”
She believed him.
“How old were you?” Hermione asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
(scared, she realised, she was scared to hear the answer)
“Seven,” His voice was still breathy, light. It sounded like that soft spot after waking up, where you can't quite tell the difference between dream and reality.
“Do you have any pets, Miss Granger?” And just like that, he was back in the room. Whatever eroticism he was experiencing privately was suddenly gone. He was fully present once again.
Jarring man.
“No,” Hermione said too quickly.
“A dog?” Nothing. “A cat?” Hermione’s pulse fluttered in her neck. “Ah, a cat.” He smiled. “What’s its name? And don’t lie to me, Hermione. I’ll know when you lie.” The last words were laced with threat, an artistic tapestry of promised violence.
“Crookshanks.” She stated blankly, cradling her fingers in her lap as Riddle continued his movements forward. He rested his head on steepled hands halfway across the table.
“Breed?”
“Not sure.”
“Ah, a stray. How very noble of you.” He gnawed at his lip, crimson began to bead from the wound there.
It reminded her vaguely of Abraxas, his wine rimmed smile.
“What does he look like?” Riddle asked, head quirked to the side like a curious cobra, ready to strike.
What’s his game ? Hermione asked herself, mimicking his inquisitive expression unintentionally. His magnetism was truly astounding. Terrifying.
“He’s fluffy and ginger. He has this- uh…” She gestured, trying to find the word to describe her feline companion. Riddle’s eyes followed her movements. “ Crumpled face? Like he ran into a wall when he was a kitten.” Hermione allowed a nervous laugh past her lips. Genuine mirth appeared to manifest itself in Riddle’s eyes.
It was almost endearing. Almost human.
(almost)
Hermione shook her head and that briefest glimpse of humanity was gone as soon as it had appeared, snuffed out by that infinite darkness within his eyes. The outline of a man filled in with a caricature, something false- a fairy tale of dark hair and sculpted cheekbones. That’s all it was.
A fairy tale.
A perversion of reality that couldn’t be allowed to stand.
“When did your murderous impulses begin?” Hermione asked.
She was tapping her silver ring against the table carelessly, a tap tap tapping that reverberated around the cell. Riddle's eyes briefly watched the movement before snapping up to her once more.
Hermione stopped.
“Around puberty,” A pause, a brief moment of contemplation. “At least, that’s when I started thinking about murdering women. Before that I had just experimented on animals- hamsters, fish, strays: whatever I could get my hands on, really.” Hermione began writing frantically.
“I remember a little brat, not her name, just… her . She had done something to anger me, steal my toy or my pudding or something else trivial that children think about. I just stared at her, at her delicate little neck, her body. She was so… breakable . I wanted to kill her. To murder her. I didn’t realise it at the time, of course, I thought everyone felt that angry.” A wry smile broke across his lips. “I can’t even remember her name. Funny, isn’t it? How these experiences mold us. What we remember; what we don’t.”
“I hope they remember me, Hermione.” His eyes bore into her. She couldn’t move. “I hope they remember my hands around their throats, the knife in their backs,” Blood began to move in rivets through her love line on her palm. “ I hope I was the last thing they thought about before they died ,” He grinned and his lip split in earnest, his tongue darted out to taste the copper.
A nosferatu finally sated.
There was a heave behind Hermione, though she did not move. She simply stared at Riddle, at his lips, at his eyes, at that angelic face which hid the sins of man. Her breath came heavily on her chest, adrenaline pumped through her veins as she watched the vague form of a person before her.
“Time’s up,” Ron stated. Hermione still didn’t move. “Hermione?”
Riddle’s eyes flashed at the use of her name, finally dragging his x-raying gaze from her fingers which continued to tap tap tap .
Hermione stood abruptly, gathering her papers swiftly with little regard for their order nor their significance. She felt panic continue to flood her veins, a small voice that sounded an awful lot like her ginger counterpart whispering I knew you couldn’t do it. You were always going to fail. Did you think you were different? Think you were special? Stupid girl, stupid, pathetic, Hermione-
“Always a pleasure, Miss Granger.”
Tom Riddle stood for the first time in her presence, his towering, lithe figure still strong despite the time without proper exercise. He stood with all the refinement of a man in high social standing, used to being surrounded by tittering women and mooching men and knowing he was better than them all. The air of superiority was positively smothering. The gaunt, malnourishment continued to curve to fit his jaw as he inclined his head to Hermione, stray strands of facial hair holding to his sharp lines.
And then, to Hermione's bleak horror, Riddle reached out his fingers and clasped her hand in his much larger one. He leaned down, eyes watching her all the while. It felt like it was happening to someone else, someone far away, as Tom Riddle ducked down, his crimson lips pressing lightly against her knuckle. Vaguely Hermione recognised the slight rattle of chains as Riddle moved. Maybe it was her imagination, but Hermione could swear she felt the brief damp swipe of his tongue across her skin.
His index and middle finger rubbed indecently at her palm, fingering the constellation of half moons which dug into her skin, still wet. Hermione let out a hiss of pain, pulling herself from stagnant fear.
She took a step back, Riddle returned to his full height, holding his hands behind his back in the vain imitation of a good little prisoner. She spared Riddle one last horrified look to which he simply smiled, all incisors and canines and blood. Hermione whirled around, pushing past Ron without a second glance.
She did not realise until she’d left that a bloody kiss had been left on the back of her hand.
***
That snivelling excuse of a man - Ron? - watched Tom with such loathing that if he were a lesser man he may have cringed back due to such a scathing look. But, as it happened, Tom simply stood a little straighter, his eyes narrowed until all that was visible were the black pools of his pupils.
Ron seemed like he wanted to say something, words perched so eagerly on the tip of his tongue. Tom wanted a reason, an excuse. Wanted him to enter his domain just a little more, just until he was in range for him to cut off his air supply with a swift tug of his chains. It would be over before anyone knew it had begun.
Tom licked his bloody lips, the taste of Hermione’s skin ( rose, she used a rose scented soap ) still present on his tongue. He briefly thought about how Ron, this man , had touched her; so easily with such intimacy. Tom had never had that, not with anyone. Not such an easy, thoughtless act of hand holding or the absent get home safe . No. The ginger had touched her, had fucked her.
Perhaps it was before Tom knew her, yes, but that time was long gone. The past lay destitute as the future continued ever onwards- time's arrow marches forwards, no matter the consequences.
With one last glare, Ron closed the door, evidently deciding whatever exchange that could take place wasn’t worth it. The door closed with a dull clang that reverberated through the small, concrete room.
Pity.
Yes, Tom will enjoy watching the light drain from Ronald Weasley’s eyes.
As soon as Ron had left, Tom looked down at his hand that had been so delicately hidden from prying eyes. His bruised knuckles were an unfortunate consequence from getting a little… rough with Greyback the night prior, though Tom regretted none of it. He would do it again and again and again for what he’d said. No, it wasn’t the flowering purples and blues which caught his attention.
It was the bright scarlet on his fingertips.
Tom allowed a genuine smile past his bloody lips as he raised his slender fingers to his gaze. Miss Granger really ought to curb such a self destructive habit, digging her fingernails into her palm like a reprimanded child?
How very unladylike.
He pressed his fingers to his nose, smelling the sweet scent of copper and iron. He could hardly suppress a groan as he breathed her in.
He traced those two, bloody fingers across his lips, allowing his and hers to intermingle in an intimate act of which one party was not privy to. Tom couldn’t quite bring himself to care as his tongue darted out to taste her. He had always been a little eager and now was no exception- not with the temptation of her on his lips. A groan escaped his throat, low and guttural as he dipped his fingers into his mouth, swirling her there like a fine wine.
Hermione Granger tasted positively divine .