Chapter Text
The dining room at Nott Manor was bathed in the soft glow of enchanted candelabras, their light reflecting off the polished silverware. Hermione sat at the table with her parents, savouring the contentment that came from a pleasant day.
She had spent the whole day with Fleamont Potter, who, much to her amusement, couldn’t stop recounting how much he enjoyed watching Walburga Black lose. His cheerful recounting and infectious energy had lightened her mood, leaving her feeling lighter than she had in weeks.
When she had returned home in the evening, her parents had questioned her and she had carefully masked the truth. She still didn’t know how to tell her parents or how they’d take her meeting with a Potter. Angus would lose his mind for sure.
“Hermione.” Athol leaned back in his chair, folding his hands neatly. “I was wondering if we should revisit the minister about the orphanage."
Hermione paused mid-bite and her eyebrows jumped up. She kept her fork down and perked up. “Really?”
Athol nodded with a smile. "Yes. We’ve left the matter to simmer for too long. I think it’s time we pressed for some answers.”
She grinned, bouncing her feet under the table. “Yes, of course, when shall we go?”
“I was thinking.” He took a sip of his wine. “Tomorrow before lunch.”
Hermione straightened in her chair. “Tomorrow?” She nodded eagerly. “Okay, sounds perfect.”
But then her eyes fell on her mother who looked worried as she picked on her vegetables. Hermione shared a look at her father then looked at Freya. “Mum?”
Freya hummed absentmindedly.
“Are you alright?”
Freya paused then with a sigh kept her fork down and looked at Hermione. She searched Hermione’s face which stiffened the latter’s spine. “Hermione, dear.” She glanced at her husband. “Your father has told me all about your plans.” She sighed again. “However, I can’t help but be worried about this whole thing.”
“Freya, darling.” Athol passed her a look. “We’ve talked about this—
“I know.” Freya looked frustrated. “But do you really think this is safe? Not to mention, have you ever thought about the Malfoys?” She directed the question toward Hermione. “Do you really think purebloods like them will support this?”
“And I’ve said.” Athol let out a gravelly tone. “This is not about them. This is about our daughter and her dream.”
“But—
“No buts.” His snappy tone even surprised Hermione. “And in case you’ve forgotten, our daughter isn’t bound to the Malfoy son. If anything, they’d completely disregarded her by never contacting us again.”
“And you do realise they’re missing, right?” Freya forcefully kept her napkin on the table. “That Ida isn’t replying to any of my owls nor is anyone’s! Yes, if it was just about ignoring us then of course I’d have agreed with whatever you say but is she ignoring us? No.” She gave them an irritated and worried look. “They are missing. Have you wondered why? What might’ve happened to them? Have you?”
Hermione felt her stomach tightening. “Mum…
But a hand raised from Athol stopped her and she twisted her fingers under the table and looked down at her plate.
“Even if they are really missing.” Athol raised a brow. “I don’t see how that affects my child’s future. Your daughter has chosen what she wants to do and as her mother, your support should be with her and not with someone outside.”
“Yes.” Freya’s hair started to glow with magic. “I am her mother and I know what's best for her. I know what will give her happiness and I do know how to keep her safe.”
“You’re not understanding what I am saying?”
“Oh yes, I am!”
“Mum.” Hermione interrupted sharply, halting them both. “Papa, please, I don’t want you both to fight because of me.” She begged them with her eyes, feeling guilt in every inch of her bones. “I know both of you love me and want the best for me but I never want that to be a reason for your argument.”
Athol reached across and took her hand. “Dear, it’s not because of you, don’t ever think that and as for your mother and me,” He narrowed his eyes on Freya. “We’re just having different opinions, not fighting.”
Freya narrowed hers back. “I do—
They were interrupted by a thud on the window and their attention averted there to find an owl. Rimmi popped in and let the window open and the owl flapped through the air and sat before Hermione and dropped a letter on her place over the mashed potato.
Hermione squinted her eyes at the owl. It looked very familiar. Then it clicked, it was Amelia’s. A grin showed up on her face as she reached forward and patted the owl. “Oh, how have you been?” She took a slice of bacon from her plate and gave it to the owl. It took it with a hoot then flew away.
She picked up the envelope and looked at her parents. “It’s from Amelia.” If she was being honest, she missed her friends dearly and had been a terrible friend ever since she had stepped foot into Britain. Completely forgot them and didn’t even visit them. She needed to make up for it, she guessed.
She tore the envelope and opened the letter and as soon as her eyes roamed the words, her grin dropped.
Hermione,
I’m sorry but I’m writing in a rush because I’m quite unsettled, and I need to share something urgent. You won’t believe what’s been happening. It started with me feeling off yesterday morning, but then I realized it’s not just me. Adrian feels it too, and Ava, her parents, and even Erik. It’s as if something has cast a shadow over all of us.
But the most alarming news is about Ian. He’s been admitted to Salem this morning, and his situation is dire. He was found in a bar around three in the morning, completely out of it, but it’s worse than just being drunk. He can’t remember anything at all.
Please, come so I can tell you more. I think we need someone like you. Unless something like this also happened to you? Are you okay?
Amelia.
“Hermione?”
She blinked then looked at her father and found him giving her a concerned look. “Is everything alright, dear?”
She bit her lip and reread the letter then looked at her parents. “My friends, they’re all…I don’t know, it doesn’t say much, just that something weird has happened to them and Ian is in hospital.” Her heart started beating faster. “They want me to visit them.” She looked at her father. “Papa, can you manage me a portkey for tomorrow?”
Athol gave a small smile as he patted her hand. “Of course, dear, and don’t worry, I will accompany you.”
Relief flickered across her face as she gave him a solemn nod. The conversation about their plans was short-lived, marred only by her mother Freya’s lingering irritation. Once upstairs, Hermione’s thoughts whirred as she opened the door to her bedroom. What could have happened? What kind of weird things?
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her with a soft click. Turning toward her bed—
She froze.
Hiss.
Her eyes widened.
Coiled on her bed like a shadow summoned to life was a black snake. Its sleek, scaled body shimmered faintly in the dim light, and as it rose, its piercing black eyes locked onto hers. It swayed slightly, head raised to its full height, forked tongue darting out as if tasting her fear.
It was the same snake.
The same one that Tom had sent her days ago.
Her wand flew to her hand and she gripped it tightly. The snake lowered itself from the bed and Hermione’s breath hitched as it slithered toward her, its unblinking eyes locked onto hers.
She stepped back instinctively and raised her wand with the spell ready on her lips—but the snake didn’t attack.
Instead, it veered toward the door, its sleek body slipping through the small gap beneath it.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
This wasn’t just any snake.
This was his doing.
Tom.
Was he here?
Her grip on her wand tensed. If the snake was moving, it meant only one thing.
He was here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Steeling herself, she opened the door. The hall was empty, the shadows long and distorted by the flickering candlelight. The snake was ahead, its dark form slinking toward the stairs, silent as a wraith. Hermione followed, her steps as quiet as her breath.
It led her down the grand staircase, through the echoing stillness of the manor, past the tea room, where the faint scent of chamomile lingered in the air, and toward the glass window that was left slightly ajar. The snake slipped through it outside.
Hermione glanced around and ensured no one was near. She hesitated only a moment before following, pushing the window open and stepping outside.
The cold wrapped around her like an icy grip, and she shivered. Two quick casts of warming charms did little against the sharp bite of the night air. The fog hung heavy, swirling around her ankles as if trying to drag her back.
The snake led her through the wildflower garden. Her eyes darted around the misty expanse, searching for him. For Tom.
Her steps faltered as the snake reached the manor’s front gates and it slid through effortlessly. Her eyes roamed the wrought iron that was looming like a warning…daring her to cross it.
She glanced back toward the manor. Her parents’ room was still lit, the soft glow a tether to safety.
Swallowing hard, she turned back. If she went further, she would be dragging herself into something dark…perhaps dangerous too.
But she couldn’t stop now, could she?
With slightly trembling hands, she unlatched the gate and stepped out. She looked around and tried to look through the thick layers of fog where the snake had gone. She took one step, then another—
A hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her scream before it could escape. Another arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest.
The arm around her waist tightened like iron as she struggled. Her breaths were frantic, her pulse wild, but she stilled as his voice slithered into her ear. "You're cold."
The warmth of his breath sent a shiver racing down her spine, but before she could muster a reply, a sharp hiss echoed in the air.
"Sssaaashhheee."
Her body froze and every muscle locked in place. The sensation came next—a sleek, scaled body coiling around her ankle—it was the snake.
A low chuckle rumbled from behind her. "Don’t be afraid, little mouse."
But she was afraid. The fear gripped her coldly as the snake slithered upwards, its cold, rough skin brushing against her. It snaked higher, slipping beneath the hem of her dress. She jerked, but his grip only tightened.
"Shhh," he murmured. His hand released her mouth, only to pin her arms down, his hold like ropes binding her in place. "I’m here."
Her breath thumbed as the snake slid higher. It moved along her skin, its body brushing her ribs before dipping further. Her chest heaved, her mind screaming at her to move, to fight, but she was paralyzed—by the snake, by him.
"Tom." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer. Instead, his grip gave her a reassuring—almost possessive squeeze.
The snake slipped beneath her bra, the cold shock of its movement drawing a tremor from her. Then, it emerged, its head rising before her face. Its black eyes locked onto hers, its forked tongue flickering out, coming so close she felt the faint brush of air it created.
"Tom…" Her voice shook.
"Quiet, little mouse." He shifted behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. The proximity made her stomach churn with dread and something far more dangerous. She couldn’t look away from the unblinking black eyes of the snake, yet she could feel his black eyes—intense, heated, hungry—boring into her.
It was cold and hot at the same time.
"Sssaaaahhhaaa," he hissed again.
The snake swayed in front of her, its movements hypnotic, and then—slowly, impossibly—it bowed its head.
She blinked.
“See?” His voice carried a hint of smugness...a dark edge of satisfaction. “It’s worshipping you.”
He grabbed her hand and her breath came in shallow gasps as he guided her right hand upward, his fingers curling around hers, forcing her to move.
“Tom,” she felt panic rising again.
“Tsk,” he muttered. His strength conquered hers as he brought her trembling hand to the snake’s head.
“No—
Her protest was silenced by the gentle weight of the snake pressing its head against her palm. It wasn’t attacking—it was nuzzling. Her fingers instinctively twitched, but the creature stayed still.
“There,” Tom’s voice darkly triumphant. “You see? It wants you to pet it.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed at it as it rubbed its head against her palm. She curiously watched it—panic forgotten. Still, it was a strange—uncomfortable feeling.
Was this so easily he could control snakes? Of course, he could.
And she didn't like it.
"Tom," she whispered. "Tell it to go away."
For a moment, he was silent, his grip loosening just slightly. Then he sighed, almost disappointed, before hissing again. "Ssshaassshee."
The snake obeyed immediately, slithering down her body in a smooth, fluid motion. She shuddered as its touch finally left her, her legs trembling with relief. The creature disappeared into the shadows as quickly as anyone could ever imagine.
“You’re no fun.”
She blinked and rage slammed into her. With a quick flick, her wand was pointed on his arm and she muttered a hex before he could stop her.
Tom yelped as the spell hit him, forcing his arms to loosen. Pushing him away, She spun around and snapped. “What the fuck was that?” But her breathing stopped when she saw his crimson eyes glowering at her.
They almost appear venomous and too dangerous for anyone’s liking. She gulped despite trying to appear brave and mad. And despite his red glowing menacingly, he looked… edible. Wrapped in long dark robes that looked uniquely made for him…the ones you’d usually find a ruling emperor to wear. His dark curls were all over his forehead making him look more intimidating.
Her cheeks flushed as the thought crossed her mind.
Tom glowered at her for a few seconds, holding his arm before he closed his eyes and let out a breath that made his nostrils flare. Then he opened his crimson eyes and smirked. “Didn’t you enjoy it, little mouse?” He lifted his head almost in a serpentine movement. “Didn’t it make you curious?”
She blinked then glared at him again. “Try it again,” she snarled, “and you’ll wish that snake had bitten you.”
But his smirk only deepened, and the way he looked at her—like she was a challenge he was eager to conquer—made her blood run cold. Or maybe hot.
“You think you can scare me, little mouse?” He took a step closer, making her take one back. “I do love it when you try.”
She raised her wand at him. “Don’t.” Its tip pointed toward his chest. “Don’t take another step ahead or I wil—
He took a step ahead and shot her a cheeky grin. She gaped then glared at him again. “I told you to not take a step ahead—
Another step.
This time, the space between them disappeared, her wand tip crushed against his chest, but he didn’t flinch.
“Tom!” she snapped and she shifted back slightly.
He was so close now that she could feel the faint heat radiating from his body, and could see the way his eyes gleamed with challenge.
“Don’t you hear what I said?” she demanded.
His grin widened, a wicked, knowing thing. “I did.”
Her heart raced, every nerve screaming for her to hex him, to push him away, to do something. But why wasn't she? She had no idea. “Then why don’t you listen?”
“Because I like riling you up.” He nodded like it was supposed to make the most sense.
Her lips parted to retort, but the words caught in her throat when his hand reached up. For a moment, she thought he’d grab her wand—but no. His fingers brushed against her wrist, featherlight yet electrifying, guiding her wand to the side.
“Tom,” she warned, her voice a whisper now, trembling as much as her body.
Ugh!
Why did this fucking man have such fucking effect on her?!
“Shhh.” His hand curled around her wrist, holding it firmly but not harshly, his thumb brushing her pulse point. “You’re shaking.”
Her glare faltered and her eyes widened when his other hand came up to rest on her waist. He coiled it around her waist caging her in his space.
“You’re infuriating,” she whispered.
He leaned closer, so close his breath ghosted over her lips, his crimson eyes locked onto hers. “And you’re intoxicating.”
Her breath hitched again, her chest heaving as his gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there like a caress. Her mind was screaming at her to kick him away or at least try to shove him. She had promised herself after all, that she wouldn’t even go near him. She wouldn’t be affected by him. And yet despite the chilling air, she was burning.
Always burning around him.
His lips curled into a knowing smirk, though his voice when he spoke, was quieter...softer. “I’m giving you a chance to stop me.”
Could she?
Would she?
His lips crashed against hers, stealing her breath, her thoughts, her very essence. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet or tentative. It was fire and fury, passion and possession.
Raw.
She gasped against his mouth, her hands flying to his chest to push him away—but instead, her fingers curled into his robes, pulling him closer. His hand slid into her hair, tangling the soft strands as he tilted her head back, deepening the kiss.
He growled low in his throat and the sound vibrated against her lips as his other hand trailed down her side...teasingly. Her knees threatened to give out—
Suddenly, it went black.
All black.
Then, her eyes flew open.
Stars.
There were hundreds of stars in front of her eyes. The fog had cleared, but only where she stared. Beside her stood walls of mist, frozen as if ordered to remain still.
She was lying on something grass-like and there was a faint smell of fresh air tickling her nose. And she was feeling warm, so so warm. She could feel a warmer body beside her. Her fingers…they were playing—no, someone else’s fingers were playing with hers.
She blinked.
Then slowly turned her head to her left.
He looked so….calm. So peaceful. There was no shadow in his eyes, no tightness in his jaw, no darkness around his aura and his magic felt…safe.
And he was staring at the stars like he was revealing something.
Hermione wanted to question him.
How did they come here? What happened when they were….snogging?
But somehow her mind was too calm to ask any question.
What did he do?
His fingers continued to play with hers. “You know.” She could see how his eyes were now black. “Everyone in the Black family is named after a star.” His dark eyes roamed the heavens. “In school, it seemed odd to me. A mystery. I wanted to know so I asked your brother about this and he told me that it’s because of their pride and lofty ambitions. They want to hold themselves above all and the stars are above all.” He paused. “But they forgot, naming yourself after stars doesn’t make you one.” He lifted his free hand and pointed his finger at the sky.
Hermione’s eyes followed it and he said. “That’s Arcturus. Its radius is twenty-five times larger than our sun.” Hermione blinked…her eyebrows slowly started narrowing then looked back at him. “Why are you telling me this?”
He kept silent for a few seconds then turned his head to her. His dark eyes gently held hers. “I always found stars fascinating. Always wondered how they are.” His eyes went back to the stars. “When I was little, watching them from the orphanage’s window, I used to imagine what was inside them. I wondered if I could touch one. And when I found out I had magic...one day I tried to summon one inside my palm.” Hermione’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But it didn't matter how much I tried, they never came inside my palm.”
“They’re stars.” She bit her lip. “Not a quill that’d fly to you and even if they do, you won’t be alive the second they even enter our solar system. Doesn’t matter that you have—er…skills.”
She mentally slapped herself for almost blurting out Horcruxes. Which reminded her, that the hand that was playing with her, was the Horcrux holder one as the ring constantly brushed against her skin. She swallowed thickly.
“Yes.” He looked back at her. “But I didn’t know what a star was back then. I thought they were only some shiny things in the sky.” He frowned. “I was disappointed when I realised I can’t have them.”
Hermione’s smile faltered slightly. His words carried a cloaked vulnerability that seemed so so out of place for him—a man who wielded power like a weapon. She studied his profile, the sharp angles softened under the starlight and tried to imagine him as the boy he described, sitting by a drafty orphanage window, staring at the sky with unfulfilled longing.
“What did you think you’d do with it?” she asked softly. “If you’d managed to hold a star in your palm?”
His gaze didn’t shift from the night sky. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I suppose I believed it would make me unstoppable. Invincible.” His lips twitched into something resembling a smirk, though it lacked its usual edge. “Children have foolish dreams. Do foolish things.”
“Like holding a court for snakes?” She grinned.
The tip of his lips curled up. “I never said I was foolish nor did I have foolish dreams. I wasn’t one of those children.”
She snorted. “Yeah yeah.” Her fingers tightened around his without realizing it. “They’re not foolish. And yes, you were one of them and you didn’t know better. You just wanted something... extraordinary.”
He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers again, their intensity pulling the breath from her lungs. “Do you believe that?”
She swallowed. “I do.” She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Everyone wants something extraordinary when they’re a child. It’s human nature to dream. To want more than what you have.”
He studied her for a long moment. “And do you think it’s dangerous…to want more?”
Hermione bit her lip, her mind spinning with memories of their tangled past—his relentless pursuit of power, his willingness to tear the world apart to achieve his goals, his future self that’d be nothing but a monster.
And yet, here he was, lying beside her under the stars, his magic gentle for once, his barriers lowered just enough to let her see a glimpse of something bare and unguarded.
Like he was a calm ocean…an ocean which was dark and lethal when a storm arrived. An ocean that could be a trap to lure people with its calmness and beauty only to swallow them whole.
Like a devil wrapped in silk…beautiful, fascinating, winning…ruining.
“I think,” she began carefully, “that it’s not the wanting that’s dangerous. It’s what you’re willing to do to get it.”
“And what if you’re willing to do everything?” He whispered.
Hermione swallowed, her fingers brushing against the ring on his hand again. Her stomach tightened. “Then you have to ask yourself if what you’re chasing is worth losing everything else.”
He stared at her…silently… too silently...like he wanted to do something with her. And no good intentions came into her mind.
The flush on her face deepened as her gaze darted between the endless expanse of stars and the man lying beside her. She could feel the teasing weight of his eyes on her, and it only made the fluttering in her stomach worse.
She was not supposed to have fluttering!
“How did we get here?” Her fingers twitched in his. “We were…” She trailed off, heat rushing back to her cheeks as the memory of their kiss flooded back, unbidden and far too vivid. She snapped her head toward the sky. “Never mind.”
“We were what?” She could feel—literally—his smirk without looking and its smugness was seeping into her skin.
“Nothing.” She gulped.
He tugged at her hand. “Say it.”
Her cheeks burned hotter. “Shut up,” she hissed, still glaring at the constellations like they might rescue her from the moment. “Just tell me what you did.”
For a second, there was nothing but the sound of their breaths mingling with the soft rustle of the grass.
“I stupefied you.”
Hermione’s head whipped toward him, her eyes wide as her voice shot up an octave. “You what?” The indignation in her tone crackled like fire. “How dare—
“Don’t act like it’s the first time.” He lowered his eyelids in a bored way. “I’ve done it before…you didn’t have a problem back then.”
She opened her mouth to retort but froze. He was right. He had done it before—when they had first…
Her jaw clenched as she cut herself off, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of watching her stumble over her own words. Instead, she settled for frowning at him with her lips pressing into a thin line.
“I will—
“What?” His smirk deepened, his dark eyes gleaming with unspoken mischief. “Kill me?”
The challenge in his voice sent an icy chill down her spine, his tone shifting into something sharper, darker. “I’d like to see you try,” he murmured, his words a whisper that felt far too intimate. “I might even enjoy it.”
Her glare faltered for a heartbeat as her pulse quickened.
“You know,” he continued…his voice quieter now—more calculating, “I’ve always wondered.” His head tilted. “Heard the stories. That you’re a warrior. That you duel like a soldier trained for war. Medals, victories, triumphs—” His eyes glittered with a strange mix of curiosity and something more predatory. “I wonder just how good you really are.”
Hermione’s breath fastened with her heart thudding violently against her ribs. Her mind raced, piecing together his words, trying to anticipate where he was leading her.
“I want to see…really want to see.”
She forced her gaze back to the stars, her thoughts scrambling to stay one step ahead. Why was he asking this now? Why talk about duels? What did he want?
His hand squeezed hers as if to remind her that escape wasn’t an option. “You’ve bested some of the greatest Aurors, haven’t you?” His voice was barely above a whisper now. “Fought and won against some of the most skilled students and professors in your school.”
Her breathing grew shallow.
“Tell me, Hermione,” he drawled. “Do you think you’d win... if you faced me?”
The stars above seemed to dim, their light was no longer comforting but cold and distant.
Hermione swallowed hard, her free hand curling into the grass beneath her. “I—
“If I share something of mine, will you share something of yours?”
She paused then her eyes snapped back at him. “What?”
He looked at her calmly…too calmly….the type of calm that makes the hair of your neck stand. “I said.” Dark boring into Brown. “If I share something of mine, will you share something of yours?”
Hermione stared at him.
Share something of him…
Share something of her….
Why was he asking this?
Her instincts told her this wasn’t just idle curiosity. He never asked questions without a purpose. Every word, every action was calculated, designed to draw out reactions, to tilt the balance of control in his favour.
What did he want to know?
Was he trying to unearth something about her? Something he could use? He always said after all that she had so so many secrets.
Hermione did have so so many secrets.
Trap. Trap. Trap.
It had to be. It always was with him. He had a way of peeling back layers, of pressing on vulnerabilities she wouldn’t even know existed until it was too late.
What could he possibly want her to share? Her magic? Her secrets? The way her chest tightened at the memory of his horcrux brushing against her skin made her wonder if he already knew about her hesitation—her fear of what that connection meant.
Or maybe it was something deeper. Something darker.
What if he wanted her trust? Not for the sake of earning it, but to wield it against her, to exploit it in the same way he exploited everything else?
And then there was the other question, the one that clawed at the edges of her mind.
What was he planning to share with her?
Was that it? Or was it merely a prelude to something far worse?
It had to be, right? There was no way he’d simply lay bare his intentions, not him. Not Tom Riddle. Not Voldemort.
This was the boy who grew into the most feared wizard of all time—the man who thrived on half-truths and lies so intricately woven they could pass as reality.
He wouldn’t tell her the truth.
He never did. His truths weren’t given, they were taken. And even then, they were slippery things, coated in deceit, meant to mislead rather than illuminate.
His secrets were like the darkest corners of the world—hidden, dangerous, and utterly unknowable. They were cloaked in shadows so thick they seemed tight, black as ink, black as his magic, black as his eyes.
No, he’d never reveal them willingly
His every move, his every word, was a strategy.
A step closer to his ultimate goal.
The words…the stars…the eyes…it was a ploy.
It had to be.
But what if it wasn’t?
The thought slithered into her mind before she could push it away.
What if, for once, he wasn’t spinning a web of lies? What if he was giving her a piece of himself—a real, unguarded fragment—just to see what she’d do with it?
No, no, no, he couldn’t be….
But he had taken her to the orphanage, hadn’t he?
The place he despised most. The place where the walls were stained with his hatred, his suffocation. He had shown her the uninhabited room that was once his only refuge—his cage. He had stood there, silent, as if daring her to judge him, to see the cracks in his armour.
It didn’t make sense.
He had shown her his weakness when he was feverish, the moments when his body betrayed him and left him human. She remembered how he’d clutched at her in his delirium. He had shown her a side of himself she had never thought a devil could adapt to.
His cold eyes burned with malice for the world, softened when they looked at her…or was it her imagination? There was something warm there, something she couldn’t name, couldn’t trust yet couldn’t deny. And his lethal domination—the power that clung to him like a second skin—sometimes shifted. Not to kindness, never that, but to… curiosity.
Like it was now.
It was dangerous, that curiosity. Because when he asked something of her, it felt less like a demand and more like a question. A question she didn’t know how to refuse.
But why? Why had he done any of it?
Hermione’s gaze flickered to his hand—the one holding hers. It was steady and firm like the man himself. And yet, there was no threat in his grip. Not this time.
She looked back at those eyes.
What are you trying to show me, Tom?
And worse, what was he waiting for her to show in return?
She swallowed. “Yo—
“When I was sixteen.” She froze. “I found something in myself that confused me…numbed me.”
Hermione’s heart stuttered. The world around her seemed to narrow, the distant hum of crickets fading into an oppressive silence…caution. He was…
“I discovered.” His eyes narrowed slightly as if to memorise the exact moments. “Just how far I was willing to go to get what I wanted. The things I was capable of.” He tipped his head, as though gauging her reaction. “It wasn’t magic that confused me. It wasn’t even death.” He paused. “It was the realization that I enjoyed it.”
“I enjoyed the power.” His lips tilted up slightly. “The control. The feeling that everything—everyone—could be bent to my will if I desired it enough.”
Hermione didn’t think she was ready to hear it.
She knew what he was about to say, and could feel it creeping in like a shadow wrapping around her chest.
Sixteen.
He was sixteen when he first took a life.
No, she wasn’t ready to hear it. Not from his lips.
Because hearing it would make it real…too real.
And somehow…somehow that was worse than knowing.
“I disc—
“I’ll tell you.” She blurted out stopping him in his words. “I’ll tell you what you want to know…if you tell me where you and my brother went. And what you two did.”
This was it.
She didn’t need to know the horrors she already knew. The murders, the bloodlust, the sickening thrill he derived from manipulation—those truths were already etched into her mind.
She already knew that.
No, she needed to know what she didn’t know.
The gaps in the narrative. The moments shrouded in the shadow. She needed to peel back the layers, to pry open the sealed answers lurking beneath his carefully guarded plans.
Right, she needed answers that were important to stop…him.
If she could pry loose just one piece of the puzzle, just one truth, maybe—just maybe—she’d have a chance.
He blinked then pursed his lips. “I thought I told you before leaving that I would tell you about it when I came back…You don’t need to use that for this.”
She scoffed. “And you think I believed you?” She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You can lie, how would I know?”
He didn’t react—not with anger, not with denial. He simply stared at her. Calm. Silent. Unblinking. And his dark eyes…they were raw. So, so raw. “The eyes, Hermione,” he said softly, “they never lie.”
Her breathing paused.
She wanted to scoff, to roll her eyes and dismiss him as the manipulator she knew him to be. But his words…slipping past her defences, burrowing into the corners of her chest that she didn’t want to acknowledge.
Her heart betrayed her—fluttering wildly—a treacherous rhythm she couldn’t control. Why was always this fucking rhythm becoming a wild animal when she didn’t want it to!
She hated this.
He wasn’t supposed to look at her like this, wasn’t supposed to make her feel this, wasn’t supposed to talk like this.
He wasn’t supposed to feel like a warm chaos.
She sniffed. “Yes…” Grab yourself together Hermione. “You’re…a wizard.”
He blinked twice and his eyebrows started to draw together. “Er…glad you noticed?”
Her lips twitched then she cleared her voice and released his hand forcefully, and the loss of his touch felt colder than she expected. “Yes, you’re a wizard and I know you can use occlumency.” He raised a brow with a slight smirk. “And I know you’ll use it and your eyes will also lie, so I can’t trust this…especially your poetic little monologues, which I know you’re ridiculously proud of.”
His smirk deepened as he nodded slowly. “And do tell me, the brightest witch of her age, wouldn’t you notice if someone Occlumenced? Wouldn’t you see the difference in their eyes, the posture, the slightest twitch of someone’s face?”
She glared at him. “Don’t you dare mock me!”
His eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t—
“Shut up.” She cut him off, making his eyebrows rise more. “You and I both know that you always carry a mask on your face and people can’t easily catch it so even if you lie. I wouldn't know! Occlumency be fucked!”
He snorted.
“Don’t laugh.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Fine.”
There was silence.
And her patience snapped again and she smacked his forehead.
He gaped at her, stunned. “What the—”
“Shut up.” She hissed and searched for her wand in her pocket and breathed in relief when found it. It made her instantly think, wasn’t she supposed to look for her wand the first thing when she gained consciousness? What was wrong with her!
“Fuck.” She cursed under her breath.
She took a deep breath, took out her wand and looked at him with hard eyes. “You are going to swear on your magic.”
“That’s—
She hissed at him again. “Shh, I’m talking.” He glared at her. “You are a….” Don’t say smart. “Deceitful.” He narrowed his eyes. “And you’re going to take a magical oath and tell the truth. In return…” She hesitated, her stomach twisting. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. But you’ll go first.”
She could lie.
She would lie carefully. She knew how to do this. Had been doing this for so long after all.
She could see his mind working. Then his fingers dipped into his robes, pulling out his wand. “Fine.” Hermione was surprised he agreed so easily. “But.” Okay, she thought too early. “Only if you take an oath too.”
Her stomach dropped.
Caution, caution, caution.
She swallowed hard.
He grinned with all sharp teeth and wicked satisfaction. “Aww, thought you’d lie, didn’t you?”
She inhaled deeply and glared at him. “I never said that.”
“Like I said.” His grin broadened. “Eyes, little mouse, and you and I both know I can read them...and mind better than you.”
Her cheeks burned, fury bubbling up beneath her skin. She wanted to hex him—desperately. This was a web, a perfect snare designed to corner her. How was she supposed to navigate this? Could she twist her words, outwit him?
Then it hit her.
Right.
But what if he asked the wrong question? What if he pried too deep and unearthed secrets she’d buried beneath layers of her own lies?
If he asked about her time—
No, no, he couldn’t.
She swallowed.
“Alright.” Surprise flickered in his eyes, hell, she herself was surprised. Was it risky? Yes. Was it worth it? Maybe…
She could always hex him or stun him and disappear with her teleportkey….well, he hadn’t said anything the two times she hexed him or the times she slapped him….okay she might have not given him the chance to react...okay she was overthinking.
She brought her wand closer to him, her fingers trembling as they held the wand tightly. “You’ll say it first.”
He rolled his eyes and brought his bonelike wand toward her and she flinched at the sight of it. “Relax, little mouse.” He winked. “It’s a wand.”
She glared at him. “I didn’t notice.”
He nodded. “Thought so.”
She wanted to hex him again but instead took a deep breath to calm her mind then brought her wand closer and kept it over his.
Phoenix feather against dragon heartstring.
She could feel the hum of his magic seeping into her skin through that wand.
They looked at each other.
Ink against amber.
“I, Tom Riddle.” She shivered as his words made immediate contact with her magic. "Upon my magic, I swear an oath, bound by its essence, to speak only the truth as the other magic decrees."
From the tip of his wand, a glowing golden line emerged, swirling like a living thread of molten light. It snaked through the space between them, weaving toward her wand with an unsettling grace. The instant it touched, Hermione felt a wave of warmth, though it wasn’t comforting—it was heavy, like a tether pulling at her magic. The golden line wrapped itself around her wand, pulsing softly, until it finally stilled.
Her chest tightened. She hated the way his magic felt—commanding, all-consuming, as though it had claimed even the air she breathed.
She looked at him.
“Your turn.”
She hesitated then looked back at the wands. The lingering golden light seemed to watch her. Like telling her there was no way out. “I, Hermione Nott.” The moment she began, the tip of her wand glowed with a warm light, softer than his but no less powerful. "Upon my magic, I swear an oath, bound by its essence, to speak only the truth as the other magic decrees."
Her light spun out, weaving through the space between them until it reached his wand. The moment it connected, the two glows entwined like dancers, circling each other in a delicate balance before merging into one. The golden light hummed, brighter and stronger for a brief heartbeat, then dissipated into the air.
She instantly snatched her wand back and gathered herself together and narrowed her eyes at him. “Now, tell me, where have you and brother gone?”
Tom calmly slipped his wand back into his pocket, reclining with almost lazy confidence as he brought a hand beneath his head, using it as a makeshift pillow. “America,” he said as though the answer were the most obvious thing in the world.
Hermione’s brows shot up. “What?”
He rolled his eyes and his dark gaze slid back to hers. “America. North America, to be specific.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, her mind racing to piece together some semblance of reasoning. America? Why America? Did Voldemort ever do anything in America? She wracked her brain, flipping through mental pages of historical and magical energy tied to the place, but nothing came to her. It was a frustratingly blank slate. “Why?”
His lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. “To visit Ilvermorny.”
If her eyebrows could climb any higher, they would’ve vanished into her hairline. “What!”
“Hermione,” he drawled, his voice tinged with exaggerated patience. “Must you always echo everything I say?”
“I’m not echoing anything!” she snapped. “I’m reacting! You tell me something ridiculous as you went to Ilvermorny, and expect me not to say ‘what’? Why in Merlin’s name would you or my brother go to Ilvermorny?”
His smirk widened as though he found her outrage amusing. “You wanted the truth, didn’t you?”
“Then tell me the full truth!” she demanded, the heat in her voice betraying the unease creeping up her spine. She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Why did you go to Ilvermorny?”
“To meet your DADA professor.”
Her jaw fell open again, the disbelief momentarily stealing her words. “Wha—
“Shut up.” He hissed the words and her glare deepened. “If you want answers, stop interrupting me and let me finish it then fucking react.” They stared each other down, his frustration mirroring her own before Tom let out an annoyed sigh. “Angus wanted to meet your professors. I went with him out of…curiosity. Ilvermorny has always intrigued me.” He paused studying her face. Like he was looking for something.
Hermione’s pulse quickened under his scrutiny. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“What do you think, Hermione?” He blinked slowly. “Do you think I went inside Ilvermorny?”
She blinked then glowered at him. “You’re trying to confuse me, aren’t you?”
His silence was answered enough before his lips curved into a maddeningly smug smile. “Maybe.” Her glare could’ve melted steel, but he only chuckled lightly. “Anyway,” he said, waving a hand as though brushing off her anger. “I met with your headmaster and your Defense professor. Honestly, Hermione, you deserve better educators. Those doddering fools—
“Don’t you dare insult them,” she cut in, adrenaline flooding her veins. “And don’t change the subject! Why did my brother meet with them? What did he want?”
Tom rolled his eyes like her questions were boring. “Personal matters, I assume. He asked me to leave when the conversation turned…private.”
Hermione scoffed. “And you did?”
One brow arched elegantly, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “I did.”
That wasn’t the answer she was expecting. Not at all.
Tom Riddle and letting go of a matter, especially a personal matter? Nah.
Her brows knit tightly as she searched his face, looking for cracks in his cool veneer. “What kind of personal things?”
“Like I said.” He shrugged. “They didn’t include me. I wasn’t privy to that part of the conversation.”
“You expect me to believe you were just…kicked out? That you didn’t pry?”
“Believe what you like.” He rolled his eyes—again. “But I assure you, I have far better things to do than linger outside doorways like a lost puppy.” He grimaced. “I did have small talks with your professors…which weren’t pleasurable.”
“Why am I not surprised...” She muttered under her breath and he shot her a glare this time.
Hermione bit her lip. Why had Angus felt the need to meet with her DADA professor? What was so important that he couldn’t share it with her? The knowledge that he had taken Tom—of all people—only added fuel to the fire. Why Tom? What role had he played in this secret visit?
Should she owl her professor? Demand an explanation and risk seeming paranoid? Or would it be better to confront Angus directly? Her gut told her the latter, but doubt lingered.
Tom couldn’t lie under magical binding—could he? But then again, he was Tom. If anyone could twist the truth, find some loophole, and cloak deception in sincerity, it would be him. And yet… his dark eyes had held no flicker of falsehood. Or had they?
“Now.” His voice shattered the tangled web of her thoughts. He shifted, propping himself on one arm, and leaned over her. Hermione stilled as his finger traced a line along her jaw and his dark eyes followed the movement...their depths alive with something almost feral. “What was the prophecy?”
She blinked.
Prophecy?
The word echoed in her mind, conjuring only one—the one about Harry. But no, that wasn’t it. He wouldn’t be asking about that.
Her brows knitted in confusion. “What prophecy?”
His gaze flicked up, catching hers with the force of a tidal wave. “The sacred prophecy of your family.”
She blinked…more confused. “Wha—
Her eyes rounded.
Oh.
Oh.
Right. The sacred prophecy her parents fabricated, a shroud of deceit meant to cloak her true identity. A tale whispered through pureblood circles, feeding their suspicion while keeping the Notts' secrets intact. But why on earth would Tom care about that?
“Er…why?” Her voice wavered slightly. “I mean, where is this coming from?”
“Just…” He looked calm. “Answer my question.”
Did he hear it from one of his followers? It was possible and it was most probably what happened.
“Well…” She hesitated, weighing her words. Repeating the prophecy wouldn’t be a lie, not technically. It was just a story, after all, a constructed reality twisted so tightly into her history that it sometimes felt like the truth. “It was about me.”
“I know it was about you.” He tucked a curl behind her ear. “That’s why I want to know.”
Was it dangerous to tell him? Would he use it against her somehow? It was just a question, she reminded herself, just an old story that held no weight anymore. If he tried to use it against her, she would kick his cock and flee. “It…it was told by a holy wizard. He said that if anyone outside the family saw or even knew that the Notts had borne a child, it would bring death—instant death. To protect the child, the lady of the house had to stay hidden until her child was born, and after birth, the child could not see daylight until the age of eight.”
“And they believed it?”
“They believed what they wanted to believe,” Hermione muttered. “It worked, didn’t it? It kept me hidden. It kept them safe.”
“Mm.” He hummed. "And where is that wizard now?"
She swallowed. "Not alive."
That was true. He wasn't real hence he wasn't alive.
His gaze drifted to the distance as though searching for something just out of reach...he was looking at her yet he wasn't. “Did it ever—” he began, then stopped, shaking his head slightly. “No—did the isolation and not making contact with another human being…affect you?”
Hermione blinked, taken aback by the question. “No.”
He looked at the spot behind her head and was silent for a second. “Then how did you get so hurt?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What?”
He shifted closer, his gaze unrelenting as it locked onto hers. “Why were you so hurt when you came back?”
Her breath stuttered in her chest, her pulse quickening as she scrambled for a response. “Hurt?”
His fingers brushed along her cheek. “There was blood…”
Her breathing stalled.
“Scars…”
Ice wrapped its fingers around her spine.
“Why were you unconscious for six months?”