Hermione’s thoughts were racing. Why had she told such a stupid lie back then? She even had been proud of herself how confident and authentic her words sounded while telling it. She needed to gain time to think of a way out.
“Can’t you ask like a normal person?” she hissed. “Do you have to be violent any time you want to know something from me?”
Tom’s face darkened. Shocked, Hermione noticed that he was actually really angry. It was more than before, worse than when they had collided before, when he had been not too amused about her rejection of him. Now, he had caught her lying to him. He appeared to be so mad about the fact that she even managed to lie to him at all that she was glad he had even bothered asking at all. Nervously, she licked her lips.
“No room for your little games anymore, Hermione,” Tom snapped. “You will tell me, who you are and what you’re doing here. Now. I will not tolerate any more lies. I’ve had enough of your righteous behaviour!” Tom’s voice sounded like a blazing snowstorm that would burn you alive with its icy temperature. His eyes turned murderous when he added, “And think hard what you want to tell me. If I don’t like it …”
He did not need to finish that sentence. Hermione understood the threat perfectly well. Desperately, she tried to fit the story she had thought up with Aberforth Dumbledore, and what she had told Tom before together.
In a hopeless attempt to buy more time, she retorted, “Why here, why now? Let’s return to the castle first!”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Riddle shot back, his tone now condescending. “Definitely not. You will tell me everything, here and now.”
Cold sweat ran down Hermione’s back. She was alone, the sun was going down, and the probability that any student was still on their way back up was almost zero. If only her heart would stop beating so fast. She felt faint from the adrenaline rushing through her veins, and her mind was not happy with that.
“I didn’t lie!” Hermione finally whispered through gritted teeth. Stubbornly, she held his gaze, trying to make her lie appear more truthful that way. “My father and my mother are dead. Do you think a woman could raise a child alone in America? Obviously, she married someone there.”
A calculating look appeared in Riddle’s eyes while he obviously was pondering whether to believe her or not. “So?”
“So what?” Hermione spat. “The man who I thought of as my father for almost all my life is dead. Just like my mother. I only have my biological father back here.”
“Who just so happened to be in Hogsmeade today?”
“He’s the owner of the Hog’s Head,” she explained, regaining her confidence. This part of her story was airtight. “Aberforth Dumbledore. I don’t know whether you’ve ever been to that pub.”
Slowly, Tom nodded. Hermione suspected that he had indeed been to the Hog’s Head before, but never bothered to ask the owner’s name, let alone draw the connection between him and his most hated professor. Still, his face was hard and he did not yet let her go.
“What about your mother? Who was she?”
Hermione swallowed. Suddenly, she regretted that she had made her mother a muggle. Back then, she had thought it might make Tom think differently about his pureblood agenda if he knew that a talented witch like herself was only a halfblood. But now, in this situation, it appeared more than dangerous to admit her blood status. Again, she licked her lips.
“That was a question!” Tom snapped, his grip around her neck tightening.
Instinctively, Hermione’s hands shot up and grabbed his arms, but she was not match for his body strength. His grip was unyielding.
“She … she was a muggle,” she finally admitted breathlessly.
“A Muggle!” Tom almost shouted.
Hermione could see his surprise. To her immense relief, his grip loosened a bit, allowing her to breathe again.
With new found courage, she shot back, “Yes! Got a problem with that?”
The calculating look disappeared and was instead replaced by something Hermione could not quite read. For a moment she thought it might be hurt pride, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. What was left now was ice cold contempt.
“And here I thought you’d be a pureblood witch.”
“I’m so sorry to disappoint you,” Hermione replied, her voice dripping with irony.
Even in her own time, the racism prevalent in wizarding society had bothered her, but now it was so much worse. While during her own time at Hogwarts the pureblood ideology was discredited thanks to the events surrounding the terror of Voldemort, here in 1944, it was still strong and ubiquitous. If her blood status would become known, every last bit of her social standing would be destroyed.
“Poor Abraxas,” Tom murmured with fake sadness. “What would he say if he knew that his beloved was a mudblood?”
“What about you, then?” Hermione cut his arrogant words short. “Everyone knows the story of poor Tom Riddle who grew up in an orphanage! How do you know your parents weren’t muggles? You could just as likely be a mudblood as I am a halfblood.”
“Don’t you dare!” The rage was back in Tom’s voice. He stepped closer to her, staring her down with his dark, hateful eyes. “Don’t you dare to compare yourself to me ever again. You know nothing about my blood. Every single one of the Sacred 28 will bow to me once they know who I am. It doesn’t matter how many muggles are in my family.”
Of course, Hermione instantly knew what he was getting at, even though she could not let that on. She also knew that he was right. Who cared whether his parents were muggles? He carried the blood of Salazar Slytherin and that was all that mattered. Still, she could not let that go. His contempt for her lineage reminded her of all the times when Draco Malfoy had belittled her simply because of her blood status. The anger she felt now hurt just as much as back in her own time. Sweetly, she shot back, “So I’m right? Your parents were muggles?”
To her dismay, a smile appeared on Tom’s lips. Before she could react, he drew his wand and pressed it against her cheek.
Mirroring her sickly sweetness, he inquired, “I assume you know the Stinging Hex, dearest Hermione?”
Of course she knew that hey. She had used it on Harry when they got caught by the snatchers. His swollen, burned face had been so disfigured by the hex that even Bellatrix Lestrange had not been sure whether he indeed was Harry Potter. Nervously, she nodded.
“But of course you do,” Tom continued, still sounding upbeat and chipper. “You do study the Dark Arts, after all, right, my dear? It would be really sad if I was forced to use that one on you, don’t you think? Your beautiful face, your bright eyes, really, it would be a pity.”
Before Hermione could even realise what Tom was saying, she already felt the stinging, burning pain where his wand touched her cheek. She felt her flesh swell, felt her skin turn rough and red. It felt as if someone was holding a torch into her face. All her senses were focused on this almost unspeakable pain, she was reduced to this single feeling, as if the world around her had stopped existing. A desperate whimper escaped her lips as the radius of the pain grew.
“Stop it!” she begged. “Stop, please, you’re hurting me. By Merlin, please, stop!”
Her sobbing had the opposite effect. Tom’s smile grew even wider. Letting the hand that gripped her neck before sink down, he stepped back as if to get a better view of her. Panicked, Hermione felt for her wand, but just when she found it, Tom’s finger closed around her wrist.
“Oh no, dearest, I don’t think so. You were naughty. Naughty little girls need to be punished.”
Trembling, Hermione sank down to her knees. The adrenaline, her panic, the all-encompassing pain, her own helplessness, it all wore down on her body and sucked all energy out of her. Defeated, she closed her eyes and prayed that Tom would soon stop his torture. That he would be satisfied with tormenting her. That he would not kill her.
Then the pain stopped. Her face felt normal again, no traces left of the swollen flesh.
Breathing heavily, Hermione got back on her feet. It was almost funny how any time she tried to get on Riddle’s good side, she only managed to antagonise him more and raise his suspicions. Dumbledore could say whatever he wanted – this boy definitely was no different from Voldemort. He already was a monster. She was so tired.
For the first time in a long time, Tom Riddle felt indecisive. Here he stood in the darkening twilight of the forest, alone with Hermione Dumbledore, and struggled with himself. He had sworn to himself after his last moment of weakness to never again allow another human being to arouse him. He knew all too well of the risk that lust might cloud his judgement, might make him loose control. He needed to avoid that. He needed his clear reason. But still.
This physically ordinary girl, this mudblood – she ignited a craving in him, a craving for more. Every time when she ridiculed him or simply defied him, everything in him screamed to show her that he was stronger than her, more powerful than her. Whenever he gave into this desire, whenever he actually inflicted pain and fear upon her, there was this craving mixed with an exhilarating feeling of power. Was it really that risky to give into that? Perhaps he should at least try it once? He should be able to control himself and snap out of it if he felt any negative effects.
The glint in Riddle’s eyes made Hermione freeze where she stood. Suddenly, she felt more fear than ever before. She was not educated in these things, but it was obvious that nature had given all women a functioning alarm system – and that alarm system was now blaring with deafening loudness.
He had threatened her with exactly this, and she had believed him. Ice cold nausea gripped her stomach while she still stood frozen on the spot. She could only watch as Riddle stepped closer again. As if she was standing besides herself, she watched as he put two fingers under her chin and forced her to tilt her head back.
“Tom,” she whispered, hoping that this unfamiliar way of addressing him might snap him out of it. “You can’t be serious. You can’t possibly …”
Before she could finish that sentence, he had closed the distance. Cold lips pressed onto hers. Disgusted, she wanted to turn away, but his right hand held her head still, while his left arm brought her body closer to his.
How had she gotten herself into this?
If only she had told Dumbledore that Riddle had threatened her with this.
If only she had never touched that cursed painting in the chambers of secrets.
If only she had tried harder with her lies.
Tears forced their way down her cheeks and did not care that Hermione absolutely did not want to show any more weakness in front of this monster. Trembling, crying, and cold to her bones, she stood there, unable to escape his close embrace, hoping that it would be over soon. That he would be satisfied with just a kiss. That he would not, in the middle of this forest, try anything more.
A deep moan escaped him and instantly, Riddle let go of her. Instinctively, Hermione saw the opportunity and ran. She ran as quickly as her weak legs would carry her, towards the castle, towards safety.
Tom did not stop her. He felt great, almost intoxicated. The groan that involuntarily had escaped him when he felt the amount of fear in Hermione had thrown him off guard for a moment. It was for the better. He did not know how far he would have gone if she had stayed. But the feeling lingered. He felt so alive, so good. He only once had felt like this before, when he killed his own father. He wanted more.
With slow steps he walked back up to the castle. Was this feeling really a problem? Patiently, he waited until his heartbeat returned to normal and the arousal left his body. It did not take too long until he felt normal and in control again. Carefully, he reviewed his plans, thought about his classmates, about Hermione, about Dumbledore. Nothing had changed. The arousal, that strange drug, lost its effect once the moment of desire was over. It had no other power over him. His mind did not take damage. He was able to control it, he was able to control himself.
It was time that he tested how great Hermione’s interest in the Dark Arts really was. It was time he helped her with it. Every human being had secret wishes, oppressed desires, but from earliest childhood on, moral rules prevented one from even noticing these desires.
That was the temptation of the Dark Arts. They broke the seal of morals. They paved the way into one’s own inside.
That was exactly why one needed a master to study the Dark Arts, because otherwise one would stop half way, frightened by one’s own moral concerns. He himself had turned against everything that was expected of a gentleman at an early age. He had powerful blood that allowed him to learn curses and get close to the original source of his magical power. He had no need for a master, because he had been open and hungry to explore his deepest desires. Hermione on the other hand would need someone.
She was trapped in her own view of Good and Right, trapped like only a Gryffindor would be. If he managed to break her, to turn off her conscience, what would she find in her inside? What if his assumption was true? What if, deep inside of her, she strived to fully and absolutely submit herself, her freedom, her body? A strong woman like her, an intelligent woman like her – she was never as appealing to him as in those moments when she showed weakness.
He knew nobody, and especially no woman, who was so determined to not depend on anybody. It was possible that that was only the excessive protection of her morals because actually she wanted nothing more than depend on somebody?
It really would be an achievement if he managed to turn this stubborn, intelligent young woman into a will-less and easily manipulated slave. He would make her see that she actually wanted to submit to him. And he would gladly accept her submission.