Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Root of Desire	By : MegiiOfMysteriOusStranger Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 42312 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Harry Potter or anything else quoted within. I make no money from writing this. Zip. Zilch.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Mudblood.

Tom was forced to learn the meaning of that word very quickly.

As an orphan, he had no way of knowing if he really was of non-magical heritage or not, but the obscurity of it was enough for him to end up on his Housemates' bad side. They would only tolerate Tom's presence because there was no such thing as a re-Sorting.

They went out of their way to make that point clear.

Which was so very wrong, and bewildering, because everything had started out so well.

After the first years had gotten out of the boats, shivering with cold and excitement, they had been greeted by Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore. The aged man was dressed in an even more eccentric outfit than he had been wearing when Tom had met him. The man's demeanor was warm, if a bit serious, a bright smile peeking through the auburn hairs of his beard as he explained the House system. Tom already knew it all through Hermione, of course.

The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall was more magnificent than written words could impress, the stars of the Milky Way stretching from entrance to end, and the sea of faces and eyes had his insides squirming. Nausea and delight mingled oddly, pushing at his throat, but he swallowed it down and lifted his chin. He refused to let them intimidate him.

'I deserve to be here as much as any of them.'

A tattered hat sang a jaunty tune about the four Houses, and when it explained that all the Sorting required was that the students wear it for a moment a great whoosh of air escaped him. What a relief! He had briefly wondered if they'd have to yank a rabbit out of it or such, and if things had gone that way he would probably have pulled Billy Stubbs' old bunny out of it. Not the best avenue for a first impression.

Dumbledore called the students up to the stool and hat in alphabetical order. Some students were Sorted quickly, and others took some minutes to place. The chosen Houses cheered uproariously whenever a new boy or girl was declared to be a member of their House, while the other three applauded more politely. As he waited for his name to be called, Tom took the time to look over the faces he would be spending the next several months living among.

It took him some time to spot Hermione Wilkins among the table of crimson and gold, but when he did she waved enthusiastically, hand high in the air, and smiled brightly at him, baring both rows of her pearly white teeth. He realized that she had been watching him, probably since he had entered the Hall. He stuck a hand into his robe pocket, seeking the reassuring feel of his wand.

Inevitably, he was already deeply attached to his wand. The yew and phoenix feather instrument looked more like a polished shard of bone ivory than wood, pale and seamless, and bearing the slightest tint of aged yellow in its fine grains. It was very light and thrummed in his hand with as of yet unrealized potential.

When it was at last his turn to sit before the throngs, the Sorting Hat had barely touched his head when it shouted, "SLYTHERIN!"

Dumbledore's expression was welcoming, if not especially warm, and Tom walked to the table under green and silver banners. The world seemed incredibly clear in that moment—though when he tried to look back on it later the moment it would feel dazed and deaf, like he was watching the scene from outside his body.

The following week passed in bliss. Tom couldn't recall ever having the inclination to smile so often.

One of the best things about Hogwarts was that there was dessert after every dinner. Puddings, pies, custards, ice creams, cakes, chocolates, gellatins, biscuits, tarts, and everything else Tom could think of. Every morning, afternoon, and evening the five tables (including the teacher's table) were beset with a feast fit for royalty. While he certainly enjoyed it, Tom could not hold back the bitterness that squeezed his stomach. It was upsetting to discover that there were people that ate this well on a daily basis, while others had to make it by on dry bread, watery soup, and limp vegetables, that went to sleep at night still hungry. The fact that a number of the other students had leftovers on their plates was something Tom found downright infuriating. Though, there wasn't much to be done about it, he supposed.

He breezed through his classes. He had practiced a few spells at the orphanage, in the midst of the night when everyone else was asleep and his thoughts were too loud to let him rest. He had been paranoid about learning and memorizing as much as he could, somehow afraid that no matter how much information he absorbed it wouldn't be enough to match those who had been born and raised amongst wizards. However, he was usually the first to master a new spell, the first with his hand in the air to answer a teacher's question.

Homework assignments were simple things too, but those… those he took his time on.

Hermione didn't seem to have many close friends, and could most often be found talking with a teacher instead of another student. Though she could sometimes be found doing homework with a Ravenclaw named Miranda Goshawk, or a Second Year Griffindor by the name of Minerva McGonagall. In the evenings, Hermione could always be found in Hogwarts' Library reading or writing, and Tom always came and joined her when he started his homework. She wasn't officially his yet, so he felt the need to integrate himself in her life as much as possible, especially if there were going to be other people around.

He was used to sharing, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Still, things seemed perfect, as they had never before been. So, when ugly things started rearing their heads, Tom wondered at how he hadn't seen it coming. He should have known somehow, should have felt the shift in the Slytherin dormitory before the storm burst. Yet, somehow, he had missed it completely.

"I asked my parents about you. There aren't any Riddles anywhere in the wizarding world. Never have been, not anywhere. So, what are you?" One of Tom's roommates, Avery, asked him.

"Excuse me?"

"What are you? You're obviously not a pureblood, so that leaves half-blood or mudblood."

Mudblood?

"I think I'm a half-blood, but I'm orphaned, so…"

"Mudblood!" Cried Lestrange.

His fingers tightened around the sides of his book. Tom didn't like the sound of that word, not at all. It sounded horribly derogatory, like Porridge Wog, tan, yam-yam, gypsy, or Southern Fairy.

Lestrange continued. "No witch or wizard would leave their kid to an orphanage, not when there's relatives to ship him off to! You're definitely a mudblood!"

Hermione had mentioned that there were prejudices in the wizarding world, but he hadn't expected anything this bold-faced. The Slytherins weren't cruel in the same way the other orphan children were, but they weren't any less cruel for it. Whatever amiable feelings they held for him were put on ice. It was clear that those with the most influential families wanted nothing to do with him, and it was their opinions that flavored the rest of the House. He buried his hurt under layers of anger; he knew how to handle anger, it was an old ally, tears, on the other hand, had never solved anything, and at the times when it felt like it would become too much he chased the feelings away by seeking out Hermione's company. She was a soothing balm against a persistent burn.

Still, he was not entirely without allies. An upper classman, Quillish Quirrel, pulled him aside after dinner one evening to talk to him.

"I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn't let people like the Blacks and your roommates get to you. Anyone with sense doesn't believe it. If their parents knew they were calling you that word they'd be swallowing soap suds for a week. Slytherin has plenty of half-bloods and if you think one of your parents was a witch or wizard then I believe it."

"But you're not going to stick up for me, are you?"

Quillish pursed his lips. "No, I'm not, and neither will the others. That would be social suicide. We're not Griffindors or even Hufflepuffs."

"No, you're just scaredy-cats."

The older boy glared down at the first year. "A snake has neither teeth nor claws to defend itself with, Riddle, and the King Cobra is cannibalistic, it eats smaller snakes. If the other Houses don't tear us apart, our own House will."

Tom was used to being reviled, however, and as far as he was concerned, their hate could not touch him, though he knew he would have to do something about it, sooner rather than later. He could not sleep in the same room with such people for weeks and months on end. Cold shoulders he could tolerate, the molestation of his worldly belongings, however, were an entirely different story. To see his things strewn across the room, abused and broken, no matter how easily they could be repaired, incited hard, cold fury to well inside him. High pedigree be damned, he didn't care who it was; Tom Riddle was not to be trifled with under any circumstances. The people at Wool's Orphanage knew that like they knew the sky was blue, and it appeared that the wizarding world had to be taught that in turn, now. So, like in the orphanage, accidents began to happen. He didn't even need to use his wand.

If it was the destiny of smaller snakes to be eaten then Tom would just have to become a King Cobra.

The incidents did not go unnoticed, though. Professor Dumbledore began noting him with a wary eye, and Professor Slughorn held him back after class one day to assure Tom that he could go to the Head of House if he had any trouble with his classmates. Tom promised he would, but knew he wouldn't. He wasn't a tattletale. He was perfectly capable of taking care of his own problems, so he didn't voice them to anybody.

Not even to Hermione.

The indirect harassment of his Housemates died down fairly quickly; wizards learned fast, it seemed. In class they were cordial, and outside of it they left him to his own devices, for which he was glad. No longer did he find his homework destroyed or his robes thrown across the dormitory, nor was the word "mudblood" spoken when he was present, not after Mulciber's arm was broken from falling down the stairs.

Hermione watched him after that, not blatantly suspicious but obviously curious, though she never said anything. Sometimes, when she thought he wasn't looking, he'd catch her with a despairing, lonely look in her eyes, and he wondered what had caused it. At times it seemed even a random word could send her into a bout of aching nostalgia.

He wasn't as close to her as he wanted to be. The gap between their ages was too significant at this stage in his life, though the situation with his Housemates drove him to her side more and more often. The promise she had made on the train was still in place, and she hadn't touched him again since that day, as he hadn't permitted it, though, occasionally, the urge to clasp her fingers in his own was nearly unbearable. Sometimes he noticed her fingers twitching, like she was keeping herself from running them along his scalp as she had before. He always ended up feeling smug during those moments.

It was irking that people couldn't be stolen away like toys and trinkets could.

'I want you.'

'I want to have you.'

'You're going to be mine. No one else's, not ever.'

'I promise.'

The holidays were rapidly approaching, the first snow already come and gone and the dreary grey skies promised a more permanent snowfall. The sign-up list for students who wished to stay at Hogwarts during the break was not yet posted, but Tom knew he would be among the first to sign. He hoped Hermione planned on staying as well; she was legal age, after all, so she probably had somewhere to go even if her family and friends were out of her life. She had options, and Tom could easily say he wasn't very happy with those options.

Homework in hand, he entered the library as usual. Goshawk was chatting happily with the librarian and showed no signs of checking out any time soon. He recalled that she was researching and planning on writing a textbook on spells she thought everyone should know, and hoped that she would be preoccupied for some time.

As he approached the usual table, he stopped short.

Hermione's head was bowed over the wood, books forgotten off to the side as her shoulders shook.

"Hermione?"

Her head shot up at the sound of her name and Tom's eyebrows rose. Her nose and eyes were reddened; her cheeks shining with tear tracks. She immediately took a shivering breath and scrubbed a hand over her face. She reached over to a quill and parchment, as if busying her hands would draw attention away from her emotional state, but realized it was a lost cause before her fingertips so much as brushed the feather.

"Hi, Tom," she rasped.

"What's wrong?" he asked, slipping into the bench beside her. She hid her eyes by turning away from him.

"I just… realized something," Hermione said shakily. "I knew it, but it just… finally set in, you know? It just struck me that things can never go back to the way they were. I can never go back." She wiped her cheeks, but more tears just kept falling to replace them. "I'm sorry, I must look a right disaster. It'll be my first Christmas without them, alone. I miss them so much. So much." She lifted a hand and pressed it to her mouth, stifling a sob. "I'll never see them again. Not as they were. They're gone. Forever."

She looked small and pathetic sitting there with her eyes closed tightly, palm cupping her mouth, and tears running down her face. Her hair seemed fluffier than usual. Tom hated seeing her like this. He had never dealt with crying people well, even if distressed newcomers were commonplace at the orphanage, and seeing Hermione in such a distressed state was even worse. Instinct said to flee, but logic was singing a different tune, albeit quietly and unsurely.

Hesitantly, he reached out and brushed his fingers along her arm, a wary invitation.

She turned toward him, her pink-rimmed eyes scanning his face searchingly, and after a moment pulled him into her arms. Tom stiffened, his hands coming up awkwardly around her.

"Sorry," she said, voice muffled by his sweater, "I just… can't seem to… stop crying. Sorry."

"S'alright." He said, though it really wasn't. The sensation of being embraced was alien and uncomfortable, and it made him feel slightly claustrophobic.

"Sorry," she continued to mumble throatily. "I just really needed a hug."

He held her a little tighter, as if that would prompt her to pull away sooner. Awkwardly, he patted her back.

"It-it'll be okay, Hermione, you'll see." Tom said. However, it seemed that this wasn't the right thing to say, as she only began crying harder. He grimaced against her shoulder.

'Okay, you can let go. Anytime now.'

However, she didn't let go, not for several minutes. Her sobs died down to miserable sniffles, and finally ceased into steady, controlled breaths. Tom, unable to turn around and check to see if anyone was watching them, eyed the window's reflection for any passers-by. Outside was covered in a dark-blue hue, flakes of fragile snow beginning to fall.

At last she pulled away, and Tom sucked in a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Luckily, Hermione inhaled tremulously at the same time, and didn't notice. She sniffed one last time and wiped her face dry with her sleeve.

"Thank you, Tom."

His smile was rather thin as he turned to his schoolbooks. "Welcome," he mumbled quietly.

"Sorry I got your jumper all soggy. Here," she took out her vine wand and swished it in his direction. The residue of her breakdown was cleared from his shoulder. "Good as new."

"Good," he said, his smile a bit more genuine now. No one wanted to walk around with tears and bogeys on their clothes.

Hermione began to fidget. She reached up and tidied her hair and smoothed down the front of her robes, her eyes averted downward in a tell-tale sign of nervousness. "So, um, now that I've got my wits back about me, there was something I actually wanted to ask you."

Tom straightened immediately. "Yes?"

"Well, Christmas is coming up, right? What would you like? I felt I should ask, otherwise I'd just end up knitting a set of mittens and a scarf and no one ever really likes those…"

Tom's heart beat extra hard. "Actually," he interrupted softly, "I would like a scarf and mittens very much."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I… I've never had a pair of my own before." Admitting that was as bitter as vomiting, but then Hermione beamed at him and the sour taste dissolved with the fluttering of his stomach.

"Great," she said, "Okay then. For Christmas, for Tom, his very own scarf and mittens, I won't forget."

"You never forget anything," he snorted, looking away to hide the blush he just knew was on his cheeks. It was so easy to lie one's way out of situations until one's bodily functions gave the game away! It was why, even after months of knowing the older girl, Tom had lied to Hermione vary sparingly, sticking to at least half-truths. What use was lying if no one believed you?

"I suppose I do; I do seem to recall you bemoaning that you had trouble performing Orchideous in last week's Charm's class."

Tom bristled at the teasing reminder. "Oh, really! When am I ever going to need to conjure up a bunch of flowers? It's about as useful as turning hedgehogs into hairbrushes. When will I ever find myself out in the wilderness without a hairbrush, I ask you?"

"You'd be surprised," Hermione returned sagely.

Conversation slipped into mediocre, comfortable subjects, and they brought out their homework. Most of Hermione's N.E.W.T. level work flew high and wide over Tom's head, but he asked after it regardless and Hermione explained as best as she was able, though it ended up often requiring that she explain a number of other concepts and theories that he had yet to learn. As much as he enjoyed listening to her speak, he allowed his questions to lessen and finally pitter out to focus on his assignments. The library was not open indefinitely, after all, and he had a long essay to finish for Professor Flitwick before the week was out. Soon the only noises were scratching quills, turning pages, and steady breathing.

About halfway through, he paused and checked over his essay, feeling that he had written himself into a corner. Tom looked up from his work and turned to his companion, "Hermio—" and stopped short.

Hermione sat with her arms folded, cheek resting on her forearm. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and deep. She was asleep.

Tom's heart leapt up into his throat, heat flooding his pale cheeks. She looked so pretty when she was sleeping, the candlelight bringing out the lighter shades of brown in her hair and giving her slightly tanned skin a golden hue. There was a slight frown to her brows, and her bottom lip poked out a little further than usual.

Breathing shallowly, blushing, he reached out and lightly brushed his hand over her shoulder.

"Hermione?" he whispered. No response, not even a flutter of her eyelids. His blush deepened and he daringly ran his fingers through her hair. She didn't stir.

'Soft.'

He quickly checked over his shoulder to see if anyone was around to see and, reassured that no one was in sight, scooted over until he was pressed against Hermione's side. He folded his hands in his lap. She smelled clean, like soap, and ink and old books, and something was faint but distinctly girlish. It was probably some sort of flower essence in her soap or an ingredient lingering from potions class. Touching her like this was much more comfortable that the all-encircling embrace she'd had him in earlier. Her leg was warm where it pressed against his. His Charms essay was as good as forgotten.

Tom bit his lip lightly and rested his head on her shoulder. The line of her nose was soft in the light, the shadows deep. He set a hand on her arm and nervously rubbed his thumb along the cloth above her elbow. These stolen touches sent a thrill through him that was nearly electric. Half of him was paranoid that Mrs. Cole would burst in and catch him doing this forbidden thing and ruin it all, but Mrs. Cole was far, far away, and logically he knew he had nothing to be concerned about except Hermione waking up.

"You're mine, you know." He whispered to her sleeping form. "Even if you don't know it yet."
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Root of Desire