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
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- 6
He was standing in an empty field. The grasses were all broken and brown, but bits of yellow-green were pushing up out of the dirt, springtime. The moon was a thin crescent in the night sky, like the tip of a fingernail. He looked around and spotted Hermione standing some distance away, looking at him and smiling.

She was wearing the drab, grey uniform that all the girls at Wool's Orphanage wore, though it possessed Gryffindor's crest. The crest was pink and gold instead of red. Tom wore his own uniform—except he had a kilt to match Hermione's skirt instead of his usual trousers. The crest of Slytherin's snake hissed to life and fell off of his jumper, black and yellow and red like the small snake he had seen in the wizard pet store so many months ago. The snake wound its way to Hermione and disappeared into the grass between her feet.

Tom followed the serpent, and came to a stop a step's width away from the young woman.

"Hi, Tom," she greeted.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. He reached out and wound his fingers into a strand of her curly hair. Hermione too ran her fingers through his hair, and even leaned down to smell it, pressing a kiss to the part of his hair as she did so.

"I got lost," she said sadly to the top of his head. "I was in the desert and then I was here. I couldn't find the lighthouse, no matter how hard I looked."

Tom took her hands in his and looked up at her with an intense expression. "You don't have to worry about any of that anymore. You have me now."

He climbed onto a chair so that he could lean down to kiss her like the heroes in the cinema, but somehow he still wasn't tall enough and it was she who leaned down instead. It didn't matter all that much, though, her lips were soft and her hair smelled like fresh linens. He wrapped his arms around her waist. The grass between his toes prickled pleasantly as he leaned against her soft breast. A dark green caterpillar crawled across his foot.

After a while, their kiss broke. He burrowed contentedly against her.

"You're my girl."

She trailed her fingers through his hair again, holding him close. "That's right, Tom, I'm your girl."

"Don't ever leave, okay?" His voice cracked a little and he tightened his arms around her waist.

She placed a finger under his chin and made him lift his head. She kissed him again, nice and soft. That fresh linen scent washed over his senses, carrying just a hint of lavender. She pulled away and smiled at him, swiping her thumb over his mouth, and pressed her lips to his forehead, humming.

"Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly,

"Lavender's green.

"When I am King, dilly, dilly,

"You shall be Queen.

"Who told you so, dilly, dilly,

"Who told you so?

"'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly,

"That told me so."

There was a great, noisy clanging of metal: a spoon being bashed relentlessly against the underside of a cooking pot.

"WAKE UP! IT'S SIX O'CLOCK, ORPHANS! TIME TO WAKE UP!"

Bang! A door flew open and hit the wall. "Shut up, Marilee! Stop shoutin' and banging them pans and whistle like yer supposed ta! Stupid!"

"You shaddup, Eric! I'm fifteen now, I can wake all you up however I want!"

"No, you can't! It ain't proper! Martha will have your hide, you know she will!"

"Nu-uh! I—"

"Marilee!" Martha. "What in God's name are you shouting about at six in the morning? It is too early! Mass is in two hours! Don't think you're so grown-up that I can't lock you in the coat room, I swear—!"

Well, this was not a typical morning in more than one way. Merlin curse the day Marilee Martin became old enough to do wake-up rounds.

Tom groaned aloud and covered his head with his pillow as he rolled over.

A dream. It was a stupid, miserable, sodding, no-good, wonderful dream. The last time Tom had woke up feeling this good was after Billy Stubb's rabbit hung itself, but that couldn't really compare because this was an entirely different kind of happiness. The day after he had found out he was a wizard was also pretty close. Not even the shouting down the hall could ruin the feeling (though Marilee was trying hard).

Tom sucked in a long breath and forced himself out of bed, stretching his arms until his muscles went slack with heat. The morning whistle sounded—Martha had probably wrested it from Marilee. Tom got dressed and followed the rest of the boys down to the washroom: a long row of several dozen worn, white sinks, with toothbrushes and washcloths hanging from hooks. The boys did their business, brushed their teeth, washed their faces and hands, and went down to the mess hall. It was a far cry from the luxurious accommodations he had grown used to while at Hogwarts. The tap only ran cold water, the soap was harsh, the tiles chipped and cracked. Everything was clean, Mrs. Cole ran a tight ship, but they were worn, near disrepair.

Tom noted Adam Wakely silently crying into his washcloth, and knew that the younger boy hadn't managed to get his sheets completely dry on the radiator this morning after wetting the bed. Adam soon would be whipped for "playing with his genitals" in his sleep. Tom sympathized with the boy a little; in the week he had been back he'd already been smacked for sinister-handedness.

The mess hall was full of drowsy, grumpy children. No one under the age of ten understood enough to like going to Sunday mass, and few people older were religious enough to care for it either. He forced down the slimy, lumpy oatmeal, flavored only by a teaspoon of peanut butter, knowing that he would be wishing for it later if he didn't eat it now. Water really only made the taste worse. Tom found himself horribly missing pumpkin juice, as well as cinnamon and honey. He missed everything about Hogwarts.

The last few months of school had gone splendidly. Incidents of pureblood harassment were few and far between (though not completely smothered), and at the end of the year Hermione worried herself into a tizzy over her N.E.W.T.s and her graduation ceremony. She graduated valedictorian, of course, and she looked nice in what were obviously very expensive dress robes as the diplomas were handed out after the farewell feast. When he asked about the robes later, she explained that they were rented from a shop in Hogsmeade, and not hers to keep.

They sat together again on the Hogwarts Express back to London. Tom was less than happy to go back to the home, and Hermione too looked out the window longingly as Hogwarts vanished behind the trees.

There was more to the desire not to return to London that just avoiding the orphanage, however. Europe was in a state of great unease. Germany's greed was reaching its peak. Great Britain was not officially at war yet, and a number of things had been done to try and appease Führer Adolf Hitler, such as the Munich Agreement, but politicians were already draw-and-quartering London for evacuation. Nothing was set in stone, but with the way things were going it was likely to happen sooner rather than later.

Tom had found himself worrying if he'd be able to make it back to Hogwarts if he was sent to an obscure town further inland. The Hogwarts Express stopped in towns other than London, there was a great distance between the capital and Scotland, after all, but there was no telling how close to one of those towns he would be, if forced to leave.

"Leaving Hogwarts is always rather depressing. This time especially so, I believe." Hermione had said after the trolley had passed. She'd bought two chocolate frogs for a knut and given one to Tom. He ate it slowly, savoring the smoothness and sweetness of the chocolate. Hogwart's food had spoiled him horribly, he knew. Going back to the orphanage's meager grub would be a trial.

"Do you think we'll really go to war?" he asked.

"I know we will."

"You know?"

"Call it a woman's intuition," she said, tapping the side of her nose. "The Treaty of Versailles has already been violated several times. The Allies could have nipped this in the bud early on, but they've been so set on avoiding conflict. Now fighting is inevitable."

Tom almost rolled his eyes. "That's not women's intuition, just hindsight."

She smiled, amused, and turned back to the window. "Maybe."

Tom pressed his lips together, and figured that this would be as good a time as any to ask something that had been plaguing his mind for some days now.

"What are you going to be doing now that you're graduated? You're not like other girls, going out and getting m-married." Inwardly, he swore at his almost-stammer. He did not want to think of Hermione being married to someone.

Her mouth formed a wry twist. "No, I'm certainly not going to marry. I received an employment offer from the Ministry's Department of Mysteries, but I don't think I'll be taking it. This evening I have a landlord to meet about a temporary flat in East London. I don't have the place I was at last summer, anymore, of course."

The muscles in his cheeks went lax, his eyebrows rising. "East End?" East London was known for being shady.

She locked eyes with him and her lips curved reassuringly. "Only until August, early September at the very latest. Once I've steadied myself I'll move to Central. A person can't rightly skip up stairs. You have to put your foot down on the first step first."

"I suppose," he conceded reluctantly. "But still…" he disliked the idea of her living in the slums, in the midst of dangerous men and Jews.

"If you're really concerned, you're welcome to come see it for yourself sometime. In fact, why don't you come to my house for dinner this weekend?" Hermione said. "I can't imagine the orphanage being the nicest place around, and I can at least offer you a little reprieve from it. I'm no master chef, but I can put together a halfway decent meal."

"I…" he gaped for a moment, and blinked rapidly. "Yes. Yes, definitely."

She smiled. "Lovely. I'll send you a letter letting you know the finer details. Like we did last summer, remember?"

"I remember." As if he would so casually forget!

A few days later, his palms red and sore from being whacked for writing with his left hand, her letter arrived. Things hadn't worked out at the place she'd wanted to rent out, but she had found a terrace house that was badly worn but nice enough after the application of a number of cleaning and repairing spells. Hermione was busy settling in and searching for a job, but she still wanted him to come over Sunday evening.

Tom couldn't be more eager to go. The last few days living away from the wizarding world had been nearly insufferable. War was the subject dripping off the tip of every tongue; sour, catty Mrs. Cole had shoved what was apparently a respirator into his surprised hands upon his return to the orphanage. It was smelly and hideous, like an over-large decapitated insect head. The food was terrible, the nights were noisy, the bed was lumpy, and the people, in general, were even more gloomy and depressed than they had been before. Some people kept their eyes fixed skyward in worrisome paranoia. The younger boys spent more time playing soldiers and planes than they did other games.

The orphanage women were more determined than typical to get the children to the church this Sunday. When some children tried to slip by without their gas masks, Tom among them, they were made to go back and fetch them. No one was to walk around without one.

The thought of ever having to use it gave him shudders, though he was sure he never would. The majority of the wizarding world was unconcerned with the muggle world, but Prime Minister Chamberlain had managed to convince the Minister for Magic to issue a list of spells that school-age students would be allowed to use outside of school while international tensions were high and war on the way. Pendragon's List, they were calling it. Most magical children did not know how to do things the normal way, they couldn't be left without some resources, or so it had been said.

It was a short list, consisting of basic spells like lumos, aguamenti, ferula, ennervate, reparo, and the Flame-Freezing Charm, but the Bubble-Head Charm was also on the list. It was a sixth-year spell, but Tom certainly was going to try and make it work so long as it meant he could avoid wearing that awful gas mask.

Hermione would probably—no, surely would help him learn the spell if he asked, though he wasn't yet sure if he was daring enough to bare such a weakness of character. Well, he still had eight more hours to think about it, anyhow.

Most of the orphans were being herded out to the street, though those lagging behind stopped at the cloak closet to get their coats and umbrellas. The sky heralded the coming of rain. Mrs. Cole stood with her arms crossed, watching over them all with an eagle's sharp eye.

Tom paused beside her.

"Mrs. Cole,"

She paused and looked over at him. "What is it, Tom?"

He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked slightly on his heels. "You remember that I got a letter yesterday. A friend from school invited me to come to dinner at her home tonight. May I go?"

Mrs. Cole frowned, deep-seated wrinkles from a lifetime of stress on her forehead making themselves known. "What time are you expected?"

"Four o'clock, ma'am."

"Fine, you may go, provided you behave yourself."

Well, that was stupid. Tom was almost always on his best behavior, it made it so much easier to make things go his way. No one listened to a child who screamed and threw tantrums.

"Of course, ma'am."

She threw a finger at his face, pointing it right at his nose so that he went almost cross-eyed. "I mean it, Tom. Not one more toe out of line, not today, none of your cack-handedness, no wagging your fingers at the other children and saying hocus-pocus gibberish, no talking back, and no insulting the little ones. In church, you sit and pray quietly, understand?"

His eyes flickered between the woman's face and the offending finger. What did she take him for, a barbarian? Had the months of him being away led her to confuse him with one of the more rascally ragamuffins? There was no use denying anything, Mrs. Cole never believed him anyhow, even when he could talk fast enough to weasel his way out of punishment. Though he really wanted to know how she knew about him scaring some of the other children by wiggling his fingers and saying nonsense at them. Harmless, but endlessly entertaining, and he had been sure he'd only done it when no adults were around. Who tattled?

"Of course, ma'am." She said nothing about good behavior tomorrow, after all. Whoever had ratted him out was going to wish he never did.

She dropped her hand and sniffed, eyeing him untrustingly, and sent him out after the others. It began to drizzle halfway to the church, and the children, mostly the girls, hurried to crowd beside next to those who carried umbrellas. Tom was unbothered by the rain, it was hardly as if it were coming down in buckets. However, much to the caretakers' relief, it got the orphans to quicken their pace. They hurried into the doorway of the church, shaking their heads and arms like wet dogs. Some paused in the entryway to look back at the toddlers being held back from splashing around in puddles that had formed the day previous. Tom stopped momentarily to run a hand through his hair, flicking away the collected moisture there.

Tom was not fond of churches. He was a typically quiet person by nature, but parishes such as these demanded quiet, placing a sort of subconscious pressure on his chest and mouth that he greatly disliked. It seemed to affect everyone, making them reluctant to make any noise, filling the large room with hushed murmurs and soft shuffling, like they were afraid that any sudden moves or noises would damn them. The vicar, on the other hand, spoke unnecessarily loudly in a strange sing-song voice, and his job seemed to consist of three simple things: telling the church-goers what they were going to be told, telling them, and repeating what they had just been told. Now that he knew most mythological religions were the deeds of long dead-wizards, Tom was less interested in religion than ever before.

Churches smelled funny too.

Still, he kept his head bowed quietly, and bleated "amen" with the rest of the sheep when he was supposed to, just as Mrs. Cole had wanted. When the vicar called for it, Tom rose with the rest of the church-goers and, opening the hymn book, his youthful soprano rose with the voices of many others. Among the numerous things that Tom was determined to let no witch or wizard ever know was that he could sing. Many a past holiday had been spent walking around London caroling for pennies and lukewarm supper. He took absolutely no pleasure in singing, but something this mundane wasn't worth making a fuss over, not when a visit with Hermione was on the line.

It felt like it took an eternity for mass to end. The weekly gathering was more boring than the lectures from the ghost teacher, Professor Binns. When it was finally and said and done with, it really was pouring buckets outside. Umbrellas popped up like blossoming flowers. Some people turned up the collars of their coats, while others completely took their coats off and held them overhead. A few people shielded themselves with the Sunday newspaper. Tom snatched a paper out of a bin he passed and did the same. Germany was in the headlines again, as well as Neville Chamberlain.

The orphans ran in their hurry to get out off the rain; following Martha and Mrs. Cole like a group of startled goslings pursuing safety. The shoulders of their uniforms were splotched dark grey by the time they made it back to the home. Tom threw the soggy newspaper in the rubbish bin. The ink had gone runny and stained his fingers black. He quickly went to the washroom to wash his hands.

Rainy days were common occurrences, but combined with the day of the week made for a particularly hushed Sunday. Tom spent the afternoon reading, though it was hard to concentrate on the written word when he just wanted the clock to hurry up and tick faster.

Lunch consisted of more unpalatable gook. Having left his book in his room, where no one else could get their sticky fingers on it, he walked back upstairs. A group of adolescents were playing with marbles in the hall—the muggle, less messy version of gobstones. Susan Quigley yelped with triumph when she knocked a number of marbles out of the string circles. She stood to collect her prizes, but her foot came down on the circle and the glass globes still within, and she fell hard enough to make even Tom wince at the thump of her chin cracking against the floor.

"Suzie!" One of the boys cried in alarm.

Suzie wailed, rolling over onto her side. She lifted her hands to her mouth and they came away smeared with bright blood, and the sight made her scream rise to a pitch near that of a banshee. Perhaps she'd bitten her tongue or cheek, or even cracked her teeth. Mrs. Cole's voice came floating down the hall from her study, and in a panic the other marble-players scrambled around and stuffed the evidence of their game into their pockets.

Mrs. Cole appeared, Martha on her heels. Martha gasped at the sight of Suzie's fallen form, and quickly knelt beside the girl. Suzie continued to sob and shriek, her reddened fingers shaking terribly. In a flash Martha had Suzie in her arms and was rushing down to the medicine room.

"What happened?" the matron demanded. No immediate answer was forthcoming. "Well?"

"It-it was Tom!" Jonathan Johnson exclaimed, pointing for emphasis. "He cursed her!"

Tom's pupils shrank in horror. No. No, no, no…

"I didn't do it, ma'am! He's lying!" the young wizard protested.

Mrs. Cole just looked bitterly disappointed—and completely unsurprised. She'd been waiting for this all day, Tom realized. She didn't believe him; she believed Johnny.

"It wasn't me!" he shrieked furiously.

She reached out and clamped her hand around his upper arm, and dragged him down the hall. He dug his heels as hard as he could, but Mrs. Cole had been wrestling young boys since before Tom was born. In no time she had pulled him into her office, and brought the dreaded wooden paddle down on his backside. Though he had known to expect it, the shock of the first sting gave the matron enough leverage to pull him down over her knees. She had one hand pressed on the back of his neck, keeping him down.

"You shan't be going your friend's house tonight, Tom," she said.

Smack!

The door to the study was wide open, and some of the orphans were looking in.

'Everyone can see!'

Tom's face burned with humiliation, with the unfairness of it all. He clenched his hands into trembling fists. He wanted to scream in rage. Johnny was the only one snickering into his palm, hardly even trying to hide it. No few of the others looked amazed and entertained, either. After all, when was the last time Tom Riddle got into trouble? Dennis Bishop was staring at Johnny as if the newer boy had just been murdered, but hadn't realized it yet.

Oh yes, Dennis, of all people, knew what Tom did to liars.

Smack!

"You may call your friend at four to let him know you're not coming," Mrs. Cole continued.

Smack!

"And not a moment sooner!"

Smack!

"I'm just so,"

Smack!

"Disappointed, Tom."

Smack! And many more times: smack, smack, smack!

Finally, she ceased the corporeal punishment and put the wooden paddle away. She put Tom on his feet. He glared at the floor, hiding his red cheekbones and half-wanting to be swallowed up by a magically conjured hole in the floor. He was stonily silent, though he felt as if he would explode at any moment. She took him by the arm again and led him out of the study. The children watched them pass, and when Tom lifted his eyes to glare at Johnny, the other boy's smile faltered and slipped to be replaced by a flicker of fear.

Johnny Johnson was going to pay for his lies.

Mrs. Cole led Tom to the coat closet, and pushed him inside.

"Thirty minutes, Tom. I want you to think about what you did, and have an apology ready when your time's up!" she said, and closed the door.

Darkness swallowed him. The lock softly snapped into place, though the sound was as final as any death bell's toll. The dusty-sweet smell of mothballs filled his nose, and the cloth of jackets and coats brushed against him on all sides. His bum was horribly sore, and it felt as if he had swallowed a hot lead weight. A thin line of light came through the crack at the bottom of the door.

This could not be happening.

Uninhibited by appearances now that he was alone and in the dark, he bit into the flesh at the base of his thumb and roared, exhaling quickly and roughly, the sound muffled by his hand. It was enough to rid him of the worst of the anger, leaving him panting and his hand sore, but mostly in control of himself.

'Liar!

'Liar, liar, liar!

'You filthy liar, Johnny!

'How dare you!

'When I'm through with you, you're going to wish you'd never been born, filthy, lying, Jonathan Johnson! Just like stupid, lying Dennis!'

Oh, how Tom was mad. He was mad, mad, mad. He let his anger course through him, ranting and raving in his head for several minutes until the intensity of it subsided and rationality drifted back in.

This. Could not. Be happening.

The nauseating smell of mothballs, however, indicated all to the contrary.

It was always something, wasn't it? Tom may have been a wizard, but he really had no good luck at all. If he didn't plot and plan every little detail, something would go wrong and bring everything crashing down into a pit of miserable failure. Alfred Holt had said it first, hadn't he? "Anything that can go wrong at sea generally does go wrong sooner or later." Well, he may not have been at sea, but Tom was sure the rest of the saying applied, regardless.

What was he to do then, he wondered? He was surely, absolutely not going to apologize for something he didn't do. Forbidden to go to Hermione's house too… this was horrible. Mrs. Cole had said he could call Hermione at four to tell her he wouldn't be able to be there, but Hermione was a witch, she possessed no telephone, and even if she did (which he doubted) she had not seen fit to give him her telephone number. It was impossible.

Damn it, Tom Riddle did not accept "no" as an answer! He was a wizard! He would not be denied the things he wanted by an idiotic, biased, old, muggle woman like Mrs. Cole!

He stuffed his hand down the pocket of his trousers, searching out the familiar feel of his wand, fumbling a little as he could barely see two inches in front of his own nose. He could feel its light solidity against the outside of his leg, and he warmed right down to his bones as his fingers closed around the handle. His anger seeped into it, feeding the magic, making it strong.

It was risky doing this; Pendragon's List was meant for magical-raised children, not muggle-raised ones. However, even if luck was never on his side, Tom was willing to bet that such a minor spell, used once, had a good chance of being overlooked, and it certainly wasn't something he'd be expelled over. At worst it would earn him a slap on the wrist.

He would be in for a good thrashing when he came back, probably from Mrs. Cole herself again, but…

'It's worth it.'

"Alohamora." He whispered.

The lock snapped. Tom pushed the door open just a crack, making little noise. He peered out with one eye at first, checking to make sure the way was clear. An older girl strode by purposefully, Annabel Lee, and he shrunk back until she had passed then bolted out after her. The door hadn't completely closed yet, Annabel having paused to open her umbrella against the rain. It was coming down cats and dogs.

"Hey, Tom, where're you going?" She asked as he bypassed her.

"To a friend's house," he replied distantly, responding merely out of automatic politeness. He was hardly focusing on Annabel right now.

"A friend? Well, have—hey, what about an umbrella?"

However, Tom was much too far away to reply by then, not that he cared to. His shoes slapped against the wet cobblestone, his hurried walk lengthening into a full-out run. The rain was wet and heavy, and the rain soaked him through in minutes.

A laugh bubbled up from his stomach and out between his lips in gasping, ecstatic bursts. He laughed and laughed until he was forced to stop with his hands on his knees.

Oh, how good he felt! He felt better than good! He felt fantastic! He felt like he could do anything; he could fly right across the English Channel like a human fighter-plane fueled by giddiness!

This felt like freedom.

"Haaa!" He shouted, whirling around to throw his pointer finger back in the direction he'd come. "How do you like that, you old cat?"

Mrs. Cole, of course, couldn't hear him, but it felt good to say it, anyhow. It was too bad the freedom would be short-lived, all his wizard things were still at the home, but Tom forced himself not to think of that or the beating he would be in for upon his return. He would burn that bridge once it was crossed, no point in spoiling his good mood.

Merlin, no wonder Yanks were always so enthusiastic about the idea of freedom! One day he would be free like this for good, and the thought lent him extra speed when he began racing through the streets again. Four o'clock was still a couple of hours away, however. Going across London to get there would shave off a good deal of time, but not enough to appear fashionably early. What to do in the meantime?

Seeking to escape the rain, Tom chased after the electric tram. It was moving fast enough that he had a difficult time grasping onto the water-slicked bars at its rear, and ended up being hauled on board by his sleeves by several rascally looking boys.

"Oi, kid! Nice legs! Almost dinnae make it there!" Said the negro of the group.

Tom didn't reply. He slicked his sodden hair away from his forehead and proceeded to ignore the lot, searching for an empty seat.

"Rude!" Yowled a boy with long, curly, straw-colored hair that poked out absurdly from under the edges of his hat, "What say we teach him some manners, gents?" But the boys tossed their hands dismissively in Tom's direction, loudly braying "Nah!" and they didn't give him any trouble, choosing instead to gush over some trinket one of them had stolen.

Taking an aisle seat, Tom squeezed water out of his sleeves and pant legs. He was chill, but not truly cold yet, and he was wishing for a drying charm. Still, the happy feeling was burning strong, enough so that when the woman sitting behind him offered her handkerchief he accepted it with a polite smile.

He had some time until four o'clock arrived, and was in need of drying off. Diagon Alley seemed as good a place as any to loiter until then. Blott's Books was surely open as well.

Tom Riddle smiled.
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Root of Desire