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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
- 8
- 9
Author’s Note: This Chapter 9 is slightly altered from the original one. Nothing too huge, though. A warning: an underage boy having dirty dreams about a grown woman. Hermione is hard for me to write. She’s so very headstrong and up-front and I’m utterly meek.

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Why does my heart cry?

Feelings I can’t fight.

~El Tango de Roxanne from Moulin Rouge

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The Chairman’s Waltz from Memoirs of a Geisha—Tom’s Dreams (Passion)

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The Daily Prophet

WAR!

September 3, 1939

Great Britain and France are at war with Germany. We now fight against the blackest tyranny that has ever held men in bondage. We fight to defend, and to restore, freedom and justice on earth.

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Tom focused intensely on taking notes. He glanced between his parchment and the blackboard, the ink of his quill deep blue. He made sure to take careful note of the important role of mulberries of the Goblin war of 1262, ending the sentence with a flourish of his quill’s feathered end.

Hermione was at the front of the classroom, her hair pulled back tight, and she looked very stern and teacher-ish in Prof. Binns silvery robes.

Tom admired her for a while, feeling very glad to have her as his teacher. She was so much better than boring Prof. Binns and he got to see her every day. He went back to his notes, but the nib of his quill snapped, spilling purple-red ink all over. It ruined his notes, soaked the parchment and dribbled down the edge of the desk to drip onto his robes. Tom swiped at the ink on his robes and his hands came away red.

He put the quill down and walked down the steps to the professor’s desk to get a pencil. He took an apple out of his pocket, as bright red as a sunset, and placed it on the desktop, where it turned into a pomegranate. A livid green snake came out of it like it had been born there, sending ruby seeds scattering.

Hermione walked up to him, her mouth stern but her eyes happy. She picked a ruby off the desk and popped it in her mouth. It stained her lips brightly.

“Thank you, Tom. Was there something you needed?” she asked.

“You.” Tom said. “I want you, Professor Hermione.”

She sat on the desk and pulled him flush against her, cupping his face in her warm hands, her thighs cradling his narrow hips. Her touch was honey. She smelled of parchment and fresh linens. He could feel the curves of her body through their robes, all mature womanly softness. He snaked his arms around her and they kissed and kissed and kissed. They kissed until the ceiling of the History of Magic classroom crumbled away to rubble and the sky glowed with a million stars. Her fingers ran through his hair and over his shoulders in the most wonderful, delicious ways. His body sang for her; the world would surely end if they stopped kissing, so it was good that his mouth so yearned for hers. As long as she was with him the world would keep spinning.

He broke from her buttery mouth for a moment to trail kisses down her neck, but like a magnet his lips were soon pulled back to hers.

“Tom,” she breathed.

“Hermione,” he whispered into her mouth. “Hermione. Hermione. Her-my-knee. My girl. My girl. My Hermione. Mine. Mine. Mine. You’re mine. Always mine. Oh, Hermione.”

At some point they had moved out of the rubble of the History of Magic classroom and had made it to his bed in the Slytherin Dungeons. The curtains were drawn and the green velvet moved like water, distorted with ripples. Tom was lying on his back, naked, and Hermione knelt above him, kissing him all over his face. She was naked too, though he couldn’t see her clearly through her drapes of hair, and he dearly wished he could. Her hand caressed his cheek and slid down, over his chest and stomach, and further still until she was touching him down there.

Tom gave a little gasp, holding the noise back until it was just a muted whimper. Oh, goodness. Oh, wow. He closed his eyes and couldn’t quite reopen them. She kissed him ever so gently, her cool hand moving along his elongated penis lazily, and all he had to do was lie there on cloud nine and receive the pleasure. Her touch left him feeling boneless and breathless. His nose was scrunched up a little, pressed up against hers as it was.

“My-knee,” he shivered, too far gone to manage to say the first syllable of her name, “My-knee. Oh, ‘Mione.”

“Do you believe I like you now, Tom?”

“Uh-huh.” He hummed, his voice misty. “Uh-huh. I like you, Hermione. I like you so much. I’ve always liked you. My Hermione.”

“Tommm…”

“I—h-ah!” The feeling crested, pleasure reaching its zenith, and Tom—

—opened his eyes to green bed curtains and empty air. His breath was a bit uneven, and he was perspiring faintly. His hand was under the sheets, resting where had dreamed Hermione’s hand had caressed and fondled. With his other hand, he pushed the blankets away to observe himself. His pyjama bottoms had slid down his hips in his sleep. He blinked at the unfamiliar substance coating his palm.

‘What was that?’

Dreams of himself and Hermione kissing and being, well, intimate, were something he had dreamed before—many times, in fact—but this was the first time he’d dreamed something like that. He had dreamed that he was naked and so was Hermione. She had been in his bed and they had been kissing and then she…

All of a sudden he felt terribly dirty, and he felt his cheeks darken with a deep blush. Tom knew what sex was and realized that he had dreamed of himself having something not-quite sex with Hermione. What he had done to himself… he did not know what to call it. He was aware of what “wanking” was; it was a common enough topic among the boys at the orphanage, disgusting though it was, but he thought that it was something that a person was consciously aware of, not something that happened while sleeping. And the mechanics of sex had been told to him in all their filthy detail after he had stumbled on an older orphan named Eustace Snapp having on the old “in out in out” with his girlfriend. But this wasn’t sex and he wasn’t sure if—as Mrs. Cole would put it—playing with his genitals in his sleep was “wanking.”

It had felt… good. Really good, but it had made him… what? Wet the bed? Except it wasn’t that either; Tom had seen Adam Wakely’s filthy yellow bed sheets after the boy had urinated in his sleep and this wasn’t the same, just as it wasn’t sex.

So what was he supposed to call it?

Frowning deeply, Tom wiped his hand clean on the sheets and got out of bed, pulling his trousers up. He would have to look this anomaly up in the library, he thought as he scrubbed himself clean in the shower, Tom Riddle couldn’t not know something, especially when it had to do with his own body. He doubted it was something to worry about, but what if it was? What if it was a sign of illness? He had to find out.

He dressed in a casual shirt and trousers. It was Saturday, there were no classes today, and the young wizard moved along at a very leisurely pace. As eager as he was to learn about this morning’s new experience, he had all weekend to research it. For the moment, he was hungry.

As he left the second-year dorm, a slightly older boy noticed him from one of the leather couches. Square-cheeked and sharp-nosed, glaring with beady black eyes, he sneered at Tom.

“Morning, Mudblood.” He sneered with a heavy Russian accent.

Tom tilted his head down slightly, glaring darkly at the older student. “Dolohov.”

Dolohov took a breath and began to say something else, but noticed something behind Tom that made him pale rapidly and return his attention to the thin book in his lap. Tom turned to glance over his shoulder and saw Slytherin’s tall, broad-shouldered Quiddich Beater, Balbus Blishwick. Blishwick nodded shortly at Tom, who returned the gesture and went on his way, leaving the Slytherin Dungeon for the Great Hall.

There were a large number of transfer students this year, foreigners fleeing the war on the mainland for the sanctuary England and her neighbors provided. Hogwarts often had two or three each year, but this year there were a total of twelve new faces. Transfers above first year were never officially sorted, however Dolohov, a thirteen year-old from Durmstrang fleeing Communist Russia, had made himself very much at home in the Slytherin Dungeon, which didn’t sit particularly well with the real Slytherins. They were a closely nested lot and someone who wasn’t a first year did not just slither into a pit of snakes like he belonged there when he very clearly did not. Tom found himself surprisingly free of the ridicule and glaring eyes he had suffered the year previous for being a Mudblood—even he had more right to be there than pureblood Vladmir Dolohov.

Dolohov had once cornered and harassed Tom for his blood-status, only to be interrupted and chased off by a group of green-robed fifth years, much to Tom’s surprise.

“He’s no righ’ to spit at ya,” Blishwick had said, “Yer a stinking Mudblood, but yer ours. Yer one of us, and he ain’t. He don’ get to spit at ya.”

As if calling Tom names was a special privilege only Slytherins were entitled to. It stirred a strange feeling in Tom. He had never really been a genuine part of anything before, except the orphanage. For all their coldness toward him, it was amazing how loyally the Slytherins defended him as their own kin. Even mean sharp-tongued Walburga Black had once “accidentally” shoved Dolohov away from Tom, claiming that the exchange student had been blocking a doorway! It was enthralling. Even if he was technically close to the bottom rung of Slytherin’s social ladder, their defense of him made him feel important. It was definitely a feeling he liked.

The Great Hall was busy when he entered, though not quite full. Many students had chosen to sleep in. Tom filled his plate and his eyes meanderingly searched the owls. He had received an owl from Hermione a couple of days earlier and though he knew it was too soon to expect a reply to his response, he could not stop himself from looking. He wanted her terribly.

Hermione’s letter had come with the newspaper that announced Britain’s official declaration of war against the Germans.

Dear Tom,

I hope you are enjoying the new school year. Are you enjoying this year’s classes and keeping up on your studies?

London had been busy emptying itself ever since the 1^st. The WVS has had me running all over the city. I believe you are aware of this, since the politicians were talking about it all summer, but Wool’s orphans have all been evacuated since you went back to Hogwarts. As a member of the WVS, I helped getting the women and children out of London and most of your peers went through my station, including Mrs. Cole. Everyone from Wools is scattered to the winds now. I’m worried about what your situation will be when the summer holidays arrive.

The letter went on for several more paragraphs, Hermione detailing her concerns and some of the more entertaining parts of her job before it was finally signed with a flourish:

Sincerely,

Hermione Wilkins

Her worry was flattering, but unnecessary, Tom thought. He didn’t see what was so awful about never having to deal with anyone from Wool’s ever again. Never again would he be woken with a whistle. Never again would he have to endure a scalding hot shower with half a dozen other boys, or worry about being caned for something that wasn’t his fault. Never again would he have to suffer Billy Stubbs’ gang, who would hold orphans down and tickle them until their sides were bruised from crying and forced laughter and they lost control of their bladders.

The very memory made his stomach clench with distaste and he pushed his mostly-empty plate away, unable to swallow another bite. Besides, there was a chair in the library that as good as had his name on it. And with any luck, the book on the Founders of Hogwarts that he wanted had been returned to the library now.

Tom had quickly become fascinated with the Founders, or, more specifically, Salazar Slytherin. He had, naturally, been curious about the man who helped found Hogwarts, but the Professor Binns had not gone into detail about the Founders origins. Slytherin and Hufflepuff had humbler beginnings than Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, but, having lived over a thousand years ago, the Founders’ pasts were mostly shrouded in mystery. Tom’s pureblood housemates tended to assume that everyone else knew what they did and the questions of a woefully ignorant Muggle-born like Tom had mostly gone scorned. Thus, it hadn’t been until the last semester of his first year that Tom learned that Slytherin had been a Parselmouth, meaning that he could talk to snakes.

Just like Tom.

More importantly, Parseltongue was hereditary, which meant that Slytherin could very well be Tom’s ancestor. And who was to say that he wasn’t! Slytherin lived over a thousand years ago; they could be related for all anyone knew! The possibility was thrilling in more ways than one. Tom was an orphan, after all, to find out that he had any relations at all was fantastic and to be related to someone as revered and noble as Salazar Slytherin himself…

Slytherin was practically nobility. He was a legend. If Tom were a descendant of Slytherin, the repercussions would be phenomenal. No longer would he be harassed by the purebloods, as much on the bottom rung of the social ladder here as he was in the Muggle world; no, he would be revered. Worshipped, even. The thought of Walburga Black begging his forgiveness on her knees was a pleasant image. The image of Dolohov doing it was even better. He imagined the arrogant Russian sobbing, his belly scraping the floor like a dog, using his tongue in place of a rag as he shined Tom’s shoes. He imagined himself wearing Slytherin’s fine green robes, sitting in the Headmaster’s chair. People surrounded him, loving him, the long-lost Heir of Slytherin returned to the Wizarding World at last! Lord Slytherin, they’d call him!

The daydream brought a wicked little smile to his lips before cold logic overtook it, forming a hard lump in his belly. Even if he did figure that he was somehow related to Salazar Slytherin, what good would it really do? He didn’t have proof. Unless he could prove it with proper documentation, his records would not be changed; he would still legally be a Mudblood. And legality was very important.

Hold up.

Muggle-born.

Not… not Mudblood. Where was his mind today? That dream of Hermione he’d had must have been affecting him more than he initially thought. Or perhaps his Housemates really were rubbing off on him. Ugh, that was a terrible thought.

He yawned lightly as he walked into the library, covering his mouth with his hand. Enormous bookshelves towered above him on his right, the librarian’s desk situated attentively on the left, guarding the exit. The librarian himself, Mr. Reed, was eyeing a giggling group of first years like a hawk. Tom thought that Ebenezer Pettigrew would be the first person Mr. Reed would swoop down upon—the boy looked particularly mousy. Tom wondered if he was a Jew.

Tom navigated the library’s shelves with an ease that rivaled many an OWL student. The Health archive was fairly small, tucked away discreetly not far from the magical creatures section. Feigning an air of idle casualty, Tom made sure the area was empty before slipping into the aisle. He ran his eyes up and down the perfectly organized tomes, plucking out a few and flipping through them as he went along. Some were completely useless and others he deemed worth a more thorough look. The Human Body by Ulysses Bauble was of no worth; it only described the internal organs. The third year Beginning Heath Class textbook had a small section on sex and puberty that seemed slightly promising.

When he had gathered a decent-sized stack of books he retreated to an empty table and laid out his collection. He began with the Health textbook, following the table of contents with the tip of his finger.

Sex: The Facts, the Acts, and Your Feelings.

‘Ugh, Merlin.’

It was informative, at least, more than Mrs. Cole or the church minister had ever been. It was probably the only portion of the health book that had no illustrations accompanying the text, for which Tom couldn’t tell if he was grateful or frustrated. It also put a great deal of emphasis on married life, talking about sex as if it was something that couldn’t happen without rings on a couple’s fingers. It also made the whole process sound rather painful, but what Tom had felt this morning was certainly something that had felt good, not bad. And it wasn’t sex; where were the writings on the not-sex things? Maybe he really was ill…

“Tom, m’boy!”

The young wizard only just managed to keep himself from groaning aloud or slamming the book closed as if he’d been stealing from the cookie jar. He liked his Head of House well enough, but the man really had the worst timing of anyone he had ever met…

“Professor Slughorn.” Tom greeted, lifting his head and smiling as brightly as he could manage.

“Good morning, Tom! You’re up early for the weekend. Studying already? It’s only the first weekend of the term!” Slughorn said, his ginger-blonde mustache sweeping at his lower lip.

Tom softened his smile, bowing his head a little. “One can never be too prepared, sir.”

The rotund man chuckled. “That attitude will take you far, Tom, very far! Good on you, m’boy! What are you studying now?”

Before Tom could sweep the book away, Slughorn had pulled it toward himself, his bushy eyebrows rising on his forehead as his eyes scanned the contents. He seemed stunned for a moment before his eyes began twinkling in amusement. Tom felt mortified.

“Health, is that it, Tom? You know you don’t have that class until next year. If you have questions about these things, I wonder why you didn’t go up to the Hospital Wing and ask Frauline Steinbeck? She is our nurse, after all.”

‘How about because she’s a woman and a bloody Kraut.’ The young boy thought waspishly. In all truthfulness, to ask someone hadn’t actually occurred to him. Aside from Hermione and teachers, his queries had usually been scorned. Hitting the books was almost instinctive to him.

Out loud, he said, “It just felt too awkward to talk about that with a lady, sir.” To which Slughorn hummed and nodded agreeably.

As uncomfortable as he felt, Tom thought he could turn this around to his advantage. Slughorn was a grown man; he was surely knowledgeable about the odd happenings that Tom was experiencing. He was willing to bet that the Potions professor knew far more than prude old Mrs. Cole ever would (it was a running joke in the orphanage that Mrs. Cole was a virgin, so what could she know?).

He twisted his hands around each other and lowered his eyes as if he were nervous. “I don’t suppose… would you, perhaps, be willing to talk about it, Professor?” The potion teacher’s face smoothed over in surprise. “Not-not if you’re uncomfortable with it, sir, it’s just… well, I haven’t found the answer to my question in the books yet, and you’re also a male, I thought that, maybe…”

Slughorn waved him off. “Nonsense, my dear boy, I would be glad to answer whatever questions you have. You are not the first young man to come to me worried about the unfortunate side effects of puberty. I daresay it’s part of the duty of being Head of Slytherin.” He pulled out a chair across from Tom and sat, the legs of the chair creaking under his weight, the golden buttons of his purple waistcoat straining extra hard as his belly pushed against them.

He folded his hands on the edge of the table. “Now, what has gotten you so curious?”

Tom avoided eye contact and adjusted his tie. “Well… there’s this woman…”

“Oh-ho!” Slughorn exclaimed. “A woman, you say? You take more to the mature, do you, Tom?”

“P-professor!” the second year spluttered.

The potions professor waved him off. “Please, Tom, no need to be so bashful. Your secret is quite safe with me. I can be discreet when I need to be, you know.” Tom nearly snorted aloud. Slughorn was as discreet as a walrus in a fish market. “I realize this an embarrassing subject for you. Now, your Health Education class isn’t until next year, but there’s nothing wrong with being an… ‘early bloomer,’ so to speak. Do go on.”

Tom made sure to pause and stutter at just the right places. “Well, I know full well what, err, sexual intercourse is, sir, but… you see, this morning I had the most peculiar dream and when I woke I found that I had been… Well, I-I’ve heard of-of wanking sir, but since I was asleep… I-I’m not sure what to call it, sir, it… I don’t really know…” The redness in his face wasn’t all an act. Merlin, to be talking about this with Slughorn!

The professor’s muddled expression of amusement and discomfort made him look constipated. His round cheeks were tinted light pink. Slughorn lifted his wand and quietly cast a Muffling Charm around the table to ward away eavesdroppers.

“There is a word for, ahem, wanking, Tom, and that is masturbation.” The young wizard softly repeated the word, his brow furrowed. “The dream you had is what is referred to as a ‘wet dream’ because… well, I’m sure you can guess correctly. More appropriately this is called a ‘nighttime emission.’

“Now, Tom, these are the sorts of things done strictly in private, but it is perfectly healthy for a young man at your age to experience these dreams and masturbate regularly. People scorn lust, but it is a natural reaction of the human body to wish to reproduce with someone we find attractive….”

At the time, it felt like the most horrendous thing Tom had ever had to endure in all his 12 years. Information, no matter how much it was wanted or needed, couldn’t cover up just how awful it was to listen to Slughorn go on about the birds and the bees for fifteen minutes. It felt more like fifteen hours. It was worse than seeing Merrythought and Beery snog, much worse!

As soon as Slughorn had let up on his speech and taken a breath, Tom had bolted (with the best manners, of course), half-ceremoniously shoving the health books back on their shelves and hurrying out of the library as quickly as decent appearances would allow. He couldn’t even be bothered to ask if the book on the Founders had been returned yet; he’d just go back and ask about it later. He wandered the halls irritably.

Sex, masturbation and nighttime emissions. What a bunch of inconveniences! The whole of puberty was a big inconvenience, a big distraction from more important things, like… like Salazar Slytherin! Tom should have been reading up on Slytherin, but Slughorn’s talk swirled dizzyingly in his head, chasing away every other thought. He was burningly curious about his body, but that curiosity was countered by the age-old teaching from Mrs. Cole and the church: Such desires were unnatural and wrong. Sinful. Not that Tom really gave a damn about things like right and wrong, but it was something that was as deeply ingrained into him as the way he tied his shoes. It was what he had been taught, it was just the way he had known things always to be, then here was a different point of view that suddenly made things all the more confusing.

And Hermione… he wanted her more than ever. A more solid idea of what it meant for a man and woman to be together was developing in his young mind. Why did she have to have graduated already? Why couldn’t they have been in the same year? Things would have been better for him if they were closer in age! She would be here at Hogwarts with him and he would have her, she wouldn’t be so far away and untouchable…

“Tom!”

His head snapped up, dark eyes going wide at the sight of Hermione Wilkins walking down the hall toward him, lips spread in a smile. His breath caught. She wasn’t dressed up, her clothes and hair were done up as she ordinarily did them, but he had an… awareness of her that he hadn’t possessed before. His eyes were magnetically drawn to the curves of her breasts and his mind drifted back to his “wet dream.” Was he dreaming now? In his dream she had been naked; what did she look like naked…?

‘Speak of the devil and she shall appear…’

“You might want to close your mouth; you’ll catch flies.” Hermione said, amused, as she came to a stop in front of him.

Tom snapped his jaw shut audibly, tearing his eyes up to hers. “What are you doing here?” he blurted ungracefully.

Her eyes twinkled. She was obviously in a good mood. “What, no ‘Hello, Hermione’?” she teased.

‘No, not really.’ “It’s… good to see you,” he began slowly, “But you’re not a student anymore, or a teacher. I guess I’m… a bit puzzled.”

She shrugged the strap of her beaded bag a little higher on her shoulder. An action that made her curls shift to expose one ear. Weirdly, he wanted to lick it.

“I was just on my way out, though I had been hoping I might run into you on my way. I was having tea with Albus. We do it on the first Saturday of every month.”

That was not something that Tom expected or wanted to hear.

He abruptly snapped out of his woolgathering mood. “Y-you what?” He squeaked, and quickly looked away, face red as he cleared his throat.

“I was having tea with Professor Dumbedore.” Hermione repeated.

Professor Dumbledore. Dumbledore? She came to have tea with Dumbledore, but not to see Tom?! She just hoped to run into him by chance, did she? She didn’t actively come to see him?

His hands clenched at his sides, mouth dry. “How long have you been doing this?”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose, clearly taken aback. “Albus and I have been taking tea together since last summer actually. So, we’ve been meeting for over a year now.”

A year. More than a year! Had she even… yes, he could remember it now. Even during school she had gone off one Saturday a month to do something. He hadn’t questioned it then, he figured she was just going off and being a girl or-or something!

And she called Professor Dumbledore by his first name! She called him Albus! Like they were friends and not just former pupil and teacher! This was all wrong. Tom didn’t need this. He was already riled up from that awful conversation with Slughorn and this—this made him want to tear his hair out. Jealousy was consuming him, even greener than Slytherin’s banner, and he fought to keep it out of his expression.

This conversation wasn’t going well at all. It should have been a happy little reunion; she should have been trying to fight the urge to muss his hair while he stood there smugly. She should have been inviting him to take tea with her in an empty classroom or the kitchens, wherever those were. She shouldn’t… she shouldn’t have been seeing other people! She shouldn’t have been talking about Dumbledore like Tom meant so little! Her world should center on him!

‘You can’t do this! You’re mine!’ Aloud, he asked, “What do you have to talk to Professor Dumbledore for?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, just a little. “Magical theory, mostly, but… Tom, that’s a very personal question.”

A personal question indeed, he scoffed, feeling the anger build. What did she have to sound so offended about? She was the one at fault here!

“It’s okay, you can tell me.” Tom said, clasping his hands behind his back so that she couldn’t see them shaking.

Hermione frowned. “No, Tom, it… What’s wrong?”

He pursed his lips and looked away. “I just don’t like Professor Dumbledore. I don’t see why you should have to talk to him about anything.”

He sensed her bristle, her eyes narrowing a bit further, nostrils flaring briefly. “I know you don’t get along, but Albus is a good friend of mine.”

“He’s a teacher.” Tom said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“And teacher’s can’t have friends, can they?”

Tom pursed his lips. It was weird to think that teachers had lives outside of the classroom. They could be friends with other teachers, but to imagine that someone like Dumbledore or Slughorn had anything resembling a home life… it was just too strange!

Hermione frowned sternly. “Tom, I am your friend, but I’m friends with other people too, and I talk to them and have tea with them and have dinner with them too. Just like you and I do, and you have to accept and respect that, okay?”

No! No, he did not! He didn’t have to accept or respect a bloody thing!

He stared her in the eye and pulled up as much sincerity as he could muster. “I understand.” It was probably the most bold-faced lie he had told her to date. He didn’t understand at all. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to drag her out of the hall and lock her in an unused classroom where she’d never see anybody but him ever again.

Hermione didn’t look entirely convinced of his lie, but didn’t press the issue. She smiled unsurely at him.

“I have to run. I’ll send a letter soon, all right, Tom?”

Fine, she could go. He didn’t want to see her right now anyway, not anymore. He was too angry. After exchanging farewells, he waited until he couldn’t hear the fall of her footsteps anymore before hurrying into an empty classroom, hissing with fury.

He locked the door behind him, his dark hair falling haphazardly over his forehead. With shaking hands he drew his wand and knocked over a bookcase, crushing a desk and sending books everywhere. It helped. He jinxed a cluster of desks and watched with satisfaction as they all topped over.

Bloody Dumbledore!

It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t at all fair! Hermione was his friend! His! He didn’t want to share her with other people! Why couldn’t she just…just stay at home and dutifully wait for his return like a good housewife? He was going to marry her someday, after all. He was definitely going to marry her and then she’d have to do whatever he said. She would cook him delicious meals and wash his clothes and sleep in his bed and do everything he told her to. He could lock her away like Rapunzel and only he would have the key to her tower. She would never talk to anyone else and he would kiss her and… and have sex with her whenever he wanted to!

Even through his anger he wanted her. He wanted her more than ever. In his dream she had been the one who knelt over him, but in real life he would definitely be the one to be in control over her. And she would like it, she would.

Inhaling through his nose, he leaned against the door and took slow, calming breaths. His nose felt as if it was running, but when he swiped at it there was nothing there. He briefly entertained the thought of following up on the awkward talk with Slughorn—but no. Not when Dumbledore’s very existence was stuck so irritatingly at the forefront of his mind. Just the thought of Dumbledore would ruin the whole experience.

It wasn’t fair.
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Root of Desire