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Hermione is making her way through the recently departed Hogwarts Express when a compartment door opens, stopping her in her tracks. A figure emerges and Hermione’s heart skips a beat.
“Ah, just the person I was looking for,” the figure says.
Every time she sees him, he seems taller and somehow even more handsome than she remembers, much to her perpetual irritation. He takes another step into the corridor, blocking her path entirely, before continuing to speak.
“If I haven’t caught you at a bad time, might I have a word with the Head Girl? I’d like to discuss a proposal of potential alterations to the spring curriculum.”
Hermione, suddenly aware of the fact that her lips are chapped and probably peeling, darts her tongue out in a desperate attempt to moisten them and doesn’t miss the way his pupils seem to dilate at the action.
She nearly chokes on her own swallow before she manages a reply.
“Of course, I suppose I have time right now. Harry is expecting me though so-“
“I won’t keep you for long.”
His voice is gravel-thick and his eyes bore into hers, unblinking. She can’t very well refuse him when he’s looking at her like that, can she?
She steps inside and no sooner is the door to the compartment locked, silenced, and warded than he’s on her. One hand grips the front of her throat while the other coils around the hair at the nape of her neck, tugging it so far back that her mouth can only hang open in a silent scream.
He must’ve cast a silent Immobulus because suddenly, her limbs refuse to cooperate.
Caught off guard, Hermione’s mind refuses to catch up to the present until she finds herself completely helpless and pinned against the wall of the compartment by his hips. He pushes a knee between her thighs, forcing her legs to widen further and further until his thigh comes into contact with her heated apex.
“Mmmm,” he chuckles lewdly, grinding his leg into her center, “So warm . I bet you’re nice and slippery for me too, hmm? Tell me, Hermione. If I replace my knee with my hand, what will I find?”
Instead of waiting for a response he knows she cannot give, he begins to raise his knee. He lifts it higher and higher until her toes are off the ground and all of her body’s weight is pressing down onto her core.
He laughs then, mockingly. “You should see yourself, dove, you’re so adorable. Always so expressive. You can’t even move your face, yet you still manage to look terrified.”
She’s completely immobile, pinned, and sitting perched atop the ridge of his thigh with her legs astride. One hand remains locked around her throat while the other continues to tug her hair mercilessly. She knows he loves her humiliation and she hates that she has no choice but to give it to him.
In the next moment, his expression darkens and she swears the light in the compartment dims when he leans forward, speaking lowly into the shell of her ear.
“You know what I hate, Her-mya-nee ? What I hate more than anything?”
The question is rhetorical, of course, and he spits the answer out like venom.
“ Disloyalty .”
He looks her up and down slowly before sneering, as though offended by some transgression of which she is not yet aware.
“A little serpent told me something interesting,” he practically coos, voice thick with irony. His fingers lift off her throat and he begins to softly trace the line of her jaw. “It told me that my sweet little Hermione, my loyal Hermione, has accepted an invitation to the fucking Burrow , of all places, over winter break.”
The caress of his fingers ceases and he’s gripping her throat again in a less-than-subtle warning.
She can hear the gritting of his teeth in his voice, but with her body still frozen, her eyes are unable to look anywhere other than the vein protruding on his forehead.
“And I should hope, for your sake, my darling, that the rumor isn’t true.”
His grip on her hair tugs harder to emphasize his point and Hermione swears he’s about to pull it out at the root. A single tear escapes the duct of her eye before making its way down the curve of her cheek.
He notices immediately and leans forward, pausing for a moment as if examining the tear from a closer proximity. But then, he leans in further, and Hermione is momentarily stunned when she feels the press of his lips on her skin in the gentlest of kisses, as if he’d kissed away the tear.
She’s still distracted by the moment prior when she feels, to her horror, what can only be the press of an incisor, sharp and relentless, sinking into her lower lip so deeply that the chapped flesh of her mouth immediately splits. A stream of coppery warmth begins to trickle down her chin before she hears him hum in a manner sounding most pleased.
And then he’s laving her skin clean with his tongue, licking her blood, like a cat with a bowl of cream. His efforts are thorough and eventually, he moves onto her lips in some crazed reenactment of the moment when she’d done the same, mere minutes before in the corridor.
When her lip stops bleeding and her skin is licked clean, he takes a long inhale of her hair, and releases his hold. She hears a soft murmur of Finite Incantatem and he steps away from her just in time to allow her body to crumble to the floor, uninhibited. She remains on the ground for a moment in a crumpled heap, catching her breath. Her body is all pins and needles and she waits for her circulation to regulate.
“You drive me fucking insane, Hermione.” He’s looking down at her with a look of apathy that doesn’t match his tone. He cinches up the knot in his tie, smoothes down his hair and refastens his cufflinks. She hadn’t even realized they were undone.
It’s like a switch is flipped when he offers her a hand up (she knows better than to refuse) and he’s smiling his warmest smile, dimples and all, before he asks, almost fondly, “Now, Ms. Granger, what did you say your plans for winter hols were again?”
Hermione, ever the quick study, falls into the role immediately and tells him exactly what she knows he wants to hear. “Funny you should ask, Professor Riddle. I thought it would be good to spend time with my family over break. I hope I won’t be too much of a burden, but I intend on staying home with you and mother.”
“Ah yes, that’s a good girl.” The smile he gives her appears genuine but she knows that it is anything but. He nods and continues, “That’s what I thought you’d said. Jane will be so thrilled to see you. I’m quite certain she has all sorts of family activities for the three of us, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hermione [shudders inwardly and] nods with a smile plastered on her face that she hopes mirrors his own. Then she politely answers by indulging him with an elaboration of her previous response, “I received an invitation to the Burrow, but I thought I’d go tell Ron straight away that I’ve decided to decline his offer.”
“That’s a good idea, you do that darling. Go on, enjoy the rest of your time with your friends. It will be some time before you get to see them.”
She’s smoothing down the wrinkles in her clothes as he speaks, attempting to make herself appear less ruffled when she realizes that he’s staring. He’s watching her in a way that feels anything-but-casual. His head is cocked to the side, his hands are in his pockets and he’s teetering on his heels, almost playfully. The man is practically glowing . She tries to fight her glare but it’s so hard when he’s positively reeking of feigned fatherly warmth.
She remembers to respond and does so quickly before her temper takes over. “Yes. Professor Riddle. Thank you, I’ll just do that,” she agrees before turning to leave. She makes it just past the doorway when she hears him call after her.
“Oh, and Hermione?”
She turns around, one foot out the door and looks back at him, expectantly.
“The same rules apply as before. Your mother may appear to be the picture of perfect health now, but, while I’m no healer, I’m not certain she would survive another turn for the worse. You understand?”
She sucks in a breath of air, a tell-tale sign that she understands his meaning, completely.
“Yes, sir,” she manages, hating the frailty of her tone.
Her professor, who is still smiling down at her, winks before closing the door in her face.