To the Victors

Part 49

Her heart hammered as she rapped at the office door. Harry's words rang in her head, but she couldn't bring herself to further examine them past, Harry knew.

He at least suspected, as did Draco. Everyone knew Hermione was Professor Riddle's favorite student, perhaps even more than the other professors favored her; and what lover of men hadn't had a crush on him at some point.

Hermione had heard the envious sighs of her peers when she started assisting with the Defense Club.

"You're so lucky, Hermione. You get to spend so much time with him."

It was embarrassing at first and made her feel a prickle of guilt later.

Before she could delve any deeper in that pool of thought, the door swung open, and Tom stood before her.

He wore a white button-up with the top buttons undone to reveal pale, sculpted chest, sleeves rolled up strong forearms, and plain black trousers. His lips quirked at the sight of her. "I'd almost thought you'd forgotten. Come in, sweetheart."

Tom guided her to sit before returning to his desk; he didn't take a seat but pulled out a decanter and two small crystal cups. "It's a cordial," he informed her as blood-velvet liquor filled the crystal. She took one and sipped the sweet drink that warmed her to the toes. "Though it seems you've had plenty tonight." His eyes danced with amusement.

"I'm not drunk," Hermione said in defense.

"No, I should hope not." Tom stroked her cheek. "If you were, I'd worry about taking advantage."

Her cheeks flared hot as her stomach whirled. "Taking advantage?"

He hummed and leaned forward until his breath stirred against her lips. "Yes. I don't want you to regret anything." Before she could question further, his mouth sealed against hers, stealing her breath. His mouth tasted of the cordial as his tongue swept across hers, and the dizzying lust became a storm.

Her hands clutched the front of his shirt even when he pulled away.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart." He chuckled at her wide-eyed stammering. "I've thought quite a bit about what to give you to mark this occasion."

"I don't need anything," she insisted.

He smiled and shook his head. "I know, darling, but I want to give you a gift. I considered— well, some of what I considered, I don't think you're prepared for yet, but I finally found something fitting." He took a small black box from his pocket and her heart raced. "It's not very pretty as these things usually go, but it is one of the few heirlooms I've managed to track down from my family. Giving it to you is nearly giving you a piece of myself. It is my hope to someday do this more properly but let this suffice for the moment."

Tom pressed the small box into her hands. She opened it with shaking hands; he cupped them in his own to steady her.

Tom spoke rightly that it wasn't the prettiest ring. It would look more at home on his own hand, with the heavy gold band and the large, square-ish black stone, but it dried her throat and clenched her heart with its appearance.

"I— I couldn't poss—"

"None of that," he cut through her excuses. "You are the only person other than myself I would trust to keep this, Hermione." He produced a fine gold chain and plucked the ring from her fingers. "I advise not using magic on it. It will... well, it will be resistant to much, hence why I did not resize it for you." The chain looped over her head and the stone lay against her chest. "There. Perfect." His eyes shone, dipping from the stone and to her face, and she sensed pride in it.