To the Victors

Part 61

She and Draco did not properly make up before exams began, but she told herself it was fine; summer was long and would present them plenty of opportunities to talk. Besides, it wasn't as though they weren't friends; they still sat together to study and during shared classes, still exchanged essays to look over...

"What's going on with you two?" Harry asked lowly as Draco retreated. It was after lunch and they were headed to their next exams.

Hermione shrugged. "We had a disagreement is all," she said.

"Is this still about Riddle?" her friend asked, at which she tutted.

" Professor Riddle, Harry. And, well, maybe a little. Does it matter? We'll talk about it during the summer."

He eyed her carefully. "Hermione, we just worry about you. You know none of us want anything but the best."

"I know," she bit out, then softened her tone. "I know, I do. And I'm being careful. I'm not some silly little girl who believes everything he says without question." The 'anymore' went as unsaid as his name. "I wish you lot trusted me to make my own decisions."

Harry's green eyes brightened with hurt. "We do." He took her hand in his and squeezed it. "We worry about you same as you would with us, that's all."

"I, oh—"

"No public displays in the halls," cried the head boy. The two of them jumped apart before he could think of deducting points, though that was unlikely since they were generally well-liked by him and the head girl.

"Can we talk later? We really should be focused on exams," she said, and Harry nodded agreement.

The problem was that she couldn't speak to Harry after exams that evening because she had already promised Tom. It was the last day of exams, which had her sneaking her way to the Defense office once she had finished (taking every last second to review her answers before she had to turn over the scroll to her professor).

She cast a Disillusionment Charm over herself and crept through the halls. Others were on the way to the Great Hall for dinner or headed to bed already because they were wiped out after a long day of exams, and an even longer week of the same.

Once she arrived at the familiar door, Hermione rapped smartly in a way she was sure Tom knew by heart. She was a creature of routine, after all, and varied only as necessary for success.

The door opened without a word and Tom didn't even look up from his place behind his desk as he said, "Take a seat, love, I'm just finishing a few essays."

Hermione nodded despite his eyes not being on her, and lowered herself onto the familiar couch that took up the back wall. It was awkward to think of the last time she had been there, when Draco had caught the pair of them together, and tried to push away the remembered embarrassment.

"Don't think so hard." His voice floated through her haze and she shook herself from thoughts of Draco's aghast expression and faced Tom, who smiled sardonically at her. "Your thoughts are practically written across your face; we'll have to work on that before any of my people meet you."

She frowned. "Your— your followers, you mean?"

Tom nodded, then pushed away the scroll he'd finished, stood, and strode toward her. Gentle fingers tipped up her chin to gaze down at her solemn amber eyes. "Yes, Hermione. Though not all of them know me by this name, nor this form, I have followers who serve my will. And they shall serve yours, as well."

Before she could ask more, or naysay him, he bent to kiss her.

His lips found hers pliant and warm as his hands ran from her cheeks to her throat, to push her robe from her shoulders, down to run beneath her skirt and against the smoothness of her thighs. She shivered against the tenderness of his hands and the faint, distant terror of where this might be headed.

"Wait, Tom—"

He was sitting across from her on the couch; she had no idea when it had happened. He smoothed down her skirt and took one of her hands in his own. "Darling, I won't force you. I would never do that, but you know I want you, yes?"

She stared down at his paler hand holding her own with his long and elegant fingers. His skin was so fair she wondered how he handled the daylight. Did he use spells to protect it? It wasn't as though Hermione had never seen him outside the castle during the day.

Throat too tight to reply, she nodded.

"Then tell me when to stop," he murmured, tipping her face toward his once more. She was close enough to count the double row of his eyelashes and to note the way the black of his pupil swallowed up the midnight blue of his eyes. He was beautiful, like a statue of Cupid breathed to life. She could understand why Psyche died when she gazed upon her husband in the candlelight.

This time when he leaned in to kiss her, to touch her, she didn't tense up.

He kissed along the column of her throat down, his hand working open first her tie and then the buttons of her blouse. When his lips reached her collarbone, Tom could not help but suck and bite his mark there. He knew it was petty since no one would see her except perhaps her dormmates, but he wanted to stake his claim.

She, perfect girl, whimpered and arched into him.

A chuckle wormed through his lips, but he kept it light lest he embarrass and scare her off, continuing instead to open her buttondown and stroke the sinfully soft skin of her stomach.

She was so warm against his fingertips that her flesh nearly scalded him, but it was pleasurable to the reptilian darkness that lurked within his broken soul. Oh, he wanted to bathe in her heat, to soak it into himself, bury himself in it.

Tom returned to ply her mouth with a desperate kiss and pulled away only to murmur, "I need you."

Through the veil of his lashes, her warm amber eyes glowed as haloes around the darkness of lust-blown pupils. She bit a swollen lip and gave a hesitant nod and Tom groaned in triumph. At last.

He spread her form prone beneath him, Pushed her thighs apart, and mouthed down her stomach. Her bra vanished in his path so he could pay homage to her perfect, humble breasts. Skirt and knickers were pulled together and he found her wet and wanton for him, tasting as pure as any with whom he'd lain. And the way her golden frame arched and keened set him on fire.

He was rushed when he shucked his own clothes— shirt and undershirt, belt, until he was released from his trousers and he slowly inched inside her.

She was so tight, so hot, so perfect.

He lifted her legs to his shoulders, kissed the inside of her ankles as he rolled his hips, then laid a hand on her stomach, thumb at her apex to strum her to completion.

When he felt her begin to come apart, he leaned over her smaller body, wrapped a hand around her throat, and stole her breath while he helped her ride it out and chased his own in return.

She tightened with his fingers until she was squeezing him, and he finally broke with a long groan.

Once he recovered enough, he cradled Hermione to his chest and swapped their position, stroking her sweaty curls.

It was a few moments later that his fireplace flash green, indicative of a Floo call. He stood and assisted Hermione to sit, wrapped his robes around her and said, "Whoever it is, don't worry. I will not allow them to see you."

He kissed her temple and turned toward the fire to answer. Upon seeing who it was, he wanted to roll his eyes; only a sense of decorum kept him from it.