Chapter Text
“Tom.”
He wasn’t looking at her. Why wasn’t he looking at her? The dark-haired man simply stood behind his desk, staring down at some unknown document. She took the opportunity to watch him, to catalogue how the man before her was different from the boy she’d known. He’d not changed much, physically at least. There was something sharp about him now, something that had previously been hidden, but which had been chiseled into existence.
She hated it.
“Tom,” she said again, more insistent this time. “What am I doing here?”
“I don’t go by that name anymore.”
He still hadn’t looked up, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped the edge of the desk too tight. She had always been able to see through his too-carefully crafted mask, and now was no different. But she didn’t care about his name. Not anymore.
“What am I doing here?”
She’d been followed for a week straight by Abraxas Malfoy and Radolphus Lestrange. Both of the men had apparently been deluded enough to think they were doing a good job at not being seen, but in truth, the only reason Hermione hadn’t instantly alerted the aurors that she was being stalked was because she knew they’d been close with Tom.
Tom who had been her greatest competition in school. Tom who had tied with her in nearly every class. Tom who had danced with her at Slughorn’s party, who had snogged her breathless in the astronomy tower underneath the light of the moon. They’d been inseparable. Everyone thought they’d get married. Even Hermione.
And then Tom disappeared just two months after graduation. No letter explaining where he’d gone, no hint that he’d be leaving. She’d tried to get ahold of his school friends, but if they’d known where he went, they sure as hell hadn’t told her. Now, three years later, just when Hermione was finally starting to be happy again—just when she was finally figuring out how to live a life that Tom Riddle wasn’t a part of—he had to show up.
She was three seconds away from blasting everything in this thrice-damned office into the abyss.
“I have need of competent people,” Tom said, finally glancing up from his paperwork. He eyed her impassively, one brow raised. “Obviously you qualify.”
Hermione stared at him, hand twitching at her side. All the anger she thought she was over came rushing back to the surface. She ached to raze him to the ground. He’d left her behind as if she meant nothing to him. He looked at her now like they were strangers, like this was a job interview, like they’d never been as close as any two people could be.
There was a part of her that wanted to scream, “I loved you once. Doesn’t that mean something?”
Another part whispered, I never stopped.
She ignored them both. This was Tom, no matter what he called himself now. She knew him. She would never break him with sentiment. She would never be able to beat him in a direct fight. And they could never go back to how things used to be; she could see that now.
But he was arrogant. He was proud. And if he believed that Hermione was still in love with him enough to forgive him, to want to work with him again…well, who was she to pass up such a perfect opportunity.
“And just what do you need these competent people for?” Hermione asked.
His lips curled into a smile so disingenuous it made Hermione sick. “For change. The Ministry is corrupt. You know it. I know it. All of Britain knows it. But they won’t do anything to fix it. I will.”
He stepped closer to her, eyes alight. He was still so handsome, he was almost painful to look at. Hermione could almost remember what it was like to wake up to his arm slung around her waist, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, breath warm on the back of her neck. She didn’t want to remember; she wanted to wipe the memory from her brain, and only the risk of accidentally damaging her mind permanently had kept her from obliviating it straight from her head.
“I want you to be on the right side of things,” he said, voice low. “My side.”
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes straight on. “I’m always on your side. You know that.”
She wasn’t sure what hurt more: that there was still a spindly thread of truth attached to her words, or the triumphant, haughty tilt of his lips, the look of utter satisfaction that felt so much like a slap to the face. He’s using you, her inner voice said. Maybe he’s always been using you.
It didn’t matter now; it only made it easier for her to do what she was going to do.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered, low so only she could hear. Her face burned, a memory resurfacing of him saying those exact words, only huskier, his own face flushed from exertion. She tried to banish the thought. She wasn’t his anymore; he would realize that soon enough.
He smirked and twisted his wand between his fingers. “Welcome, Hermione, to the Death Eaters. You will address me as your lord.”