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"Careful with the Dala horse, Wendell. It's hand-painted," Mrs. Granger cautioned, her voice muffled as she leaned into the spacious boot.
"It'll be fine, Jean. It survived the luggage carousel at Heathrow, it can survive the back seat of a mid-size SUV." He nudged a large, brightly painted wooden souvenir into the space behind Hermione's headrest.
Hermione didn't move, though she was practically vibrating with contained energy. She sat ramrod straight in the passenger seat, claimed it as soon as her parents had pulled into the driveway twenty minutes ago. The drive from the airport had been all pleasant, familiar chatter— recounting the horrors of layovers, comparing Swedish fika to British afternoon tea, and describing the stunning northern architecture.
She'd listened, contributed the required ohs and ahhs, and felt none of it. Her mind had been a skipping record, stuck on the single word her mother had mentioned while retrieving the house keys: Tom.
What can she say about him? Well, fuck. Where does she start?
Tom Riddle, family friend. Or more accurately, a friend of her maternal grandmother, and thus became a fixture at family gatherings since Hermione had been sixteen. He was a lawyer, sharp and clean-edged and awfully too good looking, it made her twenty three year old self anxiety feel loud and gauche. Tom was older, of course, a distance Hermione felt acutely whenever his gaze settled on her across a dining table; brief, heavy, and gone before she could truly verify its existence. Sometimes it makes her mind race.
"Right. Ready?" Wendell asked, adjusting his tie in the side mirror. "Tom should be in the main dining room already. I spoke to him this morning; he was in town early for a client lunch, so he promised to help Gran with the seating chart before we got here."
Seven years.
Seven long damn years it had been— of meeting Tom Riddle like this: always polite, always restrained, always under the warm, oblivious scrutiny of her family. Seven years since the first time Hermione had seen him, and the first time she'd understood what it meant to ache for something forbidden, something that belonged so visibly to a world she hadn't yet entered.
Tom belonged in the in courtrooms and mahogany offices, and yet, for the span of a single evening, she got to watch him navigate her own messy, private world.
Hermione unclipped her seatbelt, the sound loud in the suddenly silent car. She glanced at her reflection in the side mirror; eyes too wide, cheeks too flushed. Her parents were waiting for her to unlock the door. The moment was upon them.
Please let tonight be the night I don’t just spend all my time watching.
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The crisp autumn air brushed against her warm cheeks. Hermione grabbed the bottle of Swedish schnapps her parents had delegated to her, a small, necessary contribution to the evening's festivities, and followed them across the parking lot toward the lit window of her grandmother's family owned restaurant.
The restaurant was housed in a converted bank building, lending the exterior a certain stern gravitas that Gran had softened over the years with cascades of ivy and cheerful, potted hydrangeas. It was a beautiful sight every time they came here, Hermione loved attending these events and eating her grandmother's specialty meals, it makes her miss home terribly.
Tom's connection to the Grangers was purely professional, originally. Seven years ago, when Hermione was just sixteen and still viewed the world through the lens of academic achievement, Gran had faced a zoning dispute that threatened to close the restaurant. Hermione's father had called in a series of favours, and somehow, this had led them to a young, impossibly sharp barrister who had just made partner at his firm: Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Tom was in his early thirties, had won the case and secured the restaurant's future so decisively that Gran had immediately appointed him into the family fold. A “good luck charm”, Hermione could hear her Gran's words, insisting on inviting him to every major dinner, primarily to show him off to her friends.
That first night though, Hermione still remembered. Of course she does.
Standing awkwardly by the bread basket, feeling like a gangly collection of elbows and half-formed opinions, entirely invisible to the adults. Tom had approached her. He hadn't patronized her with questions about her SATs or her college applications; instead, he would leaned in, lowering his voice, and asked her opinion on the recent shift in the local property tax code, framed as a discussion on Gran's rights.
"A matter of citizen involvement, Miss Granger," Tom said. His eyes; dark, intent, and utterly lacking in the benign, distracted friendliness her father usually displayed, holding Hermione's attention captive.
She'd stumbled through a half-baked summary of an article she'd read, and Tom had listened without interruption, nodding once that felt like the first time Hermione had been taken seriously by a successful adult.
The seventeen years of difference between them, the canyon between her high school locker and his perfectly customed suits had simply vanished in that shared, precise moment of their conversation. Hermione had never been more mesmerized by his words, the way Tom spoke them. That moment had never been repeated with such purity.
Every subsequent meeting followed the same frustrating script. And it goes like this: a brief, formal greeting; a polite inquiry about Hermione's university work; and then Tom's inevitable retreat to the adults' table, where he would discuss finance or politics with her father and grandmother, leaving Hermione to bury herself in glasses of wine and watch the way the candlelight caught the high, clean curve of his jaw.
He always looked too damn good.
The infatuation was a slow, agonizing burn, fueled by the scarcity of the encounters and the simple, human contrast between their lives. Hermione already knows it's a losing game, but what's the harm if you're looking from the distance anyway?
Tom was a ghost in her world for fifty one weeks of the year, only to appear for one harrowing evening. Hermione had fallen in this state of limerence with the man she knew, and the possibility of the man he was when he briefly looked past her age.
Coming back home had always been so, so familiar— the heavy ache, the yearning of any reciprocity though it seemed foolish, Hermione's very well aware of that. She was twenty three, on the cusp of graduation. It felt far less like a girl and much more like a woman, a woman desperately trying to bridge the gap between their worlds, hoping the intensity in his occasional stolen glance wasn't just Hermione's imagination.
Wendell paused at the main door, pushing it inward. The sound of muffled chatter and clinking cutlery spilled out.
"Well," Wendell said, smiling. "Come on then."
Hermione took a deep breath, adjusted the grip on the schnapps bottle, and walked into the warmth of the room, preparing herself for the sight of him.
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Hermione found Gran first, sitting in her usual chair at the head of a long table, surveying the room with a satisfied gaze. Her grandmother was a woman whose smile could make or break a budding lawyer's career, spotted Hermione and immediately extended a hand.
"There she is! My favorite sweet girl," Gran boomed, her voice cutting through the din.
Hermione steereed through the tight maze of tables and chairs, delivering a quick, firm kiss to her grandmother's cheek before setting the liquor on the side table. "It smells incredible, Gran. The main course is already out?"
"No, those are just the appetizers, darling. Now, look at you, all grown up." Gran squeezed Hermione's hand, her eyes twinkling. "Tom has been waiting impatiently for a familiar face. He's been far too stiff helping me with the seating chart."
And there he was.
Tom Riddle was standing by a pillar near the serving bar, his back half-turned to the main room. He was holding a sheaf of printed names and looking down at a young waiter with an expression of polite and professional impatience. His posture was severe, he looked less like a guest and more like he was really, truly, and genuinely like a family.
The thought almost made her bite her cheeks, forcing herself not to grin. Tom looked like he belong where Hermione was. The light in the restaurant softened by heavy velvet curtains and the flickering of many small candles seemed to respect him, illuminating the severe angles of his profile. Tom wore a dark, impossibly well-cut suit that made every other man in the room, including her father, look crumpled and under-dressed.
The sight of him caught her breath, the way his hand rested momentarily on the paper in the waiter's grip, it was long and pale she could tell. Tom belonged in a different economy, a different stratosphere of influence, and yet here he was, discussing name cards for a family dinner. A family he was not even related to.
As if he could sense the intensity of Hermione's focus, Tom slowly looked up.
His eyes, deep black and remarkably clear had met hers instantly across the crowded room, and Hermione felt the heat rise from her collarbone to her hairline. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tom offered a small smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes but managed to convey a specific, personal acknowledgment. He nodded once with the same subtle, validating gesture she remembered from years ago and then, with disappointed in her heart, Tom turned his full attention back to the seating chart, having spent precisely four seconds acknowledging her existence.
The moment was over, leaving Hermione slightly shaky, clutching the back of Gran's chair. She felt seen, judged, and immediately dismissed, which was exactly the dynamic their meetings always enforced: he was the center of gravity, and she was merely a speck in his presence.
"Hermione," Gran said, leaning closer, then lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Go and tell Tom to stop fussing over the linen placement. Tell him I said he needs a drink and some proper company."
She nodded in response. Hermione adjusted the shoulder of her dress, swallowed the lump of sudden nerves, and started walking toward the pillar. She dodged her Aunt Isabel's voluminous purse and exchanged an obligatory nod with a distant cousin she barely recognized, all while fighting the almost overwhelming urge to adjust her hair, her dress, anything to appear less like the clumsy girl Tom had first met.
Hermione was certain she had changed over the years, but why does it feel like being sixteen all over again?
She focused on his silhouette, reminding herself of the talking points she'd mentally rehearsed; her upcoming thesis defense, the latest Supreme Court ruling— anything that would force him to see her as an intellectual equal, and not just a young woman with a crush.
Hermione hated that she had to perform for him, hated that her whole demeanor changed just because Tom Riddle was within earshot. But the yearning was a muscle memory now, impossible to ignore. Everything burns within her, and it feels so much like suffocation.
As she reached the periphery of his space, the low rumble of his voice became clear. Hermione stopped two feet away, waiting for him to finish. Tom did not look up, but his posture subtly changed. A stillness in the air around him, confirming he knew she was there.
"Miss Granger," Tom said, his voice quiet enough that it didn't travel beyond them. "I've been attending and helping for years, yet your grandmother still believes she can manage the seating without my intervention."
Miss Granger. Never just Hermione.
"She thinks you enjoy the challenge," Hermione returned, trying to keep her voice level, mirroring to his own tone. The words felt dry in her mouth. "A nice change of pace from, well, whatever brutal corporate litigation is currently taking up your week."
He didn't smile, but a slight, amusement flickered in his eyes. "Litigation is cleaner. People's intentions are clear, governed by contract and statute. Unlike, say, a family gathering." He paused, his gaze dropping briefly to the schnapps bottle still on the table before settling back on her face. "You look intensely focused, Miss Granger. Is that the stress of an imminent thesis defense, or are you preparing to prosecute a relative for incorrect carving technique?"
Hermione managed a small, slightly defensive laugh. "Undergraduate thesis, not doctoral. And I assure you, my focus is purely on the ethics of retroactive legal precedent, not holiday manners."
Tom hummed, a small smile ghosting over the corner of his lips. "You are fascinated by things that have already happened, yet trying to change the outcome. Interesting. Maybe something that started years ago still feels unresolved."
Hermione could feel him stripping away at her defense, the possibility that Tom's words suggested— that he felt the weight of it, too. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"I prefer to stick to the present," Hermione managed, her gaze locked on the precise, clean knot of his tie, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm just the messenger, anyway. Gran sent me to tell you you need a drink and some 'proper company.' Compliance required."
"A direct order from your grandmother," he murmured, his face smoothing into professional composure. "It's non-negotiable, of course." Tom reached for a discarded napkin and smoothed a wrinkle from the seating chart. "Tell her I'll get a whiskey right after I confirm the placement of the Petersons. They have strong opinions about dessert table proximity, and managing expectations is my primary skillset."
Tom had dismissed her again, but this time, the dismissal felt like an act of control, a necessary pull-back. He had given her too much in the previous exchange.
Hermione nodded, retrieving the words she needed from the fog of her attraction. "I'll relay the order."
She turned quickly, the relief of having survived the encounter battling the immediate disappointment of its brevity. As Hermione walked away, however, she could feel the weight of his attention, a pressure on her back that confirmed the four seconds of acknowledgement had held more depth than seven years of distance.
The yearning hadn't been hers alone. Hermione wondered if she was simply imagining things again.
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Three drinks in and the edges of reality begin to blur. The truth burns worse than cheap liquor: Tom Riddle belongs where people can see him. But for seven years— he’s only ever been Hermione’s in stolen glances.
Tom was at the far end of the long table, technically not at the head, but positioned in the only available seat that gave him an uninterrupted, oblique view of Hermione Jean Granger. She was seated between her mother, Jean, and her cousin who seemed preoccupied with his smartphone showing something to Hermione.
A predictable, merciful distance. At least here, he gets the full view.
The whiskey was an attempt at coping against the overwhelming, saccharine noise of the Granger family. Their discussions were all loud, meandering sentimentality: vacation stories from Scandinavia, complaints about neighborhood traffic, earnest, dull questions about his own thriving practice, questions he answered with ease, ensuring they got the facts they needed to validate his success, and nothing else.
He loathed the annual performance, but it was necessary. Gran or more professionally, Augusta— was an asset whose loyalty was worth cultivating, and the price of that loyalty was enduring her ridiculous family once a year. Tom tolerated the mess, the noise, the sheer humanity of it all, for the security she offered.
And for Hermione.
Tom Riddle had given Hermione exactly what he always gave her: a momentary opening, a loaded, personalized question disguised as intellectual curiosity, followed by a swift dismissal. It was a pattern he'd established for her protection, a necessary boundary built from the moment he realized his own interest when she was barely old enough to vote.
He was forty; she was twenty-three. Tom's position was too secure, his ambition too relentless, and his heart— if he even possessed such an organ, was too black for the blinding brightness Hermione represented. She was light, always the light in his darkest presence.
His watchful gaze over the movement of her throat as she took a sip of wine. Tom watched her hand; small, competent, with nails cut short, reached out to adjust a misplaced fork. He watched the way her brown hair was tied back, not in the sloppy bun of a frantic young woman, but in a deliberate, elegant knot.
Seven years.
He had seen Hermione transition from a gawky, overly serious sixteen year old in oversized spectacles to the intelligent, poised woman she was now. Every year, Hermione came back slightly sharper, her edges more defined, her gaze more direct.
And every year, the low, steady burn of his possessiveness grew harder to contain.
The dinner had started. The serving platter, heavy with roasted lamb, was moving down the table, forcing social interaction. Tom felt a cold dread as the dish approached Hermione's position. The cousin, clumsy and unobservant, attempted to pass the platter to Hermione across Jean's lap.
"Here, I’ll take it," Tom said abruptly, his voice cutting through a rambling anecdote her father was telling.
The cousin looked startled, but Tom reached out anyway long before he rationalized this movement. His long arm crossing the space, intercepting the dish with a smoothness, setting it directly in front of Hermione. Their hands were now adjacent, both resting near the platter's silver edge.
Tom did not look up at her face. Instead, his dark eyes locked onto the spot where the fabric of Hermione's sleeve met the delicate skin of her wrist. Tom kept his hand there for a fraction too long, just a hair's breadth away, close enough for the radiating heat of her skin to register, close enough for him to smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume over the rich, heavy aromas of the food.
Entirely intentional. It was his moment. Hermione was pinned between her mother's knee and the heavy silver dish, and Tom was holding the platter, forcing her to acknowledge the proximity.
Hermione was frozen. He could sense the spike in her pulse, the sudden halt in her breathing. It was the only way Tom could touch her now: under the perfect, polite cover of an annual dinner, with forty witnesses oblivious to the fact that a war was being waged over a serving platter.
"Your turn, Miss Granger," Tom finally murmured, the politeness in his tone was an obvious sharp, internal lie. He withdrew his hand, the cool metal of his Gaunt ring briefly scraping the table, and returned his attention to his half-empty glass of whiskey.
He glanced up just long enough to see the flush high on her cheekbones and the sudden intensity in her eyes, a look that said, I saw that. I felt that.
The memory of the first time was sharp enough to be a fresh laceration. Tom had been thirty three, an associate at an international firm, brought in to consult Augusta on a complicated property trust. Hermione, then sixteen, had been tasked with making the coffee.
Tom can remember how Hermione walked in, with arms full of textbooks, wearing the demented, overwhelmed look of a girl who knew she was out of her depth but refused to retreat.
He had asked her a simple, tangential question. Something about a local zoning ordinance Hermione had overheard him discussing with Augusta, and Hermione hadn't given a nervous, giggling answer. She had given him a researched, reasoned response, complete with a legal counter-argument gleaned from a single night of frantic reading.
In that moment, Tom hadn't seen someone so beneath him; he had seen a mind. A rare sight of intellect capability running at his speed. It was the first, and only, instance in his entire ascent that Tom had encountered something he genuinely wanted that wasn't already listed as a professional objective.
Tom Riddle's life was a built on control. He was the son of a legal secretary and a drifter, and everything he wore, drove, and owned was a monument to his own ambition. Tom allowed for no weakness, no emotional risk, and certainly no legal liability. A relationship with a minor, even a legal-aged college student with seventeen years separating them, was not just a moral conflict— it was a professional risk.
Yet, she remained.
Tom's logic was no doubt flawless. His patience was never wearing thin and yet, the problem was, when her skin was a few breath away from his, all his brilliant reasoning dissolved into the agonizing simplicity of need. He wanted Hermione now, seven years of distance be damned. Everything seemed to falling into normalcy when she's around, and the thought of it terrified him.
"Excuse me," he uttered, his voice felt final. The room returned to its noise, but Tom had established his dominance over the space. He needed air, and he needed more whiskey. Tom also needed to be far away from the the dangerously and intoxicatingly scent of Hermione Jean Granger.
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Hermione felt lightheaded, she knows it's not from the alcohol but it was from the sudden heat left behind where Tom's fingers had been near her wrist, near the platter. He had done it— he had reached across the table, across her mother, and across past professionalism and distance that separated them, just to make a point.
But the terror and the rush faded the second he stood up.
The feeling of being dismissed felt sharper now than ever before. He'd provoked her, unsettled her, and then retreated to his usual indifference. Hermione couldn't stand it. Seven years of this careful, annual dance between them had brought her to the brink of reckless desperation.
Enduring another fifteen minutes of small talk about her college courses while her pulse hammered against her teeth. She mentally counted the time, because if Tom was smoking, he wasn't doing it quickly. So when her father stood up to retrieve another bottle of wine, Hermione seized the opportunity.
"I just need some air," she murmured to her mother, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Hermione slipped out through the back door near the kitchen, ignoring the surprised look of a teenage waiter polishing glasses.
The sudden cold of the late October air hit her, sharp and clean, carrying the distant scent of pine and the immediate, unmistakable scent of smoke. Tom.
The service alley was cramped, dark, and littered with industrial bins, a fittingly ugly backdrop for the only true, honest part of Hermione's evening. Tom was standing near the far end, silhouetted against the pale glow of a parking lot lamp, one hand raised to his mouth. The sight of him, outside his element made her stomach clench. His tie was loosened, the collar of his expensive shirt slightly askew, he looked damn good.
This was not her world, and yet, because of him, she was here. Could you be more any cruel?
Hermione stopped several feet away, letting the silence fall upon them. Tom didn't have to turn his head to know who it was. He knew she was coming. He had probably counted the time, too. Because for some reason, even if they never really mean to, the world finds its way to circle back to each other.
Can Hermione tell Tom? That she thought of him, while in the shower and thought of how nice it'd be to have his things among her things along the bathtub's edge? Hermione imagined herself running out of soap and using his. And wearing him to university, and the grocery store. She imagined a peaceful night, laying down besides Tom Riddle and smelling his neck, and finding out where her all of her soap had gone.
Oh, God.
I am in love with him.
Her hand trembled as she dug into the small purse Jean had insisted she carry. Hermione pulled out a sleek, white cigarette, a tiny, self-destructive homage to the man who made her crave something forbidden.
She held the cigarette between two fingers, waiting.
Tom finally turned, the tip of his cigarette glowing orange, illuminating the sharp angles of his face. His expression was impossible to read, but his eyes— so dark and intense finally unguarded were entirely on her.
"Going to ruin those young lungs, Miss Granger?" he asked, a velvet rasp in the cold air.
Hermione met his gaze, holding the cigarette steady. "Just testing boundaries, Mr. Riddle," she replied, her voice steady despite the shaking deep in her chest.
He took a slow drag, then dropped his arm, offering her a silver lighter as if it was something so casual between the two of them. "You really have grown up."
The flame flared, and Hermione leaned forward, cupping his hand with hers. The fleeting contact was hot and solid. Hermione inhaled the smoke, and the slight burn in her throat was merely a distraction from the burn in her chest.
"You really shouldn't start," Tom observed. "It’s a poor choice. An unnecessary vulnerability."
"I find it helps me manage my stress," Hermione countered, leaning back against the cold brick wall. She felt brave now that the cigarette was lit, the smoke a thin shield between them. "And you know I enjoy unnecessary vulnerabilities."
"You always did have a penchant for risk, even when you were seventeen. I recall an argument you made to Augusta once about the ethics of intellectual property rights that was truly reckless." His mouth quirked, the ghost of a smile Tom wouldn't let happen.
"Reckless or challenging?" she pushed. "You only ever frame my ambition as a flaw or a danger."
Tom paused, considering the end of his cigarette. "I frame it as I see it. You are dangerously brilliant, Hermione. And you lack the instinct for self-preservation that is required to survive that level of ambition." He exhaled slowly. "You think too deeply about things that should be left shallow. Like me."
Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. The name must have slipped from his lips but it only made the thrumming inside her chest feel all too fucking loud, she wants Tom to call her name again, she wants to hear it again.
"Shallow? You? Tom, you're the deepest thing in this room, possibly in this city. You're just perfectly sealed."
Unattainable. Someone out of her league, someone who probably would never look at her or talk to her if Hermione hadn't been Augusta's granddaughter. The darkness felt heavy, saturated with everything they weren't saying. The restaurant hum and the distant traffic became irrelevant. It was just the sound of their quiet, synchronized breathing and the faint crackle of burning tobacco.
"The wind is picking up," Tom finally said, shifting the topic. "You should go back inside. I'm sure Jean will worry about you."
"And you?"
"I'll linger," he said simply. Tom took one finaldrag, then dropped the cigarette, extinguishing it with the polished heel of his dress shoe. He didn't move to light another. He just stood there, his profile etched against the weak light.
Hermione was about to drop hers when he stepped forward, the movement was so sudden, so smooth, it stole her breath. Tom stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could smell the clean, expensive scent of his cologne mingling with the stale smoke. Oud, Cardamom, Sandalwood, Amber.
His eyes dropped from hers to the cigarette she held. Then, with without hesitation, his thumb and forefinger reached out, and delicately brushed a tiny flake of grey ash from the lapel of Hermione's shawl, where it had settled near her collarbone. The touch was feather-light and lasted less than a second, yet it burned like a brand.
And God, she wanted to kiss him. And kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until they're both breathless, and gasping for air. It was driving her insane, this closeness. Did people lose their minds when they loved someone? Who was she? She didn't know herself any more. Shit.
For a moment, it seemed time had frozen. But then Tom pulled his hand back, his expression unchanged, yet his eyes were ablaze with something Hermione couldn't name— only feel.
"You should really clean up after yourself, Hermione," Tom said, his voice became dangerously low.
And then, something inside Tom Riddle snaps.
His right hand which had just brushed the ash, cupped her jaw with his thumb pressing lightly near the hinge, a gesture that felt possessive and restraining. It ensured her head could not move, and that she was completely locked into the moment.
Tom's mouth claimed her lips in a kiss that was shockingly firm and dry at first, a precise pressure. Hermione's initial shock froze her, but the sheer force of his repressed yearning, the dark, devastating need that poured from him, quickly became overwhelming.
He deepened the kiss, allowing the initial control to fray as his lips moved against hers, becoming hungry and demanding. Tom's left hand slid down her back and anchored her against the cold brick wall, eliminating any possibility of retreat. She was drunk in their shared kiss, drunk on him entirely.
The taste of scotch and smoke mingled with the clean, deep scent of his expensive cologne. Hermione's resistance snapped; she kissed him back with a sudden drowning need, her hands found the silk lapels of his suit jacket, clutching the expensive fabric to ground herself against the surreal moment.
Hermione gasped into his mouth when his tongue slips softly between her lips.
“Tell me to stop, please,” Tom breathes, his lips just barely brushing over the words, over Hermione's own lips, before he's everywhere, lingering— wanting her.
Hermione knew the sheer force Tom put behind every single action, but all her mental preparation dissolved against the actual, physical reality. She was entirely unprepared for this kind of passion. Hermione had spent seven years studying his intensity from afar. Now, with his mouth on hers, she realized that every calculated understanding she'd ever formed was meaningless against the catastrophic reality of his touch.
The kiss was barely a minute, yet Tom felt utterly annihilated— hollowed out and frantically alive. He couldn't distinguish if the breathless, trembling state he was in was arousal or unadulterated terror. Hermione noticed this, the way she could see Tom's expression already analysing almost everything in his head, about this, about her, about the damn kiss.
Instead, with no words spoken from her, Hermione leaned in again to press her lips against his. This was the source of Hermione's suffering and joy, to feel the urgency in their bones, to nourish a thirst that won't subside until their bodies are blushed red and blazing hot in her hands.
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The sudden warmth, the clatter of silverware, the booming laugh of Uncle Albus, it all hit her. The chaos of the family party was supposed to be a comfort, but now it was just a loud, blinding distraction from the single, silent fact that had just happened thirty feet away in the cold and the dark.
He kissed me.
She caught a glimpse of Tom by the bar, accepting a glass of water from a waiter. His tie was perfectly straight again, jacket was smooth. He was talking to Gran, his expression polite as if he didn't commit a sin. He was the lawyer, the family friend, the man who offered financial counsel. The raw, desperate man who had pressed her against a brick wall and demanded a kiss was already gone, sealed behind that flawless façade.
Was it a one-time thing? Was he simply proving he could, a demonstration of power? She couldn't focus on the words her cousins was telling her about, her mind reeling back, absentmindedly brushing her lower lip in an attempt to feel anything of him at all.
The party wound down shortly after eleven. The goodbyes began, a slow parade of hugging, cheek-kissing, and promises for next year. Tom Riddle, always efficient, was one of the first to depart. And yet metallic taste of the cold air was still on her tongue, but stronger was the ghost of Tom, the firmness of his lips, the sudden, pressure of his hand on her spine.
Hermione stood near the coat rack, forcing herself to watch. Tom gave her grandmother a respectful hug, accepted the thanks of her father for "always coming," and nodded politely to her mother. When Tom reached Hermione, he stopped. He didn't touch her, didn't smile, didn't even drop his voice. He looked at her exactly as he would look at anyone else in the room— with polite, impersonal acknowledgment.
"Miss Granger," he said, his eyes finally meeting hers, and in that fleeting second, she saw a flicker of the same savage energy that had consumed them both in the alley. "A pleasure, as always. Continue your intellectual rigor."
She noticed the way Tom was retreating yet again, asserting the boundary again, pretending the kiss had never occurred. Hermione's heart sank, confirming her darkest fear: it had meant nothing, a moment of recklessness he regretted, and she was already being erased.
"Goodbye, Mr. Riddle," she replied, her voice steady and sickeningly weak.
He turned and walked out the door into the night without another word.
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Three days later, the agonizing silence was the only thing Hermione could hear. She had concluded, through wild, cyclical analysis, that the kiss was a professional courtesy. A glitch in Tom's code. A way to prove she was still easily swayed before resuming their annual tradition of distance.
Hermione was sitting in her small, cluttered university flat, halfway through a tedious chapter on Roman property law, when her doorbell buzzed. It was the delivery driver, holding a large, expensive-looking package wrapped in heavy, slate-gray paper. It was addressed to her. There was no return address.
She brought it inside and carefully tore the paper open. Inside the box was a dress. It was made of deep emerald and silver silk, cut in an elegant, simple bias that looked deceptively soft, yet obviously expensive. It was the kind of dress that belonged to a successful woman, not someone like her.
Nestled in the folds of the silk was a small, cream-colored card, sealed with a thick wax stamp bearing a complex, unrecognizable crest. Hermione's hands shook as she opened it, heart thrumming inside her chest because she already knows. The note inside was written in a precise, black script— unmistakably his, and terrifyingly brief.
I’ll pick you up at 7.
T.R.