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Thursday, 2:34 PM
“It’s not haunted,” Harry said for the fifteenth time in the past ten minutes alone. “There are no such thing as ghosts.”
“Then prove it.” Draco Malfoy, the bane of Harry’s existence, smirked at them. “One night in Riddle Manor and you’ll change your mind.”
This was a constant topic of debate for the two boys. Ever since the start of the semester when they’d found out they were in the same Paranormal Studies class, Harry and Draco had been at odds over the existence of ghosts, and, in particular, whether or not any resided in Riddle Manor: the old, abandoned house on the hill across the street from Hogwarts College’s campus. The legend was that a whole family had been brutally murdered there seventy years ago. The case had never been solved and nobody else had ever moved in. Popular belief was that the house was haunted, but Hermione thought that was utter rubbish.
She’d urged Harry to let it go, but Malfoy had a way of getting under the other boy’s skin. It didn’t help that Harry would have had the highest grade in Paranormal Studies if not for Draco charming the professor into believing that he had a preternatural gift for communing with spirits. Professor Trelawney was just wackadoodle enough to buy Draco’s bullshit, and she liked to shower the blond with extra credit whenever Draco purportedly “made contact” with the other side.
“Unless you’re scared,” the blond boy taunted, raising a daring eyebrow at Harry.
Harry’s smile screamed of faux sympathy. “Of course not. And since you’re too scared to check it out yourself, I’m more than happy to spend the night in Riddle Manor to prove to you it’s not haunted.”
“I’m not scared,” Draco snapped, indignant.
“A bet, then.” Harry gestured at Ron and Hermione where they stood at his side. “Us versus you, Crabbe, and Goyle. Whichever team chickens out first loses.”
Hermione glared at her friend, a protest on her lips about studying for midterms. They were only two weeks away, and though she hadn’t admitted this to her friends, Criminal Law was kicking her ass. Professor Umbridge was not only incapable of giving a single unbiased lecture, she also seemed to have a personal grudge against Hermione. Flawless essays came back with a C- on them with no notes on how to make them better, and her tests were docked points for “incomplete answers,” no matter how much Hermione poured out on the page. Hermione was working three times as hard for Criminal Law compared to her other classes, and it still hadn’t been enough.
But then Draco Malfoy spat, “Fine. Deal. But when I win, you’ve got to tell the whole class that I was right, that ghosts are real, and that you were wrong.”
Harry’s smile turned sharp. “If you win. But if I win, you have to tell everyone the truth.”
“Which is?” the blond boy asked, sneering.
“That you’re a fraud. That you’ve been faking your so-called connection with the spiritual world from the beginning.”
Hermione knew that Malfoy must have been feeling confident about his chances of winning when he merely shrugged and agreed. He was so prideful, he’d probably rather choke on his own tongue than confess to being a fraud.
“Friday night, 8 o’clock,” Draco said, not bothering to wait for Harry’s affirmation before stalking off.
Once the blond was out of sight, Hermione swatted Harry on the arm.
“Ow,” he yelped, rubbing at the spot where she’d hit him. “What the fuck, Hermione?”
“It’s one thing to let your ridiculous feud with Draco interfere with your own studies,” she said, scowling at him, her hands placed firmly on her hips. “But some of us actually have things to do. Midterms are coming up, and as an RA—“
“Blimey, Hermione, I didn’t even think about—“
“No, you didn’t.” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Lucky for you, I don’t have rounds on Friday night. “
Harry’s eyes lit up. “So you’ll do it then? Spend the night at Riddle Manor?”
“You’ll owe me,” she told him, doing her best to look stern. It was hard, though, when Harry’s big green eyes looked so hopeful. And truthfully, it would be nice to put Draco in his place, even if it did require spending the night in some musty old house. Not that she was too concerned. Ghosts weren’t real.
Harry nodded vigorously. “I’ll help you study for midterms. I’ll even make you flashcards, if you want.”
A smile threatened to ruin her serious expression. How like Harry to know exactly what it was she would want. “Alright then.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Ron said, throwing his arms around his two best friends’ shoulders as he pretended to be offended. “My time is precious, too.”
Harry only rolled his eyes. “You can take the Firebolt for your date with Lavender.”
“Seriously?” Ron asked, eyes bugging wide at the idea of driving Harry’s car. “Thanks mate!”
“Don’t mention it,” Harry said with a shrug. And then he narrowed his eyes at the red-haired boy. “And don’t even think about having car sex. The last time I had to sit in the back of the Ford Anglia, there was a fifty-pack of condoms wedged under the seats.”
Ron blushed as red as his hair.
“AND IT WAS HALF EMPTY,” Harry continued.
“They’re not all for the car,” Ron said defensively, not that it made the situation much better. “Sometimes when we go to the movies—“
“Stop,” Hermione insisted, holding up her hand. “Please, please, wait until I’ve left for the library to finish that sentence. It’s hard enough for me to meet Lavender’s eyes in class after you told us what a screamer she is. I can’t take anymore.”
Harry grinned at her, eyes glinting mischievously.
“That’s what she said.”
Hermione swatted his arm again, turned on her heel, and marched off towards the library, leaving the two boys laughing behind her.
Friday, 4:58 PM
Five more minutes of class, Hermione noted. Normally she would have never kept so careful watch on the clock, but Historic Courts with Professor Binns was proving to be the most boring class imaginable. The man himself was in his mid-nineties, but had refused to retire despite the fact that he sometimes fell asleep mid-lecture.
And besides, there were only three hours until she, Harry, and Ron would meet Malfoy in Riddle Manor, and Hermione would be lying if she said she wasn’t nervous. Not about the ghosts, of course, because ghosts weren’t real. But it would be considered trespassing. They could get arrested. They could get expelled.
The clock inched ever-closer to five o’clock.
She couldn’t talk Harry out of it, and she didn’t exactly want to back down from the challenge either. But that didn’t mean her stomach wasn’t tying itself in knots. She had never broken the law before, had never even broken the school rules. Not one detention or suspension in High School. Not one blemish on her perfect record.
The look on Malfoy’s face when you win will be worth it, she told herself.
Friday, 7:44 PM
With the end of October approaching, the sun was setting earlier and earlier. It was already dark out, and Hermione stood in the yellow light of a parking lot street lamp with her sleeping bag tucked under one arm, an overnight pack slung over her shoulder as she waited for Ron and Harry. She was early—but then, she was always early—but she was feeling itchy in her own skin. Jumpy. Nervous. They were in their junior year of college; they couldn’t afford to get arrested now, or expelled.
“Nervous, Granger?” Malfoy asked, seemingly appearing out of the shadows. Hermione did not squeak. Absolutely not. That sound was just…a bat. Yeah, a bat. She glared at him.
“Not at all, Malfoy.”
He hummed disbelievingly and flashed her a smirk. “You probably don’t have to worry. I’m sure the ghosts will take one look at your hair and mistake it for something already dead.”
Her jaw clenched.
“I hope Potter and the Weasel don’t keep you waiting too much longer out in the dark, all alone,” the blond boy drawled with a waggle of his brows. “See you in the house.”
He’s just trying to unsettle you, Hermione told herself, ignoring Draco as he headed across the street. But now that she was alone in the dark again, she couldn’t help but notice how the streetlamps cast strange shadows across the parking lot, how the shapes of the cars seemed to blur into something sinister. There’s nothing out there to be worried about.
Except, of course, for the misshapen lump of shadows ambling towards her from the other end of the parking lot. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the unidentifiable shape, panic clouding her brain. She gripped the bag over her shoulder a little tighter. She could swing it if she had to. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was heavy with books. The shape drew nearer, but never enough in the light for her to make out any distinguishing features.
Please don’t be a bear, she told herself. Or a murderer. Or a mugger. Or—
“’Mione?”
That was definitely Ron’s voice.
“Christ, Ron,” she said, physically restraining herself from clasping a hand to her own chest like some flustered southern grandma during a church potluck. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Harry, who had been right behind the redhead, only grinned. “You’re not nervous, are you Hermione?”
She scowled at her friends. “No.”
“Are you sure?” Harry teased. “Not worried about ghosts or anything?”
“Harry James Potter,” she started, half-exasperated. He and Ron both knew that Hermione absolutely did not believe in the supernatural. “Are you ready to go or not? Malfoy’s already inside.”
“He’s WHAT?” Ron’s eyes narrowed as he turned to face the house. “What do you bet he’s going to try to pull something?”
“Almost guaranteed,” Harry said. Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. It was going to be a long night.
Friday, 8:05 PM
Hermione had only ever seen Riddle Manor from afar. It was a tall, imposing building with a cold, unwelcoming exterior. Everything about the house—from the poison ivy that wrapped itself around every inch of the stone columns to the sneering gargoyles peering down from the roof—seemed to scream, “STAY AWAY.” Up close, it was much, much worse. The windows had been boarded up at some point, and the door had an aggressive “no trespassing” sign across it.
The inside looked like it hadn’t been touched in seventy years, which, Hermione had to admit, maybe it hadn’t. There was no electricity, but camping lamps had been set up in the main living room, casting an eerie glow over the place. The house was still furnished with what had once been the finest that money could buy: lavish tapestries, plush sofas, wingback chairs, and mahogany floors. It was easy to see that it had been a beautiful house once, but now it was coated in a thick layer of dust and grime. Cobwebs hung from every corner and candlestick, and Hermione tried not to pay too much attention to the mice droppings on the floor. I bet there are cockroaches too, she thought with a shudder.
As disgusting as the house was, Hermione now felt fairly confident that she, Harry, and Ron could outlast Draco “my-father-will-hear-about-this” Malfoy. He’d likely bitch about the filth getting on his designer clothes all night long. In fact, it seemed like he’d already started.
“Can you believe the state of this place?” Malfoy’s snooty voice came from across the room where he was glancing around the house disdainfully. His two companions, Crabbe and Goyle—although Hermione would be hard-pressed to discern which one was which—stood a few feet behind him, looking more like bodyguards than friends. “Although, I suppose you’re probably used to this, Weasley.”
Ron clenched his fists, face flushing red. It was no secret that his family wasn’t exactly wealthy, and that he could only afford to go to Hogwarts thanks to a soccer scholarship. Malfoy, being a trust-fund kid himself, had a nasty habit of rubbing it in the red-head’s nose.
“Stop it,” Harry said sternly. “We should lay down some ground rules, if we’re going to be in here together.”
Malfoy sneered. “Rules? Did you turn into Granger when I wasn’t looking?”
Harry ignored him. “Let’s keep it civil, Malfoy. Unless you want to get punched in the face. Again.”
Hermione’s lips twitched at that. Freshman year, Malfoy had ratted out Hermione for keeping a cat in her dorm room which was against school policy. How he’d found out, Hermione would never know for certain, but he’d threatened to claim the cat had bit him so he could have it euthanized. She’d punched him squarely in the nose, breaking it badly enough that Malfoy had been out for the next two weeks getting reconstructive nose surgery. She’d never gotten in trouble for that, somehow, and at least Malfoy usually seemed to know where the line was with her.
And if there was a cat tucked away in her dorm room, well, nobody said anything about it.
His eyes flashed towards Hermione warily before he scowled. “Fine. Anything else?”
“I’ll let you know if I think of anything,” Harry snapped. The two boys stood there, glaring at each other.
Hermione sighed and rolled out her sleeping bag on the floor in the cleanest spot she could find. They could squabble if they wanted, but she had homework to get done. Good thing she’d brought her books.
Friday, 10:11 PM
Hermione stretched languidly and closed her book. She’d finished all of her homework for the weekend already and no desire to really spend any more time than necessary on Professor Umbridge’s class than necessary. Just thinking about the woman made her head hurt. Harry and Ron were on their third game of chess, and even Draco had managed to settle down after complaining that there was not a single suitable place to sit. The blond boy had draped his sleeping bag across one of the sofas and was now hanging half off of it, thumbing through a book disinterestedly.
Crabbe and Goyle, however, were missing. Hermione paused and scanned the room again thinking that she’d missed them—Hermione was big enough to admit that her brain sometimes blocked out their presence—but the two boys were gone.
“Where are Crabbe and Goyle?” she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. If Draco thought he was going to scare them with some ridiculous prank, he had another thing coming.
The blond didn’t even look up from his book. “Who?”
“Crabbe and Goyle.” Hermione huffed. “You know, the two idiots that might as well be attached to your hip?”
Malfoy shrugged. “Bathroom?”
“The plumbing doesn’t work anymore,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Well we’ve got to piss somewhere.”
“When did they leave?”
Draco sighed heavily, setting down his book with a roll of his eyes. “Christ, Granger. What are you, their mother?”
Hermione frowned at him, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why did she care about where Crabbe and Goyle were anyway? Because it would be just like Malfoy to have his goons jump out at us when we least expect it, she thought. It was making her antsy.
“Checkmate,” Ron said, completely oblivious to the conversation around him. Harry groaned and cradled his head in his hands. “That’s three for three. Want to go again?”
“No offense, Ron, but I’ve had enough of having my ass handed to me for now,” Harry said with a small smile. He stood and stretched before picking up one of the camp lamps.
“Where are you off to?” Ron asked.
“Exploring.” Harry shrugged. “I’ll be damned if I spend the whole night in a single room of this house. You coming?”
“Sure.” Ron scrambled to his feet. “’Mione?”
Well, she sure as hell didn’t want to be alone in the living room with Draco, even if he did seem content to just sit and read.
“Of course.”
Several minutes later, though, Hermione was starting to regret her decision. Yes, the living room had been repulsive, but it had been well-lit and almost comfortable with six people in it. The rest of the manor, on the other hand, was pitch black except for the light coming from Harry’s camp lantern and the trio’s i-Phone flashlights. The ceilings were vaulted, the hallways wide like a gaping mouth, and Hermione felt terribly exposed. No matter where they shone their light, there was always more darkness ready to swallow them up.
Most disturbing of all was the large family portrait that hung in the stairway. It had to have been the Riddle family. The three of them had a stern set to their mouths, so much so that even in the painting, they almost looked as if they were made of stone. The soft brush strokes had done little to alleviate the harshness in their eyes or the severity of their features. And though Hermione could openly admit that the younger Mr. Riddle was extraordinarily handsome with wavy black hair, a sharp jaw, and piercing blue eyes, she could also admit that he held the same snobbish expression that Draco often wore, and that was off-putting.
As the trio passed the portrait, Hermione felt as though their eyes followed her, like they were somehow seeing underneath her very skin, and she couldn’t help but glance back. From this angle, they looked even more sinister, their faces only half-lit by the light of the lantern, glowering down at her. She picked up her pace to keep up with Harry and Ron.
The manor was surprisingly average for the most part, even if the tapestries were made of silk and every room had at least one velvet chair. It looked like any other house, though, just bigger, and as they continued winding their way from room to room, Hermione was starting to think that she had been ridiculous to be freaked out by the Riddle family portrait. It was just a house. No ghosts, no murderers hiding away in the dark corners. The only thing she really needed to worry about was mice and possible termite damage.
Finally, they had reached the bedrooms. Like the rest of the houses, they had been untouched in the past seventy years, dust settling heavy on the comforters. The one they were in currently had been decorated in lavish green velvet. One of the boards covering the window had come loose, and Hermione peered out through it. The view looked directly over at Hogwarts, and it was remarkable. The castle-like school stood proudly against the moonlit sky, every window lit golden like a hundred stars up close. If she had lived in the Riddle Manor, she would have chosen this room, too, Hermione thought, if only for the view.
Harry and Ron were occupied going through the closet and drawers as they had in the other bedrooms, looking for anything interesting or mysterious enough that they could use to trick Draco into thinking that it was possessed. So far, they’d actually managed to find an old, porcelain doll that Ron was positive was creepy enough to work.
But Hermione found herself drawn to the desk in the corner. It was small, still cluttered with old documents and receipts, and probably nothing special to look at. And yet, her feet seemed to move of their own accord, carrying her nearer and nearer until her fingertips brushed against the coating of dust on the surface. On top of a stack of books pushed slightly to the side, there sat a large, ugly ring. The band itself was gold, but the stone was black and bulky. It was the kind of ring that was probably passed down through the family, seeing as Hermione couldn’t imagine anyone willingly buying the thing.
Despite all her thoughts on how truly unappealing the ring was, however, Hermione found herself reaching for it. The desire to touch it, to wear it, was almost overwhelming, and she couldn’t stop herself. Her fingers had barely brushed against the top of the stone when a cold shock ripped through her hand, up her arm, and throughout her entire body. She yanked away with a yelp.
“’Mione?” Ron asked, over by her side in an instant. Harry was right next to him, frowning.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked. Both of the boys looked her over quickly for any sign of injury, but there was none.
“Sorry,” Hermione said with a shake of her head. Her words felt heavy on her tongue, her entire body tingling strangely. “Just static shock. It surprised me, is all.”
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. “For a minute there, you really had us worried—“
From somewhere downstairs, there was the sound of shattering glass followed by a sharp cry. The trio jolted at the noise. Harry’s and Ron’s eyes were wide, and Hermione knew hers must’ve looked the same.
“It’s probably Malfoy,” Ron said, though he sounded unsure. “Can’t trust him not to make a mess.”
“We’d better check it out.” Harry moved towards the doorway, lantern raised threateningly. Ron followed close behind with the porcelain doll in his hands, but Hermione hesitated for a moment. Her body still tingled from the shock of touching the ring, and though the logical part of her brain was screaming at her to get away from the damned thing, another part of her urged her to go back to it. Something about the ring felt like it was calling out to her, like she was meant to have it.
“Are you coming, or what Hermione?” Ron said impatiently from the doorway. His voice was enough to jolt her out of her haze. She nodded and hurried to his side, eager to get away from the ring as quickly as possible.
Once downstairs, the easily found the source of the noise: either Crabbe or Goyle had broken through the glass of a large cabinet in the kitchen. Malfoy had already arrived at the scene and was leaning casually against the doorway. Harry glared at the three of them.
“I hope you have a good explanation for this,” he snapped, eyes darting between the three boys. Crabbe and Goyle stared back dumbly, and Hermione wondered if they were possibly high. Their vacant, half-hazy expressions seemed like proof enough.
“Relax, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “They were just making a particularly delightful acquisition.”
The blond boy strolled over to the cabinet and reached past the broken glass, careful not to cut his hands or snag the sleeves of his designer sweater. He plucked out a glass bottle that contained an amber fluid and held it up with a smirk.
“1942 limited edition firewhiskey,” he said. He waggled his eyebrows. “Fancy a drink?”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “But…but that’s stealing.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Come off it, Granger. It’s been sitting here for seventy years. Who else is going to drink it?”
Hermione had to concede that Malfoy had a point. And besides, who was she to get all particular about the rules now, when they’d already trespassed? And you had thought about stealing that ring, a snide voice in her head reminded her. So you really can’t judge.
Harry, seeming to sense Hermione’s resignation, grinned. “I’ll find some glasses.”
Friday, 11:04 PM
“Alright then,” Malfoy said around his glass of firewhiskey. He was holding his liquor well, but Hermione was already a little tipsy. The firewhiskey was more potent than she’d expected, but it burned pleasantly and it kept her mind off other things, like the ring that she still itched to grab. Malfoy’s mouth curved into a wicked grin. “Ghost story time.”
Harry was unimpressed. “Yeah? You got anything good?”
“Don’t you want to know what happened at Riddle Manor all those years ago?” Draco asked.
Hermione took another swig of her drink. “Was it a dark and stormy night?” she drawled.
“No, Granger,” and for once, Draco didn’t sound condescending when he said her name. His voice had taken on an almost airy quality that only added to the mystery. “It was as clear as tonight. The perfect late-summer evening. The air was just starting to cool with the promise of fall, and the Riddle family was just sitting down to eat in their dining room.”
Harry rolled his eyes at Ron. “And let me guess, you know this because the spirits in the house told you?”
“Shush, Potter, and let me tell the damned story,” Draco said, though he didn’t really sound too annoyed. “Anyway. The Riddles were the wealthiest family for miles, a bit like royalty compared to their neighbors. And one neighbor in particular, Morfin Gaunt, was constantly getting into altercations with them. No one thought much of it, not even when Morfin and Tom Riddle—the son—got into a fistfight in the middle of town. But they say the Gaunts were crazy, that madness ran in their blood. And Morfin in particular had a grudge against the Riddles, though no one would ever say why.”
“Well, that night, as the Riddles were sitting down to dinner, there was a knock on the door,” Malfoy continued. To his left, Crabbe knocked on the wooden floor, imitating the sound. “The maid hurried to get it, but when she did, Morfin grabbed her by the hair and held a knife to her throat. He demanded that she take him to see the Riddles, so they walked into the dining room. And there all the Riddles were, not paying attention because, of course, who expects to be murdered in their own home?”
“Some people say it was quick,” Draco kept going. He was more theatrical than Hermione had ever given him credit for, and she was reluctant to say that he was actually a half-decent storyteller. “That he just took the knife and slit their throats before they even knew what was happening. But some people say the crime scene was so bloody, that the bodies were so disfigured that it took them days to figure out which body was which. They say he tortured them, flayed their flesh off while they screamed, plucked their eyes from their heads. It only took one look for the cops to know Morfin was the killer. He hadn’t even bother to clean the Riddles’ blood from his clothes.”
Hermione thought she might gag. That description…it was too much. She could picture it too clearly, and any time she tried to clear her head, all she could think about was the family portrait hanging in the stairway, the Riddles’ cool eyes staring down at her. In fact, it almost felt like the weight of their gaze was on her now. She shivered involuntarily.
“And now,” Draco’s voice dropped to a hush, “they say the house is haunted by the Riddles’ ghosts, forever trapped on the mortal plane, waiting to seek revenge.”
Ron scoffed. “You call that a ghost story?”
“Like you could do any better, Weasel.”
“Is that a bloody dare, Malfoy?” Ron asked, eyes blazing. Hermione refocused on the conversation and tried to ignore the way her very skin seemed to tingle as if she was being watched.
Friday, 11:45 PM
They had run out of ghost stories embarrassingly quickly. It was just that it wasn’t really scary if there wasn’t any truth to it, and so Draco’s first tale about the Riddle murders had been the best by far, not that anyone had said so out loud. But the trouble was that it wasn’t even midnight yet, and even though Hermione might’ve been happy to go to sleep now, no one else was.
“I call bullshit,” Ron said, mid-argument with Malfoy. “We’ve been here for hours and still no sign of a single ghost.”
Draco, who looked as though he’d been waiting for this moment all night, grinned. “Care to put that to the test, Weasel?”
Ron narrowed his eyes. “How?”
Malfoy snapped his fingers and Goyle pulled a box from his own bag. A Ouija board. Hermione had never used one before. She’d always thought the idea was silly. Even if you believed in ghosts, Hermione didn’t understand why anyone would intentionally seek them out. But she should have known Draco would be the type.
“I don’t know about this,” Hermione said, eying the board with distaste.
“Well no one bloody asked you, did they Granger?” Malfoy glared at her.
“Hey, no.” Harry suddenly appeared between them, slurring slightly, and slung an arm around each of their shoulders. Harry had always been an affectionate drunk. Hermione suspected it was at least partially due to his upbringing; the Dursleys weren’t exactly the hugging type. “I don’t like it when my friends fight.”
Hermione had never seen Draco look so shocked and confused before, though whether it was due to being referred to as Harry’s friend or the physical contact, she wasn’t sure. She doubted it was every day that someone dared to lay their hands on the Malfoy heir.
“We said we’d be nice to each other,” Harry said. “You promised.”
Malfoy grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “I promised nothing.” But he didn’t pull away.
“Now let’s do the Ouija thing,” Harry said as he tugged affectionately on Hermione’s shoulders. “It’ll be fun, Hermione.”
Damn Harry, and damn his stupid eyes, Hermione thought with a sigh. It was lucky he wasn’t more manipulative. He could probably get anything he wanted if he gave people the look he was giving her right now.
“Fine.”
The board was set up quickly on the coffee table in the center of the room, and the six of them sat around it. Just looking at the board gave Hermione a bad feeling deep in her gut. We shouldn’t be doing this. We should NOT be doing this. A cold shiver—reminiscent of the one she’d felt when she touched the ring in the bedroom earlier—raced up her spine. It’s just the house, she told herself. It just has a creepy vibe. Despite her reservations, she put her hand on the planchette along with her friends.
“I think Draco should be the one to ask the questions,” Harry said. “Since he’s so attuned with the spirit realm.”
The blond merely tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Take notes, Potter. This should help with your grade in Trelawney’s class.”
Draco cleared his throat. “Are there any spirits with us tonight?”
For a moment, it was completely silent as they all waited with bated breath to see if the planchette would move. A minute ticked by, and then another.
“Oh this is rubbish,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. She scoffed, and, in a near-perfect imitation of Malfoy, said, “Are there any spirits with us tonight?”
Faster than Hermione would have thought possible, the planchette zipped across the board, dragging all of their hands with it, and landed on “yes.” Her eyes widened marginally for a split second before she looked up at the people around her, eyes narrowed accusingly. But if any of them were having a laugh, they were damn good at hiding it. Draco, Harry, and Ron looked almost as shocked as she felt. As for Crabbe and Goyle, well, Hermione honestly wasn’t even 100% sure they were still awake.
This is a joke, Hermione told herself. Malfoy’s pulling your leg. It’s nothing to be afraid of. If there was no reason to be scared, then why did she feel like she might throw up? Why did it feel like there were eyes digging into her skin from every angle? Why did her fingers buzz as if they’d been shocked, but only at the exact place where she’d touched the ring?
Malfoy was the first to regain his composure. “What is your name?”
Again the planchette was still. Everyone in the circle turned to Hermione, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“I don’t even know how…you can’t expect me to mediate,” Hermione all but spluttered. The planchette jerked again, back to “yes.” She nearly bit her tongue. She did not want to do this. Her gut did not want to do this. But everyone else at the table did, and she’d already spent far too much of her life being the spoil-sport.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
Slower this time, the planchette moved across the letters “T,” “O,” and “M.” Hermione stared down at the board. Tom? Like Tom Riddle?
She had apparently asked the question aloud, since the planchette slid back over to “yes.” All eyes were on the board now. Ghosts aren’t real. Ghosts aren’t real, she repeated like a mantra in her mind, but there was bile rising in her throat, a very real panic trying to claw its way up and out of her mouth. It was silly, really, because Malfoy was probably the one moving the planchette, trying to freak them all out. It’s just Malfoy, she told herself.
Ron, who must have been thinking along the same lines, scoffed. “This has been fun, Malfoy, but it proves nothing. How convenient for it to be the ghost of Tom Riddle, whom you just happened to mention in your ghost story.”
Draco’s gray eyes flashed. “Go on then, Granger. Ask him to prove this is real.”
Hermione swallowed. “How do I know I can believe you?”
For a moment, the planchette was utterly still, and then slowly, ever so slowly, it moved. “R.” “I.” “N.” “G.”
“Ring?” Ron said aloud. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”
Hermione paled. Only Ron and Harry had even been in the room with her when she’d touched the ring, not Draco, and she was sure neither of them had actually seen her touch it. Neither of them were good enough actors to pull off the look of absolute confusion on their faces right now.
Without thought of consequence, Hermione ripped her hand away from the planchette as if it would burn her and leaned away from the table. She ignored the way the others stared at her. All rational thought had abandoned her. Either Draco had secretly been spying on her, or Riddle Manor really was haunted. She refused to believe the latter, but…she had been so certain that no one else had seen the ring.
“We’re done,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “This is ridiculous, and I don’t want to play anymore.”
Crabbe and Goyle probably couldn’t have cared less, but the other three boys were staring at her with varying degrees of confusion, concern, and petulance. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t touch that board again, not even if Malfoy offered to pay off all of her student loans.
“Hermione?” Harry was frowning, his own hands reaching out hesitantly as if he wasn’t sure a hug would be welcome. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Does ‘ring’ mean something to you?” Ron asked.
For a moment, she hesitated. She could tell them about the ring upstairs. She could tell them how she’d felt drawn to it, how it still seemed to call to her even from all the way down here. And maybe they would call her silly, or maybe they would freak out as much as she was. She swallowed back her confession.
“No,” she said in her most superior tone. She even turned her nose up the way she knew she was wont to do whenever she thought herself above whatever silliness the boys had gotten into. “Of course not. And this is just proof, isn’t it? That it’s not real. Utter tripe.”
“Ha!” Ron shouted, smug as he pointed his finger at Malfoy. “See, Malfoy? Still no ghosts.”
But Draco was looking at her oddly, his sharp, grey eyes analyzing every inch of her face as if he could crack her if he stared hard enough. He knew she was lying, somehow. But whether that was because he really had been spying on her earlier, or because he truly did have a gift with the supernatural, Hermione couldn’t be sure. She resolutely didn’t look at him.
“Maybe not yet,” Draco conceded, finally turning his attention to Ron as he packed up the Ouija board. “But the night is still young.”
At that, Hermione checked her phone. 12:13 AM. Only six and a half more hours, she told herself. She could do it. She would.
Saturday, 1:33 AM
Sleep was evasive. Well, not for Ron, who was happily snoring in his sleeping bag, only the top of his red hair visible. But everyone else was still awake. Crabbe and Goyle had gone to the front porch to light up another joint—did they just live in a perpetual drug-induced haze, Hermione wondered. Draco and Harry were sitting side by side on the couch, both more than a little buzzed. They were trying to read each other’s palms, although in their drunken state, it really just looked like an excuse for hand-holding. An interesting development, Hermione thought. If they remember it in the morning.
Hermione was wrapped up in her own sleeping bag, but the combination of nerves leftover from what had happened with the Ouija board, the ever-present itch of the ring calling out to her, and the urge to pee had prevented sleep from coming. The last was the only one she could do something about, but she’d been hesitant to go to the bathroom. For starters, she wouldn’t be able to flush or wash her hands. And then there was the issue of “breaking the seal,” as Ron liked to call it – “Once you let out your first drunk piss, Hermione, you’ll have to go every fifteen minutes,” he’d said.
But still none of that was as compelling an incentive to stay put as the thought of traversing the house by herself. The lantern-lit living room felt like the safest place in the entire Manor, and just the thought of going on her own into the darkness had kept her firmly glued to the living room floor, pressing her legs together.
The minutes ticked by slowly. One minute felt like ten. Ten minutes felt like half an hour, and eventually she had to admit that she couldn’t feasibly hold it in until the morning. With a huff, she shrugged her way out of the sleeping bag and picked up the nearest camp lantern from the floor. Harry, having looked away from Draco’s palm long enough to catch Hermione’s movement, started to detach himself from the blond boy’s side
“Where are you going?” Harry asked.
She grimaced. “Bathroom. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Harry scrambled to stand up. “You want someone to walk with you?” Even as he asked, he wobbled unsteadily on his feet and barely managed to stay standing.
Hermione forced a smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s just the bathroom, Harry.”
She would have honestly loved to have the company, but Harry could barely stay upright and the only other choice would have been a no-doubt reluctant Malfoy. She was probably better off on her own. And besides, she reasoned, I think there’s a bathroom just down the hall.
It didn’t take her long to find it, and luckily she wasn’t forced to go anywhere near the Riddle portrait. The dark was more than a little unnerving, but the walk to the bathroom was mercifully short, and Hermione just kept telling herself that she would be back in the comfort of her sleeping bag soon enough.
There was piss already in the toilet bowl, evidence that Crabbe and Goyle really had been out using the bathroom earlier like Malfoy had claimed. Hermione squatted over the toilet, careful to not actually touch the seat that hadn’t been cleaned in seventy years. She didn’t have to touch it to know that it was filthy. Mercifully, the toilet paper left over from 1950 was only half-deteriorated and still usable enough that Hermione didn’t have to resort to other unsavory methods. And thankfully she had remembered to pack hand-sanitizer.
The creepiness in the long, dark hallways that she’d been able to ignore on her way to the bathroom due to a full bladder suddenly came back full force. Her camp lantern swung loosely in her hand no matter how hard she tried to keep it steady, and it sent long shadows spinning on the walls. The walk back seemed longer, even though she knew, logically, that it couldn’t possibly be.
And then, almost in the same way that the ring had called out to her when she’d been in the bedroom earlier, Hermione found herself pulled towards a door. It was ten, or maybe twelve paces away from the entrance to the living room, but she hadn’t gone in it earlier. Somehow, during the tour of the house, they’d skipped over it entirely, almost like…almost like the room hadn’t wanted to be noticed.
Hermione scolded herself for the ridiculous thought even as she turned the doorknob and pushed. The door swung open easily, though it creaked lightly on its hinges. She held up her lantern, swinging it around the room to get a better view. It was the dining room. The dining room where the entire Riddle family was murdered, she thought with a shudder. She swung the lantern around the room once more and nearly screamed.
For a brief flash of a moment, she felt as though she were there, seventy years in the past, staring at three horribly slaughtered bodies. She could see them, the three Riddles, sprawled lifelessly across the dining room chairs, throats slit and seeping blood. The blood was everywhere: splattered across their clothes, the table, the carpet, the walls. Hermione gagged on her own trapped breath. The lantern clattered to the floor, just hard enough to make the light flicker for a split second, dousing her in pitch blackness before illuminating the room once again.
And there was nothing. Hermione could do nothing but stare at the empty table, the empty chairs. There were blood stains, of course, but they were old and brown, not the fresh crimson that her eyes had imagined. The violent murder scene had been nothing but her own imagination, and her breath, though still a touch ragged, slowed as she took deep breaths.
You’re tired, Hermione told herself as she backed out of the room. And you had too much to drink. And you let Malfoy of all people wind you up about ghosts and murder and whatnot.
She reached the living room with a sigh of relief. Harry was standing, using Draco for support, and even Ron had stirred from his sleep, half-sitting up with mussed hair and bleary eyes.
“’Mione,” Ron mumbled, clearly still half asleep. “You alright?”
“We thought we heard a crash,” Harry said. He was frowning. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Hermione swallowed nervously. She most certainly was not going to tell them what she thought she’d seen. Malfoy would have a field day, and Harry and Ron would only think she’d gone mad.
“I tripped,” she lied. “Couldn’t really see the ground in front of me, and there was a loose board.”
Draco snorted. “Typical Granger.”
Hermione didn’t even have it in her to shoot the blond boy a glare. She shuffled over to her sleeping bag and crawled in, zipping it up tightly around her and relishing in the safe feeling that enveloped her. Harry and Ron were still looking at her with some concern, though, so she forced another smile.
“I’m fine, guys. Really.”
“If you say so,” Ron said with another huff as he flopped back down onto his pillow. Harry, too, settled back down on the couch and seemed content to just rest his head against Draco’s shoulder, eyes drifting shut.
Hermione’s own eyelids felt heavy. She nestled into her sleeping bag further, half-burying her face in the pillow she’d brought. She was nearly asleep, just seconds from drifting off, when Malfoy’s voice reached her.
“I know you’re hiding something, Granger,” he said, his own voice lazy with sleep. “I’ll find it out eventually.”
She didn’t have the energy to respond, however, and so she slipped into an uneasy sleep.
Saturday, 3:01 AM
Hermione was not certain what woke her, only that one moment, she had been in a shallow sleep and the next, she was squinting into the darkness of the living room. Someone—probably Draco—had turned off the camp lanterns, but Hermione could still make out vague shapes as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She could hear Ron’s snores easily, along with what sounded like Crabbe and Goyle wheezing. From her vantage point, she could easily see Draco sleeping on his stomach on the sofa, one hand dangling down to where Harry was asleep on the floor.
She shifted, hoping to find her phone so she could check the time—though she suspected it was still some ungodly hour—and froze when her back collided with something firm and slightly warm. Hermione frantically tried to scramble away from whatever was behind her when a vice-like grip clamped around her waist and over her mouth, holding her firmly in place and muffling her yelp of protest.
“If you wake them, Hermione, I will have to kill them,” a smooth, deep voice whispered in her ear as plainly as if he was talking about the weather.
Fear lanced through her with the force of a lightning bolt, but she swallowed back the panic on her tongue and gave a jerky nod. The hand pressed over her mouth moved, smooth knuckles grazing her cheek, her jaw, and down her neck. Hermione took a shuddering breath.
“Good girl,” the voice said. His breath—for though Hermione couldn’t see the person behind her, she was certain it was a man—ghosted over her skin, raising gooseflesh. “Now get up and go upstairs to the green bedroom. Quietly, or the red-haired one dies first.”
And then the pressure of the arm around her waist was gone, so fast she almost could have convinced herself that she had imagined it. But her gut was wrought with panic, and Hermione had ignored her gut feeling too much already. She unzipped her sleeping bag slowly, terrified of making a sound. Her legs shook as she stood, slipped on her tennis-shoes, and tip-toed around Ron’s sleeping form. She plucked one of the camp lanterns off the floor on her way, but only lit it once she was out in the hallway and far enough away from the living room door that she didn’t worry about waking anyone.
Maybe it was just a nightmare, she thought as she slowly climbed the creaky stairs, flinching at every sound. A very realistic nightmare. And you’ll go upstairs and there will be nothing. And then you’ll go back to sleep, and everything will be fine.
It was the only rational explanation, and yet, a part of her knew that it wasn’t true, that she was just lying to herself. The Riddle family portrait glared down at her once more, but she ignored them, thinking of her friends sleeping just downstairs. Please, just don’t wake up.
Hermione found the green bedroom easily, its location having been burned into her mind the moment she’d touched the ring. In the glow of the lantern-light and without the reassurance of Ron and Harry’s presence, the room was even creepier. She stepped inside anyway, ignoring the way her gut urged her to run.
The door shut behind her, and Hermione jumped, whirling around with her lantern held in front of her as if she might use it as a weapon. But there was nobody there. She turned back slowly, eyes darting around the room until they landed on something irregular. A tall, human-shaped shadow leaned against one of the bedposts. She couldn’t quite make out anything else without getting any closer, and that wasn’t something she was particularly interested in doing.
The man snapped his fingers and every candle in the room flared to life, filling the space with a warm glow that was entirely contrary to the mood. But now Hermione could see him. He was probably no more than a head taller than her with smooth, pale skin, and dark, wavy hair. He was strikingly handsome, like a Greek god or an angel. And despite having only seen his portrait for the first time mere hours ago, the man was painfully familiar.
“Tom Riddle,” Hermione whispered, mouth hanging open just slightly. “But…but you’re dead.”
She realized her mistake only after the words were already out of her mouth. The man had just threatened to kill her friends, if she wasn’t mistaken, and she should probably be treading a lot more carefully. Were ghosts offended if someone called them out on being dead? Hermione didn’t know, but she suspected it wasn’t exactly polite.
Luckily, Riddle only looked faintly amused. “Oh, he is.”
Hermione frowned at that, her still-drowsy brain working overtime to try to understand what the man in front of her was saying.
“But you look—“
“Just like him?” the handsome man spat, lip curling in disgust. Whatever tentative amusement had been rising in him was gone, replaced by a bottomless anger that had Hermione stepping back. He barked out a sharp laugh. “He thought so too. He couldn’t very well deny that I was his blood when he saw my face.”
Hermione’s head whirled. Nothing made sense. Tom Riddle hadn’t been alive for seventy years. Any blood relation that had ever met him was probably on an oxygen machine by now, but the man in front of her didn’t look a day over twenty. And the only explanation she had was that somehow the man in front of her had died too, and was…what? Stuck as a ghost who sneaks up behind people in the middle of the night and threatens to kill people?
“I don’t…” Hermione trailed off with a frown.
“Understand?” the man finished for her. He sneered. “And here I thought you were such a bright, clever little thing. After all, like calls to like.”
He pushed off the bedpost and stalked towards her. Hermione felt glued to the spot, unable to move away from the man even though every instinct was screaming “danger, run” as loud as the rush of blood in her ears. So loud, she couldn’t even formulate a question to ask what the hell he was talking about. Luckily, he seemed to read her mind.
“My ring,” the man said, twirling his finger around a strand of her hair carelessly. He let her hair drop as he came to stand behind her, letting his fingers trail down her neck. “Yours is the soul it sings for.”
“I—“
“Don’t understand,” the man said with an impatient sigh. “A recurring trend, it seems.”
Hermione thought that if she wasn’t so terrified, she might have been insulted by his condemnation of her intelligence. As it was, she was hyper-focused on the sensation of his fingers on her neck, feather-light and threatening at the same time. It would be so easy for him to strangle her from this position, and something told her that he might do just that if she wasn’t careful.
“I’ll try to keep it simple for you,” he said, his voice low in her ear. “Once upon a time, there was a boy who grew up in an orphanage. After years of thinking that all of his family had died, the boy found out that he had a father who lived in a big mansion on a hill. He went to visit the man, hoping that he could have a family. They looked the same. They even had the same name. But the man called the boy evil, unholy, hell-spawn.”
He—Tom, Hermione thought—pressed his lips lightly to base of Hermione’s neck at the top of her spine. Every spot where their skin met tingled with some warm, electric current that buzzed in her head. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t process anything besides the soft, melodic words of his story and the places where he touched her. One hand was still lightly tracing patterns into her neck while the other rested low on her hip, thumb grazing the waistband of her sleep-pants where her tank top had ridden up to reveal a strip of skin. Distantly, she knew she should move away from him, but she couldn’t seem to make her body do what she wanted.
“So the boy decided to prove the man right,” and at this, his grip tightened. “He waited until the man sat down for dinner with his parents—the boy’s grandparents—and then he killed them. Do you want to know how, Hermione?”
His words were finally registering in her brain and she tried to yank herself from his grip, but his hands only tightened to a bruising force.
“No.” Her voice was shaky, but loud, decisive. Tom ignored her.
“He made the man watch as he ripped apart the grandparents slowly. Their screams were so lovely—“
“Stop,” she said, shaking in his hold. “Please. Stop.”
He paused for a moment to gently tuck Hermione’s hair back behind her ears. “But you still don’t understand.”
Tom stepped back from her and circled the room slowly until he finally came to stand in front of Hermione again. She could barely look at him: so beautiful, and yet so terrible. Here he stood, confessing to murder in front of her—no, worse than that, a brutal, vicious, violent murder—all the while looking like he’d fallen straight from heaven.
“Don’t you see?” he asked, and there was a slight, manic light to his eyes as he tilted Hermione’s chin up so that she was forced to look at him. “The man was right all along. Because the boy’s mother was a demon of the worst kind, and so the boy was damned to be the same.”
Hermione swallowed, trying to process, trying to find a reason to claim that none of this was true. “And the ring?”
Tom’s lips quirked. “A talisman. Every demon has one.”
“Why was I drawn to it?” Hermione asked, brow furrowed.
“I have already answered this question,” Tom drawled, bored. “And many others.”
Hermione tried not to shrink under his gaze. He was prowling towards her again in a distinctly predatory manner. He’d told her already what he was capable of. He’d already threatened her friends, and she knew she could easily be next.
“Right, then,” she said shakily. “I’ll just…be going, I suppose.”
It was a flimsy, pathetic attempt to flee and both of them knew it.
“I think not. You’ve had your fun, talking to spirits with your little friends,” he said, breath hot against her ear as he came up behind her once more. His arms slowly wrapped around her waist, tugging her flush against him. “Did you think it would come without a price?”
“But I didn’t want to—“
“And yet, you did it anyway,” Tom said, and this time, his tone was sharp. It was clear that his patience had reached its limit, and Hermione didn’t know what would happen next. “But now it’s my turn.”
It took him less than a second to transport her to the bed, the dust that had previously covered the duvet suddenly mysteriously absent. She was dropped rather unceremoniously on her back, but before she could so much as protest, his body hovered over hers, his arms and legs effectively caging her in. She had no choice but to look up at him, had no choice but to face the dark hunger in his eyes.
One of his hands was slowly pushing at the hem of her tank top, sliding across the flat plane of her stomach while he ducked his head down to her neck. His lips brushed against her throat almost teasingly in a way that had Hermione arching up without her permission. The hand on her stomach pushed her back down onto the bed as his mouth continued to explore her throat with barely-there touches.
Hermione was sickened with the way her body responded to him, the way her mind clouded over and couldn’t seem to find a reason to deny the man above her even though she knew—she knew—there was a good reason. She just couldn’t think of it. Especially not when he nipped at the junction of her shoulder and neck, his teeth worrying a mark into her honeyed skin. Not when he was palming her through the thin material of her bra, his thumb expertly rolling her nipple until heat pooled in her stomach. His other hand tangled in her hair and pulled so that her head tipped back, exposing even more of her neck for him to mark up.
He sucked love-bites in a trail up her throat, each one pulling an almost-obscene sound out of her that she hadn’t known she was capable of making. Her only experience was Viktor Krum, and he hadn’t done anything more than stick his tongue down her throat. And while that had been good, it hadn’t made her entire body feel like it might combust. Not even touching herself had felt like this, and she’d already thought that was heaven.
“That’s it, darling,” he murmured against her ear, the sound of his voice alone enough to make her tremble beneath him.
He pulled her up just long enough to divest her of her tank top and bra entirely, tossing them carelessly somewhere on the floor. His eyes seemed to drink in her body: from the brown curls spilling over her shoulders, to her pert breasts, to the soft curve of her hips. It was the wicked grin on his face that sent a jolt through her, that reminded her exactly who was in front of her.
Heat rose to her face and she hastily folded her arms across her chest. She tried to scramble away from him, but he was faster, and he clasped her by the chin. She glared at him defiantly, though it was hard to look intimidating when one was half-naked and embarrassed about it.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, though it sounded half-hearted even to her own ears. Tom was unimpressed.
“You were enjoying it a minute ago,” he pointed out. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t let your silly morals get in the way, Hermione.”
“My silly morals?” she snapped. “You’ve killed people. You’ve—“
His hand was in her hair again and he pulled. Hard. Hermione yelped as she was dragged forward until there was barely a centimeter between them.
“And I could be doing much worse,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “You and your friends entered my domain, sweetheart. You sought me out with that ridiculous Ouija board. I should kill you all for your impertinence. But all I want is you, my little treasure. Or are the lives of your friends not worth that?”
“I…” Hermione started, but she had no response. She knew without a doubt that she would do anything for Harry and Ron, and hell, she wasn’t going to let Malfoy die even if it was tempting sometimes.
“I know you want me, Hermione,” Tom whispered. “As much as I want you.”
That was the worst part. On a moral level, he repulsed her, but it did little to tamper her desire for him. She would regret this in the light of day when she had time to think about what—or rather who—she’d done. But it was hard to think about consequences when Tom’s eyes—which were so dark blue they could’ve been the night sky—were looking at her like that, when even the hand harshly pulling at her hair was sinful, when the thought of him touching her again was making her ache with want.
In a move of reckless boldness, Hermione reached forward and ran her fingers through his dark locks, reveling in the way he leaned into her touch. And then she yanked him forward until her fell on top of her, his lips finally—finally—crashing against hers. Hermione hadn’t realized that this was what she’d been waiting for. There was nothing sweet about the clashing of their teeth or the way his hand gripped her hair so hard that she could feel it straining against her scalp. He rolled his hips against hers eagerly, and she could feel his smirk against her lips when she moaned at the sensation.
Her hands worked to push off the dark robes he had on. They slid away, revealing a lean, but well-toned chest. Her fingers trailed down his body, exploring him with her hands since the rest of her was otherwise occupied. Tom’s mouth moved from hers, slowly pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat. His love-bites from earlier had already darkened, and he kissed each one again hard enough to startle a series of little gasps from Hermione’s lips.
He kissed down the length of her body, only pausing for a minute to worship her breasts, nipping at the soft skin and rolling his tongue over her nipples until they peaked. She writhed beneath him even as he bit her hip, just above the waistband of her sleep-pants. His eyes darted up to hers, asking silent permission. She lifted her hips in response, and he pulled both her pants and her panties down in one quick motion.
“Gods,” he groaned, dragging two of his fingers almost-reverently over her dripping slit. “So fucking wet for me.”
Hermione took a sharp intake of breath when he effortlessly slid a finger inside of her. No one had ever touched her there, like that, except for herself, and this was an entirely different experience. He inserted a second one only a moment later, quickly thrusting them in and out of her while his thumb circled her clit. Her hips bucked involuntarily, trying to seek more friction, but his other hand held her down. The whine that left her lips was so strangled that she hardly recognized herself.
Tom grinned at her, a mischievous look in his eyes. Hermione didn’t get a chance to question it, because in the next second, his mouth had replaced his thumb on her clit, and she nearly cried out. His tongue was hot and relentless as it swirled and pressed against her. Every motion had her arching her back, and it was only Tom’s hand on her hip that kept her from bucking into his mouth.
The brilliant, tingling pleasure was building in her stomach. Her whole body ached for release. Hermione had always thought she was the quiet type in bed. Her own masturbation sessions had always been delightful, but relatively soundless. That wasn’t the case now.
“Please, Tom, please. Fuck, I can’t,” she said in an incoherent stream of words that she barely understood herself. “Please, I can’t take it. I need you, Tom, please. Fuck me, gods. I’m so close, I need—“
He pulled back from her, grinning as she groaned at the loss of contact. He slipped his fingers out of her, and Hermione nearly cried, her still-dripping hole clenching desperately around nothing. Tom brought his fingers up to his mouth and, maintaining eye contact, sucked Hermione’s juices from them. He licked his lips.
“Divine,” he drawled. He crawled up and planted a wet kiss on her mouth, sliding his tongue between her lips so she could taste herself.
“Tom, please,” she whispered against his lips. She reached down and fumbled with the buttons on his pants, which were still on. She could see the outline of his hard cock through the fabric and palmed him with one hand while the other frantically pulled at the zipper. Tom groaned as he was released from the tight confines of his pants.
“Gods, you’ll be the death of me,” he murmured into the sensitive spot just under her ear. Tom pulled back just long enough to shuck off his pants the rest of the way. It was surprisingly human the way his pants briefly got caught around his ankles, nearly tripping him, but then he vanished them with the snap of his fingers and returned to the bed, covering Hermione’s body with his own.
For a moment, they just laid there. Hermione’s hands slid from his shoulders down his arms and back up again, and then down his lean body, tracing his hipbone, the backs of her knuckles grazing his thigh. Tom was content to let her see him, touch him, even if it took all of his self-control to not just thrust into her then and there. Her pretty doe eyes eventually found their way back up to his own, and he enjoyed the pure desire he saw there, and the way her eyelashes fluttered, and the light smattering of freckles across her cheeks.
He seemed to be waiting for something, but Hermione was done waiting. She was desperate for him. She slung a leg around his waist, arched up and tugged gently on his ear with her teeth. He growled and pushed her down. He took his cock in hand and lined it up with her cunt, the small smirk on his lips the only warning Hermione had before he pushed into her.
“Fuck,” he said with a groan. “You’re so tight, darling. Like you were fucking made for me.”
Tom didn’t give her any time to adjust, but Hermione didn’t need it. She was so wet that he slid in and out of her with ease, even with his break-neck pace. His hips slammed forward, and he gripped her by the thighs, lifting her so he had a better angle. Hermione cried out as he gave a particularly sharp thrust that had her seeing stars, a complete white-out of her vision.
“You like that?” he asked, breathless. Hermione could only nod and clutch at his shoulders tighter. “Be a good girl and come for me.”
He hit the same spot twice more, and then she was coming apart underneath him. Her body arched, her nails dragging down his back. She looked perfect like this, and he wished he could keep her forever in this moment, trapped in ecstasy. He slowed for a moment as she caught her breath, though the pressure of his pelvis against her clit was overly stimulating. Hermione whimpered beneath him, and the sound went straight to his cock.
He thrust into her again as she cried out. Now that he’d given her pleasure, he was free to take his own, and he set a brutal pace, sliding almost all the way out of her before slamming back in. Her body shook from the effort, her gorgeous breasts bouncing from the force of his thrusts.
“Tom, please, please,” she said, her voice a whine. Tears pooled at the corner of her eyes. “Please. It’s too much.”
He pulled out of her completely for a moment, his aching cock immediately missing the warmth of her tight walls. Hermione made the mistake of relaxing, thinking that he was giving her a break. Instead, he flipped her over as if her body weighed nothing and pulled her hips back, her ass in the air while her face was pressed into the sheets. She was beautiful like this, too, her body bent in a naturally submissive position. He took only a moment to admire her ass—and to think of how he might use it in the future—before he sheathed himself in her tight cunt once more. She gave a startled cry at the new angle.
“You’ll take whatever I give you, darling,” he hissed, kissing a line down her spine. He punctuated each word with a sharp thrust, enjoying the way her entire body shuddered around him. As if to prove his point, he reached down between her legs and circled her sensitive clit none too gently. Her body moved of its own accord, thrusting back onto his cock as her walls clamped down violently and she screamed into the sheets from the force of her second orgasm.
Tom dragged his teeth across her shoulder, his grip on her hip tightening possessively. “Mine.”
He didn’t stop touching her, even as she sobbed, her entire body twitching. She was begging him, he knew, but her words were so slurred together that he couldn’t understand a single thing from the garbled mess. His thrusts were erratic now, and he finally abandoned her clit to keep one hand on her hip and the other in her hair. It only took him two, three more thrusts and then he spilled his seed inside her.
Hermione was so delirious with pleasure that she barely noticed him slipping out of her, or the feeling of being wiped down, sweat and cum removed from her body with gentle strokes of a wet cloth. And then there was a warm body pressed against her back, a gentle hand smoothing down her curls, the softness of a blanket covering her bare skin.
Tom laid a tender kiss to her temple and slung an arm over her waist, pleased when she leaned into his touch. Yes, he decided, he would keep her.
Saturday, 6:45 AM
The alarm Hermione had set on her phone blared loudly in her ears. She didn’t want to get up. Drinking and staying up into the wee hours of the morning never made getting up easy, but it didn’t help that her whole body ached. She felt like she’d fallen down a flight of stairs, except she was also a bit sore between her legs, a deep sort of ache that you only get from one thing.
Tom, she thought with a start, bolting upright. But she wasn’t in the green bedroom, and Tom wasn’t there. She was back in the living room, wrapped up in her sleeping bag. A pang of disappointment coursed through her—surely she hadn’t imagined the whole thing? She couldn’t have. It had felt so real. And besides, she didn’t think her brain was capable of coming up with something like that.
“Turn that bloody alarm off and go back to sleep,” Ron grumbled, his head popping up from his pillow for only a second before immediately collapsing back into a deep sleep. Hermione quickly turned off the alarm, not wanting to piss off the redhead. He wasn’t a morning person, and especially not on weekends. Harry and Draco had barely stirred in their sleep, too, and Hermione figured another hour or two wouldn’t hurt.
As she turned to lie back down, she caught sight of her reflection in the blank screen of her phone. She stared at herself, wide-eyed, and turned on the front-facing camera. Her hair was a wreck, which came as no surprise, but her neck was littered with dark bruises that trailed down past even the low neckline of her tank top. She pressed a finger to one experimentally and winced at the dull ache.
So it was real, Hermione thought with a sigh of relief. It seemed counterintuitive to be pleased about the existence of a demon, and yet nothing about Tom had made any rational sense. It’s too early to think about this. But she couldn’t stay here. If anyone else woke up before her, they would have questions about the obvious hickeys on her skin, and she couldn’t very well explain what had happened. She grabbed her things as quickly as possible and slipped out the front door of Riddle Manor.
The sun was just starting to rise over the hills, casting a golden hue on everything. The dew-coated grass tickled her ankles as she all but ran to her dorm room. It wasn’t until she was standing in front of the mirror of her private bath that she noticed the thin silver chain around her neck.
And at the end of it, Tom’s ring.