Jagged

You and Me Know No Better

Despite the tone of Tom's voice— the promise of retribution that's more of a threat than anything— Hermione can't help but feel anything besides satisfaction.

There are days, back during the war, that being part of the Information Extraction Division is nothing short of slow torture. Mind games, acrobatics, the fear of infiltration from outside forces— they have to put up with all of it. Be ready for a surprise attack at any time.

Despite the overall success of the division, there are a lot of bad days. Times where things don't go the way they're supposed to. Where there lives are risked in ways no one could imagine.

Hermione remembers every single one of them. On the bad nights, they haunt her while she stares blankly at the canopy of her bed, like the worst type of sleep paralysis.

They never fail a mission, not really. Truly, they work best when they need to think on their toes. They train to be masters at distractions and improvisation. When things go wrong, they find ways to fix everything, even if it takes longer, or they have to give more of themselves than they had originally planned.

In those times, her job is nothing short of a burden. Even when things are done, and she's home showering the blood and grime off her skin, she never feels powerful. Restoring the balance in her mind and the little bit of self esteem she manages to build up is a struggle.

She feels absolutely powerless. Even staring into the eyes of the man she's just killed, or when walking away from the war room, mission papers glowing with the green stamp of success, her hands shake and the normally stable Occlumency walls shake with the threat of shattering.

But what she's just done with Tom Riddle? It does not feel like that.

It feels like balance is being restored. Like solid land after days at sea. She has all the power. She is safe.

And that, more than anything, terrifies her.

Tom Riddle isn't safe. He's the largest threat to the wizarding people the world has yet seen. He kills with no remorse, tortures like it's a hobby, and has no problems destroying others if it gets him what he needs.

But— that's not at all how she sees him. Not anymore. And how could she? When she has run her fingers through his post transformation hair, when she's tucked him into bed and checked his temperature and pulse and given him potions to ease the pain.

When he looks to her for solutions— for help.

And she does not think twice about giving it. She does it without a second thought. Without remorse.

She's frightened. Of course she's frightened. She's earned her trust issues, and Tom Riddle isn't exactly someone that screams of trust and love. Quite the opposite.

And now he has promised a retribution. Those words make Hermione sleep very little that night. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees his sharp jawline highlighted by the moonlight. She tastes sweet strawberry on her tongue, remembers the way he'd come while his eyes bore straight into hers.

Her body is hot and she wants it, but getting herself off to the memory of Riddle masturbating feels like crossing a firmly drawn line. So she lays in her misery instead, letting her brain take over and torment her until the sun scrapes the edge of the horizon and Myla's poking her head into the bed curtains to see if she wants to join her for another run.

Hermione agrees immediately, hoping to burn off some of the pent up energy inside of herself.
---
At breakfast that morning, Riddle looks no more put together than he had the previous day. His tie is crooked, and he hasn't even bothered with wearing his outer robes. His sleeves are shoved hastily up to his elbows and his blasted hair looks like a piece of art she would like to hang on her wall.