Chapter Text
"Oh my god
Please help me
Neck deep in the river
Screamin' for relief
He says, it's mine to give
But it's yours to choose
You're gonna sink or swim
You're gonna learn the truth
No matter what you do
You're gonna learn the truth."
-The Silent Comedy 'Bartholomew'
Hermione had done it again. The twelve year old cursed herself as she realized how long she had been lost between the pages of a book in the Hogwarts’ library. It was well past curfew, and she mildly wondered why the librarian hadn't caught her and shooed her out as usual. However, now she had larger problems, like sneaking to the Gryffindor tower without being caught by Mrs. Norris, or worse, Filch himself. The wretched man didn't scare her, but a mark on her student record did.
Gathering her things, the honey eyed bookworm cast a disillusionment charm over herself, secretly pleased she was advanced enough to do so. Not just any twelve year old could manage the spell, it filled her with pride to be exceptional even if all it gained her was isolation and sneering from her peers. Although that wasn't entirely fair. Not everyone was hostile, but Hermione knew she wasn't likable. Too forceful in opinion, too eager, too odd and bookish. There were various reasons, and each one stung and chafed just as harshly as the last. It wasn't as if she didn't want friends. She just seemed incapable of making them properly. The closest she had to one was Neville and he was nice, but a bit oblivious.
Hermione toted her heavy bag, trying to make her steps silent as possible on the stone floor. Ever since the rumors had started about the Chamber being opened, professors were exceptionally strict on students wandering the halls after dark. So far nothing serious had happened. Some fifth year boy had been paralyzed and the ridiculous rumor that the Heir of Slytherin was in the school had sprung up like a nasty weed. The wizarding version of urban myth, she was near certain. After all, everyone knew Hogwarts was perfectly safe.
Hermione stilled, heart banging against her rib cage as she caught a soft whispering of syllables. She couldn't make out the words but the voice sounded cold, almost eerie in the way the hissing echoed in the stone hall. Hermione shivered, feeling a odd chill as the hairs on the back of her neck rose. A ward. A powerful one. Her lips sucked in a soft, slow inhale, and she turned the corner, more curious than unsettled.
She blinked, trying to take in the scene in the flickering torch light and failing for a moment. It was another student. A boy. She sucked in another breath as the angular profile became more distinct, more familiar, even she knew the boy. In passing anyway. A fourth year named Tom Riddle, a Slytherin, but hardly the worst of the lot. Quiet for the most part, but somehow everyone knew him, for one reason or another. He had a presence, and he was quite brilliant, everyone thought so. Plus the other Slytherins seemed to practically worship him for some unknown reason.
He was leaning over something and looking angrier than she had ever seen him. The rage sharpened him, took away his demure pretty boy look that had the other girls cooing at him, the poor sweet brilliant orphan boy. This was hardly the same person. He looked like a wild thing, sleek and dangerous, poised to pounce, eyes alit with predatory thrill.
“You pathetic waste, you think I will allow you to ruin my plans?” His voice was cool and collected despite the furious glint to his expression, “Crucio.”
Hermione had to crush her fist into her mouth to silence the involuntary gasp she'd made, but it hardly seemed to matter. Her tiny elapse of breath was soon drowned in the agonized, piercing howl of a young witch in mortal agony. A smaller figure writhed at his feet, bending at impossible angles as she cried and begged. Sobbing and screaming until her voice cracked. Still the jet of violent green tied her to Riddle, his expression a hardened cast of satisfaction. It sent a sickening roil through Hermione.
He was torturing her. With a Unforgivable of all things. Her mouth went dry and she fumbled for her wand, ready to attack and give herself away in defense of the poor girl. Her Gryffindor nature blazed in her, infuriated by the injustice of it all. Just as she stepped forward, stupefy perched on the tip of her tongue, Riddle released his victim with a flourish of his wand.
The unknown girl went nearly silent, sobbing in a huddled heap of pain and jagged gasps. Hermione had heard quite a few things crunch while she'd been under the curse, and she shuddered to think how badly the girl might be injured. What could Riddle be thinking? Was he mad?
“Shhh,” Riddle tsked, kicking her reaching hand from it's begging grasp on his ankle. The cursed girl's fingers desperately grasping the fabric of his pants even as he shook her off. He knelt, eyes as hard as obsidian. Like lava glass they reflected the girls pain back to her, but with a hint of his own mixed satisfaction and disgust tied in.
“It will be over soon,” he promised almost gently, and her face turned upward, hitting the torch light for the first time. It was a plain face, splotchy with redness from her sobbing, glasses wildly askew, hair a brown tangle. Hermione felt sorry that she couldn't remember her name. They were in the same year, but like Hermione, the Ravenclaw witch seemed to keep entirely to herself.
“P-please-”
“Ah, ah,” Riddle tsked, almost gently, “No need for that.” He pressed a finger to her lips, “I told you, I mean to end this little game now. A shame, since this will certainly cast more suspicion on the students of this school, but don't fret, I know how to direct the blame appropriately.”
“I d-didn’t mean to-” the girl sniveled. Her voice thready and high pitched from fear.
“Nevermind that now, it hardly matters what you meant silly girl,” he sighed, standing and uttering matter-of-factly, “Obliviate.” Her eyes glazed and he smirked, as the girl twitched and blinked, moaning in pain and utterly confused. Hermione edged back warily, her pulse quickening as she heard the same sultry whisper that had drawn her attention in the first place. A hissing that crept through her bones and left them slightly cooler.
Dear Merlin, he was a parseltongue. Hermione gazed at what she had thought to be a studious and somewhat handsome schoolmate in horror. Still, as horrific as he was, what happened next froze her in raw terror. Her mind, always so keen, processed the image in chunks. A giant, snake like creature so nightmarish she instinctively turned the corner behind her and put the flat of her back against the wall, heart hammering as her brain mashed the horrific pieces of what she'd seen together. A instant later she heard the girl scream, blood curdling and then….a leathery soft sound of something heavy slipping across the floor down the hall in the opposite direction. The air seemed too thick in the abrupt, heavy quiet that followed. The creature had been large, so big it nearly filled the hall. The entire time she listened to the monster retreat, Hermione fought with herself over whether she should turn the corner and confront the monster.
She wasn't a coward. But something cold and wriggly was festering in her gut, and she knew, with certainty, that if she turned back down that corridor, what she saw next was sure to be blazed into the back of her eyelids forever and ever. She gulped. I'm not a child anymore, Hermione Granger sternly reminded herself, I'm a preteen, practically a young adult. She had to know, to see if the other witch was alright.
The frizzy haired girl’s honey eyes took in the scene, and her belly flopped. The girl was frozen, maybe petrified, like the other boy she heard of, maybe it wasn't so bad, maybe… Hot tears pressed at her eyes as she realized the girl's eyes were filmy, mouth agape in frozen terror and body slumped. Her chest didn't seem to be moving at all, and her limbs were at odd angles. She looked dead.
Hermione sucked in a strangled sound that seemed instinctive, fighting for her calm and logic with a inward scraping.
“Who's there?” The suspicious voice rang out and Hermione felt her blood run to ice water through her veins. Riddle. She had almost forgotten him. She held her breath, not daring to risk the sound of a exhale as she could practically feel Riddle’s equally disillusioned presence seeking her out. Prying into the dimly lit corridor, seeking every shadow in the torch light. Hunting her with invisible eyes.
“I know someone is there,” he mused, “I heard you, and I will find you.” Hermione fought a tremble, her lungs burning for oxygen as he tossed a revealing spell first at himself and then at a spot to the right of her and smirked frighteningly to her left. Not so far away from where she actually stood that she felt safe at all. The dark haired wizard was older by two years, and magically gifted. Not like some of the fourth year louts with sloppy wand work who she might have stood half a odd with.
“Reveal yourself,” he all but commanded, “Don't make me force you, you won't like it.”
Hermione set her jaw. The Gryffindor witch had run from one monster tonight, but this one, her eyes blazed at his smirking profile, this one she would face. She had always half wondered, in the back of her mind, what she would truly do if faced with a villain like the ones in her books. Would she be brave? Or would she crumble under the impossibility of defeating such a powerful foe? Her wand hand flicked her finite incantatem with determination.
For a moment they studied one another. Hermione with a defiant tilt to her chin and a confident stance at odds with her obvious disadvantage. Riddle loomed over her, eyes flickering obsidian chips that seemed to repel the torchlight from their gleaming depths instead of reflect it. He smiled, so slowly and with such lingering malice as he eyed her that Hermione felt her insides slither.
“It's far too late for little girls to be roaming the castle all by themselves,” Riddle remarked, his tone was congenial, even conversative.
“Not too late to be murdering them, though,” Hermione's voice was soft in volume but heavy in accusations. He snorted. “And you're not much older than me Riddle, curfew is for everyone but prefects and professors.” Even in this situation her know-it-all nature couldn't be stifled.
“I don't know what you think you saw, but I didn't kill her,” he flicked a bit of dust or something off the sleeve of his robe and shrugged. “I heard something coming and I hid, same as you.”
“I saw you-” Hermione swallowed as his gaze narrowed on her, that same predatory gleam resurfacing. She clenched her wand tightly, “You tortured her, and I heard you, you called that...that creature. You're a parsel-”
“Shut it,” Riddle hissed, following his command with a snapped, “Petrificus Totalus.” Hermione didn't have time to dodge, eyes wide in shock and fear as the spell impacted full force. His calm smile at her panicked horror filled every molecule of her blood with ice.
“Silencio,” he added matter-of-factly as she made a grunted screaming noise in the back of her magically sealed mouth, whether to berate him or scream she wasn't certain. Afterwards, all that came out past her lips was a magically silenced puff of air. With another graceful twitch of his wand she was levitated next to him. Her tawny eyes sparked with vengeance, mouth tugging into a thin grimace.
“We can't linger here, we will be discovered sooner or later,” he explained with a smirk, leaning into her proximity a bit, the tall fourteen year old wizard whispered the last like a particularly juicy secret he couldn't wait to share, “Besides, if I wanted to hurt you, Granger, I wouldn't need to bind and gag you to do it. So calm down.”
Her eyes slitted at him, and he shrugged, plucking her wand from her immobilized grip. His dark eyes idly traced the hawthorn wood, his index finger tracing down the shape of it speculatively. He pocketed it, causing her rage to spike, and proceeded to disillusion them both. Keeping her bobbing behind him in a levitated spell, paralyzed and floating roughly four feet off the ground. It seemed like a million unbearable eternities tied into one another as she floated, silenced and strung up like a Christmas hog, behind a invisible Riddle, his footsteps utterly soundless even in the echoing stone of the castle.
She hoped he ran into a professor. Or tripped and smacked his head. Or… He paused, listening intently, and she found herself straining to hear whatever had alerted him. Not that she could see him, but she knew he'd stopped because so had she, and she felt that same predatory, seeking feeling she'd felt in the other corridor when he had first noticed her presence.
The door of the empty classroom to their left opened with a whispered “Alohomora,” and Hermione was starting to feel her limbs go a bit numb and tingly from the body binding spell he had on her.
Once inside, Riddle dropped the disillusionment spell, warding the room heavily before he uttered a casual “Finite incantatem,” at the mutely fuming witch. Granger exploded into motion, the dark eyed boy barely had time to blink before her skinny frame impacted his own.
“Oomph,” he grunted, Hermione took advantage of the surprise attack. Digging her hand into his robe pocket and attempting to pin the larger boy down. Just as her fingers felt the smooth tip of wood from her own wand, a ivory wand was digging into her jugular, his face furious now that the shock had faded. Even with him pinned beneath her she still couldn't defeat him.
“Get off me you filthy little-” Hermione felt her adrenaline spike, knowing full well what the next word from his mouth would be. She withdrew her hand from his pocket, acting submissive, before she drew the arm even further back and punched the boy square in his evil pale face.
Her knuckles ached immediately, and she scrambled off of him, wand forgotten, as she saw the insidious fury gathering in his expression, a tiny trickle of blood dripping from his slightly puffy nose. Hermione bolted for the door, yelling out as a burst of magic flung her back, sending her flying into a line of desks.
“That was stupid of you,” Riddle's voice was eerily calm even as he stared down at her with murderous fury. “I was planning to Obliviate you after teaching you a lesson about being a nosy mudblood,” he spat, “But now,” he yanked her up by her robes, his wand hovering near her throat, “Now I'm going to make you my new toy. That Benson girl broke so easily.” The chuckle he let out in punctuation was so cold it made her teeth ache. His eyes narrowed in speculation, “Let's see how you fare.”
Hermione looked at him in horror, wondering how he could be so unhinged. How had no one noticed it before? How was he doing these awful things and escaping the notice of the professors? Of everyone? Even, until now, her?
“Crucio,” He whispered it, almost fondly, and Hermione felt her entire universe explode into pain. Every cell of her body, every nerve ending, inch of flesh and follicle of hair screamed for mercy as she twisted and writhed under the dark curse. Her spine bowed, and she felt a crack, but it seemed hardly consequential. Agony was in her bloodstream, it pulsed through her, until it became her, swallowing her up and leaving her a sobbing, squishy mess of hoarse screams.
After a eternity in hell, he let up, and Hermione barely noticed, twitching with aftershocks that were so painful she didn't realize he had stopped for several minutes. Her wet sobs the only sound filling the empty classroom. Riddle knelt beside the girl, eyes glittering madly, the cruciatus always left him feeling almost warm inside.
He rolled her over, moving her wild curls away from her tear streaked face, and studied his handiwork. Her lip was bleeding rather profusely from where she'd unintentionally bit into it, her eyes were dilated and a bit unfocused with the pain. Their glassy brown depths cleared sooner than he expected, focusing on his profile and then narrowing.
“Say you're sorry,” he instructed with a curled smirk, “Or I'll do it again.”
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, tears still leaking hotly from the corners, “S-sorry,” she managed to croak, ashamed of her own fear. Fear that he really would do it again.
Satisfied, he picked up her right arm, then her left, Hermione wanted to pull away. Maybe even fight back, but she felt so weak she could only groan a little as the movements caused her muscles to throb and twitch with pain. He repeated the procedure with her legs, and then began poking at her ribs, the third rib up on her left side caused Hermione to hiss, a fresh flood of hot water pouring from her eyes.
“Brackium emendo,” Riddle uttered softly, and she frowned, wondering why he would bother to heal her. The magic felt cool and uncomfortable all at once as it set the rib bone back into place and began to mend it.
“Can you sit?” He asked curiously, and when she just glared at him, he sighed. “Gryffindors, you always have to be difficult.” He pulled her up, not very gently, and withdrew a potion from his pocket. Popping the stopper from the bottle with his teeth, he spit the cork out and pressed the tiny glass vial to her lips. The bruised witch turned her head away defiantly, expression mutinous. Whatever he was trying to do to her, she wanted no part in it.
With a annoyed exhale, Riddle grabbed her bruised chin and forced her back towards him, the pain caused her to gasp and before she knew it cold glass was jammed so hard into lips it jarred her teeth and gums. Swallowing the potion on reflex she gagged, hand flying to her throat. Her heartbeat began to steady out as she recognized the familiar effects and flavor of a pepper up potion.
“Better?” He demanded knowingly. Hermione scowled, shoving him off and standing on shaky legs. He rose gracefully, towering over her, and dusting his robes as if touching her had left a foul stain on them.
“Give me back my wand,” she demanded, coughing roughly at the scratchy rawness her screaming left behind. Her hand outstretched demandingly, only shaking slightly now. His eyes flashed, and he cocked his head at her. Not willing to be impressed by her naive bravery, but perhaps savoring the thought of breaking her slowly. The Ravenclaw witch had been much more malleable, scraping at his feet after the first cruciatus, mind going a bit touchy from his constant obliviating.
The Slytherin boy wanted to try something different this time. Something that would allow his victim to remember every last detail of his cruelty, but still render them powerless to speak of it to anyone. He'd been toying with a bit of dark magic, hoping to eventually use it on his knights. A mark of sorts, one that bound the recipient to him, gave him utter power over them. If only the little mudblood witch knew the honor he was bestowing on her, allowing her to be his first test subject when her blood and heritage made her so disgustingly unworthy of it.
Once he tired of playing with her, and ensured his mark worked, he planned to feed her to the basilisk, just like the other one.
He blinked, staring at her outstretched arm, demanding her wand, and nearly rolled his eyes at the ease of opportunity. He grabbed her wrist, preparing to place the mark where he wanted his knights to wear it, and then thought better of it. They wouldn't understand seeing it on a mudblood first. Sometimes they could be utterly dense, and he couldn't have a professor spotting it. No. Riddle pondered her tiny frame, aware that she was eyeing him warily, sensing an impending attack but unsure how to defend.
He decided just under the collarbone was perhaps best. Out of sight, but it wouldn't force him to touch or disrobe more of her than absolutely necessary. He released her wrist abruptly only to yank down at the collar of her robes, pulling the shirt underneath down a bit at well and ignoring her yelp of shock as he placed the tip of his wand to the exposed skin.
“You won't get away with this,” she began, trying to pry herself away, but his grip was too strong and she was still too weak from being cursed to struggle as hard as she would have liked to. Even if he obliviated her, she would find a way to remember, somehow, and tell everyone what she'd seen. He'd tortured and killed another student, summoned a monster and used a Unforgivable twice. Surely that couldn't go unpunished.
“Subditi obedire victima morte,” he words flowed off his tongue like poisoned honey, caressing every syllable. At obedire, his wand cut a small incision in her pale skin, red blood bubbling unnaturally quickly to the surface and pooling thickly there. Hermione tried to move, but she found herself locked in place, forced to watch in horror as her blood thickened and turned oily black, forming into the design of a jewel eyed serpent, circling a figure eight. The snake moved in liquid motions as he uttered the final words. It devoured its own tail, going perfectly still as the last syllable left his lips, and then her skin felt like it was on fire. Crying out, she stumbled away, clawing at the searing, acidic feel boiling on her skin and seeping into her nervous system.
“What did you do to me?” Hermione demanded, staring in horror at the serpent on her skin, it looked like a tattoo. She was twelve her parents would absolutely murder her for having a tattoo!
“It's a gift,” he replied with an unnerving smile.
“You're mental,” the twelve year old spat at him in disgust. She was sore, bruised, and shivering from exhaustion that not even a pepper up potion could cure, but she forced herself to stand straight, and look him in the eyes.
“I can't decide if you're the epitome of Gryffindor, or simply a idiot,” Riddle mused, “Do you enjoy me hurting you?”
“No!”
“Then stop insulting me,” he suggested with a calculating look, “That little gift will make sure you remain loyal to me. Which means,” he narrowed his eyes, “If you have any silly ideas about mouthing off to a professor or another student, it will hurt and ensure you don't ruin my plans.”
“Plans?”
“As if I would share my ideas with a child.”
“I'm twelve not two, and girls mature faster than boys, everyone says so,” Hermione remarked knowingly, “Besides, I heard you, you were speaking parseltongue, which means you're the Heir of Slytherin. You opened the Chamber. When they find out a student is dead, they'll close the school.”
Riddle froze, and she wondered, if perhaps such a thing hadn't occurred to him. “No, they won't. Dumbledore is too overconfident, he’ll keep it open.” But he sounded, for the first time, a little unnerved.
Hermione smirked, “No matter how powerful Dumbledore is, if enough parents freak out and withdraw their children from the school, even Dumbledore will have no choice. The Ministry is sure to get involved.”
“You don't know what you're talking about,” The dark haired boy hissed, pointing his wand at her warningly.
Hermione turned up her nose at him and crossed her arms. “Bullying me doesn't change simple facts, you'll see. There was talk of kids being pulled out when they found Edwards, and he was only paralyzed, but now there's been a death.” She gave him an insufferably haughty look, “What did you expect to happen?”
“They can't close Hogwarts,” he inhaled deeply, calming himself. “What would a mudblood know about wizard politics anyway?”
Stung, but trying to hide it she shrugged and looked away. “I don't care if you believe me. You’ll see soon enough for yourself.” She was used to being dismissed for that ignorant reason, although most civilized students had the decency to use the more socially acceptable term muggleborn. It didn't matter how hard she studied, or how smart she was, she was that first to them.
“Can I have my wand back now?” It hurt her mouth to phrase it as a question, but she wanted out. Out of this room. Away from this cruel boy with scary eyes that seemed too dead to be human. The worn out witch needed to curl up, nurse her wounds, and regather her strength before she faced this monster again.
“Say please,” he instructed, a smirk edging his mouth as he studied her struggle to contain her temper.
“Please,” she huffed.
“No, nicely. Say it again,” he ordered.
Her cheeks saturated crimson, her eyes flashing but she managed to grind out, “Riddle, may I please have my wand back?” Sure to drop a extra syrupy tone on the word ‘please’.
“Better, but not much,” Riddle reached into his pocket and withdrew her wand, holding it out. As she went to take it, he snapped it far above his head, and out of her reach.
“Really?” She asked, a bit bewildered that after all his truly evil actions he'd resort to something so obvious and juvenile. Almost like a normal fourteen year old.
“Kneel down and kiss my robes,” he told her. Hermione frowned at him.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No. I'm not doing that.”
“Then this is mine,” she bit back a cry of outrage as he repocketed her wand. He patted the pocket, dark eyes sizing her up in challenge, “Until you remember your place and kneel at my feet.”
“There is something wrong with you Riddle,” Hermione hissed in disgust. He shrugged, dissolving the wards he'd placed so meticulously earlier with a few waves and twirls of his wand.
“Either kneel, or leave wandless, your choice, mudblood.”
“Fine,” Hermione straightened her back, eyes defiant. She was proud how she walked out, not looking back once or hesitating even as the horror of being wandless for the first time since she was eleven hit her. Sure, there was summer break where underage magic wasn't allowed, but even then she'd still had her wand. Always with her. Like a extension of self. It felt a bit like being naked, walking away and leaving it behind. Leaving herself purposefully vulnerable and exposed.
Still, her righteous anger burned, hot and heady with the memory of another girl's death and her own torture still fresh in her mind. The knowledge of both events weighing crushingly on her small shoulders. I will never kneel, Hermione promised herself. Surely she could tell someone, she would try, at least. Even if, like he promised, the pain was too intense for her to utter a word. She would try. Again and again. Whatever it took. Until she found a way to remove what he'd done to her.
If she'd been thinking about curfew at all, perhaps Hermione would have disillusioned herself, but as it was, she raced recklessly through the castle, heading for the Gryffindor tower with determination. She didn't know it at the time, but Myrtle Benson's body had just been discovered, and the patrolling professors were thoroughly occupied. Allowing her to do so uninterrupted.