Jörmungandr

On the Rocks

All at once, Hermione felt exhausted. An old statue rusted over and left to patina and moss in the woods. The brittle-bone tiredness that made you apathetic and agitated. The immediate danger had passed. The deadline cleared. Her blood still thick with venom that warmed her veins, kept her unnaturally focused. A sleeping being in her chest coiled hard around her heart.

She still needed to cry. Lock herself in the bathroom, turn the shower on as hot as it would go, and drift away alone for ten minutes.

Riddle watched her. Flat black eyes lidded and bored, too tall, and fucking staring down at her constantly. She wondered if he ever got bored of his mask.

She wondered how few words she could use to crack it.

She wondered if he was about to stuff her in the cabinet. If he would join to learn her secrets.

But he did not.

Instead, Riddle walked over to one of the book cases near the end of the room and wandlessly floated down a small mirror from the top shelf. It was a small square personal mirror, the kind you might carry around in your pocket to save you from a basilisk. He placed it on a lower shelf, behind some books. The angle was wrong and Hermione couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but a few sparks of magic later he pulled out a couple bottles and a small box.

"Thirsty?" he asked and sloshed a bottle of black glass. "You look like you could use a drink."

Not the cabinet, then. A more indirect strategy.

Hermione didn't think her tension was obvious, but there was no use pretending with Riddle. He saw through her as clear as glass. How 'in distress' she was.

And then, offered solace.

It was a favored move of his, she realized. He'd done it a couple times before. Pushed her and then also offered the balm. Rile her tension up so the drop would make her even more vulnerable. Confusing, subtle, cruel. It fit him well.

She frowned, rubbed her neck, and walked over slowly, "How old are you? And aren't you a prefect? You are a terrible influence. No wonder children around here are so reckless." She took the bottle anyway. It didn't have a label.

This could cut both ways, however, and getting tipsy with Tom Riddle was one way to get secrets out of him.

And... it was honestly not a bad idea to try and unwind before she fell asleep. Her roommates would not appreciate her nightmares. If he tried to wring too many secrets out of her, she knew a sobering spell.

"My birthday's in December," he said and summoned two glasses out of nothing. He set them in the air, and they stuck fast, hovering between them. Show off. "New Year's Eve. I used to think the fireworks were just for me. How old are you, Ms. Granger?" He poured them a finger each.

It smelled like licorice and the sharp bite of alcohol.

The liquid was green.

Brilliant.

"My birthday was in September," she said quickly, "Is this absinthe?" Her voice squeaked.

Maybe this was a fucking terrible idea.

"No worries, Ms. Granger. I would not give you absinthe." Riddle stoppered the bottle and put it back on the bookshelf. It reflected in the mirror and disappeared on this side of it, but stayed in the reflection on the shelf. A pocket charm anchored between the two sides of the mirror. Clever boy. "I say this with nothing but honey: you are very thin, and if I gave you absinthe you would end up worse off than Edward."