Jörmungandr

Taste of Fire and Magic

Riddle stood over her. Manic edged and so full of joy that he might burst. His mask, torn off to reveal something beautiful. All that energy coiled tight within him, eager to snap out and kill. An apotheosis. Violence, his most true nature, and oh, how it settled on him well. There was purity in looking at the knife that would murder her. Not the blinding white of acceptance, peace. But the trembling rawness of every single one of her nerves alighting to keep her alive. Hermione saw his face clearly. Saw it clear as day when the light flared on it. As the wards containing the fire failed and the inferno was let out. As a great boom tore the air and popped her ears. Her nerves, already so sharp-edged that the noise couldn't possibly tense them further.

She saw his eyes flick up to watch.

Hermione expected that mania to turn riotous. That violent glee in him to erupt and flow over as he watched the world burn. He could rake through her head, kill her cleanly, dump her body in the forest, and smugly mourn the tragedy of the girl who had snuck out and been consumed by the fire. An accident. It was perfect. Serendipitous. Fate.

Or, maybe his face would turn to anger. Wrathful, as the fire dared closer and threatened his home. Fear, even, would make sense. Ever-burning, ever-hungry flames racing toward the boy afraid of Death.

But no.

He was not happy or angry or scared.

Tom saw the fire break the wards and all that joy bled out like a slit throat.

Tired.

He was so, so tired.

His shoulders slumped. He leaned back on his heels. His eyes closed against the burning light, painfully putting back on his mask. His fingers loosened on his wand. If it was windy, it would have slipped through, out of his hand.

He blinked once, not even looking at her anymore.

He watched the fire. Exhausted. Held up only by his bones.

Hermione jumped up and stunned him. A hot red curse that hit him in the stomach and nothing fucking happened. It fizzled the moment it touched him.

Riddle stood unmoving, staring at the fire. Perfectly conscious.

She debated momentarily about trying another or going through her catalogue of spells to see what worked, what didn't. But there was literally a fire breathing down her neck. She pushed it off to the side to deal with later.

Tom Riddle wasn't going anywhere. She was the one in danger.

"Riddle?" Hermione didn't know if she was concerned or angry or scared, but her voice held something.

He didn't look at her. He didn't look like he was breathing.

"Tom?" and it was concern this time because he was her target and if he went into some sort of catatonia, or was connected to the fire in some way, or was just reaching a breaking point she needed to know.

Nothing. His eyes didn't even flicker at his name.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle!" she barked and went back over to the boy who was had been moments away from torturing her. Or worse. Who knew about the stone and was aching to shatter her mind. Kill her. Break her. Tear her apart.

Hermione poked him once. Hard. In the arm.

She could feel his heat through his shirt, through his robes, through the very tip of her finger.

He stood still. Looking past her. Eyes lidded, unfocused, as if trying to process something difficult.

The fire marched on.