Invictus [Tom Riddle / Tomione]

Paris, Acte 2

Hermione sat across from Tom in a secluded corner of La Tour D'Argent, one of the oldest restaurants in Paris.

She gazed out through the glass walls of the sixth floor, marveling at the evening view of the Seine and the lights of the sprawling city below them. Hermione wore a golden dress of spun silk, adorned with tiny jewels sewn into the fabric; it hung over her body like tinsel. Elbow-length gloves covered her arms, though she wore his black and gold Gaunt ring over the satin. Around her neck hung the phoenix and serpent necklace, and diamond earrings dangled from her ears like drops of ice.

Tom's eyes gleamed preternaturally as they roamed her appearance. Instead of using magic, he reached for the bottle of wine that sat between them and refilled her glass.

He sighed. "No smoking up here. How brutal."

Hermione smirked. "I think you might be the one who needs an intervention now."

He snorted. "Over my dead body."

She lifted a brow. "Is that a challenge?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you want to kill me, Hermione?"

"It's like you said to me once. I prefer you alive more than dead."

He leaned forward with eyes narrowed. "If you kill me, who would you then enlist to keep your voracious sexual appetite satisfied?"

She pinned him with a sardonic glare. "You're one to talk."

He ran his tongue over his top teeth, fighting back a grin.

Hermione picked at her food. She'd not been hungry of late. Her inner person was too wrapped up in torturous turmoil to eat. Tom looked out through the glass, his eyes taking in the scenery of the city, and Hermione took the opportunity to observe him.

So devastatingly handsome, she thought to herself. Like a perfectly crafted blade, one that could carve her heart out of her chest like a butcher.

Tom was so utterly different than she'd ever imagined him to be. She had to continue to remind herself that he'd only begun to rise to power around the 1970s, which was roughly twenty years in the future. She thought of the great strides he'd made in the realm of magic over the past year, of his immense power, which she often felt brimming from his person, as if it could barely be contained by his human frame.

She couldn't imagine him becoming more powerful.

Twenty years was a lot of time for someone to change. It made her feel marginally better to know that the monster she and her friends had destroyed in 1998 was separated from the Tom she cared about now, by about fifty years.

But one day, she told herself, he will be that person. 

There was no changing fate, was there?

Unrest settled over Hermione, a dark cloud of gloom, a sense of inevitable punishment and bitter unfairness. Why was this her fate? To fight in a ghastly war, nearly losing everything dear to her, then to have her entire life severed by that same dark wizard, violently thrown back into time, only to fall in love with that very same person who'd caused her such immense suffering... a man she would eventually hate. Someone evil, mangled, and depraved. It was inevitable. Shakespeare himself couldn't have written a more sorrowful tragedy.

Hermione turned her gaze to him, her keen eyesight tracing the contours of his perfect jawline, the gaunt, sculpted cheekbones and perfect lips. Hermione thought to herself that he was truly a work of art. She mused that perhaps she was a bit biased, and she was embarrassed to admit to herself that she loved everything about Tom. His obsessive habits, his devilish grins, his ingeniousness and forward way of thinking, his habit of teasing her... the way that he managed to be both predictable and shockingly spontaneous, all at once. She even loved the way he took control during sex, but even then, he managed to surprise her, by intermittently handing over the reins to her just as soon as she'd begun to grow comfortable, by pushing her to be bold and powerful and to step beyond her comfort zone.