Invictus [Tom Riddle / Tomione]

Acheron Place

The next morning, Hermione and Tom woke up slowly. With no election obligations, no jobs to rush off to, and no other responsibilities weighing on them, they rose to consciousness in degrees, a tangled web of limbs beneath the sheets of Tom's bed.

Hermione mumbled, still drowsy with her eyes closed, "Do we continue our legilimency today?"

"Yes, little witch," he whispered against her frizzy brown hair. "But first I have something to show you."

That helped with her ascent to wakefulness. Her eyes popped open. "Show me? What is it?"

The corner of his lips turned up in a lopsided smile. "You'll see. Get your pretty arse up and get dressed."

She hopped spritely out of bed, all bare feet and tanned skin. He watched her as she loped into the bathroom, his arms folded behind his head, a lazy grin on his face.

Tom had never imagined he would enjoy intimacy with another creature like he did with Hermione. He had always lived his life in a highly structured, private way, wound up tightly like a coiled viper, his mind an armored shield, a fortress none could penetrate.

Hermione had slipped beneath his carefully erected walls, razed his guard, and caught him entirely by surprise.

He wanted her. He coveted her. He thought of her at all hours of the day.

Most of the time, he held his emotions in check so that even she couldn't decipher the depth of his obsession with her. He feared that if she knew how utterly and violently attached to her he had become, she would run from him.

His love for her had a murderous quality to it.

In truth, he felt such an all-consuming fixation for the witch that he often wanted to skewer someone just for looking at her.

Not the best situation considering his witch was a public figure, mere weeks from being elected Minister for Magic. A very good thing Tom was capable of self-control.

He looked around his flat, remembering the first night that Hermione had stayed over. He let himself feel nostalgia, since he realized this would be one of the last nights they would spend together in his flat.

He stood and immediately began the ritual of making his bed, folding down the corners with militant precision that scratched an itch somewhere in his psyche each morning.

An hour later, Tom was fully dressed and reading with a cup of coffee in his hand and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth when Hermione stepped out into the sitting room in a brilliant red playsuit with a cheeky collar and tennis shoes. She'd cut her long hair to a length that was currently trendy for the time period, about shoulder length, and had mastered a charm which smoothed her hair and gave her a set of elegant pin curls.

She'd bought a golden tube of cherry red lipstick from Tangee, so she swiped some on her lips and squeezed a pump or two of perfume on her pulse points and she was ready to go.

When she emerged from the hallway into the sitting room, Tom slammed his book shut and let his eyes slowly rake over her appearance. He took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke, arching an eyebrow.

"We have somewhere to be, Hermione. Have you decided you'd rather stay in today?"

Confusion shone in her eyes. "Excuse me?"

He stood, at quite an imposing height given her own stature and the crown of the ceiling. He made his way over to her, his eyes smoldering with heat as he lifted a hand to press his thumb against her nipple, rubbing it over the fabric of the playsuit.