Misunderstood Maledictions | Tomione

Just Tom

Sunday, December 5, 1944
7:02 A.M.

Hermione yawned. Slowly uncurling herself from her original, curled-up position in a Slytherin green armchair, she stretched luxuriously, reaching her arms toward the ceiling until it seemed they would be able to move no further. Somehow, she had managed to catch as many sporadic ZZZZs as she could while posted beside Tom Riddle's king-sized, Head Boy bed.

Were she any younger, spending this much time in a fully-adorned, hard-core Slytherin bedroom would have definitely been disturbing. Fortunately, though, Draco's stint as Head Boy the past year had, in an outlandish sort of way, prepared her for this year's extensive dealings with the very heir of the Snake House itself.

Hermione's gaze flitted down to Riddle's sleeping face. In the still nothingness around her, her mind floated back to the night when she had first heard of Anima Adflictatio - the night that she had lost all consciousness after her giant row with Riddle in the common room - and she was struck with an inevitable sense of role-reversal déjà vu.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the object of her musings heaved a cavernous sigh—the first sign of life beside breathing that she had gotten from him since Hogsmeade— and leisurely rolled onto his side. His eyes flickered open placidly, then snapped open as he realized exactly where he was.

Back in his own bedroom.

"I didn't think you'd want to go back to the hospital wing," Hermione remarked offhandedly, thoroughly enjoying the shock in Riddle's expression as he rapidly swung his head in the direction of her distinctive, articulate voice. She became even more amused when the Heir of Slytherin swiftly composed himself into one large ball of coolness.

"You're right, I wouldn't have." Delicately, Riddle touched his right temple and winced. "I passed out, I presume."

At the quite obvious deduction, Hermione couldn't help but respond with a very Draco-like smirk, "Five points to Slytherin." She crossed her arms and smugly leaned back in the armchair, drumming her fingers on a knitted rib of her sweater.

Riddle shot her a foul look, weakly propped himself up, and tested his balance with his left arm. He must have deemed himself still unstable, though, because he carefully sank back down into the bed and peered at her, the sunlight giving his tired face a slightly washed-out appearance. "Do draw those godforsaken curtains, Nefertari; do you want me to end up blind as well as bedridden?" he snapped wearily.

Holding back another smirk, Hermione arched an eyebrow in mock-consideration. After momentarily observing her mischievous, laughing eyes, Riddle shook his head impassively and muttered, "Don't answer that, actually."

The smirk broke its way onto Hermione's face anyway, and she casually raised her wand. Without even bothering to turn around and face the open curtains directly behind her, she pointed the supple wood over her head in the general direction of the windows. With an expert flick of her wrist, the thick curtains on each of Riddle's three floor-to-ceiling windows magically swished shut. Immediately the room plunged into the positively dreary, cold atmosphere of nearly pitch darkness.

Never losing sight of Riddle's face, Hermione arched one thin, dark eyebrow at him. "Happy?"

"Quite." Riddle's acute eyes studied her once more, and she lifted her chin, challengingly returning his piecing gaze. She was mildly impressed with his ability to appear imposing and completely in command of the situation, even while lying flat in bed. "I'm sure you realize, Nefertari," he began slowly, his eyes probing hers for a reaction, "that it takes a lot of rather advanced magic, performing simultaneous nonverbal Transmutus spells."