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mickume

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There was only one ingredient that Hermione would have to get from the school cupboard, and it was not one that she would need a lot of. Slughorn would not likely notice that any was missing. She considered buying it from the apothecary’s shop in Hogsmeade, but this particular ingredient had few uses aside from this potion, and the apothecary might talk. No. She would just get a pinch from the school cabinet when she needed it, which should not be often, based on the book. She could brew more than a month’s worth and preserve it for up to half a year, with the right spells.

Taking a deep breath, she bookmarked the page, concealed the text among her parcels of books, and headed for the Potions laboratory.

In a few hours, the potion was simmering in a little cauldron over the small hearth in her bedchamber. It smelled vile and looked just as bad—sickly green—but that was to be expected, she supposed. She poured the proper dose into a goblet and directed the rest into a bottle with her wand, which she corked.

She gazed at the foul-smelling liquid in the goblet. Its scent reminded her very much of the taste of leaves, when she as a child had taken it into her head to pick some from the oak trees and chew on them. Her parents had been appalled and terrified that she would be poisoned, but she had not swallowed enough juice to cause problems. Still, this was an unpleasant thought, but she supposed that in a way, the potion was poison.

Poison... that would prevent her from conceiving. Another thought entered her mind. Her own mother had not been able to have a baby until she was thirty-one years old. She had not had another one after that. As far as Hermione knew, her parents had not suffered miscarriages after her birth, and they definitely had not suffered stillbirths during her lifetime. They had just been questionably fertile... and her Norman great-grandparents on her father’s side had experienced the same problem. If this kind of thing ran in the family, then it almost seemed immoral to take a potion like this. What if it caused long-term harm? Hermione quickly opened the potions book to the page of interest and began to read everything that it said.

"The Potion will work upon any fertile woman with or without Magic. Fear not that its effects last longer than desired, for in the Witch, the Elixir of Frigg shall counter it in the next month...."

Hermione knew that the "Elixir of Frigg" was now known by the bland, though descriptive, name "Draught of Fertility." This was a relief to read. She closed the book, took a deep breath, and downed the horrible-tasting potion as quickly as she could.

That evening, Tom seemed to stare at her longer than usual at the dinner table. Perhaps she was extra conscious of his gaze because of what she had on her mind, but Hermione did wonder if the potion was somehow doing something to her to make her particularly attractive to him. The book had not mentioned that, and it made far more logical sense for that to be an effect of the Draught of Fertility, but it was still possible. The main reason a witch would take this potion would be because of pure desire.

She met his dark eyes and suppressed taking a gulp of air. If she had not known better, she would wonder if he had given her a love potion. She did wonder if he was reading her thoughts without her knowing—if his Legilimency skills had now advanced to the point that she could not detect his presence. That might explain the way he was looking at her better than some mysterious undocumented effect of the potion she had taken.

When the meal was finally over, he linked arms with her and muttered something about "going to study"—presumably for the benefit of Harry and anyone else observing them. She barely thought about her footfalls as they left the Great Hall, avoiding tripping purely by good fortune. They made their way up a few flights of stairs and into one of the otherwise unused rooms, too small for academic use, that they had identified in the spring. This small room held a large chair that they had magically expanded so that they both could sit in it, a table with a half-dozen candles, and a woven rug with Celtic patterns that Tom liked quite a bit.

He locked the door behind them with sharp finality just as she sent a spell to light the candles on the table. The room was windowless, so the candlelight provided the only illumination. Tom turned to her, his dark green robe flowing and gleaming just a bit in the flickering lights.

"I saw what you were thinking about," he said without preamble.

Despite herself, despite the smile that formed on her face immediately, she shook her head in mild exasperation. "I suspected that. Please ask me in the future."

His eyebrows narrowed and his lips curled upward on one side. "Are you quite sure that’s what you want, Hermione?"

I like it when you know that I want you, she thought, but otherwise.... "Yes, I’m sure. Trust me, Tom, I won’t refuse it in... the right circumstances."

He drew close to her and placed one hand on her waist. "And are you sure about this? I saw that you made that potion... but you know, I cannot take it back after it’s done."

She breathed deeply. "I am sure. Are you sure?" Sudden doubt filled her mind, irrational doubt, but she voiced it nonetheless just to be certain. "Are you certain you want me, and you aren’t just going along with this because I’m... here?"

His eyes darkened. "I am not that sort of wizard. You have been "here’ for a year, Hermione. And I would not have gone into this room with someone else, even if you weren’t "here.’" He gazed at her for a moment more, then lunged forward, seizing her lips.

They crumpled to the floor, where she backed against the large chair, her legs splayed almost gracefully with him kneeling between her thighs. He cupped her face with his palms and planted hard kisses against her mouth, each one more intense than the last. The candles flickered on the table a few feet behind him.

She heaved her breath as he drew away temporarily to catch his own. "I learned something interesting over the course of the year," she said.

"I’m sure you learned many interesting things... but what is this one?"

She chuckled. "You will like it."

His eyes gleamed. "Tell me, then."

She smirked teasingly. "Apparently, in the ancient magical culture of Britain and Ireland, there was a custom that consummating an engagement was a form of legally binding marriage." She gazed pointedly at him.

"Is that so. You consented to it after all, then? Is that what you are telling me?"

"Oh, this is not what you had in mind, Tom," she teased. "You wanted to keep me at your mother’s castle and not touch me."

"You presume much," he murmured, leaning in to give her another hard kiss.

"I’m right, though," she gasped.

He drew away and regarded her. "Perhaps. Perhaps I would have regretted that by now and wished that you were here, so I could have you."

His words sent a jolt through her. "Yes," she said. "We can have each other... and it will be our little secret. No one else will know."

"Our secret," he repeated in a soft but intense voice. His eyes were gleaming in the candlelight. His hands settled on her waist again, and in the next moment, they had shifted as one, twisting away from the barrier that was the chair and sprawling on the thick green rug. Tom reached for the bottom hem of her robes, noticing idly that they were the pretty green-and-gold ones that he had admired so much at the beginning of the previous year. They were already pushed up to her knees, reminding him of that night they had shared at home. He hesitated for a second, then pulled them the rest of the way up her legs, somewhat fumblingly, and with a surprising measure of sudden vulnerability.

"It’s all right," she said, leaning forward to kiss him as he awkwardly opened the front of her robe. Those words seemed to give him the courage to continue. He reached for the clasps of his own outer robe.

The candles on the table burned down slowly, as the young inhabitants of the room cast their moving shadows in the dim warm glow.

Hermione stretched lazily and planted a languid kiss on Tom’s mouth as she sprawled over his supine form. The stuffed mattress was really a transfigured cushion. This was not as pleasant as, for instance, Tom’s bed at his mother’s castle would have been, but it was an improvement over the rug—and they could turn it back into a cushion when they left this room, just in case anyone else ever went inside. Since the first occasion, they had enjoyed physical intimacy several more times. It got better. Hermione had been extremely sore after the first time, but that aftereffect was almost gone now. Tom had also found that it got better with time; he was able to slow himself down just a bit now and make it last longer. It was a learning experience for both of them right now, but he was just glad that he was learning about it with Hermione rather than with some other girl. He knew that with practice, they would someday be able to set their bed on fire—literally, as well, if they wanted to. There was a spell for flames that did not scorch or consume....

Tom pinned her against his body with a strong arm, feeling very contented indeed as he reflected on their relationship. She was right, he thought, cuddling her possessively. It’s better to have this as a private secret—for now, at least—while we both continue here at Hogwarts. Tom honestly considered her as much his wife now as if they had spoken vows before the fat friar of Hogwarts himself, but no one else knew about it. He liked that.

He was glad that she had brewed that potion. Someday they would have children, but he did not want that responsibility right now. He enjoyed Hogwarts, and that was part of the reason, but he was also hungry for other things and he wanted some of these things accomplished before they brought vulnerable children into the world. They were easy targets.

The Malfoy-Black-Lestrange rule needed to end, for one. It was offensive to Tom on a personal level that a pair of foreign-born families—and one family of blood-traitor toadies—ruled all of wizarding Britain. It was a disgrace that a country with such an ancient magical culture should essentially be colonized. Colonization was for the primitive and the weak, in his opinion. Tom supposed that he would be satisfied with the return of the old Wizengamot as the governing body—his mother was always very cagey about her political views, but he strongly suspected this was what she would like to see—but lately, he had come to develop greater ambitions than a mere restoration of the status quo of eighty years ago. No, something had gone terribly wrong six hundred years earlier, and that was what Tom wanted fixed. None of this would have happened if the magical line of Morgana and Mordred had ruled England.

Mordred was a bastard, and the offspring of an incestuous coupling, Tom thought, but he was still of royal blood. Perhaps people would not care about those things after all this time.

He also was determined to discover the truth about Salazar Slytherin’s reputed chamber in Hogwarts and the great serpent that perhaps resided there. Supposedly Slytherin had left behind his monster to "cleanse the school," and the common interpretation was that this meant "purge the school of Mudbloods," but Tom wondered if something had been lost over the years, once the man was no longer there to speak for himself. Perhaps Slytherin had simply meant to protect the school from any threat. Godric Gryffindor had welcomed foreign invaders with open arms, and been removed from his own lordship and supplanted by said invaders. If protecting the school from threats was what Slytherin actually intended, he was wise, Tom thought—and he was increasingly able to convince himself that this was indeed what Slytherin had intended.

He wondered if, perhaps, Slytherin had had Seer gifts and had foreseen the Norman invasion. He had left Hogwarts only about a decade before the invaders had come. This also made sense to Tom. It all fit, he thought, so even in the absence of concrete evidence, he became more unalterably convinced of his theory the more he thought about it.

And it meant that with his bloodline from both Morgana le Fay and Salazar Slytherin, Tom was surely a "chosen one" of sorts to correct what had gone so badly wrong.

Hermione squirmed in Tom’s arms, apparently wanting to sit up. He released her. She moved to a sitting position and reached for her robes.

"You are beautiful when you’ve just been ravished," he remarked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

She gave him a level stare, intending to appear disapproving, but he could see the laugh lines trying to make their appearances on her face as well.

"We should return to the common room," she said, casting charms to clean herself. He sighed but acknowledged the truth of what she said. They would be missed if they stayed here much longer, and people would start to speculate—rightly, he thought. It would be very inconvenient if the Malfoy-supporting families or the Malfoys themselves got wind of their intimate activities.

The following day, Hermione dressed herself and went into the Slytherin common room as usual, when she noticed to her surprise that Professor Slughorn was there and Harry was standing next to him. Tom was seated nearby, shooting Harry looks of dislike, but when Hermione appeared in the threshold, his face softened.

"Ah, there you are, Lady Hermione," Slughorn boomed. "I have something very important to tell you about your studies."

For a second, Hermione panicked. Had someone told the professor what she and Tom were doing? Was she going to be made to go home? Then she realized that Harry had no reason to be involved in any such decision, nor to hear it. It would be a private discussion involving her, Tom, and probably their parents. This was something else, then.

"I have decided that you and young Master Potter here should be moved into the intermediate-level Potions and Alchemy class," Slughorn declared, beaming. "The talent between the two of you is astonishing."

Hermione immediately glanced at Tom. He was jealous. She and Harry were advancing in a subject after one year and a couple of months of study. Tom had done that for Arithmancy and Charms and Curses, moving up after the intermission for Yule and Christmas last year, but for the rest of his subjects—including Potions—he had advanced to the intermediate level after two years of study. There were two levels of "novitiate" or beginner schooling, one for the very first year of Hogwarts and one that typically lasted four months (for the brightest witches and wizards) to two years, until they advanced to the intermediate level. In the previous year, she and Harry had been in that first level, whereas Tom had been either in the second level or in the intermediate class, depending on the subject.

Now she and Harry would be in the same Potions group with him, for however long that lasted. Tom would certainly advance to the final level, the mastery class, for all the magical subjects in his fourth year. Bright witches and wizards usually did, while others remained at an intermediate level through four or often even five years at Hogwarts. But through next spring, they would have Potions and Alchemy together.

"Thank you, Professor," she said at once, putting gratitude into her words. "I cannot wait."

"Lady Hermione, you will also advance to the intermediate level in Arithmancy and Ancient Languages," Slughorn continued. Tom smiled at this, as it meant that she would be taught alongside him in three subjects, but his smile was still tight with jealousy and resentment.

"And I have news for Lord Thomas as well," he said, turning to Tom, who promptly rose to his feet. "Your aptitude for wandwork is equally astonishing. You are close to mastery as it is, so you shall advance to the mastery class in Charms and Curses. This is the first time since the founding of Hogwarts that a pupil in his third year of tutoring has been placed in the mastery class for any subject."

The jealousy had fled Tom’s face at this announcement. He bowed curtly to Slughorn, delighted. "Thank you, Professor," he said, echoing Hermione. Real pleasure spread across his handsome features.

Slughorn turned to Hermione and Harry, the latter of whom was looking a little put out now that he had only been advanced in one subject. "The first, but probably not the last," he said pointedly to Hermione and Harry.

Tom’s gaze tightened again. Slughorn noticed, and he said at once, "I would not be surprised, Lord Thomas, if you advance in other subjects after Yule and Christmas. The three of you are certainly hoarding a disproportionate amount of magical talent! Not that there is anything wrong with that." He winked at them and ambled away through the door to the common room.

Hermione turned to Harry. "This means that we won’t have to be in Potions with Adelaide Lestrange anymore, of course." Adelaide had been among the stragglers in Potions and Alchemy, those who did not go to the intermediate class even after a full two years of education. This had meant that so far this autumn, she and Harry had been in Slughorn’s classroom with her. It was not a pleasant experience. Harry chuckled, and Tom cracked a smile as well.

The subject of their discussion then emerged from the doorway to the girls’ bedchambers, followed by the majority of her pack of followers.

"I do not want to see you either, you filthy Mudblood," she snarled.

"Do you have nothing else to say?" Tom scoffed, rolling his eyes skyward.

The girl drew her wand. "Not to the likes of any of you. Nothing else about you matters. No matter how brilliant you all may be, no matter how much magical talent you hoard, you are all dirty-blooded and unimportant. You will never rule wizarding Britain. Draco will, and I will be by his side. You will bend your knees and swear fealty to us." She stormed through the common room.

Tom was standing by, staring at her in seething outrage. "Just you wait," he muttered.

In Potions that day, Hermione was unsurprised when Tom insisted that she and Harry switch partners. He paired himself with her possessively, leaving Harry to work with his own former Potions partner, Marcus Flint. Flint looked somewhat put out about having to work with a common-born half-blood, but he rallied himself well enough. Hermione hoped he would not give Harry a hard time. She had learned over the past couple of months that he was indeed engaged to Daphne Greengrass, and moreover, that both of them were pleased about it. That was a relief to Hermione, who considered Daphne something approximating a friend, and who had lately had her eyes opened to the importance of liking and respecting one’s partner in life.

She turned to Tom, who was perusing the instructions in the Potions textbook for Polyjuice Potion. It was quite advanced, but Hermione felt certain that she could make it. She got up, walked over to Slughorn’s ingredients cabinet, and reached into the earthenware jar that she knew contained boomslang skin. When she returned to the table, Tom was staring at the ingredient, as if he disapproved.

"That comes from a snake," he said.

"Yes, but it was shed. The snake didn’t die," Hermione said, adding the snake skin to the cauldron.

He managed a tight smile. "I would feel like a cannibal to consume something containing any part of a snake."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Why?" she inquired. "You speak the language of snakes. You are not part snake yourself."

He continued to bear that forced smile. "Of course not, but I feel kinship with them. And in any case, I have no desire to change my outward identity by drinking this potion, whenever it is ready. I am quite proud of my identity and heritage."

He was acting quite odd, which Hermione attributed to residual jealousy over her own apparently superior Potions skills. She continued making the potion until it had to be covered for the day. They would add more ingredients next time.

Once immediately outside Slughorn’s laboratory, Tom grabbed Marcus Flint by the elbow and stopped in the hall. Hermione paused, standing near him and waiting. Harry paused as well. Tom gave her a smile.

"It is quite all right," he said. "You need not wait for me."

A couple of other young wizards, Rob Wilkes and Edgar Fawley, were approaching. They joined Tom and Flint, immediately giving unwelcoming looks to Hermione and especially Harry. In a moment, Cormac Avery and Theodore Nott joined them.

Tom’s smile was a bit too broad. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Are these your friends, my lord?" she inquired.

Her startling formality took Tom aback. She had never called him that, as far as he could remember; in public, she referred to him as "Lord Thomas" or just "Thomas." The message that she sent was that she disapproved of being kept out of anything he was doing that involved alliances.

"They are, my lady," he said, trying not to sound blatantly fake before the other young wizards.

"Then should I not be a part of the conversation? And Potter, since he is guarding me?" she asked sweetly.

Harry stood beside her, taking in the proceedings and gazing very suspiciously at Tom and the other Slytherins. He did assume a guardian’s pose as he moved in front of her to put himself between her and the Slytherin boys—including Tom.

Tom noticed, and his eyebrows subtly narrowed. "We should not speak of sensitive matters in the halls of Hogwarts," he said abruptly. He took Hermione’s arm and gave her a pointed look as he steered her away from everyone else. They walked apart from the group. The five pureblood boys followed, leaving Harry standing in the hallway. He picked up his pace and trailed at the end of the group, his gaze never leaving Hermione’s back.

"I have a right to know about your political alliances and plans," Hermione said firmly that afternoon before dinner, when they were alone. "I am not a Muggle noblewoman, concerned mainly with being the lady of a castle, having children, and making matches for them. Whatever it is that you are talking about with these boys, I deserve to know."

Tom sighed. "You do," he agreed, "and truly, Hermione, it isn’t that much—yet. I have been trying to get leads on the facts about Slytherin’s chamber that supposedly exists in the school. My mother has put hexes on all the books in the family library that might contain that information, so I thought that perhaps these boys from old families might know something about it."

Hermione eyed him. "You have mentioned this occasionally to me," she said. "I don’t quite understand what you hope to achieve with it if it does exist, though."

Tom considered what to say. Although he had indeed told her of the legend of the Chamber, he had never mentioned the rest of the legend. He was not sure what she would think about it. But if it did exist, and he found it, then she would find out anyway.

He summoned his courage. "It is not just a chamber," he finally said. "The legend also says that Slytherin left a beast in it that only he could control, which would imply—"

"A great serpent," Hermione finished, her eyes wide. Tom could almost see her mind at work as she reached her next conclusion. "A basilisk? Tom! Basilisks are fast, and their venom has only one antidote, and their very gaze is instantly fatal! What are you thinking?"

"If I found the Chamber, I would enter it with my eyes closed and I would speak commands in Parseltongue to subdue the snake," he said. "I am the blood of Slytherin. I could control it too. It would be all right."

"Why would he have left such a thing in a school anyway?" she exclaimed.

"The legend says that he did it to protect the school from... Muggle-borns," he said reluctantly. Hermione’s face fell, and he continued hurriedly, "But what is the source for that information? Families like the Malfoys. I think that Slytherin must have been a Seer," he explained. "He resigned from Hogwarts not long before the Normans came. I think he saw what was coming and left it there for his heir."

Hermione was staring at Tom in dismay. "I have two grandparents, one on each side of my family, who were of that race. Whether the truth lies in the legend or your own theory, if this monster exists, I am still a target for it."

"It is a beast. As a serpent, what would the blood status of human wizards be to it? And the first basilisk was bred by Herpo in ancient Greece, so what would it care about the blood of someone in England? It’s an animal. It would have no political opinions of its own and would do what I told it to do."

"And what exactly would you tell it to do?" she challenged. "What would you use this hypothetical lethal monster to do, Tom?"

He hesitated. "I don’t know. I would not feed Draco Malfoy to it, if that’s what you are worried about," he said. "But if it exists, then it’s mine, and I should have command of it."

Hermione shook her head. "Tom, you need to be careful. You say that you can go into this chamber and command this snake, but if it is real, you don’t know that. What if it was Slytherin’s familiar and takes orders from no other wizard, even his own blood?"

Tom had no reply to that.

"I do not think you should pursue this," she said. She touched his chest gently. "It could end in tragedy, and even if it doesn’t, you cannot actually use this basilisk—if a basilisk there is—for anything good. A creature like that is a weapon, and we are not at war."

Yet, Tom thought darkly. But he did have to admit, even to himself, that she was right for the time being. He could not use a basilisk at this time of his life. Someday, though.... He placed one of his hands over the hand of hers that rested on his chest, gripping it warmly and bringing a smile to her face. They stood silently like that for a moment, until he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently.

"It’s time for dinner," he said.

That evening, Tom and Hermione met in the hallway, making sure not to be seen leaving the Slytherin common room together, and escaped to their little private room. Hermione closed the door behind them and Tom locked it with a spell as Hermione almost immediately began to strip off her outer robe. It fell from her shoulders in a ripple of heavy silk. She set it down carefully on the chair, piling her other clothing on top of it as she and Tom both disrobed. They transfigured the cushion into "their" mattress and quickly tumbled into each other’s heated embrace upon it.

Hermione sprawled on her back, baring her body unabashedly to him. She saw no reason to feel shame before him, after all. His eyes gleamed momentarily, and in the next moment, he was atop her, kissing her exposed breasts as his nimble fingers drifted down her body. She involuntarily closed her legs as he reached her juncture, but he gave her a dark smirk and pulled them open again. He planted a heavy kiss on the side of her neck, one that might leave a mark that they would have to heal before they left this room, and then he straddled her and pushed into her. There was no pain at all for her this time, she observed—but she could not focus on that detail for too long.