Work Text:
Adversary
Unnoticeable.
That word described her to a tee.
He hadn't noticed her among them, or perhaps more correctly, he hadn't deemed her worthy of attention. She was one of the many faceless fools in Dumbledore's Order: a lackey, a girlfriend of one of his Aurors, a disposable subject in Dumbledore's eyes—of that Tom had no doubt. She was perhaps entrusted to help around the house, be emotional support, and a researcher at best. He'd seen her file after all.
Tom hadn't become Gellert Grindelwald's right-hand man by sitting around twiddling his thumbs. He'd singlehandedly collected most of the information in all the files they had on Dumbledore's rag-tag army, and he was nothing if not thorough. Tom Riddle made sure every single individual spotted near Albus gained a file, even if they were unimportant in the scheme of things.
Disposable.
Not worth a second glance.
Hermione Jean Granger had been top of her class at Hogwarts, but as he investigated said achievement—and he used that term loosely in her case—she'd gained said position through book knowledge, through reciting texts greater minds than hers had created. There was nothing creative in her thoughts or out of the ordinary. Her boringly long essays showed as much. He'd wanted to rip his hair out at the slacking professors who'd deemed her rubbish copying with standard snooze-worthy opinions O-worthy.
Nothing that showed true intelligence.
It was infuriating that her grades matched his.
Favouritism.
Unworthy.
In pictures and memories he'd collected, she ran around in sloppy flannel shirts, always a pencil behind her ear stuck in that mess of a hair she didn't bother taming. Sometimes she even misplaced her wand there as if she were begging for it to blow up that unused organ inside her thick skull.
Top of her class.
Prefect.
Head Girl.
Everything was always pitch-perfect around her.
No fouls.
No suspicions of wrongdoing.
Above approach.
Harmless.
He let out a short bark of a laugh. If it didn't sting so much for having missed the obvious, he would've appreciated the irony. Tom Riddle didn't like to be played for a fool.
No, he definitely did not.
He tried remembering if she'd been there. Grindelwald had sent him to do the negotiations for a truce. He'd spoken directly with Dumbledore. The fool had tried to persuade him to switch sides, reminding him of his partly Muggle heritage, not realizing Tom was on nobody's side but himself. He remembered the black-haired boy with green eyes behind a pair of round glasses and some lanky, foul-tempered redhead. It had been enjoyable pushing that one's buttons, so easy, too.
And informative.
Angry fools blabbered too much.
Of course this whole charade of talks of a truce was nothing more than him sizing up the opposition and deeming them sorely lacking. They could've taken all of them out already had Grindelwald not dragged his feet on that for some inconceivable, weak, sentimental reason. The werewolf had the most sense of the group as he had expected. Tom felt if they were to strike, apart from Dumbledore and McGonagall, he had to be a first priority, too.
Had she been there?
There had been so many people interrupting and walking in and out of that meeting (something he never would've allowed had he been Albus Dumbledore), he couldn't be ...
Wait, hadn't she sat in the corner?
Yes, now he remembered.
She'd worn Muggle clothing, sweatpants under an oversized flannel shirt, and sat on a windowsill reading some silly girly magazine. She hadn't said a word or seemed even remotely interested in what was going on at the table. He'd deemed her a disgusting mess, the perfect showing of why Mudbloods were beneath them all.
And then he'd moved on, not even glancing at her twice.
He could just kick himself for not looking more closely, for not paying attention. He prided himself on the fact that nothing slipped by him; nobody fooled Lord Voldemort. He'd missed the little fly on the wall, while she had obviously taken everything in that had been said. He was Grindelwald's head of security for a reason. Deadly, ruthless, and effective. He led his knights with an iron fist. Lord Voldemort didn't accept failure from anyone. He took out any and all opposition with ease, while Grindelwald took all the glory.
And the blame.
Tom Riddle had always been a patient man, lying in wait for the perfect time to strike, gathering his most trusted followers inside Grindelwald's inner circle. One day, when all the circumstances were in his favour, when all the chess pieces were set in checkmate position, he would dispose of the man and rule the world.
He hadn't known it would come so soon.
He hadn't known she would be the catalyst.
He hadn't known an absolute nobody would force him to play his hand.
Grand Entrance
His hand got forced at the charity event.
When Gellert's wife, Norma, entered, Tom felt it more than saw the anomaly. She entered tall, head held high, a presence that turned all eyes towards her, a charm so unmistakable, people wanted to be near her, hoping to see that broad smile turn to them. The one thing Tom felt Grindelwald had done right was make this witch his wife. She was a force to be reckoned with, a true ally who made Grindelwald so much stronger than his actual bedfellows did. Together, they had an almost magnetic, entrancing effect on people. It didn't harm how utterly stunning they both were either.
Tom's eyes roved over the long, tight-fitting, burgundy strapless dress. It had a split that reached so high it was almost indecent, but the woman had so much class, she made it work for her. The room had gone silent upon her entry, her high heels clicking prominently as she clearly enjoyed the attention.
'Darling!' Gellert boomed from the far end of the room, spreading his arms wide and walking towards her. 'There you are.'
Tom knew he only had seconds to decide as he was still positioned between the two. The witch's blue eyes caught his knowing gaze. Something mischievous flickered briefly behind her eyes, and she curled her lip. Knowingly. Daring him to act or not act. He wasn't sure which.
What he did know was that this witch was definitely not Gellert's wife and that he was the only one there who'd noticed that.
Gellert passed him in a flurry, pulling Norma in a boisterous hug.
'You look breathtaking, darling.'
The way her eyes met his as Gellert kissed her on both of her cheeks, Tom had the distinct feeling someone's breath would definitely cease tonight.
Poison
His dark eyes followed her every move as she and Gellert worked the room, chatting with the patrons, supporters, and donors alike. Luckily Tom's job required him to keep such scrutiny or else he'd been undoubtedly kicked out for his indecency. He could tell she felt his gaze on her and hoped it unnerved whoever she was, knowing he could expose her any minute, knowing she was at his mercy.
'Excuse me,' he heard her say, watching her walk to the lavatory.
If ever he saw an invitation to follow, this was it. He considered the possibility of a trap, but put it aside. Nobody could best Lord Voldemort. She'd be most welcome to try and fail. He moved through the crowds, easily evading the chatty types.
However, he got held up by two of his knights. Rodolphus Lestrange interrupted him about some suspicious waiter who didn't have the proper clearance forms. Malfoy seemed particularly apprehensive about this for some innate reason he really didn't care to hear about. Reluctantly, Tom looked at the obviously faked parchment, his dark eyes darting to the corridor the lavatories were in. She'd long since disappeared from view.
'Where is this fool?' he asked in a hushed tone of voice, pushing the parchment back in Rodolphus's hand.
'Stuck him in the basement.'
'Alone?'
'Bella is keeping an eye on him.'
'Then you better go back and make sure he can still speak and respond to questions before she eradicates his sanity. I'll be there shortly.'
'When will that be?' Malfoy piped in and, as if realising belatedly what he had just said, added in a hurry, 'I didn't hire this bloke. It's not my fault he got in. I want—'
'Do you think I care what you want, Malfoy?'
The blond at least had the decency to swallow.
'I'll be there when I'm bloody well ready and not one minute sooner.'
'Yes, my Lord.'
'Now go.'
Annoyed, he turned his attention back to the corridor and strode off to find the witch when he heard her melodious laugh coming behind him. She'd already come back while he was otherwise engaged.
Blasted interruptions. He would have a word with his knights about disturbing him.
She stood at the bar, the bartender talking to her animatedly while sliding her two sparkling beverages. As she turned around, two champagne glasses in hand, her eyes met Tom's again, and she had the audacity to wink and make a pretend toast motion with one of the glasses in her hand. It severely raised his suspicions about the contents.
A large, concrete column blocked his line of sight, so he had to manoeuvre around the crowd to witness her offer Gellert the glass in her left hand. He could still stop this, Tom knew. He knew she knew he could still stop this.
Apparently, she also knew he wouldn't.
Gellert, being firmly engaged in some discussion, waved his arms around before taking the glass in her right hand. Tom smirked, wondering how she would handle this complication.
'A toast,' she said, holding up her glass.
'Health and money,' Gellert declared, clinking the glass against hers.
'Health and money,' she repeated, taking a deep sip from her glass.
'Health and money,' the others cheered.
Tom raised his eyebrows. Perhaps he'd been wrong about the contents. Perhaps poison wasn't the plan? When she caught his stare and kept it while drinking the rest of the champagne, he knew he had been right all along.
It was time to make his move.
He strode across the floor, smirking when he noticed her immediately separating herself from the group and attempting to evade him. Clearly she had no knowledge of his stealthy, short-distance Apparition abilities. Only a select few did after all. He cast and appeared in front of the startled witch.
'Dance with me.'
Haughtily, 'Norma Grindelwald' looked down her nose at him but her veiled amusement betrayed that act.
'You think that wise?'
He grabbed her wrist and vanished the glass from her hand, wandlessly and without so much as a gesture, that display of power not lost on her. Then he pulled her with him to the dance floor, twirled her around, and caught her tightly in his arms.
'I would be remiss if I hadn't danced with Norma Grindelwald.'
'Then you still are.'
Her bold nerve both shocked and amused him. 'Your Glamour skills are quite impeccable.'
'Obviously not impeccable enough.'
'Who are you?'
She merely raised an eyebrow in response. He tightened his grip on her waist, pressing her hard against his body. He enjoyed the way she felt in his arms.
'You'd be wise not to underestimate me, dear.'
'I never have, Tom Riddle, or should I say Lord Voldemort?'
He stared down at her. Only his closest followers knew that name belonged to him. She had him at a disadvantage. Of course he could easily rip apart the Glamour and identify her, they both knew that, but there was no challenge in that act, no fun to be had. The thrill that ran through his body at perhaps finally having a worthy opponent was worth so much more to him than the short-lived satisfaction of a quick solution.
'It's why you are lucky, my Lord, I wasn't the one in charge here or I'd made other choices.'
He felt her hand move to his neck and quickly twirled her around, catching her other wrist as well. He investigated the contents of the miniscule syringe in her hand before vanquishing it. He pulled her back in, her hands came to rest involuntarily against his chest as he had an ironclad grip on her wrists. Slowly, he clicked his tongue at her.
'Fast-working venom. That's rather conspicuous, wouldn't you say?'
She merely shrugged.
But that uncaring act he could see straight through. This witch had planned to leave unbothered after poisoning Grindelwald. That was why 'her husband' wasn't dead on the floor yet. She needed time for her exit. If, however, Gellert's right-hand man suddenly dropped dead to the floor, that planned exit would vanish in a blink of an eye.
Tom's hand on her back pressed her tightly against him as he waltzed her around the floor. He enjoyed the feel of her tiny form and her soft curves against him. She was somewhat smaller than the person she was pretending to be, something only an extremely observant person like Lord Voldemort would notice. Certainly not a phoney husband who barely could stand touching her in public.
'How would you have escaped if you'd succeeded in poisoning me?'
'Perhaps I wouldn't need to then,' she replied, attempting to portray an air of certainty.
'Liar.'
She blinked.
'You presume too much, Mr Riddle!' she said loudly and attempted to break free from his hold, looking around in surprise when no one reacted to Norma Grindelwald causing a scene.
Her struggles ceased at once. Unfortunately.
He rather enjoyed the friction of her body moving against his.
'A moving illusion charm,' she whispered, unable to keep the awe seeping from her tone of voice.
Clever.
'Good catch. Most people would've assumed it was an invisibility shield,' he said under his breath, leaning into her ear. 'The things I could do to you now in this full room, and no one would be the wiser.'
A shiver ran through her body.
'I doubt it,' she whispered against his neck, daringly imitating his tone of intimacy to perfection. His cock twitched noticeably against her body. Never had someone been this forward with him. 'Illusion charms are notoriously unstable. They take someone's full focus to keep up.'
He leaned back, caught her eyes, and raised a single eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitched up in a mocking sneer.
'You dare question my abilities, Mrs Grindelwald?'
That glamoured face turned into a mocking smile of her own.
'Maybe I'd like to see you try and…' she paused before leaning in and breathing against his lips, 'fail.'
His heart skipped a beat at the blatant irreverence, and he captured her lips harshly, forcing her to follow his lead as he deepened the kiss. He'd show this little speck of a witch what failure truly entailed.
Her failure.
She would submit to Lord Voldemort.
Wholly.
Fully.
Without reservation.
Blood rushed to his cock, and he whirled them around, pushing her up against the column, not breaking their kiss. He'd destroy this poisoner, defile every inch of this enemy—he had no doubt she was one. A bolt of his magic ripped open the front of her dress; her bra and underwear dropped uselessly to the ground. Immediately she wrapped her legs around his hips, rubbing against his rock-hard cock. He broke off the kiss and yanked her arms above her head. A sticking charm on her wrists attached her to the concrete. His evil smile made her shiver. It was obvious she knew that if he stepped away now, she would dangle there, unable to touch the floor with her feet, fully exposed. Helpless.
He was considering it.
Oh, he so was.
Her legs pulled him close, but what nearly undid him was the eye contact she kept as she rubbed her exposed cunt over his still covered cock.
Once.
Twice.
'Minx,' he hissed, placing one hand next to her head and wrapping the other around her throat.
As he tightened his fingers, she gasped for air. He caught that gasp with his mouth, loosened his grip a little and breathed his air into her lungs. As he found a rhythm between allowing her air and restricting it, his other hand traced the lines of her body. Her real body. He didn't need to remove the Glamour to feel her soft breasts, the hardening of her nipple as he tweaked it, the wetness of her cunt staining his trousers as she rubbed against him like a cat in heat.
Without seeing, he was memorizing every inch of her, every twitch and curl of her body as he brought her close to that edge without pushing her over. His thumb circled her clit while his finger dipped into her wet cunt. Her desperation was glorious in the way her cunt clenched around his finger and the unintelligible noises that left her lips against his. Imagining his cock pumping in and out of that tight, hot, wet cavern almost made him unzip his trousers and give into his rising desire to make her his.
Almost.
Lord Voldemort would not yield first.
The mewling noise she made when he removed his hand and stopped caressing her where she needed it most made him smile against her mouth. Triumph ran through him from head to toe. His little poisoner was almost ready to give in and surrender. His breath ghosted over the sensitive, reddened skin of her throat until his teeth caught and pulled on her earlobe. He could sense her frustration, her need for him. It grew and grew and grew. His cock throbbed painfully. He needed this magnificent witch, whoever she was. Lord Voldemort would claim her. Forever.
'Please,' she whispered barely audibly.
Normally he would have drawn it out, made her beg, made her acknowledge defeat, made her identify herself, made her say his true name, and so much more, but his bodily reactions to that quietly spoken syllable were more extreme than he'd ever experienced before. It was warning enough.
He flicked his wrist, and his cock sprung free. With a single hard thrust, he entered her fully, leaning with his forehead against hers as he savoured the feeling of her cunt milking his cock. The way she breathed against his face, the tiny whimpers leaving her mouth, the way she adjusted her hips to allow him better access, the way she reacted to every thrust, every push and pull, it hurt him inside in a most magnificent manner.
His need grew and grew and grew. He groaned when he felt it coming. He whispered a dark arts spell against her lips before capturing them in a searing kiss and pushing himself fully inside one last time. She shuddered as her orgasm followed his when he released his semen inside of her. Her screams were muffled by his mouth as if he claimed them as solely his, too. Her arms dropped around his shoulders, and she sagged against his body as they sank to the floor, both out of breath and perspiring massively.
Magnificent.
He could sense long, wild curls tickling his chest, despite seeing short blond hair. Somehow they felt more suitable for this witch.
Wild.
Untamed.
Yet, he'd tamed her, had he not?
'Impressive,' she said, scanning the area around them. 'You didn't drop it.'
'You didn't seem to care whether it was still up while we were doing it.'
She shrugged again.
'Had you dropped it, Grindelwald would've killed us both, and my goals would be met.'
Those calmly, coldly spoken words stung more than he cared to admit.
'Don't play games with me, dear, you won't enjoy what I'll do to you.'
'Oh, sweetie, you're not going to do anything. Not tonight at least. You can't afford to. You have a front to uphold after all.'
Admiration darted visibly through his dark eyes. Though he didn't like that some stranger was seeing straight through him, her cleverness was positively appealing. Nobody had ever understood him or seen through his plans until he allowed it. She leaned towards him and kissed his cheek. Her breath brushed his earlobe.
'After all, what would people make of the murderer of Gellert Grindelwald kissing you and being oh so comfortable in your arms.'
'Whatever I tell them.'
She smiled.
'Someday in the future, I'm sure you'll be more than capable of pulling that off, but not now. He's not dead yet and can still be saved.'
She let that hang between them.
'Thanks for the … dance, Tom, but I think it's time for Norma to rejoin the party.'
He nodded and rose to his feet, pulling her with him. A flick of his wrist and they were both presentable again as if nothing had occurred between them. He bowed his head to her.
'Until we meet again, Mrs Grindelwald.'
'We'll see.'
'You have my word.'
The rueful smile gave him a tiny fraction of satisfaction as she turned away. Alas, she was right. He couldn't be implicated in the murder. He watched her stroll out of the room, wondering when he'd find her again, whoever she was.
When the real Norma entered, he couldn't remember why he ever found her impressive. She was so mundane compared to her counterpart.
He would find that mystery woman again.
He vowed he would find her again.
And Lord Voldemort always kept his promises.
Takeover
It took the old man forever to die. At first Tom had thought his mystery witch had failed, but then he started seeing tiny symptoms: flecks of perspiration, flushing of the skin, dizzy spells and more.
More and more and more.
Until Gellert couldn't hide it anymore, until he started screaming in agony.
Healers were brought in.
Fruitlessly.
Nothing they did worked. They couldn't even identify what was killing the man. By now it had become obvious he was dying. People gossiped and speculated. Fingers were pointed to kitchen staff, jilted lovers, his real wife, and others. Of course, Tom was above reproach. Even those who might have considered him a possibility were smart enough to not suggest such indiscretions in public or private. Lord Voldemort's wrath was well-known and feared among Grindelwald's followers.
Tom waited and waited and waited.
While he waited, he concluded and evaluated his research on the Order. It would be no problem to remove a threat that insignificant. Once Grindelwald were out of the way, he would use the man's death to eradicate them all. Gellert wouldn't be around to drag his feet against the Order, and Lord Voldemort would not wait a second. No enemy would be left standing.
The day finally came, and he held a rousing speech about how Dumbledore was responsible, how he heard the proof from Grindelwald's dying lips. Lord Voldemort smoothly took over leadership.
'Kill them all.'
That day he had his followers raid every house of every Order member and was astonished how easily they'd been in apprehending. How foolish of them to not change locations and just live in their family homes and think those measly wards were any protection at all. He'd focused on Dumbledore, but the man hadn't even put up a fight. It seemed like all life had left him before Tom's arrival, a broken wizard ready for death. It had been so easy, so sorely disappointing. There was no challenge. He strode through the blood soaked street. The men and women who now all reported to him cheered loudly at the ravaging that occurred. When he passed a common terraced house, Antonin's loud voice boomed, drowning out the screams.
'Of course that blasted Mudblood is not home.'
'Did you see that dress hanging?' Rabastan replied, growling.
'Yes, Mrs Grindelwald would turn in her grave.'
Tom froze. A chill ran down his spine. Perhaps today would brighten up after all. He swirled around.
'What dress?'
The men exchanged nervous glances.
'Answer me.'
'That Mudblood has the same dress as Mrs Grindelwald did as if she could wear it,' Antonin scoffed.
He frowned. Mudblood? Which one of them was that again? It took him longer than he cared to admit before the name Granger came to mind and the visual that accompanied it: some slob of an insignificant girl with too much hair and flannel.
Wild, untamable hair!
Surely, that couldn't be.
'Which house?'
Tom was inside before the man finished pointing. The rooms had already been trashed, but she'd made it easy for him. Deliberately so, he decided, eyeing the burgundy dress that hung demonstratively on the wall. He could tell by the discolouration of the wallpaper that the nail holding the hanger used to hold a painting or picture of some sort.
'Told you I'd find you,' he muttered.
'My Lord?'
'Search the house. Bring me anything that might lead to information about where she is hiding.'
They probably wouldn't find anything—of that he was certain. The witch he met that evening wasn't sloppy enough to leave a trace unless she wanted to be found. He walked to the already opened wardrobe. His eyes had caught the variety of clothes in there. A multitude of formal and casual wear, including items that could only be identified as fetish gear. His hands checked them out, one after the other, faster and faster. Obvious disguises, every single item. There were wigs and boxes of clearly professional makeup. When he was done, he realised he hadn't seen a single flannel shirt.
His dark eyes fell on the burgundy dress.
An inescapable need to touch it overwhelmed him, as if holding it would be the same as holding her in his arms. He took a hold of the dress and brought it to his nose, inhaling her scent deeply. For a moment he was back on the dance floor, holding her tightly in his arms.
Abruptly the phone rang.
His wand was in his hand before the second ring. His men stormed in next. He held up his hand.
'Go outside. Check the adjacent buildings. I want her alive.'
He inspected the phone on the nightstand. It was an old model, one he remembered from the orphanage. It had a candlestick shape, and he recalled you had to unhook the cup from the stick and speak through the microphone.
How had she known he knew how to use this one? How did she know he was here? His eyes darted back to the dress. He hadn't felt any magic upon touching it, but he had to admit to being somewhat ... distracted.
The ringing stopped.
He blinked.
No!
Then it rang again.
He picked up the phone, took the cup in his other hand and placed it to his ear.
'Miss Granger, I presume.'
A sigh was the only response.
'Why don't you surrender yourself to me now, and perhaps I'll grant you mercy.'
An undignified snort followed by a hiccough.
'I warned you not to underestimate me, Miss Granger. If I have to come looking for you, I won't be amused.'
'It's you who is underestimating me,' she said, a mixture of sadness and apologetic undertones coming through. 'I warned you that if I were in charge, different choices would be made, and you just put me in charge with your actions.'
He waited quietly.
'You shouldn't have touched the dress, Tom Riddle.'
Shocked, his head swiveled to the dress. She wouldn't have ...
He felt his throat closing up. Pinpricks erupted on his skin. He blinked. His vision started to swim and blur. He dropped to one knee, falling sideways against the bed.
'Her-Her,' his breath rattled upon his exhale, 'mione.'
'Goodbye, Tom.'