can u please please write a jealous tom drabble?! I love tomione but there’s so few stories that are original and you’re just the best and now that you wrote some tomione…PLEAAAASE XD

shadu-kiam:

She’d been trapped in 1944 for four months.

Four months of cursing Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley under her breath – she didn’t know which one had the grand idea of aiming a reducto at the time turner while she was standing so close to it, and if she ever got back, that was going to be the first thing she found out. Then she was going to throttle the guilty party until they were dead. The end. If they were even alive by the time she got back, that is.

After seeking out Professor Dumbledore in a panic, Headmaster Dippet and the rest of the staff had been apprised of her situation; unfortunately, there was no lie good enough to fool any of the teachers as to why she was suddenly there. The students were told that she‘d been homeschooled while her parents were abroad in America.

For the most part, the students seemed to believe that. Save one.

She couldn’t think about Tom Riddle, right now. That weird, creepy bastard. He was still in sixth year, and she was in seventh, but he acted for all the world like he had ten years on her. And he’d never bought the homeschooling story.

As if summoned by her thoughts alone, he slid into the chair opposite her in the library, and she scowled at her book. She could already imagine his amused smirk at her easy-to-read expression. Maybe that was the problem; he’d known the homeschooling story was a load of bollocks because she wasn’t all that good at lying. Thankfully, most of the students didn’t really question her about it, so she didn’t need to be.

“Go away, Riddle,” she seethed. The incident with Hagrid and the Chamber of Secrets had been a year ago, and by all accounts she shouldn’t know about it, but she did and she loathed him for it.

“I’m allowed to use the library, too,” he said, with a cool smugness that made her want to lob her book at his face.

Setting her jaw angrily, she buried her nose in her book, intent on ignoring him. She had to focus, come hell or high water; she needed to figure out a way to get back to her time before her best friends did something really, really stupid without her. The thought of them wandering through the Forest of Dean without her constant spellwork to keep them hidden made all of her hairs stand on end. So far, she’d hungrily devoured most of the library – there were a lot of books that hadn’t yet been confined to the Restricted Section – and had yet to come upon a single spell that would propel her forward in time.

And the timeturner wasn’t an option, because it shouldn’t have been able to send her flying decades into the past at all – it shouldn’t have had that power. And she wasn’t about to test any theories by casting reducto at it. The last thing she needed was to end up somewhere in the 19th century, pulling her own hair out by the roots.

“Why are you always reading about that?” he asked, and she jolted a bit. She’d actually nearly forgotten he was there.

Frowning up at him, she tried to resist the instinct to act as cagey as she felt. “What?” she snapped, defensively. His gaze dropped pointedly to the title of her book – Wards Through Time – and she stiffened a bit. She’d read a lot of books in hopes of finding some random tidbit of information she could use. There was no way he’d determined a theme. “About what? I read about a lot of things.”

His eyebrow lifted a bit, and he sighed through his nose. He didn’t have much patience for her badly-built falsehoods, she’d discovered, finding them to be an exhausting waste of time.

Usually, it made him leave. This time, he didn’t.

“Where’s your band of witless lackeys, anyway? You’re quite sure they’re remembering to breathe without your direction?” she asked, archly. If she loathed Tom Riddle, she certainly loathed his little band of idiots just as much. Pale, spineless little cowards – just like the people he’d later attract as Lord Voldemort.

He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “If they forget, I’m sure I’ll find some more,” he said, his smile returning.

It sickened her to know that if she didn’t know what he was – and what he would become – she would have found that smile very charming. She would have found him handsome. She would have been flustered that he was even talking to her. Tom Riddle the young man was a far cry, indeed, from the terrifying wraith he would become. “Your friends are really that expendable to you?”

Of course, she knew he didn’t consider them friends. But he didn’t know she knew that. Every word she spoke was an invitation for Murphy’s Law to rear its ugly head and strike her down.

This was why she hated talking to him. There were too many opportunities to slip up.

“It was simply a joke,” he defended, spreading his hands. After a moment, he added, “You did well in potions today.” At her harried glare, he clarified: “For someone who never attended school. It was almost as if you’d already made polyjuice – several times, even.”

“Just because I didn’t attend school doesn’t mean I’m uneducated,” she grit out. “My parents taught me.”

“They must be very smart. What are their names, again?”

She slammed the book closed, boiling with fury, and stood. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” she demanded, hauling the book up to her chest and crossing her arms over it defensively. “You’ve no reason to talk to a Gryffindor, anyway. Leave me alone.” Pivoting on her heel, she stalked into the book cases to replace the book.

When she turned from putting it back on the shelf, she nearly screamed when she almost ran right into him. “You’re quite nervous,” he observed, softly, when she recoiled from him. Reaching past her – and ignoring her stiffness – he pulled the book she’d just been reading back out. “I think I’d like to have a look at this, next, actually. If you don’t mind.”

“Do what you want,” she muttered. The proximity of him had her skin crawling, and she quickly edged around him and fled the library entirely.

---

“My father has a pretty extensive library,” Henry Shadhorn said. He was a Ravenclaw in her year, and after hearing her housemates lightly tease her about how she was going to run out of books to read in the Hogwarts library pretty soon, he hurried to walk her out of Herbology. When she looked at him, she saw that his ears were a bit pink. “I mean, maybe over the holidays you could stop by and have a look, read something that Hogwarts doesn’t have, or something…”

She blinked, a little flustered by the offer. He wasn’t a bad-looking boy, and she felt her heart flutter a bit; it wasn’t often she received male attention, unless she was dressed to the nines for a Yule Ball, that is. “Really? I’m actually staying at the school, my parents are abroad again, so maybe Professor Dumbledore could escort me there one day.”

“Yes,” he agreed, promptly, looking fairly shocked that she’d accepted. “It’s really a fantastic library, you know. I’ve been reading from it all my life and even I haven’t gone through everything. I think you’d find it really interesting. Maybe we could even, um, talk about some of what you’re reading, afterwards.”

“Sure, Henry,” she agreed, feeling her own cheeks start to warm. “That’d be nice.”

Of course, if she found what she was looking for, leading a nice boy like Henry on would gnaw at her conscience for the next ten years. But it was kind of nice to pretend that she wasn’t embroiled in a war and stuck in the wrong decade, for a second. It was nice to pretend she was just a girl with an admirer, however unlikely that scenario was.

Looking chuffed, he told her to have a good time in Potions, and left her at the entrance to the dungeons.

It wasn’t until Tom walked past her, shooting her a cool smirk, that she realized he’d been behind them for most of the conversation. Suddenly, she felt a chill steal over her as he turned away and headed into the classroom. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d just gotten the worst feeling.

---

“Did you hear about Shadhorn?” Her ears perked a bit, and she tore her gaze from the book to turn her head a little, trying to hear better. Whoever the girl had been whispering to must have shaken their head, because she continued after a pause. “He was found outside the infirmary, unconscious and really beaten up. I heard all of his bones were broken.”

“That’s ridiculous, all of his bones couldn’t have possibly been broken,” her friend said, snidely. “Only his leg was. It’s a shame, he was Ravenclaw’s best player and their game’s this week.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” the girl huffed. “It was obviously done by the Slytherin team to ensure they’d win.”

The friend made a disbelieving noise. “I doubt they’d be so stupid as to beat up the star player of the opposing team right before the game,“ she said, although she didn’t sound entirely certain. Lately, nothing seemed to be too devious or rotten for a Slytherin to do. Hermione was only learning now that this was a fairly recent development, thanks to Tom Riddle.

Before, Slytherin had always been a somewhat snobbish and enclosed group, but they hadn’t been rotten. Or, at least, any more rotten than any other house.

Swallowing past a lump in her throat, Hermione turned blind eyes back to her book. Surely it had nothing to do with her.

“Pity, about Shadhorn.”

She about jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t even heard him sit next to her – and now he was too close, leaning in to glance at her book. She could feel the body heat from his skin and leaned away from it. Catching the movement, he looked back at her, and smiled. This wasn’t like his usual charming smiles; there was something cold in this one, almost angry.

Feeling another chill steal over her, she stared at him. He didn’t blink. Slowly, she asked, “What did you do?”

“Me?” he asked, cocking his head a bit. “Whatever do you mean?”

She felt sick. “Why?” she asked, desperately.

He dropped the pretense of innocence long enough to shrug, his eyes half-lidded. His dark eyes took in the horror of her expression, and he smiled, satisfied. “Why not?” he returned, in a low drawl.

Breath coming a bit short, Hermione gathered her book up in a scramble, desperate to get away. When she made to stand, she felt his hand clamp down on her wrist.

It was the first time he’d ever actually touched her. It felt the same as being burned.

“Hermione,” he said, slowly, sounding out the syllables of her name with great interest. His smile widened a bit as he leaned towards her, dropping his voice to an almost intimate murmur. “I would be very careful about what you do, next. I’m not the sort of person that gives the same warning twice. Or even once, really. You’re very lucky.”

She knew she was breathing hard and fast. She could see spots starting to dance in front of her eyes – she had about a minute to get out of this man’s toxic presence before she passed out.

“What am I being warned about?” she demanded, her voice growing a little shrill with the terror she was trying to keep hidden behind a show of anger.

His thumb on the back of her wrist shifted, sweeping over her forearm in an arc. It was an almost tender gesture, reminiscent of old married couples and newlyweds. She ripped her arm out from beneath his hand and cradled it protectively against her ribcage, and he laughed. The sound was warm and throaty, by all means an attractive laugh, and she felt nauseous at hearing it.

“Come now, you’re a smart girl. I think you can figure that one out,” he assured her. He stood, then, and brushed an errant curl behind her ear.

She nearly threw up.

Then, he was gone, and it was like the atmosphere came flooding back into the room. Hermione sucked in a ragged breath, feeling like she’d been punched in the solar plexus. She was frozen there for several minutes, her skin clammy and her heart racing. She needed to get home.

She needed to get the fuck home, right now.