Now woman, you need to expand/write a Tomione with a possessive Tom. Please?

shadu-kiam:

(( totally gonna expand on the last one )) 

It was almost 1945. Almost five months since she’d landed here.

It was the middle of Christmas hols, and she was in actual hell. 

The large majority of the students had gone home, leaving the castle achingly empty. At first, the prospect of no class left her feeling excited and hopeful as she continued to tear through the library – a lot of the classwork was less advanced than it was in her time, anyway, so she didn’t feel its loss too keenly. 

She took her meals in the kitchen to avoid the Great Hall, knowing that the staff would have forced all the remaining students to one table. Since there were only about twenty students, the possibility of being stuck sitting next to Tom Riddle was too damn high, and she was not about to risk it. She went to the library only in the middle of the day, when other people were more likely to be there and the librarian was roving around. 

The first four days of the hols had gone well. No Tom Riddle, the common room was peaceful enough to actually read in, and she had her whole dorm room to herself.

She should have known better than to get comfortable. 

After a quick lunch, she was leaving the kitchens and thinking about whether or not it would be worth it to run up the stairs and give her teeth a little brush before she headed to the library again when he spoke.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Hermione jumped, swallowing a squeak of surprise. He was leaning against the wall, and when she stared at him, he smiled that awful smile of his – the one that made her palms go clammy with terror. She opened her mouth to respond, and then abruptly thought better of it, pivoting on her heel and striding quickly towards a more populated corridor. The kitchens were far enough out of the way that she really didn’t want to be stuck alone with him.

His hand slipped around her elbow to pull her back, and she whirled on him, her wand flying into her hand automatically – always battle-ready, these days. His eyebrows shot up as he released her, but she didn’t miss the flicker of anger in his eyes. 

“Don’t touch me,” she warned, and his eyes narrowed.

“I really would advise against telling me what to do, Hermione,” he suggested, blandly. “Historically, I have not really taken well to orders.”

“Touch me again, and you’ll be nothing but a scorch mark on the floor,” she promised, flatly. His eyes flicked over her for a moment, taking in the clear readiness of her braced feet, the way she’d half-turned to diminish herself as a target while simultaneously pushing her weight back so she could get the momentum needed to fling out more than one hex in rapid-fire. She saw the moment he realized that she could probably hold her own reasonably well in a duel, and couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

On the one hand, if he considered her dangerous, he might think twice about bothering her. On the other, he might find her intriguing, which was literally the last thing in the world that she wanted.

“Interesting,” he finally said, and she backed away from him. He didn’t move, cocking his head slightly when she continued to keep her wand pointed at his face in silent threat. There was no fear in his expression, and she fought down the childish urge to hex him anyway, just because. “What hexes do you know that could render me into a scorch mark?” he asked, curiously.

“Leave me alone, Riddle,” she repeated, for what felt like the millionth time.

And for the first time, he actually answered. “No.”

Her eyes widened incredulously, and she almost dropped her damn wand. “What?” she demanded, torn between anger and fear. She really couldn’t figure out which emotion was more dominant, at the moment – she felt like she had as good a chance at peeing her pants and running as she did hexing him to pieces.

“No,” he repeated, patiently. When she just stared at him, he smiled.

She turned and ran.

Avoiding him became impossible.

Everywhere she went outside the Gryffindor common room, he was there. He was in the library. He was in the corridors. He was outside in the snow. She wondered if he’d just spent those first four days following her around and figuring out her habits.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was when she found him outside the kitchen door. “There you are,” he said, when she stopped dead some twenty feet away. “A little late for breakfast.”

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. As usual, he didn’t feel any particular need to explain himself. When she turned around, he asked, “Aren’t you going to eat?” She didn’t respond, and he chuckled as she disappeared.

At lunch, defeated, she went to the Great Hall. She was starving and every last refuge she’d enjoyed had been stolen from her.

She might as well eat. 

Tom Riddle was already there, and although the seats beside him were conspicuously empty, she squeezed in beside a Ravenclaw at the absolute opposite end of the table. The weight of his stare lingered on her throughout the meal, and despite her refusal to glance at him, it was nearly enough to put her off her appetite. But she reminded herself that dinner was still some hours away, and she’d regret it if she didn’t eat now.

“Did you want to join?” the Ravenclaw asked her, and she blinked at him. 

“I’m sorry?”

He smiled. “We’re going to have a snowball fight outside. Did you want to come? I haven’t even seen you around this whole week. You should probably get some fresh air.”

Huffing a soft laugh, Hermione glanced around at the other would-be participants. It would be nice, she supposed, to spend some time with the other students – and the crowd would probably keep Riddle at a safe distance. She supposed her research could wait for a few hours. “Sure, that sounds fun.”

She was glad she’d gone, in the end. As she’d predicted, Riddle was nowhere to be seen during the snowball fight itself, and she’d even managed to forget about him for about half an hour, which was a feat in and of itself. By the time she was trudging back into the castle, eager to return to her common room’s fire and bury herself in yet another textbook, quite a bit of cheer had returned.

“You look happy.” Hermione stopped short, feeling her heart plummet. He was standing in front of the Fat Lady. In front of the last place she had that was Riddle-less. 

She was very aware of how empty the corridor was. “You’re a long way from the dungeons, Riddle,” she said, with a confidence she didn’t feel. 

He scratched his chin, shrugging again.

“Move.”

“I’d like to talk,” he said. 

“No, thank you,” she snapped. “Get out of my way.”

“Why don’t you move me, yourself?” he challenged, and proceeded to look unimpressed when she drew her wand and pointed it squarely at him. After a tense moment, he smiled. “Well? Go ahead.”

Cursing inwardly, she lowered her wand. She couldn’t exactly just start a duel with another student – someone in the year below her, no less. The staff didn’t know that he was about fifty years from becoming the biggest monster in existence, and she didn’t really want to risk detention. “Just go away,” she seethed, feeling so frustrated that she almost didn’t catch the moment he drew his own wand.

She barely had enough time to throw up a Protego when he flung a hex at her. Eyes widening, she stumbled back a few steps. Was he seriously trying to fight her?

His eyes narrowed as he threw another hex, which rebounded harmlessly as she threw up another shield charm. “What are you doing?” she demanded. He threw two more spells, rapid-fire, and she managed to dodge one and redirect the other, stumbling backwards at a rapid pace as he advanced towards her. “You’re going to get expelled–”

The next spell was a curse, and she felt her throat close up as she redirected it. He wasn’t trying to scare her.

He was trying to hurt her.

“Riddle!” she warned, and got another curse lobbed at her for her trouble. Gritting her teeth, she threw up a shield long enough to bounce the curse off, and flung a hex right back at him the second she dropped it.

She must have surprised him, because he stopped advancing on her and threw up a shield charm of his own.

There was a tense pause, probably only a heartbeat long, but it felt like forever as they stared across the corridor at each other. Then, his wand arm lifted, his expression a stony mask.

The next few minutes were a dizzying firework display, spells of all colors zipping back and forth. He was good. Very good. And she had a feeling that she was a lot better than he expected her to be. They were steadily destroying the paintings and tapestries on the wall, and she knew that she’d likely get thrown out of Hogwarts entirely for this – losing access to that humongous library, which was possibly her only chance to get home. She had to immobilize him.

They’d fallen into a sort of rhythm in the two or three minutes they’d been dueling – hex, shield, curse, shield, hex – and her mind whirred with how she could disrupt that rhythm and catch him off-guard without endangering herself.

She saw the gargoyle out of the corner of her eye and slid towards it. The next hex sent her shield charm up, protecting both her and the statue, and after she sent one back, she slipped behind the statue and didn’t cast the shield again.

Even knowing what was going to happen, she bit back a squeal of surprise as the head of the statue exploded. Before she could register the stinging slap of the debris against her face, she flung her hand out and shouted: “Stupefy!” She could see where his wand had been raising to shield himself, but he’d stalled when he destroyed the statue – probably wondering if he’d gotten her, too – and he wasn’t quick enough.

The spell sent him soaring back, landing on the stone with a grunt. The charm had partially protected him, but she could see he’d been stunned and was coming to rather slowly.

Ignoring the coarse feel of little bits of statue in her eyes, she bolted for the Fat Lady and swung herself inside before he could come to his senses.

She didn’t leave for the rest of the night.

Hunger drove her out the next morning.

She didn’t know what would be waiting for her when she finally re-emerged. Tom Riddle was undoubtedly furious at being beaten, even if it was sort of by trickery, and she didn’t relish the thought of having to deal with that. She wondered how long it would take him to stage some elaborate scheme to kill her, probably blaming Hagrid again in the process, somehow. 

She was shocked to realize that the corridor outside the Gryffindor Common Room was completely put back together – including the statue.

Not daring to risk the kitchens and the lonely corridor just outside of it, she made straight for the Great Hall and the relative safety of the small crowd inside.

He wasn’t there, and she nearly collapsed in relief. Maybe he was waiting outside the kitchens for her, again.

She had nearly five minutes of uninterrupted eating before he entered the Great Hall, finding her and immediately making a beeline for her. The croissant went to ash in her mouth as he sat beside her without a word and began to fill his plate. 

It was with great difficulty that she continued chewing. Swallowing that bite of croissant felt like swallowing a ton of lead.

Everyone continued to chat around them, oblivious.

“You’re good with your wand,” he finally said. His tone was placid enough. “Did you learn that while abroad in America?”

“Yes,” she lied, through her teeth.

“Perhaps I should visit there.”

God, she wished he would. “Perhaps you should,” she said, shortly, before turning away to try and strike up a conversation with the Hufflepuff on her other side. It was short-lived; within seconds, she felt his hand on her knee, squeezing.

She twisted back around to him, furious, and the warning died in her throat at the expression on his face.

“Don’t. Ignore. Me,” he enunciated, and beneath the chill of his frozen expression was a white-hot rage that made her stomach twist. His fingers were slowly working bruises into her knee. When she tried to shift her leg away, his grip tightened until her expression became strained. “Where did you learn to duel?”

“America,” she hissed, reaching down to pry his hand off of her. She slipped it off her knee with no small amount of effort, but he merely transferred his iron grip to her hand. She battled him beneath the table, trying to wring her hand from his grip to no avail.

“Where did you learn to duel?” he repeated, stonily. 

She ground her teeth together. “None of your business,” she snapped, and something like victory flashed in his eyes, and he released her. As she rubbed the life back into her aching fingers, he returned to his food. It didn’t seem like anyone else at the table had noticed the short-lived altercation.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, you know,” he said, his tone returning to the mild one he’d employed when he’d sat. 

My arse, he wasn’t. 

“I simply wanted to see if you were decent. You were. I don’t offer sincere compliments very frequently, Hermione. You should be flattered.” That smile flashed again, the charming one that made her feel seasick. “I think I would really like to get to know you better.”

“The feeling is not mutual,” she muttered.

“It will be,” he assured her, breezily confident. She wrinkled her nose, understanding why he was confident – by all accounts, he was a charmer and a half, and it wasn’t as if he could have guessed that she was from some war-torn future where he existed as a twisted, even more evil version of himself. He took her expression in with some amusement, and repeated, “It will be.”

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.

ogrl:

ogrl:

do you think the Suicide Squad producers had a punishment system where it was like Jared the more weird ass shit you do the more we’re deducting from your screentime n that’s why he ended up on screen for like a total of 8 minutes

danakatharine:

‘"Ain’t no bitches gonna hunt no ghosts” was the movie’s way of saying “consider [the online misogyny] addressed.” And at least in my screening, it worked. Not only was it funny, it also returned a lightness and swagger to the film. That’s when we knew we could laugh about everything that had been happening; that this Ghostbusters ain’t afraid of no bros.’ [x]