Summary: He knew from the moment the little Weasley girl forced her way into his gang that there was going to be trouble. He just always assumed it would come from her army of brothers, not her red-hot pistol of a best friend. Tomione. Greaser AU.

Ginny Weasley was trouble, but not in the way he himself was trouble. She wanted to be like him, of course, she had told him multiple times, but her type of trouble wasn't the same.

Tom was trouble for his cunning, he was trouble for his disregard of common law and for his ability to charm his way out of jail more often than not. He was trouble for his taste in hobbies and—arguably—his taste in women, but he wouldn't discover that until post-weaslette.

Ginny Weasley was trouble because she was reckless and spiteful and would do anything to separate herself from those she found distasteful.

In a way, it was admirable. The Weasley's were a gang all on their own, no need for any other families or friends to join and they still ran a solid block of the town, and the fact that Ginny despised them so much that she would ask to join him instead, well…

That was certainly gutsy.

He knew she was trouble, knew this whole situation was a disaster waiting to happen, knew that the only thing that could result out of her teen life crisis was a headache and possibly a broken bone or two or more. But when he was accosted by her—for the third time, because he wasn't a total fool and he did turn her down twice—he saw opportunity.

To be precise, he saw Harry Potter staring at Ginny like she was talking to a rabid dog—which in his view, she probably might have well been—and he hated that bastard Harry Potter with such a profound amount of passion that he deemed the trouble worth going through.

And he knew her priorities lied less in loyalty to him and more in disloyalty to her family and to—delightfully—Harry Potter, but he found that she wasn't a terrible member to have.

Until she got him arrested.

—

"Hermione, I—I've done something, I—I've done something awful, I—"

"Ginny, Gin, collect yourself, what's wrong, is it Harry? Ron? I'll kick their asses if—"

"No, no, it's Riddle. I got him arrested, Hermione, I didn't mean to but—but—he wanted me to kill him, and I—I couldn't, I—"

"Ginny—kill who? Ginny I don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand, he'll kill me when he gets out, he'll kill me, he'll kill me, he'll—"

—

Ginny Weasley wasn't a bad kid, not in Hermione's eyes. She was a bit eccentric, had a wild temper, and sometimes acted without thinking. At all. But she was good, she was bright-eyed and funny and Hermione loved Ginny more than any other friend she had.

When she joined Tom Riddle's gang, she never heard from her.

It was disconcerting, to have your best friend—and your only female friend—suddenly ditch you for some guy who the other day she had hated just as much as everyone else did. But it happened, and Hermione was left feeling abandoned and angry but mostly afraid.

The gangs here had never been too violent, at least not with each other. They stuck to their own areas and were careful around members of other groups, other families. No one wanted a gang war, mostly because it would be so easy to start one. If you made a list of all the gangs in their area, it'd be easy to decide who would take who's side in a fight, and it wouldn't be hard to get the whole town against the other. But the leaders were smart, they avoided that because of the terrible repercussions.

But Tom Riddle was a fucking psycho.

He grew up in the same orphanage that Harry was in before he was adopted by the Weasleys, only Tom Riddle was never adopted. It didn't surprise her, really, because he was so cruel and heartless, who would want to adopt him?

Or maybe he was cruel and heartless because no one adopted him? It didn't matter, she wasn't going to psychoanalyze Tom Riddle of all people.

He was top of his class in the school he went to, got an all expenses paid scholarship to Harvard and turned it down to stay here and start a gang and charm his way out of prison. And his gang was just different, there was always different members getting arrested for terrible, terrible crimes—not just stealing or vandalism but murder and assault, beating people within an inch of their lives—in some circles they were called Death Eaters. And of course it never came back to him, but there was talk of some leader named Voldemort, and everybody knew it was him but no one could prove it.

It completely boggled her mind how someone apparently so brilliant and so charming and so wonderful could be such a total psychotic imbecile.

And Ginny had to join his fucking gang.

Harry thought he was letting her join to spite him. He had it in for Harry ever since they were kids and jumped at any and every opportunity to make him angry, to hurt him, or to frame him for crime.

Which happened often.

Hermione didn't care much for his reasoning. She only cared now that Ginny had involved herself in something way over her head without even realizing it.

She didn't want to see Ginny chartered off to jail for something like manslaughter.

—

"Ginny, he's already been sentenced, he's not going to hurt you."

"It's more complicated than that, He'll get out—"

"if he hasn't sent anyone for you now, then he won't come get you later! He's probably…he probably knew this would happen eventually, he had no right taking you in—"

"It was my choice! I didn't know—"

"I know. But you can't live in fear of him all your life. Please, come to the party. He won't be there."

—

One might think that jail time is the aforementioned trouble, but one would be wrong.

Jail time Tom Riddle could handle. He hadn't carefully picked the members of his Death Eaters by chance, there were people with power, with influence who were also able to be influenced. He never stayed in jail for long.

He wouldn't have been in at all if Ginny had killed the fucking witness, but he should have known that was too much to ask.

His pride wouldn't allow him to let this go. It would've been smart, certainly. Any repercussions on Ginny—who is doubtlessly back with her family—would most likely incite a gang war. And while he wasn't entirely against the chaos of a war, he also wasn't entirely in the mood for one.

But his pride wouldn't allow him to let this go.

He stayed in prison for a month before he was released on bail. And the first thing he wanted to do was to smoke and drink and fulfill all the baser urges he couldn't while behind bars, so he made his way to The Three Broomsticks—one of the shadier bars around town. And it was in the bar filled with smoke and dancing and music from the juke box that he saw a young red-head at the bar flirting her way to underaged alcohol.

Abraxas greeted him, offered him a cigarette and babbled loudly and drunkenly. Tom let his eyes drift across the bar, looking for signs of her brothers accompanying her, and was mildly startled to see the frightfully intense glower of a wild haired broad at the other end of the bar. She was far too pretty for a place like this, and by pretty he meant well dressed, well styled, likely from the other side of town with rich parents and a trust fund.

He kept her gaze, lit his cig and let the smoke fill the air in front of him. Even from where he stood across the room he could see her clench her jaw. She scowled even fiercer than before—which he didn't believe was possible, but she proved him wrong. He laughed, finally, at her sullen face, before continuing his scan of the room for any other red-haired miscreants.

There were none, so he approached the 15-year-old Weasley at the bar.

The trouble didn't quite begin there. The Weaslette stared at him in abject horror as he spoke, glancing wildly to her left as if someone was going to come to her rescue. He didn't really plan to do anything except intimidate her until she tried to shove him off her, and then—well, he always had a bit of temper when it came to people touching him without his permission.

He grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back, pinning it between her and the counter. She let out a yelp and he pressed his body against hers to pin her there. Her eyes bulged and she squirmed and he snarled and—

The curly-haired broad smashed a beer bottle over his head.

He lurched forward, his mind hazy at the contact and he was fairly certain he was bleeding now, reaching back he could feel moisture and his usually perfectly coiffed hair was matted and messy and damp—

She pulled him back from her friend with more force than her tiny body seemed capable of—and she was tiny, he realized, but furious, filled with such a striking amount of rage that all he could do was watch her in bafflement as she punched him in the goddamn face and broke his nose.

He watched her, half-conscious on the ground, as she ushered her crying friend out the door, but she turned at the exit to meet his eyes in one last hate-filled glower and he was lost in the flush of her cheeks and the harsh lines of her neck and the frizz of her hair and—

He thought about her long after she was gone and he didn't stop.

—

"I can't believe you—"

"Don't bring it up again, If I have to talk about Tom fucking Riddle again, I will scream I swear to God."

"But you fucking—"

"I know what I did, Gin!"

"But he's going to kill you for that!"

—

Hermione had sort of resolved never to involve herself with Tom Riddle again, after the initial backlash that her last transgression against the violent gang leader—stupid, stupid, stupid—she decided it was best for her own sanity to leave him alone.

He, inevitably, disagreed.

At first it was subtle. Kind of. Hermione would go the the Weasley house and on her walk she might pass him smoking a cigarette, but he wouldn't approach her. At work at the diner he would order a soda and drink it outside but he would only talk to the other waitresses and would just stare at her. At the grocery store she would see him stealing an apple or harassing employees.

She was convinced that he was stalking her, but she couldn't figure out why, of all the chances he's had to approach her, to threaten her, to hurt her, and he has never approached her, only stared through the smoke of his cigarette or over the rim of a glass of soda at the diner.

She was going insane.

It wasn't until one day after school—her senior year, preparing for college, preparing for the rest of her life, very serious, very important stuff—and there he is, sitting on the steps smoking a cigarette as if he hasn't just invaded one of the most sacred areas she has in her life.

She stood in front of him, watched her shadow overtake him and she found she liked being taller than him so she could look down on him like he deserved. "What do you want?" She spat.

"Senior year?" He asked, ignoring her question, "How are college applications?"

He was being flippant to annoy her, she knew it.

"You're nose looks good," She commented, eyeing the blue and purple that had settled under his eyes. He smiled, then stood so he towered over her. She scowled back at him.

"You always look good," He fired back, his voice quiet and rumbling and sending heat blooming from the knot in her stomach and sending a pink flush up to her cheeks. She glared and took a step back when she realized how close he was.

"You're doing this to make me uncomfortable," She surmised, and he looked suddenly so shocked and offended and confused that she thought she might've offended him. He looked away from her, took a long drag from his cigarette and rolled his shoulders, jostling the leather of his jacket.

"You uncomfortable?" He asked. She was so baffled at his question that she was unable to do anything but nod mutely, staring at him with a combination of confusion and suspicion as he nodded curtly and walked away.

And then it was back to what it was before. He would show up everywhere and he would stare and stare and stare and never say anything. He was everywhere she turned, everywhere she went.

People began to worry. People began to notice. Ginny told her that it was bad news, he was keeping tabs of her routine so he could do something horrible, but Hermione brushed it off as paranoia. Harry told her that even if he isn't tracking her, it's likely that he's planning something nefarious. But, that was obvious, and if Harry thought she honestly did not suspect that then he believed her to be a fool.

Ron was the angriest, and she would sometimes have to nearly physically restrain him from approaching Riddle and asking him what the fuck he wanted. She remembered once, smoothing a hand over his hair and across his forehead and telling him that she could handle herself and he didn't need to bulldoze his way around anyone he felt was dangerous to her. And then Tom Riddle left.

Just like that. Stood up and knocked his glass to the floor in the most incredible example of a adult-temper-tantrum she had ever seen, walked out the door and left.

After that it wasn't subtle.

He was everywhere she went, but more than that, he interfered with her day everywhere she went. No longer would he stare at her from outside the diner but he would request her as his waitress. He would bump into her if he walked past her and he would sit on the stairs outside her school and cat call her as she walked by.

It didn't take long after he started that for her to resort to violence again.

—

"Hermione, I've been thinking about Tom."

"I'm sure you have, Gin."

"I don't think…I don't think his intentions are…"

"You don't think they're…? What? Pure? Safe? Neither do I, I am being careful, I know you and Harry don't believe me, but—"

"I don't think his intentions are violent I think…"

"What?"

"Never mind."

—

If Tom Riddle had any less self control he would've stolen that fucking red-haired douchebag's car and run him over with it repeatedly. He would've set fire to his ginger mop, sliced open his fucking throat and hung him from the goddamn flag pole and let him bleed all over her goddamn school.

But, he had always prided himself on his self control, so he did none of that.

Ron, she called him. Fucking bastard.

And she said he made her feel uncomfortable. She's fine sitting next to that gremlin as he salivates all over her, but even standing in front of him and she's uncomfortable.

He seethed alone in his booth at the diner. She didn't work on Wednesdays, so some nameless waitress brought him a soda as he smoked through three packs of cigarettes. Hermione told him those'll kill him, but then she had also bought him five packs and told him to smoke himself into an early grave.

God, he loved her.

And he fucking hated her.

Ever since she assaulted him in the bar she was all he could think about. He'd taken to stalking, actually stalking her, which he hadn't done to anyone since he was in the orphanage. But here he was, memorizing her schedule to the point where he knows that she doesn't work on Wednesdays because she used to be a part of the history club at school. She stopped going now, but she kept her Wednesdays free.

He hated himself.

It was in his self-loathing grumblings that he noticed her wild hair in the corner of his eye, and his body reacted of its own accord. He sat up in his seat, he withdrew the cigarette from his lips and put it out in the ash tray, he watched her as she waited the tables across the room and—what was she doing here?

He called his waitress and pointed at Hermione and growled, "Send her over here."

The waitress looked terrified. "I don't really want to get in the middle—"

"Did I ask you what you fucking wanted?" He snapped, watching her face go pale and her hands shake, "Or did I ask you to send her over here?"

She dutifully approached Hermione, tapped her nervously on the shoulder and gestured to where he sat. The look she gave him was just so beautifully hostile that it send shocks of desire through him and he barely managed to keep his hands to himself when she approached him.

He didn't want to make her uncomfortable.

"Could I have a single day where you don't show up to torture me?" She asked, laying a caramel colored hand on the table and leaning against it.

"Today should be your day off," He commented, eyeing her inquiringly. She rolled her eyes.

"You know my days off?"

"I know a lot about you," He replied cryptically, lifting his soda to take a drink and holding her gaze. Either his words or his eye contact set her on edge, because her next words were curt and filled with undertones of anger.

"Why don't you drink out of a straw instead of contaminating the cups?" She asked, and abruptly he leaned toward her, tilting his chin up so he could still meet her gaze even as he crowded her space. He laid a hand on the table by hers and watched the way her pupils dilated, watched the shift in the corner of her jaw as she clenched her teeth.

"Why don't you sit down?" He said. She didn't answer. Just stared at him—glared at him—and didn't speak. Her cheeks flushed the longer he held her gaze, and he was never sure if it was anger or arousal—but to be honest he was happy with both. She had enough of his silence, eventually, because she pushed herself off the edge of the table and began to walk away.

He reached out and grabbed her hand, marveled at the feeling of it—so warm, so soft, so small—marveled at the contrast of the colors, and like a prayer, he asked her to stop, he breathed, "Hermione."

She stared at her hand in his for a full minute in silent outrage, not moving a muscle even to remove it from his grasp. But he was spurred on by the fury that shaped her features, and he pulled her toward him, dragged her hand up to meet his mouth and angled up her middle finger. She watched in disconnected horror as he pulled it into his mouth.

She ripped her hand from him with such force that he felt her finger scrape against his teeth and tasted the blood, but if it hurt she didn't show it. With her other hand she grabbed at the sleeve of his leather jacket—"that's it"—she said as she pulled him from his booth and wiped her other hand off on the back of her dress. He watched her in unfettered adoration and let her withdraw him from the booth, allowed her to shove him out the door and pull him around the side. He relished in the feel of her slamming him against the brick wall out back of the diner.

"What the hell do you want?" She spat.

"I wanted you to sit with me," He intoned, and she slapped him hard across the face.

"No, what to you want with me? Why do you follow me around, why do you know my schedule, why—" And she continued spewing questions, and as she went through all the questions she's been asking in my mind for weeks, she didn't watch the way his eyes darkened or the way he now looked at her like he wanted to devour her.

Or like he was waiting to be devoured.

"Do that again," He ordered, and the order was so bizarre and deterring that her voice cracked and she ceased her questioning and did nothing but stare at him, examine the hunching of his shoulders, the twitching of his hands at his sides.

"What?" She breathed, and when he leaned in closer she took a step back.

"Hit me again," He demanded, and though his tone was low and fierce and intimidating it still seemed to her like a plea, and she suddenly felt the whole situation spinning fast out of her control. She took another step back and he matched it, advancing on her, and she shook her head fiercely. "No?" He breathed, "You don't want to hit me now? Should I hit you?"

Her back hit the other side of the alley and she shook her head again. Her eyes jumped to the mouth of the alleyway but no one was there. It was a Wednesday at the end of dinner rush, no one was walking by, no one was around. She regretted pulling him back here to have a discussion.

He crowded her, laying his forearms against the brick wall on either side of her head. "I don't want to hit you," He confessed, his whole body sighing into his words, collapsing in on her and she felt suffocated, she felt confined, she felt— "Am I making you uncomfortable? Are you going to hit me again? Are you going to—"

She did. She slapped him so hard it echoed and his whole body was pushed to the side away from her. She had the chance to run, to book it toward the entrance of the alley but she didn't, she stayed flat against that wall and watched him with wide eyes as he swore—"fuck!"—loudly in that alleyway then turned his wild eyes back on her. She didn't even recognize the feeling winding in her core at the look he sent her until it was too late, until his hands found purchase in her hair and on her back and his lips met hers so fiercely that her head reared back, and if it weren't for the presence of his hand, it would've met brick.

Her hands slid up the leather of his jacket until they glided through his hair, gathering it in her fists and pulling it out of it's perfect style. His lips sliding over hers didn't quell the tightening of her stomach, but rather enhanced it until she felt like she might choke. Her removed his hand from her hair, dragged his fingers around until her could rest his hand on the flesh of her throat before continuing its decent between her breasts and over her stomach. When it slid around to join his other hand at the small of her back, he pulled her so tightly against him she could feel every detail of his body against hers.

His teeth scraped across her bottom lip and then down her throat as she gasped for air. God, he was fucking crazy, a psychotic asshole who's arch nemesis was her best friend but what he was doing all felt so good, and her mind felt hazy with want for him, for the feel of his hands on her hips and his teeth at her throat.

He bunched her skirt in his hands and dragged it up over her thighs, hooking her leg around his hips as he rolled them into hers. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" He mocked as he scraped his teeth along her jugular and pulled her hips into his. She could feel him through his jeans, hard and desperate for her, and something overwhelming and wonderful was building in her with every thrust of his hips into hers.

His hand slid up her thigh, gripped her ass as he rolled his hips against hers again, and she moaned, long and deep in her throat and his fingernails dug into her flesh and everything felt so good—

"Hermione?" A voice called. And she pulled away from him so suddenly that his nails dragged down the tender skin of her thigh—it would leave marks for days—and as she stumbled away from him she spared his face a glance. His hair was mussed, for once something other than utter perfection, and the side of his face where she had slapped him glowed faintly red, but his eyes stuck with her—gazing at her with such intense want, such longing that she felt short of breath.

"Don't…" She took a breath, "Don't ever touch me again,"

She walked back into the diner and finished the extra shift she had taken.

—

"I know you don't like to talk about it, but—"

"This better not be about Tom Riddle."

"Well have you found out what he wants?"

"I swear to God, Ginny, if you ever bring up Tom Riddle again that will be the last fucking conversation we ever have, got it?"

"…"

—

It took Hermione some time to come to terms with the fact that she was hopelessly attracted to a sociopath.

She wasn't raised this way. She was raised by two wealthy dentists, taught to find a nice boy with a good job to fall in love with and have children and procreate the species. She was raised to wait until marriage and complete her education and live a perfectly ordinary perfectly perfect life with Mr. Perfect and their four perfect children.

It wasn't a surprise that, come the time, all she wants is to throw herself at the handsome jail bird and let him have his wicked way with her.

After all, she was regularly disappointing her family's perfect perception of her future.

She didn't want kids.

She didn't want a husband.

She wanted Tom Riddle, against all logic and reasoning. Every time she saw him remembered how his teeth felt on his neck, the way he looked at her when she slapped him.

It was becoming pretty ridiculous, really.

She would see him at the diner and would want him to pull her back to that alley and bury himself in her against the wall. She would see him at the drive-in and she would want to settle herself on his lap feel him inside her. She would see him at school and she would want nothing more than for him to bend her over the railing on the stairs and just fuck her right there in front of everyone—she didn't even care anymore, and that was what was ridiculous.

But she couldn't lie to herself. She had thought that, while not her parent's first choice, Ron might be the one she ends up with. He had certainly thought it, too, judging by the way he acts around her. He was sweet and gentle, if not a little slow on the uptake and with a raging temper. She liked Ron.

But he wasn't enough, somehow.

And she hated that.

And even more, she hated that after that time in the alley, Tom Riddle never approached her again.

It was like when he first began stalking her, he would watch her from a distance and never approach, never speak. But it was worse now, because when she would catch him glowering at her, it was almost like she knew what he was thinking. And the fact that he could sit there with her knowing that he wanted her just made it all worse—

She told him in that alleyway never to touch her again and he seems intent to follow those directions.

Which was good.

That was good.

(Goddamnit.)

So she buries herself in school work because she has to finish the year strong if she wants to keep her scholarship with Harvard (even if its not a full ride like the bane of her existence got) and she's even given a private area to study by the librarian because she walked in on Hermione throwing a book at the wall a week ago and now smiles and asks her how she's coping every time she sees her.

But she won't complain about that. It has a door that locks and an armchair and a table by a large, sunny window, and she ends up spending most of her time there.

Then one day after school, when she retreats to her little home in the library, she sees Tom Riddle lounged in the armchair, his feet propped up on her study table.

"You broke up with the ginger bitch." Was the first thing he said.

"We were never dating," She parried, closing the door behind her and watching him warily. He hadn't looked at her yet, opting instead to gaze out the window.

"He seemed to think you were."

"Did you come here to talk about Ron, then?" She dropped her book bag on the floor by the door but remained, not daring to take step toward him.

"No." He said, and the denial left a heavy atmosphere in the room. It left so much unsaid, left too much room for assumption, and if Hermione dwelled on the thought of Tom Riddle for too long that always left her locking herself in her room with her hand between her thighs. She was angered by his apparent nonchalance. How could he appear so calm when she was dripping at the very sight of him?

"I told you not to touch me." She reminded him.

"I'm not," He snapped, finally turning to face her but fixing his eyes on her feet.

She locked the door behind her, but if he noticed he didn't let on.

She approached him, leaned against the table and examined him. He looked out the window again.

"How little of a life do you have to have to get a room reserved for you at the library?" He mocked. She smiled.

"How little of a life do you have to have to dedicate your life to someone who has a room reserved for them at the library?" She countered, and he let out a sudden bark of a laugh. She marveled at the sound. "You don't deny it," she pointed out.

"Oh, I'm obsessed with you." He admitted, and he said it with the sort of ease one might say their age or their name, as if it was a simple fact of their existence, something unavoidable and inescapable thats just as much a part of their being as their heart, or their lungs, or their minds. The sun streaming in through the window felt hot and uncomfortable on her skin, and she blamed the heat of her cheeks on that.

He had his jacket draped across the chair, leaving him in only his white shit and jeans and boots. Without saying anything she pushed his boots off the table and kneeled in front of him and then he finally—finally—looked at her. His lips were parted and his eyes were hooded, he stared at her like she was holy.

She ran her hands up his jean-clad thighs and his breath hitched in his throat. He hesitated, as if he wasn't sure how to react, and it wasn't until she straddled his lap that he finally smiled—more of a smirk, really—and lifted his hands off the arms of the chair to touch her—

She grabbed his wrists and pushed them away, "You still can't touch me," She said, and he laughed and tried to hold her again, but this time she pushed them firmly back to the arms of the chair. "I mean it." She snapped, "You touch me, I leave." And she meant it. This whole obsession with him had come entirely because of his advances and without warning and without her control. She wanted, for a moment at least, to decide for herself.

He stared at her with confused wonder as she leaned down to kiss him. He responded amorously, making up for what he couldn't do with his hands with the enthusiasm of his tongue. She had forgotten in her misguided anger how good it felt to kiss him.

She pulled away and the groan that came from him sent a violent heat all the way down to her toes. She pressed sweet kissed against the underside of his jaw, trailing to the edge where she drew his earlobe in between her teeth.

"Let me touch you," He begged, as always coming across like an order. She breathed a negative response against the column of his throat, peppering the flesh there with touches of lips and teeth and tongue. He moaned, his fingers digging into the fabric of the armchair.

"I could touch you anyway," He reminded her. She rolled her hips against his and he raised his to meet her in the middle.

"I would leave." She warned.

"I can make you stay," He threatened, but kept his arms firmly stuck to the arms of the chair even as she undid the notches of his belt and pulled it from his waistband. Before she made work on his jeans, she slid her hands under his shirt and dragged her nails down the panels of his chest and the dips of his abdomen. He let out a shaky moan at the feeling and ground his hips up into hers, making her moan in return.

"You can't touch me yet," She said, and he held on to the 'yet' to keep him sane. She reached down to undo the button of his jeans, pulling them halfway down his thighs and drawing up her skirt and pulling underwear off, throwing it somewhere behind her. When she wrapped her fingers around his length he breathed in so sharply it sounded like the hiss of a snake, and she smiled up at him. The look he gave her was half exasperated half amazed.

"You're sadistic," He breathed. She hummed in agreement, sinking onto his length and moaning hot into his ear.

"You seem to like that, though." She commented, and when he began to pump into her she placed both her hands on his abdomen to stop him. He halted immediately.

"I do," He groaned, and she traced the straining muscles in his arms as she slowly rolled her hips over his. He groaned her name, and she continued to ride him painfully slow, and with one hand she dug her nails into his hip and with the other she played with her clit, drawing herself closer and closer to the edge, and he was going to go crazy if he couldn't touch her, if he couldn't—

She came, stars danced in front of her eyes and her nails eased up on his hip. He shuddered at the feel of her convulsing around his cock. Her lips pressed against his ear as she breathed and she said, "You can touch me now,"

His hands slid under her thighs and he stood, depositing her on the table even as she let loose peels of laughter. He pulled out of her, hearing her gentle exhalation as he did, and he flipped her around so her stomach was pressed against the table. He realigned his cock to her entrance and entered, relishing in the feel of her and the moans she made. One hand settled on her hip, gripped her so hard she was certain she would bruise, and the other came around to wrap around her throat. He pulled out slowly and slammed back in, pausing to hear the delightful sounds that spilled from her mouth.

He pulled his torso away from her only for a moment to pull his shirt over his head so he could feel all of her pressed against him, and he only wished he had the patience to strip her from the rest of her clothes so he could feel her skin to skin. The hand that had rested at her throat glides down until he reaches her clit, and she moaned, "Oh, fuck, Tom—" And he loses any semblance of control.

He lost himself in the feel of her; the softness of her skin, the taste of the skin of her neck, the feeling of her wrapped around his cock as he fucked her into the table. She reached one hand back to wind her fingers in his hair and pull, and the sensation sent shockwaves through his whole body. When he came, his teeth sank into the tender skin of her shoulder until he drew blood.

Afterwards, he would look upon the marks she left him as well.

—

"I have something to say…about Tom,"

"Hermione, I get it, you don't want to talk about him—"

"We had sex."

"…"

"Gin—"

"What the fuck, Hermione? I fucking knew he—"

—

It takes some time for anyone to completely adjust to the fact that Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle are a thing that's happening in real life. And that it isn't a joke.

Her parents are the first to come around. There's a special sort of ignorance that comes with living your entire life on a high salary, one that Hermione hasn't experienced since she befriended Ron and Harry and Ginny. So when they meet Tom Riddle, they're only true impression of him is that he is an extremely intelligent, extremely handsome man with many rich connections in town.

Ginny is the next to come around, surprisingly enough. And because of her approval, Harry eventually approves as well—tentatively.

Ron never does. Part of it probably has to do with the fact that he thought that Hermione would always be with him instead. And Hermione thinks it doesn't help that at the one and only occasion Tom has ever been around her friends, Tom fingered her under the dinner table and Hermione is almost certain that Ron noticed.

She graduates and actually accepts her invitation to Harvard, as opposed to the man she spends her nights with who for some god forsaken reason prefers to waste away in their home town.

"When will you get back?" He'll always ask before she leaves, and she'll count the days for him.

There's something unbalanced about the two of them, like they came together by some miracle of nature and each desperately hold on to the other to avoid fate fixing its mistakes. He's still out of his mind and involved in all the wrong things, and she's still intent on graduating Harvard top of her class and becoming a professor, but in some strange, convoluted way, they work.

"I'll miss you," He admits in the aftermath of a particularly intense quickie in the bathroom. He traces patters across her back and buries his face in her hair, refusing to let her down from where she's sitting on the sink. She smooths his hair back into place and kisses the bruises on his neck and waits for her breath to slow.

"I'll be back in December." She says.

"Five months," He argues, resting his chin on her shoulder as she hooks her ankle around his thigh and moves her hand soothingly across his back.

"Yeah," She agrees, "But imagine the reunion sex."

He laughs, short and deep in his throat, and trails kisses up her neck.

There's three loud bangs on the door and a voice calling, "Is someone in there?"

"Shit that's Ron," Hermione whispers, "We need to get back to the party." and Tom reluctantly lets her down from the sink. He makes himself presentable, buttons his jeans and slides a hand haphazardly through his hair, and then gives her a moment to collect herself and before she has the chance to come up with a plan to get Ron to go away, Tom is already throwing the door open.

"Sorry, man," He spoke with false friendliness and claps Ron on the shoulder as he walks past, "You know how lovebirds are." And he even lets his hand linger on his shoulder, smiling at him as if he were genuine. Ron looked ready to pass out his face got so red. As Hermione slipped passed him she muttered an apology, for his sake.

When she reached Tom's side again she kicks him hard in the back of the leg.

—

gaahhhhhhahahahaha i am suCH TRASH WOW DONT MIND ME

this turned out like way more fluffy than i originally intended? It kind of just took on its own life as i wrote it and just…..became this I have no excuse

Hahahahhaha I really should be writing for excitant buT INSTEAD this idea just wouldn't…it wouldn't go away

I was supposed to be Greasers AU? That like….barely came through basically i just wanted Tom in leather jackets with cigarettes ok sue me

Let me know what you think!