A/N: Just a quick warning. There's half a lemon halfway through then a whole grapefruit near the end. You've been warned, aaaahhh.
They first met in Vienna.
They were in a concert, Bach, and they both sat in a booth at the top right. It was carpeted in deep black, and its curtains were rich maroon; she had worn a burgundy dress, long and slit to show off her left thigh. He had sat down next to her, his back straightened and his demeanour quiet. When he unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, his belt buckle shone in the feeble light.
They had not talked in the first half, simply clapped whenever needed. She had teared up, and promptly wiped the tears from her eyes, carefully putting away the handkerchief in her purse.
During the break, she had ran into him pulling out a cigarette- French, slim, vanilla- and when she smiled at him, leaning on the balcony edge, he offered her one, not returning her smile.
Later, when they had entered again, Hermione cried for the second time, and he offered her his handkerchief. It was black, smooth, and at the bottom the initials T.M.R. were stitched in emerald green.
She patted her eyes gingerly, then returned his handkerchief with a smile.
He did not smile back.
The second time they were in Italy; she sat on a bar overlooking the beach, and calmly watched the bartender as he prepared her drink. The counter was a solid black stained metal, cool as ice, and made her shiver as she leaned over her bare arms.
The sun was setting, and the view was picturesque- her skin glowed and her eyes glittered as she moved to take the drink from the bartender. Her peace of mind was interrupted by a voice, rough and deep and clumsy, as a man sat next to her and pointedly stared at her face. She ignored him.
Fifteen minutes later and he still had not moved, and his advances became brasher, irritating, and she openly told him to leave, but he refused to. Then, suddenly, his eyes had travelled to her shoulder- over her shoulder- and they had filled with horror as he scrambled off the chair- she felt someone sit next to her, and when she looked, it was him.
She smiled and took a sip from her drink as he took from his.
"My fiancé wouldn't like this, you know," she said, as his black shirt, short-sleeved and smooth, touched her skin, raised the hair on the back of her neck-
He looked down at her hand, a golden band enveloping her ring finger, they were close, so close- and he snorted, then gulped the entirety of his drink.
"Shame," he said, his voice a low baritone, smooth and level, flowing, then he slammed his drink on the bar and left.
It was the first time she'd heard him speak.
The third time they met she was in the airport in Berlin, waiting in line for a taxi, when a child haphazardly slammed into her luggage and spilt it all on the floor- he had turned out to be standing in line behind her, and quickly moved to clear the floor of her items.
They had moved to the side as she closed her bags and he got out his phone, his thumbs traveling at great speed across the small keyboard. Once she had entered the six digit number and locked her bags, she looked up at him and smiled.
"So what do you do for work that makes you travel so much? I must have run into you in four different countries."
He threw the scarf over his shoulder, grey wool, and sighed, his breath coming out in smoke. "Two, actually, and this is the third."
She laughed nervously.
Hermione nodded, intrigued. "I see. Where?"
"University of Manchester."
"Oh! What a coincidence, I'm on the way for an interview there. To teach, as well."
He nodded, and Hermione noticed that he did not seem as surprised as she was.
"How rude of me," he said, finally, his tone impassive, "I'm Doctor Professor Tom Riddle."
She shook his gloved hand, regretting not having worn gloves of her own. "Doctor Hermione Weasley. Lovely to meet you."
He nodded, and she rubbed her hands together for warmth.
"Well, I'm only in Berlin because of a transit, and my flight's still in a few hours, so I thought I'd drop by a friend- would you care to join me for a cup of coffee, perhaps?"
He stared openly at her wedding band, golden and unassuming, then nodded. He carried a single black leather briefcase, and she dragged along a suitcase, a bright, patterned purple thing that weighed much more than it looked. They walked outside, Hermione shivering.
"Well, actually, we have to stop by a store first, I neglected to bring along my gloves and I'm pretty sure I'll be frostbitten by the end of the hour if I don't remedy this situation."
He lowered his head, and she thought she could just see the corners of his mouth twisting. Then, he suddenly changed direction, and she followed suit.
"This way," he declared, walking briskly- she struggled to keep up. "I know a place."
It was the first time they had walked together.
The fourth time she was in Manchester- her hands were wrapped snugly around a cup of tea. Though it was summer, the two months she had spent in Qatar were much warmer, and she had trouble adapting.
He had walked into the coffee shop with two other professors by his side, wearing a pale lavender dress shirt and a smooth purple tie, and his black belt buckle flickered in and out of view. He ordered a coffee, and before he could leave, Hermione called out his name.
He looked at her, suddenly, and a look of recognition came upon his face. He called at his two friends and approached her table.
"It must be the first time I've run into you in an English speaking country," she said, grinning. "How are you?"
He nodded, his lips twitching. "Should I introduce you as Doctor or Professor Hermione Weasley, then?"
"Professor." She shrugged. "And it's Hermione Granger now, actually."
He paused, then, looking oddly at her hand- wrapped around a dark navy glass- lacking its usual golden band.
"Professors," he started, looking at his friends, "this is Professor Hermione Granger. Professor Granger, this is Professor Severus Snape, and Professor Bellatrix Lestrange."
Professor Snape shook her hand stiffly, seeming as if this was the last thing he wanted to do, and Professor Lestrange cooed and kissed her on the cheeks.
"Professor Granger will be joining us soon in the…"
"Journalism faculty," she supplied, smiling.
Lestrange raised her eyebrows, surprised. "Why, you'll be the youngest professor we have yet."
Snape sullenly drank from his coffee and looked away.
"Welcome to Manchester, darling. Hope you have a printer at home because the staffroom ones are just awful."
Hermione nodded as they walked away, smiling feebly.
She watched as they exited the door.
It was the first time he addressed her.
She slammed the papers on the staffroom table.
"These kids are horrible."
Professor Riddle didn't reply, instead, he typed away on his mac.
"I mean, I was going through a little bit of history, and none of them had ever heard about Phineas Gage. Not a single one."
He continued typing.
"How can I teach these hooligans? What were the requirements for entry into this school? Did these kids even finish their A-Levels?"
He took a sip from his mug, a dark emerald porcelain.
"I asked them to do a small task on why they wanted to go into journalism, and look at this! 'My mother told me she'd get me a car if I got in, and she hasn't got me one yet so I don't see the point of this paper and I'm dropping out by the end of this term anyway'. What is this?!"
He snorted on his drink, and cleared his throat in amusement.
"And then there's the part where none of them listen. Not a single one. They just talk and talk and it's like I'm lecturing a bunch of babies, right, and then there's this kid with the most bewildering accent who just won't shut up-"
Suddenly, he slammed his laptop shut, and looked at her. She jumped in her chair.
"Look, Professor Granger," he started, removing some lint from his jacket, "you are our youngest Journalism professor. There is no doubt that these… hooligans will take advantage of it."
"And frankly, the way you run your class is pathetic. A paper on why they want to go into Journalism? They probably spent three months working on the same kind of paper, and that's called a Personal Statement. I'm sure you've had to write one of those once. Quite recently, too, I might add."
She narrowed her eyes at him.
"You need to take control of your class. Like the Americans say, show them who's boss. I'm sure they say it in a much more dreadful accent, but their point stands. When you act like a little girl," he snapped, abruptly standing up and removing his things, "you are treated like a little girl. Good day."
Hermione sat still, shocked. Professor Lestrange looked at her from across the room, giggling.
She angrily snatched the rest of the papers and stormed out of the staffroom.
She could hear the quiet whispers from across the room.
"Oh, Tom, darling…"
It was nearing night time, and she had stayed late to finish typing up a report for the Principal. Apart from the noise coming from the Common Room balcony, she was the only Professor still on campus, as far as she knew.
She heard the sound of a grunt, low and indulging, then the sound of cloth being torn, and a short, muffled yell.
She typed faster on her old Dell laptop.
She shuffled desperately in her bag for her headphones, and nearly screamed when she couldn't find them.
Another grunt, followed by a high pitched moan, and it went quiet.
Suddenly, the sound of shuffling and the tinkle of a belt, then Professor Lestrange came rushing out of the balcony, putting her shoes on. Stilettoes, and completely inappropriate for campus, but the Professor seemed to have a mind of her own. Her hair was messed up and her lipstick smudged, and she had small butterfly sized bruises across her neck and collar bones.
Her eyes fell on Hermione, and she smiled and bowed. "Good night, darling."
Hermione's face flushed.
As she opened the door and left, Hermione saw that the professor's cardigan had been torn down the back.
Suddenly, she was curious, too curious, as to who Lestrange was with- and she thought she might have heard a name, but instead she sat further in her chair and returned to typing.
"Oh, Professor Granger. I hadn't known you were here."
Professor Riddle stood at the entrance to the balcony, his hair mussed and his face flushed- his shirt was untucked and his tie undone. He reached into his pocket and produced a small, rectangular silver box. He pulled out a cigarette and sighed.
"Would you like one?"
Hermione shook her head. "Thank you."
He lit it with a match, inhaling deeply. "Join me in the balcony, please."
She hesitated, having dubbed the balcony as the scene of the crime, but got up once he had exited.
He leaned on the railing, occasionally blowing out smoke.
"Sure you don't want one?"
Hermione shook her head again, then produced her own pack of cigarettes. She fit one between her lips and he lit it for her.
"Great, because I don't like sharing."
She laughed, but stayed quiet.
"Though Bella seems to think that I do."
Hermione looked inquiringly at him. "What do you mean?"
Hermione gasped. "Why would you have an affair with a married woman?"
He laughed, and Hermione revelled in the sound. "I believe the more important question is why would a married woman have an affair?" He inhaled, his lips wrapping around the cigarette. "We've known each other for a long time."
They were silent for a few moments.
"So how come you travel so often?"
He shrugged. "Why would you?"
She laughed. "I'm a journalist. I can't stay in one place for too long before going insane."
"Is that why you're going to Venezuela this December?"
She staggered. "How do you know?"
With a smile, he put out his cigarette on the ledge. "Minerva told me."
It was almost ridiculous how close he was to the Principal. "Wonderful." She put out her cigarette on the ledge as well.
When she reached into her pocket for another cigarette, her hands shivering, the packet dropped- Riddle swiftly caught it, and automatically held Hermione's hand.
"It's a wonder if you're even truly English at all," he drawled. "You're so badly suited for the cold and it's only October."
She stared at his hand wrapped around hers, and stopped breathing.
He snatched his hand away and offered her his matches.
She lit a cigarette and didn't look into his eyes for the rest of the night.
Hermione regretted wearing a skirt as soon as she walked on campus. She hurried into the staffroom and quickly set out her things.
"Right. I can do this."
It was 6.30 AM and she had wanted to get a head start on writing the end of term finals- she had finished the midterms a month ago, and her students were supposed to sit that test today.
She worked for an hour, regularly going through the teacher's edition of her students' textbooks, making sure that the questions were fair and fathomable.
No wonder her old University History Professor, Mr Binns, had hated teaching.
The door opened, and someone walked in. She looked at her watch.
"It's only 7.30, I hadn't expected anyone to come now, but good morning-"
Professor Riddle nodded at her.
"Nothing," she said suddenly, and quickly turned back to her laptop.
She heard him shuffle behind her, most likely going through his mail.
"Working on the midterms, I suppose?"
She cleared her throat. "No, actually, I finished those last month. I'm working on the finals."
He laughed. "Finals, already?"
She didn't answer.
He moved to the small kitchenette, reaching for his emerald green mug. "Would you like some tea? Or coffee, perhaps?"
She abruptly stood up, shaking her head. "My coffee is a long complicated process. I'll make it myself."
He looked at her oddly and moved towards the coffee machine.
"You're acting rather strange today, Granger. What is the matter?"
She huffed, reaching for the first mug she saw. "Remember how I had a different last name? I was married."
He looked at her as if she was an idiot. "Yes, I gathered."
"He called me last night. Wanted to see me."
He snorted condescendingly at the mention of the ex-husband. "I gather you told him to piss off."
"I told him I'd meet him tonight."
Riddle's movements suddenly stopped. "I see."
"I haven't seen him in a few months," she said, looking around. "Hey, have you seen the sugar?"
He nodded, pointing to his right.
"Thanks." She tried to walk behind him, but a large, lumpy couch did not allow it. Instead, she leaned on the counter and attempted to reach for it.
"Do you think you could hand me that, Riddle? It's a bit out of reach."
He placed his mug down and ignored her.
"Riddle? I need the sugar and I can't-"
She leaned further, placing her other hand on his chest for support.
"Bloody hell, Riddle, hand me the damn sugar-"
His hand covered hers.
Suddenly, his lips slammed on hers, and she recoiled, and his hands had wrapped around her waist- hesitantly, she kissed back, and his grip on her waist hardened, toughened, and her brain was suddenly mush and she forgot about the sugar-
His hands lifted her and he placed her haphazardly on the counter, still moving his lips against hers. She groaned, and slowly placed her hands on his face- he let out a small sound of contentment, and pushed her further onto the counter. She vaguely heard her mug spill.
Riddle's knee pushed hers apart, and she was abruptly aware of how she hadn't worn stockings, but he had moved to stand between her legs and she relished how close he was, and he tasted like coffee and vanilla flavoured cigarettes- she ran her hands through his hair, gripping, scratching, and he moaned into her mouth.
His hips started moving, grinding against her, and she nearly cursed, almost screamed, because it was the most pleasurable feeling in the world-
The door slammed open, and a loud, high pitched gasp sounded.
"Oh god! What have I walked in on?"
Riddle pulled away from her, but stayed close, his eyes glued to hers.
"My my my, I hadn't seen this coming at all. A challenge?" Professor Lestrange sat down on the table, looking at them. "Maybe I'll just fuck my husband instead, tonight, Tom."
Hermione's face reddened even more, if even possible.
"Very well, Bellatrix."
She frowned. "Very well." She walked out of the room, her stilettoes clacking menacingly on the wooden floor.
Hermione pushed him away. "I'm so sorry, oh god, I didn't know what came over me-"
"Stop blabbering," he snapped, moving away. "It wasn't your fault."
Though his words were stinging, his tone was calm, controlled.
He cupped her cheeks, and Hermione's heart skipped a beat. He looked at her lips, red and swollen.
He didn't say a word as he left the staffroom.
"And for the fourth time, guys, that is the correct way of writing a persuasive argument."
The students kept talking amongst themselves, and only one out of the seventy-seven first years took notes.
A slow, pronounced clap suddenly echoed in the lecture hall, and Hermione stilled. The familiar clack of heels sounded slowly after.
"Bravo, Professor Granger, bravo. You might as well be a General Studies teacher."
The students had gone quiet, and when one of them laughed, she regretted it as soon as it came out.
"Professor Lestrange. Why are you in my class?"
She cackled. "You call this a class? A circus, maybe. Maybe even a zoo."
"If you don't mind, you're interrupting my lecture-"
"Oh how to write a persuasive argument? Charming. It's just like primary school all over again."
Hermione scowled. "Professor Lestrange, what is your purpose?"
She tilted her head to the side. "What?"
"What is your purpose of interrupting my lecture?"
"Well, it must be due to-"
"Due to the fact that I am the youngest professor hired by this school as of yet? Due to the fact that I received my doctorate at the age of twenty-five while you scoured the schools of Britain for someone to hire you? Or is it due to the fact," she snapped, approaching Lestrange, "that your most prized possession fell into my hands without me even trying?"
The woman stopped in her tracks, her jaw dropped open.
"Leave my class at once. Good day."
As Professor Lestrange turned around, fuming, Hermione addressed her class. "I want ten pages on one of the topics I listed on the online hub on the school website. Persuasive, as explained this lesson, for Thursday."
"Thursday? But that's two days from now!"
"Did I stutter?" she snapped. "Moving on…"
"Professor Granger, what came upon you to do such a thing?"
Hermione shifted in her chair.
"Principal McGonagall, my apologies, but that was blatant harassment. She interrupted my classroom! And she insulted me!"
The older woman leaned forward in her chair. Behind her was a portrait of an old man with a broken nose and a long, silver beard. "Hermione, dear."
"I know Bellatrix isn't the most pleasant of people-"
"Tell me about it."
"-but you have to be reasonable about it. She is your collegue, first and foremost." The Principal went through her files, discarding one in the bin. "If I hear another report of you snapping at a teacher like that in front of our students I have no choice but to demote you."
Hermione nodded stiffly as she moved out.
"If it's of any usefulness," said McGonagall, suddenly, "I thought she deserved that entirely."
"I never asked," he said, sitting next to her on the couch. "How did it go with the weasel last week?"
"Weasley," she said, "it's Weasley. Should you be sitting next to me? Bellatrix is right across the room-"
"I could shag you on this couch right now and she wouldn't say a word. She wouldn't dare defy me."
She stuttered and looked away. "Oh, I-"
"I'm attempting to start a conversation and there you go sabotaging it with your yammering. Well on you."
"Piss off," she snapped.
He raised his eyebrows, looking around the room. "Lovely."
"It was alright. We went out for dinner. He looked alright-"
He observed her inquiringly. "And?"
"He tried to kiss me."
They were quiet for a few seconds.
"Are you going to Hooch's staff birthday next week? I assumed that you weren't because of your hatred for Lacrosse and its coaches, but-"
"Yes. I'm going."
They sat in silence until the next class started.
"Oh my god, I love it! So thoughtful of you!"
Coach Hooch looked at her new wristwatch, with small lacrosse racquets instead of hands.
"I'm glad you like it. Happy Birthday!"
The coach hugged Hermione tightly and moved on. They were all in the common room, because the staffroom was too cluttered.
"It's adorable how you still buy birthday gifts," said a voice behind her. "Most people stop doing that after turning thirty."
"I'm only twenty-eight!" screeched Hermione, turning to face Professor Riddle. "That's completely unfair."
He shrugged, nonchalantly waving his glass of wine around. "Same thing."
She laughed. "Not my fault you're an old bag."
He frowned, looking away. "I'm only four years older."
"Speaking of," she said, pouring herself more wine, "when's your birthday, old man?"
He still avoided her eyes. "Not today, that's for sure."
"I'm serious. I'd like to know what to buy you!"
"Your panties would be nice," he said, amused.
She flushed and choked on her wine.
"When is it, Riddle?"
"I won't tell you."
He started walking, and she followed. "I am by no means obliged to, that is why."
She punched his shoulder. "You are cruel."
He chuckled, taking a sip of wine.
"Is it in June?" she asked, running after him. He had just come out of a lecture hall, and his students looked dispirited and exhausted- as they usually did after Riddle's class.
"Why would you even think that?"
She shrugged. "I had a free slot and nothing to do, so I-"
"Ah, yes, since you finished writing the finals last month. Bloody overachievers."
"-thought I'd brainstorm for a while. Is it June, then?"
"Damn it all."
"I could have lied to you, and you wouldn't have even noticed."
She tilted her head thoughtfully. "No, I don't think so. You enjoy my failures too much. You are a complete and utter sadist."
"Are you sure?"
He stopped and looked down at her. His height was an unfair advantage. "Yes, I'm sure."
She huffed. "You're no fun."
"I'm plenty of fun."
"Is it a special day?" she asked, suddenly. "Like the 1st of September? Or Christmas? Or the 4th of July?"
He glared at her. "That's an American Holiday. It's special in America, not in Manchester."
"I personally like the festivities."
"They're literally celebrating being separated from us."
She shrugged. "Well you're rather horrible, so I don't see why not."
He rolled his eyes. "I have another lecture. I'll see you soon."
She waved her hands. "Keep destroying people's dreams!"
"It is a special day, isn't it? Your birthday?"
He ignored her in favour of reading the newspaper.
She huffed irritably. "I'm entirely sure it is. Help me out here."
He looked up at her, removing his reading glasses. She took them.
"These are new, aren't they?"
He nodded, sighing.
"I like them." She put them on.
He looked at the suitcase next to her. They were leaning on the balcony edge, on the last day of the semester. The teachers were in the common room getting drunk off eggnogs and playing board games.
"Venezuela in Christmas, then?"
She nodded, the too-big glasses falling off her nose. "Exciting, isn't it?"
He turned the page. "I'm sure it is."
They were silent for a few seconds.
"Oh, wait a second, that's my old school."
She pointed at an article titled Hogwarts: Ranking Skyrocketing.
"I did my undergraduate there!"
Riddle looked at her strangely, grabbing his reading glasses. "How odd. So did I."
She peered at him. "Strange. I never heard of you."
He stared impassively at her. "I never heard of you either."
Frowning, Hermione punched his shoulder. "You foul man."
She looked at her phone, her eyebrows furrowing. "Alright, time for me to leave."
He nodded. "Goodbye."
His eyes were glued to the article, travelling across the page speedily.
Hermione sighed. "To hell with it."
She leaned over and hesitantly placed a kiss on his cheek, and promptly rushed out of the balcony to say her goodbyes.
Riddle read the same sentence fifteen times.
"Where's your darling pet Kneazle, then?"
Riddle looked over his shoulder. He was sitting in a pub he had usually frequented.
"Hope you don't mind me joining you."
"I do, actually."
She chuckled. "Absolutely hilarious, the whole thing with the bushy-haired girl. If you wanted a new, shy little toy," she whispered, running her finger down his arm, "you could have just told me."
He downed his drink.
"Ugh," she spat, looking over her shoulder. "Husband's calling."
She got up, running her long nails through his hair. "Call me."
He nodded, waving his arms dismissively, and called for another drink.
Damned be the holidays.
She walked in the mall, eagerly taking pictures with her phone.
The installation of pregnant mannequins in most shop displays in a particular Venezuelan mall was causing a frenzy- she stashed away her phone in favour of taking notes.
As she interviewed an angry mother hiding her child behind her back, Hermione felt like she had missed something.
She wrote down the woman's answers in messy, scribbled handwriting.
He stood on the ledge of the balcony on New Year's Eve, drinking out of his dark emerald mug. Night had fallen, and he was the only person on campus.
The door behind him slammed open, and Riddle jumped, looking behind him.
She stood, panting, her hair frizzed around her oval face. She was flushed, and wore clothes entirely inappropriate for the cold.
"Riddle," she wheezed, throwing her suitcase to the side.
"How did you get in?"
She took off her gloves- the pair they had bought together in Berlin- and threw them on the counter, moving to fix her hair.
"I picked the lock," she said. "Several locks, actually."
"You know how to pick locks-"
"Yes, I do."
They observed each other for a few minutes.
"Do you have any cigarettes?" she asked, suddenly. "I finished mine over there and didn't buy more because they were too expensive-"
He nodded and waved her over, then turned his back to her, leaning on the railing.
"Thank you," she said, when he handed her a cigarette. "I know you hate sharing-"
She lit it, and placed the burnt match to her side.
"When did you start smoking?" he asked.
She sighed. "Sixth Form. Horrible year. I was doing five A-Levels. You?"
He laughed. "A long time ago."
"Of course, you old bag."
The corners of his lips twisted, but he didn't reply.
"It's today, isn't it?" she inquired, looking at him. "Your birthday. It's today."
He nodded, looking at the grounds.
"I told you it was a special day."
His head snapped towards her, then, and there was something in his eyes, something-
She twirled a lock of his hair around her finger, and ran her other hand down his sharp cheekbone-
He grabbed the collar of her coat and pulled her towards him, harshly, urgently, and he started kissing her throat as he pushed her knees apart and leaned her over the railing, as her moans echoed around them- he kissed her, and Hermione almost screamed, finally, then he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her onto the ledge-
She ran her hands through his hair, scratching the nape of his neck as he groaned into her mouth, and felt the hard ridges of his back, and then moved her hands to his front, feeling for his tie. She undid it in a hurry as he threw off her jacket-
"Wait," she breathed, and he pulled away from her. "I am not going to have sex in the same spot you shagged Bellatrix-"
He growled as he lifted her. She squealed and held onto his neck as he walked them to the couch, his tie falling off his neck and on the floor.
After a moment of thought, he abandoned the couch and instead placed her on the kitchen counter- her brain stopped working and her face reddened, but he instantly distracted her by unbuttoning her blouse- she pulled his jumper over his head, momentarily interrupting their kiss, but he instantly grabbed her face and slammed his lips onto hers again.
Her hands trailed downwards until she found his belt- she unbuckled it and almost sighed because she had wanted to do this for so long- he pushed her skirt upwards and tore off her underwear in a swift move.
"I liked those!" she objected, unbuttoning the rest of her shirt.
"I liked those too," he said, fitting them in his pocket.
She pushed his trousers down, running her fingers over his taught abdominals- he pulled down his underwear and held his member in his hands.
Hermione threw her head backwards as his tip ran teasingly along the outside of her lips- he pushed her legs further apart.
"Granger. Granger, look at me."
She looked at him as he plunged inside her.
He thrust slowly, at first, as Hermione's breaths shortened and became shallower, and he used one hand to lean on the counter and the other to hold her closer. His hips rolled, and Hermione locked her ankles behind his back-
His pace quickened.
Her moans came in short, pronounced gasps and he ran kisses down her neck, grunting in pleasure- she lifted his chin and kissed him deeply, small noises coming from her throat as his fingers reached down and massaged her tiny, pink bead-
"Bloody- fuck, Tom, I'm coming-"
"Great news," he murmured, speeding up his pace- he kissed her harder, and she pulled at his hair.
She came with a cry of his name, and he followed her seconds after.
They sat on the counter, panting.
"Granger- Granger, you alright?"
She nodded, swallowing. "You'd think we'd be on first name basis, now."
"Happy Birthday, you old bag."
He quietened. "Thank you."
"You know, if you had told me about your birthday earlier we could have gotten to this a lot sooner."
He chuckled. "And Bellatrix would have slaughtered you."
She cringed. "True. Hey, I got you a gift." She reached into her pocket, smiling.
Tom quirked an eyebrow. "You did?"
She reached out from her pocket, moving a small item towards him. "Surprise."
His face was passive. "A wristwatch."
She nodded. "You're never wearing one, so I thought-"
She was interrupted when Tom kissed her, and she promptly kissed back- she assumed that no one had bought him a gift in recent years.
She pushed his hair back and smiled. "You're welcome."
He smiled back.
A/N: Happy Holidays! I hope everyone's having a good time. In celebration of Tom Riddle's birthday tomorrow, this happened. I tried not to make it too fluffy but I didn't succeed. SORRY. I'll be sure to write more miserable/violent/dark stuff soon.
Tell me what you think! Cheers.