Sweet Sacrifice

Chapter 4. Tom's Doll

Tom's PoV

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Days Forty-five - One Hundred fifteen

Her words are finely spun like silk: soothing to the touch and exquisitely delicate. They linger in my ears and in my head, each craving another. Against my better judgment, I have kept Hermione alive longer than I have kept any other captive. I am not a person swayed easily with words, but I forget such things when she weaves her tales. Like the clearest of pictures, I see each image that she speaks. I actually feel like she has taken me to these places. Her recent story is no exception:

"Aladdin was a street urchin whose lazy ways were the death of his father and the deepest despair of his mother. One day, an evil magician gave him a magic ring and attempted to deceive him into retrieving a magical lamp. However, Aladdin foiled his trick, saved his own skin, and emerged with the lamp to boot, along with some jewels that he thought were fruit. When his mother polished the lamp, a hideous genie emerged. Aladdin asked him for food, which the genie delivered instantly on silver plates. Used to living from hand to mouth, Aladdin sold the plates one by one as they needed money, and thus they lived comfortably for several long years.

One day Aladdin caught a glimpse of the princess and set his mother to ask for her hand. She took some of the jewel-fruits with her; and when the sultan saw them all aglitter, he was inclined to agree. But his vizier, who wanted to give his own son a chance to compete, suggested a delay.

The king told Aladdin's mother to come back in three months; but then, two months later, an announcement was made of the princess's marriage to the vizier's son. Then, Aladdin called upon his genie to whisk away the wedding bed - bride, groom, and all. The genie did that for three nights, returning it each morning, and the frightful trips convinced the groom to relinquish his hold on the princess...."

Another thing I have been seeing vividly is these dreams that have taken over my mind at night. For the past thirty days, I have been having this dream repeatedly: It is a clear, spring day. A warm breeze can be felt in the air, and a buzz of sweet smells entices my senses. Hermione is lying on the ground a few feet from me, smiling, and her eyes are closed as if she were asleep. I kneel down to her, my fingers running up and down her cold, marble-white skin. Murder crosses my mind as I look down at her tattered dress. With a simple touch to her stomach, blood begins to pool up from her; the red liquid slowly stains every inch of the dress, leaving a small puddle around her. The blood begins to stain my fingers. Her empty eyes open to look at me helplessly, her face still wearing that absurd smile.

I stare up at the ceiling, replaying the images from my dream in my head. I decipher what the images mean, but it seems painfully obvious to even the most simple-minded folk: Hermione is going to die.

I have never been wrong about what the images tell me.

~*~

Many days and nights pass, and with each passing day, Hermione transports me to a new destination. It is during her seventy-fifth night of being alive that I begin to hear the comments of the Death Eaters. They fear I am being too lenient with her and that I am growing soft in my ways. To hell with them all, I say. I shall do as I want despite what they think.

Throughout the following weeks, a select group of my Death Eaters continue to pop in and out of the Riddle mansion, bringing to me daily reports of the Order's every move. In addition, it seems that with each passing Death Eater that stops in my house, I am incessantly confronted by peculiar stares. They do not think I notice the stares - they think they are too quick for me - but I see how their eyes casually flicker over my face. Eyes full of suspicion, their minds wonder when I am going to dispose of the "nasty little Mudblood." Without even trying, more of their thoughts slowly start to fill my head like poison: "What does he think he's doing by keeping her alive? What's so special about this one?"

She would not even be alive if I could just break the spell her stories put me under. Perhaps they captivate me so much now because nobody ever told me stories while I was growing up in the orphanage. It is a weakness of mine I know... my Achilles heal. But I shall enjoy taking her worthless life the moment she finishes her seductive spell on me.

~*~

It is on her one hundred and fifteenth day of being my prisoner that I awake and find myself questioning my own motives. I find that many problems can be corrected right after waking up, when the brain is still fresh, but today proved otherwise. Have my own thoughts and ideals been compromised so easily by her words?

Looking to my side, my eyes fall upon her - still sleeping beside me. She is the perfect picture of pure innocence, an almost angelic look etched upon her young face. I reach up to touch her, my hand caressing her arm. Her skin is soft to the touch as my fingers slowly crawl over every part of her body. She thinks she has outwitted me, but she is wrong. Such things are best left when unexpected, and I know that now will be completely unexpected. Hermione stirs slightly, but she doesn't wake up as I gently roll her head over to face me. "Pleasant dreams, Hermione, my little doll," I hiss quietly into her ear. Whether she hears me or not, I do not know.

Watching her sleep, an idea grows in my mind. I pull out my wand, tapping her gently on the shoulder as I whisper the words "Imperio" into the early morning air. Being asleep and under the Imperius is a lethal combination, causing the person to remain a sleep, unable to wake until the Imperius spell is removed. But I do not intend to remove the spell just yet, only after I am finished with her.

Her silent, shallow breathing remains unchanged as I lean over to kiss her on the lips. The emotions growing inside me burn intensely as I pull Hermione closer to me. Almost tearing off her clothes in the process, I look down at her down turned mouth, pressing it up into a smile with my fingers.

"Smile, Hermione, you poor sweet innocent thing," I chide. "It's not like you will remember anything when you wake up...."

I finger her mouth again, turning her smile into a frown.

"Oh, you want to hate me, don't you honey?" I smile.

Her silence is like music to my ears as I tilt her head up to face me. Her lock of chestnut brown hair rests around her face, framing the innocence I am about to take from her. I run my hands down the length of her body, stopping only to allow myself a moment of delight....