The creative impulses of man are always at war with the possessive impulses. – Van Wyck Brooks

She thinks she's finally gotten through to him.

Of course she does—her fingers are clenched around his so tightly that her knuckles turn white with the force, but not because she's restraining him from moving; because she can't bear for him to leave her, leave the safety she's built around herself and him, because he isn't truly that evil yet. Not yet. Only later, but she's even stopped that from happening. Right?

She thinks that he's showed her everything, that she's stripped him down to his soul, and she's staring into its naked eyes, no shelter protecting against it, down to the very raw of him, but she hasn't seen anything. By God, she hasn't seen anything. She hasn't seen the way his grip tightens on his quill whenever she talks in that bossy, presumptuous voice of hers during class or out of it, the way his face hardens whenever she playfully demands something of him or his eyes flickering to his wand as he contemplates on Crucioing her when she treats him as an equal, lacking fear or respect for him.

She doesn't feel his wand burrowing deep into her robes, stabbing into the patch of skin between her ribs until it's too late. The warmth of her bodies pressed so closely together, the tears dried from her face as she begged and begged him not to become Lord Voldemort, and he feigned compliance. There was such a peacefulness settled over her that it infuriated him, made him want to curse her all the more. And yet, something about the hope in her eye and the difference of her attitude from others fed him to what he'd never felt, as revolting as he found it.

The wood digging into the center of her ribs elicited a sharp, tiny gasp from the brunette. She tugs her fingers free him his, untangles her arms from around his, but he doesn't. He drags her back against him, squeezing her against him so that she can feel every single inch of him, just as she so desperately wished. The wand jabbed painfully into her, but all she could become aware of was how her body molded against his and her face flushed in humiliation as well as disgust with herself, knowing that he wasn't being caring, what with the wand threatening to stab right into the center of her body.

"What are you doing?" Her words escaped so softly that he could've just pretended she hadn't said anything and cast that horrible spell on her. He itched for it, the urge controlling his hand into pushing it further between her ribs, and this time, she did not blush, but winced instead, and her hand moved quickly to his wand, which he caught easily, his grip on her wrist so hard that she swore she heard a bone snap.

"My little mudblood," he muttered under his breath, the words a clash of violent and affectionate, and her body instinctively jerked from his at the word, as if she'd been burnt. Only she couldn't move away from his tight, unyielding grasp. "So convinced that you know all and all above, aren't you?" A bitter chuckle as he presses his wand harder between her ribs, and she lets out a little moan of pain, struggling against him.

"Get off me," her voice fails her and falters in terror at the boy—no, man, because no boy could do… this, be so awful and manipulative and… no, he was a man, all right—she never knew before her. So she repeats herself. "Get off me." It doesn't do her much good, because her voice is still unbearably soft and he doesn't obey. Her nails start to scratch, and the stinging sensation of a slap wounds her face so gravely that she lets out a short scream, feeling the blood swim in her mouth from the impact. The magical equivalent to a slap.

"Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't do? Filthy little mudblood," he spits the word in disgust. Then his face softens and the wand is tugged out from between her ribs and she inhales sharply in relief. He uses the wand to push back a lock of brown hair, tuck it behind an hear and letting a cruel smile curl his mouth. "My filthy little mudblood. Isn't that right? Haven't you done filthy things for me, Hermione?" Her name doesn't sound like it has before on his tongue; instead, it's patronizing and horrible and she can't help but flinch at the sound. His words make her eyes burn betrayingly with ashamed tears, but she doesn't shift her gaze this time. She swallows the blood and forces the tears back down and keeps her innocent brown eyes locked to his barbaric, unceasingly poisonous black holes. "Haven't you, Hermione?" His words fall from his lips in an elegant hiss that reminds her too much of Parseltongue and sends a shiver down her spine. She presses her lips together and furrows her eyebrows, refusing to respond to that awful question. Refusing to give him that sort of perverse satisfaction.

After a moment of silence, a bitter, callous laugh fills her ears and his wand is on her throat, pressing so hard against it that he's almost tearing the skin there and all she can do is gasp and claw at him for mercy.

"A shame you insolent muggles will always see things as a fairytale and ignore the reality. Disgusting little swine." His words bring more tears to her eyes and she lets out a choked sob. What else could she have expected? An idiot she was for falling for his façade. His face is tight with anger, his mouth curled up into a grimace of disgust at the girl in front of him, as if she's something unpleasant stuck to the button of his shoe. He moves his face closer, and she can't help the shudder that goes through her as he puts his mouth to her ear and speaks softly and unnervingly alluringly into it. "Fool." His words are harsh and hateful, and she lets out a quiet wail in response. He draws back from her.

"Unfortunately, I myself have fallen for your little… charade. A child's charade, nothing more, but I have fallen for it nonetheless." And she can't help it; she can't help the erratic beating of her heart with those words—he was inadvertently telling her that she fell not for her charade, but for her! A smile of triumph crossed her face, a little escape of the moment, pushing away the aversion to herself for the moment, but the smile was quickly wiped away with a jab on her throat causing her to choke and nearly vomit.

"And for that, my little mudblood," the tears and the vomit sprang, "I must dispense of you."

Her eyes widened as realization settled in. She'd foolishly assumed that he would spare her love and only Obliviate her, but this—what was this? Could he really be so heartless as to kill the one whom he loves? She knew the answer already—she opened her mouth to scream as he whispered those words that emptied her widened eyes and caused her body to sag in his arms.

And the last thing to web through her mind were the dead faces of her two best friends, lying motionlessly just as she was on the cold, hard ground of the Great Hall in defeat.

A/N: Hokay, so now that I've got back my obsession with Tomione, I'm gonna be writing a few Tomione oneshots, and I've got a new Angelina/Fred oneshot still typing up. I'm sorry that I haven't updated my Hermione/Eric or Fleur/Charlie stories, but I'm so busy with school and I've got another Eric/Pam oneshot coming up, so I'm sorry if I don't update very quickly. Be patient with me, and review!