meowmerson Answer:
She wasn’t an idiot, and as much as she had proved that time and time and time again, they still treated her like one.
She knew exactly what she was getting into when she met Tom Riddle. With his waxed hair and his pressed quits and his dark eyes and his charming smile. She knew he was a liar from the day they met, and a talented one. She knew he was dangerous from their first date. She knew who she was marrying from the moment he gave her that ring. She knew who she was married to.
She knew.
It didn’t really bother her that they talked around her, danced around the subject when she was present, shrouded it in coded language and vague descriptions. It didn’t bother her that they all kept it a secret from her, treated her as innocent. She didn’t mind that they looked at her and saw her as something to be protected, something that shouldn’t be corrupted.
It bothered her that they thought she was that fucking dumb.
But, as with everything, there was an advantage to being underestimated.
“Why don’t you run into the kitchen and make us all a cuppa tea, eh darling?” The man with the ponytail said. In his left hand he held a gun with a silencer agains the side of Tom’s head–and Tom hadn’t looked at her since the men arrived–and in his right hand he was flipping through a book that the other man had retrieved for him. It probably had confidential information. Illegal most likely. It didn’t frighten her that it existed as much as it annoyed her that he had left it lying around in their house.
The other man had helped himself to the expensive whiskey and was gulping it down and examining the sculptures on the mantlepiece.
“How do you take it?” She asked. The man with the gun smiled at her.
“I like her,” He told the room, though she wasn’t sure who he was speaking to, if anyone. “Most of them cry.” He narrowed his eyes, his smile dropping as he waved at his friend to come closer. The other did so, puling his gun out of the waistband of his pants as if sensing a danger, but all the man with the ponytail said was, “Keep her company, will you?”
“No.” Tom said. “She goes alone, or she stays in here.”
“He goes with her,” The man said, “Or I kill you both right now.”
“It’s fine.” She said, “It’s just tea, Tom.”
The man followed her into the kitchen.
“Now,” He started, placatingly, his hair was brown and he was younger than the other man, his fringe falling across his forehead, stubbornly refusing to stay the way he had obviously styled it. “You gotta know no harm is coming to you, right?” She looked at him. “This is between the men. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”
“And Tom?” She asked, turning the kettle on.
“Well, your husband and his associated have gotten involved in matters that do not concern them.” He said lightly, condescendingly, “They will have to answer for it.”
“Of course,” She agreed. Tom would have plenty to answer for. “And why did you need to bring this to my house?”
He paused. “Excuse me?”
“My home.” She reiterated. The kettle whistled, and she pulled it from the stove and pulled down two mugs. “Why did you bring it here?”
He hesitated again. “I’m not sure I appreciate the attitude.” He said.
“Tea or coffee?” She asked, turning her eyes back on him. He looked bewildered, if not a bit annoyed.
“Coffee.” He said. She started readying it, and he continued, “You know, most women would’ve started crying right now. Or screaming. Or doing something stupid to try and save their husband.”
“Well, I’m not an idiot.” She said stiffly.
“Or maybe,” He said, lifting his gun to level it with her temple. She froze, her hand still wrapped around the handle of the french press, one hand poised above the filter ready to push it through. “You know more than you let on.”
She turned her eyes to him again. His face was all hard edges now, and it was fascinating how quickly he could lose all appearances of youth. Tom was the same. He looked so much older than she had ever seen him with those men walked into their home. She had only seen shades of it before, brief moments when his mind wandered before he focused back in on her and the tension around his eyes eased.
But she didn’t feel afraid seeing it on this man’s face. “Please get that gun out of my face.” She intoned.
He paused for what felt like forever, just silence surrounding his gun in her face. Then he let out a short laugh, dropping the gun to his side. “God, you’re right. I’m sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve been out on a job. Guess I’m a bit paranoid.”
She didn’t answer.
“Didn’t mean to upset you,” He continued, “I wouldn’t hurt a lady,” and then, laughing as if telling a joke, he continued “Not unless she deserved it–”
She threw the pot of hot coffee in his face.
“You fucking bitch!” He screamed, but he dropped his fun and lifted his hands to his face, bending at the waist in agony. Her body reacted, her heart pounding in her chest and her fingers and toes tingling, blood rushing through her ears, but she kept calm.
She wasn’t an idiot. Not a thing went on in her home without her knowledge. She knew about the money, the men who worked for her husband, the blood on his shirt cuffs, the phone calls, the visitors. She knew where every gun and every knife was hidden in this godforsaken house–their house, her house–
She pulled open the drawer and reached underneath and up and pulled it out and shot him.
The first one caught him in the shoulder. He reached for his gun on the floor but he was slowed by the pain and she kicked it away. Her heel caught on the handle of the gun and she nearly tripped but she righted herself enough to shoot him again, this one hitting him in the ribs.
The third shot was in the head.
There was commotion in the other room, but her ears were ringing too loudly to discern what was happening. She dropped the gun, pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and took deep breath after deep breath after deep breath.
She didn’t feel guilty exactly. These men came into her home and held a gun to her husbands head and treated her like an ignorant, fucking idiot, but the weight of a human life that was lost still weighed on her like an elephant on her chest. She couldn’t stop her hands shaking so she curled them into fists and pressed them harder into her eyes.
The door to the kitchen slammed open. She took her hands away form her eyes and when the spots cleared saw Tom standing in the doorway with blood across his crisp white shirt. His dark eyes flitted between the body on the flood and her.
It was the closest she had ever seen him to panicked, and even still it only showed in his eyes.
She looked down at her dress. It was white once, now splattered with blood, not as much as his but still striking. She calmed her breaths before she spoke.
“There is blood on my kitchen floor.” She seethed, “There is a man shot in the head on my kitchen floor. A man help a gun to my head and is now bleeding out on my kitchen floor–”
“Hermione.” He said, his voice was wrecked and his eyes had darkened. He began crossing the kitchen toward her.
“There was a man in my library!” She snapped, “I don’t care if you want to keep secrets, I don’t care if you want to pretend I’m like all of your friend’s ignorant little housewives–”
“Hermione–” He said again.
“But do not bring that into our home, Tom Marvolo Riddle, or I will be the one holding a gun to your head–”
His fingers threaded through the her hair before she could continue, his lips meeting hers with a fierceness and a desperation she hadn’t felt before. She lifted her arms to twine around his neck, losing herself momentarily in the familiarity of his embrace as his hands resituated themselves to curl around her waist and press her against the kitchen counter. She let out a shaky breath against his lips and his fingers dug into her waist.
She pressed her hands into his cheeks and pushed him away, just far enough so she could look down between them. She hadn’t realized his hands were bloody until now, staring at the streaks of red on her dress. She looked up again to meet his eyes, breathless.
“You knew.” He said, and she supposed it was meant to be a question despite the fact it wasn’t one.
“You must think I am a complete imbecile.” She breathed, “How could I not have known?” He didn’t answer. “I want that out of my house.” She told him. “You get that fucking book out of my house and these men out of my house and I swear to God if it ever comes here again–”
“Hermione.” He breathed against her lips.
“Go.” She ordered. “Do whatever it is you do when this happens and–”
“They won’t touch you again.” He promised her.
“No they won’t,” She agreed, “Because they’re dead.” And in a decidedly darker tone she added, “And now you’ll keep your mafia shit out of our house.”
He took her hand in his, his thumb running over the band of her wedding ring. He leaned forward until he could rest his forehead against her temple, taking a deep breath through his nose. She let her hands trail down her chest, jerking away when her palms came into contact with the dampness of the blood on his shirt.
“You should change your shirt.” She told him.
“You should keep the dress.” He said, his voice rough, wrecked with want, and she couldn’t even be surprised by the complete inappropriateness of his timing.
“I am not speaking to you until you fix this,” She told him firmly. He pulled away to meet her eyes and looked as if he wanted to smile.
