Chapter Text
The letter arrived on a Tuesday in April, the Oxford seal so deeply embossed that her fingers could trace the contours of the university before she even opened the envelope. Hermione Granger, aged nineteen, held the paper confirming her acceptance to the Law programme at Brasenose College as one might hold a fragile golden bird. For exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds, she allowed herself to float on pure euphoria.
Then, she sat down at her meticulously organized desk and began to calculate.
Numbers, unlike the words on the pages of the books she loved, were relentless and devoid of poetry. She noted them in her precise handwriting:
· Annual tuition: £9,250
· Cheapest college accommodation: £6,500
· Books and materials (conservative estimate): £1,200
· Personal expenses (food, transport, basic clothing): £4,000
Minimum annual total: £20,950
Her eyes scanned the figures once, twice, three times. Her partial scholarship—earned with literal blood, sweat, and tears during her exams—covered only the tuition. Her parents, two respectable dentists from a provincial town, had offered with heavy hearts what they could: £5,000 a year. The remaining gap—£6,700—had to come from somewhere.
"You can always work during the holidays," her mother had said over the phone, trying to sound optimistic.
But Hermione had already run the numbers on "holidays." Working at her parents' dental practice over the summer might yield £2,000 at most. She would be constantly behind, always running, always counting every penny while her future peers…
Her thoughts flew to Zipora Malfoy, whom she’d met during a summer programme for promising law students. Zipora, with her platinum hair that seemed to absorb light and her casual way of mentioning "the family chalet in the Alps" or "that tedious art auction at Christie’s." Over lunch, she’d overheard a conversation between Zipora and two other students:
"—So we’re just renting a villa in Saint-Tropez for August, it’s so much more private than staying at a hotel…"
"—Yes, and that new chef at La Vague d’Or is divine, Daddy managed to get a reservation for Mummy’s birthday…"
"—I need to completely renew my autumn wardrobe, all McQueen this time, I’m tired of Chanel…"
Hermione had pushed her salad around, acutely aware that her dress was from Zara—pretty, elegant, but identifiably high street. She had felt the silent weight of the differences like a wet garment. It wasn’t just about studying at Oxford; it was about surviving at Oxford. Not physically, but socially. To make the right connections, to be invited to the right events, to not be dismissed as the scholarship girl who didn’t belong in that world.
Two weeks after the letter, in her tiny room in the London flat she shared with three other students, Hermione faced her collection of ancient coins. It was her secret nerdy passion, cultivated since she was twelve, when her grandfather had given her a worn Roman coin. Now, the collection occupied a special case: Roman denarii, Byzantine solidi, some rare medieval pieces, some 18th-century coins in excellent condition.
She researched values online, her heart tightening. The collection was worth maybe £8,000, perhaps more to the right collector. She sold it through online auctions over one painful month. Each coin that left was like handing over a piece of her history. When the final lot was sold, she had £9,340 in her account.
A temporary reprieve. But what about next year? And the year after?
It was then that she overheard the conversation that would change everything.
Her flatmate, Chloe, an art student with purple hair and a notable absence of inhibitions, was speaking animatedly on the phone:
"—Yes, I’m making almost three thousand a month now… No, no face, just body… It’s incredible, literally pays my tuition and leaves extra for fun…"
Hermione, making tea in their shared kitchen, froze. Three thousand pounds a month? For showing… her body?
That night, locked in her room, she researched. Her fingers, normally agile on the keyboard, hesitated before typing the terms. Platforms like OnlyFans, JustForFans, ManyVids. She read forums, success stories, accounts of failure. Calculator in hand, she ran new numbers.
If I get just 500 subscribers at £10 a month… that’s £5,000 monthly. Minus the platform commission (20%), that leaves £4,000. In six months… £24,000.
The numbers danced in her mind, tempting and terrifying. Ethics raised its shrill voice inside her: You’re a law student! Daughter of respectable professionals! This is… it’s selling yourself!
But another voice, colder, more pragmatic, answered: It’s just a body. A biological machine. You sell your time studying, your mind analysing cases. Why can’t you sell the image of that body, while keeping your mind and identity intact?
Necessity—that constant companion since she’d decided Oxford was not a dream but a destination—whispered louder: Do you want to fall behind? To watch Zipora and her crowd move ahead while you work in a café? Do you want your parents to go into debt?
Three sleepless nights passed. On the fourth night, Hermione woke at 3:17 AM with a cold clarity. This would not be an emotional decision. It would be a strategic plan.
She began to take notes, as she would for any legal case:
OBJECTIVE: Generate sustainable income to fund Oxford education and necessary social assimilation.
GOALS: £4,000/month net after taxes. Achieve within 6 months.
OPERATIONAL IDENTITY: Persona completely separate from Hermione Granger.
SECURITY REQUIREMENTS:
1. No face or identifiable features (scars, tattoos, unique visible marks).
2. Neutral, untraceable setting.
3. Modified/processed voice? (Scratched out—too artificial. Keep natural, but avoid specific regional accents).
4. No real personal information.
5. Anonymous/layered payment methods.
It was then that she looked at her own hands. The nails, cut short and practical, polish-free. Her feet, with the three small birthmarks in a diagonal line on her left side, almost at the bikini line—a genetic peculiarity her mother called her "lucky constellation."
An idea began to form.
A trademark, she thought. Something recognizable, but not identifiable. Something that would become part of the brand.
The next day, she went to a luxury boutique and bought a single nail polish: Nuit Noire, Tomate Cerise Noire (Black Cherry). A red so deep it appeared black in low light, with micro-velvet particles that created a velvety texture. It cost £85. An investment.
At home, she carefully painted her fingernails and toenails. The contrast against her pale skin was striking—elegant, bold, memorable.
The three moles… she normally hid them. But what if… what if she made them part of the identity? Not a flaw, but a signature.
She rented a small, neutral photo studio in East London, paying three months’ rent upfront in cash. She installed thick curtains over the single window. Bought a second-hand bookcase and filled it with titles she actually read: Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, Hobbes’s Leviathan, Aeschylus’s The Eumenides, some 19th-century French novels.
She created the profiles: Miss Cherry.
The description was meticulously crafted:
"Welcome to the garden of mind and body. Here, we appreciate the beauty of intellect as much as that of form. Erudite conversations, contemplative performances, and the exploration of human aesthetics. Nails always cherry, mind always ravenous."
She decided her content would be different. Not just nudity or explicit acts, but… performances. She would read excerpts from books while her fingers (cherry nails) traced the pages, then her own body. She would discuss philosophical paradoxes while the camera focused on the arch of her back. She would speak French, Latin occasionally. She would show there was a mind behind the body.
The first session was terrifying. The camera on, focused on her torso downward, she almost backed out. But then she remembered the condescending look of a wealthy peer when she’d mentioned needing to check budgets before agreeing to dinner. Determination returned, cold and sharp.
"Bonjour," she said to the camera, her voice steady, while her hands—shiny cherry nails—opened a volume of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal. "Aujourd’hui, nous explorons la dualité du désir et de la mélancolie…"
In the first days, there were only a few subscribers. But then someone shared a clip of her discussing Kantian ethics while her hands traced patterns on her own skin. The video went viral in specific niches. "The intellectual girl," "The PhD of OnlyFans," "Miss Cherry—the mind behind the nails."
In one month: 200 subscribers.
In three months: 700.
In six months: 1,200 subscribers at £15/month, plus personalised video sales.
Hermione Granger, the student, bought a discreet but quality wardrobe—blazers from Reiss, shoes from Russell & Bromley, a small Aspinal bag. She rented a better flat, alone, with a strong lock on the door.
Miss Cherry bought professional lighting equipment, more rare books for the shelves, silk lingerie from Agent Provocateur.
In the mornings, Hermione studied legal precedents in the Bodleian Library, her fingers—now always cherry-nailed, a habit she maintained for consistency—tracing the pages.
In the evenings, Miss Cherry recited Shakespearean sonnets while the camera captured the curve of her spine, the three moles appearing occasionally like an easter egg for the keenest observers.
Sometimes, looking in the mirror, she didn’t know which of the two women was reflected. Both wore cherry nails. Both had sharp minds. Both were determined to conquer their respective worlds.
And both had secrets to keep.
Wool’s Orphanage smelled of boiled cabbage and aged despair. Tom Riddle, at nine years old, already understood the world was a hierarchy of predators and prey. His early beauty—perfect dark hair, intense dark eyes, symmetrical features—was his first weapon. It made the social workers give him extra portions, made the older boys hesitate before hitting him.
But his true weapon was his mind. At eleven, he hacked the school’s rudimentary computer system to alter his grades and a few others’—for a price. At fifteen, he discovered he could observe people and decipher their hidden desires, their weaknesses.
His fascination with the female body began early, not with the clumsy lust of other teenagers, but with clinical curiosity. At thirteen, he found an anatomy book in the library. While other boys hid pornographic magazines, he studied illustrations of the muscular system, tendon insertions, skeletal architecture.
The women at the orphanage—social workers, cooks, visitors—became his non-consenting study subjects. He observed how Mrs. Cole’s skin swayed under her blouse when she bent over, how young assistant Jenny’s fingers trembled slightly when passing a cup of tea. It was power, he realised. To see without being noticed. To understand the mechanism without becoming part of it.
At eighteen, he left the orphanage with a scholarship for Computer Science and a cold hatred for anything that smelled of inherited poverty. He rejected his deceased mother’s surname "Marvolo"—a weak woman who had died giving birth to him. "Riddle" he chose for himself. An enigma. Something to be deciphered, never owned.
At university, he discovered his gift for codes, systems, the guts of the nascent internet. While others saw communication tools, he saw structures of control. He created his first algorithm to identify gaps in primitive online banking systems. He didn’t steal directly—that was risky and crude. Instead, he sold "security consultancy" to the same banks, pointing out their vulnerabilities for an exorbitant price.
By thirty, Tom Riddle was a wealthy man with a fortune that didn’t shout its existence. He wore bespoke Savile Row suits that seemed simple at first glance. He drove a discreet Aston Martin DB7, not a flashy Ferrari. His beauty had grown sharper with age—eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, a mouth that rarely smiled truly.
It was through a banking client that he met Abraxas Malfoy. Abraxas, heir to one of England’s oldest fortunes, fascinated Tom. Not for the wealth, but for the complacency it bred. Abraxas was indolent, spoiled, intellectually lazy. But he saw something in Tom—a sharp blade that could be useful.
"You’re interesting, Riddle," Abraxas had said in a private club, looking at Tom over the rim of a thirty-year-old whisky. "You don’t try to pretend you’re one of us. And yet… you’re here."
"I’m here because my work has value," Tom had replied, his voice always calm, level.
"Value," Abraxas had repeated, smiling. "Yes. We all have our values. Come to a party at my family’s estate. I’ll show you how true value is preserved."
Tom accepted, not from a desire to belong, but from a need to understand. Malfoy Manor was a museum of inherited privilege. And Tom, the orphan, moved among dukes and heiresses, studying them like an entomologist would rare specimens.
His "habit," as he thought of it, developed parallel to his wealth. At twenty-one, he visited his first high-end brothel in Mayfair. It wasn’t for the sex—though he occasionally participated, more as a physiological experiment than from desire. It was for observation.
He paid a premium for the "observation package"—a room with a one-way mirror where he could watch unseen. He watched the interactions, the performances, the small moments of authenticity or dissimulation. It fascinated him how women could modulate their bodies like instruments, how they could hide boredom, displeasure, or genuine pleasure behind professional smiles.
Online, his consumption was equally methodical. He subscribed to dozens of premium profiles, not necessarily to masturbate, but to catalogue. He created a private database—not of images, that was common and boring—but of patterns. The way a certain content creator arched her back when lying about her pleasure. The micro-tremor in another’s thumb when genuinely aroused. The body language of pretence versus authenticity.
And then, on a sleepless night at 2:47 AM, he found Miss Cherry.
A recommendation algorithm suggested her—"For subscribers who also like intellectual content." Tom, sceptical, clicked.
The video opened with an unusual scene: a blurred bookcase in the background, focus on a female torso dressed in an open silk blouse. Hands with nails of a dark, velvety red—black cherry—turning the pages of a book.
"The Sophoclean paradox in Oedipus Rex," a female voice said, clear, educated, without the fake erotic sigh of so many others. "The quest for knowledge that leads to destruction. There’s beauty in that tragedy, don’t you think?"
The camera moved slowly downward, the hands—those hypnotic cherry nails—now tracing the contour of the woman’s own abdomen.
"The body has its paradoxes too," the voice continued. "Pleasure that hurts, pain that pleasurably reminds us we’re alive."
Tom leaned forward, his fingers steepled under his chin. It wasn’t the body that first gripped him—though it was beautiful, harmonious proportions, skin that seemed to absorb light softly. It was the mind. The intellectual performance was genuine. She actually understood Sophocles.
He explored her profile. Several videos: her discussing the legal philosophy behind the social contract while her feet—nails equally cherry—flexed and pointed. Reading 19th-century French poetry while the camera focused on the movement of her breathing. Always from the neck down. Always the cherry nails.
And then, in the tenth video he watched, he saw them.
She was wearing a tiny black lace bikini. The camera panned along her side, and there—almost hidden, but not entirely—were three small brown moles in a perfect diagonal line, like the stars of Orion’s Belt. A unique pattern. A biological signature.
Tom paused the video. Zoomed in. The moles were slightly asymmetrical—the middle one a bit larger, the top one more oval. He memorised them, as he memorised code sequences or the faces of people who might be useful.
In the following weeks, Miss Cherry became his particular obsession. He analysed every video, not as a consumer, but as an art critic or a scientist. He catalogued her preferred movements (the particular arch of her spine when stretching), her vocabulary (surprisingly extensive, leaning towards legal and philosophical), her small habits (she always adjusted an invisible strand of hair off-camera before starting to speak).
He never requested custom content. Never sent messages. Only watched. And paid. His username was simply "T.R."—initials that could belong to anyone.
Sometimes, during his brothel visits, he found himself comparing the professionals to Miss Cherry. The professionals were skilled, but their performances were… predictable. There was a script. With Miss Cherry, there was always the unpredictable element of the mind. A quote from Wittgenstein in the middle of an explicitly sexual video. A discussion of logical fallacies while her fingers (cherry nails, always cherry) performed intimate acts.
For Tom, she became the perfect subject of study: a woman who sold access to her body while keeping her mind inaccessible. Who created a fully separate persona, yet whose intelligence shone through. Who had trademarks (the nails, the moles) but no true identity.
In his mind, he began calling her "The Cherry Project." Not with affection, but with the cold possessiveness of a collector who has found a rare piece.
Meanwhile, in his public life, he consolidated his place in Abraxas Malfoy’s world. Attended dinners, hunts, country house weekends. Smiled when necessary, spoke minimally, observed everything.
The women in this circle—including Abraxas’s younger sister, Zipora—tried to flirt with him. But his disinterest was so complete it became intriguing. To Tom, these women were like pretty book covers with blank pages—lacking the content, the complexity he sought.
His true attention was reserved for the screens at night, for the videos of the woman with cherry nails and three moles, who discussed philosophy while revealing her body.
Two worlds separated by screens and passwords. Two ascensionists climbing different mountains, ignorant of the gravity that would one day pull them inexorably toward each other.
Tom Riddle closed his laptop that night, his eyes closing for a moment. In his mind, an image persisted: the three moles in a diagonal line, like points on an uncharted map. Something to decipher. Something to possess.
Across London, Hermione Granger turned off the studio lights, put a simple coat over her silk underwear, and stepped out into the cold night, her cherry nails hidden inside wool gloves.