December 1949
"My Lord, Miss Arden Colporter is here to speak with you."
Voldemort nodded where he stood, his hands clasped behind his back, as he stared out the window onto the moonlit expanse of the gardens below Malfoy Manor.
"Send her in, Avery."
A few moments later, there was the soft sound of a clearing throat behind Voldemort. He turned round to see Arden Colporter, the reporter from the Daily Prophet, standing in the threshold of his office. Arden Colporter was a tall, lanky woman, perhaps thirty years of age, with dark brown curls and a neatly tailored pencil skirt beneath elegant red velvet robes. She was not unattractive, but Voldemort still felt rather uncomfortable at the way the witch eyed him as she said,
"Good evening, Mr Riddle."
"I prefer not to use that name anymore, if you please," Voldemort said tightly, gesturing to the two armchairs before the fire burning in the large hearth. Arden Colporter looked mildly surprised, and she cleared her throat gently as she moved to sit opposite him. She raised her penciled eyebrows and asked cautiously,
"What shall I call you in the article, then?"
"'The Dark Lord' shall suffice for the time being," Voldemort nodded. Arden Colporter looked uncomfortable and shifted a bit in her chair. Voldemort watched her sceptically, and then she said,
"I hope you understand… it's just… if I use that sort of term in a newspaper, it will be seen as recognising the legitimacy of your… movement."
"Hmm." Voldemort nodded once, curtly. He flicked his eyes over to the small table beside the hearth and asked casually, "May I get you something to drink, Miss Colporter?"
"No, thank you," Arden Colporter said firmly, shaking her head. Voldemort nodded again and flicked his hand loosely toward the table, wandlessly and nonverbally Summoning a crystal tumbler and a bottle of firewhisky. He poured himself a bit and then Vanished the expensive liquor bottle, again without wand or incantation. Miss Colporter looked as though she were trying not to seem impressed. She shifted again, and Voldemort sipped upon his whisky. Then he said quietly,
"My 'movement,' as you call it, is not about me, Miss Colporter. I aim to advance the whole of wizardkind, through the promotion of new methods, spells, and Magical technologies, and through efforts to unite the Magical community into a well-functioning society again. The world around us - the Muggle world - is, to be kind, chaotic at present. If wizardkind is to flourish, even in such a mad world, it shall take a strong and determined figurehead to guide the change."
Arden Colporter's pale cheeks flushed a bit, and she swallowed heavily as she said again, "But I can not give you the title you ask. Not in writing. I can not call you a 'Lord,' because -"
"You may not write of me with my former name," Voldemort insisted, shaking his head. He raised his tumbler of whisky in a mock toast and sipped. "You're a journalist, Miss Colporter. Some creativity, perhaps?"
She looked angry for a moment, and Voldemort felt a surge of irritation in his veins. Public relations and outreach were necessary as he attempted to gain popular support for his claim to power. The necessity of such outreach did not make the process any less obnoxious, however. Hermione had told Voldemort he was 'due' for another major article, to keep himself present in the hearts and minds of the wizarding public. Today he was meeting with Arden Colporter ostensibly to discuss the five year anniversary of Grindelwald's death. Instead, the meeting thus far felt rather like a debate about nomenclature.
"Grindelwald has been dead for five years now," Arden Colporter said at last, and Voldemort nodded calmly.
"So he has."
Colporter huffed and pulled out her quill and parchment. She poised the nib of the quill just above the paper as she asked,
"What has changed since then?"
"For me personally?" Voldemort specified tersely.
"In general." Arden Colporter shrugged and curled up her lips.
Voldemort swigged down the last of his whisky and sighed deeply. This interview would take longer than he had planned.
December 1945
The Christmas season had settled over Malfoy Manor like a fur mantle, warming the stone walls with its optimistic cheer. Hermione smiled gently to herself as she strode through the first-floor corridor, noting that there were new garlands and wreaths each day.
"I've finally decided upon a gift for Abraxas," Betty Cattermole said from beside Hermione. The blonde witch bounced eagerly as she walked and squealed softly, "I'm going to get him a Cleansweep Five - the very latest model of broomstick, and the fastest, by all accounts!"
Betty prattled on for a few more minutes about how much Abraxas would love his new broomstick. Hermione could not help but grin. In 'her' time, Cleansweep Five broomsticks were mocked as outdated and useless compared to the newest models. Hermione remembered how much faster Harry had been able to fly when he'd received his new Firebolt, and she sighed a little at the melancholy of that.
"I think that's a marvelous gift, Betty," Hermione said mechanically, flashing her friend the warmest smile she could muster. Betty nodded happily and asked,
"What are you giving to the Dark Lord?"
Hermione swallowed heavily then and abruptly wished she were not walking down the corridor with Betty. The Christmas cheer was being rather depleted by this conversation, which had triggered memories of her old life and had forced her to contemplate the same issue she'd been thinking on for weeks. It was not exactly an easy task to obtain a useful or quality gift for the man promoting himself as the pseudo-dictator of the wizarding world.
"Honestly," Hermione admitted, pausing in her walk to examine a cheerful wreath, "I've no idea. He's not much for material things, you know."
Betty nodded knowingly. It was true; the only things Tom craved in life were immaterial - power, authority, respect, and, Hermione hoped, her love. If she were to publicly give him some sort of useless trinket for Christmas, it would hardly serve to reinforce his claims of legitimacy. Hermione huffed out a heavy breath and eyed the fireplace at the end of the corridor.
"I think I might go to Knockturn Alley," she said carefully, "and have a talk with Mr Caractacus Burke. Perhaps he can inspire me. Will you come with me, Betty?"
An hour later, the young women had Flooed their way to London, wound their way through the maze of tight back-alleys from Diagon to Knockturn, and arrived at Borgin and Burke's. Just as they were about to step inside, Hermione felt a firm clasp upon her shoulder.
She instinctively clutched her wand and held it out as she whirled around. Being with Tom had made her even more paranoid than she'd been around Harry Potter. But she lowered her wand when she saw that the hand upon her shoulder belonged to a wizened, ancient witch, stooped and stiff. Her milky eyes made Hermione think she must be blind. Beside her, Betty shivered a bit at the sight of the old woman, whose voice creaked out,
"You're lost, my dear."
"I'm not. Thank you just the same," Hermione insisted, pulling her shoulder gently from the woman's grasp. But the woman pressed on in her rickety voice,
"How can you ever go home now? Even if it were still a real place to go?"
Hermione felt a cold flush through her veins then, as she realised the aged witch knew her secret. She gulped and stumbled backward, feeling Betty reach out to steady her.
"Be gone, old woman," Betty snapped rudely, and a small grin crossed the woman's wrinkled visage.
"People change time, and the time changes the people right back!" she said, letting out a gravelly laugh. She stooped ever lower and shuffled slowly away from Hermione and Betty. Hermione trembled a bit, tightening her grip around her wand, and she heard Betty mumble,
"Batty old hat. Come on, My Lady; do not let such people trouble you. Let's get inside. It's quite chilly."
The inside of Borgin and Burke's was hardly warmer than outside, and its macabre mood did little to rid Hermione of her acute unease. She and Betty wandered about the shop for a few minutes, eyeing little curiosities until a very old wizard stepped out from the back room.
"Good morning, ladies," he greeted them, and Hermione and Betty snapped to attention. Hermione swept toward the front desk, her black velvet cape dragging behind her on the uneven floorboards. Betty followed close behind. The old wizard peered at them over the rims of little brass spectacles, and he asked tightly, "May I help you find something?"
"My name is Hermione Villeneuve," Hermione pronounced, wondering whether that meant anything to anyone yet. It did, apparently; the old wizard's pale eyes flashed and his throat bobbed a bit. He inclined his head and murmured,
"My Lady. I hope you know I sent instructions with my grandson, Jericho Burke, to inform the Dark Lord that he - and you, of course - are welcome to anything in my shop."
"I do know that," Hermione nodded, pulling a small purse from her cloak, "but I am here as a paying customer, Mr Burke. I need a gift for my husband for Christmas. Something… extraordinary."
She pushed the little purse, containing about thirty Galleons, across the front desk. Caractacus Burke stared down at it for a moment and then flicked his eyes from Betty to Hermione. He did not touch the purse of coins, but cleared his throat gently and said,
"I believe I have just the thing, My Lady."
He bowed a bit and turned to walk away, retreating into the back room of the shop once more. Hermione looked nervously to Betty, who shrugged. The witches waited in tense silence for a few moments until Caractacus Burke came back out. He placed a dull golden piece of jewelry down upon the dusty countertop, and Hermione stepped nearer to see what it was.
She furrowed her thick brows as she picked up a battered old locket, tarnished and dented and seemingly unremarkable. On its cover, though, Hermione could see there was a snake in the shape of the letter 'S', crafted from emeralds. One or two appeared to be missing, but Hermione knew it was no accident that an ancient locket with a snake symbol had been presented as a potential gift for Lord Voldemort. She set the locket back down upon the counter and eyed Burke warily.
"What is it?" she asked. Beside her, Betty Cattermole sidled up and peered at the ugly bit of jewelry.
"This is the locket of Salazar Slytherin," Caractacus Burke said carefully, and Hermione felt a strange pit in her stomach. In her old life, she had been Petrified by the basilisk released by Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, as he claimed his position as the 'Heir of Slytherin.' To see this locket, apparently a possession of Salazar Slytherin himself, and to tie it to her husband, was difficult. She gulped and looked up to Caractacus Burke.
"How did you obtain this?" she pressed, wanting to ensure this wasn't a murder prize the way she knew Tom's ring had been.
Burke lowered his eyes shamefully and murmured, "It was brought to me, some years ago, by a ragged young woman desperate for a few coins. Merope Gaunt - the mother of the Dark Lord. This locket had been in her family for so long that the locket was worth more than the family itself. But I admit I paid her virtually nothing for it. Perhaps ten Galleons. A few years ago, I was offered a hefty sum for the piece by a wealthy witch called Hepzibah Smith. I was in the final stages of selling it to her when I received a strange correspondence warning me to keep the locket away from Madam Smith."
Hermione's heart thudded in her chest. Who had written to Burke? Hermione-in-the-future? Tom-in-the-future? Or someone else entirely? She sighed through her nostrils, trying to keep her face impassive, and she nodded.
"My husband will be relieved to regain possession of such an important family heirloom," she said carefully, picking up the locket once more. She dusted her thumb over the inlaid emeralds and asked, "How much for it, sir?"
But Caractacus Burke shook his head vehemently and held his hands up. "I couldn't accept a Knut for it," he declared, and for some reason Hermione thought he was being honest about that. The old man continued, "Please gift it to the Dark Lord on my behalf, with sincerest apologies that I did not compensate Miss Gaunt more appropriately years ago."
Hermione nodded and tucked the locket into the pouch at her waist. She took back the purse of coins she had placed on the countertop, and she turned to Betty with a plastered little smile.
"That's Christmas sorted, then," she said with false merriment. "Care for a butterbeer before we head back, Betty?"
December, 1969
Georgiana blinked slowly as she pulled her head up from the parchment where she'd fallen asleep. She looked with bleary eyes about the Hogwarts library and cursed under her breath when she realised everyone else had gone. She began stuffing books into her rucksack hastily, hoping she could sneak back to Ravenclaw Tower without anyone noticing.
"You've got ink on your face," she heard then, and she whirled round to see Bilius Weasley standing behind her chair. Georgiana gasped quietly and hesitated for a moment before resuming her frantic preparations to leave.
"What time is it?" she asked Bilius absently.
"Nearly ten-thirty. That's why I came back here; I was doing patrols and thought I might check to ensure the Lady Georgiana wasn't having a camp-out in the library. Sure enough… here you are."
Georgiana huffed and pouted a bit, flying to her feet as she flung her rucksack over her shoulder. "Damned History of Magic essay was taking an eternity to write," she mumbled, starting to stride quickly from the library as Bilius followed her. "Couldn't get my thoughts straight on Goblin-Wizarding relations of the seventeenth -"
"Georgie," Bilius said softly then, and Georgiana paused near the library doors. She turned round and furrowed her brows at Bilius. He raked his fingers through his ginger hair and said, "My brother Arthur's asked Molly to marry him."
"Molly Prewett?" Georgiana asked, feeling a wave of disbelief come over her. In the past few decades, the pureblood Prewett family had fallen deeply out of favour with Lord Voldemort and his movement, owing apparently to some terrible sin committed by a certain Maggie Prewett years earlier. Georgie knew few details; she only knew that her parents despised anyone related to Maggie Prewett. Molly, a girl two years older than Georgiana, was Maggie's niece.
Bilius sighed heavily. "She's a nice girl, Georgie -"
"She's my father's enemy," Georgiana said firmly. "Arthur marrying her will bring shame upon the entire Weasley family. You know that."
"Yes, I know that," Bilius agreed. He gnawed upon his bottom lip for a moment and said softly, "Of course I understand entirely if you think it uncouth to be my friend through all this -"
"That isn't the point, Bilius!" Georgiana said shrilly. "It's dangerous to be my father's enemy."
"I know that, too," Bilius nodded. He hesitated for a moment and then at last said, "You and I have been friends for a great long while, Georgie. You're a girl. I'm a boy. People already suspect things about us, you know. They talk and whisper and gossip. I don't want them saying those things about you just now. I don't want any of that getting back to your parents, hm?" His characteristic joy had vanished, and he flicked his brown eyes to the grandfather clock behind Georgiana. "Now, off to Ravenclaw Tower with you, Miss Gaunt. It's past curfew."
Bilius reached out to brush his knuckles over Georgiana's cheekbone. He flashed her a sad little smile and leaned down to touch his lips to her forehead. Then he strode quickly from the library, leaving Georgiana alone in stunned silence.
December 1945
Lord Voldemort finished fastening his cufflinks, eyeing the golden trinkets carefully for a moment. They'd been an early Christmas gift from the Nott family, and were quite valuable from Voldemort's understanding. He sniffed lightly and examined himself in the full-length mirror before him.
This was the night of the Christmas soiree at Malfoy Manor, which was being hosted by the Malfoy family as a sort of gesture of good faith to Lord Voldemort. Invitations had been extended to all those who had thus far declared unconditional loyalty. As far as Voldemort knew, the entirety of the original Knights of Walpurgis would be there, along with prominent members of wizarding families like the Longbottoms, Moodys, Lestranges, Potters, and Blacks. As much as Voldemort despised small-talk and mindless socialisation at such events, he knew that ingratiating himself to "the public" would be critical to a successful ascent.
He thought himself rather well put-together tonight, as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror. The tuxedo beneath his sweeping black over-robe was well-tailored and gave him a confident, mature appearance. It was difficult, Voldemort thought, to be not-quite-nineteen and yet attempt to command authority over the entire wizarding populace.
There was a gentle knock upon the bedroom door then, and Voldemort barked out, "Enter."
The door creaked open, and a wrinkled old House-Elf in a tattered sack appeared on the threshold.
"Yes?" Voldemort asked, turning round and cocking an eyebrow. The House-Elf (male or female, Voldemort could not say) bowed deeply and intoned,
"My Lord… the Lady is ready to be escorted to the party now!" The House-Elf hesitated, still bowed over, and Voldemort sniffed lightly,
"Very well. You may go."
The House-Elf nodded and skittered backward out of the door frame, leaving the door ajar. Voldemort shifted upon his feet as the door was pushed open and a taller silhouette appeared. He felt rather dizzy as Hermione stepped into the warm glow of the candles in the bedroom. He heard her mumble her thanks to the House-Elf, and he smirked a bit. She had told him of how, during 'her time,' she had begun a welfare organisation on behalf of House-Elves, with whose servitude she had always been distinctly uncomfortable. She had a good heart, Voldemort thought, flicking his eyes up and down her immaculately groomed form.
"You look…" Voldemort began, pausing when his throat felt thick. Hermione smiled knowingly, and Voldemort forced himself to finish, "You look beautiful."
"Thank you, Tom." Hermione fiddled with the clasps of her cream-coloured satin cape, smoothing her matching skirts and dragging her fingernails over the elaborate silver embroidery on her torso. She looked nervously up to Voldemort and asked, "Shall we go?"
Voldemort closed the distance between them and raised his hand to cup her smooth cheek. Her lips, painted red as rubies tonight, called out for a kiss he did not dare give. He did not suspect he would be able to stop himself at a kiss just now.
Instead, Voldemort extended his arm politely, and Hermione laced hers through. She walked contentedly beside him down the corridor, toward the distant droning buzz of conversation in the large ballroom. Voldemort paused just outside the doors to the ballroom and whispered to Hermione,
"I have no interest in speaking with any of these people."
"But they have so very much interest in speaking with you, Tom," Hermione reminded him. She winked cheekily up at him then, and he nodded firmly. The doors swung open and the elegant ballroom fell silent. Voldemort felt a surge of power strike him through as he absorbed the sensation of hundreds of eyes upon him. Some seemed frightened, others curious. A great many seemed utterly infatuated. At the front of the assembled group, young Druella Rosier swayed on her feet and more tightly clutched the arm of Cygnus Black. Voldemort smirked a bit and called out confidently,
"My friends… a very Happy Christmas to you all. Your presence tonight speaks volumes about your loyalty and your convictions… about your dedication to a better wizarding future. It shall be carefully noted who joined us here tonight, and in the years to come, the Dark Lady and I shall not soon forget our earliest and dearest allies. Please, enjoy the excellent hospitality of the Malfoy family. I look forward to speaking with each of you individually."
An apparent eternity passed then, during which a blur of hors d'oeuvres and champagne and droning, empty conversation consumed the night. Voldemort and Hermione flitted from one cluster of guests to another, listening to gushing sycophants declare their support and brag of their devotion. It all became quite dull indeed, until Hermione gently pulled Voldemort away from an overly-enthusiastic old witch and toward a new cluster of guests.
"Pollux Black, My Lord." A middle-aged wizard bowed as they approached, and Voldemort recognised him as the father of Cygnus and Walburga, who had attended Hogwarts with Tom Riddle. Cygnus stood beside his father, with Druella Rosier clinging to him like a life preserver.
"My Lord," simpered Druella, "has Cygnus informed you yet of his new position at the Ministry?"
Ordinarily, Voldemort would have been utterly uninterested in another person's life path. However, since Cygnus Black was a loyalist, and Voldemort needed Ministry insiders, he pricked up his eyebrows and said,
"Why, no, Miss Rosier. He hasn't." Voldemort turned his eyes to Cygnus and said, "You've taken a position at the Ministry, Cygnus? Where?"
"In the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sir," Cygnus Black nodded. Beside him, his father Pollux beamed proudly. Voldemort could not help but wonder whether nepotism had been involved in obtaining a position for Cygnus in such a prestigious department of the Ministry. He found he did not care if there had been nepotism, though; all that mattered was the strategic placement of allies.
Voldemort sipped casually at his champagne, flicking his eyes to where Hermione was chatting animatedly with a group of young witches. He turned back to Cygnus and asked,
"What shall you be doing in your new position?"
Cygnus cleared his throat and said, "I… erm… for now, My Lord, I shall merely be processing paperwork for criminal cases going before the Wizengamot. Something of a clerk position. But in my capacity as a departmental employee, I overhear bits of conversation from time to time among the Aurors."
The rest of the room seemed to dissolve away as this bit of news captured Voldemort's full attention. His face went stony then, and he demanded, "And what have you heard thus far, Cygnus?"
The boy looked quite nervous then, and Druella Rosier squeezed him more tightly than ever. Cygnus shifted where he stood and stammered, "I - I was filing old case documents just yesterday, My Lord, when I overheard two Auror trainees discussing Albus Dumbledore. It was Maggie Prewett and someone else I did not immediately recognise - a male Scot, from my estimation. I hunched down and Disillusioned myself between the filing shelves, and I listened. They thought the room was empty, I suppose. Anyway, Miss Prewett was telling her companion that Albus Dumbledore had recently approached her with an offer of supplementary income, if she agreed to 'help eliminate the threat of Lord V -'"
Cygnus went pale then, and his words caught in his throat as he seemed to realise he could not speak the Dark Lord's name.
"Lord Voldemort," finished the boy once called Tom Riddle. Cygnus nodded frantically, and his cheeked coloured again as he said,
"The young man with Miss Prewett… he laughed, My Lord. Please know these were his words and not mine. He said, 'Dumbledore's gone batty if he thinks that boy is any sort of a real threat. The last thing the Ministry needs to be doing now is starting another war. Tom Riddle is an aspirational pretender whose fame will soon enough snuff itself out.'"
Voldemort squared his jaw, feeling his veins flush with anger. "And then what happened?" he intoned dully, noticing the way Druella Rosier looked suddenly ill.
"And then," Cygnus said quietly, lowering his eyes, "Miss Prewett agreed with her companion, and they said they were off to relax at the pub."
Voldemort was silent and still for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear people chattering, could hear the whining strains of the hired string ensemble. But he was lost in his own mind for a brief instant as he contemplated whether he should have simply eliminated Maggie Prewett after she tried to assassinate him with a snake at Hogwarts. After she'd nearly murdered Hermione.
"Thank you, Cygnus," Voldemort nodded. "Your loyalty will not be soon forgotten. See Abraxas Malfoy after the party and tell him I've ordered twenty Galleons deposited into your Gringotts vault at once."
Pollux Black bowed deeply then and murmured, "That is not necessary, My Lord -"
"Good evening to you all," Voldemort said sharply, yanking at his tuxedo jacket. "I think there are a few more guests I have not yet greeted."
He excused himself and glided over to where Hermione stood, hunched over the flaunted engagement ring of Lucretia Black. A few other witches cooed and giggled as they discussed the ring. Betty Cattermole glanced up and saw Voldemort approaching, and she stood up straight and said quickly,
"Good evening, My Lord."
"Miss Cattermole," Voldemort acknowledged stiffly, ignoring the other witches' curtsies and grins. He turned his eyes to Hermione and met her gaze. She looked anxious all of a sudden, as though she could sense something had happened.
Voldemort was about to tell Hermione that he needed to speak with her privately, but she swept in with a healthy dose of diplomatic dignity and laced her arm through Voldemort's.
"My Lord, I think I should like to dance," she said smoothly. "Shall we?"
He nodded and led her quickly away from the cluster of witches, determined to spend the entire dance measuring Hermione's opinion on the news about Maggie Prewett.
31 December, 1948
"Tom, please!"
Hermione grasped at Tom's robe as he swished past her, trying desperately to pull him back. He yanked harder away from her, whirling over his shoulder and shooting her an irate glare.
"Who else could it possibly be about, Hermione?"
Hermione frantically stared at the smashed Prophecy Record on Tom's desk as the ghostly prediction replayed itself over and again in her mind.
'The Dark Lord's ascent hinges upon the fall of his beloved... she shall enter his world unexpected and insistent... her departure shall burn a hole within him, and shall stoke the flames of his fury... the beloved shall come, and she shall go, and she shall leave a mark far Darker than any which has come before... her existence shall be snuffed out as a candle, but she shall tread the deepest of footprints. To time she is servant; her life is and was and ever will be brief.'
"Tom," Hermione said carefully, and Tom paused with his hand upon the doorknob. Hermione's voice quavered as she continued, "I have told you before that, in my time, there were Prophecies about you. About others. Choices you have made here, with me, make those prophecies utterly impossible to realise. The Prophecy about Harry Potter can not be, not now that you've ordered Charlus Potter…"
She trailed off then, feeling suddenly ill at the thought that James Potter's father - Harry Potter's grandfather - was sitting in a dank Azkaban cell to prevent James (and Harry) from existing. She fought off the nausea roiling through her and continued,
"Do something, Tom, to make this Prophecy impossible. Or else try and send me home."
Tom scoffed then, and turned slowly round to face Hermione. "Try and send you 'home'?" he repeated slowly, cocking an eyebrow at her as if she were dim. Hermione gulped and said,
"When you first sent me back in time, in the life I remember, it had been a very great while since you had seen me. You told me so yourself. You told me I had left you, that I'd been gone from you for a very long time. I can only imagine -"
Hermione's breath caught as she remembered the grey-faced monster who had sent her back in time, the red-eyed beast of a man that her husband had become in her past life. In a future that had not yet come to pass.
"I can only imagine that this Prophecy existed in your past then, too. That it was realised. That I died."
Tom grimaced and whispered, "I will not allow anyone to take you from me. You've just said it yourself, Hermione; no Prophecy is inevitable. I will not lose you this time round."
"I do not want to die, Tom," Hermione insisted, watching as Tom's eyes flashed oddly. She licked her bottom lip and said, "I want to go home."
"How many times must I tell you?" Tom growled, striding quickly to close the distance between them. "This is your home now. I am your home."
He clutched at her cheeks then, rather suddenly, eliciting a surprised gasp from Hermione. His hands tightened upon her face and he spoke through gritted teeth in a low, menacing snarl.
"There is nothing for you there - the place you left, the time I sent you from… it's gone. It's been erased. There is only now. There is only this. And I will not lose you. I can not. I will slay every last enemy. I will stop the beating of every heart who opposes me. I will defeat anyone who endangers you. But I will not lose you, Hermione."
He pushed firmly against her, forcing Hermione to stumble backward until she was against the office bookshelves. Tom grabbed roughly at her skirts, and Hermione felt dizzy and weak as she sobbed into his shoulder. He plunged himself raggedly into her against the bookshelves, grunting possessively as she burrowed her face in his jacket.
Something had changed in him, Hermione felt. She shook with anxiety as he found his release inside of her, moaning and slapping his hand against the spines of the books. He had changed, in the instant he'd heard the Prophecy, from an ambitious young wizard into a bottomless pit of Darkness. Hermione looked up into Tom's face as he pulled away from her, struggling to see the warm eyes of the boy who had kissed her at the Slug Club party, the boy who had nervously given her lilacs just after meeting her. Instead, she saw glittering black ice in his eyes. He was dangerous now, more dangerous than he'd been before.
As Hermione made her way down the empty first-floor corridor, swiping at a few stray tears, she wondered whether a bit of the Prophecy had already come to pass. Perhaps, she wondered, Tom would be empowered and emboldened by his burning desire not to lose Hermione. Perhaps his angry soul and his single-minded ambition would be sharpened by the constant fear of her death. Perhaps simply hearing the Prophecy would help pave a clearer path for him to power.
Hermione paused at a window and looked down upon the moonlit gardens. Her fingers drifted up to her neck and played with the locket that rested just below her throat. She dragged her fingertip over the emerald 'S' there, remembering the night three years previously that she had given the locket to Tom. He'd instructed her to wear it, on his behalf, and she'd only very rarely taken it off since.
On the same chain was her skeleton key, the one from the cottage in Scotland, the one that was linked with a sophisticated Protean Charm to Tom's hunk of obsidian. Rather impulsively, Hermione wrapped her fingers around the key and shut her eyes. She swallowed heavily and thought with a great deal of concentration,
Let me go, Tom.
She opened her eyes, knowing full well that he'd been able to hear her thoughts. But she received no answer from him… just the buzzing stillness of night and the sight of the empty gardens below.
December 1949
"There were rumours last year that you and Madam Villeneuve had separated," Arden Colporter pronounced cautiously, lifting her quill from the parchment upon which she had been scribbling. The reporter raised her eyes questioningly to Voldemort and continued, "She disappeared from public life for a great long while. No formal explanation was given for her absence."
"Do you have a specific question about any of that, Miss Colporter, or are you simply informing me of what happened?" Voldemort sneered a bit, cocking up an eyebrow. Arden Colporter's cheeks coloured, and she cleared her throat softly.
"Where did Madam Villeneuve go, sir, for such a long time? Why did she so spontaneously return? And why, during her absence, did your ascent to power accelerate so dramatically?"
An uncomfortable silence settled upon the office then, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Voldemort shut his eyes for a moment, remembering how he'd stood in this very office and received a clear transmission of Hermione's thoughts.
Let me go, Tom.
He'd ignored her. He'd done more than that; he'd flung his obsidian down upon the desk and pointed his wand at it. The tip of his wand had trembled and the Vanishing spell had died upon his lips. Then he'd gone looking for Hermione, striding quickly down the corridors and calling for her.
But he never found her. Not that night, and not any night since. Not until she reappeared. The intervening months had seen him descend into his coldest, Darkest depths. With Hermione's disappearance, he had been filled with a burning sense of rage and vengeance. And his campaign had flourished. He had taken other women, using emotionless liaisons to forge and break connections, to climb ever higher up the ladder of power. Every time he'd taken one of them, he'd thought of her. Of her honey-coloured eyes, of the smell of lilacs upon her skin. But she'd never come back. Not until quite recently.
"What happened?" Arden Colporter asked again. Voldemort sighed through his nostrils and dragged his tongue over his slick teeth. His hands tightened upon the arms of his chair, and he mumbled,
"That is something I do not care to discuss, Miss Colporter. Next question, if you please."
