If At First You Don't Succeed

Early on in the messages someone asked for a chubby Blaise, or a chubby Draco. Well, here it is. Inspired by The Painted Past by Adelaide E, on , story number 1906093. It's a brilliant story for those who enjoy dark stories. Mine is a bit a little different in premise. It is being posted with Adelaide E's permission.

Warnings: Dark

"Hermione, Hermione honey, wake up. I need to tell you something." Draco whispered to his wife of three weeks.

"Mell, 'e en ah 'ornin'." mumbled Hermione into her pillow (namely Draco's slightly chubby form).

"It's important!" snapped Draco.

Slowly Hermione raised her head and said slowly and distinctly, "You have five minutes, before I'm going back to sleep. If I don't deem it important enough, you are a dead man in the morning, do I make myself clear?"

"Do you love me?"

"Draco, if you woke me up at two in the morning to ask me that yet again, I suggest you get up to make your will..."

"IT'S IMPORTANT, HERMIONE!"

"Yes, I love you. Now may I go back to bed?"

"And you'll always love me no matter what?"

"Always, Draco, now what do you need to tell me?" sighed Hermione.

"I'm a Death Eater."

"I know you were."

"No, Hermione. I AM a Death Eater at this moment."

"That's impossible. Voldemort's dead, Harry defeated him. Remember? You told me. You told me you couldn't rescue me until Harry showed up for the final confrontation, because I was so ill. Remember? Harry and Ron won, and all the bad guys were hunted down and put in prison, and you were proven to be a spy for Dumbledore, and given a medal of honor, for your work for the Order." Hermione reminded him.

"Hermy, I lied to you. Voldemort won. I lied to you, so you'd keep fighting to survive. Harry and Ron are dead, Hermy. I betrayed them, for you. You were my reward, Hermy. I love you. The Dark Lord promised I could have you as an honorary pureblood, to be my wife. I did it all for you. You still love me, right? For now and always...?"

"I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I cannot describe how much I despise..."

"I'm sorry, Hermy. Obliviate!"

The eighteen year old form of Tom Riddle slowly came out from the shadows.

"Don't worry, Draco, we'll get it eventually."

"I... I just thought that it was this time, sir."