That night Riddle was in the bathroom for a few minutes then Hermione heard the crack of disappartion. He couldn't even walk back through the room. Riddle was that mad at her. With a groan, Hermione slipped under the covers, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep and forget the night.

"Nox," she sighed, turning off the lights. Hermione pressed her head into the pillow that still smelled of Riddle and of sex. She could still feel his touches on her skin. It took some time but eventually she drifted to sleep, the glow of his red eyes burning in her mind.

The next morning she awoke and got dressed for the day. She left her bedroom and was glad when Riddle was nowhere to be found. He was the last person she wanted to see. A house elf made Hermione some breakfast and she headed outside to sit under the dead tree in the grounds behind the house. Riddle had given her an old book to translate from ancient runes for him – so she figured she'd get some of that done. Maybe she'd find that thing Dumbledore sent her for and she'd finally get out of this place for good.

She leaned against the old bark, her fingers wrapped around a quill as she translated the words.

The magic required for this series of spells is some of the most difficult magic known to wizarding kind. It is both highly dangerous and highly complicated. One missed step could have catastrophic and possibly life threatening results.

Hermione blinked. The words were all starting to blur together. The ancient runes in this particular document were small, difficult to read. And her hand was cramping. She sighed as she pulled a heavy silver coin out of her pocket like she did several times a day. It was like the one she had invented for Dumbledore's Army several years back. Whenever the Order needed her to come back to her time, a phoenix with spread wings would appear on the coin.

She flipped the cold metal in her fingers. It was as blank and smooth as usual. Hermione was starting to worry. If she didn't hear from them in a few days, she would return on her own just to make sure everyone was alright.

With a deep breath and deep longing to return home, Hermione slipped the coin back in her pocket and looked out over the rolling grounds, breathing in the fresh air. It was nice to be outside. Better than being trapped in that small bedroom of hers.

Picking up the ancient text and her scroll of parchment, Hermione started translating again.

To make the first potion combine 3 bat wings, 2 frogs, diced neatly, and one quart of dragon's blood. Heat on high for several hours.

Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon writing down the directions to these ancient potions, her mind, on occasion wandering, to thoughts of cold hands against her skin. Parseltongue whispered gruffly across her lips. Teeth biting on her skin. Her hand running through soft hair, making him groan.

With the quill still in her hand, Hermione drifted into an afternoon nap under that dead tree. She was pulled out of reality, into dreams, into the world inside herself.

The clothes and the hairstyles told Hermione she was back in her own time. The comforting smell of food in the Great Hall wafted through the hallways. She wasn't sure where she was going, but she was going somewhere – following something – a feeling – a want – a need. Something dragged her forward.

She turned a corner and recognized it as the door to the potion's classroom but when she opened the door it did not lead the familiar place where Professor Snape would stand before the class, glaring down his nose. It lead to a dark, empty room. No light. No scent. Like standing in nothingness, floating in space.

A cold hand clamped over her mouth. Hermione tried to scream but she coudln't. The hand dropped away from her lips and she tried to scream again but her voice was gone, torn away from her. Dry lips kissed behind her ear. A familiar voice whispered in parseltongue, sending familiar tingles through her body. Every inch of her body lit with the power of his presence.

She turned around, expecting to see Riddle but she was alone.

"Hello!" she called out, realizing her voice had returned. "Who's there?"

Riddle materialized from the black mist. That sweeping gait, those sultry eyes, that perfect curve of his jaw. Her heart thrummed. She hated how much she desired him. How incredible he made her feel.

"You want me, Miss Granger," he whispered. "I know you do."

Riddle's traced his fingers in circles on her neck. He leaned down and licked her skin then blew a cold breath over his touch, sending shivers down her spine. Making her come apart – like shattered glass.

"Tell me you want me."

I hate you. I want you. I need you. I hate and want and need you. Now.

"I-"

"No." Riddle cut her off, his eyes exploding with color, with venomous red. "Show me."

Her fingers traced down his chest, trembling at his firm muscles. She held her breath as her fingers caught on the waistband of his trousers. Something overtook her. Something from the dream, from the inability to make rational decisions – from the part of herself that was pure, unbridled desire. She lowered to her knees. Sweating. Shaking. Falling to pieces. Like shattered glass again. Always shattered.

"Yes, My Lord," she breathed. She looked up. She screamed.

Riddle's handsome, seductive features were gone. It was no longer him. She knelt before a man with skin pale as bone, sunken red eyes, the horrible face of a snake. Of a monster.

She screamed again.

Hermione jolted from the tree, knocking over her books, spilling ink onto the grass. Breathing heavily, she ran her fingers over her face, trying to collect herself. She blinked and blinked and thought about the blades of grass, the pattern of the bark. Anything but her dream. Anything but the terrible face of that monster.

"Is everything alright, miss?" asked the squeaky voice of a house elf.

Hermione breathed out a long sigh, her body still shaking from the dream. "I'm fine. Thank you." She gathered up her things and stood, dusting the stray bits of grass off her skirt. "What time is it?"

"Nearly six," said the house elf.

How could she have been asleep so long? The dream felt so short – vivid, horrifying – but short. Doing her best to put it out of her mind, Hermione followed the house elf back inside.

When Hermione stepped into her bedroom, she found a long black box sitting on the bed. She shut the door and made her way across the floor to peel back the lid.

It was red velvet with a black velvet box on top. She opened the box. Her heart caught in her chest. She'd never seen anything like it. Shining, twisted gold adorned with thick diamonds that cast a remarkable glitter. She sat the box down. Touched the velvet, slipping it from the box, letting the structured bodice, thin straps and wide, bursting skirt expand like a blossom. There were shoes too. Black heels. And a note. Her fingers shook as she read the parchment. She wanted to wonder who – but she wasn't stupid – she knew.

Miss Granger,

Please wear these items to the Ministry Gala at eight this evening. I will meet you there.

Cordially,

Thomas M. Riddle Jr.

Hermione bit back a smile and a frown at the same time. There was a strange, uncertain formality in his letter. A detachment but that was nothing new. Also – the way he signed it. She whistled out a long breath. Thomas M. Riddle Jr. It was the closest she would ever get to an apology. And turning down a trip to the Ministry would be stupid. Other people, non-Death Eater people, would be there. Maybe even some she knew. McGonagall, Dumbledore, Slughorn – not that any of them would know her.

So she dressed in the dress and the necklace and the shoes. With a spell she curled her hair and she put on her makeup and she looked in the mirror. It was beautiful dress and lovely necklace. Hermione did not want to think how Riddle had gotten them.

With Lucius Malfoy she disapparated to the Ministry. He looked utterly appalled at having to be seen even for the briefest moment with someone like her. It didn't bother her though, not anymore, because she didn't want to be seen with him either. A racist and a coward.

He abandoned her as soon as they were inside the ballroom and for that she was grateful.

By herself, Hermione made her way through the thick crowd wearing beautiful dresses or expensive-looking dress robes. Everything was shimmery and silver and floating. Even the fountains sparkled with metallic flecks.

She felt like a drink so she headed to the bar in the corner of the room.

"Red wine, miss?" asked the house elf who was tending the bar.

Hermione shook her head. "Firewhisky."

"Yes, miss." The little house elf snapped his fingers and the bottle poured into the glass. Hermione had always been impressed by house elf magic. Simple. Elemental.

"Thank you very much," she said, picking up the glass and taking a drink. When she turned, her stomach jolted like she'd swallowed a storm cloud.

Riddle had arrived. Smiling. Shaking hands. Playing a part. His part. Keeping the trust of the people he needed to further his cause. He had a deep laugh and she could tell it was not sincere but that was only because she knew him. His eyes met hers. She swallowed, staring back.

"Excuse me," he said to the man beside him who was talking and talking and it was apparent Riddle was not listening. He made his slow, painstaking way to Hermione, looking perfect in night black dress robes, a white shirt and white bow-tie. He was the most elegant, indulgent thing she'd ever seen.

He took her hand, his touch igniting her. His normally red eyes were blue again. How he could change appearance like that she didn't know... but she wished he did it more often. He had blueberry eyes – sweet and tender and it made her hate his red ones.

"Good evening, Miss," he hissed, bringing her hands to his lips. "I'm surprised we've never met."

What?

Her brow furrowed. She stared back at him. His fingers ran up her arm, dancing like spiders across her skin, ticking her hairs. Hermione moved her tongue, trying to wet her dry mouth.

"I just spoke to your husband. He's over there – he's not watching."

"My what?" her voice cracked. "Are you alright?"

His laugh was cold and leaned his mouth against Hermione's ear. "If you don't want to be us, let's be other people." His teeth grazed her ear and she swore he was going bite her, tear her to pieces. He was always tearing her to pieces. If only she didn't want it so much...

Maybe he was right. Maybe pretending was a good idea...

"You're Tom Riddle, are you not? I've heard so much about you."

"Good things, I hope." He smirked.

Hermione bit her lip, feeling awkward, feeling turned-on. "Almost none of them."

His tongue darted out and licked his lips. Her eyes locked on his swift, trained movements. "Just rumors, my dear lady."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, taking a drink for courage. "Well, some of the things, I've heard from the women. Are those rumors too?"

Riddle showed off his perfect, striking set of the teeth. "Only one way to find out..." he said a word in Parseltongue – one she'd heard before and never asked him about – but she believed it was her name.

"Oh, Mr. Riddle. I'm a married woman."

He pressed his muscled body against her back. "You'll find I don't care much about that."

She shivered at the sound of compelling, possessive voice. A voice that could command so many with perfect, flawless ease.

Her lips shook. "But my husband."

His fingers traced gently down her spine like he loved to feel her bones. "He's nothing compared to me."

There was a long pause. They were in public. At the Ministry. What did she care anymore? "Prove it."

His lips stretched into a devious smile. A delicious smile. "Follow me." Hermione slipped her arm in his, leaving her glass on table. Her heart slammed against her walls, her head, everywhere. Impossible to resist. That was what he was. Impossible. Impossible.

Ridle took her outside.

There were only a few people out there, walking together, under the hanging stars, the stars grasping to the dark evening, hanging on for life. The wind swirled fallen leaves, played with them like a child in the dirt. A large oak stood stalwart just in front of them. Glancing around, Riddle removed his wand and began to chant a sweeping incantation that played across his mouth like poetry, like a song, like his own personal hymn. Hermione recognized what he was doing. Protection spells. They made you invisible to see. Impossible to hear. You could see out – the world could not see in. To them you did not exist.

Hermione stood there by the tree in Riddle's own little protection.

"Now no will find us. Even if you scream." Riddle growled in her ear.

She shut her eyes. "Should I be afraid?"

With a predatory gaze, he backed her up against the tree. His hands gripped her waist so hard she swore he'd leave fingerprint bruises. Breathes came from his mouth, heavy, forceful. "What do you think your husband would think of what I'm about to do to you?"

Hermione swallowed, her body aching, pounding with attraction, with desire, with a rush of need. "Just do it – or don't."

And he was attacking her. His lips. His hands. His whole body. A weapon against her. Everything with Riddle was an attack, a battle. She wanted to hate it, past her skin and her muscle and her sinew – all the way to the bone - she wanted to hate his frantic, almost rabid, touches but she didn't. Merlin, she didn't. Because she was attacking back. Her lips. Her hands. Her whole body.

The wind was kicking up around them, fierce and lost, sweeping and cold against her skin. She felt battered, struck, in more ways than one, but a complaint would not find its way up her throat and out her mouth. Not with his fingers running across her velvet draped skin, not with with tongue and teeth assaulting her neck. They were at war. A beautiful, lethal war.

Tom grabbed the thick skirt of her dress and began pushing it up her legs, past her thigh-high stockings. She bit her lip. The quickness, slowed, slowed, slowed down until Tom was nearly at a stop, tracing his finger up the insides of her thighs. A delicate torture with no end in sight.

Her fingers gripped his hair, tore at the feathery strands, causing him to growl. Bright blue eyes lifted to her, brimming, bursting, bleeding with life – like a sky cut-open. Falling in on her. Why was he being so slow? Taking his time? He'd never behaved that way before – you didn't slow down in war. You kept marching, you kept running from trench to trench. You never slowed down. Did he know it hurt her? The thoughtful movements of his cold fingers against her hot, hot skin. His icy tongue drawing slow frozen circles on the inside of her upper thigh – so close to her.

He stood, his hands following the curve of her body. Once again they were face to face. Her dress still pushed up to her waist. Those elegant fingers twisted with her own pulled her hand to him – to him. To the zipper on his pants. And the dream came back like a lightning bolt shooting through her mind, exploding her brain, as she pulled down.

Hermione sucked in air and it burned her lungs. It was cold but it burned. Just like Riddle.

Before she could run or fall apart or die or burst into flames, Riddle's mouth overtook hers but not in the wild way it normally did. His movements were smooth, fluid like a current moving against her. Salty and sweet. She could smell the ocean – breath it in – because it was oozing from his pores, from his kiss. Endless, ancient and all around her. Consuming. She was drowning and it felt good. The water filling up her lungs, pushing out the air. Why did it feel good? Why did it have to feel like that? Like he cared or wanted to care? Like he was capable of care?

And that was the real threat. Not the monster. Not facing the truth of what she was doing and who she was doing it with. The real threat was losing sight of the monster. Letting him hide in a closet until he came out and killed everyone.

Hermione pulled away from his kiss, forcing herself to look at the light stubble painting his jaw, the one-raised eyebrow, the swollen pink lips, the beautiful, beautiful man in front of her. He was Voldemort. Bones – and snakes – and bloody fingers.

Fighting to catch her breath, she looked him in the eye, handcuffed him with her gaze. "Lord Voldemort," she said. His jaw clenched, his eyes flashed. A swell of pride kicked around inside her. Because it wasn't what she said. It was how she said it. She said it not with awe, or fear, or intrigue, not with desire, or with giving-in. It wasn't like that – and Riddle knew it.

It was a conviction. The slam of judge's gavel. The clinking shut of prison bars. A tearing open. A revelation.

He could not hide from her. And now he knew it.

It was slow. She wished it hadn't been slow. With Riddle fast was always better because it was worse, it had no substance, no heartbeat. It was pure physical nature. But slow, eyes locked, it made her question, made her think. Once again they were challenging each other. If she would know him completely, not fear or be burdened by his name or nature, then he would know her too... even if it took forever, as it seemed it might.

When they were finally together, she held her breath as he kissed her lips, licking the bottom one. He pushed the straps of her dress far enough down her shoulders so he could work his trail of icicle kisses down her neck and her chest. She clawed at his shirt. Wanting him closer. Wanting him further away. Because Riddle was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Hermione couldn't take it any longer. "Faster. I need – faster."

Riddle breathed into her ear. "As you wish, Miss Granger."

There it was. Furious – electric – with a beat and a rhythm. An angry rhythm. The battle raged again. The fight. The fire. Incoherent words and curses. Her head smacking against the tree, bark scratching into her skull. Screams leaking from her lips, stifled. The pain. The not-pain. It was just simply Riddle. He was a thousand gun shots. An automatic machine-gun. Powerful, merciless. No end in sight.

He shouted her name. Not 'Miss Granger' but Hermione. Shouted it so loud her ears cracked like raw eggs. Riddle had never done that before. Never let loose like that. She said nothing. Just let that feeling ripple through her like she was a stone dropped in lake, sinking into the euphoric, dizzying sensation she wasn't sure she could live without.

Once again – slowly, slowly, slowly he slipped away from her. He backed away, taking her in from a distance, the bottom half of her body still exposed to the black fingers of the night air. "You should return to your husband," he sneered and walked away, hands in his pockets.

A beautiful monster.

Thanks for reading. So a bit of role play - a bit of dream Riddle - a bit of Hermione finding new ways to undermine Tom. Hope you liked it! Thanks for all the favorites and follows and review. I appreciate it. Please take the time to review if you can.