Notes: I was going to put this up later, but by popular demand, here it is now. I am very sorry to anyone who wanted this to be pure sweetness.

To answer the guest reviewer about Tom's eyes: The red flashes are associated with his divided soul. In canon it seems to get progressively worse over the years, which would make sense, and after he resurrects himself from that implicitly part-snake "demon child" body, his actual irises are red and snakelike. Anyway, in that hideous description in chapter 15 of CG, the torn off edge of his soul glitters red (and yes, I did think about it in that amount of detail :P). A reviewer on AO3 gave me the wonderful idea that the flashes of red in his eyes in this AU occur when he experiences "negative" emotions, and – in her words –

"the red flash - the window to his soul, which is bleeding in agony - would therefore be linked to his emotions. one shows emotion through one's eyes. one also shows the soul. ergo, I choose to headcanon Tom in the last paragraph [ETA: chapter 15 of CG] as Tom who's hurt by Hermione's rejection."

So the normal white ones occur when he is experiencing positive emotions.


Chapter Four: Specialis Revelio


July 1950.

Hermione really, really hoped she had made the right decision.

After four and a half years of observing Tom very closely—of watching his attitudes at home and on the job for any signs that he had reverted to violence as his tool of choice for exercising power—she had decided to take the plunge.

There were no hints of it. He did use coercion and corruption, and she strongly suspected that he made use of the Imperius Curse when those failed, but there were no indications that he resorted to physically hurting other people as a show of power. She couldn't rule out that he might in the future—though she hoped a situation did not arise, like it had several times in their seventh year, in which he deemed it necessary—but it wasn't his default action now.

Hermione had decided in autumn of the previous year, while obtaining the Slytherin locket for him, that she was not going to be Tom's warden for the rest of her life. It meant nothing to be able to claim, "Tom didn't do thus-and-such bad thing because I didn't give him the opportunity." Moreover, having him on a figurative chain would prevent her from actually trusting him, and if he found out, he wouldn't trust her either. She had to give him the chance to decide for himself what he was going to do. She had to allow him to live—and she had to live her life too.

Still—

She knew that the timeline was already irrevocably altered. Dumbledore was still just a prestigious scholar rather than any kind of politician, Tom was up to his neck in legitimate politics instead of gathering assorted malcontents around the Continent, and she was head of a growing organization. Nonetheless, something about this felt far more sweeping and permanent than any of those changes.

This is a human being who wouldn't even have existed without my presence here, she thought, putting her right hand over her lower belly. Institutions come and go, but this is a person.

A person who would have Tom for a father. Tom, who, despite not behaving like Voldemort, was still a Dark wizard, still had difficulty respecting anyone other than himself and his immediate family, and still had convinced himself that eventually Hermione would join him in his plan for physical immortality, despite having absolutely no encouragement from her in that notion.

She really hoped this was a good idea. He would certainly be a devoted father, she supposed. She did not have to worry that he would be aloof and uninvolved with his own children—especially since they would be his children with her. If anything, he was much more likely to be excessively controlling.

She was six months along, and there was a spell that could determine the baby's sex at this point. They were going to have a daughter. They had not picked out a name for her, but they both had lists. At the moment, Tom favored the name Matilda. Hermione did not. She generally wasn't superstitious, but she did read Roald Dahl as a little girl, and she considered that name ominous and unsettling on several levels. Of course, if she explained that rationale to Tom, it would probably only cement his support of the name; it would be a sign to him that his daughter would be powerful, intelligent, and special, and he would ignore what it "meant" about the child's family life. But she did not have a favorite suggestion of her own yet.

Tom came into the room and sat down next to her. He observed where her hand was and smiled. He was smiling a lot more than usual these days, Hermione noticed—and a real smile, not that smirk of his. She liked the smirk too, in appropriate contexts, but it was nice to see him genuinely happy. It helped to convince her that this would be all right.

A mild thrum of desire started deep in her, but now was not the time. She felt these a lot lately, so she knew she would have plenty of opportunity later. It was a typical part of pregnancy, she knew from reading, but still a very pleasant one. When she wasn't otherwise occupied—and sometimes even when she was—she found her thoughts frequently straying to the night that she was sure it had happened. They had been trying deliberately, and it had made him—both of them, really, but especially him—much more… intense. It had felt like he was trying to get as far in her as he could, to make absolutely certain that every bit of seed spilled there… and then afterward, clutching each other's shoulders and sides hard enough to leave marks….

Now is really not the time for this, she told herself sternly.

She turned to him. "The Healer left a little while ago," she said in normal tones.

"Well, I hope you're all right," he said brusquely.

Hermione was not offended. She knew that he still had difficulty expressing concern in any way other than possessiveness or anger. He was getting better, though. He seemed to realize that he had been abrupt, because he quickly placed an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her.

She nodded. "The Healer told me that everything was progressing as it should."

He let out his breath. "That's a relief. I always worry…."

"So do I, but everything is fine."

"It's not really even that—the medical aspects," he hedged.

She glanced at him curiously. "Then what do you mean?"

"There's a part of me—a stupid part," he added defensively, "that almost believes that… that I'll blink, or that I'm going to wake up and suddenly all this will be gone. That you will be gone. That it's not really real. But once she is born, that will make it so, somehow."

Hermione smothered a laugh. It wasn't really that far removed from her own train of thought, that the career changes she had effected were less "real" than the birth of a brand-new person. However—

"Tom, do you know what solipsism is?" she said, avoiding chuckling, but not successfully hiding a grin.

He scowled at her. "It's an idea in Muggle metaphysics."

She sighed in exasperated amusement. "Tom, things in science and philosophy are either true or false—for everyone. They aren't 'Muggle.'"

He continued to glare. "My point is, I know what it means. That's not what I—I mean, you weren't born in this time like other people. You came here by time magic. What if you do suddenly vanish, for the same reason?"

"I won't. The device I used anchored me in the past permanently, no matter what happens." She thought about telling him that Dumbledore had explained it, but she decided against that. With his biases, he would not consider that a reliable source. "I'm not going anywhere. You'll have me and her."

He nodded, accepting her words.


Three months later.

Hermione cuddled her daughter close. Her face hurt from smiling, but she couldn't stop. The delivery had gone very smoothly, with no complications, and the Healer had already taken care of the minor birth injuries she had received. Tom was hovering around. He had wanted the Healer out of the room as soon as she was no longer needed, determined to have his family all to himself.

Hermione knew that parents were biased, and would convince themselves that their own children were cute even if they were not, but Madeline Riddle really did seem to be a very pretty baby. Healthily pink, angelic-faced, and with thick, shiny black hair—his hair. He seemed to like that.

They had compromised on her name, finally settling on something that sounded somewhat similar to his other choice. To Hermione's surprise, when she had explained (with some embarrassment) her reasoning against the name Matilda, he had instantly understood.

"Of course we wouldn't be like the parents in that book, then, hating her because she was special. We're not ignorant, narrow-minded Muggle fools."

She supposed she should have known. Still, at least he clarified which specific type of Muggles he didn't like, and she couldn't disagree with him. The Dursleys….

No, she didn't want to think about nasty people like that right now. This was their moment.

He didn't quite know how to handle a baby. He had held her like a fragile piece of heavy china at first, somewhat removed from his body, seemingly embarrassed to be seen cuddling her—until Hermione gave him an encouraging look and the Healer was out of their house. Then he had drawn her close, but it was still not a natural embrace like Hermione's. It was… almost clutching her. He would figure it out in time, though.

Hermione glanced up at him. He had sent out an owl to someone a little while ago and was apparently awaiting a reply letter. She wondered whom he might have wanted to contact with the news. Possibly Vincent Rosier, the closest thing he had to a friend or protégé. Maybe Slughorn. Maybe Bob Ogden.

He came over to the bedside. "Might I hold her again?"

She handed the baby off to him. It was good that he wanted to try again. He accepted her gently and brought her close to his chest. This looked more natural to her and less like a threatened alpha wolf hovering over his pup….

Her smile widened again as he stroked the soft skin of Madeline's cheek. "You're real. You're really here," he murmured. His gaze fixed upon the baby. "You won't be left alone. You won't be abandoned… and we won't die on you. I won't. And I won't let your mum…." His voice was almost inaudible, but Hermione still caught it. He was saying the words almost like a protective incantation, as if by uttering them, he could control reality the way he did as a wizard with spells.

The spell was broken by the tapping of an owl on the nearest window.

To Hermione's surprise, Tom instantly thrust her back into her arms and went to retrieve the letter that the owl carried. She was a little upset that this so easily distracted him. What could be so important—?

Tom was reading the letter, biting his lip in anxiety at first. Then, after a few seconds, a smile broke over his face like a sunbeam. He exhaled deeply.

"Tom, who is that from?"

He looked guilty for a fraction of a second. "Dippet," he said somewhat defensively.

"Dippet?" Hermione had not expected that answer. "You haven't, that I've seen, written to anyone else yet. He is the first person you notified?"

Tom shrugged expressively. Hermione instantly because suspicious, though she knew not of what. That shrug just looked fake.

"Tom, could I see the letter?"

He clearly did not want to. "I…." He trailed off, apparently briefly weighing the idea of denying her, but deciding at once that it wouldn't work. "All right." He carried the paper over to Hermione and handed it to her, an air of bravado and defiance about him. She passed Madeline to him once more and glanced at the note.

.

Dear Tom,

Congratulations to you and Hermione on the birth of your healthy daughter. Although I never became a parent myself, I have no doubt that this is one of the most important moments in your lives. I am pleased to inform you that this morning, her name did appear on the Hogwarts roster for the class that will begin school in Autumn 1962. I am sure that you and Hermione will be excellent parents to your little witch. If there is anything that the educators of Hogwarts can do to help either of you with the magical issues of infancy and early childhood, please do not hesitate to ask.

Fondly,

Armando Dippet

.

Hermione felt cold suddenly, and a stone seemed to drop through her stomach. She set the letter down almost mechanically and gaped at Tom with a horrified expression. He was stroking Madeline's soft black hair, but it suddenly wasn't quite so cute.

"Tom, you… the first thing you did… you actually asked Dippet if she was on the roll? That is what came to your mind? You couldn't just wait for her to have her first burst of magic?" Her voice broke, but she attempted to muffle the sound.

Tom drew her close in a defensive, protective embrace. He met Hermione's eyes with defiance in his own. "It's like walking and talking," he said, holding the baby to his chest. "We know those will happen too, but we don't know exactly when or how, so it won't make it any less special when they do happen."

"That is not what I mean." Hermione sat upright and stared hard at him. "You wanted to be sure that she was magical."

He glared back at her, not even attempting to deny it. Somehow the brazen, unspoken admission hurt more than an excuse would have.

"What if she had been a Squib, Tom? What then?"

He stiffened, startled at the question. For a horrible second, his face was blank, as if he could not even accept the possibility.

"What would you have done, Tom?"

He unfroze. Breathing deeply, he held the child close. "I… would have been disappointed, I won't lie about that—but you would have too," he said pointedly.

For a second, she wanted to object, but her mouth would not form the words. Damn it, but he was right. She would have been disappointed. And it would have been sad for everyone. It was isolating enough from the opposite side, to be able to do something that for years no one else she knew could do. To learn that not only were her parents not invincible, but that they weren't even authoritative—that she could make them do what she wanted and they could do nothing about it. She hadn't, but it had troubled her in some way to know that she could have. How much worse would it be for a child to always compare herself to her parents and come up short? It was good that that wasn't going to happen, at least over the existence of magical ability.

"But… I… would've placed her in the Muggle government, or academy, or whatever she wanted to do. She would have the very best of whatever she wanted in her life, and I'd have an unconditional ally on that side."

Hermione closed her eyes as relief washed over her. She had hardly expected him to say something like, "I would disown her," not openly and to her face, and not at this particular moment, but this answer actually sounded sincere to her. His tone was honest, and if nothing else, the element of self-centered political planning in it spoke to its being the truth. He did want what was best for his child, whatever that might be. He was different.

He stepped over to the bed, climbed on it, and stretched out next to Hermione. "I wanted to know," he said quietly, passing the baby back to Hermione. "It would have bothered me otherwise, either way. If she hadn't been a witch… well, I would have had more time to get used to the idea, instead of waiting and waiting for something that wouldn't happen. And now that I know she is, I can enjoy watching her grow without that particular source of anxiety."

Hermione thought it was a little sad that he needed to know this to be able to enjoy her development milestones, but some people required extra assurance of whatever worried them. Some people couldn't handle not knowing something. He was one of those people, and to an extent, so was she.

Madeline was waking up. Her eyes snapped open, still unused to the world of harsh light. She was apparently hungry, and she was also unused to that awful feeling. She opened her mouth and let out a howl of protest to her parents to fix it, to make her unhappiness go away.

Hermione smothered a laugh at that thought. They couldn't do that for everything, much as they might want to. Tom would certainly try, of course. But for now, hers was a world of simple needs, things that they could make right, and Hermione knew she should treasure that.