February 1977

Georgiana wrenched her face from the Pensieve, swiping away angry tears and gasping for breath. She had just witnessed the most confusing swirl of memories imaginable, gleaned from the minds of her parents.

"You… you're…" Georgiana struggled to find the proper words as she shot an accusatory gaze across the Headmistress' Office at her mother. Finally, Georgiana raised her hands up and shook her head in disbelief. "You're younger than me!"

"Plainly, you can see that I am not," her mother insisted. Georgiana flicked her eyes to her father - to the Dark Lord Voldemort - seeing the terrible image of his grey skin and red eyes from her mother's previous life.

"You've known all along!" Georgiana's betrayal was sharp in her cracking voice, and her father calmly sighed and took a step toward her. He extended his hand to Georgiana's shoulder, but she instinctively flinched away. A strange look crossed Voldemort's dark eyes then, and he murmured,

"It was not the right time to tell you until now. As you can see, Georgie, it's all quite… bewildering. It always has been. But you're a grown woman now, and you deserve to know -"

"What on Earth have I done to so gravely offend you two that I 'deserve' this?" Georgiana's eyes, black like her father's, stung with welling tears as she shook her head vehemently. Her mother sucked in breath and looked prepared to speak, but Georgiana interrupted. "You're not even born yet! And you're… you're from the future? You know what's going to happen?"

"It doesn't work that way, darling." Hermione shook her head, and Georgiana felt a flush of rage at her parents' preternaturally calm demeanours. She chewed on her lip as her mother drummed her fingers on a book cover and continued, "The life I lived, all those many years ago and in years yet to come… that life is gone now. Different choices have been made since then - choices which have made my previous reality an impossibility. There were people I knew in my childhood who were never born. There were places I went that no longer exist. No, Georgiana. I don't know what's going to happen. None of us do until we make our choices."

Georgiana felt her mouth drop open, felt the room spinning. She panned her eyes over the portraits of former Hogwarts headmasters, many of whom looked a bit baffled by the conversation. Georgiana let out a shaky breath and turned her eyes first to her father, then to her mother.

"You're liars. The both of you. You're liars."

"Georgiana Jean!" Hermione snapped, looking scandalised.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" Georgiana's voice bore the lethal, composed quiet she had inherited from her father. Now it was Hermione's jaw that fell open, and it was Voldemort who cleared his throat roughly.

"Georgie, this truth has not been any easier for your mother and I to accept over the years. There have been Prophecies - both in your mother's past and in our shared past. There have been confident predictions of events to come. But in many instances, those future paths have been redrawn, or even annihilated. Nothing is certain, and there is no destiny. Your mother's childhood was a real, concrete experience for her, but, as she said, that reality is gone now. Swept away like dust upon the floor by a series of interrelated choices. And, as you noted, your mother was not born until September of 1979."

"So, if you've changed the future so radically," Georgiana began, feeling dread pool in her abdomen, "then will Mum be born at all? What will happen in the autumn of 1979, when your timeline collides with her now-nonexistent past? Will she…" Georgiana turned her face to her mother, a sharp pang running down her spine as she saw the sadness in Hermione's eyes. Georgie sighed tremulously and asked, "Mum, are you going to disappear?"

"We have no idea, Georgie," Hermione admitted. "That's a great part of why we wanted to tell you the truth… because, in this existence, at least… the future is entirely unknown. We need to be prepared for anything."

Georgiana turned her back on her parents then, striding quickly over to the window. She gazed down from the Headmistress' Office, down many stories to the vale below. She gulped heavily and heard her father's shoes upon the floorboards behind her.

"Nothing is certain," he said again, and she saw the reflection of his angular face in the window. There was a stern determination in Voldemort's eyes as he said, "I will do everything I can."

"Do more," Georgiana choked out quietly, pressing her palm against the frigid window-pane, "or perhaps I shall disappear from you as well."


August 1949

"Tom?"

Lord Voldemort cracked his eyes, promptly wrenching them shut again when the harsh glare of daylight hit him. He turned his face and shielded his eyes with his hand, sitting up slowly as Hermione said again,

"Tom… it's nearly noon. You must get out of bed."

Voldemort grunted softly and hauled himself off the bed. He said nothing as he ambled to the bathroom. He shaved in contemplative silence and then yawned as he cleaned his teeth. He'd been up until nearly four in the morning in a heated meeting with Avery, Nott, Abraxas Malfoy, and Mulciber.

"What did you all decide?" Voldemort heard Hermione ask. He spit out his toothpaste and set down his wooden toothbrush, turning to where she had leaned against the door jamb with her arms crossed. She wore a simple black cotton dress with a lightweight robe over the top, and her hair had been rolled back and pinned into an elegant chignon. She'd painted her lips with ruby lipstick. Voldemort felt an oddly queasy sort of nervousness in his belly as he looked at her. She was more beautiful now than ever, he thought. Even after she'd left him and come back… even after five years during which she could have become dull to him… he was more attracted to and in love with her now than ever.

He watched as Hermione arched an eyebrow and moved to stand behind him. Voldemort's bare back tingled as she touched her fingertips lightly between his shoulder blades. She peeked her head around his bicep and met his gaze in the mirror. Voldemort struggled to keep his face stony, shutting his eyes as she asked once more,

"Your meeting. What came of that?"

"Dumbledore is gathering a society of witches and wizards opposed to my ascent," Voldemort heard himself say. His mind was almost entirely focused on the feel of Hermione's fingers ghosting around his back. He leaned forward and gripped the sides of the white porcelain sink, muttering, "There are twenty-five known Aurors and others who have allied themselves with Dumbledore. They meet in Mould-on-the-Wold on a semi-regular basis; Mulciber has been disguising himself to overhear conversations in the pub or to stand in an alley as they file into the house where they meet. They don't seem particularly careful; they're more open than I'd like."

Voldemort hissed through his teeth then, for Hermione had moved one hand from his back and was trailing it around the flannel leg of his pyjama trousers. At last, she danced her fingers in front of him, brushing at his crotch. Voldemort's member instantly came to attention, hardening quite a bit inside of his trousers. He grunted quietly and put his hand over Hermione's, urging her to give him more attention there.

Her hand flinched beneath his, but then relaxed. Their hands dragged and petted and teased his trousers together in synchronized motion, and Voldemort felt his heart thud inside his chest.

"Who's he got, then?" he heard Hermione ask quietly from behind him.

Voldemort raised his face and opened his eyes. He smirked back at Hermione in the mirror. She did not smile back. "Tell me who's against you," she whispered, and Voldemort shuddered at the beautiful, deadly quality her voice possessed.

"Why?" he demanded with a little snort of disbelief. "So you can murder them all on my behalf?"

"I'm no murderer." Hermione shook her head slowly, insistently. Her fingers moved deftly to pull at the ties on Voldemort's trousers, and then she crept her hand inside and took hold of his erect manhood. Voldemort's knuckles went white around the sink, and he bucked his hips forward into her hand instinctively. Hermione continued, unfazed, "I don't plan on killing anyone… or, as you so prefer to say, 'eliminating.' And I know you're not fool enough to do that just now, either, nor to start an open war. But I know you'll be watching them closely, and that, someday, inevitably, they will die. Because you will kill them, whether I want you to or not. I just want to know who they are."

Her hand had started a smooth dance on him, spreading the little drop of moisture from the tip of his cock down the shaft. Voldemort's breath shook through his clenched teeth as he thought about what she'd said. She was right about everything, as usual. It infuriated him that she was very usually right. It was as she'd insisted; she was no murderer. But Voldemort was. He had killed before and he had no qualms about the concept of doing so again. The only reason Dumbledore and his crew of disobedient lackies were being left more or less alone was - as Hermione had said - the strategic disadvantage of being blamed for their murder. The wizarding community in Britain had been outright grateful when Tom Riddle had slain Gellert Grindelwald. The public was cooling in its enthusiasm for the 'great' Albus Dumbledore, but he was not so far gone from their hearts that they would regard his death in the same way they'd done Grindelwald's. Voldemort needed Dumbledore to stay alive, to make foolish mistakes, to become an utter outcast in the face of Voldemort's popular rise. Only then - and most certainly then - would Voldemort kill Dumbledore and his followers.

"I don't think he's dangerous to you, Tom," he heard Hermione mumble, her breath and lips warm as she kissed her words onto his back. Voldemort shivered against his will, and Hermione continued, "He needs you alive just as much as you need him alive. The people love you more than they love him. If he were to attack you now, it… wouldn't go well for him, I should think. The two of you are at an impasse, for the time being. Try to focus on gaining more support from those who are ambivalent about you. Dumbledore will do the same, and in the end what shall matter is who is the most beloved and who is the most despised."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes into the mirror, watching Hermione's hand pump against him. Her face peered around his arm again, and Voldemort snarled softly, "You practically worshipped Albus Dumbledore as a child. You aspired to be a part of his subversive organisation against me in your own time. Why do you speak about him this way now?"

"I didn't love you then," Hermione admitted, "and, anyway… that Dumbledore is not the man I see now. You killed Grindelwald and, I think, in doing so, you changed Albus Dumbledore forever. I don't care what I did or said or felt in that other time, Tom. That world is gone. All that matters is what I do now, here… with you. I love you. I didn't love you then."

Voldemort instinctively whirled around, gripping Hermione's shoulders in his hands and pushing her until she backed up toward the door. He leaned down to kiss her, pushing her backward through the threshold and into the bedroom. She squealed quietly and stumbled a bit on her feet, reaching instinctively up to clutch at Voldemort's shoulders. Voldemort's manhood grew harder than ever as he shoved her a bit harder toward the bed. Hermione flopped with a quiet oof onto her back upon the duvet, and she stared up at Voldemort with her chestnut, doe-eyed gaze. He felt a surge of want, raw and needy, and he gulped the lump from his throat before he whispered raggedly,

"Take your knickers off, Hermione."

She curled up one side of her mouth, keeping her eyes locked on Voldemort's as she reached down. She slid up the skirt of her dark cotton dress and satin slip. She inched her fingers to the metal zipper at her side. She pulled it down and moved languorously to peel off her girdle, tormenting Voldemort with her slow motions. He felt a tingle of impatience forming behind his sternum, and he impulsively reached for his wand off the bedside table.

"Enough. Tollere vestimentum."

He snapped his wand at Hermione's prone form, and she gasped as a smattering of silver and purple sparks flew toward her and dissolved into her clothing. Her dress, girdle, slip, knickers, brassiere, and stockings disappeared quickly from her body, as if they had melted into thin air. His own pyjama trousers, too, vanished at once. Voldemort flicked his eyes to the other side of the bed, where the clothing reappeared in a neatly folded pile.

He tossed the wand down onto the duvet beside Hermione, taking her knees in his hands and yanking her legs apart. She moaned softly and he smirked as he trailed his fingertips up the inside of her thighs. Hermione wrenched her pretty brown eyes shut and drove her head backward, mussing her carefully-sculpted hairstyle.

"Look at me," Voldemort heard himself murmur, wanting very much to see her eyes again. She obeyed him, her fingers digging desperately against the duvet as a flash of desire came over her eyes. Voldemort narrowed his own coal-black eyes down at her and whispered, "That foolish oaf Rubeus Hagrid. Torcaill and Mirin Moody. Idris Oakby and some bloody Squib called Arabella Figg. Maggie Prewett and her mother Muriel. And some others."

Voldemort had just rattled off a list of people known to be allied against him, people seen by Mulciber as they came to Mould-on-the-Wold to meet with Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort hardened his eyes further, squaring his jaw and nodding down at Hermione as he watched her react. She shut her eyes and put her lips in a line, and Voldemort suddenly wondered whether he'd ruined their intimate moment. Her eyelids tightened and flinched as she lay quiet and still. He knew that she had been friends with Rubeus Hagrid in her own past, that the Squib Arabella Figg had been against him even in that timeline. He watched Hermione wrestle silently with her own scruples, and he stilled his hands upon the inside of her thighs.

"I love you," he heard her whisper, and he watched her nod against the duvet. She seemed to be convincing herself more than him as she continued, "All that matters is here and now, and I love you, Tom. Kiss me, please."

He did so at once, leaning down and placing a hand on either side of her shoulders. He dropped his face to hers, relishing the taste of her lips and the feeling of her loyalty. She was a different witch now than she'd been when he had first met her. She had hated him at first. That was obvious in how she had Vanished the first lilacs he'd given her, how she'd fought against their mutual attraction, how she had called him a monster. But she had come around slowly, a beautiful Darkness seeping into her veins and then eventually into her soul. Voldemort drank that Darkness from her as he kissed her, feeling the heavy presence of her changed nature in the quiet room.

He dragged his tongue against the roof of her mouth and felt her shiver beneath him, felt her fingers reach up to drift about his bare chest. Without breaking their kiss, Voldemort reached beside her and grabbed his wand once more. He focused his energy and his magic and pressed the tip of the wand against her abdomen, mentally incanting protective spells. Much as he would have loved to leave her fertile, now was scarcely the best time to be reproducing. Voldemort flung his wand aside again and reached down between them, taking his member in his hand. He broke his face from hers and dragged his open mouth down her neck, eliciting a groan of pleasure from her.

"Don't ever leave me again," he murmured against her skin, his voice quiet and garbled so that she would not understand him. He did not wish for her to hear him beg for anything. But he had to beg. He had to plead with her body not to go away, not to drive him to commit acts of betrayal with its absence. And it was not just her body. It was her words and her help and her sense of humour and her intelligence. She needed to stay. She could not go.

Voldemort latched his mouth onto her right breast and grazed his teeth over her nipple. She howled a bit in shock, and Voldemort felt a crash of powerful arousal. His free hand massaged her other breast rather roughly, and then he stood and pressed the tip of his member at her sodden entrance. He paused there for a moment, shutting his eyes against the incredible feel of her wet warmth. He pushed his hips forward, and at the feel of her tightness enveloping him, he moaned like a randy schoolboy.

His fingers reached of their own accord to clutch at her hips, to steady himself as he pumped and thrust into her. She was filled and stretched by him, and the sensation of that sent crackling shivers up Voldemort's spine. He kept his movements deliberately slow and steady, determined to savour the connection of their bodies.

"Please, Tom," he heard her whine quietly after a while, "Faster… I need to… I can't…"

He chuckled under her breath at the sound of her nonsensical rambling, and he opened his eyes and saw that her alabaster cheeks had flushed scarlet. She was panting through slightly parted ruby lips, and the sight of her desperation sent Voldemort's heart thumping.

"Ask me again," he commanded her, "this time in a complete sentence."

Her cheeks darkened even further, and Voldemort laughed again at how his insistence had only turned her on further. He watched her long neck tighten and bob as she gulped, and then she croaked,

"Please fuck me harder, Tom, so that I can come. Please."

He pretended to consider her request for a moment, staring at her with a thoughtful expression. Then, without warning, he pulled himself entirely from her body and stood completely upright beside the bed. Hermione looked angry and disappointed, but Voldemort said sharply,

"If you want to come, then do it."

Hermione looked utterly confused then, her mouth dropping further open. Voldemort sneered a bit down at her, leaning to plant a kiss upon her lips as he whispered rather wickedly,

"Or shall I do it for you? Hm? Be careful what you wish for, My Lady."

He reached for his wand smoothly and dragged its tip up the inside of her thigh. His lips were still touching hers as she gasped. Voldemort felt his cock twitch as her hot breath panted against his mouth. She shut her eyes and whimpered as the tip of his wand crept ever upward.

"Vim Gaudens Potens," he muttered, the spell of his own making tumbling from her lips onto his. His wand vibrated against her skin, and then she gasped more loudly than ever. Her hands reached frantically for his shoulders, and Voldemort felt a sense of power and vindication as he watched her thrash and moan. He had made the spell up when she'd been gone; he'd fantasised that one day he might use it on her. He would never have contemplated using it with anyone else.

"Good girl… come for me, Hermione," he said, his breath catching in his throat as he pulled back to watch her fall apart. Her orgasm was long and powerful, but just as she seemed to be coming down from her high, Voldemort reached between them and drove himself back into her body. She was wracked by another wave of pleasure then, and she moaned his name like a desperate prayer.

His hips bucked rather wildly, his own need for release uncontrolled and spreading through him like wildfire. Voldemort felt the familiar tightening in his groin, felt himself grow harder and longer than ever, felt his ears ringing and his heart pounding. He clenched his teeth and let out a feral growl as he shoved his hips flush against Hermione's and filled her with his seed. The pleasure inside of him exploded like a bomb, and then there was a moment of blankness in his mind. Slowly, as he pulled himself from the mess he'd made inside of Hermione, the room seemed to re-materialise about them.

He lay back, naked and sated, onto the pillows. His stomach growled insistently, and he chuckled as he realised it was well after noon and he was still not dressed for the day.

"I've a meeting with the Lestrange family about funding at half past two," he lamented with a sigh, casting his forearm over his eyes and rather wishing he could go back to sleep. He cracked his eyes and watched Hermione get dressed and fix her hair. She turned over her shoulder as she put her earrings back in, a sad little smile crossing her face.

"I knew a Lestrange once myself," she said quietly. "Bellatrix Lestrange. Originally Black. I'm not certain who her parents were, but she was awful. She was sadistic. And she was your most loyal servant."

Voldemort cocked an eyebrow and sighed deeply. "She sounds helpful, this Bellatrix. I shall keep my eyes open for her," he said, trying to diffuse the tension that had suddenly filled the air around Hermione's body. It did not work; Hermione scowled and turned back to the mirror. Tom watched her face grow quite serious, and then she said,

"I'm here, and I'm now… with you. Bellatrix Lestrange is not a person, so she can't have done any of the terrible things I remember. I hope your meeting goes well, My Lord."

"Don't call me that." Voldemort felt a sickening twist of discomfort as she'd used the submissive title others did. He rather liked being 'My Lord' to the rest of the wizarding world, but not to Hermione. Not even in jest. She huffed a small laugh of disbelief, and Voldemort collected himself.

"I should like it very much if you attended the meeting with the Lestranges," he said cautiously, pausing to watch her react. Hermione turned round and smoothed her skirts as she asked in a tight voice,

"Why?"

"I find I make better choices when I've got your input," Voldemort admitted, tipping his chin up rather defensively. Hermione smiled broadly and shook her head.

"Very well. But I doubt you shall wish to attend naked. Get up, Tom."


December 1949

"It's been five years since you killed Gellert Grindelwald." Arden Colporter tapped the tip of her quill against her parchment as she pursed her lips and raised her eyes to Lord Voldemort. He nodded once, slowly, and said,

"We've established that well-known historical fact already in this interview, Miss Colporter. What of it?"

"How do you suppose the death of Gellert Grindelwald affected Albus Dumbledore?"

Voldemort flicked his eyebrows up at that question. He carefully licked his bottom lip and drummed his fingertips against the arms of the chair, carefully considering his response. He stared at the fire in the hearth and thought back over the past several months. Then, at long last, he turned back to Arden Colporter. The journalist's eyes were wide with expectation. Voldemort cleared his throat softly and said,

"I believe that Albus Dumbledore would never have eliminated the threat of Grindelwald of his own volition. The two were quite close early in life, and though Dumbledore knew well of Grindelwald's foolish campaign for power, he did nothing to block the other wizard's ascent. When I eradicated the threat of Grindelwald, I do believe a bit of Dumbledore's sanity died, as well. The rest was chipped away in a slow, steady descent into madness over the subsequent five years."

"You contend that Dumbledore went mad in the wake of Grindelwald's death?" Arden Colporter asked incredulously. She arched a single brow and tapped the nib of her quill again.

"I do," Voldemort affirmed, nodding slowly once more. Arden Colporter hesitated for a moment, dragging her teeth over her lower lip. Finally, she asked in a cautious voice,

"Is that why he's dead?"