Smut in this chapter.
Chapter 4 – Department of Mysteries – April 2nd, 1947
Tom stood within the death chamber, it's cavernous emptiness soothing against the increasing volume of his thoughts, staring down death's door whilst calmly blocking out the fervent whispers that aimed to draw him closer. He trailed his eyes studiously along the frame, committing its scripted runes to memory, it's alphabet unlike any he has ever seen before.
His Horcruxes rattled agitatedly both against his sternum and on his finger, there was something about this room that called to him on a primal level, and though he understood that it was likely his mutilated soul seeking the reprieve of death, he humoured it, regardless to the promise of personal detriment. His regard for death (and subsequent refusal to abide by it) was a significant part of what made Tom who he was, another aspect of his all-encompassing awe in magic. It was the reason, that for all of his brilliance and passion in Hogwarts, that he'd sought to become an Unspeakable.
That his knights, peers and Head of House had been so surprised by his chosen path was almost insulting, and furthermore, it was proof that they didn't know him very well at all. Of course, they crowed when he succeeded, revered by his potential, calling him the future Minister for Magic, so enthralled they'd been by his charisma and intelligence, that they'd missed that the sole driving force of his existence was in pursuit of knowledge, as much so as to power.
He did not come here solely because it called to him though, no, because to say that would be to insult his level of self-control, which, personally, he felt he had an almost admirable grip on, all things considering. No, he came here because it had only ever been in death that Tom felt he found his answers, his questions of fate, the grand order of things, and most importantly, the idea of determinism.
For as long as he could remember, magic had truly been his sole companion in life, he had always felt he was special, and not in a way that denoted others around him (though he'd come to believe that as well) but in a way that denied him depressive thoughts simply because he knew, intrinsically, that he was needed. It was in the skills he had that no one else around him had ever had, as a child, it had been his ability to speak to snakes and his magic, and as an adolescent, it had been his superior memory.
He recalled even the most minute details of his childhood, something that he'd come to understand was rare for most people, even going so far as to remember parts of his infant-hood, recalling with perfect clarity how magic had held him in its arms well before he knew what it was.
Despite all of this, however, with his sense of being needed and his eidetic memory, not once had he not believed in free will. Free will had been the force that made him work hard, to better his life, free will had been what was going to see him too powerful to ever be stepped on again, and free will had been the key in which he would unlock his place in this world.
That was, of course, until he'd met Hermione and he'd found out, not necessarily all at once, but from what he'd gathered from the bits of pillow-talk over the last year, that she was much the same as him. Mornings where she'd lay flush against him, trailing gentle fingers over the line of hair on his stomach, downwards, recalling in a soft voice, almost impossible details of stories from her childhood.
Like the exact tenor of her grandmother's voice while reading to her as a toddler, if it had rained that day, or the same glowing lights on the ceiling of her room as an infant when everybody else had been asleep, that Tom recalled himself.
Certainly, he'd joined the Unspeakables to have limitless support to study magic, though admittedly, it had once been so that he could research Horcruxes more thoroughly, it was as he grew older, that certain factors made themselves known, and it became his only resource in researching his theory that he and Hermione were a product of some predetermined fate.
In the beginning, the mere thought of such a thing filled him with a pessimistic sort of denial, but the further and deeper he thought about it, the more he'd become fascinated. He'd thought for years that Hermione's existence was too coincidental, too good, to be true, and every year that subsequently passed, he was coming to believe that that may be the case.
A part of him raged at the implications because it meant that regardless of his actions, he could still lose or he could still die, the distinct lack of choice unnerving him. It made him also consider that perhaps even the choices he'd made until now had never truly been his own to make, did he want power, knowledge and immortality because of his own reasons? Or was there some sort of external force that drove him to them? Were the actions of others also predestined to lead him down a certain path?
He considered the letter he'd received from the Lestrange woman, still unsure of how he should respond, or if he wanted to at all. He considered the hall of prophecies, just doors away from where he stood, if he were to look, would he find a sphere with his name on it? And if he did, did he even want to listen to it?
He watched the lazily swaying curtains within the arch idly, obviously, he wasn't expecting a physical answer to any of his questions, it was more so that being in the presence of this otherworldly fixture helped him think and consider subjects outside his immediate sphere of influence.
It was also possible that he was making mountains out of molehills, but in the scant years he'd been apart of the magical world, he'd come to see that nothing was really out of the question, and though it wasn't often that he led himself into philosophical circles, once in a while, however, he felt the need to address their possibilities, as ignoring them felt like he was spitting on all that magic had given him.
After a few beats of silence, he turned to leave, and it was only once he was in the lift that he removed the hood from his head, undoing the shrouding charm in the process and transfiguring his robes to appear more ambiguous than the obvious grey of the Unspeakables. Striding his way through the busy atrium towards the floo, he considered his plans for the rest of the day, namely, he had Bellatrix coming over later so he could wheedle information out of her concerning Leta Lestrange.
Of course, he'd already heard of her, the witch who pleaded a twenty-year-long imperius, it almost made him want to scoff at the ridiculousness of it. Though perhaps she wasn't lying, perhaps it was twenty years of being on and off the curse, that was certainly feasible, especially for a wizard rumoured to be as powerful as Grindelwald. The problem with that, if that were the case, then surely Dumbledore, the beacon of all that was right and good in the world, defeater of Grindelwald, would have defended her claims, being the one who disarmed her perpetrator, and yet, he'd stayed silent.
It seemed she was the ever consummate Slytherin, as in her letter she'd requested a transaction of information between them, something he wasn't necessarily against but was wary of all the same. Orion still had one favour over him, and that unnerved him already, this was a Lestrange, he'd be a fool to hand them any type of power over him.
There wasn't a soul in this world that could deny that the Lestranges were one of the biggest players in the magical world, and furthermore, there was no way they weren't threatened by his grab for power. Was this a ploy of Ramsey's? Slimy old bastard that he was, or was it genuine? Would the information that Leta Lestrange allegedly had, concern him personally?
He floo'd directly into his office, taking a seat and going through the paperwork on his desk. He thought back to when he was fifteen, back when he'd played with the letters of his name and had given himself a new one, a more powerful one, back when he'd been certain that his ascent to power would be a lot messier than it had turned out to be.
His knights had originally meant to be soldiers, fighting for his and their vision for their world that they'd believed in, now, however, to be one of his knights meant that they were in his inner-circle, more a group of contemporaries who shared in his success, than fighters.
Orion had gone into the Department of International Cooperation, Antonin had gotten himself deep into a world of criminal activity, after being kicked out of the Gringott's curse-breaker program for petty theft. Thoros had gone on to become a barrister, and Bellatrix had married and was essentially coasting on her wealth, that he knew so far, studying varieties of dark magic with her time. Abraxas had taken to shadowing Lucius in his unpalatable business ventures, while Frederick, Evan, Terrence, Graham, and Marcus had all taken after their respective fathers in their career paths, like good little pureblood scions.
Despite them not being the group they'd originally intended to be, they were all still at Tom's beck and call, because he'd been sure to keep them close, not being one to spit on the efforts of those that got him where he was, he only wished the older generations would fall in line as neatly, their support almost as fickle as the slightest spring breeze.
He didn't understand the aversion to him, and he felt he was missing crucial information that would explain it. At first, he thought it was his blood status, but he was starting to think it was something else, or rather, someone else, which further led him to look forward to Bellatrix's visit, because to him, it was hitting two birds with one hex (being of the mind that Ramsey Lestrange seemed a rather suspicious figure).
He reached into his desk and pulled out the Lestrange woman's letter, by now, of course, he'd committed its words to memory, but he gave it another once over, noting the neat penmanship, with it's looping flourishes and perfected pressure than thickened the stems of the letters, he decided to read it again.
Lord Slytherin,
It is possible that you may not know who I am, but allow me to introduce myself, my name is Leta Lestrange. I write to you because I have information that may be of interest to you, however, in the spirit of the former Slytherin that I am, it goes without saying that I must request a boon in return before I divulge said knowledge.
If you are in accordance with this transaction, call for an elf named Zaza, away from the protective wards of your residence, and she will deliver your response to me.
Regards
~LL
It was just as he finished reading the letter that the floo roared to life, and tucking it back into the drawer, he got up to greet his guest. Bellatrix Lestrange stepped through elegantly, and with a half flourished wave of her wand, the ashes on her shoulders disappeared as she stepped up to him, giving him a quick peck on the cheek in greeting, before moving towards the seat he guided her to.
"Bella," he greeted amiably, as she sat gracefully, and he then headed towards the small bar behind his desk.
"Lord Slytherin," she purred playfully in return, and he shot her a grin while pouring himself two fingers of fine scotch. When he went to pour her a glass, she grunted a 'keep going' once he'd hit the middle mark of the tumbler, and raising an eyebrow in her direction, he continued to pour, only handing it to her gently once the amber liquid was flush with the brim.
"So, I'm certainly no expert, but care to share the troubles you obviously have?" he asked sarcastically, standing in front of her, leaning against his desk. He took a sip from his own drink, savouring the distinct woodsy notes, and the slow burn down his throat, commending Helen once more for her excellent taste in Scotch. Bellatrix took a deep sip and sighed once she swallowed, running her tongue over her teeth before taking a breath to speak.
"I suffered my second miscarriage today, literally just got out of St. Mungos before I came here," she replied stiffly, leaning back into her seat and tilting her head up, closing her eyes.
"My condolences," he replied, knowing it was the proper thing to say in these instances, and she scoffed, before taking another sip.
"Oh, I'm not so choked up about it, can you imagine me as a mother? It's these Lestranges though, on my back about an heir almost as soon as me and Roddy married," she retorted, crossing one leg over the other, "though I have to say, it worries me a tiny bit that he's not worried at all. Two miscarriages, Tom! What happens when I can't bring an heir to life, it's not like these things are a walk in the park!" she ranted, before draining her glass and holding it out for him to refill, to which he obliged.
"I don't understand, why is it so important that you have a child so early? You're both young, and I've heard witches carry to term in their sixties," he asked, fishing for information, only for Bella to snort in derision.
"You're preaching to the choir, I don't understand any more than you do, I just figured, have the sprog now, give it to an elf and get on with my life, one more obligation crossed off my list," she harumphed, annoyed expression crossing her face, and Tom snorted, taking a slow sip of his drink, before making an honest go of information extraction.
"Why does it also matter that you have the child, it's not like the Lestrange line is hurting, there's still Rabastan to marry off, and don't they have Leta Lestrange as well? She's under house arrest last I heard, soft sentence considering her only defence is a twenty-year-long imperius," he spoke idly, gazing at the far wall in an attempt to seem passive, and luckily, Bella's drinks had already begun to hit and her usual razor-sharp focus was dulled, so she hadn't noticed.
"Rabby's into blokes, and Leta is like a spectre in Chateau Lestrange, I've only spoken to her once, not the greatest conversationalist, honestly, and if looks could kill, Ramsey would have keeled over long ago, there's a level of self-hatred that's just impressive," she chortled, bringing her newly filled cup to her lips and taking a sip. Tom was almost impressed at her tolerance, also tucking away that useful egg of information, he'd consider it further later, once Bellatrix was gone.
"What's your contingency should you not have that heir?" he asked, almost genuinely curious, not that he ever planned on having children himself, but because he honestly wondered what the plan was for these pureblood families once they'd inbred themselves into infertility. She shrugged, with a pensive look on her face.
"Well, the obvious choice would be to adopt through blood magic, probably through surrogacy of some sort, usually from what I've heard, another pureblood who had successful pregnancies is approached with a deal, so we don't cross with any muggle filth," she drawled, swirling the scotch in her glass with one hand while running the other through he long wavy hair. Tom tilted his head in confusion.
"If you're blood adopting the child, wouldn't that make any muggle blood of the surrogate redundant?" he asked, and she squinted at him as if he'd just spoken a different language.
"...Huh, dunno," she slurred, and he snorted, bringing his drink to his lips while Bella smiled slyly at him. He almost startled when she brought her leg up and settled her foot onto his thigh, but restrained himself.
"Yes, Bella?" he asked, setting his glass behind him on the desk, before gently taking her ankle, lifting her foot before dropping it back down to the floor beside him, her eyes roved over him and she pursed her lips.
"We haven't fucked in so long, why is that?" she asked idly, and he scoffed, supporting his hands on either side of him on the desk.
"You're married, or have you forgotten?" he chided gently, not really in the mood to fight off advances, and at his response, she rolled her eyes.
"I haven't, but you know as well as I do that monogamy in pureblood marriages is nothing but a load of tripe," she retorted, before her eyes widened, "unless you've been hit with the monogamy bug yourself! Is that it? Mudblood quim too good to stray away from?" she joked, and he frowned at her, knowing that she was obviously inebriated. This didn't go over well with her, and she stood and leaned into him, dropping her glass onto the floor and grasping at his cock through his robes.
"Struck a nerve, have I?" she whispered against his jaw, and before he could respond, the door to his office opened, and of all the bad timings, Hermione walked in.
"Tom, I-" she began, but froze upon seeing the (doubtlessly) suggestive image they made, he separated himself from Bella, who stumbled back into her seat, as Hermione broke from her stupor.
"Well, I apologize for interrupting," she bit out before turning to leave, slamming the door behind her, and Tom mentally cursed before directing his ire to Bella, who grinned up at him sheepishly, and he had to quell the fury that raged through him. He walked around his desk, pulled open his potions drawer and pulled out a sobering concoction, before returning to her side and stiffly handing it to her.
"I think it's about time you head back to your monogamous marriage, Bella, and get some rest," he spoke calmly, despite the anger roiling its way through his veins. Bella pouted but ultimately accepted the potion, uncorking and draining it back. She brought her gaze back to him, focus recovered, and he noted the disappointment shining there.
"You care about her, the mudblood," she stated simply, not angry or accusatory, more defeated, and he didn't bother to dignify it with an answer, "well, better chase her down before she decides she wants nothing to do with you," she sniped, before heading to the floo without another word, speaking her destination clearly and stepping through the flames.
Tom massaged his headache at his temples and decided it was better to do damage control now rather than later. He walked to her room, hoping she hadn't left the castle entirely, and once he arrived, he opened the door and stepped through, only to immediately duck from a glass that shattered against the door precisely where his head had been. He brushed the bits of glass off his shoulders, before taking her in, she was wearing her travel cloak and gathering her papers from her desk, stuffing them into the expendable bag she always carried.
"And where do you think you're going?" he drawled, taking in the state of the room. She'd done quite the damage, noting the ripped hangings of the bed and the splintered frame.
"Away from here, back to the flat probably," she clipped, before making to move past him, and he grabbed her arm, which she reacted immediately by slapping him. His cheek stung from the force of the blow, and furiously, he wrestled both of her wrists into his hands while she snarled and tried to wrench herself away.
"Will you calm down, witch?! Let me explain!" he snapped after she kicked his shin, amazed that he'd forgotten what a hellion she could be when angry.
"Calm down?! You're telling me to calm down?! The audacity of you! How dare you! You get angry and possessive at the mere sight of me talking to another man, but you?! Oh, nooo, you can fuck who you please, RIGHT?!" she screamed into his face, trying harder to release herself.
"You're nothing but a goddamn hypocrite, now let me go!" she continued, and he held firm, letting her get her anger out, knowing if he reacted to her (very true) words, he'd only make things worse.
"Do you want to see the memory? Nothing happened, Bella drank a lot because she had a miscarriage today, and in her inebriated state she tried to engage me," he explained calmly, she slowly stopped tugging her arms, "you walked in at the exact moment she tried to initiate something, nothing happened," he continued, eyeing her slowly deflating anger, but she still eyed him warily. He needed to offer something further to make peace.
"What do you want? Ask me and it's yours," he whispered, keeping eye contact, and something lit in her eyes. She took a step back, pulling him by his grip on her, until her backside was level with the bed, before turning so that they switched positions, and pushed him back onto the bed, climbing up onto his lap in the process.
Smut begins.
'Smart girl,' he thought idly, choosing to stay silent until she could come up with a demand. He let go of her wrists and folded them behind his head, watching as she began undoing the buttons of his robes, fascinated by her display of power and control, not to mention, extremely aroused as well. Once his robes were open, she lifted her own and her cloak over her head, dropping them to the floor behind her, tossing her wand beside him on the bed, before reaching behind her to unclasp her brassiere, slipping it from her shoulders and tossing it behind her somewhere, until she sat there in nothing but her knickers and garter stockings, hair wild around her, glinting from the low candlelight.
She moved back slightly, bringing her hand down to tug at the waistband of his briefs, before palming his already half-mast erection. She stroked him slowly, and he almost couldn't breathe at the magnificent image she made, keeping eye contact while she brought him to peak hardness. She then lifted her hips, sliding her knickers to the side, before sliding down onto him, clenching him mercilessly all the way.
She began to grind low against him, and when he brought his arm down to grip at her thighs, she grabbed her wand and forced his arms above over his head, and feeling that they couldn't move anymore, surmised that she'd cast a sticking charm to keep them where she put them.
He groaned lowly and saw her eyes roll back into her head as she renewed her grinding, clawing her nails down his chest, leaving angry red lines.
He felt the fog of a rising orgasm as she began pitching herself forward and back again, clenching on his cock with each grind, and it was at that moment that she leaned forward and kissed his jaw.
"What I want Tom, is for you to be fair, if no wizard is allowed to touch me, then no witch is allowed to touch you, understand?" she whispered savagely, picking up her pace.
"As long as you consider me yours, that means you are mine, that is what I want from you, do you accept?" she continued delicately, and truthfully, if he hadn't been so lost in the edge, he might have tried to negotiate, but at this moment, he found he cared for nothing more.
"I accept," he panted, and she slammed her hips backwards, earning a keen from him.
"Swear it," she hissed, pausing mid-lift and clenching around the tip of his cock, and he could no longer see straight.
"Fuck, witch, I swear, as long as I consider you mine, then I am yours," he hissed back, and she smiled, continuing her grinding until she found her release soon after, and it was while she was riding hers out that he found his, groaning as she clamped down around him, taking his entire load into her.
The walls of her cunt clenched on him sporadically, milking him for all he was worth, and if was being honest, he wouldn't have it any other way. She kept him inside her while she curled her arms and head under his chin, resting on his chest. His arms were now free and he wrapped them around her, massaging her scalp through her hair, while the other traced lazy patterns along her back. He thought back to his earlier musings, his thoughts on predestined fates and determinism, and came to the conclusion that he was more convinced of it now than he'd been five hours ago.
Smut ends.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – April 3rd, 1947
"Ciao, cosa fai?"
Leo startled at the shadow that fell over his research, that being the mess of old newspapers and musty old records and yearbooks. He looked up to find sixth year Hufflepuff muggleborn Maria Spina, leaning over the back of the chair beside him, sugar quill hanging from her mouth as she lazily chewed on the stem.
Like Munari, Spina was another of the original Beauxbatons transfers, Italian too, but unlike Munari, she didn't care for English greetings, or English in general, and seemed to have a knack for having sweets on her at all times. She was a year older than him and exceptionally friendly, going so far as to inject herself into random people's business, and though he wasn't exactly thrilled about being disturbed, he wasn't angry because he knew she meant no harm by it.
"I don't speak Italian," he replied, and she shrugged, swishing the sugar quill hanging out of her mouth, before taking it out to respond.
"You learn, is beautiful language," she piped, leaning over to look at the display on the desk, a curious expression on her face.
"What are you looking for?" she asked, words slow and accent heavy, he wondered briefly if she and the other foreign students simply handed their assignments in their native language, or if they had to submit everything in English, Hermione had never made mention of it, so he was curious. If the latter were the case, that would be an unfair advantage to the native English speakers, but then, translation charms worked perfectly well for modern languages, it even generally picked up on dialects, something Hermione had been only slightly annoyed with since the entirety of Slytherin Library was generally composed of older, less common tongues. Recognizing that he was taking too long to answer, he shuffled out a response.
"I'm researching muggleborns in the UK and why there is discrimination," he replied, and he watched her scrunch her nose.
"I do not like word, 'muh-gyul-bern'" she responded waspishly, emphasizing the word 'muggleborn' with her thick accent, "mi piace 'sangue-nuovo', é un po piu diretto," she continued in Italian, and he shook his head again, not understanding, and she huffed.
"It direct, 'New-Blood'" she explained, and he nodded. Hermoine told him she always considered 'nouveau-sang' to be a more proper term, but had taken to using the term 'muggleborn' more often in recent years simply due to how often she encountered it. It seemed most romance and Latin based languages preferred a variation of the same term in their own language, and he supposed he did like it better, as it was essentially the truth, as it was either the start of a new bloodline or by adding muggleborns to an already existing line it was to inject 'new blood' into it, preventing it from stagnating and becoming inbred.
He snapped out of his thoughts when Spina grabbed his journal, and flipped through the pages, angrily, he yanked it out of her hands, not appreciating her touching his things without asking, she lifted her hands in defence.
"Perdonami," she quickly apologized, "you find 'muggleborn', but why no pureblood?" she asked, once again emphasizing each syllable of the moniker. He wanted to scoff and retort that he didn't give a fig about purebloods, but she cut him off again.
"'Muggleborn' not u-unaffected by pureblood, how is say... pureblood effect muggleborn death and life?" she struggled to explain, and if he thought before that foreign students did their work in English, this disproved it, though her attempt was admirable, and he appreciated her trying until he began to understand the meaning of what she said.
It made sense, he'd been so focused solely on muggleborns that he hadn't stopped to consider how their pureblood peers and their bloody pureblood lives affected muggleborn ones. Surely, there were many, if not more, articles on pureblood achievements, news, and power wrangling that affected the more disenfranchised. He had started to become frustrated that he was finally in the 1200s in his research, but still hadn't found any conclusive patterns, so this could definitely be a plausible consideration.
"That is...actually a good idea, thank you," he replied, and she beamed, before plopping the sugar quill back in her mouth and taking her leave, waving as she walked away. He lazily returned it as he scanned the mess on the table, already caught in a brainstorm of how he was going to pull this off.
He huffed.
He was definitely going to need another limitless notebook.
Authors Note: I dunno about you guys, but writing that Hermione threw something at his head was pretty satisfying (of course, a disclaimer, I don't condone any type of abuse in real-life relationships, and I think it goes without saying that the Tomione I've written until this point has been the furthest thing from healthy)
Unrelated: Spina is a small little cameo of my actual grandmother, in all her goofiness. She passed away in June from Covid-19.
Hope you all enjoyed the chapter.
