All the Wrong Choices

by QueenOfTheDreamers87

Hermione is kidnapped by Severus Snape and taken to Lord Voldemort, who behaves in a bizarrely familiar manner with Hermione. When she's rocketed back in time by Voldemort, she realises just why he knew her so well in the 1990s - it was because he'd known her very well indeed, as Tom Riddle, in an entirely different time. She had to go back because she'd been there. Re-upload.

5. Chapter 5

Hermione watched the area outside the maze anxiously. Harry had been gone an awfully long time, and there had been no word on him or Cedric. Suddenly, there was a flash and a bang, and two figures appeared upon the grass. One, Hermione could see, was Harry. He was sobbing and shaking visibly, clutching the glittering Triwizard Cup. Hermione felt a pang of worry the instant she saw how Harry cried and trembled. She felt positively nauseated when she saw the other figure. Cedric Diggory, rigid as a tree trunk, lay upon the ground. Harry's arm was wrapped around his unmoving shoulders, and Cedric's pale eyes stared lifelessly ahead.

There was a shriek, though Hermione couldn't tell to whom it belonged. Then there was a surge of humanity rushing toward the place where Harry and Cedric lay with the Cup. Hermione numbly followed, feeling dizzy with anxiety.

"He's back," she heard Harry croak, his voice weak but desperate. "Voldemort's back."

There was a mess of words and screams and scrambling feet then, and Hermione heard someone say quietly, "My God - Diggory! Dumbledore, he's dead!"

More screams then, and one girl somewhere to Hermione's left fainted. Hermione couldn't hear or see clearly all of a sudden; her vision was swimming with unshed tears and her ears were ringing loudly.

Voldemort was back. If Harry said it, it must be true. What did he mean? How could Voldemort have returned? What had happened to Harry and Cedric? Where had they been?

How could Voldemort be back?

Hermione gasped as her eyes sprang open. She was acutely aware of several things. First, that she'd awoken from a nightmare that was at once a vision of the future and a memory. Second, that she was covered in a cold sweat while her heart thudded and her breath panted. And third, that she was lying in Tom Riddle's bed.

She shot upright and instinctively flung herself from the bed as though it were made of molten lava. She then became very aware of a fourth observation: she was utterly naked.

Hermione dashed wordlessly away from the bed and snatched her clothing off of the ground in front of Tom's fireplace piece by piece. She pulled on her brassiere and her white shirt, her fingers shaking and fumbling as she did up the buttons. She yanked on her skirt and her knickers. She nearly jumped off the ground in surprise when she heard Tom's groggy voice say from the bed,

"You're leaving."

Hermione whirled over her shoulder, knowing full well that her hair was sticking out in every direction. She frowned at Tom's observation and snapped,

"Yes. I'm leaving."

"Why?" he demanded, giving a bored sort of yawn as though he truly didn't care whether or not she stayed. Hermione felt her cheeks flush with rage as she remembered the sight of Cedric Diggory's corpse on the grass. He had done that to Cedric.

"I want to go home," Hermione said firmly. She stooped to pull on her stockings and slid on her shoes, and she yanked her jumper over her head. She grabbed her black outer school robe and balled her fist around it as she seethed to Tom, "I don't belong here. This isn't my time. You made me come here. You said it was necessary. But I'm not interested in preserving your timeline anymore, Tom. You're a murderer and a monster. Yes. I'm leaving. Goodbye, Tom."

She moved to storm from the room, her feet clomping ungracefully upon the floorboards as she did. She'd almost reached the door when she felt a gentle tug upon her bicep. She swiveled on her heels and swung her right hand up in anger. Her hand hit Tom's cheek so hard that her fingers and palm burned afterward. She watched Tom's cheek instantly go scarlet, saw the way his dark eyes flashed from being struck.

Hermione flicked her eyes up and down his naked form and felt a boiling anger with herself. She should have never kissed him, she thought. Not that first time on the Viaduct, and not any time since. She should have never accepted lilacs from him, much less have allowed him to take her maidenhead. She had let him - the boy who would become Voldemort - put his fingers and his manhood inside of her. She had let him grunt and moan and thrust and do all other manner of terrible things as they found a twisted pleasure with one another.

Hermione abruptly felt as though she were going to vomit. She had done all those awful things with Tom Riddle - with the boy who would become Voldemort - in spite of knowing his murderous destiny. Why? Did she have no respect for his victims, for Harry, for herself? Did she not realise that he was evil and wicked and dangerous?

She'd realised full well, Hermione thought with an almost overwhelming churn of her stomach. She'd known exactly who Tom was, and who he would become. And she'd succumbed to him anyway, to his aroma and his charisma and his charm and his impressive magical abilities. She'd debased herself with him, and in doing so she may as well have spit upon the graves of Harry's parents.

Hermione yanked her bicep out of Tom's grasp and reached up to strike him again. Tom snatched her wrist out of the air and squeezed it so hard that Hermione squealed in protest. She impulsively kicked at him, striking his bare shin with the sole of her shoe so hard that his knees buckled. Tom tightened his grip on her wrist and his mouth curled into an ugly sneer.

"What, may I ask, has come over you, Hermione?" Tom demanded in a cross sort of hiss. "Last night you seemed all too eager for me to stick my cock into you; today you slap me and call me a monster. What, exactly, seems to have happened in the past eight hours?"

Hermione pulled her wrist away from Tom so hard that she stumbled backward against the door when he finally released her. "You - you killed him!" she cried, shaking her head and willing away the hot tears in her eyes. "You killed all of them! You are a monster, Tom, and I want nothing to do with you. I hate you. I hate everything about you."

She marveled for a brief instant at the expression that crossed Tom's face. He looked betrayed for a moment. Almost hurt. But then Hermione's mind screamed that he couldn't feel such things as hurt, or betrayal, or anything other than a murderous hatred.

"Legilimens."

Hermione collapsed to her knees at the feel of him invading her mind. He pushed into her consciousness with such force that she knew she'd vomited upon the ground. She shrieked in pain and protest, feeling his probing reach as he rifled through her memories and thoughts.

The sight of Tom Marvolo Riddle's diary after it had been struck through with a basilisk fang. Waking up in the hospital wing after she was roused from being Petrified.

Speaking with Harry after Cedric's death. Learning what had happened in the graveyard. Hearing Harry describe Voldemort's new body - his grey flesh and his red eyes and his sibilant words of terror.

Being slashed across the chest by Dolohov's spell in the Department of Mysteries. The sight and sound of prophecies as they crashed to the ground and shattered, one after the other. Hearing the far-off sounds of Voldemort and Dumbledore as they battled.

There was an audible 'whoosh' and a dizzying sensation as Tom pulled out of Hermione's mind. She fell onto her hands and retched again, growling with frantic rage.

"Tergeo… scourgify…" Hermione heard Tom muttering a few spells to clean the floor of her vomit. She heaved herself to her feet and stood shakily, and then she reached out to shove Tom's chest so that he backed away from her. He stared at her with an awestruck expression, as though he could scarcely believe the memories he'd witnessed. He stepped back into his room, looking oddly distracted as he reached for the emerald night robe that hung beside his bed. He pulled it around himself wordlessly, still seeming as though he were quite in shock. As he cinched the belt of the robe, he murmured to Hermione, "I have no desire whatsoever to cause you pain."

"But you did! You're going to!" Hermione used the back of her hand to swipe at her running nose and the tears that streamed down her cheeks. "You become a terrible villain, you know."

Tom cocked his head to the side and said softly, "Timelines can change, Hermione. I assure you that I take no pleasure in the sight or sensation of your agony."

She scoffed at his words, feeling thoroughly irritated by the way he was speaking - gently, almost, as though he cared about her. Nonsense.

"I'm going to see Professor Dumbledore," Hermione announced haughtily. "I'm going to get back to my own time, and I'm going to Obliviate all the memories I have of you. You will be nothing to me, nothing but the grey-skinned shadow of a man I know you will become."

"I will not be that man," Tom said firmly, shaking his head. He repeated, "Timelines can change."

But Hermione sneered through her teeth at him, "I'm going to tell Professor Dumbledore everything about you. I'll show him. And then he will destroy you before you can kill all those innocent people."

Tom's cheeks coloured with what seemed like a strange mixture of anger and confusion. "Hermione," he croaked, "I need you to stay here. You can not go to Albus Dumbledore."

"You will not charm me into aiding your wickedness, Tom," Hermione assured him. "I know what blackness your heart contains. I know how vacant your soul is. And I want nothing to do with you."

She turned and flung the door open, dashing quickly from Tom's room before he could grab her or speak another word.

---

The first two days of lessons proved themselves to be dull and uninspired. In Potions, the students crafted draughts they'd been making for five years. Hermione had been notably absent from supplementary lessons the first two days, and indeed seemed to have somewhat disappeared entirely into the walls of the school. Tom saw her at meals, when she appeared to chew her food in moody silence. He never encountered her entering or leaving her dormitory room, and he did not pass her on patrol.

Tom rolled his eyes when he led his gaggle of Slytherin boys into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. He was not anxious to see the motley conglomeration that had assembled for the supplementary lessons, but it was obvious that Dippet had been obligated to occupy the student body over the holidays. He noticed at once that the desks had been removed from the room by Professor Merrythought. He strode to a comfortable-looking spot on the wall and leaned back against the stone nonchalantly.

"Wonder if our Head Girl is taking Defence," Tom heard Avery say to Nott. Avery chuckled and said in a hushed voice, "Did you see her at breakfast this morning? She looked like she'd been crying for hours. Someone must have made Miss Villeneuve quite sad. I reckon I could cheer her up properly, eh?"

"Avery." Tom snapped the boy's name with an acid tongue, and Avery stopped his guffawing at once. He and Nott both stared wide-eyed at Tom, and Tom saw Avery's throat bob with a nervous gulp. Tom tipped his head to the side and said mockingly, "I seem to recall instructing you to keep your hands - and your filthy words - far away from Hermione."

The others seemed confused by Tom's use of Hermione's first name, and he cursed himself silently for doing so. He watched Avery narrow his eyes and nod reluctantly, and then Tom clarified, "Miss Villeneuve is off-limits, as I've told you before."

Avery cocked an eyebrow toward Nott and asked Tom, "Is she... yours? You know, are you... is she your girlfriend?"

Tom rolled his eyes and snorted in derision. He shook his head and scoffed, "Not that my personal endeavours are any business of yours, Avery, but... no. She is not my girlfriend."

He said the last word with a great measure of mockery, and Avery and Nott appeared satisfied. They began discussing something different - quidditch and other girls, from the sounds of it. Tom wasn't paying much attention to their conversation. He was entirely distracted by the sight of Hermione entering the classroom, walking between Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett. She looked sad and drawn, almost ill. There were dark circles under her eyes and she was pale as chalk. Her eyelids were red and swollen as if she'd just finished crying. Avery had been right, Tom could see.

He felt a strange tightening in his chest at the sight of her disheveled hair and her melancholy expression. He would not have been able to explain why it was that he was so uncomfortable with her sadness. All he knew was that an unpleasant sense of dread had coursed through his veins when he saw her.

"Right, Tom?"

He snapped his face back to Nott, who was eyeing him expectantly. He cocked an eyebrow and shrugged at Nott, indicating that he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to whatever the boy had asked him. Nott cleared his throat with a touch of embarrassment and repeated in a low murmur,

"I said that Grindelwald would be dead before the New Year. Right?"

"Yes. Of course," Tom nodded absently. He had spent a great deal of time over the past few days discussing his plans to invade Nurmengard with his Slytherin lackies. He intended on surprising Grindelwald in an ambush and killing him in single combat. He would then use Grindelwald's death as a stepping-stone to power, brandishing his victory over the loathed Dark wizard like a tool.

"All right, all right. Conversations end now," Professor Merrythought descended from the Defence office and flapped her hands about to stifle the students' voices. The room fell silent as students shifted upon their feet and awaited further instruction. Merrythought paced up and down the centre of the classroom as she said, "Since these summer lessons are out of the ordinary, and since they were rather spontaneously announced, I confess that I do not have explicit lessons prepared for you. I intend for you all to utilise these lessons to practise and hone skills you already have. Today, we will be practising duelling - with an emphasis on safely casting nonlethal spells that will propel you to duelling victory."

Tom felt an internal laugh erupt from his chest at the ridiculous suggestion that a duel must be non-lethal. Naturally, they could not cast the Killing Curse about the room in Defence lessons. But he found it laughable and irresponsible that the Hogwarts faculty put so much emphasis on the safety of hexes and jinxes cast by students. In the real world, Tom thought, it would not come down to who was particularly skilled at wrapping his opponent's head in a bubble, or who could turn his opponent's feet into bananas. No. It would come down to a flash of green light and the ensuing silence.

"Partner up, if you please," Professor Merrythought was saying, and students began moving to stand ten paces away from one another on opposite sides of the room. Merrythought continued, "Ensure, if you will, that the traditional proprieties of duelling are maintained. That means you bow to your opponent and observe the respectful preparation periods between spells. Nothing that causes permanent damage or excessive pain is allowed. Begin, please." She turned and stepped toward Tom, and then she simpered, "Mr. Riddle, I would like you to work with Miss Villeneuve, please. I believe it would be most helpful for everyone if you two duelled with one another."

What the professor meant was that Hermione's and Tom's spell-casting abilites were too dangerous for the other students. Tom, of course, did not mind having Hermione as a duelling partner. It was better than duelling with the idiot Hufflepuff boy whose nose seemed perpetually runny, or the Ravenclaw girl who seemed to have the personality of a brick.

Hermione, for her part, seemed most displeased with Merrythought's suggestion. She only moved to stand across the classroom from Tom once spells began flying between other coupled students. She raised her wand before her and bowed perfunctorily. Tom did the same, but he gave Hermione a rather grand obeisance. He wondered what sort of spells she would cast at him. He could block anything non-lethal, of course, but he was unsure of what he was meant to cast at her. He waited for Hermione to act first so that he would have a point of reference.

"Tremulis!" Hermione exclaimed, and a white ball of light sizzled from the tip of her wand and flew across the room toward Tom. He flicked his wand up and easily deflected the hex, which had been intended to make him twitch and shake.

Physical discomfort, then, he realised, was what Hermione had decided upon. Fine. He could work within those parameters.

"Prurigo," he mumbled softly, whipping his wand in a swirl until turquoise light jetted forth. His spell hit Hermione so quickly that she had no time to shield against it, and she stood in angered silence for a brief moment before a horrified expression came over her face. Then she began scratching furiously at her face and neck in response to Tom's Intense Itching hex. Tom smirked a bit at how he'd already proved his skills to be superior to Hermione's. He did not take pleasure in seeing her uncomfortable, but he did relish the fact that he was winning.

Hermione raised her wand once she was able to stop itching for a moment. She stammered, "La-lassitudo!"

Tom shielded himself from this spell, too - one intended to cause the enemy to become overwhelmed with exhaustion. As soon as Hermione attempted to hex Tom, she focused on removing his Intense Itching spell. Tom allowed her a moment to recover before he jabbed his wand into the air and said in a bored voice, "Calcitrosus."

He regretted the hex the moment his spell hit Hermione. She actually managed to partially shield herself from the hex, and was only hit with a mild version of the spell. Even so, she buckled over at the waist as if an invisible boot had crashed into her abdomen. Tom frowned; he'd never once regretted using the Kicking Hex before. But now it sent an odd queasy feeling through him.

"Finite incantatem," he muttered, releasing Hermione from the spell. He watched as she raised angry eyes to Tom and flicked up her wand, exclaiming,

"DOLOREM VERPA!"

She cast her spell with every ounce of force she could, and the tip of her wand exploded with red light. Tom hastily attempted to shield himself, but Hermione's magic moved so instantaneously toward him that he was hit by the hex. Immediately, he felt a searing, agonising pain between his legs. His manhood felt as though it were being burned off, and he struggled not to grasp at his crotch as he hissed through the torture. He staggered for a moment and prepared to undo Hermione's Penis Pain hex, wondering where on Earth she'd learnt such a spell. Before he could release himself from her hex, he heard her cry out,

"Genu ruentis!"

Tom felt his knees buckle and collapse, and he fell into a kneeling position. He growled in anger and hastily dissolved the spells upon his body. He hauled himself to his legs, feeling properly cross with Hermione now. He huffed and flourished his wand, saying between his clenched teeth,

"Sanguis igni."

His spell ignited into an orange-and-yellow web when it hit Hermione, and she instantly shrieked as the Blood On Fire curse began coursing through her veins. Tom felt his heart thudding within his chest as he watched her writhe where she stood, knowing that he'd caused her excrutiating pain. He felt a twinge of unpleasantess at the sight of her clutching her chest and clawing at her arms. He only then realised that the room had gone still and silent as the other students and Professor Merrythought watched the duel between Hermione and Tom.

"That is quite enough!" Tom heard Merrythought say, her voice laced with horror. "Lower your wands at once!"

Tom gave a perfunctory nod and lowered his wand, ending the spell that was causing Hermione such pain. He took a small step backward, acknowledging the end of the duel. But then Hermione's voice screeched into the silence.

"STUPEFY!"

Tom reacted quickly, throwing up a shield and watching as the pale blue light from Hermione's wand shattered into a million little specks and dissolved into the air. He scowled at her, and she shot daggers back at him with her furious eyes.

"I said enough!" Professor Merrythought exclaimed. Hermione did not lower her wand, though, instead opening her mouth as though she were about to cast another spell in Tom's direction.

"Silencio," Tom whispered, and Hermione's uncast curse died upon her lips when his silencing spell hit her. She lowered her wand, her hand shaking fiercely as she did, and she eyed Tom with what could only be described as 'pure loathing.'

"Mr. Riddle! Miss Villeneuve!" Professor Merrythought cried desperately, moving to stand between them so they would pay attention to her. "Fifteen points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin. This is hardly acceptable behaviour from the Head Boy and Head Girl! Miss Villeneuve - I'm not certain what they taught you at Beauxbatons, but here at Hogwarts we observe the rules of properity during duels. That means you may not hit your opponent with a two spells in a row. And you, Mr. Riddle... the Blood On Fire curse? Truly unacceptable, my boy. Detention on Saturday for the both of you."

Tom apologised with a few muttered words he did not mean. He was busy watching the way Hermione stared at him, her chestnut eyes filled with hate and anger. His stomach coiled with a queasy uneasiness as he stared back.

---

Hermione stormed into the Arithmancy classroom and huffed as she sat down. She looked about to see that only two other students had bothered taking advantage of Professor Pascal's offer for summer Arithmancy lessons. They were both Ravenclaw girls who seemed to prefer to keep to themselves. That was perfectly fine with Hermione. She had no interest in speaking with anyone at the moment.

The last few days had been hell for her. She'd barely slept after her conversation with Albus Dumbledore the morning she'd awoken in Tom's bedroom. She'd insisted to Dumbledore that she wanted to return to her own time.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore had said patiently, causing Hermione to flinch at the sound of her given name, "I'm afraid that it is dangerous and unwise for you to return to your own era. There may well have already occurred changes to the timeline you knew. Indeed, I think it is likely that something small has already happened which might have radical ramifications for the world you left behind."

Hermione thought of one alteration she'd noticed - how the death of Ladon Scamander prevented an entire person Hermione had known. She pondered Dumbledore's words and wondered what else might have already occurred to cause shifts in the events of reality. She had realised immediately that Dumbledore was right. She could never go home. This time, and this place, was the past. But it was also her future.

She was halfway through a series of predictive equations when her quill froze above her parchment. She glanced down at her work, noting how she'd amassed a few columns of keywords that would eventually be strung together into a prediction. Hermione realised instantly that she had no desire to finish her work. She did not want to know the future. She thought she had already known the future - after all, she'd lived it. But it was as Dumbledore had said. Things had already happened that would almost certainly change the real course of events that lay ahead.

And Hermione had no desire to know what the new course was to be.

She'd always loved Arithmancy. It had always been her favourite Hogwarts subject. But now she felt ill at the thought of predicting the future. Time had been a fickle and often painful variable in Hermione's life. She'd used a Time Turner to push herself to the academic and physical limit, and she'd used it to radically alter events that had already occurred. She'd been sent back in time by a Dark wizard who claimed he'd known her in another world. And she'd resigned herself to the fact that she could never go back to her own time.

Hermione was suddenly repulsed by the idea of precting the future. If I want to know what is going to happen, she thought anxiously, I shall simply have to wait and see.

Hermione Vanished her writing and crumpled up her parchment.

"Is something wrong, my dear?" asked Professor Pascal, ambling across the warm, quiet room to Hermione's desk. She glanced up to the wrinkled old man and sighed.

"Professor... I apologise, sir, but I've decided I don't want to do Arithmancy this summer. Or this autumn, probably. I don't ever want to predict the future again, sir. If you'll excuse me..."

She rose wordlessly and nodded politely before walking briskly from the classroom. She ignored the curious stares of the Ravenclaw girls she'd left behind and the shocked gasp from Professor Pascal.

She trotted down the stone steps from the Arithmancy classroom and walked resolutely through the corridors, not bothering to acknowledge anyone she passed. There were students milling about seemingly everywhere, but Hermione had no desire to socialise today. The weather was fine, but she headed toward the Armoury Corridor, determined to spend the few hours before dinner in the peace and quiet of her own room.

She stopped in her tracks when she approached the Head Girl's dormitory. There was a small envelope upon the ground in front of her bedroom door. Beside the envelope was a small bouqet of lilacs.

Hermione walked up to the doorway cautiously, feeling a strange sense of dread as she picked up the flowers. She took the envelope in her right hand and turned it over. In neat script she recognised as Tom's, she saw the words, "To: A Very Intelligent Witch. From: A Rather Penitent Wizard."

Hermione felt a flutter of unease and distrust flush through her veins as she broke the green seal binding the envelope shut. She pulled out the letter inside and began to read.

Halfway down the page, she paused, her mouth falling open in surprise as the lilacs tumbled, forgotten and released, and landed upon the stone floor.

---

29 June, 1952

Hermione,

You are a rational witch - you always have been - so I have no doubt that you are staring at the date atop this letter and thinking it must be a hoax. I assure you that this letter was penned in the year 1952. You know your history, Muggle and wizarding alike, so perhaps some recent events might persuade you. A few months ago, the Muggle king died, and his daughter Elizabeth has since replaced him. The Muggle Olympics are scheduled to take place next month in Helsinki. And Kennilworthy Whisp recently published the decisive tome on wizarding sport, Quidditch Through The Ages.

I happen to know that on this day you received from me a letter apologising for my recent cruelties and appealing to you for forgiveness. Since I know you received that letter... here it is. The means of transporting this letter to you are complicated and, frankly, rather Dark. Suffice it to say that I have spent over five years attempting various methods of inter-time communication, and have only recently succeeded in developing an effective technique. I sincerely hope that you are, in fact, reading this letter on 29 June of 1944.

The past seven years of my life have been incredibly busy, Hermione, mostly due to your actions and influence. I can not overstate the importance of your presence in my existence. Perhaps that sounds silly or maudlin; I do not especially care. What matters is that you know that I care deeply for you, here in my time. I have done so for quite some time, and my affection toward you strengthens by the day.

There is an infant here with me - our daughter. She is called Georgiana Jean, after your grandmother and your middle name. She is a sweet little thing, truly, though she cries at rather inconvenient hours of the night and seems to devour nearly all your time and energy. You love her with a ferocious strength. She is a beauty, with raven hair and shining eyes and an annoyingly convincing pout.

I implore you, Hermione, not to erase yourself or Georgiana from my existence. I need you both, much as it pains me to admit such a weakness. On the night of 29 June 1944, I was on the shores of the Black Lake, attempting to learn to fly. I would be very much obliged if you might visit me after dinner and put an end to our recent quarreling.

I wish for you to know, Hermione, that you have proven yourself to be a wise advisor over the past seven years. Your opinions are quite frequently thoughtful, logical, and significantly more human than those I might form on my own. I require your insights, your conversations, your physical presence - and not simply to further my own ambitions.

I shall bring this letter to a close; it is nearly sundown and I make a nightly habit of amusing Georgiana before she goes to sleep. You've assured me that such play 'wears her out' and causes her to sleep more deeply. I can not say whether or not that is the case, but I admit I do enjoy her tinkling laughter and the sight of you cradling her in the twilight.

Speak with me tonight, Hermione. I beseech you to do so, and not to abandon me based on your recollections of a future that no longer exists.

Yours,

Tom

---

Lord Voldemort shut the envelope into which he'd just slipped his folded letter. He carefully picked up his iron bowl containing emerald-coloured wax, which had been suspended above a candle. He poured a bit of wax upon the envelope and pressed his seal to it, blowing gently upon the parchment.

The door to his office opened with a gentle creak. Voldemort knew who stood in the doorway before he looked up; she was the only one permitted to enter without knocking. And, even for her, Voldemort preferred to grant admission with explicit permission. She had never seemed to put much stock into such things.

"She's been calling for you," he heard Hermione say, and Voldemort nodded with a bit of distraction as he pulled an odd-looking box closer toward him across his desk.

"Nearly finished," he assured Hermione. He opened the jeweled box before him. It was quite old, and a few pearls and stones were missing from its tarnished silver lid. When Voldemort opened the box, he was greeted by threadbare scarlet velvet, worn by the ages. He carefully placed the sealed envelope inside the box and shut it, placing his hands atop the lid. He closed his eyes and murmured, "Ego dominis temporis. Nunc mitto ad praeteritum epistulam."

There was a warm vibration beneath his hands, and Voldemort waited a brief moment in silence. The only sound in his office was a gentle childlike cooing from the doorway. Voldemort opened his eyes and raised the lid of the ornate box. It was empty.

He cleared his throat and stood briskly, moving around his desk and stretching out his arms toward Hermione.

"Come here, Georgie," he said softly, pulling the squirming child from Hermione's arms. "I've heard you have a new doll. Show it to me, will you?"

---

Tom dragged his wand in a series of arches in the air before him.

"Effugere Terram," he said quite firmly. There was a lightness within him then, a liberating absence of bodily weight. He pushed down hard upon his feet, pressing his shoes against the slick grass. He was pleasantly surprised when his body lifted nearly a metre off the ground in response. He hovered in the air, glancing down and smirking at the ground he had escaped.

If he was going to successfully invade Nurmengard, it would be useful to be able to fly. As far as Tom knew, no witch or wizard had ever successfully flown without assistance. If he could manage it, he would possess an ability no one else did. He would be powerful.

"Fugiens Sicut Avis," Tom said, drawing his wand in long strokes along his arms, over his chest, around his skull, and across his upper back. Then he concentrated upon his goal of moving through the air.

Soon he was gliding above the black waters of the lake, his feet hovering well above the gently lapping waves. He tipped his torso forward and his body replied; he was utterly weightless and was able to manipulate himself in the air quite effectively. Tom grinned like a fool, laughing aloud in triumph as he thrust his arms to his sides and soared forward.

"Very impressive," he heard a voice say, and he froze midair. He stared down to the shore of the lake, a few metres away, and saw that Hermione was standing there. She was gazing up at him with an expression of awe mingling with one of hesitation. Tom swallowed heavily and pushed himself toward her, drifting downward toward the shore and landing silently. He kept his face as stony and blank as he could.

Why was she here? How had she known he would be here? The air was warm, but heavy and thick with an impending rainstorm. The darkness of the night was quickly approaching. And, as far as Tom knew, Hermione despised him. So why was she here? To kill him?

"It's going to rain," he informed her matter-of-factly. "You shouldn't be outside."

"Then I suppose you shouldn't, either," Hermione retorted. "Though I can see you've been productive." She jerked her head toward the lake, toward the blank air where Tom had been flying just a moment earlier. He chewed upon the inside of his cheek and said,

"I would like to apologise, Miss Granger, if you'll allow me to do so."

She looked a bit surprised by that, furrowing her brow and standing in stunned silence for a moment before she quirked a nod at him. Tom took a nervous breath, wondering how to properly phrase what he wished to say to her. His mouth felt as though it were full of cotton wool as he said,

"I should not have invaded your mind the other morning - not without your permission. It was wrong of me, probably, to sort through your memories as I did. My only explanation is that I felt compelled to see why it was that you so thoroughly despised me. I had no idea, Hermione, of what I had done in your past - my future - I had no idea I'd hurt you so badly."

Hermione's face darkened for a moment, and then she said softly, "You did hurt me. Would. Will. Whatever the proper tense is, it doesn't matter. The you I knew was quite a hurtful person all around. If you weren't hurting me, then it was someone else. It was always someone. You seemed to thrive upon causing pain of every sort. You seemed to relish it. So, Tom, you must understand that my perception of you is based upon memories that are vivid and real. I lived through the terror you caused. It was real and it was - would be, will be - awful and painful. I hated you in my past, in your future. And now I find that hatred directed at myself, because I have difficulty reconciling the way I feel about you here, in this time."

Tom felt a strange twinge in his chest as she spoke, and he cleared his throat rather roughly before he shifted upon his feet and asked, "And... how do you feel now, Hermione?"

She looked downright pained as she admitted, "You are charming, and handsome, and intelligent. You are witty and gentlemanly, at least with me. I can not help but wonder if your ambition is valid, if it could be sculpted into something... not so wicked and hurtful as what I saw. You failed, more than once, due to misguided goals and actions. I can not help but wonder if different choices could be made this time, choices that gave you the power you crave and deserve without destroying so much of the world."

Tom was caught speechless then. His throat felt clogged with some unknown obstruction, and he blinked rapidly as he tried to formulate a response to her words. Finally, he managed to choke out, "You would be my ally, then?"

Hermione pursed her lips and nodded. "I can not see as I have any other choice, Tom. Not this time."

The skies opened up then, and raindrops began to plummet toward the earth. Within a moment, the drops had turned into veritable sheets of rain, and Tom watched as Hermione raised her face to the sky and smiled. She chuckled aloud as the rain soaked her, as the cool water covered her frizzy hair and her pale face.

"What's so funny?" Tom asked, trying not to snap at her. Hermione shook her head toward the heavens and shrugged.

"You couldn't have warned me about the rain, hmm?" she said vaguely, and Tom frowned in confusion. He had warned her that it was about to storm. What did she mean?

"Let's go back to the castle, then," Tom suggested. "It won't do to have the Head Boy and Head Girl missing during a rainstrom after curfew."

Hermione laughed harder than ever, and she demanded, "Since when have you cared so deeply about rules, Tom Riddle?"

She was right, he supposed. He might attempt to be diplomatic from time to time, if for no other reason than self-preservation or self-promotion. But did he care whether he offended someone or disobeyed a set of regulations? Of course he didn't.

"Let's go back, then, because it is wet and dark," he said pointedly. Hermione lowered her face to him. He could just make out the way her rain-soaked hair fell in scraggly clumps around her face, the way she grinned jauntily at him.

"Are you afraid of the dark?" she asked in a mocking voice, and Tom snorted.

"I am the Dark," he informed her, and she laughed once more as she shook her head in feigned disbelief. She strode toward him then, and he could smell lilacs upon her even through the heavy rain.

She leaned up on her toes and snaked her arms around Tom's neck. He flinched and his breath caught in his chest as a familiar swell of want took hold of his body. His hands moved instinctively to pull her by the waist until she was flush against him, and he kissed Hermione's rain-slicked forehead with trembling lips. She said again, "Perhaps you are the Dark. But I'm not afraid of you. Not anymore. I can't be. Sometimes the Light is blinding, you know. Sometimes it burns."

"There are many people in this world who ought to fear me, Hermione," Tom said in reply. He dragged his fingertips up Hermione's ribcage and felt her shiver. "You are not one of them."

---

August, 1958

Lord Voldemort stormed up the stone staircase that led to the Headmaster's office. He brushed at his dark robes; there was still dust upon him from the obliterated gargoyle that guarded the base of the staircase. Voldemort tightened his grip around the wand he carried - the knobby, slender wand he'd seized years earlier from Grindelwald. Only in the intervening fourteen years had he begun to realise the significance and power of the wand. Tonight, he thought, it would prove its worth.

He flung open the door at the top of the stairs and strode purposefully into the office. He jabbed the Elder Wand toward the desk where Albus Dumbledore sat and cast a nonverbal Expelliarmus. The Disarming Charm hit Dumbledore almost instantly, and the old wizard's wand hurtled through the air toward Voldemort. He snatched the wand out of the air and snapped it quickly in two, tossing it to the floor as his lip curled in disgust. He pointed his wand at Dumbledore again and noticed the way the old man seemed shocked by the sudden intrusion.

"Tom," Dumbledore said, his voice steady despite his wide-eyed expression, "I prefer to schedule meetings with visitors. I do not care to be surprised -"

"I am no visitor, Dumbledore," Voldemort sneered. He squeezed his wand more tightly than ever as he cried, "Crucio!"

Dumbledore slumped in his chair as the red web of light ensnared him. He began to twitch and jerk, his limbs limp and his eyes rolling back in his head. For a moment, he was quiet, and then a terrible sort of shriek began to work its way from his mouth. He screamed in desperation for a few minutes until Tom released the Cruciatus. The portraits behind Dumbledore all stared in mute horror at the tortured Headmaster. One portrait looked as though he were about to protest, so Tom pointed his wand at the canvas and muttered, "Incendio."

The portrait who had apparently defied Voldemort burst into flames, its paint peeling and its wooden frame going black. The other portraits promptly feigned sleep or simply disappeared out of view. Voldemort cast his eyes back to Dumbledore, who panted and glared at him as he struggled to recover from the Cruciatus. Voldemort approached the desk and said in a menacing growl,

"You knew full well what they would do to my daughter at Azkaban. More than that, Dumbledore, you suggested to the Minister that she be seized and imprisoned. You thought that by threatening my child, you would be threatening me. You thought I would cower in fear, out of paternal love and instinct. You were wrong."

Voldemort's wand hand shook with anger. The tip of the Elder Wand quivered in the air as he aimed it toward the weakened Dumbledore.

"I am stronger than ever," Voldemort declared, "and all your senseless cruelty served to do was to help me acquire more support for my cause. You are a fool, Dumbledore, and you always have been. You were a fool when it came to Grindelwald, and you have been a fool with me. Georgiana -" he struggled to keep his voice menacing even as he spoke his murdered daughter's name, "Georgiana did nothing wrong, Dumbledore. She was an innocent child. You are no better than me, you murderous old idiot. Indeed, you are worse, I think. More wicked, more evil... because you killed her for nothing. Now you will die as she did, after torture and agony. And in dying, you will strengthen me. Just like Georgiana did. Crucio!"

The curse that burst forth from the Elder Wand was so forceful that Dumbledore was thrown from his office chair. It seemed like an eternity passed in which the headmaster convulsed violently upon the floor. At one point, his pale eyes opened and stared at Voldemort with unmitigated loathing, but soon enough the eyes shut and the screams began again. Voldemort felt a surge of vindication as the Cruciatus dragged on.

In his mind, he heard Georgie singing a song about the rain outside her bedroom window. He saw her trotting into the sitting-room, dragging a doll by its arm as she climbed into her father's lap. He could feel the dark curls atop her head in his fingers; he could sense the cheer that had radiated from her little form. The happy memories were replaced by the sight of Maggie Prewett Disapparating with Georgiana in tow, by the terrible shriek Hermione had released when their daughter had been taken.

Voldemort flicked the Elder Wand away from Dumbledore's body, releasing the Cruciatus Curse. He spent the next hour casting all manner of painful and disfiguring spells at Dumbledore until he grew bored. All the while he thought of the girls - of little murdered Georgiana and of heartbroken Hermione.

After a great while, he'd managed to turn the great Albus Dumbledore into a quivering, drooling heap upon the carpet of the headmaster's office. The ancient wizard heaved himself to his knees and held out a hand toward Voldemort. He spoke through bleeding lips and cracked teeth as he croaked,

"Tom, I assure you I had nothing to do with Georgiana's death."

"Liar," hissed Voldemort, shaking his head. "Don't you know, Dumbledore, that I can always sense a liar? You are a fool, and you always have been. Look at me. Look at me!"

Dumbledore hesitated for a very long moment before he obeyed, raising his pale eyes to meet Tom's furious ones. In Dumbledore's expression, Voldemort could see a strong emotion - regret. There was guilt there, written upon Dumbledore's face, and Voldemort felt bile rise to his throat. He shook with rage as he whispered,

"Look now upon my power. You have underestimated me, you old fool. And my vengeance toward you and your kind shall be utterly merciless. Avada Kedavra!"

There was a violent flash of green light then. The Killing Curse burst so forcefully from Voldemort's wand that he was shoved backward a bit where he stood. He lowered his wand and looked at what he'd done. The great Albus Dumbledore, so renowned and respected and feared, was nothing more than a dead heap of flesh.

As Voldemort made his way silently from the castle, he realised he felt no relief in Dumbledore's death. The sense of triumph he had expected was seriously tempered by the knowledge that, even by killing Albus Dumbledore, there was nothing at all Voldemort could do to bring back his child.

---

August 1944

The following six weeks dragged on interminably. Supplementary summer lessons were conducted with a rather irritating lack of purpose. The days were sometimes pleasantly warm and sunny, other times rainy and chilled, but they all seemed to blend together into an endless stream of time. Hermione saw Tom with some frequency; he was Head Boy, and so they often crossed paths on patrol. He seemed unwilling to make their association, however vague, public. Hermione could see why - if he intended to garner undying support from his gang of Slytherins, he needed to establish himself as a formidable figure on his own.

But there were times, more than once, that Hermione found herself crushed up against a stone wall in a dark corridor after curfew. There was more than one occasion in which she followed Tom into his room and spent hours there with him. And there were times that she caught his eye in a lesson, watched his cheeks flush, and stifled a small grin.

Toward the end of the summer holidays, a great melancholy seemed to seat itself upon the Hogwarts student body and staff. Everyone who had spent the holidays at the school seemed to be slowly realising the implications of that. There were twelve-year-olds who would spend a total of twenty months - almost without interruption - at school, away from their families. There were staff members who had to teach two school years plus a summer with no true liberation from duty. And there was the constant bad news from the 'outside world'.

On a Saturday morning in mid-August, Hermione picked absently at a bowl of steaming porridge at breakfast. She wondered testily why the House-Elves had thought it appropriate to serve such a hot, heavy meal on a day that was shaping up to be so warm. Hermione pushed her bowl of porridge away and seized an apple from the bowl at the centre of the table instead. Beside her, Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett were giggling as they discussed the romantic scene at Hogwarts. Hermione could not help but roll her eyes a bit at their girlish fervour.

"And did you know that Ector Longbottom is with Augusta Brown? Honestly, I think she's something of a mean cow, but..."

"Oh, Betty!" Maggie scolded firmly, chewing her scone, "Don't be cruel. Augusta and Ector are perfect for one another. Let's just hope that any child of theirs inherits Augusta's ears... and Ector's nose."

She chuckled along with Betty. Hermione raised her eyes and flicked them down the Gryffindor table to where Augusta Brown, a rising sixth-year, was chatting animatedly with her friends. She suddenly felt a click of realisation in her head. Neville Longbottom's grandmother was called Augusta Longbottom, she knew. If that girl married Ector Longbottom, then...

Hermione's stomach churned as she thought of Frank and Alice Longbottom and how they'd been tortured into oblivion on behalf of Voldemort. On behalf of Tom. But then she thought that perhaps she might prevent such an atrocity, if she could manage to steer Tom's future carefully. Perhaps, she thought, Frank and Alice Longbottom wouldn't wind up in St. Mungo's. Perhaps Neville wouldn't wind up raised by Augusta. Perhaps -

"Hermione?"

She dropped her apple as she startled back to the Great Hall. Tom Riddle had walked over to the Gryffindor table and stood behind the empty bench across from Hermione. She carefully chewed the bite of apple in her mouth and swallowed thickly, taking a small sip of pumpkin juice before she said,

"Morning, Tom."

He curled up the corner of his mouth at her and held out a small book. "I thought you might find this an interesting read," he informed her. She took the small, leather-bound book from his hand and read the gold-embossed title on the cover.

"The Magical Mysteries of Time," she nodded, and her head buzzed a bit as she sighed, "Thank you. I have not read this one before."

"It's a new publication," Tom said casually. With a sly flick of an eyebrow, he continued, "I assume you have read everything currently available. I have bookmarked a section I think you might find of particular note."

Hermione nodded again, staring up at him and trying to ignore the way she found him so handsome. Tom cocked his head to the side and gazed out the windows at the sunshine.

"The weather is fine today," he noted. "I thought I might take a long walk about the grounds after breakfast, seeing as it is the weekend. Will you join me?"

Beside Hermione, there was soft giggling from Betty and Maggie. Tom smirked at Hermione as he waited for a reply to his invitation. She finally sighed and said,

"I would enjoy that. Thank you."

Tom bowed his head and excused himself, stepping away from the table and leaving a tense happiness behind him. When he was gone, Hermione opened the book to the page he'd bookmarked with an emerald ribbon. A few dried lilacs slid out from the book - Tom had clearly pressed them between the pages. Hermione gulped and read a few paragraphs on examples in history of timelines that had been altered by time travel. Then she hastily shoved the dried lilacs back into the book and shut it.

"Oh, Betty. Catch me; I'm swooning!" Maggie Prewett jested. Hermione felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment at Tom's public flirtation. Before she could comment, though, a loud screech rang through the Great Hall.

Hermione watched as a large brown owl soared through an open window and circled the Hall once or twice before landing a few metres away on the Gryffindor table. The owl hopped and marched down the table, stopping when it had reached the group of seventh-years.

"It's for you, Betty," Maggie Prewett said, pulling the cord upon the owl's ankle to release the envelope bearing Betty's name. Hermione looked to Betty and saw that the girl's face had gone white.

"That's my parents' owl," Betty noted. She opened the envelope with trembling fingers and pulled out the letter inside. She read in silence for a long, pregnant moment. Hermione looked to Maggie Prewett, and the girls exchanged nervous looks as they waited for Betty to finish reading.

Finally, Betty set the letter down upon the table and pulled her knuckles to her lips. She stared down at the table for a while, and then a few silent tears trickled from her eyes and tumbled down her pretty cheeks. Maggie wrapped an arm around Betty's shoulders, and Hermione asked softly,

"What's happened, Betty?"

"M-my brother," Betty said, "Edwin. He's a Squib, you know, and he joined the Muggle army so that he might feel useful. He was in Florence for the liberation. He was found dead in a burned-out building. But it's strange, you know... it says that he wasn't burned at all, and that his body bore no signs of damage whatsoever."

"The Killing Curse," Maggie gasped.

Hermione felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Of course Grindelwald's forces would attack a Squib if they'd known he was on the Continent. For months, Grindelwald had taken advantage of the chaos caused by the Muggle war. Recently, there had been many reports of wizarding victims who appeared to have died in the Muggle conflict.

"Oh, Betty," Hermione moaned softly, "I'm so sorry."

"But of course you understand precisely what it feels like," Betty sobbed quietly, clutching Hermione's hand in hers. Her red-rimmed eyes stared at Hermione pleadingly as she clarified, "You lost your family on the Continent, too!"

Hermione felt a surge of guilt and uneasiness roil through her as she pondered what a lie she was living. There was no one, no one except Tom, who could even begin to understand who she truly was. The more she thought about it, the more Hermione wondered to what extent her past mattered anymore. It almost certainly was different than the future that would come to pass now that she had resigned herself to staying in this time. Perhaps, Hermione thought absently, she ought to Obliviate her memories from the first years of her life, so that they didn't cloud her judgment. Perhaps -

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Betty," Maggie Prewett was saying. Hermione jolted back to the room, broken from a daydream for the second time that morning. Betty and Maggie were rising from the table, with Maggie supporting Betty's shaking frame. Maggie continued, "I'm sure Professor Dippet will arrange at once for you to go home and see them. There are still two weeks until the autumn term begins; surely they'd enjoy having you at home for even that short bit of time."

"I'm very sorry, Betty," Hermione said agian, her voice sounding tired all of a sudden. Betty nodded gratefully down at Hermione, and then Maggie led the girl away, up to the Staff Table.

Hermione packed up her rucksack wordlessly and rose from the bench, striding over toward the Slytherins. She suddenly found herself quite grateful for Tom's invitation to stroll the grounds. She felt, just then, that she needed something of a distraction.

---

April 1953

Hermione laughed aloud as Georgiana dashed across the sitting-room toward her. The child had only found her legs a few months previously, but already she was flitting about with surprising speed and confidence. Just now, Georgiana was carrying her familiar - a Puffskein called Pelzig - as she trotted laps through the room. Georgie tumbled and the Puffskein went flying from her hands, rolling like a ball across the rug and coming to rest at Hermione's feet. Georgiana quickly rose to her feet, unscathed by her fall. She held her arms out and cried, "Peh-zig!"

Hermione made a choked sound, somewhere between pity and amusement. She bent to pick up the Puffskein, who gazed contentedly up at her with wide eyes. Hermione brushed the Puffskein's fur off and held it out to Georgiana.

"You must be careful with him!" she commanded the toddler, and Georgiana nodded in agreement. But then she snatched the Puffskein roughly from Hermione's hands and giggled frantically as she dashed off again. Hermione shook her head and murmured,

"Poor Pelzig." She was suddenly quite happy that Georgiana and the Puffskein had taken to one another so quickly; she was loathe to imagine the injuries a cat or other creature would sustain from Georgiana's roughhousing.

The door to the sitting-room opened then, and Hermione glanced up to see Abraxas Malfoy in the threshold. He bowed a bit and held out a small book.

"My Lady," he said, flicking his eyes down and quirking up an amused smirk when Georgiana ran in front of him, "This is the first edition of the book you requested - the new work by Chroniculus Punnet on historical witches?"

"Very good. I've been anxiously awaiting its publication. Thank you, Abraxas."

Hermione rose from her chair and strode over to the doorway. Georgiana dropped her Puffskein and reached her hands up to Hermione desperately.

"Up, Mama!" she exclaimed, and Hermione smiled as she picked the child up and took the book from Abraxas Malfoy.

"The Dark Lord requests both you and Lady Georgiana join him for dinner this evening," Abraxas noted, and Hermione pinched her lips as she nodded gratefully. Tom had been distant for weeks, staying up until the early morning in meetings about plans to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic. She ought to be glad, she thought, that Tom wished for her presence, and for Georgiana's.

"Have you acquired any useful information, Abraxas?" Hermione asked pointedly then. Abraxas' cheeks coloured and his expression darkened. He shook his head and replied,

"I regret, My Lady, that even under the influence of Veritaserum, the foolish witch had little of value to give."

Hermione huffed impatiently. Maggie Prewett, once a dear friend of Hermione's, had been in the dungeon for weeks after she and a few other Aurors had attempted to assassinate Tom. The only information they'd gleaned from Maggie had been that the Ministry feared Tom's ambition and ascent as a direct threat to their authority.

"I think I shall speak with her myself," Hermione said through gritted teeth. She flicked her eyes to Georgiana, perched upon her hip, and said, "Georgie, let's go find your father. You can wait with him whilst Mummy speaks to an old friend."

---

August 1944

Tom watched with half-hearted curiosity as Betty Cattermole was led away from the Gryffindor table by Maggie Prewett. He heard Orion Black say,

"I heard from my father that Betty's brother was killed in Italy. He was a Squib, I suppose, and he'd been there with the Muggle military. Some underling or another of Grindelwald's found out, and they killed him."

"Well," Avery said thoughtfully as he chewed upon a scone, "You know, it is doing a service, to get rid of Squibs. That's where Mudbloods come from."

"No, Avery," Orion Black shot back. "Mudbloods steal their Magic from real witches and wizards."

The two boys bickered for a long moment, and Tom ignored them and allowed them to argue. He watched with rapt attention as Betty Cattermole approached Headmaster Dippet and handed him the letter she'd received. She appeared to be speaking at length with Dippet and Dumbledore, and then she nodded at something Dumbledore said. Maggie Prewett wrapped her arm about Betty's shoulder, and the two girls left the Great Hall with countless curious eyes watching them go.

In Tom's peripheral vision, he saw the figure of Hermione Granger - Villeneuve, he corrected himself mentally - approaching the Slytherin table. He sat up straighter and cleared his throat as she nervously paused a metre away.

"Whenever you're ready for that walk about the grounds, Tom," she said rather awkwardly. She had never spoken with any of Tom's 'friends,' he realised. If he intended to pursue her with any degree of seriousness (and he did) then he would need to tread carefully. It was important that he and he alone be recognised among the group as the leader. But it was also important that his associates pay proper respect toward Hermione, since she would be at Tom's side if he had his way.

"Avery, Black... make room for Miss Villeneuve," Tom said sharply. The two boys looked a bit bewildered, but they slid away from one another and created a large gap directly across from Tom. Hermione chewed upon her bottom lip for a moment, mumbled some quiet thanks, and sat down.

"Miss Villeneuve, I believe you have seen most of my friends in some of our lessons. Allow me to introduce Messrs. Avery, Black, Nott, Rowle, Malfoy, and Mulciber." He nodded to each boy in turn. "My friends, I'm certain you all know of Miss Hermione Villeneuve."

"Good morning, gentlemen," Hermione said carefully. She folded her hands upon the table and stared pointedly at Tom, as though she were wondering why he was embarrassing her by forcing her through the introductions. "The weather is certainly fine this morning," she noted somewhat sharply. "Ideal weather, I think, to stroll the grounds."

"And so we shall," Tom agreed. He gestured to his half-eaten bowl of porridge. "Just as soon as I finish my breakfast."

He ate the rest of his food with deliberate pacing, and he listened silently as Orion Black and Abraxas Malfoy made small talk with Hermione. They asked her whether she found Hogwarts to her liking, whether the weather was wont to be so fine during summer in France. She answered each question politely and stammered a compliment to Abraxas Malfoy about his reputation as a Quidditch player. Tom's eyes flicked up and he watched Malfoy swell with pride as he said brashly,

"I should be honoured, Miss Villeneuve, if you might come and observe the scrimmage between Slytherin and Gryffindor later this evening. Of course, I understand if you feel compelled to cheer for your own House."

Hermione smiled and looked as though she were about to answer, but Tom interrupted,

"Hermione doesn't care for Quidditch, Malfoy."

He disliked the idea of Hermione going anywhere under the explicit invitation of Abraxas Malfoy, particularly when the invitation had been extended so flirtatiously. But Hermione scowled at Tom and said to Malfoy,

"I actually have developed something of an interest in the game as of late. I shall be there - cheering for Gryffindor, of course."

"Of course," Malfoy repeated warmly, and Tom felt an ugly coil of envy in his abdomen.

"I'm through eating," he pronounced imperiously. "Let us go for our walk, eh?"

He rose and strode briskly round the table, holding out his hand to Hermione. She hesitated for a brief moment and then took it. The other boys at the table rose as she did, standing out of respect for both Hermione and Tom until they disappeared from the Great Hall.

"Thank you for the book, Tom," Hermione said once they had emerged into the bright sunshine. The yard in front of the clock tower was still empty, as most students were either still eating or had settled outdoors in the cloisters and inner courtyards. Hermione pulled her hand from Tom's as she patted her rucksack and said, "I'm very interested in the subject of time, as you know."

Tom wondered whether she'd seen the lilacs he'd pressed in the book. He'd put them in there weeks previously and had placed the book beneath a stack of others to weigh it down. The flowers had dried to a pale purple crisp. It had not been an accident that, in the process of gifting Hermione a book on time, he'd given her preserved flowers instead of fresh ones.

He wondered, as well, what Hermione might think of the plans he had. He needed to know; he needed to ascertain whether she was truly going to be an ally. He paused his steps in the middle of the empty yard and turned to Hermione.

"I'm going to Nurmengard," he said smoothly, and he watched Hermione's eyes widen and flash for a moment. Then she collected herself and said in a strange voice,

"I can't say I'm surprised. When?"

Tom was somewhat taken aback by her matter-of-fact tone, by her lack of vehement opposition to his pronouncement. He blinked hard as he said, "Winter, at the latest. I intend to ambush Grindelwald and kill him, to use his death as a stepping-stone to my own throne."

Hermione looked a bit queasy for a brief instant, but then a surprisingly stony sense of resolution came over her features. She raised her chestnut eyes to Tom, and her fresh aroma washed over him like a crashing wave. "Good," she said plainly.

"Good?" Tom repeated with a touch of disbelief. He raised his eyebrows as Hermione nodded firmly.

"I do not believe there is enough space in the world for the both of you at once," she reasoned, "and I'd rather you than him. Besides, he ordered the murder of Betty Cattermole's brother. And of my parents."

Tom laughed a bit and shook his head. "I thought your parents were killed by Muggles," he reminded her, watching her cheeks blanch and then flush. "By the Nazi forces."

"Oh, yes," Hermione nodded quickly. "That's right. Thank you."

"If you intend on living a lie, Hermione, you will need to get better at lying." Tom laced his fingers through Hermione's again and squeezed gently, pulling her from the clock tower yard and emerging onto the open grounds. As they made their way toward the Black Lake, Tom asked pensively, "What makes you think that it would be in any way better to have me about than Grindelwald? Do you not believe me capable of deeds far more terrible than those Grindelwald has carried out?"

"Of course I do," Hermione said softly. She sniffed a bit and admitted, "I think you're capable of almost anything."

Tom felt a swell of pride and a strange tingling that made its way from his chest out to his fingertips. Hermione paused as they neared the shore of the lake. She stared up at Tom, her eyes glittering with an emotion he could not properly read.

"But I do not think you will be so wicked as him," she insisted. "Powerful, yes. Perhaps utterly unstoppable. But I refuse to believe that the Darkness within you extends to the marrow of your bones. I intend on extracting every bit of goodness there is within you, and helping you use it to bolster your potential."

Tom quirked up a crooked smile, amused by her idealism and optimism. "Oh, you do, do you?" he asked with a faintly mocking tone. "And how, precisely, do you intend to do that?"

Hermione shrugged, feigning a bored expression. She bent to pick up a small flat stone, and she rather expertly skipped it upon the lake's surface. "You've got your plans, Tom," she acknowledged, "and I've got mine."

---

September 1958

Lord Voldemort sealed the envelope in his hands with a messy blob of wax. He didn't wait for the wax to dry before he pried open the lid of his jeweled box and plopped the envelope inside.

He'd written a letter to himself, to his younger self, explaining that Georgiana had been murdered and that he'd killed Albus Dumbledore. He could only hope that he would manage to save Georgie the second time around.

Voldemort shut the lid of the box and pressed his hands against the pearls and stones. He prepared to say the incantation to send the letter back in time, but his voice caught in his chest. His mind whirled with memories, strong and insistent.

'Father, will I get to attend Hogwarts someday?' Georgiana was curled up in an armchair in Voldemort's office. Upon her small lap was a heavy copy of Bathilda Bagshot's book. The tome had been Hermione's favourite for years since its publication, and it was worn from frequent reading.

'Yes, Georgie,' Voldemort confirmed, turning his attention back to the parchment upon which he'd been writing. 'I can't imagine you wouldn't be accepted.'

He smirked a bit at his own jape. Naturally, the daughter of the infamous Lord Voldemort would be extended an invitation to study at Hogwarts. Unless, of course, Albus Dumbledore had any say in the matter.

'Do you suppose I shall be a Gryffindor like Mummy, or a Slytherin like you?' Georgiana asked pensively. Voldemort set down his quill and cocked his head to the side.

'You'll wind up wherever you're meant to be, Georgie. And someday you shall be a great witch.'

'Like Mummy is,' Georgie nodded, turning the page in her book.

'Yes,' Voldemort nodded, licking his bottom lip and returning to his work. 'You shall be great. Just like your mother.'

No matter what he did, he knew, he would lose Georgiana... it had been prophesied, after all, over ten years previously. In the years since, Voldemort begun to understand the implications of the prophesy. He could still hear the wispy voice of Cassandra Vablatsky as she droned out her prediction.

'The Dark Lord's ascent hinges upon the fall of his beloved... she shall enter his world unexpected and insistent... her departure shall burn a hole within him, and shall stoke the flames of his fury... the beloved shall come, and she shall go, and she shall leave a mark far Darker than any which has come before... her existence shall be snuffed out as a candle, but she shall tread the deepest of footprints. To time she is servant; her life is and was and ever will be brief.'

When the prophesy had been made, several years before Georgiana's birth, he had assumed it was about Hermione. He had spent a great deal of time frantically searching for a way to avoid Hermione's demise without destroying himself in the process. Then, with Georgiana's arrival, he began to rethink the prophesy. He had tried to discern which 'beloved' was referenced by the prediction, but he had found himself unable to tie the prophecy specifically to either Georgiana or Hermione. With Georgie's murder, the meaning of the cryptic words had become clear.

Hermione, for her part, knew nothing of the prophecy and never had. Voldemort intended to keep it that way. It would not do for a mother to be told that her daughter's death was inevitable, that she had to die.

Before he could second-guess himself, Voldemort wrenched open the lid of the jeweled box and snatched out the letter he had written to his younger self. He stared at it for a very brief moment. Then he pointed his wand at it and muttered, "Evanesco."

The envelope curled and shrank and then abruptly Vanished into non-being. Voldemort stared at the blank space upon his desk where the letter had just been. He nodded curtly to himself and set down his wand.

---

31 August, 1944

Headmaster Dippet allowed the students a respite for the remaining two weeks of summer holidays, with no supplementary lessons nor any real obligations. Gobstones and scrimmage Quidditch prevailed, along with illicit snogging. For Tom, the majority of his time was spent plotting his assault on Nurmengard during the day and spending time with Hermione after rounds were completed at night. Their time together largely extended only to conversation and kissing, as she seemed hesitant to regularly take things further than that. Tom did not mind; he was so preoccupied with thoughts of defeating Grindelwald that he could only think so much of sex.

One day, Headmaster Dippet rounded up the Head Boy and Head Girl and reminded them that the Hogwarts Express would be bringing the other students into Hogsmeade the following day. He handed each of them a small satchel with a bit of coinage and said,

"You are to stay in Room 11 in the Leaky Cauldron, Mr. Riddle, and you in Room 14, Miss Villeneuve. Be at King's Cross at nine thirty, if you please; the train shall leave Platform 9 ¾ at eleven o'clock sharp. You will depart my office via Floo Powder and arrive in the Leaky Cauldron. Your duties upon the Hogwarts Express are to inform Prefects of their responsibilities for the school year and to ensure the safety of the younger students. Have you any questions?"

Tom raised his eyebrows and smiled a bit at Hermione, then at Headmaster Dippet. "No, Sir," he said with a measure of self-satisfaction. "No questions."

An hour later, he and Hermione stood in the Headmaster's office, each clutching a fistful of Floo Powder whilst the other students were contentedly eating dinner in the Great Hall. Headmaster Dippet stood quietly behind them, having bid them farewell already.

"Ready?" Hermione said rather nervously.

"After you," Tom said graciously, gesturing with his free hand into the hearth. "I insist."

Hermione frowned and stepped up to the fireplace. She seemed to be nervous the Floo might transport her through time instead of space, but she tossed in the powder. She waited for the flames to turn green and cried out clearly, "DIAGON ALLEY!"

She disappeared into a conflagration of emerald flames. In a flash, the fire dissolved into nothing, and then there was a calm, yellow crackling in the hearth. Tom cleared his throat and stepped up to the fireplace. Floo powder trickled out from between his fingers. He tossed in the fistful and yelled out, "DIAGON ALLEY!"

Once more the flames roared up, cooled, and turned green. Tom stepped into them and felt a whoosh as he disappeared from the Headmaster's office. He felt as though he were being pinched and sucked, as though he were whirling through outer space. Then, very suddenly, he found himself walking smoothly out of an enormous fireplace. The green flames around him flared and quickly vanished.

Tom brushed off his robes and looked to his right, seeing that Hermione was doing the same. In her hand she clutched the small satchel she'd been given by Headmaster Dippet, along with a rather cleverly Expanded bag, filled with toiletries and a change of clothing. An ancient-looking witch came hobbling across the dusty floor of the Leaky Cauldron and held out her wizened hand to Hermione. She flashed a rotten-toothed smile to Hermione and Tom, and Tom tried not to recoil with disgust. He saw Hermione wince and smile awkwardly.

"Good day," Hermione said stiffly. "We are the Head Boy and Head Girl of Hogwarts School... we have been sent by Headmaster Dippet to meet the other students at the Hogwarts Express tomorrow. We're meant to stay here for the night. We have money, of course."

"Oh, but you won't be needing it!" exclaimed the old witch kindly. Tom narrowed his eyes in confusion, unaccustomed to random kindness. The woman's white hair stuck out in wiry frizz about her wrinkled face, and her eyes were so pale Tom wondered if she were blind. Her puckered lips curled into a contented-looking smile, and she declared, "I was once Head Girl, you know. In the year eighteen hundred and sixty!"

"Oh, my goodness!" Hermione gasped, drawing her fingers to her lips in awe. "I should be honoured to speak with you about that some time... do you remember the Muggle Queen Victoria when she was young?"

Tom rolled his eyes and pulled on Hermione's shoulder. "We haven't time for that now, Hermione," he insisted. "We have much to prepare before before we meet the others tomorrow."

Besides, he wanted to ask, what the blazes do you care about a Muggle queen?

"Madam," Tom said, turning to the ancient witch, who looked rather disappointed, "I appreciate your generosity, but we have been instructed by Headmaster Dippet to pay for our lodgings. We are booked, I believe, into Rooms 11 and 14. If the rooms are prepared, we shall sup and make our way up for the night. Here is our payment."

He plunked a few coins down upon the table before him. The old witch's expression darkened a bit at Tom's unfriendliness, but he didn't much care. The witch nodded, took the coins, and shuffled slowly away. Hermione wrenched her arm out of Tom's grasp and huffed,

"You were quite rude to her, Tom."

"There's no need to chat with an old woman about a dead Muggle monarch." Tom rolled his eyes again.

"It's something I am interested in." Hermione jutted out her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. Tom felt a bit of heat rise in his chest, angry at the way Hermione was confronting him. But he just cleared his throat, licked his lips, and sat down at the table. He beckoned the barmaid over with a little flick of his fingers, and he watched as Hermione crossly sat opposite him.

"What'll it be, then?" the young, busty barmaid asked in a crude voice. "We've got beef stew or pumpkin pasties. Bread fresh this mornin'. Butterbeer or firewhisky if you two are of age… tea or chocolates? Anything you like, really."

"Hermione?" Tom asked, deferring politely to the lady at the table. The barmaid shot Hermione a rather jealous glare, sizing her up with envious eyes. Hermione did not look the least bit self-conscious; she pinched her lips and said in a strong voice,

"I'll take a pumpkin pasty, if you please, and a butterbeer. And I shall pay for it myself."

"All right, then," said the barmaid, shrugging. She turned to Tom. "And for you?" She grinned playfully. Tom flashed her back a rather crooked smile and shifted in his chair, being deliberately flirtatious.

"What do you suggest?" he asked, folding his hands upon the table and cocking his head to the side. The barmaid's cheeks flushed and she giggled a bit, rather ungracefully. She sounded like a horse when she laughed, Tom thought, but he smiled at her anyway.

"The stew's quite good," she said, grinning and baring her uneven, brown teeth. Tom bowed his head reverently.

"The stew, then, please. And a whisky, if you'll be so kind."

"Right away." The barmaid turned round on her heels and dashed off, leaving Hermione and Tom alone at the table. Hermione narrowed her eyes at Tom and glared at him for a moment. Then she cleared her throat and opened her Expanded bag. She rifled around in it for a moment and pulled out a book - a copy of The Many Magical Uses of Water.

Tom ground his teeth crossly as Hermione opened the cover of the dull book and pretended to read it. Finally, he snatched the book from Hermione's hands and slammed it down upon the table. He pointed his wand at the book and Vanished it into nonbeing. Hermione gasped and scowled indignantly at Tom, opening her mouth to protest. He silenced her by saying,

"Hermione, you often argue with me for the sake of arguing, I think."

She shut her mouth, having spent a solid moment looking like a fish, and she furrowed her brows. She looked as though she wanted to formulate a response, but then she just swallowed heavily and stared at him in silence. "I spent the first eighteen years of my life hating you, Tom," she reminded him. "I often feel as though I'm meant to fight with you. Even if I don't have a very good reason to do so."

"I wish that you would not deliberately goad me," Tom informed her. "It is dangerous to do so. You are the only who instills feelings of happiness in me, you know. You would be wise to take advantage of that fact."

"Oh, I would, would I?" Hermione teased, drumming her fingers upon the table and smirking. Tom felt his cheeks flush. He said through clenched teeth,

"Do not mock me, Hermione."

She stilled her hand and her face went serious. "I'm sorry. I am not certain how else I ought to treat you," she admitted. "I am quite fond of you, you know. But I feel as though I should not be. It feels wrong, to be fond of you. And yet, it feels wonderful. And so, I have no idea how to speak to you. How to touch you. How to label you in my life."

She looked rather sad then, and she lowered her eyes. Tom licked his lips, feeling a surge of nervousness gurgle up into his chest. "Perhaps," he said, hearing his voice crack a bit, "Perhaps someday you might be able to label me with a bit more certainty. Perhaps someday there might be quite a bit more formality between us… something no one could question…"

He felt a terrible heat in his cheeks, felt properly nauseated. The room was spinning. It was awful. Hermione looked up at him and there was shock in her beautiful chestnut eyes. Tom gulped, feeling as though he ought not to have ever suggested, however obliquely, that he might propose marriage to her someday. Her eyes were red-rimmed all of a sudden and he could see her pulse going rapid and strong beneath her ear.

"Here are the keys to your rooms. Eleven and fourteen." The barmaid plopped down two heavy skeleton keys with brass labels upon them. Tom saw the keys out of his peripheral vision, but he did not take his eyes off of Hermione. She looked as though she were going to cry.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered to the barmaid. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw the young, busty barmaid flicking her face confusedly between Tom and Hermione.

"Erm… I shall be back soon with your food and drinks, then," she said, but Tom held up his hand.

"We shall not be requiring them," he said, shaking his head. The barmaid stammered for a moment in confusion, but Tom cast a nonverbal, wandless Confundo.

The barmaid quivered and mumbled something about cancelling the order and walked away briskly.

"Let's go upstairs now," Tom heard himself whisper to Hermione, and he saw her nod her consent. Five minutes later they were staggering through the doors of Room 11.

---

He tasted like a man, Hermione noticed. Not like a boy. He felt like a man, too, as he pressed her down upon the bed and peeled off her clothes one piece at a time. He felt domineering and strong and willful as he shucked his own clothing and hovered above her and leaned down to kiss her neck. She became fiercely wet between her legs and squirmed upon the scratchy yellow duvet, trying in vain to satisfy the need developing at her entrance. She reached with her fingers to touch herself but had her hand batted away by his.

"I will do it," he huffed insistently, and Hermione felt a stronger rush of heat than ever. She reached between his legs and wrapped her fingers around his throbbing length, trying to guide him toward her. But then, all of a sudden, she was being turned around and planted upon her hands and knees.

"Oof!" she cried in surprise as she was roughly guided around to kneel upon the duvet. Then she moaned desperately at the feel of his hand as he touched her clit, the pads of his fingers fiddlings with her in little circles. She tossed her head back and bucked her hips and arched her back. She heard Tom's breath behind her, steady and deep at first, then growing shallow and uneven and rickety the more she thrust against his fingers. She grew more wet by the second, and it felt better and better the longer he touched her. Then, all of a sudden, she couldn't move any more. The only movement that happened was the clenching of her walls around his fingers, the rhythmic contractions of her womanhood as he drove his fingertips into her.

Hermione moaned Tom's name, over and over, not caring that she was being loud or that she sounded wanton. It felt good, and she couldn't help herself. Tom's hand moved from her clit to her belly, and he murmured a few wandless contraceptive spells. Hermione didn't have time to be impressed by his lack of need for a wand before he drove his manhood into her. She yelped and collapsed onto her elbows, shocked by the size of him as he bore into her from behind.

"Ohhhh… Hermione, it's good," Tom said quietly. He stilled his hips against hers, and Hermione concentrated on the feel of fullness, on being filled by his thick, long, throbbing cock. It nearly made her tumble off the cliff again, just to think entirely about him like that. She moaned into the pillow, clutching the material, and squirmed her hips against his. Tom gripped her waist tightly and sighed before he began pumping himself against her, very slowly at first. He increased his pace, one thrust at a time, until he was moving steadily. Each push was accompanied by a small noise - a little grunt, or a groan, or a soft "Hermione."

Then, soon enough, he accelerated into a rapid pace, and Hermione held onto the pillow for her dear life. She buried her face into the feathers, for she was crying out frantically as Tom clutched her waist and properly thrashed her. It seemed to go on eternally, and though it felt good - very good - Hermione started to feel sore and tired. At last, she felt Tom's hands grip her waist so tightly it almost hurt, and he buried himself to the hilt and jolted unevenly a few times. His voice stuttered loudly once or twice, and then he pulled out of her body and collapsed beside her.

Hermione felt his warm seed run out of her body and ooze down her thigh, and she marveled at how very messy sex was, how incredibly exhausting it could be. She felt as though she could fall straight to sleep, and she wondered if people were always this tired after making love.

Making love. Was that what this was? Making love? Or was it just sex? Was it just two people with a strange attraction, two people who had smelled one another in a cauldron of Amortentia, thrashing about upon a mattress?

Hermione stared at the fatigued Tom beside her, his forearm cast over his eyes, his toned chest heaving. She was filled with physical attraction toward him, but also something else. She was drawn to his often-obnoxious charisma, to his dangerous ambition. She was drawn to his intelligence, to his impressive abilities. She liked to speak with him about a great number of subjects, about wizarding history and magical theory and hobbies. She liked it when he gave her lilacs. She liked a great many things about him, not just his eyes and his smell and the way he tasted when he kissed her.

Though those things were wonderful, too, she thought.

Hermione fell asleep upon Tom's bare chest, thinking back to how he'd abstractly suggested marriage down in the dining room. Her heart thudded at the thought of that. She clutched a bit more tightly at his shoulders as she replayed his words in her mind.

No one slept in Room 14 that night.

---

The Hogwarts Express left at precisely eleven o'clock. For the first hour and a half, Hermione and Tom explained to the Prefects what their duties would entail for the upcoming term, including regulations for docking points and what new rules were to be instituted. Tom was most pleased to note that every last one of the Slytherin prefects were loyal to him. He thought he would be able to use this fact to his advantage in gathering ever more followers. Furthermore, it seemed that all the Gryffindor prefects were rather fond of Hermione; this, Tom thought, was also advantageous. If Hermione were popular with the Gryffindor prefects, and she was publicly displayed as his 'girlfriend,' then the whole of Gryffindor House could be converted into his followers, as well. The only roadblocks were Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but Tom figured with enough effort, he could infiltrate the ranks of their Prefects and convince those students that he was worth following.

Once he and Hermione had done their duty meeting with the lower Prefects, Tom took Hermione's hand gently and said, "Perhaps we ought to circulate the other compartments and find the first-years. Greet them, you know."

"That's a fine idea, Tom." Hermione flashed him a small grin. She retracted her hand from his and stood, walking briskly from the Prefects' compartment. Tom rose, and the Slytherin Prefects did the same out of respect. As Tom followed Hermione down the train corridor, he murmured,

"You do not wish to hold my hand in public." It was a statement, not a question. She turned round and frowned at him.

"It does not seem proper."

Tom sighed and ground his teeth a bit. "It does not help my cause, Hermione, for you to publicly reject me."

She deepened her frown. "I'm not in the business of helping your 'cause,' Tom."

He smirked at her and nodded. "I think you are, my dear."

She blanched and then turned scarlet. She cleared her throat and turned round again, taking a few steps before turning to her left and opening a compartment door. She plastered an artificial smile upon her face and said cheerily, "Hello! Are you all first-years?"

They greeted several compartments, speaking with the new Hogwarts students with charm and wit, trying to make them feet at ease as they soothed fears and placated anxieties. For Tom, it was an opportunity to glean personalities and lasso the youngest of Hogwarts' potential subjects. In the last compartment, Hermione slid open the door and said,

"Hello! Are you two first-years?"

"Yes!" said one girl. "I'm Bess Macmillan, and this is Penny Travers. How do you do?"

"How do you do," Hermione nodded, shaking the girls' hands in reply. "I'm Hermione Villeneuve, the Head Girl. This is Tom Riddle, the Head Boy -"

"Mr. Riddle," said the girl called Penny Travers. She stood quickly, straightened her school skirt, and nodded emphatically. "My father and brother told me to send their regards. Bradley and Michael Travers, Sir."

Hermione and the other first-year girl stared wide-eyed at Tom. He tried not to look smug as he nodded to all three of the girls in the compartment, his eyes lingering upon Hermione. He finally turned back to the servile girl, the one who had flown to her feet.

"Miss Travers," he acknowledged with a small bow of his head, "Please send my greetings to your father and your brother. I hope they are well."

"They are, Sir."

"I hope you are sorted into Slytherin, Miss Travers. Good day to you." Tom felt his mouth curl into quite a crooked grin, feeling Hermione's eyes boring curiously into his face. Penny Travers lowered her gaze and nodded frantically again.

"Good day, Sir."

---

August, 1958

Lord Voldemort watched as Travers, Mulciber, Nott, and Malfoy elegantly directed their wands so that Georgiana's casket lowered into the ground. It was a lovely casket, crafted from walnut with birch inlays. The handles were brass. Georgiana was being put to rest on a craggy cliff overlooking the grey sea. She had always very much liked the sea, particularly on a windy day when she could hold out her arms and shriek and let her wind whip about her face.

But she had no business going into the ground.

Voldemort stood solemnly, tearlessly, whilst Hermione clutched his chest and sobbed as any mother would do. Betty Cattermole had spoken a few words - only a few, until she'd broken down into tears herself - and then Malfoy had said a few phrases in tribute. No one seemed to be able to pull much together. It was far too tragic, it seemed, to bury a child, and there didn't seem to be much to say. Eventually, before the casket was lowered into the ground, Voldemort had handed Hermione off to Betty Cattermole, and he had tipped his chin up and spoken. The assembled group (a small crowd of invited guests) had listened in tearful, respectful silence.

"Today we bury my daughter, Georgiana," Voldemort had said. "The day that my wife birthed Georgie, I beheld the two most beautiful witches on Earth. For the next seven years, my life was filled with joy previously completely unknown to me. Georgie was life, she was happiness. When she stumbled, she would rise and laugh and run all the faster. When she smiled, the room about her fizzled with magic so strong that I often worried she would set fires. Sometimes she did. I did not mind."

Those assembled to bury Georgiana smiled sadly as Voldemort spoke. He shifted upon his feet and gripped his wand tightly. He licked his lips and continued,

"Georgiana was murdered in an attempt to weaken me. But that attempt has utterly failed. I am stronger than ever in my resolve to avenge my child. I promise you, Georgie, that I shall never forget your laughter, nor the way you ran faster than ever when you stumbled. Nor shall I forget those who took you from me. Goodbye, Georgie."

Voldemort pressed the tip of his wand to the Dark Mark upon his left forearm, and those assembled with the Mark felt it burn. There was a low hiss in the crowd as the pain rippled through the group. Voldemort reached for Hermione and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her near him. He nodded once, curtly, to Travers, Mulciber, Nott, and Malfoy. The men lowered Georgiana's casket slowly into the ground and then began covering it with loose topsoil.

As they did, the crowd slowly dissipated. Voldemort began to wonder about the prophecy that he'd heard so many years ago.

'The Dark Lord's ascent hinges upon the fall of his beloved... she shall enter his world unexpected and insistent... her departure shall burn a hole within him, and shall stoke the flames of his fury... the beloved shall come, and she shall go, and she shall leave a mark far Darker than any which has come before... her existence shall be snuffed out as a candle, but she shall tread the deepest of footprints. To time she is servant; her life is and was and ever will be brief.'

He'd thought for years that the prophecy had been about Hermione. Now he thought it must have been about Georgiana. Perhaps, he thought, it could have been about either of them. Or neither one. Or perhaps it did not matter which one it was. Perhaps, he thought, he could go back in time and make the prophecy about Hermione instead of Georgiana.

But as he stared at Hermione's tear-streaked face, he wondered whether or not that was something he wished to do. Would he be any less broken-hearted if he'd lost Hermione instead of Georgiana? What if he lost Hermione before he had Georgiana at all, and he wound up losing them both? That was not a chance he was willing to take.

It was better, he thought, not to play with time if he could help it. Not when the timeline he was living had given him Hermione and hadn't taken her away.

Voldemort stared at the loose dirt covering Georgiana's grave. Sometimes, he thought, there was no simple choice. No easy choice. No right choice.

A soft rain began to fall then, and Voldemort wordlessly cast a waterproofing spell upon Georgiana's grave to protect it from disintegrating before the dirt could set. He pulled Hermione away, walking down the hill toward the rocky beach.

"Goodbye, Georgie," he whispered again.