authorsnote: I am 2/2 on posting toxic
relationship oneshots tonight, I'm on a roll.
I do hope you enjoy this! it is dark and toxic, so warning here - if you don't like abusive, toxic relationships PLEASE TURN BACK. obvliously tomione are toxic af, but I do enjoy writing them.
as always lemme know whatcha think and if you're into this pairing I will shamelessly plug my new tomione WIP: A Stitch In Time, check it out!
songrecs: take me to church - hozier
to add: this story has been translated to russian and posted on the site 'ficbook' by the amazing macroso, check it out here: ficbook /readfic/11120268
'My lovers got humour, she's the giggle at a funeral'
She always knows how to make him laugh, even when he's in a bad mood. One of his black moods that sends his Death Eaters running, she never runs though, not anymore, she teases, she plays, she giggles, that beautiful laugh that bounces off the walls of Riddle manner.
When he's feeling particular dark, she even knows what to say then. She sits on his lap, twirls her hair around her finger whilst she reads, shares a passage from a text with him, she is quieter then, just there for him, a steady presence.
He's never needed anyone before, he doesn't now, but she helps.
When he's feeling murderous however she adapts her behaviour. If someone's writhing at his feet she'll stand next to him as expected, usually looking bored, her hand on his arm, sometimes her nose still in a book. When he comes home covered in blood, she'll order him to the bathroom before he stains the sheets and not ask questions.
She always knows what he needs, even when he doesn't know it himself.
Her words, her touch, her laughter, her.
'Knows everybody's disapproval, I should have worshipped her sooner'
He long quieted any dissent among his ranks about her inclusion.
Blood purity had been his rallying cry, to bring the stuck-up purebloods to him, and he's always hated muggles, turning his anger to mudbloods had been easy. Of course, that had caused some complications when he had chosen Hermione for his own.
Not many though, on his word any question about her, any eyebrows raised or anything other than respect bordering on devotion he'll silence them. He already had to do so to Bellatrix, her warped mind never able to accept his new bride, and Hermione had flinched whenever seeing her, his crazed lieutenant been dead at the end of his wand quickly for that.
He protects her, even though she's more than capable of protecting herself. He likes to, as he reminds her, to quiet any questions about her, to strike down any who dare remark on her. She's come around to his way of thinking.
She always does.
'If the heavens ever did speak, she's the last true mouthpiece'
He's immortal of course, made sure of that a long time ago. Even a few horcruxes down he's still got a few stashed away, had succeeded in forging the Elixir of Life just days after the battle, restoring his good looks. He can't be killed, the only boy who could have, had failed.
And now his best friend stands by his side.
She's immortal to, one horcrux was all he could persuade of her, but with the Elixir it's enough. Now they stand together, ageless, powerful, strong.
Immortal, eternal, always.
'Every Sundays getting more bleak, a fresh poison each week'
When he first took her, she refused to bend.
Because he did take her, she had no choice once the Boy Who Lived fell, when they all fell on the battlefield, and the prisoners had been either sent to Azkaban, pardoned and put to work (for they do need the numbers) or killed. She had been bought to him specially.
She had refused to kneel until they'd shoved her down, forced her to her knees in front of him. She'd screamed and cursed at him, refusing to bend nor kneel, her brilliant hair sparking with magic, and he'd known then he had to have her.
So, he took her, easy. But yes, easy to take, not easy to bend, not at the start.
She'd spit poison at him, call him a traitor to his kind, evil to his core. She's screams and shout and try to cast wandless spells at him (which he easily deflected), call him a coward for taking her wand.
He'd returned to her and only on the 9th time of easily flooring her in a dual did she crumple and sob.
He'd wrinkled his nose and walked away; he had no time for tears.
It had taken a while to get her to where she is now, happy, loving but still Hermione, still herself. She still keeps a nose in a book, her hair remains unruly, and she mocks him often (in good nature), but she's changed, she loves him.
And for her he feels the closest thing he can to love, it might even be love, but does it matter?
She is his, he is hers, possession has always been more coveted to him than love.
She stands by his side now, wand in hand, she doesn't partake in the violence, but he doesn't need her to. She's here for him, nothing else, that's her place, which she knows now, and forever.
Things are much easier for it.
'We were born sick, you heard them say it, my church offers no absolution'
He knows he was born different, special.
He's powerful, even the goddamn prophecy designed to tear him down hadn't stopped him (and now prophecy making is banned, the damn hall of prophecies reduced to ash, like the rest of the Ministry, all Seer's imprisoned on sight – even Hermione can't find fault in that rule of his), and nothing else can.
Harry Potter is dead, buried only because of Hermione's wish for it, her friends long rotting in Azkaban, her parents he'd left in Australia, it had been easy to find them, two casts of his wand and the local news had blamed it on a gas leak. Easy, done, the last tie of hers to the muggle world obliterated, the last of her friends and family gone.
He is all she has, and of course he designed it that way.
"Tom" She'd posture, sat on his lap as he reads a potions text, her gaze having roamed to him, "Don't you think I need friends?"
"Why?" He's drawled, gaze not straying from the complex breakdown of the Draught of Living Peace, "You have me"
"Yes, but what about when you ignore me?" She'd said with a smirk, her copy of Advanced Charm Theory ignored, "Like now?"
"Hmm" He'd said, but as she's gone to stand, he'd grabbed her by the waist.
He knows what he's doing, he knows how to keep her happy, it's his job in a sense, along with so many other things. And he exceeds at it.
She doesn't need anyone else, she won't ever.
'She tells me worship in the bedroom, the only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you'
He does worship her in one place.
When he'd met her, he'd hardly been a virgin, he had been a teenage boy once. Yes, a teenage boy bent on grabbing as much power as possible whilst marauding around as a sociopath, but yes, he'd still been a teenage boy.
But none compared to her.
She had been a virgin, and he had been gentle with her to start, kind and sweet once she'd let her walls down to him, even though that wasn't remotely his style. He had been patient, having just gained her trust, not wanting to break it.
Thankfully, it hadn't remained sweet for long.
Passionate is not a word he has often used, not for himself in any regard. He wants power yes, but he is cold, never one to be overbrimming with passion or emotion. Emotion to him is often a weakness, not an asset, but with Hermione it is different.
Most things with Hermione are different. She brings something out in him – not kindness really, nor sentimentality (except for that which he faked with her at the start), but a craving to him, a need, a desire.
His lips on hers, he always bites her bottom lip, nips, and soothes with his tongue. He always consumes her, tongue in her mouth, hands in her hair, tugging, and then her waist, bruising, pulling her close, her little moans of desire against his lips.
His fingers track down her skin, his hands clenching at her waist. His fingers drift down, skirting over her collarbone, and then lower, across her breasts, lower, along her stomach (to which she always squirms), and then lower again, until she gasps, presses into him, begs.
That's his favourite part, the begging. He loves to hear her moan, whine, whimper, but when she begs him, that's his favourite.
He'll always bring her to a high that way first, with his fingers, his tongue, his fingers pinching, curling, his tongue running over her, flicking against her, whilst she screams, whilst she pleads.
He loves having her beneath him, squirming, as he grips her, he always likes to be on top, sometimes she'll ride, but by the end he's always flipped them over, taking her, harder and harder as she whimpers and screams herself raw.
Worship, it's foreign to him, but when he's between her legs, her thighs gripping around his neck, or when he's on top of her, fucking her hard into the bed, well that's as close as he'll get.
'I was born sick, but I love it, command me to be well'
She'd given up trying to preach to him to be good a long, long time ago. She knows there is little point.
Sure, he does little things for her, lets her have her crusades with house elf's and the like, but he's never apologised nor lied about wanting power. She'd once told him that;
"I may not like what you say, but you never lie" She'd whispered one night, sat on the bed, as far away from him as she could be, not yet ready to invite him in.
"No" He said, because he doesn't not to her. To everyone else he charms, puts on a face and the pretty lies leave his lips with ease, with her he doesn't need to, strangely he doesn't want to. "Never to you"
"Because I'm so special?" She had scoffed, still hating him then.
"Yes" Was all he offered, and then he'd seen her cheeks colour. It hadn't been long after that until they were using the bed for something else.
'Amen'
She's always been his, he reasons, he just hadn't found her until hat day on the battlefield. He'd won two victories that day, over his enemy, his prophesised downfall, and found her, screaming, scrappy and brave, and had bended her to him, to his will.
Sure, she's Hermione in every sense of the word, happy, healthy. She still whines to him about her causes, still tells him she loves him, grins at him when he throws her on the bed and makes him laugh. She is Hermione Granger, but not quite.
Harry Potter's Hermione Granger would never have fallen in love with him, kissed him, welcomed him into her bed. He's not naïve, he knows that's true, she's not the Hermione Granger she once was, not completely, time has seen to that.
He remembers, when the battle had ended, when they had hauled so many off to Azkaban, the Weasley's being one of them, his new loves boyfriend among his wretched family of blood traitors. He had visited him, hadn't been able to resist, to tell him of what was to become of the girl he coveted but could never have.
'Hermione is with me now" He had bragged, unable to help it, not of course revealing said Hermione was currently locked in her room at Malfoy Manor as Riddle Manor was renovated, screaming and sobbing, threatening anyone who came her way, shouting her hatred for him.
"She'll never be with you" Ronald his name was had said, hunched over, cold, brave even in the face of him, his handsome face back in place, but there was no charm needed here, just coldness. "You don't stand a chance"
"Hmm" He had smirked then, "You're a child, and she will soon be immortal. Even taking away my power and intelligence, both things she values, I still have something you don't" He had paused, "Patience"
The red headed fools' eyes had narrowed in confusion and his smirk had grown.
"Hermione may take years to warm to me, to forgive me, but I can wait. Meanwhile, you will grow old here, your hair will grey, and she will remain ageless, like me. And one day, maybe a year from now, maybe fifty. He had paused again, his grin sharklike now, "She'll realise has only one equal. That there are no others like us and that there never will be"
He had even crouched down then, to the bars, unable to hide his evil smirk, all charm faded, "I'm not going to kill you Ronald Weasley. I don't need to. Time will do it for me"
Then he had returned to her.
'Amen'
And time had done it for him, Ron Weasley long dead, and Hermione his, at his side, and as of this moment on his lap, twirling with her hair, his hand possessively at her waist, his other cupping her cheek to drag her into a kiss, to which she let out a delightful little giggle, before happily falling into his embrace.
It hadn't taken 1 year, or even 50, it had taken longer, but here they were, 140 years later, everyone from her past long gone, and she his, completely.
soo thoughts?
god I loved writing this, so much angsty manipulation, I can't help myself!
anywhoooo, you may recognise the last speech from tom and if so hello fellow shadow and bone fan! I have just posted my first shadow and bone one shot, if you're a fan check it out! (god I am plugging hard this fic, the shameless self promotion is evident!)
I do hope you enjoyed this, review and let me know if you did, I do love em'
speak soon