Thank you all for sticking with this. I appreciate that you've decided to take a chance on something that may not feel exactly right for you. I've tried to make these characters truly messy, truly human. They often don't do the "right" thing. They often don't have the moral compass we might wish for them. But we're not even half way here. There is so much story left. So much for Tom and Hermione to discover together. So much for Draco to learn. Just so much. So I hope you'll continue to give it a chance.

WARNINGS: Canon violence

21. 'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed

The muffled calls of the seabirds trill beyond the window. The sound is familiar even if she cannot place their calls or their species.

Summer drags on one languid afternoon after another, the heat burrowing into the brick of their cottage, into her ravished limbs.

Hermione can run now. She leaves at dawn each morning and runs the length of the beach before it crams with picnicking families and children's sand creations. When she returns, she drops to the floor of her room and forces her arms through as many pushups as she can endure. At first it was barely one, her chin collapsing against the floor before she even started. Now she can manage twenty. She used to do fifty, when she was in the woods with Harry, the enemy just beyond each tree.

She lives with the enemy now.

She understands how it happened, but that excuses nothing. She pushes her muscles until they strain each day, imagining the ache will bring her one step away from her impossible emotions. But no matter how much she sweats, no matter how sore her body becomes, her feelings refuse to change.

It's odd to remember two loves so vividly. Some days she yearns for the simplicity she shared with Harry, the bright passion and the childish wonder that fueled their love. They were naïve, unaware of how the world could break a body, let alone a soul.

While she misses their connection, she finds she does not miss Harry. He destroyed something fundamental when he apparated away with Ron. She wouldn't have him make a different choice—she is not so selfish as to wish harm on Ron—but whatever delicate connection they weaved between their souls disintegrated.

Hermione will never stop fighting for Harry, but her interest is removed now, no different than any other member of the Order. She will have to face the consequences of that truth sooner than she'd like, but she will take what time she can buy. Meeting Harry through a stranger's eyes allowed her to see just how devastated he was by her capture. She imagines it will be much worse when he learns she remembers. She isn't sure her shredded emotions can withstand the encounter.

But thinking about Harry is a pleasant stroll along the shore compared the craggy mountainside that is the emotional turmoil Tom elicits.

Hermione has no idea how to think of him, how to reconcile what she feels with what she knows.

He is a murderer. A sociopathic, manipulative mastermind. A wizard of the darkest ilk. A boy with sadism in his blood. A broken soul. A Horcrux.

But Tom is so much more than what she has been told.

She remembers his hands on her thighs, gentle and kind when the world was nothing but shattered fragments of horror. She remembers his lips on her skin, cool and steady as she shuddered, agony crawling across her flesh in blinding waves. She remembers his arms tight around her quivering shoulders as another nightmare chased her from sleep.

His is the root of darkness. He is everything she fights against.

He is the only relief, the only balm against the sizzling agony burning beneath her skin.

He is the boy who broke her mind wide open.

She wouldn't be here, wouldn't know herself without him. Without the vicious conviction he demonstrated during his implementation of the Cruciatus Curse. She knows better than to call what he did cruelty. She begged him. Because even as broken as she was, she knew only he had the control and the motivation to dig deeply into her mind. To crack her open with the precision of a scalpel and the force of a jackhammer. She knows he brought almost all the reserves of his magic to bear on her mind. She also knows he found exactly the right point to press, the right trigger to begin the cascade of memories through her addled mind.

Tom knew her well enough to begin with magic and its allure, not the faces she'd come to hold dear. She didn't come back because she loved Harry. She came back because she craves magic.

And Tom knows it.

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, but she sees his face, his luminous eyes wide with unfettered empathy. Her hands shake. She is utterly unprepared for him.

"You need any help?"

She jumps, vials clanking on the counter top.

Malfoy stands at the entrance to the kitchen, hands tucked into jeans pockets, gray eyes wary.

Hermione takes a breath to compose herself. She's interacted with Malfoy daily and she finds her initial ire has faded. He has changed beyond the shadow of doubt. He may be entangled with Tom—she really doesn't want to imagine how that affair started—but his desire to help the Order is genuine.

She sometimes thinks Malfoy cares more for Harry than she does. It isn't strictly true, Hermione has loved Harry since she was just a girl, but it isn't entirely false. Harry may have broken his heart, but it wasn't through any deliberate action. Hermione was given no such respite.

"Sure." She motions toward the vials that need filling. She's deliberately avoided making or consuming any dreamless sleep potion. She knows exactly what hole she fell into when she swore off Tom earlier in the summer. She never expected to find herself at the bottom of that particular chasm, but she knows better than to continue falling. The withdrawal symptoms are horrible—shaking hands, vivid nightmares—but she has enough control over her mind to weather them now. And while she still craves Tom, reality has made such comfort impossible.

Malfoy slips into the space next to her easily. She no longer feels any urge to shy away. It's one of the many advantages of having full reign of her own mind. She understands what happened to her is limited to the context of imprisonment and torture. She is by no means over the abuse, but it has been contextualized. She no longer sees monsters in every man.

But neither is she interested in letting one explore her body anytime soon. She still cannot quite imagine returning to that level of intimacy. She has the saccharine memories of her time with Harry to counteract the dark terror of the dungeons, but it will take much more than that to help her mend.

"I'm delivering another round to Harry on Friday," Malfoy murmurs as he caps an ampule of skelegro.

Hermione side eyes him. "And?"

He huffs, platinum bangs blowing off his brow with the force of his exhale. "He's going to ask about seeing you."

"Does he know I have my memory back?"

Malfoy nods. "I couldn't keep that from him"

"Of course not," she mutters darkly. He casts her an aggrieved look. He's right, she's being unnecessarily nasty. "Sorry. I just can't imagine talking to him."

"He feels awful about what he did."

Hermione's brows climb. "He told you?"

"At some point while you were captured, Potter and I stopped hating each other. Don't worry, it's weird for me too."

Hermione switches to bottling the invigoration draught. "How could you hate him and love him?"

Malfoy turns his head very slowly to stare at her. A single pale brow rises and his lips quirk in silent amusement. "I think you might want to ask yourself the same question."

He's not referring to Harry. Hermione gives him the foulest look she can summon. "Fuck off, Malfoy."

"Gladly, once you agree to let Harry see you."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

Malfoy sets down his ladle and vial and shifts to face her. His hip bumps into the counter and his arms cross over his broad chest. "Look Granger, I know you have unpleasant history with Potter, but we're in the middle of the fight of our lives. We can't afford to let petty personal feelings cloud our judgment when it comes to the bigger picture."

He pauses and Hermione feels her defiance wilting. "It's not just Potter," he continues. "You have to get over whatever this is with Tom. We need both of them to take down the Dark Lord. I'll be the first one to admit I'm in way over my head. I can't even begin to name whatever the hell it is Tom and I are doing, but I'm not about to let that stop me from doing what's necessary. And what's necessary is bringing the two of them together. Only with their combined power and knowledge do we have any hope of coming out of this alive. And I may still be a bloody coward for it, but I want to survive this war."

He isn't the boy too scared to let her out of her cell. Not anymore. There's fire within the storm of his eyes, a conviction she didn't realize she lacked until she heard him speak. She's been so lost in her own head, in her own emotions, that she's lost sight of the goal. And Malfoy is right, the only goal that matters is Voldemort's destruction.

"Fine," she agrees, "I'll see Harry."

"Thank you."

She wants to thank him for forcing her eyes open, but they no longer have that type of relationship. She contents herself with extending the next vial to him. Malfoy takes it and they work in quiet silence, content to focus on the task at hand.

"Hello, Herbert"

Draco peers at the elderly gentleman from behind Tom's shoulder. The man is unassuming, his shoulders slumped with age and his eyes clouded. His grey hair sticks up in tufts and his flannel shirt sports a variety of grimy stains.

At the sound of Tom's voice he freezes in place. His hands tremble against the countertop, a skittish clacking that chills Draco.

"It can't be," the man breathes, barely audible in the empty shop.

Tom waves a hand and the front door crashes shut, the lock turning.

They're somewhere in Killarney, Ireland. Draco didn't pay much attention as Tom led him through the streets of the city center. All Draco knows is that this man has something they need, something that will help Tom eliminate the Dark Lord and regain his soul.

"Did you miss me, Herbert?"

The clacking turns frantic. The man squints in their direction, but it's clear his vision isn't up to the task.

Tom lets out the cruelest chuckle Draco has ever heard escape his lips. "Do you need me to come closer, old man? Perhaps it would help if you got to feel me instead."

The dark boy steps slowly closer, the sound of his footfalls unmistakable. Draco stays put. He has no idea what Tom is up to, but he's starting to suspect he wants no part in it. The man—Herbert—doesn't move beyond the tremble of his fingers against the wood. He clearly recognizes Tom. And he understands just how dangerous the dark figure advancing on him can be.

"It's impossible," he whimpers to himself.

Tom stops. The sales counter separates them, but all of them know it's no impediment to Tom.

"I left something with you, Herbert, and I've come to collect."

Herbert does nothing but tremble. Tom sighs and it's a promise Draco can't pretend to misunderstand. A wave of his—actually Draco's—wand has the countertop exploding into a mess of sawdust and glittering crystal.

"If you'll recall, I'm not the most patient," Tom drawls. He sounds exactly like the Dark Lord in this moment. Draco's feet begin to shuffle toward the door before he even

knows he's moving. He forces his body still. This is a side of Tom he has always suspected, but never witnessed. It is the irrefutable proof that he and the Dark Lord are made of the same ilk.

Tom stands before the shattered old man. His cloudy eyes search Tom's face, finally able to make out the details of his appearance. The man's breath hitches and his head shakes feverishly. He repeats, "not possible," under his breath, like it will ward away the evil apparition standing before him

But Tom isn't a ghost. He traces a line down the side of the man's face with the tip of his dark wand. Herbert emits a panicked whine. Tom laughs, dark as ichor.

"I can see you're going to need some persuasion. Some proof that I am truly here." Tom stoops until his mouth hovers near the old man's. "This ought to remind you."

Draco starts, as if slapped, when Tom's lips capture the man's. It's disconcerting to watch, Tom's unblemished skin discordant against Herbert's age-ravished visage. For a half second, it's nothing but the simple brush of lips, but then the old man's fingers rise, snarling into Tom's ebony curls.

Their lips move together in earnest and it takes everything in Draco not to look away. Whatever is playing out in front of him is more than a young man opening his mouth for an elderly gentleman.

Tom lets the kiss evolve, begin to burn, before he rips away. Although his lips are swollen, no flush of arousal colors his pale cheeks. This kiss was a weapon. Draco wishes he understood its purpose.

Herbert lets out a pathetic whine and his gnarled fingers reach for Tom. The brunette easily shies out of his reach.

"Now it's time to return what's mine."

"How?" Fear still coats the word, but Herbert no longer quivers.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Tom evades, lips pressing into a thin line. His patience is waning again.

The man traces hand across the sleeve of Tom's leather jacket. "It's been half a century, Tom, and you haven't aged a day."

"I can't say you've fared the same, Herbert."

The old man sighs. "I was some years older than you even then, my boy, but the fountain of youth you've found seems to have eluded me." He squints as he surveys Tom through drooping eyes. "I always wondered what became of you. I heard rumors, of course, of some dark wizard consuming Tom Riddle, but I couldn't believe them. You were too bright a star to end up as a maniacal monster like You Know Who."

Draco does his best to stifle the snort that threatens to escape. Tom Riddle is exactly the monstrous sort to end up as a madman. But it's best if this man doesn't make the connection.

Tom gives a noncommittal hum and crosses his arms. "I'm not here to reminisce about the past, old man. I want my dagger."

"Would you believe me if I said I lost it?"

"You have it upstairs in a sealed crate under your bed."

Herbert sighs, gnarled fingers tugging at white tufts. "You were always far too skilled at Legilimency than was good for you."

Tom grasps his wand, the ornate wood dancing through his fingers as he twirls it. "You're stalling. I don't appreciate it."

"Fine, send your boy to fetch the crate. The protection charms are only triggered by opening it, not moving it."

It takes Draco a moment to realize the man is referring to him. He glances at Tom, brows raised. The dark boy gives a curt nod.

Draco takes a deep breath as soon as he's out of sight. He's not sure why he's so agitated by the sight of Tom and the other man, but the entire encounter has him on edge.

It isn't jealousy. While the kiss he witnessed was jarring, he never had any doubt Tom wielded it as tool. Perhaps it's the reminder that Tom has left a long string of shattered hearts in his wake, that seduction is one of his primary instruments of manipulation.

Draco isn't an idiot. He knows he walks a fine line with Tom, the power in their relationship tipping precariously far from him at times. But he isn't the boy hiding in his bedroom at the Manor and Tom isn't the ruthless tyrant who tore his way through the world until he became the Dark Lord.

Hermione Granger has happened to Tom. Life has happened to Draco.

He isn't sure what to expect when he returns with the carved cedar box. Tom is still perfectly capable of destruction when he feels inclined to it.

But the dark boy merely sits next to the old man, their heads bowed in conversation. Draco releases a breath and sets the box on a vacant stool—the remains of the countertop crunch beneath his feet.

"Open it," Tom orders.

For a moment it seems Herbert might protest, but at last he sighs and mutters an incantation Draco has never heard. Nothing happens. The man harrumphs, shaking his head. "Can't forget the blood."

He reaches down and pricks a finger on a crystalline shard that lodged in his flannel shirt. Then he presses the blood to the lock of the crate and repeats the incantation. This time there's an audible click and the lid swings open of its own accord.

Draco edges closer to see what lies within. Tom is faster, his hand snaking forward to grab the hilt of a simple dagger. It's the palest silver Draco has ever seen, clearly more than mere metal. Tom rotates his wrist and the blade hisses through the air, singing as it moves.

Draco blinks, eyes wide. Tom spins the dagger easily within his grip, the wickedly sharp blade flashing. Draco has never seen him with any weapon but a wand, but he moves with a grace that indicates hours of practice or significant natural ability.

"Thank you."

It is the first time Draco has heard those words leave Tom's lips. Herbert merely smiles wistfully. "It has been so long, Tommy, it's truly good to see you."

Tom pulls a plain scabbard from the box and sheaths the dagger. "It is a pity you can't live to tell the tale, Herbert. You have always been so useful to me."

Draco catches Tom's arm and steely eyes slide to him. "It's no use, Malfoy. This isn't negotiable."

"You could erase his memory," Draco hisses, the thought of another death bringing on a wave of nausea.

"I'm fairly certain I can reverse my own memory charm with ease."

Tom has an unfortunate point. "I could do it."

"No offense, Malfoy, but you're no match for me."

Draco would be insulted if Tom weren't right. He's incredibly skilled at occlumency—Snape made sure of it—but that doesn't extend to other forms of mind control. And they're playing with fire here. They can't risk the Dark Lord becoming aware of this outing, let alone Tom's existence.

This leaves them with only the most ruthless choice.

"I'll do it."

Wide azure eyes snap to Draco. It is the most emotion Draco's seen from Tom all day. "What?" he asks, voice climbing an octave.

It's the logical solution. Avoiding any dark deeds is the best way to ensure Tom doesn't slip further toward the edge. And the other boy is only useful to them with what little remains of his soul intact. Killing Herbert—clearly his former lover—isn't going to do his soul any favors.

But the man means nothing to Draco. And one more death isn't going to alter his trajectory. He doesn't want to do it. He would rather do literally anything else, but he's begun to understand how the world works. Each choice has a cost and he is finally willing to pay the price for making his own decisions.

Herbert is disturbingly silent, as if he knows his fate was sealed the moment they entered his shop. Draco doesn't look at him. He can do this, but not if he allows himself to feel. He must remain comfortably numb as he has on Death Eater missions and at family dinners.

He has plenty of practice turning it all off.

Tom examines Draco, eyes burning into his skin. Whatever he finds there is satisfactory. He turns away and cups the old man's cheek. He presses his full lips to the man's temple and steps away.

"I am truly sorry it came to this."

Herbert lets out a rough chuckle. He does not plead for his life. Nor does he shy away from Draco as he steps forward.

"I always suspected you'd be the death of me, Tommy. I'm just glad I got a few good years in before it happened."

Draco's fingers clench McNair's wand. It hums a discordant note. It would be much simpler if he still had Dumbledore's wand. But he doesn't and he's not about to ask Tom to borrow it for this execution.

He swallows back the shadow of bile that's climbing his throat. He'll deal with that later, after the deed is done. He licks his lips and stares vacantly into the folds of Herbert's forehead.

"Avada Kedavra."

The room flashes brilliant green and Herbert tumbles from his stool, landing with a thud on the planks below. Draco hurls onto the mess of broken glass and splintered wood at his feet.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and glares at Tom. "This better have been bloody well worth it."

Tom raises a dark brow. "You doubt me?"

Draco vanishes his vomit and turns away from the body. "I know you."

The shop's bell clangs as the door falls shut behind them. They don't bother to cover up the mess or the murder. They'll be long gone before anyone realizes what's happened.

Tom hooks his arm through Draco's and leads him through the labyrinth of streets. Their pace is leisurely, avoiding any suspicious haste. They stop occasionally to admire window displays, just two young men out on the town together. Tom's lips find Draco's on a street corner and they lose a few minutes to the warmth of each other's mouths. They are unremarkable. No one suspects their souls have been flayed by darkness.

Draco remains numb through the twist of apparation and the tingle of wards in their cottage. He remains numb until Tom is buried inside him and he can shatter without explanation. Then he falls to pieces. Tom doesn't pick them up.

After, when they're saturated in sweat and sin, Draco rolls to face Tom. His face is bathed in moonlight, his contours all the more arresting. Draco trails his fingers along the shadows of Tom's cheekbone.

Tom's eyes are blue embers as he watches Draco.

"What does it do?"

Tom doesn't ask him to clarify. "It cuts the soul from a body. Or something like that. It's rumored to have belonged to Death."

Draco's fingers twitch against Tom's jaw. He forces them to keep moving. "Do you have to kill the person or is just drawing blood adequate?"

"No idea," the other boy admits. "I've never had the occasion to try it."

"Why did Herbert still have it? It seems like something the Dark Lord would covet." The two were clearly lovers before Tom's soul split into the Horcrux. It makes no sense that the dagger would remain unclaimed by the version of Tom not trapped in the diary.

"I'm sure he knows about it, but his mind is broken. He has forgotten what is important in the wake of his single-minded quest to destroy Potter. He's clearly forgotten the full scope of tools available to him. If he hasn't tried to claim the dagger by now, it has slipped his mind entirely."

"But you plan to use it on… him."

Tom's smile is like the dagger. "Can't keep my soul to himself if it's no longer bound to his body."

Draco tells himself this is a good thing. This is one step closer to victory. But this weapon isn't like the killing curse or even any of the spells within Tom's infernal library. It's greater than ordinary magic. It's eldritch.

He can't contain the shiver that crawls down his spine.

Tom presses a kiss to Draco's temple as he whispers, "I won't let you get hurt, Draco. I promise."

It is the most tenderness Draco has ever experienced with Tom. He wishes he could trust the words spilling from Tom's honeyed lips. But Draco knows it's an illusion. They're still playing a game. Unfortunately, he's lost track of the rules.

"Stop thinking," Tom implores, his lips slipping down the column of Draco's throat like warm honey.

He does.