A/N: Trigger warning: This chapter contains the non-consensual rape of a minor. Not in particular detail, but it is mentioned. There will also be consensual explicit sexual content later in the chapter. Please read responsibly.
Chapter 4: A Posse Ad Esse (From Possibility to Actuality)
"Really important meetings are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other.
Generally speaking, these meetings occur when we reach a limit, when we need to die and be reborn emotionally. These meetings are waiting for us, but more often than not, we avoid them happening. If we are desperate, though, if we have nothing to lose, or if we are full of enthusiasm for life, then the unknown reveals itself, and our universe changes direction."
― Paulo Coelho, Eleven Minutes
Margaret was sure she wasn't meant to see.
But she had forgotten her shawl tending to one of the smaller boys earlier that day, and it was a particularly cold evening. Shivering under two blankets, as thin and worn as they were, made her too chilled to sleep. But the shawl was a solid, woven wool in a steel grey that promised some relief.
The older boys had him tied down, his face practically smothered in his pillow. His limbs spread-eagle. Completely bare from head to toe. His body was shivering violently, whether from the cold or fear, as the other boys jeered. Olly Newman approached, with all the gangly awkwardness of a thirteen-year-old just at the cusp of puberty, and scrambled onto the narrow bed.
His trousers were just lowered enough that Margaret could see a pale arse, and then he thrusted forward and the boy on the bed cried out in pained surprise.
As Newman kept going, obviously reveling in the shared enthusiasm of his friends, his movements became more forceful, more confident. "As smooth as butter," he announced to them with a groan, his grin almost menacing in the shadows.
The boy on the bed, who Margaret was just able to identify due to the dark tousled hair and scars on his back from the leather belt marks, was still as a corpse, despite the assault. And just as eerily quiet.
Oh god. He hadn't suffocated, had he? Margaret crept forward in a kind of horrified shock, fearing the worse, but then Newman smacked the boy's arse, hard by the sound of it, and Tom yelped.
She couldn't remain quiet. Sure, she was small for a woman, and there were a lot of adolescent boys around the bed that liked to hassle her, but the clear violation in front of her… Of a boy that was barely eight, if that, with the stature of someone younger because there wasn't enough food, as the economic depression a few years ago had cut off most of the orphanage's patronage…
"Stop! What do you boys think you are doing?"
They didn't stop. In fact, Olly Newman had the audacity to turn his head towards her and orgasm, his eyes rolling as his body jerked unnaturally. Then he stood from the bed, fixing his trousers, and the boys congregated against her, a united front.
Olly Newman gave her an arrogant look, and for the first time Margaret understood Mrs. Cole's desire to smack the little buggers. "What does it look like?" he stated cockily.
Margaret frowned at them all, and edged her way towards Tom. "It looked like you were violating another human being."
One of the boys laughed. An older Elliot Lewis, who had his arm around a young Billy Stubbs, Margaret was disappointed to see. "He's hardly a human being, Margie. Closer to a monster. The first few times we did this Walter's hair caught on fire, and Peter was shoved into the wall."
Margaret's mouth pinched unpleasantly. She had heard from others, of course, about the strange things that occasionally happened to those who hurt Tom Riddle. But having witnessed nothing herself, she was inclined to believe that people were lying to justify their horrible abuses against him. "Perhaps it was heavenly intervention trying to punish you for what are clearly acts of sin."
Newman scoffed in derision. "There is no such thing. If heavenly intervention existed, then maybe we would all have more than gruel to eat."
Margaret disagreed passionately, shaking her head. Still shuffling closer. "We are being punished for the war. Something man created that led to a disrespectful loss of life, and starving is our penance. What will your penance be, Olly Newman?"
The boy's eyes narrowed nervously at the thought, before false bravado once again consumed him. "Rape isn't in one of the ten commandments," he stated staunchly.
"No. But there is an entire bible aside from the ten commandments. Which speaks against rape and sodomy." Well, only specifically against the rape of betrothed women, but Margaret believed in the spirit of the thing- rape is wrong- which should fit in every context.
Stubbs glared up at her, his small, scrawny face twisted in malice. "He's a demon. He deserves it."
Something had clearly happened between the two. But looking down at Tom, still small, and pale, and shivering tied against the bed, Margaret couldn't think of any action that might warrant this treatment.
"He is an eight-year-old boy. Who has to starve, just like the rest of you. Who doesn't have personal possessions, doesn't have parents. You should be kinder, considering. Now go, before I fetch Mrs. Cole and ensure you all get lashings."
They all scampered off after giving her angry, defiant looks that made it clear they did not feel the least guilty. That made it clear that this violation was probably going to happen again. And she was at a loss for how to address it; if she went to Mrs. Cole, the boys would be harshly punished, in ways they may not be able to come back from. Margaret did not want their potential deaths from being pushed out onto the streets during winter on her conscious. Or worse, the matron would excuse their actions due to her dislike of Riddle, and then their behavior could worsen, as they practically had permission to defile him.
She had untied Tom as she contemplated her future actions, tossing the torn bits of rag to the floor, but the sight of his eyes when he eventually looked at her was enough to silence her thoughts. She had expected Tom to look like a victim- traumatized tears, frowning in pain, sorrow and hurt clouding his body. But he didn't look sad. He looked angry. His eyes burned with the intensity of injustice, his fists clenched tightly as he slowly got redressed (wincing in pain, but he refused to let another noise acknowledging the abuse leave his body). The muscles in his slim frame looked tense, as if barely controlled.
And Margaret abruptly considered how powerless it must have felt, tied down and violated. How out of control. It was not unnatural to embrace anger when in pain, especially in this circumstance. But the emotion discouraged her from reaching out. Angry children do not want comfort- she knew now through experience.
So, when the boy immediately burrowed under blanket covers, turned away from her as soon as he was able, Margaret accepted it sadly. She looked around and saw the other children huddled in their beds, some blissfully ignorant in their sleep, but most so unnaturally still that they must know. They must have heard Tom's pain, and did their best to turn invisible.
Silent with fear, not wanting to be a target, the next potential victim.
Margaret left with the disturbing conclusion that there was little she could do to stop the abuse. And worse, she somehow knew that Tom understood that too.
They made their way to the Ministry under the cloak of darkness, and some part of Hermione could not help but compare it to Harry's ill-conceived attempt to storm the Department of Mysteries in her fifth year. Thankfully, with the help of the infinitely more pragmatic and stealthier Slytherin comrades, the ride there was less traumatic than flying over London on an invisible Thestral. Side-apparation and using the Floo still made Hermione fall to her knees and vomit her feeble attempt at dinner, but it was preferred.
Strong, heavily applied Disillusionment and Muffling Charms accomplished near invisibility as they made their way deeper into the Ministry. They all awkwardly entered the lift that would take them to the bottom floor, feeling each other's hands to ensure everyone was accounted for. And then the lift descended, and an odd feeling of apprehension filled the space. It was not the giddy sense of anticipation one might feel starting a new adventure- this was something darker, grim, a wearying sense of responsibility mixed with a healthy dose of dread.
Hermione could no longer stand for stretches of time, and she didn't last until the end of the ride. Collapsing to the floor in as elegant a heap as she could manage, she squeezed the hand next to her to let them know she was on the ground. She tried to breathe through the all-encompassing agony that currently made up her body.
There were whispers, despite the fact that they had agreed to complete silence if at all possible.
It turns out Draco's fingers were the one's she was currently clinging to. "She's on the floor," he whispered quietly, squeezing her hand in a show of concern or commiseration. Hermione had half expected him to let go in disgust or sneering derision, and couldn't help an odd choking noise bubbling from her lips as she considered the invisible boy next to her.
These three weeks had been illuminating. It had become blatantly obvious that she and her friends had oversimplified the Slytherins in a way that was practically criminal. Hermione could now state with confidence that she respected and genuinely liked Draco Malfoy. She already knew he could be arrogant, and exacting, and an absolute smart-arse, but he was also brave in a way she had never expected and willing to sacrifice precious hours he could have spent studying for his NEWTs helping her with research (more than she suspected the bond demanded), and his petulance was still incredibly endearing-
She must have been blubbering all of this out loud, because his hand tightened around hers as he stated to the group, "She's obviously losing what little mental facilities she had left. Far too maudlin for this kind of mission."
Someone laughed, and Harry whispered, "Shut up Malfoy," far louder than he should have.
And then suddenly she was in the air, carried by a pair of strong arms, and Hermione recognized the boy by smell. A garden scent, almost like fresh mulch, mixed with something citrusy. "Neville," Hermione mumbled, feeling for his face, "If I die I just wanted to let you know that you're rather wonderful. Thank you for all of your help, even if you might not know everything about what is going on. You're the best kind of friend."
He huffed out a laughing breath. "I think you might be right, Malfoy."
An even, pragmatic whisper cut through the sound. "We need to silence her. We can't take any chances."
And Hermione, still feeling painfully lightheaded, in a way that felt slightly less tipsy and more as if someone were actively beheading her, leaned towards the voice. "Thanks Theo, for taking the responsibility to keep everything according to plan. You've been perfect, critical and smart and well-read, and I regret never getting you for a study partner while we were at Hogwarts."
Heavy silence for a long moment, as the boy was apparently digesting this information, before Harry stated sardonically, "I hope you realize what a compliment that is coming from Hermione."
A heavy scoff that Hermione imagined sounded somewhat embarrassed, and then someone silenced her. Everyone stepped out of the lift and made their way down the hallway.
Everything hurt.
Hermione thought she might hate the Ministry.
Her head lolled against Neville's shoulder quite out of her control as she peered tiredly into their stone surroundings.
She was rather sick of stone, she thought idly. Or at least how blandly monotonous the walls and ceiling at the Ministry looked. Couldn't they have jazzed things up at some point? Had the Wizarding World never heard of paint?
They made it through the door leading into the Department of Mysteries with little resistance, which they all decided was quite suspicious. By unanimous consent they all agreed to huddle together closer as they tried and marked various doors, looking for the right one.
When they finally arrived at the Death Chamber, Hermione felt strangely energized, the lingering painful anxiety turning into a need, a terrible pull towards the arch. It was strong, so much stronger than her last visit to this room had felt. She found herself half-way across the room before she realized it, unaware of what point she had escaped Neville's arms. She only stopped because there was sudden shouting behind her, and suddenly Harry's arms engulfed her frame.
"Not so fast, Hermione, you're not quite ready."
The time it took to prepare the chamber passed strangely. Her perception was warped as her friends moved around her, and sound was strangely muffled.
Draco Malfoy's voice was warbled as he crouched down beside her. "Here, Granger, my house elves were able to secure some chipped pieces of sarsen from my estate around Wiltshire."
His handed her a small string tie pouch, and her mind restlessly filled in the blanks. Enchanted sarsen, sandstone found on Salisbury Plains and Marlborough Downs in Wiltshire, made of post-glacier remains that had been subject to more than a millennia of regular magical rituals, the same stone used to create Stonehenge. They figured that this stone was the most likely to persevere in limbo, and she was planning to crumble the stones behind her like a macabre version of Hansel and Gretel.
Theodore's voice was next, resonating strangely like he was talking to her underwater. "Here are the potions, Granger. Remember, you will probably need to negotiate with the man. Do not let him take advantage of your kindness or sense of compassion, wait to administer the potions until after the bond has taken place."
The glass vials were strangely sticky as Hermione grabbed them, and she distractedly realized that the glass must be enchanted to be unbreakable and slip resistant. Thank Merlin she was working with individuals that thought to take precautions.
And then suddenly Harry was crouching down on the floor in front of her, and she got lost for a moment looking into his emerald green eyes. "Hermione," he reached forward to grab her hand, his voice suddenly loud and clear as a bell. He carefully curled her hand around some kind of stone, and Hermione started when she realized what it was. Or rather, she recognized the golden Deathly Hallows symbol etched into the top of the rock.
"The Resurrection Stone?"
He nodded grimly, and then reached within his robes, grabbing a painfully familiar yew.
"And the Elder Wand?"
Harry's voice rang throughout the Chamber. "I was worried that you might be not be able to return unless you were a Master of Death."
Theo voice was incredulous. "Are you fucking kidding me? You just happen to have the Deathly Hallows?"
Neville's voice was strong, as if he were directly behind her. "This is good. We were worried that her wand might not be effective in limbo, remember? Or that she would not have enough magical energy to conduct the ritual. Using the Elder Wand, a wand created for the purpose of undermining death, is likely to work."
Luna's voice was bright and airy. Somehow the dulcet tones seemed well-suited in the Death Chamber, amidst the loud whispering Hermione just realized she could hear. "And perhaps the Resurrection Stone could call spirits to guide you along the way."
Theo's voice was an incredulous undercurrent, mumbling and muttering his grievances, "Seriously, what the fuck… he just casually whips out the notorious Death Stick…"
"It's time," Draco announced authoritatively. "Who's going to cast the spell to illuminate her bonds? I'm afraid my magic is not at its strongest at the moment, due to Hermione's condition."
"The bond still hasn't released you?" Theo asked with concern.
"It will," Hermione asserted, trying to put as much conviction in her voice as possible, as if she could will the life debt away.
"It better," the Nott heir stated darkly. "We will stay for a few hours, but any more than that and we will need to return to Hogwarts. You have that enchanted galleon you showed us?"
Hermione nodded.
"Let us know as soon as you arrive, and we will come retrieve you as soon as possible. Ready?"
Another nod, this one less steady. Her head felt extremely woozy. It was not enough to detract from the pain that continued to radiate from her chest out to her limbs, or the throbbing that settled unpleasantly at the base of her skull, but it made it harder to think.
"Singillatim Vinculum Aperire."
This time Hermione thought to identify all of the ribbons pouring from her chest. The broken orange of her parents still made her heart break a bit, but she ignored it for the others. A strong, connected familiar bond to Harry, which made her smile. Obligatory bonds to Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, also strong, as well as Percy Weasley, Lavender Brown, Adrian Pucey and Aberforth Dumbledore. The largest by far was Riddle's, but there were also almost two dozen silver, uncommitted bonds to a variety people, including a broken grey ribbon frayed at the edge connected to one Ronald Weasley.
It was all very strange.
"All right then, Granger, it's time."
And just like in her vision, she found herself before the Veil, stuffing potions and other items in her purse as she tied the Invisibility Cloak tightly to her body. The hood of the cloak fell over her face and her grip on the Elder Wand tightened just as she forced herself to step through the death portal, embracing the sweet whispers of oblivion and the constraints of her own mortality.
It was dark. There was pain. A terrible, agonizing release as her skin felt like it was melting off of her bones, the physical confines of her flesh seared away to display her fractured interior. She was awash in blood during this aching rebirth, the warm viscous liquid choking and binding her limbs... Even within the safety of the Deathly Hallow she experienced this transformation, this unconsented skinning.
And then suddenly she had agency and presence of mind to retrieve to small string bag from her purse, her physical form clearly there but strangely untethered. She fingered the chips of enchanted stone curiously, staring at the light rocks clenched in her pale fist that peaked out of the cloak's sleeves, and dropped one beside her. It failed to fall, no longer bound to the laws of gravity, but instead lingered in the air where she released it.
She took a step away, contemplating the shard. The rock remained.
She released another one. Took a few steps. Released another one. Took a few steps. On and on this went until she had traveled a fair bit, and she observed with overwhelming relief that the stones had not moved, formed a clear path back to the dark doorway hovering in the empty space.
To business, then. Hermione compartmentalized the lingering pain from the fractures in her soul with a great deal of experience, and began to take agonizing steps in the direction of Tom Riddle's ribbon, which was suddenly connected and pulling her subtly forward. Pausing regularly to drop rock shards beside her, placed as uniformly as possible.
She had hoped that the ache would begin to ease the closer she was to the man, but instead the pain intensified, as if his soul were somehow unwittingly condemning her for her actions and able to exact more vindication.
Time was difficult to measure. She had stopped counting steps after the first thousand, and wondered with a distracted kind of gratitude exactly how many shards Malfoy had managed to fit within the small, stringed satchel, clearly enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. As her mind wandered, she considered using the Resurrection Stone, but she had no desire to listen to the incriminations from the War's victims about her current actions. She understood, in a vague, discursive manner that retrieving the Dark Lord was potentially morally reprehensible, but it had seemed so unimportant compared to her ultimate goal of self-preservation, or at least it was easy to mentally file the problem away for an older Hermione to take responsibility for. She still wasn't ready to be that person yet.
The space was empty, but it gradually began to fill with black. The same black sand that Hermione had seen in the mirror, the black granules forming a shore against the empty, colorless nothingness that filled her vision thus far. And Hermione wondered about how strangely anticlimactic her journey had been; with nothing but tales of Dante traversing circles of Hell, or of Hemrod as he approached the entrance of Helheim to guide her, which both contained procedural, almost ritualistic trials and tribulations. She had faced nothing to 'prove her worth', there were no doorways to different realms, there were no other spirits.
Hermione considered whether or not she had immediately entered Limbo, as considering the current state of her soul, it was her eventual destination. Which greatly simplified her journey, but Hermione had to wonder about how… vacant it was. She was completely alone.
The wind picked up the farther she went, flinging the rock shards from the air without care. She eventually had to partially bury the stone in the black sand to keep it secured, and bending over was so physically painful she ended up falling to her knees several times. She noted the contrast of the light-colored stone with relief, but noticed that the sand was gradually shifting and it was entirely possible that it be completely covered given enough time.
She needed to hurry.
It was difficult, despite the anxiety thrumming in the muscles in her limbs, encouraging movement to release the tension. Her body was stiff, wooden, a painful fleshy prison weighing her down and drowning her conscious in agony. She dimly became aware that she was speaking to her pain in third person, attempting to plead with the sensation as if it was something that could be bartered with.
Tom Riddle's stunted form was impossible to see from a distance, with how violently the gusts of sand swirled around her. Hermione ended up stumbling into him before she could stop herself, unable to notice his appearance until she was physically on top of him. He fell to the ground with a painful, muttered cry, the bloody flesh that made up his arms further sanded away from the torrent of black. Hermione stared in aghast astonishment as he stubbornly picked himself back up.
He was more man than monster in this prison, and for some reason that surprised her. He had hair, a jet black color that blended seamlessly into the particles around them, and it fell in a disheveled, bloody, sweaty mess around his face. His eyes were a dark brown, in a shade disturbingly close to her father's. His face was chiseled in a classically handsome way, and he appeared so much younger than his 71 years might suggest. He was beautiful in a way that was difficult to hide, and currently tragic; visible beneath the bloody abrasions that covered all of the visible skin on his body, underneath the twisted limbs, underneath trickles of blood that escaped from his hairline and from underneath the dark sleeves of his ratted robe.
Riddle finally made it to his feet, the appendages barely more than bloody bits of bone and muscle, gritting his teeth as anguish shot across his face. And Hermione wondered at the lack of tears, the lack of screams. At the way he seemed strangely accustomed to pain. She didn't let pity cloud her purpose though- she didn't hesitate to stun him and force the Elder Wand to jut into the underside of his jugular.
"Tom Riddle," she stated as assertively as she possibly could, considering the absolute agony racking her small frame, distorting her voice. She fought to keep the tone steady. "I will take you from this place and bring you back to life, only if you vow to undergo a binding ritual with me as soon as we are clear of the winds. Do you so vow?"
"I do."
Magic was exchanged, hot enough to sear her nerves. She bit down on her lip in her attempt to keep quiet, hard enough to fill her mouth with something warm and metallic.
"This way," she muttered through the mouthful of blood, reaching out to wrap around a mutilated arm. The touch pushed her to scream, but she refused, grinding her teeth as unbidden tears saturated her face. She turned and attempted to search for the gleams of white. Half of the stones were covered by that point, and she anxiously urged them in the direction of the few that remained.
He easily understood the trail she was following, and eventually he was tugged on her arm instead as his height and apparent control over his pain allowed him to spot them first. The winds gradually lessened the further they traveled, but the tension and throbbing in her frame remained. It seemed to take eons to reach the shore, the bitter driving ache making every step its own kind of trial, but they eventually made it and fairly collapsed against the nothingness.
A moment, two. Then he lunged for the wand, and Hermione's high-strung reflexes stunned him before he could cover the space, but just barely.
It was too close.
"The binding ritual," she stated admonishing, and then she began to prepare, easily drawing the exact configuration of runes needed due to excessive practice over the last few days. She did it in the black sand, using the Elder Wand to sketch and connect the ancient symbols, outlining a circle that was only slightly lopsided. A muttered incantation, and the circle and symbols hardened into a solid, glistening black obsidian. Hermione physically dragged the magically prone Riddle onto the newly hardened stone.
"As per your vow to complete this ritual, you will repeat the Latin phrases back to me. Or I shall blast you back into the black abyss and leave you here to suffer."
He had no reason to think that she wouldn't. Hermione had not revealed her identity, as she did not want him to see the way desperation lined her face and exhaustion distorted her posture. She did not want him to know how magic had hollowed her figure, and realize how very necessary his cooperation was. He couldn't have any leverage whatsoever.
She had forgotten about the soul bond that still connected them in the form of a bright silver ribbon, and he glanced down at her name gleaming from his chest with obvious intrigue. "Hermione Granger. How curious."
"Is that an agreement, Riddle?"
He was suddenly vastly amused, and Hermione fought not to feel petulant. "I hardly have a choice."
And thus the ritual commenced. They spilt blood together with a silver dagger Hermione had stashed in her purse, shared said blood through a clasped fist, and exchanged latin phrases. And Hermione could say later, with absolute certainty, that this ritual was the most painful thing she had ever experienced. She screamed, she was sure of it, a piercing screech that ripped through the air, which combined with his agonized bellow to produce something dissonant and chilling.
Her last thoughts were tinged with terror. 'Oh gods, I botched the ritual.'
And then she could no longer think, so overcome with feeling.
It felt like she was on fire, her flesh trapped within a blaze, unbearable heat licking through the skin, muscle, bone, until her very spirit was caught and devoured. The pain was much worse than the Cruciatus, which played with her every nerve, somehow deeper and more visceral. Her very being- her inclination for coffee, her love for books, her fear of heights, her love for her parents, her curly mane of hair, chocolate brown eyes, her very name- everything that made her Hermione Granger was offered like a sacrificial lamb and burned away, no longer hers to keep. It was an offering in every sense of the word, and for several terrifyingly long moments, all she could feel was loss. No longer Hermione, no longer a witch, no longer a she, all that existed was a gaping hole of what should have been but could never be.
There was grief, for that loss, and great fear, that the nothingness was its new state of being.
And then it could feel nothing at all.
Time passed. It must have, but it wasn't aware of it.
Empty.
Space.
Expanse.
Hollow.
Fear. Terrible, intense, gaping fear. Fear of death and eternal suffering, fear of pain, fear of losing control, fear of humiliation and abuse, fear of abandonment and loneliness. A heavily buried anxiety that he was undeserving, worthless, and that he deserved every bad thing that had ever happened to him- he could not fail, that would justify them all, every abuse against him, validate every bit of disparagement, and that was unacceptable.
It was all-encompassing. Engulfing. All he could feel, all he could think about. Just awful, unmitigated terror.
Next was anger. There was righteous rage, the kind that reacted to injustice and demanded compensation. There was irrational antagonism, overreactions that arose to handle the drowning fear. There was fury inspired by hate, but that was also steeped in abuse and soaked in anxiety…
And then little things trickled in. The satisfaction of a perfectly seeped brew. The solace found in the scent of dusty tomes, that promised secrets and escape from the solitude. A healthy appreciation for his Hogwarts duvet, so much thicker and warmer than the thin, scratchy, knit blankets at the orphanage, able to keep him comfortable even in the chilly dungeons during the dead of winter. His fondness for snakes, independent enough not to be a bother and a permanent reminder of how special he was, how deserving of consideration and envy.
And then even deeper. The gratification of a good wank in a shower almost hot enough to scald his skin a bright pink. His embarrassment over the shape of his feet, oddly angled, hairier than he would prefer, which he carefully kept hidden away from the potential judgment of his peers. The way his body felt oddly comforted, cherished after Stella Shaw had the temerity to give him a platonic hug second year during the Hols break, before he had pushed her away with discomfort and anxiety at the uncomfortable feelings, disliking how they made him feel.
Every little thing.
They called him a Mudblood his first year at Hogwarts, something inherently filthy, and Tom had taken it upon himself to present himself as clean and orderly as he possibly could. More kept, more organized, more conscientious than his Pureblooded peers, better, something he stubbornly clung to his entire career at Hogwarts and beyond.
He hid the cutting lashes that permanently scarred his back from Mrs. Cole's affinity to leather and overenthusiastic thrashings with a glamor charm he had permanently tattooed into his skin. This introduced to the potential use of magical tattoos and reinforced the idea that they could reform identities and control the chaos.
It had been unbelievably frustrating to try so hard his entire academic career to achieve perfect grades, to act friendly and helpful to win over the esteem of his professors and secure their gushing recommendations for seven long years, only to be denied entry into an apprenticeship or a position at the Ministry due to something as ridiculous as blood status and lack of family connection. The rejection smarted, stung horribly enough to encourage frustrated tears, but he didn't allow himself the weakness. He instead took out his frustration on his peers, the very moronic, undeservingly self-entitled, magically impotent children who had wanted for nothing in their life, and who already had offers to become whomever they wanted. How dare they take that away from him.
Something needed to change. In the meantime, Tom would get pleasure using the very boys that bullied him during his early tenure at Hogwarts. His actions, sadistic though they might be perceived, felt just and necessary in some fundamental way. They deserved the abuse, deserved the manipulation, deserved to feel powerless compared to him.
He had gotten aroused several times when the older boys used to tie him down and forcibly violate his arsehole- not every time, but often enough that he felt contaminated, angry at his shame, uncomfortable in his own skin. Sex as an adult was complicated because he needed to be in complete control of his arousal to feel safe, and witches mistook him for deviant, and their demands crossed lines.
He grew up with the terrible certainty that no one could like the real Tom Riddle, no one would appreciate how trauma and fear had twisted his reactions, his desires, his expectations, installed a capriciousness and pedanticism and callousness that was universally unattractive. He practiced being charming, becoming someone that people enjoyed so that he could further his ambitions, but the knowledge that he was required to sacrifice his authenticity to accomplish such an aim bit into his pride and nurtured his insecurities. Still, better to hide behind a false persona than risk confirming his belief that he was, at his core, unlovable and worthy of abuse.
Another person trickled back in, with the old familiar comfort of a worn, well-loved glove. It started with her irritation with sand, difficult to walk in, coarse against sensitive skin, always burned her feet to walk over. Strange. Tom disagreed with the notion and wondered why the girl hadn't simply stepped into the water, as beaches were where one generally found sand.
Next was the security, comfort, and acceptance found in libraries; it was a warm, cozy feeling that Tom related to with a contented sigh. Then a fondness for sugar quills, a cloying sweetness that melted right onto her tongue, completely bypassing her teeth and eliminating any guilt at her enjoyment of the treat; Tom's face scrunched unpleasantly, far too sweet, his favorite desserts featured lemons or unripe strawberries, something a bit tart to offset the saccharine stickiness.
And so this new person continued to trickle in, just slowly enough not to feel overwhelming.
An inclination towards classical music and jazz because the varying components engaged her brain enough to avoid the boring tedium that other music produced (Tom approved). A complete and utter disregard for Quidditch, although she intellectually understood the benefits of exercise and the comradery of sport (Tom very much approved). A tendency towards the mundane when accomplishing tasks, cleaning, cooking, knitting, fistfights because she drew comfort from the familiar and some part of her was afraid to fully embrace the magical in the unlikely occasion she was cast out (Tom heartily disapproved).
Some feelings were difficult for Tom to handle. Her fondness for her feline companion was permissible; animals had demonstrated a loyalty to Tom that he had been hard-pressed to find in humans. The persevering love for her parents was only palatable because it was tainted with betrayal and diffidence in a way that was almost irritating in its familiarity. A strong attachment to her best friend, filled with loyalty and compassion and bravery, was something that Tom could distantly admire but it seemed artificial, so he hunted down the breaks in her commitment, the fights, the sullen silences, the moments of aggravation and exasperation, because then it was real. Then Tom could accept the alien emotions, knowing they were rooted in the imperfect, that she was broken too.
It seemed important, somehow. To know she was broken.
And she clearly was. The girl's insecurities utterly distorted her sense of self and disrupted her potential. They made her defensive, indecisive, close-minded, unable to form and maintain relationships. And the fear- it dictated her behavior in a way that was easily recognizable. She couldn't fail. Girls who fail don't deserve attention and praise, don't deserve a place in this magical new world, don't deserve love. She must be the best, or she would be nothing at all. And she was so desperate to be good- a good girl. This is why she never cast an Unforgiveable, even when this inability cost her the life of a fellow classmate. This is why she spent so much time acting self-righteous, why she delineated her darker deeds as 'necessary' rather than dark, and Tom found himself chuckling. She somehow rationalized away kidnapping, torture, attempted murder, trespassing, burglary, manipulation of the media, Dark Magic- all to protect her fragile sense of self, because without that, she had very little.
Unconfident about a body and face she had been told was plain, she couldn't masturbate, equally unattracted by herself. Easily overwhelmed by feelings of infatuation, disliking the loss of control, she prematurely ended relationships (Tom could absolutely relate). Precursory letters to Ministry Departments had illustrated how restrictive her options really were despite Professor McGonagall's reassurances, and she coped with that anxiety with contingency plans, desperate to have as many qualifications as possible so she wouldn't be without a job, forced to retreat back into the mundane world (also something Tom found painfully familiar).
And she adopted a persona too. It wasn't charming, she didn't strive to become more amiable. In contrast, she acted prickly and confrontational, as years of bullying in Primary made her sensitive towards exposing vulnerabilities and kindness. She acted withdrawn and introverted, as regular parental neglect and a lack of intellectual relationships isolated her and nurtured insecurities. It made her a pedantic know-it-all, as she was filled with the same need to assuage her pride and prove herself better than those that disparaged her for having the gall to be exceptional.
It took time, two entire lifetimes to be brought to present.
And abruptly, impetuously, Hermione Granger snapped into place and Tom, the neglected infant, the abused and abusive child, the charming, manipulative teenager, the impulsive, brilliant, sociopathic, occasionally homicidal man was recognized as the other and relegated a place in the back of her mind.
She was still completely aware of him. His emotions and thoughts were swirling, just there, easily reachable, easily understandable. But he was now recognized within her head as a separate entity from herself.
It took a moment to adjust, and then to feel things for herself. To become aware of her body, the confines of her flesh. The first things she registered was the absence of pain, and the relief brought tears to her eyes. To finally have escaped such terrible suffering, which had been the entirety of her existence for almost a year. The very next thing that registered was an incredible, desperate need pulling her forward.
Her eyes shot open when her body took a step unbidden, only to see Tom Riddle kneeling at her feet, surprisingly, attractively whole as he stared up at her with a kind of deprived hunger. It made his dark eyes feel somehow darker, and it sparked an unfamiliar feeling of lust to curl warmly in her lower belly. Uncomfortable with the feeling, she tried to rationalize the experience; this was an antiquated marriage bond, compulsory consummation was hardly surprising. It was one thing to intellectually understand, however, and an entirely different thing to feel.
She fell on her knees before him, barely aware, needing to be closer. He was the first to broach the distance, to grab at the back of her head of curls possessively, to cover her lips with his own.
They were rewarded for the action, as magical energy and an utter sense of contentment washed over them, and then a steadily growing fire kindled and then seared into their flesh.
Hermione had little experience kissing, even less removing clothes, and none with actual intercourse but that didn't seem to particularly matter. Magic and his experience guided them, further pushed by her enthusiastic curiosity to feel more. All of the feelings she typically experienced whenever she had been intimate in the past- the rush of anxiety, the fear of failure and loss of control, the shame of her body, all the negative, nasty pieces of herself that slithered out and typically choked her- were gone. Instead she felt saturating need, an unfamiliar lack of self-consciousness, and an even stranger brand of acceptance; this was her soulmate, the man who shared half of her soul, half of her magic, half of her very being, to accept the other was only natural.
She let him take the reins, craving on a fundamental level the release of the terrible pressure and anxiety of always requiring the answer, of always needing to be right, of always keeping herself perfectly regulated and achingly mature so she could exercise restraint and take responsibility in place of her rash, impulsive friends and ignorant parents. There was a power in her conscious decision to submit that chilled her anxieties and facilitated his domination.
It helped immensely that she understood him so primitively. She could feel the echoes of his desire in her head, felt his need to command and direct her body for his pleasure, felt his yearning for her own enjoyment, as he longed for her to like him, love him, lust for him, appreciate him, devote herself to him as he actually was, Tom Marvolo Riddle, a complicated wizard with a complex history, but still just a man.
It was easy. Terrifyingly so. He nibbled on her flesh, and she gasped into his mouth. He bared her body to him, whispering praise as she instinctively followed his directives, "Such a good girl." The phrase made her body flush with pleasure, and she started begging, not daring to seek her own pleasure, but impatient.
"Please touch me, I need it, I need you, need your fingers inside me, filling me, please…"
He awarded her self-control by sucking on her erect nipples and casually inserting his finger into her quim. Her muscles seemed to suck him in, inviting him down further, but Hermione needed more.
"Please! More, more…"
"Such a needy girl," he whispered sensuously into her ear, the baritone of his voice pleasant, making everything tighter. He added fingers, and then his cock not long after, just as impatient and restless.
The joining itself was intense. He was big, and she was so full, almost unpleasantly so. The magic was thick enough Hermione would practically taste the power, something hot and almost metallic that permeated the air with ozone. It played with her nerves, intensifying the feelings, the adjoined need, the connection, the pleasure. Then they began to move, as the desperate promise of gratifying release pushed them forward. Magic heavily encouraged her to mark him, to run her fingernails down his back, to bite almost savagely at his neck until his blood filled her mouth. She was only distantly aware of the fact that he did the same, the slight twinge of pain as his canines broke her skin completely dominated by the rush of endorphins.
They rushed towards a climax, thrusting faster, harder, his fingers wrapped tight enough to bruise but any potential pain was washed away in the drowning pleasure. They kissed deeply, fiercely, the taste metallic and hot as the extra layer of connection made everything more intense.
And then they orgasmed, and Hermione's vision was filled with white as her body contorted. And she was caught for a moment of utter rapture. And for one moment, everything was perfect.
The binding ritual finished with an audible snap and visual release of more magic, like a thunderclap of power. And following the cessation of magical compulsion, the overwhelming feelings immediately, abruptly settled, and the connection dulled to a point where Hermione was only dimly aware of Tom's inner monologue and emotional state. More like a whisper in the back of her head instead of a shout. Hermione felt at odds with herself, both relieved and oddly bereft, before she was abruptly brought out of her internal musings.
It tickled.
Hermione only became dimly aware of the panting naked body collapsed on top of her own, sweat slickening their flesh, because the man let out a raspy chuckle too close to her ear. He raised himself up on his elbows high enough to look into her eyes, and then he raised an amused, haughty brow and stated, "You've reforged our souls. Rather clever of you, given your options. Let me guess… you destroyed one of my horcruxes."
He sounded entirely too self-satisfied for her liking. "I'm not sure you have the right to sound quite so smug, considering how well that went for you."
His smile was wicked. She tried to convince herself that the sight of it didn't cause her core to tighten in arousal, but he must have felt it, his cock still snug inside her. His grin widened. "And you sound rather catty considering how satisfying I know that orgasm was for you. But yes, I am smug. You have no idea how amusing it is to be rescued from Death because the best friend of your archnemesis is your soulmate- only after you have wasted decades of your life in pursuit of immortality, after sacrificing your very soul in pursuit of it, after having ultimately failed and spent time suffering in agony. The fates are clearly fucking with me."
Hermione sighed. "Probably." Her gaze intensified as she regarded him. "And can I just say how irritated I am that 'fate' has so much control over my life? I'm sick of it- influencing circumstances outside of my control, messing up all of my plans. Fate can mind its own bloody business. And prophesies!" She glared into his face. "No more prophesies. They're utter shite."
He let out an amused breath, and whispered sarcastically, "You ask so much of me."
Her glare intensified and he laughed, loudly and unapologetically. It was terribly beautiful.
"Yes, of course, no more prophesies. I'm completely disinterested, no need to concern yourself."
"Well… good." She sighed and examined his face, idly considering whether she wanted to discuss what just happened. To be honest, she wasn't sure she was ready, not without first giving herself time to analyze and make sense of things the next time she had a moment to herself. But who knew when that would be. There were already expectations that she manage him; assertions that his future actions would be a reflection of herself and her ability to control him, that failure would not be tolerated.
Even though it was clearly expected, even by her friends.
Another sigh, this one irritated.
She did not have the patience to constantly mind him. She was a fiercely independent individual, with her own interests, dreams, and ambitions. Her ideal partner, back when she had the luxury to nonchalantly consider such a thing, was supposed to be someone who complimented her. Someone who had their own ambitions, someone she didn't have to mother, someone who she could share her interests with- someone who could support her just as she hoped to support him.
Having just experienced Tom's life, in all its nuances, she realized that he was not that man. Or rather, it wasn't possible with the man that he used to be. But he had the potential to become that man, should he be interested. He was inherently intelligent, passionate, scholarly, ambitious, confident, with applaudable drive- and she very much liked these things about him. His overly obsessive nature, narcissism, cruelty, and arrogance were harder to swallow, but she wasn't exactly innocent of having less than savory traits. She had been known to be arrogant, ruthless, narrow-minded, and judgmental on occasion. It helped, too, that she now had context explaining why he was the way he was; it did not make his actions excusable, of course, but being able to rationalize his behavior was comforting. Knowing that his homicidal tendencies came from a place of fear, rather than any true sadism, meant that it could be conditioned (she planned to mentally tackle and disarm his tragic childhood and the implications at a later date).
So, accepting him and his potential rationally, because she was still unable to trust fate completely, she simply had to figure out how to ensure his cooperation in making some changes. Because despite the potential, things would need to change. Domestic terrorism was obviously off the table. Murder, larceny, torture, terribly obvious political coups… anything that would risk incarceration, really.
And now that she thought about it, if he practiced infidelity she might be forced to castrate him (the surge of possessiveness- he was hers, damnit- was unsettling in its strength and novelty, but she forced the thoughts away. Just another thing to think about later).
It all came down to the fact that she would rather not have his misdeeds on her conscience, and she would not allow him to interfere with her ability to fulfill her aspirations. But how to broach the topic? Perhaps she should first remind him that they are now on the same side and stuck with each other for the foreseeable future.
"For all intents and purposes," she began hesitantly, "We are now married."
He ignored the statement, staring at her with fascination. "You are surprisingly manipulative," he commented instead, casually leaning his head against his propped-up arm. "I hope you don't mind that I was listening to your thoughts; even without legilimency, the bond makes it exceptionally easy."
She shrugged awkwardly from underneath him. No, she didn't mind. Honestly, it would simplify communicating, as she sometimes had a difficult time conveying her intentions and the thought processes behind them in a succinct manner, without sounding pedantic or tactless- a random stray thought interrupted. He was a skilled at both Legilimency and Occlumency, is there any way that he could occlude his thoughts and interrupt the bond's mental connection?
He stared at her curiously for an odd moment, and then suddenly the brightness in his eyes dulled and his expression turned placid. She could definitely feel something change from the back of her mind; his emotions, extremely vibrant in an individual she had apparently previously considered repressed (she should read up again on ASPD and verify the claims) were diluted to the point of almost being nonexistent. But she could still feel them, watered down as they were. And she could still hear his thoughts, a curious mumble at this point mentally reviewing any books he might have read connecting the field of mind magic with that of soul magic. She gathered, based on his mounting frustration, that there wasn't a lot to go on.
And then, quite abruptly, he stopped occluding and his relief was apparent. Interesting.
"You have an extremely active mind," he stated, blinking at her in consideration. "Particularly for a former Gryffindor, but also in general- and I have been in rather a lot of minds. Does it ever settle down?"
She seriously considered the question. Certainly not in the daytime. Nor at night, even when she was attempting to sleep. "Maybe for a bit in the morning? When I am still trying to wake up."
He hummed thoughtfully. "You are also surprisingly ambitious. Minister of Magic before 35? And look at all of this legislative reform you hope to install. More equitable laws for magical creatures. Regulations ensuring due process. Outlawing the Dementor's kiss as a potential punishment. Ensuring Wizengamot leaders are formally elected by citizens…"
Nothing in his tone or wording made her think he was deriding her goals- on the contrary, he seemed somewhat impressed at the degree of her determination- but she still couldn't stop herself from responding defensively. "I am young, I'm allowed to be idealistic."
He snorted, and Hermione was dismayed to realize that even that was attractive. "Don't do that," he stated sagely, "Don't self-deprecate. It gives them leave to dismiss you."
And here was an example of some of the support she had hoped to receive. She had to wonder why. She knew him better than to think this little tidbit of advice was enough to symbolize his capitulation in her schemes. She had zero expectations that he would ever be obedient to anyone other than himself. So what was this then- a demonstration of good faith?
Compromise. Relationships were about compromise. So, she spent a moment considering his ambitions. Not as the former actions of his past self would suggest; she was able to fully realize now just how unstable so many horcruxes had made him. While he was generally prone to fits of capriciousness, impulsivity, aggression, callousness (all characteristics of a sociopath, some part of her brain checked off, but also institutional autism, she needed to double-check a book at the library), the instability of his broken soul had deteriorated his self-control and amplified said characteristics until they ruled him, rather than the other way around. And she now knew how much he hated not being in control of himself.
No, his ambitions, or at least the core of them. Not his pursuit of immortality, although that was absolutely a goal that dominated much of his life. No, aside from that. He wanted to be in a position of power, because then he would have control, and to be in control is safe and personally satisfying. He desired dominion over others, but that was about being in control too, rather than accomplishing something in particular. Which is why he routinely tortured and killed his followers, despite their role furthering his influence and their designation as pureblood (which should have politically ensured protection). So then, what had he hoped to accomplish?
She was interrupted from her thoughts as Tom made as if to stand. But then he merely picked up her knees and thrust his hardened cock (when had that happened) back into her body, using the additional leverage of his own knees to drive into her. She couldn't help but moan deeply at the angle.
"Is my cock enough to clear your mind?" he asked her smirking, clearly challenging her. Or perhaps he was merely bored and determined to play until she was ready to engage him.
Well, to hell with that. She was stubborn enough to see her thought processes through to the end, thank you very much. So, she raked her fingernails up and down in chest, just enough to tease, and then continued to puzzle out his desires.
He had wanted to teach at Hogwarts at one time; Dumbledore had mistakenly presumed that he was anxious to recruit students, but Hermione knew that it was more about returning home. To a place where he felt safe and superior, appreciated and academically challenged. And there- she found an old, unexpected conflict within himself, between his drive to become the brilliant academic that pushed the boundaries of magic to new heights, and his craving for political power in order to enact change. He had planned to do it with cunning, manipulation and coercion at one point, the hallmarks of a true politician…
For some reason this internal conflict made Hermione feel incredibly close to the man. This very conflict had been consuming her from the moment she found out that magic existed- before, even. And it illuminated something fundamental about herself. The allure of intellectual curiosity at war with her self-righteous need to assume personal responsibility and mitigate lack of progression...
She surged forward to capture his lips, still reveling in the connection, a kiss which Tom rapidly dominated. He leaned back suddenly, just far enough to show off his victorious grin, before he asked, "Is that a yes?"
She nipped his ear for his cheek, then leaned back, making a show of making sure her bare back was comfortable settled on top of the soft fabric of the cloak, to physically demonstrate her nonparticipation. "No."
His face lit with a competitive edge as he manipulated her body, avidly attempting to clear her thoughts. Licking and sucking at her nipples, gently biting the crook of her neck, trying to find the perfect angle with which to thrust his cock.
Hermione smiled at him in amusement, before she came to the abrupt, startling realization that Tom no longer knew what he wanted to accomplish. Not the specifics, anyway. Which might explain why his control over the Ministry and Hogwarts last year had been so haphazard, so obviously decentralized.
This was a problem.
He hit a particularly wonderful spot with great aplomb, and she let out a loud moan. Hermione still had the wherewithal to complain about her current predicament, however, her voice strained, "I don't know how to negotiate with you if you don't know what you want."
He apparently found her frustration very entertaining. "You know what I want." He thrust particularly deep as if to make a point.
She scoffed. "If you are truly inside my head, then you know that is not what I meant. You are getting another shot at life- what do you want to do with it?"
He was silent for several long moments, and Hermione did her best not to listen to his thoughts, wanting to give him the illusion of privacy. But she also had no desire for him to prevaricate or be deceitful… perhaps she could instigate him just a bit. "Please tell me that whatever you have planned will incorporate ample amounts of cunning. I apologize if this disrupts your delusions of grandeur, but subtlety will keep us alive longer."
He laughed again, loudly, utterly amused. She knew because the feeling fairly warmed her from the inside out. "Such temerity. My skill with magic is hardly a delusion, witch."
Well, that was certainly true, his command over magic was impressive, but, "That's not what I was referring to." She had to stop for a moment after another particularly satisfying thrust. "It's the peacocking. Your need to hear everyone acknowledge your superiority. It- dear Merlin that feels good- it makes you stand out, and we don't need the attention, at least for the moment."
His grin was edged with a fainted bit of maliciousness. "And you are any different? As if you don't jump at every chance to demonstrate your competence, needing everyone to acknowledge your superiority in a desperate bid to assuage your insecurities."
Hermione's lips curled unpleasantly, forced to admit, "You're right. And I didn't mean it as a slight. I just- oh fuck-" Oh hell, that felt good.
She just didn't know how to get him to agree to be circumspect. To toil quietly towards his ambitions once he discovered what they were. To curb his bloody coping mechanisms. To work with her- she had planned to offer her assistance in helping him with his aspirations if he could agree to the same, giving them both something to protect, something to be accountable for, but-
"You are not going to let go of this until we discuss it, are you?" Tom asked with a raised brow, but his tone made the question sound rhetorical. Then he sighed dramatically. "Fine." He made to get up, but Hermione's legs shot out to wrap around his waist, keeping him on top of her, his cock still snug inside.
She panicked when she realized what she had done, unthinkingly. Thankfully her mind was quick to decide on a course of action.
"My turn. Please," she requested with an impish smile, but it was mostly false bravado- she was inwardly cautious. Tom himself hadn't figured out how to have a healthy sex life, how to properly negotiate his needs considering his sexual trauma and complicated personality, so she couldn't begin to imagine where the boundaries were.
He considered her for a long moment through dark eyes, obviously shifting through her emotions (primarily lust and apprehension, but behind that was careful playfulness and eager curiosity, and even deeper hope and fear). "Boundaries," he plucked the word from her thoughts, drawing the syllables out like he was tasting it for the first time. And his thoughts broke from the back of her mind and tumbled to the forefront.
He was intrigued. This entire situation was intriguing. He had been alone for so much of his life, very much by choice. Most people were boring, needy, and unreliable. He learnt early that the only person he could truly trust was himself, and he made a point to become as self-sufficient as possible. He lacked any true connection with someone else as a result, as he didn't understand why he should risk codependency and vulnerability. He still interacted with others, of course; while it was annoying to be forced to pander to the mediocre, and frustrating to be so clearly misunderstood, manipulating others so easily made it easier to bear.
But this was a person who shared part of his soul- practically an extension of himself. Someone who was supposedly meant to perfectly compliment him. Meant for him. And Tom no longer had the option of foregoing vulnerability and codependence; she was already aware of all the intimate details of his life, and the ritual bound their life force together. And perhaps he should be angry at such a machination, afraid at the loss of control, but it was working out rather well for him at the moment. His soul was once again whole, and he had forgotten how much magical power he could wield before his first split and how much easier it was to think logically. He was young and attractive again, if her responses were anything to go by, which mollified his pride. He was about to be freed from Death.
And he found the idea that he had a soulmate, someone he could intrinsically trust on some level because looking after him was self-preservation, someone with a fascinating mind and delectable body, someone that was entirely his- he found he quite liked the idea.
So, he was intrigued at what was to happen next. To see if his interactions with her would be any different than it was with them. If sex with her could be different, considering she knew him inside and out. "Always ask," he stated, setting his boundary just as he flipped them, settling Hermione so she straddled his waist.
It was vague enough to irritate her, but specific enough that she couldn't clearly dismiss it. She huffed with a pout as he laughed again, before his large hands started to rock her hips, getting her used to the sensation. He was well aware of her inexperience, and couldn't deny the primal satisfaction at knowing that he alone had entered her body.
Hermione rocked a bit unsteadily, and then with growing confidence when she found an angle that suited her. And Tom began to speak. "I am not an idiot." For some reason it needed to be said, she needed him to distance himself from his previous incarnation. "I realize in the past I may have been unwise and potentially thoughtless at times, but please be assured that as of this moment I am fully in control of my mental facilities. No, I do not plan to go on a killing spree the moment we enter the Ministry. As amusing at that might be."
She had the gall to punish him for the statement by biting down lightly on his shoulder. He hissed in enjoyment at the feeling and smirked at her bravery. Then retaliated by reaching up behind her to tug harshly on her curls, painfully angling her chin up, which straightened her posture and gave him a better view of her bouncing breasts. She seemed to enjoy the feeling, feeling tighter the next time she ground into him.
Good. He kept his hand there, grasping her curls possessively.
"I admit, I am not entirely sure what I want to do with my additional lease of life. I need time to plan and reevaluate my priorities. But please trust that I have no intention of interfering with your plans-" currently, "-and I am not at all interested in drawing undue attention to myself," for the moment.
She was dissatisfied with the answer, clearly able to pick up on his omissions, and she worked through her aggravation by bouncing on top of his lap in a rather delightful manner. Trying to win, he recognized with a smirk, as she abhorred losing or capitulating outside of her control; something else they had in common. It was this competitive mindset that encouraged Hermione to reach behind her and tenderly grab his balls, clearly interested in stimulating him further, but he immediately stilled and grabbed her waist tightly, glaring into her eyes.
"No."
The reprimand was sharp. And she immediately listened, withdrawing almost contritely, clearly upset at herself. She sat there unmoving for a long moment, and Tom used that time to delve within her mind. And he realized she was almost completely encapsulated within his own thoughts and emotions, which might explain her impulsivity. She needed to be brought back to herself, gently if he didn't want to damage her.
"Hermione," Tom said softly, reaching forward to lightly cup her chin. "You want to be my good girl, don't you?"
She nodded earnestly, fragility shining from behind her eyes. It was unsettling. He honestly preferred her brash fire, but he reminded himself that this was temporary.
"How wet are you? Stick your fingers in there, think about it, and tell me."
And Hermione found her fingers circling the edge of where his cock was still snug inside her. She nudged it in beside his prick, gasping a bit at the additional stretch, the burn strangely pleasant. And she felt how slick she was, how warm. She wanted to finger his cock on her way out, but didn't dare.
"I am very wet," she informed him dutifully.
He nodded. "Very good. Now tell me, do you have any experience with mind magic? Have you ever attempted Legilimency or Occlumency before?"
She shook her head. "I never had the opportunity."
"That's fine, we can look into you gaining these skills at a later date. But for right now, try not to pull on our connection too much, hm? Just for the moment."
Hermione nodded, feeling very odd. Her head felt peculiarly full and empty at the same time, like it was stuffed with cotton. She only dimly became aware of her own bodily sensations; the soft fabric on the cloak beneath her knees, the sparse wiry hairs just below his belly button under her fingertips, the warm, incredible fullness deep inside. "Okay."
"Good girl."
She squirmed at the praise. His smile when she eventually found it (rather than felt it) was wicked.
"You want to come, right?"
Did he mean an orgasm? Well, of course she wanted that. She shifted slightly thinking about it, and the pleasure at the movement made her moan a little in realization.
"Then let's see how well you can bounce on my cock. Show me, darling."
She frowned at him, confused by the endearment, but eager to feel good. So, she followed his directives, using her knees to bounce on top of him, and he rewarded her obedience with a heated kiss.
"Very good. Faster."
It was easy once she found an angle that she liked, and her pace increased as she chased her own pleasure.
"Good, good, now tell me-"
She didn't wait for him to finish, muttering needily, "I'm going to come, I feel it-"
"Good girl. I want you to wait until I tell you, okay?"
She nodded somewhat desperately, her breaths coming faster. "Please-"
"I know, just a bit longer," he said gruffly, pausing to grip her hips and surge into her from below. He got in several deep, satisfying thrusts, and then said, "Come."
And her limbs were shaking as she orgasmed, and magic flowed between them, intense, pleasurable, settling the strange feeling in her head. She wasn't aware of much for at least half a minute, and then Hermione opened her eyes and realized that Tom had filled her following his own orgasm, and he was currently cradling her head against his chest.
Suddenly in control of herself, she had to resist from balking at the intimacy. And then she had to fight to resist the panic, as anxiety and fear from her complete loss of control suddenly made it difficult to breathe. Taking shuddering breaths, trying not to hyperventilate, Hermione attempted to relax into warm skin as she rationalized the experience. He had helped, she realized. He had taken care of her. She was still okay.
"Our bond appears to be exceptionally strong. Not that there are many written cases of the Anima Victim still around, but that degree of disassociation you just experienced was never mentioned."
And Hermione fought the strong urge to sigh in relief as she fell into the familiar comfort of an academic discussion. "I think you're right, although the ritual was conventionally considered excessive with how heavily it bound the individuals, so perhaps we shouldn't be too surprised. Although now that I think about it, aren't there supposed to be physical markers? The details in its manifestation were never really elaborated…"
He sent her a crooked smile that was oddly endearing, and gestured to his neck, where Hermione was greatly surprised to see bloody teeth marks. "May I?" she asked, fluttering her fingers about her with curious restraint. He nodded, and she carefully touched the mark.
And then she was swiftly grinding herself against his rapidly hard cock in a needy fashion, suddenly desperately aroused despite the fact that they had both just orgasmed, and she found herself looking into his eyes wanting to please him. "I'm not sure I like it," she confessed, even as she tightened around him.
"You were the one to pick the ritual," he reminded her with a thrust. Then he abruptly flipped them so he was on top of her again, and the depth of his thrusts increased. They both moaned in approval.
She shrugged, unsure how to explain that any option seemed grand when they had concocted this plan, given how excruciating the pain was.
"I think it's ironic," Tom continued, before he curiously touched her own bite mark glistening red at the junction by her throat. His resounding moan and deprived kisses up her abdomen towards her breasts interrupted his train of thought for several minutes, before he continued to speak in breathy whispers. "It's ironic that you all plotted to trap me, and you forgot that in doing so you were trapping yourself."
"Doesn't feel like a trap," she admitted, gifting him a sweaty smile just before she smoothly bent up to cover his lips.
"I agree," he muttered in between kisses.
It took awhile for them to collect themselves, curiously tasting and touching everything just to be thorough. An additional two orgasms later they stood and dressed haphazardly, after Hermione retrieved a suitable outfit for Tom from within her bag. Her trusty purse that was forever stocked with every essential and never left her side. Then they began their walk back to the doorway, easily following the light-colored, levitating shards of rock. It was a surprisingly peaceful journey, the ease and satiation from the ample sex relaxing her anxiety and calming the almost manic outpouring of thoughts.
They simply existed, together. It was oddly freeing.
When they finally made it to the dark doorway, Hermione recovered the Resurrection Stone from her purse and attempted to wrap the Invisibility Cloak around them both (which they could only accomplish if he held her snug against his chest, which made walking forward rather awkward). After a brief discussion they both agreed to hold hands, sharing the Resurrection Stone in their left, and holding the Elder Wand together with their right. They then shuffled together through the doorway.
There was no dramatic feeling of 'passing' this time. One moment they were in limbo, and the next they were standing on the other end of the archway.
The Death chamber was empty, and the whispers in the doorway were silent. Remembering Theo's instructions, she used the Galleon to inform her friends of her arrival, before she used the Elder Wand to cast a Disillusionment Charm over her body. She separated from Tom's warmth with a bereft sigh and bound forward towards the door.
"Come on," she called out absentmindedly behind her, her mind busy puzzling out the logistics of their escape.
They had tried various doors in their attempts to exit the Department, and couldn't resist their curiosity to carefully inspect each one. That is how they eventually found themselves in a large office that was curiously devoid of anything remotely magical. Tom reached over to pluck the Elder Wand from her hands and cast a variation on the Lumos charm that easily lit the room in a warm, orange light. And what they found was rather disturbing.
The great problems of the Wizarding World were carefully illustrated on the walls in what looked to be a collage of photographs, haphazard personal notes on torn pieces of parchment, arithmancy reports, graphs dictating trends, and interoffice memos. They were connected through different colored strings, and Hermione and Tom stepped closer together attempting to make sense of it.
One wall was titled 'Population Dilemma'. Dismal projected numbers were listed and graphed on the number of future births predicted for Wizarding Britain. Variables were included, which displayed a stark rise in infertility and the number of squibs due to an overexposure of Death Magic during combat, and the population's sudden lack of genetic variation following the war; partially due to the death of magical folk and partially due to the alienation of Muggleborns that ultimately decided to leave the magical community. Other factors included a rise in financial instability due to the economic recession, political polarization that would segregate potential spouses, and the Pureblooded preoccupation with conceiving male heirs. A list of potential solutions was stapled to the wall nearby, but they were all horrifying.
Collecting the genetic material of Azkaban inmates as a means of increasing genetic diversity and guaranteeing the continuation of several Houses. A question underneath this solution even went so far as to suggest conjugal visits for the prisoners who wished to procreate while serving time.
One person suggested collecting the hair of the fallen, adding it a Polyjuice, and then collecting their semen and eggs in another desperate bid towards genetic variability.
And finally, they had magically attached an extremely old document outlining the existence of a Marriage Law used several centuries ago, in which single individuals in the community were forced to join and procreate or risk being exiled. They had considered different ways to match people, up to and including Arithmantic calculations, Amortentia fumes, genetic compatibility, and even asking a professional Seer to come and make pairings for them.
Completely aghast, Hermione found herself reaching for Tom's hand without realizing it, suddenly needing the comfort. "I'm suddenly extremely relieved to find myself already married," she whispered to him, shaking her head in distress.
His tone was similarly disquieted. "I had no idea the numbers were this bad."
Hermione shrugged, her grip on his hand still tight. "War has consequences. Come on, let's go check out that wall over there."
This wall was clearly devoted to the recession. A list of businesses that were established in Diagon Alley, another for Knockturn Alley, Hogsmeade, and half a dozen other wizarding villages in Britain. There were marks beside the names, labeling which operations had closed down due to the war, which individuals were now unemployed, and which magical products or supplies were now at risk. It was extremely comprehensive. It also contained information about the Ministry's current international trading partners, and which countries had imposed sanctions due to the war. Finally, there were projections that reflected the discussion she had shared with her friends at the Slytherin table- the high unemployment, the lack of Ministry funding, eviction rates, and how raising taxes might influence said variables. The trends were not optimistic.
It gave her an idea.
"Tom," she said distractedly, ignorant of the way his face scrunched up a bit at hearing his name. She looked up, noticed his expression, and rolled her eyes at him. "Tom," she repeated again, more firmly, "I have an idea."
He looked at her expectedly, and she started to ramble. "I received a fair bit of money from my Order of Merlin," she grinned at him, thinking about the cause. "Rather shortsighted of the Ministry to hand those out before fixing their financial concerns, but I digress. I also sold my parent's dental practice when I sent them to Australia. I'm not particularly wealthy, but it should be enough to invest in several potential entrepreneurs." She withdrew a piece of parchment and a pen from her purse, and began writing down the names of supplies and products that had predicted shortages. "If we were somehow able to provide these products or materials," she waggled her pen at the list, "We should be able to help stimulate the economy, fill in production gaps, and make a sizeable amount of money while doing so."
She shot him a smirk of her own. "Wouldn't it be nice to have your own wealth rather than have to pander to all of those self-entitled prats?"
His smile as he regarded her was obviously intrigued. "I can see the benefits. The lack of international support means that potential businesses, particularly local ones, will have little financial resources outside of Gringotts, where it is notoriously difficult to obtain starter money. We could administer loans to those businesses that are on the cusp of closing as well." His smile widened. "We could have a rather sizeable network if we play our cards right, and our status as investors means we would have a certain amount of power over how the business is operated."
Their shared grins were conspiratorial, before Hermione remembered something and frowned. "Gringotts is going to be a problem. We've both stolen from them, and the goblins do not take well to thieves. But it is not as if we have another option."
"We would have to make reparations in gold to smooth over the blunder, as it were."
She snorted at the idea- she hardly had enough wealth to cover the potential loss of business that incurred as a result of their damaged reputations.
"Or we could found our own financial institution," she spoke the words at length, carefully measured, which was a direct contrast to her rapidly firing brain. "They would flock to our business first out of desperation from the recession, but that could give us a foothold towards gaining a positive reputation and trust within the community. We couldn't hold entire vaults of wealth, but we're not looking to cater to the wealthy. And I'm sure we're both resourceful and intelligent enough to come up with clever and innovative ways to prevent thievery."
His Cheshire grin was wide as he looked at her. "Surprisingly ambitious," he stated instead.
She flipped her hair and sniffed at him. "Slytherins hardly hold a monopoly over the trait, you know. Come on, let's go check out that last wall."
The last wall was the least organized by far, and the most potentially disturbing. This Department had been keeping up with the inflammatory articles, and the potential ramifications. They had listed different factions and the likelihood of domestic terrorism was assigned to each. Former Death Eaters and those with connected ties were deemed the most likely. But far more concerning than that, Unspeakables had apparently located damage in the local ley lines, purposeful destructive damage that threatened the sanctity of all living magical beings in the surrounding area. This organization, whomever they are, was clearly only interested in one thing; watching everything burn.
The Department had been mildly successful in mitigating the damage, and they now kept around the clock guards. But-
"This will hardly be enough to deter them," Tom stated with a frown. He looked back at the list of potential perpetrators. "And their investigation is off. There is no way that any Pureblooded families would purposely sabotage the ley lines and risk their personal and familial magic."
Hermione nodded, fingering an aerial view picture of a local ley line. All she could see was forest, an exceptionally old one with towering canopies. "My friends and I discussed the likelihood that this was the work of disgruntled Muggleborns. Tortured, incarcerated, rejected from the magical world. They might have cause to disrupt magic, a 'if I can't have it than neither can anyone else' kind of mentality. But I'm not sure where they would have learned how to disrupt such old magic, or discovered where the ley lines even were."
Tom considered that for a long moment. "I suppose it's possible. Whoever did this had allies," he gestured towards the news articles, "Or is blackmailing the media. Which still points at some level of interaction with the magical community."
"Hmm." She paused for a moment, attempting to write down key details from the walls, anything she felt the inclination to investigate later. She was interrupted by a burning sensation around her chest, and yanked the chain on her necklace up to retrieve the warm Galleon. She looked at the message on top. "They're here. Come on, let's find a way out of this Department. We can discuss everything in more detail after we return to Hogwarts."
He looked excited at the idea. It was oddly endearing, and Hermione couldn't help but smile at him.