Disclaimer: All you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling

Summary: In the bowels of the Ministry of Magic is hidden the biggest enigma of the wizarding. No, it is not some weapon, or a spell or even a secret doorway to other words. It's a simple golden goblet with the power to find soul-mates. And every week it produces a list of names, creating a tight contract between the soul-mates and itself. A contract so powerful that breaking it will cost your magic or ever your life.
So what happens when the day after her seventeen birthday, Ivy Potter's name is called out, matched to the one and only Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Slytherin? Hell breaks loose, of course.

Rating: M
Main pairing: Fem!Harry/ Tom Riddle
Warnings: Mentions of abuse, violence, sexual situations

Saints and Sinners
Chapter 5
Revelation

A knock on the door startled Ivy from her brooding.

After the rest of the Order had arrived, they'd spent hours interrogating her about the meeting, dissecting every word spoken for hidden meanings and traps. Some of them were outraged by her choice to remain the active leader of the Order, fearing her proximity to the Dark Lord would lead to the exposure of their plans. It grated, that they believed her irresponsible enough or maybe stupid enough not to consider the risks and her ability to prevent information leakage before making such decision. As if she hadn't spent countless sleepless nights making plans and finding ways to forward Dumbledore's agenda.

And the announcement of the ceasefire caused even more disruption among the ranks, eventually escalating to a full blown screaming match between herself and surprisingly – or not- Ron. Honestly, sometimes Ivy believed her friend was more of a caricature of Gryffindor rather than a real person – brave and strong, but also bull-headed and loud, more brawn than brains. She'd been hurt by his reaction, but not surprised considering how often they butted heads in these manner.

Looking at her friend, sometimes the girl wondered if the Hat had been right to want to put her in Slytherin after all. While she didn't exactly like it, manipulation and cunning came easier to her than most of her housemates, probably with the exception of the Weasley twins. Even Hermione, whom Ivy was convinced should choose a career in Law or Politics, sometimes lacked the needed subtleness to reach her goals.

A snake in lion's clothing, perhaps that's what she was.

Ron and her would make up, the girl knew, as they did every other time. When his temper cooled down and he was able to perceive things more clearly, he would come to her and they would speak without tempers getting in the way. It annoyed her, the way he always reacted emotionally rather than logically. The leader in her saw it as a flaw and a loss, considering she was well aware of the strategic mind hiding behind all that fire.

She had been the same in the beginning, all righteous fury and temperament, jumping head-first in predicament after predicament, but the years and responsibility had drawn it out of her. While still ready to risk herself, she was more prone to stopping and thinking first before barreling ahead.

Dinner had been tense that in night, with high tempers and strained conversations and Ivy had been extremely relieved when she could finally excuse herself without being rude. She'd gone straight to her room, pausing only to snitch a mild pain-relief potion from the bathroom cabinet, and here she still was, hours later.

"Come in," Ivy finally called out when the person knocked again, relief sweeping over her when she realized it was only Hermione on the other side, already dressed in a pair of long sleeved pajamas with her bushy hair contained in a thick braid down her back.

"Sorry, Ivy." The girl said hesitantly, as if unsure what exactly she was apologizing for. "Do you want to talk?"

Mulling over the suggestion over a moment, Ivy nodded. Had been anyone else, she'd probably turn them gently away, claiming headache or a desire to sleep, but Hermione was the only person Ivy could trust to help her make sense of the chaos in her head. And despite their friendship, the muggleborn witch had never shied away from brutal honesty, even if it was sometimes painful for Ivy to hear.

Ivy didn't turn to look as the other girl crossed the room to sit on the bed, keeping her face turned away and eyes fixed on the darkness of the night outside the window. There was a moment of silence between them, neither sure how to broach the topic heavy on their minds.

"You know," Hermione started haltingly, when the unsaid words between them became too much to bear. "When you told me, all these years ago that he had pointed out the similarities between the two of you, I honestly didn't believe him. You see, in my head Voldemort was always this inhuman monster, ugly and twisted and vile, even after you told me what Tom Riddle looked like."

"And now?" Ivy asked quietly, already knowing where this was heading.

"He reminded me of you. Aside from your looks and upbringing, which I admit are eerily similar, you share the same charisma which has always drawn people to you." Ivy offered a disbelieving glance. "Don't look at me like that, you know it's true. It's the reason why so many people joined the DA. It's why the Order have accepted your leadership so easily."

"Easy?" The other girl snorted. "Every single meeting is a battle to prove myself in their eyes."

"And you think it wouldn't be worse for anyone else?" Hermione challenged. "Dumbledore was the only one whom none questioned. Some strife is expected after a change in leadership. And still, aside from matters of age and experience, one thing is true – there is not a person in the Order who wouldn't follow you to the death."

"So you think diary- Riddle was correct? That I'm the same as that- that monster?"

"Of course not!" Hermione scoffed. "In fact it speaks greatly of your character that in spite of your similarities, unlike him, you chose to save the world instead of ruin it. I'm only saying that I could understand why so many people were ready to follow him back in the day. It could not be just the promise of power because, let's be honest, few people would believe a mad man even if he offered them the stars. But the man we met today was not mad, Ivy. Sadistic and cruel, maybe, but I could see it in eyes that he was smart. Frighteningly smart."

"There are but two powers in the world, the sword and the mind. In the long run the sword is always beaten by the mind."

"Quoting Napoleon now, are you?" Hermione snorted, before her face turned serious once again. "But it is true. You should be very careful, Ivy. Mad men might be unpredictable, but intelligent ones rarely lose."

"Just what I needed to cheer me up." Ivy sighed, abandoning her post next to the window to join her best friend on the bed. "You want to stay here tonight?" The plea for comfort was left unsaid but Hermione knew her well enough to hear it. It was something they had often done after life threatening situations, cuddling on the Ivy's bed in the Gryffindor dorm rooms, offering each other whatever comfort they could.

Smiling gently, the bushy haired girl ran her fingers through Ivy's soft black curls, nails scratching gently against her scalp in a calming gesture.

"Thanks, 'Mione." The girl who lived murmured sleepily, eyes shutting against the sheer exhaustion of the day she'd had.

The next day, exactly at three o'clock, Ivy, Hermione and Fleur stood in front of the fireplace in the Burrows kitchen, letting a worried, almost teary-eyed Mrs. Weasley fuss over them.

"Oh, be careful dear ones." She whispered, as she drew each of the girls in a motherly hug (in her worry, even her dislike for the French witch seemed to be forgotten). "And don't forget we are all just a call away."

The girls nodded their agreement, sharing a look.

Fleur had dressed all three of them, all the while shooting out advice on pure-blood etiquette, more for Hermione's benefit than Ivy'. While she too was raised by Muggles, Ivy had the perks of Sirius as godfather, who, despite hating his family with passion, was aware how important appearances were in these circles. So he, with the surprising assistance of Tonks' mother of all people, had done his best to teach her how to act as a Lady of two influential magical houses should. While Ivy herself had hated the lessons while they lasted, now she was thankful for them. The last thing she wanted was to become laughingstock to Voldemort's Death Eaters because she picked up her tea cup with the wrong hand.

Ivy was the first to step through the fireplace, calling out for Malfoy manor as she did. Closing her eyes so she wouldn't get sick while spun through the floo network, she mentally thanked Hermione for the forethought to place dirt-repelling charms on their clothes.

She stumbled slightly as she was spat back out into the world, the heeled shoes Fleur had insisted went with her clothes making it even harder than usual to keep her balance. Thankfully, she didn't fall flat on her face and managed to move out of the way quickly enough so Hermione could freely step out of the fireplace, quickly followed by the French witch herself.

They found themselves in a lavish, but still tastefully decorated sitting room, with huge French windows on one side which gave it light and open feeling Ivy adored after years in a small, dark cupboard.

"Lady Potter," The Lady of the manor approached them, a polite smile on her lips. "Welcome to Malfoy Manor. Shall I call for tea?"

Narcissa Malfoy, whom Ivy recognized from last year, was a tall willowy woman in possession of a certain kind of beauty which most people would categorize as cold. Golden haired, pale skinned and blue eyed she was far from the traditional Black coloring, though the aristocratic features of her face were traits the Blacks coveted and prided themselves on. Ivy could easily see some of the features she had inherited from her Black grandmother mirrored in the older woman's face.

"It would be wonderful, Lady Malfoy." Ivy replied, waving an arm towards her companions. "These are my friends Fleur Delacour and Hermione Granger. They offered to assist with the preparations." If Narcissa was displeased with the company Ivy had invited, she did not show it. Not that she would, of course. Sirius had told her that purebloods were taught to hide their thoughts from the moment they were able to think.

Instead they were all invited to sit on the plush loveseats scattered around an antique looking coffee-table, while Lady Malfoy called for tea and refreshments and sent a message to her husband and Lord Slytherin who were - according to her - gathered in Lucius study.

Once the house elves had disappeared to their appointed tasks, Narcissa turned toward her guests. "Lady Potter, I understand from my husband that you would like help with planning the wedding?"

"Please call me Ivy," The girl requested politely. She did not like the idea of giving Lucius Malfoy's wife the leave to address her so casually, but just imagining hearing Lady Potter the whole afternoon annoyed her. "And yes, assistance would be very welcome if you would offer it."

A house elf popped up, bearing tray with tea and biscuits.

"Thank you, Remy." Lady Malfoy said as she busied herself with pouring the tea like any good hostess would. "And do address me as Narcissa, Ivy. We will see each other quite often, I suspect. Lucius told me you and our Lord have decided on a traditional hand-fasting for the ceremony?"

Ivy shrugged, delicately taking the porcelain cup from it saucer, waiting to see if her Black ladyship ring would react. As she'd claimed her titles the day she turned seventeen, the goblins had informed her of the many protective spells placed on the rings over the centuries. Aside from the light protection and warning charms, the one Ivy thought was most useful was the poison detection one.

When the ring didn't heat up or react in any way to the drink, she allowed herself to take a sip, briefly closing her eyes to enjoy what was probably a very expensive blend.

"In all honesty, Narcissa, I care very little for the ceremony itself, so it was not difficult to yield to Tom's wishes in this regard." She couldn't help but derive enjoyment from the slight widening of Narcissa's eyes which slipped through her mask at the mention of her lord's true name. "I have never been one of the girls who start planning for their weddings as children."

Before Lady Malfoy could manage to form a response, heavy steps alerted that the men had finally decided to join them, before two figures swept into the room. Malfoy headed straight for his wife, an unmistakable tenderness in his eyes when he lifted her hand to lay a gentle kiss on the back of it. The display made Ivy uncomfortable, as if she was watching something terribly private, but a part of her couldn't take her eyes away.

In the heat of battle it was easy to forget that her enemies were people too, with their own families and loved ones.

Absently she heard Fleur take a sharp breath from the couch adjacent to the one Ivy was sitting on, and followed her line of sight, understanding dawning. Tom Riddle had looked attractive yesterday, sitting on the rickety chair in the Leaking Cauldron, but standing up, dressed in simple but tasteful black slacks and button down shirt, he was striking.

Catching his eyes, Ivy raised an eyebrow as she waited for his next move. Lips twisting into a slow smirk, which looked like pure sin, Voldemort crossed the room and sat on the couch next to her, dwarfing her slight frame.

Not one to be intimidated, though cursing herself for leaving the seat open, Ivy straightened her spine, and bowed her head in a light nod. "Hello, Tom."

"Lovely to see you again, Ivy dear." Merlin, even his voice was attractive.

"As I was saying, Ivy," Narcissa spoke up, breaking what had became a staring contest between the couple. "Perhaps now that both of you are here, we might start going through each detail we need to clear up."

The next hour or so was filled discussion of guest lists, colors and flowers with Ivy growing more and more bored as the time went on. What did it matter if the table cloths were blue or green, when she was marrying a murderer? To add to that she was vividly aware of the man sitting at her side, close enough that they occasionally brushed against each other at they moved.

But to her surprise both Fleur and Hermione had thrown themselves in the conversation with vigor, even if the latter was more interested in all the rituals surrounding Wiccan ceremonies than color schemes.

A small, intentional touch on her elbow drew her attention away from the debating women and towards Riddle, who was watching her through slightly amused red eyes. "Seeing as you are not apparently needed," He drawled, "I would like to speak with you."

Ivy's first thought was an outright refusal. They might have been polite to each other but they were both aware that it was nothing more than a farce. Hell, if it wasn't for the damned goblet they would have been exchanging hexes as soon as he entered a room.

But then again what reason did she have to refuse? If she couldn't bear to be alone in a room with him, how could she be able to share her bed and life with the man less than a month from now?

"Alright." She agreed finally, promptly refusing the offered hand as she pulled herself to stand next to him. Even with the additional height the heels provided he was still much taller than her, with her forehead barely reaching his chin. She hated the way it made her feel small and vulnerable. "Lead the way."

They walked out of the sitting room and down a long corridor, her heels clicking against the marble flooring as they walked side by side. A small part of her appreciated the fact that he was taking the care to walk slower, despite his considerably longer stride, but she quickly brushed it away. He might be able to play the suave gentleman all he wanted, but she was intimately acquainted with the monster which lurked bellow.

Hundreds of framed portraits hung on the walls, their residents curiously peering at the pair as they walked past them. Malfoy's ancestors, Ivy deducted judging by the platinum blonde hair most of the people had, with only the occasional flashes of black and brown, which must have belonged to people married in the family rather than born into it.

Ivy almost jumped when a hand wrapped around her elbow, surprisingly, deceivingly soft as it led her down a sharp left turn and towards a heavy oak door. The moment his fingers brushed against her bare skin, her magic seemed to come to life, sizzling in her veins like liquid fire. Judging by the slightly startled look he threw in her direction, she was not the only one feeling it. Usually, she would be glad of any occasion to discomfit him, but this time she was too unsettled to enjoy it.

"What was that?" She demanded when he finally released her, hand dropping from her as if burned. They had found themselves in what appeared to be a study of some sort, with book-filled shelves covering most of the walls and a big mahogany desk, dominating the rest of the room.

Instead of immediately answering, Riddle busied himself with crossing towards a small side-table, pouring two decanters of amber liquid, offering her one. Her hand trembled slightly as she raised it to her face, sniffing suspiciously. It was some kind of alcohol, probably scotch or whiskey, but it smelled richer than any whiskey she had ever consumed. It burned pleasantly down her throat as she sipped it, the taste of oak and smoke and a faint whiff of vanilla exploded across her taste buds.

"That, Ivy dear, was the soulmate bond." He told her, leaning back against the edge of the desk, twirling his own glass between long elegant fingers. "It is still at its weakest stage, considering it's unconsummated and there is no marriage bond to strengthen it, but obviously it can still affect us."

"That was weak?" Ivy whispered through slightly numb lips, trying – and failing – to imagine what a complete, full-fledged bond must feel like.

"Yes, though I do believe that the fact that part of my soul resides inside you is helping it along."

She would have dropped the glass if Riddle's magic had not reacted fast enough to keep it floating. "What?"

There was sadistic satisfaction in his smile. "Oh, didn't you beloved Headmaster tell what actually happened on the night sixteen years ago, Ivy?"

Feeling as if she'd been submerged in ice cold water, Ivy struggled to keep her composure in check as the thoughts flew around her head at thousand miles a minute. A terrible, horrifying suspicion started to take root in her mind. "What are you talking about?"

As if this was exactly what he'd been waiting for, Voldemort leant forward from his position, ruby eyes boring into green as he prepared to deliver the final blow. "You are a horcrux, Ivy." He told her softly, lovingly as if it was a love confession and not a confirmation of her worst nightmares. "There is a silver in my viscous, tainted soul residing tight here." Cold, elegant fingers brushed against the lightning bolt on her forehead, a false tenderness belied by the wicked, vicious thing she could see swirling in his eyes.

Her skin immediately sparked to life at the contact, magic straining in her veins, fighting to bring them closer together, but her mind was too numb to notice.

The pieces started falling together, this little shards of memories, seemingly disconnected but when put together painting a picture Ivy would have preferred to never see.

Mr. Weasley's blood hot in her mouth, coating sharp canines she knew she did not have in the waking world. The feeling of a foreign anger in her chest, hunger strong enough to devour the world.

Snape's, pale, serious face watching her through glittering coal eyes. "The usual rules do not seem to apply with you, Potter. The curse that failed to kill you seems to have forged some kind of connection between you and the Dark Lord."

"I guessed, fifteen years ago," said Dumbledore, face looking more tired than usual. "when I saw the scar on your forehead, what it might mean. I guessed that it might be the sign of a connection forged between you and Voldemort."

"On those rare occasions when we had close contact, I thought I saw a shadow of him stir behind your eyes …"

"A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."

"Can you only split your soul once?" A teenage Tom Riddle was asking in her mind's eye, handsome face set in an expression of poorly concealed greed. "Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven — ?"

Seven. All hidden, scattered across the world, but one hidden best of all, thriving in chest of small baby girl with killing-curse eyes.

How had she not known, never considered- But she had, hadn't she? Hadn't she demanded the truth over and over for those more knowledgeable, instinctively aware that something was not right, that something didn't fit, only to be given the same nonsensical drivel over and over again. Even later when she'd finally found out about Horcruxes the idea had been circling the edge of her conscious, only to be violently discarded. She had even refused to consider it back then, finding it too vile, too terrible to even question it. She had chucked it in the furthest corner of her mind, where nothing but darkness dwelt, vowing to never let it see the light.

Oh, how Lady Fate loved to toy with her!

And Dumbledore, that old fox must have known, known that she would never be able to kill Voldemort, not while there was a piece in her keeping him alive, anchoring him to this world. But that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? She had never been supposed to kill him herself, was she? No, her task had been to destroy as many Horcruxes, to clear the way for someone else before sacrificing herself like the martyr she'd been raised to be.

A pig raised for slaughter, that's all she was.

"Get away from me!" She snarled, a cornered beast, pushing away from Voldemort's looming body and crossing the room to put as much distance between them as she could. It took her a moment to realize she was panting harshly, her hair whipping in invisible wind as magic rose in answer to her distress, searching for a threat that was not there.

Riddle didn't move from his position, his eyes burning into her with sadistic satisfaction as she struggled to put herself back together, to grasp back the control his words had ripped away from her. She wanted to lash out, to hurt him, to bring the whole manor down on their heads if it would be enough to erase this whole conversation from existence. She wanted to concentrate the power swirling around her in his direction, to rip him apart only with the strength with her magic, to make him feel if only a silver of the pain and fear she was going through.

But her magic did not respond. The bond would never allow her to cause him harm and that hurt even more.

"Calm yourself!" A cold voice commanded, twin hands gripping her upper arms and she suddenly realized that she'd been swaying in tandem with the storm brewing within. Her skin sparkled where they touched, raw magic focusing completely on him but not with the direction to hurt, but to seek comfort and safety from what it perceived from its mate. "Calm," Riddle crooned, hands running up and down the skin of her forearms and to her horror she found herself settling down, her heartbeat slowing as the adrenaline drained from her system.

Legs suddenly weak, she found herself leaning forward, forehead resting against his clothed chest as she struggled to catch her breath. She felt tired, physically and emotionally, too drained to tear herself away from the notion of comfort, deceptive as it were.

"Why are you telling me this?" Ivy asked quietly, eyes closed as she listened to the sound of his slow breathing.

"Because I am not Dumbledore, Ivy." He answered just as soft, a hand absently running playing with the wild curls scattered across her back, her magic having ripped them out of her braid. "I do not believe in keeping you in the dark for your own good, unpleasant as you find the truth."

She hummed absently, hating the part of her that felt a spike of appreciation at the words.