Hermione awoke late the next day, having not gotten to sleep until late. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up slowly in bed, dreading the day.

Dumbledore said in his letter he wanted her to come in the evening to the Leaky Cauldron – absently she looked at her clock and noted she had about six and a half hours left until she was forced to marry. Life sucked, as Ron would so elegantly put it.

She crawled out of bed and went down to her kitchen set on making a cup of tea and a bite of toast.

That day she went over to visit Harry in Sirius' old house, knowing she'd probably be seeing him for the last time, seeing as she had decided the night before she'd marry Voldemort. Now that she thought about it, her plans were a bit unrealistic given everything, well, everyone had been through and how they would be unforgiving – but she had to start somewhere. As to how she would do things, she figured she would ad-lib it as she went – but be subtle as far as suggestions went, and be cautious – play to his strengths at first, and don't get him angry...she had found out the hard way last year what happened when he got angry – he set Lucius and Crabbe to torturing her through Cruciatrius at the same time.

Harry noticed she wasn't her normal cheery self, but didn't bother saying anything; and that's all she needed. She didn't think she'd ever be able to tell him what she would do, now – now that she looked into his emerald- green eyes which had aged – lost some of their sparkle through the years as he endured pain, suffering, and deaths through Voldemort...

All too quickly, the time came for her to go; she said good bye to Harry one last time, kissing him on the cheek and giving him a hug.

Voldemort was lying asleep in his four-poster bed with a navy blue bedspread...he had always liked the color; it was all he remembered of his mother – a painting of her forgotten in the attic in the Riddle house – she wasn't beautiful – just plain, but she was in dark blue robes, her silky black waves of hair cascading down her back, with brilliant blue eyes matching the dress color, orbs revealing a compassionate, kind spirit within.

Talking to a plump, elderly squib night nurse during the long years at the muggle orphanage that knew his father and was fond of his mother, he found out more...

His mother had been a smart witch at Hogwarts, a Slytherin, a empathetic girl once you got to know her, but she kept to herself mostly and was very quiet; many of her fellow Slytherins made fun of her for her personality, saying she was a disgrace to their house, not knowing that she carried Slytherin's blood in her veins, as would her son...

Once she graduated, she met Thomas "Tommy" Riddle – a Muggle man she fell in love with and ended up marrying, when she was only nineteen...her family disowned her for marrying a Muggle, and people scoffed at her and humiliated her, so she left the wizarding world.

A year after their marriage, on their anniversary, she told him that she was a witch...he left her, taking all royalties, money, and the property, leaving nothing for her.

Having no place to go, she went to a low-down motel, working as a waitress in the motel's restaurant to earn money for her stay. She was pregnant with him – Voldemort – so she couldn't do much, but the man who ran the motel allowed her to stay on board on sick leave as long as after she gave birth to her child she made up for lost time. She consented.

One day, her water broke, and the owner of the motel gladly drove her himself to the nearby hospital. It was a long, painful birth for her, but she refused to undergo medication or go under the gas, fearing it would harm her baby. Just as she gave life to her newborn son, she looked into his blue eyes, much like her own, and for a second or two she saw a vision of the heir of Slytherin, as her son would be – a tall, thin man in black robes, with alabaster skin and a pale, hairless snake-like face – only two snake-like slits for a nose, a lipless mouth and fangs, red snake-slit eyes...what's more, he was torturing an innocent muggle woman, and /laughing./

They say she only lived long enough to name him after his father – "Thomas", and "Marvolo" after her own father – perhaps a last hope at redemption, at seeking forgiveness from the husband who had abandoned her and the man who disowned her.

She had had a rough life that ended shortly, at age twenty. His mother had died during childbirth with him. He felt the guilt weighing him down still after all these years – he knew he couldn't help it, that sometimes it happened, but he still felt that it was his fault.

The summer he turned sixteen, before sixth year at Hogwarts, the year when he would unleash the Basilisk on the school, he found in an old town directory where his father lived.

He remembered going there, seeking revenge – his muggle father who had left his expectant, angelic mother as soon as he found out she could do magic...taking all their money, property, and belongings with him too.

He found the "Riddle House" as the neighbors called it – an old house but kept nicely by the gardener Frank. He went in at dusk, dimming the lights as he went to keep his presence undiscovered. He found his father with a ditzy dyed-blonde woman who could only be his wife, and their ten-year-old child – his half-brother. It was only too easy to cast Avada Kedavra on the inhabitants – kind of depressing really – his father didn't even recognize him – not like he expected it, as his father hadn't seen him since he was but a zygote in his ex-wife...he remembered going in – killing the wife – she was the first he saw – why his father could have happiness when his mother had been denied it all her life – he killed her first. And then his half-brother – who could live in a decent house with his parents together when he was stuck at a bloody muggle orphanage...

And then his father came in after hearing all the yells. His father stared at him angrily; ready to scream for the police or something equally stupid...until Tom Riddle simply said "Do you know who I am?" The man just blinked in confusion. "Do you remember sixteen years ago leaving a woman after she revealed she could do magic?" His father simply opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. The younger Voldemort rounded on him – foolish muggle, yet he was his father.

"You left her a month pregnant with me," Tom said, adding "father" for emphasis. The man backed away – he looked helpless. "You took away her land, her money, her possessions – her happiness..." the young Dark Lord said. The man stared at him in disbelief before it dawned on him. Of course, a month before she told him, they had gone to bed...and the kid looked so much like her – her eyes and hair exactly. He glanced at the floor.

"Where is she now?" he muttered, though with the air of someone uninterested, just making polite conversation.

"She died in childbirth," the sixteen year old seethed. To say his father was unmoved was an understatement.

"Well, she was a witch – good riddance," the man said lightly. His son glared at him, and his mouth upturned in a cruel bitter smile. "When you see her, tell her – tell her I love her," he said softly, grasping the wand within a pocket in his robes. He deftly pulled it out, fingering the wand and smiling. He didn't want to kill his father, but what difference did it make? His mother was dead as well, and she was the only one he cared about. His father was the ignorant idiot who still maintained medieval beliefs about magic.

"Avada Kedavra!" Tom yelled into the night, feeling his power shoot out of the wand, illuminating everything in a blinding green flash of light. There was a rushing sound, like air blowing out of a tunnel, and he lowered his wand to his side. His father fell flat on his back. His face was twisted into a gruesome expression – of shock, and more prominently, of being betrayed. Tom glanced at his father's face in confusion – betrayal? Of what? Not knowing his other wife was pregnant? That his son was a wizard?

He heard the whirr of police cars in the distance – just as he saw the flashing red and blue lights outside the window, he dissapparated, having newly gotten his license.

The present-day Voldemort sighed – it was so long ago, yet he remembered it as if it were yesterday. He smiled grimly; he had never known his mother – if only the painting of her could talk like those in the magical world – except hers was done in muggle paints by a muggle hand.

His mother was the chief woman in his life, the one who he sought comfort and support from, even if none was to be had.

As far as he knew, it was his mother's mother who sent him the letter months ago – it seemed like years ago when he was standing in Dumbledore's office. And now they were to all meet again at the Leaky Cauldron. For what? He didn't see a point to this – she would undoubtedly chose Snape or Draco. Somehow he knew that when she did, even if he threatened the well- being of her family and other loved ones, she'd stick with her marriage; it'd be pointless. And well, he didn't like to admit it, but he felt kind of bad for her in a way – it was just, well she seemed so young and innocent – and cheerful. No matter who she chose, Snape or Draco, it went without saying that the happiness would be sucked out her life as efficiently as it was sucked out of his mother's life. No one should have to go through that. But people did. All the time.

So he'd go only to get rejected – just like he expected. The same thing happened many years ago – back in his third year when he asked out a fourth year by the name of Minerva McGonagall – with her flowing chestnut hair....She just turned up her nose at him, said "I'm sorry, but my answer's no" and went away... He laughed now, thinking of what she had become – a strict old witch who taught Transfiguration, head of Gryffindor house, Headmistress...he wondered if she remembered.

He checked his watch – a Mickey Mouse watch, oddly enough. Sure, it didn't suit him at all, a child's watch (he had it on the last hole and it was still tight), but he had gotten it from the elderly nurse in the muggle orphanage, who had become his confidant when the muggle children made fun of him for his name, for the odd spells when he lost control of his magic, for his small height...it was his twelfth year birthday present and he treasured it still. Only good care kept it alive after all these years. And no one would see it as he wore long sleeves.

It was time to go. He dissapparated for the Leaky Cauldron.