Notes: We're getting to the end. It's a darn bumpy ride, but if you've enjoyed it, that's great. Take care in these stressful times.

Part IV: The Void

43. Death Once Dead, There's No More Dying Then

When it happens, it happens slowly and yet all at once.

One moment Draco is asleep, the next Hermione is calling down the hall for him to bring Astoria. One moment life is as it has been, placid and dull, the next it is an inferno of chaos.

They planned for labor, for the long process it takes to bring a child into the world. No amount of planning could have prepared him for this.

His hair sticks up in every direction as he apparates wildly around the country, gathering Astoria, then Hermione's parents and finally Ginny.

It's too many people in their country home. Not because the house it too small, but because it has only ever been the three of them with the occasional presence of Lupin or Tonks at the beginning. The nervous energy bounces between them like a Crucio ricocheting off a hundred Protegos.

He begins to bite his nails, a habit he never had. Astoria closes her hands over his and guides his bloody nails away from his jittering jaw before rushing up the stairs. Ginny sends him a sympathetic look and holds out one of Tom's clove cigarettes.

He doesn't smoke regularly, but he's got to do something with his hands or he's going to bloody chew them off.

Draco doesn't even feel the burn of the smoke in his throat. He takes another deep drag and prays to any deity who will listen.

But he knows his frantic whispers are in vain. They already know the outcome of this day. The balance will be maintained and where there was one life, there will be another.

And it's his job to make sure not a single person in this room—beyond Hermione's parents—know that. Not even Astoria. It's his job to keep calm and usher them out at just the right time, to protect the nefarious nature of Tom's sacrifice.

He claws a hand through his hair and inhales until he chokes on smoke. He should send them away now, before it's too late, but Draco isn't sure he could survive this without the additional support.

So he waits the multitude of hours until the Astoria comes down the stairs with a tired grin on her face and the squeals of new life echo off the walls. Then he plants a kiss on each girl's cheek and ushers them out the door. He thanks them for their time, for their support. He tells them Hermione is exhausted—likely true and that they'll get to see the baby more later.

Astoria leaves without protest, promising to return to check on mother and child that evening, but Ginny gives him a weighted look, her honey eyes sharp as daggers.

"You're hiding something, Malfoy," she hisses, but the words have no heat. She isn't going to push him.

Draco doesn't bother to deny what is clearly the truth. "Hermione will explain when she can."

If she wants. Since the funeral Draco and Ginny have drifted closer while the chasm between Hermione and her former friend has only eased the slightest bit. The truth of Tom will certainly not help the distance between them.

Draco pulls the fiery redhead into his arms. She's stiff at first, but yields after only a moment. "Don't judge her too harshly, Gin. Don't judge any of us. The choices we've made aren't the best, but they're the ones we live with."

The youngest Weasley sighs. "It's not that I judge you, I just want to understand."

"And she's never going to tell you the truth unless you give her the space to come to you. She's been through too much and she needs you to be kind."

Ginny sighs. "I'm terrible at being kind."

He knows. She's a prickly cactus on the outside, but underneath he's discovered the sweet girl he used to see sitting at the Gryffindor table making eyes at Harry Potter. "Just be patient and be there for her. The rest will work itself out."

"I really wish I still hated you," she whispers against his ear.

"No, you don't."

She gives him a knowing glare and he tries to smile back, but his lips won't behave. Ginny turns away and steps out the door. The pop of apparation quickly follows.

Hermione's father is asleep on the couch, head tipped at an unnatural angle. Draco doesn't have the energy to wake him yet.

His boots become lead bricks as he forces his legs to climb the stairs. He has no idea what he'll find. Is Tom already gone? Has he missed the chance to say goodbye? To feel the softness of his lips one last time. Or is there some loophole they've found at the last moment that can prevent this agony from gutting him?

There are voices coming from Hermione's room. He closes his eyes and searches their registers, a sigh coming when he finds a familiar baritone.

Hermione is propped up against the headboard. Her hair is matted into a wild mane and deep purple bruises sag under her eyes. But she's smiling and whole.

She slides her eyes to him as he steps through the doorway. Their cinnamon depths are haunted, full of the same knowledge that coils within his own gut.

Draco looks at the baby in Mrs. Granger's arms instead. The child appears hale and vibrant, its tiny eyes darting everywhere as Hermione's mother coos over it.

Tom steps forward, clapping a hand that feels far too heavy on Draco's shoulder. "Meet Harriet, our daughter."

Draco mouths the name as he looks between the girl's parents. Hermione gives a subtle nod and he knows his suspicions are correct. He closes the distance to Mrs. Granger and peers down at the bundle in her arms. Harriet blinks back at him, her eyes a startling shade of blue. He knows the hue may fade, but in this moment, they are the spitting image of her father's.

"Hello, beautiful girl," he whispers, drawing a careful finger over her brow.

Tom draws her out of Mrs. Granger's embrace, ignoring the woman's protests. He gives the wriggling baby the brightest smile Draco has ever seen split his face. There's no trace of darkness in his azure eyes as he presses his lips to her furrowed brow.

"Harriet, this is Draco and he's going to take care of you," Tom murmurs softly. When he holds his daughter out for Draco, there's no mistaking the trails of moisture cutting across his sculpted cheekbones.

It takes every ounce of Draco's strength to gather the tiny girl up in his arms without responding in kind. He can break down later. Right now, Tom needs the rest of them to be strong.

Harriet stares up at him with her father's eyes and his control wavers. He grits his teeth and looks up at Tom. "She's… perfect."

"I know," the dark boy replies, the most profound amalgamation of joy and sorrow molding his expression.

"I've waited long enough."

Draco whirls, searching for the origin of the unfamiliar voice.

A man stands just inside the door. Perfectly coiffed blond curls spill over the most handsome visage Draco has ever seen. Even Tom, with his darkly angelic beauty, cannot compare. The symmetry of the man's features is exact, as if he is a perfectly carved statue. The red of his lips is a touch too vibrant, the seafoam of his eyes too glittering.

Despite his physical perfection, he evokes only the feeling dread, of a chill that will not leave even if Draco stands within a raging flame.

"I have been more than kind, Tom Marvolo Riddle, and my patience has worn thin."

Draco gulps and clutches Harriet closer. There is no doubt as to this man's identity. Although to call him a man is a gross misnomer.

Tom face fractures into a thousand shattered emotions. "At least let me say goodbye."

"I've given you time for that."

"Then you can give me a moment longer."

Draco is caught between awe and horror at Tom's blatant impudence. But Death merely glowers. "You can say goodbye after."

"While I'm still fully myself."

Harriet squirms in Draco's arms and lets out panicked whimper. He more than shares the sentiment. His eyes lock with Hermione's, confusion distorts her visage, a mirror of his own rising turmoil.

Hermione's mother stares slack jawed at the man in the doorway and Draco realizes that regardless of the scene playing out, he needs to get her out of this room. Now.

"Go," he whispers to her. "Go now. We'll meet you downstairs when we can."

She casts a terrified look at her daughter, but Hermione only has eyes for Tom and his deathly partner. Mrs. Granger gives a trembling bob of her head and scurries from the room. No one pays her departure any heed.

Hermione looks between Death and Tom, mouth a thin line. "What are you talking about? I thought Tom gave up his life for Harriet."

Death's perfect mouth twists into a cruel smirk. "Oh, he did. But you can't be so naïve as to believe I desired his death. I already received his death—incomplete though it may have been."

Draco blinks. Voldemort's death was Tom's as well, from a certain point of view. But that doesn't explain what the man—god?—is talking about.

Tom glares, eyes burning flames, but says nothing as Death continues. "The price of his child was his life." He smirks at Tom, the expression vicious on his stony face. "You see, dear mortals, I am weary. But my work is necessary and so I need to procure a replacement. A life that I can bind to my power to free myself from this eternal burden."

And that's when Draco realizes Tom has never once said he's going to die.

Draco snaps his gaze from the marble derision of Death's sneer to the dark boy beside him. This is no simple bargain. No exchange of one life for another. This is a calculated choice. This is the culmination of Tom's lifelong goal—to conquer Death.

And there is no better way to defeat Death than by becoming him.

"You bastard," he snarls, lunging.

But Harriet begins to wail and Draco stops just short of barreling into her father. Tom's expression is one part sorrow, two parts relief, as if a burden has lifted from his shoulders now that Draco and Hermione know the full truth.

Hermione…

Draco veers abruptly away from Tom and stumbles to sit on the bed beside her. Harriet is shrieking now, but neither of them moves to comfort her. He sees his own shock etched into Hermione. Feels his rage echoed in the rhythmic clench of her hand where it rests upon his.

He suspected. He knew the pieces didn't seem to align, but Hermione? She trusted Tom completely. She thought he planned to give himself up for her. To die for her.

But Tom Marvolo Riddle isn't dying for anyone. Not now and not ever again.

The dark boy—the liar—drops to his knees beside the bed. The relief of the moment before is gone, washed away by the realization that they cannot accept this betrayal. Tom grasps the place where their hands join, his long fingers wrapping around their locked palms.

"Believe me, this is the only price he would accept. This was not my choice."

Draco can barely speak around the vibrating rage ravaging his throat. "But you preferred it, didn't you? To know the thing you most feared would never come to pass? To know you would have more power than you ever imagined, even when you were the Dark Lord?"

"I wanted to make it right! To fix what I—what he had broken!"

"Not like this, Tom," Hermione growls. "This isn't how you fix it." She blinks, moisture tripping over her lashes like water over a dam. "I only wanted you. But I was never enough, was I? This life, you weren't going to be satisfied with it. No matter how much either of us loved you."

The truth of her words echoes in the misery of Tom's silence.

Harriet reaches for her father, wails rising to a fever pitch. Hermione lets out a strangled sob and pulls her daughter from Draco's arms. She glares up at Tom over their child's wobbly head. "I thought you gave me Harriet because you love me. But she's here because you fear love more than death, isn't she? She's here because you found the perfect excuse to get exactly what you always wanted. And you used me, my body and my emotions, to do it."

"No," Tom cries and there's such desperate despair in his voice that Draco nearly believes him. "No. I was willing to pay this price, perhaps preferred it over any other, but I did not seek this outcome. You must believe me. The only truth I know deeper than anything in my soul is that I love the two of you."

"But you were too afraid to love us as you were," Draco says, voice far softer than his raging emotions demand. "We loved you without power, but you couldn't find the strength to accept that."

Tom's hand spasms over theirs. Harriet reaches for him once more, rosy, pudgy fingers clawing the air.

"Please," he begs. "Please believe me."

Draco's heart is breaking in new and horrifying ways. Ways that will never be undone. A glance at Hermione tells him the massacre is not limited to his own psyche.

"God, Tom," Hermione chokes.

"Please," he beseeches again.

Draco sees the moment she cracks, the moment she decides it doesn't matter why Tom made this choice. Her face goes from a study in agony to a landscape of sorrow. Tom surges forward, one hand protecting his daughter as his lips crash into hers.

Draco can't bring himself to look away. He wishes he could be like Hermione, that he could let faith overrule the drumbeat of doubt in his temples. But he knows Tom. He knows that kind of darkness never truly goes away.

But for her sake, he wraps his doubt in sorrow and shoves it deep into the pit where he keeps his most heinous secrets. Where every life he's taken and every scream of agony he's elicited dwell. He will bear it so she doesn't have to.

Tom breaks away from Hermione and presses a fevered kiss to his daughter's head. "I am yours," he whispers. "Forever."

Then he turns to Draco and it's like the entire world—the weight of all that he now knows—will crush him. He can barely summon the will to move as Tom crosses the distance between them. He can't fight when Tom presses their lips together.

His lips tingle—from adrenaline, not desire—as their mouths move together. This is goodbye and as much as Draco might want to tear Tom to pieces in this moment, he is powerless to resist this last kiss and everything it represents.

So he doesn't pull away. He tastes the bitter salt of Tom's tears on his tongue instead. Then Hermione is next to them, her lips at the corner of Tom's mouth, brushing Draco's. Harriet's cries have abated and there is only the slow slide of skin and the mingling of their ragged exhales.

"Enough."

Death wrenches Tom away. The dark boy cries out, his bruised lips parting in dismay. But it's far too late.

The blond Adonis of a creature locks his hand around Tom's neck and pulls the dark boy flush against him. "I see you like to use your lips, boy. I can finish our bargain with a kiss."

Tom's eyes are wide, frantic in a foreign way, as Death yanks his head back by a handful of ebony curls. There's a moment where time snags, where nothing but Tom's terror fills the air. Then perfect vermillion lips are on Tom's and he goes preternaturally limp in Death's embrace.

Even Harriet is utterly silent as they watch in collective horror. A blinding glow begins to emanate from where their lips fuse. Draco blinks against the glare and when he looks again, rivulets of golden light trail from Death to Tom. The tiny streams multiply until they connect the two figures from head to toe, encasing them in a roiling halo of pulsing light.

Slowly, Death begins to lose form, as if the light is stripping away his essence and transferring it to the dark boy in his arms.

The ring on Tom's finger—the Hallow—erupts in flame, making Hermione cry out. They both watch in paralyzed shock as it becomes nothing more than a pile of ash.

This bargain clearly included more than Tom's life.

As the remains of the stone scatter to the floorboards, Death loses focus once more. A moment later and his entire body burns away in the same manner, leaving only Tom, bathed in tentacles of golden light.

His eyes snap open and golden fire burns in their depths, no sign of the deep azure Draco has come to crave.

Tom flexes his hands, curling them into fists, and the flickering flames retreat. He twists his fingers and golden light dances upon them.

He looks up at Draco, Hermione and Harriet, a harrowing smile on his glistening lips.

"It is done."

~*~Break~*~

The boy—or not boy—staring back at Hermione is a stranger.

If Tom was handsome before, now he is painfully so. Every angle of his face is sharper, more perfect in its geometry. The curve of his lips has gone from sensual to fierce, almost cruel in its cold perfection.

And his eyes. They burn like the heart of a star, golden and utterly foreign. The exact burning cores that haunted her nightmare.

She wants to look away, to prevent the damage their unearthly brilliance is certain to inflict, but her muscles are frozen. Her arms are stiff boards around Harriet, immutable as her mind spirals. Her neck is locked in place, her focus fastened on the boy who has become a stranger in the space of a heartbeat.

She can't summon the strength to twitch a finger, let alone look away.

She can't believe her own eyes.

Death she was prepared for, but this? This is something beyond her comprehension.

The creature's cruel lips quirk and chills explode over her skin. It's the same sensation she's been fighting for months. The same darkness that lingered beneath her skin while Harriet grew within her.

"Do you suffer?" he asks, eyes trailing over her trembling form.

Hermione has no idea what he means. Her body is a wreck from the labor she endured. Her mind is a whirlwind of devastation from the transformation he experienced. She is undone and suffering in every way that matters.

He flicks a finger and golden light erupts between them. The light isn't warm where it cuts into her. It's a thousand icicles stabbing beneath her skin. She cries out, her lips unstuck at last.

The golden creature with Tom's face smiles. It only makes the burn of the cold stronger. "Just give it a moment, love. Then all will be well."

And he's right. A frantic stampede of heartbeats later, the cold is gone and along with it, the aches and pains of childbirth. She presses a hand against her abdomen and feels nothing, not even the usual tenderness she experienced before Harriet's conception.

Her eyes are wide when she asks, "What did you do?"

"I repaired everything." He sighs and clenches his fist. The golden light rushes back to him, shimmering just above his skin for a long moment before it sinks deeper and disappears. "My predecessor was selfish. He could have simply repaired you without asking for such a drastic price as his life… but I suppose he had little reason to help. Who were you to him, after all? And a bargain is required, but you've already paid in full."

Her breath is an uneven rattle above the adrenaline coursing through her. "Repaired everything?"

Not quite Tom gives her a feral grin. "Everything. Now you can have children with anyone you please. Although, I'd be rather disappointed if you ran out and did so too soon. He did love you enough to agree to this."

His use of the past tense isn't lost on her. Whatever has happened to him, it has erased the boy who was begging at the bedside moments ago. The boy who loved her and made a thousand horrible choices because of it.

"You agreed to this because you wanted it," Draco hisses, stirring at her side.

The creature cocks its head, expression considering. "I have full access to Tom Riddle's memories and thoughts—I am still Tom by certain definitions—and I can tell you the truth if you desire."

Hermione is fairly sure she doesn't, but Draco jerks his chin in a nod. The fire that's eaten Tom's eyes intensifies as the creature seems to probe deeply into the mind he inhabits. "He knew he couldn't survive without magic, so he chose what he thought was best—a sacrifice for the woman he loved and the ability to have a child. That the price was so… alluring certainly didn't deter him." The golden eyes move from Draco to Hermione. "You weren't the only one who was infertile. I imagine half a century without a body didn't help him."

Hermione pulls Harriet closer to her chest. The baby's head lolls against her breast. Her tiny eyes are squeezed shut and she breathes evenly. Somehow, she fell asleep in the midst of the chaos.

Hermione trails a hand lightly over Harriet's cheek. Her skin is softer than rose petals and just as glowing. If what the creature says is to be believed, this tiny girl is even more of a miracle than Hermione imagined.

Draco casts her and the baby the gentlest look she's ever seen on his angular face. He holds her stare, grey eyes placid and calm before turning back to the golden creature.

"How much of Tom is left?"

"All," the creature replies. "We have simply become greater than we were."

A different sort of chill runs through Hermione, one born of emotion, not supernatural power. "But you said loved."

He blinks at her, unnatural golden eyes flickering. "My mistake. We are still adjusting." His head cocks to the side, ebony curls tumbling. "It will take time to learn how to function in this form."

Draco's jaw tightens as a pale brow rises. "We?"

"Tom and I are mostly separate at present. It will take some time for us to become one."

Hermione leans forward, careful not to wake her daughter. "Can we speak to him?"

The creature's sculpted lips purse, the flame in his eyes raging once more. "I do not think so. It has been nearly a millennia since I last merged with a host. But perhaps one day, you will be able to converse with him in this form."

"What are you?" Draco whispers, voice muted and stormy eyes wide.

It's the question that's rattled at the back of her mind since Death dissolved and Tom began to glow. She isn't particularly religious, but this seems greater than magic. This seems like gods and goddesses and eldritch terrors.

The Hallows were clearly a portal into something more than the magic she understands. Looking into the depths of the flames raging within the creature's stare, she knows the Hallows are only the beginning of this rabbit hole.

Despite her predilection toward curiosity, she finds she does not want to know more. She feels only dread crawling beneath her skin. Perhaps there are some truths no mortal should uncover.

The creature seems to agree. He gives an enigmatic smile that is more sharp edges than kindness. "Pray you never find out, young man."

Draco's lips part in protest, but he remains silent. Hermione squeezes his hand, relishing the feel of his heat against her clammy skin.

"What happens now?" she asks.

The creature—Death, she should call him—takes a step toward the bed. Hermione tenses and Draco springs to his feet.

"No need to be so wary," the creature says. "Tom loves you both very much. I will not come for you until the time is right."

That's when Hermione understands this will be the last face she sees. When Death comes for her, he will wear Tom's visage.

Her hope—the last dregs, in truth—splinters. He will come for her and then he will come for his daughter. And then they will be nothing but dust and memories and he will still be this, eternal and powerful and entirely foreign.

Will they live forever in his memories? In his heart? Or will time erase them from him?

And how can time ever erase him from her? How can she mourn him? For he is surely lost to her now.

The telltale sear of tears burns her eyes. She ignores the sensation, looking down at Harriet instead. She has no idea how they will do this, but she will not give in to despair. This tiny life is in her hands and she will keep her daughter safe no matter what the cost.

Tom's hand—a stranger's hand—touches the crown of Harriet's head. "We love her very much. We will not come for her for as long as we can manage."

He looks up at Hermione and for a moment she sees a flicker of blue in the depths of his fiery stare. But it's gone a moment later and she knows it was nothing but her traitorous imagination. "I have work to do. I will not return until the time is right."

Until she is on the brink of total annihilation. She glares up at him. "I hate you for this. For what you've taken from me. But you have also given me too much."

"Do not concern yourself with anything but the life ahead," he advises.

If only it were that simple. If only she could trust a word out of his eerily perfect lips. But it's a bloody mess and she won't make the mistake of believing this creature whose sole purpose is to reap souls.

She takes a steadying breath and says, "so this is goodbye."

He nods, flaming stare sweeping briefly to consider Draco. "This is the end of this particular adventure. I am sure you will share many more."

He gives her one last searing glance and she feels the cold fire of his power sweep through every facet of her—both physical and beyond. It takes all her will to keep from parting her lips and letting the agony burst free.

Crystalline smile sharp as an icy dagger, he opens his hands. The room is bathed in blinding golden light. When Hermione blinks again, there is no sign of Tom or the creature he became.

The silence pounds against her ears, sudden and thick. She sees spots every direction she looks. The only sensation that makes any sense is the curl of Draco's fingers around her own.

Neither of them says a word as he climbs onto the bed beside her and wraps his strong arms around her shaking shoulders. His warm lips press a kiss to her cheek and then drop to the crown of Harriet's swaddled head.

She presses against him, searching for the strength to begin again.

Notes: We're dealing with Tom Riddle here. There was no way he was going gently into that good night, no matter how much he'd evolved.