Amber eyes watched from a vantage point behind the crumbling castle wall, obscured by a powerful disillusionment charm.

Watched as Hagrid carried Harry's body up the path, sobbing quietly.

Watched as the Order came pouring out of the castle, followed by her former classmates, in response to the amplified voice echoing across the grounds.

Watched as red eyes scanned the perimeter of the courtyard, searching.

Lord Voldemort's voice rang out, tangible shockwaves running through the crowd in its wake.

"Harry Potter… is dead!"

She was fairly confident the scream that followed belonged to Ginny Weasley.

"Silence," he bit back, throwing a silencing spell in the wailing girl's general direction that stopped her in her tracks. "Stupid girl," he scoffed, "Harry Potter — your beloved, your saviour — is dead."

A nasty smile crept its way across his face, mirrored in the shadows; unseen.

"From this day forth you'll put your faith," he tapped his chest with one long, yellowed nail, "in me."

The grounds were silent as the students continued to exit the castle in search of answers. The overwhelming realization that their saviour was dead had left them unsettled, and she relished in that. For far too long the Light had operated under this assumption that their morality would miraculously prevent them from losing. Instead of actually educating themselves and thoroughly preparing to fight against their opponent, they simply made do with their seven years of watered-down education, and their bravery, and their good intentions. She scoffed at the thought. Even if Hogwarts hadn't been without a passable defence curriculum for over forty years, there were still entire branches of so-called "grey" magic that they refused to touch.

And it would be their downfall.

Turning towards the amassed forces behind him, he bellowed once more, "Harry Potter is dead!"

When the gleeful proclamation was met with laughter and cheers from the Death Eaters, she rolled her eyes fondly.

Always with the theatrics, her Tom.

Bellatrix's distinct, manic cackle rose above the rest, and she grit her teeth. She forcefully palmed her wand, barely resisting the urge to flinch, even from here in the shadows. The memory of lips pressed to the never-quite-healed scars flitted through her mind, as Tom whispered honey-sweet promises against her skin. As he vowed that one day, when they were reunited, she would finally be able to exact her vengeance on the woman who branded her.

"Now is the time to declare yourself," the vulgar grin was back, showing off his decaying teeth. "Come forward, and join us!" Bellatrix skipped up far too close to him and she snarled under her breath.

"Or die," he added, as an afterthought.

Recognizing the moment for what it was, she dropped the disillusionment spell and stepped out from her hiding place. In the eerie silence that had fallen over the space, her footsteps were thunderous and several people turned to investigate.

Gasps rang out as people noticed who she was.

"—my Gods."

"Is that—"

"—thought she was dead?"

Chin raised in defiance, a noticeably older and far less haggard-looking Hermione Granger stalked across the courtyard with occlumency shields firmly in place. Passing the Weasleys without so much as a glance, she bit her lip to keep from smiling as the whispers grew to a dull roar. Her gaze fell to the snake-faced man across the courtyard, his red eyes trained on her. To some, he might look horrifying. Vile and monstrous.

But to her, he was beautiful.

He was powerful.

He was hers.

A thrill ran through her at the thought — intoxicating in its own right — and a smirk crossed his serpentine features as she visibly shuddered. Perhaps the girl she once was might not have felt that way; wouldn't have been enamoured by the raw power and bitter dark magic that poured off him in waves.

But Hermione wasn't that girl anymore.

No, that girl had been weak. And she died on the floor of Malfoy Manor nearly seven years ago.

In her place stood someone willing to do whatever it took, uncompromising in her self-preservation. Someone who'd spent her time learning every bit of magic she could get her hands on, instead of resting on the laurels of her magical education. Someone who was taught the hard way that no matter how many kind smiles or outstretched hands were offered, no one would save her but herself.

A supernova; burning bright with magic and fire and power.

Reaching the self-imposed barrier between factions, Hermione could barely stop herself from sprinting across the divide. He was so close. Taking a deep breath, she tried to slow her racing heart as she stepped forward — until a hand fell on her shoulder and she spun on her heel, wand in hand.

An unarmed and fucking filthy Ron Weasley held his hands up in supplication as his eyes raced across her form, drinking her in.

"Mione," he breathed.

Quicker than he could blink, her wand was pressed into the soft skin of his throat. He titled his head, the confusion that always seemed to lurk beneath the surface evident in his eyes.

She crinkled her nose in distaste. "Ronald."

Brows furrowed, he whispered, "I— You died. We thought you were dead."

The tip of her yew wand dug into his neck and he winced, stepping back. There was a small round burn where the wood had touched him and she bit back a vindictive smile at the sight.

"I'm sure you told yourself that," she said coldly. "Did it help?"

At his lack of response, she rolled her eyes and elaborated.

"Telling people I was dead, Ronald. Did it make you feel better? Did you feel better about leaving me behind if you could convince yourself I was in a better place?" Hermione asked mockingly.

"No, it wasn't like that, c'mon—" Ron attempted to back-pedal.

"Stay the fuck away from me," she bit out, not in the mood to deal with his particular brand of self-sacrificial heroics at the moment.

Red hair whipped back and forth as he fervently shook his head, "Mione? What do you— Where have you been? Just, come over here, with us." He shot a murderous look over her shoulder, "it's not safe for you over there."

Hiding her anger behind her occlumency walls, she levelled him with a blank look. "You've got no right to tell me where I'm safe. When have I ever been safe with you, really? Was it when a werewolf nearly mauled me at age fourteen? Or maybe when I almost burned alive from the inside out in the Department of Mysteries, barely a year later? Was it after you left me to starve alone in the woods or better yet, when you abandoned me while I was being tortured?"

As he gaped silently, she wordlessly and wandlessly conjured a protego maxima with one hand while keeping her wand trained on him with the other. Apparently, the action shocked him enough that he didn't bother to argue as she began to back away. When she was far enough, she maintained her shield but turned around to approach Tom.

Red eyes watched curiously as she glided across the rubble towards him, waiting to see what she would do. Before she could even decide the proper way to greet him, she was less than an arms-length away.

"My Lord," she breathed, hesitating where she stood.

The honorific was said quietly but surprise still rang out in the near-silent courtyard, this time from both sides of the divide. The corner of his lips twitched in a way only she would notice, after years spent by his side learning his tells intimately. Something in her chest felt warm at the thought that decades had passed but she still knew him better than she knew herself.

"I trust your arrival went… smoothly?" he hissed in that strange, altered voice of his.

Hermione knew what he was referencing. When she landed in the past, with nothing more than Bellatrix's time turner still clutched in her fist, Tom had utilized his connections to learn more. An Unspeakable loyal to him had agreed to study the device in secret and concluded that it would eventually send her home, but the exact date of her return was incalculable. The magic that whisked her away had been too unpredictable and only became noticeable when the device that sent her back in the first place had begun to act up, sending out progressively stronger, strange flares of magic at random. Eventually, the Unspeakable had explained, the flares would grow strong enough to return her to her own time. It was an event they had both prepared for but when her body had begun to fade away before her eyes, she had seen the fear in his expression and had known it was reflected back in her own. It had only been a few hours since then for her, but over fifty years for him.

Wanting to soothe his concerns, she softly said, "Perfectly. There seem to be no complications."

He visibly relaxed, a tension she hadn't noticed he was holding melting away as his shoulders dropped. Hermione's heart cracked a little at the sight and she couldn't hold herself back any longer. Stepping forward, she threw herself into his arms.

It was a risk, throwing herself at a Dark Lord in front of both his followers and his enemies.

Cries of shock and disgust rang out from both sides of the divide, a cacophony in the background of their reunion.

Tom caressed her cheek with a ghost-white finger as he surveyed her. He hesitated only a moment before kissing her, ultimately unbothered by the development. Before friend and foe alike, he claimed her viciously. It wasn't the sweet, romantic moment of two lovers reunited, but a volatile, explosive reunion of two people who would have destroyed anything in the way of their path back to each other. Twining his tongue against hers, Tom devoured her frantically, pouring half a century of anxiety into the kiss. Hermione smiled against his thin lips, unfamiliar beneath his façade, and pulled back so she could whisper, "Drop your glamour."

It had been an integral part of her research in the past. It was actually part blood magic and part partial human transfiguration that he could shift between at will. Based on Harry's information, she knew he appeared in that form in the graveyard and that she needed to help maintain the timeline while also ensuring the love of her life did not turn into a grotesque, snake-man. Odd, how important it seemed to her at the time.

All that really mattered now was that he was here.

He drew back and she couldn't contain her pout at the loss of him. Rolling his eyes at her expression, he cupped her cheek, thumb sweeping across her cheekbone.

"I have relied on the anonymity of this glamour for years now. Once it's gone, we won't be able to get it back." It wasn't a question but he looked to her regardless, eyes flitting back and forth between hers.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, looking up at him with devotion. "I don't plan on hiding any longer. After today, magical Britain will be yours — and we won't have to lurk in the shadows. We'll have true power."

He held her gaze for a moment, not needing to utilize Legilimency to read her expression. For as intimately as she knew him, he knew her just as well. Nodding once, he released her and she took a half step back. Raising his wand, he muttered an incantation, and his snake-like appearance melted away. Hermione appraised him with a hungry grin. He had aged well. Appearing to be no more than forty years old, his skin was clear; olive in hue, and entirely wrinkle-free. Thick, brown curls covered his head and a stray curl flopped over his forehead in a way that Hermione found made him look as if he was merely an editorial photograph come to life. Elegant bone structure paired with a (very cute, in her opinion — not that she would tell him that, lest he cursed her) button nose gave him a rather aristocratic air. His eyes — the only thing that hadn't changed — almost glowed in their ruby-red colour as he observed her.

"Is this more to your liking?" he murmured and she felt her core clench at his tone.

"Yes, my Lord," she purred, knowing exactly what her use of his title did to him.

The way his eyes flashed in response made her smirk but before she could act on it, black hair flashed in the periphery and a shriek interrupted them. Tom pulled back from her with a frown, the reality that they were standing in the middle of a battlefield rushing back in. She chastised herself for letting her guard down for even a moment; the reminder that they were no longer in the relative safety of magical Britain in the forties and instead were in the middle of a war zone coming at precisely the right moment.

"My Lord?!" Bellatrix exclaimed, somehow attempting to sound seductive and shrill at the same time.

Hermione tried to control her reactions at the sight of the unhinged witch so close but the way Tom shifted his weight to stand more distinctly between them made it clear that she failed.

Bellatrix cut her eyes at Hermione but pasted on a yellow-tooth-filled smile. "You look so different, my Lord. Beautiful," she simpered.

He simply stared at her in silence.

"But what are you doing with the mudblood?" her voice took on a baby-like quality and Hermione had to refrain from audibly gagging.

Calmly, as if nothing were amiss, Tom pointed his wand at the woman universally considered his top lieutenant.

"Crucio."

The gasps were back as Bellatrix screamed through gritted teeth. No more than a minute could have passed when he released her from the curse, but it felt infinite. The black-haired witch was panting, sweat dripping down her face, as she prostrated herself at his feet, muttering apologies and pleas under her breath.

No explanation was provided but her transgression was clear: Hermione was under his protection, and disrespect would not be tolerated. Barely sparing Bellatrix a glance, Tom cast a Sonorous on himself before turning to the crowd gathered behind him.

"I believe some introductions may be in order," he stated, his un-glamoured voice a smooth, rich tenor that had heat pooling in her knickers. "As of this morning, the Malfoys have added to their line through a blood adoption. So this," he gestured to Hermione, "is now Hermione Malfoy. A Pureblood witch, who will be treated with the respect and honour fitting for a woman of her station." Narrowing red eyes at Lucius, his tone grew icy, "Can I assume you are not so incapable that you fucked up something as simple as filing paperwork at the Ministry, Lucius?"

The — well, really rather haggard-looking, in Hermione's opinion — blond shook his head frantically. "No, my Lord, it went well. It was… an older version of the form but ultimately there were no problems. Since you had already taken care of the familial magic acceptance, it was approved immediately. She is now," the hint of a grimace crossed his face before he quickly masked it, "a Malfoy."

"Excellent," Tom hummed in acknowledgement, flicking his finger to send a wordless and wandless stinging hex at the elder Malfoy in confirmation that his slightly dismayed facial expression was noted.

Cheekily, Hermione lifted her hand and waved her fingers at a terrified Draco Malfoy, mouthing, "Hello, brother."

The way his eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock left her biting back a snort.

Narcissa spoke then, her voice demure, "My Lord," she nodded at Tom and then shifted her gaze to Hermione. "Daughter," she whispered and Hermione felt the whisper of a phantom ache in her sternum at the thought of her parents. The parents she sacrificed for Harry.

Before she could continue, Bellatrix chose that moment to interject. "Sister! Don't you dare acknowledge that—" her voice dripped with venom, "—creature? She couldn't possibly be a pureblood, especially not one that the Black family magic would consider accepting."

Tom tensed but Hermione stepped forward first. This was an outcome they had planned for, fully aware that the blood purity agenda he had risen to power on wouldn't allow for him to rule with a Muggle-born by his side.

"Are you questioning our Lord? Or are you so bold as to question both the Malfoy and Black family magic?" Hermione tilted her head in condescension. "Are you truly so foolish? I was quite close with your uncle-in-law— now my grandfather. He spent years teaching me the ins and outs of Pureblood society. Lord Voldemort trained me in the dark arts himself. My information might be a little dated, but I dare you to underestimate me. It's a mistake you'll only make once."

Bellatrix's grey eyes flitted between Hermione and her Lord, as she struggled to search for an answer that made sense. Before the addled witch could fully process what was happening, a commotion interrupted them. Harry had jumped from Hagrid's arms, wild-eyed and frantic as he met her gaze. A single brow rose on her forehead. Now that she had not accounted for.

"Mione," he gasped.

The Order side of the divide surged, shouts and cheers ringing out. Harry briefly glanced over with a soft expression, his eyes landing on Ginny for a fleeting moment before returning to Hermione. Tom lazily waved a hand, erecting a combination ward between the two halves that silenced their cries and prevented them from crossing the barrier. Hermione squirmed where she stood, still enamoured with Tom's casual displays of magical prowess.

"Harry," she returned, stepping forward as if to move towards him but instead, placing herself between him and Tom.

His green eyes caught the movement, flicking back and forth between his (former) best friend and the man who killed his parents, before narrowing in suspicion. "We thought you were dead."

Hermione pursed her lips, "So I've heard."

Taking a deep breath, she flicked her hair over her shoulder. "I should've been. But Tom found me. Tortured within an inch of my life and barely coherent, I fell through time and space to land quite literally on his front steps. He took me in, allowed me to recover in his tiny little flat—" he scoffed and she laughed, the sound out of place amongst the wreckage, "— it was tiny! You can't tell me it wasn't."

Tom held his hands up, nodding, and Hermione crossed her arms victoriously as if she'd won some sort of game only the two of them were aware of.

"He saved me, Harry. When you abandoned me, and I ended up fifty years in the past — emaciated after living in a tent, on the run for you and on the brink of death after being tortured because of you — Tom healed me. He helped me regain my strength and when I recovered, he taught me everything I needed to know about magic. Everything Dumbledore pruned away from the Hogwarts curriculum, everything that Magical Britain is too weak to embrace. From grey to dark magic, Tom taught me all of it." Hermione glanced up at the object of her blatant adoration, "And in return, I told him everything he needed to know. I told him how to win."

Harry sneered, "Do you hear yourself, Hermione? Godric, he must have you under some sort of spell. Probably the imperius, if not some kind of potion. Maybe a love potion? Like mummy, like son."

Her hair sparked with anger as she felt Tom stiffen. How dare he? His entire perception of Tom was based on the image his revered Headmaster had painted for him. Brief snippets of Dumbledore's preconceived notions, tainted by the prejudice he allowed to cloud his every interaction. She opened her mouth to speak when a hand landed on her wand arm in warming. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to loosen the white-knuckle grip she had on the piece of yew wood.

"Don't let him get under your skin. He is meaningless. Nothing." He murmured in her ear, low enough that only she could hear, "You contain galaxies. And you are mine."

Relaxing as if he truly had cast a spell on her — like Harry accused him of — Hermione felt a bit of tension melt from her spine. She refocused on Harry, who was now staring at her with pity.

"It'll be okay, Mione. We destroyed the Horcruxes and when I kill him, whatever hold he has on you will break. You'll be okay," Harry declared fiercely.

Hermione snorted, her amber eyes burning with mischief and vengeance.

"Oh, Harry," she said condescendingly. "The Horcruxes were fake."

Harry's jaw dropped open.

"Well," she hastened to correct herself, "technically there are Horcruxes. But you most certainly didn't destroy any of them."

"Explain," he demanded, jaw clenched.

Hermione examined her nails with faux interest, keeping a firm grip on her wand with her other hand. "We kept the timeline intact, of course. But most of what you know to be true simply… isn't."

"But we destroyed the necklace?! I stabbed that diary and watched it die. I— the ring that killed Dumbledore?" he spluttered.

Hermione smiled and it was all teeth. "The necklace was fake. Cursed, but fake. Similar to the diary — which was enchanted to possess whoever wrote in it and slowly drain them of their magical core — but you didn't destroy a piece of his soul when you saved little Ginny Weasley's life. And the ring that killed Albus," she hissed his name like a curse, "was nothing more than that — a simple ring. He was so blinded by his own hubris, so haunted by the sins of his past, that he didn't notice that it was nothing more than a cursed ring. He didn't even check!"

Her tone was exuberant and she watched as Harry grew visibly angrier and angrier as she revelled in the death of his hero.

"You killed Dumbledore?" he questioned lowly.

Hermione beamed at him. "Yes! I know technically Severus cast the curse but I still think I should get the credit." The last bit was directed at Tom, a pout adorning her face.

He glanced at her indulgently, the corners of his lips twitching. A dangerous look lingered in his eyes that warned her if she kept acting like a brat, he would treat her like one.

Never one to wait and think for just a moment before acting, Harry rushed forward, wand drawn.

Hermione hit him with a body bind curse before he took three steps.

He hit the ground harshly, and she cocked her head, stepping up to meet him where he fell. Using the toe of her boot, she rolled him onto his back. His anger was palpable — his magic sparking against the spell that she knew he had no chance of breaking — and she relished in the fact that he would feel just as betrayed as she had.

She stared down at him impassively. "I can still remember it, you know."

Emerald eyes blinked up at her from behind dirty glasses and she bit back a scoff. Of coursehe would need her help here too.

"When you left me to die," she clarified and he blanched. Finally.

"It's been seven years for me. Seven years since you left me behind, in the arms of a madwoman, and I still have nightmares." Hermione paused, lowering her voice before continuing, "I'll wake up in the middle of the night, the sound of your screams suddenly disappearing from the dungeons echoing in my mind, and I'll find myself begging you to save me. To come back for me, to help me. But you never do."

"One minute I was lying under the Cruciatus Curse, focusing on the sound of your voices and using them as an anchor for my sanity and then— nothing. Silence. You were gone," she hissed.

The guilt in his expression almost eclipsed his anger.

Almost.

Tom was everything to her. She would do this for him— and more, if he asked. He was worth it.

"Would you like to know what it feels like, Harry?" she whispered.

The crucio fell from her lips like a caress.

It wasn't the first time she'd cast the curse. Nor would it be the last.

But it was the time she meant it the most.

His screams filled the air, breaking the body bind as he thrashed on the ground. Distantly, Hermione recognized that the Order had broken through Tom's ward as their cries washed over her. She didn't care. Her entire world was focused on messy raven hair as he writhed beneath her wand. One minute passed, then two. Finally, she lifted the curse and cast an Incarcerous as he laid sobbing on the ground.

Sparing him one last look, she turned to Tom. "My Lord?"

Her wand remained pointed at Harry, and the killing curse rested on the tip of her tongue. She knew that Tom believed in divination, that he had enough faith in the prophecy that he would need to be the one to kill Harry. But she would do it, if he requested that of her. Without hesitation.

Red eyes gleamed as they looked between her and the boy he once thought of as his greatest enemy; his downfall. Tom stepped up to her side, pressing a kiss against the crown of her hair, before training his wand on Harry.

"Avada Kedavra."

She watched as the light left emerald green eyes, for good this time.

And she smiled.

Later, as they laid together in his bed in the castle dungeons, Hermione wrapped herself around him like a second skin. She ran her fingers through his dark hair as they fell into a comfortable silence.

"I told you," Tom murmured against her hair, "that I would burn the world down and remake it in your image."

Her eyes were solemn as she stared at him, painful awareness of the fact that he'd spent the last fifty years alone creeping back in.

"I should have been there," she stated quietly. "Fifty years is a long time."

"Magic can be fickle," he sighed, the words worn as if he'd said them many times before. "But what is fifty years, in the face of forever?"

Her gaze flicked to the Horcrux he wore on his finger. A mirror of the Gaunt ring she wore on her own, in more ways than one.

"Forever," she vowed.