Wow. Thank you all. Your comments are truly inspirational to me. I have never had this much support when writing/posting a story before and you all are making this a very special experience for me. So thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope you all continue to be well.

This chapter is as intense as those that came before. I promise the suffering will not go on forever, but there is so much that changes after this. We are finally at the midpoint of the story, at the moment when we topple over yet another precipice.

WARNINGS: Graphic descriptions of violence

~*~ Twenty Two ~*~

The skies were grey, the shade of Malfoy's eyes when they fragmented to show his suffering. It was an odd thought, a thought that didn't make sense on a romantic outing with her boyfriend. Hermione felt like she was under water, drowning slowly, but surely as each moment passed. The weight on her chest was growing with every step she and Tom took away from the Hogwarts grounds, but she couldn't figure out why. Why did it feel like she was marching to her death? To one of those battles that took far more than she was willing to pay? Why did it feel like she was in the middle of a war yet again?

She shivered, from far more than the February chill, and tightened her grip on Tom's hand. Her brilliant scarlet gown dragged lightly over the snow, but it was charmed to resist the effects of the weather. The woolen cloak slung over her shoulders was equally charmed, holding the cold firmly at bay. And yet, she was frigid, as if not a single layer stood between her and the elements.

Tom pulled her closer to his side, arm wrapping protectively about her shoulders. "Just a few more minutes before we're outside the wards."

Hermione settled in against him, seeking comfort in the pressure of his strong frame and steady breaths. "Sorry, I'm just feeling out of sorts."

"No worries, precious." He dropped a soft kiss on her brow. "Everything will be put to rights soon enough."

She wasn't sure what he could possibly mean by that, but was too exhausted to care. Perhaps getting away was just the thing she needed. It would give her the freedom to examine her feelings away from the oppressive castle and its many eyes. Away from Malfoy. A flicker of panic trailed through her at the thought, unbidden and inexplicable. But it was better to be away from him. Wasn't it? The same gut-wrenching pang tore through her again.

A hand on her cheek had her focusing on Tom and not the riot within. "Here we go." He pulled a small carved stone from his pocket using a handkerchief.

"No apparation?"

Tom shook his head, ebony curls bouncing gently. "Goodness, no. That's far too trackable. I'm just of age and don't have complete freedom yet."

Hermione blinked. Sometime during their liaison, she'd forgotten the extent of their age difference. She'd been old for her year anyway and with three years of war in addition, she was nearly five years older than Tom. But nothing in their dynamic had ever reflected that fact, which was likely why she'd forgotten how much of a child he technically was. Because in reality, there was nothing childlike about Tom Riddle, not the sensuous curve of his lips, or his seductive prowess in the bedroom and definitely not his magical skill, wanded or no.

"So portkey instead?" She eyed the carved stone, the sharp angles coming together to form a coiled serpent.

Looking down at the carving, Tom smiled darkly and murmured something that sounded an awful lot like parseltongue. Realizing quickly she wasn't supposed to know that, she continued to stare at him, waiting for further instruction. His cobalt eyes were alit with a fervor that sent chills down her spine despite the heat of his arm about her shoulders. The planes of his cheeks were sharp in the harsh light of day, giving him a severe look that made him very much more man than boy.

"Are you ready to change the world, Hermione Granger?"

Hermione inhaled sharply. She couldn't recall ever telling Tom her full name. She knew he was aware Gable wasn't her true name, but she was absolutely sure he didn't know it was Granger. But then she remembered hearing it from his lips before and wasn't sure at all. Tom chuckled, bringing his fervent stare to fix upon her.

She smiled back, unable to resist such ardor. "Let's."

Tom laced their fingers together and placed them on the cold serpent. The world spun out from under her feet. She was falling, she was lost, she was nothing. Then she was in Tom's arms, standing at the foot of a hill with a grand manor house at the top of it. And in an instant, she knew. It was a fissure in the haze, a memory so clear it broke down every barrier until there was only truth. It was Riddle House and they were in Little Hangleton. A scream began to form within her, built upon the absolute knowledge that nothing good would happen here, that she had stumbled into something far beyond her control.

As her lips parted, Tom grinned down at her, all edges and undisguised malice, and she closed her mouth, the urge to fight gone as suddenly as it had appeared. "Ready to meet the in-laws?"

"In-laws," she croaked out, emotion ricocheting through her too fast to comprehend.

"I hope you don't mind, precious, but I've arranged something of a special ceremony at my father's house. I figured the whole family should be there for our nuptials, even if they are worthless Muggle filth."

Hermione sagged against him, unable to draw a steady breath. "What?"

"I'm so very pleased with the scarlet gown. It will be the perfect wedding dress." He was staring down at her with such ardent hunger, with eyes that could light the world on fire.

"You never asked me." It was all she could think to say, all that she could begin to understand beyond the chaos.

"That's easily remedied," Tom retorted, boyish smile chasing away the harsh edges of his hunger. He dropped to a knee on the frozen lawn, molten sapphire eyes staring up at her with promises she couldn't decipher. "Hermione Jean Granger, you are the brightest witch I have ever met, the most powerful woman I have ever known. I did not believe in partnerships or marriage before you came into my life, but now I can't imagine a world without you in it. I love you and I promise I will always provide for you and protect you. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

It was a perfect speech, everything she might have ever dreamed a man would say in such a moment. Better even than Ron's the week before the war stole a future from both of them. So why was there an unease in her veins, a prickle of fear that had no place in such a moment? But Tom kept his eyes on hers and as the moments passed, the doubt dripped away until there was only one word she could say.

"Yes."

His mouth was on hers in an instant, devouring every last shred of her sanity until there was only pleasure and need, only the certainty she could not exist without him. Tom pulled reluctantly back, breath harsh and lips bruised. "We have a ceremony to make, precious."

She followed him up the manicured lawn, to the manor entrance lined with Grecian columns and trimmed hedges. He rang the bell twice before stepping back, an arm wrapping tightly about Hermione. A maid answered the door, smiling brightly when she saw them.

"Mr. Riddle. Your father and grandparents are expecting you in the drawing room. Your grandmother was able to convince the local reverend to officiate." She glanced Hermione up and down, a frown settling on her lips. "Is that what you're wearing, miss? I can look—"

"Yes," Tom interrupted smoothly, ushering Hermione into the foyer. "That is what she's wearing, Matilda. I would thank you to mind your own business."

Matilda looked like she wanted to say something, but held her tongue. "Of course, Master Riddle. Your family is this way."

The halls were lit with bright sconces that illuminated masterful oil paintings, landscapes and portraits in equal number. Hermione had never been anywhere quite so grand or old fashioned. The castle at Hogwarts was timeless, but this made clear how very different life in 1944 was. And the Riddles. She was about to meet Tom Riddle's family. The family that she was very sure he had slaughtered in another lifetime. But there had been no fear in Matilda's eyes, no sluggish movements or delayed words to indicate the effect of the Imperius. It seemed that in this reality Tom Riddle, Jr. was welcome at Riddle House. She couldn't tell if that fact disturbed her or not.

The hall opened to a sunny room, the elaborates drapes tied back to let the mid-day sunshine spill across the claw-footed furniture and grand piano. Four people stood in the room, turning as one to face them. It was immediately clear who Tom Riddle, Sr. was. Tom was the spitting image of his father, from the ebony locks to the full lips and handsomely cut jaw. Even their eyes glittered with identical sapphire pupils, although Tom's were darker, more mercurial than his father's innocent stare. The older couple by the piano were certainly his grandparents, which left the remaining man to be the reverend Matilda had mentioned.

To her surprise, Tom's father crossed the room swiftly, engulfing his son in a fierce hug. "Good to see you, son. I'm honored you and your bride are to be wed here."

Tom's smile didn't reach his eyes as he returned the embrace. "I wanted it to be memorable for all of us."

His father nodded absently, pulling away to motion to the reverend. "This is Reverend Phillips. I hope he is what you were looking for."

"He'll do." Tom's smile was all charm as he shook the man's hand. "My future wife and I would like a simple, traditional ceremony. Nothing fancy."

"Easily done," the man assured, his eyes tracing distastefully over Hermione's scarlet gown. But he didn't comment and Tom moved along to introduce Hermione to the assorted family members.

There was a period of chaos as the wedding came together, Tom's grandmother playing segments of different hymns one after another, his grandfather limping over to the settee and then over to an armchair, seeming unsatisfied with either. And then there were the father and son, identical heads bent together in discussion with the minister, Bible pages flipping frantically between them.

Hermione felt utterly apart from it all, as if it were a movie she was watching on the television and not her own life, let alone her own wedding. The unease was back with a vengeance, but she still couldn't seem to discern the root of the feeling. She'd decided to chalk it up to the absurdity of being married in the Riddle House by the time the preparations calmed and Tom's father motioned for her to come stand beside him at the entrance to the parlor.

"My dear boy mentioned your parents are no longer with you," he said as she approached. Hermione nearly froze on the spot, only momentum propelling her to finish the journey. She'd never talked about her parents with Tom. Not with anyone. Not even Harry. It had been a year into the war when she'd found out her plan to send them into hiding had been all for not. The Death Eaters hadn't gotten to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, but an armed robber in Melbourne had. Both had been fatally stabbed in a scuffle to defend their belongings. Without the record of Hermione's existence in their lives, she hadn't found out about their brutal demise until six months after the fact, far too late to attend the funeral. No, all she'd been left with was a grave on a continent she'd never visited and the horrible knowledge that they'd died without knowing they had a daughter.

Mr. Riddle, Sr. grasped her arm gently, sky blue eyes wide with concern as he bent toward her. "I apologize. I didn't realize it was such a sensitive subject, Miss Granger. I was merely going to offer my services to walk you down the aisle."

Her mind spun, suddenly off kilter again. This was a wedding. Her wedding. She smiled as best she could, sure it was more grimace than grin. "I accept your kind offer, Mr. Riddle."

The walk across the parlor, to some spirited hymn Tom's grandmother played, and the ensuing vows were a blur. All Hermione could seem to concentrate on was Tom, his lips moving with words she almost understood. Even when she spoke her vows, it seemed she could hardly comprehend what she said, like she was underwater or in a violent windstorm, the words lost as soon as they were uttered.

Before she knew it, Tom's lips were on hers, soft and warm and everything they'd always promised to be, a harbor against any storm. When he pulled away, the smile on his face was bright, his features boyish and innocent. Hermione pulled him back to her, suddenly sure, the unease finally consumed by the infectious joy she felt on his lips. Whatever else, this was the man who had saved her, had taken her from the depths of despair and transformed her suffering into something bearable. She was under no illusions he was a good man, but he was hers. The affection as he kissed her, his strong hands reverent as they threaded through her loose hair, was undeniably genuine. Her body shook with the tidal wave of emotion that followed the realization. Tom had found a way to fix her, to give her the peace she had been chasing, to quiet her riotous soul. It as a gift for which she would forever be in his debt. Trembling, she clung to him, letting the waves of pleasure from his caresses cascade through her until there was nothing but quiet surrender.

Sometime later, perhaps hours or mere minutes, he pulled away, his forehead resting gently against hers. The heady satisfaction that sung in her blood shone through his liquid eyes. "My wife."

Her lips curved. "My husband."

Tom captured her lips in another fevered kiss before pulling reluctantly away. "As much as it pains me, there's still business to attend to before we give into the carnal delights of consummating this marriage."

"Business?"

His lips contorted from the gentle smile that set her soul at ease to a cruel line of grim determination. "You can't truly believe I love my filthy Muggle relatives so completely, can you?"

For a moment there was only blind panic shooting down her spine, an echo of a truth she couldn't remember. Then there was a numb horror as Tom spun away from her, wand dropping into his hand with practiced ease. The Riddles erupted into chaos, voices intermingling as they stared at the wand in confusion. Tom only smiled, hard and wrong, the stuff of nightmares and vicious fairy tales. "Oh, come now, you can't be surprised." His biting stare focused in on his father. "You had to have known what my mother was. Isn't that why you abandoned her and her unborn child? Why you left her to die on the streets and prayed you'd never see her again?"

Tom Riddle, Sr. was staring like he'd seen a ghost and Hermione supposed he had. Merope Gaunt had enchanted him, forced him into marriage and fatherhood. But Tom's father was hardly innocent in the matter. She'd always been sure his choice to abandon his wife and child had played a pivotal role in Tom's decent into darkness. It was apparent now that she'd been right.

Tom was an avenging angel as he stared down his father, wand held carelessly before him. "I told you I didn't have a lick of my mother's blood in my veins. I told you I never knew about her family or her heritage. I lied, father. I am the direct descent of Salazar Slytherin, one of the most powerful wizards to ever live. And I will be more powerful than he when I master even death himself."

Hermione froze, gut twisting in surprise. He was different. He was supposed to be different now. He loved her, he wanted more than power. So why was he standing before his father with murder in his eyes and the thirst for power on his lips?

Tom's flinty eyes swung sideways to Hermione. "I apologize, my darling wife, that you have to bear witness to this tragedy, but your presence is required."

Then he was turning back to his father, wand waving. "Imperio."

The horror on Tom Riddle, Sr.'s face went slack, his body loosening as he came to stand before his son. Tom didn't look away as he instructed, "Matilda darling, would you be so kind as to bring me a kitchen knife?"

The maid was out the door in seconds, demeanor as calm as when she'd ushered them into the house. Tom must have already had her under the Imperius, despite Hermione's original conclusion to the contrary. Her hands shook as she shrunk back, legs hitting the settee. Tom glanced over at the movement, hypnotic sapphire eyes finding hers in an instant. The moment they locked gazes, the panic eased from her throat, the thumping of hear heart returning to a steady rhythm. His lips moved, unmistakably mouthing trust me. She nodded, sinking down on the settee, clinging to his stare like a drowning woman.

Matilda was back, knife flashing in her outstretched hand. Tom's attention shifted back to his father. The older man took the knife and turned toward his parents. Their screams were instant and ghastly. Hermione shook, unable or unwilling to look away as the son slashed the knife across their throats, mechanically and without a hint of emotion. The sudden scent of metallic gore had her retching onto the oriental rug below, her mind lost in a labyrinth of bloody memories.

A warm hand pulled her upright, cradling her gently, cool lips brushing over her ashen skin. "Just a little bit longer, precious."

She could almost breathe again as Tom grasped her shoulders. Slowly, she raised her eyes to survey the carnage. Tom Riddle, Sr. stood before them, blood-spattered and eerily silent, while his parents lay still as the grave, blood soaking into the rug beneath them. The reverend had departed directly after the ceremony, leaving Matilda as the only other living person in the room. But she stood aloof at the entrance to the room, clearly unable to comprehend the scene playing out before her.

Tom's features softened a hair as he smiled down at Hermione. "I learned from the last time. I made the mistake of killing them using magic and I only got away with it because I was lucky. But now, now there is no unnatural explanation to what has happened here. Dear old dad simply lost his mind after his son's wedding. He turned on all of us, but somehow his son and new bride fought back. A horrible business. Best swept under the rug, madness like that."

Tom pulled a piece of parchment from his suit pocket. "But before we alert the proper authorities, there is another essential part of this business."

Eyes narrowing, Tom began speaking softly, the words of an intricate spell that seemed almost familiar. As he continued speaking the dark, haunting words the air grew thicker, laden with the thrum of magic. She could almost see the current of energy stretching from Tom to his father and then to… her. She could feel it, the unfamiliar tingle at the base of her spine, the knot of tension that was not her own. It continued to tighten, discomfort turning to pain as the energy began to twist outward, consuming every inch of her in a tightly bound web of slimy darkness. She could hardly breath now, tendrils of inky anguish chasing every labored breath.

Tom called out a final time, voice harsh, sounding as laden with suffering as she felt. Then he was upon his father, knife between his deft fingers as the blade slid between ribs and into the heart of the man before him. There was a wet, gurgling cough and then silence. An instant later the web of darkness shifted, tightening beyond comprehension, beyond pain, cutting into her very soul. She felt its chilling caress beneath her skin, as if a ghost were sliding through her marrow, flowing through her blood. It was an invasion of epic and inexplicable proportion.

Laughter, maniacal and sharp, broke through the quiet horror. Tom was coated in blood now too, a cruel imitation of his father's limp figure. But he was smiling, not in that sadistic way that chilled her to the core, but in the way that convinced her tomorrow as worth fighting for.

"It worked." The words were jubilant, but soft, spoken with a reverence she did not understand.

Before she could ask, he turned to Matilda, beckoning her closer. The girl came willingly, unaware of the blood soaked scene before her. Tom caressed her face, fingers tracing the sweep of her jaw. "I appreciate your sacrifice."

"What?" Hermione whispered, but the word was too soft and Tom did not hear.

He was reciting from the parchment again, the same dark energy building in the air. But this time Hermione felt no pressure, no darkness settling beneath her skin. Under considerably less duress, she was able to study the spell more closely, to realize where exactly she'd heard it before. She hadn't actually heard it, but she had seen it. Seen it in a book, Secrets of the Darkest Art.

The air left her lungs in a shuddering gasp. There was a ring in Tom's hand; not the Gaunt ring, but a wedding ring. His wedding ring. She could almost see the dark web closing around it, gaining substance as he continued the spell, blood now dripping from Matilda's throat. Hermione could see the darkness flicker, almost breath, as the last of the life slipped from her thin form and into the rug beneath. For a moment there was a dark halo about the ring, but then it sunk beneath the surface of the gold band. Tom slipped the ring onto his finger and turned to Hermione. For one heart-stopping moment she understood, Horcrux reverberating through her mind, but then he was smiling down at her and the bloody magic faded until the only thing left was Tom and his hands on her face, his lips at her brow, even as blood smeared across her scarlet gown.