AN: Lemons!

December 1st, 1955 brought with it the first snow of the season. Tom sat in front of a roaring fire in his study at ten o'clock in the morning, enjoying a black coffee while his lips twitched upwards as he considered his current position.

It would not do for Lord Voldemort to be seen doing something as lowly as gloating, but that did not mean that in the privacy of his own rooms he was not doing so.

Every plan and strategy he had compiled over the past decade and a half were moving into place. Ignatious Tuft continued to be malleable to the Death Eater's cause and pushed legislation through to the Wizengamot by manipulating his mother at Tom's whim. He was still sometimes stymied by the woman, but one day soon her time in power would end with her inevitable disposal, and no longer would anything stand between the Dark Lord and his control of the ruling bodies of England.

Orion had secured a place on the Hogwarts Board of Directors in November after a current member met with a fortuitously fatal and untraceable bought of illness, opening up a spot for the charismatic Black to begin influencing the politics at Hogwarts. Cygnus, of course, was still completing his final year at the school and was therefore tasked with the spreading of propaganda and rumors amongst the student body.

Research continued into the best ways to approach his potential police forces, beginning with the vampires. Antonin had expressed some ideas regarding the implementation of an optional Vampire Support Services, similar to the soon-to-be revised Werewolf Support Services in the ministry, and Tom felt this was an idea that held significant promise. The key was coming up with separate solutions for those who wished to feed at will and those who wished to retain an illusion of humanity, a task that could only be accomplished through continued research and interviews to determine what best to barter with.

The subject of research, however, brought thoughts of a specific area of his life that was not going quite as gloriously as the others and Tom grimaced as he smoothed a hand through raven hair before taking another drink of the caffeinated beverage.

Ever since Rabastan Lestrange's birthday party, his Gaza had been strangely withdrawn and somewhat forlorn. One would think his gift in the form of Antonin Dolohov would have been generous enough to at the very least soothe some of her apprehensions and buy him some gratitude, but to his annoyance, that had not been the case.

The decision to allow Antonin to swear his allegiance to Hermione had been made impulsively, but it was not a choice he regretted. By that time, he had already begun to consider the necessity of finding a guard of sorts for her, as it was only a matter of time before she insisted on venturing forth from Nidum Serpentis in the pursuit of a book or some form of entertainment. Tom was far too busy to indulge her whims whenever she saw fit and his little wife was far too important to allow to wander without proper supervision.

A formidable witch she may be, but she was not incapable of fault, and he would not risk her.

Antonin had offered up the perfect solution; one of his Death Eaters, an original Knight of Walpurgis even, who would be compelled through the force of his vow to defend her to his death and detriment. It went without saying that the Russian was one of his very best duelers and wielders of dark magic. The dark mark would continue to act as an equal binding force on Antonin's soul and magical core, but he hardly thought that would cause conflict. After all, Tom himself could not cause Hermione harm and his own entreaties should keep his Death Eater working towards his goals even as the man fulfilled the terms of his vow. He had his wife's devotion and loyalty, and therefore he continued to have Antonin's. At worst if something unexpected were to happen, Dolohov would die excruciatingly, having found his two vows to be in conflict and being forced to fail to fulfill one.

It seemed that was a risk the man should have considered when he offered a bond to Hermione: Tom was a proponent of logical consequences.

Regardless of his reasons, he had expected his inquisitive little wife to immediately set upon him with questions as to why he allowed the allegiance in the first place and what he anticipated in return. He had been disappointed.

Instead, his Deliciae had retreated into herself, spending less and less time in his study and more time in her own. While she returned to him in time to prevent the need entreaty from affecting her, she seemed to be avoiding him otherwise. She appeared to be increasingly introspective, and while that was a characteristic he could have gladly tolerated out of most of his people, the pulling in his chest was not so readily born. Her distress grew as time went on, causing the empathy entreaty to tighten and twinge as she fell deeper and deeper into her own musings. The feeling was different entirely from when she was overcome by a sudden rage or acute grief but rather was a constant discomfort, like a cut in an unfortunate area that continually opens with movement.

'Emotions,' Tom thought with a shudder as he rubbed at the sore spot just below his solar plexus. 'Always with the emotions.'

He had striven to ignore it, of course, pushing the discomfort and her state of mind to the back of his consciousness as he strategized, plotted, and schemed. The feel of it, however, was becoming maddening, like an itch he could never quite scratch. It rankled his sensibilities and was quickly reaching a level that he considered untenable. He was surprised that he had not been enraged by the interference with his person, that he was not infuriated that she dare to feel things that caused him inconvenience, but it seemed that his ability to properly identify her emotions as inconsequential was being impeded, no doubt by their bonding.

With a growl of annoyance, Tom vanished the last of his coffee and stood, adjusting his cufflinks and muttering a spell to smooth any wrinkles in his slacks. He had not sought her out in her study since the day she had fallen unconscious, but he was no longer willing to abide the stinging in his chest without addressing it with his little wife. Her personal tantrum was distracting and could not be ignored any longer.

Nothing could be allowed to pull Tom Riddle's focus from his goals, not even his crown jewel.

He entered the room designated for her without knocking and paused to study her form where she sat curled up with her feet tucked beneath her at the bay window. Her face was peaked as she kept her eyes fixed on the unruly forest in the distance, watching the little flakes of white float down from the sky to disappear into the treetops. Her ill-behaved curls were piled on top of her head in a barely restrained bun that would absolutely never pass inspection by any pureblood witch and her usual dresses and robes were absent, replaced with a scratchy, acrylic jumper. The maroon monstrosity masquerading as a sweater was embellished with a large 'R' emblazoned on her chest that clashed horribly with a pair of pink, flannel pajama-like trousers that were clearly a remnant from her time in the future. Her look, if one could call it that, was completed with a pair of fuzzy socks that contained a number of stitched bunnies on them, which were charmed to hop in circles around her ankles and the soles of her feet.

While she had been significantly more disheveled when he had seen her lately, he had certainly not been granted the dubious pleasure of seeing her like this. Tom quirked an eyebrow and fought back a smirk at her ridiculous attire, even as his chest pulsed in increased distress.

"Gaza," he greeted her quietly, leaning back against the wall of her room as she continued to stare out the window.

"Tom," Hermione responded without looking at him. "What are you doing in my study? It's not time to meet the need entreaty yet."

He supposed he would have been angry had she sounded annoyed or upset about his intrusion into her private space, but as she simply sounded at best mildly curious, he could not find it within himself to be.

"I do believe, Little Gaza," he told her, "that it is time we address whatever turmoil you are currently immersed in. I have allowed you time to sort through whatever ails you, but as you seem incapable of doing so on your own and as this incapability is negatively affecting my person, the time has come for me to eliminate whatever this problem is. You will tell me who or what has caused this distress within you and I will see it vanquished."

Finally, she looked at him and Tom tensed slightly when he saw tears in her eyes.

"You can't," she whispered, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her cheek on them.

He licked his lips, surprised and slightly nauseated at her show of vulnerability even as something inside of him strummed harshly for him to protect, protect, kill whatever or whoever caused her unhappiness. Whether it was the entreaty, the bond, or something else, he could not say, but for the first time in his life, Tom felt something unnamable.

It was foreign, a... something. Not sympathy and certainly not anything as common as pain at her pain, but rather-

A responsibility, of sorts; a need to fix, a need to soothe, a need to destroy what was making his very favorite tool broken and to make her whole again. He did not want to fix it for him, or at least not entirely for him, but for her. She was his, after all, and Tom Riddle took care of his things. If she would only tell him where the issue lay, he would see it gutted before the day was through. Fierce possessiveness and protectiveness raged against his ribs, along with a disconcerting fondness for the crying witch in front of him.

The realization that her importance to him had evidently increased without his noticing settled like a lead weight in his gut and he closed his eyes briefly while he grit his teeth. It had to be the bond. But, then again, bond or no, he was not a man to deny himself anything he desired and what he desired now was for Hermione to be safe and content.

As such, he intended to have that.

"I am capable of a great many things, little wife," Tom told her, crossing the room and settling behind her in the window seat. The curves of her body pressing against him reminded him of her fervent denial of all urges carnal since their binding night, but he set that thought aside to explore later. He doubted very much she was interested in fucking him at the moment, usual repressed lust aside.

"There is none who is allowed to harm you, none who may cause you discomfort. Name it and I will conquer it."

Hermione laughed hollowly even as she leaned her back further into his chest, allowing his arms to settle around her own and his knees to encircle her until she was surrounded by his body.

"Well that's the thing, though, isn't it?" She said in response, her voice thick with tears as she shook her head. "I'm your little wife, aren't I? I am Lady Riddle and I am in 1955 with a bond to Lord Voldemort and now to one of your very best Death Eaters and nothing -NOTHING- is as it should be."

She reached up to violently rub at her eyes as Tom watched her impassively over her shoulder, waiting for her to continue. He was getting the distinct impression that the demon she was battling was less than corporeal, making his plans to murder the culprit significantly more complicated.

"Do you know who I was supposed to marry?" Hermione asked, chuckling when a growl ripped through his chest at the thought of someone, anyone else touching what was his. "I'm not stupid, I won't tell you his name, but I had a plan. You know by now that I was on the opposite side of you, in the war. I know we haven't talked about it, but I was. And when it was over, I was going to finally have time to fall in love with that boy."

She shook her head. "He was so good, you see," she continued, her pace increasing and becoming frantic as the throbbing in Tom's chest increased. "So good and loyal and true. I was so young, I didn't even really know how to be in love yet, but I know I was going to fall in love with him. And we were going to grow together. I would get a job at the ministry, probably in Creature's Rights and he'd be an Auror or maybe work in his brother's shop and everything would be just so. We'd have our best friend, and that man would be my brother-in-law and I'd watch him and his wife have messy haired little babies and everything would just be-"

Hermione cut off with a sob, her body shaking against him as she clenched her jaw. The area below his solar plexus seemed to ripple from the stabbing pain her emotions sent to him. "But that's not my life anymore," she said a little manically. "I don't get to have that. I'm here and I have you and the allegiance of a Death Eater who once tried to kill me and Nidum Serpentis and a BLOODY house elf and this- this is the only life I'm going to get!"

Abruptly, she spun in his arms and latched onto his biceps, her fingernails digging into him so hard that he could feel the points of them through his shirt. His arms moved to circle her waist even as he could feel little bruises begin to form beneath her fingers. Tom's heart pounded frantically as her magic skimmed over his skin, wild and damn near burning him in its intensity. He bit back a groan as arousal and pain warred through his consciousness, his chest threatening to split open under the pressure the empathy entreaty was wreaking on his body.

"Then everything went to hell and we lost and I'm fighting, fighting, FIGHTING to remember who that girl was who thought we'd defeat Lord Voldemort and live happily ever after and I don't know her anymore!"

Her sobbing increased, her magic flared, and Hermione pressed her forehead against his own as he panted heavily and tried to focus half-lidded eyes on her. "Now -now- I live with Lord Voldemort," she almost whimpered. "I'm bonded to him. I want him, I crave him, half the time I almost like him, and I hate it!"

His Gaza leaned forward and pressed a desperate, gasping kiss to his lips but when he moved to kiss her back, she retreated and burrowed her face into his shoulder. Her arms wrapped around his waist in turn and she inhaled sharply, releasing her breath in a large whoosh that he could almost feel through the now damp material of his button-down shirt.

"This is the only life I have, Tom," she whispered into the fabric above his collar bone. "You're all that I have. Do I have to hate you forever for what you would have become? Can I only be true to myself if I punish you for all eternity for what you are? You're a bad man, Tom Riddle. Such a bad man. You hurt people, you are capable of such evil, and who am I if I let myself forget that long enough to like you?"

Tom buried his nose in the curls of her hair and took a deep breath to center himself through the sensation of his chest splitting into pieces and her magic taunting him into tantalizing madness. No wonder his Deliciae was so incredibly despondent; she was tearing herself asunder as she fought against who she used to be and who she would become. Strangely, he did not feel her hatred and anger personally. While he was Lord Voldemort, he wasn't her Lord Voldemort. That man was clearly mad and worse, he had thoroughly fucked up all of Tom's plans. That was not a man he identified with.

He had once thought that if she could only overcome her morality, she could be his equal. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that her morality was as much a part of her as the flesh and bone that made up all the pieces of her, though, and to tear it away would likely be the same as killing her. Inconvenient, but not an insurmountable obstacle. Perhaps where she could not stand to break, she could learn to bend.

"The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die," Tom told her. "As well the minds which are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be mind."

Hermione seemed surprised into a watery chuckle that had him biting back a smirk. "Nietzche? You're quoting Nietzche at me?" She laughed and the pain in his chest abated ever so slightly. "What is it with men quoting things to me lately? Fine then. 'One ought to hold on to one's heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too'."

"Ah, but Little Gaza, are you not already losing control of your head?"

She scoffed at him but remained silent, and the pain in his chest ebbed further.

"I am not the man to speak to in matters of morals and ethical debates," Tom told her, bringing a hand up to run up her spine and make her shiver against him. "Emotions and feelings are not something I have ever strived to understand, Deliciae, and I find them to be base weaknesses at best. But logic I am intimately familiar with and it is my understanding that pragmaticism is one of few characteristics we share."

"What do you value most, little wife?" he continued, bringing both his palms up to cup her cheeks and force her red-rimmed eyes to meet his own. "Obviously your personal ethics are important to you, but do you prioritize them over the vision you have to change the world I am making? Do you value your hatred of the monster you once knew over your ability to influence the man you know now? How much are you willing to pay to attempt to punish me for a future that will never come to be?"

"And what about the things you already have done?" She asked with narrowed eyes. "What about the evil you still will do?"

Tom shrugged and moved to press a gentle kiss in front of her ear. "I am who I am, Gaza," he murmured into her skin. "Swallow that truth and allow the bond to work as it should, or deny what you feel and cut your own knees away. The more you fight what you feel now in the name of the past, the less power you have in the present."

It went against his nature, to allow her a choice. Tom was accustomed to manipulation and wrapping the noose so firmly around a man to lead him in the right direction, that the person he was leading would mistake the rope for his own skin and follow blindly. Such tactics, however, would not work with this witch. She was clever and broken and while he could reason with her, she had to choose this for herself. Otherwise, she was smart enough to figure out she hadn't chosen the life she held in her hands later, as well as powerful enough to tear down everything they built when she did.

An hour passed in silence as they sat in front of the bay window of her study, flecks of snow drifting down beyond the windowpane as he allowed her time to consider her options. While patience was not his favorite attribute, it was one he could employ endlessly when the end result was successfully ensnaring whatever prey he sought.

Finally, Hermione sighed and rubbed her face against his shirt. "Why must you be so charming, Tom?" she lamented. "Why do you have to be fiercely intelligent and fascinating and magnetic and perceptive? If you were a dunce with a superiority complex or a true pureblood extremist, bond or not, resisting you would be so much easier."

Tom smirked at her and brought his lips to trail along her cheekbone. "I doubt very seriously I would have the following I do if I was not exactly as appealing as I am. And why seek to resist me? You are perhaps the only person who need not fear that they will drown in my depths, as I will not allow it."

His Gaza shook her head and laughed, turning her head to give him better access. "I can't even be annoyed with you for being cocky, because you aren't. You view being appealing as a tool you can use, not as something that makes you better than others. Yes, you think you are superior, but it's because you actually are magically superior. Is there anything you're bad at, aside from the light side of human emotion?"

Tom continued the descent of his lips across her jawline and down her neck. "It is unwise to admit weaknesses, Deliciae. If I am inferior at something, you will have to find it yourself."

"Unfair, Tom," she chuckled, threading her hands through his hair as she held him to her skin. "You're so unfair."

Tom shrugged and wrapped his hand loosely around her throat, bringing her face up to his as he stared into endlessly deep, chocolate eyes. "I never agreed to play fair, Gaza, and I never will. Rules were made to be followed by lesser mortals and games were made to be played by those without ingenuity. I will not play another's game. I will always make my own."

He leaned forward and bit her soft lower lip, swallowing down her gasp as he tightened his grip very slightly on the delicate column encased in his hand. Somehow, in anger and arousal, his palm always ended up against her pulse without conscious thought and while he wasn't sure why he found he rather liked it there. Tom let out a cross between a growl and a moan when she kissed him back, desperation obvious in the way her hands shook against him and her heart pounded beneath his hand. He breached the barrier her lips provided to toy with her tongue, licking into her mouth deeply as she squirmed against him as if the need to be closer was too big to contain in her body.

Idly, he wondered if part of his entreaty had a sexual component that she had been ignoring, but frankly, he doubted it. Even when his Gaza had despised him, her magic and her more carnal instincts had always reached for him.

Without pausing for her to object, Tom grasped the abomination of a jumper she was wearing at the hem and ripped it over her head, revealing the plain cotton undergarment beneath it. The only sound of upset the witch made, however, was when their lips were forced to part and that moment was quickly ended as she slammed back into him the second she was able. He moaned at her fire, her aggression, as she pushed him back on the window seat until she straddled his hips.

Hermione broke the kiss once more before she frantically began undoing the buttons of his shirt. She grimaced and made an impatient noise before flicking her wrist and spelling away the entirety of his clothes. Tom laughed out loud as he found himself hard and nude beneath his little bond mate, watching with half-mast eyes as she kissed down his neck and chest. His laughter cut off abruptly as her magic skittered across his bare skin, causing his arousal to soar impossibly higher and more blood to rush south.

While he was not one to lay back and let the witch he was with run the show, the feel of Hermione's tongue on dips of his abdominal muscles felt desperate and worshipful rather than dominating. He allowed her to play with him, burying his hands in her hair as she licked and sucked all around his stomach until she began to kiss down the trail of hair that would lead her ever lower, to the spot on his body that currently ached the most.

He wrenched her head up roughly, not bothering to temper how hard he pulled with the knowledge that pain was not something she registered, and forced her to look at him. She whined seemingly before she could stop herself, and Tom smirked down at her, waving his own hand to banish her clothing and make them equal.

"Does this mean, Deliciae, that you are done fighting the-"

His voice cut out as he swallowed a moan when Hermione brought a hand down to stroke what she had been denied momentarily the ability to stroke with her tongue.

With iron-clad control, Tom forced his voice to steady and after only a slight pause, continued, "-fighting the bond that we have created? That you have accepted the inescapable fact that you are mine, now and always?"

His Gaza's jaw clenched in displeasure at his wording and she flicked the head of him with her fingernail in chastisement, causing the Dark Lord to inhale harshly. He yanked on her hair involuntarily, disappointed that she was still being stubborn, but before he could communicate his disapproval, she spoke.

"If I am yours, Tom Riddle," she said, hand back to stroking him steadily, "then you must admit that you are equally mine. The bond did not only tie me to you, but it also tied you to me."

Tom raised an eyebrow at her as his mind paused to consider. No one had ever attempted to claim him, no one would dare quite frankly, but it should not surprise him that his crown jewel, his Gaza, his Valkyrie would be the one to do so. While he considered himself above mortals and humanity, above petty emotions and the usual shortcomings of man, he had never thought himself above primordial magic. The only thing he had ever served with any reverence was Magic.

And he had the same starburst burned into his palm that his little wife did. Magic had claimed him as hers just as much as it had claimed her for him.

"So it would seem, then, that we have reached an agreement," he stated, ignoring the way she stroked along the thick vein running the length of him in a petty attempt to slur his speech with his pleasure. "You are blood of my blood and bone of my bone; you are mine and I will be yours."

Hermione's whole body froze, naked and vulnerable, staring down at him with wide eyes. Her mouth gaped for a moment as he watched her pretty cheeks flush, backlit by the snow falling gently outside her window not a foot away. She was exquisite, powerful, and his; if only she would admit it.

"Then-" she began, stuttering as she swallowed heavily and looked away before she brought her eyes back to meet his with determination. "Then you are mine and I will be yours."

Tom broke then, surging upwards to capture her mouth with his own and forcing her to reverse their positions. He pressed her into the window seat and covered her body with his, allowing her thighs to cradle him as he ravaged her lips and tongue, that fierce possessiveness rising inside of him to heights never seen before. He had told her so many times but never before had she admitted the truth and to hear his claim from her lips was sweeter than the finest vintage.

"Say it again," he demanded, moving down to suckle the breasts he had grown so very fond of. She whimpered as he sucked a nipple into his mouth, but complied.

"I'm yours," she said breathlessly and Tom felt his magic flare violently outward as his hips thrust involuntarily against the window seat.

He laved her breasts with equal attention but did not tease her as he yearned to, not this time. Instead, he slithered down her body, biting and licking at the softness of her belly and the curve of her hips until the slight stubble of his cheek was rubbing redness onto the inside of his Deliciae's thigh. Good behavior deserved rewards, after all, and his little wife was being so very, very good.

Hermione cried out beneath him as he licked at her, forcing her thighs apart when they tried to close around his head with a sticking charm that she was too lost in pleasure to dispel. With teeth and tongue, he brought her to the brink before he could not resist pulling back and nibbling the insides of her thighs, listening to her beg for her release as he marked her skin as his and ignored her whimpers.

His clever, clever witch caught on quick however and the third time he built her up and began to pull away, she cried out.

"I'm yours," she said breathlessly, taking fistfuls of his hair and pressing him back to the slippery flesh between her thighs. "You take care of what's yours."

Tom could not deny her after that and he worried her nub between his teeth, stroking her from the inside until moments later she clenched around his fingers and her magic surged outwards, crashing over him. He moaned, unable to contain himself any longer as he wrenched his fingers away and replaced them quickly, thrusting inside to the deepest depths of sin that was his Gaza.

Her hands clawed at his thighs at the intrusion and he growled his pleasure at the pain, watching with hooded eyes as she was revealed to him in her entirety, her thighs still pried apart with the sticking charm. He could not tear his eyes away from where he disappeared into her body over and over, sliding into wet heat and pulling out glistening with the release he had given her.

Tom reached between them and rubbed at her still sensitive nub, forcing multiple peaks from her body as a reward for her acceptance while he watched in fascination where she tightened and released around him. When finally she was spent and sated, mewling beneath him with oversensitivity, Tom allowed the tightening in his stomach to spiral outwards, groaning as he spent himself inside her pliant body.

He looked down upon his lovely little bond mate, half asleep as she lay boneless in front of the glass pane, and wordlessly summoned his wand and shirt from the clothes that had earlier been spelled across the room. He cleaned them both and transfigured the shirt into a blanket, rolling Hermione onto her side as he settled behind her.

She slept, nestled in the crook of his shoulder, as the Dark Lord rested and watched the snow fall from the sky outside their home.