Tom devoured the woman beneath him with savage hunger.

His body and soul were crackling with unfamiliar sensations and emotions so he focused on the only one that was familiar enough to find any solace in.

He was pissed.

Tom drew back and slammed his free hand onto the floor beside his wife's head, noting the way the wood splintered under the weight of his magic with satisfaction. Hermione whimpered beneath him but he didn't pull back, biting at her lips viciously as he strove to absolutely dominate her mouth.

Control is what he needed. If he could bend her and contort her back into the place he had made for her, if he could make her submit to him-

Tom was thrown away from his Gaza as a silent spell surged out through her palms and into his chest, sending him reeling backwards down the hall. His leather shoes whined as he stayed upright through the force of his own power, causing the bottoms of his feet to slide along the floor.

He came to a stop five feet away from her, panting like an animal as his magic boiled out of him in visible sparks that alighted along his skin like jolts of static. His emotions had not manifested like this since he was a child, since before he gained iron control of his will and abilities, and his fury mounted at the return of this weakness.

Narrowing his eyes at Hermione, Tom attempted to take a step towards her and found himself immediately stymied by a translucent barrier. He hadn't noticed her taking her wand out, but between that and the obstacle in his way, something inside of him splintered further.

With a roar, he plunged his fingers into the shielding, noting this particular manifestation was similar to woven fabric. He ripped at it, but every hole he made repaired itself. Tom cursed violently as he realized that both of their magic was threaded through it and that subconsciously, his own core was feeding the impediment in an attempt to adhere to the protection entreaty.

He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling violently at the strands of ebony as he paced in front of the invisible wall keeping him from his wife.

"Take down the shield, Gaza," he demanded in a tone that brooked no argument, a tone that would have had any of his followers pissing themselves before running as quickly as possible to follow his directive.

"No, Tom," Hermione said, slowly shaking her head as she crossed her arms across her chest, tucking her wand into the crook of her elbow. Her face was still red and blotchy from her sobbing fit and her eyes were wet, but at a minimum, she was no longer wailing. "You need to calm down before you do something you'll regret."

"Such as?" he spat at her, bringing his hands up on either side of his head as he leaned forward and digging them into the barrier once more. "What can I possibly satisfy myself with in retribution that would not violate the entreaties?"

His Deliciae closed her eyes and her face twisted slightly before she pressed her lips into a thin line. "Is that what you want?" she asked softly. "Retribution?"

"Yes," he snarled at her, ripping away fruitlessly at the shield.

He wanted to find a way to hurt her, to make her bleed, to make her SCRE-

His stomach heaved violently as a vision of Hermione under his wand, writhing in agony with tears of betrayal falling down her face flashed through his mind. It wasn't even possible, she was immune to crucios, but he felt something akin to a fucking WHIMPER build in his throat and he throttled it.

Tom's hands slashed more violently at the wall. Yes, he did want that. Of course he wanted to make her pay for the way his magic had almost stuttered out. He wanted to rip her open and cut out whatever she had done to break her pain sensors and-

He bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood as he pictured her wailing in terror when he pushed the razor-sharp claws of the Golodaniye into her shoulder; the way her pupils would dilate and her eyes would unfocus as horror after horror passed through her brain. Bile rose in his throat, pushing upwards onto his palette as he tried to shake the image.

Hermione's voice cut through the haze in his brain, pushing incessantly against the swirling insanity that was threatening to drag him under as he fought for control of his own mind. He didn't know what she was saying, but it didn't matter, IT DID NOT MATTER because-

"You ruined me!" Tom screamed, pulling his fingers from the shielding so he could pound on it with fists and magic. He landed a savage kick at the base and snarled. "You fucking ruined the Dark Lord!"

He did not want to hurt her.

Anyone, anyone who had ever harmed him personally, inadvertently or not, died slowly. He may have to bide his time, but one day before their natural end, they died in agony. He drew it out and he had made it into an art form, beautiful and brutal in its craft. When finally he allowed the last bit of life to eek from their broken body, he flooded their mind with images of WHY they were dying until they could see nothing else. He made absolutely sure that when they breathed their last, they were denied thoughts of loved ones or musings of the peace that may await them in death. He made them swallow regret that they had dared to cross the Dark Lord and let them choke on it along with those last sputters for air.

But he could not even think about subjecting his little wife to that, let alone desire to do so.

He needed to hate her. He needed to have to be restrained by the entreaties, for the bond to be the only thing keeping him from obliterating her and not even bothering to put her back together. He needed to kiss her again. He needed to pour himself into all the empty spaces within her until every time she moved, pieces of him brushed up against everything that made her up.

Tom stepped back from the barrier, eyes wild and magic still sparking as he paced back and forth across the hallway. He glanced at his Gaza, noting how she looked pale and frightened and guilt-ridden. His stomach swooped and he despised how the sight of her discomfort made him want to fix it, made him want her content and happy.

He mattered. Tom Riddle's discontent was supposed to be the one that mattered, not hers.

As he stared at Hermione, some of the rage began to ebb away and even if the fact that she was capable of calming him was beyond annoying, he took advantage of the tool all the same. He sought out that iron will, that self-control that he had perfected. His face blanked as he grasped it, pulling it on firmly like a cloak and allowing himself to ice over. The relief was almost instant and he would have sighed into it if he had not had an audience at the moment. His anger always flared hot but he hadn't had an outburst of that uncontrollable magnitude since he was in school.

There was a reason Tom didn't indulge in emotions; his fury-laced magic could burn the whole world down if left unchecked. That was not to be permitted. He wasn't going to consume everything in existence until he was damn good and ready.

His Deliciae's eyes widened as she watched him cool, undoubtedly unnerved by the sudden change in temperament. She should get used to his mercurial nature if she intended to ever provoke him to that level again. Tom could feel the way his magical core stopped automatically feeding the barrier and if the way it stuttered ever so slightly before going back up was any indication, she felt it too.

"Tom?" she whispered, studying him like a specimen in a glass jar that she simply did not quite understand.

"Yes, little wife?" he inquired placidly, running a hand along his limbs as he smoothed his slacks and his button-up of any wrinkles with wandless, voiceless magic.

He watched her swallow and the way her eyes flicked quickly to the barrier. He was almost proud of the way she didn't take it down even though the storm of his fury had passed; he was certainly not above pretending calm in order to encourage others to relax their guard before he eviscerated them.

"What did you mean when you said that I ruined you?" she asked curiously, biting on her bottom lip as she shifted slightly on her feet. He noticed that said lip was red and raw from where he had done the biting earlier and he felt the same violent arousal curl in his belly at the sight.

How long, he wondered, until she calmed enough to let him kiss her again? His Gaza was not like him and the average person was typically not as adept at dismissing obnoxious emotions as he was. It could take her a while.

"I meant nothing," he said coolly, running a hand gently along the barrier still in front of him in a caressing fashion. Even without his core feeding it, it was quite strong and he bit back a smirk at the reminder of his Gaza's magical power. "No one can ruin me."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "But you said-"

Tom cut her off, eyes flashing with unspoken threats as he met her eye pointedly. "I am not ruinable," he told her. "Not by you, and not by anyone else. I do believe I once told you, 'The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die.' I will not die, Deliciae, so I will adapt. If my manner of growth is frightening to your sensibilities, I suggest that you seek out a way to quell that trepidation. You are likely to experience it many times in the years to come."

She shook her head and huffed, looking at him with frustration and confusion reflected in her gaze. "Adapt to what, Tom?" she asked. "I don't- You were so angry and I had made a mistake that almost cost you dearly and you wanted revenge. THAT I understood. Then all of the sudden, you're... you again, normal you, cold and precise. Just, explain this to me just a little, because I am lost."

Tom sighed. Why people insisted on not only feeling things but speaking about them was a mystery to him. If one had the bad taste to be emotional in the first place, he would assume one would at a minimum attempt to conceal that fact from others.

"There is nothing to discuss," he advised her, raising an eyebrow when she scowled at him and opened her mouth to interrupt. "Little Gaza, what would you have me say? Do you wish me to admit that I am discomfited to find that even when your error leads me to almost forfeit my life, I do not wish to harm you?"

"Is that what happened?" she asked pointedly, clearly annoyed to feel as if she had to pry this information from him.

He snorted a laugh at her irritation before pausing to study her. As a rule, he did not admit to weaknesses and to be frank, he had very few. His biggest one, however, was standing in front of him and she did have a devotion entreaty chaining her from sharing his words with anyone if he were to give in to her pleas. He'd been ignoring the pulse of his own empathy entreaty for this entire interlude, as it was faint enough to be ignorable, but it likely would not stay that way unless he gave at least a little ground.

"Take down the barrier," Tom told her. "And I'll expound on what I've said very briefly."

"You've hardly said anything at all," she murmured under her breath, but though she hesitated, she eventually flicked her wand and the shielding crumbled.

He wanted to immediately close the distance between them, but her wary gaze made him think better of it. Instead, he granted her a grin for her cooperation, leaning casually against the cracked plaster of the wall, before he continued.

"I find myself oddly forgiving of your mistakes," he said with a small grimace that he couldn't quite conceal. "And in an unexpected turn of events, the protection entreaty is not the only thing that keeps me from harming you. On the contrary, your... contentment has grown a strange sort of import to me. It is my desire that you be kept safe, happy, and well cared for. And I always get what I want. Therefore, I will ensure that those things are always within your reach."

Tom watched her throat bob as she swallowed. "Do you mean to say," Hermione stated carefully, "that you've come to care for me?"

He smirked at her before closing the distance between them, prowling towards her as she stubbornly held her ground with a lifted jaw. He slid his palm along her throat until his hand was cupping the back of her neck, allowing his other hand to settle on her hip.

"I mean to say," Tom said coolly, leaning forward until his nose brushed against his Deliciae's as he spoke, "That I care for me and I am not in the habit of denying myself anything. If I wish to see you contented, I will. If I wish to see you safe, I will. And I do wish those things, little wife, so I will see them done."

Hermione smiled slightly and shook her head. "That sounds like you care for me and just refuse to admit it," she pointed out, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"You are welcome, as always, to believe whatever you wish in that beautiful brain of yours, Gaza," he murmured before tasting the red, raw lips he'd been admiring. He bit back a groan at the taste of her as that not quite extinguished fire flared within him again.

Tom's magic and rage were barely contained, still simmering under the surface, and he wanted. He wanted to deepen the kiss, force his tongue into her mouth until she could scarcely breathe around the intrusion. He wanted to rip the robes from her body and suckle on any number of sensitive bits, make her mewl and cry and beg him to finish her. He wanted to revel in her pleas and he wanted to tell her no.

He growled into his little wife's mouth as he tangled his hands in her hair, barely holding himself back as his mind provided fantasy after fantasy. He wanted to back her up against a wall and force her to her knees, fill that pretty little mouth up and thrust. He wanted to hear her choke and take and take and take and give nothing back.

Tom pulled away from her, breathing heavily as he rest his forehead against hers. She lifted her lips for another kiss but he dodged her, brushing his mouth against her temple instead and releasing her as he stepped backwards.

The type of sex he craved right now was not the kind that would ever allow him to get back inside her again. She didn't trust him enough for that. And as much as Tom didn't want to give a solitary fuck about that reality, he did.

His jaw clenched as he took another step back and offered his wife a small smirk. "I do believe, Little Gaza, that you said there would be dinner and research."

"What- Are you serious?"

Tom tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, allowing the silence to stretch between them to uncomfortable proportions. He had revealed quite enough of his inner workings to her this night, enough to leave him feeling nauseated and exposed. He was not going to give her any additional insights.

Hermione's mouth snapped shut and she flushed, clearing her throat as she smoothed down the dress she was wearing. She nodded jerkily.

"Right, of course," she murmured, running her hands through her curls as she stepped towards the door of his study. "Gilmy?"

The creature popped into existence between them, baring a tray piled high with sandwiches and assorted fruits. "Yous be calling Gilmy, Missy Mione?" she squeaked.

"Yes, I did," Hermione said with a small smile. She looked at him, cheeks no longer blazing as she got herself under control. "Tom, could you please direct her to leave the tray in your study?"

Tom nodded at the elf. "Place the tray on the desk," he told her coldly. "Do not come back in unless called."

"Gilmy be leaving the tray, Master," she confirmed, ears quivering as she quickly popped out of sight.

Hermione crossed her arms and shot him an exasperated look as she moved to stand in front of the door. "You're still making Gilmy call you Master?" she said. "Don't you get enough groveling from your lackeys?"

He shot her a cold smile. "I like for people and things to know their place," he advised her, flicking his wand to pull the wards back so she could enter. "Addresses are important."

Hermione chewed on her lower lip as she crossed the threshold. "Is that why you never say my name?" she asked, settling into the chair in front of his desk. "You always call me 'Gaza' or 'Deliciae' or 'wife,' but never my name. Not since the first few days I knew you."

Tom settled himself behind his desk and leaned back in the chair, studying the woman in front of him intently. "It doesn't suit you," he told her simply.

She startled momentarily before tilting her head. "Pardon?" she asked.

He sighed and leaned forward to carefully pick up a sandwich. He took a precise bite and chewed before answering.

"You were undoubtedly named for either the Shakespearean Hermione or the Hermione of Greek mythology," he answered. "In mythology, Hermione is simply a pawn, betrothed and married and remarried to suit the whims of others. Perhaps the resurrection of Hermione in 'The Winter's Tale' more closely resembles your story, but ultimately, the character is willing to take what blows are dealt her and responds only with placid acceptance of what is done to her."

Hermione's eyes widened as she clutched at her own sandwich.

"You have accepted nothing, done nothing with placidness or grace," he continued with a fond smile. "You tore down time, little fate breaker. You are Kali or Freya or perhaps even Pele, but not Hermione. More importantly, you are my treasure, my delight. You are mine."

A laugh bubbled out of his Gaza and she shook her head. "You name me the goddesses of destruction and war," she pointed out. "And yet you address me by names that enumerate all the ways in which I am yours?"

Tom shrugged and took a sip of the provided tea.

"Priorities, Deliciae."

After dinner, the pair of them moved to the dragon skin couch in front of the fireplace to study the manuscript. Tom sat down sideways, positioning his Gaza to settle between his knees with her back to his chest before he unrolled the parchment in front of both of them.

Hermione settled down with her legs crossed beneath her, knees poking out into the triangle of empty space created where his own legs bent up to encase her body. She leaned forward eagerly, grabbing the parchment from his hands as she studied it. With a smirk, he allowed her to steal the manuscript and settled his hands on the top of her bare arms instead. The smooth, soft skin beneath his fingers was distracting and he could feel himself begin to harden in his trousers, but he took a deep breath and willed it away.

Soon, when he could be sure of his restraint, he'd have her again; but not yet. If there was a thing he most despised, it was being out of control and he had done quite enough of that this evening. He did not care to repeat the turmoil of earlier.

"This... is not light magic."

Tom was pulled from his internal musings at the sound of his little wife's tentative voice. He glanced down at her as she shook her head slowly. Hermione bit her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes, flipping back a couple of pages. The parchment shone with a sort of film, the veneer of her translation spell, as she shuffled through the manuscript.

"Look, Tom," she said, pointing at a paragraph at the bottom of one of the pages. "Did you read this? This whole thing is basically a philosophical discussion. The actual instructions on how to make the stone are at the very back and only encompass five pages."

Tom chuckled, charmed by her earnest interest in such an ultimately dark subject matter. "Yes, Deliciae. I've rea-"

"Listen to this," she interrupted, turning halfway in his arms so that she was somewhat facing him. He watched her, somewhere between annoyed and amused when she cut him off in her eagerness.

'The art of creating life, in the most natural sense, is a grisly endeavor. The woman must give blood, flesh, and soul to make another. She allows a parasite to grow within her, one that feeds off the nutrients she consumes to feed herself. If she is magical, she must give part of her power as well, allowing her own core to be siphoned off of to create the child's.

In the end, her own precious flesh and bones are rent to allow the new soul entry into this world. She spills out life blood as the wailing, writhing creature is delivered, and yet, she does it. She gives birth and in many cases, will willingly do so again. For what purpose does she subject herself to this agony? The creation of life.

If this is the process to manifest a life force, if this is what the gods intended must be suffered to selflessly give a soul, what does one imagine will be required to selfishly extend one's own life?

To magic, there is always a cost. To create life or prolong it, that cost is steeper than most.'

Hermione cut off with a shiver, leaning back into his shoulder as she finally looked up at him.

"There is no possible way this manuscript is angelic in nature," she said cautiously.

"Indeed," Tom agreed, taking advantage of her unease to turn her back around and slide his arms around her waist. He moved her curls out of the way and pressed his chin into the curve where her throat sloped into her shoulder. "I suspect Nicholas Flamel never intended to share the particulars of HOW he created his stone with anyone. It's safe to say, however, that the 'Abraham the Jew' story is likely fabricated."

"Unless he was duped somehow," his Gaza mused, snuggling further into his embrace as she flipped towards the back of the bound parchment. "Perhaps Abraham deceived him."

Tom raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Come now, little wife," he murmured into the skin of her neck. "It does not suit you to be slow, not even to soothe your ruffled ethics. Even if he was originally deluded, no one reading through this manifesto could ever mistake this for a work of angelic origins."

He felt her bristle, straightening momentarily before the indignation seemed to deflate out of her in a whoosh of air and she slumped backwards again.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Hermione conceded softly. "Did you read far enough along to see what this reference to 'cost' refers to?"

Tom hummed an affirmative and turned a few pages, before pointing towards a chart. "Here," he breathed into the delicate skin of her ear. "It seems the more that you give, the more that you get, so to speak. The greater the sacrifice one is willing to make, the less often the Elixir of Life will have to be consumed. Use the murder of a beloved pet to fuel the spell, and you secure yourself a Philosopher's Stone of little to moderate strength."

His palm slid up his Gaza's arm until he clasped her hand in his own. He curled his fingers until he could move her wrist and his as if they were one, then he slowly ran their fingers together across the parchment as he pointed to the different formulas and figures. Hermione leaned forward minutely, studying the manuscript intently as he spoke to her.

"A sacrificed loved one will give you more strength," he continued, his cheek pressed against hers as he moved their fingertips to point at the relevant part of the page, "while an animal to which you have no attachment will give you less. And here..."

He trailed off as he slid their hands downwards, pointing at the very bottom of the chart. "The strongest stone you can create, from an immortality perspective, requires the deepest and most painful sacrifice one can make."

His Gaza let out a deep breath before she turned to him with something between trepidation and fierce academic interest flashing in her eyes. "A soul shard?" she breathed, moving her fingers in what he suspected was an unconscious movement to entwine with his.

Tom nodded and gave her a cool smile.

"And you said the Horcruxes were a terrible idea."