Tom Riddle sat in the chair behind his desk with the back of his head resting on the wood, studying the ceiling in a quiet moment of contemplation while he waited for the Mouseling to arrive.
He really would have liked to have fucked his little wife on the parlor floor earlier.
She was just so unbelievably stunning in her submission, he thought, inhaling sharply at the memory of the look in her eyes and the tone of her voice when she had said yes. With that one concession, one word, she had given in to so very many things.
Yes, I'll stand beside you, she'd said. Yes, I'll be more than your unwilling wife; I'll be your partner.
A partner was a concept that he would have scoffed at a year ago. The idea that the Dark Lord would share his rule with anyone, for any reason, was laughable. Why on earth would he do so? He was perfectly capable of governing all on his own and to even consider sharing his hard-won power with someone else should have made him nauseous. And still today, place anyone aside from his Gaza in that position in his theoretical musings and he found himself overwhelmed with the urge to murder something.
But slot her there instead, keep her even a little bit beneath his own position, and he was much more aroused, amused, excited almost, than disturbed.
So he'd looked into her pretty little face with her pretty little lips giving in and yet claiming a victory all at the same time, with the body of a traitor transfigured in the room, with the recollection of her savagery still fresh in his mind, and all Tom had wanted was to absolutely fuck his Deliciae into the floor.
He hadn't, though, which left him feeling increasingly frustrated as his Gaza retreated to her study for a rest after their rather busy day. His current state was making him cranky and that likely did not bode well for Antonin, but he wasn't particularly bothered by that. He had not deemed it necessary to inform his little wife of his evening meeting, and if he chose to blow off a little steam by playing with his follower, well...
That was his right, after all.
With a growl of annoyance, Tom stood and summoned the fire whiskey and a glass wandlessly. He rolled his neck in agitation before pouring, staring broodingly across the room and into empty space as he drank the liquid in one, long pull and poured another. He felt too small for his skin tonight, trapped in his body and in this room as he awaited his follower.
Something in him was restless and he had already murdered one relatively useful Death Eater today; what would he do with this one if Antonin's thoughts and feelings proved to be a betrayal?
And make no mistake, coveting Tom's wife would be the ultimate betrayal. And yet, his hands were tied with this particular man in ways that made the Dark Lord want to curse him on principle. Dolohov was essentially unkillable if one considered the ramifications of the bond Hermione and he shared.
'That bond,' Tom thought viciously, gripping the glass between his fingers tightly with rage. He moved to stand in front of the fire, glaring into the flames as he seethed. Never had he so regretted a decision than he did allowing that bond to be made. He would rip it out at the root if to do so would not harm his Gaza in unpredictable ways.
When he had chosen to let it happen, he had hardly cared for her. He had assumed, in fact, that to create a different tie within his organization would allow him to increase her devotion to him without Tom actually having to do additional work.
Now though... now he jealously guarded every last inch of her. Never before had he cared for another person's feelings so long as he had their loyalty and their fear. Their affections could lie anywhere, but he demanded their obedience. With his wife, however, he wanted-
He wanted-
"Gilmy bes bringing the Lordy Dowli-hoff to Masters study, just like hes telling Gilmy," came the little elf's voice, interrupting Tom's musings as he turned on heel and stared at the man in front of him. His eyes never strayed to the creature as he made a sharp gesture with his wrist, dismissing Gilmy wordlessly as his gaze continued to bore into a visibly apprehensive Dolohov.
A sharp pop announced the elf's departure and the two men found themselves alone in Tom's study standing in absolute silence.
A moment passed, then another, before Antonin seemed to come to some sort of decision and dropped to his knees.
"My Lord," he said quietly, voice firm for all that his fingers twitched and his jaw spasmed as he kept his eyes trained firmly on the floor in front of him.
"Mouseling," Tom greeted him smoothly, his tone belying none of the wild rage he felt as he carelessly tossed his glass into the fireplace. The flames flared brightly as they interacted with the liquor, forcing an involuntary wince from Antonin, and Tom found himself torn between being soothed or further angered by the fear.
Normally the terror of his prey appeased him somewhat, assuming they weren't blathering or failing to contain it, but fear implied there was something to be afraid of. What reason did Antonin have to shiver so if he had done nothing wrong?
"Are you sure you should not be prostrating yourself lower, little mouse?" Tom breathed, moving slowly with even strides until he stood behind where the man kneeled on the carpet. He set his hand gently on his shoulder, ignoring the way the other man's whole body tightened at the touch. "Do you have something to beg forgiveness for?"
"No, my Lord," Antonin said breathlessly, forcing himself still after his involuntary stiffening. "I have offered no offense and followed all directives. This I so swear."
Tom moved to stand with his thighs directly behind Dolohov's shoulders, nodding noncommittally as his fingers trailed over the wizard's shoulders, up his neck, and into his hair. He grasped the strands and wrenched backwards violently, forcing a partially suppressed grunt of pain from Antonin's throat.
Dolohov clutched at his own thighs, forcing his hands still as his neck craned uncomfortably backward in an unnatural position, bringing his eyes to Tom's darkened ones.
"Do you love her?" Tom asked softly, bringing his free hand up to caress the expanse of Antonin's exposed throat in a threatening approximation of tenderness.
"Yes," Dolohov breathed, wincing and choking slightly as Tom's fingers tightened around his Adam's Apple and squoze. He quickly continued in an effort to continue speaking before he no longer could.
"But not like you do," he said hoarsely.
The Dark Lord froze in place, eyes flashing dangerously at the implications of his follower's words before he tightened his grip further. Antonin wheezed and struggled beneath him before visibly forcing himself to be still and suffer the grip.
"Do not presume to know my mind, Antonin Dolohov," Tom said calmly, holding onto the fragile cartilage painfully tight for a few more moments before releasing his hold and allowing his lackey to cough uncomfortably while still held in position by the hair. "It is not your place to do so."
He swallowed with a wince under Tom's palm, before he responded.
"Of course, my Lord," he whispered hoarsely. "Forgive me."
"Perhaps," Tom allowed, tilting his head curiously as his fingertips stroked Dolohov's abused throat. "First we shall see whether your mind lends credence to your assertions of innocence. And allow me to assure you, little mouse: if you attempt to hide anything from me behind a wall, I will shred every inch of the sanity inside your skull until all you are capable of is drooling in a corner and reliving the most painful moments of your life. Am I quite clear?"
Antonin blinked rapidly as his eyes shifted away momentarily before they met Tom's once more with defeat reflected in the iris. "As you say, my Lord," he said softly. "All that I am is yours."
Silently, the Dark Lord ghosted in. Skill and practice allowed him to immediately find what he was most interested in reviewing; the day his little wife had ran from her husband and went to HIM.
"Kotik, should I call Tom?" Antonin was asking, running his palm up and down his Gaza's spine as the man attempted to soothe her.
Tom bristled at the other man's touch, clawing at the memory just enough to sting and smiling slightly at the whimper of pain from the man beneath him.
"Please don't," she had whispered, and Antonin's thoughts had turned grim.
"Did he hurt you, my Lady?"
"And if he had?" His Deliciae asked, her tone weak and tired and broken in ways that made his chest ache. "You are as bound to him as you are to me."
Antonin had frozen, wondering at the implications of admitting it, but had ultimately told his Lady all the same.
"I am not," he confided in her, watching her response carefully before he continued. "I assumed that is how this would work but..."
"Do you not feel it?" He had wondered. "Or, I suppose you would not, since you do not have the bond caused by the Dark Mark. The bond with the Dark Lord, it- well, it is to assure loyalty. It ties us to him, allows him to call to us and find us, and should alert him to deception or someone turning traitor. But it is imperfect..."
Tom grasped harder onto the memory with a mix of curiosity and incredulity. The curse of the Morsmordre could be thwarted? That was an unbelievable tidbit of information that would need to be addressed as soon as possible. He leaned further into the memory.
"The bond the Dark Mark creates is passive for the most part and therefore, if an active bond exists, it can usurp it. Without a higher bond, the mark would trigger as normal at the first sign of treason, but a higher bond disrupts the process. I did not know this, of course, until I pledged myself to you, but I am an expert of dark curses and the mark is very similar to a curse. Since I felt the shift within myself, I have been researching."
"So what would happen if you were to find your two vows to be in conflict with one another?" His brilliant little wife had asked, eyes sparking with curiosity.
"I would die," Antonin answered honestly, less disturbed by the revelation than Tom would have anticipated. "That much I knew, Kotik, so worry not. You are the Dark Lord's wife, his very own, and so I doubt that I will ever find myself in such a position. What I did not know was that while I would die, yes, it would be in fulfilling my vow to you. I would not have a choice, as it were, as to who to betray. My vow to you requires that I give my life to protect you, so in such a circumstance, I would do what you asked. Though the mark would not immediately kill me, as it is my lesser bond, the Dark Lord's knowledge of the betrayal could potentially force it into activating. As soon as he knew, the Dark Mark's nastier attributes could be initiated from his side of it and I would die."
Fury crackled out of Tom's presence and into the space around him in Antonin's consciousness.
'You did not see fit to tell me this?!' he hissed, words sharpened to talons as they bored their way into Dolohov's mind.
Another whimper of pain echoed, and then the knowledge that his lackey was not capable of sharing this with him came flooding in. The bond, the FUCKING BOND, pitted his need to know this information against what it perceived as Hermione's need to keep her bond primary. In the ensuing struggle for each bond to assert its dominance, his Dark Mark was ground underfoot.
And his wife's bond won.
Tom tightened ethereal claws in anger and dug in, ignoring the scream of agony that echoed around him as he sliced carelessly into the consciousness around him. While Antonin may not have had a choice in keeping this information from him, the man had offered his Gaza this bond with no thought or research into the way this could affect the Morsmordre.
For fuck's sake, Dolohov was supposed to be his expert on cursed objects and dark curses. The Dark Mark WAS a curse. At best, the man fucked up his job royally. At worst...
But Tom felt no impressions of deviousness when he delved for the moment Antonin made the bond. The offer was made freely, without malice, and foolishly.
He allowed his disgust and fury to leech out all around him and felt the wizard's consciousness shudder in response.
'I hope you have enjoyed the thoughtful care I have given your mind so far,' Tom whispered into the space around him. 'After this realization, I find that my gentle touch has quite abandoned me.'
He ripped forward.
He watched with interest as Hermione revealed details of her past life. Some of it was relevant to his plans, or at least could be despite the dramatic timeline change, and it was information he'd not been privy to before. He determined to draw the memory from the man's head soon to examine it at his leisure when the Dark Lord had more time available to him.
Tom moved with purpose past talk of a Ron Weasley and a Harry Potter and Hogwarts. He paused briefly over the prophesies, of which there were two, but he seriously doubted either would be relevant anymore. The second depended on the first and the first spoke of his downfall; his little wife had sworn in her vows to never allow said downfall. These prophesies, and worries of the Boy-Who-Lived, were now little more than the smoke such things were stored as.
Stories of the war, and after, and rebuilding the time turner passed by him. She didn't describe HOW she accomplished her superior occluding or how she induced the analgesia, which was disappointing for his own knowledge, but not surprising. He was also pleased she was intelligent enough to keep some of her secrets, even if she was busy exposing herself with others.
More of the memories rushed by.
"He told me that I would have more influence beside him, as his wife, than I could ever hope for as an advisor," Hermione had confided as Antonin continued to stroke along her spine. "I was terrified and disgusted and I knew it was a terrible idea but I..."
Part of him was focused on his annoyance that she would share so many of her weaknesses with another, but a greater part of him was increasingly filled with fury that anyone else should hold so many of her secrets when she was HIS.
"...better life for muggleborns, like myself," she said sadly. "In my time, I'm presumed dead. No one knew I was living in Hogwarts. But other muggleborns were slaves and toys and employed in the most heinous and disgusting positions imaginable..."
The Mouseling did not deserve to have so much of her; no one deserved to have so much of her except for him. She was his to hold, his to fuck; his to know and mold and protect and-
"I don't know how it happened or why," his Deliciae said on a sob. "I want to hate him, despise him. I want to cover myself in the disgust I feel every time he forces a person under his wand or every time he speaks of spilling blood as if it were no more important than afternoon tea."
That such a man, that any man should have comforted her, held her when she cried, was infuriating. The tears that he had once found so distasteful, the shows of emotion he had abhorred, those were his too. He wanted every single piece of her, from her anguish to her joy, and to have anyone else ever touch it was-
"I will never forgive myself for the way I fell in love with Tom..."
There was a momentary pause, a lull in the space of Antonin's consciousness, before Tom pulled the memory to a stop violently. Silence echoed and the impression of Dolohov's resignation seeped all around the Dark Lord as he stood rooted in the stillness, the voice in his own head silent for a moment as he absorbed the words he had just heard.
One breath, two, and then-
Tom dove into the man's memories, slashing and digging, searching with a desperation he refused to consider for any mention of the ways in which she loved him. Another scream of anguish filled his ears but the Dark Lord was unconcerned, uncovering every mention and secret within the layers of the Mouseling's mind.
First...
"Sometimes, I'm terrified that the need entreaty has dug too deeply. Sometimes, I convince myself that it's not real and it's just the bond making me feel like this, making me crave so much more than just his touch. But I know, in the depths of my soul, that's not true. It's a pleasant lie, a comforting one, but a lie none-the-less..."
And then...
"...used to look at him and only see all the things he could become. I only saw the atrocities he was capable of, the suffering he could sow. Now, though, I can't find that loathing anymore. I- It's gone. That defense has abandoned me."
And finally...
"You're in love with him," Antonin had reminded her bluntly, ignoring her flinch at his words. "There is no use in you dancing around that reality. In addition, you seem to believe this is a fact of great import, as if people do not fall in love every single day. Forgive me for speaking so frankly, my Lady, but your great love is nothing special."
Hermione had sputtered in outrage, slamming her spoon down so hard in her bowl that the stew sloshed over the side.
"Being infatuated with Lord Voldemort is nothing special?!" she hissed, leaning forward towards him over the table. "I came back to change the world, not to become enraptured by a barbaric arsehole who lacks even the most basic of moralities! Is he charming? Yes. Is he prepossessing? Yes. But there are much more important attributes for a person to possess than general allure and I have plans, damn it! I have contingencies and research and goals that need to be accomplished and nowhere in any of the many parchments detailing those things was there a bullet point reminding me to fall for Tom Riddle!"
When there was nothing more to find, Tom stilled again, cocooned in the apprehensive mind of his lackey. For a moment, his own thoughts almost leapt to true consideration of what he had learned, but he brutally stalled them. While his consciousness was mostly protected while here, Antonin could still read some of his impressions, and he had no intention of revealing them. He forced his own mind back to his original task.
'You love her,' he whispered into Dolohov's head, giving the man a chance to bring his feelings to the forefront instead of searching for them himself. Tom's rage had abruptly abated and he found himself much more charitably disposed than he had been on his entry and subsequent discovery.
Without hesitation, Antonin pushed forth the emotions. Tom swallowed a bit of bile as he was enveloped in familial love and fondness, fierce protectiveness, and pride. Hermione was to him as his sister was, adored and watched over but never coveted and never objectified. He wished for her happiness, her freedom, her utmost fulfillment, but he did not wish to have her for his own.
Although the sensation was distinctly uncomfortable for the Dark Lord, he pushed on the emotion anyway, making absolutely sure that there was no deceit here; no yearning or longing hidden beneath the superficial. He found nothing.
Tom brutally pushed the feelings away, feeling the distinct need to wipe his palms on his trousers to clean them after such an experience. Instead, he glanced around the ravaged mind he occupied quickly, noting the incorporeal blood oozing from the area due to his viciousness and the figurative contusions all around him.
Antonin would survive, surely, and suffer no loss of sanity or intelligence, but a properly shredded brain was even more painful than a crucio. He was likely to be quite ill for the next few days.
He had planned a bit more torture on his departure for the man's failure to inform him of the failures of the Morsmordre, or more specifically, for creating a situation where Antonin was unable to inform him, but he had been more brutal than he intended in his explorations. Perhaps, he considered, this was punishment enough.
Quickly, Tom pulled himself from the other man's mind and stifled the feeling of being dirtied after being suffused in his lackey's emotions. While it was distasteful, he would not show his disgust to his follower. To do so would be to highlight a weakness and he would never do such a thing willingly.
Antonin collapsed face-first on the ground when Tom released his hair, unable to hold his weight. He grunted in dulled pain as his nose broke on the impact, causing Tom to sigh at the inconvenience and nudge the other man with his foot until he rolled over.
He flicked his wrist, causing his wand to slide from his forearm holster and into his hand.
"Episkey," he said firmly, ignoring the additional grunt of discomfort as Antonin's nose quickly reset. "There will be no bleeding on my floor."
Dolohov's eyes remained closed as he panted until Tom nudged him again with his shoe, fighting back a grimace of distaste at the pathetic state of the man. He waited for the wizard's gaze to focus on him before he casually pointed his wand at the man sprawled out on his floor.
"This evening is not to be spoken of to anyone, little mouse," Tom said smoothly, kicking Antonin's side once more when the man's attention looked to waver. "It would have such a negative effect on our relationship if I felt that I could not trust you any further. After all, we already have quite a bit of built in betrayal on your side of things, now don't we?"
Dolohov swallowed and blinked rapidly, forcing his stare to meet Tom's as his throat worked. "I am sorry, my Lord," he said hoarsely, tears streaming involuntarily down his cheeks as he spoke through the pain.
"That means very little to me, Mouseling," Tom murmured, looking him up and down before taking a step backwards. "I expect you will do better, or- Well."
Choosing to let the unspoken promise hang in the air, the Dark Lord turned away and walked to his desk, settling himself into the chair behind it again as he adjusted his cufflinks. Antonin curled into a ball on the rug as Tom summoned the fire whiskey once more, pouring himself a full glass and taking a deep drink of it.
"Gilmy?" he said softly, waiting until the little creature popped into the room with quivering ears.
"See that Lord Dolohov finds his way back to Dolohov Manor and then check on the Mistress to ensure she is quite well," he ordered. "Inform her that I will be taking dinner in my study this evening and will see her when it is time to retire. My... activities this evening are not be mentioned to her."
"Yes, Master," the elf answered, moving to place a small palm on Antonin's shoulder before they both disappeared with a crack.
Silence permeated the room as a moment passed, then another, broken only by the crackling of the fire. With precision, Tom set his glass down and leaned forward in his chair, resting his head in his palms as he inhaled sharply. He aggressively ran his fingers through hair, yanking on the strands in his fervor before swiftly moving to his feet. His fingers twitched as he strode to the front of his desk and began pacing, back and forth, and finally the wall he had temporarily built was allowed to break. The memory of his wife's admission came rushing into his consciousness, choking him in its intensity.
"I will never forgive myself for the way I fell in love with Tom..."
She loved him. His Gaza. His Deliciae. His Valkyrie and his little wife; she had fallen in love with him.
Fuck. Wasn't that supposed to cause revulsion to race up his spine? Wasn't he supposed to despise her for the weakness, and worse, for it to be directed at him?
He rolled his neck as he stomped forward, yanking on the strands of his hair again as indecipherable feelings raced through him.
He'd had people fear him, oh yes; hate him, without a doubt or reservation. There had been admiration, jealousy, lust, and covetousness. There had been submission, uncertainty, devotion, and even, on rare occasion, ambivalence directed at Tom.
But never love. Love was not for men like him and he did not want it.
And no, he did not mean that in the way that men who are ill-loved and ill-used convince themselves they do not desire what they actually crave. He did not mean that he had given up on finding love or that he thought he was unworthy or any other pathetic, untrue explanation of why he had never wished to be loved.
What Tom meant when he said he did not want love is that he unequivocally and without question found the emotion to be absolutely detestable. Real love, 'true' love was the death of reason, the death of intelligence, and because of that, the death of the person who felt it eventually.
And yet...
And yet, his Gaza's love felt like something different entirely.
The thought that she would love him, without her permission, without her desire to do so and in spite of how her morality made her detest his choices was so-
It was so-
Sweet. Succulent, even, and delicious. Her love felt like the finest of wines, the softest of silks, the feel of her throat around his cock and the clench of her fingers in his hair.
Her love and the way it was pulled from her, the way she did not want to give it and yet it had been given anyway, made him groan for the want of it. She was HIS, had been for quite a while now, but there was nothing else for her to keep from him now. He owned her in her entirety when she fell in love with him against her will.
If his Deliciae had not made a choice to give him her love, then she could not make a choice to take it away. He could have it, have her, forever.
Tom pressed his palms up against the mantle above the fireplace, hanging his head between his forearms as he was overwhelmed by the fierce possessiveness and something approaching joy that sang through his body.
Forever. And not just her body, her presence; that was assured from the Aeternum Adstringo. Not just her soul, which was bound to his now. He had her heart; something he had never even thought to desire but would now never surrender all the same. He owned it and it was his and Tom Riddle took care of what was his.
Love remained a foreign concept to Tom; one he experienced in the minds of others but had never felt within himself. But he did not lie to himself and what he felt for his Gaza, the way he NEEDED her submission, her words, every little piece of her to be his and his alone-
It was something very much like love, if one turned it inside out and upside down and did not allow it the usual destruction of self. Maybe it was love; only in the profane, only in its inverse.
He licked his lips, straightening up from his position as he stared deeply into the fire.
"She was like me in lineaments," he murmured, reciting the poem quietly to the empty room as his gaze stayed fixed upon the flame.
"- her eyes, Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty;
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the universe: nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,
Pity, and smiles, and tears- which I had not;
And tenderness- but that I had for her;
Humility- and that I never had.
Her faults were mine- her virtues were her own..."
Tom trailed off, swallowing back the last line as he moved away from the fireplace and back towards his desk. He straightened his shoulders as he stared at the parchments and half-formed plans that littered the surface.
Enough thought had been given to other things today. There was work to be done.
AN: The poem, in its entirety, is by Lord George Byron and is as follows:
"She was like me in lineaments- her eyes
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty;
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the universe: nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,
Pity, and smiles, and tears- which I had not;
And tenderness- but that I had for her;
Humility- and that I never had.
Her faults were mine- her virtues were her own-
I loved her, and destroy'd her!"