Tom dumped the white cat on his bed and watched with smug pleasure as Hermione began to make all the kinds of weird noises girls made at cats. She cooed and scratched the beast behind the ears and stroked it.

"What's its name?" she asked without looking up.

"He doesn't have one," Tom said. "I assume you can fix that."

She looked up at him and he laughed at the smirk on her face. "Snowflake," she said before turning back to the cat. "My little Snowflake," she said as the cat began to purr.

Tom threw his body down into a chair and stretched his legs out and watched her with the cat. After a few minutes she asked the obvious question. "Why did you get me a cat?"

He shrugged. "You said you had a cat in the future and what's a witch without a familiar? The fruit gifts are getting old. I like making you happy. Does it matter?"

"I haven't gotten you a gift," Hermione said. "Not one."

"You are the gift," he said casually watching her. "My shiny toy from the future. Any other future-based suggestions I could work on."

She had her face buried in the fur of the cat she was actually nuzzling but she looked up at him and said, "What do you know about the Elder Wand?"

He smiled at that.

He loved her so much.

. . . . . . . . .

"I thought you just couldn't love," Primrose said. "That's what you told me."

She was tracing her fingers over Tom's arm and he shuddered. It felt like dead, slimy hands clutching at him. He used his fingers to pinch at her sleeve and move her hand off him.

"Don't touch me," he said.

"You let her touch you," Primrose whined. "I'm a pureblood, Tom."

He looked at her. "You're furniture," he said. "Most people are furniture. Some of them are useful furniture and some of them are attractive furniture and some of them are annoying furniture in my way. Stay attractive and out of my way, Primrose. Don't presume you're a person to me."

"She is, isn't she," Primrose was sniveling at him now and it was annoying. He'd stopped looking at her and was instead watching Hermione as she helped Thoros with his Arithmancy.

Tom shrugged. "She's mine," he said. "That makes her real."

. . . . . . . . .

"What do you know about Grindelwald?" Hermione asked Tom as she straddled him. He licked his lips and eyed her. These questions about politics were never random.

"Bit of a revolutionary?" Tom asked. He leaned back on his hands and smirked up at her. "Hates Muggles, wants to rule the world? I know the drill, sweetheart. Planning on trading me in for the continental model?"

"Never," she said as she rotated her hips. He could feel his mouth open and his eyes close half way as he watched her grind herself into him. "I think one Dark Lord is all I can handle. Just curious how you felt about the competition." She pulled her jumper off and began undoing her blouse. "Do you think he's better than you?" she asked as she cast the blouse away.

"You're goading me," he said and reached a hand up to cup one breast through her brassiere. "This is ugly," he added. "Take it off."

"Make me," she said and he laughed with utter delight before grabbing her and jerking her to her back on the mattress.

Within moments he had her pinned beneath him and leaned down to breathe into her ear. "You shouldn't play with fire, toy of mine. What happens if I break you?"

"You die," she said, "and I'm still dressed."

He yanked off his tie and, watching her eyes, grabbed her wrists and knotted them together above her head. Her breathing hitched a little but her pupils were dilated and, when he leaned down to kiss her, her mouth was frantic against his and he could smell her. Rising up onto his knees he pulled her skirt to her waist and, shoving his fingers past her knickers, he thrust first one, then two, then three into her. He felt a triumphant surge at how wet she was, how ready for him. He pulled his hand away from her and settled back down to look at her. He traced her lips with his hand, wet with her own fluids, then shoved the fingers into her mouth.

"This is what you taste like," he said as she sucked at his fingers, running her tongue around them and scraping her teeth along his skin. When she bit down hard he yelped and yanked his hand away from her.

"Bitch," he said.

"Still dressed," she said and he snarled and reached behind her to unhook the truly ugly brassiere. He went to pull it off her, sliding the straps along the arms she obligingly held in front of her. He realized why she was smirking quite so broadly when his tie, still binding her wrists, kept him from getting rid of her clothing. "Having a bit of a logistical problem, Tom?" she asked and he hissed at her and tugged for a moment on the bra in frustration before he just sliced the straps with a nonverbal hex.

"Impressive," she said, raising her hands back up above her head and he glared at her for a moment before he realized she wasn't mocking him at all.

"You did tell me to undress you," he said, running a thumb and forefinger around a nipple before he lowered his head and flicked his tongue across it until she gasped.

"Tom," she said, her voice catching. He raised his head to look at her. "Do you think he's better than you?" she asked again and he could feel his eyes widen in shocked rage.

"No," he said, biting her hard on the neck, then the shoulder. She flinched at each contact but other than sharp intakes of breath didn't make a sound. "No one is better than I am." He grazed his teeth along her skin until he had her nipple caught lightly between them. He released it long enough to say, "Care to ask me again?" before capturing the sensitive flesh again.

She whimpered and he released her to nuzzle against her, feeling her relief but also the spiraling loop of his anger feeding his arousal and his arousal feeding hers.

"I wonder how much you'd let me hurt you before you stopped me?" he murmured, mouth against her skin.

"Tom," she said, her voice a plea and he laughed. He slid down her body and pushed her legs apart so he sat between them, her skirt up at her waist and her knickers soaked through. He pushed them to the side and held two fingers lightly against her.

"Get yourself off," he said and, when she didn't move, he flicked her lightly and then, after her gasp died away, held his hand still again. "You do the work," he said. "I want to watch you."

Tentatively she moved her hips so she pressed against his hand.

"More," he ordered.

She flushed but began to writhe against his hand, her face burning scarlet but her body responding to him as she could never respond to anyone else. When she was beginning to shudder he pulled his hand away and her near sob aroused him as even the earlier fury hadn't. "You are the most perfect woman in the world," he said, holding his hand just out of reach of the body she desperately pushed in his direction. "But I still want to hear you beg me."

She caught her breath and he reveled in the combination of desperation and arousal he had her in until she shook her head and said, "I won't beg Lord Voldemort for anything."

He could feel her gather her thoughts and knew she was going to reach for the cute and the pink and the fluffy and he choked out, "Don't beg him, beg me. Beg Tom."

"They're the same," she snarled.

"Not the same," he snapped. "I'm Tom. I'm the one who brings you fruit and makes you happy. Beg me. One word."

She closed her eyes and he heard her say, "Tom. Please."

He nearly attacked her, his fingers flicking back and forth across her as she gasped and writhed and finally called out again, "Please."

And he did.

. . . . . . . . . .

"So," he said a bit later. "Grindelwald."

"In my timeline Dumbledore defeats him," she said. "It what gets him dubbed one of the greatest light wizards of the age."

Tom leaned back on their bed and gave her a 'you're an idiot' look. "I'm not a light wizard, love," he said. "You may have missed this, but I have these plans to conquer the world and grind the masses to dust beneath my feet."

Hermione rolled her eyes and traced her fingers around his lips. "You, love," she said, "are whatever the press says you are. Defeat Grindelwald and they'll all fall at those feet of yours and offer you whatever your dark heart desires. You want the Ministry? They'll give it to you and thank you for being so gracious as to take it." She paused. "Of course, maybe you can't defeat the man."

He looked at her from under his lashes.

She laughed at the smoldering look. "Plus, you want his wand."

"That I do," Tom agreed. "I have a thing about death."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Abraxas' ongoing attempts to convince Hermione that they should do a musical theater revue and that she should sing Polly Peachum's 'Should Love be Controlled by Advice' was the only conflict any of them experienced for many months.

"The Beggar's Opera?" she'd say with disdain. "Not even The Threepenny Opera? I should hex you just for your execrable taste."

"I have excellent taste," Abraxas would say with a sniff. "You just don't appreciate the form."

Finally Hermione cornered him and reminded him that, what with her coming from the future and all, she knew a number of songs from years to come. "Spoilers, Abraxas. I can ruin every major popular show for you for decades, and I will if you don't stop trying to get me to sing this shite."

"You and Tom deserve each other," the man had said, stalking off in a sulk.

Unfortunately, this peace was ruined when Tom Riddle overheard two Gryffindors talking about Hermione. Headmaster Dippet had either turned a blind eye to the way Hermione spent every night in Tom's room or simply hadn't noticed; it could be difficult to suss out whether the adults at Hogwarts were truly incompetent or simply didn't care what the students did. The other students, however, had noticed and had drawn the logical conclusion that Tom and Hermione were not chaste.

That he still hadn't managed to technically fuck the damn witch probably contributed to his fury when he overheard their speculations. They centered around what assorted filthy sex acts a woman so lost to decency as to not even bother hiding she slept in her boyfriend's room was probably willing to do. The boys were most interested in whether she could be convinced to do such with them.

He knew, of course, she'd probably vivisect anyone who laid a hand on her. That did not lessen his raging desire to chop the two boys into small pieces and make them eat the bits.

He wondered how long you could keep someone alive if they ate only their own flesh.

Still, his possessive rage mostly drowned out that cool speculation and he could feel his hands curl into the familiar Veela claws.

Unfortunately, he could also feel – fuck – wings trying to sprout from his back.

Just… shite. Could this Veela absurdity get any worse? Wings. Wings.

He desperately tried to think of calm thoughts to keep the wings from bursting forth. It was like being fourteen and getting an erection in class and thinking of Quidditch scores to try to make it go away before anyone else noticed.

He made it back to his room before he released the mental control that had kept them in check and the damn wings sprouted from his back and he hunched over the bed and gasped in pain. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that a rapid transfiguration that grew wings was uncomfortable but it was one insult too many and he burned with the need to kill something, kill anything. His rage ignited the candles arrayed on his desk but it wasn't enough of a release; he needed to hurt someone.

"You can't."

He spun and snarled at Hermione who'd come in the room. She eyed his wings with what looked more like appreciation than anything else but she said again, "You can't."

"Why?" he demanded, opening and closing his bird claws in agitation.

"Kill someone and the game is up," she said. "Want to go to Azkaban? Then, fine. Walk out of here and start slaughtering the masses."

"I have wings," he said in despair. "They wanted to fuck you."

One of the positives of their increased sensitivity to one another since the Marking was that he didn't need to explain himself. "Well, they won't get a chance," she said as she crossed the room and stood before him, licking her lips. "And it's a tad hard to miss the wings."

"They're disgusting," he spit out.

Hermione, though, ran her hand over the edge of the feathers. He shuddered. "They're beautiful," she said, her voice so quiet he could barely hear her. "Like sin and shadow and rage given form. I've never seen anything as beautiful as…" she trailed off. "These are for me," she said abruptly after that. "Only for me."

"I'm not human," he said. "This is too much. Wings are too much, Hermione."

She walked around him and began to trace the lines of the sinews and bone holding the feathers with a finger. "Oh, Tom," she said again. "They're so beautiful."

He shuddered as she ran both hands along the feathers. "I'm not human," he said again but he could feel all his nerves sparking as she stroked him. It felt like having her trace her fingers lightly over his cock and he was going to die. He had wings and they were erotic and oh fuck he wanted her.

"Not human," she agreed, her fingers still tormenting him as she pet and pet and pet him. She ran her hand from where the wings erupted from his back up and then as far down as she could reach. "More. Better."

"Better?" Tom whispered the word.

"Oh, yes," she said, her voice raw. "My mate. Better. More. Mine."

"They wanted to fuck you," he said, the rage spiraling back up now that she'd started to soothe him about the damned wings. "They thought they could."

"They can't," she said, and she tugged him back towards the bed. "Worthless fools. You could."

Tom looked at her. Pupils dilated, her pulse pounding in her throat. She licked her lips and slowly unbuttoned her blouse and tugged off her bra, baring herself to him. "Now?" he asked.

"Now," she said, and she sat and pushed herself up the bed until she was sprawled before him. She pulled off her knickers and spread herself with her own fingers, blatantly inviting him.

Merlin, he didn't think he'd ever been this hard and, given her penchant for going on her knees in closets, that was saying something.

Tom fumbled with his trousers and pants and pushed them down with one clawed hand even as he tried to get off the shredded remnants of his shirt with the other. He finally got most of the shirt off and tossed it at his desk and kicked off the fabric tangled around his ankles away. He was on his knees above her, wings spread behind him, when she looked over his shoulder and shrieked.

He hadn't even touched her yet. He squinted down at her, the fog of lust and rage clearing because she was fumbling for her wand and swearing. When he turned to see what the matter was he began swearing too.

His tattered shirt was lying across a candle on the desk and most definitely on fire and his essay for advanced Potions was igniting too.

He'd worked really hard on that essay.

He wondered briefly if he could manage to fuck her before the fire got out of control.

As Hermione got her hand on her wand and managed to extinguish the flames he realized the mood was definitely ruined, his wings had shriveled and disappeared, and he'd just been cock blocked again.

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N – I'm sorry this chapter is going up before I responded to reviews of the last one. In my defense, I spent two days this week obsessively writing a 7500 Tomione short story called 'When She Drowned'. It's not funny. At all.