All the Wrong Choices

by QueenOfTheDreamers87

Hermione is kidnapped by Severus Snape and taken to Lord Voldemort, who behaves in a bizarrely familiar manner with Hermione. When she's rocketed back in time by Voldemort, she realises just why he knew her so well in the 1990s - it was because he'd known her very well indeed, as Tom Riddle, in an entirely different time. She had to go back because she'd been there. Re-upload.

4. Chapter 4

"Take off your clothes, Hermione."

She glared at him and crossed her arms over her chest. Tom had pulled away from their kiss and immediately ordered her to disrobe. He'd regretted his command almost as soon as it had escaped his lips; she was strong-willed and did not respond well to being ordered about.

"That may very well be the least romantic thing I've ever heard in my life," Hermione said hotly. Tom could not help but smirk down at her as he huffed a little laugh and admitted,

"I was not aiming for romance, I'm afraid. I was aiming for you to remove your knickers."

Hermione looked utterly scandalised, and her right hand quivered at her side as if she were contemplating slapping Tom. He quickly realised he needed to tread more carefully if he was to get his way tonight.

"Ever heard that adage about honey and vinegar, Tom?" Hermione hissed. Tom gave her a conciliatory nod and lowered his eyes with feigned humility. He cleared his throat gently and said,

"Please, Miss Granger, would you be so good as to take off your clothes so that I might be witness to the exquisite beauty of your form?"

He raised his eyes to her and smiled a bit, watching her cheeks colour into a deep scarlet. She looked irritated, and she shook her head in disbelief. But then she said, very softly,

"I wish I could pin down why it is that I'm attracted to you, Tom Riddle. Then it might be a bit easier to pretend I wasn't."

"Stop fighting it," Tom said firmly, reaching out to unclasp her black outer robe. He pushed the robe off her shoulders and it fell to the ground with a soft ripple. He peeled off her jumper next, and she let him do it, though a look of reticence still marked her face. Tom began unbuttoning her shirt, trying to control his breath as her skin was revealed to him. He murmured, "The sooner we both stop pretending, the better."

Hermione's skin was smooth, he found. He had expected soft skin, for she was a young woman, but he'd never imagined that she would feel like actual silk beneath his fingers. Tom spent endless minutes brushing his hands over ever inch of her that he could touch, until finally he reached behind her back to unfasten her brassiere. Hermione gasped a little as the white cotton garment fell forward, and Tom moved cautiously as he slid it down her arms. He was acutely aware that aggressive movement right now might cause her to recoil from him. Once she was bare to him, he cupped her left breast in his palm and savoured the weight of it, brushing the pad of his thumb over her hardened nipple. His cock strained in his trousers, and he felt his throat bob with a desperate gulp.

Her skirt and knickers somehow fell to the floor; Tom reckoned that Hermione must have slid them off whilst he fondled her chest. He looked her up and down and huffed a bit in approval. She was thin, almost gangly, but there was a hint of a womanly curve at her hips. Her breasts, while not particularly large, were pleasantly round and fit her form nicely. Everything about her was orderly and proportionate, Tom thought. She looked right to him.

He only realised how long he'd been staring at her when she coughed a bit and mumbled, "Your turn, then."

Tom furrowed his eyebrows and dragged his teeth over his lip. He didn't need to ask her to clarify. She wanted him to strip, too. But whilst Tom was entirely confident in his school uniform, he was less haughty about his naked form. He knew his own chest was less toned than other boys in his year, that he was a bit more stringy in build. He knew that Rosier and Avery had significantly more hair upon their chests than he did, that Abraxas Malfoy was more muscular. For those reasons, and to preserve the air of mystery and distance he'd curated, Tom made a habit of showering and changing clothes in private. He was not especially eager to reveal his naked self to Hermione now; the last thing he needed was for her to laugh at him.

He cleared his throat and said delicately, "I had intended simply to dote upon your body, Hermione."

She chuckled darkly and shook her head, and Tom watched with alarm as her warm eyes glinted at him in the dim light. "That isn't fair at all," she insisted. Tom tried to keep his eyes upon her face, but found his gaze drifted of its own accord around her naked body. Hermione said firmly, "You see every inch of me now. I believe it is only fair that you reciprocate."

She shocked him then by stepping close to him and putting her fingers upon the buttons at his waist. He nearly batted her hand away as she unfastened his pyjama trousers, but her knuckles brushed over his erection. Instead of fighting her off, Tom found himself letting out a low groan of want, shutting his eyes against the whirling sensation that had suddenly come over his head.

His hands balled into fists at his side as he felt her pull his cock from his pyjamas, as he felt her hands tentatively gliding over his length. He pinched his eyes more tightly shut at the feel of it, his breath seething through clenched teeth as he struggled to stay quiet. Then, suddenly, there was something warm and wet around his member, and his eyes sprang open in alarm.

He looked down to see Hermione kneeling upon the antique rug. She'd taken his manhood in her mouth, and her hands reached for the waistband of Tom's trousers. She yanked them down over his hips until they fell freely to the floor. Tom unwittingly bucked his hips forward at the sensation of her mouth. Hermione gagged at the sudden intrusion, and she raised watering eyes up to him as if to scold him. Tom did not apologise; he was too busy attempting to stay conscious.

Her hands settled upon his hips, and Tom whipped off his emerald-coloured dressing gown and dark pyjama shirt. He stood nude before her, suddenly unashamed and unconcerned with his appearance. All he could care about was the delicious sensation of her hot, wet mouth as she plunged him into her throat over and again. Tom's hands tangled into her frizzy hair, his fingertips digging into her scalp as he encouraged her to continue her ministrations.

He snarled like a beast when she pulled him deeply into her throat. He felt her gag around him, heard her sputter and cough a little as he pulled back out, but he did not care. He wanted it again, and he pushed himself hard between her lips. Then she did the same thing that she'd done on the Viaduct to drive him utterly mad.

She moaned. This time, it was like a proper harlot would do. Her voice was low, coming from somewhere in the depths of her chest. Her moan vibrated upon his shaft and made him twitch and grow. Tom suddenly realised he was moments away from finishing in her mouth. Much as he would enjoy doing so, it wasn't the plan he'd had for tonight. He wrenched Hermione's head off of his cock and held her back by her hair. She stared up at him with heat in her chestnut eyes, her lips pearlescent and swollen.

Tom wanted her more in that moment than he'd wanted anything in his entire life. Every imperfection on her body - the dusting of freckles across her nose, the way her hair stood on end, the awkwardly bony structure of her limbs - all of it was delightfully attractive to him. He couldn't explain exactly why, though he knew there was something very visceral and elemental drawing him to the girl. He huffed in frustration and muttered down to Hermione,

"Stop, before you end things prematurely, Hermione. I am not finished with you yet."

A deep flush crept up her neck into her cheeks. Her lips parted a bit and her eyes glinted again, and Tom said in a shaking voice,

"Get on your hands and knees."

Hermione tipped her chin up and wrenched her head to the side a bit until Tom released her hair. She said matter-of-factly, "Vinegar and honey, Tom. Remember?"

Tom curled up a corner of his mouth and gritted his teeth. He was at once impressed and annoyed by her attitude. She was the only one he'd ever encountered who had not bent easily to his will. In anyone else, such defiance would have been utterly infuriating. To a point, it was with Hermione, as well. But it was also oddly arousing, causing Tom to feel a primal urge to claim her in every manner imaginable. He tossed up an eyebrow and sneered mockingly down at Hermione,

"Please, Miss Granger, would you be so kind as to arrange yourself upon the carpet so that I might take you from behind?"

Hermione's eyes widened and she squared her jaw, cocking her head to the side a bit. For a brief and horrifying moment, Tom thought she might reject him outright. But he could almost read her thoughts without Legilimency, and it was plain to see that she was tired of fighting off his advances. She sucked on her bottom lip for a moment, and then she said,

"My knees hurt. I've been kneeling for quite a while, you know."

Tom laughed, feeling his mirth bubble up from his chest. He moved to sit upon the divan, not caring at all that he was naked upon the Gryffindor Common Room furniture. He patted his thigh and said slyly to Hermione,

"Perhaps my lap will be more comfortable for you than the floor."

Hermione scrambled rather ungracefully to her feet, and Tom saw that her knees had round red patches from the rug. He was strangely aroused by that sight, too, by the evidence that she'd been kneeling and had taken him in her mouth. His member stiffened further as he flicked his eyes up her form and met her hungry expression.

"Come here," he whispered, his voice crackling in the silent room. He'd meant to sound as authoritative as ever, but he'd sounded more pleading than he would have liked. His dominant resolve crumbled further when Hermione put a knee on each side of his thighs and arranged herself to hover above his cock. She snaked her arms about his shoulders, and Tom reached between her thighs.

He could not stifle the groan that escaped when his fingers felt how wet - how ready - she was. She wanted him, badly. That was obvious from the radiating, slick heat between her legs. She squirmed a little until the tip of Tom's cock pushed at her entrance, and Tom struggled not to buck his hips up and impale her.

She'd shut her eyes, and her breath was coming in quaking pants through her nose as she trembled above him. Her hands clutched at the back of his head, and Tom felt a tingling come over his scalp. It crept down his spine and curled around to his front, igniting his groin with desire.

He moved his hands to Hermione's waist and pulled her down slowly, feeling every inch of her womanhood as she slid onto him. He moaned helplessly until he was buried inside of her. The pulsating tightness around him was almost too much to bear. His hands tightened around her waist when she began to roll her hips up and down, gliding up his shaft and back down again.

They developed a steady rhythm, slow but insistent, with Tom's hands upon Hermione's waist and hers grasping his shoulders.

"Miss Granger, would you be so good as to kiss me?" Tom asked through gritted teeth. Hermione grinned down at him, at the way he'd deliberately phrased his request to avoid sounding commanding. Tom smirked back at her and prompted again, "I would be honoured, Miss Granger, for a kiss just now."

She tasted powerfully sweet, Tom thought when her mouth pressed against his. He hummed against her mouth and urged her lips to part, exploring her with his tongue and savouring her flavour. She was intoxicating, and he should have been irritated about that. He should have been utterly infuriated that she made himmoan like an infatuated fool.

But instead, all he could think was that she felt completely marvelous around him, that he never wanted her to climb off his lap, that he wanted to kiss her forever. But she yanked her mouth off of his suddenly, stilling her hips, and she panted,

"Tom! The contraceptive spell... we both forgot!" She looked a bit panicked, and Tom sighed in frustration. He had no desire for her to scramble off of his cock just so that they could cast the incantation. Neither had he any desire for a bastard born before he even had the chance to achieve power.

Tom stuck his hand out in the direction of his discarded clothing. He summoned every bit of magic he possessed and barked firmly, "Accio wand!"

To his complete satisfaction, Tom's yew wand came flying out of the heap of clothes and landed squarely in his hand. He gave a smug look to the disbelieving Hermione, and he twirled his wand for a moment before pointing its tip at Hermione's abdomen. He murmured a few spells until he was confident she was protected from his seed, and then he lay his wand down upon the divan and said smoothly,

"Where were we, Miss Granger?"

---

Hermione had sent Tom Riddle back to the dungeons after they'd hastily dressed again. They were both rather slick with sweat, both still a bit woozy from pleasure, as Hermione had murmured to Tom,

"I... shall see you at breakfast, then."

Tom had been tying the belt of his dressing-gown as he licked his bottom lip and smiled, "I daresay this is the first time you and I have parted company in such good spirits."

"Don't ruin it, then," Hermione insisted, rolling her eyes at him. She knew her hair was an utter disaster, that her clothes were rumpled, that she smelled of sex, but she did not care. Neither did Tom, apparently. He reached for Hermione's waist and yanked her against his body, leaning down to breathe in the scent of her before kissing her forehead delicately.

"It's very obvious to me now why I sent you back here. Back in time."

"So that we could snog on the Viaduct and do worse in the library and in the Common Room?" Hermione cocked up an eyebrow at him and pursed her lips. Tom snorted a bit and nodded.

"Yes, so that we could do those things. But also simply because I rather like having you about. It isn't something I wish to attempt to explain, either to you or to myself. It doesn't really matter why, does it? All that matters is that I like to touch you, to kiss you, to spar with you and watch you sleep on a divan with a library book."

Hermione gasped, scandalised, and huffed, "You watched me sleep? For how long?"

"Long enough," Tom said slyly. "You murmur things in your sleep, you know. And your mind is shockingly easy to enter whilst you're sleeping."

Hermione felt a quiver of unease course through her veins. She pulled away from Tom a bit and asked, "You looked in my head without my permission? At my dreams?"

"Of course I did," Tom shrugged, rather shamelessly. Hermione knew she ought to be furious with Tom for doing that, but instead she merely felt curious. She sighed and said self-consciously,

"Well... what did you see?" Hermione knew vaguely what she'd been dreaming when Tom had roused her, though the details were fuzzy.

Tom surprised Hermione by snaring his fingers in her hair and kissing her forehead again. "You were sitting upon the lap of a man who looked quite a bit like you. Your father, I suppose. You were very small, and you were clutching a book, as you always seem to be doing. The man - your father - was reading aloud to you and you were following with your fingertip. You were happy. The book was about butterflies."

Hermione expected Tom to sneer at her about her dream, to call her father a 'filthy Muggle' or to decry the maudlin subject of her dream-book. But the gaze he gave her was steely and serious, and that made Hermione's eyes burn ever more intensely. She felt her bottom lip shake and she shook her head as she whispered,

"I shall never see them again. My parents."

Tom licked his bottom lip again and said delicately, "Perhaps... perhaps someday, years from now, you can go to where you know they will live. You can sit in a bookshop near their house, and you can Transfigure yourself so that you do not look familiar in any way. Then, perhaps someday, years from now, your father will walk into that bookshop holding the tiny hand of a little girl. And you will see him again."

Hermione felt hot tears erupt from her eyes then, quite uncontrolled as they slithered down her cheeks. She swiped at them and sighed with shaking breath. "I want to go home," she said suddenly, before she could contemplate the words.

"I am your home now." Tom's voice was warmer than Hermione was accustomed to hearing it, though he was still insistent and firm. Hermione knew that, buried beneath the veneer of concern, there remained the bit of Tom who 'always got what he wanted.' And she knew he did not wish for her to leave his time.

A while later, Hermione shook with tears as she stood alone in the girls' showers. She'd scrubbed the sticky evidence of her dalliance with Tom from between her legs, and she'd washed the salty sweat from her body. When at last she felt clean, she shut off the water and wrapped a towel about her form. She pulled on a warm nightgown before sliding into her bed, but she still felt utterly naked. She'd allowed Tom Riddle - Voldemort - to take her body, more than once now. Worst of all, she'd liked it. She'd truly liked it. He'd made her clench around him, made her moan with want and gratification, made him relish the feel of his skin beneath her fingers and his lips against hers.

She'd felt safe with him, though of course she knew that was idiotic. She'd felt a clench of regret in her chest as he'd climbed out of the portrait hole, for she'd wanted nothing more than for him to stay the night with her.

As Hermione drifted off to sleep, she thought back to the uncharacteristic warmth he'd used with her as he'd revealed what she'd been dreaming. The way he'd made it seem as though there were hope if she stayed in this time. The way he'd kissed her forehead - in a fashion that had felt comforting and affectionate.

It was almost alarming, the way his cruel and cold exterior had vanished in the Common Room. But as he'd slipped out the portrait hole, Hermione could sense Tom putting up his guard again. He needed it, she knew. He needed to be flinty and brusque and unfriendly, or else no one would fear and obey him.

She huffed in her bed and tossed about as she wondered why she cared whether anyone obeyed Tom.

There was something unnatural, she thought angrily, about how much it pleased her to be with him. There was something dreadful and wrong about how much she liked his kisses, how much he impressed her with his skill and wit and raw sense of authority. She shouldn't like it, any of it. She shouldn't like him, Hermione thought bitterly, but she did. She liked him very much.

---

"Mr. Riddle. Please do come in."

Headmaster Dippet beckoned for Tom to enter his office. Tom glanced behind the Headmaster's desk to the rows of curious-looking portraits. Tom cleared his throat and approached the desk, saying delicately,

"Headmaster Dippet, I was wondering if you had already notified Miss Prewett of her appointment to Head Girl?"

Dippet frowned and shook his head, looking a bit perplexed. "I had not yet sent the owl to her parents' residence," Dippet admitted hesitantly. "Why do you ask, Tom?"

Tom pulled out a folded newspaper from his school robes and smoothed it wordlessly upon Dippet's desk. "I wonder, Headmaster," he began, "If you are familiar with the Muggle newspaper The Daily Telegraph? I received this copy just this morning from a fellow student - Orion Black. He saw it outside his home and procured a copy for me. I expect this news will be covered even in The Daily Prophet. In any case, Sir, I think it to be quite a significant development."

Tom watched as Dippet scanned the headlines. 'ALLIED INVASION! TROOPS SEVERAL MILES INTO FRANCE! - Fighting in Caen; 10,000 tons of bombs blasted way - Pilots watch battle, say, "Beaches Ours" - Massed fighters hunt in vain for Luftwaffe.'

"This means, of course, Sir, that the fighting in the Muggle conflict on the Continent is about to become quite intense. I expect that Grindelwald will seize this opportunity to further establish control of the Continental wizarding world. There may, of course, also be a great many wizarding casualties of the Muggle war. Casualties like Miss Hermione Villeneuve's parents."

Armando Dippet set the newspaper down upon his desk and looked up at Tom. "What are you suggesting, my boy?"

"Well, Sir," Tom said thoughtfully, "I thought perhaps it would actually be a somewhat strategic move to name Miss Villeneuve as Head Girl. I should think Hogwarts may well be host to more Continental wizarding refugees in the coming year, no? It would be honourable, to say the least, to demonstrate a welcoming attitude toward these refugees by naming one - the first one - as Head Girl. Miss Villeneuve has achieved exceptional marks in her courses, has proven herself to be an especially competent witch, and is popular with her classmates. I believe she would make a fine Head Girl... and is a more politically wise choice than Miss Prewett, if you will permit me to say so."

Headmaster Dippet raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. "And your... recommendation... has precisely nothing to do with the proximity of the dormitories of Head Girl and Head Boy?"

Tom feigned offence and shook his head. "No, Sir," he said innocently. "Of course not."

"Of course not," Dippet repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. He picked up the Muggle newspaper again and sighed as he read about the invasion of France. At last he said, "I shall think on it, Tom. Thank you for your advice. May I keep the newspaper?"

"Of course, Sir." Tom inclined his head. "Thank you for seeing me, Sir."

He walked briskly from the Headmaster's office, wondering if he ought to have simply cast a nonverbal Confundus Charm upon Dippet to urge him to select Hermione as Head Girl. But then, Tom thought, Confundus victims usually vibrated a bit when the spell hit them, and he worried that the portraits in the room would recognise what had happened and reveal his actions. So Tom had relied wholly upon his charm and skills of persuasion. He only hoped it would be enough. He had no particular desire to spend his seventh year next-door to Margaret Prewett.

---

Lord Voldemort rather enjoyed Malfoy Manor's new look. According to both his newly implanted memories and the testimonies of those around him, Voldemort had long ago turned 'The Regia' into a beautiful and functional headquarters. As he moved down the corridor, he admired his own taste in artwork and decoration, and he gave a pleased sound as he opened the door to his main office. The room featured tall windows that revealed the rain outside in all its splendour. The glowing marble fireplace made the office pleasantly warm, and Voldemort was rather fond of the heavy, dark furniture inside. He glided smoothly into the chair behind his desk, taking note of the ease with which he moved about. His old, disfigured form had been creaky and unwieldy. Even at seventy years of age, Voldemort found it far easier to maneouver his aged, mortal form than the abomination of a body he remembered.

There was a soft knock upon the office door, and Voldemort glanced up and barked, "Enter."

The door creaked open to reveal Hermione, looking elegant and resplendent in a set of green crushed velvet robes. Voldemort raised his eyebrows at her and curled up his lips crookedly.

"Skipping school today, are we, Headmistress?" he teased. His memories had informed him that the past fifty years with Hermione had been spent in an almost constant state of good-natured bantering. She rolled her eyes at him and shook her head, stepping into his office and shutting the door softly behind her. She held out a wooden box to him, and Voldemort frowned curiously at it. It appeared to be polished mahogany, or perhaps rosewood. He took the box wordlessly from Hermione, searching for its opening.

"You sealed it up months ago," she informed him matter-of-factly, "So that, in the case that you lost your memories in the timeline transfer, you would possess your own account of what had happened. I believe it is opened with Parseltongue."

Voldemort eyed her curiously, still marveling at the congenial manner in which she addressed him. He pinched his lips a bit and looked down at the box again. It appeared to have no means of opening the lid, so he cleared his throat and hissed smoothly,

"Hesha-Hassah."

The box suddenly emitted a soft crack, and a crease appeared a few centimetres from the top. The box eased open, and Voldemort saw that inside were dozens of papers. He set the box down upon his desk and pulled out the stack of parchment.

There were many news clippings, most of which told stories that Voldemort remembered thanks to Hermione's implanted memories. It was still immensely gratifying to see the words upon the pages.

From 1962, there was a clipping which read, 'MINISTER FOR MAGIC IGNATIUS TUFT OUSTED.'

Voldemort scanned the article, which outlined how 'The Dark Lord himself approved the removal of the incompetent Tuft,' and how Voldemort had 'authorised the replacement of Ignatius Tuft with a representative of the Cause. Minister Pollux Black was sworn into duty on Tuesday.'

Voldemort sighed lightly and continued flipping through news clippings, all of which outlined various feats, achievements, and milestones from the past fifty years. He paused briefly at the headline which read,

'ALBUS DUMBLEDORE FOUND DEAD IN WALES - APPARENT VICTIM OF SPATTERGROIT.'

Voldemort read the fabricated story, knowing full well it was all lies. He vividly remembered how he'd ambushed Dumbledore in Hogwarts, Disarming the old man and then sending a Killing Curse toward him. It had, indeed, been in August of 1958. But Voldemort remembered clearly the circumstances of that day, and there had been no spattergroit involved.

He flicked the clipping aside and read through a few more. Most were mundane instances, such as when the centaurs had signed a treaty with Voldemort's puppet government. Others were more significant, like the day that Lucius Malfoy and Andromeda Black were thrown into Azkaban for treason. Voldemort was about to put the stack of clippings back into the wooden box when he came upon a thin, blank envelope. He turned it over but saw no writing upon it. He held it up to Hermione, who stood on the other side of the desk. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"What is this?" he demanded, and Hermione shrugged and shook her head.

"I've no idea," she admitted. "You put this together for yourself; I had nothing to do with it. I'm sorry. Open it?" she suggested, and Voldemort pinched his lips as he cracked open the wax seal. He pulled out the small bit of parchment and tossed the envelope aside.

He quickly recognised his own script upon the parchment, and he felt a strange sense of anxiety as he read the words he'd written to himself.

'You have loved Hermione Granger for the past fifty years. Perhaps one day you ought to tell her so.'

Voldemort startled a bit as he read the message five or six times. Then he cleared his throat and crumpled the parchment in his fist. He nonverbally Vanished it into nonbeing and flicked his eyes hesitantly to Hermione. She furrowed her grey brows curiously and asked,

"What did it say?"

Voldemort sighed lightly and replaced the papers into the box, shutting the lid firmly.

"Nothing important," he said.

---

Hermione pointed her wand at the neat stack of books upon the library table.

"Redire librum," she murmured, and the books flew quickly back toward the shelves and slid into their proper places. Hermione smirked at her well-performed charm and pulled the strap of her rucksack over her shoulder.

"I thought I might find you here. The weather is far too agreeable to be cooped up in the library, don't you think?"

She startled and turned toward Tom's voice. He was stalking through the library doors, and Hermione flicked her eyes down to his right hand, where he clutched a small bunch of lilacs. He held them out to Hermione as he neared her table. She reluctantly took the flowers and asked,

"What are these for?" It seemed rather unlike Tom Riddle to give a gift purely out of the goodness of his heart. Hermione was unsurprised, then, when Tom curled up his mouth knowingly and said,

"They're a congratulatory gift."

Hermione frowned down at the lilacs, then back up at Tom. "For what am I to be congratulated?" she asked. Tom raised his eyebrows and said simply,

"For your assignment as Head Girl for the coming term. Congratulations, Miss Villeneuve." He pulled out a small scroll from his blazer and held that out to Hermione as he had the lilacs. She felt her heart thud a bit as she broke the seal upon the scroll and read over Headmaster Dippet's letter informing her that she had, indeed, been made Head Girl. Hermione felt her eyebrows crumple in confusion.

"Why would they make me Head Girl?" she demanded. "There are plenty of Hogwarts girls who have been here since their first years and would be perfectly qualified. The other students aren't going to take this well. This doesn't make sense. I mean to say, I am honoured, but, Headmaster Dippet -"

"Is very easily persuaded when he needs to be." Tom's crooked smile widened, and his dark eyes glinted dangerously. Hermione felt her mouth drop open.

"Tom, you can't - you can't simply force people to do whatever you want."

"I can do whatever I please," Tom droned matter-of-factly. "Besides which, I did not 'force' the Headmaster to do anything. I simply spoke reason to him. He agreed, after a time, that you were the best choice for the position."

Hermione scowled at him, feeling her cheeks go hot with a mixture of embarrassment, indignation, and confused gratitude. She wanted to be Head Girl, of course. Even in 'her' time, she'd hoped that her seventh year would be spent in the position. But she had always rather hoped to earn the spot. Having Tom Riddle manipulate Headmaster Dippet into bestowing the honour made it all rather bitter. She crumpled the scroll in her hand and put the lilacs down upon the library table.

"I'm going to the Headmaster's office," she said briskly. "I shall inform him that I do not believe myself worthy of this honour, and I shall suggest that he choose someone else. Maggie Prewett, perhaps, or that girl from Ravenclaw who gives first-years a wicked glare when they're too boisterous in the corridors. What's her name again? Mildred, isn't it? Yes. He should choose Maggie or Mildred, and I shall tell him so."

She began to walk away from Tom, pursing her lips determinedly. She gasped when she felt his hand reach for her elbow to stop her. His fingers were light but insistent upon her as they pulled her back. Hermione's stomach fluttered as she whirled around toward him.

"You simply want our dormitories to be next door to one another!" she accused, sniffing righteously. Tom smiled serenely and shrugged.

"That would be an added benefit," he admitted, "but it isn't my sole reason for pressing for your appointment. I would be very happy, Hermione, if you would simply accept the position with grace and gratitude."

"Well, I am not in the business of ensuring your happiness," Hermione snapped. She lowered her eyes from Tom, for it was weakening her angry resolve to see the way his dark eyes stared at her with surprising warmth. "I do not require your advocacy on my behalf, Tom," she mumbled. "I neither want nor need your help."

"You don't need anyone's help," Tom agreed firmly, and Hermione raised her eyes to him again and furrowed her brows in confusion. He continued calmly, "I did not advocate for your appointment for altruistic reasons, Miss Granger. I assure you I have entirely selfish motives in wanting you as Head Girl. Here… take these if you're leaving." He picked up the lilacs from the table and held them out to Hermione again. "Congratulations," he said smoothly.

Hermione rather snatched the flowers from his hand and huffed a bit, feeling conflicted and bemused as she stormed out of the library.

---

Lord Voldemort awoke from his slumber with a jolt and a gasp. He sprang up to a sitting position, trying to make sense of where - and when - he was. His dream had been more than the mere conjurings of his sleeping mind, he realised. It had been a memory.

Ten minutes later he stepped out of the fireplace in Hermione's headmistress chambers at Hogwarts, the green flames of his Floo transport flaring behind him.

"Hermione!" he called, striding angrily through her sitting-room and into her bedroom. He was not entirely surprised to see that she wasn't asleep. Instead, she sat upright in her bed, surrounded by several floating candles. She was reading, as she so often did, and she set down her book when Voldemort came storming through the door.

"What's happened?" she demanded, squirming uncomfortably upon her duvet. Voldemort felt his ears ring with rage as he barked,

"Where is she?"

Hermione looked mildly confused as she squeaked, "Where is who, Tom?"

"Don't. Don't pretend you have no idea." Voldemort's words seethed through his clenched teeth. He jabbed his wand at Hermione and growled, "Legilimens."

He was instantly confronted with her mental barriers; he had taught her Occlumency decades earlier, and she was now quite accomplished at the art of blocking him out. But he pushed, harder and harder, against her mind. Eventually, she yielded, willingly removing her mental block. Voldemort flipped through her mind, searching for exactly the memory he needed.

Hermione knocked gently upon the heavy office door. She shifted a bit, adjusting the weight of the small girl she carried.

"Enter."

His voice was sharp, irritated. Hermione contemplated whether or not it was wise to bother him just now, but she glanced to the raven-haired child on her hip and then turned the knob upon the door.

"She was asking for you," Hermione said softly. Tom - Lord Voldemort - glanced up impatiently from the parchment upon which he'd been scribbling. He looked young, still likely not thirty years of age. His scowl softened a bit when he met the gaze of the toddler upon Hermione's hip. The child scrambled to get down, and Hermione set her gently upon the floor.

The child giggled and dashed ungracefully across the office, throwing up her tiny hands when she reached her father. Tom reached down to pick the child up and arranged her upon his lap.

"Good morning, Georgiana," he greeted her. "Are you going to help me with my work?"

"Yes!" The child, Georgiana, nodded eagerly and reached for the quill upon Tom's desk. She thrust it out to her father, and he chuckled darkly as he took it from her. He looked up to Hermione and nodded.

"I'll bring her back to you in a bit," he said coolly, and Hermione felt her lips curve into a contented smile.

"Georgie," she prompted, and the little girl raised her dark, curious eyes. Hermione murmured, "Mummy will be just out here, in the sitting-room. You be good for your father, you understand?"

"Yes!" Georgiana said again, folding her hands obediently upon her lap. Hermione shook her head and laughed softly, turning to go from the room. As she shut the office door behind her, she heard Tom's voice say softly,

"Here, Georgie. You sign this one. They'll take your signature more seriously than mine, anyway."

Voldemort reeled as he yanked himself from Hermione's mind. She had dissolved into frantic tears where she sat upon the bed, her fingers tangling themselves in her grey hair. Her thin back heaved with her sobs, and she shook her head firmly.

"You were not… I didn't put those into the Pensieve," she insisted.

"Where is the girl?" Voldemort heard the venom in his voice as he realised his own mind contained no memories of the child. All he had was the dream from which he'd awoken - a dream in which Hermione clung to him as they read a letter. He knew the answer, he suspected, but he snarled once more, "Where is she?"

Hermione's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy when she raised her head to him. She jabbed her chin up a bit and swiped tears from her cheeks as she said in a shaking voice, "She's gone, Tom. They tried to use her as leverage, in a last-ditch effort against you. They took her, and… well, just look."

He entered her mind again and felt sick at the memory Hermione had thrust forward.

Spells were flying all about the cavernous space. Hermione was busy repelling curses as she sprinted toward little Georgiana, who had been bound to a chair with the Incarcerous spell.

Georgiana was older now, perhaps seven or eight years of age, and she squirmed and struggled against the chair as Hermione raced toward her.

"Mum!" she cried suddenly, "Behind you!"

Hermione whirled around to see a hulking Auror raising his wand toward her. He opened his mouth to cast a curse, but Hermione was faster. She shrieked, "Stupefy!"

The massive Auror hurtled backward through the air and landed with a thud upon the floor. He was unconscious, but twitched a bit upon the ground from the force of Hermione's spell.

"Mum!"

She turned back round to the chair where they'd bound Georgiana. A female Auror stood beside the chair, her wand pointed deliberately at the child.

"Hermione, I have no desire to harm this girl," the red-haired Auror said firmly. "Surrender your wand and urge your husband to do the same, and we will let Georgiana go. Otherwise, the consequences will be… dire."

"Let her go, Maggie." Hermione held her wand toward Maggie Prewett with a fiercely trembling hand. "You may not use my child like this. Let her go."

Maggie Prewett shook her head with apparent regret and sighed heavily. "Say goodbye to your mother, Georgie," she mumbled to the child. "You shan't be seeing her for some time, unless she and your father see reason."

"Let her go, Maggie!" Hermione's voice cracked as she willed away the tears that stung her eyes. She flicked her eyes to meet Georgiana's, and she noticed once more how much the child's eyes resembled her father's. The room still flashed with flying curses, and Hermione saw a green flash out of the corner of her eye, saw a figure crumple to the floor.

"Margaret Prewett!" Tom's voice was booming and authoritative in the large space. Hermione did not take her eyes from Georgiana's; she tried to radiate comfort to the child even as her shaking wand was aimed at the Auror. Tom's voice rang out again, from metres away, "If you harm my daughter, you will learn what pain truly is. Release her at once, or you and the Ministry shall know the fullness of my wrath. Now, Miss Prewett."

Hermione flicked her wand a few inches to the left and impulsively cried out, "Emancipare!"

The magical binds surrounding Georgiana dissolved, but Maggie Prewett quickly grasped at the girl's elbow before she could rise from the chair. She cast one final, disappointed gaze to Hermione, and then she Disapparated from the room with the girl.

Hermione screamed, falling to her knees.

---

Hermione set down the copy of the Daily Prophet she'd been reading and lay back upon the grass. She sighed and shut her eyes against the blazing sunlight that beat down upon the courtyard. There was stillness all about her; the air was stagnant and warm, and the emptiness of the school meant an almost oppressive silence. She might have fallen asleep there upon the grass, except that her mind was racing.

The newspaper had stated that the Hogwarts Express would be leaving in three days' time from King's Cross, ferrying any students whose parents wished for them to return to school for the remainder of the holidays. The sudden intensification of the Muggle War had been mirrored by increasing violence by Grindelwald's forces. Just as Muggle parents had evacuated their children from British cities, wizarding parents were being urged to send their children back to Hogwarts for safekeeping.

Hermione wondered who would be on the train when it pulled back into Hogsmeade. Many of the students' parents had been hesitant to lose the time with their children over summer holidays. Now, though, she thought, they would be fools not to send their offspring back to school. Just in the past two weeks, a dozen witches and wizards had been murdered in what the Ministry had determined to be calculated assassinations by allies of Grindelwald.

Meanwhile, an entire family of British wizards had been killed in Oradour-sur-Glane, in France. The mother and father and their two teenaged children had been in the small town to convince their eldest child, a daughter, to return to Britain. She'd married a French Muggle, apparently, and stubbornly remained with him despite the perils of the war. The Daily Prophet recorded that the entire family violated the International Statute for Secrecy in their attempts to protect Muggles in the town as Nazi forces invaded and carried out a massacre. Ultimately, however, they were all shot with Muggle weapons and killed.

Hermione could not imagine that the parents of Hogwarts students would read such a story and not be struck with fear. While Hermione knew full well that Muggle Nazi forces had never invaded Britain during the Second World War, that fear still lingered in the minds of British parents, wizarding and Muggle alike. So Hermione assumed that there would be quite a few pupils aboard the Hogwarts Express when it returned to Hogsmeade.

Her reverie was broken by the soft padding of feet somewhere behind her head. She did not need to open her eyes to know who it was.

"Hello, Tom," she murmured. The soft footsteps stopped and she heard his voice above her.

"Headmaster Dippet wishes for you and I to move our belongings into the Head Girl and Head Boy dormitories," he informed her. "There will be students returning in a few days, and he wishes for us to begin our duties a bit early."

Hermione sighed. "I don't suppose any of that was your idea?"

She sensed Tom's hesitation for a brief moment, and then he said, "I should like very much to say that I once again… urged… the Headmaster to do my bidding. However, I must admit that I was simply informed of this development during a meeting this morning."

"What does Dumbledore think of all this?" Hermione posited thoughtfully.

"What does Dumbledore think of what?" Tom asked sharply. "Of you being Head Girl?"

"No." Hermione sighed impatiently and put her hands up to shield her eyes. She squinted up at Tom, blinded momentarily by the sunlight. "Of the wars," she clarified. "Do you suppose he means to do anything about Grindelwald?"

"Grindelwald has holed himself up in Nurmengard," Tom informed her matter-of-factly. "If anyone is likely to go there and confront him, it's Dumbledore. But I suspect the fool may encounter a great deal of difficulty summoning the will to kill his oldest friend."

Hermione wondered how it was that Tom knew so much about Dumbledore's history with Grindelwald. She sat up and frowned up at him. Before she could ask him about any of that, he continued,

"Are you aware that the Ministry is sending Dementors to guard Hogwarts?"

Hermione felt her jaw go slack. Then she sneered in distaste, remembering what it had been like in her third year when the school grounds had swarmed with Dementors.

"I suppose it's a good thing I've got a strong corporeal Patronus," she muttered disdainfully.

"I beg your pardon?" Tom's voice was cold and hard as he stared sceptically down at Hermione. She huffed a bit at his disbelief. Of course, she knew that Conjuring a Patronus was exceptionally advanced magic, but Harry Potter had taught her and others how to do it properly more than a year previously.

Harry, who himself had advanced so far magically so that he might fight off Voldemort. Tom.

Hermione felt an uncomfortable queasy pit in her stomach as she remembered what it had been like when Dumbledore's Army had assembled in the Room of Requirement and practiced their Patronus charms. The looks of sheer glee upon the faces of the successful, the exasperated sighs of those who were unable to cast the complicated spell.

"You can Conjure a Patronus?" Tom asked, cocking an eyebrow at Hermione. She pulled herself off the ground, brushing away bits of grass from her skirt and blouse.

"Yes, I can," she said rather haughtily. "If you must know, some friends of mine and I learnt to do it because you made us fear for our lives."

Tom smirked and chuckled, and Hermione felt herself growing angry at how proud he seemed. He seemed positively amused by the notion that he'd instilled such fear. Hermione gritted her teeth.

"I learned quite a bit of powerful magic, you know… because of your wickedness."

"Well, you're welcome, then," Tom shrugged. "Who might have supposed that my aspirations might prompt you to become a more powerful witch?"

Hermione gasped a bit, wanting to strike his smooth cheek with her hand and tell him what horrid things he had done - would do - that would ruin so many lives. But she found herself unable to say anything as she contemplated his words. Could it be that his evil nature during 'her' time had indeed encouraged her to learn more advanced practical magic than she might have otherwise done?

Well, she realised, in any case, she was not about to thank him for it.

"Can you Conjure a Patronus?" she demanded mockingly, crossing her arms over her chest. She suspected that Tom had probably never even attempted the spell; it was far beyond N.E.W.T.-level magic and was not a commonly learned skill.

"No," Tom admitted, squaring his jaw. Hermione jolted in surprise at the firm way he'd answered. Tom shifted upon his feet and said uneasily, "I have tried, many times. I am consistently unable to produce a sufficiently happy memory."

"Oh." Hermione nodded, realising then how very unhappy Tom's life had been. He was certainly a powerful enough wizard for the spell, but of course a very happy memory was required. If he did not have one…

"Perhaps I ought to try again," Tom suggested hesitantly. "I have… experienced things since my last attempt… things that I believe might be powerful enough to assist me…"

He trailed off, licking his lip rather nervously as he stared at Hermione. She stepped nearer him and reached up to cup his jaw in her hand.

"Things like this?" she found herself asking, and she pushed up onto her tip-toes. She pressed her lips against his and tasted the warmth of his kiss. She sighed against his mouth, squealing a little when his hands grasped her waist and yanked her against his body. Tom pulled away and planted a soft kiss upon her forehead before looking down into her eyes.

"Yes," he nodded reluctantly. "Things like that."

Hermione smiled warmly and stepped away from Tom, pulling out her wand and directing it up into the air.

"Shall I show you?" she offered, and Tom shrugged halfheartedly. She watched him feign disinterest as he said,

"There aren't any Dementors about, so I don't know why you would expend the energy."

"To prove to you that I can do it!" Hermione chuckled at the way Tom scowled. She shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.

She summoned the happiest memory she could think of. She saw her mother and father, giggling with her on Christmas morning as she tore into gifts. She curled up her lips as she remembered the way they'd sung carols together, the way they'd opened Christmas crackers and snuggled before their warm fireplace. Hermione began to pull her wand into a steady circular motion to strengthen her spell, and then she incanted,

"Expecto Patronum!"

She opened her eyes to see a silver stream pour forth from the tip of her wand, and she grinned in satisfaction when the charm began to take shape. She fully expected to see the otter she'd cast so many times, but she frowned when she saw her Patronus' form.

"A crow?" she heard Tom say from beside her. Hermione whirled to face him, taking in the way he seemed both impressed and surprised. She lowered her wand and knew that her Patronus had dissolved into the air. Tom cocked an eyebrow at her. "Terribly impressive spellwork, Hermione. Though I must say I was not expecting that particular animal…"

"I - It was always an otter." Hermione shook her head in disbelief and swallowed heavily. "My Patronus is an otter."

"It would appear as though your Patronus is a crow." Tom spoke mockingly, smiling with condescension at Hermione. She turned and stared at the air where she'd cast the spell and breathed shakily through her nostrils.

"Well, you go on, then," she said rather angrily to Tom. "Let's see you do it."

Tom shook his head firmly and said, "Have you ever heard of Raczidian?" he asked her, and Hermione thought of the story of the Dark wizard who had been consumed by maggots after attempting a Patronus. The moral of that story was that even competent wizards required purity of heart to succeed with this particular magic. Tom obviously doubted what would come out of his wand if he were to try the spell. "Besides," he insisted with a small sniff, "I've no need of a Patronus. I do not fear Dementors."

"You said yourself that you've got happy memories now," Hermione reminded him. "Why not see whether you can do it, just to know?"

"It doesn't matter," Tom said sharply. "I have no need of it." Suddenly he shifted his face to appear bored and impassive, and he said, "I'm going to the dungeons; I should like to get my things moved into the Head Boy's dormitory before dinner. I suggest you go up to Gryffindor Tower and do the same. You know where the Head Girl's room is, I suppose?"

Hermione huffed and gritted her teeth. "Yes, Tom," she said. "I know where it is."

"See you at dinner, then," Tom nodded, turning and striding purposefully from the courtyard.

---

"What can be done?" Voldemort demanded, pacing his office with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Nothing can be done, My Lord." If Severus Snape was frightened of his master's anger, he was masking it well. "Time travel to alter the timeline and prevent her death would inevitably lead to a negative alteration of your own path. It is tragic, My Lord, but Georgiana's death prompted an outpouring of popular support for your cause. All the while they had her in Azkaban, you gained followers. You gained power. When Ignatius Tuft ordered the girl killed, your retaliation was swift and thorough. Through her death, Georgiana ensured that you would be cemented into power."

Voldemort felt a surge of anger flow through his veins. He paused at the window and glared out at the rain. Normally, rain soothed him. Today, it irritated him. He stared through the glass and sneered to Snape,

"Do you suppose, Severus, that I would be unable to assume power without the death of my daughter?"

"Not at all, My Lord," Snape said quickly. "I simply mean to suggest that any attempt to alter the timeline and save her might have terrible unintended consequences."

Voldemort turned slowly round to face Snape. He sniffed a bit and asked, "Why is it that Hermione blocked the memory from me? Why is it that she appears to have moved on so thoroughly? Was she… did she not care for the girl?"

His voice snapped out the last question in an accusing fashion, and he watched Snape's brows furrow deeply as he shook his head.

"My Lord," Snape said carefully, "From what I understand, the Lady was completely grief-stricken. She was, I have been told, utterly inconsolable for years after Georgiana… after they murdered her." Snape said the last bit firmly, as if to affirm that he abhorred the girl's death as much as anyone else. "I have been told… by you, My Lord… that the Lady was drawn more firmly toward your cause in the wake of Georgiana's demise. That her grief and anger turned her completely against the Ministry. Against Albus Dumbledore. Indeed, My Lord, it was she who urged you to eliminate Dumbledore. She blamed the old man for Georgiana; she believed that Dumbledore had urged the Ministry to administer the Dementor's Kiss and subsequently have her killed."

Voldemort turned back toward the window and stared outside again. So Hermione had attempted - foolishly, he thought - to hide memories of their daughter when she implanted the past into Voldemort's mind. But she hadn't been thorough enough; his dream had prompted him to invade her mind and learn the truth. After some forceful prompting, she'd put more memories of Georgiana into the Pensieve and given them to Voldemort. He could begin to understand why it was that she'd suppressed the memories. Beyond the pain of reliving them, she likely feared that Voldemort would want to manipulate the past in order to avoid Georgiana's death. But she had always been terribly clever, and once again she'd been bright enough and strong enough to put reason and logic first.

"You may go, Severus," Voldemort said in a sharp whisper. "Send in my wife, will you?"

"My Lord." Voldemort watched Snape bow reverently in the reflection of the window. He sighed as the door opened and shut quietly, and he stood in contemplative silence for a few minutes until the door creaked open again.

"Tom?" Hermione's voice was soft and gentle at the door.

He did not turn to face her. He did not suppose he could, not to say what he needed to say now. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, seeing once again the way Hermione had collapsed onto her knees after Georgiana had disappeared from before her eyes. He heard her agonised shriek of grief after she'd learned of the girl's death.

And he saw other things, too. He saw her in an elegant white gown, a contented smile painted upon her face. He saw her eyes gleam with happiness as Tom lowered himself onto one knee. He saw her beneath him, young and nubile and passionate, as he unbuttoned her school blouse. He saw himself handing over lilacs, time and again. Sometimes it was for her birthday, and later for wedding anniversaries. Often, it was for no reason at all. She always took the flowers and smelled them contentedly, murmuring her thanks. And Tom would simply nod once, curtly.

"Shut the door, Hermione," Voldemort commanded, and he heard the lock click as she wisely warded up the room. Voldemort glared out onto the grounds of The Regia, watching the way the rain thudded upon the paths and the way the wind bent the trees. He was silent for quite some time, and Hermione was, as well, waiting for him to speak. At last, he did, trying to keep his voice steady and sure.

"I love you, Hermione," he said. "I always have. I should have told you decades ago. I'm not entirely sure why I did not. Perhaps I doubted it; perhaps I believed I was incapable of such an emotion. More likely, I knew full well how I felt, but was unwilling to voice such a weakening thought."

He sighed again and turned round, meeting Hermione's wide chestnut eyes. Her hands wrung tightly together in front of her robes. Her face, aged but still beautiful, contorted a bit as she fought visibly to control her expression. Voldemort stalked toward her, taking in the smell of spring that she'd brought into the room.

"I should have told you," he said again. "I should have told you a hundred times a day. I love you."

---

Tom was pleasantly surprised with the Head Boy's dormitory. It was on the third floor, in a room off the Armoury corridor. The dormitory was pleasant and spacious, and even possessed a small, private bathroom. More importantly, it was separated by a single wall from the Head Girl's dormitory.

Tom arranged his textbooks upon the stone shelf that was built into the wall beside his bed. As he did, he contemplated what had happened in the courtyard. He could still see the look of abject horror upon Hermione's face as she realised her Patronus was not the form she was used to seeing. It did seem odd to Tom; he'd read extensively about the charm despite feeling no use for it, but he'd never seen any evidence of a Patronus changing form against the caster's will.

A gentle knock upon the dormitory door broke Tom from his thoughts. He hurried across the room and reached for the door handle, feeling a small flutter in his chest as he wondered whether Hermione had done the knocking. He flung the door open - a bit too eagerly, he quickly realised - but his face settled into an angry scowl when he saw who stood upon the other side of the threshold.

"Professor Dumbledore," Tom acknowledged, briskly erasing the aggression from his face. The Transfiguration professor nodded with an annoyingly patient expression and said,

"Tom, I do hope you find your new accommodations comfortable."

"They will suffice, Professor." Tom struggled not to sound overly impertinent, but he had no desire to be simpering with Dumbledore, either.

"And has Miss Villeneuve settled into her room?" Dumbledore asked, feigning innocence and curiosity. Tom sucked on his bottom lip and said mildly,

"I've no idea, Sir. I did inform her that Headmaster Dippet wanted us to be moved in before the Hogwarts Express returns. I assume she will be expeditious about transferring her belongings."

"Indeed. She is a responsible young witch," Dumbledore acknowledged. "Headmaster Dippet and I expect the same of you, Tom. Responsibility. Not only with your ordinary duties as Head Boy, but also as regards your new accommodations."

Tom knew precisely what Dumbledore meant. The professor was warning Tom to stay out of Hermione's room, and not to allow the girl into his own room. He was warning Tom not to be privately intimate with Hermione, not to 'abuse' his position and break school rules. But Tom did not enjoy being bossed about, least of all by Albus Dumbledore. He smiled serenely and nodded.

"I promise you, Professor Dumbledore, you shall see nothing but responsibility from me as regards my accommodation. It shall be so spic and span that the House-Elves shall have nothing to do. If there's nothing else, Sir, I had hoped to finish organising my belongings before dinner. Good afternoon."

He cocked an eyebrow up at Dumbledore as if to challenge the old wizard to further confrontation. Instead, Dumbledore merely gave Tom his maddeningly calm smile, nodded, and said quietly, "Good afternoon, Tom."

---

Tom strode into the Common Room with his head tipped up and his shoulders back. He needed to ensure that the Slytherins who had come crawling back to school understood who was in charge.

"All right, Tom?" he heard from his left, and he turned to see Avery, Mulciber, and Nott sprawled about the armchairs and divan in front of the great fireplace. Orion Black sat upon the ground, leaning back against a low table as he scanned through a newspaper.

"Somehow I suspected that would all come scrambling back to school once danger made itself evident," Tom said imperiously. Avery had his long, skinny legs draped over the arm of the divan, so Tom cleared his throat, rolled his eyes a bit, and said, "Have some respect for the furniture, will you, Avery? Sit up."

The boy did, swinging his legs obediently to the front of the divan. The others straightened their posture as if to prevent Tom from scolding them, too. Tom walked over to the group of boys and jerked his head to make Mulciber rise from the most comfortable chair. Mulciber stood swiftly and moved to sit beside Avery on the divan. Tom settled into the chair and placed his hands upon his knees.

"Shortest summer holidays I've ever had," whined Orion Black from the ground. He scowled rather childishly and said, "Wasn't home hardly a week before Mum and Dad was pushing me back onto the damned train. Word is, too, that they're organising 'supplementary summer lessons' since so many of us have come back."

Tom had not been surprised to hear Dippet's announcement that additional lessons would be held. Nearly one hundred students had returned to Hogwarts, and there was a great need to keep them all occupied until the autumn term. Most of the staff had returned when summoned, so it truly felt as though there had been no break at all from the end of the school year. Tom drummed his fingers upon his knees and drawled,

"Yes. I'm intending on taking supplementary Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions lessons."

"We'll sign up for those as well," Nott nodded eagerly, flicking his eyes from Mulciber to Avery.

"I want to take Care of Magical Creatures. I'm interested to see what Kettleburn does when told he can work outside the normal curriculum." Orion Black folded up the newspaper he was reading and grinned widely.

"I want you to speak with Kettleburn, Black," said Tom. "Express a great interest in thestrals."

"Thestrals?" Orion repeated, frowning deeply. "But I can't see them, Tom; I've never witnessed -"

"That is of little consequence now," Tom said firmly. "I have no doubt that someday you will be perfectly capable of seeing a thestral, Black. The world is Dark and dangerous, you know. The more experience one has with such creatures, the better."

Orion Black flashed a horrified expression at Tom before shutting his mouth and nodding mutely. "I shall ask him to teach on thestrals, then," Orion said quietly.

"Hello, Tom." Abraxas Malfoy appeared before the fireplace. His hulking form and silvery-blonde hair made him appear ten years older, and Tom shifted rather uncomfortably in his chair. He disliked the notion of Malfoy appearing powerful and attractive.

"Malfoy," he greeted sharply. He gestured to the floor beside Orion Black and said, "Sit."

Abraxas eyed the Turkish rug with a note of disdain, and he cleared his throat before heaving himself onto the ground and attempting to arrange his limbs into a sitting position.

"I've got Quidditch practise in ten minutes," Abraxas intoned. "Just a load of scrimmage matches, you know, for the summer. But I wanted to tell you something, Tom."

Tom cocked an eyebrow at Abraxas and nodded. Avery and Nott leaned forward a bit expectantly.

"My uncle has been fighting for Grindelwald for several years, as you know," Malfoy began hesitantly. "He works primarily to eliminate Muggles on the Continent who pose a threat or danger to the consolidation of Grindelwald's wizarding empire."

"Your uncle's an executioner?" Orion Black said disbelievingly. Malfoy scowled at Black and sneered,

"They're only Muggles, Black." He rolled his eyes a bit and looked up to Tom before continuing, "In any case, Tom, it seems that Grindelwald's still at Nurmengard. He fears that Albus Dumbledore is going to come and try to kill him. I was discussing with my father... and my uncle... you see, Tom, there are a great many people here in Britain who believe Grindelwald has the right idea. People who wish to see the wizarding world take its rightful place atop Muggle society. But Grindelwald's got an image problem in Britain. There are many who find him abrasive and unpleasant when they meet him, and even more who fear he is little more than a paranoid fanatic. My uncle says that Grindelwald is a very powerful wizard, but a rather terrible tactician who would make an awful ruler."

"So what is it that you suggest, Malfoy?" asked Tom sceptically. "Why don't you go speak with Dumbledore and urge him to go to Nurmengard if so many oppose Grindelwald?"

"Well, Tom, it's... my father and uncle, you see... they think that Dumbledore's the wrong man for the job. It's not that Grindelwald shouldn't be eliminated - for the good of the wizarding Cause, you know. The problem is that if Dumbledore kills Grindelwald, then many people, misguided and misinformed, may be inclined to view Dumbledore as a hero."

Tom curled up his lip in disgust at the thought of that, at the thought of Albus Dumbledore being hailed throughout Britain as the Great Wizard Who Defeated Darkness. He nodded in understanding, finally comprehending what it was that Malfoy was suggesting.

"So who do you - or, rather, your father and your uncle - think ought to eliminate Grindelwald, then?"

"You, of course," Malfoy said vehemently. The other boys nodded their assent, except for Orion Black, who looked a bit terrified. Mulciber said encouragingly,

"Tom, we all think you're the future of wizarding Britain. Look about the world today. Conflict, chaos, everywhere. But it's not achieving anything. We all think - and our parents, too, you know - we all think that wizards need a figure to rally behind. Someone to unite us against the idiotic world of Muggles. All of us here think you're that man, Tom."

Tom felt a swell of pride in his chest and couldn't help but smirk as he cast his eyes about to see the eager expressions of his assembled 'friends.' He realised at once that he wasn't blindly ambitious, after all. He truly was charismatic, and powerful, enough to gain the admiration of those around him.

"We shall begin tactical preparations at once," he said firmly. "I want to be at Nurmengard by Christmas."

---

Hermione walked briskly up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, murmuring a greeting or two as she passed walls full of portraits. She had just finished her post-curfew rounds and had decided she wanted to stop into the Gryffindor girls' dormitories to say goodnight to Betty and Maggie. Both girls had returned to school despite their earlier insistence that they both wished to spend the summer holidays at home. At dinner, Hermione had scarcely had a chance to speak with them. She'd been busy supervising the transfer of luggage from the Hogwarts Express by the House-Elves, and she'd been left with only ten minutes to scarf down her meal.

Hermione stepped up to the portrait of the Fat Lady and smiled warmly. "Profugus," she said, by way of giving the password, and the Fat Lady nodded and swung open.

"Authority suits you, my dear," said the portrait as Hermione climbed through the hole into the Common Room. She was relieved to see that everyone had made their way to their dormitories and that she wouldn't have to scold anyone for being out too late. She climbed the stairs to the girls' dormitories and knocked lightly upon the rising seventh-years' door.

A few moments later, the door swung open, and Betty Cattermole stood on the other side of threshold. Her pretty face was slathered with Overnight Smoothing Potion, and her blonde hair was neatly wrapped around curlers. Betty grinned and pulled Hermione into the dormitory and called,

"Maggie! Hermione's here!"

Maggie Prewett peeled back the curtains of her bed and peered out groggily. Her red hair fell in a thick braid down her back, and she smiled at Hermione as she climbed out from beneath her duvet.

"I still can't believe they made you Head Girl!" Maggie said as she strode across the room. "I mean to say, it makes perfect sense, of course. You're brilliant in lessons and all. But you must have truly impressed Dippet in order to be made Head Girl after only a few months at the school!"

There was no vitriol in Maggie's voice, nor any trace of sarcasm or jealousy. Still, Hermione shook her head and said humbly,

"It should have been you, Maggie. Or you, Betty. I felt awful accepting the appointment."

"But Tom Riddle's Head Boy!" Betty reminded her. "You'll be working alongside him all year! Just make sure you two are decent, you know, what with your rooms just next-door to one another!"

Betty and Maggie both giggled a bit at that, and Hermione frowned as she realised just how 'indecent' she'd been with Tom recently. She cleared her throat and said,

"I wanted to tell you both... I've actually somewhat taken a liking to Tom."

Betty's eyes went wide with glee, and she exchanged excited glances with Maggie. "Do tell!" Betty cried.

Hermione felt her cheeks flush a bit. She couldn't tell the girls that she and Tom had initially been drawn to one another by smelling the other in Slughorn's Amortentia potion. That was far too embarrassing. She wrapped her arms about herself and shrugged. "He's... very charismatic," Hermione admitted. "It felt as though the harder I resisted him, the more I wanted to spend time with him. It's irritating, really. Infuriating, if I'm honest."

"Don't fight it, Hermione," Betty said encouragingly, putting her hand on Hermione's elbow. She shut her eyes and tipped up her chin, and then she said confidently, "I believe very thoroughly in fate, you know. And you and Tom seem perfect for one another. I think you were brought here to be with him!"

Hermione felt a shudder of cold fear spike through her veins. "Brought here?" she repeated numbly. Betty nodded and furrowed her brows.

"From the Continent," she clarified. "From France. I think you were allowed to transfer to Hogwarts so that you might meet Tom Riddle. Who knows, Hermione? Perhaps someday you'll be Madam Hermione Riddle!"

She and Maggie giggled again, but Hermione found herself unable to join in with their mirth.

"It's getting late," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "I'm off to bed. Goodnight, you two."

"Goodnight, Madam Riddle!" Betty teased as Hermione left the room.

---

"My Lord, an owl was recently received from the Minister for Magic in Germany."

Rodolphus Lestrange sank slowly into the chair opposite Voldemort's desk. Lord Voldemort raised his eyebrows expectantly. "And?" he prompted.

"My Lord, the German Minister... Andreas Stoltz, My Lord... he writes to 'inform you' that Germany has no desire to ally itself with Britain. He cites past hostilities between the countries -"

"Hostilities?" Voldemort repeated in disbelief. "Britain and Germany are historical enemies only as far as Muggles are concerned. And even the British and German Muggles themselves seem to get along just fine these days. This Andreas Stoltz... does he fail to realise that if I want Germany, I shall simply take it?"

Rodolphus Lestrange looked uncomfortable for a brief moment. Then he said, rather hesitantly, "We do have several moles planted inside the German Ministry, My Lord. It would be quite simple, I think, to quickly -"

"Yes." Voldemort nodded his approval, and Rodolphus looked rather pleased. Voldemort continued, "Have Minister Stoltz eliminated, Lestrange, and replace him with someone more willing. I want Germany fully compliant by Christmas."

"I shall send an owl immediately, My Lord." Rodolphus rose from his chair and bowed, backing out of the office.

Voldemort read letters for the next hour in silence. Some were entreaties for positions at the Ministry. Others were declarations of personal loyalty and admiration. There were a few complaints, with which Voldemort found minimal interest. He broke the wax seal on a rather thick envelope to find it was a formal request for registration of a Squib. Voldemort curled his lip in distaste and tossed the letter aside. Macnair could handle that one, he figured.

There was a gentle knock upon the office door - three little raps, just like she'd always done. Voldemort raised his eyes and waited for the door to open; he rarely bothered giving Hermione permission to enter his office anymore.

She stepped inside a moment later and wordlessly sat in the chair opposite his desk. Voldemort raised his eyebrows a bit at her and flashed her a distracted smile. She did not smile back.

"I've just signed this year's Hogwarts admissions letters," Hermione said, and Voldemort frowned to hear the worry lacing her voice.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

She hesitated for a brief moment. Then, finally, she said, "The Pureblood and Half-Blood population is lower than ever, Tom. I normally admit forty students per autumn term. These past few years, that number has been shrinking. This year, I've only got twenty-six coming in."

Voldemort turned down his lips and furrowed his brow. "Perhaps you should recruit students who might otherwise attend Beauxbatons or Durmstrang -"

"No," Hermione interjected. Tom grunted softly at her forcefulness; she was the only one who interrupted him without punishment. Hermione shook her head. "We need to reconsider the admissions limitations. There are plenty of perfectly talented Muggle-born witches and wizards, Tom. Do you forget that I myself am Muggle-born? Put them into a special dormitory if you must. Encourage them to procreate with Half-Bloods if you must. But Wizarding Britain is facing a demographic crisis. The very future of a Magical population - any Magical population - is at stake. It is foolish to pretend that Muggle-borns can not produce Magic, or that they don't produce Magical offspring. If you insist upon continuing to exclude them, your ranks of Purebloods and Half-Bloods will be gone in a few generations at most."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and scowled deeply at her. He drummed his fingertips upon his desk. He thoroughly disliked when Hermione spoke sense to him, particularly when her logic contradicted him.

"I can scarcely be expected to rescind the very foundation of my government, Hermione," he insisted. "It would make me appear weak and fickle."

Hermione nodded. "I realise that. I implore you to consider probationary admissions for a few Muggle-borns per year, along with a public pledge to utilise them to increase the overall Magical population. Inbreeding produces Squibs, Tom. Have you noticed the uptick in Squib registrations in the past five years?"

Tom did not answer. He continued drumming his fingertips and ground his teeth. There was a pregnant pause, and then Hermione said gently,

"Think on it, Tom. Please notify me when you've made a decision." She rose and started to walk from the room.

"Hermione," Voldemort said, more roughly than he'd intended. She turned round, her grey curls tumbling elegantly over her shoulder. He stared at her for a beat, and then spoke in what sounded more like a request than a command - a tone of voice reserved for her alone.

"Stay for tea, will you?"

She quirked up the corner of her mouth and stepped away from the door, giving a conciliatory nod to the man who had once been Tom Riddle.

---

Hermione glanced up at a particularly intimidating suit of armour, admiring he way the moonlight gleamed off the metal. She paused in her steps and let her eyes wander out the window to the moon itself. It looked the same, she pondered, as the moon she'd always seen. But this was a different world. No one she'd known for the first eighteen years of her life was here. They would look upon the same moon, fifty years later, but it was a different world. She sighed lightly and scuffed her foot upon the floor as if to make sure this time and place was real.

"Hermione... Finished your rounds, have you?"

She turned at the sound of his voice and smiled a bit at Tom. He was striding down the Armoury Corridor with his robes billowing a bit behind him. In the soft moonlight, Hermione thought he looked positively angelic, though of course she knew much better than to think that of him.

"Why have you got a bottle of firewhisky?" Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow and flicked her eyes from Tom's hand back up to his face.

"Oh..." Tom glanced with a bored expression at the large crystal bottle in his hand. "It was a gift. From Avery's father, apparently. Strange, I know..."

"It's against Hogwarts rules for students to consume liquor on the grounds," Hermione reminded Tom, "even when one is of age."

"I know that," Tom snapped. "I have no care for the rules, Hermione, but neither have I much of an appetite for drunkenness. I will likely give this as a gift myself, when the timing seems appropriate."

Hermione frowned, knowing that Tom would use the whisky to manipulate someone with apparent generosity. She sighed lightly.

"To answer your initial question, Tom... Yes. I've finished my rounds and I'm off to bed. I'd advise you to do the same, seeing as how summer lessons begin in the morning." Hermione aimed her wand at the lock on her door and muttered, "Recludo Cubiculum."

The wards on the Head Girl's room, which had been designed to only admit Hermione herself, released and the door creaked open. Hermione sighed a bit and turned back to see that Tom was scuffing his foot upon the floor and frowning up at a suit of armour in the moonlight.

"Goodnight, then, Tom," she said softly, and she started to walk through her doorway.

"Erm... seeing as it's only ten-thirty," Tom said hastily, and Hermione whirled over her shoulder to face him, "Perhaps you might like to break open this bottle of firewhisky with me. Just a nip, you know, to relax."

Hermione scowled and shook her head vehemently. "I told you, Tom, it's against the rules for -"

"And I told you," Tom said with some force, "that I do not much care what is 'allowed.' I think I shall have a spot of whisky before bed. I should like it very much if you were to join me."

Tom released the wards on his own bedroom door with a flourish of his wand, and he briskly crossed the threshold into his room without another word. Hermione huffed and hesitated, glancing into her own room and thinking that perhaps she ought to simply ignore him and go to bed. But then she realised she wanted to go into Tom's room, to drink whisky with him and kiss him.

To break the rules.

She frowned and cursed herself for allowing him to be her weakness. Then she stepped back into the corridor, warded up her room once more, and walked through Tom's open door. She closed the door behind her, watching as Tom pointed his wand at the candlesticks upon his mantle and whispered,

"Incendio."

The room was soon bathed in a warm glow, delicate as it danced shadows upon the wall. Hermione looked about, finding that the Head Boy's room was almost identical to her own. She shifted awkwardly and watched Tom Transfigure two books into crystal tumblers. He did it so effortlessly, Hermione thought with a pang of jealousy. That sort of Transfiguration was no easy task, but Tom did it as though it were an afterthought. Hermione felt her bottom lip jut out the tiniest bit as she wished she were capable of such breezy spellwork. She'd never been made to feel inferior - at least not academically - but Tom's utter talent amazed her each time she saw him work.

"Are you going to come in?" Tom asked in a bored voice as he pulled off his outer black robe and his suit jacket. He set to work loosening his tie, and he put it with the jackets upon his duvet. Hermione swallowed rather heavily and nodded, stepping into the room a few steps before pausing. She shouldn't be here, she scolded herself. It was against the rules to be in Tom's room alone after curfew. It was even more against the rules that they were about to break into a bottle of firewhisky together.

But then, Hermione realised, they'd already broken loads of rules. They'd had sex in the library and in the Gryffindor common room. Surely that wasn't allowed. Tom had tortured and then killed Ladon Scamander out of misguided chivalry and jealousy. That certainly was against Hogwarts rules. And Hermione was carrying out her entire school career here under an assumed identity, something she couldn't imagine would be well-received if too many people knew the truth.

Hermione thought back to 'her' time, to how many rules she'd broken with Ron and Harry. It had been a lot of rules, Hermione thought. They'd gotten into loads of trouble over the years, the lot of them. They'd served detentions and had been threatened with expulsion, but they'd also done heroic deeds and had often saved lives by breaking the rules.

Hermione thought that she and Tom probably wouldn't be saving any lives by drinking firewhisky after curfew in the Head Boy's dormitory. But she suddenly found that she didn't care. Why obey the rules when they had often been foolishly designed? Why obey the rules when most of the good in her life had come from breaking them?

Resigned to her own habitual disobedience, Hermione reached for the clasp at her collarbone. She pulled off her black school robe and kicked off her shoes, hanging the robe up near the door and placing the shoes carefully upon the ground. She padded back to where Tom stood, and she sank into one of the armchairs before the empty hearth.

Tom handed her a crystal tumbler, and Hermione took it, feeling its cool weight in her hands. She stared at the glass, marveling at how beautifully Tom had Transfigured it. The glass filled with a few centimetres of amber liquid as Tom poured her a bit of firewhisky. Hermione moved the glass toward her lips, mumbling her thanks to Tom as she prepared to take a sip.

"Not so fast," Tom said sharply, putting his fingers on top of Hermione's and guiding her hands back down to her lap. She shivered at the feel of his hand on hers, raising her eyes to him questioningly. Tom smirked at her, poured himself some firewhisky, and set the bottle down upon the little table between the armchairs. He sat down in the chair opposite Hermione and said carefully, "I propose we make this into a little game."

Hermione felt a stab of unease in her stomach as she grimaced and shook her head. "I don't think that's a very good idea, Tom. I'm just going to have a small bit, anyway. Just a sip or two."

"You didn't come in here for a 'sip or two,'" Tom said knowingly, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light from the candles. Hermione felt her eyebrows crumple indignantly, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Tom said again, "I propose we play a game. I shall ask you a question. You may choose to answer it - truthfully - or to take a sip of whisky. Then you do the same to me."

"Like 'truth or dare' without the dare?" Hermione cocked an eyebrow and scoffed at the suggestion. Tom did not show any recognition of the game she mentioned, but Hermione demanded, "When is the game over? How does one win?"

"It's over when we've had enough whisky," Tom answered simply. He said nothing of winning. Hermione felt a nervous quiver in her abdomen, and she pursed her lips as she wondered when she'd become so irresponsible. She finally nodded and said determinedly,

"Fine. I shall begin." She bit hard on her bottom lip until it hurt, and then she asked softly, "Why do you want to rule the world?"

Tom laughed quietly and dragged his thumb over the rim of his glass. He raised his glass to his lips as though he were about to take a sip, and Hermione's eyebrows flew up in surprise. But then Tom lowered the whisky without drinking and answered matter-of-factly,

"I want to 'rule the world,' as you say, because I believe I am the most fit to do so."

Hermione nearly choked on her laughter at that response, and Tom looked very unhappy. She stifled her chuckling and said in a pinched voice, "That's it? It's as simple as 'I'm the best'? There must be more to it than that."

"You asked your question and I answered it," Tom said firmly. "It's my turn."

Hermione watched him stare up at the candles atop the mantle for a long moment. Finally, he took a deep, steady breath, and he asked, "In your time, what had I done to make you despise me?"

Hermione felt her mouth drop open, and her breath caught in her throat. She was not entirely sure why Tom had phrased his question the way he'd done, though of course she should not have been at all surprised that he'd asked about his future. But how could Hermione tell him that his policies and views against Muggle-borns had made her feel marginalized and hunted? How could she tell him that he'd been so murderous and dangerous that people refused to say his name? How could she tell him that she'd loathed every last thing she knew about him? She feared the repercussions to the timeline if she informed him of his path, but she also feared the distance that would open between them if she said any of that.

So, instead, she simply raised her crystal tumbler to her lips and pulled the searing firewhisky down her throat. It burned and stung, and she tried not to cough as she swallowed it. She licked the whisky from her lips and said in a hoarse whisper,

"My turn."

Tom narrowed his eyes at Hermione, as though he were quite cross with her for refusing to answer his question. She shrugged helplessly and tried to think of a high-stakes question. She needed to scare him enough with her query that he was likely to drink, but not so much that he would shut down the conversation. Ideally, she thought, she'd ask him something from which she would derive a valuable answer.

"If you know that I'm a Muggle-born, then why don't you avoid me, or even publicly expose me as a time-traveler?"

Tom gave a small sigh, this one rather shaky. He chewed upon the inside of his cheek and stared down into his whisky. Finally, with great reticence, he responded, "I find myself drawn to you at a great many levels, Hermione. I am fond of your appearance, of your body. I find your determined and stubborn personality to be oddly endearing. And I admire your intellect. I simply can not help but to want you, Muggle-born or not."

Then he raised his crystal tumbler to his mouth and drained everything in the glass. Hermione gasped quietly and insisted,

"You didn't have to drink, Tom. You answered the question."

"I know the rules of my own game," Tom said quietly. He poured himself another bit of whisky and added more to Hermione's glass. As he poured, he asked with surprising gentleness, "If you could leave this time and go back to your old life, would you do it?"

Hermione thought about that for a moment. She missed Harry and Ron, and of course she pined for her parents. But her old life had been a time of conflict and fear - because of him, because of Tom - and there had been a great deal of uncertainty. Now there was even more. In killing Ladon Scamander, Hermione knew that Tom had altered the timeline that would lead to her old life. If she were to return now, she could not be certain what she would even find.

So, she thought, in one regard she absolutely wanted to leave and go back to the time she'd left. She would get to see her friends again, to see her parents and her cat.

To fall back into the conflict that had ravaged the wizarding world since Voldemort had returned.

Now that she knew him - at least a little bit - could she ever fight entirely with the Order of the Phoenix again? Could Hermione point her wand at Tom and kill him? And if she couldn't, would it do any good at all to be in her old life?

Hermione took a rather large gulp of whisky, grunting ungracefully against the terrible burn. Tom flicked an eyebrow up at her condescendingly, but Hermione ignored him and sputtered,

"Do you regret murdering Ladon Scamander?"

"No." Tom answered so immediately that Hermione was utterly taken aback. She'd expected some smart-aleck remark from him, or perhaps some contemplative silence and a sigh before he answered. But he'd snapped the word at her - no - with absolutely no hesitation. She felt queasy and wanted to ask a follow-up question, but then Tom continued plainly, "I saw very clearly in his head the ways he envisioned violating you. I took a great deal of pleasure in hitting him with the Cruciatus Curse, and even more in seeing him crumple to the ground like a limp rag when I killed him."

He drank deeply from his glass, and Hermione tried to speak through the rise of bile in her throat to inform him again that he wasn't required to drink after answering a question. But then she realised that he knew that full well. She was still speechless and horrified from his response when Tom asked smoothly,

"Have you ever thought of me whilst touching yourself?"

Hermione felt her eyes go wide with shock, and she stammered, "That's - that's quite offensive, Tom. You musn't ask me -"

"I may ask whatever I please, and you may either answer or drink," Tom said with his crooked smile. Hermione felt anger bubbling in her chest. If she answered him truthfully, she would sound like a desperate harlot. Of course she'd put her fingers to herself with his face in her mind. How could she help it, after the encounters she'd had with him? After his distinctive aroma had lingered in her nostrils and intoxicated her beyond any firewhisky?

But if she drank, that would seem like an admission of guilt. And she was hardly anxious to admit that she'd masturbated whilst thinking of Tom Riddle. So she said, as definitively as she could manage, "No, Tom. I've never done that."

Tom chuckled, his voice rumbling forth from his chest. "Silly girl," he scolded, sipping absently at his whisky, "Don't you know I can tell perfectly well when you're lying to me? Drink."

Hermione scowled and felt her cheeks colour with humiliation and anger. She took a very small sip from her glass, feeling the liquor burn all the way to her stomach.

"More," Tom insisted, and Hermione shook her head firmly. When she did, she felt a swimming sensation in her skull from the firewhisky she'd already consumed, and she said,

"I don't want to play anymore."

---

Tom downed the rest of the firewhisky in his tumbler and rose from his chair. He cleared his throat against the woozy sensation in his head, and he said to Hermione, "I shall show you out, then."

"I said I did not want to play your game anymore," Hermione informed him from where she still sat. There was a strange glint in her eyes as she continued, "I did not say I wanted to leave."

Tom nearly laughed in surprise, but then he realised the implications of her words. He curled up his mouth and nodded, saying, "Stay as long as you like."

He watched Hermione blink hard a few times, swallowing heavily, and he knew she was feeling the firewhisky as much as he was. He stared at her face in the light of the candles, taking in the sharp angles of her cheekbones and jaw, the way her amber eyes rested beneath her bold eyebrows. He observed the way her unruly hair tumbled messily about her face, the way her scent of fresh rain and lilacs invaded his senses.

Tom cleared his throat once more and yanked at his tie, loosening it further so that he could pull it over his head. Then, out of some instinct screaming at him to disrobe, he moved his fingers nimbly down his front and unbuttoned his white shirt. He peeled it off and folded it over the back of the armchair, looking back to see that Hermione was wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Wh-why are you taking your clothes off?" she demanded, but her voice came out in a small, uncertain squeak. Tom resisted the urge to smirk and her, and he answered simply,

"It's quite late. I thought I might put on my pyjamas."

"Oh. Then I shall go," Hermione nodded and rose shakily from her chair, swaying unsteadily upon her feet as the firewhisky settled into her veins. Tom grinned and reached out to plant his hands upon her waist in an attempt to steady her. In doing so, he pulled his own tipsy form a bit off balance, and he stumbled over his own feet. Hermione apologised in a stream of almost unintelligible murmurs, and Tom silenced her by planting his lips firmly against hers. He pulled her more tightly toward him by her waist, and he pressed his mouth against her own before pulling away to whisper,

"Stay, will you?"

He tried to make his coal-black eyes look less menacing than he knew they normally did. He tried not to let his smile be sarcastic. He tried to loosen his hands upon her waist. He'd crafted his words to be a question, a request for consent, rather than an order. Hermione seemed to melt where she stood, slacking against his hands a bit as her eyelids drooped a little. She nodded and said shakily,

"All right, then."

Tom kissed her again, more insistently this time, before he ghosted two words against her lips that he very rarely said,

"Thank you."

Five minutes later he'd managed to free her from her tie, jumper, and white shirt, as well as from her skirt, knickers, and stockings. His own trousers and underwear had come off, and he watched Hermione shiver naked before him. He knew she was not cold.

"So... pyjamas, then?" Hermione reminded Tom, and he tried to ignore the insistent throbbing between his thighs as he nodded.

He Summoned a set of pyjamas from his wardrobe, realising with a bit of amusement that Hermione had nothing else to wear but had not resisted a bit in removing her school uniform.

Suddenly a very powerful sense of want came over him, as he cast his eyes up and down Hermione's nude form. He thought back to their question-and-answer game and he set his pyjamas down upon the chair. Then he coughed quietly and said, "I want you to show me."

Hermione furrowed her brows and shook her head. "Show you what?" she asked, smiling with a hint of distrust. Tom nodded once, curtly, and clarified,

"Show me the way you touch yourself when you think of me."

The firewhisky was hitting his head rather firmly now, and he tried to steady himself on his feet as he watched Hermione's cheeks go scarlet. She gasped as though scandalised and insisted,

"I told you, Tom. I've never -"

"And I told you that it was very clear you were lying," Tom replied. He could always tell a liar. The way people's skin flushed, the way their eyes made minute darts back and forth, the way their breath moved quickly and erratically in their nostrils. He didn't even need to employ Legilimency most of the time, though of course he could if he wanted to do so. Even now, Hermione looked embarrassed at his accusation, and he knew that she had masturbated to the thought of him. That made him feel oddly proud, and also stoked the internal fire that was making him hard with want. "Show me," he said again. Then, seeing the indignant horror upon Hermione's face, he cleared his throat and pressed, "Please."

The crimson flush upon her cheeks spread down her neck and up to her forehead, and Tom watched her bottom lip tremble a bit as she nodded and moved wordlessly to his bed. She climbed up upon the duvet, giving him an expression that seemed as surprised by her own actions as by his request. Tom pushed her shoulder - very gently - to make her lie down on her back. He felt a renewed spike of desire crash through him when she hesitantly parted her knees and snaked her right hand between her thighs. Her fingers nestled against her entrance and she began to pulse her hand there.

Tom felt more dizzy than ever, and it was only partially from the liquor. His cock ached for want of attention. He felt it twitch and jerk when he saw Hermione shut her eyes and watched her lips part. Tom's own right hand drifted of its own accord, his fingers wrapping around his shaft. He grunted a bit as he began to move his hand smoothly upon himself, struggling to keep his eyes open as he watched Hermione do the same.

"When you th-think about me -" Tom stammered, his voice coming out staccato and uncontrolled, "What do you imagine?"

His breath shook out between his nostrils as he let his hand linger at the base of his cock. He watched with hunger as Hermione's fingers quickened a bit and she shifted upon the duvet. Her left hand moved up to caress her own breast, her thumb flicking over her hardened nipple as she said to him,

"I think of you atop me on a warm, comfortable bed. Like this one. I think of you kissing my neck and pushing your hips against me. I think of your scent - of rosewood and soap, of cinnamon and iron." Her mouth trembled as she hesitated, clenching her eyes more tightly shut and seeming embarrassed. Finally, she added, "I think of how talented you are, and how envious I get of that sometimes... of how annoyingly attractive it is that you're so bloody brilliant."

Tom tried not to laugh aloud, restraining himself to a self-satisfied smirk as he pumped his hand upon himself. He heard Hermione moan a little, watched her buck her hips up against her hand, and he suddenly knew that he wanted to be the one to bring her to her climax. He scrambled up atop the duvet as gracefully as he could. Hermione's eyes flew open. Tom snatched his wand from the small table beside them and pointed it at her belly, mumbling a contraceptive spell before tossing the wand aside. He looked down into Hermione's wide, questioning chestnut eyes, trying to stay steady as he moved to hover above her prone form.

"I need you," he insisted, his quiet voice crackling with a starved, greedy sort of desire. He reached to pet Hermione's hair, and she surprised him by nestling her head into his palm and letting her eyelids flutter shut. She swallowed visibly and nodded.

"I need you, too," she whispered. She did not sound terribly pleased to admit it, but she took her hand from her own sex and stroked Tom with uncertain, hesitant movements.

Tom hissed through clenched teeth and thrust his hips instinctively. His member rubbed against her lower belly, and he felt a pulsing fire inside of his chest in response. Hermione seemed to sense his impatience, and she opened her knees a bit wider and guided him toward her entrance.

Tom buried himself inside of her before he knew what he was doing. He was drunk, on firewhisky and on her, and he thrashed against her with wholly unrestrained movements as he grunted and panted above her. She whimpered and cried out his name once or twice, her hands flailing about a bit until they foung his shoulders.

"Please," she begged in a frantic whisper, "Please kiss me."

He did, crushing her lips in a fervent, searing affirmation. She squealed against his mouth, and Tom bucked his hips harder than ever. A moment later she was careening from her high, and he felt an arrythmic clenching around his manhood as she gasped and moaned and thrashed a bit upon the duvet. The feeling of her walls cinching him, the sight of exquisitely parted lips, the sound of her voice... it all combined to drive Tom over the edge.

He growled ferociously and pushed so hard into Hermione that he briefly worried he might have hurt her. His seed pumped into her as his ears rang and his heart thudded inside of his chest. His skin felt as though it were on fire, and the delicious tension between his legs was soothed by his release.

A minute later he was beside her, having collapsed onto his back upon the bed. He shut his eyes, too dizzy from the firewhisky and the sex to stare at the ceiling. He cast his arm over his face and caught his breath, feeling Hermione's palm press against his chest as she curled up beside him.

He ought to make her leave, Tom thought to himself. It was ridiculous and utterly undignified to allow her to see his limp, exhausted body. It seemed even more foolish and laughable that he would allow her to cast her leg over his hips as she drew herself against him and nuzzled her head between his neck and shoulder.

But he liked it.

He liked the feel of her warm body beside his. He liked the fact that her pleasant scent was so near, filling his lungs with every breath. He liked the sensation of her rapid heartbeat against his bicep. And so he found it rather impossible to demand that she leave.

"I should leave," Hermione said suddenly, as though she'd read Tom's thoughts and had interpreted his inner turmoil. She made a jerky motion to sit up, but Tom wrenched her down again and petted her hair as she settled back against his body. He kept his eyes shut and gulped, but he turned his chin and placed a simple kiss against her sweat-slicked forehead.

"Stay, will you?" he requested, and he felt her nod against him. There was silence then, light and comfortable, and Tom drifted off to sleep before he even realised how tired he was.

For the first time in many years, his sleep was undisturbed and deep.

---

"My Lord, you may go and see the Lady if you wish."

The old, wizened Healer approached the chair where Voldemort sat, nervously drumming his fingers upon the table beside him. He'd resisted the temptation to swig down firewhisky as Hermione had laboured, thinking that for many reasons it would be best if he were completely clear-headed when he saw his new child.

He rose from his chair and nodded imperiously to the Healer. "Thank you. You may go, for the time being."

The Healer gave a little bow and backed out of the room. Voldemort cleared his throat a bit and strode over to the grand doors that led to Hermione's bedchamber. He flung them open and struggled to steady his breath in his chest.

Hermione was snuggled beneath a pile of warm blankets, looking pale and drawn but quite happy as she cradled the tiny form of a pink-faced child. She raised her weary eyes to Voldemort and nodded, giving him a little smile.

"Come and see her, Tom," Hermione murmured. "She is beautiful."

Voldemort swallowed, feeling an oddly thick resistance as he did. His eyes burned, in a most unfamiliar fashion, and he felt nervous for a reason he could not properly articulate. He shook off the uneasy feeling, striding over to the bed with feigned confidence. He gazed down at Hermione and noted,

"You look quite well. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Tom," Hermione assured him, lowering her gaze to the child in her arms. "Would you like to hold her?"

Voldemort hesitated, wondering whether or not he ought to take the infant from Hermione. "I'm certain she'd rather you hold her," he suggested, and Hermione giggled softly. Voldemort scowled; he disliked being laughed at, even by Hermione. But then she looked back up to him and said kindly,

"You're her father. Take her, Tom."

She nudged her arms upward, urging Voldemort to take the tiny child. He did, easing his hands beneath the bundle and ensnaring the little girl securely. There was a sudden flush in his veins - a sort of desperate happiness that he had never experienced. It was odd, and almost unwanted, but rather pleasant. Voldemort looked down to see that the child had raven hair, just like his, in a sweet sort of halo about her tiny face. Her eyes were shut in peaceful slumber, but he could see that her button nose and plump rose-coloured lips were perfectly formed. She smelled clean and new, in a way Voldemort would not have been able to describe. It was not altogther unpleasant to hold her.

"Georgiana Jean Gaunt," he said softly, and Hermione nodded from the bed. Voldemort flicked his dark eyes to Hermione and said as gently as he could manage, "She is rather lovely, isn't she?"

"So she is," Hermione affirmed happily.

"Rather like her mother," Voldemort mumbled, and he saw Hermione's smile widen before he looked back at Georgiana.