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.

6. Chapter 6

September, 1944

The first Potions lesson of the autumn term meant that the seventh-year students had to descend from the pleasant weather into the dank dungeons. Hermione stepped down the slick stones with a measure of regret, peering over her shoulder as the last flash of sunlight vanished around the swirling staircase.

"Have you heard?" Betty Cattermole was saying beside Hermione, speaking both to her and to Maggie Prewett. "Newt Scamander's taking his case to the Wizengamot. He's bringing suit against Headmaster Dippet and the Hogwarts Board of Governors. Mr Scamander contests that Hogwarts is liable in the death of Ladon."

Hermione felt a quiver of unease shoot through her chest, remembering the way that, in her own time, Hogwarts was threatened by similar matters. "But," she began, "Ladon's body was never found. It's unfortunate what seems to have happened to Ladon, but Headmaster Dippet did everything he could to find Ladon. And certainly the Board of Governors had nothing to do with it!"

But Maggie Prewett shook her head firmly. "Hogwarts' rules are far too lax," she insisted. "Students' safety is at risk on a daily basis. Allowing young students to wander off into the Forbidden Forest, for example -"

"Well, that's why it's forbidden!" interjected Hermione. Maggie rolled her eyes and sighed,

"You know as well as I do, Hermione, that if a student wanted to go into the forest at night, he or she is perfectly able to do so. There are all sorts of creatures out there, and in the Black Lake, as well. And who knows what lurks in the Castle itself? After Myrtle died, it's impossible to know what truths this school truly holds. It's a dangerous place. The Ministry, Dippet, Dumbledore, the Wizengamot… they'll all tell you that Hogwarts is a safe haven, but I think that might be a lie. And I think Newt Scamander is quite right in demanding justice. Ladon Scamander vanished without a trace, scarcely any time after Myrtle was killed by a monster. This place is not safe anymore."

Hermione pinched her lips. She knew who had been responsible for both deaths - Tom Riddle - but she said nothing. She didn't want to admit it to herself, much less to Maggie Prewett or Betty Cattermole. Something horrible had altered Hermione's scruples, she realised. Something had shifted inside of her that had made her far less apt to object to Tom's behaviour, or to agree with Maggie's cautious words.

The girls approached the Potions classroom and stepped inside to see that Professor Slughorn was at the front of the classroom, directing his wand in a few loops so that neat writing appeared upon the chalkboard.

'Sinefame Water,' read the board, 'What are the advantages, the disadvantages, and the side effects? The required ingredients? From where did this potion originate?'

Hermione furrowed her brow. Sinefame Water was an ancient potion, she knew, but one that was rarely made in her time owing to its potential for abuse. The Slughorn Hermione had known in 'her era' would never have taught Sinefame Water, even to seventh-year students. Hermione shrugged a bit and put her rucksack down at a desk. Betty and Maggie sat at the desk behind her, leaving the spot beside Hermione open. Hermione took her Potions book out of her rucksack and opened it, flipping through the pages and searching through the index for the section on Sinefame Water.

She flicked her eyes beside her when Druella Rosier sat down at the empty half of the desk and began unpacking her rucksack. Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise and cleared her throat quietly. Druella was a seventh-year Slytherin. In her own time, Hermione would have been utterly unaccustomed to the notion of a Slytherin sitting down beside her without obvious malicious intent.

"It's far too sunny to be burying our noses in Potions work, don't you think?" Druella asked offhandedly, and Hermione's eyebrows shot up further.

"Erm… yes, it is," she answered cautiously. She turned her head toward the back of the classroom when the door opened and a pack of Slytherin males waltzed in with Tom Riddle at the head of the group. Hermione felt her chest pound a bit at the sight of him gliding confidently through the dark room, his hair arranged just so and his face neatly shaved. She'd seen his hair and cheeks just that morning, when they'd been mussed in pre-dawn drowsiness.

She gulped at the memory of his warm, naked form in her bed. She shivered at the thought of how her sheets had smelled of rosewood, leather, soap, and iron hours after he'd left. And her stomach lurched pleasantly as she replayed the sight of his crooked smirk as he'd snuck out her door and whispered goodbye.

"Pardon me, Miss Rosier."

Hermione jolted as she realised that Tom had stepped up beside Hermione's desk and was looming over poor Druella Rosier, who had already begun to unpack her rucksack.

"Good morning, Mr. Riddle." Druella stared up at him, wide-eyed and seemingly star-struck. Behind Tom stood Abraxas Malfoy and a few other Slytherin boys, scowling protectively. Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes; there was no need for such showmanship. It was only Potions.

"I was wondering if it might be possible for me to work beside Miss Villeneuve today," Tom said in a light, polite voice. Then, quite abruptly, he snapped his fingers at a figure behind him and sneered in a quiet, tight voice, "Cygnus, assist Miss Rosier to that desk over there, will you?"

Tom jutted his chin toward an empty desk. Black-haired Cygnus Black stumbled forward and smiled awkwardly at Druella Rosier, who grinned like a fool and let Cygnus pack up her rucksack for her and carry it to the empty desk. She actually curtsied to Tom, much to Hermione's abject horror. It wasn't much, just a slight little obeisance, but it was enough to seem subservient and obedient, and Hermione curled up her lip in disgust. Once Druella's half of the desk was clear, Tom looked satisfied and put his own leather bag down. He sat down and flashed Hermione a content, crooked smile.

"You could have sat with your cronies, you know," Hermione frowned.

"But I wanted to sit with you," Tom said in a quiet, sly voice. Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes, knowing better than to argue with him.

"Newt Scamander is bringing suit before the Wizengamot," Hermione muttered quietly, lowering her eyes to her Potions text again and pretending to read it. Tom pursed his lips and gazed up to the front of the classroom, to Slughorn's chalkboard.

"I find myself utterly unconcerned," Tom replied. Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but then Slughorn turned round and said in a booming voice,

"Sinefame Water!'

The classroom went silent at once, all conversations dying as the professor clapped his hands together and gave a jolly grin. The girls in the classroom all seemed intrigued by the potion; many of them had at least heard of it.

"Who might be able to tell me what the purpose is of this particular potion?"

Hermione's hand shot up on instinct. Beside her, Tom rolled his eyes mockingly. Slughorn pointed his hand to her and nodded emphatically. "Yes, Miss Villeneuve?"

Hermione, unperturbed by Tom's disapproval, cleared her throat. "Sinefame Water was invented by the Ancient Roman wizards. It is a potion which produces an anorexic effect - that is, the drinker feels no hunger whatsoever. The duration of anorexic effect is dependent upon how much potion is consumed. This might be a positive effect in some cases - for example, in an overweight person, this effect may assist in suppressing an overactive appetite and might help with weight loss. Alternatively, this may be helpful in an instance where food is not readily available, but one wishes to keep his or her wits about. However, the potion does not protect against the negative effects of a lack of food. A drop in blood sugar, organ and tissue damage, paranoia, and even starvation may occur if one doses too much Sinefame Water. And, naturally, there is a massive potential for long-term abuse, wherein one might take a bit daily to maintain an artificially low body weight, with adverse mental or physical effects. For this reason, Sinefame Water is strictly controlled by the Ministry of Magic."

An audible groan circulated about the classroom at Hermione's extremely comprehensive answer to Slughorn's rather uncomplicated question. But Professor Slughorn seemed quite pleased with Hermione's response, and he beamed happily and clapped his hands excitedly.

"Quite right, my dear!" he exclaimed. "Indeed, you have answered every question I posed upon the chalkboard. Today, ladies and gentlemen, we shall be brewing small amounts of Sinefame Water for St. Mungo's. The hospital utilises the potion for witches and wizards in need of appetite suppression. In some cases, the Sinefame Water is used to treat obesity or compulsions. In other cases, it is used as an antidote to hunger-inducing or compulsive eating curses and potions. Finally, the Sinefame Water is given, one drop per day, to help those in magically-induced comas and those who have been Petrified, to lower their nutritional needs whilst they await Awakening."

Hermione felt a jolt of sickness at those words. She herself had been Petrified during her second year - by a Basilisk originally released by Tom himself. She swallowed the terrible lump in her throat, looking over to him and knowing that Harry had seen the same face she saw now, down in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry had seen Tom's young face and had stabbed his diary with the fang of the same basilisk that had Petrified her.

Only, none of that had happened yet. And, if Hermione had her way, it would never happen. She took a shaking breath and turned her face back to Slughorn.

"Turn, if you will, to page eighty-seven in your textbooks, and you shall find instructions for the Sinefame Water. It shall take approximately one hour to properly brew; notify me when you believe you have it completed and I shall mark your work. Begin!"

There was a low murmur in the classroom as students opened their books and assessed what ingredients and tools they needed to brew the potion. Hermione made a short list of ingredients and was about to go to the storeroom when Tom said from beside her,

"I shall get two of everything."

Hermione looked up at him, a bit confused by his chivalry. She gave him a pleasantly surprised smile and nodded, setting down her scrap of parchment with the list of ingredients as he walked briskly off to the storeroom. She shoved away the thoughts of basilisk fangs and diaries and focused instead on the assignment.

She arranged a mortar and pestle upon her desk, as well as her scales and her silver knife. She did the same for Tom with his tools, noticing with a bit of astonishment how all of his implements were worn and of poor quality. But then, she thought, she should hardly be shocked that his school supplies were all second-hand. Tom Riddle had been raised in a Muggle orphanage, after all. Even with his wealthy Muggle father, he had very little wizarding money to his name. She wondered how he'd afforded to buy anything at all. She supposed that perhaps he'd been afforded a small stipend as part of the scholarship he'd been given to attend Hogwarts.

As she was laying out Tom's tarnished knife and his dented, dull scales, he returned with their ingredients. He looked completely embarrassed when he saw Hermione studying his belongings, his sharp cheekbones flushing scarlet and his hands shaking a bit as he set down his tray filled with vials, bottles, and a curled animal horn. Tom brushed his hands together and said awkwardly,

"I intend to purchase finer things, you know, when I leave school. I will have far more money then."

Hermione nearly laughed aloud. She shook her head at the ridiculousness of Tom's pride. Of course he would be terribly wealthy, she knew. He would be Voldemort. But that didn't matter to her, not one iota. She'd grown up in a middle-class Muggle household, but Ron Weasley had been poor as a goat and she hadn't cared. Draco Malfoy had been fabulously wealthy and she hadn't cared about that, either.

"Have you forgotten, Tom," she reminded him quietly, "That I haven't even got a vault in Gringotts? Not now, if you know what I mean? I've got nothing. No one. All my supplies are borrowed from the school. I live in abject poverty, Tom, and it causes me very little stress."

He pinched his lips and walked around to the same side of the desk where she stood. He began passing her ingredients one at a time. "How do you mean to survive once you leave school, then?" he asked her.

Hermione thought back to what he'd said in Diagon Alley - about something permanent and indisputable between the two of them. She tried to speak but found herself unable to for a moment, her head swimming. Her hand froze, clutching a bottle of Syrup of Hellbore, and she cleared her throat a bit too loudly. Finally, she said in a too-cheery voice, "Perhaps I shall simply be a lady of the night in Knockturn Alley, meeting a fellow here and there earning my keep, hmm? Ha-ha!"

She moved to set down the Syrup of Hellbore, but her wrist was seized rather roughly. Hermione gasped and whirled toward Tom, yanking her wrist so hard from his grasp that the bottle flew from her hand and soared toward the ground, where it shattered. Without missing a beat, Tom aimed his yew wand at the broken bottle and the spilled Syrup and Vanished the mess. His dark eyes flashed like embers at Hermione and his jaw jutted forward as he said quietly,

"You will do no such thing."

Hermione scoffed and turned back to the desk, rolling her eyes. She snatched Tom's bottle of Syrup of Hellbore off of his desk, figuring he could fetch a replacement for himself since he'd made her spill hers. "Of course I have no intention of becoming a whore, Tom," she tutted. "Thank you ever so much for your confidence in my ability to support myself through legitimate means. I shall likely work for the Ministry, or for a shop in Diagon Alley, or in Hogsmeade. Perhaps I shall further my education and return to teach at Hogwarts. Perhaps I shall go teach at Beauxbatons, or go work in the Muggle world. Perhaps I shall develop new Potions, or write wizarding literature. Perhaps -"

"Perhaps you shall be with me," Tom said, so quietly that Hermione thought for a moment that she'd heard him incorrectly. She turned her head toward him, watching him for a long, quiet moment. He sniffed as he measured out some Standard Potioning Water into his cauldron, and then he set to work grinding up a bicorn horn. He dropped a moonstone into his cauldron and his solution cast an eerie white glow upon his face. He said nothing all the while, and Hermione just stood there watching him dumbly. Behind them, Maggie Prewett and Betty Cattermole were chatting endlessly about the fifth-year girl who had gotten drunk on firewhisky and vomited in the corridor outside Ravenclaw Tower. Tom passed over a jug of Standard Potioning Water to Hermione and said matter-of-factly, "Six-hundred-fifty millilitres, it says."

Hermione numbly took the bottle and muttered her thanks, measuring out the water into her cauldron. She ground the bicorn horn in and stirred without thinking, plunking in a moonstone and looking at her instructions.

Chopped lizard leg, introduced slowly whilst stirring anti-clockwise, the book read. Hermione searched her desk for the lizard leg, and frowned when she didn't see it. Then, all of a sudden, a small bit of parchment was slid across the desk toward her, with a pre-chopped lizard leg upon it. Hermione furrowed her brow and glanced over to see Tom setting down his tarnished silver knife and staring into his cauldron. His face was completely blank, stony as a marble statue. He began sprinkling in the bits of his own lizard leg into his potion whilst he stirred to the left. Hermione did the same and thanked him again with a mumble.

As she stirred and watched the ingredients meld together, she could hear the almost shockingly gentle way he'd spoken of what would happen to them after they left Hogwarts. Hermione would have thought that such talk was nothing more than childish romantic aspirations, perhaps - after all, what teenaged couple did not believe they would be together forever? It was all manner of ridiculousness to contemplate permanency between them just after Hogwarts… wasn't it?

But then, she'd received a letter from Tom, years in their future, declaring that she had borne him a daughter and that they were wed. And so it was not at all out of the realm of possibility that she was to be with him. But to hear him speak of such things, here and now, felt oddly pleasant, sending a stirring of happiness straight through her core.

She reached for the rasplings of saltpetre and leveled off the tiny wooden spoon before dropping the powder into her cauldron. Her mixture fizzled and sputtered. She repeated the process three times, and then she whisked the potion before allowing it to sit for the requisite fourteen minutes. Hermione sat down in her chair and began timing her mixture. Tom was already doing the same. She sighed lightly and turned to him, dragging her top teeth over her bottom lip. She folded her hands in her lap and said delicately,

"When you say that perhaps I 'shall be with you,' do you mean -"

"I mean that I would be your husband, Hermione," Tom stared at his cauldron and raised his dark, elegant eyebrows. He sat up quite tall in his chair, straightening his tie and sharpening his school robes around his form. Hermione felt her eyes go wide, felt her stomach heave with shock and her breath catch in her throat. Her mouth fell open and she knew she looked like a fish.

When Tom next spoke, he trained his black eyes upon his gurgling potion and used a quiet, intense voice. "I intend to provide for myself, and for you if you would allow me to do so. I haven't a ring at the moment; I haven't the means to procure a proper one for you. I am not proud of that fact. Neither do I have anywhere to call home after I leave this place. But I have plans, Hermione… plans that will make me wealthy and feared and powerful."

He turned his head toward her then, but his onyx gaze maintained its intensity. Hermione felt a crushing weight upon her chest, as though a heavy stone were keeping her from breathing. She blinked rapidly and nodded as if to affirm what Tom were saying, and he continued in a voice that was little more than a tense whisper,

"I shall be the greatest wizard the world has ever known, Hermione. And I would have you with me for all of it. I woke up this morning with you beside me. I should very much like for that to happen every morning for all eternity."

Hermione felt a strange cringe when he said that - for all eternity - what, exactly, did that mean, when time was such a fluid and fickle mistress? But, at the crux of it all, she knew what Tom intended to say. He wanted them to be together, to be a couple, to be paired and joined and partnered and…

Married?

"I do not need a ring," Hermione heard her voice say, sounding hollow and distant to her own ears. What did she mean? Her own voice screamed the question at herself in her mind. Did she 'not need a ring' because she had no intention of marrying Tom, or because she would marry him with or without a token? She flicked her eyes to the Gaunt family ring upon Tom's finger, ugly and won by killing, and she hoped that Tom didn't intend on proposing to her with that.

She watched as half of Tom's mouth curled up, though his eyes stayed somewhere else. He nodded knowingly and shut his eyes for a moment, and then he stood and bent over his cauldron to check his potion. He sat back down and sighed, staring at Hermione for a long moment before he said gently,

"Perhaps you do not need a ring. But I shall get you one just the same. Stir your potion, Hermione. You put in one too many scoops of Saltpetre."

---

August ,1958

"Cissy! Bring it back! Bring it back now!"

Druella Black huffed in frustration as her eldest daughter, Bellatrix, shrieked like a banshee, tearing through the sitting-room. Seven-year-old Bellatrix was in pursuit of her youngest sister Narcissa, who was only three and had stolen Bellatrix's bewitched silver mirror. Narcissa giggled as she dashed through the sitting-room, waving the mirror above her head in a taunting fashion.

"You'll never get it back, Bella! Finders keepers!"

"Bellatrix and Narcissa, the both of you return to your bedchambers at once!" Druella flew to her feet and scowled at her daughters, yanking her wand from her robes and holding it up ominously. The bewitched mirror tumbled from Narcissa's hands and landed with a thump upon the ancient carpet, and even the perpetually surly Bellatrix froze in her tracks and went silent.

"What's happened, Mother?" asked Bellatrix, swaying a bit where she stood as she steadied herself from her running. She reached for the back of Narcissa's collar and yanked her near. Narcissa squealed in protest, her blonde curls bobbing. Druella stared at Bellatrix for a long moment, realising the girl was practically the same age as the one she'd just been reading about.

"Bella, go and get your father," she said in a cracked whisper.

"Why?" Bellatrix blurted.

"Now!" Druella barked, and Bellatrix startled.

"Come on, Cissy," she grumbled, dragging her protesting younger sister with her as she left the sitting-room. Druella picked up the letter she'd received by owl and read it again, bringing her fingertips to her lips and shaking her head in disbelief.

Mr and Madam Black,

I regret to inform you that Georgiana, daughter of the Dark Lord, was murdered on Tuesday last at Azkaban Prison. She was seven years of age.

The Dark Lord and his Lady request privacy and respect during this period of bereavement and will be publicly addressing the matter in due time. In the meantime, please direct all inquiries, condolences, and letters directly to me.

Yours sincerely,

Abraxas Malfoy

Cygnus came striding quickly into the sitting-room, with Bellatrix trotting behind him and little Narcissa toddling after them. Druella held out the letter with a shaking hand and licked her lips nervously.

"It's happened, husband," she said sadly. "They've killed the child."

Cygnus snatched the letter roughly from Druella's hand and read it over a few times. Then he crumpled it in his fist and tossed it onto the ground, swearing under his breath and pinching his eyes shut. Bellatrix picked up the wad of paper and unfurled it, reading the letter carefully. Druella let her do it, thinking perhaps it was best if she knew the truth. Bellatrix had met Georgiana, after all; the girls had been playmates when they'd been younger.

One day, Druella remembered, the Dark Lord's wife (Hermione, as Druella would always remember her) decided that Bellatrix had done something wrong with a Puffskein, and politely suggested that it was time to end the play-date. Bellatrix had not been invited back to play with Georgiana after that. Druella had tried not to take offence and had decided that the Dark Lord and his wife were simply too busy to trifle with such matters.

In any case, none of that mattered now. The child was dead.

"They killed Georgie?" Bellatrix said with a mixture of awe and horror. Druella nodded mutely. Cygnus took the letter gingerly from Bellatrix's hand and folded it before tucking it into his pocket. He said to Druella,

"Dumbledore shall pay hell for this."

Druella nodded, resisting the urge to let out a cold laugh. "They all shall," she agreed.

"However the Aurors and the fools on the Wizengamot feel about the Dark Lord," Cygnus seethed, "they've no right to go about murdering a child. Not his child, least of any."

Druella flicked her eyes between her eldest daughter and her youngest, and she thought of Andromeda, who was reading books in another room. "Not any child," she said quietly.

Cygnus began pacing back and forth before the hearth, empty in the heat of August. "Now is the time to rally behind him," Cygnus was saying. "We must contact the Lestranges. The Bulstrodes. The Rowles and the Abbotts. Long-time friends of your family and of mine. We must raise funds and gathering-spaces; we need allies at the Prophet and in every shop in Diagon Alley."

"Don't you suppose the Dark Lord is already working on all of that?" hissed Druella, thinking that her husband had suddenly become rather maniacal.

"Of course I do!" Cygnus insisted, whirling back to face her. His pale eyes flashed and he bared his teeth. He steadied himself and continued more calmly, "But that's just, Druella. You've met him; you've known him nearly as long as I have. The fools in the Ministry are willing to murder his daughter in order to perpetuate their idiotic 'government.' We need to supplant them - with him. Naturally, I think the Dark Lord is doing everything he can to accomplish that. I'm simply trying to think of what I can do, as a soldier for him, to do my part. I suggest you do the same."

Druella nodded silently, wrapping her fingers tightly around her wand and twirling it anxiously. Before her, Bellatrix had been watching the entire conversation with rapt attention. She swept her wild black curls from her face and widened her heavy-lidded eyes, declaring,

"I shall do my part, too, Mother! I shall serve the Dark Lord, too! Just tell me what I must do."

Druella rolled her eyes a bit and smirked at Bellatrix, amused by the young girl's eagerness. "Go and find Andromeda," she instructed Bellatrix, "and tell her it's nearly time for dinner. For now, Bella, that's what you can do."

Bellatrix huffed and clenched her fists at her sides, mumbling protests about being sent on meaningless errands to fetch family members, and she slammed the sitting-room door behind her on her way out of the room.

---

September, 1944

Tuesday the nineteenth dawned bright and sunny, but the weather deteriorated quickly into a rainstorm. The clouds formed shortly after sunrise, as Tom was waking in the Head Boy's dormitory, and by the time he was cinching up his tie, rain was pattering against his window-panes. He frowned, thinking that the least the weather could do was be pleasant on this of all days.

He'd invited Hermione to stay with him the previous night, as he had done on numerous previous occasions, but she had declined. She'd muttered something awkwardly, something about 'female troubles,' and Tom had balked at inquiring further. Spending the night in one another's rooms was quite against the rules and was baiting for disciplinary action, but he didn't care. However, if Hermione herself had any reason to want to sleep alone, then Tom was happy to grant her space to do so.

Until, of course, she was his wife… a change in status that he hoped would come to pass when they left Hogwarts forever.

Tom had contemplated proposing to her today. In fact, he'd contemplated purchasing her a proper ring instead of the gift he'd procured for her. But he thought perhaps he ought to wait. He himself would not be turning eighteen years of age until the New Year, after all. They could wait. He could wait. There was no hurry.

He repeated this several times to himself as he pulled on his jacket and buttoned it, frowning at the way his fingers trembled. He scoffed and pulled on his outer black robe, glancing in the mirror and straightening the material. He flicked at the little curl of hair that fell over his forehead, ensuring that his appearance was utterly polished for her… no. It was for his admiring followers, Tom corrected himself. Hermione would care for him either way, wouldn't she?

Tom had politely requested that each of his 'friends' give him a Galleon three weeks previously. Well, that wasn't entirely correct. He had informed each of them that he was in need of a Galleon from each of them. It wasn't as though they would miss the money. They all came from wealthy, old, established families. After all, he reminded himself, several of the boys had bet one another ten Galleons about wooing Hermione when she'd first arrived. Why would they miss one Galleon?

They wouldn't. So he had them each give him one, and once he'd collected about eleven Galleons in total, he sent via owl for a very specific item from well-known jewellery-maker Edelsten Gull. Tom had sent along a few drawings and instructions as to what he wanted, along with a satchel of coins, and two weeks later a package had come back.

It had come in a dark brown box with embossed gold writing, bearing the signature and hallmark of Edelsten Gull's work. Tom had opened the box with shaking hands and looked inside, all of his usual confidence quite absent, and he'd shut the box again without any assurance that he'd made the right decision with his gift.

What did one give as a birthday gift when the parameters of a relationship were so undefined? What did one give when feelings, if they existed, had been so poorly articulated? When the future had been so nebulously discussed but so fiercely pined after?

What was Tom Riddle meant to give as a birthday gift to Hermione Granger?

He sat at his small desk and pulled out a spare bit of parchment, dipping his quill into a pot of ink and hovering the nib of the quill over the parchment as he pursed his lips thoughtfully.

Hermione, Happy You-Won't-Be-Born-For-Thirty-Five-More-Years-Day. Yours, Tom.

Tom smirked, stared at the parchment for a long moment, then chuckled aloud before pointing his wand at the paper and Vanishing it into nonbeing. He pulled out a new piece of parchment and dipped his quill afresh, taking a deep breath before writing,

Girl From the Future - Happy birthday. I have no idea how old you are. I have no idea what to give you as a gift, or what to say to you. Truly, I have no idea what is going on or what to do. Today, as always, you cause me to stumble in a most uncomfortable fashion. Happy birthday, in any case. - Tom.

He didn't bother smiling or laughing before crumpling up that note and setting it on fire with his wand. He watched it curl and blacked and burn before it disappeared into a pile of ash, and he Vanished the grey powder left behind. He stared at the fresh sheet of parchment before him for quite a long while before he wrote,

Dear Hermione, May this be the first of a great many 'Happy birthdays' I shall wish you. With all the admiration of a man who finds you very beautiful indeed, Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Feeling satisfied with that version, Tom blew upon it to dry the ink and then folded it up. He bound it with a black ribbon and sealed it with emerald-coloured wax, pressing the angles of his Gaunt ring into the wax before it dried. He picked up the brown velveteen box that had been sent to him by Edelsten Gull and stalked briskly from the Head Boy's dormitory, making his way to the Great Hall.

She was already there, seated at the Gryffindor table and chatting merrily with her girlfriends. There appeared to be a small celebration happening, with a little cheerful group of Gryffindors singing an embarrassed-looking Hermione a song whilst she stared at a pastry before her. Finally, they all clapped and cheered. Tom held back, waiting for the Gryffindors to settle back into their seats and resume eating. He caught Hermione's eye as he entered the Great Hall and smirked at her, relishing the way her face lit up when she saw him.

He moved around the Gryffindor table and approached her from behind, watching with amusement as Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett stared at him in fascination. Hermione looked resolutely ahead, though Tom was well aware she knew he was behind her. He snaked his arms around her neck, placing the sealed note and the brown box upon the table before her. He leaned down and placed a delicate kiss upon her cheek, feeling it flush hot beneath his lips as he did.

"Happy birthday, Hermione," he said smoothly, dragging his fingertips up her arms as he rose to stand. He let his hands linger upon her shoulders for a long moment before he turned on his heels and walked back to the Slytherin table, settling into his seat and doling out his breakfast portion. Orion Black and his cousin Cygnus were talking to Nott, Mulciber, and Malfoy about Quidditch, as per usual.

Tom returned the ladle to the bowl of porridge and raised his eyes to the Gryffindor table. Hermione had her back to him, but Maggie Prewett and Betty Cattermole both wore enormous grins as they marveled at what she held in her hands. Suddenly something pale purple glinted as Hermione moved to plant a hair comb into her neatly-formed curls. Tom smiled crookedly. He very much liked the look of the porcelain lilac creation he'd had made for her. It suited the caramel colour of her hair nicely.

Hermione turned over her shoulder then and smiled broadly at Tom. He could see that she had his note in her hands, as well. Her eyes gleamed with an emotion he had difficulty discerning - happiness and gratitude and something much deeper. She mouthed, 'Thank you, Tom,' and smiled ever more widely. His own smirk grew more crooked, and he nodded self-consciously. He brought a spoonful of porridge to his mouth, trying to focus on the inane Quidditch conversation happening at his table. He couldn't help it if every few moments, his eyes made their way to the girl with the purple flowers in her hair. She was too lovely to ignore.

And it was her birthday, after all.

---

October, 1944

Two weeks later, at breakfast, Hermione was halfway through a bite of scone when Betty Cattermole said from beside her,

"I think that if I'm not asked to the Slug Club Autumn Party, I shall simply perish of humiliation."

Hermione nearly choked upon her scone, shaking her head and laughing aloud. Betty scowled as Hermione gulped pumpkin juice and shook her head as she set down her goblet.

"I'm not anxious to go at all," she admitted. "Perhaps you can go with Tom so I don't have to. The last time was… not very fun."

She thought back to the last Slug Club party she'd attended, in the spring. That particular event had led directly to the death of Ladon Scamander, and Hermione had a great sense of unease about attending another of Slughorn's private get-togethers. But Tom had insisted to her that it was crucial he attend, for the Slug Club was for 'Very Important Students Only,' and didn't she realise that Tom was the Most Important Student of all? And, he'd said in a falsely offhanded fashion, he had no intention of attending with anyone but Hermione.

So she'd approached Professor Dumbledore and explained that she had no wizarding money in this era, and he'd replied that he had quietly set up a small stipend fund for her to prepare for after she left school. Dumbledore recommended that Hermione invest in some clothing that did not consist of a Hogwarts uniform, and she'd sent away for some dresses and robes from Madam Malkin's after taking measurements. Just that morning, she'd awakened to find that a number of twine-tied parcels had appeared at the foot of her bed. How, she did not know, and did not particularly care to find out. The Slug Club party was the following night, and Hermione had been accumulating anxiety about clothing atop her anxiety about attending in the first place.

"I'm certain you'll have a positively wonderful time," Betty said rather bitterly, rousing Hermione from her reverie. Betty leaned upon her hand and pouted her full red lips, swirling her spoon in her bowl of porridge and dropping in a sliced strawberry morosely.

"Cheer up, Betty," said Maggie Prewett, patting her friend's shoulder. "Slug Club parties are meaningless, anyway. It's only for Professor Slughorn to feel as though he's ingratiating himself into the 'great' wizarding families, you know?"

"You're only saying that because you weren't invited, either," moaned Betty, and Maggie scowled, pulling her hand back from Betty's shoulder. Hermione grimaced, uncertain how to gracefully redirect the conversation.

"Erm… did you both finish Professor Dumbledore's Conjuring assignment?" she asked lightly.

"No," Betty and Maggie both said at once, and Hermione's face fell as she realised she'd failed at lightening the mood.

"Oh," she said quietly. She took a delicate sip of pumpkin juice and mumbled, "I can help you after breakfast, if you'd like."

An hour later, the girls were in an empty classroom and Hermione was showing them both how to Conjure a crystal vase, then fill it with water and flowers. The Advanced Transfiguration assignment involved completing this task within thirty seconds total.

"My approach is to ensure that my vessel is rather small, but obviously structurally sound to hold water and flowers," Hermione explained to Betty and Maggie. "Draw your wand in a 'U' formation for the height of the vase you're Conjuring, then swirl it in a circle which is the circumference of the top of the vase. The ratio of these sizes must make sense, or else your vase won't stand up by itself; it may tip over or be too squat to hold flowers. You also want to ensure you can hold the vase in one hand since you're casting with your wand. I prefer to hold the vase just in case it isn't sound enough to stand upon a table. It does take practise to get the size and shape correct. Like this…" She dragged her wand in an elegant formation and murmured, "Vas Uitreo."

A perfectly formed crystal vase appeared in Hermione's left hand, seeming to materialise straight from the air before her. Hermione tapped the side of the vase before it even finished forming and said firmly, "Aguamenti," and water poured forth from the tip of her wand, filling the vase halfway. Finally, she said, "Eludebas Syringa."

A few sprigs of violently purple lilacs bloomed, their green stems descending down into the water in the vase. Hermione stared at her work for a long moment, thinking of Tom and all the times he had given her lilacs over the past six months. She had rarely thought of the damned flowers before him. Sometimes, when she was a child, she'd picked them from her mother's garden and taken them into the house and put them in a jelly jar with water from the tap. Her mother would grin and thank her and tell Hermione that they were perfect. The lilacs would sit on a ledge above the kitchen sink for three days until they wilted and died, and then Hermione's mother would surreptitiously throw them away.

Hermione swallowed thickly as her hand shook, clutching the little vase she'd made with her magic, filled with the flowers that made her think of her mother and of him, and suddenly her hand lost its grip. The vase fell from her hand and crashed to the floor, shattering upon impact and sending water splashing. The vase broke into a thousand crackled shards, and the lilacs lay splayed in a puddle.

Maggie gasped and said, "Hermione, are you all right?"

Hermione raised her wide eyes and stammered, "I - I'm so sorry! I lost my grip… rather tired today… Sorry…"

She Vanished the mess on the floor and cleared her throat, trying to ignore the way Betty and Maggie were eyeing her with concern. She spent the next twenty minutes helping the other two girls speed up their Conjuring, improving their wand movements and the rhythm of transition from spell to spell. At last, all three were able to put flowers and water into vases in no time flat. Betty's flowers of choice were poppies, whilst Maggie preferred to Conjure daffodils. By the end of their practise, Hermione had four vases full of lilacs sitting upon the desk before her. She glanced down at them and flashed a self-conscious smile at Maggie and Betty.

"Shall we go, then, ladies?" she suggested. "It's nearly time for Herbology."

Betty nodded and smiled warmly at Hermione. "Thanks for your help, Hermione. You're properly brilliant with all this, you know. I've no idea how you got so bloody skilled, but I'll admit I'm envious."

Hermione shook her head and waved away the compliment. "It's nothing," she insisted modestly. "You two are my friends. Naturally I'm going to help you get top marks on an assignment if I can. And, anyway, I enjoy Conjuring up flowers in my free time." She chuckled at her own jape, and she watched as Betty and Maggie nodded knowingly. Maggie crossed her arms over her chest and smirked.

"Particularly lilacs," Betty said with a wink, and Hermione's mouth dropped open in protest. Betty continued, "Those are his flowers for you. Tom's. Don't be ashamed, Hermione! I think it's dreadfully romantic!"

Hermione felt her cheeks flush, embarrassed as she realised that for the first time in her life she was in a publicly recognised relationship, at least to some degree. "I've always liked lilacs," she insisted under her breath, Vanishing the vases one by one until the desk was empty. But Betty scoffed in amused disbelief, and Maggie chuckled as she made her own work disappear.

"Honestly, Hermione," Betty said, shaking her head, "I think you ought to be quite pleased that Tom Riddle has taken to you so strongly. During the few weeks I went home to see my parents after my brother… well, after my brother was killed… anyway, my father said he's certain Tom Riddle will be Minister for Magic someday."

Hermione felt a pit in her stomach. "Oh, I don't know, Betty," she shrugged. "And, anyway, it's not as if I'm married to him."

"Not yet," laughed Maggie. Hermione thought back to how Tom had spoken of giving Hermione a ring, of how she'd received a letter from his future self, and she wondered whether it was an inevitability that she would marry Tom. As she made her way out of the castle toward the Herbology greenhouses with her friends, Betty asked a question that made Hermione stop dead in her tracks.

"Do you love him?"

Hermione balked and tried to look offended. In reality, she felt queasy with shock. "P-pardon me?" she demanded. Betty seemed delighted by how baffled Hermione had become, and she cocked up a blonde eyebrow and repeated, "Do you love Tom Riddle?"

Hermione shook her head fiercely and snorted. "Betty Cattermole, don't be ridiculous. I haven't known the boy long enough to possibly fall in love with him -"

"It's been six months," Maggie reminded Hermione, her voice laced with scepticism. She tossed her red hair over her shoulders and said imperiously, "My mother met my father just after she left Hogwarts. Three months later he proposed marriage; they were fiercely in love. Twenty-five years on, they're still married with four children and more in love than ever from what I understand. Either you love him or you do not, but six months is plenty of time to discern feelings given how ardently Mr Riddle has hurled himself toward you."

Hermione sensed some jealousy from Maggie, and she pinched her lips and avoided engaging the other girl. She just nodded and turned back to Betty. She clutched her Herbology textbook tightly to her chest as she admitted, "I think about him as I fall asleep, and then I dream of him. I wonder what it would be like to grow old with him. I think he will be quite important, quite powerful, quite influential… and I want to see it. With him. I find him intriguing, and intelligent, and handsome, and I enjoy the time I spend with him. He makes my knees go weak; he makes my ears ring and my throat go dry. He gives me lilacs because he says I smell of them. The thought of not seeing him for any substantial length of time sends a physical ache through me."

Hermione scuffed her shoe upon the grass and sighed, realising fully what she had just said. Betty Cattermole smirked more broadly and nodded, planting her hands upon her hips. She tutted and said,

"Congratulations. You're properly in love with him, Hermione."

Hermione just nodded, frowning and resuming her walk toward the Herbology greenhouses. It was true, she thought. She'd fought the growing reality inside of her for the past six months, but now it was undeniable.

She was in love with Tom Marvolo Riddle.

---

The Following Evening

Hermione stared at herself in the full-length mirror inside the door of her wardrobe and let out a shaky sigh. She popped off the lid of her lipstick tube and put on a coat of plum colouring, casting her wand at her face and whispering, "Diuturna… Fortis."

Confident that her makeup would withstand the evening, she put her lipstick back in her cosmetic case and shut the door of her wardrobe. She fidgeted with her hair, knowing there was nothing else she could truly do now to make herself look any better. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. It was just a Slug Club party.

She had, perhaps, put too much effort into her appearance. But she'd wanted to look nice for Tom, so that he was not embarrassed of her in front of his 'friends.' She wasn't certain why that mattered to her, but for some reason, it did.

Hermione had ordered a dress from Madam Malkin's that fit her body perfectly and looked, admittedly, perfect for the occasion. It was crafted of beautiful soft velvet in a deep royal purple. The little pouf of the sleeves made her arms look slim, whilst the nipped-in waist and wide skirt gave the dress an elegant look. The colour set off the lilac hair comb that she wore - Tom's birthday gift from a few weeks previously. Hermione had managed to sculpt her naturally-frizzy hair into smooth, wide curls with a great deal of creme and wand work, and she had triumphantly planted the lilac comb above and behind her left ear.

As Hermione smoothed her skirts and tried to steady her breath, a soft knock upon her door startled her more than it should have done.

"Come in," she called, for she had left the door unwarded, knowing Tom would come to take her up to Slughorn's party. The door opened with a gentle click, and Hermione shifted awkwardly upon her feet as she tried to appear casual. She wound up leaning rather unnaturally upon her bed post, but she stood up to attention when Tom strode over the threshold.

He looked dreadfully handsome, she thought, for he wore a more formal black jacket than he'd worn to the last Slug Club party, and he had on a black bow tie and more fitted trousers. His hair was perfectly combed and looked neatly trimmed, and his black dress shoes shone with meticulous polishing. Every article of clothing was perfectly tailored, and Tom carried himself as though he were a capable man, not an aspirational boy. Hermione felt a flush of desire creep through her at the sight of him, followed by a crash of shame for being so subject to his appearance.

But it seemed Tom was just as struck by her, if not more so. His hand froze upon the doorknob, and his throat bobbed visibly as his dark eyes trailed up and down Hermione's form. She shivered as she watched him take her in. He finally closed the door and cleared his throat quietly, and then he bowed his head rather reverently before murmuring,

"Miss Granger, you are intoxicatingly beautiful this evening. But I'm afraid I do not want to take you to the party."

Hermione furrowed her brow, feeling mental whiplash. He'd begun by giving her a lovely compliment, but then…

"You… don't want to go to the party?" Hermione repeated cautiously.

Tom shook his head, staring at his shoes. "I should think I would much rather stay here and take every single thing from your body until the only thing left on you is that lilac hair comb. And then I think I would prefer to kiss every bit of skin I can find on you, and be inside of you until you are too hoarse to moan my name any more." He raised his eyes to her and smirked wickedly, sending a chilly spike of need straight to Hermione's groin.

"Th-that does sound far better than the Slug Club party," Hermione admitted rather breathlessly, grasping onto the bed post so that she did not lose her footing as she grew dizzy. Tom chuckled under his breath and stepped across the room in several smooth strides, placing his hands firmly upon Hermione's waist and crushing her mouth with a kiss. Hermione squealed into his mouth as he backed her up against the wall. She put her hands to his chest and pushed gently, but he gripped her waist even harder and delved his tongue more insistently into her mouth. For a brief moment, Hermione was so enthralled by his kiss and his touch that she forgot to resist him, but then she finally wrenched him off of her and gave him a disapproving glare.

"We shall be late," she warned him. "It would not look good, you know, for the Head Boy and Head Girl to be late to a party thrown by a professor."

"Head Boy. Head Girl. Professor." Tom scoffed and shook his head with a bit of disgust. He took a step back from Hermione and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Childish things. None of it will matter once we're gone from here. They'll all come to parties when I tell them to, and I shall arrive when it suits me."

"I'm certain that's true," Hermione assured him patiently, checking her reflection in the mirror of her wardrobe door to ensure her hair and makeup hadn't become mussed by Tom's ardent kissing. She shut the wardrobe and said to Tom, "But until next June, we are students at Hogwarts, Tom. You are Head Boy, at least for now, and you are going to be late to this party if we do not leave now."

He finally agreed, holding his arm out to her to escort her through the corridors. They chatted for a bit about little nothings - her perfect marks on her Transfiguration assignment, his curiosity about whether a wand from Gregorovitch might be better than one from Ollivander - until they reached an entirely empty corridor. The last rays of the purple-and-gold sunset were shimmering through the windows in the corridor, and Tom paused for a moment and turned to Hermione. She stopped and shook her head at him curiously when he cast a spell around them to mute their conversation to outsiders.

"What's wrong?" she asked. Tom squared his jaw.

"It's all been arranged," he said matter-of-factly. Hermione was confused for a moment, until Tom clarified, "At the Christmas holidays, I shall go to London on the Hogwarts Express. I shall then meet up with the uncle of Abraxas Malfoy, who has connections in Grindelwald's inner circle. Mulciber, Avery, Nott, Cygnus Black, Abraxas and his uncle, and I will then proceed to Nurmengard. The others will create a diversion, and I - once we have solid knowledge of his precise whereabouts - shall kill Gellert Grindelwald myself."

Hermione felt a surge of nausea so strong she thought for certain she might vomit. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment and she swayed where she stood. She felt Tom's hands grasp her shoulders firmly, but she shook off the faint feeling and took an unsteady breath.

"You are planning murder," she said in dull, empty voice. "You are going to kill a human being, and you know it, months ahead of time. You are a murderer."

She raised her eyes to Tom's and knew she must look broken and hurt. Tom's lips parted in an expression of helplessness. He shook his head minutely and whispered, "You know who I am, Hermione."

She nodded and shrugged. "I do," she admitted, loathing herself in that moment. "And, fool that I am, I love you despite the monster in your soul."

The strains of laughter from down the corridor began to grow louder, and Hermione turned toward Slughorn's office. She ignored Tom's open-mouthed look of utter shock at her pronouncement, at her bold declaration that she loved him. She sighed lightly and squared her shoulders, and then she said,

"We're late, Tom. Let's go."

---

October, 1997

Lord Voldemort stared out the window at the cold autumn rain that blew nearly sideways. The Regia was a veritable fortress and was protected from the elements by its stone body, the fires in the bellies of its hearths, and by the magic that flowed within it. Even so, Voldemort was often entranced by the sight of thudding rain outside, or by the glisten of ice upon bare tree limbs in the winter. The weather was one thing that he had little ability to control, and so it intrigued him. Given how powerful Voldemort had become in the past fifty years, the rain and ice and sunshine were often the only reminders that there were still limits to his authority.

His fingers fiddled anxiously with the bit of parchment that he'd spent months reading and re-reading in between meetings and interrogations and travel. In the past six months, the note had become so worn from all his nervous handling that it was scarcely legible anymore. But Voldemort had long since memorised the words he had written to himself.

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

Lord Voldemort had discovered the note in the box of clippings and other papers he'd sealed up for himself so that, in the case that his memory was lost after sending '1997 Hermione' back in time, he might be able to remember the past he had shared with her. He had opened the sealed box with Parseltongue, just as Hermione had instructed him to do. There had been clippings of news events, most of which were uninteresting after she'd given him her memories from the Pensieve. But then he'd found this… the note that he'd written himself. Instructions to tell Hermione that he loved her.

It was true, of course. He loved her, desperately and deeply, despite the beast that he was at his core. And he had told her so, though only very recently and far too late, all things considered. He'd been wracked with guilt about it for the past six months, if he was honest with himself. That in itself was most unusual. In fact, Lord Voldemort had only felt profoundly guilty about two things that he could recall in his entire existence: the death of his daughter Georgiana, and the fact that he had somehow gone fifty years without telling Hermione that he loved her.

How, he wondered, had he managed to be such a coward on his wedding day that he'd not told her - beautiful bride that she'd been? How had he seen her cradling their newborn daughter and not told her then? How could he have embraced her as they buried Georgie, and not have said it there? And what about later times, as he reveled in his power and she stood beside him, stalwart and loyal?

He had been cruel in many ways, to many people, Voldemort knew. But as he stood and gazed out at the thrashing rain, he thought perhaps the cruelest deed of all had been to make Hermione spend fifty years being implicitly unloved.

For the past six months, he had pondered the consequences of changing that. He had wondered what might happen if he'd told her sooner. Would he fail to become powerful? Would Georgiana have not been born? Would she have rejected him?

No, he'd decided. None of that. Georgiana was predestined by prophecy - destined to come into his life and destined to leave it. She would be born no matter what Voldemort said or didn't say to Hermione. He would not lose Georgiana (not any sooner, anyway) by speaking the truth to the woman he'd loved all these many years.

And, he chastised himself, he'd been an awful coward for failing to do so.

Voldemort sighed and stalked back to his desk, where he'd arranged the jewelled box he'd once used for transporting letters and items to the past. He opened the creaky lid and stared at the worn velvet inside. He sniffed lightly and pulled out a spare bit of crisp parchment, dipped a quill into a pot of ink, dated the top of the paper, and wrote two words before signing his elaborate signature. He blew upon the paper and dried it, hastily folding it and putting it into the box. He shut the box and incanted to send the note back in time. A moment later, he opened the creaking lid once more and found the box empty.

Voldemort's heart thudded a bit as he imagined his teenaged self getting dressed for a party and finding a folded scrap of paper dated fifty-three years in the future. The note would be signed with the alias he had already designed for himself and would be written in the script he would know to be his own. On the paper would be two simple words, a message whose significance his young self would acknowledge immediately.

'Tell her.'

---

October, 1944

Hermione nibbled delicately at her roast lamb, enjoying the flavour of the mint sauce. Much as she despised the labour provided by the Hogwarts house-elves, it was difficult to deny that they were talented cooks. She set her fork down and sipped at her glass of ruby elf-made wine and savoured the taste of that, too.

"And what of you, Mr Malfoy?" Slughorn was asking between bites. "Have you any aspirations of playing professional Quidditch?"

Hermione sighed, perhaps louder than she had intended to do, and stabbed her fork at her lamb. She heard Tom chuckle beside her as Abraxas launched into a diatribe about 'family obligations,' and Hermione wondered why it was that every Slug Club dinner conversation seemed to inevitably revolve around Quidditch.

"You seem very bored," Tom whispered, his voice warm and buzzing in Hermione's ear as he leaned over to her. She inhaled sharply through her nose at the feel of his proximity and curled up her mouth, shaking her head insistently.

"On the contrary, Mr Riddle," she murmured, so softly only he could hear, "I find such discussions positively illuminating."

"You are a born diplomat," Tom commended her, and she felt him pat her knee lightly as he laughed quietly again. They both ate in silence as they ignored the droning banter at the table, and Tom never removed his hand from Hermione's knee.

"Tom, my boy!" Slughorn said at last. Hermione felt Tom's hand flinch upon her knee; she knew that he must not care to be addressed in such a way in front of his 'friends.' She instinctively reached under the table to put her hand atop his, to reassure him, and then quickly questioned herself as to why she might feel the need to do such a thing.

"Professor Slughorn," Tom acknowledged smoothly, his hand going slack beneath Hermione's. Slughorn gulped down a good bit of elf-made wine, and the glass refilled itself. Hermione rolled her eyes as she wondered how many times Slughorn's glass had been emptied tonight.

"What do you plan to do after leaving school, Tom?" Slughorn asked innocently, and Hermione stifled a snort. She saw that most of the Slytherin boys around the table quickly resumed eating or lowered their eyes, for all of them knew that Tom Riddle had… unconventional… aspirations.

But Tom utterly impressed Hermione, answering Slughorn without missing a beat.

"I have very recently made some promising contacts in the Ministry, Sir, as well as in Diagon Alley."

Tom left it at that, and it wasn't an outright lie. He flashed Slughorn a simple, charming smile and took a bite of lamb. Slughorn looked as though he were going to ask something else, but then he looked confused for a moment and drank more wine. Hermione frowned deeply at Tom, wondering whether he'd cast a wandless and nonverbal Confundus Charm upon Slughorn. Tom said nothing, staring ahead and squeezing Hermione's knee gently.

"Pity we are missing poor Ladon Scamander this time round, eh?" Slughorn said to the assembled students. He raised his glass of wine, sloppily spilling a bit. "May the poor boy rest in peace, wherever he may be. To Ladon Scamander!"

Hermione felt properly ill as she reached for her glass of wine and rose it with a shaking hand. She did not repeat the cheer as the others at the table did, for she found herself suddenly unable to speak Ladon's name. Tom pulled his hand slowly from Hermione's knee, probably thinking that she would not want him to touch her after Slughorn's toast to the boy he'd murdered on her behalf. But Hermione pulled his hand back under the table and held it fast in hers, nodding her head and staring down at her plate of food. From across the room, the string ensemble began to play a lively tune.

"You know what that means, all!" Slughorn cried happily. "It's time to dance! Oh, yes, yes, Mr Hopkirk, I'm afraid that means you, too! Just grab hold of Miss Macmillan, there… yes, lovely… let's all have a nice waltz, shall we?"

Hermione stifled a giggle as poor Celia Macmillan was ungracefully dragged to the dance floor by the rather oafish Hufflepuff, Erastus Hopkirk. Hermione turned toward Tom to see that he had risen to his feet and was urging her to do the same.

"Dance with me, will you?" he requested quietly, and Hermione frowned to see a strange look of uncertainty in his face.

As if I would turn down dancing with Tom Riddle, of all people, she thought, but then she realised there had been a Slug Club party where she'd very nearly done just that. She wondered absently as he led her to the open floor whether she was a different person entirely now. Perhaps it didn't matter. Harry and Ron and Ginny and Neville and Luna and even Draco Malfoy weren't here. None of them had even been born, and their lives had not happened yet. Perhaps none of what Hermione remembered would come to pass, and so it wasn't real after all. It would be a memory to her only, almost as a dream existed only to the person who had dreamed it. Was it possible that real events and people might become true only in the memory of a time traveler? Was it possible that she might live another eighty years, but that every last one would be radically different than the timeline she 'remembered' or had been taught in her youth?

Yes, Hermione decided. That was possible. And, furthermore, now that she had fallen for Tom, it was what she wanted, what she needed. She was a different person. She'd accepted him, in all his terrifying imperfection, and she was prepared to stand beside him for however his life played out.

Tom stopped on the dance floor and turned to Hermione, staring down at her with a primal, glittering sort of longing in his dark eyes. Hermione felt her painted lips part at the sight of him, and as she planted her hand upon his shoulder and laced her fingers through his, she asked,

"Are you all right, Tom?"

He put his right hand squarely upon her waist and cleared his throat, stepping off on the first beat of a leisurely waltz. "I find myself rather in awe of how pretty you are tonight; that's all," he said simply.

Hermione felt dizzy at that, and she tried not to grin as widely as she wanted to do. She tried to think of something to discuss with him that might interest him, but she kept drawing blanks in her mind. She knew he wouldn't want to discuss his plans for Nurmengard further here - that was why he'd chosen to do so in a deserted corridor. And she found herself unable to dredge up any interest in academic discussion at the moment, much less any conversation about the rather depressing current events in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. She was about to ask Tom whether he had ever eaten a mustard-flavoured Bertie Bott's bean, but then Tom said gently,

"Perhaps it is merely a psychological effect - seeing the comb in your hair, probably - but I find myself particularly intoxicated by the aroma of lilacs and fresh rain this evening."

Hermione shook her head and laughed, for she herself had been comforted by his scent of rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron all evening. Indeed, at dinner she had been so overcome by the pleasant smell of him that she'd grown rather sticky between her legs and had shut her eyes just long enough to imagine a long walk with him in London in the summertime.

"I wish I knew why I find your fragrance so… addictive," Hermione confessed, "and why you are so drawn to mine. It is not an effect with which I am familiar, and, as you know, I have read a great many books on the subject of -"

"There are some things, Hermione, which can not be found in books." Tom's voice was firm then. He led her in a graceful turn and guided the two of them away from the little clump of couples who were awkwardly rocking to the waltz. Tom expertly led Hermione to a darkened corner of the dance floor and slowly drew her in closer to his body, so close that she was positively overwhelmed by the warmth and smell and sight of him. Tom squared his jaw and seemed to consider his words before he said carefully,

"I believe that I sensed you in the Amortentia that first day as a sort of Magical signal - a way for my body and mind and soul to realise you had been sent by me, to me. That you were meant to be mine. I believe that you sensed me in the potion to help dissolve your preconceived hatred for me, to make it easier for you to develop some semblance of positive emotion toward me."

Hermione struggled to keep dancing and gripped Tom's shoulder and hand more tightly as she watched his throat bob with a heavy gulp. His long fingers trembled a bit upon Hermione's waist as he hesitantly whispered,

"You said in the corridor that you loved me."

"Yes." Hermione nodded resolutely. She licked her lips and knew that she spoke the truth as she affirmed, "I said it because I do… I can not help it, Tom Riddle. I do love you."

Tom shut his eyes for a moment and breathed out slowly through his nose as if he were praying for assistance, though Hermione knew that absolutely was not happening. Finally, he opened his eyes, and they were dark and glittering with intensity. He flattened his mouth into a line and spoke in a warm, rumbling voice,

"For my entire life up to this point, I have heard people speak of love and I have mocked it mercilessly. I have scoffed and derided, for, up to this point, love was something I could not vaguely comprehend. People around me spoke of parents loving children - what did I know of that? People spoke of loving 'home' - of that, too, I knew nothing. And people spoke of falling in love. To me, it seemed a dreadful distraction to do such a thing, even if it were possible to do so… and I often doubted even that notion. I frequently was grateful that I was seemingly immune to such a silly, awful thing as love… that terrible emotion that appeared to cripple men and torment women. I was glad, truly, that I would never, ever be weakened by love."

He stopped dancing then, though the music continued. Hermione felt her heart pounding so fiercely inside of her chest that she thought it might thud its way clear out of her body and land upon the floor. Somehow, she kept her left hand upon Tom's shoulder even as he drew her flush against him by her waist. He was delightfully warm, and he smelled of rosewood, soap, cinnamon, and iron so strongly that Hermione's knees buckled a bit. She stared up at Tom and saw that he seemed slightly more confident now than he'd been before. He lowered their clasped hands to their sides and continued speaking in his sibilant murmur.

"I was right," Tom insisted. "I never was weakened by love, and I never shall be." He licked his bottom lip and then dragged his teeth there, studying Hermione's face for a moment. Then, at last, he said, "I never knew what any of those fools were talking about, Hermione, until you appeared out of nowhere like a damned bolt of lightning. You have mystified me, enraged me, aroused me, and entranced me. You have a brilliant mind, and you are utterly beautiful in my eyes. You are clever, and kind, and interesting, and I have fallen completely in love with you."

He leaned down and kissed Hermione's forehead. She felt as though the room were spinning, as though she were dreaming. He couldn't be saying this… he would never say such things, would he? Not to her, not to anybody? Hermione tipped her face up to protest that Tom had gone insane, but her mouth was caught by his into a fierce kiss. Some distant part of Hermione's mind realised that they weren't very well hidden at all, that probably people were watching them snog, that Professor Slughorn would take points and give them detention and that Headmaster Dippet would revoke their titles of Head Boy and Head Girl.

Tom Riddle was clutching her waist and her hand and kissing her madly, and he had just informed her he was in love with her… all in front of a room full of people. And Hermione found that she simply did not care.

---

October 1944

Tom only broke away from Hermione after he felt a bit dizzy and needed to breathe. She looked up at him with wide eyes, her expression somewhere between amusement and fear, and she whispered, "Everyone's staring at us."

It was true. The string ensemble had continued playing, albeit rather distractedly, but most of the students who had been dancing had paused and were gaping in disbelief. Slughorn, who had by now consumed entirely too much elf-made wine, was clapping his hands and spilling his glass as he guffawed rather maniacally at the sight of young romance. Tom cleared his throat, only then realising just for how long he had been kissing Hermione. He had been entirely lost in her, and for all he knew he'd been locked against her for a great long while.

He gave her a reverent little bow and cleared his throat gently before saying, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Pardon me, Miss Villeneuve. I forgot myself. That was ungentlemanly. Mr Malfoy shall escort you to your room after the party. I think it best that I leave now. Good evening."

"Good evening, Tom," Hermione had murmured numbly as Tom strode quickly from the room, avoiding eye contact with Slughorn as he did. As he descended quickly down staircases and dashed hastily through corridors, he wondered whether he ought to care what anybody else thought. Probably, he figured, he would be docked points from Slytherin. Likely he'd be assigned detentions.

Fine, Tom thought. He could scrub some floors by hand in exchange for that kiss. He could accept that. He only hoped that he hadn't embarrassed Hermione by being so bold in front of everyone with her. He knew that his reputation would hardly suffer - if anything, his 'friends' would now look at him with awe as the Head Boy who couldn't be bothered with rules. But Hermione might face backlash from girls who felt jealous or were inclined to gossip. And he did not want that for her. He would not allow it.

It would be much easier, he reckoned, if he could simply legitimise their relationship and do away with all the pretense of courtship. They were both of age in the wizarding world, after all, and he wanted her to be his wife. And Tom Riddle always got what he wanted. Besides, he could just see Albus Dumbledore catching word of the incident at the Slug Club party and forcing one of the two of them into a new room.

'It isn't fitting, Tom, for the two of you to live next-door to one another, given what's happened,' Dumbledore would say, with his maddeningly calm, disapproving tone and his judgmental stare. Then he would announce, 'I have made provisions for you to move into a private chamber in the dungeons, whilst Miss Villeneuve will move back into Gryffindor Tower.'

Tom knew full well that Albus Dumbledore did not trust him, that he was interpreted by the old wizard as a threat. Well, the old dunce wasn't wrong about that. Tom was a threat to everything Dumbledore valued - a very specific set of Gryffindor-style morality. He predicted a fierce backlash from Dumbledore upon learning that Tom and Hermione were together, particularly since seemed possible Dumbledore knew at least some of the truth about Hermione.

He flung open the door to his dormitory and quickly unbuttoned his suit jacket, cross with himself for losing control. As he hung up the jacket in his wardrobe, he thought back to earlier that evening, to how he'd received a note dated decades in the future. Tell her, the note had said, and it had been signed with a flourishing signature. Lord Voldemort, written in Tom's own script, as if to reassure himself that it was a bona fide communication from his much-older self.

Tom kicked off his dress shoes and shut the wardrobe, sighing as he contemplated how quickly the note had sunk into his consciousness. Of course he'd known precisely what those two words meant the moment he'd read them. He had been haunted for the past two weeks by incessant thoughts and dreams of Hermione, nearly to the point of distraction from schoolwork and his plots surrounding the Nurmengard assault.

He had been outside one night, soaring over the lake as he perfected the technique for unassisted flight he'd taught himself. He had descended down until he briefly thought he might plunge into the glassy water, but then he'd pulled up and catapulted skyward, so quickly that his stomach had turned. He had glanced back toward the castle, at the dim twinkling of candlelight in the windows. In that moment, a very strange thought had wormed its way into his mind.

If I leave this place and she does not come with me, my ambition shall turn to dust.

In his dormitory after the Slug Club party, thinking back over it all, Tom felt bile rise to his throat. He was a fool, just like the rest of them, he scolded himself, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. He untucked his shirt from his dress pants and loosened his tie, raking his fingers through his hair with a sigh. He sat in the chair before his hearth and pointed his wand at the soot-blackened bricks, whispering, "Incendio." He stared at the ensuing flames for a great while, thinking of Hermione and Grindelwald and Dumbledore and a great many other troublesome things.

His contemplation was finally broken by the soft hum of voices just outside his door. The words were muffled, but he recognised the tone of Hermione's voice, and of Abraxas Malfoy's. Tom strode toward his door and opened it silently, glancing down the corridor toward Hermione's bedroom. Malfoy and Hermione had their backs to him and were approaching her door, walking rather disconcertingly near one another.

"He is going to be extremely powerful, Hermione," Tom heard Abraxas Malfoy say, and he quirked up his eyebrows at that, feeling pleased. He saw Hermione nod a bit, and then she replied in a quiet voice laced with a twinge of regret,

"I know he is. He shall be the Dark Lord himself, I think."

Tom felt an odd stirring of want for her then, an almost physical ache of admiration for her, and he felt himself drawn from the threshold of his doorway. As he stalked quietly toward Hermione's room, he heard her say,

"Thank you for walking -"

"Malfoy, I can take it from here."

Hermione and Abraxas turned round quickly, with Hermione letting out a little gasp. She looked up and down Tom's rather rumpled form; he was half-undressed at this point and had mussed his hair terribly. There was a strange flash in her amber eyes, and she swept her tongue across her bottom lip before she stammered,

"T-Tom… I was just thanking Abraxas for -"

"Yes, I heard you." Tom nodded curtly to the blonde-haired boy beside her and said, "Good night, then, Malfoy."

"Good night, sir," Malfoy replied, and Tom smirked a bit to hear Malfoy address him in such a manner. Malfoy gave Hermione a little respectful bow of his head, and then he walked away, the click of his dress shoes growing softer as he turned the corner. Tom stared down at Hermione, noting the way her slightly parted lips trembled a bit.

"Would you care to come inside?" she whispered, fumbling for her wand and murmuring a few spells to unward her door. The lock clicked and the door swung open a bit. Hermione glanced up rather nervously to Tom, and he gave her a teasing smile.

"It's well after curfew, Miss Ill-Behaved Head Girl," he reminded her. "We wouldn't want to go about breaking rules."

"Wouldn't we?" She looked almost alarmingly serious. Then she pushed upon the door and stepped into her room, leaving the door wide open for Tom to follow her. He did, shutting the door behind him and glancing about Hermione's room. It was a bit messier than his. She had more clutter - cosmetics and books and what appeared to be a handmade jumper tossed over the back of a chair. But it smelled like her, and it was warm and inviting and inexplicably comforting.

Tom watched wordlessly as Hermione kicked off her high-heeled shoes and sighed with relief, rubbing at her feet and pulling off her stockings one at a time.

"Will you do the buttons?" she asked absently, and for a moment Tom had no idea what she was talking about. Then she stood up and turned her back to him, and he saw that her plum-coloured velvet dress had a row of small buttons all down the back of it. He cleared his throat and said rather nervously,

"Yes. Of course." He approached her and tried to steady his fingers as she swept her curls over one shoulder. As he peeled the little loops off of the buttons, his eyes wandered to the lilac hair comb he'd given her, and then back down to the bare expanse of her back that was being slowly revealed. There was a tightening in his trousers then, accompanied by a warmth spreading from his chest down his arms. Tom stared at the part of Hermione's neck that had been bared when she'd pulled aside her hair. He studied the elegant curve between her neck and shoulder, the way her skin seemed warm and soft.

Some instinct told him to kiss her there, and so he did, slowly lowering his head and touching his lips to the place just below her ear. Hermione shivered the instant Tom kissed her, and a cracked little whimper escaped her lips. Tom snaked his arms around Hermione's waist and brought her back against him, knowing she could feel his growing arousal and not much caring. He kissed her neck again, delicately and slowly, and she sighed as she reached up behind her and snarled her fingers in Tom's hair. Her dull fingernails dragged carefully around his scalp, sending a shock up his spine, and Tom's hips bucked against Hermione's back. Suddenly the kisses at her neck were neither soft nor gentle. He opened his mouth and tried to drink her in, his mouth lathing the skin there and nibbling as he moaned desperately against her.

She spun round and shimmied out of her open dress; it fell to pool around her feet and she kicked it aside carelessly. Her fingers flew to the buttons of Tom's shirt, and then everything happened very quickly. He was fully disrobed in what seemed like an instant, she was wiggling out of her knickers, and then he was hoisting her off the ground and dropping her upon the bed.

"Oof!" Hermione exclaimed with a giggle. Tom was serious as he stared down at her where she lay among the pillows and the duvet. He studied her in silence for a long moment, his breath shaking through his nose. A self-conscious expression came over Hermione's face as she blushed and discreetly half-covered her most private bits. "What is it?" she demanded, her nervous voice contradicting her little grin.

Tom shut his eyes, feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. "I need you," he admitted, and he heard Hermione giggle softly. He opened his eyes and frowned.

"Then take me," she shrugged, moving her hands away to reveal herself to him. Tom chewed the inside of his cheek and said,

"I do not speak only of tonight, Hermione."

Her playful smile disappeared and she nodded knowingly. She sat up a bit upon the pillows and patted the duvet beside her. "Will you lie down with me, Tom?" she asked, and he furrowed his brow, wondering what she was playing at. He kept his guard up as she peeled back her covers and climbed beneath the sheets, inviting him to do the same.

He'd never slept in her bed; their illicit overnight escapades had always occurred in his room. But as Tom slid beneath her sheets and felt the warm pulse of her body beside him, he reckoned he could sleep soundly as the grave here. He arranged himself upon his side facing her, and he stared at her for a long while until his hand drifted up and nestled in the increasingly tangled mess of her hair. Her eyes consumed him, and he noted that he very much liked their colour. Like warm cider flecked with firelight.

She had been staring at his own eyes, he realised, when she whispered in an odd voice, "Your eyes were red. Frightening."

Tom licked his bottom lip and carefully considered his words. He shook his head and insisted, "My eyes will never be red, Hermione. I will never be the shell of man who sent you here. Not if I have you with me."

Her gaze glistened with suddenly formed tears, and she took a deep, shaking breath. "I worry about who you will be," she admitted. "I worry about what will happen to you at Nurmengard. I want you to let me come with you."

Tom's hand froze upon her hair then, and he squared his jaw. His voice was icy and detached as he said firmly, "No."

Hermione pushed herself up onto an elbow and a cross expression came over her. Tom sat up against the pillows and glared at her. The air around him crackled as his magic flared, uncontrolled. "Do not test me, Hermione," he warned her. "This is not up for discussion. You will not come."

"Tom," she huffed angrily, "What good do you suppose Mulciber and Avery will do you against Grindelwald? He has magical guards, he has wards, he has all manner of protection that will far surpass the measly 'skills' of your cronies. You will essentially be attacking Grindelwald on your own, whilst you sacrifice your 'friends' as a distraction. I propose that you leave Mulciber and Avery and Nott and Malfoy and rest of them at home. Spare their lives; you know full well they would never survive a conflict at Nurmengard. I have abilities they do not, and you know it. I will go and create a diversion whilst you seek out Grindelwald directly."

Tom felt a searing rage in his chest, and he shook his head vehemently. "Absolutely not," he seethed. "I would sooner lose every single one of them than put you in any sort of danger."

Hermione sighed patiently and clasped her hands, staring at her fingernails as she said quietly, "Tom, if you had any idea the mortal peril you put me in during my own time, you would know that I am neither afraid of danger nor incapable of overcoming it." She raised her eyes to him and swiped a lone tear from her cheek, looking resolute as she told him, "I can not agree with the notion of premeditated murder, Tom. But I am also loathe to lose you. The truth is that I do not trust those boys to buy you the time or space to carry out your task… the task to which you have set your mind and ambition. And, believe me, I realise that you will not be swayed in that regard."

Tom did not know what to say then, for she was making a maddening amount of sense. He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it when he realised he had nothing of use to say. Hermione swallowed thickly and repeated,

"I will go alone with you, and I will distract Grindelwald's guards. I have a fully-formed corporeal Patronus; do you not suppose he might have Dementors?" She smirked suddenly as she said, "And, besides, I am very adept with the Penis Pain curse."

Tom snorted, recalling the way she'd hexed him in their duel during lessons. Then he remembered how he'd hit her with the Blood on Fire curse, and he shoved the memory from his head. Hermione reached for Tom's hand and laced her fingers through his.

"You want me to stay with you? Then understand this. If you fall, I fall with you. If you fly, I fly with you."

Tom kissed her then, unable to keep from doing so any longer. She tasted like vanilla and lemon, like a warm summer's morning. He gently pushed her down onto her back and reached for his wand off the table beside the bed. He pointed the tip at her belly, hand shaking fiercely, and cast the necessary spells to protect her. Then he tossed his wand aside and resumed kissing her. She reached between them at some point, her little hand wrapping around Tom's member and guiding him between her legs. He started moving on instinct, pumping his hips in a steady rhythm and moving his lips to Hermione's neck.

She felt so deliciously tight around him, so warm and wet and welcoming. He was nearly in a trance as he moved smoothly - in and out, in and out, in and out - almost as though he were a machine. The ball of anticipation in his belly began to glow hot and white and spread out through every nerve he possessed, growing more insistent until Tom knew he had only seconds to spare. He broke away from Hermione's neck and stared at her face, admiring the way her caramel eyes were clenched tightly shut, the way her teeth dug into her lower lip. He petted her wild hair, splayed in a messy halo around her head, and he heard her whisper his name a few times.

"Hermione," Tom groaned through gritted teeth, trying desperately to stave off his climax, "Open your eyes for a moment, will you?"

She did, and he nearly lost control when her gaze met his. She smiled warmly up at him, and she reached up to trace the lines of his jaw. Tom fell over the edge then, bucking his hips roughly against her as his pleasure exploded and his ears rang. The tension in his groin released with his seed, and he grunted wordlessly a few times as he stared intently into Hermione's lovely eyes. Finally, he managed to breathlessly lean down and kiss her upon the lips, and then he moved his mouth to her ear and whispered,

"I love you, Hermione."

---

October 1997

Hermione descended the staircase from the sixth floor to the fifth, noticing with some frustration the way her bones creaked and her joints ached as she moved. She would put some butterfly weed balm on her knees later, she figured, to ease the painful effects of aging as best she could.

"Excuse me… Headmistress?"

Hermione turned round on the fifth floor landing and saw Professor Aurora Sinistra striding quickly toward her. Hermione flashed the Astronomy teacher a small smile. "Good evening, Aurora."

"I've just come from the Astronomy Tower, Headmistress, and whilst there I saw an owl fly into the window of your office. It seemed to have a bundle on its feet. I wanted to let you know in case perhaps it was something important."

Hermione nodded gratefully. Aurora Sinistra trotted quickly up the steps, and Hermione stared at them in her wake, pinching her lips into a straight line. She wished she hadn't just come down the stairs. She sighed brusquely and trudged up the staircase, greeting students as she passed them and made her way to the Headmistress' office.

The litany of portraits in the office included a great many notable former Headmasters of Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore was not among them. Though a portrait of Dumbledore had existed, Hermione had refused to hang it in the office, owing to Dumbledore's role in Georgiana's death. She had not exactly been sorry the day that Tom had set the portrait of Dumbledore on fire, either.

Hermione sighed and pulled out her chair, shoving aside her stacks of paperwork. Upon the desk lay a copy of the Daily Prophet and an envelope bearing Tom's familiar script.

Headmistress Villeneuve, it read. For the past fifty-three years, Hermione had publicly kept the surname with which she'd arrived in her new life. Tom had long since dropped the surname 'Riddle,' which he associated with the man who had been duped into fathering him and had subsequently abandoned him. And Hermione could scarcely go about calling herself 'Granger.' Neither did it make sense to be 'Headmistress Voldemort,' since that title belonged only to Tom. Therefore, she had been 'Hermione Villeneuve' longer than she'd been 'Hermione Granger.' The name felt natural now, real and true and not at all fabricated.

To some degree, Hermione had forgotten the first seventeen years of her life. Many details were still crisp and sharp and altogether traumatising. Others had grown hazy through the years, and some memories had faded entirely. She still vividly remembered Harry Potter, and Ronald Weasley and his sister Ginny. She still remembered her parents, and she remembered Albus Dumbledore before she'd hated him. She remembered fighting a mountain troll her very first year at Hogwarts, and she remembered fighting Tom's forces in the Department of Mysteries during her fifth.

But those memories had grown less significant over the years, for now they felt more like a very vivid dream. After all, Harry Potter was not a person. And Albus Dumbledore was long since dead. And there had been no mountain troll, no battle at the Ministry. The years of those events had come and gone, and none of it had happened.

Hermione opened the envelope from Tom and sat down in her chair, reading the letter he'd penned to her.

Hermione,

Please read front-page story in the attached copy of the Daily Prophet. I believe you will find it most interesting. I hope it is sufficient.

Yours,

Tom

Hermione put the note aside and curiously unfurled the newspaper. Her eyes went wide when she read the headline, and then they burned a bit with emotion as she realised what the article contained.

NEW MUGGLE-BORN INTEGRATION PROGRAMME ANNOUNCED!

The Ministry of Magic has announced on behalf of the Dark Lord that a new Muggle-Born Integration scheme will be implemented effective immediately. This programme is intended to combat plummeting birth rates among pureblood and halfblood wizarding families. The scheme shall involve a comprehensive inclusionary system for marriage, procreation, employment, and education on a case-by-case basis…

Hermione felt her lips curl up into a smile as she folded the newspaper and sighed deeply. She eyed the bottle of firewhisky in the corner of the office, thinking that perhaps she had earned herself a celebratory tumbler.

---

October, 1944

Tom stared at the ceiling as he absently twirled a finger round a lock of Hermione's hair. She was curled against him, naked and warm and sleeping, and he wondered distantly if she was dreaming. He could easily sneak into her mind and see for himself, without waking her, but for some reason that felt like the wrong thing to do.

So he simply stared at the ceiling and wondered. He wondered whether he was a fool for agreeing to Hermione's plan for the Nurmengard attack. She was right, of course, that she was far more skilled than any of Tom's Slytherin cronies. And she was right that he had a better chance of success with her there. And she was right that if any of his 'friends' came along, they would be killed in the first five minutes.

"If you want any 'followers' when you return triumphantly to Britain, Tom, you shall have to leave them all here," Hermione had told him before she'd drifted off. She had yawned and said, "Besides, if you aren't successful for any reason, don't you suppose Grindelwald would come after me? It is by far the most logical and safest option for everyone involved if you and I go by ourselves. You will achieve your goals, Tom, and I shall do whatever I must to facilitate that."

Tom had kissed her hair and pulled her closer. He'd asked her a question - he could not remember now what it was - but she hadn't answered, for she'd been lost to sleep.

Now Tom stared at the ceiling and wondered whether he ought to give up the goal of conquering Grindelwald entirely. Perhaps, he considered, it would be better to allow Dumbledore to defeat Grindelwald. Hermione would be safer that way.

But as he turned his chin and looked upon her peaceful face, he realised that wasn't what she would want him to do. Grindelwald would be defeated, one way or another. That much was inevitable. Hermione would prefer for Tom to do it, he thought, for that way he could clear a path to power by bursting forth into the wizarding world with a grand statement of authority. Hermione would prefer that because there would be less bloodshed overall that way - fewer little skirmishes and duels and one-off crimes as Tom clawed his way to power.

And she was intelligent enough to know that he craved power nearly as much as he craved air and water. Nearly as much as he craved her.

Tom sighed heavily and Hermione squirmed against him. He pulled his hand from her hair and let it drift down her bare back, feeling the soft expanse of her skin beneath his fingertips as he did. She moaned softly in her sleep as he touched her, and Tom smirked. He stilled his hand, afraid to wake her, and pressed his palm gently to her ribcage as she settled back into her dreams.

There was a soft little rustling sound from beside him then, and Tom frowned as he curiously turned his head to look at floor beside the bed. There had been nothing there before, he knew, but in the silver moonlight he could now see there was something small and rectangular upon the rug. He held his breath and moved as smoothly as he could, pulling away from Hermione and arranging her carefully upon the bed without him. He slid out of the bed and reached for his wand off the bedside table, pointing it at the small rectangle and stalking catlike and cautious.

"Lumos," he whispered, and the tip of his wand burst into a brilliant light that Tom worried might wake Hermione. He glanced over his shoulder, but she did not stir. He pointed his wand at the ground and saw that the mysterious object was a thick envelope. On the outside he recognised his own script, and he wondered precisely how many communications his future self would deep appropriate to send back in time.

He sighed and picked up the envelope, fumbling through his crumpled trousers and pulling on his underwear. He sat in the chair before Hermione's hearth and whispered, "Nox."

His wand went dark, and he promptly lit a small fire in the fireplace to bathe the room in a more gentle light. Then Tom turned his attention to the envelope, cracking open the wax seal and pulling aside the dark ribbon. There was something small and lumpy in the envelope, and Tom reached inside cautiously, marveling as he pulled out a small, glistening ring. He studied it for a moment, taking in the elegant curls and flourishes around its thin golden band and the small but glittering round diamond atop it. He turned it over in his fingers a few times and squared his jaw as a strange coil of anxiety curled in his abdomen. Then he set the ring upon his lap and pulled out the folded note inside the envelope.

Given the rather significant nature of the object inside the envelope, Tom had, perhaps, expected a rather lengthy letter. So it was with some surprise that he opened the folded note and saw no date, no signature - just two words, in his own hand.

'Ask her.'

---

October, 1951

Lord Voldemort drummed his fingertips upon the jeweled box in frustration. Outside his office, he could hear the muffled sounds of laughter as Hermione greeted visitors in the main parlour. There had been a steady stream of well-wishers in the days since Georgiana's birth, and Hermione had been cheerful and gracious toward them all. Voldemort granted his presence to those he deemed worthy and ignored those he deemed insignificant.

Tonight he was preoccupied with his project on transporting objects through time and space - something which had vexed him now for years. He understood the significance of making the discovery. After all, he well remembered receiving a ring inside an envelope with a note penned in his own hand. He knew that he had sent himself the ring, and he had no desire to alter that reality.

For the past several years, his experiments with the jeweled box had led to dead ends. He'd managed to send objects through time only (they would wind up in his office five minutes in the future, for example, so he knew they were moving through time). Or he would manage to teleport objects, like the time he had sent Hermione's earring to the windowsill in her sunroom. But Voldemort had not yet managed to conquer time and space simultaneously. He had considered physically going to Hermione's old dormitory at Hogwarts and standing in the middle of the ground and sending the ring from there, knowing it would appear in that spot in a different time. However, he had a nagging desire to achieve his goal, and tonight he felt he was quite close to doing so.

He stared at the jeweled lid of the box and turned the ring over and over in his hand. He had recently snuck it out of Hermione's jewellery box (she had mercifully stopped wearing it during her pregnancy). As he studied the curls and intricacies of the delicate gold band, something in his mind clicked. Voldemort's eyes went wide, and he rushed to scrawl two words upon a bit of parchment and stuff it into an envelope with the ring. He hastily sealed up the envelope with ribbon and wax and marked it to himself. Then he flung open the lid of the box, shoved in the envelope, and shut the lid.

He planted his palms atop the lid and concentrated his magic as he said carefully, "Ego dominis temporis. Nunc mitto ad praeteritum involucram."

As his hands grew warm and vibrated slightly, he thought very hard about the inside of Hermione's old dormitory. He remembered how it smelled of her, how there had been a jumper strewn across the back of a chair. And he willed the letter and the ring there, as strongly as he could.

Lord Voldemort opened his eyes and lifted his hands, carefully opening the lid and smiling with relief when he saw the box was empty.

---

October 1944

In the morning, Hermione dressed with a measure of dread. She was quite anxious about what Professor Dumbledore would have to say once he learned about Tom's and her brazen behaviour at the Slug Club party the night before. And she was not exactly thrilled to face the Hogwarts student body once the rumour mill began churning.

She said goodbye to Tom and watched as he snuck down the corridor to his own room. She showered quickly and dressed in her school uniform, trying to make her hair and face look as modest and plain as possible for the day. As she shoved textbooks into her rucksack, she remembered that it was Saturday, and that there were no lessons today. She shook her head at her own absentmindedness and changed clothes into a simple wool dress, a rather drab olive green frock that would draw little attention. She pulled on her cloak, for the autumn weather had truly begun to descend upon the castle. As she walked through the corridors to the Great Hall, passing along with throngs of fellow students through the grey gloomy morning, Hermione wondered whether or not they all knew about her licentious behaviour yet.

Perhaps, she thought, she was mentally overblowing the entire issue. She had always tended to do so, to escalate situations and magnify issues about which she bore anxiety. Truly, it had only been a kiss, and Tom had politely excused himself from the party to save face for the both of them. It could easily be explained away as young love and hormones. A playful grin and a shrug ought to sort it all out, Hermione figured. Though she still fretted about Dumbledore's reaction, given that he was the only staff member who did not at all like Tom, and the only one who knew her truth.

For that reason alone, Hermione realised with a jolt, Dumbledore was rather dangerous to both her and Tom. She tried not to think of Dumbledore as she slid into a bench at the Gryffindor table and doled herself some eggs, mushrooms, and oatcakes. Betty Cattermole and Maggie Prewett arrived a few moments later, both of them animatedly chatting with a trio of boys from Hufflepuff. Hermione smirked to herself, glad to see her friends flirting so openly with the boys. They bid the Hufflepuff lads farewell as they sat down at the Gryffindor table, and Betty sighed dreamily as she served herself breakfast.

"Oh, Hermione!" she exclaimed. "Isn't that one dreamy? The tall, lanky one, I mean. He's called Frederick, and he's been to Siam!"

"He sounds fascinating," Hermione said warmly, trying to sound genuine. She shook her head with amusement and took a few bites of her breakfast, and then she heard Maggie say,

"I've been told that a certain Tom Riddle was rather frisky at the Slug Club party last night. Is it true?"

Betty raised her eyebrows at Maggie's words, and both girls eyed Hermione with wide-eyed curiosity. Hermione felt her cheeks go warm, and she sighed. She said tightly,

"He kissed me as we danced is all."

"I was told that little kiss lasted a very long time," Maggie said with a wide grin, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. Hermione huffed and set down her fork. She prepared to respond with a sharp-tongued reply, but then she heard the soft sound of a throat clearing behind her. She turned over her shoulder and saw Tom there, dressed in a surprisingly formal black suit given that it was a weekend.

"Good morning, Miss Cattermole, Miss Prewett," Tom greeted the other girls politely. Then he held out a small bouquet of Conjured lilacs, just three or four stems, and said gently, "Good morning, Hermione."

"Morning, Tom," she replied, taking the lilacs from him. She smelled the flowers and smiled a bit. "They're lovely, as always. Thank you… but may I ask the occasion? Or am I simply to expect random presentations of such lovely flowers when I least expect them?"

Tom did not answer. He looked very nervous all of a sudden, as though he were frightened of some unseen threat. He swallowed visibly and shifted upon his feet, licking his lip. He silently his head toward the lilacs so that Hermione would study them more closely. She frowned and did so with great curiosity, turning the flowers over in her hands and searching for something she'd missed. She transferred the stems from her right hand to her left, and when she did, something fell from one of the stems into her lap.

It was a ring; he'd laced it up into the stems and it had fallen loose. Hermione set the lilacs down upon the table with a trembling hand. Some distant part of her brain heard Maggie and Betty both gasp loudly as she held the ring up, and then she realised precisely what was happening.

But she was entirely unprepared to turn her head and see that Tom Riddle had sunk down onto one knee beside the table.

He took the ring from her hands, which were now shaking fiercely. Hermione was acutely aware of dozens of eyes upon them; she could see students standing up and craning their necks as realisation settled through the Great Hall that the formidable Tom Riddle was proposing marriage to a very lucky witch.

Tom slid the ring onto the fourth finger of Hermione's left hand, and he raised his eyes to her. Though the Great Hall had fallen silent as everyone strained to hear what Tom said, he murmured very quietly, for his words were not spoken to the others. Hermione could tell that from the shaking tone in his voice, the lack of bite and confidence that was ever-present when he spoke publicly. He sounded vulnerable and nervous as he said,

"Hermione, I can not fathom the notion of a life without you. To me, that simply is not an option. It becomes logical, then, to ask how long I am able to wait for you - how patient I can be before I make you mine in every sense of the word. Before I make myself yours. I have asked myself that question. I have come to realise that - about this matter, at least - I possess very little patience indeed. I thirst for you; I ache for you. I do not simply want you, Hermione. The need I have for you, body and mind and soul, runs so deep that it can be neither denied nor ignored. You know that I love you, but I intend on making that plainly evident to you each day until my last. Please, Hermione… marry me."

She felt dizzy and weak all of a sudden, as she nodded numbly and stared at the ring upon her finger. She heard Betty Cattermole squeal boisterously, heard ripples of excited whispers as students realised what had just happened. But her eyes were trained on Tom's, and as his lips curled up into a genuine smile, she felt the most profound happiness she could ever recall.

Suddenly she did not worry at all about what Albus Dumbledore thought of them. And a great bit of her trepidation about the Nurmengard plot dissolved. It was indeed as she had told Tom. If he fell, she would fall with him. If he flew, she would fly with him… every day, until her last.

---

October 1944

"What will your dress look like? Shall you have a veil? Ooh, I am simply over the moon with excitement!" Betty Cattermole clapped her hands, causing her charm to break and all of her levitated objects to go crashing to the ground. They were working on charming tea sets to brew and serve tea on their own in Charms lessons, but now all Betty had was a pile of china shards upon the ground.

Professor Sycorax turned round and scowled at the mess, shaking her head impatiently and Vanishing the broken tea set. "I suggest you focus more on your Charms work, Miss Cattermole, and less on social matters, lest your academic reputation suffer." The lanky old witch Summoned a new set of china from the storage cupboard and sent it to Betty's desk. Betty nodded and mumbled an apology.

"Honestly, Betty," Hermione hissed in a low whisper, arcing her wand so that her teapot would pour slowly enough not to spill, "We may not marry for years. We are quite young, you know. And it's only been two days. I haven't had time to think of things like dresses or veils, nor do I care to at the moment."

Even in the mere two days since Tom had knelt down in the Great Hall, the public proposal had become the stuff of Hogwarts legend. Hermione had been doing rounds just the previous night and had heard girls giggling round the corner ahead.

"Oh, but it is rather a shame, isn't it?" one of them sighed at last, sounding wistful. "Tom Riddle is Hogwarts' most eligible bachelor, after all."

"He was," the girl's friend corrected her. "He's taken now."

"What the blazes does he see in her?" the first girl asked cruelly. "Her hair is a proper rat's nest, her teeth buck out a bit, and she's gangly as a giraffe... she must have family money."

Hermione had felt her cheeks colour and grow warm as she neared the corner, listening to the girls guffaw at her expense. She had straightened up as the girls approached and assumed an authoritative stance. The girls, a pair of fifth-year Gryffindors, had frozen in humiliated trepidation when they saw her. Hermione had cocked up an eyebrow and said quite simply,

"It's getting late, girls. Off to bed with both of you."

Now Hermione sighed deeply as she realised she would likely be putting up with a great deal of mean-spirited jealousy in the wake of Tom's proposal. The one thing she did not fear, however, was retribution from Dumbledore about the Slug Club party. It all seemed rather silly now, to worry about an open kiss at a private dinner.

Hermione dragged her wand through the air, guiding her teacup to sit gently upon the desk in front of her. She curled her wand in a flourish and watched as her sugar pot opened and spooned out two lumps of sugar into the cup. Hermione gave a self-satisfied smile and called over Professor Sycorax, who gave her perfect marks for the day.

After lessons, she and Betty made their way from the classroom, intending on meeting Maggie for lunch in the Great Hall. Maggie had opted to take Divination in her seventh year rather than Charms, but the three girls frequently lunched together on Mondays. Hermione was so focused on her conversation with Betty that she walked right past Tom Riddle, not realising it until she heard him say gently,

"Hermione?"

She stopped so abruptly that a second-year Ravenclaw boy with his face buried in a book ploughed straight into her back. They both apologised, and Hermione helped the boy put himself to rights. She pulled to the side of the busy corridor and looked up at Tom, who seemed rather amused by it all as he leaned casually upon the stone balustrade.

"Walk with me, will you?" he asked, and Hermione frowned, flicking her eyes from Betty to Tom.

"I had meant to eat lunch with the girls," she said cautiously, but Betty shook her head and jerked her head toward Tom in encouragement.

"I promise to return you to your luncheon with plenty of time to both eat and socialise," Tom assured her, and he put his hand possessively upon Hermione's back as he guided her in the opposite direction of the Great Hall. Hermione gave Betty an apologetic shrug, and Betty grinned widely.

Students stared intensely at Hermione and Tom as they walked through the corridor; Hermione felt girls' eyes fly to her left hand to ogle her ring, and she saw the boys stare at Tom with admiration and respect. She flicked her eyes up to him and saw that he was walking with a great degree of confidence, his chin tipped up a bit and his eyes trained straight ahead as if blissfully unaware of the attention.

Finally, they reached a quiet courtyard, and he gestured for her to sit upon a bench. She did, wondering what had been so urgent. Tom paced in front of the stone bench with his hands behind his back, making Hermione feel a bit intimidated.

"In light of the new plans for December," Tom began carefully, for at Hogwarts it seemed even the walls had ears, "may I suggest a strategic exchange of skill sets? I believe we may strengthen our overall chances by augmenting one another's abilities as best we can ahead of time."

Hermione furrowed her brow. He obviously meant something quite specific. "What did you have in mind?" she asked.

"For your part, I should like you to assist me in properly Conjuring a Patronus," Tom said, though he hesitated a bit and gulped. Hermione was surprised; he had seemed positively terrified the last time she had suggested he attempt it. He had even mentioned Raczidian, the ancient Dark wizard who had been consumed by maggots in a failed attempt to Conjure a Patronus due to his unworthiness with the spell. What had happened to make Tom so certain he could do it now? And, furthermore, what information had he ascertained about Nurmengard that had made him believe a Patronus would be necessary - so necessary that he was willing to try the spell again? Before she could ask him any of those questions, Tom continued,

"And in exchange, I shall instruct you in Occlumency."

Hermione felt her eyes go wide then. She remembered how, in her fifth year (during her first time at Hogwarts), Harry Potter had been instructed in Occlumency by Severus Snape. Of course, Harry had required Occlumency skills to protect himself against intrusions by Lord Voldemort - by the Dark wizard Tom had become in the nightmarish timeline through which Hermione had lived. She shoved aside the thoughts of that time, gone from her and perhaps from all existence. She flattened her lips into a pinched line and asked Tom,

"Have you reason to believe that Gellert Grindelwald is a Legilimens?"

"He may very well be, though his mental abilities do not concern me," Tom said coolly. He played with his wand casually, dragging his fingers over it and twirling it a few times. Finally, he sniffed lightly and looked at Hermione. "I am far more concerned about Albus Dumbledore's Legilimency."

"Oh." Hermione nodded. That made sense. Now that she was engaged to Tom Riddle, a wizard in whom Dumbledore had absolutely no trust or liking, she would perhaps be a target for mental examination. Especially, she thought, if Dumbledore had any reason to suspect Tom was plotting to travel to the Continent to assassinate Gellert Grindelwald. Hermione took a steadying sigh and asked Tom, "When do we begin?"

He looked pleased with that response, and he said in a firm voice, "My room. Ten o'clock tonight."

She was there, at precisely ten, after finishing her post-curfew rounds. She was very nearly late, for she'd found a few third-year Ravenclaws asleep in the library at a quarter to ten. Having experienced that very problem before, she escorted the rather frantic students back to Ravenclaw Tower, assuring them that there would be no punishment, nor deducted points, for breaking curfew.

She was out of breath by the time she made it to the Armoury Corridor, and it was ten o'clock exactly when she rapped softly upon Tom's door. It opened almost immediately, so quickly that Hermione wondered how Tom could have possibly gotten to it in time. She was even more curious when there was no one standing in the open threshold, and as she stepped curiously into the room, she held her wand out protectively and said,

"H-hello?"

There was no answer, and the room was empty. A small fire burned in the hearth, but aside from that there was no evidence whatsoever that anyone was present.

"Tom?" Hermione heard the quiver in her voice, having been a bit shaken by the way the room had granted her admission of its own accord. Then, suddenly, Tom materialised before her and she realised he had very effectively Disillusioned himself. His wand was pointed squarely at her, and his eyes were black and cold as he muttered,

"Legilimens."

The room swirled away from Hermione, dissolving into frigid blackness as the sound of a steam engine thundered into Hermione's head. She could see the Hogwarts Express then, and she knew that it was a memory of the very first time she'd been to Platform 9 3/4. That memory quickly rushed away and was replaced by an image of Ron Weasley looking mightily disappointed as a Quaffle flew past him; he was a genuinely skilled Keeper and Hermione could practically feel his sense of failure.

Hermione knew the images she saw were memories, that Tom Riddle was inside her mind, and she struggled and tore at her consciousness as if to rip him out. But the memories kept stubbornly flying by, eventually transitioning into her new life. The memory of Tom torturing Ladon Scamander with the Cruciatus Curse flashed forth; a terrible web of red light bursting from Tom's wand and enveloping Ladon's body as the boy shrieked and convulsed. Then Hermione remembered receiving lilacs in the library, and duelling with Tom as he used the Blood on Fire Curse against her. The conflicting images made her head throb painfully, and she tried once more to shove Tom from her head. Finally, in her mind, she was staring up at Tom at the Slug Club party. The maudlin strains of the string music bled into Hermione's mind as the scene faded into view, and then she could hear Tom telling her he had fallen in love with her.

Suddenly she felt a wild, painful jolt in her fingertips, almost as though she had been electrocuted. The scene of the party disappeared from her head with such force that Hermione swayed where she stood and felt as if she might faint. She grappled blindly in the air until her hands clutched at something warm and hard and solid, and then the quiet, dim reality of Tom's dormitory materialised before her.

She was holding onto his school robe, and as she fought to catch her breath, Hermione stumbled backward and scowled at him.

"I apologise if there was anything there you did not wish for me to see," Tom said lightly, though he did not sound very sorry. He straightened his robes where Hermione had wrinkled them by grabbing hold, and he said, "When Legilimency is used as a weapon, there is no warning given. You shall need to be able to throw up your Occlumency defences almost immediately."

Hermione felt so infuriated, so violated, that she contemplated slapping him. But then she realised he had been right to surprise her. He had shown her the ease and speed with which a skilled Legilimens could peer into her mind, and the force it would take for her to keep them out.

"How do I do it?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. Tom did not answer immediately, gesturing instead to the two armchairs before his crackling fireplace. Hermione hesitantly sat opposite him, her heart still thudding in her chest from his intrusion. Tom gazed into the flames as he sat, and he casually asked her,

"If I say the word 'impenetrable' to you, Hermione, what image comes immediately to mind?"

Hermione frowned. Was she meant to play a word association game with him? 'Impenetrable'? Very well, then... she bit the inside of her cheek and said firmly, "A dark, thick jungle."

Tom shook his head disapprovingly. "I shall simply light your forest on fire," he said smoothly, "and burn my way into your memories."

Hermione finally understood what he meant for her to do. She was to formulate a mental defence that could not be overcome by invasive tactics. She nodded hesitantly, and Tom looked her as he said,

"Think of a place where you can hide with your thoughts, a place where no one could find you. A place where no Blasting Curse or Fiendfyre would be powerful enough to make its way to your memories. Think of it, and then think of five more."

Hermione frowned deeply. That was rather a tall order, she thought crossly. But she said nothing, determined to be more successfully with Occlumency than Harry Potter had been in her other life. She swallowed heavily and shut her eyes, trying to think of situations in which no one could possibly attack her.

"This time I shall give you warning," Tom was saying, and Hermione opened his eyes, taking a breath as she prepared for him to enter her mind again. "I find it works better, too, if the only emotion you present is a rather flinty resolve against invasion."

Hermione smirked and nodded, sitting up straight in her chair and filling her mind with her defensive thoughts. Tom raised his wand to her and said softly,

"Three, two, one... Legilimens."

The dormitory disappeared around her as Tom entered her mind. For a flickering moment, Hermione thought he might be watching a childhood Christmas. But then, with a thudding sort of force, the only image she saw was the dank, windowless interior of a concrete bunker buried far beneath a remote mountain. There was nothing inside the bunker - no people, no furniture, nothing of value. Most especially, there were no memories. Hermione, in her mind, sat squarely down in the corner of the bunker and took a deep breath. Then she pushed as hard as she could with her hands into the air before her, thrusting away an unseen enemy.

She crumpled from the chair before Tom's fireplace by the force of his withdrawal, and then he was helping her to her feet as she gasped and spluttered. When she finally managed to meet his eyes, he looked positively shocked. Hermione staggered backward and sat back down, asking,

"Was that good?"

Tom eyed her with what could only be described as fierce admiration. Then he collected himself and swallowed thickly, and he nodded. "Yes, Hermione," he mumbled. "That was... quite good."

---

November 1944

By mid-November, Tom had determined that he had spent months underestimating Hermione. She had successfully aided him in Conjuring a fully-formed corporeal Patronus - a hawk. She had become so skilled at Occlumency that he was usually unable to get into her mind without giving himself an awful headache afterward. And he had spent the past five days teaching her his unassisted flight technique, which she had mastered so successfully that she could now fly faster than Tom himself. That might have made him rather cross, except that he felt more confident about attacking Grindelwald knowing what Hermione could do.

"After… you know," Hermione began one evening as they walked back from the Black Lake in the frigid night air, "After Grindelwald is gone, how do you intend on proving it? How do you intend on capitalising on what you've done?"

It was a shockingly cold-hearted question from a girl like Hermione, and Tom eyed her for a long moment, impressed. He stepped carefully over a rock on the ground and said simply, "I shall take his wand as a trophy. Dumbledore undoubtedly knows what Grindelwald's wand looks like. When I come back to Britain with Grindelwald's wand in my hand, and it becomes known that he's been found dead in his own fortress… well, the news will just spread itself, I think."

Hermione had been silent the rest of the way to the castle after that. Tom had heard, in recent weeks, of several atrocities committed by Grindelwald's forces on the Continent. No fewer than three full families and seventeen individuals had been murdered, just in the past several weeks. Grindelwald's forces appeared to be taking full advantage of the chaos caused in Europe by the Muggle war, and they were taking every opportunity they could to slaughter opponents.

The Daily Prophet reported that many British witches and wizards had beseeched the Ministry to intervene - whether in a diplomatic capacity or otherwise. Many others had made a personal appeal to Albus Dumbledore to confront his old friend and put a stop to the madness. But nothing had happened. The Ministry of Magic had declared that its hands were tied on the matter, that it was a conflict on foreign soil but that they had been in touch with European Ministries wherever possible. Dumbledore, for his part, had been publicly (and very conspicuously) silent.

Tom Riddle loved it all. Perhaps not the murdered families - he knew nothing about them and thought their deaths were probably regrettable wastes. But he knew that his personal victory at Nurmengard would seem infinitely more significant if Grindelwald appeared worse ahead of time. That way, Tom figured, he would truly be a hero, a legend. Powerful.

Tom and Hermione split up to do their night rounds, but only after exchanging a few murmured words and a brief kiss. Hermione made her way up toward Gryffindor Tower to check that all were in for curfew, whilst Tom descended to the dungeons.

He entered the Slytherin Common Room and was surprised to see a large cluster of students gathered round the fireplace. He scowled and barked firmly,

"It's well after curfew, I'm afraid."

Their heads turned round and their eyes went wide, and one by one they flew to their feet. Tom paused in his steps, curious as to what exactly was happening. He made a quick mental note of precisely who was present. Mulciber, Nott, Avery, Malfoy, Lestrange, and Dolohov had gathered by the hearth. There were a few younger boys, too - Shylock Crabbe and Julius Yaxley. Orion Black was notably absent, though his cousin Cygnus stood beside Druella Rosier in front of the divan.

Tom tipped his chin up and asked imperiously, "Have I missed something?"

Abraxas Malfoy took a timid step forward and held out a parchment to Tom. He bowed a bit and murmured, "My Lord," which made Tom flinch with pleased surprise. Malfoy's hand shook, Tom noticed as he snatched the paper away. He skimmed his eyes over the parchment and struggled to maintain a lack of emotion upon his face. He raised his eyes and looked over the group.

"And you've all signed, have you?" he asked coldly. One by one, they nodded. Tom looked back down to the paper and read it again.

THE KNIGHTS OF WALPURGIS - We, the undersigned, do with our names and blood give most solemn allegiance to the Dark Lord and his Cause. Let us be forever bound to his service, condemned to death should we betray him. We make this promise for the preservation and advancement of wizard-kind the world over.

Below the proclamation, there was a list of signatures, and beside each signature was a bloody fingerprint. Tom studied the parchment for a long while. He very carefully rolled it up and tucked it into his robes, and he looked upon the assembled group. They were staring at him with wide-eyed expectation, as if they were waiting for him to make some sort of inspired speech. Suddenly Tom was felt high, as though he were soaring over the lake again. He cleared his throat softly and said in a confident voice,

"My friends, you honour me with your demonstration of loyalty. I shall not soon forget who it is that stands before me. When I have conquered Grindelwald, when I return in triumph and others grapple at my feet for favours and friendship... I shall not forget your faces. You, each of you, will have been the first, the most true. And you will be aptly rewarded."

They all looked very pleased with Tom's words, their chests puffing up and their faces curling into wide grins. Druella Rosier reached for Cygnus Black's hand and clutched it, appearing a bit overcome with emotion. Tom moved to circle around the group, shaking each hand firmly as he continued,

"But you must remember, my friends, that for the next few months we are subject to the tyranny of youth. Our Cause may be threatened by excessive ceremony or conspicuous humility. So, I beseech you to continue to refer to me simply as 'Tom,' for the time being... at least in the presence we have not yet converted."

He bid them all goodnight and reminded them of the hour, and watched as they filed into the Slytherin dormitories. Then Tom stood alone in the Common Room for a long moment before briskly making his way back to the Armoury Corridor.

He felt vindicated. He felt as though he were finally getting revenge for the childhood he'd spent as a fish out of water, as an unwanted creature in a prison for children. He felt as though the primal ache for power and admiration, the longing for authority which had always been so insistent within him, would finally be properly fed.

He glanced down the Armoury Corridor and saw that it was empty, but he knew that Hermione must be finished with her rounds by now. He knocked quietly upon her door, but there was no answer. He frowned and knocked again, waiting a long while as his frustration began to drown out the elation he'd felt. He knew her door was warded to admit only her. Figuring it was worth at least one attempt, Tom pulled out his wand and said the incantation he remembered Hermione saying when she'd entered.

"Recludo cubiculum," he murmured. When the door swung open, Tom wondered if someone had slipped him a bottle of Felix Felices. The entire night seemed to be going his way. He called out for Hermione in a gentle voice, hesitant to enter her room uninvited.

There was no answer, though he could hear the soft whoosh of her shower running. Tom felt a tightening in his trousers as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. It was a bit much to be standing where he was, a manifesto of followers tucked in his robe, while Hermione showered just a few feet away. He contemplated barging into her shower naked and joining in, but then quickly realised that would be uncouth.

So he paced anxiously, pulling the rolled parchment from his robe and rubbing the pad of his finger over it a few times. Finally, the shower stopped. Then Tom froze when he heard the gentle noise coming from the bathroom.

She was humming. Hermione Granger was humming, quietly and sweetly, and for some reason it made Tom so anxiously aroused that he stalked rapidly toward the bathroom. He flung open the door and heard her shriek in terror, saw her reach for her wand. He Disarmed her at once and her wand flew into his hand. Tom set the wands and the scroll down on the ledge beneath her mirror and turned to see that Hermione was scowling ferociously at him.

"Dont... ever... surprise a woman like that, Tom!" she panted angrily, clutching her towel more tightly around her dripping form. Tom ignored her, his trousers now uncomfortably tight as he studied the way her hair fell around her face in wet clumps, the way her bare face was dewy and glowed in the lamplight. Suddenly his body was moving of its own accord and he was tearing the towel from her, tossing it aside as he pushed her against the tile wall and crushed her mouth with a kiss. He ground his erection against her belly and Hermione moaned into his mouth, abruptly letting go of her shocked indignation. She started egging him on then, reaching for his waist and arranging him so that the lump in his trousers ground right upon the nub of her womanhood.

Tom's cock ached, screaming to be set free and plunged into her, but he was so high with arousal and power that he had no time for that. He kissed Hermione again and finished in his trousers before he knew what was happening. He bucked his hips a few more times, and Hermione went limp against the wall as she found her own release from the friction.

There was a rather awkward moment then as Tom's ears buzzed and he reached with a shaking hand for his wand. His cheeks coloured a bit as he nonverbally cleaned up his trousers, and then he turned to see that Hermione had taken her own wand from the ledge, along with the rolled parchment. He watched her unfurl it, and he did not stop her. She flicked her eyes up to him after she read it in silence, and her face was very serious.

She bent and picked up her towel, wordlessly wrapped it around her torso, and walked briskly from the bathroom. Tom followed her out into her room, worried that she was going to tear the parchment to bits. He knew how she'd felt about his aspirations for personal power, at least in her previous life.

So he was rather surprised when she sat down at her desk, dipped a quill in ink, and signed her name to the parchment. She used her wand to siphon a drop of blood from one thumb, and she pressed it to the page.

She held up the parchment to Tom, and he took it with a reverent bow of his head.

"My Lady," he acknowledged, and her lips curled up into a smirk.