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.

7. Chapter 7

December, 1944

Hermione pored through the enormous book before her, searching for the chapter on 15th century persecution of 'witchcraft.' Finally locating the chapter she wanted, Hermione sighed as she read and then scratched a summary onto her History of Magic parchment.

'One common 'protective' measure at the time was to insist that accused witches and wizards enter a courtroom backward. Many Muggles believed this would prevent them from applying Magical curses. Obviously, most accused 'witches' and 'wizards' at the time were nothing of the sort, but rather social outcasts blamed for mundane illnesses, deaths, and crop failures. The Magical community encouraged Muggle misconceptions about magic, since it allowed them to -'

"Oh, for goodness' sake!"

Betty Cattermole huffed in anger as she flipped madly through a book on centaur-wizarding relations in history. She growled and flipped faster, and was promptly treated to a loud shush from the librarian. Betty scowled and exclaimed in a frantic whisper, "The damned cursed book has Vanished its own text! Stupid, worthless…"

"Good afternoon, ladies."

Betty gasped and jumped in her seat, her cheeks colouring with embarrassment for her behaviour as soon as she realised who had walked up to their table. Hermione smiled mildly up at the two boys beside them.

"Hello, Tom. Abraxas."

Abraxas Malfoy stood one pace behind Tom and a bit to his left, in what was clearly a subservient position. Hermione frowned a bit, unsure of how to feel about the evident power dynamic between the boys. Not difficult to see the Alpha male in this pack, she thought acerbically.

"We were just writing our History of Magic essays," Hermione said. Then, glancing across the table, she added, "Poor Betty's just lost her source material. The book's text disappeared."

"Here. Let me see it." Tom took the book from the table and flicked through the pages, sniffing lightly as he seemed to be diagnosing a problem.

"It's no use," Betty lamented. "It must be cursed to Vanish its own writing when a person 'mistreats' it. I admit I was a bit rough with the binding, but -"

"Legiverbum." Tom interrupted Betty with a casual incantation, dusting the tip of his yew wand over the pages before him. Hermione craned her neck to see that the illuminated text of the book dissolved back into visibility, as though suctioned forth from the page by Tom's spell. Hermione furrowed her brow; she had never heard the incantation he'd said before. She wondered for a brief moment whether Tom had made it up himself.

"Oh, brilliant!" Betty grinned from ear to ear as she gratefully took the book back from Tom, who nodded distractedly before jerking his head a bit toward Abraxas. Hermione noticed that Abraxas looked rather shy all of a sudden, and that he was staring at Betty with what could only be described as admiration. Tom said lightly,

"Miss Cattermole, since Mr Malfoy is far too great a gentleman to be so forward as to ask you himself… might you care to accompany Abraxas here on a walk about the grounds?"

"First snow of the season, and all," Abraxas mumbled, casting his pale eyes to the ground. Hermione felt her mouth drop open in pleased surprise as she flicked her eyes back and forth between Betty and Abraxas. She tried to conceal her happy smile and attempted to look only mildly interested as Betty answered,

"Oh… I - I would like that, Mr Malfoy. Thank you. I just need a moment to pack up my things and return my books."

"Allow me to shelve the books for you," Abraxas offered, and Betty blushed a deep scarlet as he bowed his head and took her materials back to the shelves. Hermione wondered as Betty packed up her rucksack when the girl intended on writing her essay. She decided it was none of her business how Betty delegated her study time. She and Tom bid the two others farewell as they strode awkwardly from the library, speaking in low and formal voices.

Tom sat at the table opposite Hermione and smirked, apparently rather amused.

"Did you tell Abraxas to do that just so that you could pull me away from the library?" Hermione scolded him, but Tom licked his bottom lip and shook his head. He drummed his fingertips upon the wood table and then flicked his wand a bit, murmuring a silencing spell around the table. Hermione frowned curiously, and then Tom said to her, "Abraxas' uncle - Neptunus Malfoy - has been kind enough to send along some rather valuable information about Nurmengard. Neptunus has apparently been privy to visit the place no fewer than three times, and so he knows the layout well, along with its defences."

Hermione felt her stomach churn a bit. For the past month, she and Tom had conducted a great deal of training and preparation for their 'visit' to Grindelwald. Hermione had, one evening, asked Tom to reconsider the entire thing, and he'd grown quite cross. They'd argued for a few days until Tom managed to convince Hermione of the necessity of the attack.

Dumbledore and Grindelwald would never actually kill one another, Tom argued. They had been close - very close - as youths. Tom insisted that Dumbledore would only go so far as to seek the imprisonment of Grindelwald, whilst Grindelwald himself would likely be unable to muster the proper vitriol to actually cast an effective Killing Curse at Dumbledore in a duel. Therefore, Tom argued, he had three choices.

First, he could allow Grindelwald to continue his campaign - which, he said, was disorganized and ruthless in the pursuit of its nebulous goals. Tom reminded Hermione of how many Muggles and wizards had been killed thus far by Grindelwald, and that he was only growing stronger by the day.

Second, he could permit Albus Dumbledore to attack Grindelwald, likely leading to the latter's imprisonment and lifelong vilification. This choice, Tom asserted, was undesirable because it served to draw an artificially clear line between 'good' and 'evil' by defining all Dark Arts and Dark wizards as wholly undesirable. Hermione had difficulty arguing this point; by the time she'd lived in the 1990s, the public considered Dumbledore a beacon of the 'light,' whilst all Dark wizards had historically grown more vicious as they felt cornered. Hermione reminded herself that part of her goal in this existence was to temper some of Tom's inherent Darkness and steer the course of his ambition toward a less ruthless path than she'd seen of him in 'her' time.

The final choice, Tom said, was to eliminate Grindelwald himself and take his place as the preeminent Dark wizard of the time. They had similar goals, she knew; both Tom and Grindelwald desired the magnification of wizardkind as well as its purification. Hermione knew that here, too, she might be able to eventually inject a touch of reason into Tom's mentalities and ambitions. She knew that if Grindelwald were 'the' Dark wizard, she would be unable to control the madness. With Tom, though…

So she had stopped fighting him on the matter, on the condition that it be only the two of them to go. She did not want the affair to turn into a slaughter of the Slytherin boys, no matter how thick-headed some of them were. Now, sitting in the library across the table from Tom, she felt a twist of nervousness as she realised their intended striking date was drawing so near.

"Nurmengard serves as both Grindelwald's prison for his enemies and as his own fortress," Tom was saying. "It is, apparently, guarded by no fewer than three dozen wizards at any time, as well as an army of Inferi crafted from the corpses of… former… prisoners."

Hermione felt bile rise in her throat. She had, of course, contemplated the idea that Grindelwald's fortress would contain a great many modes of protection. She knew, for example, that it was Unplottable and surrounded by anti-Apparition charms, just like Hogwarts. She had expected there to be guards, too, obviously. But an army of Inferi? She let out a shaky sigh and nodded resolutely.

"Fire, then," she said in a strangely calm voice.

Tom smirked again and said, "Yes. We shall need a great deal of fire. And we're going to go there by Portkey - well, at least to the forest nearby. Neptunus Malfoy is going to plant one Portkey in the trees a few hundred yards from the ground. The other Portkey will be waiting for us in a room at the Leaky Cauldron when we arrive there for the Christmas holidays."

Hermione nodded again, struggling to swallow the terrible lump in her throat so that she could ask softly, "And… what day are we to go there? To Nurmengard, I mean."

Tom blinked slowly and gave her a peaceful expression. "The thirty-first," he pronounced. "I know I had said I wanted to be there by Christmas. But if all goes according to plan, then the precise shall prove itself to be rather important, as it will be remembered in perpetuity. So, I have decided upon the thirty-first of this month."

Hermione laughed rather bitterly and nodded. "Your birthday."

"That's right."

"What a fine birthday gift to yourself," she said, feeling her eyes burn as she wrestled with her own scruples. "The wand of Gellert Grindelwald."

Tom nodded again. "And the look on Albus Dumbledore's face when I show it to him."

---

December, 1954

Lord Voldemort scowled out the window at the brilliant sunshine. The unseasonably mild weather outside did not mesh properly with his mood. He'd learned three days earlier that the Ministry of Magic had put out a warrant for his arrest, owing to his capture and interrogation of Auror Maggie Prewett. He'd ordered Maggie released back to the Ministry weeks earlier, in exchange for three of his own men being held at Azkaban. Hermione had orchestrated all of that, for which he was enormously grateful. Nonetheless, the Ministry had gone back on its word and refused the amnesty they'd promised. There were open warrants for Voldemort, for Hermione, and for Abraxas Malfoy, all three of whom were deemed particularly guilty or complacent in the 'Prewett Affair,' as the Daily Prophet insisted upon calling it.

So they'd decided to hole up at the Regia, and Voldemort had decided to move more insistently with his mission of undermining the Ministry. He had spies in place, of course, and subversive moles. But the change, the overhaul, needed to happen sooner rather than later.

As he stared into the blazingly sunny day and thought through the mess, Voldemort heard a light rapping upon his office door. He was about to grant admission to the visitor, but then the door creaked slowly open.

"Good afternoon, Hermione," Voldemort said rather bitterly, still staring out the window. He knew it was her, for she was the only one who entered his office without his permission. He turned round and faced her, noticing that she looked exceedingly tired. She sighed heavily and shut the door behind her, moving to sit in the chair opposite Voldemort's desk. Sensing some urgency from her, he pulled out his own chair and said rather acerbically, "Would you care for some tea?"

Hermione scowled but said, "Since you've offered… yes. I'm positively knackered; I've not slept in two solid days. Wine would be wonderful. Thank you."

"I said 'tea,'" Voldemort corrected her, raising his eyebrows. She swallowed heavily and looked very deliberately up at him, the dark circles under her eyes suddenly more apparent.

"Wine would be wonderful. Thank you," she said again. Voldemort gave her a conciliatory nod and poured her a goblet of elf-made wine from the little table behind him. Hermione drank deeply from it, and Voldemort waited a moment before asking delicately,

"Where is Georgiana?"

"I've sent her to stay with the Notts" Hermione said quietly, her eyes shimmering abruptly as they filled with tears. She dragged her fingertip around the rim of her goblet and said, "She left this morning."

"It is much better for here there than here," Voldemort said gently, and he watched Hermione nod with a hesitant face. Voldemort reached across to steady her trembling hand, and he said, "We shall bring Georgie home when it is safe to do so. I fear that Maggie Prewett will come to deeply regret ever making an enemy of you."

Hermione gave a bitter little snort then, and she drank the rest of the elf-made wine. "On the subject of old friends," she said smoothly, "I have a much happier bit of news. Betty's had the baby. He was born quite early this morning. Abraxas already adores the boy."

Voldemort tried to sound interested as he asked lightly, "And what have they decided to call the child?"

"Lucius," Hermione said, "after his ancestor. He's got hair already, blonde just like the both of them."

"Hm." Voldemort was distracted and didn't much care about the miniature Malfoy, but he nodded and said just the same, "Give them my regards, will you?"

"Of course." Hermione put her empty goblet upon Voldemort's desk and rose from her chair, turning to go without another word. As she put her hand upon the doorknob, Voldemort said rather softly,

"Hermione."

She turned back, and Voldemort felt a clutch in his chest to see the exhaustion clearly wracking her. It had broken her heart to send Georgie away, he knew. But it would keep the little child safe to have her stay elsewhere, at least until Voldemort could erase the threat on the Regia. If nothing else, Georgiana's life gave him enormous motivation to move more quickly on the overthrow of the Ministry.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Tom, her face impassive as her hand stilled upon the doorknob. He cleared his throat gently and asked,

"Tomorrow… have you any desire to… that is, I wonder if you would be so good as to join me for a private dinner and an evening entirely excused from… all of this." He gestured to his desk, to the little piles of paperwork, and he hoped she knew what he meant. To clarify his intentions, he said, "Ten years. Rather a significant point, I should think."

She nodded and gave him a little smile, though her eyes stayed sad. "Ten years," she repeated. Then, after a moment, she sighed and said, "Of course I should like the time with you, even given the rather bleak circumstances."

Voldemort was frustrated by the despair he sensed rolling off of her in waves. Knowing he was powerless against her grief in sending Georgiana away, he rose and walked to her, hoping he could at least give her reassurance. He reached to cup her jaw in his hand and felt her lean against his palm. She shut her eyes, and Voldemort murmured,

"I love you more today than I did yesterday. And I shall love you even more tomorrow."

---

December, 1944

Tom lay awake in his bed and stared at the ceiling. He had encountered a great deal of trouble as of late when it came to sleeping. The past few nights, his mind had been so preoccupied with one particular matter that he had been utterly unable to relax. When he managed to briefly drift off to sleep, he was plagued with nightmarish visions that haunted him upon waking. He was unwilling to take draughts or potions to sleep, for he knew that the concerns he had were real and valid. Better to address them directly, he thought, than to induce sleep artificially whilst leaving problems unsolved.

He huffed with frustration as he swung his legs off of his bed and stood. He padded barefoot across his room and pulled his emerald dressing-gown from his wardrobe. He cinched the belt around his waist and snatched his wand from his bedside table, and then he slipped out of his bedroom door. He looked carefully up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he stalked down toward Hermione's room and paused outside her door. He could undo her wards, he knew, and enter without issue. But he worried that to do so would frighten and alarm Hermione, or possibly make her feel he'd invaded her private space.

Of course, though, he couldn't knock upon the door at this hour. And he had, he reminded himself, entered her room without permission before. She hadn't seemed cross about that. He sighed and decided he had no alternative; he was not going to sleep unless he discussed a few things with her. Hopefully the conversation could be brief, and then they could both get much-needed rest.

He unwarded her door and it swung gently open. Tom held his wand out in case she attacked him out of fear, but as he slipped into the room, he heard a groggy voice crack from the bed,

"Tom?"

He smirked at the sound of his name in her sleep-muddled voice, and he padded over to her bed. He'd perhaps expected her to be sitting up pointing her wand at him in alarm, but she was still curled up against her pillow. Tom felt a clenching in his chest then, as he realised that she'd said his name in her sleep and that his entry hadn't woken her. Tom pulled off his dressing gown and tossed it over her floorboard, setting his wand carefully upon the table beside her bed. Then he climbed carefully beneath her sheets, wondering whether he was going to meet a nasty hex once she realised he was in her bed without asking.

But then she rolled over, and her eyes cracked open. Even in the darkness, Tom could see her lips curl up a bit, and she whispered, "Who told you that you could come in here?"

"No one did," Tom admitted. "I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind. I need to discuss something with you."

That seemed to wake Hermione up properly, and she sat up beside him. He watched her frown and reach for her wand, and then she illuminated the lamp upon her wall and the space was bathed in a dim glow. Hermione turned to Tom and rubbed her eyes, asking in a croak,

"What's the matter, Tom?"

He carefully considered what he wanted to say. Suddenly rather overcome with inexplicable nervousness, he licked his bottom lip and mumbled, "I would very much prefer it if we were married before we go to Nurmengard."

Hermione looked concerned, and she crumpled her brows and raked her fingers through her hair until they snarled in her frizzy nighttime tangles. She huffed a bit and asked simply, "Why?"

Tom hadn't exactly expected that response. 'No,' he'd expected, or perhaps a grudging acceptance. But he had rather failed to consider being required to explain himself as thoroughly as he now thought he'd have to do.

He could tell Hermione that it was for her protection that he wanted to marry her straight away. He could tell her that it was a matter of maintaining status among his followers. He could tell her any number of excuses that weren't true, but instead he told her the truth. He stared at her tired face and thought for a brief moment that she was very pretty even after being rudely awakened from sleep. Then he looked her square in the eye and said firmly,

"If anything should happen... if anything should go wrong... I would much prefer to die as your husband than as your intended."

A little look of horror crossed Hermione's face then, and she pinched her lips into a straight line. "Nothing's going to happen to you," she insisted, but Tom gave her an impatient sigh and rolled his eyes.

"You don't know that," he told her. "This hasn't happened to you yet, remember? So, please, Hermione... fight alongside me as my wife, will you?"

She chewed her bottom lip a bit and scowled, "Everyone will think I've fallen pregnant, you know," she told him.

Tom shrugged. He'd thought of that, of course. "Then let's not tell any of them until afterward."

Hermione cocked an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by the suggestion of a semi-private elopement rather than an actual wedding. Tom had thought of that, too; he had worried a bit about whether his followers might take offence at not being invited to the wedding of the Dark Lord. But then it had occurred to him that it would be grossly inappropriate to demonstrate emotion before them, to debase himself so publicly. If he felt anything at his wedding, it was for Hermione alone to witness.

"What, then?" she was asking him. She shrugged and said helplessly, "I suppose the only option would be a binding by Magical handfasting. As far as I know, it's the only Magical marriage rite widely recognised which does not require any witnesses."

Tom nodded firmly. He'd considered all their options. He did not wish for anyone to know of their marriage until after Nurmengard. The benefit to a Magical handfasting was that it produced indisputable evidence that the ceremony had taken place - a helix of dual-coloured ribbon which twisted in an everlasting motion. Tom and Hermione, he figured, could carry out the handfasting whenever they pleased and hand over the cord to the Ministry after Nurmengard. Then, as Tom basked in his victory, he could declare Hermione his wife. In the case that something happened to him, Hermione would have the cord to ensure that it was known they'd been wed.

"I understand, of course," he said graciously, "if you would prefer a more... traditional... ceremony, but -"

"There is nothing more traditional in the wizarding than a private handfasting," Hermione reminded him. "The practise dates back nearly two thousand years. I think that being married that way adheres just fine to tradition."

He nodded, pleased that she'd agreed to his plan. "When, then?" he asked, deciding to let her choose the date for the handfasting, so long as it was within the next three-and-a-half weeks.

Hermione glanced toward her bathroom. "I think I should prefer to shower and clean my teeth first, if you don't mind," she said, and Tom was rather taken aback.

"Tonight?" he asked in mild disbelief, and Hermione nodded emphatically.

"If it's to be private," she said, "then there's no use in delaying, is there?"

Tom felt his mouth curl up crookedly as he admitted, "No. I suppose not."

"Why don't you go clean yourself up a bit?" Hermione suggested, and Tom felt his cheeks colour at her suggestion that he was dirty. But then she said, "I shall do the same. Meet me back here in twenty minutes or so."

Tom glanced at the clock on Hermione's mantle and reminded her, "It's nearly three in the morning, you know."

"Yes. Well, then, I suppose the date shall technically be the fourth." Hermione matter-of-factly rose from the bed, and Tom marveled at her efficient disposal of emotion. "Twenty minutes?" she asked again, and Tom nodded. Hermione disappeared into her bathroom, and Tom slipped out of her room again, feeling his stomach flutter a bit as he did.

---

December, 1944

Hermione turned off her shower, patted dry her hair, and cast a Drying Charm upon it with her wand. Her hand trembled a bit as she did. She was relieved, in a way, that Tom had provided an opportunity for her to escape the grand wedding that so many might have expected after their high-profile engagement. But Hermione had rather been dreading all the pomp, if she was honest. This all seemed better; it felt right that she and Tom should marry by their own power, without needing to put on a great show.

None of that alleviated the nervousness coursing through her as she cleaned her teeth. None of that made it any easier to button up the cream-coloured cotton dress she yanked on - the closest thing she had to bridal white. She popped on a pair of shoes, not paying much attention to which ones, and made a vague attempt to tame her hair. But then she heard her door open and shut quietly, and she trotted out of her bathroom with her wand in her hand. Tom stood in the middle of the room rather awkwardly, his left hand clutching a little bunch of lilacs and his right hand fiddling with his wand.

"You put on a suit," Hermione noted with a bit of surprise. She suddenly felt underdressed in her casual dress. "Perhaps I should put on something better."

She started to walk toward her wardrobe, but then she felt a gentle tug on her wrist and turned round to find herself looking up into Tom's face. There was a hunger in his dark eyes as he shook his head and insisted, "You could have married me in your pyjamas, Hermione, and you would still be beautiful. Leave the dress; it won't be on you for long, anyway."

Hermione felt a sudden surge of want for him - physically, of course, for he smelled of himself in the most delicious way imaginable. But she also wanted for him to be her husband just then, more than she'd wanted it before.

"Come here, will you?" Tom pulled her gently away from the wardrobe and cast a fire into her hearth, urging her to stand in the centre of the room with him. He handed over the lilacs he was holding and murmured gently, "I never thought I'd Conjure so many flowers as I've done in the past eight months. I've become rather an expert Conjurer of flowers. They're getting better each time, I think. So perhaps by the time you're an old woman, I shall be giving you the most beautiful lilacs there have ever been."

Hermione felt her breath hitch in her throat. She took the flowers from Tom and whispered, "These are, to me, the most beautiful lilacs there have ever been." She set the lilacs upon the little table beside her bed and walked back toward him.

He stared at her for a while then, with an unreadable flicker in his eyes. She finally cleared her throat and asked, "Would you care to go first, or shall I?"

"You know how to do it?" Tom asked. Hermione shifted upon her feet and admitted,

"Only what I've read in books, of course. But I think I shall do fine."

"You begin, then." Tom bowed his head and took a small step back from her. He held out his left hand, and Hermione grasped it firmly with her own.

She pointed her wand at their hands and tried to steady her voice as she remembered the basic tenets of a Magical handfasting. Heart, body, and soul, she reminded herself, remembering what she'd read. Finally, she spoke, meeting Tom's gaze as she did.

"With all my heart, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my fears and my longings, my hopes and my dreams, my joy and my grief. With all of my body, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my dignity and my desire, my illness and my good health, my youth and my old age. With all of my soul, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my goodness and my wickedness, my compassion and my determination, my life and my death. To you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, I bind myself from this moment forward, with rejoicing completely in the love that we share."

A thin twine of silver began to wind itself from the tip of Hermione's wand. The ethereal ribbon cast itself round Tom's wrist, over their hands, and up Hermione's arm. Hermione nodded at Tom, and he swallowed visibly as he gave her a witheringly handsome smirk. He licked his dry lips and cleared his throat, sounding rather humbled as he said,

"With all my heart, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my warmth and my coldness, my ambitions and my concessions, my joy and my grief. With all of my body, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my flesh and my blood, my strength and my weakness, my youth and my old age. With all of my soul, I bind myself to you. I entrust to you my Darkness and light, my triumphs and my regrets, my life and my death. To you, Hermione Jean Granger, I bind myself from this moment forward, with great hopeful gratitude for the life we shall share."

Hermione could not stop the tears that silently left her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks as Tom's wand produced a winding twine of emerald ribbon. It twisted round their hands, as hers had done, and then they were knotted together firmly. Hermione looked up at Tom and said carefully,

"And now you kiss me."

He nodded. "And now I kiss you."

He dropped his wand and it fell to the floor. Tom used his right hand to cup Hermione's cheek and lowered his face to hers. At first, he just gave her a gentle brush of his lips. Then, with a shaking breath, he kissed her more firmly, and she felt nearly overwhelmed by how much she adored him. This prompted the ribbons to release from their hands and twirl together into a round, swirling helix of ribbon. Hermione used her wand to direct the circle of ribbon to the table beside her bed, where it lay alongside the lilacs. She looked back to Tom and realised they were still clutching hands. Without releasing him, she pulled gently toward her bed, and he willingly followed.

A few hours later, as she lay curled up against his naked body, she heard him say, "Thank you, Hermione. For marrying me. I am… I am glad."

She chuckled quietly and looked up to see his dark eyes flash. She reached up and dragged her fingertips over his scruffy jaw, badly in need of a morning shave.

"I confess I came to your room tonight because I was having difficulty sleeping," Tom continued. He brushed his fingertips down Hermione's arm, and she shivered a bit. "I ought to have known that coming to your room wouldn't lead to sleep."

"No. It led to you becoming my husband," Hermione reminded him. "We can sleep when we're tired of this."

She gestured to the way they were curled up without clothing, and she heard Tom scoff,

"I don't think I shall ever grow tired of this." There was a quiet pause, and then he said, "I wouldn't be as confident, you know… going to Nurmengard with anyone else."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "You would be successful, Tom, even if you went alone."

"Perhaps," Tom shrugged haughtily. He kissed Hermione's forehead and murmured, "But I should think my odds will be greatly improved by your presence."

Hermione shut her eyes and tried to return her brain to a sense of positivity. "Do you love me, Tom?" she asked, wanting to hear him say it.

He pulled her a bit closer, and sighed as he seemed to consider his answer. Hermione was a bit anxious about his silence at last until he replied,

"I love you more today than I did yesterday. And I shall love you even more tomorrow."

---

31 December, 1944

7:30 GMT

Hermione stared out the window of the room she'd rented with Tom at the Three Broomsticks. The icy rain outside lashed the windows fiercely, and they shivered and shook with the force of the wind. Hermione, on instinct, pressed her palm to the rippled glass as if to still it, and she shut her eyes as she reflected upon the past several weeks.

She'd married Tom Riddle on the fourth of December, and since then he'd only laid hands upon her a few times. No one but the two of them knew the truth. In a great many ways, Hermione did not feel married. Indeed, the realisation that she was married was often the cause of a bit of bemused contemplation. At times, she'd stared at Tom as he walked into a classroom, thinking, Ah! Here comes my beloved husband. She would laugh to herself then, and Betty or Maggie would inquire as to what was so funny.

Never in Hermione's life had she failed to devote her fullest attention to final exams. This term, however, her mind had been at Nurmengard, and she had not revised nearly as much as she would otherwise have done. She'd passed all her exams with flying colours, of course, though she'd felt a bit derelict of academic duty. Tom had seemed as though he hadn't cared to revise at all, though it appeared to Hermione as if he simply did not have to try to be brilliant. He simply was.

On the Hogwarts Express back to London for Christmas holidays, Hermione and Tom had patrolled the cars a few times before settling into the Prefects' carriage. They'd met briefly with Tom's inner circle on the train, for many of them were Slytherin Prefects. Vague plans for Nurmengard had been discussed, but Tom had insisted to Hermione that most of their information remain private. They'd settled into a private compartment then, and Hermione had gazed out at the countryside whizzing by and murmured,

"Everything will be different."

"Better," Tom had corrected her rather sharply, and Hermione had frowned at him. Tom had raised his eyebrows and said again, "Everything will be better."

"For you," Hermione had scoffed, and she'd leaned on her elbow as she stared solemnly out the window.

"For everyone who matters," Tom had insisted, and Hermione had wondered who exactly it was that mattered to Tom. Before she could demand that of him, he'd pulled out a rolled parchment from his robes and had handed it over to Hermione. Curiously, she had unfurled it and had seen that it was his manifest of Knights of Walpurgis - the Hogwarts students who had sworn loyalty to Tom.

"I've seen this," she reminded him coolly, and she'd started to hand it back over to him. Tom had gently pushed her hand back and eyed her rather oddly as he'd said,

"There is one name missing. From the bottom of the page."

Hermione had read through the names again, and she'd realised he'd erased her own signature and thumbprint from the parchment. Feeling rather offended, she had scowled up at him and opened her mouth to protest. But Tom had sniffed and looked away from her, out the window.

"You are not my subordinate," Tom had said rather tightly, gnawing upon his bottom lip. "You are my wife."

Christmas had passed with little fanfare at the Three Broomsticks. There had been carols and ale and roast meat served in the tavern, and upstairs Hermione had exchanged a chaste kiss or two with Tom and wished him a Happy Christmas. But their minds had been on Grindelwald - Tom's filled with hunger for the events to come, and Hermione's filled with trepidation. The next several days had been spent quietly reading before the fireplace, discussing tactics and plans, and eating solemnly downstairs for meals. Hermione had made a few quick trips to stores in Diagon Alley, but she and Tom had stayed mostly holed up over the holidays.

Their time together had been quiet and contemplative and not at all physical. But Hermione felt a strong ache in her chest when she considered the danger Tom would be in at Nurmengard. She loved him, she knew, and she would be devastated to lose him. Even if it had been in the pursuit of personal power - an aspiration she still did not entirely support - his demise would cripple her soul.

She pulled her hand away from the chilled window and sighed, taking a little step back from the window as a fresh gale of wind ripped its way through the streets. The rattling and howling woke Tom, who stirred in the bed behind Hermione. She resolutely stared forward, listening carefully to the pad of his feet upon the wooden floorboards as he rose and strode toward her. She saw the translucent reflection of his face in the glass as he stepped up behind her, saw the way he dropped his face to plant a gentle kiss in the crook of her neck. Hermione shivered and swallowed heavily, holding up a small bottle and still staring out the window as she whispered,

"Happy birthday, Tom."

He sighed through his nose and took the little bottle from her, and then he mumbled groggily, "Felix Felicis?"

Hermione nodded, turning round to face Tom. Her knees went a bit weak at the sight of his messy hair, his bare shoulders and arms and chest, the way his dark eyes still looked mired in sleep. She reached out impulsively and brushed her fingertips near the spot where she knew his heart was.

"It's enough to make you successful in anything you do for the next twenty-four hours of so," she informed him.

Tom licked his bottom lip and nodded a bit. "Thank you," he whispered. But then he held the little bottle out to Hermione and insisted, "I want you to take it."

Hermione gave him a withering look and demanded, "Why would I need luck, Tom Riddle, when I shall be fighting with you?"

Tom smiled a bit and said thoughtfully, "There's enough for each of us for twelve hours. I do not intend on this mission taking any longer than that. We leave with the Portkey in about an hour and a half. I propose that we each take half."

Hermione had spent nearly every Galleon she had on the Felix Felicis in the potion supplies shop on Diagon Alley. She'd purchased it after Transfiguring a few of her features, and she'd given a false name to the shopkeep. She did not want anyone, after today, believing that Tom Riddle only defeated Grindelwald because he'd had Liquid Luck. Even she thought they would probably be successful without the potion, but it seemed wise not to take any chances.

Hermione nodded at Tom, and he held the little bottle out further to her. "After you," he said firmly, and Hermione let out a shaky sigh before uncorking the bottle. She carefully tipped about half the contents of the bottle into her mouth, noticing the potion's sickly, cloying sweetness. She sputtered a bit but swallowed, and then she handed the little bottle back to Tom. He drank the remainder of the potion quickly and Vanished the bottle with his wand.

They stood in silence for a minute then, and Hermione finally asked Tom, "Do you feel any different?"

Tom shook his head, but he noted, "I suspect one might not feel anything for a while after taking it… and, even so, the effects will be most evident in a situation where luck is actually needed."

Hermione nodded again, feeling a flutter of nerves as she realised how little time was left until they would be at Nurmengard. The nervousness never dissipated, though; it turned into a bit of giddy excitement as Hermione thought more and more about the day. A quiet corner of her mind piped up that the Felix Felicis was making her artificially confident and perky. That stray bit of consciousness was immediately quashed when Tom reached out to wrap his fingers around Hermione's jaw, brushing the pad of his thumb under her eye. He quirked up half his mouth and murmured,

"Have we enough time for me to show you how much I love you? Just in case I never get a chance again…"

Hermione laughed aloud at his tone, at the way he seemed to have suddenly become so emotional with her. That, too, was the potion, she knew. But she didn't much care. She answered him by pushing lightly upon his bare chest until he staggered backward and hit the bed. He flopped down onto his back upon the mattress, moving with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, and his crooked smile widened.

She felt drunk as she climbed to straddle him, attacking his neck with kisses and lightly drawing her fingers around his shoulders and chest. Tom groaned a bit, his own hands moving to whisk Hermione's thin nightdress off of her form. She was naked beneath her pyjamas, and as she helped wriggle out of the nightdress, her entire body was bared to him. Tom huffed with want and reached up to cup Hermione's left breast in his hand. He grazed her hardened nipple with his thumb and squeezed her breast lightly, eliciting a sharp gasp from Hermione. She instinctively drove her hips down onto him, feeling his erection through his pyjama trousers. She reached down and hooked her thumbs beneath the waistband of the trousers so that she could urge them downward, but Tom caught her wrists and shook his head.

"Not yet," he said firmly. "We've got time to play."

Hermione giggled, a bit more wildly than she normally would do, and swirled her hips gently against him again. She watched his throat bob with a gulp, watched him drive his head backward against the duvet, and she felt his hands clutch desperately at her waist. He pulled her off of him and tossed her so quickly to her back that Hermione landed with a little 'oof!' of surprise. She snuggled back against the pillows and watched as Tom crawled toward her like a hunting predator.

She felt her nipples grow almost painfully hard, felt a flush of hot moisture between her legs, and she asked him in a low voice, "What exactly is it that you intend to do to me, husband?"

Tom's cheeks flushed scarlet at the way she'd asked him, and the hungry glint in his eyes sharpened. He sat back on his haunches and stared imperiously down at Hermione. Then, in a whisper that cut through the sound of the rain outside, he asked her,

"Do you trust me, Hermione?"

No! she wanted to scream, I don't trust you. I never have and I never will. You're a frightening monster now and you will be in the future. You killed Ladon Scamander and your family and who knows who else, and today you're going to kill Gellert Grindelwald. No, Tom, I don't trust you.

She wanted to say all that, except that she would have been lying. Fool that she was, she did trust him - more, at least, than she trusted anyone else in this time. If not Tom, then who? She sighed lightly and nodded up at him with reluctance.

"Yes," she whispered. "I trust you, Tom."

Tom did not react at first. Then he calmly dragged his fingertips from her jaw down over her neck and chest, pulling a fierce shiver with him as he went. Hermione squirmed and whimpered a bit, wanting far more than he was giving her.

"Do you love me?" he asked, his voice sounding dangerously relaxed. He tipped his face and met Hermione's eyes with a mischievous blend of curiosity and arousal. She felt an insistent throbbing at her sex now, and she ground her thighs against one another in a futile attempt to relieve the tension. She huffed and nodded.

"Yes. I love you."

Tom surprised her then by moving to hover over her, and he dipped his head and took her right breast into his mouth. She cried out as he suckled a bit, nibbling at her flesh and caressing her nipple with his tongue in tortuous little circles. Her hands clutched at his mussed hair and held fast, and her hips bucked instinctively.

Tom rose after a while, his expression so filled with animalistic desire that she was nearly frightened of him. But Hermione gathered her wits enough to say gently, "Tell me what you want."

"I want to feel powerful," Tom answered immediately. Hermione was momentarily taken aback by the insistence behind his answer. But she swallowed and nodded, understanding what he meant. He wanted to go to Nurmengard with Felix Felicis flowing through his veins, having dominated Hermione to motivate himself even further. He thrived on authority, she knew. He needed to feel strong, to feel unquestioned, to feel in control. He needed that today to be successful, and she needed him to succeed.

Hermione stared at his dark eyes for a moment, and then she whispered in a steady voice, "If you want to feel powerful, then show me just how powerful you can be."

"You trust me?" he asked again, and Hermione tried not to frown as she wondered why he was repeating that question. She felt a pit of anxiety in her stomach for a brief moment before the little euphoria brought on by the potion overwhelmed it.

"I trust you."

Tom petted Hermione's hair and leaned down to whisper in her ear, in a voice smooth and sweet like honey, "You are the only person in all the world who is safe from me."

Then he sat up, moved quickly to arrange his body, and was suddenly on his hands and knees forcing Hermione's knees apart. Hermione squirmed again, surprised by Tom's actions, and she reached to hold onto his shoulders. He looked up at her for a brief moment and smirked so handsomely that Hermione moaned, and then he dipped his head. She was shocked by that and stared wide-eyed down between her legs. Then suddenly she couldn't keep her eyes open and she wrenched them shut, squealing a bit when she felt the warm caress of his tongue on her womanhood.

It was heaven and she was lost in the feel of it for a long while, pushing her head back into the pillows and clutching frantically at the duvet. Tom lathed his tongue over her outer and inner lips as though he were licking ice cream, and then finally he dragged his tongue flat across her clit. Hermione twitched as if she'd been electrocuted, moaning his name as he suckled her nub for a long moment.

Then suddenly there was a different feeling as he pushed a few fingers into her and hooked them, continuing to pay attention to her entrance with his mouth. Hermione arched her back and tightened her thighs around his shoulders, chanting his name over and over like a prayer. Her whole body pulsed and tingled, and her ears began to ring as she felt a flush of heat in her veins.

"Tom, I'm going to - to..." she began, thrashing her head against the pillow and tearing her hands against the duvet. "Please don't stop now."

But Tom didn't listen. He raised his head a bit from her, just enough to give her an intense stare through half-lidded eyes. He smirked again and whispered,

"You like this?"

"Obviously!" Hermione growled, driving her hips against his fingers. The intense high that had been approaching was fading now, and Hermione felt irritated until Tom used his thumb on her nub. She felt the heat push through her again, and she shut her eyes.

"Open your eyes and look at me," Tom commanded, his voice hard as iron and wintry in tone. Hermione forced her eyes open and saw that he looked on the very edge of self-control. Some little part of her enjoyed seeing him like that, like he was about to simply give in and rip off his pyjama trousers and screw her senseless. A shaky breath came from him then, through his clenched teeth, and he whispered, "Tell me who I am."

Hermione felt a little clench of pleasure as he pressed a bit harder against her nub with the pad of his thumb. She was close - so very close - and she found herself unable to speak. She panted and moaned, trying to keep her eyes open as his fingers moved slowly inside of her. Tom stilled his hand then, and Hermione whimpered in frustration.

"Tell me who I am," Tom commanded again, his voice sounding almost frantic as he whispered. Hermione swallowed and said shakily,

"You're - you're my husband." Then, realising what exactly it was he wanted to hear, she met his eyes and said, "You're the Dark Lord."

Tom grunted from somewhere deep in his chest and lowered his head between Hermione's legs again. He kept his pace steady as he licked and suckled and pumped his fingers inside of her. She heard him moan against her as she pushed her hips up in desperation. Then she was thrown wholly into her climax, the most intense she'd ever felt. Her body shook and writhed of its own accord, and she wondered whether she'd blacked out as a sort of breathless heat overcame her. She felt her quim clenching and contracting around Tom's fingers, heard him groan again with pleasure as she finished for him.

The room was spinning and the blackness went on forever as Hermione clenched her eyes shut and tried to recover, feeling the mattress shift as Tom moved to hover over her.

"You are beautiful," he was murmuring in her ear then, sending a shiver down Hermione's spine. "You are so beautiful when you are flush with pleasure, when you do that for me. Feel how hard you've made me, Hermione. Feel how badly I need you."

There was a shift in his tone then, she noticed. He didn't sound forceful or dominating anymore. He sounded very much in love with her, and he sounded as though he needed to be reassured of something. She reached between them, her fingers trembling in the wake of her climax. She brushed her hand over the front of his pyjama trousers and he hissed in response, his erection twitching at her touch. Hermione made to untie his trousers and pull him out, but once again he stopped her. She raised her eyes to his and felt aroused again as she read the hunger in his gaze.

"Tell me you want me," he requested. If he'd intended to sound domineering, he'd failed. His voice cracked with want, and there was a flash of uncertainty in his dark eyes. Hermione nodded, but Tom continued, "Tell me what to do to you."

Hermione cocked her head to the side and reached up to nestle her hand in his hair. His dark eyes fluttered shut and his jaw went slack. Hermione marveled at the breath quivering through his slightly opened mouth, the way his lips were swollen and shining from giving her pleasure. She wanted to bring him to completion in a way he would enjoy, in a way that would solidify his confidence and good mood so that they could go to Nurmengard and come back victorious.

She wanted to say unspeakable things to him, to put filthy ideas in his head that would make even the boy-crazy Betty Cattermole blanche with alarm. Hermione wanted Tom so badly she was tingling all over, and she wanted to tell him so.

"I want you to turn me over," she began, suddenly wondering whether she'd sound like a harlot saying what she wanted to say. Then she realised she didn't much care if she sounded chaste. This was no time for chastity. She licked her bottom lip and said again, "I want you to turn me over and claim me. Put your cock inside me and plunder me so hard, so fast, so forcefully that I beg you to stop. And when I beg you to stop, don't. Don't stop. Keep going until your seed fills me with your very being. Then go to Nurmengard and take the wand of Gellert Grindelwald."

There was a shocked sort of flash in Tom's eyes at her words, and then everything happened so quickly that Hermione's head spun. He was flipping her over roughly, yanking upon her hips to angle her correctly. Hermione opened her mouth to take a deep breath, leaning upon her elbows for support. But her 'deep breath' quickly turned into a yelp as Tom plunged into her from behind. His hands gripped her hips and he thrashed against her, his cock filling and stretching her and making her think she might finish again.

Then she felt his hand reach around her and plant itself upon her belly. "O-Obice Graviditate," she heard him mutter frantically. There was a warm little vibration where his hand touched her as his wandless spell protected her from his seed.

Tom suddenly pushed Hermione down so that she lay flat upon her stomach, and he changed the angle from which he thrust into her so that he was grinding against her deliciously. Hermione moaned against the pillows and felt tension rising between her legs. She tumbled into another orgasm when she felt Tom lean down and heard him whisper,

"Yes. Good girl. Show me how good it feels."

His hips bucked a few times against her as she came, and then a feral growl ripped itself from Tom's lungs. He stilled his hips for a while before giving a few more irregular thrusts, and then he collapsed beside her and panted, staring up at the ceiling.

"I love you, Hermione. Whatever happens today, it is very important that you understand that," he mumbled, dragging his fingers through his rumpled hair. Hermione felt her eyes burn as he looked over at her. He nodded and said firmly, "Desperately and completely, I love you."

---

31 December, 1948

"Happy Victory Day, My Lord." Abraxas Malfoy bowed his head and approached Voldemort, who had been sitting in his office all day receiving well-wishers. He now watched as Abraxas placed a round crystal ball upon his desk. Inside the ball, a swirling mist circled whilst faint and tangled whispers emanated from the ball.

Voldemort had received word from an insider at the Ministry of Magic that a prophecy regarding him had been made by the renowned Seer Cassandra Vablatsky. He had entrusted Abraxas Malfoy - his closest ally besides Hermione - with the task of obtaining the Prophecy Record. Now Voldemort flicked his eyes over the tag attached to the Record, feeling his heart thud inside his chest.

C.V. to A.P.W.B.D.

Dark Lord and ? Female

Voldemort picked up the Prophecy Record and stared into the mist. The haunting whispers inside were just barely audible, a cluster of meaningless sounds and breaths that sent a spike of unease through his spine. He sniffed lightly and looked up at Abraxas.

"I am much obliged, Malfoy, that you have obtained the Record. Now, if you will let the others outside know that I shall require privacy for a while…"

"Of course, My Lord." Abraxas nodded emphatically and began to back from the room. He hesitated for a brief moment. "Shall I send in the Lady?" he asked cautiously.

Voldemort pondered his answer for a long while. He had no idea what message the Prophecy contained. Perhaps it was best to exclude Hermione from hearing it. He could always tell her later what the Record had said, if he decided it was something she ought to know.

Then he remembered how, four years previously, he had informed her that she was not his subordinate, that she was the only one safe from him. And he realised that if a Prophecy had been made about him, she ought to hear it.

"Yes," he said at last to Abraxas. "Send Hermione in at once, will you?"

"Of course, My Lord."

---

31 December, 1944

9:03 GMT

Hermione flew, Disillusioned, from the snowy wood with her wand held cautiously before her. She and Tom had split up immediately upon their arrival via Portkey, just as they'd planned to do. She was making her own way, invisibly, through the sky toward Nurmengard, though they would approach from different angles.

Before she'd Disillusioned herself, after they'd landed with a thud in the snow-covered forest, Hermione had placed her hands upon Tom's cheeks and said firmly,

"I shall see you back here, then. Afterward."

He'd nodded. "When you see my signal, come straight back to the dagger."

The Portkey, as it had turned out, was an ancient-looking dagger with a jeweled hilt. Now it lay on the white ground, waiting for them to return. Tom's signal, which would call Hermione away from her distraction-making efforts, was to be a Dark Mark cast into the sky above Nurmengard. Hermione had informed Tom weeks earlier of the existence of his Dark Mark in her time, as a method of intimidation and signalling. Tom had spent days refining the spell needed to cast the Mark, and he had told her it would shine even against the cloudy morning sky. The Mark would call Hermione back to the dagger, but it would also inform the entire wizarding world what he was capable of doing.

Hermione soared through the frigid air, glad she'd cast a rudimentary warming charm upon herself. She had grown particularly skilled with Tom's method of unassisted flight, though she'd always been awful on a broomstick. She swerved to her left as the imposing tower of Nurmengard came into view, and a pit of anxiety settled into her stomach.

Nurmengard loomed like a solid shadow over the cliff upon which it seemed so precariously perched. The cliff dropped sharply off just beyond Nurmengard, and one side of the tower faced squarely out upon the raging grey sea below. Hermione felt her velvet cloak fluttering behind her, unseen by even her own eyes, as she soared over the churning sea toward the fortress.

Finally, she neared the grounds, and as she circled around she could more clearly make out the situation she and Tom faced. The windows of Nurmengard held no bars; they were just narrow slits in the stalwart walls, open to the cold wind and rain, offering tempting slivers of light to the prisoners within. Hermione wondered with a pang of nausea who exactly was inside the prison, and she wished she and Tom had been able to more clearly ascertain that before attacking.

No matter, she thought. Soon enough their cell doors will open and we shall see who they are.

Hermione moved to fly around the enormous walls of the fortress, feeling a fresh surge of courage as she did. She was suddenly rather grateful that she'd had Felix Felicis earlier in the day, lest her fear overtake her now. But while she felt anxious, she was unafraid. The very worst that could happen, she reckoned, was that she would be killed. But she'd already left her old life behind with no hope of returning to its exact incarnation. Death was a possibility, certainly. But if Tom succeeded, she thought perhaps she might have accomplished something by coming back in time. Perhaps, in being his ally instead of his enemy, she could save lives. Perhaps. But she couldn't think of such things now. All that mattered in this moment was that she did her duty so that Tom could carry out his plans. She was a critical instrument to his success.

The grounds of Nurmengard were covered in a thick blanket of snow, which appeared untouched by footprints and spread like a cloud around the fortress. There was a narrow ring of cleared ground round the castle, beyond which the thick thatch of forest resumed. Hermione pulled herself up in the air to a stop, hovering about twenty metres from the ground, and pointed her wand at the trees nearest the castle. She summoned every bit of magic she could from within her, feeling her throat burn as she screamed,

"CONFRINGO!"

A powerful burst of orange light hurtled through the air toward the trees, and then suddenly a bit of the forest exploded with an enormous Bang!

Hermione watched in awe as pine needles and branches whirled through the air, her ears ringing from the sound and force of the blast. She waited a long moment, for the castle was still silent and seemingly devoid of life. She swallowed heavily and jabbed her wand toward a cluster of trees to the right of those she'd just hit.

"CONFRINGO!" Another mighty Blasting Curse hit the trees, this one so powerful that Hermione rushed backward through the air and had to steady herself. A few moments later, there were audible shouts at the base of the castle, and then several black-cloaked wizards sprinted onto the pristine snow. They held their wands in front of themselves, then pointed them up at the sky and searched for a source of the blasts.

"Was ist passiert?" A tall, lean witch stormed from the castle and joined her comrades, who seemed to be murmuring back to her frantically. She swept her wand in an arc over her head and said loudly enough for Hermione to hear, "Homenum Revelio!"

Hermione held her breath, grateful for the strength of her Disillusionment as she felt the witch's spell pass over her with a dull vibration. But she knew she was still invisible, glancing down at her own hand and seeing nothing but the wintry air.

The witch and the wizards on the ground seemed to be angrily discussing something else. Hermione felt a surge of power course through her arm as she pointed her wand at the ground before them and said, "Expulso!"

A jet of blue light shot from her wand and landed square upon the snow, and then there was another BANG! as the ground exploded. The witch and the wizards shrieked and hit the ground to protect themselves. When the smoke cleared, Hermione could see that she'd caused a giant divot in the earth before them.

She moved through the air, silent and invisible, to avoid detection, and she finally landed softly at the top of a gently swaying evergreen tree beyond the castle grounds. She saw the witch and wizards climb slowly to their feet, one looking quite shaken, and she felt a tiny bit guilty for potentially injuring them. But then she remembered how Nurmengard was full of prisoners - enemies of Grindelwald - and her guilt vanished. She wondered absently whether Tom was inside the fortress yet, whether he or Grindelwald or both or neither were still alive.

She didn't have long to think on it. From the front gate of the castle, she could see several grey figures, human in form but clearly not alive, crawling through the snow. They were rail-thin, visibly decaying, and even from where she was perched, Hermione could smell the reek of death upon them. There were perhaps thirty of them - the Inferi Tom had mentioned - and they filed out of the castle one by one, seemingly directed by the wand of the tall witch. She barked orders at them in German, and they began crawling steadily away from the fortress in every direction, making their way to the trees. Hermione felt a quiver of fear, brief and quickly shoved away by her artificial confidence.

She swept her wand in a smooth motion before her, whispering, "Inferi Inflammati."

She wasn't certain that the incantation would work; she simply substituted in her target to a spell she had long known. She had figured it was worth trying the spell before moving to Fiendfyre, which she feared would be difficult to control and may cause extraneous deaths.

She was rather delighted, therefore, to see that her spell hit one of the Inferi before seeming to bounce randomly about the ambulatory corpses. One by one, their grey, decaying flesh burst into flames. One by one, they withered into shrieking heaps of ash, as Hermione watched from her tree perch with ever-growing horror.

She knew they were already dead, of course, but hearing the screams and smelling the burning, rotting flesh nearly made her vomit. She gathered herself when she remembered why she and Tom were here, and she reminded herself to be grateful that Tom had given her clearance to open the prison's cells. Hoping she was not yet out of time, she flew from the tree, soaring through the air over the burning Inferi and the terrified guards.

Hermione glided until she reached one of the narrow windows, and then she stopped midair again. She peered through the little slit and saw a young man, barely older than Tom, crouched in the dank corner of the cell within. He appeared half-dead, emaciated and coughing, and wore only scraps of filthy material. Hermione felt ill again, this time for a different reason entirely. She pointed her wand through the narrow window and incanted,

"Liberacaptivus!"

The young man inside slowly turned his head toward the window, his sunken eyes looking fearful at the sound of Hermione's voice. But then his cell door unlocked itself with a loud clank and swung open with a mighty creak.

"Go!" Hermione cried through the window, watching the young man pull himself to his feet. "Get up and leave this place! And remember who it is that liberated you - The True Dark Lord ascends, my friend."

She repeated this process in five or six other windows, and then she could hear a proper racket from inside the fortress as other doors were swung open - the prisoners were freeing one another and shouting.

Suddenly there was a whoosh and a bang from somewhere above Hermione. She pulled away from the window, still Disillusioned, and saw the faint green glitter of Tom's Dark Mark upon the sky above Nurmengard.

Her stomach leaped and her heart thrummed in her chest as she made her way back to the meeting-point. She landed upon the snowy ground near the dagger and removed her Disillusionment Charm, panting frantically as she looked about for Tom.

Then, out of nowhere, he appeared before her, his own Disillusionment removed. Hermione noticed something different about him at once. His dark eyes glistened with an emotion she couldn't quite read. In his right hand, he clutched a strange-looking wand, long and black with odd ridges and bumps. It was not his yew wand - it had to be the wand of Gellert Grindelwald. Hermione gulped and blinked away tears as she met Tom's steely gaze. He was oddly calm as she asked him,

"Is it done, then?"

He nodded once and clutched her arm, yanking her near and crushing her mouth with a kiss. Hermione was still breathless and shaking with disbelief as Tom laced her fingers through his and reached down to pick up the dagger.

Then the world around Hermione disappeared in a pinching, whirling, screeching flash, and she landed with a thud inside Room 11 of the Three Broomsticks.

---

1 January 1944

Tom Riddle stormed up the steps of the Hogwarts Headmaster's office, having broken past the charms and enchantments that usually locked the entry. He burst through the door into Dippet's office to find the old fool speaking calmly to Leonard Spencer-Moon, the Minister for Magic.

Spencer-Moon was a pureblood wizard, plump and middle-aged with grey-streaked hair, who had ascended to his post after his predecessor had failed to take the threat of Grindelwald's revolution seriously. Tom had long suspected that Spencer-Moon would be easily manipulated in the wake of Grindelwald's defeat, and that suspicion strengthened as he realised Dumbledore had been arguing with the Minister. Hovering behind the two of them was Armando Dippet, his face contorted with confusion.

All three men turned to face the door through which Tom had just stormed, alarm written upon their faces. Tom wrapped his fingers more tightly around the black wand in his right hand. Since killing Grindelwald, he had realised that the wand worked even better for him than his own, and he had every intention of keeping it as the ultimate trophy on his path to power.

"Expelliarmus," Tom said in a bored voice, flicking his wand. Though Dumbledore reacted quickly to shield himself, Tom's spell was strong enough to send Dumbledore's wand soaring against a bookshelf. Leonard Spencer-Moon and Dippet both appeared concerned once more, though neither did anything to attack Tom.

"Tom," Dumbledore said with maddening calm, "I can not say I am entirely surprised to see you here. As you may know, the Christmas holidays do not conclude until the sixth of this month. I suggest you return to the orphanage until then -"

"Be silent, you old fool," Tom commanded, pointing his wand at Dumbledore as Leonard Spencer-Moon stared in numb shock. Dumbledore, for his part, raised his chin a bit and said smoothly,

"Minister, have you had the pleasure of meeting our Head Boy before? Tom Riddle, may I introduce Minister for Magic Spencer-Moon?"

Tom felt rage boiling up within him, but he maintained a confident and measured voice as he flicked his eyes to the Minister and back to Dumbledore. "I am no longer Tom Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort, though you may deign to address me as 'The Dark Lord.' You may recognise the wand in my hand."

"I do." Dumbledore nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard enough to betray his lack of outward panic. "That wand has belonged for many years to my old friend Gellert Grindelwald - a friend who, I am sorry to say, strayed from the right path. It seems you have done the same, Tom."

Tom laughed cruelly and twirled the wand in his fingers before pointing it back to Dumbledore. "Your 'old friend' is dead," he announced, though he was certain Dumbledore knew that full well. Tom continued, "He crumpled like a rag doll before me, descending into a heap of dead flesh after I cursed the life and magic from him. He was no great wizard, and neither are you. Swear me fealty and I shall extend you mercy."

Dumbledore laughed then, sending a fresh wave of anger through Tom's veins. Dumbledore shook his head as he chuckled and murmured, "Oh, my dear boy. It shall be a sad day indeed for Hogwarts when the staff swears an oath to a wayward student. If you will excuse us, the Minister and the Headmaster and I were just finishing our meeting."

Tom narrowed his eyes at Dumbledore, seething with rage. He blinked and nonverbally cast the charm he'd created to release the anti-Apparition wards from Hogwarts - Potest Apparitio - and then he cocked his head to the side and smirked at Dumbledore.

"Do you know, I don't suppose I shall be coming back on the sixth of this month," he said. "And neither shall my wife. You shall be needing a new Head Boy and Head Girl, I'm afraid. We have far more pressing obligations now than attending your little school."

Before Dumbledore could answer, Tom Disapparated from the office. When his feet hit solid ground, he was in the ancestral home of Malfoy Manor, where he had been granted indefinite refuge. He steadied himself and looked about the room where he'd landed, watching as Hermione flew to her feet from a chair and wrung her hands nervously.

Tom felt a fresh smile coming over him as he watched her dash toward him across the room. It was as she'd said on the Hogwarts Express.

Things would be different now.

---

January 1945

Tom looked about the capacious bedchamber that had been granted to him upon arriving at Malfoy Manor. It was quite clearly the most luxurious room in the house - the place of honour for the ascending Dark Lord. But Tom found the place positively garish. The walls were covered with cream-and-gold damask fabric, and an obnoxiously glittery crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. The bed he was to share with Hermione was wide and would have been quite inviting if not for all the stuffy-looking silk upon it. The walls were lined with mirrors and paintings, all of which were framed with ornate golden monstrosities.

The bedchamber rather gave Tom a headache, though it was admittedly one he was willing to bear, all things considered. He'd been raised in a Muggle orphanage and then had been mired beneath the yoke of school for nearly seven years. This room in Malfoy Manor was practically Versailles compared to his humble homes thus far.

Too bad, then, Tom thought, that soon enough he would be back in the Head Boy's chamber at Hogwarts.

He and Hermione had determined that it would be most prudent to return to Hogwarts until the summer. Hermione had pointed out to Tom that the majority of his followers were still of school age, and they would be at Hogwarts without him. With Dumbledore.

So Tom had decided that he would go back to school, triumphant new man that he'd become. It would feel good, Tom thought, to shove his success down Dumbledore's throat. And, given the open knowledge that Tom had killed Grindelwald, it would allow him to recruit more young followers (and their families).

Tom stood near a window in the golden bedchamber and stared out for a minute at the cloudy winter day. Then he held up the copy of The Daily Prophet that had come by owl that morning, and he reread the front page for at least the fifth time.

He'd met two days previously with Arden Colporter, a writer from the Daily Prophet, at the Leaky Cauldron at two in the morning. Hermione had come with him, of course - she was his wife, and Tom had made that clear enough during the interview. But the foolish wench Colporter had crafted his front-page story in such sensationalist fashion that Tom had felt outrage afterward.

HOGWARTS HEART-THROB SLAYS GRINDELWALD, the headline read, in annoyingly large script. Beneath the headline was a moving picture of Tom - Hermione had been cut from the photograph. He was flashing the camera a look that was, admittedly, rather charming. But, if Tom recalled correctly, he'd only looked that way as the flashbulb went off because Hermione had smelled so enticing on the bench beside him. Like lilacs and rain-soaked trees.

Tom paced angrily before the windows of the bedchamber and scowled as he read the article again.

Tom Riddle's unassuming physical appearance does little to accurately convey the confidence with which he carries himself, the article began. Tom felt queasy as he kept reading.

Tall and slim, with carefully-coiffed raven hair and glinting dark eyes, the boy who calls himself a Dark Lord is wont to smirk whilst he speaks. His voice, a sibilant sort of murmur, cuts through the inn where we meet to discuss the tale of his recent doings. I ask Mr Riddle why it is that he killed the greatest Dark wizard of all time.

'I didn't,' he tells me smoothly, flicking up an eyebrow and flashing me that smirk. When I look confused, he specifies that he himself is the greatest Dark wizard of all time. That he was simply getting Gellert Grindelwald out of his way.

And that is how Tom Riddle speaks, with a disarming degree of charm and a steady, learned fluency that belies his humble upbringing. The son of a Muggle father and the last female Gaunt, Mr Riddle's life has been a true rags-to-riches tale. He was raised in London, I am told by an anonymous source, in an orphanage for Muggle children. He began at Hogwarts in 1938 and has since proven himself to be among the school's most talented pupils of all time. Made Head Boy this year, he is beloved by nearly all his classmates and by his instructors.

Few, though, likely thought that Tom Riddle would spend his Christmas holidays in a one-on-one battle with Gellert Grindelwald. Mr Riddle shows me Grindelwald's wand, which he claimed as a trophy. He tells me of how his lovely female accomplice cast Blasting Curses outside the walls of Nurmengard, opening a window of opportunity to attack. He speaks with an eerie calm of how easily he Disarmed and slaughtered the fearsome Grindelwald, how he took the wand as proof and loot.

I am struck, sitting in a dark tavern in the middle of the night, by the rigidity in Mr Riddle's spine as he tells his story. I am alarmed by the air of authority he carries weightlessly about his form, by the calculating coolness thrumming through his every mannerism and word.

And I suspect the rest of wizarding Britain will be, as well, when they meet Mr Riddle. For, it seems to this reporter that one does not simply kill Gellert Grindelwald without escaping fame, or at least infamy. Of course, Mr Riddle has no desire for anonymity, and he tells me so in no uncertain terms.

'Why did you kill Gellert Grindelwald?' I ask him again, rephrasing the question that had earlier offended his sensibilities. Mr Riddle tilts his head and says, quite simply,

'There is room enough in our world for only one Dark Lord. And I am he.'

Perhaps it is so. Only time shall tell.

Tom still wasn't certain what he ought to think about the article. He disliked its opening, focusing so heavily on his appearance. It might have been flattering to be painted as so handsome, if it hadn't been so patronising. He was not going to be powerful because of his 'carefully-coiffed raven hair.' He disliked being called a 'boy.' And he certainly did not approve of any mention of his humble past. Just as significantly, Tom took issue with the notable lack of credit given to Hermione. She was not his 'lovely female accomplice.' She was his wife, and that had been made quite clear to the reporter. It was not Tom who was 'calculating,' he thought. It was Arden Colporter of the Daily Prophet, so eager to sell copies of the paper. She had, in a sense, reduced Tom to a petulant child with a murderous streak. And she'd reduced Hermione to nothing at all.

Tom had been so angry after reading the newspaper that morning that he'd sent Neptunus and Abraxas Malfoy to the Prophet. They had, on Tom's behalf, ordered Arden Colporter to write again, the following day. She was to include more details of the battle at Nurmengard, they told her. She was to write of how Grindelwald had been using Inferi made from the bodies of his enemies. She was to write of how Hermione - Tom's wife, the Malfoys stressed again - had eliminated the Inferi in the course of creating a diversion. She was to write of how Hermione had opened the cells inside the prison and freed those held within. And Arden Colporter was to subtly remind readers that Albus Dumbledore had long refused to kill Grindelwald, thus painting Tom as a hero. He had stepped in to fill the shoes Dumbledore had ignored, and Arden Colporter was to make that obvious.

Tossing aside the Daily Prophet, Tom pulled out the letter that Abraxas had handed him upon returning to Malfoy Manor.

Mr Riddle, it read,

I am most aggrieved to hear that you were so displeased with the article printed this morning. Indeed, you were not the only one who took issue with the 'tabloid' nature of the article, and for that I sincerely apologise. In response to many angry owls received this morning, as well as a considerate in-person visit from your friends, I shall be writing again tomorrow. I do hope that the new article is to your liking, and that you will be willing to speak with me again in the future. I suspect that in the coming months and years, your story will unfold in a manner most conducive to journalistic examination.

Kind regards,

Arden Colporter

Tom had shown the letter to Hermione after lunch, and she had insisted that this was another reason for the two of them to return to Hogwarts.

"There is nothing that will more accurately spread the message of your ascent than your very presence," she had insisted. Then she'd suggested, "Ingratiate yourself to the staff at Hogwarts, to every student you can, to their families. Then Dumbledore will stand alone in his hatred of you, and he will look like a madman when he insists you are wrong."

Tom had excused himself from the drawing-room before withdrawing to the bedchamber. Abraxas and his younger brother had been playing Gobstones whilst their uncle and father looked on. Tom had been stewing in a chair, reading the Prophet and feeling annoyed by the periodic uproarious laughter coming from the Gobstones table. He'd risen from his chair and cleared his throat gently to get attention, and the other wizards had ceased laughing and flown to their feet.

"I think I shall retire to my room for awhile," Tom had said, knowing that Hermione was already there resting before dinner. Tom had given a slight incline of his head and received bows in return, along with mumblings of, "Of course, My Lord."

Now he paced in the bedchamber, glancing out the window from time to time. He knew Hermione was in the expansive ensuite bathroom, soaking away her own worries. Feeling a strong urge to speak with her, Tom crossed the bedchamber swiftly and was about to fling open the bathroom door when he thought the better of it. He raised his hand and rapped lightly upon the heavy walnut door, calling,

"Hermione? May I come in, please?"

There was a quiet click and the door swung open for him as Hermione unlocked it with her wand from within. Tom stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door gently behind him and freezing where he stood.

She was almost frighteningly beautiful, he thought, sitting in the enormous copper clawfoot tub. The candles in the sconces sent a glow dancing across the jade-coloured wallpaper, bathing the windowless bathroom in a warm wash of firelight. Tom sniffed lightly and strode across the pale marble floor, sinking to sit beside the copper tub so that he was facing Hermione. Her chestnut eyes glistened as though she'd been crying, but she gave him a sad little smile and said,

"You don't have to ask, you know. Whether you can see me in the bathtub. I'm your wife. You don't have to ask."

He didn't have to ask for anything, Tom thought, from anyone but her. From his Slytherin cronies, he could have anything he wanted. From his father and his uncle and Ladon Scamander and Gellert Grindelwald, he took life without asking permission. But from Hermione Granger, he would take nothing which she did not freely give. Tom touched his fingertips to the warm water in the tub beside him, watching the ripples spread and die.

"You helped me more than you'll ever truly know," he heard himself say. He raised his eyes from the water and met Hermione's curious gaze. He cupped her jaw in his hand and drew his fingers along her skin until she shivered.

Her breasts and womanhood were obscured by the milky-white water. So Tom reached for the washrag that she'd wrung out and draped over the rim of the copper tub, and he dipped it into the opaque, soapy water. He dragged it over her neck and shoulders and her eyes fluttered shut. Tom dipped the washrag again and this time allowed himself to drift down the front of her until his hand and wrist were underwater. He was suddenly rather glad he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves as he danced his fingers over her submerged skin. He felt a tightening in his trousers and pulled his hand from the bath, shaking the water from his fingers as he reminded himself why he'd wanted to speak with her.

"If you hadn't been there," he said firmly, meeting her wide eyes, "I do not suppose I would have succeeded. I was hovering, Disillusioned, outside Grindelwald's private office. It was at the top of the castle, you know, and he had a large glass-paned window, not the little open slits like the prisoners had. I could see him inside, gesticulating as he spoke with a rather large group of wizards. They were nodding and looked concerned. I was just about to amplify their conversation so that I could eavesdrop, but then there was an enormous explosion. Your first Blasting Curse."

Hermione smiled crookedly, but her eyes stayed flat. She swallowed and nodded, and she said, "I took out at least ten trees with the first one. I feel a bit awful about that."

"I shall have some trees planted to reconcile the offence," Tom joked, his voice and face sombre. Hermione's smile quirked again, and Tom reached to touch her face again as he said,

"A few of the men in the room left at once - I suspect to go investigate the cause of the blast. Grindelwald appeared distracted as he stared out the window, searching for the source of the explosion. Then there was another bang, and chaos broke out at the base of the castle. I saw the Inferi pour outside, saw the way they burst into flames when you ignited them."

"They smelled of death," Hermione whispered, her face suddenly full of grief and disgust. She shook her head and grimaced. "They smelled rotten. They were grey, and they moved like animals."

"They were not people, Hermione. Not anymore." Tom thought it was silly that she needed to be told that, to be consoled after destroying Inferi who had been weaponised by a madman. But he could sense the unease in her voice, and he decided he needed her to be strong, as he knew she could. He tipped her face up to make her look at him, and then he said as gently as he could manage, "You saved far more lives that day than either of us took, Hermione."

A steely sort of look came over her face, and she moved to sit forward in the bath, sending water lapping around her body. She put her hands on Tom's shoulders and whispered,

"Kiss me, please. I need to know you're still the boy I married."

Tom laughed, low and under his breath, and he shook his head. But he kissed her, as she'd asked him to do. He kissed her so fiercely that she moaned, that he wanted nothing more than to be naked with her. As he pulled away, he petted her half-dry, wild hair, and he whispered,

"I am your husband. I am the boy who was thrown from reality the moment I first sensed you in a cauldron of Amortentia. I am the boy who nervously gave you lilacs in the corridor and felt crushed when you Vanished them. I am the boy who touched and kissed and made love to you because I simply could not help myself, because I was and am utterly intoxicated by your very being. I am the boy who begged you to marry me, the one who felt a soaring thrill when you pledged yourself to me forever. I adore and admire you, Hermione, with all that I am. I am your husband. But I am much more... I am also..."

"I know." Hermione nodded resolutely. She kissed him again, briefly, and she gave him a little smile. "You're Lord Voldemort. And I love you anyway."

---

October, 1951

Lord Voldemort had never truly realised how many of his affairs were handled by Hermione until she withdrew from private life to birth their daughter. In the week since Georgiana had been born, Voldemort had witnessed the extent of Hermione's impact through first-hand experience. Three days previously, he had met with a Centaur for over a half hour discussing issues he may have deemed too insignificant to consume so much time. He had abruptly found himself quite grateful for the way Hermione handled such meetings with grace and diplomacy, the way she distilled endless conversations into concise and important summaries for him.

And just this evening, Voldemort had been required to spent nearly two hours with several witches and wizards stationed undercover at the Ministry. That meeting had seemed interminable, with one witch droning on ceaselessly about her 'idiotic co-workers and their inability to properly file Transportation paperwork.' Voldemort had Confounded that witch into silence, quite tired of hearing minutiae of entry-level Ministry work.

When at last he dismissed his spies, Voldemort's head was pounding and he ached with fatigue. He'd taken a few drops of Wiggenweld Potion to bring himself to rights, and then he'd made his way to the nursery.

He could hear her before he even reached the doorway. There was a gentle, rhythmic creaking as the rocking chair moved steadily forward and backward, and Hermione's voice gently crooned,

"Sleep, my darling, in the pale midnight moonlight…Sleep, my child, in the breeze from the sea. Sleep, my little girl, the morning sun shake wake you and carry you gently on sunbeams to me."

Voldemort felt his eyes burn a bit, and he wondered whether there was some sort of poison in the air of the corridor. The stinging in his eyes grew a bit stronger when he heard the sound of Georgiana's tiny cry, and then Hermione's soothing hush.

He realised that the odd sensation in his face was the formation of tears. It was the eruption of unchecked emotion. Of love for the woman in the nursery, and for the child she cradled. Voldemort huffed a bit, cross with himself for allowing even the vague beginnings of wetness in his eyes. He growled under his breath, and then the rocking chair in the nursery stopped creaking.

"I hear your father just outside, Georgie," he heard Hermione say carefully. "Perhaps he will come inside and hold you for a moment."

Voldemort sighed again and gulped to steady himself. He walked briskly into the nursery, pretending he hadn't heard Hermione's murmurs as he said matter-of-factly,

"That witch we've got in the Department of Magical Transportation is an utter dolt. She had nothing of note to contribute, but she did manage to speak for nearly ten minutes about improperly filed Floo applications. The others had something to tell, at the very least, but this one… I carefully searched her mind and I found nothing of use. She is -"

"I shall ensure that she is not present at any future meetings with you," Hermione said very calmly. She tightened her fingertips over the blanket cocooning little Georgiana, and then she clarified, "I shall instruct her to send any relevant information to you through me."

Voldemort sighed, staring at Georgiana for a moment before he said, "You will do nothing of the sort. I shall handle the matter myself. Your place is here, for the time being."

Hermione smirked and leaned down to kiss Georgiana's smooth forehead, her fingers brushing across the newborn's raven hair. The child stirred at the touch, and Hermione chuckled patiently before soothing her back to sleep.

"You're very natural with her," Lord Voldemort said self-consciously. He shifted upon his feet and chewed his bottom lip as Hermione nodded in gratitude. Voldemort admitted softly, "Sometimes when I hold her, I fear I shall break her. She must be very fragile, and very important, to have such words spoken about her."

He was referring, of course, to the prophecy that he and Hermione had heard several years previously. For a while, there had been a strain between them as they'd each processed the meaning of the prophecy. Lord Voldemort could still hear the ghostly whisper of Cassandra Vablatsky's voice after they'd broken open the Prophecy Record.

'The Dark Lord's ascent hinges upon the fall of his beloved... she shall enter his world unexpected and insistent... her departure shall burn a hole within him, and shall stoke the flames of his fury... the beloved shall come, and she shall go, and she shall leave a mark far Darker than any which has come before... her existence shall be snuffed out as a candle, but she shall tread the deepest of footprints. To time she is servant; her life is and was and ever will be brief.'

Both Voldemort and the Dark Lady had interpreted the Prophecy for its most obvious meaning. The 'beloved' referenced must be Hermione, they'd both thought. Voldemort had felt ill at ease for a great long while, his sleep haunted by visions of Hermione's demise. Now that Georgiana had been born, and Voldemort had felt love for only the second time in his existence, he questioned the Prophecy again.

Which 'beloved' would have a short and tragic life? Which of the figures before him would leave him bereft and heartbroken? The week since Georgie's birth had left Voldemort with a constant anxious thrum in his veins. He'd spent hours at a time staring at flickering candle and cursing the Prophecy.

Now he stared down at Hermione and Georgiana and thought of how deeply they'd burrowed their way into his mind and soul. He could scarcely ponder the thought of losing either of them; to do so made him feel physically unwell.

"Tom," he heard Hermione say with a gentle insistence, and he flicked his eyes to hers. She held Georgiana up a few inches so that Voldemort would take the child from her. He did, feigning confidence as he noted how the child seemed heavier just since this morning. Voldemort stared down at Georgiana's face, peacefully lost to slumber, and the burning in his eyes returned. He let out a shaky breath and willed away the stinging. The Dark Lord did not cry whilst holding a baby. He was silently grateful that he and Hermione were alone in the nursery.

He swayed instinctively where he stood and shook with silent laughter when Georgiana's mouth cracked into an endearing yawn. Georgie's eyes cracked open then and stared up at him. Voldemort looked at Hermione and gave her a crooked smile.

"You do that," he informed her. "You yawn just before you wake."

Something hot and wet and terribly unwanted fell from his face then and landed upon Georgie's little blanket. The lone tear spread upon the cream-coloured material like the ripple in a pond. Voldemort swore under his breath and pinched his lips, scolding himself for allowing the tear to fall.

"Tom," Hermione was saying. He nodded to acknowledge her as he stared down at Georgiana, and Hermione said in a steely voice, "I once knew of a prophecy concerning you. One that never came to pass. Just because the future is predicted does not mean it shall be so. If there is anything you and I have learned over the past seven years, it is that there is no such thing as destiny. There are no inevitabilities. There are only choices."

Voldemort's breath quivered through his nostrils as he fought off the rising swell in his chest. He whispered through clenched teeth, "I can not lose her. I can not lose you. I would rather die an anonymous death a thousand times over. I wouldn't - I won't…" He raised his eyes to Hermione and felt another stray tear worm its way from his eye. He didn't much care this time. He took another trembling breath, and he repeated, "I can not lose either of you."

He hardened his gaze as he took in Hermione's patient nod, the way she rose from the rocking chair and curled herself up beside him. She put her hand between his shoulders and brushed her thumb under Georgie's eye, prompting a tiny sound from the girl.

"You will not lose us," she insisted to Voldemort. "You will not lose anything. You will make the choices that you must, and you will have everything you've ever wanted."

---

January, 1945

Hermione had been prepared for the concept of what would happen after Grindelwald was killed. Everyone would have an opinion, she knew. Some would despise Tom (and, by extension, her). They would hiss under their breath that he was a vigilante, a murderer, a madman worse than Grindelwald himself. Then there would be the ones who anticipated his ascent with pleasure, the ones who would flock to Tom's feet in search of glory and fame and wealth and power.

School would be different, she knew. They would face the hatred of Dumbledore and the polarised perceptions of the students and staff. There would still be patrols to be completed, essays to be written, potions to be brewed. There would still be meals in the Great Hall and walks about the grounds. But so many things, Hermione knew, would be categorically different than they'd been before Christmas.

She had prepared for all of that, in her mind. She proved herself right on the Hogwarts Express. As the train rushed north, she experienced admiring stares and glares of loathing. She sensed whispers as she approached and heard them as she departed. Quite against her will, she found she was carrying herself a bit differently. She felt taller, more confident, and she knew there was a rather severe expression permanently painted upon her features.

"Anything from the trolley?"

In the narrow corridor before her, Hermione could see that the food trolley witch was doling out Pumpkin Pasties and Toothflossing Stringmints. She watched the old witch take a few coins through an open compartment door, and she heard a familiar voice say politely,

"I'd like a Cauldron Cake, please."

It was Betty Cattermole. Hermione had heard Abraxas speak ceaselessly of Betty over the Christmas holidays; it seemed he was utterly infatuated with the girl. Hermione vaguely wondered whether or not Betty knew that, and she forgot all about Tom and Grindelwald as she strode toward the food trolley. After the old witch continued down the train car, Hermione yanked open the door to the compartment from which she'd heard Betty's voice.

She grinned when she saw her blonde friend sitting opposite Maggie Prewett. The latter stared wide-eyed at Hermione as she sat down on the bench opposite Betty and said excitedly,

"Oh, I've missed you both terribly. Did you both enjoy Christmas? Betty, do you know that Abraxas Malfoy has been speaking constantly of you for days? He's in love with you, I think."

Hermione felt her natural gregariousness surging back to life as she spoke. But then everything came crashing down when Maggie scoffed in disbelief,

"Are we meant to sit here and ignore the fact that your husband spent his holidays assassinating Gellert Grindelwald? That you spent your holidays blasting apart Inferi so that your husband could commit murder?"

Hermione turned to Maggie with open-mouthed shock. She slid a few inches to her left on the bench and swallowed, feeling a strange nervous heat in her chest. She shook her head and said firmly,

"You two are my friends. I don't want to talk about any of that just now. I want to talk about how keen Abraxas Malfoy is on Betty."

"Hermione, how did Abraxas speak to you of me over the holidays?" Betty's voice was cautious as she spoke. She wrung her hands in her lap, and Hermione immediately read behind the question. Betty had deduced that Hermione had spent her holidays somewhere with Abraxas Malfoy - likely Malfoy Manor.

Hermione wondered whether or not she would ever again be friendly with Betty or Maggie. She squared her jaw and said solemnly to Betty,

"Abraxas' family was kind enough to host Tom and myself for the New Year." She flicked her eyes to Maggie, ignoring the red-haired girl's narrowed eyes. Hermione cleared her throat and said to Betty, "I married Tom Riddle in a secret, private ceremony because I knew what was going to happen at Nurmengard. I knew we would both be at risk, so we married ahead of time."

Betty surprised Hermione then by sighing, "I had hoped to see you in a white gown, Hermione. But no matter. What's important now is that you are safe. That the Dark Lord is safe."

Hermione felt a cold flush course through her veins. Had Betty just referred to Tom as 'The Dark Lord'? Maggie Prewett seemed just as taken aback.

"The what?" she nearly shrieked, causing Hermione to jolt where she sat. Maggie flew from the bench and glared from Hermione to Betty. "Tom Riddle is no 'Dark Lord.' He is a murderer and a madman. It's as simple as that. He'll be rotting in Azkaban for his crimes before we sit our N.E.W.T.s - mark my words."

Hermione felt a surge of anger then, and she collected herself enough to say in a dangerous murmur, "Get out, Maggie."

Maggie looked terribly offended, huffing down at Hermione and sneering, "Who are you to command me from a train compartment? You married the Head Boy - an insane criminal - and for that you think you may command me to leave? I've been sitting here since King's Cross! You leave!"

Hermione felt a pang of sadness as she realised that her friendship with Maggie was beyond rescue. She flicked her eyes across the compartment to see that Betty was staring down at her hands in her lap, her face impassive. Through her silence, Betty had tacitly allied herself with Hermione. There was only one enemy in the compartment.

Hermione realised that she must not allow Maggie to speak to her the way she'd done. To do so, to permit such insolence and aggression, would set a dangerous precedent. If Tom were truly to ascend, there could be no such vocal vitriol. Hermione sniffed lightly and rose from the bench to face Maggie.

"Get out," she said again, her calm voice little more than a whisper. "There are consequences, Maggie Prewett, to things we say and do. There are rewards, and there are punishments. I do not wish to feel compelled to demonstrate the latter. Get out, and I shall consider pretending that you never spoke in such a manner about the Dark Lord."

Maggie Prewett's glare was sharp and full of loathing then. Her fists balled at her sides and her lip curled up in disgust. "You shall burn with him," she said simply, and then she shoved past Hermione and dashed down the corridor.

Hermione stared out the window for a moment as the furious ringing in her ears died down. She watched as the first swells of the Highlands came into view, and she wondered when she'd become so wicked. Perhaps her soul was blackened through by what she'd done at Nurmengard. Or perhaps simply by falling in love with Tom, she'd murdered her old self. As the fields of heather whizzed by, Hermione found she did not much care about the past anymore - particularly the one she'd left behind for good. All that mattered now was the boy with the raven hair who smelled of soap and iron, the boy who had kissed her and given her lilacs and made her his wife. His Dark Lady.

She breathed out slowly through her nose and felt a weight lift from her mind and body as she did. She wondered whether she'd absorbed a bit of Tom's Darkness when she'd pledged herself to him. If she had, she thought, she did not much mind. Perhaps she'd always been a bit too 'good.' Perhaps she would inch Tom toward the light as he dragged her into his Darkness. They would meet somewhere in the middle of good and evil and they would dwell there together.

Hermione sat back down upon the bench opposite Betty and gave the girl an apologetic sort of smile. "Now," she said, as Betty's eyes widened, "Tell me what you think of Abraxas Malfoy."