Notes: I give you the Hermione who blackmailed Rita Skeeter and made the DA take a loyalty oath without their even knowing it.

In addition, the fic's rating has been increased. (That didn't take long.) I didn't originally intend to have a reason to do that, but they apparently wanted me to.

Chapter Three: Nice Shop You Have Here

October 1949.

Tom smirked, loosened his tie, and picked up his briefcase. He strode out of the office, rode the elevator to the Atrium level of the Ministry, and headed to an Apparition point.

Hermione would not be home yet. She had communicated with him by Floo during the day about a sudden emergency that had come up in her think tank, Advance, which would likely require her to stay an hour late. He could not imagine what it might be, and she did not have time to explain. The organization typically had emergencies only when legislative matters in the Ministry or other current events affecting its agenda were taking place. No such events had happened today. By all accounts, the nonprofit should be having a typical day, with steady, regular research activities going on. Evidently the emergency was internal.

Tom would simply go home, have a drink, and wait till Hermione arrived before telling her his big news.

When Hermione had started her organization, she had brooded for weeks over what to name it. She would have private research efforts going on, both in pure magic and in the application of magic to Muggle technology. The group would also have a policy wing keeping a steady eye on the Ministry. Currently its policy wing focused on human affairs, but eventually she hoped to branch out to address legal concerns of all sapient magical beings. What to call an organization with such broad focus? Any traditional name that attempted to describe all its purposes would be a mouthful and a half. Worse, it would be dull and stodgy.

Finally she had an epiphany, remembering the succinctness of the name "Dumbledore's Army"—and, for that matter, the Death Eaters—and decided to go with a single word: Advance. It was memorable, it was punchy, and it was apt for everything she hoped to do with it. It was, in fact, what the wizarding world needed to do in several areas.

At the moment, though, she had a different sort of problem.

"Madam President—"

"Leave me be for now, please," Hermione groaned.

"But your brandy," the young office assistant protested.

Hermione sighed, accepting the drink. "Thank you, Edith. You can go home, by the way. You don't have to stay here. It's technically after hours."

"I want to help," the girl said.

"This is helpful," Hermione assured her, sipping from the glass. "It's quite all right, really." She breathed deeply. "The news simply came as a shock to me, that's all."

Not for the world was Hermione going to explain to her personal staff the real reason why the news of Hepzibah Smith's sudden death—apparently a violent Splinching—had upset her.

Edith closed the office door, leaving Hermione to herself in her private sanctum. She sighed and took another sip of the delicious brandy. In the alternate timeline, Madam Smith would have been murdered around 1948—by Tom, over the Slytherin locket. Her life would have been cut short, but clearly not that short. Tom probably didn't know about her ownership of the item this time, since he did not ever work at Borgin and Burkes. In any case, this really did seem to be what it looked like. It would take quite a lot of "creativity" to get several body parts to suddenly appear in Diagon Alley before horrified witnesses. Madam Smith had been old, physically slow, and heavily overweight; she probably should not have attempted to Apparate. There was no reason to think the death had been murder.

But still….

I'll just have to introduce the subject subtly.

Hermione finished the rest of her drink and prepared to Floo home.

Tom was seated in the sitting room, drinking gin and tonic and reading a book, when Hermione entered the fireplace. He glanced up. "I hope everything is sorted out at work," he said.

Hermione sank into her favorite chair. She nodded. He had not acted suspicious so far.

I have no reason to suspect him anyway, she thought. This is prejudice. It's unfair.

"I'm glad," he said. A smile blossomed on his face. "I have good news."

Her head shot up. "You mean—"

The smile transformed into a smirk. "Yes. My suspicions were correct. I'm going to be promoted to Chief Advisor." He sipped his drink and fingered the rim of the glass. "And there is a rumor in the Ministry that Ogden is going to leave in a couple of years. I think he wants to do a stint of teaching. He seems burned out lately and I get the strong impression that he wants to de facto turn the job over to me with this."

Hermione smiled. "That's great," she said.

Tom smiled back, but when he met her eyes, he frowned. "Hermione, what happened at work? You are preoccupied."

"Oh, I'm so sorry—I really am happy for you—"

"I wasn't fishing for an apology," he said briskly. "It's obvious that whatever happened either is not sorted out or it's still bothering you. What was it?"

She looked down and sighed. "We lost a major donor. She died."

"I'm sorry to hear it," he replied. "Who?"

His words were almost toneless. He was sorry that Advance had lost some funding, and it did appear that he had not known about it, but it was perfectly obvious to Hermione that he did not care about the death itself. Of course, she mused, he had no reason to care about the death of a random stranger.

"Madam Hepzibah Smith. She left a legacy to us in her will, but it won't be as large as her annual donations were."

"That's unfortunate," Tom replied. "Was she one of those Smiths?"

Hermione nodded. Either he was putting on a very good act, or he really had had no interest in the woman this time. Her anxiety settled.

"You should persuade the heirs," he remarked, taking a sip of his drink. "Make up the difference that way."

"That's the plan," she said.

The conversation trailed off. After a minute, Tom set down his book and empty glass. "Hermione, what is really the matter? Was she important in—your past?"

Hermione avoided his eyes as she hedged, "Well, yes and no."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "So—just yes, you mean. Spill it, Hermione. I'm curious now."

She scowled. His sense of entitlement sometimes really grated. "Tom, it's irrelevant. It's something that didn't happen this time."

He stared evenly at her, trying to catch her gaze. "Did it involve—him?"

Leave it to him to guess so shrewdly. Hermione gave up. She raised her head and met his eyes with her own. "Yes, it did," she said flatly. "You would have murdered her a year ago."

Tom was visibly taken aback at her bluntness. "I would have? Whatever for?"

There was no moral revulsion in his words, only surprise, but that was what Hermione expected. "She owned something that you… would have wanted," she said.

He raised his eyebrow again. "Really." He was unable to keep the curiosity from his voice.

"Really. She was descended from Hufflepuff and had an heirloom," Hermione hedged. Better not to say a word about the locket, or Madam Smith's heirs might be in serious danger.

Tom looked irritated. "I see."

"Tom, I said I'm sorry. You didn't do it. I didn't even want to discuss it further… I mean, why don't we talk about your promotion and your plans for Magical Law Enforcement? This other thing doesn't matter."

He looked as if he wanted to object, but he seemed to recognize that the subject would not be fruitful. The brief scowl passed, and he returned to his original topic of discussion.

Hermione felt bad about spoiling his announcement. As she listened to him, she had an idea suddenly occur to her to make it up to him. Tom's promotion. The locket. She needed to find out, if she could, what the Smith heirs would do with it. They were Hufflepuffs, and their matriarch had bought the locket late in life. Surely they would have no sentimental attachment to it and would prefer the money instead. It was something that Tom would like, and it was appropriate for him to have it.

By the time Hermione had a private meeting with the family of Madam Smith, ostensibly to discuss her bequest to Advance, they had already disposed of the locket. In fact, they were complaining about the number of trinkets the matriarch had bought over the years, and the locket was among them. It was back in the possession of Caractacus Burke. That suited Hermione's plans much better. She had leverage over Burke that she did not have over these people, and when she really thought about it—when she seriously considered the circumstances of how he acquired the locket—she found herself looking forward to the encounter very much.

As she prepared for her meeting with that old crook, though, she suddenly started having doubts about her idea. She would enjoy confronting Burke, but what about afterward, if she achieved her goal? Her thoughts whirled with concerns and unpleasant flashbacks.

I wore this thing around my neck for months. It didn't affect me or Harry the way it affected Ron, but it put me in a sour mood if I wore it for too long. Some terrible things happened while Harry and I had it in our possession. There was the snake incident… and his wand….

And it was a Horcrux. That in itself is disturbing to—

It won't be this time.

I hope.

He said he wouldn't create multiple ones. He saw what that would do to him.

He saw what it would do to him, and he still decided he could handle "just one." What if he decides he can handle "just two"?

I wish that he hadn't… no, no point in that.

Why am I even doing this?

She sighed. It wasn't nearly as simple as wanting to give him a gift to celebrate his promotion. That might have been the genesis of the idea, but it was much more complicated than that now. It wasn't even about showing affection to him in a personally meaningful way, at least not entirely. That was part of it. She had wanted lately to do something special for him, and this would definitely count. A smile formed involuntarily on Hermione's face as she imagined how he would react. But there was something else in addition to both of those reasons.

I need to do this for myself too. I need to let go of something. What, though? My past? I can never do that, no one really can, and it isn't a good idea anyway. My unpleasant memories associated with the locket?

That was closer to the truth. Hermione's mind latched onto this idea, and she considered it further.

It's not just that. I'm letting go of a fear. If I don't do this, I will always wonder if he would have used this locket for that purpose, or if it would revive the original plan in his mind. I'll always wonder, and that uncertainty will fester, and I'll come to believe eventually that of course the locket would trigger him to do something bad.

I can't let that happen. It's unfair to him. I have to see what he actually does—how he truly reacts to receiving it.

I have to… trust him.

When Hermione went to visit Caractacus Burke in his shop, she made sure to dress to intimidate. Burke had taken terrible advantage of Merope Riddle that winter night in 1926, and while that was inexcusable, he might have seen her as an easy mark because she was dressed like a beggar and probably walked about cowed. It was ugly, perhaps, but it was still true that appearance mattered for how people were perceived, and Hermione had become acutely aware of that reality over the past few years. It was all very well to rage that Burke should respect her no matter what, but if he didn't, then her purpose would not be achieved whether it was fair or not. She made sure to wear her finest tailored black robes over a smart suit. She accented the ensemble with emerald jewelry and swept her hair under a stylish black hat.

"Classy," Tom remarked admiringly. He had been staring at her in the mirror as she got ready.

"Thank you," she replied.

"I take it that you have an important meeting today?"

She smothered her smirk. He did not know that she had already told her office staff that she would miss the morning. She had selected this day for a reason: It was his first day at his new job, and she expected he would be preoccupied with that thought and wouldn't focus as much on anomalies in her morning routine. Still, his guess was true, technically.

"Important enough," she hedged, adjusting her hat.

"Then good luck with it."

At Borgin and Burkes, a sign on the front door falsely claimed "Closed for the Morning." The door was locked and opaque blinds covered the windows, which darkened the shop's interior so much that it seemed almost like late afternoon. Caractacus Burke stood behind the front desk, his hands fidgeting, as Hermione leaned over the counter with a smug smile on her face.

Burke righted himself and attempted to hold his hands still. "Now see here, Mrs. Riddle—"

Hermione interrupted him. "Mr. Burke, I'm well aware that you… acquired… the locket from a destitute, heavily pregnant witch in December 1926—a witch who so happens to have been the mother of one of the fastest-rising stars in the Ministry, and a national hero."

"Yes," Burke acceded at once. "I had no idea I was doing business with her, but in retrospect it was quite an honor—"

"Don't patronize me, Mr. Burke. I also know that you paid her only ten Galleons for it."

Burke looked startled. His face paled a bit, and he began to fidget once more. "How do you know about that?" he exclaimed.

"Madam Hepzibah Smith was one of Advance's top donors," Hermione said smoothly, not answering the question directly. "But the real question is, what are we going to do about this?"

Burke scowled. "It was a legitimate business deal," he muttered. "I offered her ten in gold and she took it. It's not my fault she didn't know better. You and your husband don't have the right to interfere in private transactions."

"Perhaps not," she said airily, "but he can heavily influence other laws that affect shops, especially now that he is going to be Ogden's Chief Advisor. He knows perfectly well that you sell Dark artifacts." She glanced at the silver-and-opal necklace that lay on a display of black velvet. "This necklace has killed twelve Muggles," she continued, reading the card that rested in front of it. She shot Burke a knowing look. "And others. Tom got Septimus Weasley's bills killed after that incident, and your livelihood might have suffered if he hadn't. Weasley was pushing to remove the clause protecting shop owners, you know, after that. Does the Ministry know the Blacks sold this to you and you have it on display? I'm betting not."

Burke winced.

Hermione felt a stab of guilt about implying that the necklace had killed Pollux Black when she knew very well to the contrary. But it was the official story… and more importantly, Burke had cheated Tom's mother out of a windfall that could have supported her and her son. She might have had enough money to find a competent midwife, whether a Muggle or a witch. She might have survived childbirth and still had enough money to find a place to live until she could get a job. Hermione could never prove it, but the possibility existed that Burke's avarice had deprived Tom of his mother.

Given that, if she could get Burke to turn over Tom's rightful property for next to nothing, what difference did it make if she used dishonest insinuations about Black's death to do it? Avoiding the subject could not change anything that Tom had done in that wretched matter. Why not use it as a tool?

"Tom does not know that you cheated his mother, sent her to her death, and made a fortune off her property," Hermione continued. "It is very much in your best interest that he does not find that out—at least not while you still hold said property."

Burke swallowed hard. He fumbled at the case that held the Slytherin locket. "What exactly do you… that is to say…."

"You paid ten Galleons in 1926," Hermione said. "Madam Smith bought it later for… rather a lot more. After she died, her heirs sold it back to you." She glanced at the man's eyes and performed some surface Legilimency. "And you made a profit on that transaction too, I see. Twenty, Mr. Burke. Twenty. And I am being generous with that."

Burke sneered. "Twenty? This locket is worth at least a thousand in gold."

"Exactly," Hermione snarled. She leaned forward. "A thousand that Merope Riddle and her infant son didn't get."

"We can negotiate—" Burke began to say.

"No. You could have negotiated with her twenty-three years ago, but you are not in a position to negotiate with me. Either you can refuse me, and the Chief Advisor to the Head of Law Enforcement can find out about it, as well as the heirs of Madam Smith, who undoubtedly did pay the full value and more… or you can accept my very generous offer, which would allow you to make yet more profit on this locket. Choose wisely, Mr. Burke."

That afternoon, Hermione felt a steady rush of adrenaline as she walked out of the office with her deceptively simple parcel, covered in brown paper, in hand. That had felt good.

Is it all right that I enjoyed that so much? she asked herself. I never got a thrill from intimidating people before. When I did it, it was something that I had to do. It wasn't something to do for fun.

Well, she rationalized at once, I did have to do it. Burke heartlessly cheated an impoverished pregnant woman. Just a few days ago he paid the Smith family—people who are bereaved—less than what he charged Madam Smith when she bought it, not just less with inflation, but less, period. Anyone like that has to be intimidated and threatened, because nothing else works.

I still enjoyed it. I never specifically enjoyed it before.

I would feel used and foolish if I'd paid any more than I did. That was the only alternative, letting that man take advantage of me. Because I stood up to him, an heirloom is back in the family, and considering the price of gold, I didn't pay much more for it than Burke did to obtain it. The circle is complete.

I still enjoyed doing that.

I was strong, and I stood up to a cheat. There's nothing wrong with that.

Somewhat mollified by these rationalizations, Hermione Apparated home.

Once inside, she took a deep breath. This was it. This was the moment. She would give the item to Tom, and he would… react however he reacted. If he did as she hoped, then someday the unpleasant past associations of this locket would fade away, replaced by many more memories of it as a lovely, benign heirloom.

He was sitting in the study, in his favorite green velvet chair. His hat, jacket, and wizard robes were hanging on the coat rack, leaving only a suit vest and shirt, and he had rolled up his sleeves. He had a bottle of very fine brandy open on a side table and held a glass of it in hand. An empty glass sat on the table next to the bottle.

"Hermione," he acknowledged.

She crossed the room, hung her hat on the rack, and sat down in the chair next to his. "Is that because of today?" she asked, glancing at the liquor.

He smirked and poured her a glass. "Off to a brilliant start, if I may say so." He raised his glass to toast himself.

She chuckled, shook her head slightly, and joined the toast. Setting her glass down afterward, she took the wrapped parcel out of her robe pocket. "I picked up something for you," she said slyly, holding it out.

Tom's eyebrows quirked as he took the parcel. He removed the paper to find a standard rectangular gift box covered in black satin, stamped with the Borgin and Burkes logo. He opened the lid.

Hermione watched as his eyes grew wide and his face pale—paler than usual, at least. He lifted the locket by its chain and gazed at it.

"Hermione," he said, "is this what I think it is? When I… that night… my uncle"—he uttered the word with a disdainful snarl—"said that she took it away…."

"It belonged to your mother, yes. And it was Slytherin's. Try opening it. I dare say you can guess how."

Tom looked thoughtful for a moment before the answer occurred to him. He hissed commandingly at the locket, which opened with a pleasant clink of metal. He gazed at the inside almost reverently. Hermione held her breath.

"And from Borgin and Burkes…" he mused. "Merlin, Hermione, how much did you pay for this?"

She smirked. "Much less than you fear. It's a long story, but Burke did not give your mother its full value, not even close, and I… persuaded… him to sell it back to me for little more than he paid her. I figured it served him right."

Tom chuckled darkly, then gazed at her with frank admiration. He fingered the outside of the locket. "Do I remember correctly that this had some… significance… in your old time?"

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. "You… might say that, yes."

His mouth curled in an asymmetric smirk as he met her eyes. "I thought so."

She glanced away, not wanting to look him in the eye directly, but watched from her peripheral vision. He did seem to have deduced the unspoken subtext.

Abruptly he closed the locket and set it back down in its velvet-lined box. He looked directly at her. "Hermione, I keep my promises to you," he said. "If you had somehow managed to get this for me during the first term of school, then… I would have seriously considered… although I think the diary is still better, since it was only ever mine, I wrote so much in it about you, and it's interactive…." He trailed off, gazing at the ceiling and fortunately not at the expression on Hermione's face. "But either way, there still would only have been one," he finished. "I said once that I would not lie to you again, at least not about anything significant."

A smile tugged at the corners of Hermione's mouth in spite of herself. She took a sip of the brandy he had poured for her. It really was a fine one.

"So—thank you for this," he said, leaning over the arm of his chair closer to hers. He watched as she moved to set the glass down on the table between them, and when she did, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips.

Hermione had not eaten since lunch, and the spirit was hitting her system quickly. That, combined with Tom's affirmation, made her feel upbeat and happy. She smiled at his gesture and drank a larger gulp.

He returned her smile with a notably hungry look, a look just shy of being a leer. His fingers trailed up her hand, slightly past her wrist.

"What are you doing?"

His fingers enclosed her wrist firmly. "What does it look like?" He pulled her up from her chair and into his as she half-walked, not really attempting to stop him. She was half in his lap before he stopped.

With the influence of the brandy and her own cheerful mood, Hermione was certainly not averse to what Tom seemed to be up to. However, she knew it was often a game to him, and she how to play this particular game well.

"I'm dressed up," she said as he drew her in close to him.

"You are," he agreed, "and that has been on my mind all day, since I saw you putting those clothes on in the morning." He spoke very matter-of-factly.

Her hands found the opal clasp on her witch's robe. She started to undo it, but quickly his hands covered hers. "I didn't say I wanted you out of them," he growled. Her eyes widened.

He leaned in and gave her a deep, hard kiss—and then broke it just as suddenly, pulling on her bottom lip with his teeth for a moment as he did. For a moment they stared intensely at each other, his mouth slightly open.

The tip of her tongue darted out of her mouth, then back in, lightly grazing her lips. It was an involuntary action. He could tell. And he didn't care.

He lunged forward. His right hand slid under her robes, groping at her waist. He quickly unzipped her skirt and plunged his hand under it and her silky, lacy knickers.

She gasped as he began to tease and stroke her, sometimes dipping slightly inside her, just long enough to torment her.

He's not going to have it all his way.

Hermione heaved her breath and pushed herself against him. She groped at his crotch, pressing against his manhood, feeling him grow hard at her touch. A grunt escaped his mouth. Good. That meant he wasn't entirely in control. She met his eyes and smirked knowingly at him.

His eyes flashed, a flicker of red light gleaming momentarily instead of white. Suddenly Hermione knew that he had seen her most recent thought.

"You think so?" he murmured quietly. "Let's see."

With his free hand, Tom managed to shift their positions in the roomy chair so that they were each braced against an armrest and facing each other. His fingers dipped deeper into her, and he began rubbing more aggressively against her center. An involuntary moan escaped her. "More," she gasped. Smugly he plunged two fingers in her.

She gasped again. Her hands flew to his shoulders, clutching at him as she panted. This time he smirked—and she noticed it.

Nope. I'm going to reduce him to this too.

Breathing deeply, she surged forward, feeling the hardness against her abdomen, rutting against him. The heavy silk fabric of her robe rustled at their movements. He groaned again, clearly trying to resist his own reactions, but not doing a good job of it.

A ragged, scratchy groan escaped from his mouth. Pleased, she pushed against him harder, grinding against his crotch. His fingers delved into her roughly, with little technique, but it still sent a shiver up her body. She met his eyes, smiled with deceptive benignancy, and reached forward with her hands again, sliding them under the waistband of his trousers.

"Damn you, Hermione," he gasped as she tormented him. He attempted to gain possession of himself again, forcing his facial features to return to normal. He heaved a deep breath. With his left hand, he firmly pushed her away from him by the shoulder.

She began to cry out in protest as the warmth and delightful touch of his right hand departed, the hand slipping back through her clothes. Still holding her away from him with his other hand, Tom brought it to his mouth. He licked his fingers clean, staring at her with that smirk on his face the whole time.

"You want to—" she began to say, but before she could complete the sentence, he had pushed her gently on the soft carpet in front of the chair.

"Finish me," he commanded.

A pang of unfulfilled want throbbed from her center. "But you didn't—"

"I will. Just do it."

Her eyes widened. He did not generally ask her to do this for him, and they had never done anything in their study. This was a first.

She leaned forward, positioning herself between his splayed knees, and began to minister to him. His fingers tangled in her curls, thoroughly mussing the perfect hairdo she had worn her hair in all day, but it did not matter now.

Another ragged groan from him as he clenched a handful of thick hair. She had done well; he obviously would not last much longer.

The thought of him undone under her control sent a surge of want through her body. Her core throbbed again. That was it. She couldn't just neglect herself. She clenched her thighs together for a moment, then slipped her left hand between them. Yes. That was better. She didn't have to have both hands for what she was doing to him….

Watching her pleasure herself sent him over the edge. As he spent himself in her mouth, his hands grabbed tightly at her hair. She felt pinpricks of pain in her scalp as he pulled, but it did not, somehow, actually hurt.

He was breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching his hands in her hair. She gazed up at him, and the sight made her shiver again.

Then, suddenly, he yanked her hand out of her robes. Her face twisted, and she whimpered in protest. He held her wrist over the pulse point, regarding her almost contemplatively, casually, as he regained command of himself and that insolent smirk formed on his face again.

"I don't bloody well think so," he murmured. "I will make you come."

Another shiver at these words. "Then do it," she gasped.

In a fluid movement, Tom slid to the floor and lifted her legs up. He threw her robe open, yanked the skirt up roughly, and pulled her knickers down and off. He flashed her an evil grin that sent a shudder of anticipation down her entire body before descending.

Then his tongue was on her and in her and his fingers were there too and it was almost too much for her to even focus. He slipped one, two, three fingers inside her, alternating steady rhythmic slides with sudden intense plunges. His tongue darted across her core in delightful strokes. He had done this for her before, but it had almost always been as a prelude, and so he had not wanted her to expend all her desire from it. Right now, he was teasing and pleasing her so aggressively that there could be no doubt about his intentions.

Suddenly he broke up his movements. He went deep inside her and did not move his hand for a moment, breaking his rhythm. Her breath caught in her chest, then escaped in a rush. A wave of ecstasy rocked her, over and over. He pinned her to the floor, holding her down, looking very smug and satisfied.

She heaved a breath. "I could get used to being thanked this way," she murmured.

He flashed her a wicked look. "I could get used to being congratulated this way."

She met his gaze with hers and smiled a wry smile.