Chapter 18


Voldemort was close to certain that none of the texts in the Malfoy Library, Dark Arts Library of Alexandria, or the various other estate libraries held a solution for the strange feelings the bond was eliciting in him. There were many more texts he needed to search, but the ones with the most comprehensive information on pureblood bonding rituals were useless in this regard. He hadn't had hair in twenty years, but he'd taken to running his fingers through it whenever frustrated, just as he had in his youth.

Worse, he had plans he needed to implement during the day and so the only times he had to research the bond was when his bondmate returned for the evening. After the first time he'd had her kneel at his feet, he'd found it his preferred position for her. He liked her head proud at the level of his knee, his hand in her entrancing, unruly, glossy curls. He hadn't researched nearly as much as he wanted the past few evenings, both because of her welcomed distraction and his unwillingness to stop petting her once he began. He would finish looking through tome after tome, but upon finding nothing could not bring himself to fetch more texts and leave the curly-haired witch for a moment. It bothered him how he was becoming quickly addicted to her presence in the evenings.

Worse, since her spike in magic, she had become more and more entrancing to observe. He could feel her magic dance with his and it gave him no small degree of pleasure. He wished to never be without that feeling, but he left it every morning before she could awaken. He wished upon his head that she wasn't physically attractive, and yet he found when her lithe body was pressed to his when he carried her to their bed that it garnered an extremely effective physical response. She needn't even be touching him, only stroking Nagini, and his mind would go blank in observing the dainty way she skimmed the serpent with her fingers. Surely, he thought, she must know the effect such a suggestive act had, but her innocence was apparent to even him. The witch was driving him mad.

Needless to say, he welcomed distraction these days.

So when Dumbledore requested a meeting with him, he was uncharacteristically glad as it offered him a respite from his dangerous chain of thoughts concerning the witch. Dumbledore had sent some requests previously, every time stoically ignored. He was not eager to be in the presence of the man, or to walk into any traps. This time he replied with a location, a strict warning to arrive alone, and a threat on his person; it was a very kind response by normal standards.

He sat in the open in a wizarding bistro in southern Italy, enjoying the sunlight not found in Britain. It was as safe a place as any. Few people here wanted to be involved in his reign of Britain, and those who did would not recognize his early-thirties looks. The Italian Ministry was more open to him, having a less extremist approach to old or dark magics, and it made this meeting place perfect. So he sat, sipping some elf wine and waiting for the old man.

He did not wait long.

Dumbledore, in all his brightly-coloured eccentric attire, strolled up to the bistro and sat down as if the meeting was a chat with an old friend. He had a twinkling look in his eye, and a happy gait. Where people hadn't recognized Tom, many wizards and witches stared openly at the well-known defeater of Grindelwald as he ordered a sugary Italian soda. They took in his companion as a side-note, wondering who was worthy of sitting in his vaulted company. If they knew . . .

"Tom," Dumbledore greeted cheerfully, "good to meet you on ore cordial terms."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Voldemort bit, his hackles rising at the use of his father's name. "You happened to catch me in a giving mood with your last missive. What do you want, old man?"

"Straight to the point, I see?" He twinkled infuriatingly at the Dark Lord. "I don't suppose you want to catch up with your old Professor?"

Voldemort scoffed, but didn't dignify it with a response.

"I see." Dumbledore straightened in his seat. "I suppose it is too much to ask that we negotiate peace before the war escalates?"

Voldemort sneered. "Negotiations? You'd kill me now if you could. I believe negotiations are supposed to be based on some shared goals or trust? We could not be more opposite, old man."

"Yet it could save all of us so much loss," Dumbledore intoned wearily. "We must all compromise at some point for the lives of those we care for."

"And you would support the reinstitution of old magics, the ancient ways?" Voldemort snapped. "You've opposed the ancient ways from day one, regardless of your own hypocritical dabbles in the subject. Any negotiations with you would kill them dead."

"The ancient magic is based on dark arts, Tom," Dumbledore insisted. "You may believe it a reasonable sacrifice to force everyone to perform the ritual, but there is a sanctity in life, and value in those you do not necessarily deem strong. We do not need the ancient ways anymore. Society has moved on."

"And my followers?" Voldemort ground out. "Are they a part of society? We are not here for our own enjoyment, Dumbledore, despite what you may believe. The ancient ways keep our magic strong and give us power. My followers fear for their bloodlines and want the power they used to wield. Not everyone agrees with you, fool.

"However," Voldemort continued angrily, "more than that, without the ancient ways, you expect us to live in fear of muggles. To hide ourselves and our gifts. To become increasingly less powerful by the generations until we ARE muggles. We refuse!"

"Tom," Dumbledore implored, "it has been centuries since families have adopted the old magics. They still live, magic still lives, it is not a threat."

"There are more squib births than ever before," Voldemort reminded him. "You think you're the only one who believes they know why? It isn't from intermarrying, it's from the lack of renewal to our magics. We're going to die out until only the muggleborns have the precious gift of magic. All because you don't view magic as important enough to risk a few lives!"

"Reconsider, Tom;" Dumbledore requested, "you needn't do this. The ancient ways will die with us, let's leave it that way."

"Interesting," Voldemort purred viciously, "because they will not end with us at all. In fact, one of your own students felt it worth the risk to her own life. What does that say about your beliefs, old man?"

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded. "The second issue I wished to address with you, then. I'm concerned for Miss Granger."

Even this meeting was cursed to bring back the ridiculous new feelings he'd acquired from the girl. The never-before felt clenching in his stomach, his desire to impress her . . . He frowned at the mention of her before masking it with indifference.

"Oh?" Voldemort quirked his brow, hiding his interest. "I do believe the little witch is no longer your concern."

Dumbledore ignored his objection. "Miss Granger has come to Hogwarts many times over the past few days, as you're undoubtedly aware."

"I assumed as much," Voldemort allowed, his eyes narrowing. "And?"

Dumbledore leaned towards the Dark Lord with concern evident in his features. "I want to ensure her care and safety, Tom. You may mistreat your own followers, your prisoners even, but do not do it to her. I cannot condone that against a student."

"Student?" Voldemort grinned. "Now, this is interesting. I wasn't aware she was set to return to Hogwarts. Do you really think she's at the same level as even the seventh-years, Dumbledore? Her magic is powerful, moreso than I expected, and even I have heard of my pet's grades and academic standing. What good would it be for me to allow her to return?"

"I wasn't aware you required her to seek permission, Tom," Dumbledore replied politely. "If you wish to keep her away, I suppose you could, but she would stagnate without knowledge. Miss Granger thrives on learning just as you or I. Were you intending to teach her about her magical capabilities at your residence, then?"

"It's none of your concern," he said flatly, hiding his anger. "She will certainly not be learning from you."

Dumbledore regarded Voldemort over his half-rim glasses, as if trying to look straight through him. He just glared in return, avoiding the primary thought in his head at his old Professor's piercing gaze - Dumbledore is not allowed MY witch.

Dumbledore nodded a fraction before catching himself, alerting Voldemort to something else going through the Headmaster's mind. He focused on the interaction, intent on figuring it out.

"Tom," the Headmaster said wearily, "surely you know you need to care for her? If not for your conscience, then for the defense she provides."

He was silently seething. Only Dumbledore could make him so angry through his blasted interference. He refused to allow another person to have control over his life, no matter how powerful. He wished his eyes were daggers so they would stab him with his intensity.

"Nothing to say with regards to your wife?"

That did it. "She is NOT my wife. She is useful, nothing more."

"Now, it does no good to lie, Tom," Dumbledore asserted calmly. "The Ministry of Magic is quite adept and detecting binding magic, despite their lack of use for the past few hundred years. You've married her, whether or not you intend to honour that sort of commitment or not. In the Ministry files, and her school files, she is now registered as Mrs. Hermione Jean Riddle."

His wine glass shattered in his hand, spilling the expensive drink all over the stone terrace. Dumbledore was staring at him with unfazed, victorious eyes that made Voldemort feel like killing. The waiter came by and magically cleaned up the spill before leaving the two wizards to once again speak to each other.

"I did not come today to speak of HER," Voldemort hissed, "and I am not here to negotiate. If there's nothing else, Dumbledore, I will leave."

"Why are you threatened by the girl?" Dumbledore asked probingly.

"It is NOT your concern!" Voldemort roared. "She is MINE! Your interfering will change nothing!"

Voldemort stood and fastened his cloak, intent on leaving. Dumbledore lifted a cursed hand to stop him.

"Tom," Dumbledore implored the younger man, "one more thing, before you storm off?"

"Speak."

Dumbledore looked at him over his half-moon glasses. "The fates are often the cruelest taskmasters and our most generous mentors, giving the gifts we never thought we'd need but that are to be the most precious. Tom, gifts given by them may one day be taken away, so we must enjoy them while they are within reach."

"More riddles, old man?" Voldemort shot, moving away. "As always, they're uninformative and unappreciated. Goodbye."

Dumbledore watched as Tom dissaparated from view, an old, weary smile gracing his lips. "Goodbye, my boy. Perhaps this time you'll out."


Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts with various thoughts on his mind. It was clear to him from their brief meeting that Tom was more disturbed by his proximity to Miss Granger than he'd previously supposed. There might have even been a touch of affection for the girl in Tom, which was certainly unexpected. He'd been determined that Tom's birth under Merope Gaunt's love potion was enough to make him incapable of any type of affection. Something had changed in Tom, he was certain.

He remembered what he'd seen in Miss Granger's mind, what Tom said about regaining his form. 'My previous deficiencies have apparently been taken care of. I am perfected. And I have you to thank for that.'

Could it be that all of Tom's deficiencies had been rectified? Even those resulting from the love potion? Old magic was powerful, to be sure, and not at all researched, but it was already a stretch to say it had healed him of his Horcruxes. Could it really heal his birth defect?

He hoped Miss Granger was coming along with her Occlumency. He needed to show her everything he knew about Tom Riddle, and the sooner the better.