Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! Happy Yule, Happy Festivus, and Jolly Joyreading Day to you all! Ok I made the last one up, but it seems apropros.

Thank you all for the marvelous reviews! To the anonymous reviewers, thank you so much. I am so glad you found this and that you are enjoying the story. Relatela, enjoy their Christmas. :)

I will try to post the next chapter on Stephen's Day. Thank you all for reading & commenting so faithfully, and of course a huge thank you to JKR for her wonderful canon and the world in which my imagination romps.

To say that Hermione did not sleep well would be a misstatement. She simply didn't sleep. She sat up in her bed, her back pressed securely against the headboard, her arms wrapped around her knees for hours as she thought and thought and thought about what Tom had said, and what he had done.

"He knows…" she whispered to herself, the actual heaviness of the words in the air a tangible proof of one of her worst fears once she had realized she had been transported here. And yet, she had not dissolved in a nameless Avada, had not had her heart ripped from her body as she screamed, as she had seen Fenrir Greyback do to Lavender during the battle at Hogwarts. No, she was still alive, still breathing, still fighting. Still.

If Tom Riddle could have seen her then, it would have been the most instructive observation he could have made, for this was Hermione Granger at her most desperate, her most dangerous. She was so relaxed in her utter silence that it would have been easy to mistake her for dead, while her brain whirled at top speed through the implications of everything that had befallen her tonight.

Suddenly Hermione leapt from her bed. She needed to move, to give action to the thoughts, the ideas that were now spinning through her head in response to the bond Tom Riddle had inflicted on her, the callous ease with which he was moving forward with whatever dastardly plan he had hatched.

"He cannot break my Occlumency without breaking my mind…he cannot afford that…so he is moving ahead with other means to co-opt me, sway me…"

It helped that Hermione had an analytical mind. She was able to compartmentalize, to dissect Tom's personality and put aside the more troubling bits, like his charm and protectiveness, and focus on his single-minded psychopathic tendencies and cunning intellect. Never in her life had she imagined that she would be plotting one on one against Lord Voldemort, but if she was going to survive this (and she definitely meant to), she would have to anticipate him, and prepare herself for some undoubtedly nasty curves as best she could. She flicked open her desk drawer, Summoning parchment and a quill, her thoughts blooming rapidly in ink across the sheaf of papers that soon littered her desk. She would have to burn them all, of course, but her mind would remember them—remember the images, the flow of words, the moves and countermoves as she imagined they could play out.

"Oh yes, I see!" Hermione scribbled, her notes growing larger as names crossed the pages, arrows and question marks flying with haste until she sent the papers swirling in a whirlwind of parchment, her mind finally at ease with events, with where she would attempt to go from here. She sincerely hoped that Professor Beery was as close to Dumbledore as she hoped, else she would have difficulty. Furthermore, she hoped that the juvenile Tom Riddle was as prone to overconfidence as his older self. She forced herself to set aside the doubts, the questions about how certain things could go. She had to have something, a way to keep herself afloat while she worked toward her new plan and hopefully kept Tom distracted long enough to achieve it. There was certainly enough incentive in it—it was either win this, or lose her soul to the devil himself.

Tom smiled to himself in his room, a large scroll of parchment in his hand. Ah, she really was quite clever, his little witch. He set the scroll down and picked up a tumbler of firewhisky, turning it carefully in his hand, then took another measured sip. He rarely drank, but tonight was definitely an occasion that called for a small libation of thanks, as it were, to the still breathing form of his future self. Yes, he had obviously died, but those lovely Horcruxes must have worked, mustn't they? Although Hermione…she might know about those. He would have to pry obscurely and see what he could glean from her about that. Yes, definitely a wise prescription for himself.

There was a lot of work left to be done in the New Year. In what was now—yes, he checked the clock, less than a week—he would enter his nineteenth year, now secure in the knowledge that he was on track to rise to the heights of power that he had only hinted at to his faithful Knights. Doubtless there were some among them who were worried by his punishment of MacNair, but he had chosen Hermione's escort well. MacNair was also going to be responsible for a sublime bit of punishment being doled out, and the reward for that bit of work would be sweet indeed for Mr. MacNair. Tom took another sip of the whisky and nodded in salute to the fire. Already owls were flying on the subject—a few more lines on parchment, and the deed would be done. He wondered what Hermione would make of that little bit of information when it came to her. He had little doubt that he would hear about it from her himself.

The thought of Hermione ranting at him had his blood and magic swelling again.

"Patience," he told himself, taking a larger sip of the alcohol, the burning down his throat matching the hum in his blood. She was amazingly ferocious when she was angry, and he so loved that fiery spirit. Mmm, so appropriate, then, that he was so talented with handling fire. And what a handful she was. Moreso than the remembrance of the feel of her breast in his hand, the vision of such Dark magic swirling around her as she cast the blood summoning spell was intoxicatingly arousing. Talent over blood, indeed. She would be amazing—utterly magnificent, if only she would relinquish the stupid morals that were holding her back. He summoned a package from his bedside table, fingering the ribbon.

"Hinky!"

The Hogwarts elf popped in, and Tom handed it the package.

"For Miss Hermione Girard, for Christmas."

"Yes, sirs," the elf said with a bow, then winked out as suddenly as it had come.

Tom almost wished for a Christmas carol or two. It was certainly the merriest Christmas he had had yet, and it had not even started. He eyed the whisky again and threw what remained in the fire, which flared with heat and light from the alcohol. Idly, Tom used his wand to shape the flames, sketching a rather good likeness of Hermione's face, his own thoughtful and just a touch patronizing.

"Yes, I can see why she is worthy." He darted a glance at the parchment on his desk again and laughed.

Hermione crept nervously along the halls. It wasn't as if she were likely to be discovered—doubtless Tom was savoring his triumph over her, and the professors would not be expecting anyone out of bed on Christmas Eve. After all, on what other night were you most anxious to go to sleep? Soon enough she was in front of Dumbledore's office door, where she again debated the wisdom of this decision. No, it had to be done. She brought up her wand and probed gently.

The backlash of the wards that Professor Dumbledore had set was strong, but Hermione had prepared for that. She only hoped he didn't have blood wards set in his office—she had had quite enough of bloodletting for one night. She involuntarily clenched her teeth as she systematically dismantled the wards on the office door, opening the doorknob with a simple, 'Alohamora'.

It was rather disconcerting to be breaking into Dumbledore's office, but Hermione told herself it was no different to Snape's and went about her business. The silvery magical objects were whirring and clicking quietly, but she had to focus on her task. There were several cabinets besides the memory one. Only one was warded, the rest revealing tomes about all manner of subjects and an odd array of items that were a mix of Muggle and magical artifacts, as well as stashes of sweets.

"The desk, then," Hermione said quietly to herself, bringing her wand cautiously to bear again. "Damn."

It was a blood ward, and a tricky one too. She would have to somehow fool the ward into thinking she was Dumbledore, nor would a glamour or Polyjuice work. She looked around his office, thinking. The instruments whirring noises were somewhat soothing, but minutes ticked by and Hermione had not come up with a good solution. Finally her eye caught on the trashcan, and the sweets wrappers therein. She crouched down and pulled out a wrapper…"Tongue Twisting Toffee". It had been licked clean. A small smile passed across her mouth.

"Necessity is the mother of invention."

Hermione carefully placed the wrapper on the desk, then cut her finger swiftly with her potions knife, catching the drops in a vial. She healed the cut and stoppered the vial, turning her wand to the wrapper. Extracting the DNA was easy enough, but combining it with her blood was not. She wouldn't know if she had gotten it right until she tried it.

The resistance of the ward was strong, and it tried to slip away from her, almost rejecting the disguised blood. In the end, though, the ward dissipated with an almost sulky shiver, and Hermione was able to open the desk drawers in search of what she came for. In the bottom drawer on the left, she found the folio she had been looking for—all the research papers and notes that Professor Dumbledore had acquired on time travel. Withdrawing a tiny sheaf of parchment and copying quill from her pocket, Hermione re-enlarged them and set to work. Fortunately for her, Dumbledore still used resetting wards, but she estimated she only had a few minutes left before his office door would start to re-arm itself. She sped up the copying, aware that it might cost fine detail in the characters, but she had to finish.

As she crept from the office again, she hoped he would not be able to detect the intrusion; or, if he could, that it would not be obvious who had done it.

"It was necessary," she whispered to herself, as if needing the reassurance of the audible words as she made her way back to Ravenclaw tower.

Christmas morning was oddly subdued, given that she was alone in her dorm, the nearest Ravenclaw girl in age who had remained for the holiday being a fourth year who was several rooms away. Hermione had a small pile of presents at the end of her bed which had appeared during the light doze she had eventually fallen fitfully into, and with her bedcurtains still closed she could pretend that she was just a girl, opening presents from her friends. Olivia had given her a lovely green wool cardigan, Sophie a pair of silver hair barrettes. Phineas had gifted her with a Diluacus, sort of the magical equivalent of a slide rule, for use in Arithmancy. There was a box of Snow Bombs from Herecles Potter, a sweet confection from Honeydukes. Hermione eyed the remaining two presents. She read the tag on the one wrapped in red and green, and uncovered a copy of "Human Transfigurations: New Twists on Old Magic" by Falco Aesalon. Inside in the professor's neat script he had written, 'For Hermione, an excellent student in the subject, and with much hope for the future'. What a typically cryptic thing for Professor Dumbledore to say!

The other parcel she opened with some hesitation. There was no note, but she knew who it was from, the silver paper and green ribbon leaving little doubt. She uncovered another book, this one very old, bound in red leather. There was no title embossed on the cover, and Hermione was instantly wary. Tom Riddle didn't exactly have the best history when it came to untitled books. She shook her head as she reached for her wand, reminded yet again of how screwed up everything was—that hadn't even happened yet, but she was certain he had already created the horcrux and had that diary hidden away, waiting to inject its poisonous thoughts into Ginny Weasley in the future.

Her stomach flipped uneasily as she remembered what he had done last night, in this very bed. She could feel those kisses, how gently but surely he had caressed her. It was such a confusing contrast to who she knew he was! She opened the bedcurtains, suddenly feeling suffocated. The birch sprig on her dresser was a mocking reminder, and though she could not detect any scar on her palm, her fingers stroked it repeatedly as if to erase what had happened. Hermione had to force herself to breathe calmly, her brain sternly reminding the more emotional parts of her that she had a plan. The darkest wizard of all time had just bound her to himself, yes. She didn't know if that bond would persist when he died—something that she had to research right away. Tom Riddle was a force to be reckoned with at eighteen. It was little wonder he was as powerful as he was in her day…he was scarily gifted with magic. But she would find a way to break it. She was the smartest witch of her own age, or so she was told.

"This isn't helping anything," she said aloud, forcing herself to stop thinking about what she would do. She would talk to Professor Dumbledore the second he returned. In the meantime, she had to get through today. One day at a time.

It wasn't much, a pathetic resolution really, but it helped Hermione to focus on something other than the current Head Boy and his very twisted and dark destiny. She cast a few spells cautiously on the book, and nothing was triggered. Hmmm. She still didn't trust him. She carefully opened the book to see if there was an inscription, but nothing was there until she pressed her hand to the page. Then, Tom's careful script began to loop across the coverplate.

Hermione, you are the only person who can read this, beside myself, of course. The pages will sense your blood, which is coursing even now through your fingertips, so close to the surface. I do hope you will dare to read it. Of course, it just makes my tasks that much easier if you do not. Still, I feel you have earned a fighting chance, perhaps… -T.R.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. He was taunting her! She didn't know why she didn't expect that, and pressed her hand to the title page to see what he had deemed appropriate to give her. A very old handwritten printing appeared: Opus Magnum Maleficium. Hermione's breath hissed inward. This was the worst of all banned tomes. It had been outlawed immediately after its publication sometime around the time of William the Conqueror, but it kept popping up, with addendums by various dark wizards and witches until it was practically the symbol of the Dark Arts. She snatched her hand away from the page as if burnt and put the book away, warding the drawer.

Tom had a much more placid start to his Christmas Day. The previous evening had been quite a pleasant present for the holiday, and the only thing left to prevent was Hermione running to Dumbledore. If he could keep that from happening, he was quite confident that he would get exactly the bond he wanted in the end. The blood bond was a necessary precaution, and it was a useful teaching tool. Hermione now had two choices—to rebel against him completely, which he would mercilessly crush, or to play along and look for some opportunity to break it. She was smart enough to not attempt the first, so she would default to the second. It was terribly convenient that Dumbledore was absenting himself more and more from the school. He wondered what Hermione may know about that, and resolved to wheedle that out of her at the next opportunity.

That decided, Tom opened the presents that had been left for him. He had given none, save the Opus for Hermione. His followers gave him money, books, and a few magical artifacts. And then there was Hermione's gift. Tom knew instantly it was some type of pet by the covered cage, but he was surprised to find the magpie instead of an owl. He would have liked a snake, but the rules didn't allow for them, so that would have to wait.

"Hmmm, interesting choice, my dear," Tom said to the in absentia witch that had been preoccupying his thoughts. "I wonder if you had any ulterior motive, or if this was simply an impulsive gesture?"

His wand flicked into his hand with a thought, and Tom walked around the bird in its cage, considering what to do. The bird watched him carefully, a positive sign of intelligence. Tom cast a few spells, one of which caused the bird to squawk in protest.

"You'd best not make that noise again, bird, or your tenure on this earth will be at an abrupt end."

At least satisfied that the bird was not bewitched, Tom finally turned his attention to the note from Hermione. 'Tom, I named him Ovid, but you can change that if you like. He is intelligent, annoying, and has a bit of a cruel streak-rather like someone else I know. Happy Christmas- H.'

"An impulse gift, then." Tom raised an eyebrow at Ovid. An apt name for such a creature. "If you ever bite me, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Ovid nodded twice. Intelligent. Good. "I'm taking you back to the Owlery. I expect I will have some correspondence for you to deliver by tomorrow. I will give you more explicit directions then."

Ovid blinked and Tom flicked the cage cover back on the birdcage. The bird could wait quietly in the dark until he was ready.

It was almost midday when Tom arrived at the door of the Ravenclaw common room. Dippet had wisely decided to let the houses have their fun this morning, with house elves delivering breakfast and the heads of houses serving as unofficial chaperones. Since Slughorn was absent, Tom had been asked to serve in that capacity in Slytherin, which had suited him quite nicely. The dozen Slytherins had celebrated their gifts in the restrained capacity he expected, and none of them had created any large messes for him to deal with.

"Mountains will crumble and temples will fall, and no man can survive its endless call. What is it?"

The brass knocker had never given him a riddle that challenged him, and today was no exception.

"Time," Tom snapped curtly. How ironic.

The door opened, and he stepped briskly through to the Ravenclaw common room. It was a scene of carnage, the five Ravenclaws at the school for the holiday all smiling or laughing, enjoying watching the youngest, a second year, attempting to gain control of a puffalump that he had received for Christmas. The room was littered with wrappers from sweets and a few fireworks were merrily fizzing away in a corner. If Tom had to bet, he'd guess Professor Beery had left an hour ago to head to the staff room for some celebratory libation or other with Swainswick.

"I've been sent to inform you that it is time for the feast," Tom said, his expression as relaxed as he ever portrayed. Hermione looked up and they locked gazes, Tom supremely confident, Hermione defiant. The younger students scurried to put away their new treasures lest they get in trouble with the Head Boy, and Hermione was alone briefly in her common room with Tom.

"Started reading your gift yet?" Tom asked complacently.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you have a copy of that, but if you think I will read it…" Hermione began, but Tom silenced her with a single finger on her mouth.

"Now, now, pet, let's not ruin our Christmas with such talk. As degenerate as the book is claimed to be, it is quite the authoritative source. But if you'd rather remain ignorant…"

Hermione's pulse had jumped when he touched her, and now she had to work hard to restrain her irritation. It wouldn't gain her anything except trouble to argue with him, but he would not taunt her into reading it, either.

"It is not about ignorance, it is about choosing to do what is right. I have no need for the magic in that text, so I choose not to read it."

The remaining Ravenclaws started to return to the common room then, so Hermione stopped talking and leapt away from Tom with a start. In full Head Boy mode, Tom eyed the one miscreant who was tardy returning, causing a flush to creep onto the boy's cheeks, before he turned and snapped his fingers toward the door. The students began to file out dutifully as Tom took Hermione's arm and tucked it into his own.

"You're very defensive about your decision, Hermione," he said softly as they walked down the stairs. "I wonder what that says?"

Hermione was annoyed again, more because she realized she felt comfortable with him like this than over the fact that he'd given her a banned Dark book that currently resided in her table drawer.

"It says I find you presumptuous, arrogant, and high-handed," Hermione replied coolly, trying to move forward through the doors of the Great Hall. She found her feet stuck to the floor, however, and turned to give him a further piece of her mind when she saw him pointing up. A sprig of magical mistletoe had crawled out of the archway, and that meant only one thing.

"You're never caught by magical mistletoe. Ever." Hermione's tone was flat, but it was a well known fact that despite numerous witches' attempts to linger by him during the month of December, he was never caught by the kissing mistletoe.

"I guess I was due then," Tom said, tilting his head expectantly. The fact that all of the professors and students were watching simply added to the effect for him, Hermione supposed bitterly. She gave him as brief a kiss as the mistletoe would allow, but even that was sufficient to draw a few cheers from the students and a few professors at the table. She cursed the blush that hit her cheeks, but Tom took it all in stride as his due, the smug bastard.

"I can see I'll be owing Slughorn a galleon," Professor Swainswick said loudly enough for Hermione to overhear as they sat down. Her own head of house simply looked at her and Tom and almost shrugged as he tucked into the Christmas dinner that appeared on the table. Great. Unless Albus Dumbledore returned very soon, Hermione would find herself well boxed in, indeed.

The end of the Christmas holiday and beginning of the winter term saw a substantial, public change in the presumed relationship between Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger. Tom saw no value in continuing to coddle Hermione's sensibilities, so he began what was, for him, a subtle attempt to reshape her habits and patterns. The very day that their fellow students arrived back at the school, Tom informed her that she would be meeting him three times a week for study sessions.

"I will not," Hermione replied, ignoring his casual shrug of indifference when she refused, as if it didn't matter what she said. A group of seventh year Hufflepuffs strolled into the entrance hall, and Hermione lowered her voice. "Whatever sort of blood bond you've created, I am not chattel. I see no reason to change my study habits to suit whatever dark purposes you have."

"Why Hermione, how terribly unfeeling of you. Perhaps I just want to spend more time in your company," Tom said lightly, keeping his eyes trained on a struggling third year Gryffindor who was attempting, and failing, to levitate a spectacularly overloaded valise.

"That's complete rubbish," Hermione said. "I've told you before, Tom, that I won't let you separate me from my friends. I will not be controlled by you, blood bond or not."

She didn't bother to mention that she was already diligently searching for a way to break it, because he would take that for granted. Tom turned his head to look at her briefly.

"I've already told you, Hermione. It's not my control that you need to worry about. It's your own lack of it. And I will remedy that little flaw."

"You're impossible!" Hermione threw up her hands, and finally Tom gave her his complete attention, the Gryffindor fifth year prefect finally helping his struggling housemate.

"My dear Hermione, you will soon realize that there are very few things which are impossible for me."

He caught her easily by the wrist when she started to turn away from him, and had her pressed against him and his lips on hers before she could blink. He broke it off when he heard a few catcalls, and coolly looked over to see some older Gryffindors watching them. Hermione caught the flushed face of Herecles Potter among them, and wrenched her wrist away from Tom, walking away swiftly. Damn that man anyway!

Since that day, Hermione had found Tom making good on his threat. He had planted himself in her usual spot in the library, and every day since it had been a game to avoid both him and his lackeys. Hermione felt Tom was being far too controlling and thus went out of her way to avoid him as much as possible, eschewing her regular practices of studying with her classmates in the library in favor of studying in the Ravenclaw common room. Although Tom technically had the authority to gain entry, it was the de facto practice of the prefects to leave the common rooms of other houses unbreached unless they had a pressing reason to go in.

They were still having to put up with a substitute in Professor Dumbledore's Transfiguration classes. Tom suspected he could wheedle the location of the Transfiguration professor out of Dippet if he really wanted to, but that would defeat his purposes. It would not do for Dumbledore to learn that he had been inquiring about him, however obliquely.

"She's still in the Ravenclaw common room," Evan said quietly as Tom stopped by him briefly in the hall outside Ravenclaw tower during their second week back.

Tom nodded, then raised an eyebrow. "Suffice it to say, there will be another change in her habits shortly. I want to speak to you and Abraxas. I will see both of you at 7 pm."

Evan bowed curtly and Tom went on his way. He had to speak to MacNair about a different item of concern. Quidditch practices were resuming this week. Tom wanted to ensure Abelard knew exactly what was riding on the successful completion of the task he had set him in the fall.

In the Ravenclaw common room, Hermione was doing her best to entertain herself by studying the time travel notes. She had already read the book she had checked out from the library which contained any sort of reference to the subject. The fact that Phineas and Olivia were unwilling to change their study location simply because Hermione was sticking more to the common room actually suited her in this respect. Hermione pushed away the notes, a headache looming. The magical theory was incomplete, in addition to being the most complex she'd ever studied. At this rate it would take her a year simply to get the gist of the theory of time travel, let alone approach practical applications. Hermione glanced around the room, hoping for a distraction. The few younger students who were working on assignments at the desks and tables scattered around the room didn't want any help, however. Apparently this was the downside of the most studious house.

Her mind flitted to the Maleficium that was still warded away in her drawer. Tom had seemed pleased by her refusal to read it. Did that mean he was serious about her ignorance making whatever nefarious tasks he had set himself easier? Or was he trying to use reverse psychology to spur her to read it, and corrupt herself? Hermione scoffed at that line of reasoning. She did not believe that knowledge itself was corrupting. Rather, it was what you did with that knowledge that mattered. Therefore, if the book was not cursed, then it should be safe to read. In theory.

The very large question mark was whether she was capable of detecting what Tom might have done to the book. He was already capable of magic that she had never seen anyone else perform, like disapparating within Hogwarts itself. Her blood ran cold as she realized that it was only luck and Lily Potter's sacrifice that had saved the entire wizarding world the first time Voldemort had started his war. He really was the most talented wizard of his time, his raw magical power unsurpassed. She wondered if Dumbledore would be willing to confront him now, rather than wait, if she forced him to deal with the memories she had of the future. It would be grossly unethical, but Hermione was feeling increasingly desperate. She was quite certain that the spell Tom had cast on her in the Forbidden Forest prevented her from speaking about the blood bond, so all she had left were her memories that she had guarded from him. She felt in danger of losing herself, and she didn't want to think about how a tiny part of her was possibly willing to be lost.