Woohoo, it's Friday! A few review replies for those without accounts or PMs:

LionsWing, thanks for the fabulous detailed review! I'm glad you are enjoying the flashes of Lord Voldemort. Seems several of you are eager to see him again in the future, we are getting there. :) And thanks for the wonderful compliments on my writing, I appreciate it!

Various guests, thanks for the virtual hugs and compliments. Glad you are enjoying the story.

uleanblue, I am still slightly ahead of you guys with my writing. I don't really write THIS fast, I just had a lot already written before I began posting the story. It takes me several hours to get ~4k words down, and then I have to allow myself a few days for editing and taking a rethink to be sure it's doing what I want it to do before I will post a chapter.

Relatela, it's purely the result of me being on vacation. Alas, I am back to a new term on Monday with new students, so I will be busy again and the real life pace of approximately weekly updates will recommence. So enjoy it while it lasts!

L'Archange, I'm so pleased to be able to offer smiles with what I write. What a lovely compliment. I'm so glad all of you wonderful readers love this story and how it's unfolding. See above re: frequent updates, but stick with it, okay? I don't generally let stories hang around long, so the weekly updates are pretty certain unless I'm at a CRAZY BUSY time of the quarter, like midterms & finals.

Hello, I will point you above regarding the quick updates. I do write fast if I'm all charged up, but work sucks that energy out of me pretty quickly so that will slow me down again. Thanks for enjoying what I write!

juliaa, you are kind to mention the thought I'm putting in to this. I do try! As for Dumbledore, he is younger! That has consequences. Experience is a brutal teacher, as many of us can attest.

Okay, I put off taking down Christmas decorations to do this, peeps, so please be properly appreciative and give me lots of reviews, okay? And a reminder that this story is rated "M" for a reason!

September 20, 1979

Lord Voldemort strolled easily through the maternity ward. It was eerily quiet, a combination of the natural stillness of the hospital at midnight coupled with the silencing charms he had cast. The Muggle nurse was fast asleep at her station, a condition he ensured would continue with a small flick of his wand. He really hadn't time for this—it was most inconvenient given that damn prophecy. Nonetheless, there were steps that must be taken. He had not come this far to be thwarted by either a screaming brat or a mindless Death Eater rampage.

The door clicked open easily enough, and the mother was spelled to sleep before she was roused to enough wakefulness to notice him. He drew closer to the bassinette, looking dispassionately at the sleeping infant. He let the back of his hand slip down the baby's cheek. He felt a tad warmer, a quiet hum causing him to close his eyes briefly. He had not felt that in a long time. He removed his hand quickly.

"And so the clock begins," he murmured quietly, then swept from the room purposefully. Now was not the time to think of what was to come.

The records room of the hospital was, as with all things Muggle, disgustingly easy to enter. The glow from one filing cabinet told him which contained the document that had triggered his detection charm. It was a simple thing to copy the birth certificate, the address a simple apparition away. It was a new home, part of a new neighborhood that appeared well to do by Muggle standards. With the father slumbering inside, Lord Voldemort produced the small dagger that he had recently acquired.

He was long inured to the sensation that most would describe as 'pain', and it was nothing to him how much blood it took to trace the foundations of the house. The ward itself was a tricky and sensitive piece of magic, especially since it was to remain latent on the building unless it were under direct attack, as well as remain unnoticeable to all save a few senior Death Eaters that he estimated would have the talent to detect it if they were in the right place to look for it, and a certain wizard. But by the time anyone looked for anything like this, she would be old enough to place such enchantments on her own. Voldemort sighed to himself. He would probably be best served to cast a little variant of the Confundus charm on the town itself. It was simplest to have the town be beyond anyone's notice. Yes, let the wizarding world simply pass it by, for the next eighteen or so years.

The meeting of his Knights had gone well. It was not hard to predict who would move into the Ministry, who would pursue apprenticeships and then Masteries, who would inherit the indolent privileges of wealth and influence. Everyone was well aware of where the disparate ribbons of their lives would take them after graduation in a scant three months' time. Their time was yet to come, and Lord Voldemort held every one of those ribbons loosely in his hand. He had his own tasks to accomplish before these men would be where they would be needed. But, first and foremost, there was his own future to see to.

"It's time to move things along," Lord Voldemort said quietly, the softness of his tone richly contrasting the hardness in his eyes. He turned to his two most trustworthy servants.

"I expect both of them to be prepared before we arrive, is that clear?"

"Immaculately clear," Malfoy replied, bowing low.

"By 2 pm. I don't want to be disappointed," Voldemort said, his yew wand twirling with haphazard purpose in the direction of Rosier.

"We will not fail you, my lord," Rosier said, practically prostrating himself on the floor.

"No, I think you won't," Lord Voldemort said, satisfied that things would proceed as he directed. "And Malfoy? Make sure Mr. Potter leaves Miss Girard alone, if you please. Let's just say, I want that message to sink in before we see him."

"Yes, my lord."

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked, and Tom shook his head.

It was three days after the DADA trials, enough time for rumors to swell about everyone's experiences before it would all come crashing out like a flood over a millwheel, the truth settling everyone down as they compared notes on banshees and grindylows during the Hogsmeade visit, or, for the seventh years, the Diagon Alley trip. After their unique trial, Tom had actually complimented her on the Patronus, not letting on that he knew about the blood bond being broken. She had assumed he was angry over the fact that she had rushed in, and he let her think that, setting her up for a very nasty Potions assignment with a patronizing look in 'retaliation' for her disobedience. She thought they were back on an even keel. How very wrong she was.

"You'll see in due time, Hermione."

His grip on her hand was firm, and for a moment Hermione thought that maybe he was just taking her to Hogsmeade instead of Diagon Alley, their feet following that path for a short time. However, she felt the tightening of his hold before they disapparated, and Hermione had no time to feel nervous before they had landed in a grassy clearing, Tom's Knights arrayed in front of them. She had a second to feel uneasy before Tom let her go, his wand in hand as he idly surveyed the area, then nodded to Abraxas.

"What have you done?" she asked uneasily, her fingers twitching toward her wand as she realized that this was not a pleasure trip.

"My dear Hermione, the question is rather, what will you do?" He turned to gesture, and Hermione saw his servants turn their two guests around, blindfolds obscuring their vision. They were bound and gagged, his Knights holding their wands at the ready.

Hermione blanched. Phineas Longbottom appeared to be okay, if terrified, while Herecles Potter looked as if he had been tortured, blood flowing from cuts on his chest. His white shirt was dotted with blood, the Gryffindor tie askew and oddly sticking closer to his neck, a dark stain on it.

"Why have you done this?" she asked, her wand in her own hand reflexively as she backed away from him. It was a bad sign that he was not even bothered by this, his expression unruffled.

"I simply ask for your willing involvement in a little ritual, Hermione," he said, as if it were the most matter of fact, everyday occurrence. "Your participation will ensure your friends' safety."

"They were perfectly safe at the school," Hermione said, her wand twitching. Lord Voldemort noted it, and his lips quirked up slightly.

"But they weren't at the school, Hermione." His voice was collected, but he noted how her grip on her wand tightened and his voice hardened in response, a warning in his tone. "This is not your game, pet. I would consider your answer to my request very carefully, as you haven't much time." His wand flicked without even looking at the two, and they both fell to the ground, writhing under the Cruciatus curse.

"Stop! Stop!" Hermione said, trying to break the curse by casting at Tom herself.

"I think not," Tom said, nodding to the Knights towering over the boys before he flicked his own wand toward Hermione. She felt the pull of his summoning spell on her wand, an inventive twist, but refused to relinquish her wand to him, weaving an impressive defensive ward.

"More convincing, please, gentlemen," Lord Voldemort commanded, and Hermione saw Herecles convulse, more lines of dark red appearing all over him. Phineas was wracked again by the Cruciatus, the muffled screams of both torturing Hermione's ears and her soul. Tom looked at her before turning his head idly, his wand snapping a different curse on Herecles, causing him to curl into the tightest ball possible, his face a wreath of agony.

Hermione threw two more of her own curses at Tom, which he dispelled easily, and spat out, "How willing do you think I am going to be now, Lord Voldemort? Or have you forgotten what I said about fear being a poor motivator?"

Tom slashed his wand and began systematically dismantling her shields with such stunning proficiency that Hermione barely had time to attempt a bone eating curse from the Maleficium before Tom was in front of her, grabbing her wand with his bare hand as she cast and pulling her toward him with the other.

"Temper, temper, Hermione," he said, then turned her to see her friends on the ground. "Or do you really want to be responsible for this? Of course, if you don't care if Mr. Potter is castrated today by that constriction curse, by all means, continue to resist me."

An agonized scream escaped from Herecles' mouth as Tom vanished both of their gags, the smell of blood stronger in the air now. Phineas was contorting in almost impossible ways, his throat too hoarse to make more noises than grunts. Hermione felt the weight of the future pressing on her back, an impossible choice before her. The Knights were silently watching, Abraxas and Evan holding their wands firm on the writhing boys before them.

"Please," Hermione begged, tears falling from her cheeks as she crumpled to Tom's feet. "Please. I'll do anything you want."

Tom cocked his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at her. "Why do they mean so much to you? Tell me."

Hermione knew what he was asking for. She heard her heartbeat thundering in her ears alongside the wet gurgling sound of Herecles Potter choking on his own blood. The twitches of Phineas Longbottom began fading into the ether, numbness overcoming her soul. She had lost. She had lost the second he had sent her back here. She was listening to her classmates dying, their future lines dying with them. The only choice lay in how much she could sway him with whatever she could offer, however she might do so.

"If you kill either of them here, just kill me. You will have changed the future so much, your own could very well vanish," she whispered, so quietly that only Tom could hear her.

She looked straight at him the entire time, and he could see her sincerity, feel it in her magic. Still he did nothing. Hermione closed her eyes, then did something she had never done between them, even after the blood bond, after all the times he had touched her, caressed her and evoked a response from her physically. She reached out to him with her magic, laying it willingly before him. She knew what it meant.

"Please."

The world was suspended, frozen for one heartbeat, then two. Tom's magic flared, either the prequel to his wrath or to an irrevocable step. Hermione waited, laid bare before him in the most intimate and humbling manner, more than a mere supplicant begging for mercy. Mercy from Lord Voldemort. He looked at her, and Hermione wondered for one heart-stopping moment if he was going to reject her, crush her as he had clearly been capable of for so many months.

"Stop."

The command was quiet, but laced with authority, his wand snapping again toward Herecles. His Knights ceased their other curses on command, just as they had been trained to do. Hermione felt Tom's hand under her chin, lifting her face up to look at him.

"You're no longer needed here," he said to the Knights without looking at them, certain that his servants would do exactly what was necessary to tidy up the detritus from this little exercise of power without him even bothering to look at them. No, he was entirely focused on Hermione, their eyes locked in a wordless communication that said they both knew exactly what had been traded here this day.

"Come, my witch," he said, smoothly drawing her to her feet before his Knights began disapparating with their guests. He wanted them to see that she would retain her place, despite her necessary chastisement.

Tom's eyes were dark and swirling with mysterious thoughts and intentions, and Hermione was unable to look away from him. The dynamic of the situation had changed from antagonists to partners, the sudden truce sitting uneasily, like a lump in her throat, as she began to pay the price. He was compelling, completely at ease with his own power as it flowed around him, through him, and through her. Her own answered him, instincts ruling as their magics touched, first tentatively and then more eagerly, blending together at the edges with a warmth that was quickly becoming an inferno. Hermione wondered aloud, "How are you doing this?"

"This is High Magic, Hermione," he murmured into her ear, and she finally took note that they were in a stone circle, a fact he had previously obscured with a concealment charm. She saw a chalice, an athame, a primitive wand…

"This is a Bonding," she said, trying to pull back from him, retreat from the innumerable tendrils of his magic that he had wrapped around and through her own.

"Very good, witch," he said, nipping and then sucking on her earlobe. "It has already begun…you can feel the effects already."

He was thrilled with the small moan that escaped her lips, lips which she then unconsciously pressed to his neck. It was good that she was participating already. Her magic knew exactly what to do. It would make the tie between them much stronger. He looked at her, his hand cupping her cheek so his thumb could stroke her cheekbone, then caress her mouth. Her lips fell open at his touch, the heady gasp another sign of how much she wanted this. He could feel her pulse hammering throughout her body, adrenaline and fear mixing with the martyr complex she would assume if he allowed it. Of course, he would not.

"Are you a virgin?" he whispered in her other ear, placing a kiss just below the lobe. He already knew the answer; he wanted to hear her acknowledge the impact this day would have for her going forward.

"Yes," she whispered back, her heart stuttering wildly in her chest. There was no point in lying—he would know soon enough.

His voice was almost tender, darkly laced with seductive intent. "Ah, pet, you've made my day." He kissed her neck again, this time aggressively, giving her the choice of submission or continuing to fight. Of course, she picked the latter, shoving on his shoulders when he sucked a bit too hard. He smiled against her bruised flesh. Oh, this would be so good.

"You've picked the vernal equinox—" Hermione's brain spun, thinking about all the possible implications. He smiled again, vanishing her clothes with a thought.

"Do you know what I love about you, Hermione?" Tom asked, his mouth drawing closer to hers until his hovered right about her lips. He looked straight in her eyes, his own gleaming with satisfaction. "You think too much."

"Why?" she whispered, meeting his eyes as her fingers methodically stroked his chest, his clothes vanished as easily as hers had been. His skin was smooth, unblemished like marble, but hot beneath her fingers, sculpted.

"You've earned it," he said cryptically, and drew her closer to the center of the circle. The candle flame was being licked about by the rising wind, but it would not go out. He picked up the athame and held it out to Hermione. She had to start it. She had given her magic into the ritual, and even if her mind protested, she would see it through.

"I want a say in the words," she said bravely as her hand moved, taking the blade and cutting from the base of her ring finger down into her palm.

"You shall have it," Tom said, taking the knife and pressing evenly without regard to the pain, his cut identically placed. He held out his hand to her, waiting. His magic was building, hot and full, sweeping into every crevasse of hers and mapping her own magic as thoroughly as he'd map her body. It was heady and overpowering, and would have caused a less powerful witch to faint. But Hermione could take him, and was even now responding to him as he'd known she would.

"Give in to it, Hermione," he whispered into her ear before he finally claimed her mouth as his hand met hers, their fingers intertwining so the blood would mix easily.

"I will never give in to you," she murmured hotly, breaking off the kiss despite the wrench of ephemeral pain it caused to ricochet along her aura, her eyes flaring as her magic grappled with his, asserting her own identity. Tom's eyes darkened, and his fingers tightened on her hand. She was such a spitfire, and from today she was all his.

"That's the idea, pet."

Hermione had read about High Magic bonding rituals, but performing one on the vernal equinox brought ley lines into play, energies being pulled up from the earth below their feet as Tom began the chants. He still had her hand clasped in his own, his fingers sliding between hers, intertwining with them as they moved in a dance dictated by their auras. If anyone had been present to see, it would have almost looked like a strange hand to hand combat, the primitive wand passing back and forth between their free hands as their magical essences dueled with each other in a vigorous debate. Words flew from their lips, each talking over the other at some points. Finally Tom silenced her with a scorching kiss, and the time for negotiating was past. The ritual vows emerged seamlessly from the wrestling between their magics as it flowed back and forth in an almost violent tussle. Some of what Tom said was in Parseltongue, some of Hermione's own vows in an ancient form of Pictish that was pulled forth from a blood ancestor she hadn't known she possessed.

Finally the vows were said; Hermione, and then Tom, drinking from the chalice. There were flashes of lightning from the violent swirl of a storm that their magical energies had summoned, and the ground rumbled underfoot as Tom pulled her against him at last. At last!

As soon as she had given herself over to her magical senses, the ritual was partially a blur to Hermione, the pain of the cut on her hand a blip that was healed and then lost in a vortex of feeling. Her magic was mating with Tom's, a wild and passionate dark thing that somehow matched the thorough and systematic manner in which Tom learned and worshipped her body.

"Your skin is beautiful," Tom murmured, trailing kisses down and around her breast, his hand tracing the scar left by Dolohov from the Department of Mysteries. "You chose to keep this."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Another reminder," Hermione said, then pulled on his hair to claim his mouth again for a wet, needy kiss. Tom's hands trailed lower, seeking a different, wet softness. When he found it she gasped into his mouth, and he pressed his fingers firmly, intent on teaching his little witch exactly what kind of pleasure he could provide if she would give in to him more often.

When she was close but couldn't stand anymore of his teasing, she flipped him over and learned his body with equal attention, her magic demanding its own equal time, giving the ritual added depth. Her hands memorized the firm contours of his chest, her mouth was tickled by the hairs on his stomach, her fingers fascinated by the sharp planes of his hips. And how he moaned when she moved lower still, her curiosity driving a thorough exploration with her hands and her mouth. She could tell that Tom was delighted by it until he, too, had had enough. He pulled her back up, his head craning upward to return her kisses with equal fervor. His tongue dueled with hers confidently, his hand clasping the back of her head to ensure she wasn't going anywhere while he gripped her hip tightly. Then he reasserted his control, his magic roaring up at the same time that he flipped her to her back again and finally consummated the bond.

"Hermione," he said, clasping her face in both hands. He wanted to see her whisky colored eyes, watch his magic dance in them. They were completely connected, their magics steadily fusing at every point, their bodies equally in sync. It felt fucking wonderful.

"Tom!" It was more of a gasp, the blinding shock of penetration giving way to how rapturous it felt to be so connected to him. He moved again, his body pushing for a response.

"Wrong name, petal. Try again."

Hermione writhed, needing more. She closed her eyes, "Voldemort," slipping from her mouth.

She could tell he was pleased by that, his response in the way he pushed and hit a certain spot inside her, causing an undulation of pleasure to shoot through Hermione that was more than matched in its response from him as it washed through her magic. He read it easily in her eyes, in much the same way that she read his triumph and pleasure to have her beneath him, to be inside her and all through her at last.

"Perfection," he said, his voice laced with smug satisfaction before he dipped his head to taste her sweet mouth again.

Hermione couldn't help but respond to him, kissing him back before she moved her hips in retaliation for that smugness. It set them off again, both pushing against the other with a natural rhythm they had mimicked for months with every argument, every clash of wills. The natural spark between them had roared into a flame that was hotter than Fiendfyre. Hermione felt as though her whole being was singing for him, with him. There may have been a deafening roar, a blinding flash of magic bursting forth like an explosion when their pinnacles were reached, the delirious high of a magical bond completing itself rendering the physical act of sex far more gratifying. Hermione was so lost in the melding of her magic and her body that she wasn't sure. Her mind was busy enough trying to avoid blacking out from the massive adjustment as her magic synced completely with Tom's.

Tom's head dropped briefly to Hermione's neck as they both struggled to regain their normal breath, the weather finally impinging again on their conscious minds. Tom finally said coolly, "I take it as a very good sign that that didn't kill you, Hermione," before he withdrew from her and stood to clean himself up and clear away the ritual tools.

Hermione rolled to her side away from him and blinked back a sudden, hot rush of tears. What have I done?

She missed Tom's actions with a small piece of parchment as he cleaned himself, the words that appeared causing him to exhale softly. He tucked the paper away, though, before Hermione sat up and used her own wand to scourgify herself and summon her clothes. She was grateful that he let her be as he finished tidying away everything, ensuring the circle was as pristine as he had found it. She needed time, time to process what they had done, time to adjust to the feeling of his magic entwined with her own.

She was standing at the edge of the circle once again when she felt his presence before she felt his warmth, his power flowing easily between them as he came up behind her. Hermione rubbed her hand on her arm, her other arm clutched around her waist, feeling a dull ache and in need of the hottest shower she could stand. She needed separation from the wizard who was even now pulling her back against him, the hand that had intimately mapped her body completely at ease with it, resting lightly on her hipbone.

"We need to get back."

Hermione thought that for her, there was no back. Everything had changed. Everything. Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, pressed a kiss at the base of her neck and threaded his fingers through hers, the fresh scar on the inside of her ring finger a testament to just how drastically her entire world had shifted.

"I know."

She did know. What he had just done, what she had just allowed him to do—it was irrevocable. Permanent. Even when he died in the future and came back, this Bond would be there. Always. In essence, Hermione Granger had just become more than the wife of Lord Voldemort, the Darkest wizard of all time. As he turned them both into the darkness, Hermione had never wished so much to not come out of disapparation, to simply vanish into nothingness.

Of course, that was not what happened. She found herself walking back toward the school, her hand clasped firmly in Tom's. It was surreal, the way that felt right, natural. When he stopped them as they were partially concealed by the trees and pressed her close, kissing him felt like coming home. He made a meal of her mouth, devouring everything she had to give and then some.

"I will see you later tonight, Hermione," he said, and she knew she would go. He knew she would need to rage at him, the guilt eating at her already.

"Tom?" she asked, closing her eyes briefly and then looking at him again. He was amused by the expression in her eyes. She had spunk, his witch. He owned her now, body and soul, and yet she was still going to challenge him. Good, he thought. Then I shall not grow bored of her.

"Yes, pet?"

The nuances which Tom Riddle gave to that pet name were probably markedly different to those any other person would give, but Hermione could lie to herself if she chose, pretend it meant something more traditional…or not.

"I hate you with a passion," she said, and he fisted a hand casually in her hair, pulling her head back gently but firmly.

"I know." He leaned in, his breath ghosting across her lips. "But it is passion, Hermione. Don't forget that."