Notes: Thanks so much for the supportive response! I don't think anyone ought to object to that in a Riddle fic in which it's clear he's an antihero at best. Still, the specific way I wrote that particular issue (there were no Horcruxes when she arrived and he creates one in the story) seems to be rare with the "changeable timeline/Voldemort isn't inevitable" setup, so I wasn't entirely sure.

I had better issue a warning for Tom's behavior, since it may bother some people. He is extremely possessive and is not particularly nice about it when he's angry. There won't be any noncon scenes in this story, but there is a dubcon kiss in this chapter. The possessiveness is going to continue, actually, because I can't see him changing that, but Hermione is going to come into her own in coming chapters.

Chapter Sixteen: Rupture and Rage

I don't want anyone to get in. I don't want anyone to get in, anyone at all. Hermione told this to the Room of Requirement repeatedly as she clutched a pillow in her armchair. She wasn't sure if it would actually keep Tom out once he returned from staging the scene at Grimmauld Place, but it was worth a try.

He's Voldemort, she thought miserably. I've failed; he's failed; it's all a failure. In Hermione's mind there had been three main factors that separated Tom from the Voldemort identity: blood purity fanaticism, violent murderous conduct, and Horcruxes. Discovering that seventh-year Tom was not interested in blood purity politics was a pleasant surprise. He already was a murderer, Hermione knew, but it was not something she personally had to face or think about, because it had happened over a year ago. Now, that factor defining "Voldemort" was in her face, slapped in her face, and worse still, so was the third factor. And unlike a political viewpoint—even a very repulsive and personally offensive one to Hermione—taking life and tearing out part of one's soul couldn't be taken back.

He could, theoretically, feel remorse and fix it that way, but he won't. He will never regret that particular murder. Never. His father's killing, possibly, if he could ever let go of his rejection issues, but not the murder he just committed.

Hermione squeezed the pillow and tried to avoid looking at the other armchair that the Room had conjured for her. She buried her face in the pillow, not to cry, but to hide everything from her sight.

He did not try to enter the room.

Hermione woke up early the next morning with dread in her gut. This hadn't gone away overnight. It would never go away. And if Tom was successful at his cover-up—which she was sure he had been—then the "accident" would be a huge topic of discussion for the entire school, but especially Slytherin. It was the last thing in the world she wanted to think about, but she needed to get to the main area of the school and at least be present.

The common room was mostly empty, but it buzzed with hushed whispers. Every member of the Black family—Lucretia, Orion, Walburga, Alphard, and Cygnus—was absent.

He killed the father of three of his classmates, Hermione thought with another pang. Pollux Black was a bigot, a crook, and a torturer, but he was their father.

Tom himself sat in a thronelike chair near the fire, his back turned to Hermione. He was conversing in low tones with Vincent Rosier and a couple of other boys. Hermione passed by the hearth icily, not acknowledging him. Rosier nudged him as she went by. He turned around but she kept going.

Hermione finally decided that there was nothing for her to do here and the risk of having to talk with Tom was too high for comfort. She whirled on her heel and headed out, then went to the Great Hall for breakfast.

She arrived at the table just in time for the morning owl post. Her only post was still the Prophet, but she did want to see what the newspaper had to say this morning. She dropped a Knut into the owl's coin pouch and opened the newspaper gingerly.

"Ministry Department Head Found Dead In Home! Dark Family Heirlooms Suspected," blared the lead headline—just as she had expected. She grimaced. It appeared that Tom had pulled it off. She began to read.

.

The surprise death of DMLE Head Pollux Black has shocked the Wizarding World. Black was found dead in the parlor of his family home, apparently killed by a cursed piece of jewelry. His right arm bore unmistakable signs of severe curse damage, and a separate Dark artifact was found nearby, spinning in circles repeatedly. Experts in the Ministry inform the Prophet that the artifact carried curses capable of inflicting comparable damage. Nonetheless, in deference to the fact that this is a time of war, a Ministry investigation has been launched to determine if the unexpected death of Black was indeed an accident as it appears.

.

The timeline has been altered, Hermione suddenly realized. She did not recollect from the tapestry just when Pollux Black, one of Sirius's grandparents, had died in the original timeline, but she did know from her history that there had not been any deaths of top Ministry officials in the war against Grindelwald. Tom certainly had never been suspected in such an event, though since the timeline was now different, that was no guarantee of—of—

Hermione's heart pounded. It was wrong, and her conscience pricked at her for thinking it, but she wished that this investigation wasn't happening.

She refused to consider why she thought that. Shoving the thought forcefully out of her mind, she read the article and continued down the front page. Immersed in the newspaper, she did not notice that most Slytherins had entered the Great Hall by now, including one in particular.

"Political Implications of Black's Accident?"

Hermione scowled at the moving photograph of Septimus Weasley, but she started to read this article too.

.

Minister Leonard Spencer-Moon has stated that he has not made a decision about the successor to Black's post, and that it is too soon, but it is expected that interested parties are already making moves behind the scenes. In the meantime, a new political wrinkle has developed concerning stalled Ministry legislation. Septimus Weasley, Head of the Office of Domestic Wartime Operations and chief author of the Authorization for the Seizure of Dark or Dangerous Artifacts, weighed in on the death of his boss.

"The tragic death of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement illustrates the extreme danger posed by Dark artifacts even to experienced wizards and witches," Weasley said. "If a Ministry Department Head can fall victim to these objects in his family's own home, their danger is manifest and requires no further proof. There is no safe handling possible. These objects need to be removed from our environment and no new ones created. I hope that the Wizarding community will rally around the bill in the wake of this terrible event and ensure that this death, the death of my wife Cedrella's cousin, is not in vain."

Other wizards and witches disagree with Weasley's position, asserting that the artifacts that apparently killed Black were simply improperly secured. "It is crass of Weasley to use this death to promote his bill when the Ministry has not even begun an investigation," said Pierre Lestrange.

.

Hermione saw everything at once. That manipulative bastard. She set down the newspaper, fuming, and noticed that Tom was eyeballing her. She gave him a death glare and finished her breakfast.

He has set this up so that if this investigation does call it an accident, both factions are guaranteed to make arses of themselves posturing about it, annoying most everyone, and then he'll rush off to duel Grindelwald and play hero. The thought made her seethe with anger and dismay. What had she created? What had she unleashed? Ruthless underhanded politician Riddle was surely just as bad as terrorist Voldemort when it came to the well-being of the wizarding world. Wasn't he?

He was coming her way. She snapped her head up and scowled ferociously at him before sweeping up her newspaper and bags. He looked startled and angry as she left her seat, but she turned away and kept walking.

She got through her classes that day without having to interact with Tom, despite that she sat next to him in every one of them. Most students noticed that the school's most gossip-worthy couple had apparently fallen out, but a few evidently wrote off Hermione's silence to shock over the death.

Hermione tried to focus on preparing for her NEWTs, but she found that her feelings about class had reverted to what they had been at the beginning of the school year. She dreaded sitting next to Tom. Beneath the anger, she still felt a miserable, wretched sense of personal failure. She felt she should never have let herself care.

She scarfed down her dinner that evening, continuing to give Tom the cold shoulder. He now bore a face set in a constant low simmer, she noticed. She wondered how long it would take before he snapped. She certainly didn't want to be the one to blink first. After dinner, she stalked off to the Room of Requirement and buried herself in homework. That evening, as she tried to get to sleep, she realized on some level that she could not ignore him forever. They would have to have it out at some point. She dreaded that, but she knew it was inevitable.

The next morning, she headed down to the Great Hall resignedly. It had to happen, and it might as well happen soon. She would not ignore him today.

As she approached the table, her gaze fixed upon something. A large, fresh bouquet of conjured red roses lay at her place. Tom sat next to them, smiling benignly.

Hermione sucked in her breath. Her face grew white with anger as her resignation turned to outrage. Did he think that she would have no choice but to accept them, because she was too afraid to reject him publicly? Well, he would learn.

With a ferocious scowl on her face, Hermione directed her wand at the roses, flicked it, and set the flowers on fire.

The Slytherins in the immediate vicinity leapt up from their seats, getting away from the flaming bouquet as fast as they could—all except one. Tom drew his wand and ended the spell, leaving a dried-up, burnt, smoking pile. He vanished it and got up from his seat.

Murmurs and sinister laughs began to fill the air. Tom stalked icily over to Hermione. He grabbed her arm roughly.

"Let me go!" she snarled.

He ignored her and bustled her out of the Great Hall, leaving the chatter behind.

"You're hurting my arm," she said when they were alone in the hallway. He loosened his grip on her but continued to march her down the hall and ultimately into the dungeons. He opened the door to one of the unused classrooms and pulled her inside. To be sure, he cast Muffliato—which he learned from me, Hermione thought mutinously.

"Let's get one thing straight," he said conversationally. His tone was almost unnerving, it was so calm and yet so threatening. "You will not embarrass me in public, whatever your problem with me may be."

"You know exactly what my problem is," Hermione said icily.

He clenched his teeth. "It's done. Isn't it time to move on?"

She could not believe her ears. "That isn't something that I can simply 'move on' from! You know what it means to me to see you do that! Does that really not matter to you?" she cried.

He breathed heavily. "Here's how much it matters! It was supposed to be private, something no one would ever find out, something that was just for me, my secret. The real question is, does it mean nothing to you that I made you part of it in every way? I avenged you, I paid that bastard back for what he did to you, and removed a threat to you—to us—"

"There is no 'us,'" she said coldly.

"Yes, Hermione, there is," he snarled, backing her against the wall. "There will always be 'us.' You'd best accept that."

"Get the hell away from me," she swore in a low, threatening tone.

"No. I am not letting you go. And I'm going to prove something to you."

He pressed himself against her down to their hips, grabbed her face, and leaned in. His lips brushed roughly against hers, then he forced her mouth open and plundered her greedily. His fingers found their way into her bushy hair, and he nipped at her lips with his perfect teeth.

Hermione was at first enraged that he would dare force this, but as the kiss progressed, she felt the stirrings in her body that were now so very familiar. She needed the closeness, and nothing else mattered. She had the brief thought that she had desired and—yes—loved him even knowing that he was already a torturer, murderer, and Dark wizard. She had known what he was. She had come to care about him anyway. With that thought, she stopped fighting him. She let him plunder her, then nipped his mouth in return, and then, almost involuntarily, her arms lifted and found purchase on his back.

At that moment he broke the kiss, smirking with unmitigated insolence and arrogance. "So, I killed the bastard for us," he said pointedly, "and I had you see the ritual, something no one was ever meant to see—the only time I'm going to do it, and I let you see it! I was going to give the diary to you."

Hermione's mouth twisted, the ardor of the previous moment gone. "And why do you think I would want it?"

"Do you even know what that diary contains?"

"Yes, I think I do," she said acerbically. "I saw you put it in there."

"Leaving aside the fact that you're saying, to my face, that you don't want something containing part of my soul," he ground out, "I meant what else it contains."

"I'm sure it contains your notes about discovering your basilisk—"

"Wrong," he snapped. "It's my diary from last year, 1944. The latter half of it is about you, the effect that you had on me. This was a compliment to you on several levels, and you took all that and threw it back in my face!" His voice wavered for a moment.

Hermione stepped sideways, away from him. Her eyes were wide with shock and something else, something Tom thought was disgustingly like pity.

"You're unbelievable," she said, her voice wavering with awe and wonder. "You really don't understand. You know that I spent a year of my life living in a tent, trying to hunt down your Horcruxes, and yet you truly don't see why it would bother me to be forced to watch you make one. Or more importantly, why I might have been invested in saving you and might not want you to harm and diminish yourself."

"Then you should be pleased!" he snapped defensively. "I am stronger for it, not weaker. I'm going to fight the Elder Wand. What was I to do, not protect myself? Out of some bizarre notion that dying 'honorably' is better than winning by whatever means necessary? Dying is a failure… and I'm not even just talking about the duel."

She shook her head in amazement. "Do you even hear yourself?"

Tom ignored this. "You fear failure too. I've seen your boggart in Defense. Not so different from mine, really."

Hermione stepped back as if slapped. He is not implying what it sounds like he is.

"My boggart shape has nothing to do with anything," she said, trying not to raise her voice and give him the satisfaction of seeing her ire. "Failure and death are different, or we wouldn't even have different boggarts."

He lowered his voice and leaned over her again. She tried to edge to the right to escape, but he planted his hands on either side of her and hissed in her ear. "I also saw your memories of the Veil of Death at the Ministry. You were afraid of it," he said in a low sibilant undertone, enjoying seeing her squirm at that recollection. "Your friends weren't, but you were afraid of the idea of joining those voices."

That did it. Remembering that battle—remembering Harry and Ron and Ginny—and wondering, now, if they were on the other side of that Veil or if they simply did not even exist yet as souls, if their very existence now had been put in jeopardy by her time here—broke her. She slumped. Her gaze cast down to the floor. "Let me alone, Tom," she said. "I'm not like you. I've killed—I was in a war—but I would never do that."

He was not finished. "Answer me this, Hermione, and remember, I can tell when you are lying. If I gave you the means and handed you the diary, would you destroy it? Would you annihilate a part of me?" His tone was low and soft.

Hermione looked away. "You all but annihilated a part of yourself."

"I did no such thing, and that doesn't answer the question. Would you?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I don't have to answer you."

He smirked. "You already have."

She sneered at him. She knew this was reckless, but she had had enough. "Is that what you think? Let me remind you of something. I did destroy a part of you."

The smirk vanished. His eyebrows narrowed.

"I took a fang from your basilisk and plunged it right into the core of one of your Horcruxes," she continued, watching him.

He reached for his wand.

"It cried out, and I sat there and watched it die," she said cruelly. "And it made me happy."

"You're just trying to wind me up. It wasn't me," he bit out.

She ignored this. "And then I turned to my friend and kissed him on the mouth," she finished. She felt giddy, knowing she had surely provoked him with that.

He snapped. "Reducto!" he shouted.

She was punched in the gut and flung backward against the wall. Bruised, she still reacted instantly and nonverbally. Confringo! she screamed in thought. A wave of pressurized, heated air erupted from her wand.

Tom fell backward, scrambling at a desk for support, clutching his wand, his eyes wide—but no flashes of red so far. He waved his wand in return, generating a wave that Hermione recognized as a Stupefy. What was he playing at? Was he trying to insult her by using such a basic spell, the one she had used on him in their first disastrous DADA duel? Was it to put her off guard? Scoffing, she blocked it nonverbally before it could hit her, and, swirling her wand in midair, responded.

"Deprimo!"

The spell slammed Tom to the ground hard. His eyebrows narrowed. The curse kept him pinned to the ground, but he could still shoot a spell at Hermione—

She felt it coming but could not determine what it was in time to mount an effective shield. Her Protego did not deflect the second Reductor Curse well enough. She crashed through rows of fragmenting desks.

Scowling, he slashed his wand before she could react. Ropes shot from his wand toward her. They bound her arms to her sides before she could put up a shield at all.

Hermione had to act fast. She noted, quickly, that although her elbows were immobilized by the ropes, her wrists were not. And she still held her wand. She made two curving swishes and cast, Incendio!

A stream of yellow and orange flame shot from her wand tip and enveloped Tom's robes before he could jump away. She took advantage of the brief time to cancel the Incarcerous hex and cast another fire spell at him before he could put out the first one entirely. This time she aimed for his head. The fire caught, and he shrieked. She had never heard him make a sound like that before, and she was grimly pleased that she had made him do so. He put the spell out immediately, but the stench of burnt hair still filled the classroom. Hermione was already readying a third consecutive spell to attack him.

Tom was angry now. He had been unwilling to use harsh curses on her, both for his own sake and because he didn't want to hurt her, but she had no compunctions about taking advantage of his leniency and then attacking him while he was down. Time to break out something stronger. Contundo! he cast fiercely.

Hermione was momentarily distracted by the flash of red in his eyes as he cast nonverbally. She did not recognize the spell from its aura leaving his wand. It hit her with the feeling of being punched by an iron fist in every part of her torso and limbs. She sat down hard on the floor, observing as red, raised spots formed everywhere that the curse had affected. Tom stormed toward her, eyes gleaming, red flashes occasionally visible in his pupils, all traces of a smirk gone from his face. He raised his wand to Disarm her.

Hermione got a curse off first, one that surprised her, given her former disdain for its pseudonymous inventor and his textbook. Before he could cast, Tom's chest, arms, and part of his face erupted in blood. He gasped in pain and tried instinctively to cover the cut on his cheek, but blood dripped through his fingertips. He gazed at her in shock.

Hermione's pulse thudded. Her wand arm dropped of its own accord. Had she really done that? Had she just cast Snape's Sectumsempra curse on him?

"Tom—I'm sorry, I—I didn't mean—"

Before she could finish her sentence, the classroom door slammed open, and a teacher rushed in.

"That is enough!" Professor Merrythought's voice carried across the room as she stormed toward the pair. "Miss Green! Mr. Riddle! Stop this now!"

Hermione was in a state of shock, terrified of her own power, terrified of the fact that she had just used Dark Magic to savagely maim her ex-boyfriend, terrified that she would be expelled for it—

The professor reached them and waved her wand, casting countercurses. Hermione felt some of the pain lessen, but the marks of the bruises remained. Merrythought's gaze tightened. "Mr. Riddle, how dare you—"

As she looked at Tom, the fury in her features turned to alarm. Tom was unable to get up. His skin was pale, and his wounds were still open, as if the professor's healing had not had any effect. As Professor Merrythought and Hermione shifted their gazes to him, it seemed to occur to them both that… it hadn't. Horror seeped over Hermione again as she realized that the specific countercurse had not been invented yet.

"Miss Green, what did you cast?" The professor's voice was furious. "That was obviously not Diffindo. Did you use a Dark curse too?" The accusing tone of the question implied that she knew the answer.

Hermione could not see any way out of it. This woman was, after all, the school's authority on the subject, and she was a legitimate expert, unlike several of the one-year wonders in her time. She nodded meekly. "Professor, I—"

The professor glared ferociously before turning her full attention to Tom. Nonverbally she began casting healing spells while swirling her wand elegantly in a small figure-eight pattern. The ugly wounds closed, stopping the bleeding, but the skin did not heal. Hermione realized dimly that there must still be methods of preventing swift death from such curses, even though the specific countercurse was not developed yet. Tom heaved a deep breath.

"I am extremely disappointed in you both," the professor said severely. "It is no secret to me that you have had some sort of adolescent falling-out, but hurting each other with Dark curses is not the way to deal with your personal problems." She scowled at them. "Seventy points from Slytherin, and you're lucky that's not apiece. Both of you, to the Hospital Wing. Miss Green, you had best explain to the Healer what you did so that he can employ measures to prevent scarring." Merrythought frowned deeply at both of them once more. "And if I hear of the two of you continuing your fight on the way, it will be detention till the end of the year."

As she walked to the Hospital Wing, the shock, horror, and—yes—fear of what she'd done had mostly passed for Hermione. Other thoughts were taking their place. It isn't fair, she thought, seething again. I'm getting scolded for using Dark Magic, while he— It was so unjust, so outrageous and absurd, really, that she could not even complete the thought.

"Adolescent falling-out" indeed! Actually, Professor, I'm angry at everyone's favorite student because I watched him kill a top Ministry official and create the Darkest type of magical artifact in existence. She cast a baleful glare at Tom, who was still pale, limping, silent, and angry as he walked beside her.

Even worse, Tom was right about one thing. She could not destroy the diary. She could not even tell an authority figure about it, since that would lead to the destruction of the diary. It was a part of him, and for all her determination to see him as Voldemort at first, that emotional reaction had passed, and he was still Tom. Seeing him bleed had reminded her, in an awful way, of how human he was. She wondered how she could have changed so utterly as to refuse to destroy a Horcrux, in fact to protect it. She marveled at that, but she supposed it was the culmination of gradually keeping ever bigger and darker secrets for him.

She certainly did not want to kill him. There would be absolutely nothing and no one for her if she did that. Her home—her original timeline—was gone, and if he died, he would be too. What she wanted was for there to be a spell that would force the part of him out of the book and back where it belonged. Back to where it had been when they had first kissed—and he had protected her with the Fidelius Charm—and they had slept together. But she knew there was no such spell.

She brooded and fumed until Tom stopped halfway to the infirmary, making her almost walk into him. He proceeded to glare at Hermione, as if his pride demanded it.

"Did you mean that?"

"Mean what?"

"You know what."

"I did destroy one. And no, it wasn't really you," she added wearily.

"You know that's not what I'm asking."

Hermione suddenly felt tears spring to her eyes. "No, you were right," she whispered. "I couldn't."

His face relaxed a bit. "Then—"

"That doesn't mean I want to talk."

He stared at her. "Fine. But don't think I've changed my mind about anything."

She did not have the spirit to argue.