Notes: You guys are great, and I'm thrilled about the amount of interest (and the recommendations on a couple of archives) that this story has received. Thanks a bunch. :)

I really didn't plan out the timing of posting this chapter, but it worked out well enough. That said, I don't consider this a particularly happy turn. And some of you probably aren't going to like this development. If that is the case, please keep in mind that the story is not over and every major event in it serves a plot purpose later.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Picture Perfect

After Slug Club, Hermione intended to corner Tom in the Room of Requirement and make him explain just what he had been telling the Ministry officials. He apparently anticipated her plans, because he simply gave her an innocent peck on the cheek and moved toward the door.

"Wait just a minute," she protested. "You told Ogden that you hadn't discussed 'everything' openly with me. Just what exactly is 'everything'?" She put her hands on her hips and stared at him.

"Not tonight," he said heavily.

"Tom, you said you would tell me things."

"I'm not going to keep this from you," he said. "It's just… I'm bloody tired, Hermione, and it's not a simple subject. Another night."

"I won't forget," she promised as he made for the door again.

He turned around and smiled faintly. "Neither will I."

Several days passed, each night ending with Tom giving an excuse for why he did not want to bring up the topic. It was obviously procrastination, Hermione thought with increasing impatience. She was reasonably sure she knew what was going on anyway, and she wished he would just come out with it. If he was ashamed of it, then he shouldn't have done it, she thought. And if not, what was he waiting for?

He was aware that she wanted to question him, and he did not even give her the opportunity to capture him in bed while he was feeling satisfied and open. For the remainder of the week, and after one Hogsmeade weekend, he ended the day with a comparatively chaste embrace and kiss. It was exasperating.

Finally, on Monday night, he stayed in the room late.

She noticed and put down the book she was reading. She met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. "Are you going to tell me now?" she asked.

"I was waiting for something," he said, "but yes."

"Good," she said.

He smiled. "I'm sorry about the Slug Club dinner, first of all. It wasn't my intention to make it awkward for you or make you worry about things. Ogden understood, though, after I explained to him."

"Tom—"

"You need to remember that I'm not like other people," he continued, getting up from his armchair. He faced the fireplace. "Most of the 'romance' in this school is immature and facile, just like the people involved… so it's quickly over. And most of the boys from the old families are betrothed to pureblood girls by fourteen, and the girls are supposed to remain completely chaste, even with the boys they are going to marry. But their fiancés use other girls of 'impure' blood for temporary pleasure before they get married. In fact, I think it's actually expected."

"Tom, that does not surprise me in the slightest," Hermione said cynically. "But where are you going with this?"

"Well, I think it's base and hypocritical," he said. "To be consistent, they should be disgusted at the idea of sharing their bodies with anyone who doesn't have wizard blood in all branches of their family for a thousand years. But my point is, I don't think that way. I actually think sex would be a sordid, degrading thing to do—"

Hermione glared at him. "I see. Thanks."

He glared back. "—with anyone except you. Thus why I didn't do it. But it also means that you aren't some pleasure toy that I'm going to drop after we finish school. You should not worry about that, and I regret that it seems you did." His features morphed into a grin. "Frankly, I want you too much to permit you to leave me."

"Permit me, Tom?" she asked, an eyebrow raised. "Old families aside, I would have assumed this society was more progressive than Muggle society for young women—"

"It is, of course," he said, as if it should be obvious to anyone that wizards did something better than Muggles. "At least for young women who aren't the spawn of moneyed incest, as you say. This has nothing to do with your being a witch. I just don't want to give you up. Not to your own anger, not to… anything. If you found a way to go back to your old time, I would go after you and I wouldn't stop until I had you back." He smirked momentarily, but it faded.

She too managed a brief, faint smile at this declaration. "Tom, that… means a lot to me… but it won't be required. I doubt I'll be able to return. I don't think I'm supposed to, and I don't even want to. There would be nothing familiar to go back to. The world I knew is gone. Everything I have now is here." There. It was said. The reality that had gradually been intruding more and more on her consciousness these months was now acknowledged.

He looked pleased. "Well, that's perfect. You're here, you have to remain here, and I can see that you get your due. In a few years, I'm going to be Minister for Magic."

Despite that she knew he wanted this and was well on his way, Hermione was still amazed at the matter-of-fact tone in which he made the statement, said as casually as if he had said "I'm going to have dinner."

He sat down in the chair again and continued. "I'm going to, and I'm going to do something about the situation that the wizarding world is in, and… you have to be involved too. You know how it all could go wrong. And it's as I said, I want to have you with me. I want you beside me, able to put your talents to use. People like us should be in charge, and I want to make that happen."

"Tom, what are you saying?" Hermione's heart thudded, and she had a feeling she knew where this was headed, but she had to be sure.

"You know exactly what I'm saying. You and I should get married."

Hermione closed her eyes. There it was. That was why she didn't have an offer from the Ministry. She had no doubt of it. They figured she wouldn't "need a job" with such an important and well-paid husband. Even Tom himself had assumed this, since he thought her concern had been about being used and discarded. Wizards might technically be more advanced than Muggles in gender relations, since she knew there had been many female leaders in government and académe by this time, but clearly there was still a long way to go.

She opened her eyes and glared at him in indignation. "So you want a partner to help advance your ambitions. That certainly explains a few things. When Ogden offered you the Deputy Advisor position, was this a condition?"

The eagerness vanished at once, and Tom looked as if she had slapped him in the face. "Excuse me?" he said. His words were chilly and… a little broken, she realized with surprise, but she continued to plow ahead.

"It really is unusual to offer such an important job to an eighteen-year-old, 'hero' or no. In my time, someone I knew—a Head Boy—became an office assistant to a Department Head. He had the tasks no one else wanted, and the boss didn't even know his right name."

Tom was staring back in shock and increasing anger. She continued relentlessly.

"But perhaps you had assured Ogden that you were not just an academic prodigy, interested in policy, or a master duelist, but also mature. Not a 'young bachelor' with all that implies in people's minds. You could be trusted with senior responsibility," she said scathingly. "You sure seemed to have an understanding with him that involved me—but that I knew nothing about. Was it that?"

His gaze hardened. "I indicated to him that you and I were—committed."

"We weren't even together!" she exploded. "We were barely speaking! How dare you, you presumptuous—"

"Oh, what an exaggeration," he scoffed. "We were speaking. We just temporarily weren't… doing other things. I knew you would come around, and I was right."

"That's not the point," she snarled. "You maneuvered things behind my back so that if I rejected you, you would lose face. This was all about your ambition. You used our relationship to further it, and now you think you have me backed into a corner! That is the point, Riddle." She threw his surname at him as if it were a curse.

"It is not all about my ambition," he rejoined. "That's just a bonus. I do want the job. I'm not going to deny that. But you're not backed into a corner. They would lose face now, not me, if they withdrew the offer. Why should I have settled for less, and condemned you to the same, by claiming—falsely—that we weren't serious? What would that have accomplished?"

"I don't have an offer at all, and it seems that's because the Ministry people think I don't need one. They think I should depend on you. As far as they know, we both dueled Grindelwald. They picked you over me."

"Hermione, they picked me because I'm the Head Boy and they have known about me for longer."

"Sure, that's all there is to it," she sneered.

He glared. "It's not my fault either way. I really don't see why it is so bloody important to you to be a flunky in the Office of Irrelevant Bollocks. You want to change the wizarding world; well, so do I. I could start that immediately in this job, and I listen to you." The fury in his face softened. "It would give you power too. I do want a partner. You're special, Hermione. You aren't an accessory to me—or a credential. That would be demeaning—to both of us," he added. "I did not ask you this tonight because I wanted the damn job. I want you."

Hermione stared back at him, afraid to believe.

"You're special to me," he said again. "I tried to tell you that at the first. I don't want to give you up. This is not about anything else." His eyes pleaded sincerity.

Her anger was rapidly fading, but it was being replaced by a deep melancholy at the idea of marriage to him. She cared about him, but she knew she could not always stop him from doing things she disapproved of. There were some things he would not do, because he knew he would definitely lose her if he did, but they both knew that she could not make such demands about everything she didn't like. They had an implicit compromise that he would not cross that line and she would not badger him. But that did not mean that she did not privately object. She would just have to keep it to herself to keep the peace. It was a cold prospect.

If they had grown up together as children, or someone had adopted him as a toddler, or his mother had not died, then he would have been different. She felt a pang for what he could have been if he had experienced a happy childhood with a family. Fate had bestowed upon him so many gifts—intellectual, magical, political, and, yes, physical. He should have been her ideal match. If he had grown up to understand the basic things that most people did not even have to think about, it would all have been different for them.

It wasn't, though. This was what it was like. He was dark and ruthless and always would be. She probably would never have a Ministry position higher than his, because he was determined to get the top spot and his ego could not countenance it. And he proposed marriage to her because he wanted to keep her, like a prize item in his growing collection of valuables.

She took a deep breath. "I see," she said. "I… am sorry for thinking it was all about your ambitions, because I care about you too, and I want to be here for you. But I can't marry someone who… doesn't really love me. I'm sorry." She winced and looked away as she spoke, terrified that she had offended him beyond repair this time, but it had to be said.

He sucked in his breath and stared at her. "Hermione, I don't understand why you say that. I want you. I want you to be mine forever and I—well, you know what I would do for you. I would destroy anyone who hurt you. I've never felt that way about anyone else."

He was breathing heavily, his eyes dark and intense with feeling. She felt her heart thump. She wanted so, so much to believe what he was implying.

"I've let you talk to me, argue with me, in a manner that I wouldn't tolerate from anyone else, because I want to hear what you think. And even when you're dead wrong—"

"When you think I'm dead wrong," she cut in.

"Even when you're wrong," he insisted, "it doesn't matter, because I know it's not about having power over me or scoring a point against me. You mean well and you care about me. So I could never hurt you for it."

"Right, because that explains whipping me and making me apologize," she said dryly.

"I didn't say it didn't frustrate me when you were stubborn," he said at once. "But that wasn't about hurting you. I don't want to harm you. It's just… getting rid of the frustration."

"I'm guessing it's also 'frustrating' that you don't actually want to exert total control over me, and that's why you want to play that game in general. To pretend you do."

"Right in one," he acknowledged. "It's never happened before, and I don't understand it, but… I accept it now. You're just—different, somehow. I have trusted you with my deepest secrets. I've given you the power to ruin me several times over, Hermione—do you even realize that, what that means? I don't do vulnerability. But you've done something to me that makes me break all my own rules." His face was agitated and stormy. "I told you once, that diary is for the most significant year of my life, the year you arrived. That is what I put my soul into and what I wanted you to have. What is all of this if not—love?" He half-spat the last word, obviously disliking its sound and all the connotations, but unable to deny his perceptions.

Hermione wanted to cry. He was close, so close to understanding, and yet there was still such a gulf between his possessive, narcissistic, dark concept of love and the one she had known all her life.

"I don't even want to lose you to death. I especially don't want that. I have my ring and the Stone, but it's not the same. The idea of that is…." He trailed off, looking stricken.

Hermione grimaced. His fixation on this subject made her weary. "Tom, I can't do—what you're hinting at. You know I can't. And you're getting off topic."

Tom looked stung. "I hope you reconsider that someday, but I was just trying to explain to you what I—feel." The word was forced out. He sighed, gathering his thoughts. "This is still strange to me, and I don't know what it's like for other people. I just know that if you left, or if you didn't want me, it would be like… tearing myself apart, except much worse." A hollow, sardonic smile briefly filled his face and then dropped. "I need you," he said in a rush. He closed his mouth at once, half afraid of what had just slipped out.

The fire crackled away in the background, but neither of them paid any attention to it. They were too lost in their own thoughts.

Hermione suddenly realized that, in his broken, possessive way, he did care for her very much. Everything about this situation was twisted, but… she wanted to help him, even now. This was still different from the history she knew, and she had to seize it, even the parts she found distasteful, or it would slip away from her for good and her travel would be for naught. Voldemort would not have cared about anyone, not even in this way. She could not let Tom turn into that. It didn't matter so much that he looked human, at least for anything other than finding his company desirable. If Tom achieved his ambitions and then turned into a murderous tyrant and dictator, he would still become Voldemort, in a way. And she was pretty sure he would do exactly that without her moderating influence.

She was not going to get her old timeline back. At this point she didn't even want it, because it would mean that she had failed him, and that he had failed himself and become that monster again. She couldn't stand that thought. And without the rise of Voldemort, without the violence he unleashed, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, all of them would be different from how she remembered. They would not be "hers" anymore. They no longer were anyway. Neither was Dumbledore. In changing the timeline, she had lost everyone—but she had gained Tom.

There was a time when she had thought she was in love with Ron, that she would even want to marry him. That desire had vanished quite some time ago. During the time when she and Harry were alone in the tent, she had also considered the possibility that Harry was the one. He understood her better, they had at least some things in common, and he respected her. She had thought that they could perhaps make a go of it when the war was over. But then she saw him staring at the Marauder's Map and looking for Ginny Weasley's name each time, and she knew that would not happen either. She didn't understand that. Ginny had been her friend, but Hermione was not blind to the fact that Ginny was inferior to her in the ways that she thought would be important to Harry. It hadn't mattered. People did not seem to base their relationships on anything but mundane considerations or ask for more in their choice of partner. Indeed, asking for more was seen as unrealistic and naïve. Slowly, gradually, the hope of that ideal romantic love had left her.

Tom was not offering her that either. He couldn't, and she understood that. But he was offering her something else. It was something dark, intense, and possessive, something that flashed danger signs, but so help her, she wanted someone to need her as much as he seemed to. She wanted someone to need her for reasons that she could respect and reciprocate, rather than simply because he had a commonplace hormonal reaction or because she had knowledge that was useful to him. She had wanted that all-consuming sort of love. Tom was not romantic, even though he could fake the trappings of it, but all-consuming? Yes, unquestionably so.

Hermione thought again of what he might have been if he had been loved as a child. Even damaged, he was extraordinarily gifted in so many ways. Undamaged, he might have been as close to her perfect ideal as a human being could be.

But he would not have been mine then, she realized in a moment of sudden, cognizant clarity. I wouldn't have had to be sent back to fix anything. That ideal version of him was never meant for me. But… the person before me might be. He is damaged, but what am I?

Twin tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

For the Greater Good.

She got up from her chair and stood next to his. He met her eyes, his gaze hard and desperate. She sighed, reached out her arms to him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. He seemed to want to resist for a moment but quickly gave in, pulling her down into his lap.

She did not really want to look him in the eye while saying the words that were on the tip of her tongue, so she burrowed against his neck. "I understand now. Your way is not the way I'm used to seeing love expressed, but I understand. I'll marry you after we finish school."

He squeezed her wordlessly.

There was one last confession she had to make. She didn't entirely want to, but after the near-debacle at the beginning, she felt that she needed to.

"And… I think I understand why you were so confident," she said. "I guess on some level, I've known for a while that I would—be with you—and clearly, so have you."

"I've known," he agreed, "and I did say I wasn't letting you go. I'm glad you've accepted that." He smirked and squeezed her again.

Hermione did not choose to respond to that. She was overwhelmed by her own thoughts.

He never had any real doubt, she thought. He cares about me, but it really is his own way, and I can't let myself forget that, ever.

He began to kiss her face and jawline. She smiled involuntarily at the sensation and quickly moved closer, but her thoughts continued to whirl. Shouldn't this have been happier? Shouldn't she have been… giddy?

Well, not with him, she thought at once. Giddiness was never a possibility with him. And she supposed she was happy, in a way. This was a success, of sorts, both for her broad mission and for her personal one. It was just a different sort of happiness from the usual.

There would be irritation and compromises with anyone, she thought, but I guess people tend to forget about that part of it when they first get engaged—or married. With him, though, there's no way I could ever forget about it. That's bound to be a good thing. Whatever else, I'm certainly not under any illusions.

Tom suddenly stopped and drew away from her. "Oh yes," he said, "before this gets out of hand." He shifted her on his lap and reached for his school bag, withdrawing a small box from it. "This is what I was waiting for. It came this morning."

Hermione instantly knew what was in the box and once again felt astounded at his presumption… or confidence. He opened it, presenting, as she had expected, a ring.

Wizards did not always follow the custom of giving diamonds, but instead, selected gemstones and designs that complemented the witch—or indicated something symbolic. This was definitely a ring that Tom had picked out to "mark" her as his. It was silver, with serpentine curls—and two tiny snakes—molded into its design, and it had a deep green emerald in the center. In the flickering firelight, Hermione noticed that the gemstone was slightly imperfect; it had a faint subsurface fissure. But of course it did.

He slid the ring onto her finger. "It's lovely," she remarked, observing it sparkle in the yellowish-orange light.

He resumed kissing her. "I don't want you to take it off unless you have to," he murmured. "I want everyone to see it and know you're mine."

Knew it, she thought. "It appears that the entire wizarding world knows that."

He smirked. Then before she knew it, he had wrapped her legs around his waist and was lifting her off the chair. She instantly put her arms around his neck to help support her weight. He carried her toward the large bed and set her down gently on the mattress, getting on top himself.

"I don't want to do anything to you tonight," he murmured, starting on her clothing at once with admirable dexterity. "I just want to have you."

Was he saying that purposely to try to validate his statements earlier, or did he mean it? Either way, the words sent a jolt down her body.

"Good," she replied. He finished unbuttoning her cardigan. She reached for his suit vest when her arms were free. "That's what I want too."

He growled in response as he finished unbuttoning her blouse. It joined the cardigan and his vest in a heap. A moment later, she unthreaded his green and silver tie. His eyes fixed upon it for a second, and he almost seemed to reconsider his statement, but his gaze then darted to the pile of clothing to give her permission. Shaking her head, she added it to the heap. They both unbuttoned his shirt, hands meeting in the middle. He divested himself of it with a grin.

He placed his hands on her sides, just under her bra. They were strangely cool despite the perfect temperature of the room, but not too cool to be pleasant. Indeed, the contrast excited her. He stroked her skin gently, his hands sliding under her back. He unhooked her bra and tossed it to the side, then slipped his hands under her waistband and unzipped her skirt.

"Take that off. I'm busy," he growled. He leaned over and began to draw circles with his fingertips around her breasts. She moaned but managed to slide the skirt off, along with her underwear. She straightened her legs, sidling one around his kneeling form. His eyes widened, and his fingers stilled.

"Why'd you stop?" she protested.

He did not respond with words. Instead he slipped two fingers into her wet folds, probing her center. She gasped and writhed involuntarily at the touch. He met her eyes with a delighted smirk, then bent down and placed a firm kiss on each nipple in turn, gently sucking.

It's amazing how nice he can be when he wants to, she thought briefly.

He drew back from her. Without a word, he unzipped his trousers and pulled them off along with his underwear. "I'm going to take you," he announced in a husky voice. "I would have done more first, because I do like watching you… respond," he said pointedly, eyes gleaming in the light, "but I want you right now."

"Then do it," she said. "I want you too."

His eyes flashed at that. She couldn't help but notice that they never gleamed red when he was pleased with her, always white.

She reached for his shoulders. He caught her left hand halfway and regarded the emerald on her finger with an intense look. Then he released her hand, held her around the waist, and slid his length into her.

She almost came then and there. It had been quite a while since he had just—say it, she thought, he used the word himself at last, however reluctantly—made love to her, and it was a wonderful feeling to just be joined with him. No games, no "release of frustrations," nothing but the two of them. She was glad that he still wanted to do it this way sometimes.

"Never let you go," he grunted. He stroked the side of her neck shakily. "Mine."

That, of course, she thought—but she could not dwell on it, because he was moving in her and his thoroughly appropriate ring was on her finger and it was, after all, true—and she liked that.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him in as deep as possible, as deep as he could go, then clenched around his cock. He groaned at the pressure and gripped her waist tighter, thrusting even harder. It created a delightful friction between them that seemed to spread waves of pleasure over her entire body.

Her breathing became short and choppy. She gasped for breath, rapidly approaching her peak. He noticed, his eyes flashing again, and responded with a deep push. She clenched her cunt around him and reached for his shoulders, gasping as she came. He followed soon after.

"Hermione," he gasped, collapsing gently onto her as he spent himself in her. She wrapped her arms around his back, holding him as he moved up and down in tandem with her heavy breathing.

They remained like that for a while, their breaths slowing to normal. At some point he eased himself off her and rested on his side. Wordlessly, he drew her form close in a possessive embrace.

This is all right, Hermione thought peacefully. This will be fine. I'll be fine.

"Delightful!" Slughorn crowed. He had not sat in his chair since they had stopped by his office and given him the news. "Just as I hoped—but I wasn't alone in that, eh, was I?" He winked at Tom and Hermione, who sat in two of the cushy armchairs in his well-appointed office. "I have to owl Barnabas… the Prophet will want to do a photo spread of you, there's so much interest."

"Everyone loves a happy ending?" Hermione said, her words strangely brittle. Tom shot her a quizzical look.

Slughorn did not notice her tone. "Indeed they do, Hermione." His face suddenly lit up, and he headed for a tall oak cabinet.

He was calling her by her given name, she observed. Just like he did with Tom, and would do—have done—with Harry in the future. I really am one of his all-time favorites now, she thought.

"This calls for a celebration!" Slughorn exclaimed, emerging from the cabinet with a bottle in hand. "Did you know that Beauxbatons has a vineyard? I'm not supposed to tell you," he said conspiratorially, setting the bottle of Cabernet down, "but it's true. Their elves have made it for generations, and all profits go to the school. I've suggested that Hogwarts should have a nice sideline of something, and then perhaps we could improve some of the décor and draftiness of this castle…. Anyhow." He uncorked the bottle and poured three glasses of the red wine. "A toast!"

Hermione sipped the wine lightly. It was very good, and she was not particularly surprised by Slughorn's exuberant reaction to their news, but she did not relish the idea of a Daily Prophet photograph session. It would be staged and fake, because no series of mass-published, sanitized photos could capture the reality of their "courtship"… such as it was.

Maybe if they took a picture of me "reading his diary," that might come close, she thought darkly, but he would never allow that.

She gazed across the short space between herself and Tom. He was drinking the wine with a satisfied look on his face. He wasn't apparently bothered by the thought of the coming spectacle. Of course, he dealt in lies as a matter of routine.

She forced a scowl off her face and returned to the excellent wine. It'll pass, she thought. This is just a temporary annoyance. The photo spread will run, and… probably a wedding spread later…. Her stomach curdled. No. The wizarding world would not own her wedding. There was absolutely no reason to invite reporters, and she wouldn't have it. It would be private and quiet, and she would put her foot down about it. Let them have their ritual sacrifice with this picture set, because they wouldn't get any more.

About a week later, a pair of owls dropped a heavy edition of the newspaper in front of Tom and Hermione at breakfast. She opened hers first, scowling, well aware of what it was. Slughorn had passed word to her from that horrid reporter Cuffe.

It was as bad as she had expected. Cuffe had arranged with the editors to give them the entire first two pages of the Social section. A series of posed, staged wizarding photographs greeted her.

They were embracing in the snow under lampposts at Hogsmeade, smiling sweetly. Hermione wanted to look away from the awed, adoring expression Cuffe's photographer had asked her to put on her face for one of those. In another photo, they were tossing snowballs at each other.

There was a picture of them sharing a pot of tea at Madam Puddifoot's—a place neither of them had visited once in all the time she had been here, until that point. There was also a photo of them having hot butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. Of course, it just wouldn't do for them to be photographed having Ogden's Old Firewhisky in the far corner of the Hog's Head, even though that was their preferred habitat in the village now and they were definitely of age.

Slughorn had suggested a picture of them in the Slytherin common room, cuddling in front of the hearth. Roaring flames and bright sparks crackled in that picture, which, Hermione supposed, was at least somewhat accurate as a snapshot of their relationship.

Hermione's gaze turned to another one that actually did bring a slight smile to her face. It showed them exchanging a couple of harmless spells in a friendly duel, making each other collapse, laughing, into snowdrifts on the grounds of Hogwarts. That too was an expurgated picture of reality.

"I suppose it could have been worse," she remarked, turning to the real news sections. "I was sure he was going to include that appalling 'stolen kiss behind the greenhouses' one—as if it could be a stolen kiss with a bloody reporter having it photographed."

"Even Sluggy disliked that," Tom agreed. He picked up the news section of the paper as well.

"I can't believe you are so… all right with this to-do," she suddenly burst out. "It's everything you dislike: facile, insipid…."

"Of course it is," he said. "It's done, though."

"This part is done," she said. "They'll want to do something similar for the wedding itself. I don't want that."

"Then say you want some privacy for it."

"I fully intend to, and I'm going to make it stick." She scowled. "If I have no say in anything else, the day at least will be on my terms."

"What?" Tom said sharply. He set down the paper.

"Forget it. It was nothing."

He took her by the shoulder. "No, it wasn't 'nothing.' What do you mean?" His stare was hard. "Are you unhappy?"

"Obviously. I dislike all this attention."

"Is that really it?"

Hermione tried to avoid his gaze.

"Look at me, Hermione."

Reluctantly she met his eyes. "That's what has provoked this, but… it's not all," she admitted. "I just thought my life would turn out differently. I wanted to work in the Ministry."

"You really want me for your boss?"

"…No," she admitted. "It wouldn't be a good idea."

"There are other things you could do. You could start your own organization. I wouldn't expect you to be a meek housewitch. In fact, that would be a disappointment."

She managed a faint smile at that.

"We're fine, then?" he asked, slipping his arm around her waist.

"We're fine," she said quietly. "I shouldn't have said that. It isn't true." She leaned into him and fingered her emerald.

It wasn't entirely correct that they were "fine," she thought. The biggest issue, in fact, was one she did not want to discuss with him in a public place—or, for that matter, at all, because she knew it would go nowhere. Nowhere pleasant, at least, because he would not understand her conflict. She still felt heavy and drained at the prospect of averting her eyes from things he would do that were dark and ruthless—but not dark and ruthless enough to justify repudiating him. What would it do to her over the years for her burden of dark secrets to grow ever heavier? Morality was rarely crystal clear, she knew, and it was possible to argue that the worse offense of the two would be to betray his secrets and give up on him. But how much was too much now? She was already keeping secrets for him that would have utterly appalled her moral sensibilities—that would have been unthinkable—a year ago.

Well, at least he can't do anything darker than he's already done. I'm already keeping the worst secret he could give me.

Somehow that thought did not comfort her.

She found that they spent increasing amounts of time in the evenings in the Slytherin common room. In part, she supposed it was to keep up appearances; it might raise uncomfortable questions if there were long stretches of time that no one could account for the whereabouts of the school's most famous students. And she was aware that Lestrange, at least, seemed to know that she spent time on the seventh floor. He might not be able to get into the Room of Requirement, but that was still an uncomfortable degree of knowledge. She also knew that Tom was trying to cement the loyalty of his four "vassals" as well as he could.

He still escorted her to the Room of Requirement, whether he spent the night there or not. The gesture touched her, since she knew it would be quite a long walk back if he did not stay the night. That was the case one night in late winter. He did part with a very intense kiss, leaving her lips heated and swollen, but he could not stay this time. He had prefect duties, annoyingly.

The door to the Room of Requirement materialized in the wall behind her as he left. She opened it, slipped in, and shut it at once. For some reason, she felt uneasy tonight. It was not just that Tom was not in the room with her. She could not explain it.

Maybe it's him, she thought suddenly. He's going to be wandering the halls until curfew. I'm the one who's safe.

That idea made her want to laugh. If there was anyone who could take care of himself, it was Tom.

But the Elder Wand….

That changed her mind. That wand had already influenced him into doing—or almost doing—two very foolish and potentially destructive things. Perhaps it had exhausted its repertoire and perhaps it hadn't.

Hermione moved back to the door and prepared to go outside—when she heard muffled voices.

"I need to see what Riddle sees."

Hermione stopped cold, her hand on the knob.

"No good," another voice muttered. This person conferred briefly with the other person, but Hermione could not make out what they were saying.

"I need to see what Green sees," the first voice tried.

It is not possible, Hermione thought in alarm. It's just not. This is a Fidelius-protected Secret. She pressed her ear against the door, then thought better of it. If Lestrange and Nott—and she had no doubt that these were their voices—did somehow manage to get in, she would be vulnerable. She backed away and drew her wand, breathing heavily.

"It's not going to work," the second voice—Nott's—said.

Lestrange swore. "It's late anyway. We'd better call it a night before he sees we're not in the common room."

Go, Hermione thought, willing them to leave. She heard their footsteps fade, then collapsed against the door.

I'm safe, she told herself. They couldn't get in. People stood outside Grimmauld Place all day in 1997 when it was under Fidelius. It's fine. I'm fine.

End Notes: Remember, I'm going somewhere with this dissatisfaction.