To Rewrite a Dark Lord

by Salazars_Viper

Summary:

When Hermione Granger is thrust back in time, she never expects to end up face-to-face with the man who would become the most feared Dark Lord in history. But Tom Riddle is not yet Voldemort - not entirely. And what begins as a battle of wits becomes something far more dangerous. Far more intimate.

As the world darkens and war looms, Hermione must walk the knife's edge between morality and survival. She was never supposed to love him. And he was never supposed to love anyone. But love changes things. Love changes everything.

A slow burn, morally grey, time travel romance where fate, prophecy, and power collide. Enemies to lovers. Lovers to soulmates. Soulmates to a rewritten future.

Featuring:

- An obsessive, brilliant Tom Riddle on the brink of damnation.
- A defiant, powerful Hermione Granger who refuses to be broken.
- Political intrigue, dark magic, redemption arcs, and impossible choices.
- And one small boy who changes everything.

He was meant to conquer the world. She was meant to stop him. Instead, they chose each other.

Chapter 1: Tom Riddle

She was running.

No -- she was screaming.

The castle groaned around her like a dying creature, stone lungs choking on smoke and blood. Somewhere behind her, a child shrieked. Somewhere ahead, someone was calling her name.

"Hermione -- HERMIONE!"

But she didn't turn.

She couldn't turn.

The Dark Lord stood at the end of the corridor, framed in the ragged glow of shattered torchlight, his wand already raised, his face inhuman and calm. And Harry -- Harry was crumpled behind her, half-conscious, bleeding from a jagged wound above his brow, his glasses gone, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.

Time fractured.

Everything slowed.

Hermione's wand was already out, her body moving before her mind could catch up.

"Protego Maxima!"

The shield exploded between them, brilliant and blue, just as Voldermort's killing curse cracked across the hall. The green light struck the barrier and rippled outwards like water smashing against glass. The floor trembled beneath her boots. Her own magic shuddered inside her bones, strained to its edge.

But the shield -- her shield -- held.

For a heartbeat.

Just one.

Then the world tore apart.

A soundless scream ripped from her throat as the spell backlashed through her, more ancient than any charm she'd ever read, soaked in a darkness that wasn't Voldemort's but something older, deeper. It hit her spine like ice and fire together, her magic tearing free from her chest and throat in a flash of white-hot agony.

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't move.

And then --

Nothing.

~

She fell through darkness.

Not the kind born of sleep, or death, or dream -- but of magic. Endless, echoing, unfamiliar magic. There was no sky, no ground, no self. Only pressure, and heat, and a low thrumming sound like a heartbeat that wasn't hers.

Hermione tried to scream, but no sound came.

She tried to claw upward -- wherever that was -- but her limbs wouldn't obey her. Her body felt like it was splintering apart, scattering into pieces across timelines, across spells, across memory.

Harry.

Where was Harry?

What had she done?

She'd cast a shield, but it wasn't right. She'd tried to protect him -- but something went wrong.

So horribly, impossibly, unforgivably wring.

~

Then, like a curtain being drawn back --

Light.

Cold.

Stone.

And pain.

Her spine hit something hard. Her breath returned all at once in a violent gasp, and her body convulsed on cool flagstone. Her magic was a broken instrument, still ringing from dissonance. She coughed, rolled, and vomited bile beside her elbow.

The world stank of salt, blood, and something old -- too old.

A voice spoke, cool and amused and entirely unfamiliar.

"Well," it said, silk wrapping around iron. "That was dramatic."

Hermione's vision blurred, but she forced herself up onto on elbow, if only for a minute.

A pair of polished black boots stepped into view.

Then dark trousers.

A long black coat, open at the hem, swirling slightly in the cool breeze.

And finally -- his face.

Too symmetrical.

Too still.

Young, and yet ancient.

Dark eyes burning with cruel intelligence.

Tom Riddle stared down at her, head tilted slightly, wand held loosely in his right hand.

"You're not from here," he said softly.

He crouched.

"And I do think I'm going to enjoy finding out where you belong."

*

She tried to speak.

Tried to scream.

Tried to summon her magic.

But all that came was black.

She woke in silence.

No sounds of war. No screams. No spells. Just the soft ticking of a clock and the faint rustle of firelight moving over stone walls.

Hermione's eyes snapped open.

The ceiling above her was high, carved from old stone and covered in curling, faded frescoes -- celestial figures drawn in shifting constellations. Deep green velvet curtains hung from silver rails. The bed beneath her was far too soft. The pillow cradled her skull with unnatural gentleness. Her robes had been changed -- clean linen now covered her body.

She sat up too fast.

The room tilted, swam, narrowed.

She swallowed down nausea and forced herself upright.

An infirmary, she thought.

But not Hogwarts.

Too cold. Too quiet. Too clinical.

Her eyes darted across the space: six beds, neatly made. Silver trays holding tinctures and flasks. A glass cabinet glimmering with potions she didn't recognise -- some labeled in English, some in Latin, and others in runes so old they made her magic hum in discomfort just from looking at them.

Her wand -- gone.

Her heart pounded.

She threw the blanket off and tried to stand, but her knees gave beneath her like soaked parchment. She collapsed onto the floor with a gasp.

"Homenum Revelio," she whispered, desperate.

The spell barely sparked in her palm.

Her magic... It felt fractured. Frayed at the edges like rope rubbed raw. Her connection to it wasn't gone -- but it was loose, skittering.

She crawled towards the nearest wall, using a carved pillar to haul herself up. There were no windows. No doors she could see. The fire crackled gently, uncaring. She stumbled forward, one barefoot step at a time, until she reached the far end of the room and pressed her hand to the stone.

Solid.

Ward-heavy.

Woven through with something ancient.

Not Hogwarts. Not the Burrow. Not any hospital she knew.

Hermione closed her eyes.

The last thing she remembered -- Harry. Bleeding. Screaming. Voldemort's voice in the air like smoke. A curse. Then --

Him.

The man.

That face.

Too human. Too handsome. Too wrong.

Tom Riddle.

Only not... Not quite.

Younger than she remembered from photographs. Not the twisted creature Harry had fought. Not yet. He had looked almost... Real.

You're not from here, he'd said.

She clenched her fists.

"Where is here?" She whispered aloud, her voice hoarse and raw.

 

A sound behind her.

Not footsteps.

A shift in the air.

She turned sharply -- and there, standing on the other side of a translucent, warded archway, was the man from her dream.

Real now.

Not Voldemort. Not exactly.

But him. Before the transformation. Before the nose. Before the madness.

He was beautiful in the way knives could be beautiful -- elegant and sharp and built for blood.

Black robes. High collar. A silver ring on his left hand, catching the firelight.

He didn't speak.

Just looked at her.

And smiled.

Hermione's breath caught.

"You," she said.

Tom Riddle stepped forward, the ward between them glowing briefly in response to his presence. His eyes swept over her -- calculating, amused, utterly unthreatened.

"I was hoping you'd wake soon," he said.

His voice was velvet over steel. Effortless. Dangerous.

"I have questions."

She squared her shoulders, the tremble in her legs hidden by sheer force of will.

"That's nice for you, I have no answers."

His smile widened.

"Oh, sweet girl," he said, savouring the words from his lips, rolling his tongue like she was a sweet he intended to devour, "you will."

When he returned to her moments later, he carried a small silver tray -- two crystal glasses and a decanter of something dark and gleaming. He set it on the table with care, like a host preparing for a conversation he'd been anticipating for years.

Then he stepped towards the boundary and folded his hands behind his back.

"Let's begin," he said.

Hermione tensed, her chin lifting defiantly. "I don't owe you anything."

His smile sharpened.

"Oh, but you do. You fell into my world. Into my manor. Through wards older than the Ministry and stronger than your will." His voice lowered, silk pulled taut. "And I'm afraid that makes you my problem."

He let that settle, let the silence stretch just long enough to make her skin prickle.

Then:

"Let's start with your name," he murmured.
A command wrapped in velvet.

She hesitated.

He arched a brow. "Don't bother lying. The wards told me you were not only displaced in space, but in time. They recognised magic years beyond their creation. They reacted. They screamed." His eyes gleamed. "As did you."

Her breath hitched.

He stepped closer, just shy of the invisible barrier.

"I already know you're from the future," he continued, his voice soft but no less slicing. "The wards detect any temporal disturbance. They alerted me the moment you arrived."

Hermione's pulse thundered.

"You're lying," she whispered.

He smiled gently, like she'd said something adorable.

"I do not lie, pet."

The pet name from his voice felt like a hand closing around her wrist -- delicate, firm, possessive.

She swallowed.

He tilted his head, studying her with that predatory stillness that made her feel as though he could read her thoughts simply by observing the shape of her breath.

"Why are you here?" He asked. "Who sent you? Which faction do you serve? And why --" he stepped even closer, so close she could see the faint, impossible glow of his pupils -- "did time itself vomit you into my arms?"

He let the question bloom into the air, spreading like poison.

Hermione forced herself to speak. "No one sent me. I don't serve you. And I won't answer anything."

He exhaled a soft laugh.
Unthreatened.
Amused.
A man who believed himself inevitable.

"That's disappointing," he murmured. "Truly." He tapped one finger against the ward, and the barrier pulsed like a heartbeat. "Because if you lie -- beautiful girl, if you even try -- I will peel the truth from your mind."

Hermione flinched.

He watched it.
Savoured it.

"And I promise you," he said, his voice dropping into a low purr, "that is nowhere near as pleasant as simply telling me."

A long silence.

His eyes never left hers.

Finally, Hermione whispered, "My name is Hermione Granger."

Tom Riddle's smile spread slowly, triumph blooming like a bruise.

"There now," he said softly. "We're already making such lovely progress."

He turned from the ward, as if expecting her to follow him despite knowing she couldn't.

"And Hermione," he added over his shoulder, "don't try to escape. The manor doesn't like to be disobeyed."

The ward flickered -- and swallowed him back into the shadows.

*

Time passed differently in the manor.

The fire never waned. The torches burned cold and low. There was no natural light, no windows, no clocks save the slow tick of something magical behind the walls.

Hermione had no idea how long she'd stood there, trembling with fury, eyes fixed on the empty archway Tom Riddle had vanished through.

But when the door shimmered open again, it wasn't him.

A woman entered -- young, composed, graceful. Cool grey robes and braided black hair. Her hands were soft, practiced. Her wand held low in a defensive grip, though her gaze was clinical rather than cruel.

Hermione watched her closely as she approached.

A thin snake coiled and shimmered along the woman's forearm. It moved when she moved. Not a tattoo. A mark. One she was intimately familiar with by now.

The Dark Mark.

Hermione didn't flinch.

Not when she saw it.
Not when the woman's wand pulsed with diagnostic magic.
Not even when the woman gently touched her wrist and murmured, "you're severely magically destabilised."

The woman's eyes flicked in mild surprise. "You aren't afraid."

Hermione said nothing.

The healer's lips curled faintly -- not cruel, not warm either. Merely intrigued. "That will either make you his favourite pet," she said, "or his greatest mistake."

Before Hermione could respond, the doorway shimmered again.

Tom Riddle entered in silence, wearing the same high-collared coat and timeless composure. A fresh robe of inky green hung from one hand, draped over his arm like a gift. His expression flickered as his eyes swept over the two women -- first Hermione, then the healer.

"She's brave, this one," he noted to no one in particular.

"Yes," the woman replied calmly, continuing her scan. "No sign of acute trauma, but her core is... Volatile. Nearly shredded. She should be unconscious still."

Tom stepped closer, looking down at Hermione with something near to admiration.

"She's not like anyone we've met before," he said quietly. Then to Hermione, "Isn't that right?"

Hermione ignored him.

The healer finished her scan and turned to him. "She needs rest, fluids, focused core-stabilisation. I'd recommend limiting wand use for at least --"

"She doesn't have her wand," Tom said. "I do."

The healer paused. Nodded. "Then she'll survive. For now."

She swept past him, offering Hermione one last unreadable look before she disappeared.

Silence returned.

Tom didn't move.

Hermione finally spoke. "What is this place?"

He cocked his head. "And here I thought I was the one asking the interesting questions."

Her jaw tensed.

He stepped closer, holding out the robe. She didn't take it.

"You're in Riddle Manor," he said softly. "HIdden deep in Wiltshire. Protected by blood, by ritual, and by spell craft no Ministry ward-breaker could ever comprehend."

"Never heard of it," Hermione muttered.

His smile curled. "Good."

He moved around her slowly, studying her from all angles. Like a puzzle. Like a priceless artifact he couldn't believe he'd uncovered.

"You fell into this place," he said. "Not a hospital. Not Diagon Alley. Not a battlefield." He turned towards her fully now. "You arrived here. Past my ward lines. Into my home."

Hermione felt it before he said it -- the gravity of his voice. The inevitability.

"Which got me thinking... The spell that hit you was mine," he said simply. "My creation. My magic."

Her stomach dropped.

"I very much doubt I was aiming for you," he admitted. "But clearly... The spell found you anyway. The only thing I cannot fathom... Is under what circumstance."

He was closer now, close enough that she could smell winger herbs and old parchment clinging to his robes.

"I build curses like that for chaos," he murmured. "To tear through layered protections. To destabilise the core of any witch or wizard strong enough or foolish enough to threaten me. But I doubt that I would have accounted for... This."

Hermione said nothing.

He reached out -- slowly -- and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. Not tenderly. Not cruelly. Just... Intimately.

"You shouldn't exist," he said softly. "Not here. Not now. Not like this."

Then he smiled, and the air in the room felt suddenly thinner.

"I wonder," he said, more to himself than to her, "what else I've already done that I haven't seen yet."

"I refuse to be your prisoner," Hermione said, dragging the robe from his hand and throwing it over her shoulders.

Tom merely smiled. Nodding in agreement with her.

She was too pale, too unsteady on her feet, but she pulled herself upright with stubborn fury, pacing across the infirmary like a lioness testing the bars of a cage.

He didn't stop her.

Of course he didn't.

He just stepped back, leaned against one of the carved pillars, and watched.

That was somehow worse.

"I said you need rest," he murmured, "not a dramatic collapse from a temper tantrum."

"I don't take orders," she snapped, circling to the opposite side of the room.

"No?" HIs voice was soft amusement. "Pity. I'll admit you're rather good at pretending I didn't just save your life."

She ignored him and stalked towards the far wall. She'd already tried it once, but now she pushed her hand flat to the cold stone and focused, trying to detect any imperfections in the warding -- anything that might offer a clue to where the magic was knotted or thin.

The wall didn't budge.

Of course it didn't.

But her magic reacted oddly. Buzzed. It disliked the surface. Her palm tingled, as if the stone didn't quite want her there.

Tom's voice drifted across the room.

"You won't get through."

She spun around. "You said I'm not your prisoner."

"You're not," he said easily. "You're my guest. A highly disruptive one, mind you. One I can't trust. One I didn't invite. One who refuses to answer my questions."

He stepped away from the pillar, pacing slowly towards her with maddening calm.

"But not a prisoner."

She narrowed her eyes.

He stopped three feet away, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe like she was a puzzle he intended to solve with time and patience alone.

"And yet," he added, "you remain here. In my home. Under my wards. Dependant on my healers. Without your wand."

Her stomach twisted. "Give it back."

His smile deepened, amused. "No."

Hermione gritted her teeth and turned away again, testing the edges of the chamber. The door wouldn't open. Her magic sparked and fizzled as if the wards were breathing beneath the surface of the walls -- alive, ancient, patient.

"Do you think you're the first person to resist me?" He asked, still behind her, his voice deceptively light. "You're not. But I admit -- none have made it quite so fascinating to watch."

She spun towards him again, fists clenched. "I'm not a game for your amusement."

"Of course you are," he said, and something in his voice dropped -- not playful now, but true. "Everything is. And you, Hermione granger, are the most fascinating and complicated board I've ever seen dropped into play."

He stepped toward her again.

She didn't retreat.

Even though her legs were shaking.

Even though her heart was galloping like hunted prey.

He stood toe to toe with her now, taller, calmer, more still than any person had the right to be.

And he studied her. Not like prey. Not like a threat.

Like a phenomenon.

"You keep defying me," he said softly. "Even knowing you have nothing. Even knowing you're alone. Even when your magic is barely holding together."

He tilted his head.

"Why?"

Hermione lifted her chin. "Because you don't frighten me."

He blinked once.

Then he smiled.

Slow.

Real.

Dark.

"That," he murmured, voice a thread of silk wrapping tight around her ribs, "is the most interesting lie I've heard in years."

Then he turned and walked away, his coat sweeping behind him like a shadow come unmoored.

The doorway shimmered open for him and closed without a sound.

Hermione stood frozen, heart pounding, lips parted.

And the room -- his room -- was quiet again.

Too quiet.

The moment he vanished, she collapsed.

It wasn't dramatic -- no gasp, no cry -- just a sudden buckling of knees, a stumble, her fingers splaying weakly against the wall before the world tilted sideways.

And she fell.

She didn't hit the floor.

Hands caught her before gravity did.

Cool, steady, absurdly strong.

She blinked up, dazed, only to find Tom Riddle crouched above her, one arm looped beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders. The man who had walked away just seconds ago now held her with a kind of frightening tenderness, as if she were breakable crystal.

"You stubborn, reckless thing," he murmured.

Hermione tried to speak. Failed.

"You're burning through what little magic you have left," he said, almost fondly. "It's remarkable you're conscious at all."

He rose with her in his arms like she weighed nothing. The movement was smooth, practiced. He didn't look at her as he carried her across the room, but she felt the tension in his shoulders. Controlled. Careful.

Not because he feared hurting her.

Because he didn't want to.

That scared her more than anything else.

He lowered her onto the bed with precise movements, adjusting the pillows with a flick of his wand, conjuring a fresh glass of water and setting it beside the table.

She watched him with half-lidded eyes, every muscle aching.

He brushed the back of his hand across her forehead -- clinical, cool -- and then let his fingers linger for too long.

"I warned you," he said, not unkindly.

Hermione gritted her teeth. "I'm not your doll."

"No," he agreed, straightening. "You're something far rarer."

She turned her face away, heart pounding.

He waited.

The silence stretched. The fire crackled. Somewhere, deep in the manor's belly, a ward shifted its weight like a sleeping beast.

Finally, he spoke again.

"I will return tomorrow," he said. "And the next day. And the next."

She looked up sharply.

His expression was unreadable. "Until I'm satisfied that your core is stable and your recovery complete."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not a healer."

He smiled. "No. Definitely not."

She glared.

He turned towards the door, his robes whispering across the stone floor.

But at the threshold, he paused.

"One more thing," he said over his shoulder. "If you behave yourself, perhaps I'll even let you leave the infirmary."

His eyes gleamed. "Eventually."

Then he was gone.

The door sealed behind him.

And Hermione, alone again in the quiet, stared up at the ceiling, fury in her throat and exhaustion in her bones.

She wouldn't give him what he wanted.

She wouldn't.

But her body had already betrayed her once today.

And Tom Riddle, she realized with a chill that sank straight into her bones, had caught her before she hit the ground.

Chapter 2: A Cage with Silk Ribbons

The quill scratched across the page with fluid precision, black ink soaking into parchment as if eager to obey.

Tom sat in the study at the heart of Riddle Manor -- candlelight flickering against rows of ancient tomes, runic maps, and spell work no one but he could decipher. The door was locked. The wards were sealed. The fire burned low, casting bronze across the floor. 

He wrote.

 

Entry one: Hermione Granger.

She arrived in magic of my making, though something I have yet to discover or invent it would seem. 

The curse was cast for destruction, not transport. It was designed to shred shields. Overwhelm cores. And yet, the spell folded through time like parchment through fire -- and she came through. 

A witch. 

No. A puzzle.

A gift.

She dropped into the infirmary like fate had tired of subtlety. Her body was broken. Her core splintered. Her magic screamed through my wards like music and static, and still -- still -- she looked at me and defied me. 

She should not have been able to speak. 

And yet, she stood. 

She moved.

She argued.

Remarkable.

 

Tom paused, turning the quill slowly between his fingers. The ink glistened at the nib. His mind returned to the image of her -- hair tangled from the fall, blood crusted at her lip, robes in tatters. And still she lifted her chin and told him she wasn't afraid. 

She lied.

But beautifully.

He dipped the quill again.

 

Notes:

- Height: approx. 5'5"

- Eyes: warm brown. Fierce.

- Magic: tangled. Responsive. Core damage -- severe. But still active.

- Knowledge: advanced. Too advanced. She hides it, but slips. Words she uses, turns of phrase, subtle hesitations when I test her with questions. 

- Origin: not just spatially displaced. Temporally. The wards confirmed it. She is from the future. My future.

 

He paused again.

His penmanship remained steady. His pulse did not.

But something in his chest stirred like hunger and storm. Hermione Granger had looked at the Dark Lord and refused to tremble. She had tried to run. She had insulted him. She had touched the edge of his wards and dared to challenge his dominion. 

She was foolish. 

But not stupid. 

And unlike so many others -- she was not awed by him. 

Not yet. 

He smiled. 

 

She will not tell me why she is here.

She will not tell me what she knows. 

She does not yet understand what it means to belong to me.

Let her defy me. 

Let her test the limits. 

Let her crawl from the bed tomorrow and pretend she is strong enough to stand. 

I'll be watching. 

And I'll let her. 

Because when she falls -- again -- i'll catch her.

Again. 

 

Tom closed the journal and pressed his wand to the cover. It sealed with a low click, laced with the same locking enchantments he used for ritual grimoires and artifact vaults.

He stood. 

The manor whispered to him as he left the study. 

Hermione Granger was still sleeping. 

But not for long. 

 

*

 

Hermione was up when he arrived. 

She always was now. 

The bed remained untouched, though the pillows has been fluffed by a house-elf she never saw and the linens changed every morning. She didn't ask how, she didn't thank anyone. She didn't sleep. 

Tom noticed that, too. 

He'd come every day for over a week -- always at the same time, always with the same calm expression and the same maddening questions. Sometimes he asked about her health. Sometimes about magic. Once, about love.

She never answered him properly. 

Today, she was pacing the far edge of the infirmary, barefoot, dressed in simple charcoal grey robes clearly transfigured from linen sheets, her curls a riot of unruly effort. Her cheeks were no longer as pale. Her lips no longer cracked. Her movements were steadier. 

She was healing.

Tom stepped through the shimmering threshold without ceremony, the wards parting for him like obedient shadows. In his hands he held a parcel -- deep green silk, folded and bound with a length of black ribbon. 

Hermione didn't stop pacing. 

"Another interrogation?" She asked without looking at him. 

"No." He set the parcel on the nearest table. "A gift."

She stopped then. 

Turned. 

Eyed him suspiciously. "You don't give gifts."

"I do," he said smoothly, "when I am pleased."

She snorted. 

His lips quirked. "You haven't tried to escape in three days. You haven't collapsed once this week. And you haven't threatened to kill me since Tuesday."

"Perhaps I'm evolving," she said dryly.

He tilted his head.

"You're recovering," he corrected. "Far faster than you should be, given the state of your core when you arrived. You're either resilient or dangerously reckless."

Hermione folded her arms. "Is this the part where you try to seduce me with compliments?"

"I don't seduce," Tom said simply. "I offer. People follow. Or they don't."

"And what exactly are you offering?"

He tapped the parcel lightly with one finger. 

"A change of robes," he said. "Clean. Tailored. In your size."

She waited. 

"And," he continued, "a chance to leave the infirmary."

Silence.

Hermione stared at him, measuring, uncertain.

"You mean... Leave the room?" She asked. 

"Yes."

"But not the manor."

He smiled, pleased. "You're learning."

She narrowed her eyes. "What's the price?"

"No price," he said, then added, "... Not today."

He gestured toward the parcel. "Put them on. You may walk with me in the Eastern wing. A house-elf will follow you everywhere else. Try to escape, and the manor will respond."

She said nothing.

Tom stepped closer, eyes gleaming. "Or you can stay here. Alone. In grey robes and old sheets. Spite is an option, if you prefer it."

She held his gaze.

"Accepting this... Gift, does not mean I am giving in." She said finally. 

"I know."

"I'm accepting because I too, want answers."

He stepped so close she could feel the heat of him beneath his perfect exterior. 

"Then dress," he murmured, voice dark and low. "And follow me."

The door opened for her. 

Not because she cast a spell -- she hadn't even lifted her wand less hand -- but because he was waiting. 

Tom Riddle stood just beyond the shimmering threshold, hands clasped behind his back, expression schooled into his usual mask of patience. 

But his eyes -- 

His eyes were not patient. 

They swept down her figure slowly, deliberately, then returned to her face with the kind of attention that might have made lesser women blush.

Hermione didn't blush.

She stepped through the door with her chin lifted and her spine unbent, even though her knees still ached faintly and her magic crackled too close to the surface. 

The robes fit perfectly. 

Of course they did. 

A dark forest green, high-collared, cinched at the waist with delicate black clasps. The sleeves flared slightly at the wrist, trailing just enough to hint at elegance without sacrificing movement. It was too formal for casual wear, too sensual for mourning, too soft to be armour. 

She looked like a sorceress. Like a queen in exile. 

And Tom... Was watching her like a man who had conjured her from dream and spell work and wasn't entirely convinces she hadn't come to life just to test him. 

His gaze lingered. 

And if she wasn't mistaken - he was leering. Just a little. 

"Very good," he said softly. 

"I'm not here to impress you."

"No," he agreed, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips, "but you've done it anyway."

She narrowed her eyes. 

He extended an arm. 

Hermione hesitated -- then walked past him instead. 

Not on his arm.

Not on his terms. 

His smirk deepened behind her back. 

 

They walked together through long, echoing halls carved of black-veined stone and polished wood. The manor was a strange shifting creature: ceilings too tall for any architectural logic, staircases that curved in half-circles before vanishing, corridors lined with portraits that watched but never spoke. 

Magic throbbed through the walls. 

Alive. Ancient. Listening. 

Tom said nothing for a time, letting her look. 

Letting her try to make sense of the place. 

Letting her feel the weight of what she'd stepped into. 

Then, with casual elegance, he spoke.

"How old are you, Hermione?"

"Old enough to know better," she replied without looking at him. 

He chuckled. 

"I ask because you don't move like a young girl. And you speak like someone who's seen war."

"I've seen worse than war."

"Oh?" He tilted his head, intrigued. "Do tell."

She didn't.

Instead she reached out to a silver-framed portrait of a woman in blood-red robes -- but before she could touch it, the painting hissed and blurred, its features shifting into a blank smear. 

"Clever," she murmured. "They hide from me."

"They don't know what you are," Tom said. "They don't like things they can't place."

"Smart portraits."

He gave her a look. "Most of them are my ancestors. I wouldn't go so far as to call them intelligent."

She didn't laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitched before she quickly replaced it with a frown. 

He noticed.

"Tell me," he said after a beat. "Do you remember the moment the curse struck you?"

Her steps slowed. Just slightly.

"I remember shielding someone," she said. "And then falling,"

"Through time," he said, watching her. "Into me."

"I wouldn't romanticize it."

He smiled fairly. "And yet you stand in my home. Wearing my robes. Walking beside me."

" Only because you won't let me leave. That... And I haven't figured out how to burn it down yet."

He laughed at that. 

Genuine. 

Low. Pleased.

Gods, he enjoyed her fire. 

It was his kind of fire -- controlled, sharp, forged in pain. 

"You know," he said, his voice a touch lower, "I didn't plan for you."

She glanced at him. 

"I believe that," she said. 

"But I'm rarely given gifts I didn't ask for," he continued, "and even more rarely do they turn out to be better than what I wanted."

She stopped walking. 

Turned to face him. 

He mirrored her stillness, hands behind his back once again, head slightly inclined. 

"You don't know a thing about me," she said. 

"I will," he replied. 

"And when you do?"

His smile was slow and certain. 

"I'll want to keep you anyway."

 

*

 

They had walked in silence for several turns of the east wing. Hermione counted three hallways, five portraits that refused to meet her eyes, and a single arched window that opened to a sky blanketed in low, grey clouds. 

Riddle Manor was vast and winding -- beautiful in that cold, austere way unique to places where love had long since withered and power took its place. 

Then they stopped at a door unlike the others. 

It wasn't marked. 

It didn't need to be. 

The moment Tom touched the handle, the air around it shifted -- wards pulling back like breath sucked into lungs. Hermione felt it deep in her magic: this place knows him. Answers to him. Respects him. 

The door opened without a sound. 

He stepped back, gesturing for her to enter. 

Hermione hesitated, then crossed the threshold -- cautiously, like an animal entering a trap it can see but not avoid. 

The room beyond was... Beautiful. 

Not lavish. Not excessive. But curated. Dark woods. Emerald velvet. Silver detailing. A carved four-poster bed dominated the centre, draped in charmed silk and shadow. The air smelled faintly of old pages and black tea and something deeper -- sandalwood and winter wind. 

She paused just inside, her brow furrowing. 

"This isn't a guest room, is it?"

"No," Tom said behind her, his tone calm. "It's not."

She turned sharply to face him. 

His hands were still behind his back, posture relaxed, eyes entirely fixed on her. 

"Then where --" she began, but he cut her off. 

"This is my suite."

Silence.

She stared at him. He didn't blink.

"You'll stay here," he said simply, as if offering her the weather report. "With me."

Hermione's throat went dry.

"No."

He raised a brow. "No?" As if the word was wholly alien to him. 

"I'm not sharing a bed with you."

"I never said you had to."

She narrowed her eyes. "Then why --"

"Because you are not a prisoner," he said, stepping further into the room, "but you are under my protection. And the safest place in this entire manor is here. With me. Beneath the wards keyed to my blood. In the rooms no one else can enter uninvited."

She crossed her arms. "You expect me to believe this is about safety?"

"No," he said. "I expect you to believe it's about possession."

Her stomach twisted. 

"You are mine, my love. From the moment my magic pulled you here. From the moment you survived it. I don't know how yet. I don't know why. But I know the truth when I see it."

"Don't call me that."

He stilled. 

Her voice was low, angry. "Don't call me my love."

There was a pause.

Then -- infuriatingly -- he smiled. 

"Why ever not?"

She glared. "Because I'm not yours."

"Oh," he said, stepping closer, until only a few inches separated them. "But you will be."

Her breath caught. 

He didn't touch her. 

He didn't need to. 

"This room is as much yours as it is mine now," he murmured, his voice velvet and menace. "Everything in it will answer to you -- except me."

She didn't move. 

"I'll sleep on the sofa if that makes you feel better," he added, with a flick of a glance towards the long settee near the fireplace. 

"I don't need your courtesy."

"You do," he said, eyes dark and endless. "You just don't like how much you want it."

Hermione turned away before she did something stupid - like slap him. Or worse kiss him. 

She walked deeper into the suite, refusing to give him another glance. 

Tom smiled. 

And allowed her to explore. 

Hermione didn't hear him follow. 

She felt him though. 

His presence moved like his magic -- quietly, confidently, with the gravitational pull of something much larger than the man himself. It pressed at her spine even when she refused to look. 

She kept her arms crossed, her back to him, as she walked the edge of the room -- assessing, calculating. One bed. One exit. Two windows. No broom, no Floo. No obvious enchantments on the carpet or drapes. 

But the magic in the walls pulsed softly, rhythmically. 

Like a heartbeat. 

Behind her, Tom exhaled. 

"Would you like to see your wardrobe?" He asked, as if she were a guest in some lavish country manor instead of the captive centrepiece of his fixation. 

"No," she snapped. 

He moved anyway, gliding across the room to a set of panelled doors near the corner. With a flick of his hand, the dark wood opened -- not outward, but inward, like the space had unfolded into something else entirely. 

The wardrobe wasn't a closet. 

It was a room. 

And inside... Silk. Satin. Velvet. Rich weaves in green and black and silver, embroidered in runes she didn't yet understand. Robes of every cut and shape. Boots. Gloves. Cloaks. Undergarments. 

Dozens of them. 

Tailored to her measurements. 

She stood at the threshold, staring. 

Her breath caught somewhere between rafe and unease. 

"You've... Been preparing this?" She said. 

"Mmm... Since you arrived here unexpectedly. I don't like improvising," Tom replied smoothly. 

"I am not your doll."

"No," he said. "But you could be my queen."

She turned to him sharply. 

He wasn't smiling. 

He wasn't even taunting her. 

He said it like it was fact. Like gravity. Like fate. 

She stepped back from the wardrobe and nearly collided with his chest. 

Tom caught her wrist before she could regain her balance -- not forcefully, not cruelly, just enough to steady her. 

He leaned in, his voice low against her ear. 

"I know you won't wear half of them,"  he murmured. "But I want you to know that you could. That you belong here. Whether you know it yet or not. You came here for a reason, Hermione. And everything here will bend to you, perhaps even me."

Hermione jerked back. "You're sick."

"Undoubtedly," he said, releasing her hand. 

She stepped past him, needing the distance, needing breath. 

But he wasn't finished. 

"There's more," he added, gesturing past the bed. 

She followed his movement -- and saw a second door. Carved, gilded faintly in silver. She opened it slowly and found herself stepping into what could only be described as a private bath suite. 

Black marble floors. 

A massive sunken tub enchanted with soft mist curling at its surface. 

A glass shelf of oils, soaps, and salves -- all labeled in delicate script. 

She touched the basin, half-expecting it to bite. 

Tom leaned against the doorway. 

"Every evening, the bath will draw itself. Hot. Fresh. You can change the scent if you like. I had them select blends of mint, lavender, sandalwood --"

"You act like I'm staying here by choice," she snapped. 

"You act like that would be impossible."

That shut her up. 

The silence between them stretched taut. 

Then -- so casually she almost missed it -- he reached into his robes and drew out a small box. Velvet. Midnight blue. 

He held it out. 

Hermione didn't take it. 

"What now?"

"A gift," he said simply. "Not enchanted or cursed, don't worry. Just... Something lovely."

He set it down on the marble edge of the tub and stepped away. 

She waited until he left the doorway. 

Only then did she open it. 

Inside: a necklace. Silver, fine as thread, with a single green stone suspended like a drop of moonlight. 

She stared at it. 

She hated how beautiful it was. 

She hated even more that a small, traitorous part of her wanted to wear it just to spite him -- to say: you can't make me yours just by giving me beautiful things and forcing proximity. 

And yet, the chain glinted. 

Almost as if it knew. 

 

The door to the bath suite opened with a whisper of silk and steam. 

Hermione stepped out barefoot, the velvet box clenched tight in one hand. Her damp curls clung to her shoulders, and the green robes moved around her like shadows given shape. 

Tom was waiting. 

Of course he was. 

He sat near the fireplace now, in an armchair upholstered in emerald brocade. A drink in hand. One leg crossed over the other. Relaxed. Expectant. 

Eyes already on her. 

They always were. 

He didn't speak at first, only let his gaze drop to the box in her hand, then return to her face with a faint smirk. 

"You opened it," he said. 

"I didn't say I would wear it."

"I didn't say you had to, it's a gift."

Their eyes locked. 

And then --

Crack.

A house-elf appeared beside her the fireplace, trembling only slightly under Tom's presence. It bowed low and squeaked out:

"My Lord -- your guests have arrived. They await you in the East Hall."

Hermione stiffened. 

"Guests?" she repeated, suspicious. 

Tom set his glass down with a click and rose to his feet in one smooth movement. 

"Mmm," he hummed, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve of his robe. "I already had plans tonight, you see. Before your unexpected arrival. Naturally, you are now part of those plans."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," he said, stepping closer, "it's just dinner. No need to fret."

He reached out, not touching her, but brushing a single finger along the edge of the velvet box in her hand. 

"Nothing untoward."

Her jaw clenched. "I don't believe you."

He smiled. 

"Usually, I would call you wise not to."

She stepped back slightly. "Who are they?"

"Friends of mine," he said smoothly. "Followers, to some. Allies, to others. People whose trust I've earned over years. Powerful, useful people."

"And you want me... What? To sit beside you and smile while they all wonder who I am?"

"Oh, they won't wonder," he said, his voice slipping into something softer. Darker. "They'll know exactly who you are the moment they see you. Mine."

Hermione swallowed.

He offered his arm.

"I'd like you to accompany me," he said, almost gently. "As my date."

"Not your prisoner, then?" She muttered. 

"No," he agreed. "My guest. My queen."

"I'm not --"

"Come," he said, voice cool and coaxing. "I'd like them to see what I've been keeping behind closed doors."

Hermione stared at his arm. 

She thought of the necklace still in the box. 

She thought of the stares. The whispering. Of Death Eater's eyes scrutinising her. Smiling at her. Watching her like prey. 

She lifted her chin. 

"I assume I do not have a choice."

Tom didn't react. Not visibly. 

But something gleamed behind his eyes. Pleased. Possessive. Wicked. 

He lowered his arm and gestured toward the wardrobe. 

"You'll need something... Sharper," he said. "I suggest the black silk."

Then he turned and left her with the scent of cedar, old magic, and the unmistakable feeling that whatever this dinner was -- it wasn't just for show., 

It was a presentation. 

And she was the centrepiece.

 

Chapter 3: Dressed in Spite and Silk

The black silk was waiting for her. 

She stood before the open wardrobe, the robes nearly humming with enchantment, the fabric whispering across its own folds as though it knew it was about to be chosen. 

It wasn't modest. 

It wasn't safe. 

It was devastating.

Long sleeves. Fitted waist. A neckline that dipped just low enough to make a statement and high enough to make one wonder what she was hiding. The hem grazed the floor, but the slit along her left leg ran scandalously high. A robe designed not to bed for attention -- but to command it. 

And the necklace?

She looked at it again -- silver and green, innocent and damning all at once. 

She didn't wear it because Tom had given it to her. 

She wore it because she could. 

Because if she walked into a den of monsters, she'd rather look like a goddess than a prisoner. Let them whisper. Let them wonder. 

Let them know she didn't flinch. 

She dressed slowly, methodically, arms trembling only once when the fabric settled over her shoulders like a second skin. She pinned her curls back from her face in elegant twists, leaving a few strands loose -- not for softness, but control. 

Then she looked in the mirror. 

Hermione Granger, war hero. 

Hermione Granger, time-lost. 

Hermione Granger, armoured in spite. 

She didn't recognise the woman staring back. 

But that woman could walk beside the Dark Lord and not look small. 

So she did. 

 

Tom was waiting in the corridor, turned partially away from the door, his hands folded behind his back. 

When the door opened, he turned. 

And saw her. 

And he smiled.

It wasn't a smirk. 

It wasn't cruel. 

It was slow, sharp, and genuine -- a moment of silent, burning approval. 

And it disgusted her. 

He stepped forward, and for a moment she swore he was speechless.

Then his eyes dragged slowly from her feet to her face, and he let out a soft, deliberate exhale. 

"Delicious," he murmured.

Her shoulders stiffened. 

"My love."

Her expression froze. And hardened.

He stepped closer. "You wore the necklace."

"Don't make it something it's not," she said coldly. 

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said, though his eyes told another story entirely. 

She walked past him without taking his arm. 

He didn't stop her. 

But when she passed, he fell into step beside her and offered only one, silken word:

"Perfect."

The closer they came to the East Hall, the more Hermione's pulse began to rise. 

She could hear the low murmur of voices now, the clinking of glass, the deep velvety notes of chamber music charmed into the rafters. Laughter -- cold, sharp, familiar -- bounced faintly down the corridor.

Bellatrix. 

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. 

The black silk moved like water with each step. The necklace kissed her throat. Her heels echoed over the marble floors, each one harder to take than the last. 

She hated that her body betrayed her. 

Hated that her spine stiffened. 

That her breath shortened. 

That she felt like she was walking into a battlefield without a wand. 

Just as the great doors of the East Hall came into view -- tall, ornate, framed in cold iron and onyx -- Tom stopped. 

Hermione startled when his hand gently reached for her elbow. 

Not hard. Not forcing. 

Just stopping her. 

She turned towards him, her brows drawn in confusion. 

He looked down at her with an expression not unlike the one he wore when handling volatile spells -- admiration, calculation, control.

"I want to make something very clear before we enter," he said softly. 

His voice was calm. Quiet. But the magic beneath it prickled against her skin like storm-charged air. 

"I do no share," he said. 

She frowned. 

"You don't --"

"You may speak with them," he interrupted, "you may even amuse yourself at their expense, but know this: if anyone so much as looks at you with disrespect, I will cut them out of my inner circle before the wine reaches the table."

Hermione swallowed. 

His eyes did not blink.

"I command the room, Hermione. Always. And tonight, whether you accept it or not, you are mine."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he took one small step closer -- close enough for her to feel the warmth beneath his robes, to see the rawness glittering behind his mask. 

"I will not allow insults," he continued, voice low and deliberate. "Not to myself. And now, not to you."

She hesitated. 

Something in her rebelled instantly. The rules. The possessiveness. The mine of it all. 

But another part -- the part that had felt exposed and in his control since she arrived -- shivered at the shield in his words. 

She didn't want to admit it. Not even to herself. 

But some part of her... Felt preposterously safer.

Not safe. 

Never that. 

But seen. 

And defended. 

Tom extended his arm again.  

Silent.

Expectant.

This time, she hesitated only a heartbeat before taking it. 

Not because he told her to. 

Not because she agreed. 

But because she'd rather walk into the lion's den standing tall than let him see her falter.

His satisfaction was immediate. 

He smiled down at her, and though his expression remained composed, the way he laid his gloves hand over hers felt like a brand of its own. 

"Good girl," he murmured. 

Hermione tensed. 

But she didn't let go. 

 

The great doors to the East Hall creaked open on a hush of enchanted hinges. 

Hermione felt it immediately -- the shift in atmosphere, the hush that rolled across the room like smoke. It wasn't silence. It was calculation. Respect. 

Every eye turned. 

She kept her chin high, spine straight, fingers curled carefully around Tom's arm. She refused to grip it. Refused to cling. He was not her protector. This was not her surrender.

But the moment they stepped over the threshold, she understood what he meant when he said: I command the room.

Because he did. 

Conversation halted. 

The music slowed. 

And the expressions of those gathered -- a handful of the most dangerous people alive -- twisted with something between surprise, suspicion, and thinly veiled curiosity. 

The dining hall was long, dark, and decadent -- silver chandeliers overhead, green flame sconces flickering along the walls, and a polished black table stretching down the centre like a river of shadow. 

At the far end, six guests sat or stood in various states of languid grace. 

Hermione knew them all. 

But in this time, they did not know her. Not yet. 

Bellatrix stood first. 

She was dressed in deepest plum, her wild curls pinned back with silver combs, her lips painted red like blood just spilled. Her gaze snapped toward Hermione and held. Sharp. Jealous. Already calculating. Her eyes flicked to Tom, and then back. 

She smiled. 

Like a blade unsheathed. 

"My, my," Bella purred. "Tom, you didn't say you were bringing dessert."

Hermione didn't flinch. 

At Bella's side, Rodolphus Lestrange leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the back lazily. His gaze swept over Hermione like he was already imagining how she'd taste. 

He smiled slowly. 

Predatorially. 

And Hermione's skin crawled. 

"Is she the reason you've locked yourself away these past weeks?" Rodolphus drawled. "I must say, worth it."

Tom didn't respond. 

He didn't have to. 

A pulse of magic rolled off of him -- subtle but biting, like the air itself disagreed with Rodolphus's tone. 

The leer stayed on the man's face, but he said nothing more. 

Barty Crouch Jr. stood behind his chair, wine glass half-lifted, eyes glittering with a kind of manic amusement. He offered Hermione a shallow bow. 

"Charmed," he said smoothly. "And surprised. No one said our Lord had acquired... A companion."

"Is that what I am now?" Hermione muttered. 

Tom smirked beside her. 

Seated near the centre of the table, Narcissa Malfoy turned her head with queenly grace. Pale, regal, unreadable -- her expression betrayed nothing. But Hermione caught it. The flicker. The smallest arch of a brow. A woman who saw everything and said nothing -- not until it mattered.

At her side Lucius offered a polite nod, eyes cold and appraising. He gave Hermione the same expression he gave rare magical artifacts: cautious interest, edged with disdain. 

And finally -- 

Severus Snape, seated in the darkest corner, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His expression was unreadable. His eyes sharp. He said nothing. He didn't need to. 

He was watching. 

Tom led Hermione forward. 

The hem of her robe whispered over the floor, her pulse thudding loudly in her ears. The necklace sat heavy against her throat. 

"Everyone," Tom said calmly, "permit me to introduce, miss Hermione."

He didn't say Granger. He didn't say guest. 

He let the name stand. 

Alone. 

Powerful.

"She'll be joining us from now on," he added. 

No one spoke. 

Bella's smile curled wider. "How... delicious."

Hermione let go of Tom's arm. 

And took her seat beside him like a queen descending a throne. 

 

The clink of crystal and silver rang through the East Hall like the only law left in the world was etiquette. 

Candles floated above the long black table, flames flickering green-blue, casting shadows across faces already shaped by secrets. Goblets refilled themselves. Plates gleamed with charmed warmth. Nothing smelled of blood, but everything tasted like danger. 

Tom sat at the head, impossibly composed, and Hermione sat at his right. 

It was a message. 

Not at the foot. 

Not off to the side. 

Not at the far end, like a pet or a pawn or a possession. 

At his side. 

Equal in proximity. 

If not yet in power. 

But that distinction blurred with each passing second. 

Because Hermione Granger was not docile. 

She was not quiet. 

And she would not yield. 

Not even here. 

 

"So," Bellatrix said sweetly, swirling wine in her glass as she leaned forward, cleavage pressed purposefully above the rim of her bodice, "tell me, darling, how does one find themselves curled up beside the Dark Lord these days? Is it skill? Or is it just luck?"

Hermione turned her head slowly. 

Their eyes locked. 

"I imagine it's the same way you stay beside him," Hermione said, voice velvet-edged. "By surviving the night."

The table went still. 

Barty let out a slow, impressed whistle. 

Lucius smirked behind his wine. 

Narcissa's fingers twitched -- amusement, maybe.

Tom... Said nothing. 

But his smile deepened. His fingertips tapped the armrest of his chair once, like a slow heartbeat. 

Bella's red lips curled. 

"My, my," she breathed. "She's got claws."

Hermione picked up her goblet. "Best not to test them, Bella."

Rodolphus chuckled at his wife's clear frustration before leaning forward, his eyes gleaming far too brightly. 

"And tell me, lovely girl," he said, "when he's done with you, would you consider --"

He didn't finish his sentence.

Because the room went cold. 

Not loud. 

Not violent.

Just... Still. 

The kind of still that made the hair on Hermione's arms rise. The kind that made the shadows lengthen against the walls. The kind that sucked the warmth out of the air like a dying star. 

Tom didn't move. 

Not right away. 

But when he did, it was with such quiet lethality that even Bella's smile faltered. 

"I believe," he said, voice low and soft as death, "I made myself clear to you earlier."

Rodolophus blinked. "Tom, it was only --"

A flick of Tom's wand. 

No spell spoken. 

And Rodolphus was yanked from his chair by the throat. 

Not by hands. 

Not by force. 

But by magic that shimmered like liquid glass, silent and suffocating, wrapping around him like a vice. 

Rodolphus choked, his feet barely touching the floor. 

Tom didn't even stand.

"I have told you before," he said again, quietly. "I do not tolerate disrespect."

The silence was deafening. 

Then --

Another flick of his wand. 

Rodolphus dropped. 

He crumpled to the floor gasping, his face a sickly shade of red, his hands clutching his neck. 

"Sit," Tom said coldly. "And stay silent."

Rodolphus obeyed. 

Of course he did. 

No one else spoke. 

Not for a full minute. 

Tom reached for his wine, sipped it calmly, then turned to Hermione with something unsettlingly close to warmth. 

"Apologies, my dear," he said. "Some of my guests forget their manners."

Hermione met his gaze. 

Cool. Unbroken. Measured. 

"Then perhaps you need better friends."

Tom smiled. 

He had never been more enthralled in his life. 

 

The plates had cleared themselves. 

The wine flowed freely. 

And now... The music began. 

Soft, elegant, threaded with old-world charm. Violins, cellos, a harpsichord woven beneath them. Not charmed to play -- Tom conjured it himself. A flick of his wrist. A thought. A pulse of silent magic. 

The floor near the hearth shimmered and cleared, the long table sliding subtly back to make space. 

The message was clear. 

The performance was about to begin. 

Bella was first to rise. 

Of course she was. 

She glided towards him with the lazy, sensual confidence of a woman who believed herself irresistible. One gloved hand extended, the other pressed over her heart. 

"May I have this dance?" She asked, her voice a purr. 

Tom didn't even look at her. 

He was already rising. 

But not for her. 

He turned to Hermione. 

All eyes shifted. 

Tom extended his hand, and in that dark, decadent room filled with war criminals, murdered, and serpents in silk, he said in a voice low and intimate. 

"Hermione, my love... Won't you do me the honour?"

A pause. 

A heartbeat. 

Hermione's fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. Her pulse pounded against the necklace at her throat. Every eye in the room burned. Bella's mouth was frozen in a half-formed pout of disbelief. 

She knew better than to refuse. 

But that didn't mean she had to enjoy it. 

Hermione rose slowly, every movement deliberate, the silk of her dress hissing softly over her thighs. She set the goblet down with a click. Then placed her hand in his without a word. 

Tom smiled like a man handed the final piece of a centuries-old puzzle. 

 

The music swelled. 

And they moved. 

At first, she was stiff. Controlled. Distant. 

But as they turned, her hips began to shift with the music, her footfalls light, her steps precise. A dancer's posture. Elegant. Measured. 

Tom blinked -- just once -- but it was enough.

"You're full of surprises," he murmured, guiding her through a smooth spin. 

"I contain multitudes," she replied. 

He chuckled. 

They moved together with an ease that unsettled her -- like their bodies had known each other longer than their minds. His hand never strayed. His touch was never inappropriate. But he held her close enough for heat to pass between them like a current. 

"Did you study?" He asked softly, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Professionally?"

"No."

"Then who taught you?"

"Myself."

She didn't elaborate. And he didn't press. 

Another turn. A shift. The hem of her dress whispering over the marble. Barty was watching them like a theatre performance. Narcissa wore the faintest smile. Rodolphus nursed his bruised ego. Bella... Was seething. 

Tom's hand shifted slightly at her waist. 

"Tell me about yourself. Hobbies, interests. Family..." He asked, voice quieter now. Sincere. Curious. 

Hermione hesitated. The wine buzzed pleasantly in her veins. She hated that it relaxed her. Hated more that she let her lips part with truth. 

"I don't have siblings," she said. "Not by blood. One... Honorary brother."

"By choice, not obligation."

"Yes."

Tom nodded as they turned. "The best kind."

She studied him. "Do you?"

He shook his head, a slow flick of black hair. "No. But I have never needed the company."

Silence between them. The music softened. Their feet moved as if in a dream. 

He spoke again. "What do you love?"

She blinked. 

Not who. Not what drives you. Not what do you fight for.

What do you love?

"Books," she said finally. "And... music. I play piano."

He raised a brow, impressed. 

"You'll play for me."

"Your invitation sounds awfully like a demand."

He smirked. 

"It is."

The song ended. 

He released her hand only when she stepped back first. 

And when he bowed, she curtsied -- perfectly. 

The room hadn't breathed the entire time. 

Tom turned, and without a glance at Bella, offered Hermione his arm again. 

This time, she took it willingly. 

And this time, he didn't hide the triumph in his eyes. 

 

The second the final note of their dance faded into the marble and the candles began to burn lower, Tom stood. 

Without fanfare. Without announcement.

The room stilled again. 

His voice, smooth and cold, sliced through the rising murmur of post-dinner conversation. 

"That will be all for this evening."

A silence followed. 

Bella straightened in outrage. 

"But --"

Tom didn't look at her. 

"I said," he repeated, turning his gaze slowly down the table, "that will be all."

Even Rodolphus didn't argue. 

Chairs scraped back. 

Robes whispered. Goblets floated back to the table. 

Narcissa rose with silent grace, offered Hermione a single unreadable nod, and swept away. Lucius followed without a word. Barty lingered long enough to smirk and raise a brow at Hermione in mock approval before vanishing with a crack of Apparition. 

Snape, last to rise, glanced at Tom. Then at Hermione. 

He said nothing. 

But as he turned, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her like a question half-formed and already fading. 

Bella was the last to move. 

She hovered.

Pouting. 

Hungry. 

And furious. 

"Tom," she began again, voice low and coaxing, "if it's entertainment you want, I --"

"I already have it," he said, turning away. 

His dismissal was absolute. 

Hermione didn't let herself smile. No. She would not derive satisfaction from this. 

But it was close. 

 

He led her out of the hall in silence. 

The corridor was dim, flickering with the soft gold of late enchantment. The music had faded. The guests had -- finally -- gone. Only the Manor breathed now, that soft, low hum of ancient magic curling through the stones. 

He said nothing until they turned into a narrow hall lit only by sconces of low green flames. 

"I want something from you," he said at last. 

Hermione bristled. "You always do."

He smirked. "Not like that."

She didn't answer. 

He stopped before a tall door carved with curling roses and cracked open with a whisper of magic. 

She followed him into a room she hadn't seen before. 

It was --

Unexpected. 

Spacious. Shadowed. Quiet. 

A tall, arched window looked out over moonlit fields of mist. Bookshelves lined two walls, filled with weathered spines and handwritten grimoires. A chessboard waited in stasis on a low table. And in the centre -- 

A grand piano.

Black. Gleaming. Waiting. 

She stopped. 

He stepped ahead, trailing his fingers over the edge of the instrument like it was a living thing. 

"I've never played," he said. "But I've always loved the sound."

She stared at him, lips parted. "You brought me here to... Play?"

He turned, eyes catching the firelight. 

"I want to hear you."

Hermione folded her arms. "You could demand anything. Anything at all as your prisoner. And you ask for a song?"

He chuckled. 

"Not a prisoner... And it's just a song, Hermione."

She wanted to say no. 

Wanted to refuse, loudly and proudly and on principle alone. 

But something in his face stopped her. 

Not softness -- he didn't do softness. 

But sincerity. 

And worse... curiosity. 

so she moved. 

She walked slowly towards the piano, fingers trailing over the polished wood, breath tight in her chest. She sat at the bench. 

"Don't expect anything extravagant," she muttered. 

Tom took a seat in the armchair behind her, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. 

"I expect to be surprised."

Hermione rolled her eyes. 

Then placed her fingers on the keys. 

And played. 

 

The music was gentle. Wistful. A waltz in a minor key, the kind of melody you hum to yourself when it's raining and you miss something you can't name. Her hands moved with practiced ease, her eyes half-closed. 

And behind her -- 

Tom did not move. 

Not once. 

He watched her as though she were performing ancient, wordless magic. As though each note told him something no spell ever had. 

He didn't bother to hide his expression. 

Adoration. 

Unfiltered. Unmasked. Undeniable. 

Hermione felt it. 

Burned beneath it. 

And when the final chord faded into silence and her hands stilled on the keys, she dared one glance over her shoulders. 

His eyes were still on her. 

Devouring. 

She looked away immediately. 

"I told you it wasn't extravagant," she said quietly. 

Tom rose slowly from his chair. 

"No," he said. "It was beautiful."

She hated the way her stomach flipped. 

Hated that she sat there, flushed, pleased. 

Hated most of all that part of her wanted to do it again. 

To impress him again. 

To watch that look settle back across his face. 

She stood abruptly, pushing the bench back. 

"I'm tired."

He didn't argue. 

He only stepped closer and said, so quietly she nearly missed it:

"You're full of contradictions, Hermione Granger."

She turned to him. 

And for once, she didn't disagree.

Chapter 4: The Monster in the Mirror

The walk back to the suite was quiet. 

Not tense. Not hesitant. 

Just... Charged. As if the corridor itself held its breath around them. 

Each step echoed over the marble like punctuation to whatever this was becoming. He didn't offer his arm. He didn't need to. She walked beside him out of choice, not compulsion -- and he let her. Somehow, that was more intimate than any touch could have been. 

He opened the suite door with a flick of his fingers. 

She stepped inside first.

The fire crackled low in the grate, warm enough to soften the shadows. A decanter of wine sat on the small table, two glasses gleaming. 

He didn't ask whether she wanted any. 

She didn't sit. 

Instead, Hermione strode to the wardrobe, and scanned over the section of sleepwear he had set aside for her. She pulled out a chemise -- simple black silk, thin straps, entirely impractical -- and examined it with an unimpressed huff.

Tom watched her from his armchair, his eyes bright with quiet amusement. 

"You dislike my choices?" He asked lazily. 

She shot him a look. "It is hardly appropriate sleepwear."

His mouth curved, slow and knowing. "Shall I offer you something less... Delicate?"

The tone -- mocking, inviting, infuriating -- made her spine stiffen. 

"No," she snapped. "I don't need you dressing me."

A beat. 

Then he stood, unhurried and walked towards her. Not threatening -- just present, devastatingly so. He stopped at a respectable distance, one brow lifting with playful challenge. 

He unbuttoned his cuffs. 

Rolled them up. 

Then, with deliberate ease, he slipped off his shirt and held it out to her -- bare chest illuminated in firelight, not as a seduction, but as a taunt. 

"Wear mine, then," he murmured. "It would suit your defiance better."

Her nostrils flared. 

"I am not parading around in your clothes like some -- some possession."

His smile sharpened. "I never said you were."

"You didn't have to."

She snatched the chemise off its hanger and squared her shoulders like she was preparing for battle. 

"I'm changing in the bathroom," she said. 

He stepped aside with exaggerated courtesy. "By all means. I'm not so fortunate as to be allowed the sight."

Her glare could have cut stone. "You won't ever be."

The door shut sharply behind her. 

When she emerged ten minutes later the room was dim, lit only by firelight and a single lamp. Outside, night pressed against the windows. 

The chemise clung to her, yes -- but she held herself with such fierce, unwavering dignity that the garment became irrelevant. She wasn't embarrassed. She wasn't flustered. 

She was Hermione Granger, and she dared him to make it something else. 

He looked up. 

And stared. 

Not because of the silk, but because she refused to be small in it. 

"You look..." His voice trailed, searching. "Defiant."

"Good."

She crossed the room, her steps deliberate, arms loose at her sides. Not hiding -- challenging. 

And Tom Riddle watched her like a scholar encountering a paradox. 

As she passed him, his voice -- soft, unguarded -- broke the quiet. 

"You unnerved me."

She stopped. 

Turned. 

He remained seated, shirtless, posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes were molten. 

"I have never," he said, "been interested in anyone. Not physically. Not sexually. Certainly not romantically."

Her expression didn't change. 

"But you," he went on, "have undone something in me."

She exhaled a dry, humourless laugh. "I don't care about your revelations, Tom."

His gaze sharpened. 

"And romance," she added coolly, "is something you will never have from me."

He studied her. "Because you believe I am a monster."

"I don't believe it," she said. "I know it."

The air tightened. 

For a moment, neither moved. 

Then he stood -- slow, deliberate -- and walked towards her with the measured confidence of a man approaching a dangerous flame, entirely willing to burn. 

He stopped a breath away. 

"Monster, is a relative term," he murmured. "To a mouse, a snake is a monster."

She didn't look away. 

"And you," he said softly, "have always mistaken yourself for the mouse."

Her magic prickled across her skin, a warning she didn't voice. 

"I don't want your love," he said. "Not yet."

He leaned in -- close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her ear.

"I want your fascination, your... Curiosity."

A shiver ran through her. 

She despised it. 

He stepped back, turned away, and walked toward the sofa. He settled into it with the calm of a man who had never once been denied anything he wanted. Firelight carved sharp lines across his cheekbones as he leaned back, one arm draped casually over the cushions. 

It was the picture of ease. 

But Hermione could see the tension beneath it -- tight control coiled like a serpent beneath the silk. 

She crossed her arms. 

"Why am I here, Tom?"

His eyes slid to her. "You chose to stay in my suite."

"I chose to stay," she agreed, "because you told me leaving was not an option."

Hr blinked, slow and elegant. "And yet you walked beside me willingly earlier this evening."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Something flickered in his gaze -- interest sharpened into something perilous. 

"You insist on keeping me hostage here," she said. "Why?"

A beat. 

Then he laughed softly. Not mocking -- delighted. 

"Hostage," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "You do have a flare for dramatics, Hermione."

She didn't smile. 

"I'm not free to leave," she pressed. 

He tilted his head. "Of course you are."

"Really?" She challenged. "So if I walked to the door right now and opened it -- would you let me walk out?"

His silence answered for him. 

She huffed a bitter breath. "Exactly."

Tom rose. 

Not quickly. Not threateningly. 

But with purpose.

He approached her again -- closer this time, though he honoured the line she'd drawn by stopping an inch beyond it. 

"That," he murmured, "would not be very responsible of me as a host."

She scoffed. "Responsible?"

"After seeing how unwell you've been," he finished, voice almost gentle. "It would be negligent to let you wander the manor in your condition."

Her jaw tightened. "I am fine now."

"Be that as it may..." His eyes burned, molten and unguarded. "I cannot -- will not -- let harm come to you. Even by your own stubborn hand."

Her magic sparked under her skin. "You are the harm, Tom."

His smile was faint. 

And devastating. 

"Perhaps," he allowed. "But I am also the one keeping you alive... And safe."

She swallowed -- anger, fear, something else. 

Something she refused to name. 

His expression softened the smallest degree, though the intensity behind it only grew. 

"You should sleep, my love."

The endearment curled around her like smoke. 

"It has been a long day," he continued, his voice dipping low. "Your body must be exhausted."

She hated the way her pulse answered him. 

He stepped back -- finally, mercifully -- but not far.

"I'll keep my distance," he promised. 

A pause. 

A dark promise flickering beneath. 

"For now."

The fire crackled. 

Hermione stood very still, breathing too quietly, aware of every inch of space they shared -- 

and every inch he wanted to close. 

Because he wasn't done. 

Not even close. 

And neither -- much to her growing dread -- was she. 

She slept in his bed. 

That alone should have meant something cruel. 

Something final. 

A victory, perhaps. Or ownership. 

But Tom Riddle sat in the chair by the hearth and did not touch her. 

He did not move. 

He simply watched. 

Hermione Granger slept like a woman who had fought too many battles to be afraid of rest. Her breathing was slow, her mouth slightly parted. One arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting along the line of her waist. The silk chemise she wore had tangled slightly around her. 

She was... Art. 

In all her stubbornness. Her fire. Her resistance. 

She had not once begged. 

Not when she arrived broken. 

Not when she learned where she was. 

Not even when faced with the wolves at his table. 

And now -- peacefully. Vulvernable. Still burning, even at rest. 

Tom had never wanted anything as much as he wanted her. 

But he didn't touch her. 

And when his wand rose in his hand -- slowly, reflexively -- the tip pointing towards her brow, he stopped. 

Legilimens.

He could. He could. 

Her mind, soft and warm with sleep, would open to him like a diary with cracked leather and handwritten pages. 

He could see her fears. Her memories. Her truth. 

HIs truth. His future.

But something -- unfamiliar and unwelcome -- twitched in his chest. 

Conscience. 

He scowled. 

It was not a feeling he liked. 

But it rooted itself deep and immovable. 

Because this girl -- this strange, stunning witch who called him monster to his face and danced like a queen in his arms -- deserved better than a stolen mind. 

He didn't want her obedience. 

He wanted her will. 

He wanted her to choose him. 

Freely. 

Fully. 

And oh, what a conquest that would be. 

The greatest he'd ever known. 

Tom rose slowly from the chair and crossed to the side of the bed. She didn't stir. 

A curl fell across her cheek. 

He brushed it back gently -- two fingers, barely grazing her skin. 

Her magic hummed in her sleep at his touch. 

She's still resisting you, a voice in him whispered. 

He smiled. 

Good.

He didn't shy from a challenge. Never had. And she was the most endearing challenge of all. 

Tom leaned down, so close he could feel her breath on his lips. 

"I will have you, Hermione," he whispered, more promise than threat. "You mind. Your music. And yes... Your heart."

He straightened, and with one last glance at her sleeping form, turned away. 

He would not steal what he meant to earn. 

And he would earn it. Even if it took him a lifetime. 

 

*

 

Hermione woke slowly, and for a blessed few seconds, she didn't remember where she was. 

The sheets were warm. The silk chemise clung softly to her skin. The pillow beneath her cheek smelled faintly of clove and old pages. Her limbs were heavy, content. 

And then -- 

Reality slithered back in. 

The Manor. 

The wolves. 

The music. 

Tom. 

She sat up sharply, breath catching, eyes sweeping the room. 

Empty. 

His side of the bed -- undisturbed. 

The fire had burned low to glowing coals. Morning light filtered through the tall windows in soft ribbons. And on the table beside the bed, laid with precision, sat a breakfast tray and something far more dangerous:

A gift box. 

And a letter. 

She stared at them for a long time before reaching out. 

The tray was warm. Steam curled from the tea. Toast, fruit, and eggs -- simple, elegant, her favourite. Of course he knew. 

The letter was written in black ink, his handwriting immaculate, slanted, controlled. 

 

Hermione, 

You looked peaceful this morning.

I nearly didn't leave .

I'm not used to restraint. 

Perhaps you're already changing me. 

-- T. 

P.S I believe this might suit your taste.

If not, I'll try again. And again. 

And again. 

 

Her heart stuttered. 

She hated that it did. 

She picked up the box with slow, suspicious fingers. 

Velvet again. Deep green. 

Inside:

A book. 

Old, bound in leather, the title embossed in gold leaf. 

Songs of Wand and Ash: Forgotten Music of the Early Magical Age. Annotated. 

She opened the front cover. 

To Hermione Granger, written in his hand, who makes music more dangerous than war. 

She cursed under her breath. 

And then --

Smiled. 

it was small. 

Unthinking. 

But it was there. 

She dropped the smile immediately, furious with herself. Furious with him. 

Because this was the game, wasn't it?

The illusion of warmth. The gesture just thoughtful enough to feel intimate. The dance of danger wrapped in silk and song. 

He becomes Voldemort.

He murders. Destroys. 

He rips souls apart.

But this Tom...

 

This Tom was curious. 

Sincere. 

Disarming. 

 

And dammit -- part of her believed that maybe... just maybe, she could stop the monster before he was born. 

Maybe she had already started. 

She pulled the book into her lap, fingers brushing the dedication again.

And whispered to herself,

"Maybe I can change you."

 

Chapter 5: The Taste of Something Dangerous

He felt it before he even opened the door. 

Not in the air, not in the magic. 

In her.

Tom entered the suite with the easy, effortless grace he wielded like a blade, expecting resistance, expecting another verbal sparring match, or cold silence. 

What he found he instead --

Hermione Granger. 

Awake. 

Dressed. 

Not in plain robes, or borrowed linens, or the chemise that had haunted his sleep. 

But in his clothes. Chosen for her. 

The fitted forest green bodice accentuated her waist before falling into soft, floating layers that caught the light when she moved. Her hair twisted up loosely, one curl slipping free against her temple. 

She was teased at the writing desk near the window, book open, one knee tucked beneath her. 

Reading. 

His book. 

The one he had given her. 

Her expression was calm. Concentrated. The fingers not turning pages were tapping absently along the edge of the wood in a soft rhythm -- three-four, three-four, waltz time. 

She didn't look up when he stepped in. 

But she knew.

"I wasn't sure you'd be up yet," he said lightly, voice smooth. 

she flipped the page. "Clearly, you don't understand readers."

He smiled. Closed the door behind him. 

"You're wearing the dress," he said. 

Still, she didn't look up. 

"You had a house elf leave it in my wardrobe. What else would I wear?"

"I still might."

Finally, she looked up. 

Their eyes met across the room, and he saw it -- the shift. 

She wasn't smiling. 

But she wasn't snarling either. 

Not a lioness with teeth bared -- but perhaps, one with teeth hidden just behind her lips. 

And that was... Worse. 

Better. 

Delicious.

He moved slowly towards her. 

She watched him the whole time. 

When he stopped at the edge of the desk, she closed the book. 

"You annotated the entire thing," she said, tapping the cover. 

"Of course I did."

"Do you annotate all your books?"

"No. Just the ones I intend to give away to girls who unnerve me."

Her lips twitched -- almost. 

He leaned a little closer, both hands braced on the desk now. 

"I take it you approve?"

She hesitated. 

Then: "It's exquisite."

Tom's heart gave the barest flutter. 

He didn't show it. 

"And the breakfast?"

"Not poisoned."

"High praise."

She leaned back, crossing her legs beneath the table. The slit in the gown shifted -- bare skin catching his eye. 

"I don't know what you're trying to do, Riddle," she said quietly. "But I don't trust it."

"Trust is earned."

"And your think you're earning it?"

"I know I am."

She studied him. 

The silence between them was thick with possibility. 

Then, without warning, he reached forward -- slow, deliberate -- and tucked the loose curl behind her ear. 

His fingers lingered for half a breath too long. 

She didn't flinch. 

But her breath caught. 

He felt it. 

"You don't fear me like you should," he murmured, his voice low. 

"I don't trust you like you want."

Another beat of silence. 

"I can live with that," he said. "For now."

He straightened. 

"You should keep reading. Chapter Five includes a rather moving piece written during the dragon culling of 1392. I think you'd like it."

And then -- 

He walked away. 

Left her staring after him, her heart uneven, the book heavy in her lap. 

And though she didn't realise it until much later, he'd touched her without taking anything. No magic. No control. Just a touch.

And that alone was the most dangerous thing he'd ever done.

 

*

 

Hermione had barely read another page when the pop of apparition made her flinch. 

A small voice, high and earnest, chimed from behind her. 

"Begging your pardon, Mistress."

She turned sharply. 

A little elf stood near the hearth, ears wide and trembling, dressed in a crist forest green tunic and no shoes. His large eyes blinked up at her with devotion so sincere it made her stomach twist. 

"I'm not your mistress," she said flatly, shutting the book and setting it aside. 

The elf beamed. "Master calls you Mistress, so Pip calls you Mistress too!"

Hermione bristled. "Well, Master is wrong."

PIp blinked again, clearly confused. "But Master is never wrong."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let's agree to call me Hermione, alright?"

Pip gave a hasty bow that was mostly nose-to-floor. "Yes, Miss Her-mi-o-nee."

"Good enough."

The elf straightened quickly, clearly on a mission. "Master is having work today -- very important work, Master says -- but he wants Miss Her-mi-o-nee to enjoy the gardens while the weather holds!"

Hermione blinked. "The gardens?"

PIp clapped his tiny hands. "Yes! MIss must see the foxgloves! And the pond. And the blood roses!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Blood roses?"

PIp's ears drooped slightly, as if realising he might have said too much. "They only bloom when Master waters them himself."

Hermione stood, smoothing the skirts of her gown. "And he expects me to go on a little walk, does he?"

Pip nodded enthusiastically. "And if MIss wants company, Pip can come! Or Miss may go alone, if MIss prefers."

She hesitated.

It was... Odd.

All of it. 

Tom Riddle wasn't the sort of man who left women unsupervised. Especially not in his house.

but here she was. Invited. Encouraged. 

Free-ish.

And something in her, long starved of choice, long trapped between war and horror and cold hard beds, long lost to grief --

Something in her ached for sunlight. 

Just a little. 

Just enough. 

She gave a stiff nod. "Fine. I'll go."

Pip clapped again. "Pip will wait outside the suite to escort Miss when she is ready!"

He vanished with a pop before she could change her mind. 

Hermione turned back towards the window. 

The sky was clear. Pale blue. Unseasonably warm. 

She sighed. 

And cursed herself for being just curious enough to want to see what a man like Tom Riddle kept alive in his garden. 

 

*

 

The gardens of Riddle Manor should have been dreadful. 

Hermione had expected black thorns. Withered hedges. Twisted trees like skeletal hands reaching from the earth. A place fitting of its master -- cold, controlled, consumed by power. 

Instead, the sun-warmed stone path beneath her slippers curved gently through a living masterpiece. 

Lavender, foxglove, fire lilies and creeping jasmine lined the walkway like a painters pallette run riot. The pond shimmered with golden koi, a marble fountain burbled softly from the mouth of a carved hydra, and above them all, the blood roses bloomed. 

Dark red. Too red. Unnatural in colour, as if they had been stained, not grown. 

Hermione stopped before them, her arms crossed. 

"Why are they called blood roses?" She asked. 

Pip, who'd been scampering faithfully a few steps behind her the whole time, bounced forward eagerly. 

"Because they only blood when Master waters them!"

She frowned. "And what does he water them with?"

"Rainwater from the solstice. Collected in silver. But they wither if anyone else touches them."

Hermione squinted at the roses. Their petals glistened like velvet in the light. She had half a mind to try touching one just to see if it would recoil. 

"Doesn't surprise me," she muttered. 

Pip tilted his head. "Miss does not like the roses?"

"I don't like him."

The elf blinked. "But Master is very kind."

Hermione actually tuned then, eyeing him warily. "Kind?"

Pip nodded fervently. "Master always lets Pip take extra sugar cubes when he visits the tea house! And he gave Wren the garden key, even though she broke it last year. And he lets us name the fish in the pond."

Hermione blinked. "He lets you?"

Pip nodded, beaming. "MIss, he even smiles sometimes!"

Hermione didn't know what to say to that. 

Because the elf was glowing with pride. Adoration. 

And for a moment -- just a heartbeat -- it felt genuine. 

The master of Riddle Manor, a man with eyes like obsidian and hands made for sin, who whispered threats like poetry and watched her like he was starving -- 

Smiled?

"What's your name?" She asked, quieter now. 

"Pip," he said again, confused. 

"No, I mean -- your real name. The one you were born with."

Pip looked startled. "Miss -- only Master has ever asked us that."

She blinked. "He asked?"

Pip's ears flared with colour. "Only once. When I first came to the Manor. He said if I wanted to choose a name, he would make it mine. So I chose Pip, 'cause it's easy to shout."

Hermione looked back to the roses. 

They swayed slightly in the breeze. 

Beautiful. Poisonous. Unnatural. 

And suddenly... fitting. 

Because of course Tom Riddle would grow a garden like this. 

Deadly, but tended. 

Orderly, but beautiful. 

Controlled, but not entirely cruel. 

she turned her face to the sun, her eyes half-lidded, her voice almost a whisper.

"Of course he would grow a garden like this."

 

*

 

Yaxley was speaking. 

Greyback was growling something about territory lines in Essex, half-words mangled by teeth and barely tamed bloodlust. 

Tom didn't hear a word of it. 

He was writing. 

The journal lay open on his desk, ink gliding easily under his hand. The words curved with practiced elegance, each letter deliberate. 

He didn't often indulge in the physical act of writing. Dictation spells were faster, and pensieves more precise. But when it came to her...

She demands something more... Human. 

Out the tall arched window, the gardens sprawled in soft light. 

And there she was. 

A flash of green between hedges. A flicker of chestnut curls. The sway of her dress as she stopped to examine the pond. 

Hermione Granger. 

He could feel her even from here. The way her magic tangled with his wards, bending the Manor's will around her presence. She wasn't trying to impress, and somehow that made her devastating.

She had not asked to be here. 

Had not begged. 

Had not submitted. 

And yet. 

She had woken in his bed, worn the dress he chose, read the book he annotated. 

She had smiled -- just faintly -- at his gift. 

She had touched his world and not recoiled.

Tom's quill paused mid-word. 

A new thought stirred behind his eyes like smoke:

What if she stays?

Not just in the manor. 

Not just in his bed. 

But in this time. 

He dared the thought. Held it in his mind like a lit match. 

Because there were parts of her -- brilliant, unyielding, shrewd -- that he had never known he carved. And now that she was here, he felt... strange without her. As though his magic had reached for something and found a shape it wanted to keep. 

Greyback made a guttural noise. "She's not marked, is she?"

Tom's eyes snapped toward him, sharp as a wand tip. 

"What did you say?"

Greyback grinned, teeth bared, unaware of how close he'd just come to death. 

"The girl," he chuckled. "I can smell her. She yours yet? Or can I --"

The room dropped ten degrees. 

Yaxley paled. 

Greyback's words trailed off. 

Tom stood with the quiet precision of a man who had killed for less. 

"Leave," he said. 

Neither of them moved. 

"Now."

The air snapped. 

Both men fled. 

Tom didn't sit again. 

He moved instead to the window. 

Outside, Hermione laughed -- not loudly, not girlishly -- just a soft breath of amusement as the elf pointed something out among the blood roses. 

His fingers clenched around the windowsill. 

He didn't want her bruised by this world. 

Didn't want her turned cold by it. 

Not the way he had been. 

But he wanted her to belong to it -- to him. 

And he was running out of ways to pretend that wasn't obsession. 

He reached for his journal again, wrote a single line beneath the last:

She makes monsters kneel. 

 

*

 

Hermione had taken the long path back towards the manor. Stone underfoot, roses at her back. Pip had vanished to retrieve something -- or so he said -- leaving her alone amid too much silence. 

She didn't hear them until it was too late. 

Two figured stepped from the corridor arch. 

Yaxley -- Broad-shouldered, polished in the way that made her skin crawl. 

Greyback -- Ragged, grinning, reeking of blood and malevolence. 

Her spine straightened instinctively. 

"Well," Yaxley said, his voice all false silk, "if it isn't the Lady of the Manor."

Hermione didn't blink. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" Greyback rasped. "Everyone else does."

She didn't answer. 

She wasn't afraid. 

But her wand wasn't on her.

And Greyback was staring. 

His tongue ran along his teeth. "Heard a rumour you're not his, not really. Not yet."

Hermione's fists clenched at her sides. 

Yaxley stepped closer, expression amused. "You must have made quite the impression, for him to keep you around like this."

She said nothing. 

But inside, the heat rose.

She'd fought in a war. She'd killed. She'd watched friends die, and enemies fall. 

And yet -- 

There was something about Greyback that triggered a primal wrongness. She was haunted by memories of a former life. Something about the way his eyes devoured and dismissed in the same breath. The way his grin curled like he could already taste her. 

She didn't flinch. 

But she did step back. 

And in that instant -- 

He appeared. 

The air shifted first. 

The hallway darkened at the edges. 

And Tom Riddle stepped from shadow, stillness radiating menace. 

He said nothing. 

But the look he gave Greyback could have frozen blood. 

Yaxley stiffened. Took a half-step back. 

Greyback sneered. "We were only talking --"

Tom's wand was in his hand without flourish. No dramatic gestures. Just power -- quiet, terrifying power -- humming beneath the surface. 

"She is not yours to talk to."

Hermione's breath left her in a rush. 

And without thinking -- without letting herself think -- she stepped forward and touched Tom's arm.

Just lightly. 

Just enough. 

And he -- 

He stilled under her fingers.

Like a storm caught mid-collapse. 

His head turned, slowly.

He looked at her. 

And whatever fury had curled beneath his skin bled away.

Not entirely. 

But enough. 

Enough to keep blood from being spilled.

Enough that his hand fell from his wand. 

Enough that her presence... mattered. 

He turned to them, voice and cold and final:

"Leave. Now."

Yaxley left without a word. 

Greyback snarled. But he went.

The hallway fell still. 

Only then did Hermione realise she hadn't moved her hand. 

She drew back quickly. 

Too quickly. 

Tom looked down at her, his expression unreadable. 

And Hermione, shaken and unwilling to show it, muttered, "They're disgusting."

"I'm aware."

"I didn't need you to --"

"I know."

They stood there a moment more. 

Silence humming between them. 

She opened her mouth -- to thank him, or insult him, or something else entirely -- but he spoke first. 

"You calmed me," he said, as if discovering it in real time. "You... Touched me. And I stopped."

She looked away. "You were about to murder them."

"I still might."

Her gaze flicked back. 

But he wasn't watching the corridor anymore. 

He was watching her. 

And not like prey. 

Like a man seeing something precious for the first time. 

And it terrified her.

Because she had felt it too. 

That strange, alien relief when he arrived. The moment her spine loosened. The impulse to reach for him, of all people. 

Not because she trusted him. 

But because his presence meant no one else could touch her. 

And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous truth of all. 

 

Hermione was still in the corridor, heart annoyingly unsettled, when he returned. 

She heard his footsteps first -- precise and unhurried -- and something in her tensed. She told herself it was residual nerves, but she didn't jump when he spoke. 

"I find," Tom said quietly, "that I don't want to be far from you right now."

She turned. 

He was there -- less warlord, and more shadows stitched elegance. No robes of ceremony, no armour of command. Just dark sleeves rolled at the wrist, a few buttons undone at the throat, and eyes that looked at her like a decision had been made. 

She crossed her arms. "You said you have work."

His lips curled. "I do."

"So go do it."

"I will."

Then, inexplicably, he offered his hand.

Palm up. Fingers relaxed. Almost like a gentleman. 

"You're not going to trap me in a blood ritual, are you?"

He huffed a soft breath of amusement. "Not this time."

She didn't take it. But she didn't walk away, either. 

"I thought you had 'important meetings.'" Her voice was cool. "Greyback certainly seemed to think so."

"Greyback is a blunt instrument. I don't need him for this."

"This being?"

"I have a few final notes to make, and then..." His eyes gleamed. "I have a surprise for you."

She narrowed her gaze. "More gifts?"

"Perhaps," he said smoothly, "the most extravagant yet."

That made her hesitate. 

She wasn't sure she wanted anything extravagant. Least of all from him. She wasn't sure what it would mean. she wasn't sure why part of her stomach fluttered at the idea he had thought about her, again, without her being present. 

Still, she didn't take his hand. 

But she did follow him. 

One step behind. 

He didn't look back, but she noticed how his shoulders relaxed. 

And when they reached his study, he gestured to the corner -- a grand velvet chaise in deep green, beside a low table set with tea that hadn't been there moments before. 

"Wait here. It won't be long."

She hesitated. "You really expect me to just sit quietly while you work?"

"I don't expect it," he said without looking at her. "But I rather like the idea of you choosing to."

Something in her bristled -- and warmed -- all at once. 

She sat. 

With deliberate defiance. 

And he smiled as he turned away, settling at his desk with a parchment already awaiting his hand. 

From across the room, she watched him work. 

He didn't bark orders or wave a wand. He wrote. Slowly. Elegantly. And every few lines, his eyes flicked towards her -- as if checking she was still there. 

And perhaps, Hermione thought with a tight flutter in her chest, he wasn't checking at all. 

Perhaps he just liked the view. 

 

Chapter 6: The Gift that Meant Something.

The scratch of quill on parchment stopped. 

Hermione had barely noticed he was done until the silence settled, warm and expectant. She glanced up from her cup of tea -- no sugar, just the way she liked it, damn him -- and found him watching her. 

No smirk. 

No agenda. 

Just... Watching. 

"I've finished," he said quietly. 

She arched a brow. "Brilliant. Back to the dungeon, then?"

But he only stood, brushing invisible dust from his cuff, and came to stand before her. He extended his hand again, just as before -- long fingers, pale palm, that infernal ring glinting in the light. 

Her breath hitched. 

He didn't say anything. Didn't push. 

And to her own horror -- 

She took it. 

Their fingers touched, then laced. And neither of them seemed ready for the current that passed between them. His hand closed around hers with a carefulness that surprised her. 

As though he wanted her to know this wasn't a trap. 

"Come," he said, voice low. 

He led her through a new hallway this time -- long, lined with heavy framed portraits and dark green tapestries that whispered when they passed. 

Hermione said nothing, unsure what to make of the silence between them. Not tense. Not charged. But held. Like a breath neither had released. 

They stepped before a tall double door -- carved oak, ornate and gilded, etched with protective runes so old she couldn't read them all. 

He waved his hand. 

The locks unlatched with a sigh. 

He looked at her. 

And opened the door. 

The breath left her lungs in a rush. 

"Oh," she whispered. 

The room beyond was --

It wasn't a library. 

It was a cathedral of books. 

SPiral staircases coiled around the walls, vanishing into an upper floor of balconies and reading alcoves. Soft light poured through stained-glass skylights, falling in fractured gold across aged leather tomes and velvet cushions. Floating lanterns drifted lazily through the space. A crackling fireplace curved along the far wall, flanked by antique armchairs and an oversized writing desk. 

And at the centre -- a chaise in green, a teacart already steaming, and a stack of books wrapped in silk ribbon.

Hermione took a step inside. And another. 

She turned in a slow circle, breath catching in her throat. 

"This is..."

She trailed off. 

Tom didn't move from the doorway. He didn't need to. The look on her face -- the awe she didn't try to hide -- was enough to make something tight in his chest pull. 

"MIne?" She breathed.

"Yes," he said simply. "Everything you see."

"But -- why?"

"Because I thought you'd like it."

She turned, wide-eyed. "You made this?"

"It was always here," he said. "But no one's used it in decades. I had it restored."

"You --" Her voice faltered. "You did all of this. For me?"

He didn't smile. But something shifted in his eyes. 

"You like books," he said. 

Hermione blinked. "I love books."

"Then I wanted to give you something you could love. Here."

She stared at him. 

Openly. Uneasily. Unwilling to admit the lump in her throat. 

And he -- he drank in her awe like it was worship.

He'd built empires. Commanded armies. Held the world in his hands. 

But nothing had ever made him feel quite like this. Not until she stood, spellbound, in something he'd made just for her. 

Hermione stepped towards the table, brushing her fingers reverently along the spines of the books in silk.

Carefully, she undid the ribbon. 

The top book was embossed with runes. Ancient magic. It shimmered faintly at her touch. 

She didn't look back at him. 

But her voice, soft and shaky, asked:

"What's the catch?"

"No catch," he said. 

She half-laughed, disbelieving. "You're Tom Riddle. There's always a catch."

His voice lowered. "Only this time... I wanted to see what you looked like when you were happy."

Hermione stilled. 

She didn't say thank you. 

But she didn't have to. 

Because the way she looked around again -- eyes wide, lips parted, wonder blooming unbidden across her face -- was answer enough. 

And Tom?

He stepped back without a word, letting her explore, letting her have this. 

Letting himself feel the terrible, beautiful ache of wanting to be good. Just for her. 

 

She was still in the centre of the library when he returned. 

She'd knelt to examine a shelf of ancient magical theory -- books so old their bindings whispered secrets -- and didn't hear him enter until the air shifted. 

"Found something you like?" Tom asked, voice smooth and amused. 

Hermione turned her head, strands of hair falling loose from her braid. She didn't bother to hide her awe. "The entire room."

A hint of pride pulled at his mouth. 

He stepped closer. 

And then --

He held something out. 

A small, worn velvet case. 

Hermione looked at it suspiciously. "More gifts?"

"Of a sort," he said. 

She straightened, dusting off her skirt. "If it's another necklace, I'm going to hex you with it."

His smirk twitched. "Open it."

She did. 

Her breath caught. 

Inside -- resting on deep green velvet -- was her wand. 

Her wand. 

Holly and dragon heartstring. Twelve inches. A little temperamental. Entirely hers. 

She didn't reach for it. 

Not right away. 

She looked up, warily. "What are you doing?"

"Returning something that belongs to you."

"Why?"

Tom studied her, expression unreadable. "Consider it a gesture of good faith."

"You don't do good faith."

"I'm trying."

That made her pause. 

The wand sat quiet in its box, no restraints, no enchantments. Her magic reached for it like a muscle remembering its shape. 

"I could attack you with this," she said softly. 

"You could."

"I could try to escape."

"You could try."

She stared at him. "So this is a test?"

Tom stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "This is an invitation."

"To what?"

"To trust me."

Her eyes narrowed. "Or give you a reason to kill me."

"If I wanted you dead," he murmured, "you would be."

The air crackled between them. 

She looked back at the wand. Her fingers hovered over it. 

"What if I hex you?"

His mouth twitched. "I'm curious to see what you'd choose."

Hermione stared at the boss a moment longer. 

And then -- with slow, deliberate grace -- she reached down. 

Her fingers closed around the familiar wood. 

The hum of magic bloomed at once. Warm. Certain. Fierce. 

Her wand knew her.

It always had. 

 She turned it in her palm, feeling the thrum in her bones. A thousand spells itched at her tongue. A thousand chances. A thousand escapes. 

Tom said nothing. 

He didn't raise a shield. Didn't move. 

He just watched her -- waiting. 

Hermione raised the wand, slowly, carefully. 

His eyes never left hers. 

The tip glowed faintly. 

For a heartbeat too long, the moment stretched. 

And then she sighed, lowering it. 

"I'm not going to hex you."

Tom smiled. Slowly. Darkly. Pleased. 

"Not today," she added, sharper. 

He chuckled. "That's fair."

"You're either very confident," she muttered, "or completely mad."

"Perhaps both."

Hermione turned away before he could see the smirk that tugged at her lips. 

But Tom saw the way her grip around the wand loosened -- just slightly. 

And that was victory enough. 

 

*

 

She didn't hold her wand like a weapon. 

That alone fascinated him. 

It sat on the reading table now, within arm's reach -- and she didn't so much as glance at it as she wandered the library shelves, one hand brushing along ancient spines, the other clutching a soft-bound journal he'd left for her notes. 

Tom leaned against the archway, arms crossed, watching. 

Watching the way her lips moved silently when she read. Watching the way she tilted her head when something caught her interest. Watching the fact that she, brilliant, beautiful, resistant thing that she was -- had her wand back and still hadn't left. 

He cleared his throat, and she glances up. 

"Finished lurking?" she asked dryly. 

"Temporarily," he said, stepping further into the room. 

She smirked and turned back to the shelves. 

He let a beat pass. Then another. 

And finally: "When is your birthday?"

She froze. 

Just for a moment. 

Then turned slowly. "Why do you want to know?"

Tom shrugged, as though it were a casual question -- which is very much wasn't. 

"I'm running out of excuses to give you random gifts," he said mildly. 

Hermione blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. 

She hesitated, the muttered, "... September nineteenth."

He stilled. 

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes," she said warily. "Why?"

Tom stared at her. 

Then, unexpectedly -- chuckled.

A real sound. Rich. Low. Slightly stunned. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "What?"

His mouth curled into something far too pleased. 

"That's tomorrow."

She frowned. "You already said that."

He took a step closer. 

"I was trying to decide whether to give you the next gift tonight or tomorrow. Now it seems the choice has been made for me."

She huffed. "You don't need to keep giving me things."

"I know."

"Then stop."

"I won't."

She gave an exasperated sigh, moving back towards the table -- but Tom followed, his voice quieter now. 

"Do you want anything?" He asked. 

"What, for my birthday?"

"Yes."

She didn't answer right away. 

Instead, she stared at the wand still resting beside the journal. She reached out and ran her fingers along its length. 

And then, softly -- 

"I don't remember the last time anyone asked me that."

Tom tilted his head. "Then I'll ask you again."

"What do you want, Hermione?"

She didn't look at him. Not yet. 

"I want..." She exhaled. "To be free. Truly free. Not just of walls and wards, but of... This."

She didn't specify what this was. 

The war. 

The pain. 

The part of her that wanted to believe even monsters could change. 

She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. 

Tom's eyes were very, very still. 

"And if I can't give you that?" He asked. 

Hermione swallowed. "Then maybe just... A day without pretending."

Silence. 

Then, slowly -- reverently -- he reached out. 

His hand curled around the back of the chair. He leaned closer, but didn't touch her. 

"No pretending," he said. "Tomorrow. Just us. Just one day."

She shouldn't have nodded. 

But she did. 

Once.

And in that moment, she swore the air itself shifted -- something dangerous retreating, something human inching closer. 

 

*

 

Sunlight spilled through sheer curtains, warm and golden across the silk sheets. 

Hermione blinked herself awake slowly, disoriented by comfort -- but the soft pillow, the scent of roses, the heavy silence untouched by alarms or alarms or alarms. 

There was no screaming. 

No battle sounds. 

No desperate rush to survive another day. 

Just peace. 

And the scent of cinnamon. 

Her eyes snapped open. 

A silver tray sat beside her on the bed, perfectly balanced. On it: warm croissants, a steaming cup of black tea, honey on the side, sliced apples with a dash of spice. Every detail -- every single one -- was exactly how she liked it. 

She sat up cautiously, drawing the sheets higher around her chest. 

"You remembered," she whispered to no one. 

"I remember everything," said a smooth voice from across the room. 

Hermione startles. 

Tom was there. Standing by the window. 

Watching her.

He looked... different. 

His usual dark robes were replaced with sharply tailored black trousers and a forest green shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the veins at his wrists, the collar open just enough to be distracting. 

His hair was neater today. His boots polished. His gaze, somehow, warmer. 

"Good morning," he said, almost gently. 

She stared at him. "You look..."

"Beautiful? Handsome? Dashing?" He offered with a smirk. 

She rolled her eyes. "Ridiculous."

"And yet you're blushing."

She scowled and reached for the tea to hide it. 

He moved closer, stopping at the edge of the bed -- not too close. Not touching. Just present. Waiting. 

"As promised," he said. "The day is entirely yours."

She sipped her tea, watching him warily over the rim. "What's the catch?"

"There isn't one."

He turned slightly, waving a hand towards the adjoining wardrobe. 

"I had a few options laid out. Dresses. Casual robes. You may choose what you like. Or stay in bed all day and read. Or hex me."

She paused mid-sip. "You're giving me permission to hex you?"

"Only a mild one."

"Tempting."

He smiled. 

And it struck her -- suddenly and uncomfortably -- just how attentive he was being. 

Not indulgent.

Not manipulative.

But... present.

Every move calibrated to her. 

He watched the way she drank her tea. He kept a precise distance. He gave no orders. 

It wasn't how a captor acted. 

It was how a lover might. 

Hermione set the cup down carefully. 

"This is strange."

Tom tilted his head. "Strange how?"

"You're being --"

"Romantic?"

"Creepy," she corrected. 

He huffed a laugh, then slowly leaned one hand against the bedpost, lowering himself just slightly to her level. 

"I said I'd give you a day," he murmured. "One day without pretence. Without resistance. If I only ever have one, I want it to be perfect."

Hermione stared at him. 

And for the first time, she didn't see Lord Voldemort. 

She saw a man. Beautiful, flawed, dangerous as ever -- but somehow... Open. 

"I'll get dressed," she said. 

Tom straightened. "Excellent. I'll wait outside."

"And if I try to escape?"

"You won't."

"Confident."

"Correct."

He turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him. 

Hermione stared at it. 

Then at the breakfast tray. 

Then at her wand, resting on the nightstand. 

And finally at her own reflection in the mirror across the room. 

She should be scared. 

She wanted to be scared. 

But instead... Her chest ached with something she couldn't name. 

Something that sounded suspiciously like:

I want to know what he planned. 

 

*

 

The ballroom glowed with honeyed light. 

It wasn't how she remembered it from that first night in here -- no guests, no gowns, no clinking goblets or whispered cruelties. Just light and polish and space. Space enough to breathe. To move. 

To dance. 

She hesitated at the threshold, fingers brushing the wand in her pocket. Her emerald green dress -- soft, simple, elegant -- whispered around her ankles. A matching ribbon laced into her braid, another quiet gift from the man now watching her. 

"You've done something to it," she said suspiciously, eyes narrowing. 

Tom smiled faintly. "To the ballroom?"

"It's warmer."

"I had the wards adjusted. You didn't like the cold."

She blinked. "You changed the Manor's magic for me?"

"I would change the world for you."

Her breath caught. 

She looked away. 

A quartet of enchanted instruments floated near the far end -- violin, cello, piano, harp -- tuning themselves in soft harmony. 

She stepped closer. 

And the music began. 

A slow, lilting melody with an aching sweetness beneath it. A waltz, but not one she recognised. 

He extended his hand. 

Hermione hesitated. Then places hers in his -- calloused and elegant, too warm for a monster. 

He led her without force. Without manipulation. Just presence. 

They moved. 

And to her surprise, the steps didn't feel foreign. He was teaching her something new -- a variation, perhaps -- but he moved with patience. Precision. His touch was steady, the space between them respectful -- until it wasn't. 

Until the turn brought them close enough that his breath warmed her cheek. 

Until she looked up into eyes no longer cold. 

"Am I so terrible in your time?" He asked, his voice a quiet rasp. 

She blinked, pulse fluttering. "Yes. You are."

He absorbed that. No flinch. No denial. 

"But you won't tell me specifics."

"No."

"Because you think knowing would corrupt the path," he murmured. 

"I think knowing would excuse it," she said. "And you don't deserve excuses."

They turned again, his hand guiding her lower back, slow, reverent. 

"Perhaps I'm capable of change."

"And what makes you believe that?"

He stopped them in the centre of the floor. 

The music swelled around them. 

"You," he said. "You, Hermione. You."

Her breath shivered. 

She searched his face -- for mockery, for deceit, for the cold glint of a predator -- but found only him. And something perilously close to longing.

"You barely know me," she whispered. 

"I know the way your voice changes when you talk about books," he said. "I know how you like your tea. I know you read ahead even when you pretend not to. I know you never walk away from someone suffering. Even me."

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face with devastating gentleness. 

"I know the world doesn't deserve you. And I want to become someone who does."

The music slowed. 

Her pulse did not. 

She hated the way her body betrayed her -- the way her heart reached even when her mind raged. 

but for one second -- one perfect moment -- she let him look at her like that. 

Let him believe that maybe, just maybe, monsters could learn to love. 

 

The air was soft with dusk when he led her outside. 

Not by force. 

Not with expectation. 

Just his hand at the small of her back, warm and steady, as they stepped through the arched glass doors and into the gardens. 

Hermione had never been this far.

She'd walked the main paths. Seen the pond, the hedges, the enchanted statues. But this -- this garden was hidden. Nested deep behind the manor. Quiet. Enclosed. Intimate. 

And utterly new. 

She stopped at the gate. 

Her breath hitched. 

Roses. 

Thousands of them. 

But not red. Not white. Not even the dark purple that curled around the Manor's Eastern walls. 

These -- 

"These are... Not natural," she said, blinking hard. 

"No," Tom murmured beside her. "They're not."

The roses shimmered in the fading light -- delicate, petal-thin blossoms of deep amethyst laced with veins of gold. They looked kissed by starlight, touched with twilight, born of a world where magic and madness danced in harmony. 

She stepped forward. 

"They're..." She reached out but didn't touch. "Beautiful."

"They're yours."

She turned sharply. 

"What?"

"I made them for you."

"You -- what?"

He smiled faintly, watching her with something close to shyness. 

"Magic, when shared correctly, can blend with intent. With memory. With... Longing." He cleared his throat. "They grow from cuttings of your favourite varietals. But I changed the colour. The scent. The structure. They only bloom at dusk. And only here."

She stared at him. 

"You grew me roses... One of a kind roses?"

He arched a brow. "Is that strange?"

"It's... Unhinged."

"I thought it romantic."

"It's worrying."

He chuckled. "You're welcome."

And then she saw it. 

A blanket on the grass beneath the largest tree. A picnic basket. Two glasses. A bottle of deep red wine resting in a cooling charm. Cheese. Bread. Sliced fruit. 

Nothing grand. 

Deliberately so. 

"I didn't want to spoil your appetite for tonight," he said softly, "but I thought something quiet might be... Welcome."

Hermione walked forward slowly, knees bending as she lowered herself onto the blanket. 

Tom followed. 

He poured the wine -- her favourite, damn him -- and handed her a glass. 

"To your birthday," he said. 

She didn't raise hers right away. "This is a lot."

"It's the bare minimum."

"Tom --"

"I wanted you to feel special. Wanted."

She looked at him.

His expression was unguarded. Still too sharp to be soft, but no longer cold. 

He wanted her to see it. 

And she did. 

"This doesn't change what you are," she said quietly. 

"No," he said. "But perhaps it changes what I could be."

They drank in silence. 

The wine tasted like summer berries and spice. 

The roses swayed gently in the breeze. 

And when she caught him watching her -- not possessive, not scheming, just watching -- she looked away, cursing the heat that bloomed in her chest. 

She hasn't smiled so freely in years. 

And that, perhaps, was what frightened her most. 

Chapter 7: The MIrror in the Dark

They didn't speak on the walk back to the manor.

Not because there was nothing to say -- but because too much had already been said. In looks. In touched. In the way his eyes had softened when she smiled, and the way her hand had lingered on his sleeve longer than it should have when he helped her up from the picnic blanket. 

She told herself it was the wine. 

She told herself it was the moment. 

She told herself she would remember exactly who he was tomorrow. 

But not tonight. 

Tonight, he opened the door to his suite -- their suite -- and held it for her like a gentleman. She stepped in. Candlelight bathed the space in soft golds. A fire crackled low in the hearth. 

Her wrapped gifts still sat untouched on the chaise. 

The velvet box. The new book. The necklace she had worn to dinner. 

Tom said nothing as he closed the door behind them. 

He watched her cross to the vanity. Remove her earrings. And let her braid fall loose. 

Only when she turned back to face him, expression guarded, did he speak. 

"You've asked a great deal of me, Hermione."

She folded her arms. "And you're keeping score?"

He gave a soft huff. "Not at all. I'm saying... I've allowed you inside my thoughts. My world. I've given you truth. And time. And something dangerously close to devotion."

She blinked. 

His voice dropped. 

"But have you ever considered what might happen... if you let me in, too?"

Her chest tightened. "I don't --"

"Have you considered," he continued, slow and deliberate, "that while you may change me... I may change you equally?"

Her lips parted. 

He stepped closer, and his tone deepened to something velvet-dark. 

"You don't have to hide your darkest desires around me, my love."

"Don't call me that," she whispered. 

But he didn't stop. 

"You don't have to pretend you're only light and law and restraint. You aren't. Not really. Not anymore. Your war saw to that."

He was close now. 

Close enough to touch. 

"You can explore them. Nurture them. Confront them. With me."

She didn't move. 

Didn't breathe. 

"I see you," he said. "And I will not flinch."

Her pulse thundered. 

He reached out, slow and snowfall, and let his fingers trail down her bare arm. 

Her skin bloomed fire beneath his touch. 

"You want control?" He murmured. "Then take it. You want power? Then have it. You want to be worshipped, adored, ruined -- name it, Hermione. I will never shame you for it."

She trembled. 

He leaned in, brushing his mouth near her ear. 

"I've been alone in my darkness my whole life. But you..." His breath shivered against her throat. "You carry your own. You just keep it locked away. For everyone else."

SIlence. 

Then, her voice -- small, fragile, angry:

"I hate you."

He smiled, slow and knowing. "I know."

She stepped back. "You want me to become like you?"

"I want you to become everything you are. Not what the world forced you to be."

He turned and walked away, giving her space. A kindness. A threat. 

"I've given you truth tonight," he said. "What you do with it... is yours to decide."

He vanished into the bathroom. 

Leaving her alone in the candlelight. 

With her wine glass. 

With her shaking hands. 

And the horrible, horrible truth that part of her -- a small part -- wanted to know what it would feel like to be wanted like that. 

To be seen. 

To stop pretending. 

Just for one night. 

 

Steam clung to the mirrors. 

The heavy thud of boots on marble echoed through the suite as Hermione stormed toward the bath, her breath ragged, her vision blazing red. 

She didn't knock. 

Don't pause.

She shoved the door open so hard it banged against the wall, and marching into the tiled chamber like a thunderstorm given form. 

He was there. Shirtless. Bare to the waist. The shower still running behind him. 

He turned calmly. Too calmly.

And that only made her angrier.

"You arrogant, manipulative, smug bastard!"

One flick of her wand and a stinging hex lanced through the air. He barely flinched -- took it across the shoulder like a lover's slap -- and smiled. 

"You've been holding that in," he murmured. 

"Don't you dare act like you know me --!"

"But I do know you."

His voice was maddeningly low. 

"I know you're furious because I was right. Because I said what you've buried under rules and reason and righteousness since the moment you arrived."

She advanced, wand trembling. "You think you can pull me apart and offer me to the dark like some... Some -- some mirror version of you --!"

"I think," he said, stepping forward, "that you don't hate me."

She froze. 

Tom moved again, slow and precise, until there was barely a breath between them. The air crackled. 

"I think," he whispered, "you hate that part of you wants me."

Her hand snapped up, but he caught her wrist -- not hard, just firm. 

"And that terrifies you."

"Let me go --"

"No."

She shoved at his chest, and he didn't budge. "I said --!"

"No."

He moved faster than she expected, grabbing her second wrist and pushing her back against the marble wall of the shower. 

The water sprayed from above, soaking her hair, her dress, his chest -- they were both drenched instantly, dripping and wild. 

She gasped. 

He pressed in. 

And he kissed her. 

Hard. Demanding. Devastating. 

She bit his lip. He growled. Her wand fell with a clatter to the wet tile. 

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes -- those cursed, brilliant, defiant eyes -- and she slapped him across the face. 

The sound echoed like thunder. 

They both froze. 

He looked at her. 

She looked at him. 

Then she lunged forward -- hands fisting in his wet hair -- and kissed him again,

THis time she kissed like she was drowning and he was oxygen. Like the only way to fight was with her mouth and her fury and the way her body ached traitorously toward him. 

He groaned low in his throat, pressing her harder into the wall, lips dragging down her throat, reverent and frantic all at once. 

"Don't stop," she whispered. 

"I won't," he raised. "Not unless you ask me to."

She didn't.

Not once. 

 

*

 

Hermione didn't remember leaving the bathroom. 

One moment, Tom's mouth has been on hers -- wet, furious, consuming -- and the next she was stumbling back into the suite, dripping water across the marble like she'd dragged a storm behind her. 

She barely felt her legs. 

Barely felt anything until the door to her bedroom clicked shut behind her. 

Then everything broke.

She sat heavily on the edge of the bed, hands shaking, hair plastered wet to her cheeks, her dress clinging like second skin. Her heartbeat thrashed beneath her ribs -- wild, frantic, ashamed. 

The room was quiet. 

Too quiet. 

Her thoughts were not. 

What have I done? 

Hermione pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, willing the world to stop spinning. 

She had kissed him.

Not once. 

Not hesitantly. 

Not by accident. 

She had grabbed him. 

She had pulled him in like something starving, desperate. 

Her mouth still tingled. Her wrists felt the echo of his grip. Her body was still betraying her, humming with the memory of him pressed against her, chest to chest under the spray of that cursed shower. 

She swallowed a gasp -- anger, humiliation, longing twisting bitterly in her throat. 

"No," she whispered into the dark. "No, no, no."

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be her. 

Not with him. 

She knew who he was. 

She knew who he would become. 

Even now, even in this timeline -- before he carved himself into myth and terror -- he wasn't clean. He wasn't innocent. His hands were already stained with blood. His ambition was already curdled into cruelty. He'd killed. He'd manipulated. He'd hurt without remorse. 

She had seen the darkness in him. 

Felt it whisper when he looked at her. 

A man on the precipice of becoming a monster. 

And she had kissed him like she wanted to fall with him. 

Hermione's breath shuddered out of her, shattered and thin. 

"I'm disgusting."

The words trembled in the air, harsher than any blow she'd taken in battle. 

Disgusted with herself for wanting him. 

Disgusted for giving in. 

Disgusted because part of her -- deep, wretched, trembling -- didn't regret it. 

Not once. 

Not even now, as the consequences pressed cold fingers against her spine. 

She lifted her gaze to the window. The moonlight bled in pale across the floor, laying a silver path between her feet and the darkness outside. A world that would despise her if they knew. A world she was supposed to save from the very terror she was now entangled with. 

"What is wrong with me?" She whispered. 

But she knew. 

She had always known. 

He wasn't a stranger. 

He wasn't a phantom. 

Tom Riddle was brilliant. Terrifying. Magnetic. Unyielding. He looked at her like she was the only fixed point in the shifting universe he intended to conquer. 

And she -- 

Hermione bared her teeth at the truth clawing its way up her throat. 

She wanted him. 

Gods help her, she wanted him. 

Even knowing the price. 

Even knowing the horror he would become. 

Even knowing she should hate him, fear him, fight him. 

She should run.

She should hex him. Again. 

She should never look at him again. 

But her fingers curled in the blanket instead, knuckles white, heart betraying her with its frantic, aching beat. 

Because the worst truth of all setting like lead in her lungs:

She wasn't sure she wanted any of it to stop. 

Not the danger. 

Not the tension. 

Not the way he looked at her. 

Not the way he felt. 

Not the way she had felt when she kissed him back. 

Hermione dropped her head into her trembling hands, her breath breaking apart. 

And in the quiet of the room, with only the distant echo of water still dripping from her hair --

Hermione Granger faced the most terrifying realization yet:

She was already falling. 

 

*

 

Tom stood in the doorway. 

Silent. 

Still. 

A shadow cut from the dimness of the suite, watching her as she sat hunched on the edge of the bed, dripping onto the rug, clutching fistfuls of blankets as though the fabric were the only thing anchoring her to the world. 

Hermione didn't hear him. 

But he heard everything. 

Her breath -- a trembling, uneven break in the quiet. 

Her heartbeat -- sharp, frantic, furious as a trapped bird battering itself against its cage. 

Her magic -- flaring in weak, dissonant pulses across her skin, betraying emotions she would never willingly reveal. 

And the expression on her face -- 

Oh, it nearly undid him. 

Guilt.

Desire. 

Self-loathing. 

Want. 

A war waged beneath her skin, violent enough to make the very air quiver. 

And Tom's lips split into the smallest, quietest smile. 

Triumph. 

Dark, quiet, devastating triumph. 

He had felt it the moment she'd caught his lips with her own, the moment she'd dragged him down into that furious kiss, the  moment her teeth sank into his lip like she wanted to mark him. 

He had known then -- 

He had her.

Not in body. 

Not yet. 

But in something far deeper.

She wanted him. 

She could lie to him. She could lie to herself. She could bury it beneath morality and fear and every righteous principle she clung to -- but desire had a way of burning through lies like acid. 

And it already had. 

He tasted it still on his tongue. 

Hermione pressed her hands to her face, shoulders curling inward. 

Tom stepped closer. 

Just one silent stride across the darkened room. 

She didn't hear him -- but her breath caught, as though some instinct deep within her recognized the shift in the air. 

He watched her fingers tremble. 

Watched her shoulders shake. 

Watched her fight herself. 

And he felt --

Not pity. 

Not remorse. 

Nothing so small as that. 

But something unfamiliar. Something that burned differently from triumph. Something that throbbed low and hot behind his ribs. 

Possessive. 

Protective. 

Hungry. 

Certain. 

He wouldn't call it tenderness. He didn't know how to. 

But he knew this:

Hermione Granger had kissed him like she was breaking apart and finding herself in the pieces. 

He couldn't let her retreat from that now.

He wouldn't. 

Because she needed to see -- really see -- what he had already understood:

They did not clash. 

They did not destroy each other. 

They fit.

Even in fury. 

Even in chaos. 

Even in the dark. 

Especially in the dark. 

He let his gaze drink her in, his voice silent but resounding in his thoughts:

You're fighting the wrong enemy, little lioness. 

It isn't me.

It's the part of you that wants to stay. 

Another step -- silent, certain. 

She shuddered. 

He smiled again, soft and predatory, as if the universe had aligned precisely as it should. 

It was time. 

Time to cross the rest of the room. 

Time to show her -- not through seduction, not through force, but through the undeniable truth of him -- 

That she was right to want him. 

That she wasn't wrong or wicked or lost. 

That she was his. 

Tom breathed in once -- steady, deliberate -- before he finally moved. 

Before he walked to her. 

Before the world shifted again. 

Tom walked over to where she sat on the bed. The red silk gown -- his gift -- lay draped beside her. Waiting. Daring. 

"Up," he said softly. 

She obeyed, wooden and trembling, and let him help her undress. 

Her wet hair was pinned now, artfully twisted at the crown. The steam had long since faded from her skin, but the memory of the water hadn't. Or the tile. Or his mouth. Or hers. 

Tom guided the gown over her head slowly. With care. No games, no smirking. Just his fingers skimming the inside of the bodice, smoothing it down over her ribs. It clung to her like molten wine -- strapless, backless, sinful -- and when she looked into the mirror again, she didn't recognize herself. 

Her chest rose and fell too fast. Her lips were parted. 

And her eyes?

Haunted.

He saw it. Of course he did. 

She turned away. 

Tom caught her by the shoulders -- not harshly, but firmly -- and turned her back to face the glass. 

"You look exquisite."

"I feel sick."

He leaned down, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. Then another to the curve of her throat. His voice when it came was velvet-dark. 

"Talk to me, my love."

Her eyes squeezed shut. "Don't call me that."

"But you are."

She swallowed. Her voice cracked. "I kissed you."

He didn't respond. 

She turned to face him, finally -- her face stricken, her chest trembling. 

"I kissed you," she said again. "And I -- I should hate you. I do hate you."

Tom tilted his head, regarding her as one might a delicate, defiant bird. 

"No," he said. "You hate a version of me. One that hasn't come to pass yet. Not entirely. One twisted by time. But this me...?"

He stepped closer. His hand came to rest over her heart.

"This me sees you."

Her breath caught. 

"This me craves you."

His voice was barely a whisper now. 

"This me... adores you. Desires you."

He paused. 

"And this me --"

His eyes searched hers, deeper than ever before. 

" --loves you."

Hermione's throat closed.

"You don't know the first thing about love, Tom."

He didn't flinch. 

"I do now."

Silence. 

Her lips trembled. 

He watched her with terrifying calm. "Tell me you don't feel it."

"I --"

"Tell me what happened in the bathroom meant nothing to you."

She opened her mouth. 

Closed it. 

He stepped closer, and kissed the hollow beneath her jaw. 

"You kissed me twice."

Her hands curled into fists. 

"And you melted in my arms," he whispered. "And for the first in my life, I wanted nothing more than you. Not power. Not glory. You."

He pulled back. 

"Tell me that's a lie, Hermione. And I'll never touch you again."

Her eyes shimmered. 

But she said nothing. 

And that -- that silence -- 

Was answer enough. 

The silence pressed in, thick and aching. 

Hermione didn't move. 

Not when his hand slid from her collarbone to her waist. Not when his eyes searched hers with something terrifyingly close to hope. Not when the words she should have said -- I made a mistake, this is wrong, I don't want you -- stayed locked behind her teeth like prisoners refusing parole.

Tom watched her like she was the beginning and end of his existence. 

And then he said it again, quietly. Devastatingly. 

"You're my love."

She flinched. 

But he wasn't shaken. Not anymore. 

 He stepped closer, slow and sure, until the red silk of her gown brushed against the black of his shirt. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, thumb stroking the edge of her cheek, reverent and unyielding. 

"I'm going to kiss you again."

Her breath stuttered. 

"You don't have to want it," he added. "You just have to stop me."

She didn't. 

He leaned in, slowly, slowly -- and she whispered, "This is a mistake."

He paused, his lips a breath from hers. 

"Perhaps," he murmured. "But I've made thousands of mistakes, Hermione. This doesn't feel like one of them."

And then --

He kissed her. 

Not like before. Not like fury or defiance or the tangled ache of war-born lust. 

This kiss was slow. Deep. Desperate.

And she --

Gods help her -- 

She melted into it. 

Her hands pressed to his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer. Her lips parted willingly, surrendering to the feel of his mouth on hers, the heat, the hunger, the aching need that had lived between them from the very first moment. 

She hated him. 

She needed him. 

She didn't know where the lines began anymore. 

When he pulled back -- just far enough to see her, to feel her ragged breath on his lips -- he cupped her face with both hands and said, voice raw,

"I will never share you."

She stared up at him, dazed. 

"You are mine, Hermione. Not because I demand it. Not because I take it. But because I know the moment you let me touch your soul, it reached for mine."

She swallowed. 

"This is wrong," she whispered. 

"And yet," he said, brushing his nose against hers, "here we are."

She didn't stop him when he kissed her again. 

She didn't stop herself, either. 

 

*

 

The dining hall was dimly lit, dressed in shadows and candlelight. 

Only a handful of his most trusted were present. The long table was smaller than usual tonight, set for intimacy, not grandeur -- but still grand in its way. Blood-red roses spilled from silver vases. Wine glittered in crystal goblets. Magic whispered in the very air. 

Tom held her hand as he led her in. 

As though she belonged to him. 

As though she wanted to. 

Hermione wore crimson like it was conjured from her very blood. Her hair was still pinned, neck bare, lips soft and silent. But her eyes -- her eyes were fire. 

Bella was already seated. 

And smirking.

"Darling, you're practically glowing," she purred to Hermione, raising a glass. "Do tell -- did Tom finally crack that stubborn shell of yours?"

Hermione said nothing. 

Tom smirked faintly, pulled her chair for her, then took his seat beside her. Not at the head of the table. Not tonight. Tonight, he sat next to her. 

As though she were the centre of the room. 

DInner commenced. 

Conversation twisted like smoke -- politics, war, bloodlines, whispers of raids and wandless magic. But Ton paid it all very little mind. His eyes lingered on Hermione more often than not. 

And when Bella leaned too close -- when she reached for his wrist with a possessive brush of her nails -- it wasn't Tom who reacted. 

It was Hermione. 

A subtle shift of her chair. A hand placed gently, pointedly, on Tom's thigh beneath the table. A smile, sweet and venom-laced, in Bella's direction. 

It wasn't words. It didn't need to be.

He's mine.

Tom very nearly groaned aloud. 

His cock stirred with delight. His pulse thrummed. 

Gods, she didn't even know what she was doing to him. 

But it wasn't just him she stirred. 

Rodolphus Lestrange, half-drunk and far less intelligent than the company demanded, leered openly at Hermione from across the table. 

"You look ravishing tonight, darling," he said thickly. "That colour suits your fire."

She ignored him. 

But Tom didn't. 

"She's not yours to look at," he said calmly, not even turning his head. 

Rodolphus chuckled. "Didn't realise you were the jealous type, my Lord."

Tom's smile was glacial. 

"I'm not."

His voice turned to steel. 

"I'm the possessive type." 

Bella giggled, drunk on mischief. "Don't tease him, Roddy. He likes this one. Look at him -- he'd kill us all if she asked nicely."

"She wouldn't need to ask," Tom said flatly. 

And suddenly the table went very still. 

Hermione shifted in her seat. 

Tom's hand reached for hers beneath the table. 

Held it. 

Tight. 

Don't be afraid, it said. 

You never need to fear me.

Rodolphus, ever the idiot, raised a glass and tried to recover with a grin. "To the Dark Lord and his Queen, then."

A few nervous chuckles. 

Tom didn't toast. 

He just looked at Hermione. 

And when he saw the fire in her eyes -- possessive, proud, burning -- he leaned in, kissed her cheek in full view of the room, and murmured low in her ear:

"You have no idea how exquisite you are when you burn for me."

 

The wine was too sweet. 

The laughter too sharp. 

Bella leaned closer with every course, every sip, every coy little drag of finger to glass, to fork, to Tom's wrist -- and Hermione felt the fury coil tight and low like a drawn wand. No longer any room for doubt or emotional conflict. The line had been drawn and Bella was crossing it. 

He doesn't want her. 

She knew that. 

He hadn't looked at anyone but Hermione all evening. Hadn't touched anyone but her. 

But Bella was bold. Bella was spoiled. Bella always had been. 

And when dessert was cleared, and the flicker of conversation fell away to murmurs, Bella reached for Tom's shoulder and smiled too sweetly. 

"Darling," she crooned, her voice syrupy with wine. "Do you remember the last time we danced in this room? You lifted me right off the floor with your want and I didn't touch the ground for hours."

She laughed. 

Rodolphus smirked. 

Hermione saw red. 

Tom didn't respond. His gaze flicked lazily to Bella's hand on his arm -- and then to Hermione, who sat frozen beside him, her fingers gripping the edge of her chair like she might transfigure it into a weapon. 

Bella's smile wided. "No offense, dear," she said lightly, eyes flicking towards Hermione. "I'm sure you're very special, but some of us have been here since the beginning. And loyalty -- well --"

"Loyalty," Hermione said, her voice slicing cleanly through the air, "isn't priced by history. It's proved by reverence."

The tablee when still. 

Bella blinked. 

Hermione rose from her chair, slow and regal, and walked the curve of the table until she stood directly behind Tom. 

She placed a single hand on his shoulder. 

Possessive. 

Commanding. 

And when she spoke, her voice was a velvet knife. 

"Touch him again, Bella, and I will hex the gloss off your lips."

Bella's mouth parted -- with shock or delight, it wasn't clear."

Tom... Looked positively feral. 

Hermione bent slightly, brushing her lips against Tom's temple, entirely unsure of what came over her in that moment -- not soft, not tender, deliberate.

"He's not yours," she whispered. "He was never yours."

She turned then -- chin high, chest heaving -- and met Bella's eyes across the table. 

"I don't share, either."

Bella stared at her. 

And for the first time since arriving, Hermione saw it -- the flicker of something dangerous behind Bella's eyes: not amusement, not even jealousy...

Respect.

Tom stood slowly. 

He didn't say a word. 

Just stepped behind Hermione and placed both hands on her waist, kissing her bare shoulder with reverent fire. 

When he spoke, it was only for her. 

"You've changed," he murmured, voice like dark silk. "And it's beautiful."

Hermione closed her eyes. 

He's changing me. 

And what terrified her most...

She liked it. 

 

Chapter 8: The Fire Between Us

The moment the dining room doors shut behind them, Tom didn't hesitate. 

He grabbed her wrist -- not cruelly, but decisively -- and dragged her down the corridor like a storm contained by skin. His steps were silent fury, robes sweeping, magic coiling like smoke around his shoulders. The torches lining the walls flickered in protest as they passed. 

"Holding course with your devotee, are we?" Hermione snapped breathlessly, half-walked, half-pulled down the hall. 

He didn't answer. 

Not with words. 

Not until they reached the far wall of the west corridor -- shadowed, private, and carved from pale marble veined with black. 

There he spun, grabbed her by the waist, and pinned her to it. 

her breath left her lungs in a gasp. Not from fear -- never that -- but from the fire that flared instantly between them. 

"You have no idea," Tom growled, voice low and shaking with restraint, "what you do to me."

Hermione's lips parted, but she couldn't speak. 

"I could kill them all," he said -- and there was no jest in his tone, only hunger. "All of them, just for looking at you. I could burn this world to ash for a single touch of your skin."

"Tom --"

He pressed closer, chest to chest, lips to ear. 

"You made me jealous," he hissed. "Do you know what a rare thing that is? Do you know what I could do with this kind of madness?"

She shivered.

"I've led armies. I've commanded death itself. But you --"

His fingers laced through hers and slammed her hands above her head.

" -- you bring me to my knees."

His mouth crashed down on hers. 

No more teasing. No more restraint. This was possession -- wild and consuming and unbearable -- and Hermione didn't wilt beneath it. 

She met him there. 

Her teeth scraped his lower lip, her body arching into his, her own hands twisting in his hair when he let her go. 

The kiss was fire. 

And so was she. 

"Tell me you're mine," he growled, lips trailing her jaw. 

"Never."

He grinned against her neck. 

She shoved him back against the opposite wall, grabbing his collar and hauling him into another kiss -- fierce, needy, hungry. 

He caught her waist, pressing her into him. Let her feel the way she undid him, the heat and harness he'd barely restrained all night. 

"I hate what you've made me," she whispered against his mouth. 

"Do you?"

He kissed her again. 

And she moaned. 

When he finally pulled back, both of them breathless, red silk rumpled and eyes alight, he whispered:

"This is what it means, Hermione. THis is what it means when power meets its match."

He slammed her back against the wall once more, her lips swollen, her breath ragged, her pulse thrumming beneath his touch. 

But she wasn't afraid. 

She was glowing. 

And Tom --

TOm was undone. 

"You don't even know what you did to me back there," he said hoarsely, his hand moving to her throat -- not to grip, not to dominate, but to feel her heartbeat. Wild. Alive. His.

"The way you looked at her," he whispered. "The way you said I was yours. You spoke it like a spell."

She swallowed. 

"I... I meant it."

Her voice was quiet. 

But it shook him. 

He stared at her, lips parted, stunned -- because he had not expected honesty. 

Hermione Granger. 

Witch of the future. Thorn in hi side. Fire in his blood. 

She meant it. 

She was claiming him back. 

He kissed her again. Not rough -- not this time. It was slower. Hungrier. HIs hands tangled in her curls as she pressed against him, dragging him closer. Needing him closer. 

"I want you," she breathed into his mouth. 

He froze. 

His pupils dilated in seconds. 

"I want you, Tom."

There was no resistance left. No game. No veil of denial. 

And he -- 

He lost what little restraint remained. 

His hands dropped to her thighs, lifted her against the marble wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, gasping as his mouth descended to her throat. 

He licked down her collarbone. Bit. Soothed. 

"You don't get to give yourself to me," he growled. "Not halfway. Not trembling. You give it all, or not at all."

"I never do anything halfway," she gasped, grinding against him. 

"Good."

He spun, carried her down the corridor -- shoulder to the nearest gilded door -- and kicked it open with a bang. 

Inside was one of the Manor's smaller salons. Dark wood. Dusty velvet. Forgotten magic humm through the air. 

But they didn't care. 

He laid her out on the old velvet chaise, her red silk gown hitched up, her thighs bare beneath it. 

He undressed her like she was sacred. Like unwrapping a spell he didn't dare undo too fast. 

She pulled at his clothes, equally greedy, just as shaking with need. 

Their mouths never parted long. His hand cupped between her thighs. Her nails scraped his chest. 

They burned. 

They burned. 

And when he entered her, slow and deep and reverent, Hermione cried out his name like it was a confession. Like it was the first truth she'd spoken in years. 

He filled her, moved inside her like she was a ritual -- like she belonged to him. 

She clung to him. Moaned for him. Opened for him. 

And when she came -- 

It was with his name on her lips. 

Tom. 

Not Voldemort. 

Not a monster. 

Just Tom. 

 

The salon was heavy with the scent of sex and magic. 

Tom lay half-propped on one elbow, shirt open and forgotten, his fingers stroking idle circles over the damp skin of Hermione's bare hip. She rested against him, silent, eyes fixed on the carved wooden ceiling, heart still racing far too fast. 

She should have left the moment it ended. 

She should have run. 

She never should have even started.

But her body betrayed her. It was curled into his. Warm. Wanting. Marked.

She hated the silence. Hated how full it felt. 

So she shattered it. 

"I'll never wear your mark, Tom."

His finger stilled. 

And then -- 

 Slowly, so slowly, he smiled. 

"You already do, my love."

His voice was molten. Soft, dangerous, sure. 

"No --"

"You came for me," he whispered. "You broke for me. You let me touch you like I was something human. Like I was yours. And now you want to pretend there's still a line between us?"

She sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest, spine straightening. 

"This doesn't mean you win," she snapped. "This doesn't mean you own me."

He followed her, sat up behind her. His hands didn't touch, but hovered -- one over her shoulders, one over her thigh.

"It means everything," he said. 

"No."

He leaned in, mouth to her ear, breath hot. 

"You think I'd let you go now?"

She shivered. 

"You think I'll ever stop wanting you like this? You think I'll ever let another man breathe  near you again without wanting to destroy him?"

His voice turned ragged.

"You don't get to tell me this is wrong anymore."

She turned then, glaring at him, defiant even with tousled hair and kiss-bitten lips. 

"You're mad."

"I'm devoted."

"You're obsessed."

He grinned. 

"And you love it."

Her jaw clenched. 

"You'll ruin everything."

"I'll rebuild it," he whispered, "with you as my queen."

She stared at him. 

Eyes wild. Lips trembling. 

"You don't even know what love is."

His hand slid around her waist then, slow and steady, pulling her back to him like the tide. 

"I know this," he murmured. "I know I'd burn the world to ash to keep you. But I'd let it live if you asked."

She gasped. 

"And I know," he said, brushing his mouth against hers, "that we are going to rule it together."

She tried to hold it in. 

The weight. The guilt. The overwhelming wrongness of it all and yet it was so right, too. 

But the dam broke. 

A quiet sob slipped past her lips and cracked the world wide open. 

She curled her knees to her chest where she at on the edge of the velvet chaise, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled. Her breaths came in shallow gasps. Shame bloomed like poison in her throat. 

What have I done?

What had she become?

And then -- 

Warmth. 

A weight at her side. 

Tom. 

He didn't say a word. Just slid onto the seat beside her and drew her into his lap, arms curling around her like silk and steel. 

She tried to resist it. Fought it. Beat her fists weakly against his chest.

And then she gave in. 

She wept. 

He held her through it. Rocked her. Let her cry into his bare shoulder, into the space where his collar had once been. Her tears soaked his skin. Her shaking made his arms hold tighter. 

And when the sobs finally slowed -- 

When she pulled away with eyes red-rimmed, and cheeks slick -- 

He brought his mouth to her face, and kissed every tear away. 

One by one. 

"I'm not a monster," he whispered, between kisses. 

A tear from her left eye, 

A KIss. 

"I'm not a monster,"

 

A tear from her right. 

A kiss, 

"Not for you."

She looked at him through blurry lashes. 

"Just for everything else,." He murmured. 

His hands cradled her like she was made of glass. His voice didn't waver. 

"I'll never hurt you, Hermione. I'll kill for you. I'll conquer for you. I'll change the very laws of magic for you... But I'll never raise a hand to you. Never raise a wand. Not unless you ask me to."

She said nothing. 

Couldn't. 

But she curled into him, slowly. 

And when he exhaled, it sounded like relief. 

Like victory. 

Like worship. 

Chapter 9: Reverence Born of Obsession.

The bath was too hot. 

Her skin pinked beneath the water, and still she sat there, unmoving. 

Silent. 

Wrung out. 

Like grief and guilt had hollowed her into something paper-thin. 

She hadn't spoken since the tears. 

Hadn't met his eyes since she whispered that she should hate him. 

Now, she sat in the marble tub, knees drawn up, curls piled on her head in a mess of damp tendrils, steam rising all around her like mist. 

She looked smalls. Not fragile -- she would never be fragile -- but... Displaced. 

Tom watched her from across the room. 

He hadn't meant to stay. 

He'd told himself he'd leave her be, let her think, let her breathe. 

But the sight of her -- nude and vulnerable and impossibly silent -- 

It shattered him. 

And then she whispered --

"I should feel dirty."

It was so quiet, he almost missed it. 

But he didn't.

He was beside her in an instant, kneeling on the cold stone, his hands hovering over the rim of the tub as though afraid even his presence might shatter her further. 

"No," he said, voice hoarse, vicious in its certainty. "Don't you dare."

Her eyes flicked up to his.

Empty. 

"I let you --"

"You let me be yours," he snapped, leaning closer. "You let me into your fire, your fury, your pleasure. You trusted me with your body."

"You're you."

"And you," he growled, "are you."

He reached forward, gently brushing his knuckles over her cheek.

"You are not tainted. You are not less. You are not dirty."

She looked down. 

"Look at me."

He gripped the edge of the tub hard enough to splinter the marble. 

"Look at me, Hermione."

She did. 

And what she saw... terrified her.

Not darkness. 

Not cruelty. 

But devotion.

Obsession, raw and bloody, dressed up in reverence. 

"I would kill for you," he whispered. "I would die for you. I would burn the world until it turned to ash, and then I would rebuild it with your name carved into every stone."

Her breath caught. 

"You gave yourself to me. And now there is not a piece of you I don't revere. Not a single inch I don't want to kiss clean. Don't you ever -- ever -- speak of yourself as if you're anything less than divine."

He reached into the water. Cupped her cheek.

And kissed her. 

Slow. 

Gentle. 

Worshipful.

"You are mine," he breathed against her lips. "But more than that... I am yours."

She broke again. 

But this time, she fell into his arms. 

And when he lifted her from the bath, wrapped her in warmth, carried her to their bed --

He didn't fuck her like a man obsessed. 

He loved her like a god praying at the altar. 

 

*

 

Tom woke with a start. 

His breath tore from his chest like he'd been drowning. His hands fisted the sheets, heart hammering so loud it echoed in his skull. 

Smoke.

He could still smell it. 

He could see it -- the curls of flame licking up her legs, the way her eyes found his even as she burned, full of betrayal and heartbreak. The sound of her screams --

He bolted upright. 

"Hermione --"

The bed was empty. 

His heart seized. 

The sheets were still warm, but she was gone. 

No wards had been triggered. No breaches. No signs of struggle. 

Still, he moved like a man possessed. 

Robe thrown over bare shoulders, wand clenched in one white-knuckled hand, he stormed barefoot through the corridors of Riddle Manor. 

"Hermione!" He called -- once, sharp. Desperate. 

And then -- 

Music. 

A low, slow melody, haunting and heartbreakingly lovely, drifting from behind the west wing doors. 

The music room. 

He slowed. 

His breath caught. 

No longer running, but drawn forward by something unseen. 

He pushed the doors open -- 

And there she was. 

Candlelight flickered across the polished keys of the grand piano, catching her curls, turning them gold. She was barefoot, wrapped in one of his silk robes, utterly focused on the song in front of her. 

The book. 

The one he'd given her. 

She was playing from it. 

And the sound --

The sound made his chest ache. 

It was the kind of music he'd only ever read about. Raw. Emotional. Human.

It stole the air from his lungs. 

He stepped into the room like a shadow, slowly, careful not to interrupt the moment. He stood just behind her, watching her hands move, listening to the way she breathed with each crescendo. 

When the final note rang out and silence returned like snowfall, she looked over her shoulder. 

And smiled. 

Just a little. 

LIke she'd known he'd come. 

"I didn't mean to worry you," she said softly. 

He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside the bench. His hands found her thighs. His forehead pressed to her hip. 

"You were burning," he rasped. 

She stilled. 

"In my dream. I... I couldn't stop it."

Her fingers moved to his hair, hesitant. 

"I'm here," she whispered. 

He looked up at her. His eyes were wide. Haunted. Human.

"I think I'm going mad," he confessed, mouth against her skin. 

"No," she said gently. "You're just learning what it means to be loved."

And for once, he didn't argue. 

He just stayed there. On his knees. Wrapped in music and candlelight. Letting her steady his pulse, one heartbeat at a time. 

Tom didn't speak for a long time after that. 

He just stared up at her from his place on the floor, eyes still wide from the remnants of nightmare, breath catching as if her very presence undid him. 

His hands were still on her thighs, firm but reverent. 

"Why you were awake?" He asked softly. "Truly?"

Hermione looked away. 

That alone made his stomach twist. 

"Hermione," he pressed, rising slowly to stand before her. "Please."

She met his eyes at last. 

And he saw it. 

The distance. The fear. The sadness too large for the room. 

"Everything I know about who you become," she said, "is exactly the reason I should still be trying to escape. To go back to my time."

His jaw tensed. 

"I can still see it so clearly. That future. The one I've already lived. The one where you're a monster. Where you're feared. Where you --"

"That's not our future," he interrupted, voice like a blade. "Ours will be different. Better."

"Will it?"

He stilled. 

She rose slowly, facing him fully now. 

"Are you telling me you've changed your mind?" She asked. "That you no longer want to purge the world of impurity? That you don't still want to control it all yourself?"

His lips parted. He blinked. 

And then -- he laughed. Quiet. Dark. 

"It was never about purity, Hermione," he said. "You're smarter than that. You know me."

She folded her arms. Waiting. 

"I'm a half-blood myself," he continued. "Born of a Muggle father. Who I despised. I don't give a damn about blood. That was always a tool. Something to manipulate. Something for the weak to cling to while I took the world from under their noses."

Her eyes narrowed. 

"So it is about power."

"Yes," he said, without shame. "Power over everyone. Everything. That hasn't changed."

She recoiled slightly. 

But then -- he stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him. 

"I want it for you now."

She blinked. 

"What?"

"I want it for you, Hermione. Not for me."

His hand came up. Brushed her jaw, her hair. 

"I want to give you everything," he whispered. "I want to build an empire not with your name beside mine -- but above it."

"Tom..."

"I grew up in a dire little orphanage," he said quietly, his voice fraying. "A crumbling building that stank of mildew and rot. The matron hated me. The children feared me. I was nothing. Less than nothing. And I learned -- early -- that fear was the only thing more dependable than love."

Her breath hitched. 

"I scared them," he admitted. "I made them bend their knees to me. I swore I'd never feel powerless again. And you... You are the first person who has ever made me want more than fear."

He stepped even closer. 

"You are not weakness to me, Hermione. You are purpose."

she said nothing for a long moment. 

And then she touched his face -- gentle, trembling. 

"Then prove it," she whispered. 

His eyes searched hers. 

"Make the world better with me. Not through fear. Not through pain. Show me you can be more than what you were made to be."

He nodded slowly. 

"I will."

"Promise me."

He pressed his lips to her palm. 

"I swear it. On my life. ON my magic. I swear it to you."

And she -- 

She dared to believe him. 

For tonight, at least. 

They returned to the suite in silence. 

Not a heavy silence. Not yet. 

Just the kind that sits between two people who have peeled themselves open -- And are now waiting to see what bleeds. 

Hermione slipped beneath the covers, back turned. 

Not cold. Not rejecting. 

Just... processing. 

Tom joined herm cautious. Careful. Still unaccustomed to being soft. 

She felt him settle behind her, felt the hesitation in his hand before it found her hip. 

And then -- quietly, steadily -- 

"You wanted to know everything," she said. 

He stilled. 

She rolled to face him in the dark. Only inches between them now. Bare chests. Bare truths. 

"You've been asking me," she continued. "What I know about the future. About your legacy. About your success."

She drew a breath. 

"So I'm asking you, now. Just one thing."

Tom's jaw ticked, but he nodded. 

"Do you still plan to make them?"

A heartbeat passed. 

Then two. 

"... Make what?" He asked too quietly. 

"Don't," she said, voice cracking. "Don't insult me like that."

And he -- 

Stilled. 

Fully. Entirely. 

All warmth bled from the air. 

He sat up in bed, staring down at her as though she'd grown a second head. 

"How do you know about that?" he breathed.

She sat up too, pulling the sheet with her. "Because I'm from the future, TOm. Your future. The one where you succeed. The one where you become the man I've tried every day to hate."

He was silent. Watching. Cold fire in his eyes. 

"Please don't lie to me," she said, softer now. "Not now."

His hands curled into fists. He looked away -- then back.

"I'd live forever, Hermione." he said. 

He said it like a prayer. 

Like a promise. 

"I could be yours forever."

"I never asked for that," she whispered. 

"I could make them for you, too," he went on. Desperate now. "You wouldn't have to die. You wouldn't have to suffer. No more war. No more fear. Just power. Eternity. Us." 

She recoiled. 

"You're asking me to split my soul," she whispered. "To murder -- in cold blood."

HIs eyes shone with something wild. A storm unchained. 

"You know I won't do that," she said. 

He looked as if she'd stabbed him. 

And maybe she had. 

"You don't have to," he said, hoarse. "I'd do it for both of us."

"No," she said, voice trembling. "That's not what love is. That's not what we are."

His face twisted, caught between fury and grief.

"Then what are we, Hermione?"

She reached for his hand. Curled their fingers together. 

"You tell me."

He stared at their joined hands like he'd never seen anything more fragile. Or more dangerous.

And for the first time, Tom Riddle didn't have an answer. 

The air between them pulsed. 

Thick with everything unspoken. Everything too dangerous to say. 

Tom's jaw clenched. His throat worked as if swallowing glass. He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at their joined hands. 

But she wasn't finished. 

Hermione moved before she could second-guess herself -- Rising to her knees beneath the sheets, shifting forward, straddling his lap. 

He flinched, just slightly --

Not from her touch. 

From the tenderness of it. 

her hands came up to frame his face. Soft. Steady. A touch that no one had ever dared to give him before. 

His eyes finally met hers. 

"I mean it," she whispered, searching him. "Please don't do it."

His brows pulled together. "Hermione --"

"Please, Tom. Don't split yourself like that. Don't carve your soul to pieces just to win." Her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones. "You're already strong. Already terrifying. You don't need to become less to become more."

His breath shuddered. 

"Just stay," she begged. "Stay whole. Stay together."

She leaned closer. Her lips nearly brushed his. 

"Stay mine."

His hands moved to her hips like they belonged there. 

He said nothing.

Couldn't. 

Because she'd already won. 

Because this -- this moment -- broke something open inside him. 

No one had ever asked him to stay. 

No one had ever wanted him whole.

He pressed his forehead to hers. Eyes closed. Breathing her in. 

And for the first time in his life, he considered it. 

What it might mean.

To stop running from death. 

To stop chasing godhood. 

To choose love, instead. 

 

Her plea echoed in the quiet. 

Stay mine.

Her hands still cupped his face, gentle as rain. Her eyes, dark and wide, begged him for something he wasn't sure he had. 

But gods, he would give it to her anyway. 

He would give her everything. 

He gripped her wrists. 

Lowered them to his chest. 

And then -- 

He moved.

Sudden and fluid, dragging her down beneath him, the sheet twisting between their bodies. Her back met the mattress, and his weight hovered above her -- not crushing, but consuming.

His mouth found hers. 

Desperate. Fierce. Worshipful. 

He kissed her like a man starved for air. Like she was the only thing keeping him alive. 

Then lower. 

His lips mapped a path along her jaw. Down her throat. Across her collarbones. Feverish and adoring and maddeningly slow. 

Her hands fisted in his hair. Her breath caught on his name. 

He braced himself on trembling arms above her, looking down like he'd discovered divinity in mortal form. 

"I'll try," he breathed. "For you."

She stilled beneath him, stunned by the words. 

"I'll try it your way," he went on. "No horcruxes. No carving. No path of blood."

Her eyes softened. A breath escaped her lips. 

"But --"

He leaned closer. Pressed his forehead to hers. His voice dipped into something darker. 

"If I fail -- if there's a moment, any moment, where the cost seems worth it..."

He kissed her again. Slow. Possessive. Like a vow. 

"If your life is ever threatened, Hermione -- if this world dares to try and take you from me -- then I will do whatever it takes to keep you."

Her breath hitched.

"I will drag you into eternity with me. One way or another."

He kissed her again. This time on her brow. Her cheek. Her lips. 

"Because I was never meant to love gently," he whispered. 

His eyes burned into hers. 

"I wasn't built for softness. I was forged in fire. In cruelty. But you found a way through."

He brushed a hand over her heart.

"And now that you're here, I will keep you here. Forever."

She trembled beneath him, but not from fear. 

Not anymore. 

"This is your time now," he said. "Not that other place. That other time. That other me."

She stared up at him. At the mad, brilliant boy who would one day become the most feared man in history. 

And she cupped his face again. 

Because somehow -- somehow -- 

She believed him. 

Even as her soul whispered you're in too deep.

She nodded. Once. 

And sealed it with a kiss. 

 

*

 

She lay beneath him, silken skin flushed with warmth and wonder and warning. 

And he -- 

He couldn't stop touching her. 

Kissing her. 

Worshipping her like she was both altar and offering. 

His lips traced reverent paths across her body, her name a prayer on his tongue, her breath the only sound that mattered in all the world. When her fingers gripped his shoulders, when her thighs trembled around his hips, when she whispered his name like she didn't know how else to anchor herself -- 

He shattered for her. 

He built himself a new for her. 

he buried his face between her thighs and tasted power and surrender all at once. 

Between kisses, between gasps, between promises murmured directly into her skin, he said -- 

"I'll never let you go."

Another kiss. Her stomach. Her breast. Her collarbone. 

"You don't get to leave me."

His voice was low, rough silk, unravelling her. 

"You don't get to go back to your time, back to your war, back to that. No more. No war. No blood. No screams."

He kissed her wrist. Her knuckles. Each finger, like it was sacred. 

"You are mine."

She whimpered, spine arching. His mouth returned to hers. Fierce. Deep. All-consuming. 

"I will build you a new future," he promised against her lips. "A better one. A kingdom made of ash and gold if that's what you want. But you'll rule it with me. Not without me. Never again."

He took her hand. Pressed it flat against his chest. 

"This heart -- this black, cursed, ruthless heart -- it only beats for you now."

And she ---

GOds, she should have resisted. 

But instead -- 

She curled her fingers over his. 

And accepted all he had to offer. 

She lay beneath him, her hair a wild halo against his silk pillows, skin flushed with heat and something deeper -- something she couldn't name. Her chest rose and fell in shallow waves as he hovered above her, hands splayed against her ribs like he was anchoring himself to her very breath. 

His gaze swept over her -- hungry, reverent, possessive. 

"Hermione," he murmured, tasting her name like a forbidden spell. "You are... Maddening."

His hands slid lower, palms dragging across her waist, her hips, every inch of her already claimed by  him in the way only he could claim. He kissed her like she was made of starlight and silk, like if he worshipped her long enough, thoroughly enough, she might never vanish. 

She gasped as his lips found the soft curve beneath her breast, the underside of her thigh, the crease of her hip. 

She shouldn't let him. She shouldn't want him. 

But gods help her -- he made it so easy to forget why she ever tried to say no. 

"I'll never let you go," he whispered into her skin. "You don't get to leave."

His mouth traced a path down her stomach. She arched into him, dizzy with sensation. 

His tongue dipped lower. She cried out, fingers clawing at his shoulders, and he groaned in response -- like the sound of her unravelling was a drug he couldn't get enough of.

He spread her gently, reverently, his breath hot and ragged. 

"This is it. This is us." His mouth descended. 

She shattered. Soft gasps, then sharper moans filled the darkened suite. Her back bowed, hands tangled in his hair, thighs trembling as he devoured her like a man unhinged. He was precise. Merciless. Worshipful. 

When she broke apart beneath his tongue, crying his name like it was her only tether, he didn't let up. Not until she sobbed his name again, and then once more, helplessly soft. "Tom..."

He rose, kissing her thighs, her stomach, every part of her trembling form. He kissed her like she was sacred. Like the ritual wasn't finished yet. 

"You're mine," he whispered again, dragging his mouth over her breast, then to her collarbone. "And I'm yours."

He looked up at her, pupils blown wide, his hair mussed, cheeks flushed. A boy on fire. A man undone. 

"I will build you a new world, Hermione. A better one. Made for you. Painted with blood if it has to be. But I promise I'll try."

She blinked, still dazed, her hand rising to cup his jaw.

"You don't have to," she whispered. "Just stay. Just be."

"I can't be anything without you."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her lips -- slow, hot, consuming. 

"I'm not gentle," he murmured. "I wasn't made for soft things."

"I know."

"But you -- you -- you taught me how to feel it anyway."

She curled her arms around him, pulling him down, closer, into her. 

Their lips met again, frantic now. Desperate. She reached for him with both body and soul, and he gave himself up to her like a man ready to be sacrificed. 

When he finally slid into her, it wasn't rough. It wasn't cruel. It was devastatingly slow.

Hermione gasped, nails digging into his back as he began to move. His hand cradled her face, guiding her gaze to meet his. 

"This heart -- this black, cursed, ruthless heart - only beats for you now."

She couldn't speak. 

Couldn't think. 

All she could do was feel. 

Every slow thrust. Every breathless moan. Every way he tried to brand her from the inside out. 

They moved together, one rhythm, one soul. When she came again, it was with his name in her mouth and his hand tangled in her hair. 

And when he followed her, head buried in her neck, shaking, she felt it. 

All of it. 

Not dominance. Not victory. 

Devotion.

When the tremors faded, he didn't pull away. He stayed inside her, wrapped around her, like if he moved, he might lose her again. 

His hand found hers between their bodies. Their fingers curled. 

"I'm never letting go," he whispered into her ear. 

"I know," she whispered back, eyes falling closed. "I think... I don't want you to."

And he --

He smiled. 

Because now he was certain. 

She was his. 

Forever. 

 

Chapter 10: The Serpent's Court

Three months had passed in silence and silk and sin. 

Winter draped Riddle Manor in frost, softening the harsh lines of its dark stone and ivy-covered towers. The lake froze. The roses withered. But inside --

Inside, time obeyed him. 

And Hermione -- Hermione had stopped trying to count the days. 

She only counted his absences.

A handful of hours at most. Never more. He'd made her that promise in October, naked and breathless in their bed, with her pulse fluttering beneath his tongue. 

"I will never leave you alone for long. I don't want to know a world where I can't reach you."

And so far -- he hadn't lied. 

Now, curled on the velvet chaise with a book open across her lap, Hermione looked up at the sound of footsteps. She didn't have to ask who it was. She felt him before she saw him -- like a storm gathering behind silk drapes. 

The door opened. 

And Tom Riddle stepped in, beautiful and sharp as ever in tailored robes of deep obsidian green, silver trim glinting at his collar like a serpent's teeth. His hair was freshly styled, his lips curved in that quiet, maddening smirk. 

He was holding something. 

A box.

She sat up straighter, suspicious.

"What is that?"

His smirk grew. 

"Your surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"You'll like this one."

He approached, setting the box down on the table beside her with theatrical reverence. 

Inside --

She blinked. 

Robes. 

Black and green. Regal. Fierce. The fabric shimmered like it had been woven with shadows. The collar was high and elegant, the sleeves flared, and the waist nipped with a silver serpent clasp. It was beautiful. Powerful. It matched his. 

"What is this?" She asked carefully, eyes lifting to his. "Why do you want me to wear this?"

His smile turned darker. 

"Because you're coming with me."

"Where?"

"To the meeting."

Silence. 

The fire cracked. Somewhere in the manor, a grandfather clock chimed the half-hour. 

Hermione slowly closed her book. 

"You want me at a Death Eater meeting?"

He hummed, amused. "How quaint, that name. But yes."

She stared. 

"Why?"

He stepped closer. Cupped her jaw with a thumb brushing along her cheek. 

"Because you belong beside me."

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was thudding hard in her chest, blood rushing in her ears. 

"I want them to see," he said softly, "that the woman who came from time itself -- who defied me, outwitted me, changed me -- is mine. I want them to see the woman who holds my leash."

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't hold your leash."

He smirked. "No? THe why haven't I killed anyone in weeks? No demonstrations. No raids. No prisoners here at the manor..."

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the flicker of something sharp and hot in her chest. 

"I won't be paraded, Tom."

He leaned closer. 

"You'll be revered."

"Why do they need to see me?"

"Because they already know of you. The whispers travel fast. My little secret, hidden in the Manor. And some --" his tone darkened -- "think they've earned the right to question your presence here. Or touch you again."

She thought of Rodolphus. His leering eyes. 

Her lips thinned. 

"So this is a warning."

Tom's smile returned, razor-sharp and satisfied. 

"Exactly."

He turned, leaving her to stare at the robes. 

"You have an hour before we leave, my love," he said, pausing at the door. "Be ready."

Then he was gone. 

And Hermione sat in stunned silence, staring at the robes that looked more like a crown. 

She didn't move the box. 

It sat on her dressing table like a sealed fate, still half open from where she'd let the silk spill over the edge -- dark, sinuous, and waiting. 

Hermione stood before it in a slip and a dressing robe, arms crossed over her chest. The weight of the choice pressed into her lungs. 

Then -- 

Pop.

Pip appeared with a soft crack of magic, arms full of supplies -- brushes, a jewellery box, a steaming mug of tea in a delicate china cup. 

"Mistress  must get ready," Pip announced brightly. 

Hermione didn't respond. She didn't have the strength to correct him. She hadn't in weeks. 

He set everything down, then fluttered excitedly towards the wardrobe, pulling open drawers, sorting cosmetics, laying out soft brushes in a perfectly neat row. Pip, it seemed, had plans.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Hermione said softly, mostly to herself. 

PIp tilted his head, ears flicking. "Master says this is a very good idea. Mistress is strong. Beautiful. Perfect for him."

Hermione gave a breathless laugh. "You're very loyal to him."

"Of course. Master is... Difficult. But Mistress makes him better. Even the manor knows it."

She turned her head towards the door, as though she could feel the house leaning in, listening. 

"I shouldn't be doing this," she murmured. "I should be resisting."

But even as she said it, she slipped off the robe and stood in nothing but her slip, letting Pip begin. 

First came her makeup -- soft shadows deepened into smoky edges, lips painted a wine-red that felt too sinful for her own reflection. Her hair was twisted up, pinned with silver combs that shimmered like snake scales. Stray curls were left to fall around her cheekbones. Then the robes -- heavy, rich velvet black that hugged her waist and opened slightly at the legs, slashed with deep green trim and serpent embroidery that glittered like runes in candlelight. 

Pip carefully pulled the pendant from its velvet pouch -- the necklace. A single emerald set in dark metal, shaped like a flame caught mid-flicker. 

The first gift that Tom had given her. He hadn't said what it was. He hadn't needed to. 

She let PIp fasten it around her throat. 

The weight of it felt like ownership. 

Then, silently, she pulled up her skirts, attached her wand holster to her thigh, and adjusted it with expert precision. 

When she looked up, Pip's eyes were wide, glowing. 

"Mistress is... radiant."

Hermione turned slowly to the mirror. For a moment, her breath caught.

She looked -- 

Not like herself. 

And yet -- she looked exactly like who she had become. 

Dark lashes. Crimson lips. The robes moulded to her frame. The pendant nestled at her collarbone. A wand strapped to her thigh like a blade she'd earned. 

Not a prisoner. 

Not a consort. 

His equal.

hermione pressed a hand to the mirror. 

"You look like his," she whispered. 

And that truth, that terrifying truth --

She didn't hate it. 

 

*

 

He was waiting. 

For once in his life -- truly waiting. 

Not commanding. Not summoning. Not tearing open the doors of time and space to demand what he wanted now.

He waited. 

Because it was her. 

And for her, Tom Riddle had discovered he could make it me pause. 

He stood at the foot of the Great marble staircase in the front hall, dressed like the king he fancied himself to be -- robes the colour of forest shadows and midnight storms, adorned with silver embroidery so fine it shimmered like constellations. His hands were clasped behind his back, his head tilted slightly up towards the upper landing, towards the doors she would soon emerge from. 

When the latch clicked -- 

When the door creaked -- 

And when she stepped out --

He stopped breathing. 

Literally. 

No air. No sound. Just -- her. 

She descended the staircase like sin incarnate. 

Her dark robes clung to her like second skin, the slit at her thigh whispering secrets with every step. Her lips were painted blood-wine red, hair swept up and gleaming with silver combs, and at her throat --- the necklace he had given her. HIs mark. Nestled like it had always belonged there. 

Tom didn't move. 

Didn't blink. 

Didn't speak. 

Because she had never looked more powerful. More dangerous. More his. 

And when her gaze lifted and found him -- steady, unflinching, almost daring him to speak after keeping her waiting -- 

He felt it. 

The snap. 

The final fracture. 

He would kill kingdoms for her. He would burn prophecies. He would kneel and command and ruin and rebuild the world if only to put her at its centre. 

She reached the final step. 

He stepped forward, silent as a shadow, but reverent. His hand rose, cupped her jaw with aching gentleness, thumb brushing along her bottom lip. 

His voice, when it came, was ruined velvet. 

"You are the single most beautiful thing this world has ever created."

She flushed, lips parting. 

He leaned closer, lips to her ear now. 

"And every man who sees you tonight will die with envy in his heart. Because you are mine."

Her breath stuttered. Her hand came up, resting flat against his chest. 

"You did this on purpose."

"Of course I did."

She narrowed her eyes, but the fire in them only made him want to bite. 

"You're trying to make a statement."

He smiled. Not cruel. Just... Maddened with devotion. 

"I am making history."

Her hand curled into his robes.

He offered his arm. 

"Shall we?"

She took it. 

And let him lead her into the lion's den. 

They stopped just outside of the great doors. 

He didn't walk her into the chamber straight away. 

Not yet. 

His hands found her waist like they were drawn there by spellcraft, and his mouth -- 

Gods. 

His mouth was devouring hers. 

He pushed her back against that marble wall, hidden in the shadowed alcove just outside the great hall, his mouth fierce and unyielding. It was not a gentle kiss. It was the kind of kiss that marked. That burned. That claimed her down to the soul. 

Her fingers fisted into his robes, dragging him closer. 

He groaned into her mouth, biting her lower lip, and she whimpered -- low and shameful and wanting.

It was never enough. 

His need for her was never satisfied. 

She adored it. Adored him. Hated that she adored him. 

When they broke apart, breathing ragged, foreheads pressed together, Tom's hands didn't leave her waist. His eyes stayed locked on hers -- obsessed, unblinking. 

His voice came low and sharp. 

"There are rules."

Hermione blinked, still dazed. "Of course there are."

He smirked faintly, but the look in his eyes was dead serious. 

"These are not to control you, my love," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. "These are to protect you."

She stiffened slightly, but didn't pull away. 

He continued. 

"Do not leave my side. Not for a second. No matter who speaks to you."

"Tom --"

"No." His hand cupped her cheek now, his thumb stroking the curve of her jaw. "There are people in that room who would rather see you dead than beside me. People who do not yet understand what you are to me, nor the lengths I would go to for you."

She swallowed. 

"And what am I to you?"

His smile softened. Just slightly. Just enough. 

"My reason," he said simply. "My answer. My undoing."

Her heart skipped. 

His next words came like silk-draped steel. 

"If anyone lays a hand on you, you tell me. I will not be... Diplomatic."

She tilted her head, trying to bite down her rising heat. 

"You'd murder them?"

His mouth brushed hers again. 

"I'd do worse than that."

The words didn't chill her. 

They should have. Once, they would have. 

Now... They only made her feel the immensity of him. The truth of how far he'd go for her. 

And disturbingly -- how far she might let him. 

"I understand," she said quietly. 

He looked at her a long moment. Then leaned down, brushing his nose against hers. 

"You are the only thing in this world I would ever kneel for."

"Tom --"

"I mean it."

Her lips parted -- but the sound of footsteps on stone reminded them. 

Time to be seen. 

He offered his arm again. 

"Ready?"

She took it. 

"Always."

The doors groaned open like a breath of a beast. Magic rippled through the air -- cold, old, and thick with reverence and dread.

SIlence fell over the chamber beyond. 

And then -- Hermione stepped in. 

First.

By Tom's command. Not beside him. Not behind him.

Before him. 

A symbol, a declaration, an act of war on tradition. 

The hem of her robes swept across the polished stone as she walked, chin high, gaze steady. And behind her, cloaked in shadows like a storm given form, Tom Riddle followed.

Eyes. All of them. The loyal. The wicked. The desperate. The bloodied. 

All turned. 

And lingered.

Not one dared speak. 

But the thoughts -- Tom could feel them. Crawling through the air. Murmuring like snakes beneath skin. Vulgar. Crude. Hungry. Threatening.

He didn't need to probe with Legilimency to know.

They wanted her. 

And they would die for the audacity.

His hand found her lower back, gently but firm. Possessive. She didn't flinch. She didn't falter. 

They reached the dais. 

A throne stood there -- stone and serpent-carved, high-backed, elevated. 

Tom seated himself.

There was only one chair. 

And that was by design. 

He reached for her waist. 

Without hesitation, he pulled her into his lap. 

Her thighs draped across him, her back nestled to his chest. His arms locked around her waist. Her legs crossed at the knee like a queen of old. Her gaze met no one's.

Except Bellatrix, who stared like she'd been hexed silent. 

And Rodolphus -- whose thoughts dripped with filth. 

Tom felt the temperature in the room plummet. 

A smile curled across his lips. 

He leaned in, nipped her earlobe with teeth, then whispered loud enough for them all to hear. 

"Mine."

Not a pet name. 

A claim.

A warning. 

He didn't need to say more. 

Not when his hand had found her thighs through the slit of her robes. 

Not when his magic rippled outwards like a net cast across the room, branding every single follower with a single truth:

She was the line no one would cross. 

Not unless they wanted to see what happened when a god bled the world dry. 

The meeting began. 

Lucius was the first to step forward, bowing with practiced grace, blond head lowered just a beat longer than necessary. 

"My Lord," he said smoothly. "The Ministry continues to flounder under the weight of its own bureaucracy. Several key officials have been... Persuaded to look the other way."

Tom didn't move. 

Hermione, still seated across his lap, felt the shift in his body -- a subtle tightening of his hand on her hip, a silent command for Lucius to continue. 

"We've planted two more withing the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Bartemius Crouch has grown suspicious, but he's more concerned with his son's rebellious leanings than any internal subterfuge."

Across the room, Barty smirked and offered a lazy bow. "Teenage boys, father dearest finds me so full of surprises."

Tom hummed, fingers gliding down Hermione's arm, looping around her wrist as if her pulse was the only rhythm he truly listened to. She remained still, poised, her gaze drifting between each speaker. Assessing. Calculating. 

Lucius glanced at her -- Just once. Just too long. 

Tom's fingers flexed on her thigh.

Lucius flinched as if struck. 

"Continue," Tom drawled. 

"The Order of the Phoenix remains active, though splintered," Narcissa offered next, stepping up with her head held high. "Dumbledore's attention is divided between Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place. They're recruiting, but poorly. Most fear what's coming."

Hermione tensed slightly at the name Dumbledore. Tom felt it, of course. He brushed his lips against the top of her shoulder as if to soother her. A possessive, grounding gesture. 

Rodolphus followed next. Smirking.

"There's talk," he said, eyes drifting far too low along Hermione's form. "Of muggleborns forming underground resistance pockets. Pathetic really, but noisy."

Hermione didn't blink. 

But Tom... Laughed softly. Dangerously. 

"Mmm," he murmured, eyes never leaving his lap. "You'd be amazed what the noisy ones are capable of, Lestrange."

The air snapped.

Rodolphus's smirk faltered. 

Bellatrix bristled beside him, always watching, always seething. 

Severus stepped forward at last, cool and unreadable as ever. 

"The Order may be fractured, but they are not without teeth," he said quietly. "Particularly the werewolves. Fenrir's loyalties remain... Unstable."

"I expected as much," Tom said. "He hungers for blood more than power. If he steps out of line -- cut the leash."

Snape gave a shallow nod. His eyes flicked once to Hermione, unreadable, before retreating. 

The room had settled. 

But the tension never left. 

Because while every follower brought reports, updates, and intelligence -- none of them could keep their attention from her. Her presence. Her stillness. 

Her influence. 

And Tom knew it. 

Which was why he kept his hand on her leg, just below the hem of her robe. Why he tilted his head and murmured things no one else could hear -- mine, mine, mine. 

She wasn't just the guest of honour anymore. 

She was the reason their Dark Lord's power had changed. 

Shifted. 

Grown sharper. 

And that terrified them. 

 

Slowly the room thinned. 

Only the inner circle remained now -- Lucius and Narcissa, Severus in the corner, silent as shadow, Bellatrix curled on a throne of her own delusion, Rodolphus beside her, eyes still bleeding arrogance. Barty lounged in a chair like a panther too lazy to pounce, but watching. 

And a few snatchers lingered, posted near the doors. Thugs in patchwork robes, dirty fingers and dirtier minds. 

One of them laughed too loud at something Rodolphus muttered. 

Then he moved. 

Too close. 

Too bold. 

He passed behind the dais, saying nothing, and Hermione felt it -- a touch. 

Barely a graze. 

A hand on the curve of her waist, light and fleeting, as if testing her, as if marking her. 

Tom didn't speak. 

He didn't have to.

The world shifted. 

Hermione felt it in the air first -- the sudden lurch, the drop in temperature, the magic crackling like a lightning strike about to land. Her skin prickled. Her heart surged. 

The Snatcher turned, smirking. 

And Tom moved. 

One second he was seated -- his hand on her thigh. 

The next -- 

The snatcher was screaming. 

Tom's wand was drawn, his magic feral and explosive, a curse so dark and old that the walls rattled with it. The man's legs gave out, his flesh blistering beneath invisible fire, and the scent of burning filled the air. 

Gasps echoed from the corners of the room. 

But Hermione didn't move. 

She didn't cry out. 

She didn't reach for Tom's arm or plead for mercy on the man's behalf. 

She simply sat. Cold. Still. 

Untouched. 

Tim's voice cut the air like a blade. 

"You dare."

The snatcher writhed, choking now. 

"You dare touch her. You dare lay a single finger in what is mine?"

Blood hit the floor. 

Tom's magic pulsed again -- crimson and gold -- and the snatcher stilled with a final, broken gasp. 

Silence.

No one moved. 

Tom stood above the corpse, breathing hard, eyes black with rage. 

Then he turned. 

And Hermione -- 

She looked up at him. 

Calm. Unflinching. 

Something ancient and dangerous curled in her belly. 

He returned to her -- slowly, almost reverently. His hands trembled as he cupped her face. 

"Are you alright?"

She nodded. 

"You didn't stop me," he whispered. 

Her voice was low, and to her own horror, honest. 

"I -- I didn't want to."

A single tear slipped down her cheek at the confession. Tom wiped it from her face. 

A beat passed. 

Then he kissed her -- deep, and raw, and possessive. Not out of hunger. but out of need. 

The room remained frozen, no one daring to speak. 

Because in that moment, they all understood. 

This wasn't a love story. 

This was an apolcalypse written in fire and skin. 

Tom did not let her go. 

One of his arms remained looped around her waist, fingers splayed against her spine, warm and unapologetically possessive. Her body, still lit with the slow-burning embers of that kiss, remained close to his -- closer than propriety allowed. 

But no one breathed a word of it. 

Until he stepped forward. 

Rodolphus Lestrange. 

Tall. Broad. Dangerous in the same way fire is -- only useful at a distance, always liable to consume. 

He moved with deceptive grace, his expression carefully neutral. Not deferent. Not bold, exactly. Just... careful. 

"My Lord," Rodolphus said smoothly, voice laced with silk and smoke, "might I make a suggestion?"

Tom didn't look at him. He remained focused on Hermione -- adjusting a single curl behind her ear, letting the pads of his fingers trail just a moment too long against her cheek. 

"You may speak," he said coolly. 

Rodolphus bowed his head. Just enough. 

"There's to be a demonstration soon. A gathering of our outer recruits. Disciples eager to serve you."

A flicker of impatience curled in Tom's jaw. 

"And?"

Rodolphus lifted his gaze, direct. Calculated. 

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "my Lady might attend."

The room held its breath. 

Tom stilled. 

"She is no prisoner, after all," Rodolphus continued. "Surely it would... Galvanise the ranks. To witness not just your power, but your devotion. They would serve her name as they serve yours. It would please them greatly, I think, to understand who commands your favour."

Hermione felt the way Tom's entire body tensed. 

Not with rage. Not yet. 

But with interest.

"Would it please you, Rodolphus?" He asked, his voice deceptively mild. "To see her command the crowd. To kneel beneath her heel?"

Rodolphus did not flinch. 

"It would... Inspire is all, my Lord."

Tom's smile was slow. 

Chilling. 

He turned his head to Hermione, his eyes sharp, gleaming. 

"What do you think, my love?" He murmured. "Shall we put their loyalty to the test? Let them bend the knee to you?"

Hermione held his gaze. Her pulse thrummed. 

Power. She could feel it. The pull of it. The seduction of being more than just his. Of being seen by others as something sacred. 

Her voice was soft. 

"Only if I stand beside you," she said. "Not behind."

Rodolphus's expression flickered. Just for a second. 

Tom's grip on her tightened, pride and want and something darker flickering in his eyes. 

"Beside me, always," he said. "They'll know soon enough."

He turned back to Rodolphus. 

"Very well," he said. "She will attend. And any man who so much as breathes disrespect in her direction..."

He smiled. 

And the memory of scorched flesh on the floor still lingered in the air. 

"... Will not draw breath again."

 

Chapter 11: Terms and Silences

Tom did not raise his voice. 

He didn't need to. 

The room seemed to respond to him instinctively, bodies stiffening, magic tightening, every pair of eyes fixed on him as though he were gravity itself. 

"That will be all," he said calmly. 

No elaboration. No flourish. 

The effect was immediate. 

Rodolphus bowed first -- deep, precise, hiding his thoughts behind discipline. The others followed suit, robes whispering as they retreated, only by one, until the chamber emptied itself of sound and heat and ambition. 

All except --

Lucius Malfoy.

Tall, pale, immaculately composed, he remained where he was, hands folded neatly behind his back, silver gaze unreadable but sharp. A man who understood power not as something to seize, but something to endure. 

Tom felt Hermione shift beside him. 

He loosened his arm around her waist -- not releasing her entirely, but easing, as though acknowledging her presence rather than claiming it. 

Then softer, just for her:

"Hermione," he said. "May I have a moment alone with an old friend?"

The gentleness startled her more than the command ever could have. 

She looked up at him, suspicion immediate, coiled tight in her chest. 

"Why?" She asked quietly. 

Lucius did not look at her. His eyes remained on Tom, respectful, alert. 

Tom studied her face -- the wariness, the intelligence, the faint shadow still lingering behind her eyes. 

"Because," he said honestly, "some conversations requite... History."

Her jaw tightened. 

"And what am I supposed to do?" She asked. "Wait obediently outside while you plan something I'm not meant to hear?"

A flicker of amusement passed through his gaze -- but it was tempered, careful. 

"No," he replied. "You'll have company."

He lifted his wand and made a small, precise motion. 

The air rippled. 

And Narcissa Malfoy stepped back inside the room, like a vision carved from frost and grace. 

BLonde hair perfectly arranged, posture flawless, her pale eyes flicked first to Tom -- then to Hermione. 

Something curious softened in them. 

"My Lord," Narcissa said, inclining her head. "You sent for me?"

"I did," Tom replied. "Would you be so kind as to keep Lady Hermione company?"

Lady.

The word landed with weight. 

Hermione stiffened. 

Narcissa's gaze returned to her -- assessing, not unkind. Intelligent. Measuring. 

"It would be my pleasure," she said smoothly. 

Hermione hesitated. 

Every instinct screamed that this was not merely courtesy. That this was management. A gently removal, wrapped in silk and civility. 

She looked back at Tom. 

"You're asking me to trust you," she said. 

His eyes did not waver.

"I am," he answered. "And I know I haven't earned it. Not fully."

The admission unsettled her more than denial ever could. 

Still -- still -- there was the memory. 

The snatcher. 

The hand on her arm. 

The way Tom had moved. 

The spell. 

The silence afterwards. 

She hadn't stopped him. 

Hadn't screamed. 

Hadn't intervened.

Hadn't even looked away. 

Her stomach twisted. 

"I'll go," she said finally. "But I won't be far."

His mouth curved faintly. "I wouldn't expect you to be."

Narcissa stepped closer, offering her arm -- not possessive, not patronising. 

Hermione took it reluctantly. 

As they turned to leave, she felt Tom's gaze on her back -- steady, assessing, as though already calculating the cost of her doubt and deciding it was worth paying. 

The door closed behind them. 

 

Silence fell. 

Lucius exhaled -- slow, controlled. 

"You're moving quickly with her," he said at last. 

Tom's expression cooled. 

"I'm moving correctly."

Lucius turned slightly, silver eyes sharp. "She's dangerous."

"Yes," Tom agreed without hesitation. 

Lucius frowned. "I meant to you."

Tom smiled. 

"That," he said, voice smooth as venom, "is exactly why she matters."

And down the corridor, Hermione walked beside Narcissa, her thoughts churning, unease gnawing at her ribs. 

She hadn't stopped Tom. 

And part of her -- 

The most terrifying part -- 

Wasn't sure she would next time, either. 

 

Lucius straightened instinctively as Tom remained unmoving in the chambers, spine aligning as though drawn upward by an invisible thread.

Tom stood by the hearth now, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the dying embers as though searching for something buried within them. 

"You have something of mine," Tom said calmly. "Do you remember?"

Lucius hesitated on a fraction of a second. 

"The book?" He asked. 

Tom's jaw tightened. 

"Yes," he said softly. "The book."

Lucius nodded. "Yes, my Lord. I still have it. It remains in my personal vault. Warded. Hidden. Quite safe."

Tom turned then. 

Slowly. 

His expression was composed, but Lucius had learned long ago not to mistake stillness for calm. There was something sharp behind his eyes -- something unsettled. 

"I'm going to need it back." 

Lucius blinked. 

"My Lord?"

Tom's gaze snapped, precise and dangerous. 

"Don't question me."

The words were not shouted. They were worse -- quiet, clipped, absolute.

Lucius inclined his head immediately. "Of course. Forgive me. It's only that you were... Quite explicit. You said its safety was paramount. That it must never return to your possession."

Tom's mouth thinned. 

"That was before."

Lucius lifted his head again, brows knitting slightly. "Before...?"

A pause. 

Not long -- but weighted. Deliberate. 

Tom looked away once more, his reflection faintly visible in the polished stone of the hearth. 

"Before I made a promise," he said. 

Lucius felt a chill crawl up his spine. 

"A promise," he repeated carefully. 

"One I intend to keep."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with implication. 

Lucius chose his next words with surgical precision. 

"My Lord... May I ask -- to whom?"

Tom's eyes flicked to him. 

And for the first time since Lucius had known him, there was something there that was not calculation. 

Not ambition. 

Not hunger. 

Resolve. 

"Lady Hermione," Tom said. 

Lucius froze. 

The name landed like a curse. 

"My Lord," he said slowly, "that book is not a trinket. It is not merely dangerous. It is --"

"Mine," Tom cut in. 

Lucius swallowed. "Yes. And you entrusted it to me so that it would never --"

"So that it would never be used against me," Tom finished coolly. 

Lucius stared. 

"You believe she could --"

"No," Tom said sharply. "I believe I could."

The admission struck harder than any rebuke.

Lucius exhaled, controlled but tight. "Then why retrieve it at all?"

Tom was quiet for a long moment. 

When he spoke, his voice was lower. Measured. 

"Because I promised her that she will not be made complicit in what I become," he said. "And that promise requires... Contingency."

Lucius hesitated. 

"My Lord," he said carefully, "if I may speak freely."

Tom did not turn. The fire reflected faintly in his eyes, but his expression was otherwise unreadable. 

"You may," he said. 

Lucius chose his words with the caution of a man handling live spell work. 

"A woman asking about something she cannot possibly understand..." He began. "Surely that decision should remain yours alone."

The air changed. 

It was subtle -- but Lucius felt it immediately. A tightening, like the moment before a wand snapped. 

Tom turned. 

Slowly. 

And the look he fixed upon Lucius was not rage. 

It was colder. 

"Do not," Tom said softly, "reduce her to a woman."

Lucius stiffened. 

"As though she is insignificant," Tom continued, voice silk over steel. "As though her mind is lesser. As though she has not already understood more than most men twice her age."

"My Lord... I meant no disrespect --"

"You did," Tom interrupted. "You simply dressed it in condescension."

He stepped closer, gaze unwavering. 

She did not ask because she is ignorant," Tom said. "She asked because she sees the cost. And she cares enough to want to evade that. Because she understands that power without restraint corrodes everything it touches."

Lucius swallowed. 

"She asked," Tom went on, quieter now, more dangerous for it, "because she believes I am still capable of choosing differently."

Silence pressed in. 

"You think I am considering its destruction because she is weak," Tom said. 

His lips curved -- not a smile. 

"I am considering it because she is right."

Lucius stared at him. 

"My Lord... That book is a safeguard. A certainty. Without it --"

"Without it," Tom said calmly, "I am forced to rely on myself."

A pause. 

"And on my word."

That, Lucius understood with a chill, was the true danger. 

Tom turned back to the fire. 

"She did not demand," he said. "She did not threaten. She did not beg. She simply asked me not to become something irredeemable."

His fingers flexed once at his side.

"And that," he added, "is not something a foolish woman would do."

Lucius bowed his head -- this time not in form, but in genuine acknowledgment.

"I will retrieve it," he said quietly. 

"Yes," Tom replied. "You will."

As Lucius moved to leave, Tom spoke once more -- final, precise.

"And Lucius?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"If anyone ever speaks of her as though she is lesser in my presence again," Tom said evenly, "they will not have the opportunity to correct themselves."

Lucius inclined his head deeply.

"As you wish."

The door closed. 

And Tom remained by the fire, staring into the flames -- thinking not of power, nor legacy, nor immortality -- 

But of a promise made to a woman who had dared to believe he could still choose. 

And the terrifying truth that he wanted to prove her right. 

 

*

 

Hermione walked beside Narcissa in silence. 

The corridor was long and pale, lined with stone that remembered too much. Torches burned low in their sconces, casting soft gold along Narcissa's immaculate robes and the sharp set of her profile. 

Hermione kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her thoughts anything but calm. 

She did not like being removed. 

She did not like being managed. 

And she especially did not like the feeling that something was happening around her instead of with her. 

Narcissa seemed to sense it. 

"You don't trust him," Narcissa said at last, her voice smooth, not accusatory. 

Hermione's head snapped up. "I don't trust anyone who kills without hesitation."

Narcissa inclined her head slightly. "A sensible rule."

They turned a corner, footsteps echoing. 

"He was always dangerous," Narcissa continued. "Even as a boy. Brilliant. Singular. Unrelenting."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "You say that like it's praise."

"It is observation," Narcissa replied calmly. "Praise would imply approval."

She glanced at Hermione then -- really looked at her. 

"And before you arrived," Narcissa went on, "he was drifting."

Hermione frowned. "Drifting?"

"Yes." Narcissa folded her hands. "Power without direction is chaos. He was becoming... Scattered. Testing limits. Pushing simply to see what would break."

Hermione's stomach twisted. She thought of scorched flesh. Of screams cut short. 

"And now?" She asked quietly. 

Narcissa stopped walking.

Hermione halted with her. 

"He is still ruthless," Narcissa said frankly. "Still capable of terrifying things. That has not changed."

Hermione braced herself. 

"But," Narcissa continued, her tone softening just enough to matter, "there is purpose now. A centre of gravity. He is choosing rather than merely taking."

Hermione swallowed. "You mean me."

Narcissa did not deny it. 

"You are not a leash," she said gently. "Nor a weakness. You are... Orientation."

Hermione let out a shaky breath. "That doesn't make me feel better."

Narcissa's lips curved faintly. "It shouldn't. Influence is far more dangerous than affection."

They resumed walking. 

"I have seen many men mistake obsession for direction," Narcissa said. "This is not that. He listens to you."

Hermione laughed softly, bitter. "He terrifies me."

"As he should," Narcissa agreed. "But he also hesitates now. Even when it costs him something."

Hermione stopped again. 

"Hesitates?" She echoed. 

Narcissa turned to her fully now, pale eyes steady. 

"He made a choice tonight," she said. "One he would not have made a month ago."

Hermione's heart stuttered. "What choice?"

Narcissa studied her for a long moment, then shook her head. 

"That is not mine to tell."

They reached a tall arched window overlooking the grounds, moonlight spilling silver across the floor. 

Narcissa gestured toward a small searing alcove.

"Sit with me a moment," she said. "You look as though you're carrying the weight of consequences that aren't yours alone."

Hermione sank into the chair, exhaustion crashing over her. 

"I didn't stop him," she whispered. "When he killed that man. I didn't try."

Narcissa sat opposite her, hands folded in her lap. 

"No," she said quietly. "You didn't."

Hermione's eyes burned. "Does that make me complicit?"

Narcissa considered her carefully. 

"It makes you honest," she said. "And aware. Which Is far more dangerous -- to yourself -- than guilt. 

Hermione stared at her. 

"You are standing at a crossroads," Narcissa continued. "Not between good and evil. Those lines blur too easily."

"Then between what?" Hermione asked. 

Narcissa's voice dropped. 

"Between influence and distance."

Silence settled between them. 

Finally, Narcissa reached out -- not touching Hermione, but close enough to be felt. 

"You were kinder to him than the world has ever been," she said. "And kinder still by refusing to excuse him."

Hermione's throat tightened. 

"Be careful," Narcissa added. "Not because he will break you."

A pause. 

"But because you may find you are capable of shaping him."

Hermione closed her eyes, the weight of that truth pressing down like a spell she hadn't meant to cast. 

And somewhere down the corridor, power shifted -- quietly, irrevocably -- towards her. 

Chapter 12: The Name of It

They walked back towards the chambers together, their steps unhurried. 

The corridor narrowed here, the stone warmer, the torchlight steadier -- as though the manor itself softened in this wing. Hermione noticed it absently, her thoughts still tangled in what Narcissa had said. Orientation. Influence.

She broke the silence before she could stop herself.

"What is it like," she asked quietly, "being married to Lucius?"

Narcissa glanced at her -- not startled, merely thoughtful. 

"It is... Quieter than people imagine," she said at last. 

Hermione frowned. "Quieter?"

"Yes." Narcissa's mouth curved faintly. "Lucius performs magnificently in public. The coolness. The ambition. The hauteur. It serves him."

"And in private?"

"He listens," Narcissa replied. "More than he speaks. He notices when I haven't slept. When I eat less. When I am afraid and refuse to say why."

Hermione absorbed that, surprised. 

"He is attentive," Narcissa continued. "Careful. Not demonstrative -- but constant. He believed devotion is shown through preparation. Through ensuring I never need ask twice."

Hermione let out a small breath. "That's... Kinder than I expected." 

Narcissa nodded. "Kindness doesn't always announce itself. Some men hide it because the world mistakes it for weakness."

They slowed as they neared the chamber once more. Hermione felt it before she heard anything: the subtle prickle of wards, the hum of magic tuned sharp and deliberate. 

Then -- 

Voices. 

Muted, but distinct. 

Lucius's first. Controlled. Careful. 

"... I will retrieve it immediately."

Hermione stilled. 

Narcissa's posture shifted beside her -- not alarmed, but alert. 

Tom's voice followed, low and even. 

"Yes. You will."

Hermione's pulse jumped. 

A pause. Footsteps -- Lucius turning perhaps. Then Tom again, quieter, colder. 

"If anyone ever speaks of her as though she is lesser in my presence again..."

The air seemed to tighten. 

"... They will not have the opportunity to correct themselves."

Hermione's breath caught. 

Narcissa's gaze slid to her -- searching, assessing the impact. Hermione felt suddenly, acutely exposed, as though the words had reached out and found her spine. 

Lucius answered, his voice bowed with genuine gravity. 

"As you wish."

Silence followed. A door opening. Closing. 

Hermione stood frozen, heart hammering, her mind racing to assemble fragments she hadn't known were missing. Retrieve it. Lesser. Her.

Narcissa touched her arm -- light, grounding. 

"He means what he says," Narcissa murmured. "When it comes to that."

Hermione swallowed. "I don't know whether that's meant to reassure me."

"It isn't," Narcissa said honestly. "It is meant to prepare you."

They took the last steps together. The wards parted at Hermione's presence, welcoming them into the antechamber's soft light. 

Hermione hesitated on the threshold. 

"I don't want to be managed," she said quietly. "Or used as... A symbol."

Narcissa inclined her head. "Then don't be. Make him account for you. He respects resistance when it's intelligent. When it is you."

Hermione nodded, though unease still coiled in her chest. 

From beyond the inner doors, she felt it -- the shift. The moment Tom became aware of her proximity. Not surprise. Recognition.

Narcissa released her arm. 

"I'll leave you now," she said. "If you wish for company later, send for me."

Hermione met her eyes. "Thank you."

Narcissa smiled -- small, sincere. 

"Be careful," she said again. "And exacting. He rises to it."

Hermione stepped forward as Narcissa withdrew. 

The wards sighed shut behind her, sealing the space with a familiarity that still unsettled her -- like the room knew her now. Firelight washed over polished stone and dark wood, over the quiet order of the place. 

And over Tom. 

He turned the moment she crossed the threshold. 

Delighted was the only word for it. 

Not relief. Not surprised. Delight -- pure, sharp, unmistakable. It lit his face in a way that felt dangerously intimate, as though her return had been anticipated rather than merely noticed. 

"There you are," he said softly. 

Hermione didn't move forward. 

She stood exactly where she was, spine straight, shoulders squared. She fixed him with a look that wasn't a glare -- there was no heat in it, no fury -- but it was intense. Focused. Unyielding. 

The look of a woman who had heard something she was not meant to hear and intended to be answered. 

Tom felt it immediately. 

His smile didn't fade -- but it sharpened. 

"Welcome back," he added, testing. 

She didn't return it. 

"Do you mean to tell me," Hermione asked calmly, "what it is that Lucius is to retrieve?"

The room seemed to still. 

Tom regarded her for a long moment, eyes dark, assessing -- not calculating how to evade, but how much to give. He did not pretend ignorance. Did not ask what she meant. 

Instead, he stepped closer. 

Not crowing her. Not looming. 

Closing the distance like a man who did not fear the truth. 

"You were listening," he observed. 

"I was walking," she replied. "The walls here aren't subtle."

A faint him of amusement flickered through him. "No. They were built to absorb and remember."

He stopped a few paces away. 

"You overheard the end," he said. 

"Yes."

"Not the beginning."

"No."

"And yet," Tom murmured, "you ask anyway."

Her jaw tightened. "Because I don't appreciate secrecy."

A beat. 

Then -- unexpectedly -- he nodded. 

"That," he said, "is fair."

The admission landed heavier than any denial would have. 

He turned slightly, gesturing towards the seating by the fire -- not an order. An offer. 

She didn't take it. 

Tom accepted that too. 

"What Lucius is retrieving," he said carefully, "is something I once believed essential."

Hermione didn't blink. "To your power?"

"To my certainty," he corrected. 

Her fingers curled at her sides. 

"And now?"

"And now," he said, voice lower, steadier, "it may no longer be."

Her breath caught despite herself. 

"It's something you intend to dispose of?" She asked. 

He met her gaze without flinching. "I am considering it."

"Because of me."

"Yes."

The honesty struck her harder than any deflection. 

"Why?" She demanded quietly. "What does this... Thing... Have to do with me?"

He studied her -- really studied her now. The tension in her shoulders. The restraint. The war she was still fighting inside herself. 

"Because you asked me not to become something," he said. "And because for the first time, I find that request... Inconvenient to ignore."

Her throat tightened. 

"This thing -- whatever it is," Hermione said, "you trusted Lucius with it above all others. You built safeguards around it."

"Yes."

"And now you want it back," she said. "Not to use. But to remove... Because I asked."

"Possibly."

She searched his face. "And if you decide not to?"

Tom did not hesitate. 

"Then I will tell you," he said.

The words were a quiet vow. 

Hermione held his gaze, her pulse loud in her ears. 

The pieces slid together with a sickening inevitability -- the urgency, the secrecy, the word certainty. The promise. The crack in it. 

She didn't raise her voice. 

Didn't accuse. 

But something in her chest cracked painfully. 

"It's a Horcrux," Hermione said quietly. "Isn't it?"

SIlence. 

Not denial. 

Not evasion. 

Silence -- thick and deliberate, like the space between heartbeats. 

Her chest tightened. "You promised me, Tom."

His eyes never left hers. 

"You promised me," she repeated, sharper now. "You promised me there wouldn't be any!"

"I promised," he said evenly, "that I wouldn't make any."

Her breath caught. She took a step back. "Then why does Lucius have one?"

"Because I made that one in school, Hermione."

The words landed like a blow. 

The room seemed to recede -- the fire, the walls, the night pressing against the windows -- until there was only him and the truth between them. 

Silence. 

Her hands trembled. She clenched them into fists. "You let me believe --"

"I did not lie," he cut in. Not harsh. Precise. "I told you the truth as it exists now."

Her voice broke. "That distinction doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

She laughed one, brittle. "Of course it does."

He stepped closer -- slowly, carefully -- as if approaching a wild thing he did not wish to startle. 

"There is... A creature in the school," Tom said, quietly enough that it felt like a confession rather than a boast. "Buried. Ancient. Obedient... To me."

Her heart stuttered. She knew before he said it. 

"I can wield it."

She whispered the name like a curse. "The Basilisk."

His eyes flickered. "You know of it?"

"Yes," she said, swallowing hard. "My second year. It petrified me. And... A friend helped to slay it."

Something tightened in his face -- interest, calculation, a flash of something like annoyance. Then it smoothed away. 

"I used the snake," Tom said, voice low, stripped of ornament. "To hunt Muggleborns. For a time. I was young. And impetuous."

Hermione felt sick, hearing the words from his own mouth. 

"It managed to kill one," he continued, not looking away. "And I used that death as my anchor."

The room went very still. 

"You did this," she said, barely audible, "as a boy."

"Yes."

Her breath shuddered. "You kept a piece of yourself in an object, and handed it to Lucius like a contingency."

"Like a safeguard," he corrected. "Against uncertainty."

She shook her head, tears threatening but not falling. "Against conscience!"

His gaze sharpened. "No. Against loss."

She looked at him then -- really looked. The brilliance. The control. The terrible, unwavering certainty. And beneath it, the fracture he'd never meant anyone to see.

"You promised me," she said again. Softer now. Wounded. "You promised me there would be no more. That you would try."

"And there won't be," he said immediately. "I have not made another. I will not make another."

"You can't take back what you already did," she said. "You know that."

"No," he agreed. "I can only choose what to do now."

Her voice trembled. "And what are you choosing?"

"I am choosing," he said slowly, "to retrieve it."

Hermione remained in stunned silence. Her mind reeling over the discovery. 

"I didn't intend for you to know," he said. "But I won't insult you by pretending it's insignificant now that you do."

She took a steadying breath. "If you keep it -- if you use it -- I'm gone."

He nodded once. "I know."

"And destroying it," she continued. "Is not the same as absolution."

"I don't want absolution."

She searched his eyes. "Then what do you want?"

A long pause. And Tom took another careful step towards her. 

"Purpose. Legacy..." A soft smile ghosted his lips. "Direction. A promise that I can keep."

Something in him shifted. 

It wasn't dramatic. 

Not visible to anyone else. 

But Hermione felt it. 

Tom's shoulders eased -- not slumped, not weakened, simply... Less armoured. The sharpness in his gaze dulled, just slightly, like a blade sheathed rather than drawn. He exhaled, slow and controlled, as though he had reached a decision he did not entirely like -- but would honoured regardless. 

Only for her. 

"I don't want you to leave," he said quietly. 

Not you can't. 

Not you won't. 

I don't want you to.

That distinction mattered. 

"I am not careless with what I want," he continued. "And I am not careless with you, my love. I made you a promise, and I have every intention of keeping it."

Hermione's chest tightened. She hated the part of her that responded to his restraint, to the effort it clearly cost him. 

"You say you want my love," she said, voice steady but strained, "and then you do everything I've sworn to stand against, Tom."

The words hung between them -- heavy, undeniable. 

For the first time since she had know him, Tom did not immediately answer. Instead he looked... Thoughtful. 

He looked at her like she was something both fragile and dangerous and irreplaceable all at once.

"You are sworn to protect the world," he said slowly. "I am sworn to never be powerless in it."

She shook her head. "Those aren't opposites."

"No," he agreed. "But they have been treated as such."

He stepped closer again -- still not touching -- but the air between them tightened, charged with everything unspoken. 

"I am not asking you to abandon your principles," he said. "I am asking you to understand why I built mine the way I did."

Her voice cracked. "And if understanding them isn't enough?"

"Then I change," he said simply. 

She stared at him in disbelief. "You don't mean that."

"I do," he said. "Not all at once. Not perfectly. But deliberately."

She laughed once, sharp and broken. "You expect me to believe you'll just... Stop?"

"No," Tom replied. "I expect you to watch me try."

The fire snapped. 

"You think this is easy for me?" He asked quietly. "To expose something that has kept me alive? To even consider destroying it after believing it was my only safety net?"

His jaw tightened -- but his voice remained controlled. 

"I am doing this because I want a future that includes you," he said. "And I know -- I know -- that future cannot be built on lies or half-promises."

Hermione's hands trembled. She folded them together to steady herself as she looked up at him again. 

"You're asking for time," she said. 

"Yes."

"And trust."

"Yes."

"And faith," she finished. "In a man who has already crossed lines I would die to prevent."

He did not deny it. 

"I am not asking for you to excuse me," Tom said. "I am asking you to stay long enough to see whether I can be more than the worst thing I have done."

Silence stretched. 

Her heart ached. For him. For herself. For the impossible position he had placed her in -- not through force, but through choice. 

"If you betray this," she said softly. "If you betray me --"

"I will lose you," he said immediately. "And that will be the consequence."

The certainty in his voice was terrifying. 

Not because he doubted her. 

But because he believed her. 

She looked at him -- really looked -- and saw it: the effort, the restraint, the careful way he was holding himself back from demanding what he wanted most. 

Her voice dropped to a whisper. 

"I don't know if I can love someone like you."

Tom's expression softened further -- achingly so. 

"I know," he said. "That's why I am earning it."

For a long moment, neither moved. 

Then Hermione exhaled, slow and shuddering. 

"I'm not leaving," she said. "Not tonight."

Hope -- real, dangerous hope -- flared in his eyes. 

"But I am not yours," she added firmly. "Not yet. And not if you try to own me instead of choosing with me."

His lips curved faintly. 

"Then stay," he said. "And keep stopping me when I am wrong."

She met his gaze, her heart pounding.

And for the first time since she arrived in his word, the battle between them was not about domination. 

But direction. 

And neither of them was sure who would survive it unchanged. 

Chapter 13: Gods and Men

The chamber felt different now. 

Not emptier -- never that -- but settled, as though the walls themselves had absorbed what had been said and were waiting to see what would come next. 

The burn marks still carried the marble floor. 

Tom stood near the hearth, one hand resting against the stone mantle, the other relaxed at his side. He looked composed again. Not cold -- never that with her -- but controlled in a way that reminded Hermione too sharply of who he was when not unravelled by confession.

She closed the door. 

"You were very quick to kill the snatcher," she said. 

He turned at once. 

Not surprised. 

Interested. 

"And yet," he replied calmly, "you didn't stop me."

"That's not what I'm asking," Hermione said. She crossed the room but did not come close. "He touched me. You ended him without a second thought."

"Yes."

"But Rodolphus," she continued, voice steady, "stood there and undressed me with his eyes. He suggested I be displayed. And you let him walk away."

Tom studied her for a long moment. 

Not defensive. 

Measuring. 

"You noticed," he said. 

"I always notice," she replied. "So explain it to me."

He moved them -- unhurried, deliberate -- closing the distance she had left between them. He stopped just short of touching her. 

"The snatcher acted," Tom said quietly. "Rodolphus suggested."

"That's your distinction?"

"It's an important one."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "To whom?"

"To me," he said simply. "And to you, whether you realise it yet or not."

She folded her arms. "You're telling me you didn't kill Rodolphus because he hadn't crossed the line yet."

"I didn't kill him," Tom corrected, "because he wanted something I have not given him permission to want."

Her stomach twisted. 

"And that makes it better? That makes no sense..."

"No," he said. "It makes it useful."

She looked away, anger flickering. "You say you're trying to change. And those are the kind of men you decide you can tolerate?"

Tom stepped closer. 

He lifted her chin with two fingers -- gentle, possessive, inescapably intimate. 

"I tolerate him," he said softly, "because he reveals himself openly. Men like that are predictable. They show you exactly where they will fail."

His thumb brushed once along her jaw. 

"And because," he added, "he looked at you, and lived."

Her breath hitched. 

"That was mercy?" She asked bitterly.

"That was restraint," Tom replied. "For you."

She searched his face, unsettled. 

"And the demonstration?" She pressed. "What is that really about?"

His gaze darkened -- not with cruelty, but intent. 

"It is about reminding them," he said, "that my power has direction now."

Her chest tightened. "Meaning me."

"Yes."

The word was unflinching.

She stepped back, shaken. "You're turning me into a symbol."

"No," Tom said, and this time there was  no amusement at all. "I am turning them into witnesses."

She shook her head. "You're doing this without my consent."

He closed the distance again -- this time fully -- drawing her into him before she could retreat. One arm wrapped securely around her back, grounding rather than trapping. His other hand settled at her nape, thumb pressng lightly, possessively. 

"You're wrong," he murmured near her temple. "I asked you. You answered. You stayed."

Her body betrayed her, softening despite herself. 

"You're afraid," he continued quietly. "Not of them. Of yourself."

She swallowed. 

"You didn't stop me from killing the snatcher," he said. "And you didn't want to."

Her eyes closed. 

"And now you're trying to understand why," he went on, voice velvet-smooth, persuasive. "Because you don't recognise the woman who didn't look away."

She whispered, "I didn't want him to die."

"No," Tom agreed. "You wanted him gone."

He pressed a kiss -- not to her mouth, but to her hair, her temple. Protective. Claiming. Intimate in a way that felt almost gentle.

"You don't crave blood," he said. "You crave certainty. Safety. Control over what happens to you."

His hand tightened at her back, just enough to be felt. 

"And I give you that."

She exhaled shakily. "That's not love."

"No," Tom said again, softly. "It's not."

He drew back just enough to look at her. 

"But love," he added, "is why I'm trying to deserve it."

Her heart ached. 

"I don't know where this leads," she whispered. 

His thumb brushed beneath her eye, catching nothing -- but lingering all the same. 

"Neither do I," he said. "But I know where it doesn't."

She looked up at him. 

"It doesn't lead away from me."

And in his arms -- comforted, manipulated, cherished in a way that was unmistakably his -- Hermione felt the truth settle like a dangerous, undeniable weight:

The balance had shifted again. 

Tom always knew exactly how to make her stay. 

But still... Hermione forced herself to pull away. 

Not violently. Not dramatically. 

Just... Decisively. 

She stepped back far enough that Tom's hand slipped from her spine, the warmth of him receding like a held breath finally released. She folded her arms -- not defensively this time, but deliberately, as if re-drawing the outline of herself. 

"I need air," she said. 

It wasn't a request. 

Tom watched her closely. The way her shoulders were set too tight. The way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes now. The way her magic shimmered, restless and uneven, like a storm that hadn't decided where to break. 

"You can have it," he said immediately. 

That, at least, was true. 

She turned on her heel and crossed the chamber quickly, boots echoing sharp against the stone. She didn't look back as the doors swung open and swallowed her into the corridor beyond. 

The wards sighed shut again. 

Silence followed. 

Tom stood where she'd left him, jaw tight, eyes dark -- not angry, not insulted, but troubled in a way he did not like. He ran a hand once through his hair, the motion restless. 

"She hates being watched," he murmured to the empty room. 

Then, more quietly, "but she hates being upset more."

He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers once.

A soft crack answered almost immediately. 

Pip appeared near the edge of the chamber, small and unobtrusive, eyes bright and alert. The elf bowed low. 

"My Lord?"

Tom didn't look at him at first. 

"Follow Lady Hermione," he said. "Discreetly."

Pip nodded once -- then hesitated, ears twitching. 

"Is Lady Hermione in danger, my Lord?"

Tom's gaze flicked sharply to him. 

"No," he said. "And you will not interfere. You will not be seen. You will not frighten her."

Pip straightened. "Just watching then, Master?"

"JUst watching," Tom confirmed. His voice lowered. "She's... Upset."

The admission cost him something. It showed in the tension at his mouth, the way his fingers curled briefly at his side. 

"I don't like it when she's upset," he added, as if that were explanation enough. 

Pip inclined his head solemnly. "Pip will keep Lady Hermione safe without her knowing."

"Yes," Tom said. "That is the point."

The elf vanished with a soft pop. 

Tom turned back towards the corridor she'd taken, listening to the distant hush of the manor, the echo of her footsteps long gone. 

He did not follow her. 

That mattered. 

Instead, he stood alone in the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, letting her have the space she'd claimed -- even as he quietly ensured she wouldn't have it unprotected. 

Because he didn't want her controlled. 

He wanted her calm. 

And in his own, dangerous way, that was how Tom Riddle showed concern. 

He leaned one hand against the stone table and stared at nothing. 

He had meant what he said. 

That was the unsettling part. 

The book. 

The fragment.

The certainty. 

He head not spoken lightly when he told Lucius to retrieve it. He had not spoken theatrically when he told Hermione he was considering its destruction. 

He had promised her. 

And Tom Riddle did not make promises he did not intend to keep. 

The idea of reabsorbing it -- of taking that piece back into himself -- was... Tolerable. Dangerous, perhaps. Painful. But survivable. 

Destroying it however -- 

That was something else entirely. 

Because without it, he would no longer be untouchable. 

No final anchor. 

No external certainty. 

No elegant insurance against mortality. 

Just a man. 

A brilliant one. 

A terrifying one. 

But still -- finite.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. 

He had been a god among men for so long that the idea of stepping back into limitations felt like standing at the edge of a precipice and choosing to fall. 

And yet -- 

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Hermione. 

To the way she looked at him when she thought he was wrong -- and stayed anyway. 

To the way her voice trembled not with dear, but with refusal. 

To the way she had said you promised me like it mattered. Like he mattered. 

Without the Horcrux, he would be vulnerable.

But with Hermione --

With her heart so close now, hovering at the edge of his grasp --

That vulnerability felt almost... Divine. 

To be chosen. 

To be trusted.

To be wanted not because he was eternal or invincible or feared -- but because he was him. 

The thought burned hotter than ambition ever had. 

He hated that she was upset. 

Hated it in a way that made his chest feel tight, restless, like something clawing at the inside of his ribs. He did not mind anger. Anger was sharp. Useful. Anger engaged her. 

But distress -- 

Distress made her pull away. 

And he could not abide that. 

And yet -- 

She hasn't flinched. 

The memory surfaced uncomfortable clear: the snatcher's death, swift and final, the echo of his magic still vibrating in the air -- and Hermione, standing there, eyes wide but unafraid. 

She had not screamed. 

Had not recoiled. 

Had not turned away. 

She had watched. 

Worse -- she had understood. 

She had wanted Rodolphus punished. He had felt it the moment her magic stirred, the way her jaw had tightened, the faint, dangerous satisfaction that flickered through her when Tom reminded the room who held power. 

She had not objected to his ruthlessness. 

She had objected to its direction. 

And that -- 

That thrilled him. 

She noticed Bellatrix, too. 

Not with fear. With jealousy. 

Sharp. Quiet. Human. 

He found Bellatrix as vile as her husband -- loud, unthinking, obsessed with destruction for its own sake -- but Hermione's reaction to her had been unmistakable. A tightening. A spark. 

Possession. 

She did not like being one of many. 

GOod. 

And still -- still -- she had not run. 

Not when he told her about the Horcrux. 

Not when he named the basilisk. 

Not when he admitted to murder at sixteen. 

She had gone pale. 

She had gone quiet. 

But she had stayed. 

Tom straightened slowly, fingers curling once at his side. 

He was not blind to what this meant. 

Hermione Granger was not soft. She was not naive. She was not overlooking his darkness out of ignorance. 

She was standing in it. 

Testing it. 

Pushing back. 

And that made her infinitely more dangerous to him than any enemy. 

Because if he destroyed the Horcrux -- if he chose her over certainty -- he would not be doing it out of weakness. 

He would be doing it because he wanted her. 

Because he wanted her trust. 

Her respect. 

Her heart. 

And the terrifying truth settled into place with absolute clarity:

For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle was considering giving something up -- 

Not because he was afraid to lose it. 

But because there was something he wanted more.

 

*

 

The garden was still. 

Cold wind rustled through the bare vines and frost-kissed roses, brushing across Hermione's cheeks like ghost hands. Her breath fogged in the winter air, and her arms wrapped tighter around herself, though not from the cold. 

No. Not from that. 

From the war inside her. 

This isn't who I am.

The thought had circled her mind like a predator since she'd stepped out of the throne room. It stalked her now as she wandered down the winding stone path, past the hedges, toward the frozen fountain. 

I am Hermione Granger. 

I fight for justice. 

I fight for peace. 

I do not sit on dark thrones, smirking while men die at my feet. 

Her pace quickened. She barely noticed the crunch of frost beneath her boots. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. 

Harry would be ashamed of me. 

Ron --

Her stomach twisted. 

Ron would be disgusted. 

A sharp, bitter laugh tore from her throat. She pressed her hand to her mouth. 

Because it wasn't disgust that she felt. 

It was desire. Dark and unwelcome and ravenous. 

She wanted Tom. 

And worse than that...

She believed him. 

She believed him when he said he would try. When he swore he wouldn't make anymore Horcruxes. That he would give her power beside him, not under him. 

She'd seen it in his eyes. In the way he held her when no one watched. In the way he kissed her like her soul was something holy. 

And that -- that betrayal of her own ideals -- was what made her sickest. 

"Fuck," she hissed, dragging her hands down her face. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She dropped to the stone bench beside the fountain. The cold cut through her now. Through the silk of her robes. Through the fog of her thoughts. 

She sat in silence, breathing heavily, trembling with the weight of her own hypocrisy. 

Tom Riddle was a monster. 

He always had been. 

He always would be. 

But he'd promised her. 

To try. 

Not to be good. Not even to be kind. But to be enough. Enough to stop the Horcruxes. Enough to not destroy the Potters. Enough to -- not become what she already knows he will become. 

If she could stop that -- just that -- 

Maybe that was worth the rest. 

Hermione sat frozen with the thought for a long moment. 

And then --

"Pip," she whispered into the quiet. 

The elf appeared with a soft pop, blinking up at her in his usual wide-eyed adoration. "Yes, Mistress?"

"I need to know..." Her voice was hoarse. "What is -- what is your master doing right now?"

Pip tilted his head, ears twitching. 

"Master is pacing, Mistress. In the library. He is very... Very quiet. But very loud too. In his head, Pip thinks."

Hermione blinked, startled. 

"He's in the library?"

"Yes, Mistress. Where the fireplace is not lit. He does not read. He only... Stares at the door."

At her door. 

Waiting for her to come back. 

She closed her eyes, heart folding in on itself. 

"Thank you, Pip."

"Would you like Pip to escort you, Mistress?"

"No... No, I'll find him."

She stood slowly. Her spine straightened. Her breath steadied. 

Because if Tom Riddle was going to fight his demons --

Then so was she. 

 

Chapter 14: Her Tom

Her boots echoed softly through the stone corridors of Riddle Manor, the flickering wall sconces casting golden shadows that danced across her skin. 

She wasn't hurrying. 

She wasn't exactly sure what she was doing. 

Her hands were cold. Her throat tight. 

But she walked. Towards him. Towards the library. Towards the part of herself that had stopped screaming the moment he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth saving. 

She hated it. 

She hated him. 

That was a lie. 

And that was the problem. 

Hermione's fingers brushed the pendant resting on her chest -- his gift, one of many, the fist she hadn't returned. It pulsed with residual warmth from her body. From his body when he put it on her. 

She closed her eyes as she walked. 

And there it was again. 

The memory. 

 

It had been raining. 

The windows of their suite fogged, the fire low, his fingers ghosting over her shoulders as he finished dressing her. 

"I kissed you," she'd whispered. "I should hate you. I do hate you."

He'd smiled, slow and unreadable. The placed his hand over her heart as he regarded her closely. 

"No," he'd murmured, his voice reverent. "You hate a version of me. One that hasn't come to pass yet."

He had been so close to her. So close. 

"But this me..." he said. "This me sees you. Craves you. Adores you. Desires you."

He'd cupped her face then, gaze searing. "This me... loves you."

Hermione had gone very, very still. 

And then he said it again. 

Softer. 

More dangerous. 

"I love you."

He hadn't said it like someone offering a part of themselves. 

He'd said it like a vow. Like a curse. Like a promise. 

And she had felt it -- fuck, she had felt it -- burn through her like wildfire. 

 

She was at the library doors now. 

The air was thick with something heavy. Magic. Anticipation. 

She reached for the handle. 

Paused. 

He meant it. 

It wasn't a lie. It wasn't manipulation. It wasn't strategy. 

It was truth. 

Twisted and terrifying and all-consuming. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle loved her. 

God help her, he meant it.

She took a breath -- 

-- and opened the door. 

 

The library door clicked softly shut behind her. 

Hermione stood there for a moment, letting the shadows fold around her like a second skin. The air inside was still, thick with dust and firelight. Books towered one every wall, ancient tomes bound in leather and threadbare spines. And in the centre of it all -- 

He stood at the hearth, one arm braced against the stone mantle, shoulders drawn in tension. He didn't turn when she entered. 

But he felt her. 

She knew it in the way he froze. The way the air in the room shifted. The way the fire licked higher, responding to his pulse. 

And then he turned. 

His gaze landed on her -- 

-- and the world stopped. 

She'd changed. 

Gone was the heavy velvet and modest hight necklines he usually draped her in. Now she wore a deep emerald slip of a dress -- nearly sheer in the firelight. It clung to every line of her, pooling like water at her feet. Her hair was pinned loosely at the nape of her neck, soft curls falling around her face. No necklace. No rings. Just her. 

Raw. Unapologetic. 

Stunning. 

And the look on his face -- 

She'd undone him. 

His lips parted slightly. "Hermione..."

She walked towards him slowly, carefully, the hem of the gown whispering across the ancient carpet. 

"I realised something," she said, voice quiet and clear. "While I was out there in the gardens."

His jaw was tight. His hands curled into fists. "You were gone for hours."

"I know."

"I thought --"

"I know."

She stopped just short of him. 

"I realised," she whispered, "that I can't keep fighting the truth."

He tilted his head. Searching her face. "What truth?"

She reached up, letting her fingertips graze the sharp line of his cheekbone. "That I love you."

His breath caught. Visibly. Like the words had landed a blow to his chest. 

"This version of you," she continued. "The one who waits for me outside my door just to escort me to dinner. The one who reads with me in this library. Who watches me sleep but won't enter my mind without permission. Who plays me music and gives me books and stares at me like I built the stars."

Her fingers slid down to his collarbone. He trembled. 

"This you, Tom. This one... is mine."

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his. Not a kiss. Just a promise.

"But if I'm going to be yours," she murmured, "then you are going to change for me."

A beat of silence. He stared at her, wide-eyed, hungry. 

"You think you can save me?" he asked, voice hoarse. 

She smiled. "No. I think I can make you want to save yourself."

"And if I fail?"

She traced his mouth. "Then I guess I'm doomed to burn with you."

His mouth crashed onto hers then -- hard, desperate, reverent. 

And for the first time, Hermione kissed him back without guilt. Without shame. Without denial. 

Because fuck it all -- 

This was her Tom. 

And she was already too far gone. 

 

He kissed her like he'd been dying for it.

Not lust-driven, not predatory -- not this time. There was heat, yes. But it was reverent. Devoted. As if every brush of his lips was an act of worship. His hands hovered above her skin like he didn't quite believe he was allowed to touch her. 

Hermione exhaled against his mouth, curling her fingers in the silk at his collar. 

"Touch me, Tom" she whispered. 

That was all it took. 

He groaned -- actually groaned -- loud and ragged, dragging her body flush against his. Their mouths collided again, more urgent now, more needy. He kissed down the column of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the hollow at her clavicle. 

"You're mine," he breathed, voice hoarse. "You don't get to take that back now, Hermione. Not after this."

"I don't want to."

He paused. Then pulled back just enough to look at her -- really look at her. Firelight flickered across his sharp features, his eyes wide, and dark, and aching. 

"I cannot change who I am," he said, voice trembling with restraint. "The darkness  is inside every vein of me. It's how I was made. Forged. There is blood on my hands that will never come off."

"I know," she whispered. 

"But you -" His thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "You are light. My light. The only thing I have ever truly loved. The only thing I've ever wanted that wasn't built from vengeance or ambition."

She swallowed hard, chest rising and falling rapidly. 

"I can't be good," he continued, each word like a knife to his own throat, "but I can make different decisions. I can choose you. I will."

Hermione reached up and cupped his face with both hands, pulling him down to her mouth again. 

"Then stop talking," she said, voice shaking, "and show me. Choose me."

 

They didn't make it to the bed. 

Somewhere between the bookcases and the chaise lounge, he lifted her -- gown bunching around her hips, legs wrapped around him, breathless gasps tangled with desperate kisses. 

Every movement was electric. Every sigh a detonation. 

He worshipped her with his mouth, dragging his tongue over every inch of skin he could reach. He tasted her pulse, her stomach, the swell of her breasts. His hands trembled as he touched her, as if still not convinced she was real. Still afraid that he'd wake from this dream. 

She undressed him with slow purpose, every layer of black falling to the floor like surrendered armor. And when she reached for him -- when she whispered his name and meant it, when she kissed the scar on his shoulder from a battle long ago -- he felt something rupture in his chest. 

She was fire and silk and fury beneath him. 

And he gave her everything. 

The darkness. The promise. The devotion. 

The love. 

 

After, when their bodies had still but the tension between them still hummed like magic in the air, Tom dragged her against his chest and buried his face in her hair. 

"I will ruin the world for you," he murmured, lips brushing her temple. "But I would rather build one. If it means you'll stay."

Hermione didn't speak. 

But she didn't pull away. 

And that, for now, was answer enough. 

 

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the room, the flickering light gilding their bare skin in molten gold. 

Hermione lay tangled in the mess of blankets on the floor of the library, her limbs draped over Tom's. One of his arms was curled tightly around her waist, possessive even in rest. The other traced slow, reverent lines down her spine. 

He hadn't spoken in nearly ten minutes. 

Which was why it startled her when he whispered -- 

"I want to make vows to you."

She shifted against his chest, lifting her head slightly to look at him. His eyes were open, burning in the dark. Unblinking. Serious. 

"You're not being metaphorical, are you?"

He shook his head once. 

"I don't make promises," he said, voice low, almost rasping. "Not to anyone. Not ever. But I'm going to make them to you."

She sat up slightly, the sheet clutched to her chest. Her heart pounded. 

He followed her up with his body, sitting before her, knees drawn up and open between her. He took her hands in his -- calloused and scarred, long fingers trembling with restraint. 

And then, with solemnity that felt ancient, he spoke. 

"I vow to protect you. At any cost. Even if it means destroying everything I've built."

Hermione swallowed hard. 

"I vow to try," he continued, "not to change who I am -- but to change the path I'm on. To walk beside you, not ahead of you. To listen, not command. Not you."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. He reached up, gently tucking a curl behind her ear. 

"I vow," he whispered, "to be yours. Entirely. Irrevocably. Even when it tears me apart."

Her throat worked around a silent sob. 

But then -- his hands gripped hers tighter. His gaze turned desperate. 

"And now I need one from you."

She opened her mouth, but he shook his head, speaking over her. 

"Don't leave me."

Her breath caught. 

"Tom --"

"No. Listen. Please." His voice cracked. Cracked. "I need you to stay. Here. In this time. With me."

Her eyes shimmered. 

"I don't know what brought you here, not really," he whispered. "I don't care if it was fate, or time, my magic, or fucking chaos. But I won't survive it if you go back. I won't recover from losing you."

"Tom --"

"I need you like I need breath in my lungs." He pulled her closer, foreheads touching. "And Merlin help the universe if it takes you from me. I will burn it down. Do you hear me? I will."

Her hands cupped his cheeks. His eyes were wet. She had never, ever, seen him like this. 

"I can't promise forever," she whispered. 

He stilled. 

"But I can promise today. I can promise that I won't run. That I won't leave you -- not until I know for certain that there's no more hope."

He closed his eyes. His breath shuddered out. 

"And is there hope?" he asked, barely above a whisper. 

She kissed his mouth. Slow. Sweet. 

"Yes," she said. "There's still hope."

And that was enough -- for now. 

 

Chapter 15: The Masquerade and the Sun

The remained curled together long after the fire had faded to embers. 

Hermione's head rested against his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his heart. Tom held her as though she were made of smoke and he feared she might vanish. Every breath she took was matched by his own. 

"Hermione."

"Mmm?"

His voice was thoughtful. Measured. 

"I'm hosting a ball."

Her eyes opened slowly. 

"A ball," she repeated, not hiding her scepticism. 

"A Yule celebration. Grand. Masked. Political." He toyed with a lock of her hair, letting it curl around his finger. "There will be Ministry officials. Diplomats. My followers. Those still on the fence, as it were. I intend to sway a few... hesitant parties."

"And you want me there?"

He smirked. 

"I want you there, my love. And more than that -- I need you there."

She sat up a little, drawing the blanket over her chest. "Tom, if you think I'm going to parade around on your am like some --"

"I want you at my side," he interrupted gently, "because you are the sharpest weapon I possess. You could disarm a room with a single glance. You make me look tame."

She narrowed her eyes. 

"That's not flattery. It's fact," he continued. "And masked, they won't know it's you -- not right away. But when they do..."

He trailed off, eyes gleaming. 

"When they realise who you are, and what you are to me, they will understand exactly what kind of power I wield."

She bristled. 

"I'm not a trophy."

"I know." He cupped her jaw, thumb stroking just beneath her eye. "You're a queen. And I want the entire world to see it."

She hated the way her heart leapt at those words. Hated more that he meant them. 

"And after the ball," he continued, brushing his lips across her temple, "comes Yule itself. The day. I would like to give you something."

"You already give me too much."

"Not nearly enough."

"Tom..."

He pulled back slightly to look at her, eyes solemn.

"You deserve the sun itself, Hermione."

She laughed, half in protest, half in despair. "That's absurd."

"Perhaps. But if you asked for it, I would find a way."

He was not jesting. Not even slightly. 

"And if I told you I needed nothing at all?"

"I would still give you everything," he murmured. "Because that's what you are to me. Everything."

She pressed her face into his neck, hiding from the gravity of his gaze. 

"Well," Hermione said, lifting her chin, the barest smirk tugging at her lips, "if I'm going to a ball, I suppose I'll need a gown."

Tom paused in the act of buttoning his shirt, brow lifting in mild amusement. "I'll have them brought to you. Every designer in Europe if you like. Silk from France. Velvet from Russia. Anything you want."

She shook her head slowly, lips parting into something undeniably daring. 

"Or..." she drawled, sliding from the bed, bare feet padding across the carpet toward him, "you could take me."

His head tilted, smile fading into something far more dangerous. "Take you?"

"Shopping," she said sweetly. "To pick a gown. Like a normal couple."

Tom turned to her fully, eyes narrowing. "You want me to take you into public?"

"Why not?"

He scoffed softly, the sound equal parts disbelief and warning. "Because I trust nothing outside this manor to keep you from harm."

"Yes. But you will be there, will you not?"

He stilled. 

His eyes raked over her -- bare legs, the curve of her waist in one of his discarded shirts, the fire in her eyes -- and something inside him twisted. 

She wanted to be seen with him. Not as a prisoner. Not as a war bride. As something more. 

And yet -- 

"You would walk on my arm," he said slowly, "in public? Among them?"

She stepped close, head tilting defiantly. "Are you ashamed of me?"

The words sliced cleanly between them. Tom's hands clenched at his sides. 

"Never," he said, voice suddenly hoarse. "You are the only thing I've ever been proud to claim."

"Then let them see," she pressed. "Take me. Let them see us. You wanted them to understand what I am to you, and you promised to try. With me. For me. So... let them see."

He stared at her. 

Time slowed. A battle raged behind his eyes. The warlord. The lover. The possessive creature that had carved itself into her veins. 

"I am already feared by many," he said. "The world out there -- it's not like it is in here. It's loud. Sharp. Unforgiving."

"I can handle loud," she said softly. "I have survived a war, you know. I've stood beside gods and monsters and lived to tell the tale."

He exhaled. His hands came to her face, cradling her as though she were made of magic itself. 

"Then yes," he murmured. "Yes, my love. You shall walk beside me in the light."

 

Tom flicked his wand, refastening the last button of his cuff as Hermione wrapped a ribbon around her curls. 

"Pip," he called, his voice cool and commandingly soft. 

A sharp pop echoed through the bedchamber, and the little elf bowed low at the threshold, his eyes wide and gleaming. 

"Yes, Master?"

"We're going out for the afternoon," Tom said without looking at him, adjusting the fall of Hermione's hair over her shoulder with startling gentleness. "Ensure the wards are in place. I want the perimeter tightened and the anti-press protections doubled."

Pip's ears wiggled. "Yes, Master. Pip will see to everything -- oh! But -- there is... a guest in the parlour."

Tom stilled. His face twitched with thinly veiled contempt. "A guest?"

"Yes, sir. Master Lestrange is here. Refusing tea, as usual. He insists it's about urgent business."

Tom's eyes narrowed. 

Hermione, already half-dressed in elegant velvet of deepest sapphire, looked over her shoulder. "You don't have to see him now."

Tom turned toward her with the smallest smirk. "If I don't, he'll try to follow us. Or worse, linger. Like smoke that clings to silk."

Hermione laughed, and Tom's expression warmed instantly, the sharp edge of his irritation briefly dulled. 

"Seems, I cannot get rid of him," he murmured, pressing a kiss just behind her ear. "I suspect that may have something to do with you, my love."

She blinked, feigning innocence. "Me?"

"Don't play coy," he purred. "The man can hardly breathe without attempting to draw your attention. But don't worry..."

He drew her close, voice darkening like velvet laced in steel. 

"If he lays a single hand on what's mine again, I'll personally peel the flesh of his fingers from his bones."

Hermione didn't shiver.

She smiled. 

 

The grand doors to the parlour opened with a whisper of magic, not a creak. Every inch of Riddle Manor obeyed it's master's will, even the wood. 

Tom walked in with the lazy grace of a man who owned the world, Hermione on his arm like the crown she had become. 

And she was dressed to kill.

Dark sapphire silk clung to her curves like it had been poured over her skin, tailored to perfection and offset by the dark sweep of her hair. Her wand, strapped to her thigh, peeked from the slit in her robes like a promise -- or a threat. Her lips, painted a wine-dark red, tilted with silent challenge. She looked like temptation incarnate. 

Rodolphus Lestrange, lounging too comfortably by the fire, rose to his feet with a grin that made Hermione want to hex him in the teeth. 

Tom noticed. 

Of course he did. 

"Lestrange," Tom said, tone clipped. "Back so soon."

Rodolphus bowed with mock respect. "My lord. I came on business --"

"Ah yes," Tom drawled, his hand tightening slightly around Hermione's waist. "Because when one needs to address pressing matters of state, they loiter in my parlour for an hour, drinking all my best brandy and ignoring their own wife in favour of mine."

"Your wife, my Lord?" Rodolphus arched an eyebrow, though the hungry gleam in his eye remained fixed on Hermione.

Tom smiled coldly. 

"If she ever does me the honour," he said, voice low and lethal, "but for now, she is mine in all but blood and ink."

He stepped forward, guiding Hermione deliberately in front of him, shielding and showcasing her all at once. 

"So tell me, Rodolphus," he purred, deadly silk, "why are you here -- delaying my afternoon plans to spoil my witch?"

Hermione's heart kicked against her ribs. 

His witch. 

She should have been angry. Should have flinched at the possessiveness. 

But instead...

She leaned ever so slightly into his side. Not because she had to. But because she wanted to. 

Lestrange's smirk faltered. 

"I... only wished to inform you of a movement near the Channel. A small Order outpost. Easily dismantled, but the names involved might interest you."

Tom rolled his eyes, utterly bored. "Leave the report on my desk. I'll look at it later."

"But --"

"Later." Tom's tone snapped like a wand. 

Rodolphus inclined his head stiffly, eyes flicking once more toward Hermione before he turned to go. 

"And Rodolphus?" Tom said lazily, stopping him mid-step. 

"Yes, my Lord?"

"If I ever catch you looking at her like that again... I'll carve your eyes from your skull and frame them as a warning."

Silence bloomed like a thunderclap. 

Hermione didn't blink.

And Rodolphus -- pale now -- bowed deeply, the swagger knocked out of him at last. 

He left in a hurry. 

The parlour door closed. 

Tom exhaled, satisfied, and turned to Hermione with a smile far too pleased. 

"Now," he murmured, brushing a kiss to her knuckles, "let's go shopping."

 

The Apparated just outside the heart of wizarding London, where Tom's presence always rippled like a disturbance in still water. People felt it, even before they saw it. 

And now... they saw them. 

Hermione had never been flanked like this before -- two Death Eaters ahead, two behind. Silent shadows in dark robes and silver masks, their wands half-hidden but ready. A show of loyalty. Of control. Of power. 

Of fear. 

She walked beside Tom, her fingers resting lightly inside the crook of his arm. Her heels clicked smartly across the stone as the pair moved toward the row of luxury wizarding boutiques. She felt the weight of every glance, every whisper, every held breath. 

Gasps followed them. 

Not just because he was here -- but because she was. 

The Dark Lord's woman.

Wearing robes that whispered sin and war. 

"She's beautiful --"

"Who is she?"

"Is she a prisoner?"

"No, look at how she walks..."

Tom kept his head high, his chin lifted like a prince surveying his domain, but Hermione could feel it under the surface. The flicker of unease, that coil of caution winding tighter. 

She leaned into him slightly, her voice low. "You're tense."

"I have every reason to be," he murmured, not bothering to look at her. "Public appearances have always drawn flies. Would-be martyrs. Deluded fools with shaking hands and blunt spells. But now..."

He turned his head. Just enough to meet her gaze. 

"Now, I have something to lose."

Her breath caught, but she didn't falter. "I'm not fragile."

"No," he agreed darkly. "But you are mine."

They entered the shop. 

The proprietor nearly fainted. 

Within seconds, the staff had scurried to clear the space for them. Racks were enchanted to move aside, doors warded against intrusion. And yet, through the windows, Hermione could see them -- masses of witches and wizards stopping in the street to stare. 

A child pointed. A mother pulled them back. 

A man nodded, once, in silent reverence. 

And still, others looked on with wide, angry eyes. Terrified. 

She swallowed. 

This was his world. 

This was his influence. 

And they adored him. Or feared him. Or both. 

As a new collection of gowns was summoned, Hermione reached for one instinctively -- but Tom beat her to it. He took the hanger from the assistant and stepped behind her, brushing her hair aside as he held the shimmering emerald fabric up to her frame. 

"Try it on," he said, soft and close. "I want to see my Lady in green."

She arched a brow. "You always want me in green."

"I always want you," he corrected. 

She narrowed her eyes -- but her heart raced. 

He brushed a kiss to her shoulder, unapologetic. 

And when she walked away to the fitting room, the two guards closest to Tom shifted uneasily. 

He noticed.

His fingers twitched. 

"Wands out," he said calmly to one of them. "And scan every signature near that window."

Hermione glanced back just once -- and saw him, standing like a storm, the others bowed slightly around him. 

This man held the wizarding world in the palm of his hand. 

And today... he was using that hand to lift hers. 

 

Hermione stood alone in the fitting room, the emerald gown draped over her arm, and tried to steady her breathing. 

The wards were thick here -- layered, intelligent, humming softly against her skin. Beyond them, she could still feel Tom. Not his magic exactly, but the shape of him. The way the world bent slightly toward where he stood, attentive whether it wished to be or not. 

She closed her eyes. 

This should have felt surreal. 

It should have felt like a performance. Like a lie she was wearing for an audience that would never see her -- only the symbol beside him. That was what she had expected, even when she suggested the outing in the first place. 

And yet. 

She exhaled slowly and pressed her palm to the cool mirror. 

It had felt... normal. 

Not the guards. Not the whispers. Not the fear curling through the street like smoke. 

But the way he'd offered his arm without thinking. The way he'd chosen a dress for her because he wanted to see her in it. The way he'd scanned the crowd not for threats to himself -- but to her. 

That part had landed somewhere dangerously soft in her chest. 

She had imagine shopping trips before. Long ago, before war and loss and blood had rewritten the shape of her future. She'd imagined laughing over impractical shoes, rolling her eyes at indulgent purchases, sharing glances with someone who knew her well enough to read the meaning in them. 

She had never imagined doing it like this. 

And yet -- standing here now -- she could almost pretend. 

She could imagine a world where the guards weren't necessary. Where his name didn't make people flinch or kneel. Where his power didn't hum beside her, not as the Dark Lord, but as Tom. 

The man who noticed when she was cold. Who remembered how she took her tea. Who softened his voice only for her, as though it were a secret he did not wish the world to hear. 

He was capable of it.

That was the cruellest part. 

She had seen it -- felt it -- in the small moments. In the way he'd leaned close and murmured I want to see my Lady in green like it was a private indulgence, not a declaration of ownership. In the way he'd looked unsettled, genuinely unsettled, when she'd said she needed air. 

He could bend. 

He just didn't want to bend for the world.

Only for her. 

Hermione lifted the gown, letting the silk slide between her fingers. 

This could be my life, she thought, the realisation both comforting and terrifying. 

Walking beside him. 

Choosing things together. 

Being protected without being diminished. 

She wanted it. 

Gods help her, she wanted this -- the quiet intimacy of shared space, the normalcy threaded through danger like gold through dark cloth. 

She wanted him to choose this, too. 

Not as a concession. Not as a strategy. But because it was enough. 

Because she was enough. 

She swallowed, emotion tightening her throat. 

If he would only let himself have it. 

If he would stop trying to be infinite and allow himself to be here -- with her, in a shop, choosing a dress, worried about crowds and windows and wand signatures like any other man in love. 

She stepped toward the mirror, lifting the gown to her body. 

Outside, she could feel him waiting. 

Watching. 

Guarding. 

Wanting. 

And as she fastened the clasp and smoothed the fabric over her hips, Hermione made herself one quiet, dangerous promise:

She would not stop asking him to choose this life. 

Not power over people. 

Not fear over love. 

But her. 

And she knew -- deep in her bones -- that if he ever did truly choose it...

Tom Riddle would be unstoppable in an entirely different way. 

 

The shop fell into a hush as the curtain swept open. 

She stepped out, and time fractured. 

The gown was artistry. A whisper of emerald silk that clung like devotion, trimmed in molten gold that caught the light like fire. Off the shoulder, cinched at the waist, cut to the thigh with cascading fabric that moved like water in her wake. 

Tom didn't move. 

Couldn't. 

Not when she looked like that. 

Not when she looked like his. 

Her gaze drifted to him. "Well?" she asked softly, her voice half-nervous, half-defiant. "Is it too much?"

Tom exhaled slowly. A single breath that sounded like reverence. 

"It's not enough," he said, stepping forward. His fingers touched the exposed curve of her shoulder, grazing the delicate gold embroidery along the neckline. 

She flushed. He felt it. 

The staff lingered far too close for his liking. The guards were tensed. The pedestrians outside had multiplied, pressed up to the glass like moths to flame. 

Tom was still tense. She saw it in the set of his jaw, in the way his hand never strayed far from his wand. 

Hermione laid a hand on his chest. His eyes dropped to it, then rose to meet hers. 

"Talk to me, Tom," she said quietly. "What has you so on edge?"

His jaw worked for a moment. 

Then he stepped even closer -- so near the silk of her gown brushed against his robes, so near she could feel the sharp heat of his worry crackling through his skin. 

"You." His voice was low. Steady. Controlled. "Your life. Your safety."

He reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear, but the gesture was almost absent -- his mind clearly miles away, calculating, circling. 

"Many have tried to kill me on public outings," he said, like he was speaking of rain. "The Order grows more desperate by the day. They would take any chance they can to destroy me."

His eyes flared now, icy with fury. 

"But to make an attempt on your life..." His hand tightened slightly on her hip. "That would be a most grievous mistake."

Her heart stuttered. 

Not because he was angry. But because beneath that fury... was fear. 

For her. 

"And what would you do," she asked, soft and honest, "if someone tried?"

Tom's lips curved -- but there was no humour in it. 

"There are spells, my love," he murmured. "Ancient, rare. Created for vengeance. Most are illegal. All are cruel."

She didn't interrupt. 

He stepped behind her slowly, fingers drifting over her spine, settling at her waist as he spoke in her ear. 

"There is one I've always been curious about," he whispered. "It binds a man's soul to his suffering. Every broken bone, every tear of skin, every scream -- echoes for eternity. An endless cycle of pain."

She turned her head slightly, stunned. 

His eyes met hers, calm now. Certain. 

"I would cast it," he said simply. "Without hesitation. Without regret. For you."

She swallowed. The weight of his devotion pressed down on her more than the silk or gold ever could. 

"Tom," she whispered. 

But he wasn't finished. 

"You are not a possession," he said softly, "but you are mine. Not to control. Not to command. I vowed to you that much. But to protect. And if the world must burn to keep you breathing -- then so be it."

Hermione didn't know what to say. 

She should recoil. She should run. 

But she didn't.

Because deep, deep down, a part of her -- dark and whispering -- thrilled at it. 

His fingers laced with hers. 

"Now," he murmured, recovering himself. "Shall I buy the dress? Or ten of them?"

She gave him a look. 

He smirked. "Right. Ten it is."

 

She was laughing.

The sound was soft, stolen from her throat in surprise as he adjusted her shawl around her shoulders. They stood beneath the marquee of an apothecary in a quieter stretch of the alley, the world glittering around them in winter gold and cobbled frost. 

Tom couldn't take his eyes off of her. Not for a moment. Not when she smiled like that. 

He watched the way people watched her. 

Some with curiosity. 

Some with envy. 

Some with something far uglier. 

He didn't like the way they looked at her. He liked even less that they didn't fear looking at her. Not the way they feared looking at him. 

Not yet. 

Hermione leaned closer. "You're staring."

"Always," he replied, dry and truthful. "You should be used to it by now."

She rolled her eyes, though colour crept high on her cheeks. 

It happened so fast. 

A whistle through the air. 

A glint of something silver. 

Instinct. Magic snapped into existence. 

Tom's body collided with hers, hard and fast, his arms wrapping her tightly as a bang erupted to the right, and the spell meant for her shattered harmlessly against the shield he'd conjured in a heartbeat. 

A second wand flicked from someone in the crowd. 

Too late. 

He already had his. 

"CRUCIO!"

Hermione screamed -- not from pain, but from shock -- as the man who'd cast the second curse collapsed into the dirt of the alley, writhing. Twitching. Screaming so violently his voice fractured into a hoarse wail. 

Tom didn't blink. 

Didn't breathe.

The curse held.

His Death Eaters erupted like hornets. Three surged forward, dragging another accomplice from the shadows. The street went still. Silent. No one dared interfere. 

Only when Hermione choked out his name -- "Tom!" -- did he finally release the spell. 

The would-be assassin lay broken. Barely conscious. Foaming at the mouth. 

Tom turned. 

And Hermione saw it. 

The terror in his eyes. 

Not for himself. 

"Are you hurt?" he asked. His voice was raw. Frantic.

"No -- no, you got to me first --"

He didn't wait for more. 

He swept her into his arms with a gentleness that betrayed the fury crackling at his fingertips, a whisper of magic brushing over her like he needed proof she was still whole. 

"You will never," he breathed, "ever come into danger like that again."

"Tom --"

He didn't listen. 

He Apparated them both on the spot, arms locked around her so tightly she could barely breathe. 

They reappared in Riddle Manor, in his chambers, surrounded by candlelight and silence. 

His hand trembled as it hovered over her cheek. 

Hermione touched his wrist. "I'm fine. You saved me."

His jaw clenched. "Of course I did."

"You tortured a man in the street --"

"And I'll do worse," he snapped, "to anyone who lays a finger on you. Anyone who looks at you with ill intent. Anyone who thinks about harming you."

She stared at him. 

Eyes wild. Breathing hard. Dark robes clinging to his frame like shadows stitched to skin. 

And Hermione, traitor to herself, felt her own heartbeat stutter -- because the terror in him was real. Not for himself. For her. 

His eyes closed. His forehead pressed to hers. 

"I know," he said softly, brokenly. "That's what terrifies me."

They stood in the centre of his chambers, still wrapped in each other like a living shield. The air hummed residual magic, sharp and metallic, like ozone before a storm. 

Tom's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his eyes glazed with fury, fear, and something more primal still. She could feel the tremble in his hands -- not from rage now, but from adrenaline. From the sharp, knife-edged realisation that if he'd been even half a second slower, she could have -- 

No. 

Hermione pushed that thought away. She couldn't bear it. 

"Tom," she whispered, her fingers curling around his lapel, tugging him down to her level. 

His eyes flickered open -- wild and flickering like candlelight. But she wasn't afraid of what she saw. Not anymore. 

"Are you alright?" she asked, the words sharp with worry. 

He blinked, stunned. "Me?"

"You shielded me. You took the hit. I felt it." Her hands slid to his sides, searching, inspecting. "Tell me you weren't hurt."

"No," he said, voice rough. "No, I wasn't --"

But he hadn't even thought to check. Not until she did.

Hermione pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. It was racing. His skin burned beneath his shirt. 

"You reckless, arrogant bastard," she murmured. "You didn't even care if you got hit. You just threw yourself in front of me like it was nothing --"

"Because it is," he snapped, his composure cracking all over again. "Everything is nothing if you're not safe. Don't you understand that by now?"

She froze. 

Her throat tightened. 

She hadn't. Not fully. Not until this moment. 

"I do understand," she whispered. "That's why I need you safe too. You don't get to die for me, Tom. Not without a fight."

He stared at her. Something shifted behind his eyes -- something fragile and full of awe. As if he hadn't realised... she cared. That it wasn't just his obsession, or his vow, or his love dragging them both into the abyss. 

She did love him.

Fuck, she loved him.

Her fingers found his jaw, cupping it. Her voice dropped to a trembling whisper. 

"I was scared," she admitted. "Not just for me. For you. I thought -- Gods, I thought I was about to watch you get killed in the street."

His breath shuddered. "You were shaking."

"I still am."

His arms encircled her again, softer this time. Reverent. "You're mine, Hermione. There is no world, no timeline, no future where I will let anything happen to you."

"I know." She rested her forehead against his chest. "But it goes both ways now. Don't you see that?"

His silence was deafening. And then -- 

"I see it," he murmured, low and shaken. "And I don't deserve it."

She looked up sharply. "That's not your decision to make."

Their eyes locked. 

And for once -- just once -- there was no hunger. No heat. Just them. 

Two souls, twisted and strange, tangled by time and fate. 

She pressed her lips to his -- softly. A whisper of affection. A promise. 

He melted into it. Into her. 

It was the calmest he'd been all day. 

Chapter 16: Lady of Riddle Manor

The flickering glow of candlelight danced across the polished mirror as Pip fastened the final jewel into her coifed hair -- a single black opal nestled in a delicate silver vine. A crown, almost, if she squinted. Or perhaps, a collar, glinting against the golden brown of her hair like a silent claim. 

Hermione sat still, her hands resting lightly in her lap, watching her reflection with an expression she could not decipher. Her gown -- deep forest green and nearly backless -- clung to her with silken precision. The dress that Tom had picked, had commissioned and left draped across her bed lke a "suggestion" -- but there had never really been a choice. She was there when they picked it, though that day could have gone better towards the end. 

"Does Mistress like?" Pip asked softly, tilting his head as he stepped back to admire her. 

Hermione gave the elf a half-smile. "You've outdone yourself again, Pip."

He beamed. "Master will be most pleased. Already he has sent away three guests for daring to ask if they could escort you down."

Her brow arched. "He what?"

Pip nodded seriously. "One was a Greengrass. I think he is hexed into the fountain, MIstress. The other two I do not know... But the tall one had no eyebrows when he left."

A strangled laugh escaped her. Of course he had. Tom Riddle, possessive bastard of the century. There was a time, not so long ago, when she would have been horrified by that. 

Now?

Now she smoothed her gown over her hips and glanced at herself once more in the mirror. Her pendant -- the one he gave her as her first gift -- gleamed at her throat. Her wand was strapped, hidden, to her thigh. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she stood. 

"I'm not even sure I'm pretending anymore," she murmured, almost to herself. 

PIp's ears twitched. "Pretending, Mistress?"

She swallowed thickly, eyes flicking to her reflection again. "To play a part. To be this woman. His..." Her lips parted around the word, but it didn't come. "I was meant to change him, Pip."

"And have you not?" The elf asked gently. 

Hermione hesitated.

Yes. She had. And no. Not enough. Never enough. He would always be who he was -- brilliant, cruel, obsessive. But with her... He was more. Gentler, sometimes. He laughed now. He bled for her. He listened. He hadn't made anymore Horcruxes. 

Yet.

She exhaled. "You've always called me Mistress."

"Because you are. Mistress of this house. Mistress of Master's heart."

Her heart thudded. "He has no heart, Pip."

Pip smiled in a way that made her chest ache. "Only for you, miss. Only for you."

A knock on the outer door startled her. Then it opened, and a low voice rumbled from beyond. 

"They're waiting."

She turned, pulse leaping -- because of course it was him. 

He stood in shadow, tall and dressed in black and emeralds, his mask slung in one hand, his eyes on her like she'd just stepped out of his most depraved fantasy. 

And maybe she had. 

Hermione Granger -- the girl who used to duel him for the fate of the world -- now stood at the top of his grand staircase, cloaked in silk and sin, ready to descend into the Yule Ball at Riddle Manor on his arm. 

"Shall we?" He asked, extending his hand. 

And she took it. 

Gods help her... She always would. 

 

The corridor outside the grand ballroom was hushed, gilded in shadows and flickering sconce-light. Tom stood before her like some dark monarch of myth, tall and sharp and sinfully composed in his formal robes. His own mask -- obsidian trimmed with silver, carved like some infernal god -- hung loosely in his hand. 

In the other... A mask meant for her. 

He stepped closer. "Let me."

The leather was soft against her skin, the silk ties firm but reverent as he fastened the delicate mask over her eyes. It was emerald and gold, fine lace etched with ancient runes she barely recognised. Light as air, seductive as sin. When she opened her eyes again, she barely recognised herself in the reflection of the polished glass nearby. 

A stranger. 

A queen. 

He looked over her with deliberate slowness -- dragging his eyes down her frame like he had every right to. And he did, didn't he? She'd let him. 

"I will have to allow a select few to ask you to dance," he said finally, his tone flat, as if it physically pained him to say the words. 

She turned to face him, running her fingers along the edge of her wand holster strapped to her thigh. "Well," she said lightly, "it would be awfully rude as Lady of the Manor to not accept at least a few dances to our guests, wouldn't it?"

Tom stilled. 

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. 

Slowly, his expression morphed -- surprise at first, then something far darker. Possession. Hunger. Delight. 

She lifted her chin, eyes glittering behind her mask. "You did order all the elves to address me as Mistress. I assumed that was your way of making your intention for me here clear."

The silence that followed was loaded -- tense, electric. 

Then he moved. Fast. Controlled. Lethal in his grace. One step, then another, until he stood before her, towering and impossibly still. 

"I did," he murmured, voice low, reverent. "But I didn't expect you to say it aloud."

"Why not?" She replied. "You act like I'm yours. And you have made that impossible for me to forget."

"I didn't want you to forget," he growled, cupping her face in one strong hand. "I wanted you to accept it."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Technically, I haven't accepted anything. I've merely acknowledged the reality."

"That's enough," he said, voice like a vow. "For now."

He slipped the black mask over his face and then reached for her arm, his fingers tightening slightly as he guided it through his own. 

"You may dance with three men," he said calmly, as if they were discussing wine pairings. "No more. If they touch you longer than courtesy demands, I will intervene. If they look at you like you're something they could own --" He stopped himself. "I won't be held responsible for my actions."

She arched a brow. "Possessive, aren't you?"

"I warned you."

She smirked, the faintest hint of teeth. "Well then, I suppose I should make sure they all know whose arm I'm on tonight."

"Whose throne you're on," he corrected darkly. "Let them see what happens when a god chooses his queen."

And just like that, with a smile as sharp as any blade, Tom Riddle opened the ballroom doors and led his lady inside. 

The ballroom doors opened with a whisper of magic. 

The glittering space fell silent. 

Hundreds of masked faces turned as one -- some in awe, some in disbelief, many in barely veiled fear. The air was thick with candle smoke and perfume, but even that was eclipsed by the suffocating weight of power that entered the room. 

Tom Riddle stepped over the threshold like a crowned god, tailored to perfecting in ink-black robes embroidered with serpentine silver thread. Every eye followed him. But it was the woman on his arm that stole the breath from the room. 

Hermione. 

She was a vision in emerald and gold, her mask delicate and regal, gown sculpted to her curves, her chin lifted as though she'd worn crowns all her life. She walked with him like she belonged there -- like she ruled there. The Lady of Riddle Manor.

Whispers rose like wind through trees.

"Who is she --"

"She's the one --"

"I heard she's from the continent --"

Tom's hand curled possessively over hers, his fingers tightening with silent warning as he led her down the staircase into the sea of masks. He didn't speak, but his body did. Every movement screamed: mine.

And no one dared question it. 

The chaos began immediately. 

A dozen people clamoured to speak with him, bowing, nodding, murmuring, barely able to take their eyes off of the beautiful creature at his side. His expression was polite but distant, attention flickering to Hermione more often than anyone else. 

He didn't let go of her for a second. 

Until -- 

"MInister Fudge," a voice announced. 

Tom's jaw ticked. 

Cornelius Fudge -- young, obsequious, already sweating -- approached in velvet robes that barely disguised the grease of his soul. His mask was trimmed in green, his hair slicked back, and he bowed too low, like a man eager to please. 

"My lord," Fudge said with a smile. "And this --" His eyes lingered on Hermione with poorly hidden interest. "This must be the mysterious Lady we've heard so much about."

Tom's arm became iron beneath her hand. 

Hermione smiled coolly. "It's a pleasure, Minister."

Fudge took her hand and bowed over it, lips hovering a touch too close to her skin. 

"May I -- would the Lady honour me with the first dance?"

There was a pause. A sharp, dangerous pause. 

Tom did not speak. He merely turned his head and gave Hermione a choice. 

Her lips curved. She knew exactly what she was doing. 

"I would be delighted," she said. 

And just like that, she stepped out of Tom's grip and into the arms of another man. 

Gasps rippled through the room like thrown stones in still water. 

Tom did not move. Not visibly. 

But Barty Crouch Jr. appeared at his side within moments, like a summoned shadow. 

"You will watch him," Tom murmured, his voice low and deadly calm. "The Minister. Every twitch. Every breath. If he's in any way inappropriate -- if he so much as looks at her wrong --" he paused, his voice colder than frost, "you will remove him. From my Lady."

Barty didn't question. "Consider it done."

Across the floor, Fudge led Hermione in a slow waltz, his hand respectfully placed -- if just a fraction too low on her waist. She smiled, serene. Every step was graceful, measured, and calculated. She knew exactly what she was doing. 

She let her fingers linger on his shoulder. Let him spin her. Let him lean in close enough to speak near her ear. 

Tom didn't blink. His entire focus narrowed to a single point: her.

And she -- damn her -- looked right at him while the Minister whispered something to her, and she smiled like the Queen she was. 

A small, satisfied smile that said:

You started this game, Tom. Let's see how well you play when I do, too. 

He didn't smile back. 

But his eyes burned with something dangerous. 

 

The waltz swirled beneath golden chandeliers, the music rich with elegance and deceit. 

Hermione's mask was light as air, but the weight of expectation pressed down like iron. She danced with Cornelius Fudge -- Minister in name only, a man so desperate to climb that he hadn't noticed he was already ensnared. 

"You're more enchanting than the rumours claimed," he murmured, a little too close to her ear. 

She smiled coolly. "Rumours tend to embellish."

"Perhaps," he said, eyes flicking to the curve of her mouth. "But I do so enjoy learning the truth for myself."

His hand drifted lower, just a hair below her waist now, edging too far down her back. She stiffened, subtle but unmistakable. 

He didn't notice. Or worse, he did. 

But someone else noticed too. 

Barty Crouch Jr. was there in an instant, a shadow of sharp smiles and colder instincts. He stepped between them mid-step, taking Hermione's hand and spinning her away from the Minister with seamless elegance. 

"Forgive me, Minister," Barty said smoothly. "But I believe my father is looking for you somewhere. He seemed rather... urgent."

Fudge blinked, flustered. "Quite. Yes. Of course."

He bowed -- hurriedly this time -- and slipped back into the crowd. 

The music didn't pause, and neither did Hermione. 

She was swept into Barty's arms with practiced ease, her hand sliding into his as though this had been rehearsed. Her body remained poised, chin high, though her chest still ached with the tightness of that moment. 

"Thank you," she said, voice low, meant only for him. 

Barty arched a brow, lips curling into something more sly than kind. "I was under strict orders to remove the Minister should he get... ambitious."

She tilted her head. "Tom gave that order?"

Barty's grin widened, wolfish and intelligent. "Of course he did. You're far too valuable to him to be manhandled by grubby politicians. He was about to cut in himself, but I thought it best not to start a war on the dancefloor. For your sake."

"How thoughtful," she murmured. 

The silence between them was laced with amusement, but neither of them were smiling now. They were measuring each other -- twoo sharp minds dressed in silk and shadow. 

"You're not what I expected," Hermione said after a beat. 

"Oh?" Barty spun her elegantly, catching her gaze again. "And what did you expect?"

"More madness," she said plainly. "Less... self-control."

His laugh was quiet, but his eyes sparkled with something darker. "Don't confuse theatrics with chaos, my Lady. I prefer people underestimate me."

Her brow lifted slightly. "Your father doesn't know then? About your... allegiance?"

"No," Barty said with a shrug. "He's too busy polishing his reputation. It makes slipping through the cracks quite easy. And you..."

He dipped her expertly, lingering just long enough to be noticed. 

"... you are magnificent. I see why Tom keeps you close. Though I suspect that was never really his choice." 

She straightened in his arms, eyes narrowing faintly. 

Barty smiled again, more genuine this time. "You walked in here and bent a room full of monsters to attention. He bends the world for you. Fascinating."

The music slowed. 

He released her hands with a flourish, bowing low. "A pleasure, my Lady."

Across the ballroom, Tom Riddle's gaze hadn't left her once. 

He'd allowed once dance. 

Just one. 

And now he was coming. 

Tom found her in the crowd, and the crowd parted like fog before fire. 

Hermione stood alone now, released from Barty's arms with the kind of grace that could ruin kingdoms. Her mask shimmered with silver thread, her emerald gown clinging to her like silk shadows, her poise the stuff of legends. And Tom... Tom Riddle had never seen anything more exquisite. Or more his. 

He extended a hand to her without a word. 

She placed hers in his without hesitation. 

The music shifted. Darker. Richer. Hungrier. 

And then they danced. 

Not a gentle waltz, no simple sway or aristocrats and false smiles. This was a dance of possession and challenge, of shared power and dangerous grace. The ballroom quieted to a hum around them as they moved like sin incarnate -- his hand at the small of her back, her spine an elegant curve beneath his touch. 

Tom didn't speak for the first full minute. 

But Hermione could feel him -- every tightly coiled inch of fury beneath his impeccable composure. His jaw was locked. HIs movements sharp, calculated. Protective. 

She dared to meet his gaze through the dance, unflinching. 

"You're angry," she said softly, just above the music. 

He spin her and caught her again, holding her close enough to feel her heartbeat. "Furious."

"Because of the Minister?"

"Because he thought he could. Because no one touches what is mine."

"Tom --"

"He lowered his hand like he had the right to touch you. The audacity. In my presence."

His magic rippled under his skin. It thrummed between them like a live wire, ready to strike. 

"Tom." Her voice was firmer now, her hands flattening against his chest as they turned once more. 

He seethed. 

And then --

"My love," she said gently, deliberately. "He's gone. You don;t need to burn down the Ministry tonight."

It hit him like a curse. That phrase. His endearment, her voice. Claimed, turned back on him. 

Tom stopped moving for just a breath -- startled, awed. The ballroom didn't notice. The music went on. But inside him, something cracked open. 

His eyes dropped to her lips, then lifted slowly to her eyes. 

Say it again, he almost begged. 

But she only smiled -- subtle, knowing -- and resumed the dance. 

So he moved with her. Let her lead for a step. Gave in. 

She didn't need to say it twice. The first time had already become law. 

The music swelled to a haunting crescendo, and with a final, breathtaking turn, Tom and Hermione came to stillness -- his hand at the curve of her spine, her palm resting over his heart. 

For a moment, there was silence. 

And then -- 

Applause. 

It started in polite ripples from the far side of the ballroom. The watching crowd, both Ministry and Death Eater alike, clapped in stunned, reverent rhythm. Eyes wide. Mouths slack. Whisper began to swirl. 

"They were magnificent."

"Did you see how they moved?"

"He's never looked at anyone like that --"

Tom bowed low, precise and regal. Hermione sank into her curtsey, graceful and unbothered by the hundred gazes fixed upon her like she was some divine artifact. 

They rose together masks concealing expressions but not the bon that shimmered like tethered magic between them. 

He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. 

"Say it again," he murmured, voice like smoke and honey. "Call me that once more, my love."

Her breath hitched. 

HIs eyes dropped to her parted lips -- barely a whisper between them. 

"I never imagined," he said, so low only she could hear, "how intoxicating it would be... to hear that word from your mouth. I crave it now. Need it."

She turned her head slightly, their masks brushing. 

"So easily undone, Dark Lord?"

He chuckled darkly. "Only by you. Only ever by you."

Her pulse betrayed her. Her fingers curled slightly into his lapel. 

And he felt it -- her arousal, her affection, her defiance all woven into one impossible, glorious woman. His witch. His love. 

The applause was fading now. The orchestra shifted into a gentler tune. The night resumed. 

But Tom Riddle no longer cared about the crowd. Or the ball. Or the world. 

Not when the only thing he wanted was to hear her say it again. 

 

Hermione's eyes glittered behind her mask, amber depths unreadable to the room -- but not to him. Never to him. She tilted her head, lips barely parted as though weighing a great decision. 

Then --

"My love," she whispered. 

It shattered something in him. Some final restraint. 

He didn't care that they were surrounded. He didn't care that half the room still watched them, captivated. He grasped her waist with firm, reverent hands and kissed her. 

Fiercely. 

Desperately. 

Completely. 

His mouth crashed into hers with something like hunger and devotion entwined. One hand tangled in her curls, the other curved around her lower back, possessive and unashamed. 

The room didn't exist. Not the chandeliers. Not the politics. Not the power games. Just the feel of her, the taste of her, the maddening rightness of her in his arms. 

He broke the kiss only when oxygen demanded it, resting his forehead against hers. "Say it again," he whispered, eyes wild, his breath ragged. "Say it a thousand more times."

"My --"

"Ahem."

The sharp, affected throat-clear shattered the moment like glass. 

Tom's jaw clenched. Slowly -- too slowly -- he turned. 

Lucius Malfoy stood a respectful distance away, hands clasped, eyes gleaming beneath his silver mask. He bowed his head with an elegance that somehow reeked of calculation. 

"My lord. My lady."

Tom didn't let go of her. 

"What is it, Lucius?" he asked, tone clipped, lethal. 

Lucius pretended not to notice the irritation laced in every word. "The Minister is departing and requested a word. As did Ambassador Goyle. They grow impatient."

"I am occupied."

Lucius inclined his head. "Shall I inform them that your... attention is otherwise engaged?"

Tom's mouth curved into a smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "Do. And be sure they understand it's not an invitation to interrupt again."

Lucius bowed lower this time and vanished into the crowd with graceful haste. 

Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn't known she was holding. 

Tom's mouth curved into a smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "Do. And be sure they understand it's not an invitation to interrupt again."

Lucius bowed lower this time and vanished into the crowd with graceful haste. 

Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn't known she was holding. 

Tom turned back to her, hands still firmly at her waist. 

"You kissed me," she said, almost accusingly. 

"You called me yours," he said darkly. "I merely claimed what was already mine."

 

They returned to the dance floor as if nothing had happened. As if the entire room hadn't just borne witness to a kiss that scorched the edges of propriety. Hermione remained poised on Tom's arm, every inch the regal, composed Lady of Riddle Manor. But beneath her mask, her thoughts spun dangerously fast. 

"My love." She had said it again. Meant it. And the way he'd looked at her...

She was sinking. She had sunk. And the strangest, most terrifying truth was this:

She didn't want to be saved. 

Tom whispered something dark and wicked against the shell of her ear -- something about dragging her away from this room to find the nearest wall -- and she might have let him...

If not for the sudden shift in atmosphere.

It was like cold wind blew through the room, a ripple of unease strong enough to still the orchestra's tempo for a breath. 

A tall figure approached. Battle-scarred, formidable, and utterly unbothered by the opulence or the danger surrounding him. The magical eye clicked and whirred in its socket as he scanned the ballroom -- through the ballroom -- and then landed unerringly on Hermione. 

Auror Alastor Moody. 

She felt the change in the air before she even saw him -- felt Tom go utterly still beside her. 

His presence cut through the glamour of the room like a blade. 

Grizzled. Scarred. A magical eye spinning madly in its socket. His real eye, cold and calculating, flicked between the guests, then landed squarely on her. 

He didn't recognise her. Of course not. 

Why would he?

To him, she was just a young woman. A mystery. A strange, foreign figure at the Dark Lord's side, dressed in emeralds and sin. 

"Evenin'" the man rasped. His voice was gravel. "I don't believe we've met."

Hermione's spine straightened instinctively. "I imagine not."

Tom's arm locked tighter around her waist. "Auror Moody," he said smoothly, voice like venom wrapped in velvet. "What an unexpected... intrusion."

Moody ignored him.

All his attention was on her. 

"Strange," he said slowly, the magical eye whirring. "You don't belong in a place like this."

Hermione's heart thudded once, hard, but she kept her tone even. "And yet, here I am."

Moody's real eye narrowed. "What's your name, girl?"

Tom stepped forward slightly. "Her name in none of your concern."

Moody's smile was a threat. 

"I disagree."

A silence rippled between them, thick and taut. Hermione could feel the weight of a dozen gazes from nearby guests pretending not to eavesdrop. 

"She's with me," Tom said, voice now low and dangerous. "That should be more than enough explanation."

Moody's gaze moved between them slowly. Measuring. Calculating. 

"It's got a lot of people in a twist, you know," he murmured. "You. Showing up suddenly with a woman on your arm. Never let anyone close before. Now this... mystery girl."

"She's mine," Tom said coolly. "That's all they need to know."

Moody raised his eyebrows.

"Bit bold, isn't it? Bringing her here. Flaunting her like a prize. Makes a man wonder what kind of spell she's put you under."

Tom didn't rise to the bait. But Hermione could feel the fury coiling in hum like a striking serpent. 

"She must be something special," Moody continued. "For you to be so... territorial."

Hermione met his eyes now, calm and measured. "i assure you, Mr. Moody, I am not a prize. And I don't answer to you."

The Auror tilted his head. 

"No... but you might want to think hard about the company you keep."

Tom's voice was a whisper, cold as steel. "One more word, and I will end you right here. MInistry presence be damned."

Moody smirked. "Touchy."

Then he turned, cloak sweeping the marble behind him, and disappeared into the crowd like a shadow swallowed by flame. 

Tom stood silent for a moment. 

And then turned to Hermione. He took her face in his hands. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, his mask finally cracking enough for her to see the fear beneath it. The fury. The possessiveness. The need. 

"I'm fine," she said quietly. "BUt... what if he looks into me, Tom? What if he finds out who I am?"

"He won't," Tom promised, voice now low, dark, and deadly. "I won't let him. I'll burn every trace of you from every memory in Britain before I allow anyone to take you from me."

Hermione swallowed hard. 

Because the terrifying thing wasn't the threat. 

It was that part of her... Didn't want to run anymore.

 

Chapter 17: The Wall Will Do

Tom's hand had just brushed the small of Hermione's back -- his silent signal that they were leaving. She could see it in his eyes, the way his pupils burned with fury barely contained, even through his mask, the possessiveness sharpened to a lethal edge. 

He needed to be alone with her. 

To anchor himself in her. To remind himself that she was real and here and his. 

But fate, as ever, had other plans.

A shriek rang out, echoing across the ballroom. 

"Tommy!"

Both of them turned, dreading the voice they already knew too well.

Bellatrix Lestrange. 

She stumbled forward, silk robes askew, curls wild, eyes too-bright from fire whisky and something darker. Her arm was looped through Rodolphus', who looked equally wrecked, his smile wide and far too interested in Hermione as they approached. 

"Oh, what's this?" Bellatrix practically purred, teetering far too close to them. "Our Lord hiding away with his little toy again?"

Tom went very still. His grip on Hermione didn't loosen -- if anything, it tightened. 

"Bella," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "You are drunk."

"Only a bit," she giggled, swaying. "But not drunk enough to not notice her -- always with her, like she's some sort of queen. Your little pet. Your plaything. Your --"

"Careful," Tom warned, eyes gleaming like a knife in moonlight. 

Hermione felt the power building beneath his skin. The room seemed to hold its breath again, watching. 

Rodolphus snickered, clearly emboldened. "Bit possessive of her, aren't you, my Lord? She's quite the beauty, thought. Can't blame you. If I had her in my bed, I'd --"

"Enough."

Tom's voice cracked like a whip through the air. 

And the magic that followed it was instantaneous. 

Rodolphus staggered backwards, clutching at his throat -- choking on invisible pressure. 

Bellatrix blinked, suddenly less drunk, her eyes snapping to Tom as he stepped forward, looming like a shadow come alive. 

"You forget yourselves," he hissed. "This is my domain. And she" -- he turned to look at Hermione, hand rising gently to brush her cheek with agonising tenderness -- "is mine."

"Tom," Hermione said softly, placing a calming hand to his chest. 

He looked down at her, the rage in him a violent storm... That eased, just slightly, under her touch. 

Bellatrix tried again, voice small now. "My Lord, we only meant --"

"You meant to insult her. You meant to challenge me." His eyes didn't even flick back to her. "Get out."

"But --"

"Leave," he commanded, and the sheer force of his voice sent a wave of shuddering magic through the air. 

Bellatrix didn't argue again. 

Neither did Rodolphus, who was still wheezing, now supported by two terrified followers as they dragged him towards the exit. 

The music had stopped. No one danced. No one moved. 

Tom turned, calmly offering Hermione his hand. 

"Come," he said softly. "I've had enough of these fools."

She took his hand without hesitation. 

And as he left her out of the ballroom, in total silence and absolute command, Hermione realised two things. 

First: the world feared Tom Riddle more than it feared death. 

Second: the world feared what he would become when it came to her, even more. 

 

Tom said nothing as he left her out of the ballroom. 

He didn't storm. 

He didn't rage. 

But the force behind his steps, the tightness in his jaw, and the way he gripped her hand -- like letting go would end him -- told her everything. 

Hermione followed, her own heart thundering. Not with fear, not anymore. But with something wilder, more reckless. Something dangerously close to devotion. 

He didn't make it to their chambers. 

They reached a quiet corridor lined with ancestral portraits, their eyes mercifully empty. The sconces flickered as they passed, reacting to the unspoken storm between them. 

And then -- 

He turned. 

Pressed her back to the wall. 

Hands splayed on either side of her head. 

Breath heaving. 

Eyes burning. 

"You are mine," he said slowly, voice thick with fury and desire. "Mine. And I will not suffer fools touching what belongs to me."

"Tom --"

He cut her off with a kiss. 

Not soft. 

Not sweet. 

Claiming. 

Possessive. 

His lips crushed hers, his tongue demanding entry with a ferocity that stole her breath. She opened to him -- because she always would -- and the moment she did, he groaned, low and primal, sinking into her as though he might lose himself in the taste of her. 

Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging, grounding. 

His hips pressed forward, grinding against her through layers of silk and velvet, and she gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound like it fed him. 

"I need you," he growled against her lips. "Right now. This moment. I need to feel you. Need to remember that you're here, with me, and that no one -- no one -- can take you from me."

"You're the most powerful wizard alive," she whispered between kisses, breathless, drunk on him. "Who could take me from you?"

He pressed his forehead to hers. "Fate. Time. The world. I'd burn them all, Hermione. I will, if any of them try."

His mouth was back on hers before she could respond, hands skimming down her sides, over the curves he worshipped with with increasing desperation. Her head thudded gently against the wall as she let him ravage her mouth, her neck, the hollow of her throat. 

"You shouldn't want me like this," she whispered, half-lost in him already. "Not here. Not now."

He looked at her, eyes blow wide. 

"But I do. Always."

And then his hand curled beneath her thigh, lifting it around his hip as he kissed her again like the world might end, and she'd be the only thing he needed to take with him. 

His hand left her thigh only to slide up, fist closing around the bodice of her dress. 

"Fucking hell, Hermione."

It wasn't the tone of a man admiring. It was reverent. Ferocious. Ruined.

Because the moment he got a proper look at her -- really looked at her in the dim golden light of the corridor -- he stilled. Like a man watching a goddess take shape before his very eyes. 

Her gown, the one she'd chosen with such care, shimmered emerald and gold like the most decadent sin. Silk clung to every inch of her body, unapologetically tight across her hips and breasts, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone, the slope of her shoulders, the column of her neck he adored with his mouth. Her legs, long and glorious, peeked through the slit in the side -- stockings gartered to suspenders in green and gold. 

His colours. 

His witch. 

His undoing. 

"Do you have any idea what you look like?" He growled, dragging his thumb across her bottom lip as he raked his gaze down, lingering with hungry intent. "Do you?"

She arched a brow, breathless and wrecked. "I think  you're about to show me."

And just like that --

Rip.

The dress tore beneath his fingers. He didn't even bother with finesse. He destroyed it, silk parting like parchment under his grip, seams surrendering to the urgency in his blood. 

She gasped. 

"Tom!"

He didn't pause. "I'll buy you a thousand more," he muttered, voice rough and raw as he peeled and shredded fabric from her body, exposing her inch by inch. 

She stood before him, flushed, glorious, wearing only ger emerald-green suspenders, sheer gold-dusted stockings, and black lace underwear that he could only describe as criminal. His breath caught. 

"Oh, fuck me, Hermione."

And then his hands were on her -- everywhere at once. Cupping her breasts through lace, dragging his fingers over silk straps, sliding down her sides to the curve of her waist. 

He devoured her. 

Mouth crashing into her neck, licking and biting a path down to her cleavage. He popped the clasp with practiced ease, baring her breasts to the cool air and the heat of his tongue. 

"Exquisite," he breathed between kisses. "So fucking perfect. You were made for me."

Her back arched off the wall, offering more. Wanting more. 

His hands slid beneath her thighs, hoisting her effortlessly into his arms. She wrapped around him, dizzy, moaning into his mouth as he pressed her harder into the stone, grinding against her with barely leashed control. 

And then --

He paused. 

Just for a moment. 

Forehead to hers. Breathing her in like a starving man who'd finally found sustenance. 

"You ruin me," he whispered, and there was awe in it. "You remake me."

Her fingers gripped his hair. 

"I don't want gentle, Tom," she said. "Not tonight."

His eyes darkened, pupils blown. 

"Good," he hissed. "Because I want to wreck you."

HIs mouth slammed over hers again, devouring her with hunger so consuming it was almost painful. Her legs locked tighter around his waist, her back grinding into the cold stone behind her, the brutal contrast to the heat of his body a lightning strike to every nerve. 

"Tom --"

"I warned you," he growled, voice low and dark like thunder. "I warned you what would happen if you looked like that. Danced like that. Tempted me like that."

One hand dragged her lacy knickers aside, the other cupping her jaw as his mouth descended to her neck, biting and kissing, branding her. 

"I should take you apart for it," he muttered against her skin. "Slowly. On your knees. On my bed. For hours."

His fingers dipped between her thighs and found her drenched. 

Instead, he hissed, "But you're already soaked for me, my love."

Hermione moaned helplessly, rolling her hips against his hand, her fingers fisting in his robes. 

"Say it," he ordered, biting her ear. "Say you're wet for me."

She should've refused. She should've slapped him again. 

But she didn't.

"I'm wet for you," she whispered, shame and heat battling in her gut, her voice ragged with need.

He growled something in Parseltongue -- dark and low -- and then he was undoing his belt with one hand, fumbling with desperate, single-minded precision. She didn't even get the chance to see him -- just felt it, thick and hard, hot against her bare thigh as he pressed fully into her, stretching her in one fierce thrust that knocked the breath from her lungs. 

"Fuck, Tom --"

His forehead crashed against hers as he held himself still for just one stuttering moment, both of them shaking. 

"I'm not going to be gentle, Hermione," he warned, voice feral. "I can't be."

"Then don't be."

Something in him snapped. 

He slammed into her again, again, again -- deep and relentless and raw -- his hand braced beside her head on the wall, the other still holding her thighs up, spreading her wide and open for his merciless rhythm. 

Her head fell back against the stone, mouth open in a silent scream, gasping for air, moaning his name again and again like a prayer laced with sin. 

He watched every second. Watched her unravel on his cock. Watched her fall apart around him like she was meant to. His witch. His undoing. His fucking everything. 

"I want to see your face," he panted. "When you fall for me."

"I already have," she gasped. 

He growled. 

"Then give me the rest of you, my love."

And she did. 

She clenched around him with a cry, climax crashing through her like a spell set alight. Her nails raked down his back, her entire body convulsing. 

He followed a heartbeat later, hips jerking erratically, arms trembling as he spilled into her with a violent groan -- one hand dragging her closer, the other tangled in her hair, pressing his mouth to hers as they fell apart together. 

When they finally stilled, panting, wrecked, their foreheads touched again. He was still inside her. Still holding her up. His nose brushed hers, reverent. 

"I will never share you, not any single piece of you. Mind, body, soul -- all mine," he murmured. 

"You never have to," she whispered back, breathless. 

He smiled then -- barely. Almost cruel. Almost loving. 

"Good."

She had no idea what he would do to the world to keep it that way. 

 

She couldn't catch her breath. 

Her head dropped to his shoulder, her body trembling from the force of it all -- from him. He hadn't let her slide down yet, hadn't released her thighs, hadn't even softened inside of her. His breath was ragged in her ear, and his fingers -- those long, beautiful, brutal fingers -- trailed up and down her spine in a way that made her feel owned. 

"Do you realise what you do to me?" he murmured against her temple. "How impossible you are?"

Her fingers clenched at his collar, still tangled in his robes. She could barely speak. Her lips were bruised, her thighs aching, her dress -- what was left of it -- hanging in limp tatters off one shoulder. 

"I think... I do now," she managed, hoarse and smiling faintly, eyes still closed. 

He didn't move at first. Just pressed her tighter into the stone wall as though he could merge her into him and keep her there, inside the cafe of his body. His hands traced reverently over her ribs, her hips, her throat. 

"I've ruined you," he said softly. Not with regret. Not with shame. With certainty.

"You keep saying that," she whispered, "but I think we both know I was never whole when I got here."

He stilled. 

Then he kissed her. Slow, deep, full of breath and tongue and dark promises. Not hungry now, not possessive. 

Worshipful. 

"You're mine," he said when he finally pulled back. "And you will never walk through his house again in another man's arms. Do you understand? Not even for a dance."

"Who says I'm yours?" she teased, breath catching again as he thrust his hips forward slightly, a lazy, devastating motion that made her gasp. 

"You are now."

With careful hands, he finally lowered her to the ground. Her knees wobbled dangerously. Tom steadied her, catching her waist as he looked down at the shredded fabric clinging uselessly to her. 

"Hmm," he said. "I did warn you what would happen in that dress."

"You're insatiable."

"For you? Always."

He ran his wand along the line of her spine, whispering a charm that vanished what little remained of the gown and replaced it with a fine wool cloak lined in black satin. He fastened it at her throat with slow, deliberate fingers, tugging the folds around her like wrapping a gift. 

Then, without another word, he swept her into his arms. 

"Tom!" she yelped in surprise, clinging to his shoulders. "I can walk!"

"I'm aware," he drawled. "But I don't want anyone seeing what I've already claimed."

Her cheeks burned, and her head dropped into the crook of his neck, where she couldn't see the eyes that might still linger beyond the corridor. 

"Before you... I had never carried anyone," he muttered, as if insulted by his own behaviour. "This is the second time now. It's undignified. Sentimental."

"You're still hard," she said against his throat. 

"Your fault," he growled. 

She giggled. 

And for the second time that night, Tom Riddle felt like the world -- his dark, cold, merciless world -- had sun in it. 

He carried her through the manor, unbothered by any watching portraits or lingering guests. His grip was firm but reverent. His expression was a warning to any fool who might meet his gaze. 

When they reached their suite, he whispered the locking spell. The doors sealed. The world disappeared. 

He carried her straight to the bed, laying her down like something sacred. Like a relic. His expression darkened when he saw the bruises blooming where his fingers had gripped her thighs. 

"I hurt you."

"No," she whispered, tugging him closer. "You reminded me I'm alive."

He said nothing. Just crawled up beside her, pulling the cloak away from her body slowly, like he was peeling open a treasure chest. 

She reached for his hand, lacing their fingers. 

"You're not a monster, not to me."

"I would still do monstrous things for you," he said quiet and terrifying. "I would burn the world without hesitation... but, I would build you a new one after."

She kissed his hand. 

And neither of them said anything else for a very long time.

Chapter 18: The Demonstration.

The air was heavy, as though even the manor itself could sense the tension humming between its two occupants. Outside, snow drifted in silent sheets across the grounds, blanketing the hedgerows and silencing the world beyond the wrought iron gates. It should have been peaceful. Should have been magical. 

But peace was a luxury Hermione couldn't afford -- not today. 

She sat at the vanity in their chambers, half-dressed, her eyes unfocused as she stared into the mirror. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, the pale green fabric of her robes untouched beside her. She hadn't yet put them on. Couldn't. Not while her heart warred inside her chest. 

Behind her, Tom stood in perfect stillness. He had been watching her for some time now. Not in hunder. Not in reverence. But in worry. 

Not fear, no -- Tom Riddle feared nothing. 

But there was a sharp, twisting unease in his gut that he refused to name. An ache. A pressure behind his ribs that hadn't existed before she'd come into his life. He loathed it. He lived for it. 

"I can cancel it," he said, finally. His voice low, smooth, careful. "Say the weather turned. Or that your presence is no longer required."

She flinched at the offer. 

"And prove them all right?" She asked, not looking at him. "That I've weakened the Dark Lord?"

His jaw tightened. He hated when she used that title -- his title -- as if it were a stain. As if it were something she had to hold at arm's length just to love him. 

"I don't care what they think," he said coldly. 

"But you do." She turned to look at him now. Her eyes were wide, brown, and far too knowing. "You always have. That's the whole point, isn't it? Power. Perception. Control."

His silence was confirmation. She stood then, rising from the chair with careful grace, still barefoot and still not dressed. The sight of her like that -- so bare, so undone -- rattled something inside him. 

"I said I would come," she whispered, voice tight. "And I will."

He stepped forward. Took her face in his hands. His thumbs traced the bones of her cheeks, his fingers slipping into her curls. She leaned into him, but it wasn't surrender. It was conflict. It was grief. 

"You're afraid of what you'll see," he said. 

"I'm afraid of what I'll feel."

He nodded slowly. His forehead pressed to hers. "You love me."

"Yes."

"And still, you'd leave me."

"If there's no hope, Tom... If there's no line you won't cross... Then yes. We've talked about this."

The silence cracked like glass between them. 

He did not rage. Did not threaten or plead. Instead, he kissed her forehead. Softly. Reverently. As though trying to memorize her skin beneath his lips. 

"I will not lose you," he said, voice thick. "I can live without the world. But not without you."

Her eyes stung. 

"I don't want to lose you either," she said. "But this... Today... It will show me everything I need to know."

He closed his eyes. That was what he was afraid of. 

Because the world had never offered him anything worth saving. Until her. 

And now... He wasn't sure he could be saved at all.

 

The soft rustle of silk echoed too loudly in the stillness of their room. 

Tom stood by the fireplace, watching her. Silent. Pale. Wrapped in shadows and reverence. His hands were folded tightly behind his back, but his knuckles had long since turned white. He didn't speak. He couldn't. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't betray the chaos inside his chest. 

She didn't ask for help as she fastened the last clasp on her robes. She moved with quiet, practised grace -- slow and deliberate, as if she were dressing not for demonstration but for battle. 

And perhaps she was. 

When she turned, he finally saw her fully. 

Dark velvet clung to every inch of her. Midnight black, trimmed with silver thread and high at her neck. Her hair was twisted back, her wand strapped neatly to her thigh beneath the folds of her robes. The pendant he'd gifted her -- a coiling serpent of emerald -- rested just above her heart. 

She looked like one of them. 

Like a queen born of blood and shadow. 

And it hurt. 

He had expected pride. Admiration. Desire. She was exquisite. Terrifying. But that wasn't what gripped his throat now. That wasn't what made something in him fray and unravel. 

She had said this night might change everything. 

And for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle was afraid. He had no choice but to admit that now. That unfamiliar tightening of his chest. It was fear. 

Not of death. Not of Dumbledore. Not of the Order. 

But of her. 

Of losing her. 

Because if tonight pushed her too far -- if the horror of what she witnessed snapped the final tether between them -- he knew there would be no pulling her back. He knew he could not hold her against her will. Not really. Not without destroying the very thing he loved most about her. 

Her light. Her fire. 

Her choice. 

She stepped closer. Her eyes searching his face, softening as they landed on his. "I don't want to hurt you," she said quietly.

"You won't," he lied.

"You think I don't see it?" She whispered, brushing her fingers along the lapels of his coat. "The way you look at me now... As if I've already disappeared."

"Because you might."

She inhaled. "Tom --"

He caught her hand. Held it tightly between both of his. Cold fingers. A trembling pulse. 

"If you walk away from me tonight," he said, low and grave, "if you decide I'm beyond saving -- if you say you're going to leave -- I won't stop you."

Her breath caught. 

"But know this." He lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart beat violently beneath. "You are my heart now. If you rip yourself from me, you'll take this with you. I will not survive it intact."

Silence fell like snowfall between them. 

And then, without a word, she stepped into him. Her arms curled around his neck. She kissed him -- gently, slowly -- more a promise than a passion. And for a moment, he allowed himself to believe that love could be enough. That she might choose to stay. 

Even after everything. 

He clung to that hope with hands that had once crushed entire empires. 

 

*

 

The clearing was lit only by wandlight and a conjured pyre in the centre of the circle. The flames roared high and white, casting sharp shadows against the faces of the gathered. 

Death Eaters. Snatchers. Sympathisers. 

They waited in reverent silence, their eyes already fixed on him. Some bowed as he passed. Others simply stood still, awaiting his command. 

But it wasn't him they were staring at. 

It was her. 

Hermione. 

She walked beside him, fingers laced with his, dark robes sweeping across the frost-bitten grass like liquid smoke. Her head was held high, face unreadable beneath the hood she'd drawn up. But her hand -- her hand remained in his. That alone was enough to make the earth tilt beneath his feet. 

He had the girl. His queen of contradiction. Light wrapped in shadow. And for now, she had not yet let go. 

They stepped up to the dais together. 

Tom released her hand only when necessary, turning to face the congregation. He could feel their hunger. Their loyalty. Their fear. 

And her eyes. Watching him. Judging. Hoping.

He was always eloquent when speaking to a crowd. Words were power. A spell in and of themselves. But tonight was different. Tonight his words had to be a blade and a balm. Something to inspire fear and devotion, but also -- also -- to show her that he was still a man beneath the myth. That he had not yet lost everything.

He took a breath. The silence deepened. 

Then he spoke. 

"Tonight is a night of reckoning," he said, voice cool and clear, cutting through the cold. "Not just for the world, but for us. For what we stand for. For what we will become."

A murmur. A few glances exchanged. He felt her beside him, still and listening. 

"For too long, those who would see magic diminished have walked unchecked. They weaken our laws. Pollute our culture. Threaten our future. But we -- we hold the line."

He saw heads nod. Heard agreement like a low growl beneath the surface. 

"But power," he continued, letting his gaze sweep the crowd, "is not chaos. It is not cruelty for cruelty's sake. It is control. Precision. And purpose."

Another shift. More focused now. 

"And what we build -- this new world -- must be worthy of that power. Strong, yes. Feared, undoubtedly. But more than that... It must be lasting."

He paused. His eyes flicked to her. Just for a heartbeat. 

"Lasting legacies are not built on hatred. They are built on devotion. On strength of will. On those who would fare to challenge us -- to make us better. Those who remind us what we fight for, not merely what we fight against."

That was for her. Only her.

He looked back to the crowd, voice rising now. 

"Loyalty will be rewarded. Cowardice, punished. But above all -- understand this: the future belongs to us. And we will shape it with ruthless clarity. Together."

A beat. 

"And those who stand in our way... Will burn."

The flames behind him surged. 

And the crowd erupted. 

Cheers. Shouts. A chorus of wands raised high. 

But he turned, away from them all, and offered only one thing:

His hand. 

To her.

Hermione stared at it for a long moment. Then placed hers in his once more. 

And the relief that flooded through him nearly brought him to his knees. 

The demonstration grounds grew colder after his speech. The white fire in the centre roared taller, cracking as if it sensed blood in the air. Snow collected on cloaks, on masks, on the edges of wands held aloft in anticipation. 

Tom stood with Hermione beside him -- hand in hand, shadow and flame -- and the Death Eaters formed a perfect circle around them. 

It should have been intoxicating. 

But Hermione's stomach had sunk the moment Bellatrix emerged from the crowd, wild-haired, fever-eyed, dragging two battered figures behind her. 

"My Lord!" Bella sang, voice breathless with glee. "A Yule gift for you!"

She threw them at Tom's feet. 

The Prewett twins. 

Young. Bloodied. Proud even in ruin. 

Hermione felt her world tilt. 

Fabian and Gideon Prewett.

Two men who would become Ron's uncles. And taken far too son. 

Men who would die fighting Voldemort. Men she had respected. Read about. Mourned in her own way.

Her heart clenched painfully. 

Tom sensed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed her knuckles, grounding her -- claiming her -- even as the crown roared for blood. 

"Traitors," Bellatrix hissed, pacing like a starving wolf. "Caught them trying to smuggle a family out. Blood-traitor filth."

The twins looked up.

And they saw her -- saw something in her which told them she wasn't on board with this. 

"Don't let him him use you," Fabian croaked, glaring at Tom. "Whatever lies he's told you --"

Tom moved before Fabian could finish.

But he wasn't fast enough. 

One of the twins -- Gideon -- twisted violently in the snatcher's grip, tearing free. His wand was still bound, but desperation was a an ugly, potent thing. And somehow, he managed to steal the snatcher's wand instead. 

He lunged. 

Hermione had no time to shout. 

A blast of sickly green light shot straight toward Tom's heart. 

And without thinking --

Without breathing --

Without choosing --

Hermione stepped forward. 

Her wand was in her hand. 

A shield raised by Tom in an instant. 

Her voice tore from her throat. 

"CRUCIO!" 

The curse hit Gideon squarely. 

He screamed. 

Screamed like his soul was flayed open. 

The entire circle went silent. 

Tom froze. 

The world froze. 

And Hermione -- 

Hermione stood trembling, wand outstretched, face pale and eyes wide as the boy writhed on the frozen ground beneath the unbearable weight of her rage, her terror, her desperate love.

And then --

She stopped. 

Just stopped. 

The curse broke. 

Her wand slipped from her fingers and fell to the snow with a soft, terrible sound.

She stared at her shaking hands. 

At what she had done. 

At what she had become. 

"Oh... No..." She whispered, breath shallow. "Oh god -- Tom -- I..."

But no one else noticed her distress. 

Because the Death Eaters erupted. 

Ecstatic. 

Exultant. 

Cheers rose like thunder. 

"Our Lady!"

"His Queen!"

"She punished the traitors!"

"Long live the Dark Lord's Witch!"

Hermione felt sick. 

Bella laughed, unhinged with delight. "Perfect, my Lady! How perfectly magnificent!"

And then, like a wolf granted permission, she raised her wand. 

Before Hermione could inhale --

Two flashes of green. 

Two bodies fell silent in the snow. 

Fabian. Gideon. 

Gone. 

Hermione stared. 

Then swayed. 

Then felt the world go white around the edges. 

And Tom --

Tom reached her first. 

He didn't cheer. 

He didn't smile. 

He just wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him, her face pressed to his chest, shielding her from the grisly aftermath, from the sight of what she had done... And what Bella had eagerly finished. 

His cloak wrapped around her. 

His scent. His warmth. His magic. 

Tom gathered his witch. 

Held her as though she'd shattered. 

And whispered, low and fierce and terrified:

"Enough. We're going home."

He lifted her wand from the snow. 

Tucked it into his robe. 

Lifted her into his arms next. 

And with a sharp crack of displaced air, Tom Riddle Apparated them both away -- far from the cheering crowd, far from Bella's madness, far from the bodies cooling in the snow. 

Home. 

Where he would not let her break. Where he would not let her go. 

 

They landed in silence. 

The moment they reappeared inside his private suite -- their sanctuary, their prison, their impossible middle ground -- Hermione didn't speak. Didn't move. 

She stood there. Utterly still. 

As if petrified. 

As if hollow. 

Snow still clung to her dark robes. Her hands hung limp at her sides. Her wand -- he had it. She hadn't asked for it back. 

Tom didn't speak at first. He removed his gloves slowly, watching her, his mind calculating and crumbling in equal measure. She wasn't shaking. She wasn't crying. She wasn't screaming. No. This was worse.

She was silent. 

Too silent. 

And pale -- gods, she looked drained. The bloodless press of her lips. The thousand-yard stare fixed on the far wall. And the faint tremble of her lower lash where a single, unfallen tear clung. 

Tom moved towards her. 

He reached for the clasp of her cloak, fingers brushing the bare skin of her throat as he undid it. She didn't react. Didn't blink. 

"Hermione," he said softly. Almost reverently. "Let me --"

He slid the cloak from her shoulders. It dropped to the floor with a muted thud. 

Still, she said nothing. 

Her dress was beautiful. Dark as sin, sculpted like shadow and starlight, the one she'd chosen just for tonight. And he had meant to peel her out of it later, slowly, reverently, between kisses that promised eternity. 

But now -- not it felt like a wound. 

He loosened the buttons are her back. One by one. His hands were steady. His chest was not. 

Still nothing. 

"Hermione," he murmured again, pulling the dress carefully down her arms. "My love, I need you to --"

It joined the cloak. 

She stood in her underthings now. Stockings. Garter. Corset. Laces and lace and nothing at all. 

And she looked like a ruined painting. 

"Hermione," he whispered. 

Still nothing. 

He stepped around in front of her. 

Her eyes didn't follow him. 

Not until he cupped her face. 

That... That made her flinch. 

Just barely. 

But it was enough to carve panic into his bones. 

He had never said the word before. 

Not to anyone. Not once in his life. 

But now, as he bent to meet her eyes -- to force her to look at him, to stay with him, to not fall into whatever mental chasm she was spiralling towards -- Tom Riddle lowered himself, bowed his pride, and whispered:

"Please."

Her lashes fluttered. 

He pressed his forehead to hers. 

"Please, Hermione. Say something. Anything. Show me you're still here. Show me I didn't just... Lose you."

Her throat worked. 

One breath. Then two. 

Her hands came up slowly. Like they weighed a thousand stones. She laid them against his chest. Right above his heart. 

And finally --

"I tortured someone."

Her voice was hollow. Brittle. Like snow crunching underfoot. 

"I cast the Cruciatus curse."

"I know," he said. "I saw."

"I meant it," she whispered. "I wanted him to suffer."

"If he had tried to kill you, I would have done much worse."

"I wanted to do worse," she choked, eyes filling now. "That's the part I can't live with. I wanted him to hurt."

Tom cupped the back of her head. Drew her against him. She didn't fight it. 

"You did it for me."

"That's not a comfort," she sobbed. "That's worse."

"Why?"

"Because it means I'm becoming you."

His arms tightened. 

"No," he said darkly. "You're becoming mine."

"That's the same thing."

"No," he repeated, his voice like steel. "It isn't."

She shuddered in his hold. "You should hate me."

"I couldn't if I tried."

"I'm scared of who I'm becoming."

He brushed her hair back from her face. Kissed her temple. "I'm not."

"I should be better than this. I am better than this. And I still -- still did it. For you."

"For us," he corrected. 

And then, softer -- 

"You've given me your light, Hermione. If you must fall to shadow... Then I'll carry the rest."

Her sob broke against his neck. 

And he held her there, as her composure crumbled, as her tears soaked his collar, as the weight of her love and her guilt warred against each other. 

He didn't ask her to stop. 

He only whispered into her hair:

"You're still mine. No matter what line you cross. Nothing changes that. Nothing can."

 

*

 

Tom did not sleep. 

Not even for a moment. 

He sat upright in their bed with Hermione curled into his chest, her body damp from the shower he'd coaxed her into hours earlier, her skin warm beneath the silk of his shirt -- one of his shirts, draped over her like armour. She'd been trembling too hard to dress herself, so he had done it for her. Quietly. Reverently. His fingers, the same ones that had once drawn screams from enemies and fire from the sky, had shaken slightly as he buttoned the collar beneath her throat. 

He hadn't let go of her since. 

She slept now. 

FInally. 

Her hand was fisted weakly in the fabric at his ribs. Her head rested just over his heart. He knew because every time it beat too fast, she shifted slightly, as if it stirred something in her sleep. 

He watched her. 

And he hated the thoughts that came. 

Because this -- this -- was not what he'd planned. She was never supposed to break. She was supposed to bend. To bloom. To rise into the fire beside him and burn down the world in his name. 

Not this.

Not this shattered quiet. 

Not the image of her, barefoot and mute, her wand dropped to the blood-slicked ground like it had scorched her palm. 

She had cast the Cruciatus Curse. 

For him. 

And he wasn't sure she'd ever forgive herself for it. 

He shifted, brushing his knuckles lightly along her temple, tucking a curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered at her jaw. Just the softest touch. Not enough to wake her. 

The candlelight flickered low across the suite. Snow fell outside in silence. Even the Manor was quiet, as if it knew the house's queen had broke something inside herself tonight. 

His queen. 

His witch. 

He bowed his head, lips brushing the top of her hair. He closed his eyes. 

And he whispered it again, a plea he hadn't voiced aloud in hours, but one that had been echoing through him like the toll of a funeral bell. 

"Don't leave me."

Not a command. Not a demand. Not even a threat. 

Just a hope. Raw and trembling. 

He wasn't proud of that. Of how badly he wanted her. Needed her. Of how much of himself she'd managed to crack open with a smile and a kiss and her stubborn, furious belief in things like goodness and mercy. 

But there it was. Undeniable. 

He would let her go if she asked. 

He would. 

Because he wasn't her prison.

But Merlin help the universe if it ever tried to take her from him. If she ever decided there was no hope left here... With him. That she had to return to that distant future and leave him behind. 

Because the world wouldn't survive what he'd become. 

And nor would he. 

He looked down at her again. At the faint bruises beneath her exhausted eyes. At the tear tracks dried against her cheeks. 

He kissed both. 

Soft. Careful.

He had never cared for another being the way he cared for her. 

He never would again. 

And as the candle finally guttered out ant the room dimmed to shadows, Tom Riddle lay back with her in his arms, held her like a lifeline, and kept watch through the long, long night. 

Praying -- yes, praying -- that when the sun rose on Christmas morning... 

She would still be there. 

 

Chapter 19: Entirely His

The morning sun filtered in through the high windows, pale and cold against the stone walls of the suite. The fire had died down to embers. The sheets still smelled like him.

But he wasn't there. 

Hermione stirred in the silence, blinking slowly, unsure for a moment if it was late or early or if time had somehow stopped altogether. 

Her hand drifted to the side of the bed where he should have been. Still warm. But empty. 

And she hated that. 

Hated how wrong it felt when he wasn't beside her. When she woke without the comforting weight of his body curled protectively around hers. When his heartbeat wasn't the first thing she heard.

Gods, how far she'd fallen.

Her breath trembled. She sat up slowly, one arm draped around her knees as the events of the previous night came crashing down in vivid fragments. 

The look on Tom's face when the curse flew at him. The roar in her blood. The scream of her voice as she shouted crucio. The weight of her wand in her palm as it vibrated with dark magic. 

The silence after. 

She closed her eyes. Swallowed. 

There had been a time she'd thought she still had a choice. That she could walk away if she needed to. That if things ever crossed a line too far, she'd flee. She'd return to her time, to her friends, to the war she knew and the future she fought for. 

That was the lie, wasn't it?

Because she had crossed the line. 

And all she could think -- all she could feel in the wreckage -- was him. His safety. His life. His hands holding her in the aftermath, washing the blood from her skin as if he could cleanse the act itself from her soul.

She should feel shame.

Should hate herself. 

Should fall apart. 

But the part that terrified her the most...

Was that she didn't regret it. 

Not for one second. 

Because that boy -- Prewett or not -- he had tried to kill Tom. Her Tom. And in that moment, she hadn't hesitated. 

She would do it again. 

Gods help her, she would. 

Tears stung in the corners of her eyes. She pressed the heels of her hand against them, willing herself to not sob. Not today. Not after everything. 

She turned her head slowly, gaze catching on the small, wrapped box sitting atop the dresser. 

Her gift to him. 

It seemed foolish now. A trinket. A memory. Something fragile and human and far too sentimental for someone like Lord Voldemort.

But she wanted him to have it. 

Because whatever else she was -- mudblood, witch, soldier, time traveler, sinner -- she was his. Utterly and completely.

And she didn't want to be anything else.

She rose from the bed, her limbs sore, her heart heavy, and padded  barefoot across the room. She picked up the box with trembling fingers, tracing the bow she'd tied the day before with unnecessary care. 

There were no more illusions. 

She couldn't save herself from this. 

Because she didn't want to be saved. 

She wanted him. 

To hold her. To love her. To make the world disappear in the way only he could. 

Tom was her danger, her protector, her damnation, her sanctuary.

And now...

He was her home.

 

*

 

Tom stepped into their suite, shrugging off his outer cloak, his gloves still in hand. The hearth was lit, the bed unmade. The air still clung to the scent of her. 

But she wasn't there. 

His breath caught -- just barely -- but it was enough. That infinitesimal pause in his chest. That flicker of dread beneath his ribs. 

No. 

No, no, no.

"Pip!" He barked, voice echoing through the corridor before he even crossed to the hallway. 

The elf popped into existence a moment later, clutching a folded napkin and bowing hastily. 

"Yes, Master?"

"Where is she?" His voice cracked. He didn't care. "Where is your Mistress?!"

Pip blinked. "Mistress Hermione is looking for you, Master."

He froze. "She's... she is?"

"Yes, Master. She is carrying a little box. I believe it's a gift. She asked Pip where you were. She wanted to find you."

Tom stumbled a step back, almost staggering as the icy panic began to melt from his spine. "She's not... Gone?"

Pip looked up. "No, Master. She's still here."

And it struck him then -- hard and fast -- how terrified he'd been. How for one breathless minute, he'd truly believed she had gone. That she'd left him. Abandoned him to the hollow life he'd once worn like armour. 

But she hadn't.

She had stayed. 

He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, turning his back to the elf as his composure nearly broke. 

Pip waited quietly. 

After a moment, Tom straightened. "Tell her..." He swallowed. "Please tell her I'll meet her in the library."

Pip nodded but didn't leave. 

"What?" Tom snapped, tension still leaking from him like blood. 

Pip's eyes shone as he spoke softly, reverently. 

"You said please, Master."

Tom blinked. Once. Twice. 

And then look away. 

"...Go," he said hoarsely. "Go find her."

Tom didn't walk to the library -- he ran. 

Gone was the image of the Dark Lord, untouchable and calculated. In his place was a man utterly consumed, sick with the idea of losing her. Each step echoed through the manor like a heartbeat made of thunder, panic thudding behind his ribs. 

The doors to the library flew open beneath his touch, hinges groaning -- but then -- 

There she was. 

He stopped. Staggered. Breathless. 

Hermione stood in front of the tall windows, haloed by the pale winter morning light. Her skin gleamed like candle-wax against the deep crimson of her silk chemise, clinging to her curves like it had been stitched directly onto her body. Her bare legs stretched long beneath it, catching the light in a way that made his throat burn. 

Her hair was swept up messily, with revel curls escaping to frame her delicate face -- goddess-like and ruinous. And she wasn't reading, wasn't moving. 

She was waiting. 

For him. 

And in that moment, Tom Riddle had never been more terrified or more utterly destroyed by love. 

Please still be mine, he thought wildly. Please, please still be mine. 

She turned her head slowly, catching the tremble in his stance, the torment in his eyes. And then, smiling softly, she said it. 

"Good morning, my love. Merry Christmas."

Tom broke. 

He reached her in two strides, crushing her against him with a ferocity that was nearly frantic. His hands curled into the silk at her waist, his face burying into her shoulder, into her skin, into her presence. 

"My love," he whispered, over and over again, between reverent kisses to her throat, her cheek, her temple. "My love. My love. My love."

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, letting herself cling. Letting herself want. Letting herself need him. 

Because whatever darkness waited... Whatever she had done... Whatever they had become...

They were theirs now. 

 

She looked at him closely now. Really looked. 

His arms were still wrapped around her waist as if he thought she might vanish if he let go. His breathing was uneven. His chest, usually so composed, was rising and falling far too fast. And -- 

"You're shaking," she whispered, lifting her hand to his jaw. 

Tom didn't deny it. 

He closed his eyes as her fingers stroked across his cheek. He leaned into her touch like a man starved. Like he needed her to just breathe. 

"I thought you'd left me," he rasped. His voice was shattered marble. "I told you, Hermione... I told you -- I wouldn't survive."

She inhaled sharply, her own throat tightening, guilt and longing crashing like waved in her chest. 

"I..." She began, but the words tangled. Her hands cupped his face now, steadying him, steadying herself. "I don't like what I did, Tom. I don't know if I can ever fully accept it... But --"

Her eyes filled, her voice cracked. "But I can't lose you. I can't. And he -- he tried to kill you. I nearly lost my mind at the thought of it. That you wouldn't be mine anymore --"

The sound he made was something between a growl and a gasp.

His hands gripped her hips tight, dragging her against him until not even air fit between them. His lips found her neck, then her shoulder, then her collarbone, worshipping every inch he could reach. 

"I love you," he whispered into her skin, reverent and ruined. "I love you, Hermione."

He pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes. 

"You're mine. Mine. All fucking mine."

Her breath hitched at the possessive fire in his voice. 

Her heart answered without hesitation. 

"Yours, Tom," she whispered, tilting her head so his lips were almost brushing hers again. "Completely... Utterly... And irreversibly yours."

He kissed her. 

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. 

It was devastating.

A claiming. A confession. A need made flesh. 

And she gave herself over to it. 

Every inch of her body pressed against his. Her fingers fists in the back of his robes. His hands tangled in her hair, dragging the pins loose as if even that was too much distance between them. 

They burned together. Alive in the aftermath of darkness. Lost and found all at once. 

And in that library, beneath ancient tomes and candlelight, they sealed a vow older than time. 

 

The silk of her chemise whispered as he slid it from her body. 

Whispered, and then screamed in silence as it pooled at her feet. 

He stood there for a breathless beat, eyes devouring every inch of her bare skin. 

She flushed beneath his gaze -- yet didn't shy from it. Not now. Not when she could see the hunger in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she was some ancient, holy relic he had spent a lifetime searching for.

Tom stripped himself with less grace -- ripping open the buttons of his shirt, shedding layers until there was nothing left between them but heat. 

And then he was on her. 

Lifting her. 

Pinning her back against the cold spine of dusty volumes, one hand beneath her thigh, the other cradling the back of her head so she wouldn't knock against the shelves. He held her like she was both fragile and formidable. 

His masterpiece. 

"My goddess," he murmured, voice hoarse, lips brushing her neck. "Do you even know what you do to me?"

She gasped as he slid inside her in one slow, reverent thrust. Her nails dug into his shoulders, eyes locked with his, breath stolen entirely. 

The shelves groaned with the force of his movement, but he didn't care. He moved like a man possessed -- not by the monster the world thought he was -- but by her. Only her. 

By the feel of her. 

By the sounds she made as he filled her over and over again. 

By the way her head fell back and her lips parted in the shape of his name. 

He growled low in his throat, one hand sliding down to grip her arse, pulling her tighter against him, deeper, harder. Her legs locked around his waist, dragging him closer still, as though even skin to skin wasn't close enough. 

"Say it again," he rasped into her ear. "Mine. Say it."

"Yours," she gasped. "Yours, Tom. I'm yours --"

He crushed his mouth to hers, drinking her in, losing himself in the taste of her, the feel of her, the soul-shattering truth of her. 

They came together like the storm they were -- fire and blood, dark and light, ruin and redemption.

And when it was over, when their bodies finally stilled and he held her trembling frame against him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder...

He whispered it again, not to possess her this time, but to remind himself she was real. 

"My love."

She smiled against his skin, and kissed the mark she'd left on his neck. 

"Always."

 

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting golden light across the tangled fur blankets strewn across the rug. Tom lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, his other hand tracing the elegant curve of Hermione's bare spine with a reverence that made her shiver. 

They were both still naked. Still flushed. Still entirely wrapped in each other. 

She rolled toward him, hair tousled and wild, her lips a little swollen, her chest rising and falling as though she hadn't caught her breath since he'd first touched her. 

Then, with a sudden flick of her wand from beneath the blankets, a small, wrapped box floated toward them, wrapped in soft parchment and tied with dark green ribbon. 

"For you," she said softly. 

Tom sat up, slightly surprised. "This... Is what you've been hiding all week?"

Her eyes didn't waver. "Yes. I needed you to see that I already had this waiting for you. For a while. So that when you open it, you understand the meaning of it."

His throat bobbed. 

He took the gift with more care than he'd ever taken anything. Even as the feared Dark Lord, as the man who held the wizarding world in the palm of his hand -- his fingers trembled slightly as he untied the ribbon. 

Inside the box was something small. Something simple. 

A single page, folded carefully. Faded ink. Soft edges. 

He opened it. 

It was a letter. 

Her handwriting. A date was at the top -- weeks ago. 

"In case I forget who I am, or why I'm still here... Let this remind me."

He read in silence. Her thoughts. Her confessions. Her fears. Her love. Written in ink, long before last night. Long before the Cruciatus. 

"You are dangerous. Damaged. Drenched in darkness. And yet -- I crave the parts of you that are human. The parts that call my name with something like worship. I don't know if I'll stay. But I know that if I do, it will not be because I lost myself. It will because I found a version of you I could believe in."

By the time he looked up, his eyes were glassy. His fingers clutched the page like it was the most sacred artifact he'd ever held. 

"Hermione," he said roughly. "You wrote this before..."

"Yes." She shifted closer, pulling the blankets around their shoulders. "Because I didn't want you to think that one moment -- one mistake, even -- was what made me yours. I already was. I am."

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. 

"I have no gift worthy of this," he murmured. "Nothing could compare."

"You already gave me mine," she whispered. "You let me fall in love with you... and you caught me."

His arms wrapped tightly around her, dragging her into his lap. She curled against his chest, the fur slipping down to reveal skin again, but neither of them cared. They sat there in silence, wrapped in each other, with the fire crackling and the snow falling beyond the windows. 

A Dark Lord. 

And the woman who had saved him.

Chapter 20: A Gift to Change It All

Tom remained quiet for a moment, Hermione still nestled in his lap, her heartbeat steady beneath his hand. The letter she'd given him sat on the edge of the blanket now, but his gaze hadn't left it. Not really. 

Then, as if making a decision he'd been dreading and longing for all at once, he reached across to the nightstand. 

A book. Unassuming. Bound in deep green leather, the edges charmed to stay shut unless opened by his own hand -- and now hers.  

He held it out to her with both hands -- like an offering. Like surrender. 

Her brows lifted slightly as she took it. It was heavier than it looked. 

"What is this?" She asked softly. 

"My mind," he said, voice low. "Or... The pieces of it that belong to you."

Her lips parted, but no words came. She ran her fingers along leather before carefully opening it. 

The first page was dated. 

The day she arrived.

And beneath it --

"She is not what I expected. She is more. Infuriating. Brilliant. Dangerous. Mine."

Her breath caught. 

He watched her with quiet intensity as she flipped through slowly, reading snippets. Observations. Moments he hadn't spoken aloud. Fear. Fascination. Hunger. Love. The spiralling descent into obsession -- but also into something gentler. Something she hadn't realised he was even capable of to start with. 

The first time he'd seen her asleep and thought of peace, not conquest. 

The day she'd hexed Greyback and he'd been proud. 

The night he'd dreamed she burned -- and woke up reaching for her. 

The exact moment he knew he loved her. 

"This is..." Her voice broke. "Tom, this is everything." 

He leaned forward , brushing his lips to her shoulder. "Every night since you arrived, I wrote in it. Even when I could not speak the words aloud. They're all here. Every thought. Every fear. Every hope."

She clutched the book to her chest, eyes shining with tears. "You were never meant to love like this."

"No," he agreed. "But I do. And there is no undoing it."

"Why give it to me?"

"Because," he said, pressing his forehead to hers, "if you ever doubt... Even for a moment... That I am yours, I want you to hold this in your hands and know the truth of it."

Hermione let out a shaky breath. Her fingers tightened around the journal. "You trust me with this."

"I trust you with everything."

And in that moment, she knew -- there would be no leaving. No going back. She wasn't just his. 

He was hers, too. 

Entirely. Irrevocably. Eternally.

 

The snow had fallen lightly that morning, cloaking the gardens of Riddle Manor in quiet elegance. The sharp air nipped at their cheeks, but Hermione had charmed their cloaks with warming spells, and her gloved hand remained tucked safely inside Tom's as they strolled slowly along the path. 

It was the most domestic moment they'd ever shared. 

No Death Eaters.
No politics.
No masks or walls or world-altering decisions.

Just snow underfoot. Just them.

She glanced at him from beneath her fur-lined hood. “You keep looking around like you’ve never seen snow before.”

“I have,” he murmured, not looking at her. “But I’ve never seen it like this. Not… like this.”

She waited.

“It was never beautiful to me,” he said finally, his voice almost fragile. “At the orphanage, it meant cold nights and tighter blankets. It meant less food and more silence. It meant I was forgotten.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “And Hogwarts?”

He smirked faintly. “The castle was beautiful, yes. But the holidays… they were empty. I stayed every year. Not one letter ever came for me. No gifts. No family waiting. Just... stone and silence.”

She stopped walking, her breath misting in the air between them. “You have all of that now.”

His eyes found hers. “I have you.”

It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t poetic.

It was the deepest truth he’d ever spoken.

Hermione stepped close, her mittened hand lifting to cradle his cheek, her thumb stroking just below his eye. “You’re not forgotten anymore.”

He looked as though he might say something—perhaps dismiss it, perhaps devour her with words—but instead, he bent and kissed her slowly, reverently, right there in the snowy garden.

Not a kiss of hunger.

But of thanks.

They resumed walking, her arm threaded through his now, and she watched as he took it all in—his estate, cloaked in white. The stillness. The utter peace.

“I’ve never had a Christmas before,” he said after a while, tone unreadable.

Hermione leaned into him. “This is your first, then.”

He glanced sideways at her.

“And how is it?” she teased gently.

Tom Riddle, dark lord and feared tyrant, gave her the smallest, softest smile. “Perfect.”

A moment passed.

“I suppose I should be glad the world hasn’t burned down yet,” she added.

He laughed, deep and genuine. “There’s still time.”

But she could see it in him—the way he looked at the snow. The way he looked at her.

This man had ruled fear his entire life.

But now—he was ruled by something else entirely.

Love.

And for once, Hermione let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—that love would be enough.

 

The manor was quiet as they returned, the crunch of snow on the steps giving way to polished marble and thick, enchanted warmth. Tom had just drawn Hermione’s gloves from her fingers, lips grazing each knuckle like a worshipper before a shrine, when the double doors to the atrium burst open—no knock, no deference.

“Ah, there you are,” came Rudolphus’s voice, far too smug for the day. “We were just admiring the snow ourselves. So festive, don’t you think?”

Hermione stilled, hand still in Tom’s.

Bellatrix stepped in beside her husband, wild eyes bright, cheeks flushed with adrenaline or obsession—or both. “You disappeared so quickly after the demonstration, my Lord,” she purred, her gaze flickering over Hermione like a challenge. “We wanted to pay our compliments.”

Tom’s grip on Hermione’s hand remained, but his body subtly shifted in front of her.

“The display,” Rudolphus continued, as if reliving it in his mind. “Quite the moment. Didn’t know she had it in her.”

“Indeed,” Bellatrix crooned, grinning wide. “Our girl found her spine. And what a lovely scream that Prewett boy made.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. Not outwardly.

But Tom saw the slight drop of her shoulders. The barely there inhale. The way she nearly stepped behind him—before stopping herself.

Not hers. Not anymore.

His.

And then—his voice. Cold. Sharp. Lethal.

“You will address her properly.”

Silence.

Rudolphus blinked. Bellatrix tilted her head.

Tom’s eyes blazed like embers under glass. “She is not your girl, Bellatrix. And she is certainly not beneath either of you.”

Rudolphus chuckled nervously. “Of course, of course, no insult meant—”

Tom’s voice cut through him like a blade.

“Then you will speak her title. Now. While I’m still in the mood to let you walk out of this room.”

Bellatrix’s mouth twitched. Perhaps she wanted to fight it. Perhaps she knew better.

“My Lady,” she said, with a curtsy that dripped with sarcasm.

Tom’s jaw ticked.

Rudolphus followed. “My Lady.”

Hermione didn’t move. She didn’t blink. But something in her straightened.

Something that liked the way Tom stepped into the space between her and the wolves.
Something that liked how the wolves bowed.

She placed a single hand on Tom’s arm. “That’s enough.”

His fury didn’t settle—it smouldered.

But he obeyed. For her.

Bellatrix tittered again, amused by her own restraint. “We’ll be going then. Just wanted to share in the cheer.”

“Then go,” Tom said simply, eyes never leaving them. “Before you ruin it.”

They left in silence.

And as the doors closed behind them, Tom turned to Hermione fully.

“I’ll kill them both if they make you flinch again,” he said calmly.

Hermione, somehow, smiled. “You’re a monster.”

“Yes,” he said, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “But I’m your monster.”

 

The firelight danced lazily across the walls of the suite. The bed was a nest of tangled furs and bare skin, their bodies still wrapped in the languid heat of the day. Hermione lay tucked into Tom’s side, her hand splayed against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart like a quiet anthem beneath her palm.

They hadn’t spoken in a while. Not since the garden. Not since the walk that made him say, without words, I am yours entirely.

But now, she shifted, propped herself up on an elbow, and looked down at him. Something in her eyes made him still. Focused. Alert.

“I have another gift for you,” she said softly.

His brow twitched. “You’ve already given me more than I ever thought possible.”

“This one’s different.” Her fingers brushed his cheek. “It’s not something to unwrap. Not something I could buy. But I think… I think you should have it.”

He didn’t speak. Only stared at her. The firelight caught in her eyes, and for a moment, she looked like something holy.

“I’m going to tell you a little about where I came from,” she began. “Not everything. Nothing that would shift the course of time too much. I’m still careful about that. But enough that… maybe it will matter.”

“Hermione,” he warned. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she interrupted gently. “Because I trust you. And because I know you love me. I believe that now.”

His expression didn’t change. But his grip on her hand tightened. Just slightly.

“I come from a future that’s soaked in blood,” she whispered. “Where the lines between good and evil aren’t always clear. Where there is war. Real war. People fighting to survive. Fighting for what’s right. And… people fighting for control.”

He said nothing, but she saw the flare of something sharp and predatory in his gaze. He had always loved the sound of power.

“There are people I love there. People who became my family when I had none. Brave people. Flawed people. Some of them die. Some of them lose themselves entirely.”

His jaw clenched, but he listened.

She swallowed. “There was a moment… in my time. I thought I was going to die. I was being tortured. Hurt in ways that still wake me up at night. And I remember wishing—not just to be saved—but wishing that someone would care enough to burn the world to find me.”

His breath hitched.

She looked at him then. Straight into his eyes. “I think you would have.”

“I would,” he said instantly, voice dark with truth. “I will.”

“I know.”

Tom thought for a moment, taking in all that she had told him, but something he feared still toyed with his mind. "After what happened? Do you still choose me?”

Hermione exhaled shakily. Her eyes filled with something too heavy for tears.

“Yes.”

He turned to her, eyes wide with something close to wonder. “Even if I never become the man you hope I can be?”

“I don’t want perfection, Tom,” she whispered. “I want truth. And I want the chance to pull you into the light, even if you keep one foot in the dark.”

He reached for her—slowly, like she might vanish. And when she didn’t pull away, he touched her cheek.

Tom didn't move for over a minute.

His thumb was frozen against her cheek, his other hand still clutched the parchment she’d given him—now crumpling slightly from the force of his grip. Hermione had never seen him so utterly, viscerally still. Like rage itself had caught in his throat and turned to ice.

"You spent weeks fighting me," he said at last. His voice was raw. Hoarse with disbelief. "Fighting against me. Refusing to tell me anything about my future. About our future. You withheld everything—"

"I did." She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

He blinked hard, the fury behind his eyes swimming with something deeper. "Then why tell me now?"

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t hesitate. "Because I love you."

His breath caught.

"And because I’m still hoping," she continued, "that somewhere inside of you—some part you’ve kept locked away or hidden or never dared admit—you might want to choose me above everything else. Above power. Above immortality. Above your war."

“I will,” he said immediately. "You know I will."

But she only looked at him. Quiet. Heartbreaking. “We’ll see, Tom. We’ll see.”

His chest rose and fell with harsh, uneven breaths. She could almost see the storm tearing through him. The silence thickened. Then—

“Who?” he asked, softly.

Hermione frowned. “What?”

“You said…” His jaw clenched. “You said you were tortured. That you nearly died. Who did it?”

She froze.

The fire crackled. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Her voice, when it came, was little more than a whisper. “Bellatrix. But not until after… after Greyback had his way with me.”

The silence turned sharp.

Tom’s face went blank—utterly devoid of expression—but his eyes were incandescent with rage. It wasn’t like the fury he used in battle, or the calculated cruelty he showed his enemies. This was personal. Uncontrolled. Consuming.

Hermione tried to speak—to reach for him—but he stood abruptly. Took one step back from the bed like the air had become toxic.

He was breathing like he’d just run miles.

“I don’t remember all of it,” she said quietly. “But I remember enough.”

His hands flexed at his sides. Once. Twice.

“Greyback…” he hissed, low and venomous. “Touched you.”

She nodded once. “Yes.”

“Violated you.”

“Yes.”

He turned from her, walking to the fireplace like he might throw something into it. Or perhaps throw himself. Then he pivoted back, eyes blazing. “And Bella—Bella—after everything I've done for her—she—”

“I’m not telling you to punish them,” Hermione interrupted gently, sitting up in the nest of fur. “I’m telling you because you asked. Because you deserve to know.”

“You think I won’t punish them?” he snarled, voice thick with poison. “Hermione, I will unmake them for what they did to you. The future version of them or the present—I don't care. There is no world, no timeline, no spell strong enough to protect them now.”

He was trembling.

Not with fear. With hatred.

She reached for him.

And this time, he came to her.

Fell to his knees at the edge of the bed, burying his face in her thighs as if the contact alone could anchor him.

“I didn’t want you to know at first,” she whispered, carding her fingers through his hair. “Not because I didn’t trust you. But because I didn’t want it to hurt you.”

He looked up at her slowly. “Hermione. I was boirn to burn the world. You didn’t make me this way.”

“No,” she agreed. “But I think I’m the reason you’re trying not to.”

His throat worked. And then—his hands moved to her waist, gripping her as if to be sure she was still there.

“I will never let them near you,” he said, each word carved from stone. “Ever again. In any time. In any place.”

She nodded, tearful but calm. “I know.”

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice a rasp. “Tell me. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Tom.”

He surged upward and kissed her like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

And when they broke apart, breathless and tangled and trembling, he whispered it again—

“Mine.”

Tom was still kneeling before her.

His breath was ragged, his fists clenched against the fur-draped edge of their bed as though he might tear apart the world from the inside out. But Hermione, calm in the eye of his storm, simply reached for him again. Her hands were gentle—stroking through his dark hair, guiding him back to her.

She tipped his face up with both palms, thumbs brushing along the sharp cut of his cheekbones. He was too beautiful like this. Unravelled. Wild-eyed. Hers.

“Tom,” she said softly. “You need to remember something.”

He didn’t speak—only watched her. Waiting. Drowning.

“In this time…” she said gently, “neither Bellatrix nor Greyback have touched me. Not like that. They have no idea what they do to me in my future.”

His jaw clenched.

“And that future,” she whispered, “it likely won’t come now. Because I’m here. Now. With you.”

He exhaled slowly. Like she’d poured cold water down his spine.

“I was never supposed to love you,” she confessed. “You’re the Dark Lord.”

He flinched.

“Don’t…” he said, voice suddenly hoarse. “Please—don’t call me that. Not you.”

She blinked. “Why not?”

His throat moved around the lump forming there. “Because… that’s not who I am to you.”

Silence.

“To you,” he said, breathing hard. “I’m Tom. Just Tom. That’s who I want to be, Hermione. Not the Dark Lord. Not Voldemort. Just Tom Riddle.”

Her eyes softened. “You are my Tom,” she said.

“But one day,” she added carefully, “you do become Voldemort.”

“No,” he said, instantly, firmly. “Not when I have you. That version of me—he doesn’t exist if you’re mine.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“I will have the world in my hand, yes,” he continued. “I will rise. I will rule. But it will not be for myself. It will be for you. All of it will be yours.”

He stood, slow and sure, still naked from their intimacy, but more exposed now than he had ever been.

“And perhaps,” he added, voice low and reverent, “one day… you might consider… being mine.”

Her lips parted. Her heart thundered.

“I’m already yours,” she whispered. “You know that.”

He stepped closer, hands settling on her face again, eyes scouring hers like he couldn’t believe they were real. “Not just physically, Hermione. I want more than that.”

She swallowed hard.

“I want your name,” he said. “Your blood. A future that belongs to us.”

“Tom…” she breathed.

“I’ve never once in my life considered marriage,” he said, voice trembling with the weight of his truth. “Never considered children. Or a future beyond power. Not until you. But you... you are my future. And if my legacy will not be immortality, then perhaps... maybe, it could be legacy.”

Hermione’s eyes filled. Her fingers curled against his bare chest.

He held her gaze, his tone near breaking. “Nothing in this world—not magic, not power, not dominion itself—would make me feel more powerful than knowing you chose to stand beside me in every way.”

Her throat bobbed.

He dropped his forehead to hers, whispering like a vow against her skin. “No chains. No marks. No manipulation. Just choice. Yours. Always.”

And then she nodded. Silent. Moved.

“I don’t need a ring,” she whispered. “I don’t need a ceremony. Not yet. But if we build a better world… if you keep your promises… if we earn a future that deserves it…”

He waited, breathless.

“Then yes. I’ll be yours. In every way.”

The sound he made was not human. Not entirely. It was the sound of a man who had never believed he could have something sacred—until now.

Until her.

And he kissed her like it was the first time all over again.

Chapter 21: Consequences

Months had passed since Christmas. 

Not in clean increments, not marked by dates or celebrations, but by subtle shifts in power -- by the way alliances hardened, by the quiet removal of dissenters, by the way Tom's influence spread like ink through water until it touched everything. 

And through it all, Hermione. 

Tom's obsession with her had not waned. It had settled. Taken root. Grown deliberate.

Each day she remained at his side, the world bent a fraction more in their favour. Their favours. Theirs. 

She had not earned her place through cruelty -- that had never been her way -- but through precision. Through stillness. Through an ironclad composure that unnerved men far more than shouting ever could. 

She learned when to speak. When silence would wound deeper. When a single raised brow could collapse a man's confidence more efficiently than a curse. 

She did not need to threaten. 

The threat existed without her even opening her mouth. 

Even the most volatile members of Tom's inner circle had learned to show her respect. Or, at the very least, fear. 

Because if there was one truth -- one sacred law etched into the bones of Riddle Manor -- it was this:

Touch her. 

Harm her.

Speak out of turn. 

And you die. 

Tom had made certain of it. 

But some dogs could not be trained. 

 

The meeting had begun without him. 

That, Hermione knew, was intentional. 

A test. 

She sat where she always did now -- beside Tom's empty chair, posture straight, spine regal, black robes falling around her like a shadow that obeyed her alone. The pendant he'd given her rested against her collarbone, dark green stone glinting softly in the low light. 

Her wand lay open across her lap.

Not threatening. 

Deliberate. 

Conversation moved cautiously around her, voices lowered by instinct more than instruction. Eyes flicked to her, then away. No one challenged her presence anymore. 

No one worth keeping, at least. 

Fenrir Greyback lingered at the edge of the circle. 

He stank of animal and arrogance, of unwashed skin and entitlement. He had been warned before. Repeatedly. By Tom. By others. By the subtle tightening of air whenever he strayed too close. 

But restraint had never been his strength. 

"You think," Greyback sneered at last, voice scraping against the room, "because the Dark Lord fucks you, that makes you queen?"

Hermione did not look at him immediately. 

She breathed.

Then she stood -- slowly, deliberately -- every movement controlled. 

"You should sit down," she said coolly. "Before you lose the few teeth you still have."

A ripple passed through the room. No one laughed. No one intervened. 

Greyback grinned, yellowed and sharp. "I don't take orders from whores --"

The air shifted. 

Not violently. 

Not yet. 

Hermione's gaze flicked -- just once -- past Greyback's shoulder. 

Her heart stuttered. 

Too late. 

Tom stood in the doorway. 

Silence fell. 

Not the polite kind. 

Not the tense kind. 

The kind that crushed. 

Greyback, oblivious in his arrogance, continued -- voice loud, ugly. "She struts around like she belongs at his right hand. Like she's one of a. But you can't take a filthy little --"

The curse hit him square in the back. 

Not a blast. Not a flash.

A lock.

Greyback froze mid-step, mouth open, eyes wide with confusion rather than pain. His scream came seconds later -- raw and animal -- as he realised he could not move. 

Tom stepped forward. 

Slowly. 

Deliberately.

Every Death Eater in the chamber retreated without being told. 

Tom did not look at them. 

His eyes were fixed on Fenrir Greyback with a focus so absolutely it felt like the world narrowed to a single point. 

Murder. 

"I wondered," Tom said quietly, silk stretched tight over razors, "how many warnings you requited before this became inevitable."

Greyback's lips moved. 

No sound came.

"I gave you a place here." Tom continued, circling him. "A leash. A purpose."

He stopped. 

"You disrespected her."

The room held its breath.

"My queen."

Hermione felt the magic rolling off him -- cold, ancient, lethal. She did not speak. Did not need to. 

"I told you once," Tom said calmly, "that I would flay the skin from your bones if you ever stepped out of line."

He stepped to Hermione's side and placed a hand against her back. 

Reverent. 

Protective. 

Final. 

"And now," he said, raising his wand, "you have done more than step."

"You leapt."

The curse that followed was not one most of them recognised. 

A string of runes woven into breath. Blood magic older than England itself. Darker than death. 

Greyback screamed. 

Not because he was being torn apart physically -- Tom was far too elegant for that. 

He was flayed from the inside. 

Pain without end. Time stretched and warped around his suffering. 

Tom turned away before it finished. 

"Yaxley," he said calmly. "Chain him in the dungeons. Strip him of very privilege. If he survives, he may beg for mercy."

A pause. 

"I will consider granting it."

No one spoke. 

The meeting adjourned without ceremony. 

 

When the last door closed, Tom turned back to Hermione. 

He cupped her jaw, fingers trembling despite himself. 

"Are you hurt?" He asked quietly. "Did he touch you?"

"No," she said. "He only made the mistake of speaking."

That terrifying smile softened -- just for her. 

He pulled her into his arms, pressing his mouth to her temple, holding her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world. 

"My Lady," he murmured, "they all know now."

"I think they always did," she whispered. 

He pulled back, looking at her like devotion made flesh. 

"But now," he said softly, "they understand it."

 

He had barely closed the doors to the chamber before she spoke. 

"Tom," Hermione said quietly. "We need to talk."

The words hit him like a curse. 

We need to talk.

He hated them. Hated the distance in them. The judgement. The way they sounded like the beginning of an ending. 

He turned slowly, schooling his face into calm. "That doesn't sound promising."

Hermione stood near the tall window, moonlight cutting her face into silver and shadow. She looked steady -- too steady -- but he could see it. The faint tremor in her hands where she clasped them together. 

"It might not be," she said. 

Tom waited. He always did, when it mattered. 

"I've gone along with you," she continued. "With the meetings. With the riles. With this... Kingdom you're building." Her voice tightened. "But what's happening now -- the disappearances, the interrogations, the fear -- you promised me it wouldn't escalate."

His expression hardened instinctively. "I've kept my promise."

"No." She shook her head. "You said you'd choose differently. That you'd build something new. Something better."

"I am," he said, voice low. 

"You're using the same methods," she pressed. "The same cruelty. People vanish, Tom. People die. That isn't building -- it's destroying."

He crossed the room in two strides and caught her wrists before she could step back, his grip firm but not painful. Desperate.

"You don't understand," he said. "Every move I make -- every name I silence -- it's to keep what we have safe."

Her eyes flashed. "Safe from what? The world -- or yourself?"

The question struck true. 

He faltered. Just for a breath. 

"I choose you," he said finally, quietly. "All of this -- every decision -- is for you."

She searched his face, pain flickering there. "You can't say that every time something breaks. You can't keep calling it love when what you really want is control."

"I'm controlling chaos," he argued. "You're the only thing that makes sense in it."

She closed her eyes, the weight of it pressing down. "Then prove it. Show me you still know the difference."

Silence stretched. 

Then -- softer, but no less urgent -- she spoke again. 

"You didn't have to do that to Greyback."

The words landed carefully. Not accusation. Not forgiveness.

Reluctance. 

Tom's jaw tightened. 

"He had it coming."

"You punished him far beyond what was necessary," she said. "And worse still -- I watched it. I don't know what that makes me."

He loosened his grip, but didn't let go entirely. 

"It makes you honest," he said flatly. "It makes you alive."

"That isn't an answer."

"No," he agreed. "It's the truth."

He stepped back at last, running a hands through his hair, agitation bleeding through his control. 

"You forget," he said, voice darkening, "that I know now, what he does in your future."

Her breath stilled. 

"I know what that mutt did to you," Tom continued, each word measured and lethal. "What he took. How he broke you. How you survived him. I cannot just forget the words you said."

Her face went a shade paler. 

"I did not punish him for leering," Tom said. "I punished him because fate has already marked him for it. "I simply... Arrived early."

"You didn't give him the chance to change his decision."

"No," Tom said coldly. "I gave you the chance not to endure him again."

She looked away, tears burning unshed.

"I don't want this to be who you are," she whispered. 

Tom stared at her for a long moment. 

Then he made a decision. 

Without another word, he turned and walked to the far wall of the chamber. The stone shimmered as he pressed his palm to it, murmured something ancient and precise. The wall parted, revealing a small, warded safe. 

Hermione's heart skipped. 

He reached inside and withdrew a book. 

Plain. Black. Unassuming. 

Her stomach dropped. 

"You brought it back?" She asked softly. 

"I said I would," Tom replied. 

He crossed the room and stopped in front of her, holding it out between them -- not possessively. 

Offering. 

"And what do you intend to do with it?" She asked. 

His voice broke -- just slightly. 

"If this is the price of your love," he said quietly, "if it's a choice between a finite life with you or an infinite one without..."

He placed the diary into her hands. 

"Then take it."

She stared at him, horrified. 

"Do what you want with it," he went on. "Destroy it. Hide it. Keep it. I don't care, Hermione."

His eyes were dark, earnest, frighteningly bare. 

"I will never be able to change who I am completely," he said. "I will always want to punish those who harm you. That will never leave me."

He swallowed. 

"But I'm trying," he finished. "For you."

The fire crackled softly behind them. 

Hermione looked down at the diary -- the weight of his soul resting in her palms. 

And for the first time since she had known him, Tom Riddle stood before her not as a god, not as a conquerer -- 

But as a man willing to be undone, if it meant keeping her. 

Hermione didn't move. 

The diary lay in her hands, heavier than any book had a right to be. Plain leather. Ordinary pages. No pulse of magic screaming danger -- just a quiet, suffocating presence, like a held breath that had never been released. 

She had know he'd sent Lucius for it. 

She had known, intellectually, that it existed. 

But knowing and standing here, with the fragment of his soul resting against her palms, were two very different things. 

"You really meant it," she said softly. 

Tom didn't answer at once. He watched her -- every flicker of her expression, every tightening of her grip -- as though her reaction mattered more than the object itself. 

"I don't make gestures," he said finally. "You know that."

She swallowed. 

"I thought... At most, you'd lock it away again," she admitted. "Bury it deeper. Guard it better."

A faint, humorless curve touched his mouth. "That would defeat the point."

She looked up at him then. Really looked. 

Not the Dark Lord. 

Not the ruler.

Not the man who had just condemned Greyback to a slow death. 

But Tom. 

Standing still. Waiting. 

"And now," she whispered, "you're giving me the choice."

"Yes."

The word was absolute.

Hermione's fingers curled slightly around the diary's spine. "Is there a way," she asked carefully, "to put it back."

Tom's eyes sharpened -- not with alarm, but recognition. 

"To reattach it," she continued. "To reabsorb it."

He exhaled slowly. 

"I believe there is," he said. "The theory exists. Dangerous. Unpleasant. Not... Encouraged."

"But possible."

"Yes."

Her heart stuttered. "And it would make you whole again."

He shook his head at once.

"No," he said firmly. "It would make me less divided. That is not the same thing."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It won't erase anything," Tom said. "It won't absolve me. That girl is still dead. The basilisk still obeyed me. I am still the one who chose to use it."

His voice remained steady -- but there was no pride in it.

"Reabsorbing it does not make me innocent," he continued. "It does not make me good. It does not make me forgiven."

She listened. Carefully. 

"It simply means," he finished, "that I stop running from what I've done."

Silence settled between them. 

Hermione nodded once, slow and deliberate.

"I know," she said. 

The certainty in her voice startled him. 

She looked down at the diary again -- not with fear, not with revulsion, but with sober understanding. 

"I'm not asking you to undo the past," she said. "I know that's impossible. I can live with the decisions you've already made."

Tom's gaze snapped back to her. "You shouldn't say that lightly."

"I'm not," she replied. "I'm saying it because I understand the cost."

She stepped closer. 

"I can live with what you've done," Hermione continued, "as long as you're willing to make better choices now. For the future."

His breath caught, sharp and quiet. 

"This," she said softly, lifting the diary a fraction, "isn't about redemption. It's about responsibility."

"Yes," Tom said hoarsely. "It is."

"And if you take this back into yourself," she went on, "it won't make you less dangerous." 

"No," he agreed. "It will make me more so."

She met his eyes without flinching. 

"Then I want it done," she said. "Not destroyed. Not hidden."

A beat. 

"You'd rather I carry it," he said slowly, "than discard it."

"Yes," she answered. "Because pretending it never existed won't make you better. Facing it might."

The words hung between them, fragile and momentous. 

Tom looked at her as though seeing something impossibly rare. 

"You realise," he said quietly, "that this means you're choosing me as I am. Not as you wish me to be."

Her voice didn't waver. 

"I'm choosing the man who's willing to try," she said. "The rest... We face together."

For a long moment, Tom said nothing.

Then he reached out -- not to take the diary, but to cover her hands with his. Warm. Steady. Real. 

"No one," he said softly, "has ever offered me a future that wasn't built on fear."

She tightened her grip on his fingers. "Then let's build one that isn't."

Something in his chest gave -- a quiet, internal fracture that felt nothing like weakness. 

"Very well," Tom said. "I'll reabsorb it."

He held her gaze, unwavering. 

"But understand this, Hermione -- once I am whole again, I will not become smaller."

She nodded. "I wouldn't want you to."

And as they stood there, the diary between them like a sealed promise, both of them understood the truth they were stepping into:

The past would never be clean. 

But the future -- if they chose it carefully -- might still be theirs. 

Tom didn't take the diary from her right away. 

He looked at it once more -- then away -- his jaw tightening, shoulders drawing in as though bracing for something unseen. 

"You don't understand why this makes me more dangerous," he said quietly.

Hermione waited. 

"When that fragment is reabsorbed," he continued, "I become mortal again. Entirely. No contingencies. No guarantees. No elegant escape from consequence."

He finally met her eyes. 

"I can be killed."

The words were not dramatic. They were factual. Clinical. And beneath them -- something raw. 

"For myself," he went on, "I find that... Acceptable."

That startled her. 

"But for you," Tom said, voice lowering "it is intolerable."

He stepped closer, finally reaching out to take the diary -- but instead of pulling it away, he rested his hand over hers again, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin. 

"I wanted to be untouchable," he admitted. "Initially, for power. For conquest. But not anymore..." 

His thumb brushed once over her knuckles. 

"Now... For you. So no one could ever use me against you. So no one could ever take me from you. So I could stand between you and the world and never fall."

His breath shuddered, barely perceptible. 

"Without it," he said, "I am flesh and bone again. Fragile. Ordinary. Finite. I can be hurt. I can be taken from you."

Silence pressed in.

Hermione felt her chest ache -- not with fear, but with something far more dangerous. 

Love. 

She lifted her chin, eyes fierce. 

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she said softly, "you have never been ordinary."

His brow furrowed. 

"Not as a boy. Not as a man. Not even as a monster," she continued. "You were never plain. Never small. Never forgettable."

She stepped closer until there was no space left between them. 

"And the man," she said, placing her hand over his heart, feeling it beat -- strong, human, real -- "is who I love."

Something in him broke open then. Not loudly. Not violently. 

Quietly. 

"You said at Christmas," Hermione went on, voice trembling just slightly, "that you wanted a future with me that had possibility."

His throat worked. 

"Marriage," she said.

"Children."

"A legacy built by choice, not fear."

She swallowed. 

"I want that too," she finished. "But not with a god who can't die."

She held his gaze, unwavering. 

"I want it with Tom," she said. "The man."

The word landed like a benediction. 

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, forehead dipping until it rested lightly against hers. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, stripped bare. 

"If I do this," he said, "there is no going back."

She nodded. "I know."

"If I am hurt --"

"I will not leave."

"If I fall --"

"I will stand where you stood."

"If I am no longer untouchable --"

She lifted his face gently so he had to look at her. 

"Then you will finally be reachable," she said. "And that is not weakness. That is life."

A long breath left him, shaking.

"All my life," Tom whispered, "I believed love was something that made men foolish."

She smiled faintly, sadly. "It does."

Then, softly, "But it also makes them brave."

For a heartbeat, he simply held her -- arms wrapped around her as though memorising the shape of her, the truth of her, the weight of what he was choosing. 

Then he straightened. 

"All right," Tom said quietly. 

Decision settled into him like iron. 

"I will be mortal again," he said. "For you."

He reached for the diary at last -- not to clutch it, not to hide it -- but to face it. 

"And whatever the world takes from me after that," he added, voice steady and resolute, "it will never take you."

Hermione closed her fingers around his hand. 

"Then let's live," she said. 

And for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle chose not eternity -- 

But possibility. 

"There is a MInistry function next weekend," he said gently. "I want you to come with me. Please?"

Her brows rose slightly. The sound of please on his lips startled her. 

"How can I say no," she said with a tired smile, "when I'm the only person you ever say please to? You don't play fair, Tom."

His smile in return was devastating. Slow and dark and entirely hers. 

"I've never played fair, Hermione," he murmured, brushing his mouth against hers, "not when it comes to you."

She sighed, melting into his arms again. "You terrify me sometimes."

"I terrify everyone," he said, voice low as sin, "But I would burn this world to ash before I ever let it touch you."

Her breath caught. 

And still, she kissed him. 

Because love -- real, violent, all-consuming love -- never played fair either. 

Chapter 22: Red Silk & Reverence

Tom was pacing outside their suite, his long dark robes whispering along the polished floors with every sharp turn. He was dressed impeccably, as always -- obsidian black layered with forest green detailing, tailored to every inch of his formidable frame. His wand was holstered, his boots shined, and his expression unreadable to anyone but those who knew him best. 

And there was only one person in the world who knew him that well now. 

Her.  

But she was taking her time. 

He had sent Pip away, snapped at the snatchers lingering down the corridor, and cast five different repelling wards just to keep the world out for a few stolen minutes of solitude. And still he couldn't breathe properly. Not with her words rattling through his skull like a curse that refused to lift. 

Why can't we just leave? I'll marry you. I'll give you children, a home, a future...

He clenched his jaw, running a hand through his dark hair, then resumed his pacing. 

If only she had arrived before. Before the darkness, before the rise, before the blood. Before him. If he had known then that she was coming - this fierce, radiant, maddeningly brave woman who had stepped into his life and turned everything on its head -- maybe he would have chosen differently. Maybe he would have left it all behind. 

But not now. Not when every choice he'd ever made had carved out a place for her at his side. Not when power meant protection. Not when she had confessed what they had done to her in the future -- Greyback. Bellatrix. 

He would be damned if any of that ever came to pass again. 

If they so much as looked at her the wrong way, he'd peel the flesh from their bones. Greyback he had already dealt with. For now. But Bella. 

The door clicked open behind him. 

He turned -- and his world stopped. 

Air left his lungs as if someone had knocked the wind clean out of him. His heart, cold and calculated for so many years, stuttered against his ribs. 

The gown was red. Not just red -- but silk, molten, sinful red, clinging to her body like a second skin. It shimmered when she moved, as if every thread had been sewn with crushed rubies. The neckline plunged daringly low, dipping into the valley of her breasts, held together by a twist of fabric that cinched her waist in with a deadly sort of precision. Her shoulders were bare save for the halter tie, and her back -- fuck, her back - was completely exposed. The fabric hugged her hips like reverence and spilled to the floor like spilled wine. 

And her hair. Twisted into a losses knot, a few soft curls framed her face, untamed and utterly enchanting. 

She looked like a dream. A curse. A goddess. 

His. 

"Sweet fucking Salazar," he muttered under his breath. 

A slow, wicked smile curled her lips as she met his stunned gaze. 

"Well?" She teased. "Are you going to say something, or just stand there like I've cast a Silencing Charm on you?"

He closed the distance in a few long strides. One gloved hand reached out to trace her collarbone, his touch featherlight, reverent. His other hand cupped her cheek, thumb grazing her flushed skin as if to confirm she was real. 

"You..." He murmured, voice low and hoarse. "You've just rewritten the meaning of beauty."

Hermione's lashes fluttered. "You always know what to say."

"No. Not always. But right now, I need you to know something." He lowered his head, nose brushing hers. "If anyone dares to look at you the wrong way tonight -- anyone -- I will not hesitate to burn this world to ash."

Her lips curved. "You're not playing fair."

He leaned in, brushing his mouth against her ear. "I never said I would."

She pulled back slightly, enough to lock eyes with him. "You'll walk with me tonight... In public?"

He didn't blink. "Let them see. Let them all see what power looks like."

"And if they talk?"

"They already do. But I want it known... That you are not just mine in private. You are the Lady of this house. Of this world. And they will treat you as such."

Hermione's heart skipped in her chest. She took his hand and laced their fingers together. "Then let's give them something to talk about."

He pulled her close, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

"Just don't expect me to let you out of my sight. Not in that dress."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my love."

And with that, Lord Voldemort and the woman the world had yet to understand stepped into the darkness together -- gleaming, regal, and untouchably theirs.

 

*

 

The golden doors of the Ministry of Magic opened with a hiss of magic and polished grandeur, revealing a glittering hall bathed in candlelight and opulence. The event was already in full swing -- ministry officials, pureblood elites, and international delegates buzzing like bees around a gilded hive. 

And then the hum faltered. 

As if the very air shifted. 

Every pair of eyes turned. 

For there, standing just beyond the threshold, arm in arm, were two figures that silenced room. 

Lord Voldemort -- immaculate in black robes lined with silver thread, his aura a commanding blend of elegance and dread -- and beside him, radiant and arresting in red silk, Hermione Granger. No longer just a witch. Not a war hero. Not a muggle-born. But a goddess forged from contradiction and fire. Regal. Lethal. Desired. Untouchable. 

Tom's hand rested possessively on the small of her back, guiding her forward through the crowd like she was the queen of the realm. And to him -- she was. 

Gasps echoed. Whispers spiralled. But no one dared speak above the swell of curiosity and fear. 

Not until Cornelius Fudge. 

The young Minister for Magic, clad in deep green with a faux humility stitched into every seam, made his way through the crowd, oily smile already in place. 

"My Lord Riddle," he said with a bow. "And this must be the exquisite companion we've heard for very little about."

Hermione's smile was polite, diplomatic. She extended her hand to greet him, ever the poised enchantress. 

Fudge, ever the fool, took it eagerly. And then -- he leaned forward, lips puckered towards her cheek. 

He never made it. 

Tom's hand shot out like a viper, catching the Minister's wrist mid-motion with elegant, ice-cold precision. 

"Now, now, Minister," Tom said softly, venom laced beneath velvet. "I don't like to share."

The room stilled. 

Hermione froze for only a moment, then smiled, gently slipped her hand free and threading it back through Tom's arm. 

Fudge cleared his throat, paling slightly. "Ah -- yes, of course. Forgive me. No offense meant, I assure you."

Tom's gaze didn't waver. "Offense would have required intent. But disrespect?" His smile was thin. "That is a different conversation entirely."

"I -- I'll just excuse myself," Fudge muttered, retreating into the safety of the crowd.

Hermione waited until they were alone in the space between danced and whispered, "You were subtle."

"Was I?" Tom arched a brow. 

"For you."

His lips ghosted over her temple. "I said I'd walk with you tonight, my love. I didn't say I'd behave."

She smirked, voice low and wicked. "You never do."

He leaned in, whispering against her ear. "And yet you still love me."

"I do."

His breath hitched. 

And then he kissed her knuckles and muttered darkly, "Let's show then who you are, my lady."

 

The music shifted -- slower now, richer, the kind of opulent waltz designed to draw every eye to the floor. 

Tom turned to Hermione, offering his hand in a gesture more princely than polite. The crowd still buzzed from his verbal lashing of the Minister, but now they waited, breath caught between scandal and spectacle. Because they knew. Everyone in this room knew -- if the Dark Lord took to the floor, it would not be alone. 

And certainly not with just anyone. 

He took her hand, his thumb tracing a silent promise over her knuckles. 

"Come, my love," he murmured, "Dance with me."

She said nothing, only allowed herself to be drawn in. Into the center of the marble floor. Into his orbit. Her crimson gown shimmered with every step, hugging her form like it had been painted on by magic itself. 

The moment his arm slid around her waist and her hand curled over his shoulder, the orchestra swelled. And the world stopped spinning for anyone not wearing his mark or bearing his gaze. 

"You know," he said softly, turning them in time with the music. "Dancing with you...might be one of my favourite things."

Hermione's brows lifted, amused. "Might be?"

"I'm still deciding," he drawled, even as his hand slipped lower along her back, fingers splaying possessively. "It's competing."

"With what?"

He twirled her -- her dress flared like fire -- and caught her again, anchoring her close. "Listening to you play the piano. Watching you."

She felt her heart skip at the intimacy of it. "You watch me often."

"Obsession has no etiquette," he murmured against her ear. "Not where you're concerned."

Hermione's cheeks flushed, not from embarrassment, but from the warmth in his voice -- the way it softened around her like it never did for anyone else. 

"You don't fear what they'll say?" She asked lightly, her breath brushing his jaw.

He looked down at her, something old and dark and reverent behind his gaze. "They can say what they want. But you are dancing with me. And they all know you're mine."

She laughed under her breath. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm in love," he replied. "It tends to look similar."

She tightened her hand in his. The violins crescendoed, the waltz lifting them in a sweep of motion and silk and shadow. There were eyes on them, whispers blooming like wildflowers behind gloved hands and charmed masks. But none of it touched them. They danced as if alone. As if the war didn't exist. As if the blood on their hands could be washed away with music and touch. 

He leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I still want to hear you play. Soon."

"I will," she whispered back, her pulse skipping again. "Just for you."

And for a moment, just one glittering moment, the ballroom faded. There was no prophecy, no future, no fear. Just them -- twined together in the heart of a war-touched world. Dancing like gods among mortals. 

He smirked -- slow and sly -- the kind of smirk that promised wicked things behind closed doors. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes, suspicious instantly. "What?"

He spun her again, drawing her tighter as they turned, his lips brushing dangerously close to the edge of her jaw. 

"I've just thought of another favourite indulgence," he murmured, voice velvet and threat.

Her brows arched, her tone laced with playful suspicion. "Oh?"

"Mmm..." His eyes flicked down her body and back up to her lips. "My tongue... Between your thighs."

"My lord!" She gasped, feigning scandal with an expertly placed gasp and a smirk she tried -- poorly -- to suppress. 

He laughed then, low and rich, the sound vibrating against her as he spun her once more, then pulled her back in like gravity itself answered to his will. 

"My lady," he returned with mock chastisement, before his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that made the world vanish. 

It was possessive. Reverent. Carnal. 

Cheers rose from the edges of the dance floor -- nervous, sycophantic applause at the spectacle of the Dark Lord kissing his witch like she was holy. 

And Hermione? She melted into him, nails biting gently into his shoulder through expensive fabric, thinking only one thing:

Merlin help anyone who tries to come between us tonight.

 

The golden ballroom shimmered under a thousand suspended candles, a spectacle of opulence designed to distract from the undercurrent of fear that threaded through every guest's spine. The dinner had been lavish, every course more decadent than the last, but the real feast was power -- paraded in whispered alliances and sharp glances exchanged over crystal goblets. 

And now came the speeches. 

Cornelius Fudge rose from his seat at the long head table, wiping crumbs from the front of his too-tight waistcoat before tapping his spoon to his glass. A hush fell across the room, and the minister beamed with the oily charm of a man who thought himself in control.

"A toast," he began, "to unity! To progress! And to the prosperous future we are so fortunate to build together."

Polite applause. 

His eyes shifted, and Tom felt Hermione's hand subtly curl around his under the table. Protective. Grounding. 

Fudge continued, voice swelling with practiced pomposity. "In these uncertain times, it is no small thing to see strength and vision personified. To witness magic -- not just in spells -- but in leadership. Lord Riddle, your presence, your... Diplomacy, has inspired confidence across departments, even across borders."

The crowd nodded, murmurs of agreement circling like a fog. 

"And of course," Fudge added, turning to Hermione now, "we must not overlook the Lady of the House -- whose grace, intellect, and poise have captured the admiration of us all. It is clear that the future is not just dark and powerful, but beautifully guided."

Tom's jaw tensed. Hermione said nothing -- only offered a perfectly measured nod, the kind that could not be mistaken for submission, only acknowledgement. Her hand remained in his, and he could feel the fine tremor in her fingers. 

He would deal with Fudge later. 

Fudge lifted his glass. "To unity. And to the extraordinary partnership that promises to lead us forward."

Glasses clinked. 

Tom didn't smile. He raised his goblet with one hand -- his other still locked with hers -- and let his gaze drift over the guests like a predator surveying his territory. "To the future," he said quietly, but every person in the room heard it. 

Because when Tom Riddle spoke of the future, the world listened. 

 

The speeches concluded, the applause died down, and the music began once more in gentle swells behind the clinking of goblets and the murmurs of diplomacy. Hermione barely had time to breathe before she felt it. 

A shift. 

Like a spell cast over the room -- subtle, deliberate, ancient. 

Tom went still beside her. 

She followed his gaze -- and there he was. Albus Dumbledore. Blue robes embroidered with phoenix feathers, twinkling eyes sharpened behind half-moon spectacles. The great chessmaster of their time, dressed as humbly as ever, as though the velvet and chandeliers of the ballroom hadn't touched him. As though he were not standing in the very lion's den and still managing to look like the hunter. 

Tom rose. 

"Professor," he said smoothly, with that lethal elegance only he possessed, "you do not often attend these functions."

Hermione remained seated, her posture as poised as the crownless queen she had become. But her gaze... It was fixed on Dumbledore, sharp and burning and entirely unafraid. 

Dumbledore smiled, that maddening, knowing smile of his. "No, Tom. I find these gatherings rather... Exhausting, truth be told. But one hears such fascinating things in the wind, I thought I'd see them for myself."

Hermione rose now, graceful and slow. "And what do you see, Headmaster?" She asked, her voice calm, edged in velvet. "A room full of politicians and pretense?"

"Indeed," he said, turning his full attention to her. "And in the centre, something rather more curious. A woman of astonishing power, seated beside a man who has never shared his throne before."

Tom's hand found the small of her back. A quiet, unyielding anchor. 

Dumbledore studied her with those maddening eyes. He didn't recognise her, but he saw... Something. The way powerful means always saw something when they couldn't quite name the danger. 

Tom stepped forward, still smiling, but his voice had cooled. "She is not for your scrutiny, Professor. I would advice great care in how you speak to my intended."

Hermione nearly blinked at the word -- intended -- but kept her features still. Her heart, however, pounded traitorously. 

Dumbledore only gave a soft chuckle, eyes twinkling as if they were all playing an elaborate joke. "Of course, of course. You have always been very possessive of things you deem precious, Tom."

"And you," Tom said softly, "have always made the mistake of underestimating what I am willing to do to protect them."

The silence between them crackled. 

Hermione, ever the strategist, broke it before it could become a fracture. 

"I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, Professor," she said gently, but with unmistakable steel. "Though I expect you already know exactly how it ends."

Tom smiled at that. Genuine. Adoring. 

Dumbledore inclined his head, something very old and very sad flickering in his gaze as he looked at her one last time. "I rather think... you know more of endings than most, my dear."

And with that, the old wizard turned and walked away, leaving behind a silence full of ghosts. 

Tom turned to her slowly, eyes still on Dumbledore's back. 

"You did not shrink from him," he said, his voice low. 

"Why would I?" She murmured, lifting her glass once more. "He taught me half my tricks."

He looked at her as though seeing her again for the first time. 

"My love," he said, voice hoarse, "what are you?"

She looked up at him with a small, devastating smile. 

"Yours."

 

*

 

The manor welcomes them home with flickering sconces and quiet reverent shadows. Pip had already lit the fireplaces. Their suite was warm. Intimate. Safe. 

Tom helped her from her cloak, his fingers lingering longer than necessary at her shoulders, jaw tight with thought. Hermione watched him with tired but curious eyes, her hand finding his instinctively. 

She could feel it -- the tension beneath his silence. Not the tension of war or strategy, but something far more fragile. Far more dangerous. 

He turned to face her. 

"I have something for you," he said. 

She smiled, amused, brushing a kiss against his jaw. "More gifts, Tom?"

"You're worth every one," he said, voice soft but unwavering. "Besides, this one... Comes with a promise. And... Intent."

Something in the room shifted. Hermione's breath caught as he reached into his robes, retrieving a small black box with gold filigree so delicate it looked etched by wandlight itself. He didn't go down on one knee -- not Tom -- but the way he held it out to her... It was reverent. Amost sacred. 

She stared at the box, unmoving. 

"Hermione," he said. "My love."

Her heart slammed in her chest. "Tom..."

He opened it. 

Inside lay a ring -- unlike any she'd ever seen. It wasn't delicate. It was powerful. Twisted dark silver vines framed a single stone at the centre -- an emerald the colour of his eyes, set between two smaller diamonds that caught fire in the light. Ancient magic pulsed from it. Protective. Binding. His. 

He stepped closer, his voice low and unshaking.

"You were never meant to be part of my plan. You were never meant to be real. But now that you are, I can't imagine anything more essential than building a future around you."

She swallowed. Her fingers trembled. 

"I have been called many things -- Dark Lord, monster, tyrant -- but the only name I have ever wanted to be called... Is yours."

He lifted the ring from the box and gently took her hand. 

"This is not a demand," he said. "Not a leash. You are not a trophy, or a symbol, or a possession. You are the axis upon which my world now spins."

He slipped the ring onto her finger. 

"My queen. My match. My heart. If there is a future, I want it written with your name beside mine."

She looked down at the ring. At the trembling in her own hand. At the weight of his vow settling into her bones. 

"You mean it," she whispered. 

"With every fractured piece of my soul," he said. 

Her voice broke, breath catching on a soft sob she hadn't known was coming. "I never thought I would want this. Not like this. Not with you."

He stiffened, just slightly. 

"But gods help me," she continued, fingers curling around his. "I do."

Tom exhaled -- like a man drowning who had just found the surface. 

"You'll stay?" He asked, quietly.

"Yes," she breathed, stepping into his arms. "I'll stay."

He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair as the last of his fears unravelled into ash. 

"My wife," he whispered against her temple. "Mine."

In a swift motion, he scooped her off of her feet. 

And he carried her. 

Not out of necessity, but because he needed her close -- needed the confirmation of her warmth, her weight, her breath in his arms to convince himself this was real. 

His witch. 

His wife. 

The woman who had seen him -- all of him -- and still, somehow, chose him.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind them, sealed with a flick of magic and a thought too frenzied to speak aloud. Her back hit the wall, and she gasped -- not in pain, but in anticipation. Her fingers tangled in his collar, yanking him to her as though the kiss they shared was he only oxygen in the room. 

He kissed her like she had just saved his life.

And she had. 

His hands devoured her -- mapping every inch of skin like it was new, like he hadn't already memorized her a thousand times over. Her hair tumbled free as he tore at the pins, worshipping the wild way it fell across her shoulders.

"You said yes," he rasped between kisses, forehead pressed to hers, breath unsteady. "You said yes."

"I did," she whispered, tugging his shirt loose. "And now I'm yours."

That word -- yours -- undid him. 

A groan ripped from his throat as he hauled her closer, grinding against her, needing her with a desperation that eclipsed anything he had ever know. He pulled her dress over her head and tossed it carelessly to the floor, mouth already trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck across her collarbone, lower still.

Her nails scored his back. She arched into his touch. 

He sank to his knees. 

It wasn't worship -- it was claiming. His mouth found her thighs, her hips, the sinful heat between them make her cry out his name and claw at the wall.

"Mine," he growled, voice muffled against her skin. "Mine."

Every flick of his tongue, every press of his fingers, every punishing kids between her legs -- it all screamed with the same vow.

You are mine. 

You said yes. 

You're never leaving me. 

When she shattered for him, hands fisting in his hair, he kissed her like h could swallow the sound of it, like he could consume her moans and live off them forever. 

He stood -- fast -- and she barely registered being lifted again until her back hit the bed. He stripped in record time, eyes burning with something close to madness, and crawled over her like a man starved.

"I'll never get enough of you," he breathed. "I'll ruin you with how much I want you."

"Then ruin me," she said voice shaking. "You already have,"

Their bodies collided. 

He sank into her with a greedy and so guttural it sounded like a curse, and she gasped this name like a prayer. His pace was punishing -- a rhythm forged in obsession and anchored in need. But it wasn't just carnal.

No. It was emotional combustion. He buried his face against her neck, clutching her hand and pressing her ring to the mattress as if anchoring her to him.

Every thrust said mine.

Every moan from her lips screamed yes.

And when they came — together, like an explosion, a vow sealed in stars and blood and something sacred — he whispered the words again, hoarse, ragged, undone:

“My wife.”

He collapsed over her, trembling, breathless. She ran her fingers through his hair, her legs still wrapped around his hips like she couldn’t bear to let go.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“I thought you’d say no,” he admitted. “Even now. I thought I’d wake up and you’d be gone.”

“I told you,” she said, brushing a kiss to his temple. “I’m yours, Tom. Irreversibly.”

And for the first time in his cursed life, the world felt… right.

Chapter 23: A Toast to the New Lady

Tom had never looked more powerful.

The great dining hall of Riddle Manor spread out like a cathedral carved from marble and shadow. A feast fit for kings lay untouched while the most dangerous witches and wizards of the age stood in stunned silence.

Tom Riddle -- Dark Lord, visionary, feared genius -- had just announced his engagement. 

To her. 

Hermione stood beside him, one hand resting on his arm, the emerald ring glittering like a captured soul on her finger. 

Narcissa was the first to bow, elegant, sincere. Fond. Bella to everyone's surprise, shrieked in delight, manic joy sparkling in her wild eyes. Barty looked like he wanted to applaud her specifically. Snape stiffened, quietly horrified but too intelligent to show more. Lucius bowed deeply, awe and calculation mixing behind his cool facade. 

Respect. Fear. Devotion. 

She felt them all. 

And Tom felt nothing but pride. 

"My bride," he announced, drawing her closer, "is the future of our world."

Rodolphus Lestrange smirked behind his goblet. 

Tom did not notice -- the room was too loud with praise, too full with congratulations he barely tolerated. 

Hermione felt her magic prickle down her spine. Something... Wrong.

As Tom was pulled aside by Lucius and Barty -- with Pip scurrying after the -- Hermione reached for a glass of wine from the table. A rare moment where she was left unattended. 

A hand slammed down beside hers. 

Rodolphus. 

His smile was lazy, oily, wrong. 

"Quite the rise in station, my Lady," he murmured. "One might call it... Ambitious."

She turned sharply. "Move."

Instead of obeying, he stepped closer, lowering his voice. 

"You are wasted on him, you know. He doesn't appreciate what he has. He hoards it. Cages it." His eyes dragged across her, evaluative, hungry in the way men hungry for power always were. "You deserve someone who understands freedom. Passion. Chaos."

She stepped back. 

But he moved faster. 

A vial appeared between his fingers -- thin glass, shimmering iridescently with something dark and swirling. 

Before she could draw her wand, his hand shot out, gripping her jaw. 

Hermione choked as he forced the vial's contents down her throat. The liquid burned like cold fire, coating her tongue, her throat, sinking into her bloodstream with the heat of cursed magic. 

She stumbled into the wall, coughing violently, vision swimming. 

Rodolphus leaned in close -- not touching her, not daring to yet -- smiling with grotesque satisfaction. 

"I do love a challenge," he whispered. "And now... I expect we'll have many chances to speak again, my Lady. Perhaps I can find a better use of that mouth."

Her vision blurred. Her knees buckled. 

He walked away as though nothing had happened, whistling softly. 

Hermione clutched the wall, breath shaking. The potion twisted inside her like poisoned smoke, threading through her veins. 

Not fatal. 

Not yet. 

But wrong.

Dark. 

Binding. 

Something designed to mark her in a way Tom would not see coming.

Her voice broke on a whisper, terror finally catching her. 

"Tom..."

The chandelier trembled.

The air crackled. 

Every candle flickered violently. 

Because even out of sight, even mid-conversation, even with the walls and crowds between them -- 

Tom felt it.

He felt her distress like a scream inside his bones.

 

The laughter of the room faded the moment Hermione stumbled back through the crowd, emerald skirts twisting around her legs like trailing vines. 

Her hand reached out, blindly. 

Tom saw her. 

The smile he'd been wearing -- rare and reverent, worn only for her -- vanished like ash in the wind. 

His brow furrowed. 

"My love?" His voice cut through the noise like a blade. 

Her eyes met his -- wild, glassy, wrong. 

"Tom..." She whispered. 

And then she crumpled. 

Not graceful. 

Not gentle. 

Like a puppet with its strings slashed. 

Gasps erupted as her body hit the marble floor. 

Tom was there before she could finish falling, his arms catching her head at the last second. Her skin was ice. Her pupils blown. Her breathing shallow. 

He gathered her into his chest, hands shaking as he tilted her face upward. 

"Hermione -- Hermione, no --" His voice cracked, panic raw in his throat. 

"SEVERUS!" He roared, the command thundering through the hall with the force of a hex. 

Snape was already striding forward, wand out, lips moving in rapid incantations as he knelt beside them. He conjured a diagnostic glow over Hermione's chest, his expression tightening. 

Tom didn't care who was watching -- didn't care that every pair of eyes in the room now saw their Dark Lord unravelling. 

"She's been poisoned," Snape said grimly. "A high-concentration of an illicit variant of the Desiderium Draught -- meant to lower inhibition, force euphoria. But this... This is a fatal dose if not neutralised quickly."

Rage detonated behind Tom's eyes. He looked down at her -- his queen, the woman he'd worshipped, the only one to ever touch his blackened soul -- and saw her lips tremble, trying to form a word. 

He bowed over her, forehead to hers. "I'm here. You stay with me, Hermione. Do you hear me? Don't you fucking leave me."

Her eyes fluttered, unfocused. 

Then closed. 

The hall went silent. 

A storm gathered in his chest. 

Tom lifted his face -- slowly, lethally -- and turned towards the crowd. The air went cold as a scream of ancient magic pulsed outward from him. 

"No one," he said, his voice like death itself, "fucking leaves this manor."

There was movement at the edges -- panic, uncertainty. 

He didn't even glance away from her when he raised his hand and sealed the wards with a snapping gesture that cracked the chandeliers overhead. The ancient magic of Riddle Manor responded at once, locking down every exit. 

Shields flared at every door and window. 

Panic tippled through the room. 

He turned his head just slightly, eyes still on Hermione's pale face, and barked: "Barty. To my side. Now."

The younger man appeared instantly, wand drawn, knuckles white. 

"I want every guest questioned. Scanned. Watched."

Tom's voice was velvet over broken glass. 

"No one leaves. No one hides. And if you find the one who did this..."

His eyes burned, endless and unholy. 

"Do not touch them. Their life belongs to me."

He looked back down at Hermione. Her lashes trembled. 

"If she dies," Tom whispered, "I will not just kill the one responsible. I will tear this entire fucking world apart."

And every soul in that room -- ally, enemy, follower or not -- believed him.

 

Tom never once looked away from her. 

Even as Snape worked, even as Pip fluttered about with trembling hands fetching cloths, cold compresses, potions... He never moved. 

Hermione lay deathly still. Her chest rose and fell so faintly beneath the pale curved of her collarbone it nearly undid him. 

She wasn't fire or fury or light incarnate. 

She was fragile now -- so small against the stark white infirmary sheets. 

A girl.

His girl. 

And someone had tried to take her from him. 

His Hermione. His heart. His everything. 

Snape drew the vial back with a slow exhale. "The antidote has been administered," he said, his voice professional but not without gravity. "It may take hours for it to stabilize her. Possibly longer. It depends on how quickly her body metabolises the toxins. The dosage she ingested was... Nearly lethal."

Tom didn't speak. 

Didn't blink. 

Didn't breathe. 

Snape hesitated, then added, quieter, "You got to her in time. If you hadn't --"

"I would have burned this place to ash," Tom said, still staring at her. 

Snape bowed once, understanding. 

"I want a moment alone with her," Tom murmured. 

"My lord?"

"I said --" his voice sharpened, uncoiled, "leave us."

Snape glanced once at Pip, who gave a nervous little nod and began to get her the scattered vials and instruments. 

"Of course," Snape said finally. "I'll be nearby should you need me."

When the door clicked shut, silence fell. 

Heavy. 

Crushing.

Tom sat beside her, his hands curled into fists against his knees, still gloved. 

"Hermione..."

His voice broke on her name. 

He reached out -- gently, reverently -- brushing a curl away from her damp temple. Her skin was warmer than before. That should have calmed him. It didn't. 

"You can't do that to me," he whispered. "Not you. Not you."

He leaned forward, forehead pressed lightly to hers. 

"I told you I wouldn't survive it, and you --" his voice cracked again,  "-- you tried to leave anyway. You almost... You almost left me, love."

He pulled back to look at her. 

Her lips parted faintly in sleep, her breathing shallow but steady now. 

A small sound escaped him. Half a laugh, half a sob. It didn't matter which. 

"I never begged for anything before you," he murmured, tracing his finger softly down the side of her face. "And now I find myself pleading with fate like a fool. Please, I said. Just please... Don't take her."

He stood then, and began pacing -- short, sharp eyes. 

His control -- so often absolute -- was fraying at the seams. 

He had ripped kingdoms from their thrones without blinking. He had slaughtered and built and ruled without remorse. But she?

She was he first choice he'd made for himself.

Not for power. Not for ambition. Not for war. 

For him. 

For Tom.

And he would not -- could not -- live without her. 

He turned back to her still form, and every inch of him ached with the weight of it. 

"My lady," he whispered hoarsely. "My bride. My everything."

He sank into the chair again, bent over her hand, and pressed it to his lips. 

"I don't know how to be good, Hermione. But for you... I'm trying. I'm trying. And if I lose you... If you slip through my fingers now, then I swear to every god that ever was, I will burn this world so thoroughly that even the ashes will scream your name."

His lips pressed again to her knuckles. 

Then to her wrist. Her palm. 

And finally, trembling, to her temple.

"Come back to me," he begged her. "Come back."

 

Tom did not walk back into the ballroom. 

He arrived, the force of his presence slamming into the room like a hurricane given human form. Shadows bent towards him. Magic prickled in the air. Every conversation died mid-breath.

Barty was at his side instantly, pale and sharp. 

"My lord," he murmured, voice low. "Anything?"

Tom's jaw ticked once. "She's alive."

Relief flickered in Barty's eyes. 

"Pip has questioned the elves," Barty continued, voice tight. "The last person seen with my lady was... Rodolphus."  

Silence. 

And then --

"He wouldn't dare," Tom whispered. 

But he knew. He had felt it. 

Barty swallowed. "I believe there was... Talk. About him. Feeling --" he hesitated " --owed."

A slow, horrifying stillness settled into Tom's bones. 

"Owed," Tom repeated, like the world itself tasted offensive. "Interesting."

He didn't shout. He didn't snarl. 

He simply lifted his hand.

Everything vanished. 

The feast. The plates. The wine. The music. Gone in an instant of obliteration. 

Guests staggered, shocked. 

Rodolphus barely had a chance to blink before he was ripped off his feet, dragged across the room by invisible force, his hands clawing at his throat as Tom's magic constricted around his windpipe. 

He dangled midair, choking, eyes bulging. 

The crowd froze, trembling. 

Tom did not raise his voice. He didn't need to. 

"Kneel." 

The command wasn't spoken. 

It was cast.

Rodolphus was slammed to the marble floor so hard the tiles cracked beneath him. His knees hit stone with a sickening thud as Tom's magic held him there, forced him down, crushed him into a posture of submission he didn't have the right to claim. 

Tom descended the dais like a god walking down from his throne. 

His face was carved from ice and ruin. His eyes -- those molten, devastating eyes -- burned with a rage so cold it could kill worlds. 

Rodolphus gagged on air. "M-my lord --"

"Silence."

And Rodolphus's mouth sealed shut. Magically. Painfully. 

Tom circled him once, slow and deliberate, like examining prey that dared Bute the hand that fed it. 

Then --

"Tell me, my faithful servant," Tom murmured, "what precisely you believed you were owed from my bride?"

The room flinched. 

Bride.

Not consort. 

Not lady. 

Bride.

Rodolphus's eyes widened in terror. 

Tom tilted his head, curious, like scholar observing an insect. 

"Did you think I wouldn't find out? That I wouldn't feel her agony through every thread of magic that binds us?"

Gasps rippled through the crowd. 

Barty looked almost euphoric. 

Tom rose again, his voice now echoing hollowly in the vaulted room. 

"You've committed one of the deepest betrayals imaginable. Not against your lord. Not against my cause." His eyes went black with magic. "But against the woman who holds my heart."

The chandeliers shook again. 

Cracks spider webbed across the ceiling. 

Tom extended a single hand. 

Rodolphus screamed against the silencing curse as his body lifted from the floor, suspended by his throat, legs kicking helplessly. 

"And so," Tom said quietly, "your life is forfeit."

The followers trembled. 

Because everyone in the room knew --

This wasn't punishment. 

This was love. Twisted, violent, absolute love. 

And gods help anyone who threatened Hermione Granger again. 

 

Rodolophus Lestrange dangled by the throat, suspended midair like a puppet caught in invisible wire. His books scraped helplessly against the marble as Tom's magic constricted around him. 

The room held it's breath. 

Followers froze. 

Lucius swallowed hard.

Barty trembled with exhilaration. 

And Bellatrix...

Bellatrix watched her husband choke, her eyes fixed reverently on her Lord. She did not plead. She did not move. She did not blink. 

Rodolphus gagged, then managed a strangled croak as Tom eased the silencing curse just enough to let him speak. 

"P-please-my lord-my lord, please -" He coughed violently, tears streaking his face. "B-Bella-Bella, help me-"

Bella didn't so much as twitch. 

Her voice was hushed. Devout. Uncompromising. 

"My Lord's will is absolute."

A sob tore from Rodolphus's throat. 

Tom stepped closer, eyes glowing with a cold, crackling light that made shadows from him. 

"Understand something, Rodolphus," Tom said, voice soft as a scalpel. "Your life? Insignificant. You? Insignificant."

The magic around Rodolphus tightened. He wheezed, limbs spasming. 

"You dared lay hands on the woman who means more to me than every one of you combined. You poisoned her. Left her fighting for her life."

Rodolphus choked. "I-I didn't- I didn't mean -"

"Oh, but you did," Tom cut in, voice a frozen whisper. "Your intentions reeked of ambition. Of a delusion that could claim her. That you could break her will. Ben her to your influence. Mark her with your magic. Steal from me what is mine."

The word cracked like thunder. 

Rodolphus sobbed. "My lord-please-mercy-please-Bella-"

Bella tilted her head, expression almost bored. 

"My Lord does not err. If He says you are nothing, you are nothing."

Tom smiled. It was a dead thing. A perfect, chilling curve of the lips. 

"Mercy..." He mused. "What a quaint idea."

He raised his hand. 

"Let us test something, shall we?" Let us test the worth of a man who dared to touch my bride."

Rodolphus screamed as his body contorted violently, as though invisible hooks were tearing him from the inside. The air shook with the strain of raw, ancient power. The walls trembled. Magic crackled like lightning. 

Tom's voice stayed quiet. Steady. Ice. 

"You wanted power over her," he murmured. "Instead, you will become nothing but a cautionary tale."

Rodolphus's scream broke into a soundless choke as his body began to disintegrate -- atom by atom -- starting from his feet, rising upward like he was being erased from existence. 

"Tom -my lord -please - I'm sorry - PLEASE -"

"You're already dead," Tom said calmly. 

Rodolphus's eyes widened in the last instant before they dissolved. 

And then -- 

He was gone.

Not a corpse. Not a stain. 

Obliterated.

Erased. 

As if he had never existed at all. 

A collective shudder rippled through the room. 

The Dark Lord exhaled, slow and controlled, lowering his hand. Magic settled around him like a mantle of storms. 

He turned to face his followers -- face unreadable, eyes still blazing. 

"Let this be understood," he said softly. 

"Anyone who threatens her... Anyone who even dreams of touching what is mine... Will meet the same fate."

Silence. 

Chapter 24: The One That Matters

The corridor outside the infirmary was unnaturally quiet. 

Tom's robes whispered with his steps, the echo of his boots like the slow tick of a clock counting out the moments he had nearly lost. Magic still crackled faintly in the air around him -- residual from the obliteration of Rodolphus Lestrange. It clung to him like smoke, fierce and seething, though the fury that birthed it had been replaced by something far more dangerous. 

Dread.

The heavy door creaked open. Severus stood beside the narrow bed where she lay. 

Her. 

His. 

His witch. 

Severus inclined his head. "She's awake, my Lord," he said quietly. "And... Asking for you."

Tom didn't waste a breath. He moved past him, crossing the threshold in two long strides. 

There she was. 

Her skin was pale, lips a shade too soft, too silent, but her eyes -- 

Her eyes found him immediately. 

"Tom..." Her voice was dry. Barely above a whisper. But it was her. 

He exhaled a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. The world righted itself. 

"My love," he said hoarsely, falling to his knees beside the bed and taking her hand in both of his. "I'm here. I'm here."

Her fingers twitched in his. "You came back."

"You asked for me." He pressed her knuckles to his lips. "I would have come for you regardless."

She studied him through heavy lids. "You look... Like death itself."

He huffed a laugh, breathless and jagged. "You nearly became it."

Her brow furrowed. "What happened?"

He kissed her hand again. "Later. You need rest."

Her grip tightened weakly. "No. Tell me."

He hesitated. 

"Tom," she murmured, firmer now. "What did you do?"

His jaw ticked. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his cheek, his skin unusually warm. "I did what was necessary."

Her breath hitched. "Rodolphus."

He said nothing. 

She closed her eyes. "You didn't just punish him, did you?"

"I made an example of him," he said quietly. "I made sure no one would ever think to harm you again."

Silence hung between them like mist, until she opened her eyes again -- soft, wounded, and impossibly loving. 

"Come here."

He climbed into the bed beside her, gently pulling her into his arms. She curled into him without resistance, burying her face in his chest. His hand found her hair, stroking slowly, reverently. 

"I will always do what I must for you," he murmured. "Even if the world burns around me."

She didn't answer right away.

Then, softly: "I know."

He closed his eyes. 

And for the first time since she collapsed in his arms... He let himself breathe. 

 

Tom held her in silence for what felt like eternity. 

She was too still. Not lifeless, but resting on the very edge of something fragile. The weight of what had happened hung like thick fog between them -- one word could clear it, or choke them both. 

He had always been a master of silence. But not now. Not with her. Not when the truth tasted like ash on his tongue and fear, a foreign and feral thing, clawed at his chest. 

"I won't like to you," he said at last, his voice a heart whisper against the crown of her head. "Not ever. You deserve more than that."

Hermione shifted slightly in his arms, lifting her face to his. Her eyes searched his -- quiet, solemn, knowing. 

He continued. "I didn't simply punish Rodolphus. I destroyed him. I obliterated him. And if I had the chance again, I would do it a thousand times more." His voice shook. "But I crossed the line we set. The one I told you I would honoured. I killed him in fury. In darkness. Not justice. Not entirely."

Her silence stretched out like tension wire. 

And then --

She kissed him. 

Fiercely. 

Her hands twisted into his robes, pulling him closer, anchoring him to her like she was afraid he might drift away. He froze for a heartbeat, stunned by the depth of it -- by the taste of her forgiveness, her fire.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her voice low and shaking. 

"I love you still. Nothing changes that."

He blinked. His brows pulled together in disbelief. "You should hate me."

"I don't," she said. "Because you didn't lie to me. Because you came back. Because when I was dying, all I wanted -- all I wanted -- was you.."

He swallowed hard, his thumb  brushing over her cheek. 

"You're my beginning and end," he whispered. "And somewhere in between I promised I would be better for you. I don't know if I can be everything you deserve, but gods, Hermione -- I will never lie to you."

"Good," she said, curling back into his chest. "Because I can take your truth. Even when it hurts. I just can't take your lies."

A long pause. Then -- 

"I think... I need you to lie here with me a little longer."

"As long as you need," he murmured. "Forever, if you'll have me."

And she closed her eyes, pressing her ear over the frantic, furious beat of his heart. 

 

*

 

The fire had long since died down to embers, casting the infirmary in a soft orange glow. Hermione lay fast asleep beneath thick fur blankets, her chest rising and falling with the slow, rhythmic grace of someone finally safe. Finally still. 

Tom Riddle sat at her side, one hand curled protectively around her fingers, the other tracing idle patterns across the back of her hand. His eyes, always calculating, always sharp, were now soft. Strangely human. Raw. 

She had nearly died. 

He had nearly broken. 

And still... She loved him. 

He leaned forward, brushing a reverent kiss to her knuckles before lowering his lips to the curve of her temple. Whispering secrets into the quiet. 

"I've been planning things," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. "Not battles. Not strategies. A life."

His hand drifted lower, fingers splaying across the sheets as if already mapping out a future. 

"Our wedding... I want you in white, but veiled in red. No one will look at you and forget who you are. Who you belong to. Who belongs to you." He smiled faintly. "I think you'd like the spring... Something wild and blooming. We'll fill the manor with roses and thorns, and you'll look like a goddess."

She didn't stir. 

He continued anyway. 

"I want children. With your eyes. Merlin help them if they inherit your cleverness and my temper." His voice cracked. "But I want it. All of it. The chaos. The mess. The mornings. The stories."

He looked away now, the shadow returning behind his lashes. 

"I promised you -- no Horcruxes. I haven't broken that. Not yet. And I will destroy the other..." He let out a slow, quiet breath. "But I won't lie. The idea of living forever... with you..."

His throat bobbed. He stood slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment. He crossed the room, pausing only once at the doorway to look back. 

"You make this place feel like home, Hermione."

And then he left. 

 

The ballroom had been restored to order, though the air was still heavy with tension and fear. The aftermath of what had happened lingered like smoke. Death eaters and allies alike stood uneasily around the edges, speaking in hushed tones, unsure whether they were still guests... Or prisoners. 

Tom's arrival silenced the room like a dropped blade. 

He walked with authority, face unreadable, eyes sharp once more. Regal. Lethal. But colder than usual -- he was tired of masks. And tonight, there was no need to hide what mattered to him most. 

"She lives," he said simply, allowing no room for doubt or questions. "But let me make myself unmistakably clear."

He stepped forward. 

"This home, my home, is now hers. And from this moment forward -- no one enters unless summoned. No surprise visits. No private business. No attempts at audience unless you are called."

He let the weight of his words settle like ice in their spines. 

"She needs rest. And I will not have her recovery disrupted."

Silence. 

Then, his voice dropped -- silken, dangerous. 

"And should anyone disobey me, should anyone test my limits where she is concerned -- know that Rodolphus Lestrange will not be the last to die for it."

He didn't wait for responses. He turned on his heels and left them with their fear. 

His home was now a fortress. 

But its heart?

Its heart lay upstairs, curled in red silk and fur, asleep in the only place he had ever truly belonged.