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Chapter Text

Prologue

“Who would fate have me choose?” Hermione asked in the softest whisper.

Then she reached into the bag and withdrew a stone.

*************

A brilliant white light surrounded Hermione, blinding her vision. She felt as if she were experiencing the throes of death, before she suddenly appeared somewhere she’d never been before.

Hermione stood on the cliff of an immense black chasm. She heard the deep rumbling of thunder and a vicious crack of lightning. As her eyesight sharpened, she saw herself running toward the edge of the vast cavern that opened up before her. A bolt of fear shot through her chest as she watched herself leap into the chasm. 

But she didn’t fall… she flew, gliding over the opening in the earth.

She peered down into the dark abyss, only to find molten lava at the base, hundreds of feet below. 

Hermione watched herself land on the other side, and she realized the thunder and cracking wasn’t coming from a storm at all. 

Tom was on the other side, duelling with someone, a wizard hidden in a haze of darkness.

The tips of their wands sizzled and snapped with the force of their magic, creating jagged openings in the earth, seeming to damage the very ozone layer with the immense power being channeled.

It was as if the earth was groaning beneath the amount of magic being harnessed, bending to the violent imbalance of energy. 

The dark wizard lifted his hand, sending a shivering black plague right toward Hermione. 

She watched as Tom let out an animalistic roar, flames erupting from his wand like a jetstream to counter the attack.

The flames caught and flooded the landscape. 

Ash rained from the sky like snow, and the vision began to fade, shifting to black and white like an old film before it faded to black.

Hermione was being shaken awake. 

Strong hands gripped her shoulders, gently rousing her from sleep. 

“Wake up, witch. I have it. I’ve found the thread of fate, I know where it is.”

Hermione opened her eyes to a dome of glass, stars gleaming in a sapphire sky. On the other side of the faceted glass, which stretched across arched beams, ropes of vine grew, and the starlight peeked through the deep green leaves.

Hermione blinked, then searched for the voice.

Then she saw him in the cold moonlight. Tom, his black eyes glinting in the starshine.

“We can finally be one. We can complete the soul bond.”

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted as relief flooded through her, but once again, blackness overcame her, clouding her vision as she drifted away from the scene.

When Hermione regained consciousness, she found herself in Professor Lupin’s old office at Hogwarts: the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. It was late, and there was only one lamp lit. The moon was hidden behind cloud cover, its pale rays peeking out from beneath the gray wisps of cloud as it shone through the castle windows.

Hermione looked around, and to her surprise, she found Tom bent over his desk. He had a stack of scrolls in a pile beside him. She watched as he dipped his quill and made notes on the parchment, scratching away.

Hermione was confused for a moment, blinking as she took in his appearance.

He looked much the same, but with the slightest hint of gray peppering his temples, standing out against his inky black hair.

It only served to enhance his attractiveness.

Suddenly, his brow furrowed. He glanced up, his eyes flicking to the door.

Hermione turned around, and listened as a knock came upon the heavy wood.

Tom’s jaw tensed.

“Come in,” he barked in perturbation.

The door handle turned, and a beautiful girl entered from the hallway.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. 

“What are you doing here, Miss Black?”

Hermione turned back in confusion, eyeing the girl. She had features similar to Walburga, the same hair and eyes, but she was much prettier. In fact, she was absolutely stunning.

Hermione’s heart sunk into her stomach.

“I was leaving the library and saw your light on.”

Tom sighed. “You should be in your common room. It’s past curfew.”

“Is it true?”

His eyes narrowed. “Is what true?”

The girl bit down on her full, red bottom lip with her pearly white teeth.

“Is it true that you’re the heir of Slytherin?”

Tom’s cheek muscles rippled, betraying his irritation. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

Hermione’s eyes trailed over the girl. Something was terribly familiar about her. 

The girl stood there, her robes parted to reveal her thin nightgown which left little to the imagination.

“Your son told me.”

He exhaled through his nostrils.

Son… thought Hermione. We have a son.

“You’d do well to stop pumping my children for information about me. You are severely testing my patience with this obsession of yours, Miss Black. It was embarrassingly bold of you to come here tonight.”

“I suppose that warrants detention, then?”

He stood sharply, his wand in hand. “If I gave you detention, you would not have it with me. You’d be prepping the potions closet with Professor Slughorn.” 

He moved past her to jerk open the door. “Please leave before I summon the headmaster.”

The girl’s eyes sparked with hunger as she gazed at him, emboldened by their proximity.

Her lips turned up slowly.

Then, she laughed.

Hermione knew instantly who the girl was, as soon as her deep, poisonous laughter rang out through the office.

Bellatrix Black.

“Forgive me, Professor Riddle,” she whispered with a glint in her eye. “My family is in your debt, according to my aunt, so I can’t help but want to know more about you. I’ve been told stories about the things you’ve done. The things you don’t want anyone to know. About who you were before you met your wife. I heard how you destroyed the greatest wizard to ever exist.” She flicked her eyes over him, her deep set, sultry eyes framed by thick, sooty lashes. “I wish you would give us all a demonstration of your actual power. You seem to be rotting away in this teaching post.” 

Her eyes took on a crazed look and she stepped closer. “I want to learn from you. I want to see what you’re truly capable of… I want to learn dark magic . There is so much more to you, Professor Riddle. I want to see your darker side... Lord Voldemort. My aunt says your wife changed you… but I wouldn’t change you.”

Tom stared at her, the coldness apparent in his icy gaze. 

Bellatrix took his silence as encouragement.

Her full lips parted, and she whispered, “The real heir of Slytherin would be able to speak parseltongue... Can you speak parseltongue to me, Voldemort?”

Tom’s tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he regarded the young witch. 

After a moment, he leaned forward and the witch held her breath as he hissed in her ear.

He paused, then hissed something else.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes falling closed as he withdrew.

Hermione watched as Bellatrix opened her eyes to find that his had shifted to a deep crimson color.

Bella’s gaze roved his face intensely. “What did you say?”

He gave her a tight smile, but his eyes were cold. “I said… “Only my wife calls me Voldemort. Now get the fuck out of my office.’”

All at once, the office disappeared.

Hermione heard the loud crying of a baby.

For a moment, she was bewildered by her surroundings as they came into focus, but soon she recognized the place.

She was in St. Mungo’s.

As the scene came into sharper focus, her eyes settled on a couple on the far side of the room.

No, not just any couple.

It was Tom, and herself.

She drew closer.

The sound of the baby wailing quieted down as a healer handed a blanket to Tom. 

She drew closer and realized suddenly what she was witnessing.

Her heart beat very quickly.

She watched herself, lying weak and tired on the hospital bed, her eyes bearing dark circles, but her lips turned up in a soft smile.

Tom gazed at the infant in his arms, his expression one of bewilderment.

”Vesper… my little prayer,” he whispered. “I will be a good father to you, no matter what happens.”

Hermione watched as she reached up and took his hand.

Then, all faded to black.

************

Hermione opened her eyes.

She stood in the bedroom of her flat, trembling. 

She looked down to find her hand white-knuckled, her fist enclosed tightly around a smooth object. 

She loosened her grip, flattening out her hand to find, in the center of her palm… a black stone.

The seer stones had spoken.

Chapter Text

March 1, 1959

Hermione stood at the window of her bedroom, garbed in a white robe of silk, the collar and edges of her sleeves trimmed with feathers. In her hand, a cup of delicate muggle china, filled with steaming earl grey. She lifted it to her lips.

Below her, the garden lay spread out, an impressive array of magical flora, herbs and potions ingredients, colorful hydrangeas and roses, statues and hedges, all enclosed by a fence of wrought iron, its points sharp as spears.

The sun had not yet begun to peak over the treeline of the forest behind, leaving the world in a hushed state, coated in a wash of gray and deep blue. The trees blurred together in the darkness, but the unicorns that grazed nearby were silhouetted against the forest, their white coats creating a striking contrast in the pale morning light. 

Above her, behind the paned glass dome, the stars still shone in the dusky firmament, along with a pearlescent moon, just a fraction less than full. Hermione heard the distant howling of werewolves in early transition, which reminded her of the legislation still sitting on her desk at the ministry, a new law proposed by the Wizengamot.

She was alone. Some nights during the week, she slept alone. Though Tom could use the mark to apparate to her, there was no way to apparate back. They had entreated Dumbledore to allow Tom to apparate into Hogwarts, but he had denied their request.

“Not even the headmaster is given the right to apparate directly onto the school grounds. It has been this way for over a thousand years. Exceptions cannot be made,” he said.

Of course, Tom could apparate to Hogsmeade, and often did, when he wasn’t laden with too many responsibilities, courtesy of Dumbledore.

This had been one such night. He had written her on the parchment, informing her that he would stay in his rooms at Hogwarts due to a late night of overseeing detentions, followed by a mandatory staff meeting the next morning.

Hermione sipped her tea primly, determined not to let his absence affect her focus.

Over the past nine years, their relationship had deepened and matured, but rather than feeling more satisfied, they both felt the incompleteness of the soul bond more acutely. It felt like an ache, the dull pain of an open wound. She fingered her engagement ring, letting its magic soothe, the aura around it winding its way into her heart, numbing the ache.

Hermione sighed, and turned away from the window to get dressed.

***********

Hermione’s heels clicked on the black, mirror-like floors of the ministry. Witches and wizards nodded and smiled in greeting as she passed them by on her way to her office.

She rounded the fountain in the center of the lobby, its statue a representation of wizards and muggles, arm in arm in cooperation with each other. The inherited side of the Wizengamot, namely the seats belonging to the sacred twenty-eight, had raised a huge stink about the commissioning of the statue, but Hermione, along with the elected side, had prevailed in the end.

Her robes were brilliant red, the neckline high and stiff, accented by gold buckles and jet black embroidery. She’d taken to wearing her hair braided and pulled up into a coil at the base of her neck, a few wispy tendrils left to frame her face.

Two department heads already waited in her office when she arrived. 

“Have you looked over the proposal yet?” pressed Nocturna Tuttle, head of the Being Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

Gaspard stood on one side of her office, by the sidebar, arms crossed and leaning with his back against the wall. His eyes met Hermione’s and he appeared to be holding back a smile.

Hermione gave him an exasperated look as she turned to Tuttle. “One wouldn’t even know the proposal had just hit my desk yesterday afternoon, what with the way you are all breathing down my neck!” 

“It is a full moon tonight, Minister. These things must be done quickly.”

“Must they?” Hermione asked, a hard glint in her eyes.

“If you don’t wish for more individuals to be bitten, then, yes.”

Hermione sighed in frustration.

Fenrir Greyback, a young werewolf only 19 years of age, had been two years ago infected with lycanthropy and was now on a rampage, biting children every full moon. Aurors and hit wizards had been pursuing him for months, but he had successfully evaded them at every turn.

His pack had decapitated one hit Wizard in the DMLE’s last attempt, and Reinhard Lestrange, prompted by Abraxas Malfoy, no doubt, had been using the incident for his anti-werewolf propaganda, successfully leveraging the attacks into a ghastly bill which severely limited the rights of all lycanthropes.

Of course, of course , he had waited to present the bill until the days preceding the full moon, arguing before the Wizengamot that more hit wizards would die, more children would be bitten.

The twenty-eight didn’t have the seats to pass the legislation, what with the death of Macnair, and with Rosier and Rowle, who’d only recently claimed their seats, being unwilling to vote with their peers, loyal to Riddle as they were.

It so happened that they didn’t need the seats, as even the representatives who straddled the fence in relation to blood purity matters, still greatly disliked werewolves and were loath to endanger more citizens of magical Britain. Lestrange and Nott had made emotional entreaties before the Wizengamot, and the bill passed the vote, to be sent to her desk for approval.

Hermione ground her teeth. Not only did the bill affect all werewolves, not just the offender in question, but it called for the removal of those werewolves from their jobs until the situation was in hand, requiring them to leave their homes and families to be contained in a ministry sanctioned reserve, and dictated that they should be given potions which would not only stem their urge to transition, but would render them unconscious for the entirety of the full moon, as well as four days before and the three days after. 

Most werewolves were already registered with the ministry, as law required, and were provided potions that they could consume to control their urges, if they so desired. Never were they forced to drink these brews, because the side effects could be rather heinous, making them sick, breaking them out in sweats and causing terrible hangovers for the week after. However, many werewolves still took them, rather than endanger their loved ones. Most werewolves were functioning members of society, after all, with careers and families. Most werewolves were victims , themselves.

Due to this new law, those families would lose valuable income, would be forced to live without their spouses, their mothers and fathers for nearly a week out of every month.

Not to mention that these werewolves weren’t even a threat. Greyback himself was the problem. All other volatile werewolves had been successfully captured and imprisoned for their crimes.

“It does not matter if these creatures appear to be no threat,” argued Lestrange from the podium. “Werewolves possess a pack mentality, each and every one of them. It is magically coded into their beings. It is nearly impossible for them to permanently refuse the call of their own kind. Eventually, these individuals will grow weary of the strictures placed on them by society. They will grow tired of their potions, of being forced to resist their primal urges, and they will heed the poisonous doctrine that Fenrir Greyback now espouses. He brainwashes his pack even now, convincing them to hate wizardkind, whom we all know is their superior in every way.”

“They will grow weary of the strictures placed upon them, you say?” said Hermione contemptuously from her Ministerial seat. “Yet you propose to place more regulations upon them. Makes perfect sense to me.”

She met the cold gazes of Malfoy, Nott, Travers, and Rowle.

“These animals cannot be allowed to roam free in our peace-loving society,” interjected Nott angrily. “They are a disease more dangerous than dragon pox, and must be treated as such, for the well-being of our wives and children. Make no mistake, Greyback intends a war upon magical people, and he will use any of his kind that he can pull to his side.”

Tuttle was just as bad as they were. A half-blood married to a wealthy American wizard from a family that was considered to be new money, she had recently adopted airs and sought to align herself with the purebloods. It disgusted Hermione, as she knew they would never accept her. They certainly would pretend to her face, even as they mocked her behind closed doors.

Remus flashed to the forefront of her mind as Hermione took up the detailed proposal from the top of her desk, holding it up with a wry smile. “I will send for your legislative committee once I have had a chance to review the bill, Nocturna. You may go.”

Tuttle huffed and spun on her heel, retreating through the heavy wood doors.

Hermione sighed, her gaze flicking to Gaspard’s as she took her seat. His blue eyes were both laughing and apologetic. 

“Forgive me, Minister,” he said apologetically as he pushed off from the wall, walking purposefully to the seat in front of her desk. “I thought I would catch you this morning before you were too heavily set upon, but alas, it seems she saw me unlock your office and took her chance.”

“Of course, she did.” Hermione dropped the file down on the desk and sunk into her seat. “You know this bill is bollocks.”

“I know it.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Any new developments?”

He twisted his lips to the side, folding his hands over his chest as he leaned back in the seat. “I’m doing my best. We have a trail on them, but it seems the Wizard he infected last month has been enlisted to cast the Fidelius charm upon their camp. They are careful when they move. They only send out their recently turned muggle victims when they need to. They await the full moon.”

She tapped her nails on the file. “I don’t want you to lose any more fighters, Gaspard.” She began to open the file. 

Gaspard leaned forward, placing his hand on the folder, preventing her from opening it. Their eyes met. “When they move, we will capture him. We have convinced several werewolves to help us. They will parley with him, and if necessary, act as bait. We have a plan, Hermione. But there is something I need to ask of you.”

He used to call her Dumbledore, when she was one of his aurors.

Now, he only addressed her by her title or her given name. Never Riddle.

She had not heard that name leave his lips once in the past nine years. 

Her eyes fell on his hand, which rested on top of the file. “What do you need?”

He shook his head. “Werewolves everywhere are afraid. Ollivander’s assistant, whom he hired at your behest, has offered us his aid, along with several others, but… only if the bill doesn’t pass. I don’t blame them. I know you’re under pressure, but it is in the best interest of Britain if you delay your review of this legislation… at least until the moon has passed. I just need time, and we need their aid. Otherwise, these werewolves will be angry about the new regulations being imposed on them, and might even join Greyback as a result.” A muscle in his jaw jumped, his eyes growing hard. 

Hermione took a deep breath. “Which is probably what they want, as we both know. The more werewolves that join him, the more ammunition they’ll have against their kind. The Lestrange’s, the Notts, the Malfoys, and all the rest… they don’t simply want regulation in place, they want werewolves annihilated, driven from Britain, made to live like scavengers. This is all part of their plan.”

Gaspard nodded gravely. “I know that citizens are scared. I know this puts you in a bad position. You’re expected to send the bill through, before the moon, without contest. Otherwise, fear will reign. There will be unrest.”

“It’s alright, Gaspard,” she said reassuringly, laying her hand over his. “I will hold a press conference. You will have the time you need, and I’ll handle the people of Great Britain. I’m Hermione Riddle,” she laughed. “I can handle it, I promise.”

He nodded absentmindedly, his blue eyes flicking to where her hand rested over his, something foreign clouding his gaze.

She pulled back of a sudden, slipping the file from beneath his hand. “I’ll take care of it, Gaspard. Just go. Prepare your team for tonight.”

He gave a curt nod and stood. He lingered for a moment, before turning to leave.

Hermione didn’t look up as he walked out.

************

“We must follow due process,” Minister Riddle announced, amid a lightning storm of flashes from magical cameras. “It is unfortunate that this bill was proposed in such close proximity to the full moon. There is little time to ensure that the laws and provisions in the proposal are sound and aim for the benefit of all citizens of magical Britain. Not only that, but this bill directly conflicts with the strategic plans of the DMLE and as such, I will be making amendments to the bill and it will be presented to the Wizengamot for a secondary review, sometime next week.” Cameras flashed again, followed by a flurry of questions. Hermione held up her hand to silence the reporters. “In the meantime, citizens of London and surrounding areas will be offered increased protection by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Your safety is our number one priority.”

“How can you say that?” asked an enraged journalist, a young man from the crowd. “When werewolves still walk freely among us?”

Hermione’s eyes grew cold, and the man shrunk back as her chilling gaze came to rest upon him. “And they have walked among us, for many years, following our rules and our ordinances without complaint. There is only one werewolf who deserves the blame for this, as we know, but you all seem to have lost sight of that.” Hermione looked directly at the cameras, a determined set to her jaw. “Fenrir Greyback… You should surrender now.  We are coming for you, and we will not be lenient.”

*********

Tom held the object close to his heart, tucked into the front of his robes as he ran through the snow.

He wanted to kill the witch, but she possessed so many powerful magical objects, a few of which he’d already stolen over the past several months, that he decided he wasn’t quite ready to bury her with them yet.

He’d gained a mountain of valuable information from her while under polyjuice, after all. She was a shrewd and powerful witch, but liked her liquor too much, to Tom’s advantage.

He felt the thrill of stealing just as he’d felt it as a boy. Two curses flew by his head in flashes of green and red.

Tom gritted his teeth, then whipped around, his cape curling menacingly around him, his bone-like yew wand outstretched, like an extension of his pale arm, and he shot a curse at his assailant.

He heard her shriek of anger and a ripple of triumph shot down his spine. He took the momentary reprieve to pull out his pocketwatch and check the time as he turned and fled.

Bloody hell, he thought. I’m going to be late for class.

He tore through a forest in the wilderness of the Soviet Union, dragonhide boots crunching through the snow. Twigs scratched at his face and ripped his slicked back hair out of place as he headed directly for the apparation point.

Russian witches were a different breed, Tom had realized. Red witches , they were called. Known for their practice of the dark arts, their necromancy, but more than anything, their intimate acquaintance with blood magic.

Tom was almost to the border when he heard a familiar zing! The sound pierced the air, permeated by a magical frequency which he was attuned to by now. He spun about, wand drawn to find the witch several yards behind, an enchanted knife in her hand, and her pale arm visible from beneath her fur-trimmed robes.

He saw the cut, the steady stream of ruby red blood seeping from the gash and falling to the snow below, staining the bright canvas.

Her hair was white, eyebrows white, eyes blue as the sky above. A threatening smile curled her lips as her blood drained from the cut.

“Fuck,” Tom hissed in parseltongue.

He launched himself at the border just as a black plague shot forth from her mouth. It flew through the air toward Tom, but he turned and waved his wand in a complex movement, diffusing the curse, taking hold of it, even as he sensed its intent, its purpose, willing it to return to its caster. 

Red witches used blood to strengthen their spells, and the blade, a tool which they always carried on their persons, had been enchanted to heal their wounds after the magic was complete.

Blood strengthens magic, though it weakens the vessel. As with all dark magic, it takes in order to give.

With a violent slashing movement, the witch disarmed the curse, then shouted an incantation which Tom recognized as the blood boiling curse. 

With time ticking away, he lifted his hand and wand simultaneously, both blocking her curse and casting the torture curse in one swift movement.

His cruciatus ripped from his wand and connected with his target, bringing her to her knees with a bloodcurdling scream.

Fucking slavic witches , he thought poisonously. 

In the very same instant that she fell into the snow, kicking and writhing beneath the force of his curse, he retreated backwards until he felt the magical forcefield of the anti-apparation wards dissipate.

Then, he turned on his heel and apparated away.

***********

Tom appeared on the path to Hogsmeade.

He checked his pocket watch again.

“Fucking salazar,” he spat in irritation. 

He wanted to simply fly back to Hogwarts but he didn’t want to alert anyone to the fact that he could perform that specific feat of magic.

So he ran, cheeks flushed and scratched, hair disturbed and curling over his forehead, snow dusting his cape.

He made his way back to the castle and tore through the Great Hall, which was now nearly empty as breakfast was finished.

He made his way to the staircase and ascended it hastily, making his way to the Defense tower. 

Some ten minutes later, he crashed through the heavy wooden door, slamming it behind him.

All eyes were upon him as he stalked to the front of the classroom, shaking the snow from his cape.

“Open your books to page four hundred and eleven.”

He whipped off his cape, straightened his robes, and turned to face the class.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the barrage of questions began.

“Why are you late?”

“Were you in the forest?”

“Did you just leave a duel?”

“Why is your face all scratched up, Professor?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, meeting his students one by one. Many of them shrunk back, slumping down in their seats nervously. 

He flicked his wand, fixing his hair and healing the cuts on his face. Then, he took a deep breath as he adjusted his sleeve cuffs. “Yes, I was in a duel.”

“With who?” asked a young man from the front row.

“A dark witch.”

“Why were you fighting her?” asked a blonde girl. 

He blinked. “If you do not practice, you will lose your touch. Now, I would like to teach you all how to reverse dark curses, but Dumbledore would go to an early grave if I did, so I will teach you all a very boring and theoretical knowledge of the dangers of blood magic. Open your books, it was not a suggestion.”

The slytherin boys in the back snickered, whispering barbs about how Dumbledore in an early grave would be ideal, because they’d finally win the house cup.

Tom’s lips twitched, and he did not reprimand them.

As the sounds of pages turning echoed through the classroom, Tom turned to his desk and withdrew the object from within his robes. He slipped it into the top drawer of his desk and flicked his wand, locking it.

Then, he withdrew his roll of parchment and dipped his quill in the inkwell.

Good morning, wife,

I doubt you slept well without me to hold you, but I promise to remedy that problem soon enough. In the meantime, I need you to stop by my office today. The matter is urgent, and relates to your wolf infestation.

I think you will be pleased with my solution.

Waiting eagerly,

LV

P.S. What are you wearing?

Chapter Text

Hermione milled about Tom’s office, and his eyes followed her, drinking in every detail. 

He reclined, sitting low in his chair, both hands resting on the armrests. Hermione’s presence here instantly calmed his raging nerves. She was quite busy of late with her duties at the ministry, and though Tom wished he could help her solve many of her political quandaries, if for no other reason than to free up more of her time, she often didn’t allow him to interfere.

He didn’t necessarily blame her. She didn’t want to anger Dufresne, and Tom would likely end up killing or maiming more than a few people, which she and her co-worker frowned upon .

Tom slumped down into his seat, resting his head back against the tall chair in his office. He closed his eyes, running his hand over his eyelids, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He was tired.

Not only had he spent half the night in Murmansk, on the Kola Peninsula, engaging in questionable activities, but he was overburdened with responsibilities.

Dumbledore no doubt knew that Tom had been practicing dark magic. He could probably sense the sinister energy leaching from Tom’s person, and sought to distract him.

He’d removed Slughorn as head of Slytherin house and appointed Tom instead.

He was now in charge of Slytherin detention, and he’d never realized how much fucking detention Slytherins were given until now. 

Sure, they deserved it… part of the time. As ever, Dumbledore was harder on Slytherin, and more lenient with Gryffindor house.

Some evenings Tom got done with his lessons late and opted to sleep in his apartment at Hogwarts. Dumbledore had loaded him up with classes, clubs, and between being head of house and being forced to deal with constant visits from Slughorn, Tom was frequently knackered.

Even juggling his job at Borgin and Burkes, Hermione, and his death eaters hadn’t seemed to suck up as much time as his teaching position at Hogwarts.

“How has your week been?” she asked, running her hands over the spines of several new books in his bookcase.

“Productive,” he muttered. “Though I can’t stand all these twits giving me moon eyes all day.”

Hermione chuckled. “I would be giving you moon eyes if you were my professor, as well.”

Tom snorted. “I highly doubt that. You’d be the insufferable rebel determined to make my life hell. As you are now, ironically. I have no reason to believe you would be different as a student.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

He grinned, his dark eyes fixed on her face, heat flooding his body despite his exhaustion. “Seamlessly, darling. Though to my good fortune, you are eager to please, which is an admirable quality.”

She turned to him and leaned back against the bookshelf, chewing on her bottom lip. “How can I please you today , Professor?”

Tom’s eyebrow rose sharply, and he stood in one fluid motion, suddenly not very tired at all.

She smiled sweetly at him as he strode forward, measuring his strides, willing himself to be slow, to take his time, even though he wanted nothing better than to fuck her face against that bookshelf.

There was nothing Tom loved more than the Minister for Magic on her knees.

She fell back against the shelves as he closed in, lifting his hand to wrap his fingers around her throat. He covered her mouth with his own, swiping his tongue over her bottom lip. She released a shaky sigh. 

His other arm snaked around her waist, jerking her against him. He was hard against her stomach, pulse racing, maddening heat spreading through his body.

She broke the kiss to whisper, out of breath, “I missed you.”

His dark eyes clouded with lust as he gazed down at her. “Did you?”

She nodded, her eyes meeting his, then they fell to his mouth. 

He leaned down to kiss her again, his hands finding her wrists, long, pale fingers wrapping around, holding them securely against the shelves beside her head.

His lips left hers to seek out the expanse of her throat, tongue tasting the adrenaline and salt of her skin, feeling the furious beating of her pulse through her jugular. 

“Hermione,” he whispered against her neck. 

Her breathing was tremulous, but she paused to murmur, “You have class soon, don’t you?”

He stopped short, as if suddenly remembering, then backed away with a growl. “Unfortunately.”

His hands still stayed locked around her wrists. “I don’t suppose, “I was needed urgently by the Minister” would work on Dumbledore?”

She laughed. “I doubt it. I think he’s onto our antics since we traumatized the portraits in his office.”

He pressed his tongue against his inner cheek, eyes blazing red with irritation. “Nigellus deserved it.”

“Why did you ask me to come?” she asked, examining his face.

“To fuck, of course. I knew I had to lure you with some work nonsense.” He reached into his robes and withdrew a cigarette. He shoved it between his lips and muttered around the fag, “You took too bloody long.”

“I was at Azkaban!” she exclaimed incredulously, holding back laughter. “I didn’t get your note until hours later.”

“Always with the excuses,” he spat, without an ounce of venom in his tone. “As it stands, Dufresne sees my wife more than I do-“

“Oh, shutup, you fool,” she laughed, leaning in to kiss him once more. “It was you who left me alone all night.”

He smirked. “For good reason, though.”

“Oh?”

His smirk curved into a grin. Cigarette spilling smoke, resting between his fingers, he waved a hand at his desk. “Top drawer.”

Her eyebrows rose, curiosity shining in her eyes. She crossed to the desk and unlocked the drawer with her wand. She opened it and stared into the drawer, her brows furrowed. “What is this?”

“Take a look at it.”

She reached into the drawer, producing what appeared to be a large pearl, twice the size of a snitch, like a moon that could fit in her palm. Etched into the iridescent sphere appeared to be a quasi-runic script. 

“Are these… Germanic runes?”

Tom nodded, pleased. “I believe they are an offshoot from the ancestral home of modern runic families, traced back to the Northern country of Hyperborea. It’s a Slavic inscription.”

Hermione eyed the object, turning it over in her hands carefully. “What is its purpose?”

“It has an ancient name, but in the modern tongue, it’s called a phase breaker. Its magic is capable of interfering with the astral zone in a precise geographical location, halting the gravitational pull of the moon… essentially, it was created by Slavic witches to stop the transitioning of werewolves. There’s a slew of werewolves in Russia, thanks to all that wilderness. Easy for them to roam and hide.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Where did you get this?”

Tom flicked his eyes to hers, then ran his tongue over his teeth. “Might’ve paid a visit to the Soviet last night.”

“You went to Russia without telling me?”

He didn’t answer.

She heaved a deep breath. “I’m assuming this was a dangerous excursion.”

“It required a tiny duel. Nothing to speak of. If it was truly dangerous, I would’ve told you.” He looked down at the object in her hands. “Didn’t want to get your hopes up in case it didn’t actually exist.”

“How is it used?”

She watched as he reached behind her, his adept fingers trailing over the books on the shelves until he plucked a small book from the shelf. “This contains the only knowledge about the artifact that I have found.” 

Hermione took the book. “You’re suggesting that I use this on Greyback’s pack?”

His jaw muscles rippled. “You will probably want to give it to Dufresne. Whatever ambush they are planning, the object should prevent the pack from phasing, if used correctly. It will prevent more infections as well, if the ambush should fail for any reason.”

Hermione rubbed her lips together. “Look at you, helping Gaspard. Such growth.”

His eyes narrowed. “ You . Not Dufresne. He can get bitten for all I care… you can tell him I said that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, plucking the cigarette from between his lips and lifting it to her own. “And I was just about to thank you, pledge my undying gratitude.”

He smirked, watching as she exhaled smoke. “You can thank me tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked sarcastically, flicking the ash away and vanishing it midair. “Are you coming home tonight? Or will you be in South America tracking down the fountain of youth?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “How did you know I’m looking for it?”

“ Merlin ,” she huffed. 

She started to push him away, but his arms encircled her waist, pulling her tight against his chest.

“What should you say to me, little witch?”

She bit her lip, fighting a smile. “Thank you.”

“Mmm,” he nodded, a deep sound of approval coming from his chest. “I will tell you next time.”

“Yes, you will.”

He kissed her again. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She looked down at his trousers and cleared her throat loudly. “You had better get rid of that before you barge into class, or the girls will really be giving you moon eyes.”

**********

Torquil Travers’ voice boomed through Courtroom Ten, echoing in the vast chamber, which was lined with cascading seats, seats which were filled with the representatives of the Wizengamot.

“Azkaban prison has stood since the 15th century,” He said authoritatively. “The breaches that occurred nearly a decade ago were naught but an anomaly. The prison walls had not been breached for hundreds of years, and they have not been breached since. For all we know, one of the guards could have been bribed, perhaps obliviated. There are many things that could have gone wrong, and if the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was doing its job… ” He looked pointedly at Dufresne, who stood near the Minister’s podium. “Then the case would have been solved years ago. I assure you, things would have gone very differently if they had taken place under my authority.”

Torquil Travers had been head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement before Gaspard took over the office. He had overseen the war with Grindelwald, and many were on the fence as to whether he had been effective in the position.

No one questioned how dramatically Dufresne had changed the auror department, and Travers sorely despised the comparison.

“How fortunate that nothing like this ever happened during your time as department head, Mr. Travers,” Hermione quipped. “It is easier to make baseless claims that way, is it not?”

Travers scowled at Hermione. 

Nobby Leach spoke up, a young politician who claimed one of the elected seats. “The fact remains, Mr. Travers, that the prison is ineffective. Not only was it breached once, but twice, and the guards were replaced after each breakout. The theory that the guards were bribed has been debunked. Dementors are dark creatures, and have no true loyalties. That makes for a liability that Britain cannot risk.”

“Not only that,” interjected Hermione, “But the majority of prisoners housed within Azkaban’s walls are not maximum security prisoners. Subjecting common thieves and petty criminals to the torture of Dementors, even for short periods of time, is inhumane. There should be a prison with graded annexes to fit the severity of the crimes.”

“And where, pray tell, will the Ministry get the gold for such a venture?” Travers sneered.

Hermione smiled cheerily. “I’m sure we can find it in the vast sum that I’ve saved the country by placing Gringotts under ministry control. In fact,” she looked to Griselda Marchbanks, a Wizengamot elder who oversaw both the Wizarding Examinations Authority and the Ministry Financial Regulation Committee. “Shall I read off the numbers of our annual budget in comparison to the year I took office? It was something dreadful back then, I recall. By cutting funding to lobbyist groups and lowering the outrageous amount of provisions given to quidditch teams for their recruitment ventures, we have managed to save quite a sum of gold for things that actually do matter. In addition, with the help of my event committee, we have plans to transform all Ministry galas and banquets this year into fundraising opportunities for donors to support the causes that matter most to the people of magical Britain… such as, a safe and humane prison, for example.”

He glared at her, and let out something like a snort. “And magical orphanages as well, I’d wager?” His piercing green eyes glinted as Mulciber chuckled softly in the background. “I daresay we all know why that cause is so near and dear to your heart.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, finding it quite amusing that they never seemed to have the gumption to mention Tom specifically. 

She stared back at him icily, schooling her face into a blank mask. “It certainly is. Not all children have the privilege of being born into generational wealth, like yourself, to parents that dote upon them. All children deserve to be cared for.”

“You mean muggleborns.”

“I think she means half-bloods ,” shot Parkinson from his seat. There were snickers from the inherited seats of the Wizengamot.

Hermione despised the days when she had to sit and suffer these pompous pricks. She’d grown weary of this courtroom.

She never told Tom what went on in that hall. He would probably torture more than a few purebloods if he knew.

She gave them her coldest stare, then went on, “I will disregard your comments about blood purity, as it certainly does not have any bearing upon any matter that has or will ever be brought up in this courtroom. Do bear in mind that you all,” she gazed at the wizards in the inherited seats, “frequently complain about the dangers that muggleborns present to the statute of secrecy. A magical orphanage will only serve to alleviate part of that problem, as a magical child with no parents is more of a danger to themselves and others, particularly if left to grow up around muggles with their magic untempered. They are also more likely to develop an obscurus , which, as you know, is a tremendous danger to both the muggle and wizarding world.”

The room was deadly silent.

“I don’t suppose you have thought of that,” Hermione continued. “Now, as to the Azkaban argument, which has already dragged on for far too long as it is, I adjure each and every member of this governing body to visit the prison, if one has not already done so. Then, you will truly see the harsh conditions that prisoners are subjected to, the filth and the torture that has driven many prisoners mad.”

As she spoke, her eyes met those of Abraxas Malfoy. For a moment, she thought she almost detected a hint of regret in those silver eyes, but just as quickly as it appeared, it faded, to be replaced with frigid contempt.

Hermione took a deep breath. “It has been over three hundred years since Minister Eldritch Diggory held office, but his legacy still remains as one of the greatest Ministers that Great Britain had ever had. He was of the mind that Azkaban was inhumane, shockingly so, and had formed a committee to investigate alternatives. I have been able to access his personal journals and have located the sketches of his own magical architect. I motion to set a date for a hearing in which we shall present the facts, a detailed analysis of the protective spellwork and runestones which are currently being used in the prison, and I call for an examination of the files pertinent to the investigation of the breaches, namely the interrogation of the prison guards, if you would be so kind as to provide them, Mr. Dufresne.” She flicked her eyes to Gaspard, and he answered with a nod.

“Very good,” Hermione said conclusively. “If this governing body should decide to pursue alternative measures for retaining prisoners, even if only partially or temporarily, I will convene with my Undersecretary and Representative Leach…” She met the gaze of Nobby Leach, whom she remembered had become the first Muggle-Born Minister for Magic, in her timeline. But he had been removed from office by the actions of none other than Abraxas Malfoy, the snake.

She vowed that would never happen to any of her successors if she had any say in it.

“…and a committee will be formed to determine what measures should be taken going forward.” She glanced down at the scroll unfurling before her. “Will anyone second the motion?

“I second the motion,” said Leach, lifting a finger.

“And I,” said Zelda Hopkirk with a nod.

Hermione slammed the gavel down. “You will be informed by owl post once the date of the hearing is set. Good day to you all.”

Hermione quickly disengaged and descended the steps from the podium, passing by Gaspard, whose eyes were fixed on the floor.

“Mr. Dufresne,” she said, turning back. “May I see you in my office? I have some information that is pertinent to your investigation.”

He nodded stoically, and followed her out of the courtroom.

Chapter Text

Tom sat in Dumbledore’s office, reclining comfortably in the seat across from the headmaster.  

He pulled out his cigarette case, a tin of pure silver, engraved, a birthday present from Hermione, and slid a cigarette from it. 

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Dumbledore gazed at him with patient eyes. “No, I don’t mind, Tom.”

Tom stuck the cigarette between his lips, inclining his head a fraction. “Good. Because last time, you did.”

Dumbledore exhaled softly. 

Tom was very good at reading his father-in-law’s moods. When he wanted to lecture Tom, Dumbledore usually didn’t mind his smoking.

However, if the meeting was regarding something minuscule and relatively unimportant, then Dumbledore usually minded it greatly, nevermind that the older wizard often smoked full pipes of Veela leaves in his office and drifted off to Olympus twice a week.

Tom supposed it was the headmaster’s way of manipulating him, by allowing him to have the small vice in order to make him more receptive to Dumbledore’s criticism.

Tom stared at the wizard across from him knowingly, his marbled red eyes flickering with humor.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of being summoned, Albus?”

Dumbledore waited a moment before he spoke, something he always did. It irritated Tom, who felt it was surely his method of taking control of the situation. 

“Care for some sherbet lemon, Tom?”

He brought his cigarette to his lips. “No, thank you.”

Dumbledore indulged himself, then sat back, running his fingers along the tip of his gray-speckled auburn beard, which had begun to grow longer. “I’ve been told you’ve been in communication with a friend of mine, an Irish wizard by the name of Ronan Bigley.”

“I have.”

“He tells me you’ve been seeking his expertise. He was a Hogwarts alum, by the way. Graduated a few years my senior.”

“I’m aware.”

Dumbledore popped another lemon in his mouth. “He went on to continue his education at a Bardic wizarding school where he was awarded the Ollamh . I’m sure you know that it is a prestigious vestige of the old order of the Druid priests, a title that has been well preserved over centuries. He’s considered a master in dream weaving and incubational divination.”

“I am aware of this also.”

Dumbledore met his eyes at last. “Is there a reason you’re seeking his knowledge?”

“There is.”

The room was silent for a stretch, save for the cawing of a freshly reborn Fawkes.

Dumbledore continued, “He tells me you were asking about the Book of Ballymote and the Galdrabok.”

“I was.”

“Is there something in particular that you’re looking for?”

Tom sucked in a drag through the cigarette, then leveled Dumbledore with a blank stare.

“There is.”

“Do you mind if I ask what that might be?”

Tom tensed. Dumbledore was particularly nosy and Tom preferred to keep his studies and academic pursuits private.

The issue was… Dumbledore knew everyone .

It was almost impossible to get anything past him, as everyone seemed to be positively itching to divulge any bit of information they possessed to Dumbledore. Sure, Tom respected Dumbledore, but he also hated that other people respected him, to ungodly levels.

He supposed that tends to happen when one single-handedly ends a war.

Irritation speared through Tom’s gut. He would rather start wars than end them.

Tom also knew that the Galdrabok contained many dark spells and if he didn’t tell Dumbledore the truth, the old wizard would think he was practicing even more dark magic than he was.

And Tom was practicing a lot of it already.

Tom cleared his throat. “I’m interested in imbas forisnaì , a spell which induces a lucid-dreaming state.”

A wrinkle appeared between the Headmaster’s brows. “That is dark magic.”

“It’s not a curse.”

“No, but it requires blood, which classifies it as a dark spell. There are also many things that can go wrong, it is a nuanced type of magic that requires years of practice.”

Tom’s lips turned up fractionally. “I think you underestimate the kind of nuanced magic that I’ve already partaken of.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes met his crimson ones. “You’re wrong about that, Tom. I am laboring under no delusions about your use of dark magic. Anyone within a six foot radius of you can detect as much.”

“Can they?” Tom sucked a long drag deep into his lungs, savoring the taste and the effect of the smoke.

“Anyone with a certain degree of magical skill, yes. Someone familiar with dark magic and its subtleties.”

“As you are?”

Dumbledore nodded. “In theory. We must all know a measure about the tactics and spellwork of dark wizards… because, as it happens, they do not cease to continue rising up and trying to take over the world.” He smiled and his eyes flicked to the magical calendar on his wall. “I’m sure there will be another to come along in oh, ten years or so.”

Tom smirked, but his eyes narrowed a fraction. Dumbledore often liked to compare him to his predecessors, lumping him in with other dark wizards, though there were truly none to match his power.

The older wizard had no idea what Tom was capable of.

In nine years, they’d had yet to duel. Tom wondered if that was by choice.

Dumbledore waved his wand, causing Tom to stiffen. 

The cabinet to Tom’s right opened, and two crystal glasses floated toward them, followed by a decanter of firewhiskey.

“Care for a drink, Tom?”

“No, sir.”

At Dumbledore’s inquisitive gaze, Tom added, “I’m meeting someone for drinks after this.”

“Ahh,” Dumbledore replied, and with a swish of his wand, he transformed the firewhiskey into brandy. “Speaking of knowing the theory of dark curses and how to fight against them… it has also come to my attention that you informed a student of where they might find a particular dark spell. In a book called Witchery for the Wicked , which is currently banned from the Hogwarts Library.”

Tom blinked slowly. “That book also contains a historical account of the origin of said dark curses, which is quite a fascinating bit of knowledge.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, seeming gravely concerned. “Students receive their instruction here, in a safe and controlled environment. They are too young, their minds are too impressionable to be influenced by such disturbing reading material. Many of those books not only contain dark spells, but are saturated with the very blackest magic. They are cursed books, designed to seduce the reader. We cannot put those kinds of things in the hands of children.”

Tom flicked the ash from his cigarette and turned his smoldering ruby eyes on Dumbledore as he replied, “If we do not introduce these things to them, particularly when they ask about them, they will go and seek it for themselves. I am a prime example of that.” He leaned forward, looking Dumbledore in the eye. “At least this way, they feel comfortable discussing it, comfortable asking questions. That is your real opportunity to teach, to guide them. Otherwise, they will just sneak around and learn it anyway, and they won’t trust you enough to tell you, for fear that you’ll scold them… for fear you’ll tell them their interests are deviant and depraved. Gryffindors might blindly follow your strict moral code, but Slytherins will have a mind of their own.”

The silence in the room was heavy with tension. Dumbledore heaved a deep breath, gazing back at Tom. 

“Not all students are like you, Tom. You have an alarmingly high tolerance for the use of such kinds of magic. Perhaps your blood is to blame for that.”

Tom tilted his head. “I thought you preach that blood has no bearing on magical ability?”

“In most cases, no. But in some cases, yes.”

Tom’s jaw cocked to the side, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I find that very interesting.”

Dumbledore smiled gently. “I don’t know why it would shock you to hear me say it. I never said you were more valuable than others. However, some wizarding bloodlines do carry special… predispositions, shall we say? For instance, you are a parseltongue, are you not? An inherited magical trait. The Black family as well,” he said as he pointed up to the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, who shot Tom a disgusted grimace. “They have an affinity for astral magic.” Dumbledore glanced at the phoenixes upon their perch. “Even we Dumbledores take a special liking to elemental magic, fire… water… etcetera.” 

Tom smirked. “And you think I’m particularly predisposed to the use of dark magic?”

Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, folding his hands. “Possibly. Like someone else I once knew.”

Tom snorted, and whipped out another cigarette. “Grindelwald, you mean.”

Dumbledore nodded.

“I wonder why you use the past tense. Last I checked, he’s still alive.”

Dumbledore’s gaze was both searching and savage, a cruel gleam in his eyes that only comes from experiencing bitter heartbreak and loss.

“I knew him once, Tom. But the use of dark magic, and in particular, the act of murder , destroys a person from the inside out. Their mind becomes fractured. Suspicion and paranoia reigns. The darkness makes it impossible to see clearly…” 

Load of bollocks .

“… and Gellert murdered thousands of people.”

Tom refused to follow the old man into his theories and philosophical musings about his former lover.

“Hermione uses dark magic,” Tom said, baiting Dumbledore. “Did you know?”

Dumbledore’s eyes hardened. Several moments passed before he replied, “I would hope, for her sake, that you are not encouraging her to do so.”

Tom crossed his ankle over his knee as he sucked in a drag. His eyes flicked to Dumbledore as he expelled the smoke, allowing it to fall from his mouth as it curled around him. “She’s in good hands, don’t fret, Headmaster. Although… I think we both know that she does what she wants to do.”

“As do you.”

“As do I.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Well, fortunately, she does have some bearing on what you do. She seems to have a way of steering you in the right direction.”

Tom did laugh at that. He laughed quite soundly.

Dumbledore was not amused.

Tom’s lips curved into a grin as he put out his cigarette. “She’s my soulmate, Headmaster. What do you expect?”

“Is that why you’ve been in contact with Mr. Bigley?”

Tom stopped smiling. “Perhaps.”

Dumbledore nodded pensively. “Well… the bull-dream spell and the imbas ritual are detailed in the Book of Ballymote, yes, but what of the Galdrabok?”

Tom took a deep breath. He had not wanted the headmaster to know that he was searching for the Icelandic grimoire, an ancient spellbook written by four witches and wizards of unknown identity. “It contains a spell that I need.” His cheek muscles tensed. “For the soul bond ritual.”

Dumbledore nodded again, then leaned forward, hands folded on his desk. “I wish you would have felt comfortable coming to me, rather than seeking out Bigley.”

“Why?”

He eyed Tom through his spectacles. “Because I know precisely where the Galdrabok is.”

***********

Tom entered the Hog’s Head Inn, casting a drying charm to clear his boots and cape of snow, then made his way toward the bar.

The place was nearly empty, save for an unfriendly looking wizard who almost always sat in the back booth most evenings. Aberforth called him Nick.

“Evening, Tom,” grunted Aberforth as he wiped down the bar with a dirty rag. Tom stared blankly at it, wondering if he’d ever washed it, or if he merely kept it lying around to give the appearance that he did, in fact, wipe the tables.

“Good evening yourself.”

Tom covertly scourgified the bar, followed by the entire room. He often wondered why Aberforth didn’t bother doing so himself. Perhaps, it reminded him of being with the goats he was so fond of, or maybe he liked that the filth kept too many people from frequenting his establishment. He could only handle a few patrons at a time, as antisocial as he was.

Tom, too, could be antisocial, when he was in a mood, so he and Aberforth got along swimmingly. Over the years, they had formed a kind of begrudging friendship, primarily centered around their contempt for Albus.

Tom sat down and Aberforth immediately handed him a mug of ale. Tom wasn’t averse to ale. It was cheap, and he’d had his fair share of it when he was young and poor, but he much preferred an aged glass of Ogden’s to ale now. 

Still, it was Aberforth’s preferred drink, so he suffered the taste whenever he visited the pub.

Tom took the mug with an eyebrow lifted, a look of aggravation still staining his features.

Aberforth chuckled. “What did my brother do now?”

“Oh, the usual,” he muttered, tipping the mug back. He took a drink and then pulled his cigarettes out. He slipped one out of the case, then another, holding it out to Aberforth. “Lucky strike?”

“Lucky strikes!” Aberforth exclaimed, taking the fag from Tom. “Muggle, aren’t they? I haven’t had one of these in years.”

Tom’s brows lifted to his hairline. “You know about these? They’re actually difficult to come by now.”

Aberforth grunted. “Of course, I know o’ these. Question is, where did you come to know of ‘em?”

Tom blinked twice. “I used to steal them off a man that the orphanage matron used to fuck in her office on Tuesdays.”

Aberforth roared with laughter.

Tom watched him, blank faced, but the crimson streaks in his black eyes glittered with amusement.

“What about you?”

Aberforth sobered. “I, uh… used to see a girl, years ago. Her brother used to smoke ‘em.” He looked uncomfortable. “Muggle, she was. Fine arse, that one. Speaking of arses…” He gestured to a group of people entering the pub, pointing furtively at the blonde witch among them. “Look at the arse on that one.”

Tom smirked, but didn’t turn around to look. He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Hermione told him often to stop smoking, but he hadn’t been able to break the habit. 

Aberforth cleared his throat, continuing to push the dirt around with his filthy rag. “Good, good. You passed.” He began to fill mugs of ale for the new guests. “One of these days, I’ll catch you off guard, and the Minister will send you packing to Azkaban.”

“You think so?” Tom loosened his black tie, eyeing his companion dubiously. 

Aberforth left to serve the ale to the group that had seated themselves by the hearth and then returned, a deep frown wrinkling his forehead.

“You know, after five years of trying and failing, I suppose it’s doubtful.” 

Tom’s lips twitched. “Sorry to disappoint you, my friend.” He took another swig of ale. “The Minister’s arse has no equal.”

Aberforth made a genuinely disgusted face. “Didn’t need to know that.”

Tom chuckled. “Stop trying to test me then.”

Aberforth came around the bar and took the seat beside Tom. “I’ll take that cigarette.”

Tom reached into his robe’s pocket and handed him one. 

Aberforth lit the fag with a flick of his wand and inhaled. “How do you come by these, I wonder?”

“Do you have a house elf?”

“Does it look like I have a house elf?” 

Tom cut his eyes around the cluttered, dusty room, then conceded with a nod. “They’re American. It’s easy for a house elf to get them. I used to have Malf- an old schoolmate’s elf get them for me. Now, Piksy finds them.”

Aberforth chuckled to himself. He liked Piksy. After all, she did often stop by to help him clean, which irritated him greatly, but he never ran her off, because he liked her company.

“Did you know Roosevelt smokes these?”

Tom cocked a brow. “No, I didn’t. I’m not abreast of muggle politicians, much less American ones.”

Aberforth shrugged. “One hears all kinds of talk around here. People act like I don’t exist, or like I’m hard of hearing.”

Tom smiled. “They just know you’re a cantankerous git who’d rather pull his own teeth out than gossip.”

The wizard grunted, then tipped back his mug of ale. The amber liquid dribbled down both sides of his handlebar mustache.

He slammed the mug down on the bar.

“So what did my lovely brother do to you?”

Tom laughed caustically through his nose. “He’s got me running around Hogwarts like a bloody errand boy.”

“Sounds like him. Always got tasks for everyone else to do… the more impossible the better.”

Tom chuckled again, the ale coursing through his veins. 

Tom was surprised, as was everyone else, that he liked Aberforth. He found the older wizard’s dry sense of humor and blunt demeanor refreshing. Since he was Dumbledore’s brother, he knew him better than most, and seemed to be immune to seeing Albus as the savior that most people imagined him to be.

He was family, and family saw the best and worst of each other. He knew Albus well, the good and the bad.

Tom had never known what that was like, family , being known by someone so intimately. Hermione was his first experience of that sort, and it was a heady brew.

He liked the closeness, though he’d never longed for it before he met her.

Tom and Aberforth occasionally dueled out behind the inn, beside the goats enclosure, when they’d both imbibed a generous amount of ale and Tom knew Hermione would be tied up at the Ministry into the later hours of the day.

Of course, he didn’t use the darker curses he had in his repertoire, as Aberforth was understandably averse to dark magic, but he found him an interesting enough dueling partner. He was, at least, surprisingly unpredictable, and more powerful than he would’ve guessed, but Tom supposed that was due to his blood.

Despite himself, he knew that Albus was right. Blood did have an impact on one’s magic, though it certainly didn’t determine everything, as purebloods would have society think.

“Want me to talk to him for ya? He owes me.”

Tom gave him a muted smile. “While I appreciate the offer… No. I’m taking a few days next month to whisk Hermione away. I’ve already cleared the time off.”

“Where to?”

Tom vanished the ash from his cigarette. “New York City.”

Chapter Text

When Hermione apparated home from the Ministry, she found Tom was already home, waiting for her.

She hurried across the courtyard, passing by the stone fountain and a shiny black Rolls Royce, which she had gifted Tom after he had admired one once on an outing in London. 

Teaching him to drive it had been a source of hilarity for months. She had not anticipated the wizard’s love for muggle automobiles.

Apparently, there was little to do in the orphanage, so he would stare out through the windows as a child and watch all the cars as they came and went, and he knew each make and model, even the year just by glancing at them.

Her heart leapt in her chest as she hurried up the steps and entered through the front door, the seductive smell of Tom’s cooking already drifting through the house.

She hadn’t had an evening alone with him in what felt like ages.

***********

Hermione moaned, her eyelids shut tightly as she gripped the headboard, holding on as if her life depended on it.

Her vision started to darken, every bit of stress and tension that she’d accumulated during the week coiling up in her muscles, coming to a point as she rocked her hips, ready to burst into oblivion at any moment.

She chased release blindly, feeling his teeth grazing, his tongue penetrating, his lips sucking as he kissed and nipped at her-

“ Oh ,” she gasped, feeling his tongue dart inside her, then back out, his fingers digging roughly into the flesh of her thighs as she straddled his face.

“Tom… gods ,” she moaned, breathless. “Do that again.”

His mouth was hot against her sensitive flesh, the contact so intimate that her instinct was to recoil, but he wouldn’t allow it. He reached around and gripped her ass, rocking her against his tongue. 

Her head fell back, hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders. Pleasure speared her core, shooting down in pulsing, almost painful waves that spread throughout her body. 

He dipped his head, nose brushing her clit gently and the subtle movement only amplified her lust. Tom was just as attentive when making love as he was with magic. Forceful, confident, but painstakingly detailed, paying attention to the nuance and the subtleties of magical energy just as he carefully tracked the reactions of her body.

“Please,” she whispered, out of breath. “Please, just fuck me.”

He had teased her until she absolutely could not handle another moment without him inside her.

As if in answer to her prayer, the heat of his tongue left her, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bend over.”

His words were short, clipped, impatient .

Hermione scrambled away, eagerly seeking the floor beneath her feet as she leaned over the bed.

“Spread your legs.”

She bent over with her hands planted firmly, standing with her feet apart, completely bare to his gaze. Brilliant red crept into her cheeks and spread down her chest.

He was silent for a moment, and it made her anxious. He loved to have her in vulnerable positions.

After a moment, she felt his hand slowly trail up her inner thigh, from her knee and straight to her-

“You’re dripping down your legs, Mrs. Riddle.”

His voice was close, hot breath tickling her neck.

Then, his middle finger teased her entrance, slipping inside her, followed by another. Hermione’s eyes rolled back, so exquisite was his particular brand of torture.

“You taste like honey,” he said hoarsely, the hunger apparent in his voice. “You sweeten even the most bitter days.”

“Do I?” she said tauntingly. “Suddenly, you’re a poet.”

“You inspire me.” His other hand wrapped itself in her curls and her head was yanked back.

He stood over her, gazing down at her with those burning red eyes that were sometimes black, depending on how the light hit them. He lowered his mouth to meet her own, lips snatching at hers as she tasted herself on his tongue.

A low moan escaped her throat, and she shifted on her feet as the heat between her thighs grew too intense.

His hand retreated, and she heard the ominous clinking of his belt buckle, the cold metal brushing against her skin.

Then… the pressure of his thick cock against her entrance. Even after nine years, Tom was no less intimidating than it had been her first time.

His rich timbre, raw as it was, sent a shiver down her spine as he whispered, “I’ve thought all week about cumming inside you.” He sunk his teeth into her shoulder, yanking her hips back against him. 

Then he filled her without warning, kicking her legs wider, and her walls welcomed him, clenching around him as if to take him deeper.

“Merlin,” she whispered, the sudden fullness feeling so right .

He ran his fingers over the mark on her side, tracing the coils of the serpent with his fingertips. Her muscles jumped and the tattoo moved, the magic in the mark reacting to Tom’s own, recognizing the power of its creator.

He began to fuck her slowly, holding her hips in place as he spoke obscene things in her ear.

Then, he said something that made her heart stop.

“Dufresne owled you.”

A pause. “Did he?”

“Mmm.” He slid his hand beneath her chin, gripping her jaw and lifting her back against his chest as he thrust harder.

“He said thank you for lunch.”

Hermione said nothing. Tom knew that they often had lunch together to discuss new laws, or matters concerning the DMLE.

Tom kissed her cheek. “You know that he cares for you.”

Hermione’s heart thudded. “Yes,” she breathed.

His nose brushed her ear, his breath tickling her neck as he muttered, “He wants you still.”

She swallowed, then nodded, her throat bobbing against his hand that wrapped around her throat.

“It’s going to hurt,” he continued, his voice deep, sending shivers along her skin. “When he discovers you’re pregnant with my child. It might just ruin him.”

“I’m-“ Hermione could hardly think, her insides twisting and tightening with delicious pressure. “I’m not pregnant yet.”

“It’s going to happen.”

Another rough thrust. His hand came around to press firmly against her abdomen as he shifted angles.

Hermione’s jaw fell as his cock seemed to rearrange her insides.

“It’s going to break him, and you know I’m going to be pleased about it, don’t you?” His hand tightened around her throat. “Because he tried to take you from me once. He would like to try again, but he can’t, isn’t that right?”

Hermione moaned involuntarily, caught up in some animalistic state where his words weren’t nearly as disturbing as they should have been.

“Because he knows I’ll kill him.”

Deep down, Hermione knew he was telling the truth.

She kept her distance from Gaspard for that reason, to protect him.

“You know it, too.”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered, her breath halting in her lungs.

Godric, he was so deep . Hermione’s brain short-circuited.

She’d needed this, to lose herself with Tom, his magic curling around her like a forcefield, his body joined with hers, no space between them, nothing hidden. She’d needed to let go of her title and responsibilities for a while, to just be Tom’s, for him to be hers, her wizard, the one she’d chosen.

Her dark wizard.

Rain began to fall, a heavy downpour blurring the scenery through the cathedral windows, roaring against the mansion walls.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You… only you, Tom.”

The rain turned to sleet, pelting against the windows. 

His voice was soft, but so commanding and self-assured. “Mine. My wife.”

He said it so starkly, it seemed to ring out over the roar of the rain.

“Only you matter,” he whispered. His thrusts were punishing; Hermione couldn’t breathe, her muscles tense and poised. “Only you matter to me. 

Her heart lurched in her chest, her very soul seeming to strain toward him, her magic bursting around her in shimmering waves, dancing beneath his. She released a cry as she came, her walls pulsing around him, the friction hot and heavy. 

“Good girl,” he breathed, and moments later, he came as well, his breathing jagged and muscles tense.

He leaned over her as they both tried to catch their breath, and he muttered in her ear, the cords of his throat straining, “Mine.”

She felt him pull out, felt his fingers between her legs, pushing the milky seed back inside her from where it had seeped out. 

Then he turned her over in a quick movement, covering her naked body with his own. His eyes searched her face, a red gaze both savage and full of raw jealousy. 

“Yours, Tom. It’s always you.”

His eyes were wild, scanning her face with something akin to obsession until they softened at last, and he leaned down to kiss her hungrily.

Always , she vowed in her heart.

I’m going to save you .

————-

When the night had fallen, they lay in bed, gazing up at the cloudy night sky through the paned glass rotunda. 

Hermione rested her head on Tom’s bare chest, her hair tickling his skin.

Years ago, when Hermione had first begun to sleep over at Tom’s flat, he was reluctant to be touched at night, preferring to sleep lying by himself, despite wanting her presence. It took Hermione a bit to realize it had little to do with her, and all to do with the fact that he grew up without experiencing an ounce of physical affection, no mother’s touch, always sleeping alone.

That had changed over the years. He now sought her out, even in his sleep, wrapping his body tightly around hers like a serpent coiling itself around her.

She had chosen Tom, yes, but it felt like a sacred thing that he had chosen her, lowering his carefully constructed walls and admitting her into the intimacy of his soul.

Soulmate or not, they would have chosen each other all the same.

“Which of your parents are you more like?” he asked offhandedly.

Hermione smiled, though the darkness obscured her face, since there were no stars nor moon to light the room. “I definitely look more like my mum, but I think I act like my dad.”

“Hmm.”

“My dad was very keen, always reading, always living by the book, following the rules.”

“Thought you said you were like him.”

“Oh, shut it.”

He laughed gently.

She traced the pattern of the runes on his chest, which she knew by heart, even in the darkness. “Believe it or not, I did follow the rules when I was a child.”

“Then you met me.”

Hermione chuckled. “I suppose.”

He swallowed, his fingertips grazing the tanned skin of her arm. 

Hermione lifted her head to look at him. “Do you ever think about your mum? Or your dad?”

“You know I don’t think about my father.”

Hermione fell quiet, knowing the subject was sensitive, even though he acted as if it wasn’t.

After a moment, he cleared his throat and muttered, “He never thought about me. Why would I think about him?”

Hermione shrugged. “What about your mother?”

The silence stretched on between them for several moments before he answered, “What is there to think about? She died. I never knew her. Nothing to think about. She gave me his name as a bloody parting gift. How thoughtful of her.”

Hermione knew that he would have preferred the Gaunt name to Riddle, that he’d never been able to shed the man he despised so fervently.

Hermione leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “She would have loved you… she did love you. How could she not?”

Tom said nothing.

After a few moments, he gripped her chin, turning her face toward his to kiss her lips. 

“Sleep, Minister. Hopefully there will be incarcerated werewolves awaiting trial tomorrow.”

**********

(TW)

Tom gasped, sitting bolt upright in bed, his chest coated in a sheen of sweat.

The room was so silent that he could hear the violent beating of his heart as it rattled his ribs. 

His eyes glowed red as they adjusted to the darkness.

The same dream. He had it many nights of late, but he could never remember it when he awoke.

Almost as if it was magical.

Whatever it was, it was sinister and disturbing, tightening his muscles into knots and raising his heart rate considerably.

Tom shook his head, running a hand over his eyes.

Then he saw her.

Hermione, standing in her nightgown, silhouetted against the glass panes of the windows.

Tom’s brown drew forward, still in a state of semi-lucidity and convinced he was dreaming her. He reached down and felt the satin sheets, finding them cool and empty.

He threw back the sheet and stood, crossing the bedroom to where she stood.

“Hermione,” he whispered, and she turned to him, tears streaming down her face.

“Why?” she sobbed, burying her face in his chest. “Why hasn’t it happened yet?”

Tom blinked, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his body tightly. “You have anxiety, Hermione. You need a calming draught.”

Her shoulders shook, her salty tears staining his chest. He swallowed as his heart beat swiftly, unfamiliar with the task of comforting his wife.

She was always so strong and composed, it was unnerving when her facade cracked at these moments.

She was just putting herself under too much pressure.

“What if… what if the time travel did something… what if it affected my body-“

“It didn’t.”

She sniffed. “What if making the horcrux put me in a state where I can’t have children-“

“No, Hermione. That’s not possible. You are tired. You need to sleep.”

He ran his hands over her arms gently, then pressed his lips to her hair. “You’re worrying overmuch. You’ve got too much pressure on your shoulders.” 

“What if it doesn’t ever happen, Tom?”

He took a deep breath, swallowing. “Then we will be happy. I have you, which is more than I ever expected to have in my life. A child is not something I ever banked on. To be honest, it terrifies me.”

She turned her head, leaning on his weight as she gazed out through the windows to the gardens below, then beyond, to the treeline. 

“If it doesn’t happen, I’ll be so sad.”

Tom was silent. After a few moments, he whispered, “It will happen. But if it doesn’t for any reason… Maybe we can adopt an orphan like myself. I know it’s not what you want, but perhaps it would soothe the pain.”

She sniffed again. “That would be nice… to help someone.”

Tom nodded stoically, his chest tight, words evading him.

**********

Long after Hermione had fallen back asleep, Tom sat in his study, the room dimly lit by the light of the green glass lamp, which was the only item he’d brought over from his flat. The eerie light helped him to think. It reminded him of all the years he spent studying in the Slytherin common room, warmed by the crackling flames of the hearth, such a vast difference from the frigid chill of the orphanage. The Black Lake cast a watery glow over the dungeons, and the iridescence of the lamp reminded him of that time in his life. He’d always been able to think, to focus in that common room. 

Hermione’s anxiousness viscerally affected Tom because despite his assurances that she was wrong… he didn’t actually know the answers. It was possible that the Tempaestus had affected her body. He didn’t think the horcrux would cause any damage to her body, only her soul… but it did have a way of preserving, of prolonging life and it drove him mad to not know.

If the very thing he had asked of her turned out to be the thing that prevented her from having children… he would never forgive himself.

He closed his eyes. 

He normally kept his ancestral ring locked and warded behind a runestone in his study, but tonight, he took it out and twisted it around his finger.

It was unnervingly cold compared with his wedding band. That horcrux contained a piece of Hermione’s soul, and somehow seemed to provide warmth, her magic saturating the object with her essence. The difference between the two rings was astounding.

Tom opened his eyes and gazed down at the ring bearing the resurrection stone.

It had been nearly a decade since he discovered the purpose of the hallow, nearly a decade since he had glimpsed a woman on some other plane, when his body had been close to dying by the dementor’s kiss.

He wouldn’t have fully succumbed to death, of course, thanks to his horcruxes, but he would have been a wraith until he’d be brought back.

Hermione would have brought him back, he was sure.

The stone was rather ugly. He’d always thought so.

A dull onyx, no shine or life to speak of. Nothing beautiful or finely crafted.

But it did possess an allure. There had been many times when Tom had come to his study, late at night, to hold it, to analyze it.

But he’d never used the stone.

He knew it possessed the ability to connect him to his mother. He was aware that he could see her, could speak to her… could have some sort of closure.

Yet he never did.

Was she watching him? Was her soul alive somewhere, in some dark circle of hell, as he’d seen years ago?

Or had his subconscious drummed up the dream out of the depths of his emptiness, some repressed longing rooted in his subconscious?

Every time he thought he might turn the stone over in his hand, something stopped him.

Tom swallowed, and set the ring aside.

Then, he leaned forward in his chair, his head falling into his hands, and he prayed, though he believed in no gods.

He didn’t even believe in humanity.

But he believed in magic, so he prayed to something .

For Hermione’s sake, he prayed for a child.

Then, he went to bed, but didn’t sleep.

He tossed and turned fitfully until morning.

***********

“I appreciate you taking the time out to stop by this morning, Mr. Riddle. You must have a busy schedule.”

Tom entered the office, cold and clinical as it was, and took a seat. He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs. “I do. We’ll have to make this brief. I have a class to teach.”

The short wizard adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose. He wore the pale cyan robes of a magical researcher, which contrasted with Tom’s black set, which he wore over a crisp white Italian-made shirt and gray tweed trousers. Tom’s crimson-flecked eyes bore into him, and the researcher swallowed. “Yes, of course. Very quickly.” The man fumbled nervously with the scrolls on his desk until he settled on the correct one. “First and foremost, the Institute would like to thank you for your financial support and patronage. Your backing and connections have gone a long way in helping us to uncover the data necessary to compile these findings. We will soon move into phase two of our research, provided we can access the proper control groups. It is difficult, as you can imagine, to gain the cooperation of purebloods, but thanks to you we have several families willing to submit to testing.”

Tom gave a single nod.

The wizard, a Muggle-Born Tom knew from checking into his background, took another quick look at the scroll before flicking his gaze back to Tom. 

“Well, Mr. Riddle, thanks to the new initiative we have partnered with a very discreet muggle scientific institute that studies an element of the human body called DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid. This discovery was made in 1869, as you may already be aware, educated as you are, but the double helix was only discovered around six years ago. By volunteering magical DNA for testing, we have been able to determine something quite miraculous. An exciting discovery for wizardkind, if they would only accept the merging of magical research and muggle science.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “What is this discovery?”

“Magical DNA contains a triple helix.”

Tom blinked. “Have you evidence of this? A report?”

The man nodded, and extended a scroll to Tom. “For your perusal. It seems there is a third strand of DNA which is not detectable by muggle microscopes, but when said microscopes have been charmed with a magical amplification spell, all three strands are visible.”

Tom unfurled the scroll, eyeing the diagram eagerly. “What does this third strand contain?”

“That is something we are still in the process of discovering.” The excitement was barely contained in the man’s voice. “It is really a profound discovery.”

“Indeed.”

“There is more.”

Tom glanced up, cocking an eyebrow.

The man took a deep breath. “It seems that when comparing the DNA extracted from test subjects with differing levels of blood purity… our team determined that the, well, the test subjects which you sent us… namely Mr. Rowle, Mr. Rosier, and those of the Potter couple. We determined that a portion of their DNA had been corrupted, showing a breakdown of traits that were too similar, and had begun to counteract one another. In essence, their genetic makeup is creating a sort of immune response and… well, for lack of a better phrase, is turning on itself.”

Tom blinked. 

The man shifted nervously. “We… we found this obstruction in your DNA, as well.”

Tom’s eyebrows lifted.

“However,” the man hedged anxiously. “The corruption was not nearly as prominent in your DNA, as it was in the sample you provided of your relative.” He glanced at the scroll. “Your uncle, Morfin Gaunt, who resides in Azkaban currently. His DNA displayed a shocking amount of deleterious mutations, dangerous recessive genes that breakdown the genetic code when in a homozygous state.”

Tom pressed his tongue into his cheek, processing the information. “What is the cause of this?”

The Wizard tilted his head, clearly uncomfortable sharing the information. “Inbreeding, sir.”

Tom nodded slowly, gazing at the scroll. “Would this have any impact upon… reproduction?”

“Well… it certainly could, at some point. I don’t think the results we concluded are that severe yet. But if purebloods continue to refuse to intermarry with those outside of their familial circles… it could very well yield those results, yes.”

Tom rolled up the scroll. “Thank you, Wilkins. What are the other findings?”

“Ah, yes,” the squat wizard said, perking up. “Based on our analysis of the data given by the most recent census, birth records, and medical records provided by St. Mungo’s, we have determined that numbers of new babies being born to muggle families are rising at an alarming rate. It is truly a shocking phenomena. We have formed a team of experts in the field of karmic cycles who will partner with muggle scientists who specialize in the area of quantum theory. We have reason to believe that witches and wizards may be reincarnating into more and more muggle families in each lifetime. This may very well be nature’s way of preserving the balance of magic in the universe. I can’t really say more, now. We are still in the early stages of hypothesizing, but…” 

The man swallowed, and leaned forward. “I hope that I can trust you with this information, but all signs point to one thing.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “What might that be?”

“The statute of secrecy may have been the worst thing to happen to wizardkind. It may be that wizards and muggles were always meant to interbreed.”

************

Abraxas arrived at Malfoy Manor after a visit to Grimmauld Place, where Walburga, bursting with pride, announced that she and Orion were expecting their first child at the end of October. 

He’d imbibed a little too much champagne, though Walburga abstained, and spent an hour reminiscing with Orion over their days at Hogwarts, and Abraxas informed him that his days of peace and solitude were at an end. 

“What will you name the child?” he asked. 

“Well,” Orion mused. “If it’s a girl…”

“It won’t be a girl. I already know it’s a boy.” snapped Walburga. “His name will be Sirius. After my great-grandfather.”

Abraxas was happy for her. After several years, they would finally have their heir.

Abraxas had his already. As he walked into the Manor, he heard the screams of children echoing through the vast corridors.

“Hello, dear,” his wife simpered as he entered the sitting room. “We are having a playdate, as you can see.”

There were more shrieks as young Bellatrix, already eight years of age, chased Lucius and Narcissa, who were both approaching age four, around the table. Nearby, Rodolphus and young Rabastan played with Andromeda on their toy brooms, competing as to which of the three could hover the longest without touching down.

Sitting primly around an artfully dressed table were Abraxas’ wife, Viola Carrow, Lierin Lestrange, and Druella Rosier, Edward’s sister, who was now married to Cygnus Black, Walburga’s younger brother. They had wasted no time in procreating, but as yet, had only been given daughters.

Daughters were lovely, certainly, but useless in the matter of lineage.

Abraxas approached his wife, leaning forward to bestow a kiss upon her forehead, and then moved to lift his young son into his arms, effectively saving him from the heinous young Bellatrix, who could sometimes be a holy terror.

“How is your brother?” Lierin asked, eyeing her knowingly. 

“Oh,” Druella said, betraying a hint of shock. “He is… well. He and his wife Winifred are well. I don’t see as much of him as I’d like to.”

“I should think not,” muttered Lierin. “Does Cygnus allow them to visit?”

“On occasion… but he does not allow them around the girls.”

Viola flicked her eyes at Abraxas, who effectively ignored the conversation. He still harbored rage toward Rosier.

“Darling,” she drawled. “You have a visitor awaiting you in your office. Some financial advisor, I believe.”

“Thank you, dear.” Abraxas gave little Lucius his toy wand back and handed him to Viola, then disengaged and retreated to his study. 

As he entered his office, he found a familiar man awaiting him.

His blood ran cold as he crossed to his desk and sat watching the individual.

Slowly, the man’s appearance melted away, and Malfoy found himself staring at a lovely, golden-haired witch, one who unsettled him greatly.

Aikaterine de Sicyon.

Her inhuman green eyes regarded him coolly.

“What news about the library?” Her strange intonation rang out through the room, demanding and icy.

“Every year you visit me, and every year I have the same answer. I have not been granted access. The order of priests has rejected my request to join their society.”

She stood, a witch of imposing height, or perhaps it was merely the aura of power that she exuded that seemed to dwarf Malfoy in his own home. “You have not tried hard enough.”

“What more can I possibly do?”

Her emerald eyes snapped with rage. She was beautiful, yes, but deadly. Her attractive form could have been a lie, Abraxas thought. She was, after all, only a spirit, one with an air of dense darkness and death surrounding her. 

He had not felt it so strongly in their first encounters, but now… she grew sharper and more fearsome with each visit.

“You will call a meeting of your fellow wizards. The pure ones. I will be back in a fortnight. We will discuss what needs to be done, then.”

Then the witch disappeared into thin air, leaving the stain of her presence in his study. 

Abraxas decided he didn’t like the sudden chill, and moved to escape the room with haste. 

Chapter Text

“Werewolves waylaid: Greyback escapes!”

Copies of The Daily Prophet flew off the shelves. Hermione gritted her teeth as she picked up her morning tea at The Leaky Cauldron. It was the only place she could rely on security and knew she wouldn’t be bothered before work. Being Dumbledore’s daughter, a famous author, and Minister for Magic had taken its toll on her personal life. She could rarely go anywhere without being pounced upon by the general public or photographed. 

In order to compete with The Chronomancer, The Daily Prophet had begun catering to Hermione’s enemies and political opponents. Not only that, but they’d begun to gossip incessantly, looking for anything negative to publish about the Dumbledore family and any friends of the family, which meant the DMLE often came under scrutiny. 

Hermione snatched up a paper, took up her tea, and made her way to the floo.

She grasped a handful of floo powder as patrons looked on, and stepped into the flames, reciting, “Ministry of Magic, Level One.”

**********

“What do you mean, Greyback escaped? How could that happen?”

“We had them. We took several of his pack into custody, and… we had him, Hermione. But someone apparated him out. I don’t know who the individual was.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. She’d never seen Dufresne look so frustrated. 

“Did you see them?”

Gaspard shook his head. “No… it was strange. They seemed to not have any sort of solid appearance. Might have been a woman, could’ve been a man. Like a ghost. Also… Hermione, it wasn’t quite like disapparation. I know what that looks like, what it sounds like.” His jaw ticked. “It’s like they disappeared into thin air. Dissolved into nothing. Faded out completely.”

Hermione blinked, processing the information. 

“They were aware of the ambush. But we are lucky for the object you gave us, which we were able to use to prevent their phasing. You should’ve seen Greyback’s face when he failed to shift.” His lips quirked slightly, wand hand flexing. “Still… they knew more than they should’ve, which means there’s someone in the ministry that is feeding them information.”

Hermione nodded, twisting her ring around her finger, its magic soothing her sudden disquiet. “So you think the person that helped Greyback…”

“He’s working with someone. Maybe multiple people. Greyback isn’t acting alone, and whoever it is… they’re well connected.”

Her eyes met his. “Have you interrogated the prisoners?”

“Bones and Urquart are administering veritaserum as we speak. If we can’t get the information we need through the potion… we will resort to more extreme measures.”

“Very good. I will let you do as you see fit, Gaspard. Please report to me as soon as you have new information.” She sighed. “At least one thing is certain. I can postpone this bill for the foreseeable future, now that we have a method of counteracting their phasing.”

Gaspard nodded. “Where did you get that artifact? It must be incredibly rare.”

Hermione rubbed her lips together, then hesitantly flicked her eyes up to meet his. “Tom discovered it on a recent trip to the Soviet.”

Gaspard cocked a brow. “That’s a very specific sort of discovery.”

Hermione gave him a tight smile. “He is a very determined individual. I’m grateful for his help… as you should be, also.”

He watched her, his glance heated, too intimate for the setting, for the power dynamic which they found themselves in. She watched his adam’s apple dip, then, he averted his eyes with a nod and turned to leave quietly, without another word. 

Several interdepartmental memos whizzed in through the open door before he closed it behind him. The little bird-like pieces of paper perched on her desk and unfolded themselves, and began magically reading themselves off to her as she reached for a stack of files on her desk.

She unrolled one of the scrolls and began to examine it. She’d requested a list of the prisoners currently housed in Azkaban, along with diagrams of the prison, a map of its runestones, and comprehensive delineations of its protective enchantments and spellwork.

The scroll detailed the cell block on level three, containing a register of the prisoners, their cell numbers, offenses, sentence terms, and dates of imprisonment.

Her mind was still on Greyback, on the strange disturbance she felt, as her eyes absentmindedly scanned the list of names. 

She browsed the list, noting the offenses and time allotted for each prisoner to serve… repeat offenders to the statute, thievery with a wand, sale and distribution of illegal potions and banned substances, failure to register a clairvoyant gift with the ministry, multiple infractions of psychic trading, smuggling of dangerous magical creatures and invasive species, murder by way of killing curse, multiple infractions…

Hermione stopped when she read that particular charge.

Murder.

There weren’t many magical people bold enough to kill someone using an unforgivable.

She ran her finger along the line leading to the name and suddenly, her blood ran cold.

There, etched onto the parchment in magical ink was the name: Morfin Gaunt.

Tom’s uncle. 

Hermione’s lips parted as she stared at the name. 

Of course… why hadn’t she thought of it, in all these years?

She’d known that Tom had framed his uncle for the murders of his father and grandparents, and likewise, she knew that his uncle had passed away in Azkaban at some point, but why hadn’t she ever contemplated the possibility that he was still alive?

Her breath grew thin in her lungs. 

If she were to visit Azkaban prison, what would she find in cell 3-78B?

**********

Hermione was helpless as she lay on Tom’s desk, his hands wrapped around her wrists like bands of iron, pinning them to the wood above her head.

His cock was buried in her to the hilt. He fucked her hard and fast, his tongue delving into her mouth, sliding against hers in an obscene, open-mouthed kiss.

Hermione panted, her breath halted as her chest tightened with each rapid thrust.

“What a good girl you are, Mrs. Riddle,” he growled in her ear. “Taking correction without complaint.”

She had promised him a tryst at precisely one o’ clock, but had finally come hurrying into his office at 1:23pm, full of apologies, but Tom had not been in the forgiving mood, so she’d accepted his whip without a bit of whinging, never mind that the burn of his beatings made her wet.

Then he hauled her onto the desk and began to fuck her senseless, ordering her not to come and really, she did try her hardest to comply.

He wasn’t always in these moods but when he was, she found it was best to simply enjoy them rather than buck against them. 

She understood his compulsive nature quite well after a decade of fucking him.

He dragged his tongue over the unmarred skin of her chest, tracing a wet path along her clavicle.

Upon Dolohov’s death, the scar on her chest had disappeared, a sign of the dramatic change they had already wrought upon the timeline.

As the dark lord drove into her, whispering filthy things in her ear, using her body savagely, it struck her how dramatically her life had changed. Her life in the future seemed but a distant memory, the terror inflicted by Lord Voldemort seeming to be nothing more than a distant dream.

Because she knew him, and he was hers.

Knowing someone had a way of changing things.

Her nipples brushed his pale chest, and she reached up to drag her nails along the Phoenix tattoo on his back. She felt the muscles jerking as the tattoo moved, and her own mark reacted, the serpent’s tongue licking out toward her breast.

At her touch, Tom went primal. “If a student walks in right now, I’ll avada them on the spot.”

“I locked the door, Professor.”

She brushed the mark again, just to watch Tom’s pupils dilate, the cords of his throat straining, to feel his cock grow harder, his magic becoming menacing and wild.

His eyes blazed red, roving manically over her body where he’d left red and purple marks.

“Shit,” Hermione whimpered, the obsessive gleam in his eyes causing her body to thrum with pleasure.

She loved his obsessiveness.

She loved his primal nature.

She loved his violence.

He spread her legs wider, his gaze locked onto hers, and he hissed something as his lips curled into a devastating grin.

Hermione bit her lip.

She loved when he spoke parseltongue.

The mounting pleasure became unbearable. 

“Tom,” she moaned, out of breath, abdominal muscles constricting. She arched against him, meeting his thrusts with her own voracity.

He leaned down and hissed again in her ear, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin of her neck. Whatever he’d spoken sent her over the edge, the sound of her soulmate, his unique ability to speak parseltongue that was so Tom . Though she didn’t comprehend, her soul understood and reacted, her magic dancing along the thread that bound them, curling and twisting around the bond between them until she was absolutely tight with ecstasy.

In that moment, Hermione experienced something she’d never experienced before.

She’d teetered on the edge of it before, but never had her magic exploded from her in sentient waves, seeming to pull her out of herself. 

Hermione gasped, her vision suddenly clouding with bright light, and she felt as if she’d burst into a million pieces and was being scattered through the air.

It was not a normal orgasm, no, not at all. She seemed to transcend physical pleasure entirely, her very soul and magic seeming to come apart at the seams.

The experience was frightening, as much as it was freeing. 

With a sound that was more like a growl, Tom came, the muscles of his arms straining as he held himself above her, the veins in his neck visible. He breathed heavily, blinking, struggling to hold himself steady.

“What-“ He paused, swallowing. “What was that?”

She threaded her hands in his ink-black hair, her vision still spotty, thumb stroking his cheek softly. “I don’t know, darling.”

Hermione felt her magic threading itself with his. It felt euphoric, like a potion she’d taken once, at St. Mungo’s. 

His eyes were brilliant red as they watched her with predatory focus. 

“Yours,” she whispered. “Always, Tom.”

He was more intense of late. More savage in his distrust of people, in his dislike for Gaspard. He was protective, very possessive over her. Hermione didn’t dislike it; he never resorted to murder or violence unless he consulted her first. She was thankful, at least, that he seemed to have that much self-control, something she’d worried about prior to their marriage.

What she didn’t like was his tendency to withdraw into himself. He was introspective, secretive, always deep in thought, drowning in study and magical theories.

He’d always been this way, so it wasn’t too abnormal, but lately he’d seemed to become more intensely unfocused, distracted.

She stroked his temple, tracing her fingers over the sharp line of his jaw. 

What is distracting you?

“I heard that,” he murmured, tilting his head to press his lips to her palm.

“Lately you've been very good at listening in on my thoughts,” she said with an eyebrow lifted.

He smirked, leaning down to whisper against her ear, “Only right after we fuck.”

She believed him. The unique way that their magic commingled, an interlocking of energy that wound its way through their bodies, she could believe they might not need a ritual to merge their souls, after all.

The unfulfilled bond ached between them, and she felt her magic retreating back into itself, empty without its mate, but satisfied for now.

***********

Abraxas Malfoy passed into the dark hallway of the White Wyvern, making his way to a doorway which led to a private room where he often conducted business.

He opened the door and found the other wizard sitting there in front of him in a leather armchair, his back toward Abraxas. 

The man’s graying hair was swept back into a tie at the base of his neck. Malfoy noticed that his finger was strangely absent of his signet ring. Perhaps he was having it cleaned, Abraxas thought offhandedly as he rounded the chair and took the seat opposite his friend.

“Evening, Travers.”

“Good evening, Malfoy.”

Abraxas set down his cane and flexed his magical prosthetic within its leather glove. “Seems it was a close call, but Greyback is still free, and…”

His words trailed off as he noted his friend’s pose, legs crossed, leaning back in a familiar way, but it was not his typical posture, for sure. The wizard held a cigarette between thumb and forefinger, rolling it as it billowed smoke into the air. 

Since when did Travers smoke muggle cigarettes?

His eyes flicked up to his friend’s face, noting his golden hair, washed in gray, his contemptuous mouth and square jaw. 

Then, he noticed them.

Red eyes, gazing at him coldly. 

Abraxas leapt up from his chair, backing against the wall. “Bloody hell. How did you get in here?”

Travers’ mouth turned up at the corners, an eerie smile painted across his face that bore no hint of his friend.

The penetrating eyes of Tom Riddle stared back at him.

“Where is Travers?” Abraxas asked, his voice shaky.

“He’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty, aristocratic head about him. He will live another day to make my wife’s life more difficult. Only because I allow him to… for now. See, my wife thinks she can keep things from me. She hopes I won’t become angry and do something… regrettable. But I have informants in that courtroom, and I’m not very happy about the proceedings.”

“You’re mad.”

Tom smiled. “Am I? Only because I’m not serving your purposes anymore. Isn’t that right?”

“You’ve always been mad, Tom.”

Tom’s smile faded, eyes fixed with venom upon Malfoy.

Abraxad swallowed. 

“You’re right. I am mad… and vengeful, as well.”

Abraxas shook his head, holding his hands out, palms up. “It’s been nearly ten years, for Salazar’s sake.”

“Yes, it has. Your time is almost up.”

Abraxas’ heart thudded against his ribs. He watched as Tom took a drag, his crimson eyes pinning Malfoy to the spot. 

“What’s this about Greyback?”

Abraxas attempted, poorly, to look confused. Tom’s eyes narrowed murderously.

Suddenly, Tom’s wand was in his hand, drawn with alarming speed, the long bone white wand like a blade in his hand as his full body bind curse froze Abraxas in place.

Then, Tom was rising, moving forward, imposing even in another body. 

Abraxas’ eyes widened in fear as the point of Tom’s wand was aimed at his face.

Tom glared at him, eyes darkening to the color of blood. “I had a lovely dinner two nights ago. Well, Travers and his wife did, I mean. You weren’t there, unfortunately, probably off with one of your whores… oh, yes, I know about them. But your wife, Viola, was there. Pretty witch. Not as beautiful as my wife, but then, we all know Hermione was your first choice, wasn’t she?” Tom smiled. “She and Travers’ wife had plenty of interesting things to discuss. You are quite close to them, now, aren’t you? Little Lucius was there, as well.”

Abraxas’ pupils dilated with fear.

“You’d be surprised by the amount of dirt I’ve gathered on you, Brax. I’ve got years worth of damning evidence. But that doesn’t really seem to curb my itch for revenge. See, I’ve had a long time to think about how I’d like to kill you. I’ve thought about the ways I could make it slow, painful. I’ve dug up old poisons long forgotten. Banned poisons, mind you, the kind the Ministry would like to erase from existence. I’ve thought about how I might dismember you, limb by limb.” He reached up and touched Malfoy’s hair, prompting the wizard to squeeze his eyes shut. “I wonder what this lovely hair will look like coated in blood.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Abraxas’ forehead. 

Tom watched it trail down the wizard’s face. “I will admit, I do enjoy toying with you. Your fear just tastes so satisfying.”

His gaze grew colder and more frigid the longer he stared at Malfoy. Finally, he leaned in and whispered, “Your time is almost up, comrade.”

Then, he threw his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. As he turned to leave, he called over his shoulder, “Give my love to Viola and little Lucius.”

Chapter Text

Mt. Olympus

Aikaterine awoke in the arms of a woman, limbs entangled beneath sheets that were so soft, they seemed to be made of air.

But no one breathed air here. They thrived on the aether.

Everything seemed made of light in this place, unnatural, and yet, more natural than the light of the sun. Every day felt like a dream, and Aikaterine feared that she would be caught up in the beauty of this place that seemed to never age, forgetting her life back on earth.

But she could never forget.

She refused to forget him.

She still heard the musical voice of Hermes, laughing at her attempt to capture the aether, the substance of immortality, with a simple containment spell.

“Silly witch,” he said playfully. “You know you can’t take it back to earth with you.”

“Why not?” she’d asked, disheartened.

“Your magic is bound to earth. It won’t work on the atmosphere of Olympus, dear. Heavenly substances can only be captured by the gods. By original magic.”

He had chuckled at her, as if he were explaining sums to a child.

He condescended to her in the same manner that wizards treated non-magical people.

In the time Aikaterine had spent on Olympus, she’d decided she hated the gods. They were fickle and unhappy, the lot of them.

Aikaterine sighed, and slid carefully out of the grasp of her lover, Atropos.

One of the three Moirai, the cutter of the threads of fate.

The Tower of the Moirai rose up high into the clouds above Mt. Olympus. Wisps of the vaporous aether drifted through the open walls of their castle and into the bedroom. Aikaterine wandered out onto the veranda, leaning against a Doric column as she peered at the mountain-peak below.

The morning song of the Muses rang out, and Aikaterine recognized the chilling voice of Clio, merging with that of Calliope, echoing eerily through the atmosphere.

Her chest was heavy with the urgency to return to earth. She had rested here for some time, in the realm of the gods, but for how long?

Time seemed to stand still here. She had not aged since she arrived, and any wound, even the tiniest cut she endured would heal instantly. 

To say that she’d been tempted to stay here would be an understatement. She was one of the few magical humans ever to be welcomed here. 

However… the cord in her chest twisted painfully, reminding her of her soulmate.

Reminding her of him .

Was she imagining this sense of urgency? 

She had no idea how many months it had been, or perhaps it had been years now, since she’d come here. When she left him, he had been on a quest for immortality, and she had sought to do the same.

“Do whatever it takes, Kat,” he whispered against her hair. “Whatever you must, to ensure that we can live forever, together.”

He had been on the verge of something, a discovery. His experiments, he’d said, were nearly complete.

But still, they were uncertain and yet untested. Hers was merely a backup plan, if his experiments should fail.

Time was ticking away…

But not here.

Here, there was nothing but wine that flowed freely, debauchery of all sorts, and the most savory foods Aikaterine had ever tasted.

She sometimes spent long hours in the hall of the gods, reclining on Atropos’ chest while Hephaestus imbibed too much ambrosia and gossiped about his brothers and sisters.

Aikaterine was not unhappy here.

But she wasn’t in love. Her life here didn’t feel permanent. She felt caged, pulled away from the one her heart truly wanted.

The most powerful Wizard she had ever met..

He’d been her teacher in the Greek school of magic at Chalcis.

She closed her eyes and imagined his face, his hands the last time he’d touched her. She saw his dark eyes and olive skin, his prominent nose and long, black hair, always pulled back. 

One day, he’d told her, they would rule the world of non-magical people. 

The Priesthood of the Mouseion, one of the oldest magical orders in the world, a body of witches and wizards dedicated to the worship of the Muses, had grown in power. The keepers of the magical Library at Alexandria, which housed the world’s greatest collection of ancient magical knowledge. They now reigned as the supreme governing body in Greece, and had set forth decrees just before Aikaterine left, declaring that non-magical people would rule alongside magical people.

Demi-gods, the citizens of Greece called them.

Her soulmate had balked at the idea. He had amassed quite a following with his teachings in Chalcis, and he believed that magical people should rule over all humankind. 

“We possess the blood of the gods, after all,” he argued. “We were meant to rule.”

Aikaterine swallowed. Something was amiss, though she couldn’t decipher what, precisely, that “something” was. She was a seer, but her gift was dulled here.

She turned to look back at the bed. Atropos was still sleeping peacefully, undisturbed.

The Fates did not usually linger for so long on Olympus. They loved to travel, often spending years wandering the earth among humans. It was how Aikaterine met Atropos, after all.

She had not checked the loom in some time. If she checked on her soulmate too often, it would seem suspicious to the sisters.

But she knew she needed to go now, to see that he was doing well, that her unsettled feelings were merely that, feelings. She needed her fears allayed.

She left the bedroom quietly, making her way down the hallway and out into the courtyard, where a rushing waterfall descended into the great pool of destiny. She passed by its many exotic plants and flowers that only the gods knew, that only grew here, fed on the aether. Flowers that produced the nectar that would be made into ambrosia.

Then, she approached the base of the stairs that led to the peak of the tower, ascending them with dread pooled in her stomach.

She climbed to the very top of the platform, and passed through the arched doorway. 

There, beneath an open ceiling, illuminated by the empyrean light of aether, was the Loom of Fate.

The surface rippled as it wove itself, containing a million tiny threads, a glistening rainbow. 

Clotho, the spinner, had spun the threads, and Lachesis, the alotter, had infused the loom with her divine power.

They were in the hall of the gods at the moment, leaving the loom exposed.

“What dost thou wish to see, Aikaterine the deceiver?”

The damned Loom had an attitude, most of the time.

Her eyes narrowed, but she whispered, “Show him to me.”

Suddenly, the loom began to ripple, a scene displaying itself across its effervescent threads.

She saw her soulmate, with a vast army of cloaked men and women behind him. Duels broke out, magical creatures attacked human villages, leading to a war of such magnitude that the witch Circe was called forth by the Priesthood.

Aikaterine’s heart raced. What had he done?

Her soulmate wielded Medusa, Arachne, and the Hydra against his enemies. Many humans died, and he murdered many of the Priesthood. 

Aikaterine’s eyes were wide as these grisly scenes played out on the surface of the Loom. She shook her head in disbelief. 

So this was where Ares had gone. He’d been called away from Olympus, to receive offerings from earth in return for his favor.

Her stomach turned.

She saw the council of the Priesthood as they convened to discuss the war.

How long had she really been gone?

“We find Herpo the Foul guilty of treason against the Mouseion for his crimes against humankind,” said the head priest, Yiorgos.

Aikaterine blinked. He was much, much older than she remembered him being when she’d left.

“He is hereby sentenced to death.”

“No,” Aikaterine whispered, frantic.

The Priesthood dispatched “heroes,” powerful witches and wizards to destroy Herpo’s forces. Jason, Perseus, and many others.

She saw her soulmate on a battlefield, his black hair streaked with a bolt of silver,  riding atop a giant serpent with razor-like teeth as he wielded his white wand against the army of the Priesthood.

Many battles ensued, with her soulmate the victor.

But then… she saw his thread, black in color as it stood out from the others. It lifted, and slowly, ever so slowly, began to shift direction.

“No,” Aikaterine whispered, voiceless. Tears spilled over her eyes.

She had seen this happen many times, but none of those deaths had mattered to her. 

His thread slowly made its way toward the golden scissors belonging to the Cutter.

Chapter Text

Tom cursed as a hex caught him on his bicep, singeing his shirt and leaving a red welt the size of a snitch.

“Nice,” he said with a wince, eyes narrowing as he backpedaled, preparing to launch another attack.

Hermione brushed a sweaty curl from her forehead, panting heavily.

She might’ve gotten a lick or two in, but his dueling method was quick and precise. She had to be alert and mindful at all times, and more often than not, had to shield rather than cast.

After dueling for nearly ten years, she still wasn’t able to predict what he would do.

She corrected her stance, waiting for him to return her hex with a vengeance. 

He grinned, and whipped his wand in a circular motion around his head, and suddenly a fiery whip, like a flaming serpent, shot forth from his wand and whipped around, nearly catching her around her heel. 

Hermione dodged and tumbled away, only to see that the recoil of the whip was coming around, so she put up an invisible shield, blocking its entry.

Before she’d even gotten back to her feet, he shot a volley of spells at her, all dissolving into her shield in flashes of blue, purple, and red.

At just the moment when she was about to counter his attack with a series of mind-altering spells, he disappeared.

In a blink, his wand was at her throat, and she felt his hard chest at her back, arm wrapping solidly around her waist.

“What did I tell you?” he whispered hoarsely. 

Hermione’s heart raced, still unused to his unnerving style of dueling. “Always watch my back.”

“That’s right.” 

She felt his eyes trailing over her face, and she noticed he was breathing heavily too, and it gave her a secret satisfaction to know that she was challenging him. 

“If you can find an opening,” he continued, “always cast an anti-apparation field around yourself. Otherwise, you’re vulnerable.”

She took a deep breath, and nodded. “I know.”

“If you know, then do it.”

“You never give me an opening!” she huffed.

“You’ll have to make one,” he hissed, and she couldn’t tell if there was frustration or amusement in his tone. Perhaps, it was both. “ Distract me.”

“So I should remove a few articles of clothing, then?”

“That would work on me, without a doubt, but I shall be very put out with you should you resort to that in a duel with anyone else.” His wand traced her jugular. “Practice some diversion spells.”

She shut her eyes tightly, issuing a groan of irritation. In her peripheral vision, she saw his lips quirk. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, wand still against her throat. “Why so frustrated, Minister?”

“I’m not frustrated, I’m tired. It’s early .”

He reached up with his other hand and brushed a curl from her cheek. “You’re quite close to the edge, you know.”

Behind them, only feet away, the cliff they stood upon fell steeply away, dropping to the perilous rocks in the ocean below.

They always dueled here, on the cliff by the cave.

His cave, but she supposed it was now their cave. 

“I’m always close to the edge when I’m with you.”

He chuckled. “As much as I love to edge you…” His hand came around and trailed down her stomach. “Perhaps I should grant you some release this morning.”

Her head lolled back, onto his shoulder, as she closed her eyes, issuing a soft sigh. “I’ll be late for work.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Right.”

He disengaged, twirling his yew wand in his hand as he turned away.

She admired his form, the way his trousers clung to his arse and thighs, his back muscles straining against the thin, Italian-made shirt.

He bent over, plucking his robes up from the ground, and she bit her lip at the sight.

“Greyback got away, you say?” he asked. 

She sighed, thankful for the reminder that duty was calling. “Unfortunately.”

He shook his head. “Even with my help, Dufresne can’t seem to be competent.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tom, he said Greyback had help. He’s working with someone powerful. This might be… bigger than Greyback, even.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed as they fixed pensively on the ground. “I’ll look into it.”

**********

Hermione sat in her office, staring at the register of Azkaban’s prisoners.

Her gaze was fixed on one name: Morfin Gaunt.

She knew it was something she should consult with Tom before doing, but she couldn’t help herself.

Curiosity got the best of her. 

She stood, wand in hand, and apparated away.

**********

Though the weather was already warming up, that wasn’t the case on the island. 

The air surrounding the prison was frigid, and Hermione pulled her robes tighter around her as her tightly laced boots crunched on the rocky ground. 

As she drew closer to the prison, an overwhelming sadness began to sink into her bones, as it always did when she visited. When the dementors floated closer, she was plagued by visions of her parents, memories of the day she had obliviated them, the sight of Fred’s lifeless body falling to the stone floor of the Great Hall. The look in his eyes, empty, unseeing… vacant.

She shook her head, then cast a warming charm. The dementors kept their distance. Whether it was because they remembered her Phoenix patronus, or because they recognized her as Minister, she did not know. It was said that dementors remembered every patronus. Either way, Hermione was glad for it.

“Minister!” called the guard. “You shouldn’t be here unaccompanied!”

“I need to see a prisoner,” she said firmly. “It will only take a moment.”

The guard’s eyebrows drew forward. “Which prisoner?”

Hermione tried her best to seem nonchalant. “I believe the prisoner resides on the third floor, cell block B, cell seventy-eight.”

The guard blinked as if in thought. “That’s… that’s Morfin Gaunt, that is.”

She gave a curt nod. “I believe so.”

The guard shrugged. “He’s not doing too well, health wise. Don’t imagine it’ll be too long. What’s the reason for your visit?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “That is confidential.”

“My mistake, Minister. Do follow me, if you please.” The guard rapped on the door of the guards’ quarters. “Need two more to flank the Minister.”

When another pair of guards had joined them, they entered the prison, followed by two dementors that drifted several feet behind.

Hermione followed as the guard led her up three flights of stairs, into the heart of the prison, to a block of cells reserved for the worst crimes committed by wizardkind.

The air seemed fouler, a chill permeating the atmosphere as they passed through the corridor. 

Finally, they stood before the door to the cell.

“I will go in alone,” she said brusquely.

“Hmm. I don’t know about that,” said the guard. “Best to have a guard with you.” He motioned to one of the dementors, who floated closer. 

Hermione swallowed, acquiescing, because even she wasn’t certain what she would encounter in that cell.

She strode forward as the guard opened the heavy door. 

A square of light filtered into the stone room through the small, barred window. Hermione laid eyes on a thin, balding man who lay flat on his back in the corner of the cell.

Then, Hermione gasped, retreating backward as her heart pounded against her ribcage.

There were snakes at her feet, many of them, hissing and coiling up as if to strike.

All around her, there were the skins and the dead carcasses of serpents, impaled by sharpened bones.

Hermione gulped, taking a moment for her heart to stop stammering. Just as she was second guessing her decision to enter the cell, she heard a sound.

Laughter, maniacal and twisted, echoed off the stone walls.

“I know you,” came his guttural voice, high pitched and raspy. “You’re that muggle-loving Minister that married up with the devil spawn of my sister.”

Hermione stood very still, processing his words as the serpents hissed their displeasure at her intrusion.

“You… know who I am?” she asked hesitantly. 

“Sure do,” he said, followed by a bark of a laugh. “Cunt acts like I don’t read the Prophet.”

Hermione blinked, waiting for him to continue.

“Knew something wasn’t right about that kid,” he muttered under his breath, seemingly to himself. “Looked just like the blighter. Spitting image.”

Hermione assumed he was talking about Tom. When she thought about it, she grew confused. 

Tom had killed his father and grandparents with his uncle’s wand, then planted false memories in his uncle’s mind, framing him for the murders.

Hadn’t Tom obliviated his uncle after the murders? Wouldn’t he have also obliviated his own memory from his uncle’s mind, so that he would have no association to the murders?

“How do you know my husband?” she asked.

The man was quiet for a moment. The silence was eerie, and it alarmed Hermione, raising her hackles. Then, after a moment, he spoke. “You think I don’t see the name Tom Riddle plastered all over the papers?” Then he lowered his voice. “Came to see me a few years back, he did. Don’t know how long it’s been. Must’ve been fresh out of Hogwarts.”

That surprised Hermione. Both that Tom would visit his uncle, whom he’d always professed dislike for, and the fact that he hadn’t obliviated his uncle’s mind afterward.

“What did he want?”

He began to laugh, a strange, unpatterned laughter that made Hermione’s skin crawl. “He went into my mind. Didn’t even need a wand to do it, mad! Bet you won’t guess what he was looking for!”

Hermione was silent, unwilling to engage more than necessary, but she was desperate to know.

“Memories of his dear mommy!”

He said nothing more, overcome by unhinged laughter that dissolved into a hacking cough.

While the wretch cackled, Hermione waved her wand, clearing a pathway through the serpents and throwing many of them back against the wall. 

She saw his dark eyes fix on her, glinting with insanity. He bore no resemblance to Tom, save the paleness of his skin and those black eyes, which were so like Tom’s, sans the crimson that now streamed their dark orbs.

Morfin grunted, clearing his congested throat. “Seems he’s gone and married up. Big fancy Minister, writing books and starting papers. Daughter of Dumbledore, they say. Yes, I keep up with what’s happening in the world. Nothing else to do.” His eyes flicked over her. “Can’t say I blame him much, myself. Yer pleasant to look at.” 

He hunched over, his voice lowering as if speaking to someone next to him, though there was no one. “Can’t see much these days, with my eye. Got the blindness in one of ‘em. One o’ the Gaunt curses. Got a pile of ‘em.”

His muffled murmuring bothered Hermione, so she lifted her wand. “Legilimens.”

It was all too easy to penetrate the man’s weak mind.

Hermione saw a much younger Morfin, torturing serpents. 

She saw him cursing Hogwarts students, so much so that he got expelled for his violence.

Then, she saw his sister. A quiet, unattractive girl, with long black hair and a thin face with very little color.

She always had bruises and welts on her skin from her father and brother’s abuse.

She never returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year, because she had eloped with the devilishly handsome Tom Riddle.

Hermione was shocked by the uncanny resemblance between Tom and his father. They were like mirrors of one another.

When the summer ended, Merope returned pregnant, hoping to see her family. The desperation in her eyes spoke of torment, unhappiness, trauma. 

“Get out of here, you shameful trollop!” screamed her father. 

Morfin followed suit, hexing her until she cried.

“You wanted the muggle beasty, now you’ve got him! You won’t show your ugly face here again.”

She lived with Riddle and his grandparents at Riddle House until the effects of the potions wore off.

“Did you hear?” said Morfin to his father as he returned from the village. “Ole Riddle kicked her out. She let the potions wear off. I reckon she hoped the bloke had fallen in love with her! Ha!” He threw a slaughtered pig down on the rickety wooden table. “As if he’d love an ugly whore like her.”

Then, the memory shifted.

A pair of ministry workers appeared at the door of their shack, with a body wrapped in linen levitating behind them.

“We are here to deliver the body of Merope Gaunt. Is there a Morfin Gaunt that lives here?”

Morfin grunted, his eyes falling on the body. She felt his pang of regret, however faint. “Where’s the spawn?”

The ministry workers exchanged glances. “He has been left at an orphanage, as per her last request.”

Morfin laughed, but she sensed his discomfort. “Good riddance. Don’t want any half blood brats running around here!”

Hermione had always questioned Merope’s decision to leave him at an orphanage, but now it all made sense. She had nowhere else to go, and leaving her beloved child with her disgusting, abusive relatives was unfathomable. 

“How did she die?” asked Morfin, a frown on his face. 

“It appears she’d developed pneumonia. From the cold, we assume. She was last seen at a shop, Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley. She sold a locket to the owners, in exchange for ten galleons.”

“That bloody cunt,” Morfin cursed. “That locket’s a family heirloom. Belonged to Slytherin, you know. We are his ancestors.”

The ministry worker seemed disturbed. 

Hermione couldn’t watch anymore. She rifled through his memories until she found a memory of Tom. 

He was right. Tom was younger, perhaps just graduated from Hogwarts. He appeared in the cell, called off the snakes with parseltongue, and immediately performed wandless legilimency upon Morfin’s mind.

He saw what had become of his mother, witnessing the mention of the locket.

So that’s how Tom knew about it, she thought.

She pulled out of Morfin’s mind.

He was gazing at her with those unnerving, vacant black eyes. 

“There’s something the boy didn’t see when he came, I’ll wager,” Morfin hedged with a smirk. “Something that might interest you.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“Get me out of here and I’ll tell you.”

Hermione wasted no time in replying with a firm, “No.”

“Then I guess it’s not important.”

She aimed her wand at his face. “I’ll be the decider of that. Tell me, and I won’t kill you.” 

“I’m already dead, lady. It’s just a matter of time.”

Morfin backed away, his body racked with a cough. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” she said coldly. “And it’s the best you’ll get. Tell me, and I’ll make your last days more comfortable. Don’t tell me, and I’ll take it from your mind anyway.”

His coughing lasted for another minute before he gazed up at her, a toothless leer on his face. “Old Riddle, Sr. had a girl in the village. He was hell bent on marrying her. That’s why my sister snuck the beast a love potion. She was right distraught when she found out the girl was pregnant.”

Hermione’s brows drew forward sharply. “You mean… Tom’s father has another child?”

Morfin nodded. “When he kicked my sister out, he told everyone in the village, including the girl, that she’d bewitched him using witchcraft. Not wrong, the bloke. Anyway, he married her and named her child his heir.”

Hermione was very still as she processed the information. “Why didn’t you kill them then?”

To herself, she wondered, why didn’t Tom kill them?

And why hadn’t he ever mentioned it?

“They weren’t there the night I did it. She’d gone off to London with her folks. I hear they returned to find the arsehole dead and fled the town. Said it’s cursed.”

Hermione’s lips parted. “So Tom… has a half-sibling.”

Morfin grunted. “I suppose. Muggle trash, if you ask me.”

Hermione blinked.

Tom didn’t know.

“Was the child a boy, or a girl?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“A boy.”

A brother.

Tom had a brother.

Chapter Text

Gaspard Dufresne stared blankly at the wizard sitting opposite of him.

The lights were low in the Three Broomsticks, highlighting the unnatural glint of red marbling the wizard’s eyes.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Riddle?”

Tom Riddle sucked a drag from his muggle cigarette, taking his time to answer.

When he had finally flicked the ash away, vanishing it effortlessly before it hit the floor, he replied, “I have some information that I believe is pertinent to your investigation into Fenrir Greyback’s crimes.”

Dufresne blinked. “Have you discussed this with the Minister?”

Riddle ejected a puff of smoke. “Not yet.”

Dufresne’s cheek muscles flexed. “Do you think that’s wise?”

Riddle smiled. “I know my wife better than you do, Dufresne. Though I’ll wager you imagine I don’t. She likes to follow the rules, and protocol stipulates that information should be brought directly to the DMLE-“

“You could have owled an auror and left a tip.”

“-and investigated by yourself before being brought before the Minister… rather than being brought up by me during pillow talk. I have much better things to do with my wife in our spare time than discuss how we might do your job for you.” 

Dufresne rolled his eyes, but Riddle continued, “Besides, she has enough on her plate, don’t you think? Would you put more on her shoulders?”

“She can handle it,” said Dufresne coolly. 

“But should she have to? Are you not capable of handling it?”

Dufresne took a sip of Ogden’s. “What is this valuable information?”

Riddle’s eyes darkened. “I have a friend… a very big friend-“

“A giant.”

“Perhaps. He was visited by a witch with a very disturbing aura, he said. She spoke of the laws which oppressed his kind. She spoke of the Ministry, of revolution. Of muggles and their prejudices. All vague allusions, of course, but she mentioned that the aid of other races in cooperation with one another could be quite important one day in the future.”

Dufresne gazed at Riddle, his eyes narrowing only slightly. “Other races.”

“Mmm.”

The auror took another drink of his firewhiskey. “Is that all?”

“My friend is big, but he isn’t stupid. She invited him to a political meeting of the minds, anonymity ensured, of course. He said yes.” Riddle put out his cigarette, and immediately drew out another. “He contacted me right away, and informed me that when he is abreast of the date and location of this meeting, he will alert me.”

Dufresne ran his tongue over his top teeth, sitting back. “Who is this witch?”

Riddle shook his head. “I don’t know yet. I’ve a few ideas, but none of them make much sense.”

Dufresne bit his cheek, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “And you believe these other races are… werewolves?”

“One of them.”

“And the others?”

“I would be monitoring the vampires and mermaids closely, if I were you. Goblins as well… but that goes without saying.”

Dufresne nodded slowly. After a moment of deep thought, he stood, tossed a few galleons onto the table, and shrugged on his cloak. “Drinks are on the Ministry. You can have as many as you like, but I have elsewhere to be.”

Riddle also stood. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be seeing my wife.”

He clapped Dufresne on the shoulder and grinned before turning to leave.

Dufresne stared after him, then called out, “Riddle!”

The latter turned, and the elder wizard added, “Let me know what else you learn.”

With a dip of his head, Riddle walked out of the pub. 

**************

“You know what I used to wonder?” Hermione whispered into the dark.

“Hmm?”

She took a deep breath. His cool fingertips stroked her bare lower back softly, putting her at ease. “I used to wonder why everyone followed you so blindly. Many of your followers refused to serve Grindelwald, even though he was seemingly more sane, from my perspective, since I only knew you as Voldemort… and he was pureblooded, whereas you’re a half-blood. He fought for their ideals, same as you. I never understood why they said no to him, and yes to you.”

“And now?”

Her cheek rested on his chest, just over the runes on his pectoral. “I would follow you, too. You’re so easy to love. So brilliant, so powerful. So dangerously charming.”

Silence fell for a moment, then Tom shifted, so that she slid beneath him, settling his hips between her thighs. “I don’t want you to follow me. I want you to fuck me, and trust me. Be one with me. That’s all I ask.”

Hermione chuckled. “Lies. You always ask the world of me.”

“Yes. But I’ll give you the world in return. Anything you want, wife.” He kissed the valley between her breasts. “Anything.”

***************

Tom had given Hermione’s wonderings a fair bit of thought, and he’d determined that the reason his followers chose him and not Grindelwald is because his followers never had the choice to begin with.

His death eaters had been the children of Grindelwald’s supporters, and whilst many of those families chose to stay neutral during the war, for their own political posturing, many of them still sent monetary aid and granted favors to Grindelwald and his acolytes.

Grindelwald had indoctrinated a group of people with his radical ideology, and from what Tom had seen of the future, it seemed as if Voldemort had, as well. 

He’d always intended to, truth be told, but Hermione had changed his path to power irrevocably.

Was there any difference between him and Grindelwald, when it came down to it?

He fancied himself more powerful, and perhaps more strategic, but he had learned that even his wise and careful planning, no matter how painstaking, had proved to have limitations.

He would have never anticipated three children to have discovered and destroyed his horcruxes.

He had battled that fact for ten years now and still couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

At that moment, his teacher’s aide, a young witch named Miss Palmer, rapped on his office door.

“Professor?” she murmured hesitantly as she poked her nose in. 

“Yes, Miss Palmer?” He replied without looking up from his lesson.

“You’ve received a letter by owl. Shall I leave it here with you?”

“Bring it to me.”

The short witch clacked into the room, her brunette hair bobbing and eyes large behind thick glasses. 

She laid the letter on the desk and retreated back through the door, closing it behind her.

Tom’s eyes fell to the letter, and he realized at once what it was about.

With a sigh, he flicked his wand and the letter unsealed and opened itself.

A pair of lips formed as the letter scrunched up and began to read the contents of its own volition. 

Greetings to the Minister for Magic and Professor Riddle,

I was so very pleased to meet you both at the fundraiser for the planning of your forthcoming magical orphanage. What a glorious couple you are, and such a gift to the magical population.

As you are already aware, I have been appointed as the Senior Editor and Feature Columnist of the Wizarding Digest, the oldest and most widely subscribed magical magazine in Europe. 

It has reached my ears that you, Professor Riddle, have single-handedly raised student scores in the subject of Defense Against the Dark Arts by two wizarding levels since your appointment to the post, and will be awarded Teacher of the Year for Hogwarts School for the first time. 

Coupled with the determined approach of your spouse in her political pursuits and her record as second-longest seated Minister for Magic behind Minister Faris Spaven, you have both proved to be a powerful force for change, and the Wizarding Digest would be honored if you would grant us an editorial interview at your personal home, Acheron Place. 

If you agree, please respond with a list of your proposed dates, and we will issue you both a copy of our editorial questionnaire, in which you will detail the topics and questions you would like to adhere to, and those you would like to avoid, etcetera, etcetera.

Congratulations on your achievements. Your family is truly a gift, and we look forward to the continuation of your legacy.

Sincerely,

Zorelda Mumfreys

Tom blinked as he snatched the letter and reread the last line.

…the continuation of your legacy.

His jaw ticked, and he shoved the letter into his desk.

***************

“The meeting is set,” Abraxas muttered before tipping back his glass of aged pixie port.

Aikaterine’s long black nails dug into the arms of the chair. 

“Well done,” she crooned smoothly… ethereally.

Her voice always hypnotized Abraxas, though her presence disconcerted him.

“Riddle paid me a visit last week,” he said sullenly. “The usual threats.”

“He is careful,” she murmured softly. “He has much to lose, now.”

“He isn’t that careful,” Abraxas scoffed. “He’s been spying on my wife and child through nefarious means. He’s got proof of my smuggling profits and sends them to me from time to time, to remind me that he can and will put me in Azkaban if I step a toe out of line.”

“That would all change if you could get into the Library.”

Abraxas heaved a deep, frustrated breath. “In order to do that, I would need to be inducted into the Society, and according to them, even my family isn’t old or pure enough for them.”  

He shook his head in disbelief.

Aikaterine blinked slowly. “What about the Blacks?”

Malfoy cocked his head, staring at the beautiful witch with no small bit of incredulity. “The last time I partnered up with a Black, I lost my arm.”

“That was due to your own stupidity.”

“Yes, you’ve reminded me on many occasions.”

She leaned forward, immediately silencing Abraxas. It took everything within him not to flinch away. 

“All of this leverage which he holds over your head… none of it would matter if my soulmate returns. He is the Lord you are searching for. It is not Riddle.”

Abraxas swallowed. “You said you once hoped to partner with Tom. What changed?”

Aikaterine sat back, her aura crackling with anger. “He took a different path. One that I did not anticipate. Although… I do still hope that when my soulmate and Lord returns, he can sway Riddle to our side. He is the last of my own bloodline, after all, though it is sullied.”

“And what if he does not join you?”

“Then his wife will die.”

Abraxas froze.

Aikaterine smiled. “He searches for my thread. I know where it is. I will give him what he wants, in return for his service.”

Abraxas licked his lips nervously. “Tom is very powerful. The most powerful wizard I’ve ever met.”

She leaned forward again, and he stiffened. Her ever-shifting eyes became serpent-like. “That is because you’ve never met the most powerful Wizard of all time, Herpo the Foul.”

Abraxas’ heart pounded as he asked the question he had wondered for the past year. “If he was so powerful, how was he killed?”

Her eyes sharpened, her beautiful mouth twisting into a terrifying frown. “The gods were involved. I’m afraid that was partly my fault… which is why I am determined to make it right. I have been trying for millennia.” She tilted her head to the side, eyes cutting toward Abraxas, and he thought to himself how like Riddle she was. “Make no mistake, Mr. Malfoy. He was not killed. He is immortal, and he will return. When he does, he will reward you greatly.”

He swallowed. At one time, he wouldn’t have entertained the idea of bringing back a dark wizard from ages bygone, one who had a reputation for being ruthless and evil, who nearly overtook the entire world.

But nine years ago, he’d made an enemy of the most powerful wizard he’d ever known. He’d been young and incredibly stupid, but that mistake had been held over his head for the previous decade and he knew without a doubt that Riddle intended vengeance. 

Tom had never been one to let a single infraction go unpunished, even since his school days.

Oh, yes, he intended to take Malfoy and his entire family down, and he had been planning it for nearly a decade.

His heart thundered.

He needed someone more powerful than Riddle. 

Aikaterine needed a human; she needed someone with connections.

If Malfoy aided her, he would have the revolution his forefathers had always spoken of, and he would rid himself of the threat of Riddle in one fell swoop.

“Get me a meeting with the Black witch.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “She won’t help you.”

“You underestimate me.” 

Abraxas sighed. “She has no loyalty to Riddle. Nor any vendetta. Not anymore. She is at peace.”

“ When my soulmate returns,” she hissed. “She will be forced to choose a side. Better sooner than later.”

He swallowed, inclining his head in agreement. “Alright. I will procure the meeting, and then I will leave the rest to you.”

“Good boy,” she muttered softly, an impish smile playing on her lips.

Then, she stood. “Give little Lucius a kiss for me.”

A moment later, she was gone; vanished completely. 

Abraxas shivered, happy to be rid of the poison she emanated. He wondered, if the ancient witch was so foreboding, what Herpo the Foul would be like.

Sometimes, he wondered if he were mad to dabble with the characters that he did. 

But then he remembered that he was quite nefarious himself, though to the wizarding world at large, he looked like an upstanding citizen of pureblood society.

An owl rapped on his office window.

Abraxas stood and approached, taking the package from its beak.

His eyebrows drew forward sharply. There was no return address.

He whipped out his wand and cast detection spells, but they rendered nothing sinister.

He ripped open the package, his curiosity peaked.

Wrapped inside the thick brown paper was a wand.

Not just any wand.

A wand crafted of African Blackwood.

Abraxas swallowed thickly.

He was involved in many underhanded dealings, things that would be illegal if he weren’t so well-connected, if he didn't have the gold to cover his tracks and cook his books.

But his latest venture, being the enterprising individual that he was, was in the manufacturing and smuggling of Blackwood wands. 

That particular wandwood had been banned internationally by the Confederation due to its magical properties. Following an investigation, which yielded in depth historical research, it was revealed that the wand would only yield its most potent magic to dark wizards, and with continued use of dark magic, the wandwood retained the residue of such magic, acting in a similar manner as goblin-forged steel, building up a store of powerful dark magic. 

Blackwood wands would yield devastating and potentially lethal magic with extended use over time, and research showed that they performed poorly for everyday magic and most forms of light magic, such as healing. In many cases, the wands would even sabotage those types of spells, such as healing, reversing their healing properties and causing severe injury and death, in some instances.

The Confederation, determined to highlight the severity of the newly passed legislation, ordered participating countries to confiscate all registered Blackwood wands and have them destroyed.

Blackwood trees were already rare and slow-growing, and those the Confederation hadn’t destroyed were placed under powerful wards and enchantments, intended to punish anyone attempting to take the wood from the trees.

However, through his contacts high up in the Ministry, Abraxas learned of the initial proposal of the legislation and acted quickly, having his international business partners and paid liaisons gather up the wood at great expense and placed many of the trees under Fidelius, with Abraxas as the secret keeper.

Then, his overseas manufacturers were instructed to create a store of the wands, which he kept hidden in his untraceable offshore vaults.

As expected, the wands became a rarity, highly in demand by dark wizards around the world.

A commodity which Abraxas possessed in great quantity and would sell for the right price, though he was careful that nothing could be tied back to him.

Did he need to partake in these underhanded ventures? No. The Malfoy vaults were lined with enough gold that he wouldn’t be able to spend it all even if he were gifted with ten lifetimes by the gods.

But it was something the Malfoy men were known for within their lineage, something they passed down generation after generation. It was expected that each heir would fatten their vaults, using his power and influence to rob the system, thus adding to the untouchable name that was Malfoy . 

He would leave an even larger inheritance to Lucius, provided he could rid himself of the looming shadow of Voldemort.

Abraxas gazed at the wand in his hand.

This was obviously another warning from Riddle. The wand seemed to buzz in his hand, speaking a message of vengeance.

Abraxas had bags under his eyes; he did not sleep well. Around every corner, he expected to see red eyes watching him. 

Every day, he wondered what new threat Riddle would pose to his family’s existence.

He shoved the wand in the top drawer of his desk, warding it until he could find the proper moment to destroy it.

He feared having any ounce of evidence in his Manor. He wasn’t sure when the day would come that his ancestral home would be flooded with aurors.

With a weary sigh, he opened the desk and withdrew a roll of parchment and dipped his quill.

His peacock feather quill scratched along the thick paper.

Dear, Mrs. Black…

***********

Hermione waved her wand, and a shelf emerged from her desk, bearing a state-of-the-art muggle telephone.

It was technically meant to be used in case of emergencies, but she often had little chats with the muggle Prime Minister to keep up their good relations. 

She dialed the number for the Prime Minister’s private line.

”MacMillain,” came a curt answer. 

“Prime Minister,” Hermione breathed. “This is Hermione Riddle speaking.”

“Ah,” he answered, his voice softening a fraction. “Minister Riddle, it is good to hear from you. It has been a minute, hasn’t it?”

Hermione laughed nervously. “It has, I’m afraid. I believe we have both been quite busy with our respective duties.”

”Without a doubt. To what do I owe your call?”

She cleared her throat. “Well… I was hoping someone in your administration might be able to locate a person for me.”

”Who might that be? Do we have a common criminal to apprehend?”

”Oh, no,” she said quickly. “This… is more of a personal matter, you understand.”

”Ah, certainly. What can I do for you? Just give me a name, and my people will discover what information may be available.”

Hermione swallowed, hands trembling somewhat. “A man by the name of Riddle.” She paused, trying to phrase her request properly. 

“A family matter, I’m presuming?”

”Yes.” She paused a moment more. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so I’ll make it brief. A man lived in Little Hangleton, one Tom Riddle, Senior. He is my husband’s father. He was murdered, and the case was never solved. Before… before his death, he appears to have had a child, a boy. The child’s mother is not the same woman as my husband’s mother. I- I’d like to know the man’s name.” She swallowed again. “He may be my husband’s only living relative.”

”I’m assuming, since you’ve contacted me specifically, that this individual is… non-magical?”

”Yes, I believe so.”

There was a pause at the other end of the phone. Hermione had never gotten used to the prevailing buzz that accompanied pauses in these vintage telephones. At length, he cleared his throat and spoke again. “Forgive me, I was merely making a note for my secretary. I will have my people look into it for you.”

”Please, if you can, Prime Minister… be as discreet as possible.”

”Most certainly, Minister Riddle. We shall treat this matter with care. Is that all that I can help you with?”

”I believe that it is.”

”Very well. I will contact you again when we have some information for you.”

”Thank you, Prime Minister.”

“Do send me an invitation to tour your new orphanage when the building is finished, Minister. This will solve many problems for both our sides, I believe! A stroke of genius and a refreshing initiative.”

Hermione laughed warmly. “Thank you. I certainly will do so.”

”Brilliant. We will be in touch soon.”

Chapter Text

Hermione held out her hand, revealing a bundle of spring flowers picked from the garden. 

The unicorn she loved most trotted up, its pale mane shimmering in the sunlight. She began to happily munch on the flora, picking around the leaves and aiming specifically for the dahlia blossoms, which were her favorite.

Hermione laughed. “Mindy, you can’t just fill up on candy.”

She turned and offered the leaves to the less picky of the blessing, Ral.

Most of the creatures were nervous things, but a few of them had grown to favor Hermione, with Ral and Mindy steadily becoming her favorites. It was nice, after all, to have a pet again, since she’d left Crookshanks behind, and would never know what happened to the part-kneazle feline. 

A female unicorn named Prudence, a quiet creature with a grayish-silver coat, preferred Tom, and Hermione often caught him out in the woods in the early hours of the morning reading against a tree, with the unicorn grazing at his side. She was the only unicorn that didn’t get skittish when snakes inevitably came slithering about Tom’s feet.

Sometimes, on weekends when neither of them were occupied elsewhere, Tom and Hermione could even saddle Mindy and Prudence and ride them side by side. 

Hermione sighed, rubbing the unicorn’s head. 

“Gabriel,” Hermione whispered into the beast’s ear. “That is his name. Tom’s brother, that is.”

It hadn’t taken long for the Prime Minister to return her call.

It seemed that Darya Riddle, Tom Riddle, Sr’s second wife, was away in London with her family and son in 1943. When they returned to find Riddle and his parents murdered, they claimed that the home and the entire village of Little Hangleton was cursed, and fled to a small village in Kent. There, Darya and her parents continued to raise her teenage son, Gabriel. 

After Riddle’s death, Darya remarried a man by the name of Fisher, and took his name as her own, but her son kept his father’s name, Riddle.

Hermione wasn’t sure if or when she should tell Tom. She wasn’t sure how to tell him, because she really had no explanation for why she’d shown up at Morfin Gaunt’s cell door, and she wasn’t sure how Tom would react to the news.

Had she simply been curious about his family? His mother?

He so often shied away from the topic that she felt it must be quite a sore spot for him, though he pretended that it wasn’t.

But, perhaps Hermione had questions that still begged answering, and she’d hoped in some part of herself that Morfin’s memories held the answers.

There were still memories she wasn’t brave enough to examine…

The day Tom murdered his father and the talk he’d had with his uncle. The things his father said to him.

Tom had always alluded to those memories, mentioning them flippantly here or there. 

He would show them to her, if she asked. He’d offered to show her his school years, even the months when he’d opened the Chamber of Secrets. 

But Hermione was too terrified to do so. To see her Tom murder his father in cold blood, to see him unleash a deadly monster into her favorite place in the world, in order to purge the school of people like her.

She didn’t think it would change her view of him, not after ten years of knowing him. But those memories would remind her of who he had once been, and who he still might be to a large degree. 

People could change, but they don’t change that much. 

Tom was still a murderer. He was still vengeful, still seeking out more powerful and sinister forms of dark magic. 

He was obsessed with power.

He always had been, but now, his reasons had changed.

Hermione was at the center of his desire for power, and she didn’t know how she felt about that.

She knew he thought constantly about how he might protect her, how he might avenge her, and though Hermione was glad that he loved her and that he had corrected some of his mistakes, even amending some of his beliefs, the fact of the matter was that Hermione wanted to protect him, too.

Dark magic was a sinister and corrupting practice. Murder was a dangerous hobby, for more reasons than one. Hermione feared for him; she feared that one day his obsession for keeping her safe would override his judgment.

She feared there was already a cell in Azkaban with his name on it.

Could she prevail upon Gaspard to help, if that time ever came? 

She doubted it. There must be limits to what he would do for her, and she already felt guilty about the sway she had over him.

And if Tom were to be killed… would she bring him back through one of his horcruxes? Was she that brave?

Hermione swallowed as these dark thoughts consumed her.

“Gabriel Riddle,” she whispered, bringing herself back to center. 

Would Tom care that he had a brother?

Hermione conjured a brush, with which she began to brush the unicorn’s mane as she contemplated what she should do.

**************

Tom sat at his desk, on the bottom floor of the Acheron library, tucked in a darker corner though he could see the entirety of the room, including the upper levels.

He sucked in a deep, decadent drag of his cigarette as his eyes followed his wife.

She was dragging his gaze along the second floor while she innocently perused a section of books designated for magical creatures. Tom felt something wicked curling through his veins, stealing the breath from his lungs.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke as his eyes trailed over her wild hair. She left it alone today, wearing only a deep blue velvet dressing gown that tied around her waist. He didn’t know why she bothered dressing at all. It was certainly against his preferences, although it might make for an awkward encounter with Piksy were she to abstain from clothing.

He ran a hand down his face in an effort to curb the grating itch that grew stronger, worse than a cigarette craving.

He gritted his teeth as he watched her.

Tom was growing restless. He was bored of teaching. Dumbledore kept a tight rein on the curriculum he was allowed to teach, and he longed for more time to learn, to practice dueling, to research. At least at Borgin & Burkes he could learn about dark objects and unfamiliar forms of magic without an old man breathing down his neck. 

Borgin was easy; he loved money, and Tom made him lots of it. But Dumbledore was much more difficult to appease. 

Tom felt as though he’d learned everything there was to learn at Hogwarts. He’d exhausted the restricted section, and though he was capable of apparating long distances, he didn’t have the necessary time required to seek out arcane forms of magic. That required searching, asking about. Investigating. Tom loved the act of seeking the unknown. He wanted to travel.

But his obsession with his wife warred with his restlessness. His plans for revenge had kept him occupied for years, but his desire for more built up a tenseness in his muscles that he was eager to ease.

He stood.

In a quick movement, punctuated by a wisp of black smoke, he stood behind his wife. 

The apparation barely made a sound.

He slid his long fingers around her throat and he heard her softly gasp, snapping her book shut. 

He pulled her back against his chest, burying his nose in her hair to breathe in the sweet scent of lavender and sea salt. 

He said nothing. The silence was tense with the threat of violence.

His hand trailed down her body, exploring. He didn’t need to ask permission, and neither did she. 

They were so far beyond that.

She spun around, her eyes searching for him.

He gave her the look she was seeking, his crimson-threaded eyes boring into her amber ones. 

He tightened his grip on her throat, jerking her closer, his mouth covering hers. 

He heard her exhale, and it sounded like relief, like stress leeching away. Tom kissed her hungrily, his teeth snatching at her bottom lip as he pulled away.  She gasped as he drew blood, her tiny tongue darting out to swipe at it, tasting the tangy, sanguinary liquid.

His hands ran along her upward arms and came to rest on her shoulders. 

“On your knees, Minister,” he muttered as he shoved her onto her knees, and she allowed it.

A playful smile played on her lips as her whiskey eyes met his, triggering something primal in Tom.

He unbuckled his belt slowly, and she watched him with a gleam in her eyes.

“Open,” he commanded as he withdrew his cock.

She obeyed, flicking her eyes up at him. He reached down to grip her chin roughly, lifting her face. Then, her moan reverberated around him as he slid himself over her tongue.

She wrapped her pretty lips around him, and he let his breath out through his nose. He felt the tension he carried coiling up in his muscles, all the magic and energy and restlessness directing itself at Hermione.

He lost himself in the act, releasing her chin to roughly thread his fingers in her hair, guiding her mouth over him again and again. He let himself feel it, all the power and rightness of domination.

He needed this like he needed air to breathe.

He poured all of his anger into the movements, all of his frustration with Dumbledore, his intense desire for revenge, and his fear for Hermione.

His need for more. 

His ache for the soul bond. 

She watched him carefully as his control steadily slipped, and he knew she was reading him, calm and poised no matter how roughly he fucked her mouth. It made him angry, more violent. He both loathed and loved the way she sat primly on her knees like a priestess or a nun, letting him fall apart, the way she often did during arguments.

Always holding the higher ground.

“Fuck,” he gritted out as his tip hit the back of her throat, forcefully spilling his seed, her throat convulsing in an attempt to swallow it all.

Then, his knees buckled and he sank to the floor in front of her, each of them gasping for breath.

He could feel her eyes, gazing at him for a moment, but his were closed, afraid that she would read the desperation in them.

When he opened them, she was staring at him with a concerned expression.

She reached out to touch his cheek, so he leaned in to kiss her, hands wrapping around her wrists and pinning them to the bookshelves behind her head. His tongue slid along her bottom lip, and he willed his magic to heal the tiny wound. 

Then he tore away abruptly, fastening his trousers as he walked away, angry at himself for cracking, even if for a moment.

She’d seen worse from him in the past ten years… but it was happening more often of late.

He felt her eyes following him as he left the library.

***************

“Welcome to Acheron Place! The humble abode of the Riddles!” announced Piksy as the reporter from Wizarding Digest entered through the enormous double doors.

“Humble!” exclaimed the journalist. “I’m quite sure this is a gothic mansion to rival the Cologne cathedral.”

“And so squeaky clean,” she added with a wink, for Piksy.

Piksy beamed, brushing off her skirt, which had been custom tailored in the popular A-line style of the day. 

Tom stood with his arm around Hermione at the base of the sweeping staircase, and when the photographer entered, he snapped a quick photograph. 

Tom looked at Hermione, who wore an outfit that was quite trendy among the muggles: a black cashmere turtleneck with gingham trousers and ballet flats. 

“What a picture perfect couple!” the reporter fawned.

Tom guided Hermione beside him as Piksy led them all into the sitting room to commence the interview.

************

“How did you come about this home? I’ve heard so much about it,” asked the reporter. 

Tom smiled. “Blackmail and coercion. How else?”

Hermione cut her eyes at Tom while the reporter laughed giddily. 

“I have heard about your sense of humor, Mr. Riddle.”

“Have you?”

“Oh yes. I had the pleasure of interviewing your father-in-law several years ago about his duel with the dark wizard Grindelwald. He mentioned your charm and sparkling sense of humor. I suppose you both have that in common.”

Tom inclined his head. “I’m sure he had lots to say.”

“He is overflowing with a very specific type of esoteric wisdom, without a doubt.”

Tom pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a wave of his hand. “No doubt,” he murmured around the fag. 

The reporter turned to Hermione. “And from one reporter to another, the success of your newspaper is inspiring. How do you manage all of these projects?”

“The newspaper is more of a business now, than a project,” Hermione said calmly. “But, I suppose, delegation is everything.”

“Indeed,” agreed Tom.

“Do you expect to run again for Minister?” the reporter hedged. 

“That is years away,” Hermione said decisively, leaning back.

“Suppose I should say it this way… if you were to resign or refuse to run, who would replace you?”

Hermione blinked. “I… I suppose we will face that when the time comes. At present, I haven’t the foggiest.”

The reporter cut her eyes to Tom. “What about Professor Riddle? You have campaigned before, no?”

Tom chuckled. “After seeing how set upon my wife is by department heads seeking endless reviews of paperwork, I shall happily decline. There are better ways of enacting change.”

“Certainly,” she responded. “You have already had a profound impact upon the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, with test scores rising two levels for both OWLs and NEWTs. There have been whispers that Dumbledore could be the next Supreme Mugwump. Would you ever consider stepping up as Headmaster of Hogwarts?”

He breathed out a cloud of smoke. “I don’t see why Dumbledore would leave the position. He can do both, I believe.”

“True.” 

The reporter flipped through her notes. 

Tom leaned back, placing an arm around Hermione, as he could sense she was becoming agitated.

She hadn’t the best relationship with the press of late, particularly because of the Daily Prophet, and partly because of Malfoy’s interference. 

Hermione was becoming downright belligerent with them these days, with their incessant attempts to trap her with quotes that could be easily twisted.

“Have you two considered having children?”

Hermione froze.

Tom tensed, rage flooding his body and tightening his muscles. 

He carefully removed the cigarette from between his lips, pointing it at the reporter. “I do believe that was one of the questions you were not to ask the Minister.”

The reporter looked down at her notes, blinking, and her hand rose to her chest. “Oh my, I see. You’re right, forgive me. Allow me to change the subject.”

A muscle in Tom’s jaw jumped. 

He tightened his arm around Hermione’s shoulder.

“How are you managing your wife’s protection, with these dangerous werewolves afoot?” The reporter asked.

Tom watched her for a moment, inhaling deeply from his cigarette. 

Then, he reached into his coat pocket, producing his wand. 

“Confundus.”

The witch’s eyes grew glassy. 

“Tom,” Hermione hissed. “What on earth are you doing?”

He’d already stood and was now bending over the witch, his wand pressed to the reporter’s temple. “Finishing the interview.”

A few minutes went by as he planted his own memories into her mind of the remainder of the interview, as he preferred it, then he stood back and broke the confundus. 

“Well,” the reporter shrugged. “I think that’s everything. Should we conclude the interview with a tour? I believe the photographer is out of doors photographing the unicorns, but he would like to snap a few of the interior as well.”

“Certainly,” Tom acquiesced, putting out his cigarette. “The Minister and I are very busy at the moment, but Piksy will be happy to show you around.”

Piksy immediately appeared with a crack.

Tom gave a tight smile, then guided Hermione out of the sitting room. 

*************

Abraxas’ knuckles turned white as he gripped the newspaper. 

The gossip rag, Rumours! was disreputable, but remarkably widely-read throughout London. 

But no matter how little stock he put into these types of newspapers, he couldn’t deny that this particular article would be the talk of London today. He would certainly be contacting his lawyer to have the damage cleaned up, but there was little he could do about its circulation today. It was already on the shelves.

On the front cover of the paper was a photograph of Abraxas and Amira Bledsoe, a petite little Hufflepuff gem whose hardworking Hufflepuff traits extended to the bedroom. 

The problem was, Abraxas had been caught snogging her in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley, just outside the White Wyvern.

He sighed as he stared at the paper.

This had Riddle written all over it.

Now the bastard was having him followed, attempting to discredit him at every turn.

Abraxas waved his wand, set upon doctoring the photograph before Viola saw it.

As he was transfiguring the photo, Dobby popped into the office, giving him a start. 

“You blasted elf,” he sneered. “What have I told you about entering my office?”

“Forgive me, sir,” Dobby muttered meekly. “But a package arrived for you.”

Abraxas’ hackles rose. 

Now, anytime mysterious packages arrived, he became suspicious. In fact, his entire life had become a study on paranoia. 

He snatched the tiny box from the elf’s hands and tore at the wrappings. 

When he lifted the lid of what appeared to be a jewelry box, he found only a match within.

The little wooden stick with a red tip was an item that he was unfamiliar with, given that it was a muggle invention. He knew that it was intended to create fire, but he wasn’t informed on how it worked. Which, if he was being honest, was simply another reason that wizards were superior. He could simply use a spell.

He reached into the box and took up the match.

Then, he cursed, feeling the familiar tugging of his navel into space.

A portkey. 

It was too late to stop its activation.

Abraxas was immediately sucked into nothingness.

***************

He appeared in darkness, and it took several moments for his eyes to adjust.

The scent of smoke stung his nostrils, prompting him to cough. There was smoke everywhere.

He whirled around, seeking the source of the smoke that surrounded him like a cloud. 

He realized he was in a house, with wood floors beneath his feet. There were flames all around him, with black smoke billowing into the air. 

He whipped out his wand. “Lumos!”

Suddenly, he recognized a painting on the wall. 

He was in one of the summer homes belonging to his family…

… one protected by the fidelius charm. 

He felt nausea rising up as he breathed in a poisonous amount of smoke.

He tore down the hallway and made his way down the staircase by memory, coughing the entire way.

If he didn’t get out, he would be killed just by asphyxiation.

He reached the double doors and found them locked.

He barely choked out, “Alohomora.”

The doors didn’t open.

He began kicking the door with every ounce of his strength. 

Curse these heavy teak doors, he thought. Too well made. Too thick. Too costly.

He felt lightheaded. 

“Aberto!” He shouted while kicking. 

Whether it was the spell or the force, he didn’t know, but the doors gave way.

He dashed through them, tearing across the front lawn, only to be met with another horrid sight.

One of the Blackwood trees that had been hidden by his family, planted many years ago by his great-grandfather, was now nothing more than a blazing inferno. 

That tree was worth millions of galleons, and now it burned into ash. 

Abraxas coughed violently, grasping at his chest. 

Then, he heard laughter.

He wheeled around in the direction of the sound, but it seemed to be coming from all around him.

He spun about, searching.

“Where are you, Riddle?” he shouted angrily, but his throat was too full of smoke, and it came out as a croak.

Then, his eyes fell on a figure in the darkness, at the very edge of the treeline.

He couldn’t make out the face or form, but he saw the blazing crimson eyes, glowing from the shadows.

A moment later, Riddle was gone.

Abraxas turned to find the home completely engulfed in flame.

Fiery creatures weaved in and out of the home, crashing through its upper level windows. 

Fiendfyre.

Abraxas fell to his knees, gripping his hair, which had somehow been singed.

He let out a hoarse sob, his fear rising to the surface for the millionth time this week.

He was sure to go mad before Riddle ever got a chance to kill him.

A woman’s voice rang out in his mind, clear as crystal. 

Soon, she crooned. Riddle will join us, or die.