Decisions in Ethicality, or An Interlude in 1950

Written for Wildkitsune for the Gutter City Tomione Convention Forum Secret Santa Exchange 2014

Prompt: Hermione was born in 1926.

Summary: "In the vast cordillera of Albania, amidst ash trees, chestnuts, maples and oaks laden with fallen snow, two people stared at each other from across a small grove." One-shot glimpse into the decision Hermione Granger was finally willing to make, a decision that will ripple through to change the future as no one yet knows it.

Rating: Mature (mostly for some language and light torture)

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise, the characters, etc. No monetary benefit is gained from writing this, just a sense of pride in my work and enjoyment in my hobby.

In the vast cordillera of Albania, amidst ash trees, chestnuts, maples and oaks laden with fallen snow, two people stared at each other from across a small grove. Illuminated by silver moonlight and twinkling stars, they stood and listened to the sound of their own breathing. Enveloped by the fragrance of linden and black pine, they waited for the other to move into the pale light. Snow drifted down from the sky, a natural magic that defied all logic with not a single cloud to be seen, and they counted out the rhythmic beating of their hearts; excitement, distrust and nervousness filling the distance between them.

The man stood in front of the largest tree in Albania; tall and handsome, dangerous and powerful, exuding an air of lethal masculinity that only he possessed. Snowflakes shone bright and white in his short, black hair. His pale skin, luminescent, as he stepped from the shadows into the moonlight. The dark pools of his eyes appeared liquid and obsidian, reflecting movement and the silver light filling the distance between them.

The woman stood in the shadows of the trees, taking a moment to catch the breath he had stolen. The sight of him, the mere presence of him, was enough to capture the air from her lungs and carry it off on a zephyr of snowflakes to dance through the forest in a delicate flurry. Her once long, bushy mane was long gone, cut to shoulder length, but still quite frizzy when curled and pinned in a respectable fashion. Her complexion lacked the certain alabaster glow that he had been born with, despite his loss of weight from living in a tree. Her skin was just as pale, but tinged pink from the cold and with a touch of gray, unhealthy. Her eyes had been a dull brown, but she just knew the sight of him had returned a modest insufflation of the light they once held; a small sparkle of life that had been escaping her.

Taking a tentative step out of the shadows, she relished in the stillness of him and the sound of her dress rustling about her shins. The fabric was stiff from ironing, but the embroidery glinted in the blanched light through the thick material of her cloak. Rich scarlet sateen and gold thread, the colors reminiscent of her school years; a luxury of a dress that she had painstakingly made herself. She lowered the hood of her cloak and continued to stare, breathless and silent and nervous.

He moved no further, refusing to speak; a game he enjoyed, a game he had mastered long ago and a game he knew he would win. It was in his nature, the very core of his being. He derived a certain thrill from it, from the challenge and the subsequent victory. Ever since he were a child, he had always enjoyed the anticipation of which path his opponent would take and the countermeasures he would need to apply to achieve his goal, or goals. It was the thrill of always knowing how to corner his opponent, the anticipation knowing he would win and the rush when he did. She knew this. She understood this part of him, and that was why she challenged him as much as she did, or had in years passed.

Yet, this night was not to be used to further her opposition.

Foregoing any form of polite greeting, the woman said, "Hiding in a tree is very...rustic. The wards were particularly tricky. You obviously know why I'm here."

"I haven't the foggiest," replied the man with a shadow of a smirk, but his tone denoted a seriousness that negated any attempt at humor. "Please, do tell me what changed your mind. I am dying to know."

The venomous taste of sarcasm was not lost on her. It was felt by every fibre of her being, intensely scathing and it cut her to the bone; a searing pain not even Crucio could equal. After all this time, he still knew exactly how to cause her maximum pain without lifting a hand, or a wand. Catch-22, she knew exactly what to say to shatter the man's calm and collected facade, and bring that ever present anger to a violent boil. And she knew that she deserved the punishment to come for what she had done. She understood that actions spoke louder than words, especially to him. She would suffer the punishment with good grace and silence, as he expected, and she would be grateful to him for not simply killing her on sight. It was nothing less than what she would do in turn.

It was unhealthy, this trait they both shared and the painful things they would do to show they cared.

"Tell me, Hermione. Bore me with your excuses and spare no detail," repeated the man, his expression turning sour. "I will not ask again."

"I make no excuses," she said, relaxing her muscles in preparation for the wand lashing he would soon dispense. She spoke calmly, trying to keep emotion out of the conversation, but monotony had never been her strong suit. "You disappeared in the middle of the night, and I made a decision to not follow you blindly anymore. That is not an excuse. It is a reason."

"Yet I hear no explanation!"

Despite a Warming Charm, a chill slithered down her spine that was unrelated to the winter forest surrounding her. It was the manner in which he had responded, the words he had chosen. His feathers were ruffled, ire rising, and he was, more than anything, disappointed. She remembered the feeling all too well. She had experienced the same consuming disappointment and rage throughout her life, and in recent years, it had been directed inwards toward herself.

Still, no guilt she felt - or had felt - would ever inhibit her nature of standing her ground and fighting for what she believed to be right.

"You know why I stayed," said Hermione. "Borgin and Burke still needed someone to help with requisitions. My research wasn't finished. The Aurors were watching the shop, asking questions. Putting that aside, you lied to me."

"Everyone lies, Hermione," replied Tom, cold and scathing. "You, above anyone, are the worst offender. You even lie to to yourself."

"But never to you," countered Hermione, unable to hold her emotions in check. "I have lied to myself, for myself - for you - but never to you! And I expected you to do the same! To keep the promise we made to one another! Truth in knowledge, never to end! You left me behind!"

"Bloody Gryffindors," he seethed, managing a level of eloquence she would never achieve. "You put too much stock in words, Hermione-"

"And you put too little stock in the promises you make, Tom Riddle!"

"Remember who you are speaking to, Mudblood!"

"Remember who I am to you, Half-blood!"

He had long since excelled past the need for a wand. He didn't even raise a hand. The Cruciatus took hold with as much impact as a lorry slamming into a brick wall. She contorted under the pain before her body finished crumpling into the snow. The sensation of boiling alive from the inside out was excruciating, especially when Tom was the person casting the curse. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours, and the pain intensified tenfold. Her muscles tensed, her willowy form twisted and she clenched her jaw, but still the screams escaped. She should have remembered that he enjoyed striking when his prey was unawares. She had been safe when she expected him to punish her, but she had forgotten his pathological need to prove his dominance in every single way.

It was euphoric, a split second of it, when he lifted the curse. Her lungs filled with cold, cutting air and her mind floated from the release of pain. Each breath came with a sharpness and a tightening in her ribcage. Each lurch and twinge of her body came with a wave of discomfort and nausea, but she could handle the aftermath of the Cruciatus. She could only hope that Tom had satisfied his anger for the moment and would move to legilimency swiftly.

He struck again, with less ferocity than before, but the intent was still there, and the power behind the curse was still pure agony.

It went on like this for quite some time, until Tom felt as though she had suffered enough and had learned her lesson. The intensity of his anger depleted, and rather quickly for him, but she knew he was not done with her yet. She still had to prove undying loyalty and devotion. Some things never change.

"Stand, Hermione," declared Tom, commanding her attention completely. "I am far from done with you."

Hermione understood exactly what he meant, and pushed up as best she could, but there was little she could do until she managed to pull the antidote for the Cruciatus from the depths of her little beaded bag. The tremors and after-effects seemed to strengthen, keeping her lame and weak. Still, she forced her arms to move through the snow, painful and taught from the stress and tension; muscles like strings of a violin pulled too tight, vibrating and waiting to snap with one gentle pluck. Her breath came quick and shallow, hurried, from the exertion. Her body screamed for her to stop, but she dare not listen, she dare not give in.

With a groan, she wavered on her knees, but she did not fall back into the snow. She fished around in the pockets of her cloak until her fingers found the little beaded bag. The purple appeared black in the moonlight, the beads reflective and shiny, and the bag itself felt rough and textured against her fingertips. It was easily opened, the antidote sitting atop a neatly folded pile of clothing at the bottom, which took a bit of rummaging before she located it, but she found it nonetheless.

Tom neared, sliding off his suspenders and undoing the buckle of his belt in slow, calculated and measured movements to maximize his infallible appeal. He was already hard and straining against his trousers. Even in the limited light and haze of pain, Hermione could see the large, undeniable outline of his cock through the fabric. She still remembered how it felt under her touch; steel covered in pale flesh, large and solid and unyielding.

"Are you still whole, Hermione?" asked Tom, fingers ghosting down the line of buttons on his shirt. "Do you still cling to your ridiculous, simpleton beliefs?"

The vial of antidote fell forgotten from her hand, the dark liquid oozing out into the white snow. His power radiated off of him, taking her by surprise and enveloping her in its heated embrace; comforting, at first, before it turned heavy, dominating her senses. She nodded, aware that she would remain untouched with the knowledge she held; the reason she had absconded her flat and left England for Albania, the offering she needed to appease the path she had chosen. It would be for Tom, as it had always been, but she now had leverage to bargain with. If Tom Riddle wanted the knowledge that she held close, he would need to agree to her terms. Before that could happen, she would please him to the best of her ability without compromising what little virtue she had left; not due to obligation, but due to the simple fact that she had missed his brilliance and passion for debate, longed for his touch and suffered in the years that lacked his dominating presence.

"You came such a long way for a reason, Hermione. Do you plan on telling me why you are here?"

"I found a way around the horcruxes," she replied, jaw clenched and body tense as she fought her morals and rationalized the ethicalities of what she had discovered during their time apart. Her knees screamed from the cold of the snow and unforgiving nature of the frozen ground. Everything ached. "Immortality. Eternal youth. Power. I found a way, and that is why I am here."

A pale hand with long, elegant, masculine fingers touched her cheek and lifted her chin. He made her look up at him and his eyes glittered down at her, speaking volumes to his character; he enjoyed being looked up to, admired and feared. It was, most likely, one of the few reasons he had never pushed Hermione away, or harmed her more than necessary to teach her the ever recurring lesson of picking her battles when it came to Tom. He did more damage to the mediocre followers he had amassed during their school years, always. It had always been a rare occurrence when Tom resorted to magical punishment with Hermione. He had almost exclusively preferred a more pleasurable avenue for himself when it came to correcting her behavior, and she had never complained. His presence became an aphrodisiac during puberty, and he had made use of that knowledge ever since.

The only thing he had failed to do was take her completely. She clung to her virginity, adamant that he would not get it until he agreed to bind himself to her, and allow her to bind herself to him; a marriage of sorts, but the one decision she refused to bend or disregard. If he wanted her so badly, he would make the sacrifice to please her for once. She refused to be treated the same as his followers. She had been more an equal than anyone else, and she would not be manipulated like one of his Knights of Walpurgis, or Death Eaters - whatever they were calling themselves these days. And if he wanted the information she had, he would finally agree to her terms, or he would be left with his little horcruxes and their fallibility.

"What is this loophole around death, then?"

She shook her head, "You will agree to my terms before I give you what you want."

"And what are your terms?" sneered Tom, acutely aware of what exactly her terms were. As if they would ever change.

"You know what my terms are," said Hermione, fingers grazing the snow. "They haven't changed."

"I am telling you to say them," replied Tom, angered by how this conversation had been stretched out. Yet, his tone was just as calm and chilling as ever. "Out loud."

"I want a Binding Ceremony," answered Hermione, staring at him unflinchingly. "Your soul bound to mine for eternity. If you want to cheat death so badly, you'll agree to it. My soul to keep you alive, your soul to keep me safe from your followers."

"You and your bloody declarations of love!"

"No, not love," she dared to grin. "Mutually beneficial protection from one another, for one another. You want me, you want the promise I can deliver on, then you will agree to my terms or you can kill me and hope that Dumbledore never receives word about your horcruxes."

"You would not dare defy me, Mudblood!"

"Oh, I already have, Half-blood!"

Her fingernails cut into her palm as yet another wave of pain shuddered through her. His punishment came over her slowly, increasing with subtlety; a superficial ache that intensified into all-consuming agony. His rage poured into her and suffocated her in ways she did not know possible. His power invaded her senses, blinding her, killing her slowly, but she refused to let him win. If he expected her to stay by his side and turn a blind eye to the sins he had and would commit, then he would give her the one thing she desired; equality, fidelity, protection. She would fight until her dying breath before giving him what he wanted. Sacrifices needed to be made, and prices needed to be paid.

It stopped suddenly, the pain. It was overwhelming, and then it was there no longer. His power receded, and so did his rage, and she collapsed into the snow. With a flick of his wrist, Tom levitated her out of the snow and across the short distance into his makeshift home. Another flick, and the trunk of the tree opened to reveal a rather ominous cave.

The cave looked unoccupied, the mouth dark and hungry, took on a new ambiance once she hovered over the threshold of Tom's added wards. It was more spacious inside, and warm; cavernous and decorated sparingly, with a strong fire burning against a wall. Through less than sharp vision, she noticed a rug that looked suspiciously like the one in her once shared flat with Tom; an old, tattered persian in faded shades of jade and sunset orange. The flickering light of the fire drew her attention and she turned her head sluggishly in the direction of a fireplace that reminded her of the one in the Room of Requirement. The dark, glossy wood and carved likings of serpents were the same, but the knick knacks standing vigil atop the mantle were different. At the moment, she could not make them out, but she felt as though they were important.

Wincing as he dumped her on a familiar sofa, Hermione fought back a groan and tried feebly to push herself up. It was futile, the aftershocks of the Cruciatus causing mayhem on her nervous system and the experience of Tom's rage and power invading her completely crippled her fully. She could not move without her muscles contracting rapidly, body aching. She could not breathe without her lungs burning. She could not narrow her eyes to focus on the details of the cave without her eyes hurting.

Laying on the overstuffed sofa, staring at the mossy, pitted ceiling of the cave, Hermione listened to the crackling of the fire and the sound of Tom brewing. The smell of whatever Tom was concocting was filtering through the perfumed smoke of burning linden bark and logs of pine. It reminded her of the orphanage trips to the seaside; the small fire they would build inside their cave, the soothing noise of waves crashing up against the cliffside, the smell of salty sea and damp caverns, the darkness receding as Tom magicked the flames to grow until they licked the grainy, cobalt stalactites. Glimpses of humanity and childlike wonder sparkling in Tom's eyes, sparks of curiosity and pure joy filling Hermione to the brim as they explored - the flicker of flames bouncing off the glistening walls as tiny balls of fire followed them through the paths and antechambers. Those were the memories that filled her head as she tried to lay perfectly still until the aftershocks of the curse crashed through her. Those were the moments she cherished the most. Those were the memories she clung to, always and forever.

"You win, Mudblood," snarled Tom from somewhere near the hearth. "I will meet your terms this once."

She grinned as darkness consumed her and she drifted off triumphant in her victory...