June 1945

Malfoy Manor seemed unaffected by the relative heat of summer. Though outside the world had become warm and sticky, the interior of the manor was dank and cold. Tom had once more taken up residence in the most luxurious apartments of the home. He and Hermione were again housed in the ostentatious golden bedroom where they'd been put over the Christmas holidays. Tom didn't mind the grandeur so much now. It seemed fitting, in a way.

He had an office now, too - a cavernous, wood-panelled space that was dark and required a great number of sconces just to allow Tom to see his work. But Tom liked it, for it felt positively regal, and the shadowy space lent a measure of solemnity to the work he was beginning to do.

One day toward the middle of June, rain thudded outside the windows of Malfoy Manor, falling straight from the heavens to the ground as if on a mission to soak the earth. Tom sat at his substantial mahogany desk, glancing out the windows from time to time as he sorted through bits of parchment. Each parchment contained the name and biographical information of a defector from Gellert Grindelwald's ranks. The names had been given to Tom through Neptunus Malfoy, but it had been Hermione who had done in-depth, secretive research and had written a blurb of advice on each person. Now Tom sorted through them, one by one, deciding who was worthy of attending the dinner party he was planning for mid-July.

A few dozen of the names had wound up in a pile to be invited, and about ten names had been discarded. Those individuals, Tom thought, would be either useless or distinctly unhelpful. Now he was on the very last name, and he read through the parchment with great interest. Hermione's script on the parchment was neat and orderly, as it always was.

LAZARUS GREENGRASS, aged 28.

- Member of the established Greengrass family; father and brother own The Coffin House, a necromancy-related shop in Knockturn Alley.

- Family are traditionally Slytherins; Lazarus, however, attended Durmstrang from 1929-1936 and excelled in necromancy.

- It is rumoured that he was a favourite of Grindelwald due to his skill in creating Inferi.

* I advise you to keep Lazarus Greengrass close, with an abundance of caution. It would be folly to make an enemy of him, but be extremely wary. He seems particularly Dark of nature. Keep him reigned in.

Tom felt his eyebrows fly up as he looked at the black-and-white photograph of Lazarus Greengrass that had been clipped to the parchment. The young man's lip was curled up as though he smelled something foul, and his heavy-lidded eyes seemed bored. Tom chewed on his bottom lip and decided Hermione was right. This Lazarus Greengrass could be very useful, very dangerous, or both. He put the parchment and the photograph in the 'yes' pile. Then he Vanished the little stack of rejections and rose from his desk, taking the remaining papers with him. He stalked down the corridor to the little sitting-room where he could hear Abraxas Malfoy speaking quietly with his father, Nereus.

The elder Malfoy was tall, like his son, though more wiry. His long blonde hair was tied back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. It was only just beginning to be sliced through with silver, and the man's face bore the very first hints of the creases of age. Nereus Malfoy dressed as though the year were 1775; he wore knee-length breeches and stockings and a silk waistcoat beneath elaborate velvet robes. He spoke with an odd, stilted formality indicative of far too many generations of wealth. If he did anything to earn money, Tom was unaware of it. He didn't much care, for Nereus Malfoy was one of Tom's strongest supporters for the time being.

As Tom swept into the sitting-room, he realised he was a bit of a pretender, an actor playing at elegance. He'd grown up in an orphanage, after all. The Malfoys were bona fide aristocrats. But he must have done a decent job pretending, for Abraxas and Nereus rose quickly to their feet and bowed their heads reverently.

"My Lord," said Nereus softly, "I do hope your office accommodations are to your satisfaction."

"They are, sir. I thank you very kindly. The Malfoy family have been exceedingly generous. Your kindness and loyalty will not be forgotten." Tom quirked up a charming smile as Nereus Malfoy looked pleased and bowed. Then Tom turned to Abraxas and held out the little bundle of parchments. "Abraxas, send these to your uncle Neptunus, will you? I want these individuals invited to a soiree, here at the Manor, on the evening of the 15th of July."

"The fifteenth," Abraxas repeated, nodding as he obediently took the papers from Tom's hand. "I shall send the owl straight away, My Lord."

Tom flicked his eyes out the window at the thrashing rain and widened his smile. "Wait for the rain to stop," he commanded with a wink. "Don't make the poor bird fly in this."

Abraxas chuckled and nodded. "Very good, My Lord."

Tom wondered absently as he left the room whether Abraxas still felt guilty about Valentine's Day. Tom thought perhaps it had been a blessing in disguise that Abraxas had disrespected him so blatantly that day. It rather gave Tom ammunition to hold over Abraxas' head in perpetuity. Abraxas had forgotten his place; he'd forgotten that just because they were at school didn't mean they were both 'just students.' It hadn't been a simple breakfast spat among fellow schoolboys, and Abraxas had realised his mistake very quickly. But what had happened had happened, and now Abraxas would forever walk on eggshells around Tom. He would always tack an extra 'My Lord' onto the end of a question or affirmation, just in case. He would always bow his head one extra time. He would always lower his eyes a bit further, back out of the room a bit more deliberately.

And Tom liked it that way.

He straightened his new black robes, recently arrived from Twillfit and Tattings, and glanced down at himself. He was glad not to be wearing the silly Hogwarts uniform anymore. He'd sent Hermione to Diagon Alley to get fitted for a new wardrobe, as well, and she was due back any moment now.

Just as Tom thought of that, he heard the soft click of her low heels as she rounded the corner of the corridor ahead. He paused where he stood and smirked, waiting patiently as he heard her huff. She turned the corner and stared at the ground, clutching her wand and raking her fingers through her sopping wet hair as she murmured,

"Bloody monsoon outside..."

"Did you have a nice visit to London?" Tom inquired smoothly, and she squeaked and jumped as she noticed he was there. He chuckled and she scowled at him before straightening and squaring her jaw.

"Whatever you do, don't go outside," she said at last. "It's a -"

"Bloody monsoon. Yes, I heard you." Tom nodded and gestured for her to follow him into his office. She did, reluctantly. He lit a fire in the enormous hearth with a flick of his wand and held out his hand to the squat chair opposite his desk. She sank into the chair and gratefully accepted the teacup he handed her. With a few spells and a few scoops of tea leaves, he had hot liquid in her hands. But when he sat down, he saw that her hair was drying in clumpy tendrils around her face. Impulsively, Tom jabbed his wand toward Hermione and muttered a drying spell. The effect wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind; her hair suddenly exploded into a huge frizzy pouf.

"Agh! Tom!" Hermione shrieked and clutched at her wand, hurrying to smooth it as Tom stifled a laugh.

"I'm sorry!" he said sincerely, genuinely trying not to mock her. He held his hands up in surrender as she narrowed her eyes at him and fixed her hair. He shrugged and repeated contritely, "I'm sorry!"

She sighed and poured them each a cup of the finished tea, and Tom started drinking his without another word. After a great while of quiet, he said,

"Thank you for your research on the Grindelwald defectors. Your work was immensely helpful."

"Helpful to what?" Hermione stared into her teacup as she asked the question. Her voice was tight and cold, and Tom felt his eyebrows crumple in confusion as he wondered what had gotten into her.

"Helpful... to my cause," he clarified, as if she'd suddenly gone thick. But Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes, sending a jolt of displeasure down Tom's spine. She stared up at him for a moment and asked,

"What are you doing, Tom?"

"I had thought I was drinking tea in my office," Tom said blandly, taking a sip of the scalding liquid in his cup. She pinched her lips and set her own teacup down.

"You know very well what I mean," she whispered, and Tom chewed the inside of his cheek.

"I'm afraid I do not. Explain."

Hermione swallowed heavily and sniffed, tipping her chin up rather imperiously - maddeningly, Tom thought - before declaring, "A great many people will die for your selfishness, Tom Riddle. Why should I help you kill them?"

Tom laughed then, derisively and under his breath. Hermione looked infuriated, but Tom leaned across the desk and said, "Let me explain something to you -"

"Do not dare condescend to me," Hermione interrupted firmly. Tom bit his bottom lip so hard he thought it might be bleeding, and he seethed through clenched teeth,

"Fine. Let us discuss something, then, darling. There has always been a person in charge. There will always be a person in charge. To think otherwise, to think that a society can possibly exist without a ruler... it is a childish dream."

"So I am a child, then?" Hermione retorted, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. Tom scoffed, feeling quite cross with her. She looked delicious, in a way, when she was angry. Half of Tom wanted to yank her across the desk and pull her knickers aside and show her that he was right. But he was also furious with the way she was arguing with him. She narrowed her honey-brown eyes again and demanded, "And, anyway, Tom... how do you know you're supposed to be the ruler? Perhaps someone else is supposed to be the ruler. Perhaps... Betty Cattermole! Perhaps Betty Cattermole is supposed to be the ruler!"

"Now you are being a child," Tom clipped, flying up from his chair and pacing behind his desk. "Betty Cattermole ruling the wizarding world? We'd all be in mandatory red lipstick."

"This isn't a joke, Tom!" Hermione cried, slamming her teacup down upon Tom's desk so hard that tea sloshed everywhere. Tom frowned disapprovingly at the mess and Vanished the little puddle. He stared intently at Hermione.

"No," he agreed, "It isn't a joke. People have always died in the name of politics, and they always will. There will be a great many things that will turn your stomach along the way, Hermione, and for that I am deeply sorry. But you must accept that I can not live a mundane life. My soul would splinter into a thousand pieces, you understand? You showed me a future - your past - where I made all the wrong choices. Help me do better this time, Hermione. There will be suffering, and there will be Darkness. There always has been, and you know that to be true. But it can better this time. I promise you that."

Hermione looked thoughtful for a long moment. Tom felt a queasy pang deep in his belly. He was fearful, all of a sudden, that he might lose her. He felt her slipping away from him, like sand through his fingers. She didn't trust him; he could see that in her fearful eyes. He wasn't sure whether or not she loved him, but in this moment, she did not trust him. Tom took a deep, shaking breath and walked around the desk, genuflecting onto one knee beside Hermione.

"Are you going to kill all the Muggle-borns?" she asked quietly, and Tom shut his eyes, feeling a painful wave wash over him as he wondered what she had seen 'him' do in the first eighteen years of her life.

"No, Hermione," he answered, shaking his head. He cupped her jaw in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes, waiting until her icy glare softened a bit before he said, "How could I possibly do such a thing when I am so very much in love with you?"

"It's what you wanted to do... what you'll want to do... The Voldemort I knew as a child gained power through hatred of people like me," Hermione shrugged, her throat bobbing and her eyes welling. Tom quelled the nauseated feeling roiling his gut, licking his bottom lip and seizing Hermione's hand as he whispered feverishly,

"This Lord Voldemort will have a more sturdy platform for power," he promised her. "Please, Hermione. You know full well that I can not live my life as some Ministry peon or as a shopkeeper in Diagon Alley. You know that in my core that is not what I am capable of doing, what I am supposed to do. I am meant to have power; I can feel it in the marrow of my bones. But I can not achieve it, not properly, without you. You asked me what I was doing and I told you I was drinking tea. That's not what I'm doing."

Hermione's eyes glistened with tears and her voice shook as she squeezed Tom's hand and asked, "So what are you doing, then?"

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers and laced his fingers through her hair, smelling lilacs on her skin. He shut his eyes and whispered against her mouth,

"I am breathing in, and breathing out... breathing in, and breathing out. Air. Just air. But do you know what, Hermione? Every last bit of this air will be mine. Every blade of grass, every tree, every stone and house and broom and book. Every man and woman and child. Every thought and dream and whisper and shout. Every spell, and every kiss. I'm making it all mine, one breath at a time."

September 1963

Georgiana stared out the window of the Hogwarts Express and wondered absently about the Sorting Hat. She'd been told about the legendary four Houses of Hogwarts, and she secretly hoped she'd be a Gryffindor like her mother. She very much hoped her father would not be disappointed if it turned out she wasn't a Slytherin like he'd been… like so many of his friends had been.

She looked about the empty compartment in which she sat and sighed a bit. No one, it seemed, dared sit with the daughter of the Dark Lord. Georgie's father and mother had slowly been amassing power in the wizarding world through her entire life, though in the past two years they'd grown closer than ever to stamping out the final bits of dissent that existed. Sometimes Georgiana wondered why it was that her father needed to feel powerful, but her mother had once explained it very simply.

"Some people derive happiness from flowers. Others from a warm, sunny day. Some people like Christmas. Others enjoy soft biscuits straight out of the oven. Your father, Georgie… your father likes power."

Georgiana had crumpled her eyebrows and giggled in disbelief at that, but her mother had seemed oddly serious and resigned. Georgiana hadn't brought the matter up again. Now that she was going off to Hogwarts, she knew her parents - her mother in particular - would have even more time to devote to political pursuits. She wondered whether they would be the actual rulers of wizarding Britain the next time she saw them.

Before she could think any more on it, there was a soft knocking on the glass door of the train compartment. Georgiana frowned when she saw a very short, squat girl with a toad-like face standing on the other side of the window. She had an obnoxious pink bow in her hair, though she was already wearing her school robes. She waved a bit and gestured as if to ask permission to enter. Georgiana raised her eyebrows and beckoned, and the girl opened the sliding door and waddled into the compartment.

"Hello, My Lady! Hem-hem! I'm Dolores. Family name is Umbridge, though I've got Selwyn blood on my mother's side. Very pleased to meet you." The squat little girl thrust her hand out, and Georgie stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment before finally giving it a little shake. She licked her lips and said awkwardly,

"Hello, Dolores. Won't you sit down?"

"Oh! Hem-hem… thank you!" The girl sat on the bench opposite Georgiana. Her legs were so short that they swung inches from the ground. Dolores folded her hands in her lap and blinked her wide, doll-like eyes. She adjusted the lurid pink flower in her hair and croaked, "I was just speaking with Miss Black - Miss Bellatrix Black, you know - and she told me that you are just a splendid girl. That's what she said! So I thought I simply had to meet you, to introduce myself and tell you that I'm ever-so-excited to attend school with you this term! And to let you know, of course… that is, to make myself available should you need anything at all, My Lady."

"I don't suppose I should be able to be very good friends with anyone who calls me 'My Lady,'" Georgiana grumbled in a cranky tone. She leaned ungracefully upon the windowsill and sighed rudely, "Everyone I like calls me 'Georgie.'"

"Oh!" Dolores Umbridge shifted upon her bench and played again with the pink flower in her mousy hair. "Of course, My L… erm, Georgie. Yes. Yes, I think I could call you that."

"Everyone I like calls me 'Georgie.'" She repeated the words, tossing her dark ringlets over her shoulder and frowning at the toad-like girl across from her. Georgiana looked out the window and mumbled, "You may call me 'Lady Georgiana.' And I think I should like a Pumpkin Pasty if the food trolley's about."

Dolores Umbridge's cheeks coloured and she looked humiliated for a moment. But then she collected herself, cleared her throat, and slid off of the bench. "I'll be back with that Pumpkin Pasty straight away," she said in a tight, awkward voice, backing out of the compartment.

Georgie sighed and blew a slow breath upon the train window so that it fogged up. She used her finger tip to draw the outline of the Dark Mark she had seen so many times growing up, and then she used her sleeve to erase it. She did it again and again until she grew bored and wondered where Dolores was with the damned Pumpkin Pasty. She heard the girl's rapid footsteps approaching at last and heard Bellatrix's sharp voice with her, and she sat up straighter on her bench.

Georgiana might have felt guilty for treating Dolores the way she'd done, but something about the toad-like girl had rubbed her entirely the wrong way. Whether it was her mannerisms or her voice, her blatant aspirational social climbing or her tactless behaviour… it didn't really matter. Georgie didn't like her. She'd spent her whole life surrounded by sycophants, people she despised but needed. Dolores Umbridge was no different. And if the girl was willing to get her a Pumpkin Pasty, then Georgiana would eat it.

July 1945

The first weekend of July was so hot and steamy that even Malfoy Manor seemed unprepared. A terrible humidity settled over the place on the first of the month and stayed for days. Hermione finally found Abraxas one day and conspired with him to bring Betty to the Manor for the weekend, arguing that it was too hot to do anything but lounge about and socialise. Abraxas agreed and asked Tom for permission, which was granted.

Hermione stood in the window of the bedroom she shared with Tom and watched Betty walk through the front gates of the grounds. She squealed a bit when she saw that Betty was arm-in-arm with Abraxas, and she hissed softly behind her to Tom,

"Oh, do you suppose he might propose to her whilst she's here?"

Tom was reclining on the divan before the empty fireplace, eating an apple. His shirt was open to his chest from the heat and his sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was uncharacteristically frizzy. He shrugged a bit and swigged from the pewter cup of water on the table beside him.

"What do I care whether or not Abraxas Malfoy proposes marriage?" he demanded, his words garbled as he chewed his apple. "The boy's troubles with love have already been the cause of one argument between us."

Hermione rolled her eyes and stalked over to the divan. She plucked the apple from Tom's hand and took a defiant bite, laughing at Tom's angry scowl. She chewed and swallowed, handing the apple back over as she murmured, "I should think you'd want your followers happy. It would make sense."

"Hmph." Tom stared at the large hole where Hermione had taken a bite from the apple. "I should think I would be happier if my wife did not steal my food."

She laughed again and tousled his hair, eliciting a fierce growl from him. He snatched at her wrist gently and gave her a rather predatory look.

"Don't force me into punishing your impish behaviour, My Lady," he warned her, and Hermione felt a delicious cold rush in her veins. But then there was a soft knock upon the bedroom door, and Betty Cattermole's voice called,

"I'm here! I'm here, I'm here, I'm here!"

Tom growled again, this time in frustration, and released Hermione's wrist. Hermione giggled softly and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"Come," she whispered. "Mustn't keep anyone waiting."

"No, of course not," Tom sneered derisively. He rose to follow her, buttoning up his shirt to the collar but leaving his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He half-heartedly straightened his hair and reached for his wand off the coffee table. Hermione thought he looked terribly handsome so disheveled, but she shoved away her lascivious thoughts for the time being.

They all enjoyed a light dinner of salads and chilled soups, and Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled so much. Betty had indeed been hired on part-time by Witch Weekly as a celebrity correspondent, so she had all manner of stories to tell.

"So did you get to meet Orsino and the Bears?" Hermione laughed, finishing off her second goblet of elf-made wine. It refilled itself and Hermione thought absently that she'd have to pace herself on the alcohol. Betty grinned and nodded.

"I did. I did meet them. Orsino is... well, he's not terribly intelligent," Betty admitted. "I tried to get a few good quotes out of him for the article I did on their show in Camden Town. He just grunted a lot. 'What drives you to make music?' I asked him. 'I like music,' he said. That was all. 'I like music.'"

Hermione laughed uproariously at the way Betty imitated the singer's gruff voice. The girls continued giggled for a long while after that, talking of how Hermione had recently attempted a few gardening spells she'd learned over the years.

"I got a N.E.W.T. in Herbology, you know," she began, "but I managed to kill a two-hundred-year-old rose bush. I'm so sorry, Abraxas!"

After the laughter died down, Tom dabbed his napkin at his lips and said to Abraxas, "Let us leave the ladies to their chatter, shall we, Abraxas? I'm certain they'd rather we retire to the drawing-room and look dull as we sip whisky, eh?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and put her own napkin on the table. "My Lord, I think you will find that Betty and I can drink whisky with the best of you. I beg you not to separate Betty and Abraxas during this brief visit."

She gave Tom a pointed stare, and he nodded minutely. He rose and held a hand out to Hermione. "To the whisky, then," he smirked, and Hermione let him lead her from the dining-room.

Once they'd made their way to the drawing-room, Tom and Abraxas broke into a bottle of Campbell's whisky, pouring it into tumblers and passing them out. Abraxas sat beside Betty on a green velvet divan, and Tom sat beside Hermione opposite them.

"To the Dark Lord," Abraxas said formally, raising his whisky to Tom. "May many more come under your wing."

"To the Dark Lord," Betty said merrily, drinking from her tumbler. Hermione did the same. Then, after a while, she flicked her eyes from Tom to Betty and said wickedly,

"Betty, I think you've got the perfect subject for your next celebrity column sitting in this room."

"What… who - oh!" Betty's cheeks coloured scarlet, and Tom looked mildly horrified. Hermione giggled and took a sip of whisky as Abraxas scoffed,

"Really, My Lady. I do not mean to contradict you, but - Witch Weekly? I should think the Dark Lord is above such trivial publications -"

"Trivial?" Betty nearly shrieked, scowling deeply at Abraxas. Tom laughed aloud then, his face looking truly amused for the first time all night.

"Well done, Abraxas; you've managed to offend both females in the room." He raised his glass in a mock toast and drank deeply, laughing again as Abraxas blanched.

"Betty, I only meant - it's just that I should think an interview with the Dark Lord might be more appropriate in a news publication rather than a celebrity magazine."

"But why?" Hermione pressed. She sipped from her own drink, feeling her head spin a bit as all the wine and whisky started settling into her veins. She felt a smirk cross her lips as she pushed Abraxas and said, "I should think Witch Weekly would be an ideal recruiting vehicle for housewives, young girls, and starry-eyed witches dreaming of a handsome young saviour."

She glanced over to Tom and saw him cock up a sceptical eyebrow. She knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that it would debase him, as a serious and aspirational leader, to appear in a gossip rag. He was thinking that it would make him a laughing-stock among his male followers. And he was thinking that his wife must have gone mad to suggest that her eighteen-year-old, handsome, powerful husband appear as a celebrity in a women's magazine.

But Hermione's suggestion was utterly calculated. If Tom appeared in Witch Weekly, he would, of course, become thoroughly desirable to witches everywhere. But he'd always been desirable, even as a student at Hogwarts. Girls had thrown themselves upon him for years, and he'd apparently never wanted any of them until Hermione had been hurled backward in time. So she was rather unconcerned about fidelity. And when it came to the matter of respect, she thought it would sow a great amount of jealousy among Tom's male followers to see him on the pages of Witch Weekly. Not hatred, but rather the sort of envious admiration that had driven the Great Hall into a frenzy the night they'd received the Order of Merlin.

Hermione attempted to explain this logic, gently and tactfully, as she sipped more of her whisky. She hoped she was making sense, for she was starting to feel the liquor more deeply now. Finally she saw Tom nod slowly, and then Abraxas and Betty.

"Might I ask you a few questions, then, My Lord?" Betty asked cautiously, pulling a small notebook and a self-inking quill from the bag at her side. "I could get a short article written tomorrow and send a preliminary draft to my editor…"

"Go ahead, Miss Cattermole," Tom said smoothly, drinking from his whisky.

"Don't ask about me, Betty," Hermione hissed. "You can make some mention in passing that he's married, but you want the girls to stay interested!"

Abraxas Malfoy gave Hermione an odd look, but Tom chuckled and finished off his whisky. He poured himself a fresh glass, and Hermione saw him stumble over his feet a bit as he sat back down beside her. He put his hand upon her knee, seemingly without thinking about it or caring that he'd done so in front of Abraxas and Betty. Hermione sat up a bit straighter upon the divan and covered her hand with his, trying to make their pose appear as dignified as possible.

Betty cleared her throat and began, "My Lord, how shall I refer to you in the article? I'm assuming not as…"

She didn't say his given name - Tom Riddle - the name that everyone at school had called him for years. Hermione found that rather interesting. It was as if Betty thought it obvious that Tom was far more than that now. Tom's back went straight and a rather happy look came over his face.

"'The Dark Lord' will do just fine for now, Miss Cattermole."

"Yes, sir," she nodded. She touched her quill to her page and said nervously, "Erm… Well, the first question I asked Orsino and the Bears was, 'What drives you make music?' So, I suppose I can transfer that question more directly to you, My Lord. What drives you in your cause?"

Hermione cocked her head toward Tom, feeling a rush from the whisky as she did. She was actually rather curious about his answer, and she waited patiently as he drank from his tumbler and seemed to consider his answer. Finally, he drawled to Betty,

"I grow weary of a wizarding world that so slowly moves forward. Even Muggles manage to create new things. They thought the horse and carriage were inefficient, so they invented the automobile. They found that writing letters took too long, so they invented the telephone. We are wizardkind, and we ought to be better than that. If Muggles can grow weary of horses and invent automobiles, then why are we so complacent with Floo powder and brooms? Why do we hesitate to innovate? Why do we so rarely question? Why do we not strive to move forward, to make wizardkind the clear and undisputed champion of progress? We can be united. We can be harmonious. We can be powerful, and prosperous, and we can have everything we've ever wanted. And I mean to get us there."

He took a long draught of whisky and swallowed heavily, and then he continued, "The line between Light and Dark does not exist. It is a spectrum, you know. Everything and everyone is some murky shade of silver; we all have a lurking bit of Darkness somewhere inside us. And we all have Light somewhere, too. Light is good, in moderation. It allows us to see the people and things around us, to keep sight of the fact that we are not alone. But Darkness… Darkness helps us focus. Darkness creates a quiet stillness where we can think and dream and find the truth. The utter black of night and the blinding white of the sun… neither are ideal. It is that murky shade of silver, that vague bit of Darkness, where we all ought to dwell, for there we shall prosper. Some are too Dark, and others are lost in the sunlight. It is for that reason that we need a Dark Lord - a man like me - to help us think, and dream, and find the truth."

Hermione felt rather dizzy as she listened to Tom speak, and she wasn't entirely certain whether it was from the whisky or his words. Betty's hand flew frantically as she struggled to keep up with Tom's words. When at last her fingers stilled upon the page, she gazed up wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. She looked beside her to Abraxas, who appeared just as flustered, and she said to Tom,

"My Lord, I do not know that this ought to be a multi-question interview. Perhaps… erm… perhaps just a photograph and a great long quote from you. I… I think your words speak for themselves."

Tom looked satisfied as he finished his second tumbler of whisky. His eyes glazed over and he rose to his feet, swaying where he stood. He nodded down at Abraxas and Betty and said in a tipsy drawl,

"Right. Send that off to your editor, then, Miss Cattermole. I look forward to seeing it published. Abraxas… I think the Lady and I shall make an early evening of it. Leave you two to talk, eh?"

Hermione watched as Abraxas nodded gratefully at Tom, and she thought perhaps Tom knew something she didn't. Her heart raced as she wondered again whether Abraxas meant to propose marriage to Betty. She flung herself to her feet, feeling positively woozy as she clutched at Tom's hand. She bid Abraxas and Betty goodnight and tried not to stumble from the room.

Their bedroom was blue with moonlight when Tom flung the door open and pushed Hermione gently inside. They light from the moon was so bright that they didn't bother lighting a candle or fire - Hermione figured the heat would be uncomfortable, anyway. Tom shut the door behind him and started unbuttoning his white shirt as he shook his head and grinned crookedly.

"Really, Hermione," he scoffed, wiggling clumsily out of his vest and tossing it carelessly onto the ground, "Witch Weekly? They'll burn the place down trying to steal me from you."

"You're drunk," Hermione teased, pushing Tom's white shirt from his torso and letting it fall to the floor. He nodded casually and she smelled the whisky on him as he admitted,

"I am, a little."

"More than a little." Hermione shook her head and felt her own mind swimming. She started working on the buttons at Tom's waist and clucked, "You're not doing too badly for a man who's bound to be passed out in bed in twenty minutes."

He put his hands over hers at his waist and she looked up into his glassy eyes. He looked rather serious and whispered, "Twenty minutes to fuck you into the sheets, then."

Hermione gasped, scandalised. He'd never once used that word like that, not toward her. She instinctively reached up as though she were going to slap him, thinking that maybe she'd make him come to his senses. But, even drunk as he was, he managed to snatch her hand out of the air, and he kissed the inside of her wrist carefully. He kissed all the way up her arm until he reached the crook of her elbow, and Hermione felt a heady rush that shot straight between her thighs.

"Tom," she whispered, shutting her eyes firmly and gulping, "you're very drunk and you're high on the little speech that you gave out there. That's all."

"I want to fuck you," Tom murmured against Hermione's skin, and she scowled,

"Stop saying that."

But there was a warm, insistent throbbing between her legs that did not go away at all as Tom's mouth moved to hers. He tasted like whisky, like wine, like cinnamon and caramel. He put his hands on the small of her back and pulled her against him and she felt his hardness against her stomach. Hermione's knees buckled a bit from her own lack of sobriety and her own arousal.

"Bed. Now." She was whispering frantically against his mouth all of a sudden, though she didn't quite know why she was giving him what he wanted. Perhaps, she realised, it was because it also happened to be what she wanted. In any case, he smirked like a fiend as he pushed her roughly so that she stumbled backward and landed with an oof upon the mattress.

He climbed up onto the bed and wriggled out of his trousers and underwear. Hermione lay upon her back, staring up at the ceiling and feeling a sick sort of spinning in her head. She was drunk, too, she realised. Good thing she was already married to the man in her bed, she thought distantly, or else she might have been making some sort of terrible mistake.

Her hand drifted rather of its own accord between her thighs, and her eyes fluttered shut. Her fingers started pulsing against her nub, and it felt good. It felt right, like she existed solely to be caressed there. Her skin started to grow warm and prickle and tingle. She felt her nipples go hard, felt her womanhood flush and swell. Then she remembered that Tom was in bed with her, and her eyes flew open. Her hand stilled and she glanced up to see him hovering beside her, sitting back on his haunches with his hand around his own manhood. His glazed eyes shone with a drunken arousal, and he raked his fingers through his hair as he said with blurred words,

"Please keep touching yourself. I like to watch you."

Hermione quirked up a teasing smile, basking in the rare semblance of control over him. She pulled her hand away from her quim and whispered, "I thought you wanted to fuck me."

Tom's face went rather sombre then, and he squared his jaw as he promised, "I'm going to. I'm going to watch you touch yourself; I'm going to watch you squirm and moan and clench around your own fingers. And then I'm going to make you do it around my cock."

Hermione giggled softly, letting her fingers glide over her flat stomach, past her little thatch of hair until they delved back into her wet warmth. She sighed happily and stared at Tom as she bucked her hips against her hand.

"You say terrible things when you're drunk, you know," she informed him. Then she moaned rather wantonly as a crush of pleasure surged through her. She was getting closer to the edge, she knew. She shut her eyes, quickened her fingers, and smashed the base of her hand against her nub relentlessly. She heard Tom groan softly beside her, and then he mumbled clumsily,

"I - I need to take you."

"All right," Hermione whispered, pulsing her fingers ever more insistently.

"Now," Tom growled. Hermione's eyes flew open as she saw him moving to perch himself above her. Hermione made a move to position herself on her hands and knees. She knew that when Tom wanted it hard and fast, he liked to enter her from behind. But he grabbed at her thighs and dragged her onto her back again. He pinned her down by her shoulders, shoving her legs apart with his knee. His breath was shallow and frantic as his dark eyes glittered in the moonlight.

"I need to see your face," he informed her, and she nodded. She found it interesting, with some corner of her mind, that he kept using that word. Need. He didn't 'want' anything just now, apparently, though he needed a great many things. She reached up to touch his hair as he pulled her knees up around his waist. She moaned and squirmed as he pushed into her, her fingers tightening in his hair. He hissed as he filled her and began thrusting steadily, his hips drawing out and pushing in like a piston.

Hermione relished the look on his face as he moved, the way his dark eyes were wrenched shut in concentration. She adored the way his teeth dug into his bottom lip, the way a crease appeared between his eyebrows. She could see a flush on his cheeks, even in the dim moonlight. There was a prominent vein in the side of his neck as he flexed his body. Hermione took in every detail, massaging his scalp all the while.

She squeezed her thighs around his hips, feeling a shock of pleasure every time he pushed into her. His length rubbed the outside of her in just the right places as he moved. He filled her, snugly and completely, with every thrust, leaving her wanting more each time he pulled away. She only realised she was moaning when she started chanting his name like a prayer, and then he reached down between them to circle his thumb around her nub.

That suddenly sent Hermione catapulting off the edge of an unseen cliff. She hadn't realised she'd been so close to climax, but then she was clenching and clamping around him. Her ears were ringing and hot, her body was thrumming and her heart was racing. She cried out and grabbed for his shoulders, arching her back and driving her head back against the pillow.

Then, very abruptly, she felt Tom yank himself from her body and watched as he jerked himself a few times above her. She was still coming down from her own high as his seed flew onto her belly in uneven volleys, landing in obscene milky puddles on her moonlit skin.

At some point, Tom cleaned the both of them up, but Hermione didn't remember much else after that. She vaguely recalled Tom pointing his wand at her abdomen as she curled up against him. She heard him murmur a contraceptive spell since they'd both been blinded by whisky and lust ahead of time. Then she was sleeping beside Tom's naked form, dreaming of a world where everyone did everything he said.

July 1945

Hermione sorted through the stack of letters and thick envelopes that had arrived to Malfoy Manor that morning by owl. There were several responses to the dinner party on the fifteenth - naturally, everyone who had been invited had said they would attend. There were a few letters from families like the Averys and the Notts, writing to pledge more financial support. There were offers of employment from Minister Spencer-Moon, one each for Hermione and Tom. And then there was a thick envelope with writing on the outside that Hermione recognised as Betty Cattermole's. Inside was a scrap of parchment that read,

My Lord and Lady,

This issue is due to be released on Monday - here is an advanced copy. I do hope you enjoy it. We've made the front page! - Betty

Hermione cast the little paper aside and pulled out the copy of Witch Weekly inside. She grinned widely when she saw the full-page photograph of Tom on the cover. It was a handsome black-and-white image, a close-up of his face. He looked at once playful and serious, his dark eyes shimmering and one corner of his mouth curling up just so. But he also looked authoritative in the way only he knew how to do. The headline on the cover read,

RISING DARK LORD DECLARES, 'WE NEED A MAN LIKE ME.' Details on Page 7!

Hermione flicked through the magazine, past a lengthy article called, "Which Witch Got Her Lipstick Right This Week?" She finally came to page seven and saw another photo of Tom, this one of him seated in a chair in the Manor. One hand was planted on each arm of the chair, his fingers sprawled and gripping. His posture was confident and his eyes were piercing in this photo. The way he moved in the wizarding photograph was enticing - he dragged his thumb over his bottom lip and then planted his hand back upon the armchair before tapping his left foot a few times.

The photograph of of Tom took up the entire right side of the page. On the left side, in larger-than-usual typeface, Hermione read the words Tom had spoken when they'd all gathered to drink whisky together.

'I grow weary of a wizarding world that so slowly moves forward...'

15 July 1945

Tom sipped from his goblet of elf-made wine - probably the finest he'd ever had - and gazed down the length of the enormous table in Malfoy Manor's dining-room.

The table was lined with faces. Some were familiar, most were new, but all were staring intently at Tom. He flicked his eyes to one middle-aged wizard - the father of Druella Rosier - and he asked,

"Mr Rosier, how did you find the meal?"

"All the food was entirely delicious, My Lord," Rosier said automatically. Tom cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Rosier, who shifted and seemed suddenly nervous. Tom flashed a cocky grin and asked,

"Are you certain?"

"Y-yes, My Lord," Rosier stammered. Tom felt a flush of gratification wash through him as he realised an opportunity to demonstrate his abilities to his new followers. He nodded with feigned nonchalance, set down his wine glass, and folded his hands upon the table. Then he looked back up to Rosier and said softly,

"Legilimens."

Rosier's mind cracked open like an eggshell, and Tom watched as the man slumped a bit in his chair and gripped at his skull. Tom worked quickly, flipping through useless images of Ministry work and a rather plump whore in Knockturn Alley. He finally arrived at memories of the food they'd just eaten, and he mentally skidded to a halt, focusing hard on Rosier's perception of the meal. He watched one particular thought for a moment and smirked. Once he was satisfied, Tom yanked quickly out of Rosier's head and smoothly picked up his wine goblet. He sipped at the blood-red wine as he waited for Rosier to collect himself. The others around the table ogled in shocked silence, except for Hermione, who seemed unfazed as she sighed gently beside Tom. He set his goblet back down and dragged his thumb over his bottom lip thoughtfully.

"You found the lamb to be rather dry," he said casually to Rosier, whose cheeks reddened at once. The elder man began to stammer an apology, but Tom interrupted with a more specific observation. "The warm brie-and-apple tartlets made you think of a young woman you met, a long time ago, in France. They made you wonder what had become of her. Anneliese...? She had a pretty face on her. Do you think of her every time you eat brie-and-apple tartlets?"

Rosier's red cheeks blanched then, so that he was pale as a ghost. He looked as though he might faint, and his hands gripped the edge of the table as his mouth fell open. Around the table, the others exchanged nervous glances or simply stared down into their laps in fearful, impressed silence. Tom quirked up a self-satisfied grin and flicked his eyes to Hermione. She pinched her lips a bit and took a draught of her own wine. It was the only movement at the table.

"My friends," Tom said then, his voice barely above a whisper, "I urge you never to tell me lies. Even ones as simple as saying that dry lamb was acceptable. I can always tell when I'm on the receiving end of a lie - always. You will all remember that, won't you?"

There was a split second of silence, and then Nereus Malfoy murmured quietly, "Of course we will, My Lord."

Then tremulous grumblings of assent trickled around the table, and Tom felt flush with power. He plastered an artificially warm smile upon his face and rose quickly from his chair, prompting the entire table to do the same - all except Hermione. Tom glanced down to her and held out a hand, which she accepted and slowly rose to her feet. Tom glanced about the table and said,

"It is a fine evening, and the sun is still above the horizon. I think I shall venture out into the gardens for a bit of a look at all the marvelous flowers the Malfoys have cultivated. My Lady, will you join me?"

"Of course, My Lord." Hermione's look then was dangerous, Tom thought. Unreadable, even to him. Her chestnut eyes were blank and stony as she curled up her mouth into a Cheshire Cat smile. A strange little quiver of unease ran down Tom's spine at her demeanour, but he shoved it away at once and led Hermione from the dining-room.

When they were safely out of earshot of the room full of sycophants, Hermione released Tom's hand and quickened her steps. He frowned deeply at her and lengthened his own stride to keep up. She walked briskly out the front doors of Malfoy Manor, wordless and determined, and Tom demanded,

"What's made you so cross, then?"

"Be silent until we're outside, will you?" Hermione hissed, and Tom recoiled a bit at the force with which she scolded him. He snatched her hand and muttered in a low voice,

"If someone looks out the window, we need to be the picture of serene love, you understand?"

She huffed and squeezed his hand, glancing a bit over her shoulder. She was lovely in the setting sun, Tom thought absently. She'd donned a long black gown for the dinner party, taffeta with a cape like the one she'd worn when they'd received the Order of Merlin. This one had a silver sash about the waist that was inlaid with glittering crystals, matched by her earrings and heavy necklace. Her hair had been swept into elegant curls, her arms were covered with black opera-length gloves, and her lips were painted blood-red. She was a vision of elegance, Tom thought. A true Dark Lady. But at the moment she looked properly angry, and he whispered again,

"What is the matter with you?"

"Lazarus Greengrass," Hermione replied simply. Tom frowned. Greengrass, the handsome twenty-something about whom Hermione had warned him, had attended the dinner party. He hadn't said much, at least not to Tom. He had noticed Greengrass mingling at length with Hermione during the cocktail hour, but Tom had been too busy meeting the others to work his way into their conversation. Now he wondered just what Greengrass had been saying to Hermione all that time.

"Did he push himself on you?" Tom asked, pausing in his steps as they wended through the rose gardens. He turned toward Hermione and looked down at her sceptical face. She rolled her eyes and sighed, but he asked again, "What did he do to you?"

"Not every young man behaves like Ladon Scamander," Hermione said pointedly, "though Lazarus Greengrass may honestly be worse. That does not mean I want you to murder anybody," she amended quickly, recommencing her steps and urging Tom to walk with her again. Her long black gown dragged on the grass behind her, swishing gently. Tom chewed the inside of his cheek and said softly,

"You do not trust him, and therefore neither do I. What did he say or do to instill in you such unease about him?"

"The conversation started innocently enough. At first, I thought he was flirting with me," Hermione admitted. She gripped Tom's hand a bit more tightly as they passed through the white roses into a grove of apple trees. She lowered her voice as she relayed, "But then he suddenly said, 'So you're the little girl who destroyed my Inferi.' And I balked at that, of course. I was rather horrified. He looked so... amused, you know. It was awful. So I laughed, awkwardly, and I said, 'I'm the witch who incinerated the Inferi at Nurmengard. I shan't apologise for destroying your macabre creations, Mr Greengrass.' And he looked terribly serious then, and he actually touched me. My shoulder."

Tom felt a flush of rage then, and he glanced back to Malfoy Manor. He didn't even need Hermione to finish talking. He could just push his feet off the ground and fly back to the dining-room and kill Lazarus Greengrass now. But Hermione relentlessly continued,

"He leaned down and whispered in my ear, 'I believe your husband may overestimate himself, Madam Riddle.' And then stood up and smiled and me, and he said, 'Children ought not play at games such as these.'"

"What did he do then?" Tom asked tightly. He stopped walking, suddenly not caring whether anyone in the manor was watching. Hermione hesitated for a moment, but Tom squeezed her hand harder and seethed down at her,

"Either tell me what he did, or I shall look into your mind like I did to that man in the dining-room. What did Lazarus Greengrass do then?"

Hermione yanked her hand away from him and growled. She flexed and squeezed her hand a few times, and he realised quickly that he'd hurt her. But he had no time to apologise, and he reached to pull his wand from his robes as he whispered, "Hermione, I need to know -"

"He told me that you aren't as powerful as you think. That he thought I was pretty, and that if I'd managed to destroy his Inferi, I must have 'a decent brain in my skull.'" Hermione looked irate as she repeated Greengrass' words. She shook a bit as she massaged the hand Tom had crushed. "'It's a damned shame that a catch like you's gone to a bloke like him,' he told me. 'A boy playing at being a man.' Then he walked away and I didn't speak to him any more all night. Or hardly anyone else, really, since I was so shaken."

"Stay here," Tom commanded, and he whirled on his heels to stalk back to the Manor. Hermione grabbed at his arm and cried,

"Wait! Tom, no! You can't just... not everyone is going to like you straight away. That doesn't give you a licence to go about murdering human beings."

Tom took a deep breath and pulled his arm out of her grasp. "They don't have to like me," he said, "but they will obey me. And the ones who don't?"

He shrugged and scoffed, reaching into his wand and pulling out the wand he'd taken off Gellert Grindelwald's body. He trotted away from Hermione, ignoring the way she called his name a few times before giving up. He left her standing there in the gardens, in her elaborate black gown, fuming and shaking with fury. She knew better than to make a scene by chasing him into the house.

As Tom stormed up the stone staircase inside Malfoy Manor, he could hear quiet conversations and the tinkling of glassware upstairs. He could hear the sounds of bewitched string instruments playing themselves, the crackle of a fire that had recently been lit. And he could pick out the reedy voice of Lazarus Greengrass through all of it.

Tom tightened his grip around his wand, stalking briskly into the receiving space without speaking a word. The room went quiet; conversations died at the sight of him and the self-playing instruments skittered to a halt. All the eyes in the room watched as Tom pulled up in front of Lazarus Greengrass, who was conversing with Abraxas and Nereus Malfoy and a few members of the Avery family. Everyone except Greengrass bowed and muttered respectful greetings.

"Mr Greengrass, I am afraid you have grossly misunderstood my intent in bringing you here this evening," Tom said quietly. Lazarus Greengrass quirked up a cocky smile and sipped from his snifter of brandy.

"Nonsense, Mr Riddle. A wonderful evening was enjoyed by all."

Tom squared his jaw but kept his face impassive as he allowed a moment for the insubordination to register among the rest of the room's inhabitants. Then he gave a knowing little nod and said, so softly that others leaned in to hear,

"Not only have you misunderstood me, Mr Greengrass, but you have underestimated me. What was it you said to my wife? 'Children ought not play at games such as these.' But I am no child, Mr Greengrass, and this is no game. Avada Kedavra."

In one fluid movement, Tom raised his wand and cast the Killing Curse, feeling a mad jolt of satisfaction as the telltale green light burst forth. Lazarus Greengrass crumpled into a motionless heap upon the floor. His brandy snifter fell with him and shattered upon the ground, drenching Greengrass' robes in liquor. Tom stared at the silent corpse for a moment and then turned to face the room full of wide eyes and gulping throats. Heads bowed and a few throats cleared nervously. Tom calmly tucked his wand into his robes and said in a clear, confident voice,

"My friends, I apologise for spoiling the evening with such violence. I'm afraid Mr Greengrass left me no choice. I trust you all understand why it is we can not abide such disrespect in our ranks. Now... I shall retire for the evening. I thank you all for coming. It has been an honour and a pleasure to make all of your acquaintances. I do hope each and every one of you will stay in close communication as our cause grows. I hope I can count on all of your support."

He walked out of the dining room without another word, deliberately stepping around the body of Lazarus Greengrass as he did.

October 1963

Georgiana sat upon her dormitory bed and opened the parcel that her mother had sent her. A little square of parchment fell out, and Georgiana felt her eyes burn when she saw her mother's neat script.

The happiest of birthdays to you, Georgie. I miss you terribly and think of you constantly. Write more often, will you? - Mum

Inside the parcel were two cashmere cardigans, one dark blue and the other mustard yellow. They were soft and very stylish, and Georgiana smirked at the way her mother managed to stay atop Muggle fashions.

"Thanks, Mummy," she whispered, putting the gift aside as she reached for the other envelope with her name on it. She stared at it for a long moment, swallowing the lump in her throat as she traced her finger over her father's handwriting. Finally, she tore into the envelope and pulled out a letter.

Dear Georgie,

When your mother told me you'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, I admit I had a rather perplexing series of reactions. First, I felt a twinge of disappointment that you hadn't managed to convince the Hat to put you into Slytherin. (You can do that, you know - tell the Hat where to put you.) Then I felt a demented sort of gratification that you hadn't wound up in Gryffindor. The last thing I need at holidays is two female lionesses railing on about the merits of that particular House. Then I thought, 'Well, at least she isn't a Hufflepuff.' Eventually I started congratulating myself on producing a witch brainy enough to be sorted into Ravenclaw.

But then I realised that you could have been a Slytherin - after all, you have always been ambitious. Perhaps you do not recall, but when you were very small I found you hauling a bucket of water up the stone staircase of the Regia. I asked you what you were doing, and you said you meant to make your very own ocean in your playroom. You were 'hauling in the stream,' you told me. Rather ambitious for a four-year-old.

Then I thought that you would have made a splendid Gryffindor, for you are nothing if not brave. Just last year you were so determined to fly without a broom that you managed eight broken bones and an owl from Madam Jones on underage use of magic. Quite frankly, I was more concerned about your mother that day than I was about you.

Of course, you could have been a Hufflepuff. You are terribly kind, you know. Sometimes rather annoyingly so. Do you remember that time you kept an earthworm in a cardboard box because it was 'broken'? You said you were nursing it back to health. It died, of course, because you didn't give it any food or water. But that wasn't what mattered; you meant to help the silly little worm. So I replaced it with a live one. Four times.

But you shall be a grand Ravenclaw, Georgie. For, rather like your mother, my fondest memories of you involve hearing your voice rattling off facts you found in books. They involve seeing you hovering over maps with a magnifying glass in your hand. My favourite memory of your childhood is when you overheard a business meeting of mine, barged into my office, and began lecturing Mr Malfoy and myself on why we ought to consider the history of centaur-wizarding relations when shaping policy. You were seven. We took your advice.

The truth, Georgie, is that I would be proud of you no matter if you live in the Slytherin dungeons or in Ravenclaw Tower. All I can hope is that you're enjoying yourself at school, that you've made friends and that you sleep soundly at night. I hope the food is as delectable as it was when I was a boy. And I hope you know that your mother and I miss you terribly.

Happy twelfth birthday, Georgie.

- Father

October 1967

"My birthday was yesterday, Bilius." Georgiana plunked down her library book and gave her dear friend an exaggerated scowl. "I'm afraid you've missed it."

Bilius Weasley stuck his tongue out at Georgiana as he slid into a chair opposite hers. Their conversation earned them a disapproving glare from the librarian, and Bilius gestured theatrically to apologise to the old witch. Then he turned to Georgiana and slid a rectangular box across the table to her.

"I know full well when your birthday is," he informed her, "but this hadn't arrived yet."

Georgiana smiled at him, but her happiness turned into panic when the box suddenly convulsed on the table and squeaked.

"There is something alive in that box," she intoned, noticing for the first time the ventilation holes in the cardboard.

"Then I suggest you open it," Bilius whispered wickedly. Georgiana sighed at him, fingers shaking as she tore into the twine holding the lid to the bottom of the box. She heard him add in a serious tone, "It's just a token to demonstrate my undying love for you."

Georgiana snorted with laughter then, pausing before she pulled the lid off the box. "Your love for me?" she teased, and Bilius nodded imperiously. Then they both dissolved into mad giggles, and the librarian shushed them with a glare again.

Georgiana steadied herself and pulled the lid off the box, revealing a little golden creature with purple stripes in its fur. It shook itself out and stared up at her, wide-eyed and content.

"Ohhh," Georgiana gasped softly, pulling the Pygmy Puff out of the box, "I used to have one as a little girl!"

"Yes. I'd heard that Bellatrix Black threw it into a fireplace," Bilius lamented.

"She did, because she was a wicked and awful child!" Georgiana giggled quietly as she petted the little animal. Then she turned her dark eyes to Bilius and asked slyly, "Perhaps we should call him 'Phoenix,' since he's rather risen from the ashes of his unfortunate predecessor."

"That sounds appropriate." Bilius sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest with a self-satisfied smirk. Then he looked a bit nervous for a moment, swallowing visibly and clearing his throat before he asked, "Last bit of fine weather, perhaps. Care to take a walk about the grounds?"

"Can't you see I'm working?" Georgiana cocked her head toward the essay she'd been working on when he barged in. She flashed him a little smirk when he shook his head and muttered,

"Ravenclaws are no fun." He rose from his chair and tousled Georgiana's smooth black hair, eliciting a little howl of protest. He surveyed the mess he'd made on her head and teased her, "That's better."

"Oh, get on, you," Georgiana moaned, fixing her hair with one hand whilst she cradled her little Pygmy Puff in the other. She glanced down to the animal and back up to her dearest friend, and said begrudgingly, "Thanks for the gift."

"Don't mention it. Happy birthday, Georgie." Bilius winked charmingly at her and strode from the library. Georgiana watched him go, watched the way he raked through his fiery hair as he pushed open the doors to the corridor.

A token to demonstrate my undying love for you, he'd said, and of course Georgiana had assumed he'd been completely joking. But as she tried to finish her essay, distracted by the Pygmy Puff and by Bilius, she wondered whether it had been a joke after all.

August 1945

"I wonder whether you might be willing to give me a bit of advice."

Hermione glanced up from the book she had been reading and cocked her eyebrows. "On what?"

Tom hesitated for a moment as he strode toward Hermione's chair. She'd been reading on the lawn in front of Malfoy Manor, for the weather was sunny and mild. Tom, it seemed, had been holed up for the past two weeks inside the house. He was working, he'd told Hermione, on a new potion which would allow the drinker to hear thoughts without eye contact. She'd offered to help (many times), but Tom had insisted he was still in the "hypothetical stage" of development.

Now, though, he paused and sighed heavily as he approached her.

"I've reached a bit of a roadblock," he admitted quietly, and Hermione set her book down upon the grass. She tried to keep her face blank as she nodded. It wouldn't help anything to embarrass him by reveling in his roundabout request for help. Tom jammed his hands into the pockets of his robes and continued, "I've got a prototype potion which has allowed me to hear whispering echoes of the thoughts around me. I took it late last night and I heard Abraxas Malfoy's mind. He was thinking rather revolting notions about Betty Cattermole's lady bits as he touched himself in his room."

Hermione snorted and shaded her eyes as she giggled up at Tom. "Sounds like it's working. What's the problem, exactly?"

Tom pinched his lips and shifted upon his feet. "Obviously, this potion will not be intended for public distribution. It is to remain secret. It's for my own use -"

"What's the problem, Tom?" Hermione asked again, crossing her arms over her chest. He cleared his throat and muttered,

"I need you to try it. I suspect it may be allowing two-way telepathic communication rather than one-way thought reception."

Hermione felt a strange pang of curiosity then. She pushed herself up off of the chair and smoothed her skirt. "What makes you say that?"

Tom's cheeks reddened and he suddenly looked rather uncomfortable in the day's heat, tugging at the neck of his robe and swiping sweat from his brow. "Abraxas could feel me in his head. He told me just now. 'I wanted to let you know, My Lord, that I was very aware of your presence in my mind last night.' That's what he said. Then he looked quite embarrassed and mumbled something about seeing my own thoughts of you."

Hermione laughed so uproariously then that Tom looked properly cross with her. She gathered herself and said very seriously, "All right. So you received Abraxas' fantasy about Betty. And it triggered some obscene thoughts in your own mind. And you believe that, after taking the potion, you opened up your own mind in addition to receiving information. Have I got that right?"

"That's right." Tom nodded, but Hermione firmly shook her head.

"Well, I didn't get any thoughts from you last night."

Tom put his mouth into a flat line. "You were already asleep. I heard your dreaming thoughts, though I could already watch you dream through Legilimency. You dreamed of that bespectacled boy - Harry Potter - and a red-haired young man you called 'Ron.' The three of you were drinking butterbeers in the Three Broomsticks and discussing how important Albus Dumbledore was to the salvation of mankind."

Now it was Hermione's turn to struggle with embarrassment. She gulped heavily and stammered, "Y-you didn't know the same Albus Dumbledore I did. He was a good wizard, a good person -"

"I don't care." Tom shrugged, and Hermione opened her mouth to angrily retort. But then Tom clarified, "That is to say, the content of your dream is of little relevance to my present concerns. I need to know whether or not this potion creates a two-way pathway for telepathy. If it does, I might be able to exploit that feature instead of fearing it."

Hermione nodded knowingly. "You would still want to find a potion that accomplished your original aims, but even this apparently flawed prototype might have merit."

Tom sighed. "Precisely. Now, there remains the possibility that someone here could read my mind if I take the potion - not exactly an occurrence I wish to risk again. It would seem that the wisest solution would be to take you somewhere profoundly isolated and try the potion there."

Hermione swallowed heavily again. For some reason she could not properly articulate, the idea of going somewhere far away and empty with Tom made her both nervous and excited.

"Will you come with me to Benbecula?" she heard Tom asking, and she frowned. Benbecula? She'd heard of the tiny island in the Outer Hebrides off Scotland's west coast. Tom shifted on his feet again and said carefully, "I've arranged to stay for a while in a little cottage near the sea there. To work on the potion, you know. I... I took the liberty of packing some necessities and I used your rather ingenious Expanding idea..."

He pulled a little leather drawstring pouch from his robes then, and Hermione felt a proud little smile cross her lips. She nodded and stepped up to where Tom was, and she took his hand in hers. "Let's go, then," she said, and Tom smirked. Then he shut his eyes and Hermione was suddenly being pinched and whirled and yanked as she and Tom Disapparated from Malfoy Manor.

August 1980

Georgiana stepped up to the door of the brick building before her. She glanced down at the bit of parchment in her hand and checked the address again. Then she read the sign upon the door.

Granger Dental Practice

Georgie felt a queasy sensation ripple through her as she gave the Muggle receptionist a falsified address and paid awkwardly with paper notes.

"Mrs Granger will be with you shortly," the cheerful blonde receptionist chirped, returning to the gossip magazine she'd been reading. Georgiana sat in the waiting room and fiddled with her Muggle-style blue jeans and blouse. She watched as the receptionist blew gum bubbles and sang along absently with the radio as she flipped through her magazine.

"Xanadu... We are in Xanadu..." the receptionist trilled, and it occurred to Georgiana that Muggles lived very strange lives indeed.

At long last, Georgiana was led to a little exam room with oppressively bright overhead lights and terrifying-looking equipment. She gingerly sat in the grey chair when the nurse gestured to it.

"So, Mrs Weasley, what brings you in to see the dentist today?" The nurse began arranging items upon a tray, and Georgie gulped.

"I have a toothache," she said automatically, just like her mother had told her to do. She described her fake malady in further detail - yes, sweets made it worse - and pointed vaguely to her molars when asked which tooth hurt. Then there was a brief and horrifying invasion of her mouth, which the nurse dared to call a 'cleaning.'

It seemed like an eternity before a Muggle woman in her thirties strolled in and took over, introducing herself as Mrs Granger.

"Are you new to the area, Mrs Weasley?" the dentist asked after some time. "We encountered some difficulty tracking down your records."

"Oh... My husband and I have recently returned to Britain after a great while abroad. We want to start a family near my parents," Georgiana lied, rinsing her mouth and rubbing her jaw, sore from keeping her mouth open so long. The dentist nodded knowingly and started preparing a rather petrifying assortment of tools.

"It certainly seems as though it would be difficult to raise a child abroad with no family to help," the dentist said absently. Georgiana gulped and asked,

"Have you any children, Mrs Granger?"

"No... We never did have children. But I can imagine the difficulty." The dentist began cleaning a pick, and Georgiana felt her stomach sink. This woman was meant to be her grandmother. Her own mother should have been an infant belonging to this dentist. How could she say she had no children?

Georgiana felt queasy as the dentist worked on her mouth. Her father had suggested that they might be living in what he called a "parallel timeline" from what Georgie's mother had known as a child. To Georgiana, it seemed bizarre to contemplate that the world her mother had been born into was entirely separate from her existence... Yet both were real and valid. In the timeline from which Hermione Granger had been sent back, this dentist woman would have a little girl. In this "parallel timeline," Hermione Granger existed only as the Dark Lady who had appeared out of thin air in the year 1944.

As Mrs Granger - her 'grandmother' - filled a cavity in Georgiana's mouth, she could not help but wonder how many realities existed simultaneously, and what her place was in each of them.

August 1945

It was terribly foggy on Benbecula, and the air was colder than it had been in Wiltshire. The cottage on the sea coast had been gifted to Tom by a renegade member of the Moody family nearly a month earlier, 'for whatever use the Dark Lord may find in having a remote property.'

He and Hermione spent the first hour or so at the cottage casting all manner of wards and protective spells. It seemed that Hermione's shields against magic were particularly strong, whilst Tom was more gifted with Muggle-repellent work. By the time they'd both finished, the little white cottage seemed impenetrable.

"How long do you intend to stay here?" Hermione asked once they'd settled inside. She stared out the rippled glass window at the grey churning sea, at the swaying sea oats and at the hopping birds in the sand. Tom shrugged and murmured,

"Until we want to go back." When Hermione smirked up at him, he clarified, "I want to perfect this potion and work on a few other innovative spells. In private, so that the things I want to publicise seem more impressive once I reveal them. And I shall need your help with all of that. Besides, it is good for a rising leader to maintain something of an elusive mystique, don't you agree? In any case, we shall be here for a few weeks, at least, I should think."

Hermione looked satisfied with that answer. She stepped away to explore the tiny cottage's single whitewashed bedroom, the little old kitchen with its obviously dysfunctional hob, the blackened fireplace in the centre of the miniature home. Tom watched her as she touched and examined the place, wondering whether she was disgusted by the idea of staying here. But then she raised her eyes to him across the little sitting-room, and she grinned widely.

"It's charming," she assured Tom. Then, striding confidently toward him, she held out her hand with obvious expectation. "Let me try the potion, then."

Tom felt a flutter of anxiety roil through his chest as he reached into the breast pocket of his robes. He pulled out a vial of the potion he'd been working on for weeks and held it out to Hermione.

"Mentibus Unum Solution," he said carefully.

She took the little glass container and held it up to the light of the window. She studied the clear blue liquid for a moment and asked,

"What's in it?"

Tom cleared his throat, suddenly wishing he'd taken Hermione up on her offer for assistance developing the potion. His prototype was crude and imperfect, and it was with some shame that he rattled off the ingredients.

"Augurey blood, hyacinth oil, boomslang skin, powdered unicorn horn, and a few other bits and bobs."

Hermione frowned deeply as she said thoughtfully to Tom, "Wouldn't the hyacinth oil create intense mental vulnerability?"

Tom felt his cheeks colour. Of course, the same concern had occurred to him, but it had been the only ingredient he could think of using that would create a Legilimency-like effect of any kind.

"What would you suggest instead?" he asked crossly, and Hermione shrugged. She shook the vial gently and held it up to the light again.

"I suppose you do need the hyacinth oil for an invasive effect," she admitted, "but perhaps you could add a bit of saltpetre for defence of the drinker's mind."

Tom felt a wash of humility then, realising she was right. All he needed was to add saltpetre, and the potion would likely allow one-way telepathy instead of widespread mental vulnerability.

"That is precisely what I shall do." He nodded and moved to take the vial from Hermione's hand. She snatched it away and frowned.

"First," she said rather firmly, "I think it would be wise to try the prototype. In order to help you refine the potion, I shall need to know how it works in this form."

Tom watched her tip the vial back into her mouth and grimace at its terrible taste. Then, very abruptly, his head vibrated with the sound of Hermione's voice.

Ugh. Tastes like rotten eggs and too-sour lemons and cheese gone off... Couldn't have made it strawberry-flavoured, eh?

Tom felt his eyes go wide. Hermione had been the one to take the potion, just as he had been at Malfoy Manor. Abraxas hadn't been lying, then. The drinker did indeed open up his or her thoughts freely to those in close proximity.

Suddenly Hermione smirked rather wickedly up at Tom, her face smug and self-satisfied.

So whose fantasies were more salacious? She thought loudly, making Tom's head buzz. Abraxas' visions of Betty, or yours of me?

Tom cocked his head to the side as he realised Hermione was inside his mind as much as he was inside hers. He concentrated for a moment on the thoughts that he assumed Abraxas had witnessed.

Hermione bent over a table with him pummeling her from behind. The two of them drenched under the fall of a shower, kissing madly and groping at one another's wet skin. Hermione down on her knees with Tom's cock in her mouth moaning like a harlot.

Suddenly she had closed the distance between them and her fingers were working on the clasps of Tom's robe as if her life depended on getting him nude immediately.

He could feel every sensation of want coiling inside of her, could hear the words rattling desperately inside her head.

Take me into the bedroom, Tom Riddle. Right now. And I will show you what exactly I think about while you're doing those things to me.

August 1945

Slow down, Hermione.

Tom had settled himself nude upon the squat little bed in the cottage's only bedroom. He had propped himself up against the pillows and lay half-reclined upon the dark green coverlet. The light from the single window shone into the room in dusty beams that illuminated Hermione's form as she rushed to strip off her robes and underwear. Tom wrapped his fingers around his cock as she raised wide eyes to him, and then he thought again,

Slow down. I want to see every bit of you revealed to me.

Her cheeks flushed a deep scarlet, and then there was a scattered jumble of emotion radiating from her mind. Arousal and nervous desire mingled with a strangely insistent thought that Tom would have never expected from Hermione.

Spanked... I want to be spanked by him... Want him to smack my arse and I've no idea why... I want it to sting, want to feel my arse go hot and pink as he -

Suddenly Tom realised that thought in particular wasn't meant for him.

"No, it wasn't," Hermione admitted aloud, looking embarrassed as she peeled off her outer robes and let them fall upon the floor. As she worked to unclasp her knee-length dress, she mumbled, "But I suppose nothing in my mind is private at the moment."

Tom smirked until he realised she could see straight into his head, too. Spanking, eh? That was a suggestion he would have never thought Hermione would make. She seemed too strong-willed, too determined and headstrong, to submit willingly to physical punishment... no matter how staged and affectionate.

I truly have no idea why it appeals to me, Hermione mentally admitted to him, her thoughts making his head buzz almost painfully. She pulled her dress over her head and Tom gulped, feeling his cock swell in his hand at the sight of her in her knickers and brassiere. Hermione smiled a bit as she processed his increased arousal, and then her thoughts were clear again. There's something oddly appealing about the idea of having my arse slapped by the hands of the Dark Lord himself. Sex is strange, isn't it...?

She stalked toward the bed, her mind still thrumming with want. Tom nearly moaned aloud as she crawled atop the coverlet and moved toward him like a predatory lioness.

Well, I was a Gryffindor, after all...

Tom chuckled at that and reached to help guide her atop him. She straddled his thighs and wrapped her arms around Tom's neck, flicking her honey-brown eyes down between them.

Thick... throbbing... want it inside me from behind whilst he spanks me...

Those thoughts, too, came whispered and distant as though she were making no effort to project them. Almost, Tom pondered, as if she were unaware of the thoughts entirely. That was how he realised that her filthy suggestions were reflections of her darkest fantasies, the ones that lay burrowed but intense in the back recesses of her mind.

Please turn me over and fuck me and spank me. Now, now, now...

Tom's hands moved of their own accord then, whirling her roughly at her waist and sensing the excited surprise from her head. Her desire thrummed more loudly as Tom forcefully arranged her upon her hands and knees. He squeezed at her waist and pulled himself up behind her, thinking to himself that she was almost unbearably beautiful from this angle. The smooth expanse of her back led to the slim curve of her waist and hips. Her womanhood was presented to him like a gift, and as he tore her knickers down her legs, he thought it did feel a bit as though he were unwrapping a present.

My present comes when you fill me up...

Tom felt his cheeks flush hot. She truly had a filthy mind, he realised, and he very much liked that.

I can't help it! I'm not trying to think such terrible things. I can't control those thoughts. Please don't think I'm indecent -

Tom scowled and then laughed suddenly at the notion of Hermione Granger embarrassed by her own erotic thoughts. She glared over her shoulder at him and huffed audibly.

Your own mind isn't terribly pristine, you know. I see myself from your view. Is my arse really that big?

Tom laughed aloud and gripped her waist more tightly, leaning over to plant a soft kiss in the small of her back.

"You're beautiful," he murmured truthfully, knowing full well she could see into his head to tell that he wasn't lying.

He pushed into her and pumped slowly for a while, savoring the wet squeeze of her womanhood around him. He paid close attention to her chaotic thoughts as she mentally implored him to go faster and pondered the feel of his member inside of her. There was a sort of pulse between them, a constant throb of want and need that seemed to be amplifying by the second.

Spank me... please, just take your hand and spank me. Hit my arse and growl in my ear and fuck me senseless and -

THWACK!

Tom's hand struck her before he could help himself. The desperate pleading in her mind had been too much. But instead of finding relief from slapping the cheek of her backside, Tom found himself flush with a furious desire to spank her again.

Yes. Yes. Do it again. Harder this time.

THWACK!

Tom's hips bucked forward wildly, driving into Hermione forcefully as his palm slapped at her bottom. She moaned aloud and her mind vibrated with a scarlet pleasure. Then her voice was murmuring, pleading with him words that he heard far more clearly inside her head.

Reach around me and touch me... please, please, Tom. I need to come. Right now. Please help me come. Please.

Tom snarled like a wild animal and thrashed his hips hard against Hermione from behind, spurred into a frenzy by her thoughts. He spanked her thrice more, harder each time until she cried out with delicious pain. He reached around her and fiddled with her nub, feeling the slick spot where he slid in and out of her. He wondered whether she liked when he touched her there, whether his hands pleased her.

Of course it pleases me. Even when I touch myself, I imagine it's your hand. You make me... make me come so hard I can't breathe. Please -

Then, very suddenly indeed, Tom felt a frantic and erratic clenching around the shaft of his cock. He groaned loudly at the feel of her walls drawing him into her body, at the way her mind exploded with her climax. There was a ringing emptiness for a moment as she came, and then suddenly Tom felt his own zenith approaching.

Want to feel it pump into me and then drip down my thigh... bloody hell, but he's thick...

Her head was sending such obscene messages of blind arousal that Tom utterly lost control. His hands clutched harder than ever at Hermione's hips, and he yanked her against his body as he pushed roughly into her. Her backside made a fantastic slapping sound against his own hips each time he filled her. Tom tipped his head back and groaned as his thighs tingled and a coil of tension wound tightly in his abdomen. His ears began to ring and he wrenched his eyes shut, almost unable to make sense of Hermione's garbled thoughts.

I love you, Tom. Could do this forever, but I'm getting sore and tired and - oh, Tom Riddle, I love you so much that it hurts. It actually hurts to think of how I love you. Or maybe it just hurts because your cock is enormous. I don't care. Please come on my skin so I can feel it; I can't wait any longer...

Tom yanked himself from her entrance and coursed his hand over his slick member. He watched himself throb and twitch, felt his shaft swell and harden in his hand. An animalistic snarl tore itself from between his clenched teeth, and then he was finishing all over the perfect expanse of her back. Beneath him, Hermione moaned and Tom's head pulsated with her mental relief.

He was still panting and flushed as he reached for his wand to clean her up. He cast a belated protective spell from above her, thinking that perhaps they ought to find a longer-term solution to the issue of contraception.

Or, perhaps, Hermione thought at him, rolling over onto her back and letting her fingers drift over her breasts, we ought to become less concerned about it.

Tom frowned, for it had been Hermione who had always been paranoid about him finishing inside of her.

I know, she nodded. Then, aloud, she whispered, "You're probably right. There's likely a a potion or some such thing..."

Tom found himself unwilling to contemplate the matter any more deeply than that, and Hermione did not press him. He lay back upon the pillows and urged her to curl up against him. As he stroked her hair with his still-trembling fingertips, he sensed a deep contentment from her and a lingering twinge of pleasure. He smirked and wondered absently whether she knew how much he liked to touch her, to make love to her.

It was delightfully obvious. Hermione raised her caramel eyes to him and giggled softly. Then she said aloud, "As much fun as this has been, I think you'll agree that this particular prototype of the potion allows for too much openness. Outside of the realm of an intimate encounter, I'm not certain what benefit could be derived from a mutual inability to shield a single thought or emotion."

Tom smiled crookedly and let his hand trail down her back. He nodded. "We shall need to continue experimenting until we find a solution that allows for more selective transmission and perception of thoughts," he agreed. "What's going on right now between us is nothing short of mental chaos."

But it certainly is nice for situations just such as this, Hermione grinned. Tom chewed his lip and wondered how long he would have to wait before his body would allow him to take her again. He certainly hoped he would be ready before the potion wore off.

August 1978

"As you can see, we have experienced enormous success thus far with prototype formulations of the vaccine."

Healer Percival pushed a stack of parchments across the desk to Lord Voldemort, his ancient hands trembling as he did. Hermione reached over Voldemort's shoulder and picked up the top sheet of paper. Voldemort let her read in silence, turning his own attention to the charts of data indicating that preliminary research had been successful.

The past six months had seen wizarding Britain nearly overwhelmed with the outbreak of a frightening disease, one previously unknown but now recognised for its virulent and contagious power. The Healers were calling it "Jeiunium." The disease caused patients to lose half their body weight within two or three days, become immensely dehydrated, and quickly die. There had been over one hundred deaths in the past six months, mostly among the elderly and the medically vulnerable. The Magical Bugs department of St. Mungo's had become so inundated with hopeless cases that they had opened a dedicated Jeiunium clinic.

The terrible wasting disease had no known cause outside of idiopathic and inexplicable magical contagion. The only treatments which showed any promise whatsoever were intensive administration of fluids and of Esurit Elixir to encourage eating. However, even with treatment, most patients died within days.

Voldemort had quickly assembled a task force of Healers and potioneers to begin immediate development of a magical vaccine against the illness. Four months after commencement of research, Healer Percival sat in Voldemort's office at the Regia, presenting promising data.

"How was research conducted?" Hermione asked suddenly, and Voldemort looked up at Healer Percival as the old man hesitated a bit.

"We utilised materials from St. Mungo's patients, My Lady… both to develop the live vaccine and to practise with patient exposure -"

"And who did you expose?" Hermione snapped. Voldemort frowned and glanced disapprovingly over his shoulder at her. Sometimes, he thought, her good heart was still too pure for the gratingly unemotional life of ruling a population.

"We… we instructed inmates at Azkaban to touch materials handled by known Jeiunium patients, My Lady." Healer Percival shifted in his chair and looked uncomfortable. But he continued, "It was the only way to confidently measure whether or not administration of the vaccine made any difference."

"And so you sacrificed -"

"My Lady, I believe the most important consideration here is the population at large," Voldemort interrupted sharply, lowering his eyes to the parchments upon the desk. Hermione sighed lightly behind him but muttered,

"Yes. You're quite right, of course."

"And so when will enough of the vaccine be ready for distribution to the public?" Voldemort asked Healer Percival smoothly. The elder wizard tapped his fingertips together and said carefully,

"We have a dozen witches and wizards brewing as much as they can, as quickly as possible, My Lord. The first batches of oral solution will be finished brewing at the end of this month."

Voldemort nodded, satisfied by the news. He gathered the parchments and handed them back to Healer Percival, and then he dismissed the old man. When the Healer was gone, Hermione stepped around to stand before the empty fireplace. Voldemort frowned a bit in her direction and drummed his fingers upon the desk.

"You would not be pleased if Georgiana were to come down with Jeiunium and die," he pointed out, and when she turned round to protest, he pressed, "It is far better that a few rogues in Azkaban lose lives they were scheduled to lose anyway. If we do not tread carefully, this plague could be the end of wizarding Britain. You know very well that the successful development of a magical vaccine is the only hope our people have of avoiding catastrophe. Frankly, I do not care about the means of development; I only care that it is effective."

Hermione scowled, but finally said, "You and Machiavelli would be great friends, I think, Tom."

Before he could engage her further, there was a soft rapping upon the office door.

"Enter," Tom clipped, and the door slowly opened to reveal a rather nervous-looking Bilius Weasley.

"Good afternoon, Bilius," Hermione said with a bit too much warmth for Voldemort's taste. He found the young Weasley man to be obnoxiously effervescent, the few times he'd encountered him directly. He knew that Bilius Weasley and Georgiana had been good friends since their school days, and he had long suspected that the two were in love. Or, at least, that Bilius was in love with Georgie.

In the doorway, Bilius raked his fingers nervously through the thick red curls atop his head, and he stepped into the office and shut the door behind him. Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the way Bilius shifted upon his feet and cleared his throat, and he asked,

"Is something the matter, Mr Weasley?"

"Erm… My Lord, My Lady. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time to discuss something of rather great importance."

Voldemort felt a sinking feeling in his chest then. He was no fool. Georgiana was almost twenty-seven years old and was unmarried. He knew perfectly well why Bilius Weasley had come, and why he was acting so strangely.

"Sit, Mr Weasley." Voldemort flicked his hand, and the chair opposite him slid back of its own accord. Bilius nodded and muttered some awkward thanks as he sat in the chair. Hermione strode to stand behind Voldemort, putting her hand upon his shoulder in a way that showed she, too, knew what was happening. But no one said anything, and Voldemort raised his eyebrows at last and prompted, "Is there something specific you wanted to discuss?"

Bilius flicked his eyes to Hermione and then back to Voldemort. He licked his lips and cleared his throat again, and his voice trembled a bit as he said quietly,

"My Lady, My Lord. I wish first for you both to know that… that my love for your daughter extends to the very depths of my being. That I find her to be very intelligent, and very kind, and very beautiful. I wish for you to know that every moment I spend in her presence fills me with unparalleled joy, that I frankly feel ill at the thought of spending my life without her."

Hermione's hand tightened upon Voldemort's shoulder. He took a breath to strengthen his resolve and managed to keep his face steely and blank as Bilius raised his pale eyes.

"I would promise to always take care of her, but I think we all know that Georgiana does rather an admirable job taking care of herself. Instead, I shall promise you this: my every waking moment will be devoted to Georgiana's happiness. I beg you, My Lady, My Lord. May I ask Georgie to marry me?"

There was a physical pain in Voldemort's chest then that he had not expected to feel. He should be unsurprised, he supposed, that this was happening. It might have happened a very long time ago, for Hermione had married him when they were both still in school. Georgiana was closer to thirty than she was to twenty. She was, indisputably, old enough to be married. And, pleased that Voldemort was with the formality of Bilius asking permission, he knew that it did not matter what he said.

His daughter had already grown wings and taken flight. She was no longer the little curly-haired child who climbed into his lap and begged him to read her stories. She was no longer the toddling creature who giggled and squealed, nor the petulant teenager who thought she knew everything. Georgiana was a woman now, with her own life, with factors beyond Voldemort's control that would make her happy.

"You love her?" Voldemort asked sharply, just because he thought he might like reassurance on the matter.

Bilius nodded and gave a shaky sigh. "With all that I am, sir."

Voldemort blinked hard a few times and chewed hard upon his bottom lip. He wanted to turn his face, to look at Hermione, but he thought his veneer of confidence would buckle if he did. Instead, he reached to put his hand over Hermione's, and he said,

"I wish you both all the happiness in the world, Mr Weasley."

Bilius looked enormously relieved then, and he nodded frantically and rose from his chair. "Thank you, My Lord. My Lady," he said, giving them each grateful smiles. As Bilius moved toward the door, Voldemort's mind thrummed with the push of a few clear words from Hermione's thoughts.

Go and shake the boy's hand, Tom.

Voldemort cleared his throat roughly and pulled himself from his own chair, striding briskly toward the door and snapping his robes into place about him. Bilius turned, wide-eyed, his hand on the doorknob. Voldemort paused before him and rather awkwardly held his hand out. He did not suppose he'd shaken anyone's hand in decades. Everyone bowed to Lord Voldemort; no one touched him except for his own family. Poor Bilius Weasley stared for a too-long moment at the Dark Lord's offered hand and then at last seemed to snap back to reality. He cautiously took Voldemort's hand and shook it, and Voldemort murmured,

"You are quite right, Mr Weasley. Georgie doesn't need anybody to look out for her. But do it anyway, will you? I'm rather fond of her."

He released Bilius' hand, and the red-haired man nodded with a little smile. "Of course, My Lord. Thank you."

August 1945

The final day of August dawned with such vibrant sunshine that Hermione nearly leapt from the little bed in the cottage. She hurried to dress and kissed Tom's forehead as she made her way out of the little red door that led straight onto the sandy beach.

The wind whipped madly and the air had an undeniable chill, but Hermione did not care. The turquoise shade of the water, the utterly cloudless sky, the swaying green grass along the shore… Benbecula, she thought, might very well be paradise. She strode aimlessly toward the water and stopped when the waves threatened to lap at her boots. She stared out at the cerulean sea and breathed in the salt air.

The past several weeks had been spent in intensive research and study. Hermione and Tom had managed to create several potion prototypes, but each was deeply flawed. One version of the mind-reading solution led to constant verbal outbursts from the person whose mind was being read. Another prototype induced unbearably severe headaches in the drinker. Whenever they managed to conquer one problem, a new one emerged. At last, Hermione had suggested that they stop attempting to brew a potion altogether.

"Perhaps," she had suggested, "the answer lies with objects, not with a potion."

She recalled, from her 'previous' life, that the followers of Lord Voldemort had been branded with Dark Marks upon their left forearms. They were able to press their wands to the Marks and trigger the others, in a crude and rudimentary form of linked communication. Hermione had built upon this notion in her fifth year when crafting the coins used by Dumbledore's Army to gather.

A Protean Charm, then, might be the answer, she'd suggested. She and Tom had spent nearly a week linking two objects with Protean Charms, then building upon the bewitchment so that the objects might open a mental pathway between those possessing them. Thus far, the closest Tom and Hermione had gotten had been a set of two beach stones that allowed them to feel the general sensations of one another's emotions.

Now Hermione stood upon the shore and tossed little stones into the sea, wondering whether they ought to just give up and go back to Malfoy Manor. She knew that Tom wanted to invent things, to gain powers no one else had. Part of it was for show. If he built upon the notion of wizarding innovation, he could quickly become a popular and effective leader in Magical Britain. Hermione knew, though, that Tom also sought new potions and spells as secret means to make himself appear more powerful to his followers.

She supposed, ultimately, that he would not merely appear powerful. He would be powerful, and everyone would know it.

She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out one-half of their latest attempt at Protean-linked objects. The little silver skeleton key, dangling from a tarnished chain, unlocked a shed behind the cottage. It was ornately carved, so that it remained beautiful despite its age and patina. Hermione rubbed the key between her thumb and forefinger and sighed. She knew that, inside the house, Tom had a linked object of his own. His half of the attempted Protean link was a glistening chunk of black obsidian that they'd found upon the beach.

Hermione shut her eyes as she manipulated the key in her hand. These two objects were the most successfully linked of any they had tried thus far, but still all she received through hers was a general sense of contentment from Tom.

Of course he's content, Hermione thought with a smirk as she looked out upon the sea. He's fast asleep.

She walked down the beach for a while, the low heels of her ankle boots sinking perilously into the wet sand every now and then. She held her robes up off the ground and sighed as she walked.

Thinking of her Dumbledore's Army coins over the past several weeks had triggered a rather intense sense of melancholy within her. She knew, of course, that the world that had necessitated those coins was not real anymore. She may have lived through that reality, but now it was no more than a shadow in her mind.

She thought of Harry and Ron, of the boys who had been her very dearest friends. She could still see the way Ron Weasley raked his fingers through his hair whenever Hermione's lectures became too cerebral; she could hear him exasperatedly scolding her to 'lighten up' and to relax. She could still see the lightning-shaped scar upon Harry Potter's forehead - the scar that he'd received when Lord Voldemort murdered his parents. When the backfiring Killing Curse had turned Voldemort into a quivering shell of a man.

Hermione thought of Dumbledore himself, of the way the old wizard had been kind and helpful and good-natured. She thought of how she'd revered Dumbledore, how she'd hung upon the Headmaster's anecdotes and bites of wisdom. She thought of the Voldemort she'd known, of the way people shuddered at his very mention. She thought of the sparking fury between Voldemort's and Dumbledore's wands in the Department of Mysteries, when she lay upon the ground, wounded by a Death Eater's curse.

She paused upon the sands of Benbecula and touched her fingertips to her abdomen. She shut her eyes and gulped. Though there was no visible scar, she could still feel the tender areas where Antonin Dolohov's curse had ripped her apart. That had really happened to her, she knew. And yet, it was no longer reality.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley weren't even born yet. Hermione had no idea whether they would ever be born. She wondered, sometimes, what would happen on the 19th of September in the year 1979. Would she be born again, into this new reality? And, if she was, what would happen to her, to the Hermione who stood upon the rocky shore and touched at her phantom scar?

The Dumbledore in this world was not the Dumbledore she'd known. Perhaps, she considered, he was guided by blind adherence to the Light in the same way he'd been in her 'old' time. Perhaps he was embittered by the death of Gellert Grindelwald (something that had not occurred in Hermione's original timeline). No matter the reason, it seemed that this incarnation of Dumbledore was more suspicious, more sharp-tongued, more vengeful. He'd been saying things in the Daily Prophet in recent weeks, things about how Grindelwald's death was a murder that should be prosecuted. He'd publicly accused Tom Riddle of killing Ladon Scamander, and he had stated that the wizarding community should rally to prevent The Dark Lord's ascent.

Public reaction leaned toward Tom in a way that Hermione knew had not happened during her 'original' timeline. Dumbledore was being mocked relentlessly in editorials and in magazines. Betty Cattermole herself had written an article asking, 'Has Dumbledore Gone Batty in the Wake of Grindelwald's Demise?'

This reality was profoundly different from what she'd already lived, Hermione pondered, leaning down and picking up a shell. She examined the shell for a moment and then hucked it into the waves as hard as she could. In some strange way, throwing the shell out to sea felt like she was releasing some of her past. She repeated the action, again and again, until she'd thrown a dozen little shells out to the crashing waves.

With each one, she imagined a bit of her memory that had become false.

Albus Dumbledore as a widely-revered master of magic, a voice of reason and a wise advisor to many. Hermione tossed a shell as she cleared her mind of that impression and reimagined Dumbledore as he now was - a seemingly insane opponent of her wildly popular husband.

Tom Riddle as grey-faced Lord Voldemort, weakened and wounded in his old age and reduced to a shell of his former self. Hermione threw a shell particularly hard at the thought of that, painting over the memory with the Tom she knew now. He was handsome, and charming, and quickly climbing to power.

Hermione Granger, daughter of two Muggle dentists, returning home for summer holidays and watching Last Night of the Proms with her father on the telly.Hermione grunted roughly as she threw a particularly large shell out to sea, trying to erase the idea that her childhood was no longer reality. Television had not been invented yet. She would never see her parents again. For all she knew, they would never know her, either.

Hermione swiped at the tears that had begun streaming down her face, realizing that some of the sharper shells had cut into her palms. She blinked away her tears and steeled herself, pulling her wand out of her robes and healing up her hands. In her left palm, she still clutched the little silver key. She stared at it for a long moment as she had a rather novel idea.

Her heart fluttered as she pointed the tip of her wand at the key. Then, with a shaking voice, she murmured,

"Annecto mentes in aeternum."

August 1945

Tom blinked his eyes a few times against the blinding sunlight that filled the little bedroom. He groaned softly and heaved himself up to his elbows, digging his fist against his left eye and wondering what it was that had roused him from sleep. It still felt early.

But then he realised Hermione's half of the bed was empty, and he frowned a bit. He rose and cleaned his teeth and washed his face, pulling on a casual set of black robes as he wondered whether she'd gone down to the shore as she was wont to do in the mornings.

Then, rather unexpectedly, his head felt strange. It didn't hurt, exactly; it was more like a hollow sensation and a silent whoosh. Tom leaned heavily upon the edge of the bed and tried to catch his breath. He rifled about in the pockets of his robes until he pulled out the small chunk of obsidian. As he turned it over in his hand, he heard Hermione's voice very clearly say,

Tom? Can you hear my voice?

He felt rather nauseated by the force of her thoughts in his head. He shoved the obsidian back into his pockets, wondering whether the connection he was feeling was dependent upon him holding the stone. But then Hermione's voice asked again,

Are you awake? I can feel your mind…

Tom cleared his throat of the bile that had risen, and he breathed tremulously. He strode the window and thought firmly, Where are you?

Coming back up from the beach. I've finally made the Charm work, Tom!

There was a clear sense of relieved accomplishment in her thought-voice. Tom marveled at the clarity with which he was receiving her thoughts, at the fact that he was only receiving internal dialogue she sent him rather than reading every thought in her head. Of course, this telephone-like function had not been his intention when he'd originally begun brewing potions at Malfoy Manor. But he could not deny the functionality and usefulness of what Hermione had achieved.

He strode briskly through the little cottage, his shoes clipping the salt-bleached floorboards as he neared the small red door. It flung open suddenly, and then a breathless Hermione was standing in the threshold.

Try showing me something. Not with words. An image, she commanded him through their mental link, and Tom frowned a bit. He licked his lips and stepped closer to her, wondering how it was he was supposed to 'show' her something. But then he thought of the principles of Occlumency, of how he knew to withhold certain memories and shove forth others. Utilising a similar technique, he pushed forth a scene that had burned itself firmly into his mind. He had no idea why it was that he'd chosen this particular memory. Perhaps, he thought, it was because this was something she might understand better by seeing herself.

Tom hovered over Ladon Scamander's huddled form in the Forbidden Forest. He kicked lightly at the boy's rather unresponsive body until Ladon gazed up at him. The plump, blond-haired boy was bleeding from his mouth and nose, and his hands were shaking as his pale eyes glistened in the moonlight.

'Legilimens,' Tom murmured, and Ladon's mind cracked wide open for him. He searched quickly through Ladon's mind until he found the ideas the boy had gotten about Hermione. Tom watched as Ladon imagined pressing an Imperiused Hermione up firmly against a wall, hoisting up the skirt of her dress and grunting as he plundered her. He would enjoy it, Ladon thought, even if Hermione had no idea what was happening.

Tom yanked himself from Ladon Scamander's mind and seethed for a brief moment before he whispered, 'Avada Kedavra.'

The flash of green light was nearly blinding as -

"Stop, Tom! Please, please stop. I don't want to see any more. Please..." Hermione was speaking aloud now, not sending thoughts to him. She clutched anxiously at her skull and paced before him. Tom withdrew the memory he'd been shoving toward her, and he cleared his throat carefully as he said,

"You've linked the objects quite successfully, I should think."

Hermione scowled at him. "Now I wish I hadn't been able to do it!" she exclaimed. "Why, Tom? I told you to show me something as a matter of demonstration, not to replay a murder you committed!"

"I told you long ago that Ladon Scamander deserved to die," Tom said quietly, taking another step toward Hermione. "I wanted you to see for yourself why that was."

She looked for a brief moment as if she were going to protest, to scold Tom as she'd always done that 'no one deserved death' and that he was a monster. But then a steely resolve came over her face, and he heard her think,

I believed you. I did not need to see.

"I'm sorry, then," Tom murmured. He reached to cup her jaw in his hand, half-expecting her to flinch or to slap him. But she rolled her face against his hand and shut her eyes. He closed the remaining distance between them and thought,

I only wanted to keep you safe.

"I know." Hermione nodded against his hand, her eyes still shut. Tom felt then as though the only thing to do was to kiss her, so he did. He leaned down and pressed her lips to hers, reflecting on the delicious taste of her kiss. Her lips parted rather unexpectedly, and Tom seized the opportunity to kiss her more deeply. His free hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her tightly against him, and his right thumb stroked beneath her eye soothingly.

Tom, promise me something.

Her thought came in a worried tone, and she sighed shakily into his kiss.

Anything, Tom thought back, though of course there were a great many things he could not or would not promise her. She pulled back from his mouth and he took in how pretty she was even when she seemed concerned. Her caramel eyes gleamed at him and her lips glowed red and swollen from his kiss. Tom shifted upon his feet, shoving away the sense of want building inside him.

"Promise me," Hermione whispered, raising her fingers to push aside a stray curl of Tom's hair, "Promise me that I will never despise you."

"I can't promise you that," Tom admitted, shaking his head and watching her face fall. She lowered her eyes and pinched her lips, but he tipped her chin back up so that she would look at him. He crushed her mouth with another kiss and heard her whimper softly, and then he thought,

I can promise you that I will love you fiercely until the day I day. I promise I will heed your advice - most of the time - and I promise I will never deliberately disappoint or frighten you. I promise you, Hermione, that I will make you proud to be my wife. It is all I can promise you. I hope that is enough.

He needed air then, even though he hadn't been speaking aloud. He wrenched his mouth off of Hermione's, instantly lamenting the lack of contact. She stared at him with wide eyes and nodded. Then she shut her eyes and whispered,

"It is enough."

March 1980

"Well?" Georgiana rose from her chair as Bilius strode through the little red door. Georgie watched as the waves of the Benbecula shore crashed behind him. Sometimes she missed living among civilisation, but not often. Georgiana was terribly fond of the little cottage her parents had gifted to her on her wedding day.

Bilius raked his fingers through his windswept hair and grinned like a fool. "Molly's doing well," he said, "and would like to bring the baby here as soon as she's back on her feet. I think Arthur's in shock that it was another boy. I told him at least he's doing his part for the proliferation of the Weasley line."

Georgie smirked and rolled her eyes. "And the baby?" she pressed.

"Got a shock of red hair atop his little head, just like the rest of us. Poor lad was doomed to be a ginger, between the Prewett and Weasley blood." Bilius put his hands on his hips and smiled ever more widely. "They've called him Ronald Bilius, to honour yours truly."

Georgiana laughed and strode to straighten Bilius' robes, rumpled from Apparating. "I suppose it was only a matter of time before you had a nephew named after you."

"Still doesn't seem right that they named George after you, but all I got was a ruddy middle name," Bilius teased. He touched Georgiana's cheek and said, "and as for our little girl? What shall we call her?"

Georgie put Bilius' hand upon her swollen belly and let him feel the fluttering movements of their child. She smiled warmly up at him and murmured,

"Merope. We should call her Merope, after a woman long ago who made a very difficult choice at the end of her life."

Bilius' jovial face went serious then, and he leaned to plant a kiss upon Georgie's forehead. "Merope Jean," he nodded. "She will be beautiful, like her mother."

Georgie curled up her lips and kissed Bilius again. He'd left the little red door open, so she could hear the crashing of the surf outside the cottage. The pulsing of the waves soothed her head, and she knew all would be well.