A/N: Happy Tomione Day May 2018 everybody! Of course I have to contribute a few somethings for my OTP. I wrote this and one more. Super last minute. Anyway, will definitely get back to my WIP's here soon *promise* If you would like to see art for this fic it's on my Pinterest arielriddlefanfiction and do check out the Tomione tag on Tumblr if you haven't already today-it's overflowing with tomione awesomeness and so many good stories. I made a fic rec list and added all the new stories I'm following too. Check them out if you like! Hope you enjoy Xx

Beta love to my snakey-sister Kaarina Riddle who totally looked at this super last minute and she's a BAMF and she knows it ^^

Disclaimer: All canon characters, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter universe belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this writing.

Warnings: Slightly dark or maybe fully idk I'm not a good judge of these things. I mean, if you ask me I think it's super sweet? The M rating is for dark themes.

I watch her as she rouses, my gaze sweeping over her impassively. I'm in my corporal form now, no longer bound by the pages of a book.

"Tom," she calls, deriving a sense of security from my name alone. Her eyes search frantically for the diary before landing on me and going wide with shock. "What's happening?"

I meet her inquisitive brown eyes. She's hardly anything special—a Mudblood— though I need constantly remind myself. It's easy to forget. Still, she's much more obedient, much more deserving, than that willful Weasley bint has ever been. It's a shame I must drain her shining, vibrant essence, and leave her bones to rot in my chamber for centuries hereafter, but I'm left with disturbingly little choice in the matter.

"Darling," I croon and smirk when her eyes flutter. "Remember what I told you before—about friendship and loyalty?"

Her brow creases as she puzzles over my question. Like the clever girl she is, the answer comes to her immediately. "Friends will do whatever they can for their friends."

I note her loyalty—and devour it with a gleeful hunger that should scare her. But she has never been scared of me. She is trusting and attentive and self-sacrificing and she'd simply do anything for me. I have her eating out of my hand within several weeks of meeting her.

"Ten points to Gryffindor," I murmur, even as I lean down to stroke her riotous curls. "You're my best girl, you know."

She ducks and blushes prettily, and I marvel at her strength, that she could endure her magic being siphoned out of her and still manage to hold her eyes open.

"Will… everything be alright?" Her eyes widen even more so— the picture of innocence, and gods how I wish it didn't have to be her.

"Well my sweet girl, my darling," my whispered endearments wrap around her like a vice, intent on sinking her to the very depths of my abyss. "To put it bluntly, you're killing yourself for me. You're giving me the ultimate sacrifice and I couldn't thank you enough. It will be thanks to you when I gain a tangible body and can perform magic again. You truly are an exceptional witch."

I suspect she may blubber and beg, turn into a simpering witch and appeal to the kindest part of me, if only I possessed such a part to me. Instead, she continues to throw me, even up until her final moments in this world, it seems.

"I understand, Tom," her soft voice is bellied with sincerity. "I understand exactly, and I don't fault you for it. A powerful wizard like you should never be bound to a diary, of all things."

"My sweet darling," I sing, watching as she blinks and refocuses. I'm unsure if the action is due to my alluring words or the drain on her life force. "You do make me so proud." I straighten. "I'm feeling generous. Can I do anything to make your final moments more pleasant?"

I predict she will beg for mercy. Ask to be put out of her misery. Beg me to let her die in her sleep at least, all of which I'm prepared to grant her. She does none of those things.

"Can you," she swallows audibly. "Can you stay with me… until the end?"

I grow furious at the injustice of it all—it's as if she's worn off on me. It should be that willful child in her place, not her. She's earned a position by my side, if only she were older to realize her potential. Instead I'm desperate enough to drain her before I'm forced to spend another forty years locked in the pages of that blasted diary.

"Of course," I assure her as I kneel down by her side. "Anything you wish."

I lean down to brush my lips tenderly across her forehead… a chaste kiss over her cheek… and over the other. She whimpers when I pull away. A storm rages beneath the surface of her eyes. If only she were older. I might have worked with her… found a way to obtain a body without ridding her of hers. I might have rewarded her loyalty in another way. But alas, she's just a child and her magical potential not fully realized. Thanks to me, it never will be.

Afterwards, she fades and I watch in a detached sort of way. It feels as if I'm losing something of particular importance. It's all I can do not to put a stop to the spell. But her friends are onto us, Dumbledore— the crazy loon— is suspicious, and it's sadly now or never.

I would do anything for my friends, she tells me. I would do anything for you, are her final words. My words echoed back to me. My dearest Hermione who saw fit to give me the most special gift—one I'll treasure always. I mourn her in my own way as the last remnants of her life vanish.

But then of course, that Potter-whelp cannot help but to interfere.

The Trio Victorious, The-Boy-Who-Lived Defeats Voldemort!

With a clash of red and green, the long and bloody second wizarding war has finally come to an end. Potter is triumphant. The Golden Trio are heralded as heroes. All is right once more in the wizarding world.

Infamously private and known to shy away from the media, this reporter pushes to get her question answered by the man of the hour himself, asking what every respectable witch and wizard is dying to know.

R: "Harry, now that you've defeated the greatest dark wizard of our time, what's next for Britain's finest hero?"

The handsome raven-haired wizard laughs and declines to comment. But, ever insistent for my loyal readers, I plunge on.

H: "Well, you see… I've grown up my entire life in the spotlight one way or another."

He chuckles again, and the other two points of the Trio join in. This reporter could swear our hero's gaze lingers on one Hermione Granger, notoriously known as The-Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age.

H: I wish to seek a life away from the spotlight… for now.

There you have it, dear, loyal readers. Britain's hero begs for a break from our watchful eyes and seeks the comfort of anominimity. We only wonder, will Miss Granger be accompanying him on his journey to seek solace and… is the third wheel— I refer to the youngest Weasley son, of course, invited?

Hermione slams down the paper and God help anyone who meets her fiery stare. "It's utter nonsense," she proclaims. "Harry wouldn't give her the time of day, so she contrived a story of her own making."

Ronald does not appear so certain, dubiously eyeing the paper as if it may sprout wings and transform into an angry kelpie at a moment's notice. I of course, can not help but to chuckle.

I noted their discomfort and I revel in it. Serves them right for all the damage they're personally responsible for. Served her right for saddling up with that ginger-haired wizard in the first place. I know I taught my girl better than that. I know I taught her never to settle. And that she would do it right in front of my very eyes, as if she wants to be punished? Can she not see me standing right here?

Well.

Not me, exactly, but close enough.

I smile at their unease and plot ways to throw a wrench in their budding relationship. Oh to be young and in love. It's a feeling I'll never know, I'm sure. But I very well could spend a large portion of my time punishing them for having the audacity to display such affections in front of me.

Hermione sweeps me into a hug, incorrectly coming to the conclusion that I surely must need one, and I try not to flinch as I reciprocate. Harry had done many things, but shying away from affection is not one of them. She's older now, and I'm painstakingly aware. The former resident who had occupied the vessel I now animate had noticed too, though he never bothered to mention it. Pathetic, I call it.

Oh, Tom.

Ginevra writes to me through the pages of my charmed diary, and I can tell immediately that she's out of sorts. Really— if we're being fair— when isn't she out of sorts?

I love him so much, but he doesn't even know I exist. And you wouldn't believe who he hangs out with.

She pauses and I imagine she's looking around the common room, ensuring herself no one is watching her. She's probably about to start blubbering again and I cringe. I hate when she drips tears over my diary.

She's a Mudblood!

I stifle my laughter.

No! Is my answer.

Yes, and she seems to have not only Harry but my brother right in her clutches. She's only second year. What's so special about her, Tom? I've loved Harry for ages. My mother fashioned me a Boy-Who-Lived-Doll and I always used to play with it.

Inside the diary, I'm tearing out my hair. Has there ever been a more pathetic creature than Ginevra Weasley? Still, I'm very limited in the friends I can collect, so I make use of the options available to me. I feed her insecurities and pass on sage advice. My lip curls in a wicked smirk. The ungrateful bint doesn't appreciate my efforts though, does she? No, she goes and throws me away in the girl's lavatory— as if I were garbage to be disposed of— just because she's far too cowardly to deal with me herself. How did she ever end up in Gryffindor?

I thank my lucky stars when that Granger-girl Ginevra complains about constantly finds me. She seems promising, at the very least.

Ginevra thrusts her tongue in my mouth and I'm sure I'll vomit.

Damned willful, disobedient girl. I haven't forgotten, nor will I ever. Does she labor under the delusion she has the privilege? I loathe her more than words can convey. I push her away and try to swallow back my revulsion.

Then I remember I'm supposed to be The-Boy-Who-Lived, and Saint Potter would never treat a witch so callously. Malicious intent gleaming in my eyes, I reach for her and she flocks to me. I slant my lips over hers and snog her senseless. She moans sounding very much like the whore my former shade slayed to cut one of our horcruxes. My cock deflates. She does nothing for me.

I used to be able to slam her ridiculous face into the coverlet and pound into her until I found my release. I blame my aggression on memories from the war. Ghosts I describe with perfect clarity to sweet and accommodating Ginevra. She usually takes pity on me then. She would let me manhandle her or would at least do me the decency of blowing me, that way I could close my eyes and imagine she was someone else. Or smile victoriously as I considered what the real Potter would be doing if he saw me forcing his girlfriend to her knees.

Anymore I can't bring myself to make the effort. She's becoming a closed book. I suspect she's cheating on me. She cheated on the real Harry, I remember, even if he'd been too dumb to see at the time. I don't forget.

My eyes scan to Granger who shifts uncomfortably in Weasley's grasp. She looks like she would rather be anywhere else and suddenly my thirst for murder is insatiable. I want to grant her wish.

I don't forget that she was once My Darling. I wonder if she remembers.

I do need to end things between her and Weasley and end them soon. Seeing them together isn't good for A-War-Hero's blood pressure.

For the first time in a long time, I look forward to my diary sessions.

I count down the moments between and after classes when she will pull me from her bag and open me just to chat. I actually start feeling emotions again.

I feel amusement and pride and rage.

My new owner is interesting and I find myself helplessly engaged. Her thoughts are unfiltered and disturbingly pure. It's instantly refreshing.

Hermione thinks I'm the most interesting spell in the world— nifty— she calls me. A blessing to be gifted with in an otherwise boring second year. She doesn't expect anything sinister— not for a while, at least. She considers me a friend and I'm careful to prove myself as such, determined not to reveal my hand too early as I'd done with Ginevra. I'm still livid with Abraxas' spawn, that the failure of a man would allow me to fall into such incapable hands.

Of course, Hermione has her faults. She likes to talk about him too—the boy who managed to inadvertently defeat You-Know-Who and somehow lives despite bearing the full brunt of my counterpart's Avada. I bore of hearing about him. At first I was curious, now I'm just irritated. Fangirls can ruin anything, I suppose.

You should see him, Tom. He's always walking around alert and on edge. I hate it. It's like he's never had anyone he can trust his whole life. Can you imagine?

I can, but now is not the time to divulge my experience of living in a Muggle orphanage to her.

They're abusive, those Muggles.

I perk up, my pages rustling. Muggles are predisposed to it, unfortunately.

That can't be, she writes down quickly. My parents are Muggles. They're some of the best people I know.

You hope.

I know, she repeats.

Her concern for Potter baffles me. What possesses someone to hold someone else above their own self-interests? Hermione rarely voices insecurities directly relating to herself. She's content to take on the problems of others, I discover.

I watch as she tutors her hopeless Gryffindor classmates, giving them tips, even. I whisper books she may find useful and spells she may want to learn when she spends hours agonizing over some problem or issue or other. I don't mind the intrusion, actually, I welcome it. She is quite unlike many people I've been forced to converse with.

She likes to fix problems, I muse.

I correctly deduce I can't manipulate her the way I did Ginevra, but I find her weaknesses soon enough. It isn't only the obvious ones like her penchant for knowledge and justice. It's more cerebral than that. She likes to tackle someone else's problems— anyone's— so long as it isn't her own. She approaches the issue the same way she'd tackle a difficult Arithmancy problem.

I know what makes her tick.

Hermione, I begin in a deceptively innocent tone. You don't have many friends?

No. Her expression is faintly sorrowful.

But we're friends…

Yes!

And… we would do anything for our friends.

Of course, she assures me. Anything.

We work together silently as we mend the home of my former nemesis.

Godric's Hollow in in shambles. A tremendous amount of work is required to see it right again. Of course this suits Hermione just fine. She does so love to fix things— the more broken the better. Well, certain things, apparently.

"You and Ron," I hazard carefully.

"History," she replies in a tone so abrupt I know Harry wouldn't push the subject. But I'm not Harry, even though I wear his face.

"Oh?" my tone is bellied with concern. "Call it a boyish fancy, but I thought you'd be together always."

She says nothing, and after a time I think she's dropped it, but she throws me when she brings it up again. "We couldn't be more different."

My body wants to sag with relief but I remember I'm in charge now and I refuse to act as he would. I straighten and look her squarely in the eye. "Perhaps it's for the best?"

Her eyes catch mine and blink rapidly. I remember seeing her over the years through Harry's eyes. The wizard was handicapped and crippled against doing anything about his feelings for the witch, content to saddle himself with my leftovers. I, however, am not Harry. As much as it would please me to take her and make her mine at that very moment, I restrain myself because I know it isn't the wise choice.

Through the eyes of the shade who used to reside in Harry before me, I see the Potters and their futile attempt to protect themselves. I recall their lifeless eyes staring up at me. My mood soars at the memory, not quite my own.

I smirk and sidle closer to her. My hand grazes her hip and when she turns I'm far too close. Her breath quickens. I lean into her, thinking now is a good opportunity to advance my plan. My breath tangles with hers and I'm that much closer. A small gasp flees her lips. I frown when I feel two hands push firmly against my chest.

"We can't do this, Harry," she tells me sadly… regretfully.

Oh yes we can, I silently protest. We will.

She figures me out much too quickly.

"You… you aren't right, Tom."

No, I scrawl. 'Way to state the obvious' is what I want to say, and I'm surprised she's so forthright with her thoughts, but then Gryffindors were never known for their stealth. I suppose I'm not.

I have to give her something… but what? I decide truth is the best option, small facets of it, favorable to me, at least. I sing her a tale of tragedy and regret, and soon she eats out of my hand salivating for more. I employ every ounce of acting skill I possess to get her to believe me. In the end, it's far too easy.

"Oh, Tom!" Her right hand flies to her chest. "Is there any way to get you out?"

I pause. She isn't scared? My heart lifts. She knows and the sound advice of turning me in doesn't even pass through that brilliant mind of hers. I would reward her— handsomely— if only I didn't have to kill her first.

There is a way, I tell her. But it won't be easy.

I'm suspicious.

Not only due to his uncharacteristically callous treatment of Ron, but for so many other things.

Harry's different. It's a fact only someone as close to him as myself could ever hope to catch. I know him as well as I know myself. I'm His Girl. He'd even told me once. His favorite treat is treacle tarts, so why has he been buying Cauldron Cakes nearly every chance he gets?

If one merely studies the expressions on his face, they might be content with what they see. It's only with me that he lets his guard drop. The mask falls away whenever we have occasion to be alone, like he trusts me completely.

At first, I chalk it up to the war. How can a person walk away from such a traumatic event unaffected, I always wonder? He's bound to be affected some way or another. When he seeks affection, I gave in, determined to deny him nothing. He's been through so much! I'll not let him endure my rejection too, even if I think he's handling his break up in a unhealthy way. We both need time to heal. Although I can't complain very much—doing it his way certainly has its perks.

The intimacy between us is partially to blame for why he's so unguarded around me, I suspect.

He walks behind me and sweeps my hair from my neck. I tense and stand paralyzed with uncertainty until I remember he's no longer with Ginny. I should feel guilty, because he spends time that was formerly hers with me. I don't. He brushes his lips against a pulse point on my neck before mouthing over it and I shiver. I throw my head back and bask in his attention. How can I not?

I know I should fear the budding excitement I feel. I should very well be questioning my sanity. How could I ever hope for what I'm hoping? What sort of a monster does that make me? I try to tell myself that he's a ghost… a fleeting memory… the reminder of my innocence lost. He's my tormentor, merely a nightmare. He'd come into my life with his alluring words and his mesmerizing eyes and he haunted my dreams. He swept me up in his dark embrace and I shattered like fragile crystal, but that suit him well—he wanted to break me before he put me back together in his own design.

I should hate him.

But I don't. I could never.

I can't resist that stringent pull he has on me, encasing my heart in its suffocating bind. I'm helpless against it, and drawn to him no matter how hard I try to convince myself I've moved on… that I'm stronger… that I'm the powerful, sure witch I pretend to be. All it takes is a single seductive whisper and I'm back in his clutches. There's no helping it.

I don't know what possesses me to say it, but I've never been able to lie to him. "I know who you are," I tell him, unwisely.

"Of course you do," the words slide from his mouth easily, "I'm Harry and you're Hermione—we'd do anything for each other."

His Girl.

Anything.

His Darling.

I'm not thinking about Harry when those words streak across my brain.

"Cut it out, Tom." Now I'm irritated. "I said I know… and I do."

His hands shoot out and grip my waist like a vice, holding too tight for comfort. Before I can process the movement, he's whisked me to the sanctuary of his bed and I'm lying caged between his arms. The romantic effect is ruined by the wand poised to my throat.

"You were always too clever for your own good," and just like that, he doesn't sound like Harry anymore.

I blink away tears, but not ones of sadness. No. I'm rather elated, actually. The feeling is— however— tainted by guilt and shame. "How long?" I manage, and I see he knows exactly what I'm referring to.

He stills and his grip on me slightly lessons, but I can still feel the threatening chill of his wand pressed to my skin. "Since the Chamber," he replies finally.

A hole rips through my chest, years of therapy gone to waste. He has been here all this time after I mourned him? After I lost my mind and was sure I'd never be able to scramble the pieces back together again? After I fantasized a hundred different scenarios where I could go to him? After I spent years hiding my feelings and the depth of my pain and his loss from my friends and family? I stare into eyes not quite like Harry's— darker— somehow. I wonder why I didn't notice it before.

"I was free of the diary and floating," he continues, unaware or choosing to ignore the rapid rise and fall of my chest and my hastened breathing. I'm about to lose it—I'm sure. "There was only one thing solid and whole I could attach myself to."

"Harry," I breathe.

"Yes," he confirms. "There was another residing here, but he was small, sickly, and pathetic. My shade. I was much stronger." He straightens proudly and I'm not sure whether to be sick with guilt or floating on a cloud of sheer happiness.

"The piece of your soul you cut for the diary was the biggest. The one in Harry was accidental and near the end of… your reign. It would be the smallest." I'm rambling but it all makes sense and I can't help but to put the pieces together as they come to me.

His eyes glint with amusement and he nods. "I overcame it quickly and fed on its essence to strengthen my own."

"But Harry was too strong to fight?" I query, prompting him to continue.

"Yes." His dark eyes, not quite the same piercing emerald green, skewer me. "Until the Avada."

More pieces to the puzzle. The fight with Voldemort and the subsequential Avada Harry had been hit with would present the prime opportunity to make the switch. It didn't kill the horcrux, but killed Harry instead. My heart clenches and I feel a pang of sadness, but the storm brewing inside the cage of my chest doesn't let me dwell on the feeling for long.

"Then you came back." The wheels in my head spin at an alarming rate. "You killed Voldemort." I don't flinch when I say his name. I've never been afraid of him. Only drawn to him.

"There could never be two of us." He shrugs flippantly. His eyelids droop and his gaze rakes over my form. "No one can take my place," he hisses and I shiver. He leans down and whispers something to me in Parseltongue. It brings back memories from long ago.

I shudder with desire.

"Do I have to kill you, Darling?"

"No!" I answer, discovering that I mean the word with every fiber of my being. I very much want to live! I'm not disappointed to find out he's alive… to discover he's taken up residency in my best friend. On the contrary, I couldn't be happier, though admitting the truth of my feelings shames me to no end. Still, it's easier for me this way. I cared for Harry— truly— I did. This way, it's not up to me. The choice is made for me. "I would do anything for you."

My words whispered back to him. His eyes blaze with heat and Harry's body's has never looked more like Tom until this moment. He throws his beautiful head back and laughs. The rich, baritone of his voice fills the room.

I smile, feeling true joy for the first time in ages. For once, he is the victor and my soul rejoices at the rightness of it. I smile because I've witnessed the impossible. I smile because I finally see my deepest, darkest dreams come true and I don't feel regret, not even a little bit. I have always fancied Harry, but he could never be Tom.

He calls me His Girl, His Darling, and my smile widens. I would do anything for him…. My Tom.