Tom Riddle always works at night.

(For obvious reasons)

The sunlight may not cause him to spontaneously combust (he remembers Granger asking if he would combust in the sunlight—sounding strangely hopeful—and he wasn't sure whether he should be offended or intrigued by her disappointment when he tells her he doesn't) but it doesn't mean he is entirely immune to its rays. It does burn, but not in the way human fairytales suggest. It burns in very much the same way as it does any mortal, but just worse enough to make him prefer the night.

It's too exhausting and draining in the sunlight to carry out what Dumbledore asks of him anyway.

So he works at night. And despite the fact that he hates Dumbledore and he always has, he doesn't necessarily hate his job. It's exciting, it keeps him busy, it keeps him alert. Hunting has always been his favorite part of being a vampire. Because hunting came with power, it came with chase, it came with prey.

So, spending all his nights out, he had never had much need for a home, exactly. He needed a place to sleep during the day, of course, but most of the time he would only be there for a few hours at most before he was out again, meeting with Bella—because she was useful in terms of her connections but also because she is the only person he can tolerate for long periods of time—or carrying out less intensive tasks for the old coot.

But his place was kind of a dump. An overpriced, closet-sized, prison cell, if he was honest. He never cared—he had never had any material possession worth bragging about, really, and was content for the moment with the life he had. And he only needed a place to rest his head.

But he just…really liked Hermione Granger's flat.

He reasoned with himself that, since apparently he was welcome there now, it made sense to prefer it to the place he used to sleep. The fact of the matter is it was bigger, she had curtains that could block the sun better than his blinds ever could, and it smelled so good there. And she didn't even like garlic, unlike his fucking neighbor—

Well, he had killed that neighbor anyway, but the smell of garlic had a way of settling into the fucking foundation and never leaving.

And he just fucking hated garlic.

There was the issue of her cat, of course, who he had the pleasure of meeting upon his first return to her flat. It was mangy and angry and annoying and for some reason it really liked him.

"Odd," She commented after he barely restrained himself from throwing the stupid thing across the room when it started kneading his thigh again and got its claws stuck in the fabric of his trousers, "Crookshanks doesn't usually take to anyone."

He didn't comment on it, because he had a feeling she wouldn't be happy with anything he had to say—especially when she scooped the scowling creature up in her arms and started making ridiculous cooing noises to the monstrous thing on her way back to her kitchen.

And other than her cat, there was her book collection. Which, if he was honest, was nothing short of impressive, and many of them (particularly the newer editions of textbooks) he had never read before, so that was particularly interesting—except, of course, for the fact that she annihilated her fucking books.

They were alight with a rainbow of highlighter, chicken scrawls all along the margins noting the text and referencing other texts, not to mention the amount of pages she had dog-eared—

He never hesitated to comment on the deplorable state of her books, which apparently she found irritating enough to 'ban' him from her bookshelf. Not that it stood, really, and he still read them, and he still complained about it. The only difference was sometimes when he made too many comments she would just take the book from him and refuse to give it back.

(He usually got it back anyway. She was fairly easy to convince)

He, surprisingly easily, settled into a routine. Which wasn't unusual, he always had a routine, but his routine had never involved anyone else. Now it involved her (and her bloody cat) and her flat. It was odd, only because he was becoming increasingly accustomed to the photos on her walls and the souvenir's on her shelves and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen—all things he had never had and never wanted but now that he had them…

Admittedly, he didn't have them, he was only around them. But then she said—

"I think Snape knows about you and I," She tells him once while she's preparing herself dinner. It's not quite sunset so he's spending the last few moments of sunlight in the safety of the indoors, leaning agains the counter behind her watching her cook with her cat cradled in his arms (and its not because he likes the fluffy pest, he just likes the way the cat's affection for him makes Hermione so annoyed) and her comment is just what he needs to remind himself that this isn't domestic, this isn't normal, this is— "I know you've been keeping your interactions with me from Dumbledore and I think that's a good idea, I just thought you should know that I'm almost certain Snape knows."

She knew of Snape's involvement with Dumbledore. She might not know the history of his involvement—even his involvement with her best friend's mother—but she never asked so he never breeched the subject.

"What makes you think that?" He asks, letting her cat drop and watching it dash off somewhere.

"He's been acting very strange around me, lately," She admitted, "Very…restrained?"

"Restrained from what?" He asks, his jaw twitching.

"Not my blood," She said—and she had a way of doing that, of knowing what he was asking without him asking it, and that was another thing he was growing accustomed to—she still hadn't looked up from whatever she was cooking, "He seems to have calmed considerably where that's concerned. It's just his commentary. He's usually a total arsehole but lately he's been…odd." He watched her lift her spoon from her pot and take a taste. She was handling this much calmer than he felt she truly should, considering if Snape knew he could easily tell Dumbledore. "And today a fire started—" He rose an eyebrow and she offered him a brief glance to see it, as if she already knew his expression, "And I took my sweater off to cover it and he saw the bruise on my arm and—"

He stepped forward and took her arm in his hand, extending it so he could see the mark on the inside of her upper arm, just above the crook of her elbow. He was certain Snape couldn't have mistaken it for anything other than what it was.

"I thought that he might not know it was you," She continued, "But I knew he noticed. And then before I left, he said 'be wary of him,' I can't imagine him talking about anyone else—"

"Be wary?" He echoes. He knew Snape didn't like him (Snape didn't like anyone, to be fair, but he was especially wary of Riddle, and he thinks its because he might remind him of Grindelwald—the man who killed the supposed love of his life) But he also knew Snape had always been very wary of him, himself. He didn't expect him to warn Granger off him.

"Yeah," She affirmed, tasting her dish again and turning the stove off, moving to the side to grab a bowl from her cabinet and pulling her arm away from his hands in the process. He hadn't realized he was still holding it. "I asked him what for, because there's no reason for him to be purposefully vague—" She transferred her pasta from the pot into her bowl while she spoke, "He insinuated that I 'don't understand the situation I'm putting myself in,' as if what I do is any of his business and as if he would ever care if it was anyone but you—" She was rambling a bit, and he was becoming increasingly uninterested, his eyes trailing over the photos she had stuck to her fridge, over the shopping lists, "Anyway, I think he saw the bite and he knows that I'm your bond—"

He froze, suddenly, his mind turning around the possessive pronoun, unable to focus on the meaning of her words anymore, even as she continued speaking.

"And he was trying to warn me away from you—probably not out of the goodness of his heart, but then I don't know. He seemed sincere." She moved to rinse the pan out at the sink. "At any rate, I told him that I didn't know what he was talking about and he got annoyed and dropped the subject." She placed the pan on the rack to dry, and she still hadn't looked at him regardless of what she had said, so he just stared at her while she rambled—"That's such a man thing to do—believe that he somehow has some responsibility over my decisions—him. I think I'm better equipped than he is to decide if I—"

He reaches for her, then, because its been long enough for him to recover from the shock and realize that he had been staring at her in awe since she had first called herself his—"What is it?" She asks. She was looking at him for the first time that conversation, looking concerned, her eyes flitting over his features, attempting to discern what he might say.

He didn't have anything to say, though. He only wanted her to look at him. How could she so offhandedly call herself his and continue as if that isn't—

Nothing had ever been his before, he realizes. His whole life he never had anything to call his own, so he was used to the idea that nothing could be his—he grew up as an orphan, no family to call his own, he never had friends to claim ownership over. He doesn't even, really, have a life to call his own because he's technically dead. And all his life, even in the short time he had worked after the orphanage—before he was turned—he always thought that his job owned him more than he had his job. The truth of the matter was nothing had ever been his so much as he had belonged to something else.

Until her.

And all these things that surrounded her—her home, her walls lined with photographs, those quiet afternoons surrounded by atrociously inked pages in bent and tea-stained textbooks—weren't they, by some extension, his as well? This routine he had adapted, this life he had assimilated into in these past weeks, these days of near domesticity where he could fall asleep and wake to the smell of coffee in the kitchen and the smell of her.

"What?" She asked again, looking caught between concerned and irritated. But there was nothing to say, so he trailed his hand up her arm to her neck and he kissed her.

Kissing her was always overwhelming—and the fact that he kissed her often did nothing to curb its effect. It was overwhelming in the way feeding always had been, or maybe in the way killing was. All-consuming and entrancing and drowning. Just like the stimulation of his senses when blood was spilling over his lips or when he was tearing the head off a vampire or ripping the heart out of a harpy, the way his skin would thrum and he would feel the rush clear to his fingertips. Kissing Hermione was like that—close enough to breathe her in and hold her in his lungs, his fingertips tingling as they trailed down her throat, slipped under her shirt and spanned the heated flesh of her back—kissing her was an unfathomable rush.

And he could kiss her whenever he wanted. Because she was his.

"My supper," She protested as he moved from her mouth across her jaw.

"Can wait." He finished, his teeth catching her earlobe, dragging down the column of her throat.

"So I can't have supper until you have?" She quipped irritably, but in contrast to her tone her hands had already found their way under his shirt, her nails digging into his sides. He slid his hands down to her bare thighs and hoisted her onto the counter, stepping between her legs.

"Shall I wait?" He asked. Her hands pressed at his lower back, pulling him closer. "Perhaps you'd like to put on a film, too?" He slid his hands under the waistband of her sleep shorts—the first thing she did whenever she came home from work was change into pajamas—and she pulled her hands back so she could rest them behind her to lift her hips off the counter. He let them fall to the floor. "Take a bath?" His nose bumped against hers, hips lips a breath away from her own, and he smoothed his palm up her stomach until he reached her breast. "Annihilate another one of your books?" He brushed over her nipple with his thumb and she arched against his hold.

"Oh, don't start that again," She groaned, and he could just see the corners of her lips pull up in a smile. He let it stay, his lips falling back against her throat, tongue and teeth tracing downward. She raised her hands again, gripping at his waist and pulling him closer still, her legs hooking around his hips and grinding, and in response his teeth sank just the barest—

"No," She said, her hands quickly rising to his chest and pushing him back—barely. "Not my throat. It's supposed to be warm this week and you're not going to have me wearing a scarf during what may be the only summer weather London has to offer this year." He couldn't help the way his mouth angled upward at her tone—she was lecturing him. He raised his head so that his lips claimed hers again, nipping at her lower lip.

"Say it again," He asked her, his hand trailing down to dip in between her legs. She didn't know what he meant, so she didn't say anything, instead wrapping her arms around his shoulders and tossing her head back when he dragged his finger up her slit. And he liked the gasps and the whimpers that tumbled past her lips but it wasn't what he asked for, so he clarified, "Tell me you're mine again."

She met his eyes, looking a cross between confused and awed. She took a moment to respond, her hands dragging through his hair and meeting at the back of his neck, her eyes jumping between his eyes and drifting down to his mouth. When he slid his finger inside her she met his eyes again, her lips parting to allow a breathy groan. "Call yourself mine again," He murmured, enjoying the way her fingers were gripping his shoulders, enjoying the way she didn't pull her eyes away from his.

"Am I?" She breathed, and the stutter of her heart nearly undid him. "Yours?" She had that expression she usually donned when she discovered something—when she was examining him or some other experiment she had interested herself in. Like she hadn't quite considered being his, had merely accepted it as a role without ever questioning it, accepting it as one may accept any other indisputable fact of their character. And it made him question, too—

Was he hers?

A lifetime of being owned without ever owning anything—owned by the orphanage, owned by his job, owned by Grindelwald, owned by his bloodlust—he had come to accept ownership as it came. And though he wasn't the type to lie in subjugation and allow himself to be controlled, he was also not one to rashly retaliate against those who would claim him. So he drifted through owner to owner—whether he be owned by society or by subject—quietly building an alternative life, a life of power, a life where he owned himself—

Had he somehow, seamlessly, found himself under new ownership? A possession of Hermione Granger's. He found that he didn't feel so powerless under her hands. He didn't feel trapped under the weight of a will other than his own, and he wondered if it might be possible to have her in the same way she might have him. Slaves to each other.

It didn't anger him, funnily enough. He thought this revelation might come with resentment, but listening to the impatient flutter of her heart in her chest, he could feel little other than enthrallment. And he thought that if he was hers—and that assumption was coupled with the assumption that she was his as well—then he did not find it particularly repulsive.

So he didn't press the issue, He didn't make her voice what he already knew to be true—what she had already voiced without even meaning to—and instead, knowing her throat was off limits, dropped to his knees and sank his teeth into the innermost part of her thigh without warning.

She didn't argue, or squeak or scream or jump, but moaned, deep and slow and sure, the leg that he wasn't preoccupied with resting over his shoulder and puling him closer, closer still. Her hands had left him, falling behind her to support her as she fell back against the wall, her head tilted back in wanton ecstasy. He might have savored the image longer if it weren't for the fact that her blood was already pouring and he found himself a bit too distracted by the taste and smell of her to concentrate on her reactions. But he remained thrilled at how reactive she was, moaning and groaning at the feeling of his teeth ripping into her flesh. And when he had his fill and his tongue met her center her climax was instantaneous—already brought to the edge by the feeling of his teeth on her thigh alone. He wondered at how she might feel, how she might think on how desperately and willingly she comes for a monster. Sometimes he thinks she would let him devour her if he could, and she didn't need to be influenced, she didn't need to be swayed, she didn't need to be forced—

He hoped he had ruined her. Watching her hand come up to grip the edge of the wall that marked the entrance to the kitchen when he finally sank himself into her, watching the way her nails dug into the plaster, using it as leverage to press her hips into his, he hoped she knew she could never have this again, not with anyone else—not with anyone but him.

And if that meant that he could have this with no one but her, he was content with the thought.

In the aftermath, he watched the way he expression shifted from blissful confusion to something a bit more awake, and her eyes focused on his mouth. He expected the kiss—and allowed it—but hadn't expected to see the blood staining her lips when she pulled away. He was caught a bit off guard by the image of her, flashing him a grin with her blood smeared across her mouth. He even let her push him away so she could hop down from the counter, move to get her bowl of pasta and make her way to the couch to eat. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and her lips were clean again.

He wished she hadn't. The blood suited her.

—

Tom Riddle was a complete, utter asshole most of the time if she was being perfectly honest.

And she didn't necessarily mind the company in her flat, especially because from sunrise to anywhere between 3-5 hours later, he would be asleep. And it was surprisingly humanizing—even if he wasn't at all human—to see him asleep on her couch, her cat snuggled into his side if he had managed.

And that was another thing—her cat liked him. That was strange in and of itself, because Crookshanks usually hid from guests, and if he did turn up (entirely on accident, usually when he was trying to sneak into the kitchen for food) he would be exceedingly violent and vicious. But with Tom he was practically a lap cat. But then they have a lot in common, Crookshanks and Tom. Both sleep in the mornings and always come back after they leave and count on her for food.

Also both are violent and cranky.

And Tom is certainly violent and cranky. He has a fantastic temper, she realizes, on one of the many occasions where their 'friendly' discussion over the state of her books erupts into an all out fight over something entirely unrelated like…whether it would be ethical to own a slave if they wanted to be your slave, which was a ridiculous argument in the first place but apparently she was just condescending enough throughout the fight to warrant him flipping her goddamn coffee table.

Nothing broke, exactly. He did tip the bowl of potpourri that she had been given as a gift when she had first moved to the flat and which she just left on the table for years. Anyway, she threatened to never invite him into her flat again if he didn't clean it up so he did, but that certainly didn't deter him from being exceedingly rough with her when she conceded to sex.

That last part wasn't quite a complaint, however, because she found that the rougher he was, the more she liked it. And he wasn't rough all the time—there was a certain amount of pain no matter what because he never had sex with her without feeding as well, and she especially liked that part—but there were times where, while not exactly a sweet, gentle darling, he wasn't as vicious as he could sometimes be. Sometimes their time together could be categorized as domestic, like any normal couple that actually lived together and might even be engaged or married. Sometimes it felt a bit like that.

When he wasn't complaining or something. And shit did he complain.

He complained about her cat, about her books, about her couch—even though he was welcome on the bed, but apparently her sheets were 'atrocious' and 'covered in cat hair'—he complained about her friends, especially if he can still 'smell' harry and god forbid he smell Theo or he just loses his goddamn mind.

He's a bit childish, sometimes. And from what he's revealed to her—which is very little—she's not sure she can completely blame him. He mentioned Grindelwald finding him at the orphanage, and while he doesn't talk about it, and she doesn't ask him, its through the way he says the word—orphanage—filled with so much disdain that she knows it must've been an awful place to spend a childhood. He has that same tone when he says Dumbledore's name, but never Grindelwald. She doesn't know why.

It's not an excuse for his behavior, this apparently awful childhood that she knows nothing about, but it is an explanation. It's an explanation for a lot, really.

There's a knock at the door, interrupting her thoughts. It's late, almost 10, and Tom had left over an hour ago once the sun set. She hadn't expected anyone, so when she approaches the door and peeks through the peephole and sees Harry standing there, she flinches so violently she smacks her head against the door on accident.

"Mione?" He calls, hearing the thud.

"One second!" She replies, hurrying back to her bedroom to fetch a pair of leggings, puling her sleep shorts off and pulling those on instead. Harry might have tentatively approved of Tom Riddle's involvement in their lives, but she really didn't need to subject him to seeing all the wounds she allowed him to inflict upon her. The fabric of the running leggings chafed uncomfortably against the bite on her thigh but she ignored it, hurrying back to the front door and pulling it open. Harry smiled at her when she answered, pulling her in for a kiss on the cheek.

"Harry," She greeted, "I didn't know you were coming by."

"I know, I usually call," He replied apologetically, "This was kind of last minute, I hope you weren't settling into bed or—?"

Hermione laughed, pulling him in and shutting the door behind him, "Please, as if I would go to sleep any time before three o'clock in the morning."

Harry laughed as well, "Right," He agreed, "Right. Draco's out of town for a mission or something—and you know, since I'm technically still 'in training' I don't go for missions outside of London."

"Do you want tea?" She asked.

"I would love some, yeah," He agreed following her into the kitchen. She put the kettle on and opened the fridge to pull out some milk as he continued, "I thought it might be a good time to get together with you and catch you up on what's happened—you know, with the Grindelwald situation and…is that blood?"

Hermione slammed her head on the inside of her fridge trying to stand up, and finally surfaced over the open door with one hand on the milk and the other cradling the back of her head. "what?" She asked, following his age to the counter where—

Damn it, she thought she cleaned that up. But sure enough, her blood streaked along the side of the countertop.

"Oh," She said, setting the milk down and grabbing her dish towel, wiping at the blood and ensuring she actually wiped it all up this time. "Yeah. Oops. Thought I cleaned that." She went back to the sink to rinse the cloth off. "So, what did you want to catch me up on?"

"Honestly there isn't much," He admitted, and she was glad to know he didn't see the blood issue as worth pressing, "Mostly I wanted to bounce some ideas off of you."

The water was boiling, so she pulled down two mugs and plopped a tea back in each one, pouring the water over it. She fetched the sugar while waiting for it to brew. "Shoot," She said.

"I know you said Dumbledore might want something else with Grindelwald," He said, "Because they were involved before. I may have…breeched the subject with him."

She shot him a look. "That's dangerous." She said, but then she knew she had no real leg to stand on talking about what's dangerous, so she didn't lecture him.

"I know," He agreed, "But I ask him those kind of questions all the time—he won't suspect anything of it. He knows I want Grindelwald dead—thats the primary reason I started training to work for him in the first place, so…" He watched her unscrew the cap of the milk carton, pausing to collect his thoughts. "Anyway, you were right, Grindelwald did feed off of him. Dumbledore was his mate."

She handed him his tea, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of her own. "He's being honest, then," She murmured against the rim of her mug, "But if they're bonded, and Grindelwald can't kill him, would he really be interested in killing Grindelwald?"

"Well, it's not quite…what do you know about mates? For vampires?"

She hesitated. "I know what Tom's told me," She said.

"Well…Grindelwald can still kill him," He didn't notice the way Hermione tensed, "He can't…drain him, for lack of a better word, but there isn't necessarily anything stopping him from, say, pushing him off a roof or…shooting him or something." Hermione took a calming sip of her tea.

"What about the bond, though?" She asked.

"Well—mating for vampires isn't like, inherently romantic or—they don't have to have a bond, necessarily." He explained, taking a slow sip of his tea, completely ignorant to Hermione's rising anxiety, "I mean, Snape and my mom were technically mates—"

"What?" She cut in, not meaning to interrupt but genuinely confused, "But your dad—"

"Yeah, that's the thing," He agreed, "It wasn't romantic, it was just…they'd been friends forever, and when he turned, she let him…" He shuddered at the wording but otherwise didn't pause in his explanation, "feed on her, but they weren't involved. Mating for vampires is more for the purpose of survival than…procreation, I mean, they can't procreate, so sexual compatibility is irrelevant in a mate."

Hermione turned her mug in her hands. "So their sexual involvement was irrespective of their bond—or, mate…" She trailed off, her mind going in circles a bit. She had assumed that what she experienced with Tom—the pleasure from the bite, the attraction—had been mostly to do with the bond, but apparently that wasn't quite correct. She wasn't sure how she felt, knowing that the way she felt when he touched her was an entirely natural reaction, not due to any supernatural bond or—

"Did he talk about his intentions with Grindelwald, then?" She asked, "Regardless of…?" She wasn't even sure how to refer to it now. Bond had been appropriate when she thought it was the same as her feeling with Tom, but if it was different—perhaps it wasn't. They were sexually involved, whether it was because of the bond or not, but if this feeling wasn't intrinsic with the bite, then she couldn't be sure if it was the same.

"He said he doesn't want him to be a danger anymore," He answered, "I asked him what that means. But…he didn't really…he changed the subject." He shrugged, "I didn't want to push lest he think I don't trust him."

"You do trust him, though," She pointed out.

"I shouldn't." He replied, but he didn't deny it. "He never would have mentioned knowing Grindelwald intimately. I knew they were close, but…this is different. This is like…if Malfoy killed you—I…I would want him dead, but—" He sighed tiredly, "Dumbledore and his organization I mean…they're the first who offered me a chance to understand what happened to me, and to try and ensure it doesn't happen to anyone else. I just…it's hard to believe that he might…" He didn't finish his thought. Hermione set her tea down to grasp his arm.

"It's like you said," She told him, "If it were you and Malfoy, it would be complicated. It wouldn't change your morals completely, but…" She struggled to find the words, squeezing his arm in what she hoped was a comforting manner, "It doesn't mean Dumbledore's entire organization is flawed—even though there certainly are flaws—" She couldn't help herself to that dig, she disagreed too strongly with their 'shoot first ask questions later' mentality, "—It just means that if you want Grindelwald to pay, it might not be with Dumbledore's help."

He nodded, but otherwise didn't respond. So she asked, "Anything else you've learned about him?"

He shrugged, "He has a type." He commented offhandedly. Hermione's head snapped up so suddenly she thought she might've given herself whiplash for a second.

"What's his type?" She asked.

"Honestly, it's kind of creepy," He told her, "He goes for red-heads though. He has ever since…well, he killed my parents, and Dumbledore—well, whatever happened between him and Dumbledore. And, you know, Dumbledore used to be a red-head, so in the victims that we've found that Snape or Riddle are able to pinpoint as Grindelwald's, which are few, they're always red-haired."

Hermione was pensively silent, but her eyes were wide and her fingers were drumming on the counter. "If I show you something do you promise not to worry?" She asked him.

He hesitated, watching her closely, "Why would I worry?"

"You might think I'm obsessive." She explained. He laughed uncertainly.

"I already know you're obsessive." He said. She paused, then picked up her tea and gestured for him to follow her into the bathroom attached to her bedroom. She hesitated at the door for only a moment, before she opened it and switched the light on.

And maybe she was a bit obsessive, but she had taped articles and pictures and reports of any suspicious murder or missing person report in Europe that she suspected to be Grindelwald. It wasn't terribly difficult, but it was extensive research. Victims that disappeared at night, when the sun was away. She didn't include those who went missing at bars, because according to Tom, drunk victims tasted horrendous, and she was certain that the man who turned him must've felt the same. And Tom—who could offer a lot of information if she caught him in a good mood, and especially if she could bring her thoughts together when they were going to have sex—had even divulged Grindelwalds usual types of hunting grounds.

It still took up her entire bathroom mirror and even extended to her wall. Tom hadn't seen it, not because she was actively hiding it but because he never used her bathroom. But he had gone over each possible victim with her and told her if he believed it was plausible or not. There was only so much he could tell her when he didn't have a body, but he would give an honest opinion regardless.

"I've been trying to track him, sort of." She said, "Tom's been helping a bit, just with whatever information he already knows—like what countries Grindelwald wouldn't go to, so I wouldn't waste my time with them, along with his usual places to find victims and…if he usually goes for red heads…" She began pulling articles and photographs down, tossing them to the floor and rearranging them into groups according to time and location. Harry was avidly reading the papers and post-its.

"Hermione this is…" He didn't finish he thought, and she paused.

"I know," She said, "It's a bit over the top. I just thought…if we could establish some sort of pattern it might be easier to find him. I know his victims are rarely found, so I've been focusing on missing persons, but there's been a couple here and there where the bodies are—"

"This is incredible." He said. She stopped talking.

"Is it?" She asked.

"Yes," He said, "I mean, it's definitely obsessive, but," She frowned at that, "I remember this girl," He points to one from mid-February in Southeast London, "Riddle said it was definitely Grindelwald. Said he could smell him all over her—we fond her relatively soon after her death, it was a pretty sloppy kill on Grindelwald's part."

"He could smell him on her?" She echoed, her fingers grazing over the photograph of the girl that had appeared in the paper.

"Apparently the bite leaves a scent, or something." She frowned. That explained Snape's behavior. "But what's this from recently?"

"Well, there's a lot recently," She said, "He must have at least one victim a day, so I've focused on areas that have an influx of missing persons, rather than just anyone that goes missing anywhere. It makes it a bit tougher because we can't pinpoint anything until he's been there a few days, but…" She pointed to May, "Just last month in Dublin there was a spike in missing persons, even if I take away those who aren't red-headed—"

"You said Riddle helped with this?" He asked her.

"A little," She admitted, "Well, a lot. With the premise. Not the research or the construction, but with the information so I knew where to look."

"Even with the recent stuff?" He clarified. She looked at him oddly.

"Yes." She answered.

"So you've seen him recently?" He pressed. She nodded, not sure where he was going with this line of questioning. "I haven't seen him since he showed up in your flat."

She paused. "That's odd," She admitted, because it was. She had seen him every day, and while she knew their situation was certainly different than his situation with Harry and Malfoy and Theo, she still expected him to be in contact with him.

"Even on missions or…?" She clarified. He shook his head.

"We used to cross paths a lot, but recently, no…" He admitted, "I wonder if he knows about these possible victims in Ireland…"

"I don't know," Hermione admitted, "I usually ask if I'm right, if it sounds like it could be Grindelwald…So he has to be aware."

Harry pursed his lips. "Not like we could all take a group trip to Ireland without Grindelwald becoming suspicious, anyway." He admitted.

"Right." She agreed, "Still…You'd think he would speak to you."

He shrugged, "Dumbledore probably keeps a close eye on him."

Hermione nodded, glancing over the victims from the end of May. Grindelwald would likely still be in Ireland for another week or so, if his pattern persists. She wondered if someone would go out there, soon.

She wondered where Tom was. She didn't wonder often—she knew the type of job he lead, knew the amount of creatures he killed, so she didn't think on it often. But she wondered now. Perhaps his offer to help find Grindelwald outside of Dumbledore's eye only extended to helping her?

She bit her lip, and Harry pointed to another article from the end of May. Hermione pushed the thought of Tom Riddle from her mind, for the moment.

—

"You realize I have a show to put on?" Beatrix asks, dressed to the nines and fishing through the drawers of her vanity as he stands in her doorway.

"I have no intention of keeping you from your adoring fans," He intones, "You are not usually so happy for me to leave."

"And you are not usually so boring," She fired back, pulling out an envelope and sashaying to meet him at the door, handing it to him, "But your human pet has made you so tame."

He ignored the comment, knowing she said it in an attempt to rile him. "You realize you are human, too." He points out.

"No thanks to you." She smirks.

"You would make a terrible vampire," He says, opening the envelope and pulling out photographs, "You have no impulse control."

She laughs, deep and slow, and agrees. She holds out her hand, "I believe I am being paid for this."

He reaches into his back pocket and hands her the money Dumbledore had give him to pay her with. "This is him, then?" He asks, "The man who apparently has been attempting to build an army?"

"He's pretty bad at it," She admits, counting the money he had given her, "He has no control over his newbies. Pathetic, really. Parents these days."

He hums in agreement, thumbing through the pictures, then turns his attention to the personal details she had included. "You do have a way of digging up dirt on people," He comments lowly, a useless observation. She smiles, tapping her temple once.

"Psychic," She whispered, almost conspiratorially, and he raises an unamused eyebrow. "Shame you have to kill all the strays." She says, looking down at the photographs.

"What else would we do with them?" He asked, "Are you in the market for a pet?"

She laughs again, waking back to her vanity to place the money in the drawer, "Seems to me you have more use for them than I do." She said, turning to lean against the vanity and raising a dark brow back at him. "An army sounds useful."

"Newborns are impossible to control." He tells her dismissively, pocketing the photographs and details.

"If you say so," she drawls, "But if you do train one, I would love a new pet, thank you."

He rolls his eyes but she doesn't see, because he's already leaving. He winds through the backstage and leaves through the exit door that leads to the back alley. He has his target—thanks to Bella—Quirinus Quirrell, who didn't look quite as dangerous as his actions might've inferred. Setting out countless newborns into the London streets, one would picture him either intimidating or insane, but he only looked nervous in the photographs.

Anyway, he had his personal details. He whipped out his phone and sent the pictures of the photographs to his new target's number, then called Potter.

"Riddle?" He answered, sounding extremely confused.

"I need you to trace a number for me. He'll call me in a few minutes, and my contact at the police is currently in the hospital."

"Hospital?" Potter echoed, "How did he get into the hospital?"

"I understand you are trying to insinuate I sent him there," He said tiredly. Potter cleared his throat. "I didn't. His own stupidity sent him there. Can you trace the number or not."

"Yeah, yeah I can, I'll call my friend—" Tom pulled the phone away from his ear to send him the number, so he didn't hear whatever else he was trying to say until he pressed the phone back to his ear. "I was with Hermione," Potter said, which gave Tom the briefest pause, "I wanted to ask—"

"I'm going to hang up." He said, "Trace that number now."

"Wait—"

He hung up. He had already gotten a text from Quirrell—who is this? it read. He could practically hear the panic. Rolling his eyes as the number then popped up on his 'calling' screen, he let it ring for a moment before answering. "Wh-Who are you?" He sputtered as soon as Tom answered, trying to sound unaffected.

"An ally," Tom replied. He had been walking down the street but he paused, pocketing his hand that wasn't using the phone, "This is Quirrell, is it not?"

"Wh-Who are you?" He repeated, this time with only a bit more confidence.

"I told you," Tom said.

"What kind of a-ally takes pictures of me in secret and—and sends them to me as a—as a threat? How did you get my number?"

"Oh, do stop panicking," Tom drawled, his eyes drawn up to the stars. "If I wanted you dead I certainly could have killed you when I was taking those pictures." A lie, certainly, because he hadn't taken the pictures, but he found that line did wonders when dealing with timid targets.

"You can't kill me—"

"I can kill you." Tom assured. "I could rip your head from your body, set you on fire. Throw you in an incinerator and make sure you're reduced to ashes. Or I could simply slice your head off and bury it—not quite death but incapacitation. I could crack open your skull and take a hand blender to—"

"S-Stop!" Quirrell said, "You—You're a hunter, aren't you?"

"Stupid question," He said, not quite answering, "Hunters tend to shoot first and ask questions later. I would certainly not be calling you if I were a hunter. Besides, I told you I was an ally." He pulled the phone away to see how long he'd been on the call. Only a minute—best to stay on longer.

"Then what do you want?" He demanded. Tom thought he might have heard something in the background of the call—someone else in the room?—but he didn't pay it too much attention.

"I am curious," He started, genuine for the first time in the conversation, "What's the point? What purpose could a dozen newborns serve?"

There was a moment of quiet, before Quirrell finally said, "I'll meet you." Tom sighed and rolled his eyes—that's not what he had asked. "I don't want to talk about this on the phone. You could be lying. I want to meet you in person." Tom pinched the bridge of nice nose. "Know that…if you are a hunter, I'll be ready. I'll kill you—and my newborns will—"

"Your newborns have already escaped and died, I killed them." He cut in. "And I already told you that I'm not a hunter." Most would probably consider that a lie, but this paranoid bastard wouldn't believe him no matter what he say, so he didn't care how blatant his lies were anymore.

"If you—you aren't a hunter then why—why did you kill them?" He stuttered, apparently unnerved at Tom's confession to killing this he turned.

"If you controlled them, I wouldn't need to kill them." He said flatly. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he saw they had spoken for nearly two minutes. It might be wise to stay on longer, but he was growing tired of the conversation, so when he pressed the phone to his ear again—and Quirrell was speaking, though he had no idea what he was saying—he said, "I'll be in touch." And hung up.

Just when he thinks a target might be interesting and they turn out just as ridiculous as all the others.

He calls Potter back promptly, strolling down the street again, "Riddle, Jesus, a little warning next time you need a call—"

"Did you trace it or not, Potter?" He asked.

"Well, yeah," Potter spat, "Ron traced it, the location of his call was from Stoke Newington, you—"

Tom hung up.

—

An abandoned warehouse. How cliche.

He could smell him—Quirrell, the only other vampire in the immediate area—and he could smell a lot of blood, which—objectively—was probably a bad sign. He followed the scent inside, stepping carefully up a fire escape and slipping in through one of the countless broken windows. It reeked of blood and rot, so he could only imagine what kind of horror house this crazy cunt was running.

This was the boring part. Finding them—especially when they were so obvious. The fun part was killing them, usually.

It was on the second floor he found him, bent over a limp body, and—chanting? praying? Tom wasn't sure—so Tom leaned against the wall and watched, waiting for him to be finished. He wasn't feeding, he realized after a moment. He was, in fact, feeding them.

Another newborn, Tom realized with a tired sigh. He hadn't smelled them because the scent of blood in the room was so strong—it was everywhere.

Quirrell heard him, and jerked around violently, his eyes widening when he saw Tom watching him tiredly from his place against the wall. Quirrell sprung to his feet. "Who—"

"Another?" Tom asked, "Were the first twelve not enough?"

The man in question froze. "You—you were on the phone—"

"Very astute," He mocked, "Is he chained?" He pocketed his hands and lifted himself off the wall in order to lean forward to see past Quirrell, "Oh, you must be joking. Iron chains?" Quirrell looked affronted, "No wonder they all break free," Tom murmured to himself.

"he has food here," He said, gesturing to the blood—hospital bags of blood,, all stacked on top of each other in the corner. Tom sneered.

"That's not enough to satisfy," He told him, "And you're—feeding him? Like a child? I suppose they don't obey you either."

Quirrell looked rather confused. "Sh—should they?"

Tom rolled his eyes. This was supposed to be fun but he was only annoyed. The body on the floor was coming to, probably half exhausted and half rabid from no fresh blood, and it fixed its eyes on him. Quirrell didn't pay it notice.

"This is mildly disappointing," Tom said, "And here I thought you were interesting."

"I'm trying—" He cut himself off, finding his words as Tom raised an eyebrow and waited. One last chance to interest him, he supposed. "I know I'm not a true master—"

"You created them," Tom told him, "You are their master."

"No," Quirrell mumbled, "No it doesn't work that way—"

"You control them," Tom told him, strolling forward to the man on the floor, "But not through feeding them like a child." The man on the ground growled at him, so Tom seized him by his back of his neck and slammed his face into the concrete, his knee resting at his back. Quirrell flinched.

"What are you—"

"He won't obey me, as I'm not his master—" He started, "He might even try to kill me, given the state he's in." The man squirmed on the ground, growling and yelling but not quite conscious enough to form words or demands. Pitiful. Turned and fed like a baby until he is nothing but a rabid, bloodthirsty mess who can't even feed himself. This is why they're escaping, killing the first person they can find and leaving bloody, mangled remains. Held here with nothing but rusty iron chains.

Pathetic.

"He can't kill you, though," Tom murmured, his lips curling up into a sneer without his consent. "No matter how much he may wish to. It's the natural order of things." He dug his knee into the man's spine with more intensity and the newborn groaned and thrashed under his hold. "Master always wins."

Quirrell was silent. Pensive. Watching the newborn on the ground with newfound interest. "What do I do?" He asked, "To stop them from going feral?"

There was a moment of silence. Tom Riddle was still watching the newborn, pensive. He couldn't kill Quirrell, but he could kill Tom—or at least, he could try. This nameless man, writhing on the concrete floor, soaked in blood—if he were stronger, he could kill Tom.

He could kill anyone he wanted if he was more than a snarling mess on the floor.

"Nothing." Tom finally answered. Quirrell blanched.

"There surely is a way," He pleaded, "If you and I are not rabid, then there must be something—"

"That's not what I meant." Tom said. And he didn't even really relish in the confused look on Quirrell's face before he pulled his silver knife and stood, the newborn finally allowed to flip on its back. Quirrell only had a moment for his features to shift to horror before Tom's blade sank into his eye socket, and the man fell lifeless to the floor.

The newborn jumped him from behind, and Tom swore, reaching back and gripping the crazed thing by its shoulder and swinging it off, kicking it hard in the stomach after it hit the floor. It, he—whatever he called it, or him. It looked more like a creature than a man at the moment, if Tom was being honest. It snarled and reached for him, so Tom grabbed Quirrell by the arm and dragged him far enough away that the newborn could only strain against its chains.

It wasn't a protective gesture, Tom knew. It was territorial. He cast a quiet glance over to the newborn, before sliding his knife out of Quirrell's eye and slicing his head off instead, hacking the knife through the flesh of his throat. When it was separated, he picked up the head by the top of his turban and threw it about a three feet away from the body.

He fetched lighter fluid from his car, and returned to see the newborn still straining against the chains. He drenched what once was Quirrell in the lighter fluid, and lit the match, but paused before he dropped it.

He put out the match. He looked over to the squirming thing and decided he had an apartment that he didn't use, so it was worth the experiment.

'Worth the experiment' he sounded like Hermione.

He went back to the newborn and pressed him into the ground again—it wasn't hard, as weak as the thing was. It squirmed, so he lifted its head and bashed it hard into the concrete. It whimpered. He turned its head to see its headless master, "I killed your master," He told it, "Do you see?" He fisted his hand in its hair and bashed its head into the ground once more, "I am your master now. Do you understand?" The thing growled at him, and Tom pressed his bloody knife against the side of its face. It was still squirming, and he knew it would continue to do so, even if it did accept him as its master. So he shoved the knife into its eye socket so it went still.

He would leave that in there until he got to his flat. Hopefully that would keep it down so he didn't have to deal with it yet.

He hoisted the thing over his shoulder and as he passed by Quirrell, lit a match and dropped it. He watched the body burst into flames, waited until it was reduced to ash before he continued on his way.

He fished chains out of his trunk—silver, the kind that would actually work to hold back a vampire, even a newborn—and when he returned to his building, he carried the body up to his flat, chained it up, and pulled the knife from its eye.

"You'll need blood," He murmured, watching as the thing started to wake. It saw him and jerked, but it was still disoriented and underfed, so it didn't do much else in its new surroundings.

Tom's phone rang.

"Yes?" He answered, keeping his eyes on the creature.

"Tom." A familiar voice answered. Tom clenched his jaw.

"I caught Quirrell." He told him, "And I paid Bella for her part."

"Excellent," The old man said, "How did you find him?"

"Tracked his number," He replied, watching as the thing finally realized it was chained and began to struggle, but tom had wrapped the damn thing up in them so it couldn't make too much noise.

"How?" He asked.

"Potter." He responded simply, running the silver of his knife along the side of the newborn's face and watching the way it stilled. It remembered the knife, then. Probably remembered Tom hacking off Quirrell's head with it.

Dumbledore was quiet for a moment. When he finally did respond, he said, "Are you often in contact with Harry Potter?"

It was an odd question, because whether Tom was in contact with Harry Potter or not was irrelevant, but he answered regardless. "Our paths cross at times," He answered, "He was the most convenient to call at the time."

Dumbledore took another moment to respond. "I understand," He finally said, "But I would prefer that, should your paths cross again, you are careful what you divulge to him. He is only just involved in all this."

Tom snorted to himself, "The next time Potter and I meet for a coffee I will make sure not to air yours and Grindelwald's dirty laundry," He promised.

"Good." Dumbledore intoned. He didn't dismiss Tom, so he waited, wondering what he might have to say. For a moment he was mildly nervous, remembering Hermione's suspicions of Snape's knowledge of them. The last thing he wanted was for Dumbledore to know.

The newborn gave a jerk and Tom sliced into its cheek to silence it before Dumbledore heard something.

"That is all I needed." Dumbledore finally says. Tom doesn't say goodbye, just hangs up and tilts his head, examining the creature on the floor. It's different now, in this atmosphere. Not surrounded by stale hospital blood, watching two vampires fighting in front of it—its calm. It's even terrified.

"You're mine now," He tells it, a thrill running through him, "Remember that."

It stared at him with wide, black eyes.

—

Wow I'm a piece of shit I'm so sorry

BUT IM BACK IM ALIVE

Literally remember when I said I completed this and that was a bold-faced lie? ? ? ? yeah I'm a mess this is spiraling out of control but its fine I love it

Obviously (or maybe not obviously considering i am me) this isn't the last chapter either! Tom is planning something, Bellatrix is making more of an appearance (because i love her and you will be seeing more of her) also Ron was mentioned…he might show up soon. He probably will. Who knows. This is me as soon as I commit to something I change my mind so? ? ? who knows?

Anyway the little bb vampire (aka a grown ass man who is now a new born vampire whom I'm still choosing to refer to as a baby) does have an identity he won't be 'it' forever that's just Tom being an asshole but yeah that'll come later

Anyway! yeah! hope this was interesting idk man and maybe not a shit show like I wrote this so many different ways tbh and every time i was like wow….this terrible hhahhaa AND FINALLY I WRITE SOMETHING THAT ISNT TERRIBLE so you know…thats exciting for me

ANYWAY enough of my shitting on myself HOPE YOU ENJOYED I want to thank you guys so so so so much for your support honestly like all the favs and reviews and the SHARES ADN RECOMMENDATIONS ON TUMBLR LIKE ! HONESTLY YOU ARE ALL SUCH ANGELS the other day someone wait let me look up their name because ok faun-spots on tumblr made this THING FOR EXCITANT AND LIKE I S2G I NEARLY SHI TMY PANTS LIKE? ? ? HM ? ? ? UM? ? EXCUSE ME? it was incredible i couldn't believe it like oh my GOD

but also just all the support in general y'all are so nice….its funny because like this ship is so fucked up tbh but everyone's so lovely and nice….we're just nice lil bbs with fucked up kinks i think idk I'm not here to kink shame anyone i literally had to talk myself out of writing a scene for this where Hermione was on her period I was like u know what…thats a bit too far

anyway this author note is turning into a goddamn novel so i LOVE YOU and hope this was like a little not bad and also please review i love you a lot also check out faun-spots she's a BABE ok for real still shitting my pants over that edit wtF damn it ok

for real I'm leaving now ok ending this see you next chapter will it be a day? will it be a month? who knows actually i know it wont be a day i have an essay that I'm still procrastinating on so yeah

ffs k time for me to leave can you tell I'm excited for finishing this? does it show by my weird emotional breakdown rn? probably ok bye

PLEASE REVIEW

(also as always I'm totally cool with you letting me know if you see a typo because i always go back and fix it)