A/N: This is version 2.0 because the old one was just so bad, though i now realise version 1 was never on here in the first place.

"They say I did something bad

But why's it feel so good?

Most fun I ever had

And I'd do it over and over and over again if I could

It just felt so good"

Sometimes, Tom would get home from work and she would already be home, working away in the kitchen, humming a quiet tune under her breath as she laid out the dinner, smiling at him when she caught sight of him standing in the doorway watching her. They would talk about their day, plans for any upcoming event at work or the weekend. Couple-y things.

Other times, Tom would arrive home before her and he would make make the dinner. They'd eat, retire to the living room to read various books and discuss different magical theories before he would nudge her dozing form in his lap and lead her to bed.

They had a habit of making love gently throughout the night on nights like that. Both their eyes wide open, gentle kisses being pressed against one another's collarbones, whispered declarations of love.

Sometimes though. Sometimes Tom would arrive home and the house- the house that he had murdered his father in- would be as eerily quiet as it was that night when the bright green of the killing curse had flashed from his wand and his father had crumpled to the floor in a heap. On those nights, Tom would make his way to the drawing room, loosen his tie and drape his work robes over the back of an armchair. He always poured himself a few fingers of firewhisky and relished the burn he felt when the liquid scorched his throat, before he made his way to the master bathroom where he knew she would be waiting.

After a long day of listening to the Minister of Magic argue with his various department heads (himself included), he had known before he had even reached the apparition point what kind of night it was going to be.

Hermione had, after all, had a long day of listening to the Minister of Magic argue with them too.

When he finally pushed open the bathroom door he found her lying in the bath, her hair pulled up into a loose bun with curly tendrils hanging from it, and a glass of red wine dangling between her fingertips.

He couldn't help but smirk. He closed the door gently and strode towards her, adjusting his erection as he went.

They had never gotten along at school, but that was to be expected. He was in Slytherin and she in Gryffindor – there was no option but to hate each other; House prejudices demanded it. Still, they didn't have to like each other to sit in the library and push each other, trading the top spot in all their subjects only encouraged them to be better, all in the hopes of besting the other, even if it was only for a week or two.

It wasn't a surprise that her friends hated him or that his hated her. They called her "mudblood" and she hexed them. She called them inbred bigots and they hexed her. It didn't faze either of them and they'd meet in the library a few hours later and quietly do their homework, speaking only when it was necessary.

Neither of them was surprised at their appointment to head students – who else could have possibly deserved it? Certainly not Malfoy, no matter how much he complained, or Padma Patil who, for all her Ravenclaw smarts, could never climb higher than fourth in their year.

Their relationship happened slowly. Quietly. Without either of their knowledge. They conceded that sharing a dormitory would do that. Sharing hours with only one person who, from the very first day of classes at the tender age of eleven, had understood you better than anyone else. Sometimes even better than you understood yourself, and that would have them seeping into your skin until you wondered how you ever thought anyone else could be, would be, a better match.

They denied their growing feelings for a year. Ignored how fast their hearts would beat when they saw the other, how hard their fingernails would dig into the palms of their hands when he saw her with Potter or Weasley, or when she watched Parkinson and Greengrass and numerous other female students drape themselves over him. She struggled to keep her magic from flaring out angrily when he didn't push their hands away. When he let them trail their fingers over his immaculate robes and whisper things into his ear. She felt unreasonably angry and when Harry asked her what was wrong she would simply glare at him and wave off his curiosity.

They ignored it all, until they couldn't. Until it hurt too much - for both of them, regardless of what Tom said.

She loved him and it was immutable.

So, it didn't matter to her when he murdered his father and paternal grandparents with her standing beside him. She didn't flinch when he told her of his plans to weed out the weak, to protect their society against those who would threaten to harm the wizarding who had regards for the future.

He wanted to lead them to a better tomorrow, away from ridiculous blood prejudices that suited only pure-bloods - whose blood remained pure only as a result of severe in-breeding and wasn't that just fucking ironic? That discriminated against them both. She agreed with him on so many things, and when they disagreed they didn't huff and puff about it like children but discussed it like the rational adults they were and came to a compromise. It was so unlike all the arguments she'd ever had with Harry or Ron, about things so inconsequential she sometimes wondered how they ever became friends in the first place.

The first time she killed someone she hadn't even meant to do it.

It was an accident - a happy accident, but an accident nonetheless.

She'd been wandering aimlessly through Diagon Alley late one night after having drinks with Ginny- now that the younger girl had graduated- when she'd been dragged into an alley, had her magic bound and been leered at by someone who clearly was a few knuts short in the head.

She hadn't even thought about the consequences of stabbing the heel of her stiletto into his neck when he'd leaned in and whispered all the things he was going to make her submit to, right there in that dirty alley, like the little slut she apparently was. And when the wound sprayed blood all over her and her would be attacker had stumbled back, wide eyed with blood bubbling out of his mouth, she hadn't even flinched when she'd removed the shoe, pushed him back, straddled him and repeated the action until he was lifeless beneath her. She'd slipped the shoe back on, clutched her bag and wand tightly in her deceptively calm hands and apparated into the drawing room of her and Tom's house.

He'd been on her in a second, checking her over for the source of blood, repeatedly asking if she was alright – the worry was palpable in his voice. But when she'd told him exactly what had happened, she'd felt his cock stir against the small of her back and had been unable to contain the wanton moan that escaped her. Knowing that her actions, her inexcusable bloodlust had turned him on, was going to get him off? It was more power than what she knew to do with.

She'd bent over right there and he'd slammed into her hard, expecting it to be rough – he'd almost come when he found her wet, practically dripping, and keening beneath him.

"Harder," she whimpered.

Apparently he wasn't the only one who got off on murder.

So yes, the first time was an accident.

But only the first time.

Hermione sighed when she felt his fingers trail across the nape of her neck and bit her lip, silencing a moan when he dipped his hand into the bloody water and pinched her left nipple with his blunt fingernails.

"Good day love?" He murmured into her hair as he pulled her up out of the bath and turned her in his arms – her legs automatically wrapped around his waist, his clothed cock rubbing harshly against her as he led them to the shower. She smirked at him when his cock twitched.

"Hmmmm same old, same old," she sighed, feigning indifference to the way he was grinding against her. Her head fell back and a hiss escaped her lips when she felt him wandlessly and non-verbally vanish his clothes. She could feel him, hot and hard and heavy, against her bare cunt.

The hot water, charmed to keep from turning cold, pelted from the shower head. Tom's fingers danced against her clit and the sight of all the blood being washed from her body had her coming around the three fingers he had been relentlessly fucking her with, in minutes.

She scowled though when he chuckled at her. She dropped to her knees quickly in retaliation and wrapped her tongue around his cock, the head of which was already coated in pre-come.

She knew the sight of her on her knees, deepthroating his, always impressive, erection with blood stains on her face, would have him spending himself down her throat in minutes – she was very rarely wrong.

When she swallowed him down, he growled and hoisted her into his arms. He slammed his, still throbbing, erection into her and set a brutal pace. His hips snapped against her pelvis and both of them were moaning: oh gods please fuck harder- you're so fucking tight every fucking time sweetheart – Tom Tom Tom fuck baby please Merlin God please – sight of you covered in blood fuck baby I can't fuck I can't even – yes oh fuck yes please please please – Hermione fuck baby Hermione – I'm gonna come fuck yeah now now right there – fuckkkkkk.

They always arrived at work together, no matter what the night before had entailed.

Tom Riddle and his muggleborn fiancée Hermione Granger, were the ideal couple. They had overcome several years of prejudice at school, before joining together and uniting their various friendship groups.

They were pushing the wizarding world in a better direction, inclusive of all, regardless of blood or social status, and the Wizarding World couldn't wait to see what their future endeavours would mean for them all.