November 1969

You hate seafood. How you are managing this is beyond me.

Hermione thumbed her Protean stone and smiled a little. She picked up her fork and poked at some of the red snapper in her stew. She dragged her thumb over her stone and thought back at Voldemort,

I don't mind this Bouillabaisse. I've had decent versions in France. Dobby's is just fine.

I want you to be comfortable, he thought back immediately. Hermione looked up at him and smiled a little bit. She nodded and whispered,

"I'm fine."

"My Lord," said Sylvie Malfoy from across the table, "is the food to your liking?"

"I was just thinking about the food," Voldemort murmured, "and how much hospitality you and Abraxas have shown to Hermione and me… me most especially. But I wish to let the both of you know, Sylvie, Abraxas… I've procured a home of my own."

Sylvie's eyes went wide, and she looked to her husband. Hermione wasn't sure what to make of Sylvie's reaction, so she rather frantically rubbed at her Protean stone and asked Voldemort,

What is she thinking?

She's thinking that having Lord Voldemort based at Malfoy Manor has been quite a prestigious marker for her family, and she's about to lose that prestige, Voldemort thought back. He cleared his throat and assured Abraxas,

"You're still my right-hand man. Let there be no doubt whatsoever about that."

"Wh-Where is the home?" Abraxas asked shakily, and Voldemort said in a calm voice,

"It is a gothic mansion outside Marlborough. The Muggle owners have suddenly decided that it would be far better for them to reside in a comfortable townhouse in London. They're city people now."

Hermione shifted in her chair. She'd made her feelings on all of this quite plain to Lord Voldemort. He knew she didn't support the idea of Imperiusing Muggles into leaving their home so that Voldemort and Hermione could move in. But they'd already argued about it, and he'd insisted this was better than booting someone off of land to build something new. He'd asked her whether she was truly his ally or not, and he'd reminded her that he'd found thoughts in her head of having come back in time with the intention of destroying him.

So she'd caved, and she'd agreed to the idea of them commandeering a Muggle mansion in the countryside. There were worse things, she told herself. It could be so much worse with him, with Lord Voldemort.

He'd spent the past months spreading the message that he longed for a future for the wizarding world which involved an integration scheme to bring together Muggle-borns, Half-Bloods, and Purebloods under one wizarding umbrella. He wanted a Magical world where everyone had a place, but a Magical world completely isolated from the Muggle world. He wished for Magic to be given its due honour as the gift it was in everyone in whom it made itself manifest. This was the message he was promoting. So far, he had gained many new friends and allies with this message.

Abraxas Malfoy wasn't the only one calling him My Lord these days. Yaxley, Rookwood, Lestrange, Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Rowle, Mulciber, and even Cygnus Black - even after the death of Bellatrix - were steadfastly attached to Voldemort and referred to him reverently as My Lord.

"When will you move into your new home, My Lord?" asked Abraxas Malfoy, and Hermione jumped in.

"Everything's ready, Mr Malfoy. We were just waiting for the right time to tell the two of you about it."

"My goodness. How we shall miss the both of you." Sylvie's eyes actually watered then as she stared at Hermione. Sylvie and Hermione had become, if not friends, then at least compatriots over the last months. The two of them consulted one another on hair and fashion and often chatted about their significant others. Sylvie sang along with Voldemort's piano playing sometimes as Abraxas and Hermione looked on, each admiring their respective partner. Things would certainly be different now, with Hermione and Voldemort moving off to their own home.

"And have you got a House-Elf?" Abraxas asked. Voldemort bristled a little and said,

"The Placement Agency is working on it. I didn't like their initial suggestion - an old creature with a sour demeanour - and Hermione, well…"

If you had it your way, you'd Scour a mansion all on your own, he thought through the stone, before spooning some Bouillabaisse into his mouth and saying sternly,

"Hermione's got unconventional views about House-Elves."

"I just wish witches and wizards would at least consider doing the work on their own," Hermione said primly, sipping at her white wine. Sylvie gave her a strange look, and Abraxas cleared his throat.

"You and Dobby have always gotten on so well," he noted. Hermione nodded vigorously.

"Yes, we have."

"Do you intend on cleaning a great big mansion all on your own, then?" Sylvie Malfoy asked, poking at her lobster in her Bouillabaisse. Hermione licked her lips and said softly,

"The Dark Lord and I still haven't quite sorted out the House-Elf situation. We'll get a handle on it."

We're getting a House-Elf, came his voice through the ether. Hermione huffed and dug her thumb into her Protean-linked stone.

I can clean my own house.

Not that house. It's too much.

I don't want an unpaid servant, Tom, Hermione shot back. I'll only accept the services of a House-Elf if we have one placed, free the Elf, and have them work for us under their own volition as a -

We'll discuss this later. Suddenly Voldemort tucked his stone into his pocket, and Hermione felt a dull thud inside her head. She frowned and put her own stone into her small handbag, and she realised Sylvie and Abraxas Malfoy were staring at her and Voldemort.

"This Bouillabaisse is delicious," Hermione said, spearing a roast potato. "Sometimes I forget how much I actually enjoy seafood."

"Well," Voldemort said, standing in the foyer of Foss House. "Here we are. Home."

"Home," Hermione repeated. She turned around in a slow circle and breathed in deeply. She seemed to be taking in the heavy dark walnut paneling for the first time, examining the grand staircase that wound in a semicircle up to the first floor with its white, veined marble steps. She moved over towards one of the walls, her low heels clicking on the marble floors that matched the stairs, and she reached her fingers out to the large, elegant pastoral painting that was hanging between the foyer and the lounge. It showed a scene of horses dashing through a field, a willow tree swaying in a summer breeze.

The painting had been ordinary until Voldemort had enchanted it. He'd done a lot of work to this house. He'd gotten rid of most of the Muggles' furnishings, allowing them to move a good deal of their furniture and all of their personal belongings to their new townhouse in London. He'd replaced all of it, for he had loads of money these days. Through a pointed arched doorway was the first of three lounges on the ground level, a lovely buttercream room with brown furnishings and one of two pianos in the house. Voldemort simply must have pianos. The one in the buttercream parlour was a simple oak upright piano, owing to the casual nature of the room. He envisioned mornings in there with Hermione munching on rosemary scones whilst he plunked out Mozart's Rondo alla Turca and the sun shone brightly outside the windows, and -

"Tom?"

He jolted to attention as Hermione smiled a little at him. Her smile did not reach her eyes. She stared upstairs, and he didn't need to push past her powerful Occlumency to know what she was thinking. This house was immense. This wasn't a little flat. These weren't suites inside someone else's house. This was a proper mansion. She couldn't take care of this all on her own. Not properly. She couldn't clean it and cook three meals a day and be happy.

"I will ask the Placement Agency to get an Elf who's amenable to being Freed and continuing on with us," Tom agreed. "I'm not even sure that's something they do. I'm not sure that's a request they will have ever had before. But I'll try. Because you know I love you."

Hermione let out a shaking breath. She reached into the handbag she had across her chest and pulled out her stone. She held it in her hand, and Tom cleared his throat as he pulled his own stone out of his pocket and clutched it in his fist.

I am your most loyal Death Eater, she thought right at him, her eyes serious. He studied her gaze, its caramel colour, and he nodded. He remembered the first time he'd ever seen her. They'd been masked, and she'd been a mystery. He'd almost killed her that night. He'd almost killed her the night he'd figured out that she'd initially come back in time to defeat him. But then he'd seen how she'd fallen in love with him. And she'd let him into her mind over and over since then - sometimes waking, sometimes sleeping - and he'd seen the truth over and over again. He'd seen everything now. He'd seen her whole past life. He'd seen how deeply she'd once hated him. And he knew how intensely she now adored him.

You are my Dark Lady, he thought back at her. Odysseus gave you that Time-Turner to make me whole. Without you, I'd be broken. With you, I can be complete.

Her eyes welled heavily, and she stalked through the foyer. She went through the other side, through the arched entryway that led to the elegant emerald dining room with its long rough-hewn table and velvet-seated chairs. She dragged her fingers over the curtains as she passed them, and she went by the powder room and the coat closet and the side stairwell that led upstairs. She passed through to the midnight blue parlour, which was significantly heavier than the buttercream room on the other side of the house. In here was a fireplace crafted of stout black marble, along with black lacquered furniture and silver-trimmed midnight blue curtains and rugs. There was a shiny black grand piano in the corner of the room, and Hermione gestured towards it.

"Please," she said, "play me something. Since we're home."

"A homecoming piece," he nodded. "Yes, all right. I've got just the thing."

"Have you?" Hermione pulled out her wand and aimed it at the black fireplace. "Incendio."

Flames burst from her wand and illuminated the space as they filled the grate. The midnight blue parlour was bathed in a warm glow, and Voldemort cracked his knuckles as he went over to the piano. He sat on the bench and stared at his reflection in the piano's high-gloss finish. He was handsome now, more handsome than he'd been since before he'd made his first Horcrux as a teenaged boy. He had sharp, high cheekbones and a perfectly sculpted chin. His dark, thick waves had grown in thick and fell rather charmingly over his forehead. His brown eyes glistened with life. His lips were full and dark pink. His skin had a flush of vitality, and it was smooth with virtually no wrinkling. These days, Voldemort felt like he looked even better than his actual age. He didn't feel like he was almost forty-three. He felt good. He felt strong. He looked strong.

Hermione's love for him, and his love for her, had healed him. That much was obvious. How that had happened was unclear. Odysseus Siegel had seemed unsurprised about the entire notion in the brief time Voldemort had had to mention it, and in fact Odysseus had insisted that Hermione would make Voldemort better. But Voldemort had not expected this. He stared down at his hands and realised they looked like those of a young man. Lean, sinewy, rosy. He peeled back the lid of the piano and said softly to Hermione,

"When I had scars and a drooping eyelid and sallow flesh, you thought me almost handsome. And you kissed me and you made love to me even though I was hideous."

He looked up, and Hermione blinked at him from beside the piano. She tucked her wand away and visibly swallowed. She shook her head and whispered,

"It's your power. It's your… intelligence. Your wit. Your ambition. Your shrewd genius, your -"

"So, it's because I'm a Slytherin," Voldemort teased, tapping a key lightly with his fingertip. Hermione guffawed and noted,

"I've known a fair few Slytherins for whom I did not care, Master."

"Don't call me that. Not when it's just us." He went serious then, and she nodded.

"Force of habit. We were at the Malfoys'."

"Mmm." Voldemort curled up his lips a little and chewed his lip. "I aired our laundry about the House-Elf situation. I ought not to have. It isn't proper for an ascending Dark Lord and his wife to speak about such private things in front of…"

He trailed off then, staring at the piano as his face went very hot. He realised at once what he'd done. He'd called her his wife. He shut his eyes and whispered,

"It was a slip of the tongue."

"My mother used to call those Freudian slips," Hermione said with a nervous laugh. She shifted where she stood, and out of his peripheral vision, Voldemort watched her move to stand in front of the fireplace and stare into the flames. He watched her knit her hands in front of her body as she murmured,

"Do you know, I actually got a compliment on my ruby ring the other day? I was in Madam Primpernelle's, in Diagon Alley, getting some Sleekeazy's. You know I go through that stuff like water. Anyway. I was paying and the girl at the till grabbed my hand and exclaimed that it was just the prettiest ring she'd ever seen. So."

"Mmm-hmm." Voldemort stared at the piano keys and arranged his fingers on them. He played a low chord and then tinkled his fingers around the high notes a little, drawling out a delicate sonata. As he played, his heart raced. There was a disconnect between the thrumming of his heart, the acceleration of his breath, and the calm, rocking sort of music he was putting forth.

He tried to think about just what the ring on her finger meant. He'd given it to her to claim her. He'd bought it for her because he'd been falling in love with her and he'd wanted something to mark her as his witch, as the one who made him happy. Then he'd asked her to wear it on her left hand, on the finger where she'd once had wedding rings from Ronald Weasley. For years, she'd worn Ron's rings, but now she'd spent almost a year wearing a ruby ring from Lord Voldemort there. And their mutual love had turned him from a warped, damaged tramp into a handsome, healthy Dark Lord. She was everything, wasn't she? And he'd given her that ring because he had been in love with her. When he'd given it to her, he'd thought he'd known what it had meant. But things felt different now.

As he played through the opulent sonata, Voldemort contemplated just what Hermione had become over the last months. She had sat in on meetings and had helped push Voldemort's agenda for the wizarding world. She had charmed Pureblood donors into giving money to a climbing Half-Blood and his Muggle-born partner. She had privately provided him with reassurance and pleasure and satisfaction, attending Quidditch matches with him, shopping with him, listening to his piano playing, and making love. They'd discussed book after book together. They'd spent late nights staring at the ceiling, murmuring in the darkness, tangled up naked. They'd showered together and whispered against one another's lips as warm water washed over them. They'd laughed at the other's jokes over dinners and had talked policy in his office over rosemary scones.

Voldemort thudded his fingers on the piano keys through the middle, marching section of the piece, and he flicked his eyes to where Hermione stood staring into the fire. She was so beautiful, he thought. She was absolutely perfect. And, whilst it was true that she had once loathed him, she didn't hate him anymore. She loved him now. She was his, and he was hers. She was desirous of him, and selfish of him. And he was protective of her, and possessive of her. They were in love. So what did that ruby ring mean these days?

He finished off the sonata with a flourish of high notes and a few low, quiet chords, and then he let his fingers rest on the keys. He took a few trembling breaths, his heart still thundering inside his chest. He licked his dry lips and shut his eyes.

"It was a slip of the tongue."

Calling her his wife, he meant. Hermione said nothing. Voldemort listened to the fire crackling. He opened his eyes and turned to look at her. She'd taken a few steps towards him, and she was nervously twining her hair around a finger. Suddenly Voldemort's lips had gone dry again. He tried to wet them, tried to swallow past the thick knot in his throat, and he finally whispered,

"Marry me, will you?"

Hermione just nodded. She reached back into her handbag and pulled out her Protean stone, the weapon she'd crafted for Voldemort as a gift. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own, thumbing it and sinking his teeth into his lip.

Yes, she thought simply. Then, I will marry you. I belong to the Dark Lord.

He flew to his feet and rushed to her, seizing her face in his hands. Her stone, her weapon, pressed against her cheek as he crushed her mouth with his and kissed her deeply, realising just what this house meant, what the ring meant… what she was going to mean.

Author's Note: Hello and welcome! To those joining me from Dominus, Particeps, I hope you enjoyed that duet of stories and that you'll enjoy this sequel to Revision and Rescript. I do so enjoy writing Tomione/Volmione and have so much in store for these two in this tale. We'll see Hermione making more weapons, helping Voldemort keep ascending to power, and, obviously, marrying the Dark Lord. But it won't all be smooth sailing! Odysseus Siegel will definitely be making an appearance soon, and not everyone is excited about Lord Voldemort's plans for the wizarding world.

As always, I treasure your feedback like gold, especially on a sequel that has lower readership than the original story. Thank you so very much for reading and reviewing.