A/N: DON'T READ IF YOU CAN'T DEAL WITH MAIN CHARACTER DEATH OR TR/HG. Slightly racy at the end.

READ MY PROFILE FIRST u/13266539/

She didn't understand what it was at first. A book. An old book but a blank one. Either way, it had paper in it and that was good enough for her; she used it to take notes. The notes turned into thoughts and ideas and new things and it became a journal of sorts.

Then it began to write back.

A spell, she thought. Something to give the person a better journaling experience, help flesh out thoughts. But that wasn't the case. She found that out very soon.

It disagreed with her. Argued with her. Pointed out mistakes in the logic she used, the angles she attacked problems from.

Perhaps a more complicated spell. One for magical scientists to use to become better at their work. In any case, it was helpful and she continued to use it.

As she became more familiar with the spell's personality, she would write down thoughts not pertaining to magic at all. Still, it responded. Like it understood. Like it had a mind of its own.

Slowly, she began to understand that it did. That the impossible was possible and this book was not a book; not just, anyway. It was someone. She asked who. A name would help their professional relationship.

Tom Riddle.

An odd name, but not altogether awful. They continued until the professionalism dropped and friendship grew.

Then Tom became snappish, short with her, sometimes caustic.

He knew she didn't understand why he had changed. He understood he was hurting her. He couldn't help it. It was so confusing. He wasn't even real and yet what he was feeling...that he was feeling at all...was very real.

What was it? Why was it happening? Why with her?

She was a mudblood. Filth. Born from two muggles and not fit to...

What a lie.

Oh, he knew just how false it really was.

Because she was brilliant. Her mind shone like a diamond in direct sun. The power he felt from her was vast as an ocean. All the talent...the understanding...the intelligence...

The isolation. The bullying. The mistreatment.

Blindness of what she was, what she was capable of. What her future could be. But he was not blind, no. He saw all too well. The pain, the hurt, the tears falling onto his pages. Every one enraged him.

It drew him to her. He hated it. Hated her...hated not hating her at all but...something else. Something that grew. That...kept growing.

He wouldn't name it. Didn't dare.

But had he hands...

Had Tom a corporeal form...

He would kill a hundred men. A thousand. A million. To keep it forever.

He decided he would. Hermione was his, as he was hers.

He would give her better. He would give her everything.

Finally, she understood. The distance and the change and the everything were all signs of what she herself was also feeling but for him...somehow...he struggled.

It mattered little. He couldn't hide from her. The way he comforted her, supported her, told her she was wonderful. He believed it. Even though she did not. It was like he looked into her soul and saw not the homely and unlikeable girl she and everyone else saw, but saw a goddess waiting to be released from shackles.

It was intoxicating. And she began to slowly see what he saw.

Why should she hide in the dark? Be afraid to raise her hand when she was smarter than anyone else in the room? Worry when she showered that she would be mocked and belittled when she could make water pour from the sky and the bullies could not even fill a thimble?

Why should she feel like less when she was so much more?

She knew what was happening between them. They both did. It didn't even need to be said. It was right. Perfect. A destiny.

It came out, then. The truth. What he was...who he was. Or not was. Had been?

That also mattered little. What mattered was that he was hers. But wasn't, not really.

He needed to be. She needed him to be. Would have him.

So, she did what she did best. She researched and planned and expanded her knowledge. He caught on, of course. He understood what she was doing. Why. He said it was dangerous. She didn't care. He accepted.

They worked together. A long time. So long, it took. So many distractions and less important tasks got in the way but they did it. They found a way.

Tom was a horcrux. But he wasn't the only one. He was one of many. All trapped and created for one man to live. One Tom.

Not Her Tom, though.

So they had to be destroyed. There could only be one Tom. The True Tom. Her Tom. When that happened, he could take form with no obstacles in the way. They would touch, be one. As they were meant to.

But there were so many eyes watching, snooping, questioning. They needed to be gotten rid of. Their minds erased, wiped clean of what she did. Her secret.

It was easy. Memory charms. Sneaking. It was the murder that was hard. Difficult. Not morally, no, she knew what this was for. She knew what the greater good was and she was not a fool, all good things things required sacrifice.

Putting the poison in the cave for the headmaster was a feat. Making it look like no one had been there was moreso. She and Her Tom were so close now. The time was ripe for the rest.

No one suspected. It was perfect. She was loyal, and that was not fake, because she really did need Voldemort dead. Did need to find the other horcruxes. Did need to destroy them. It went so well, so seamless. Until it didn't.

Harry was a horcrux.

She hadn't expected that. Grieved. Wept. Her brother...no. Not him. He was precious. So precious. He saw her, the real her, and he loved her. He appreciated her and treated her as something wonderful, just as Her Tom did. She couldn't use the Killing Curse on him. Not him. Not Harry. Not her Brother in Spirit. She couldn't bear it.

So she didn't.

She used poison instead.

She held him. As the poison began to work. He realized what was happening and he begged her. It was so wrenching... He told her he loved her and she already knew that. He said she was his sister and she knew that, too. He said he was sorry and she began to sob.

She was the one who was sorry. As she'd never been before, doing this. He pleaded with her to stop but she could not. Could only hold him so close as the light in his eyes dimmed. And after. Long after.

The words appeared on the open journal that Harry was gone. Her precious...her friend...her family...gone. Gone. She did not let him go. Long into the night she held her brother, waves of sorrow taking her.

Tom was there. Soothing. Understanding. Strengthening. Helping her through this most difficult part of everything. The one part she might have faltered. She had not.

They, she and Her Tom, buried Harry. It was selfish, yes. But she didn't care. No one else knew where he was. No one ever would. They didn't deserve to know. He was her brother and only hers. His grave was hers. His sacrifice was hers. She would keep it always. She would mourn him for the rest of her life.

She would never recover.

But it was time to finish.

Everything after was easy. Too easy. It felt like nothing at all, probably because it was.

There was only one thing in their way now, one boulder that refused to move itself out of the path of their goal. Voldemort. The filth. The body thief. The interloper. The fake.

She obtained a rifle and learned how to use it. The best, the most destructive, the most precise.

His head exploded when she used it, hidden in the trees. Messy. Final. Wonderful.

Easy.

Never had he expected a muggle weapon. So beneath him. So ordinary. So unmagical. Such a fool. Him and all his ilk.

Tom, Her Tom, had thought that way as well. Once. In the beginning. Before Hermione. Things were different now. They would be different in the future. Talent was all that mattered. And intelligence. Power was one thing, and sure, it mattered. But what was power without the intellect and talent to use it? Voldemort was the object lesson there. Obsession was not the same as intelligence. Tom understood that now.

The wizarding world rejoiced but she did not. They did not. Because they were not done. There was more to do. The fun part.

His form, the book, pressed against her naked skin as she performed the ritual. Her body coursed with so much joy. Victory. Righteous venom. Her hands shook as she drew the symbols on the ground with blood.

Poor Ron.

She had to sacrifice something important to her for the cause. Ron was the last living connection she had to Harry. Harry was still the key, even after everything. She'd already sent her parents away with no memories of her. They wouldn't work. Too far removed from what she'd become - even before Tom. Ron was the only thing that made sense.

Red blood clashed with the orange of his hair but there was nothing for it. She'd only needed a little blood and a death but he had fought her and things had gone sideways. She'd had no choice. No matter. The violence would help the ritual.

His body was in the middle of it all and when she was finished, it began to work.

Everything vibrated with power. Energy. Magic.

All the bits and pieces, the molecules and cells, that once held Ron together fell apart. Reformed. Slowly, painfully and wrenchingly slow, melding back together into something else. Something new. Something...hers.

He stood there. Bright. Gorgeous. Breathtaking. Real...real. There. Her one true love. His arms open, welcoming. His face beatific in happiness and focused solely on her. But she can barely move. Can no more than let out a sound half sob and half laughter.

It doesn't matter. He's already rushed to her. Picked her up. Held her in his arms. His body warm and firm where it touched hers. Mouth soft and impatient as it kissed her. Hands burying in each other's hair, sliding wanton over skin. Soon they would be wed. The binding would be Tom's first magic.

He doesn't care. Doesn't care that she's covered in nothing but in blood. Doesn't care that around her head is a crown of lies and murder. Doesn't care that she's wrapped in a cloak of arts too dark to be on a page. She is everything he had ever dreamed. His other half. The rest of him.

Tom loves her. He is not ashamed. Their love has made him even more powerful.

This was their wedding. Their skin, their raiment. The promises whispered, their vows. The magic pulsing around them, their officiator. The stars and moon and trees, their witnesses. The binding spell tight around their wrists and ankles and necks, their rings.

They became one flesh. One being. What they were made for.

They were where they belonged. Had come home. Finally, blessedly, beautifully. Husband and wife. King and Queen. Priest and Priestess. God and Goddess. Mated for all eternity. And now...

They

can finally

begin.