I am so sorry, guys. It's been an actual year since I updated, and I honestly only have the same excuses as before. Hopefully this chapter makes up for it, but I doubt it will. I hate being a lazy writer, especially where y'all are concerned.

Please let me know what you think of this, and obviously if you have any questions, don't hesitate to drop me a line.

~AI

Chapter 19

He hadn't been lying when he said he didn't understand. Hermione found herself envying his inability to feel love for others; by the same token, it was also a cause for concern that he'd reacted as he had to his own potion. What had been meant to last for a few days turned out, for Riddle, to last for over a week. Much of his personality was still intact, and his work with the Death Eaters and the clientele of Borgin & Burke's didn't suffer. It was only in Hermione's presence that he completely melted; it was like dealing with a sadistic killer puppy as far as Hermione was concerned.

Riddle hadn't seemed to enjoy it one bit. There were several nights Hermione would wake to find him in the lavatory, clawing at his chest, as though trying to pull some parasitic intruder from the cavity. It was what he was doing now, at half-three on the morning of 12 July. Hermione stared at him in the bright light, and then swung her legs over the side of the bed, padding over to him. He looked to her, fear and terror marring his beautiful features as he dug his fingers into his chest. Hermione reached out for him, weaving her fingers with his and pulling his hands away from his chest; it was beginning to show signs of serious bruising.

"What are you doing?"

"I can feel something in my chest." He tried to pull his hands away. "It needs to come out. It needs to come out of my—"

"Riddle."

"No," he muttered pulling away completely. "No, I can get it."

"Riddle, it's not real."

"Yes, it is. I can feel it."

It took quite a lot of effort, but Hermione finally managed to push him up against the sink, his face in her hands, her arms blocking all access to whatever was in his chest that he wanted out so badly. Riddle clutched her shoulders, shaking from head to toe, sweat dripping from his forehead. He was clearly still half-asleep, and Hermione surmised that he must have had a very vivid kind of nightmare brought on, she could only hope, by the potion still ravaging his magic.

"It's not real. It's your potion. You're not used to taking it yourself, and your body is trying to metabolize it." She stepped closer until their faces were mere centimetres away. "What you're feeling isn't real, it'll pass."

"It hurts," he hissed. "Like Cruciatus, but addictive." He shuddered, his fingers digging into her skin. "Why?"

"I don't know. You might have to talk through what you're feeling. You're a sociopath, so that's going to be difficult for you, but we can do it together. If you can walk me through what you're feeling, I'll probably be able to help you." He kept his head bowed, his face screwed up with agony. Slowly, Hermione guided him back to the bed, careful to keep her arms over his chest. Once they were seated on the mattress, her legs wrapped around his waist so as to keep better control of him, she took his hands and laced his spidery fingers through her own. "Talk, you dark bastard."

"Hey."

"I'm sorry, was that insensitive?"

"I probably deserved it, but I'm going to complain about it anyway."

"What's wrong with your chest? What do you feel in it?" Merlin's clogged arteries, this was easily going to be one of the most bizarre conversations she'd ever had.

"You mean besides my heart?"

Okay, so maybe not. "Yes, besides your beating heart, smart arse."

"I…I don't know. I ache. . .but I know that it's my own fault, because I'm damn good at making potions, and I drank what was meant for y— I can still be logical. I can still be highly logical, I can think as I have always thought. . . ."

"Okay. So, what?"

"I want you. . .almost more than I want the glory that is due to me as Slytherin's heir." He was looking away, vacant and desperate. Somehow it was comforting to know he was still a self-satisfied prat, though. Hermione wasn't sure why. "I ache for you, and even though I know it isn't real, it's becoming very difficult to get over it. I know it isn't real. None of what I want with you is real. It can't be, you're a fucking Mudblood."

"You watch your goddamn mouth," Hermione retorted. "And, yes, it is your fault."

"It was meant for you!"

"Yeah, I know. That's why I made you drink it first."

"It was meant to make you love me, not the other way rou—" He stopped midsentence, staring at her, a new look in his eyes. "Oh."

Hermione knew in an instant what he was getting at. "No."

"That's the only explanation."

"Yeah, if you're fucking stoned."

"Muddy—"

"I am not in love with you."

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

"Okay, Queen Gertrude –"

"That wasn't—"

"Yes, it was, arsehole."

"Who needs to watch her fucking language now?"

"Still you, and don't try to out-Shakespeare me, you little bitch, I'll win that fight, sure as you're a masquerading half-breed." She paused to wait for his reaction.

"You love me."

"No, I don't."

"Then give me another explanation for this insanity."

Hermione searched the ceiling and the vacant walls around her, as though they would magically provide the answer she needed to convince an unwavering Dark Lord of her severely lacking loyalties. She came up with nothing. "Give me a couple of days."

"A couple of days, that's the best you've got?"

"For fuck's sakes, I'm out of my depth. I've never had to take a potion that would make me fall in love with a Dark Lord, I've never had to spend every waking moment that I've been in a man's presence riding his penis, and I've never had to time travel and do all that with you." He looked amused, and she wanted to slap him for it. "So I'll come up with an answer, but since these are all variables I'm not used to having to deal with…you'll have to wait a little while." He stared at her. "I'm not in love with you."

He simply stared at her. "You love me."

"I'm going to cut off your penis and feed it to Abraxas. That's how much I love you."

"That seems like an excessive display of affection, we really don't have to go that far."

"No, please, allow me to show you." She made to walk away, as though to follow through, but he gripped her arms. "Oh, you're taking me seriously now?"

"I said you are in love with me, not that you aren't psychotic enough to cut off a perfectly good penis just to prove a non-existent point."

"Except that it's not non-existent, because I don't love you."

"I don't love you either."

Hermione sighed in frustration. "Okay, but you are literally incapable of love. I am not; I love people…just not you."

"Help me reverse this potion."

"I can't."

"Can't, or won't?"

Hermione stared him down. "Pick one."

He kissed her, and she didn't kiss him back. "Help me with this. And then we'll finish the game."

"Jesus, is that still a thing?"

"It's Lord Voldemort, actually, but I'm told the resemblance is rather poignant," he deadpanned, "and you didn't think it was just going to end, did you?"

"I was sort of hoping," Hermione uttered through a poorly stifled groan.

"You weren't worried about your friend in the mirror?"

"I figured you'd broken it."

"Why would you figure that?"

"Because for some reason I thought you were going to be a thorough ass, not half an ass," Hermione said sarcastically. "If I'd realised you were only going in halves, I'd have asked for Draco ages ago. Did you leave him there?"

"I did."

"Left him?"

"Broke the mirror."

Hermione just looked at him, her face as expressionless as she could keep it.

"Don't look at me like that. I didn't say I hadn't, I asked why you thought I'd broken it."

Hermione didn't say anything.

"If it's of any comfort, you were right: I did my best to be a thorough ass."

Still nothing.

"You love me."

She sighed then, and followed it by suddenly head-butting his nose. She heard the audible crack, and Riddle fell back against footboard, clutching his face. "Why?" Hermione finally said, doing her best to control the fury in her voice.

"Because you're a Mudblood and you're attracted to power," said Riddle, pulling out his wand and waving it over his face. The bones cracked back into place, but the blood continued to pour.

"Not. That." The smug look on his face melted a little bit at the coldness in her voice. "Why. Did you. Break. The mirror."

"Look, he's not dead. He's just in a different mirror."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to find him before the Dementors do."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I'm bored."

"You've got an entire wizarding community to take over, you're not going to be able to do it overnight; you've got your Death Eaters you've got to train, you've got to find people who can be corrupted without telling everyone they've been corrupted. . . . At what point are you supposed to have time to be bored?"

He held her face in his now-bloody hands. "Muddy. . .I'm always bored when I'm not fucking you or watching you run about trying to save your friends." Hermione stiffened. "Now don't be like that, you know it's true."

"By your creed, I'm supposed to be dead. That's what you do, you kill Muggle-borns."

"Maybe I'm changing my mind."

Hermione had no response for this, so she eyed him shrewdly. He kissed her unresponsive mouth. "For having a lot of emotions, your personality hasn't really changed all that much."

"Good. That means I'm not totally given over to being a lap-dog."

"Except where those in power are concerned," Hermione challenged, "because, let's face it, how else are you supposed to get what you want?"

A look of fury welled up in his green eyes, and Hermione felt a swooping feeling in her stomach that was equal parts fear and satisfaction. The fingers around her upper arms tightened, and she knew there would be bruises later, if not a serious case of Cruciatus after-effects. It would be all worth it to know that his weakness was being at another's beck and call.

"Let's be clear, Mudblood," he said, "I am servant to no one. They all serve me. And that long list has your name on it, just as it should. Because what else are you good for, but serving me and doing as I say? What other talent could you possibly have but being my own personal fuck-toy? You are a nothing. You will always be a nothing until I say so."

She wasn't sure how she did it, but Hermione managed to keep her cool. "So we're just conveniently leaving out the fact that I took on five of your Death Eaters and won." His expression tightened. "And we're also leaving out the fact that I managed to pick apart your wards; and also that I managed to complete all the tasks in your little 'game' without magic; and also that you have to play your 'game' with me because no one else in your circle is clever enough to keep up? Are we also conveniently leaving out the fact that when you get bored, the only thing you find mentally stimulating is a Mug—"

"YOU'VE MADE YOUR POINT."

"Have I? Because I feel like I could go on forever pointing out the blatant fallacies in your logic."

He settled for glaring at her.

"I'm proving you wrong," said Hermione in a soft sing-song voice, "and you find that irritating. And it makes you angry."

"Shut up."

She continued. "I'm a Mug-gle-born, and I'm bet-ter than you. And you can't sta-and it."

"Shut up now."

She didn't. "Big-shot Voldy-boy can't han-dle a Mug-gle-born. Hey," she said, switching to her regular voice, "maybe there wasn't enough magic. I mean, your mum was a Pureblood, but your dad was a Muggle, so that magic got diluted. And I'm the first in my family to be born with magic, so mine's probably a little more concentrated, and a little stronger than yours." He actually looked for a moment like he would kill her, but Hermione highly doubted it. "No, really, like this could actually be the first time magic and science could constructively coincide with each other." Her brows knitted themselves together. "You should let me look into that after I find Draco."

"Why?"

"Because Purebloods are dying out, due to inbreeding. Come on, Tom, you're a genius in your own right, you know what inbreeding does to the gene pool."

He didn't say anything, preferring just to glare at her silently.

"There are significantly fewer Purebloods in the world, simply because the gene pool is too narrow, and there will always be Muggleborns. Always. No matter what you do, you will never be able to really stamp out Muggles, and there will always be a Muggle family who has a witch or wizard for a child. Think about this, Tom, really think."

The look on his face was frozen.

"You and I both know you just want power, and the Purebloods have all the money to get you there. You know that's why you're courting them. But, Tom, if you want a kingdom, a proper kingdom, you're not going to get there on the backs of Purebloods. There aren't enough, and they won't be able to sustain their bloodlines forever. You've got to mix the genetics. You were raised by Muggles, and you probably scored an O in your Herbology N.E.W.T.s, you, of all people, should know what happens when things get too concentrated in a bloodline."

She stopped there, because if the appeal to logic and science didn't hold sway in his brain, nothing would. Maybe he really was too far gone, maybe he did just really hate Muggles. It wouldn't be the first time she'd tried to have this conversation. She'd had to have it four or five times with Draco before he began to really change his tune.

"You called me Tom."

She frowned. "What?"

"You called me Tom."

She had, indeed. "I. . .look I'm sorry, but you need to get over not liking it, because it is your name. It's the name your mother gave you, and even if you can't love anything, your mother absolutely loved you, she tried to give you a home, at least –"

"Muddy."

"I know, I've got no right to talk about your mother, but consider she knew she was going to die, and instead of trying to convince a family who would most certainly have abused you, she gave birth to you in an institution where there was a chance – a small one, but still a chance – that someone would come along and take you up and love you the way she did, and give you the home she couldn't." Hermione had to practically bite her tongue not to continue.

"Muddy."

"I won't apologize."

"You love me."

"Fuck me, no. I don't."

"That is the only explanation for what is happening to me."

"What, your mood swings? Why is that my fault?"

"Potion." He looked positively stoned. Why did he look stoned? That was sudden. "It's potion. The potion. The potion you gave me. . .I gave me – but for you. . . ."

"Are you okay?"

He nodded. "You love me."

"No, I don't."

"Say my name."

"Voldemort."

"No, the other one."

"Riddle."

"No, the other one."

Hermione stared at him, confused beyond reason. ". . .Tom. . ."

He smiled, and leaned his bloody face into her neck. "Again."

"Tom."

"Please, again. . . ."

"Tom, really, are you okay?"

"No."

"Okay." Hermione rolled him over onto his side, careful to point his face downward so the blood didn't choke the back of his throat. "What's this potion called that you made?"

He shook his head almost indiscernibly.

"Tom—"

He made keening noise, and his closed eyelids fluttered open, and he fixed her with a desperate stare.

"Tom, whatever you put into that potion is not agreeing with you, and there's a chance you're allergic to it. It's probably going to affect your magic in some way if we don't get you an antidote."

This seemed to register in his brain, because he nodded. "I can tell you how to make it."

"Your potion, or the antidote?"

"Antidote."

Hermione nodded, and tried not to feel giddy at the thought of brewing more than basic potions and complex poisons. "Tell me what it needs. . . ."

It had been an abnormally long night, and by the time Hermione had managed to make the potion completely and accurately, Riddle had begun having a seizure. She wasn't altogether sure what had brought it on. If she had to guess (and Hermione Granger hated guessing) it was his magic reacting to an element in the potion; probably one he was allergic to, but she certainly hoped not. It could very well have killed him, and the last thing she needed was to explain to a lot of stupid, angry, and armed Death Eaters that their boss had inadvertently killed himself in his efforts to subjugate her. She'd abandoned the whole antidote altogether in favour of a bezoar. It had been a wild and second guess, but once it had made its way into Riddle's stomach, the seizure had stopped altogether. Hermione was left to hope that the two were not isolated instances. Still, she reasoned, if it had stopped on its own that could only mean that his body was winning its fight, and the bezoar would soak up any residual toxins. Not much could go wrong in that aspect. As to whether or not he would still need the anti-dote…she reckoned that discovery could wait until he was out of harm's way. The seizure left him unconscious, and he was out for several days.

When Riddle awoke from the coma on 16 July, at around four in the morning, he was in high dudgeon, hurling dishes onto the floor, upending the tables, and punching holes in the wall. What woke Hermione was the sound of shattering glass and ceramic. She'd been sleeping in a small make-shift cot on the floor, and had left Riddle in the bed; she hadn't even heard him get up; she wouldn't have known if he hadn't been having a massive hissy-fit. Hermione opted to wait for the noise to die down before she wandered out into the sitting room, judging it unwise to interrupt when he was this angry and not taking it out on her; it took several more minutes before he stopped. When she stepped into the destroyed sitting room, Hermione saw him standing with his back to her in the small kitchenette, hands on the counter shoulders heaving. Hermione wasn't stupid enough to think this was anything more than a lull in the storm. In fact, she had a very good feeling that things were only going to get much worse from this point. If she'd had her wand, Hermione would have repaired all the dishes and furniture; she knew Riddle would do it later, once he'd come to terms with whatever was the problem now.

"Feeling better?" she asked, still slightly groggy. Hermione was stunned to see Riddle shake his head in the negative. "What's wrong?"

He turned to face her slowly, and Hermione bit back a yelp of surprise. He had lost something of his handsomeness, his face the angular sort of waxy paleness it had been when she'd seen him in her own timeline. Clearly they had fucked up somewhere along the way. She hoped it was his fault, and not hers.

"I have made a discovery that I think you will find just as disturbing as I do."

"Is it that your hatred for Muggleborns stems from the fact that you were raised by Muggles, and you're simply prejudiced because you think that magic is too good for them?" She was being cheeky, and she knew she'd probably be made to pay for it later, but, honestly, Dark Lords were so damn tiring with their self-obsession.

"No, but you are not wrong." Riddle's voice was wooden, and he seemed to be trying to pull himself back under control. As he did so, the tense magic permeating the air seemed to withdraw just a little, and the waxiness of his features disappeared until he looked like the Tom Riddle she'd become familiar with over the last few months. "The magic in the potion I created…. My information was faulty."

"Oh, what fresh hell is this?" This was the last thing she needed to hear, especially since she'd had just as much to drink of it as he did.

"Well…." He still sounded strained. "I say my information was faulty. It was not quite the information, it was my understanding of it...just as much as the information…." He seemed to be having difficulty coming to terms with it. "When I fainted—" He looked up at her, finally, and his eyes were wild and manic. "When I fainted, I…. I was injected into my subconscious in a way I have never been before."

"What did you find?"

"I was able to re-examine the steps I had taken, the things I have done." He drew a shaking, long-fingered hand over his eyes. "I ought not to have tampered with it at all. I realize that now. I didn't at the time. It was a very fragile potion to make, tricky, a complete disaster the first time, as Abraxas fucked it up and it literally blew up in my face."

Hermione was beginning to be desperately worried. "What did you find?" she asked again.

"The alterations I made…." He paused, and began to laugh. It was low at first, slowly rising in pitch, manic and desperate. "…the alterations…. Fused our magic!" He put a hand on the counter, doubling over. "My magic, Muddy…and yours! Fused!" And he laughed, loud and long, a horrifying sound echoing off the sparse walls of the flat.

Hermione felt herself going cold. Fused? Fused how? She opened her mouth to ask, but her hyperlogical brain was already getting to the answer: They would feeding off each other's magic, like two parasites whose hosts would never die. No wonder he was upset; the implications were staggering. He would be able to find her wherever she was, there would be no secrets; he would feel her magic, he would know what she had done, could do…. If she ever got her hands on a wand, he would know. If she ever found a way home, Riddle would know. She would be stuck, here, in this past timeline, stuck with Lord Voldemort on his rise to power.

"It explains why it took you longer to bounce back," she finally said.

Riddle had ceased laughing, but he was still bent double. He lifted his head when she spoke, and there was no mistaking his fury. "There is no returning from this, Muddy," he said. "I could sense it. Once the magic of two people is fused…."

Hermione shook her head, her brain still in overdrive. "I don't think it's like that."

"What are you talking about?" he spat.

"It's not a possessive thing," she explained quickly. "You can't possess magic, you can only really channel it. And it's not that one wizard has more magic than another, it's that certain wizards channel magic better than others. If magic were possessive, it wouldn't be possible for Muggleborns to exist. No, it's a channelling thing." She'd been staring around vacantly, as though she could see what she was describing painted on the walls around her. Now she looked back to Riddle, and he was frowning. "You don't think so?"

"No, you have a point," he conceded, straightening his frame. "It would explain why inbreeding is such a problem for Purebloods; they've been damaging the genetic channel." He picked up a chair he'd knocked over in his fury, and sat down, placing his hands on his knees and furrowing his brow in thought. "And I somehow, connected two channels. But how?"

Hermione chewed on this problem, preferring to stand in the sitting room than approach Riddle. "What did you change in the potion?"

"Used a different incantation," he said dully.

"What sort of potion was it?"

"Anima Vinculum," he said, even more dully.

"Jesus Christ!"

"What?"

"You tampered with that?"

"Yes."

"You actually thought you could tamper with the Anima Vinculum, and just walk away?!"

"It's a potion!"

"Yes! A potion created using some very heavy kinds of magic! You don't just add bits of the recipe that you think will go really well together, especially when it's the goddamn Anima Vinculum!" Hermione began massaging her temples, pacing back and forth. "Anima Vinculum. You fucked up an Anima Vinculum, and now we're both tied up…. Why?"

"It was meant to be permanent," Riddle said coldly.

Hermione rounded on him. "You're so goddamn brilliant, you couldn't foresee me not trusting you with a strange liquid I would realize was a potion?!"

"Not my fault Gryffindors have trust issues."

"DON'T," Hermione bellowed. "DON'T MAKE THIS ABOUT HOUSE AFFILIATION."

"Are you cross with me because of what I intended to do, or because we were both caught in it?" Riddle said, getting to his feet. He looked dangerous again.

"PICK ONE."

"You think I'm not cross about this too?!"

"You're just cross because your blind stupidity got us both into this mess!"

It was probably the wrong thing to say just then, but it had to be said, Hermione told herself as she braced for the impact of whatever spell his fury would send her. To her surprise, he stalked to the sofa (which had escaped with the least damage), and dropped onto it.

"It appears," he said after a long while, "that we have reached an impasse."

Hermione nodded in agreement.

"What are your thoughts on the subject, besides that it is my fault?"

"Are you saving retribution for later?"

He stared at her, his expression a mixture of sour and dead. "You are right," he finally replied. "It was my blind stupidity; I ought to have researched it more, ought to have considered it a bit more carefully…." He sighed, stretching out his long legs. "The thing of it is – and I realized this while I was stuck in my subconscious – I cannot hurt you. I can shout at you, I can be caustic, I can be rude, but I cannot physically hurt you. Not that I wouldn't have it in me." He eyed her a moment longer. "I tested that hypothesis when I woke up."

"Your gentility knows no bounds," Hermione retorted.

"My magic immediately Petrified me." Riddle folded his arms over his chest. "I can no more hurt you than you could kill an innocent Muggle."

Hermione smirked. "You do realize, of course, that I will be taking full advantage of this perk."

Riddle tried to fight his own smirk, but gave over to it rather quickly. "I imagine the sex will be even better."

"Really? That's where you're going with this?"

"It's been a few days."

"Yeah, give it a few more, you doddering fool."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? You are."

"My magic doesn't like it."

"That's a bald-faced lie, and we both know it."

"Fine. I don't like it."

"Yeah, but I do."

He eyed her a moment longer. "Want to test it?"

Hermione shook her head. "No."

"You like having sex with me."

"No," she said decisively. "I like not dying. And since you've conveniently taken care of that problem for me—"

"Muddy, we may be conjoined magical channels, or whatever, but you are still my prisoner and I am still your guard. And you're the unfortunate Mudblood whose guard finds her cleverness sexually appealing."

"You only find it appealing because I'm in love with someone else."

"Ah, yes." His tone was no longer teasing and light; it was back to its coldness. "What if I were to simply destroy his entire family? What then?"

"Please don't." They'd had this conversation before, and there was only one way it could go.

"My price is your loyalty and your body," he said calmly. "You know this."

Hermione bit back the tears of guilt and exasperation. "Fine. What do you want from me?"

Seeing his victory, Riddle's body slumped. "All this has left me feeling a bit raw." He got to his feet, and began to make his way back to the bedroom, pulling Hermione along behind him. "Just don't get up in the morning without me."

This kind of blew up and took on its own life; I totally didn't intend this to be how this chapter ended. But I forgot some of the old plot points I was going to use, and had to come up with new ones (the point at which this happens will probably be fairly obvious to everyone). I think they're just as good.

Please review!