Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"He shall never know I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same."

― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Soul bonded. She glared across the scuffed table at him.

Soul bonded.

Getting - quite literally - caught up in the Veil had had the worst imaginable consequence, and now if she didn't agree to this ridiculous farce Hermione would be dragged back into death with him. The outline of his body was slightly blurred. It was growing fainter with every hour that she waited to consolidate their bond.

Tom Marvolo Riddle been corporeal (again) for almost seven hours now. For the first four hours he'd been shut in the room while the Unspeakables panicked about their mistake. Not her mistake, although they'd tried to blame her at first as they scrambled to cover their backs and waggle fingers at each other.

Whoever Unspeakable Number 37 was, Hermione sincerely hoped he was heading for a demotion. At the very least. He'd had one job, she reflected. One job, which was to maintain the barrier between her and the Veil while she examined it more closely. He had managed to royally fuck it up.

With every passing hour since Unspeakable 37's Unspeakably Bad Fuck Up, her head had ached more and more insistently. Three hours in, she'd felt herself pulled unnaturally towards the interrogation room, awkwardly hovering outside. An hour later she'd barged in and chucked them all out so that she could think in peace.

Her skull no longer throbbed - but somehow that was even worse.

She couldn't think, but she couldn't leave either. She'd tried.

Soul. Bonded. Soulbondedsoulbondedsoulbonded.

Soul bonded to a man who had thought nothing of ripping his own into seven pieces: not exactly how she'd envisioned the future. Yet, she had to admit it was preferable to those terrifying seconds when the Veil had begun to wrap itself around her, drawing her into its icy whispering darkness. Into oblivion.

Unspeakable Number 62, whoever they were, deserved a very big reward for managing to pull her back... even if the consequence had been a second body following seconds later.

He'd landed on top of her. She was still quite cross about that.

"Just out of curiosity, was Arithmancy your worst subject in school or were you generally stupid?" she asked snottily, breaking a lengthy silence.

Riddle started, and she was pleased to see that for the first time in their not-exactly-a-conversation she'd actually shocked him. She had spent most of the three hours they'd been sitting in the Aurors' interrogation room silently glaring at him over the table while he tried to persuade her that he was fully reformed and absolutely worth taking a chance on.

She wasn't stupid enough to believe that. Still, she was a pragmatist, not a hero, and if there really was no alternative...

Tom Riddle wanted to live, very badly.

"We're discussing our permanently bound future together and you would like to know my skills with Arithmancy?"

And oh boy, did permanently mean permanently. Even, it was hypothesised, after death.

"I only ask because it occurred to me, quite a long time ago actually - when I was helping defeat your former self," she smiled sweetly at him before continuing, "that only someone who was extraordinarily bad at maths would choose to split their soul into seven as you did."

"And why is that?" Riddle asked, tersely but clearly trying to remain polite. Hermione couldn't tell if he was humouring her or if she'd genuinely intrigued him.

"Well - wait let me draw it for you. It's much the easiest way to explain basic fractions." She conjured a piece of paper and a pencil and he scowled at his hands, cuffed to the table and unable to hold a wand.

Yet. Legally speaking, she doubted they'd be able to even put him on trial him for the crimes committed by his former self. If she agreed to this, she'd be giving Lord Voldemort a wand and then... Anyway, she'd worry about that later.

"Right here's a whole. Now, split it in two and you get two halves. This one's you, and that's your Diary. Now, your father was next yes? So, the Gaunt Ring. Did you know it was one of the Deathly Hallows the entire time?"

His knuckles went white and his eyes flashed. Hermione tssked at him before continuing.

"I'm sure you're quite gutted that you didn't recognise its real powers... So we'll divide again, only this time of course you're left with a quarter of your soul in your human body. Now, we're down to an eighth with - what? Oh, Hufflepuff's Cup? Or the Locket? Ah, yes of course. Now, down to one-sixteenth with the murder of Hepzibah Smith. We will be discussing your idiocy regarding House Elves at a later date...

"The diadem was next if memory serves, so that leaves - can you manage to work out the exact fraction of yourself that you managed to retain until your accidental seventh Horcrux? Harry's fine, by the way."

"One over sixty-four if, as you are assuming, the soul is severed in two each time."

"And then you still made Nagini! Your body contained a hundred-and-twenty-eighth of your original soul at the time of your defeat. I suppose didn't read Magnus Viborg's extremely illuminating essay on the subject. It was published in 1628, so I'm not really sure how you missed that one. Not to mention that it's referenced in Secrets of the Darkest Art. All efforts to disprove him - and the evidence of my own encounters with your Horcruxes - indicate that he was correct. I mean, you couldn't even manage to possess a one year old child despite being conveniently deposited in him. I'm not sure I could bear to be forever bonded to someone quite so stupid."

She sat back triumphantly. Her headache was quite gone.

Riddle actually growled at her. This was actually a lot more fun that she'd anticipated - all those years of frustration and finally the correct person to vent at.

Forever, though. That part was rather a dampener.

"Now, we've got quite a lot to talk about if I'm going to agree to this. I like living so I might, but I'm also pretty keen on other people living. Taking you with me would probably be a great act of martyrdom. Terribly Gryffindor. I expect they'd erect another statue. And I can't have you running around killing anyone; it would make me look bad."

"I promise I won't."

"Well now, that is convincing."

He smirked. She examined his face. It was ridiculously, absurdly handsome, all dark eyes and cheekbones you could cut diamonds with, framed by neatly-parted wavy hair. But his outline was getting fainter. He was less human and more the image of what a spirit believed a human might be.

"You're sixteen aren't you." It wasn't a question. "They've - or it's or whatever happens over there - put you back in your sixteen-year-old body. The last time you were whole, I suppose? I'm twenty-five. I refuse to become soul bonded to a child."

"I'm sure an adequate ageing potion can be located."

She shrugged. She could make a permanent one: it wouldn't be too difficult. Besides, his age was hardly the decisive factor in her decision here. It was this: either she could essentially marry Tom Riddle - only a soul bonding was so much more than that, indeed it would be a marriage of their very essences - to anchor them both to this side of the Veil... or she could die with him.

But she couldn't leave the damned room. The urge to touch him was becoming harder to ignore. Would she be stuck with him forever (and ever, and ever, and so forth) even if she didn't go through with whatever the highly irregular and secret ceremony was?

"You seem quite well-read in the Dark Arts, Miss Granger. I'm... surprised."

This time it was her turn to smirk.

"Those particular books are given freely to students with the capacity to withstand their temptations. It was actually Professor Dumbledore who arranged for me to have them all." She smiled at him smugly."I've built quite a library since then, all sorts of rare texts, I suppose you'll see it later. Not that I've made a decision, but it's getting late and I'd like to go home. You might as well be bound as a prisoner in my flat instead of this appalling room. Apparently we can't be separated until either I agree to this or we die, which seems rather unfair."

Her head was pounding again now, harder than ever, and she trusted her own potions much more than the Ministry's. Not to mention how debilitatingly tired she was after her brush with death that morning.

"Fine with me, but you might want to gauge the timescale before rushing off home. In case you hadn't noticed I am beginning to fade."

She called to the two Aurors standing guard outside the room. Luckily Harry and Ron hadn't been assigned this particular duty. Hermione wasn't actually sure if they'd been informed of this unfortunate development yet); they came rushing in as though she were being harmed. Hermione caught the end of Riddle's eye-roll with her own.

"I would like to go home, what exactly is my timeline for a decision here? He's starting to fade."

"Um well - think we'd need to consult the Unspeakables on that one."

Presumably no one actually knew, because this had never, ever happened before. It was only fortunate - if that was the word - chance that had drawn an expert in the subject to the panicking (not a sight often seen) Unspeakables.

It had been an expert on soul magic, who'd recognised the initial tie between Riddle and herself. She had been the one to recognise the man as Riddle though. His face was burned forever into her memory after destroying the Cup horcrux.

"Right. Well you go and do that, and your charming friend here can make arrangements for this idiot to be imprisoned in my flat overnight. I'm going home. I'm so tired I don't care if we do die - and I won't be around to regret it but you'll be the ones who lost a war hero so you'd better hope we've got till the morning."

"Yes, Miss Granger, we'll go and sort that out straight away. Need to speak to the Minister, he'll be down and -"

"Yes, fine, just get on with it."

They left and she sat back in her chair, rubbing her temples. Her headache was increasing by the second.

"Quite the bossy little war hero aren't you?" he commented, but he was smiling.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Riddle. The entire Auror department is shit-scared of me."

"Why is that?"

"No idea. Quite useful though."

Possibly because they'd witnessed her break-up with Ron three years ago, or because she'd been known to correct even very senior officials, or because she was very good friends with the Minister - bonds formed fighting on the back of a thestral were pretty set in stone - or maybe it was just because she was Hermione Granger and she had a tendency to always get her way and be absolutely right whilst doing it.

Actually, now she thought about it, she wondered if it was because they knew what she'd done to Umbridge, but as everyone was so reluctant to bring it up in her presence she couldn't be certain.

"You seem very in charge here..." Riddle was looking interested now, and a bit greedy. That was concerning, but predictable enough. "Aurors running at your word, Unspeakables letting you experiment in the Death Chamber without taking their vows... Why is that?"

"Why did they Unspeakables allow me in?"

"Why is everyone so keen to do your bidding? But yes, why were you allowed to experiment? Not that I'm complaining, naturally, just curious."

"I'm not sure actually. I just asked, and they said of course I could." His eyes climbed up towards his hairline. "I was trying to find out more about it and if it actually lead into death itself or if it was a separate, and therefore accessible, chamber. Clearly I have my answer now. People assume all sorts of things, but it never occurred to anyone that it might be a two-way door. I was just examining it to see if it would be possible to get the last person in back out - to see if one went through that way if it was different from a normal death, if you like - until that reprehensible idiot messed up and pushed me against it. What I still don't understand is why you came out. You've had enough chances at rebirth already, surely?"

You were supposed to be Sirius.

"Yes, horribly unfair isn't it?" He had the audacity to grin. "Perhaps, had someone else touched it, someone else would have come out?"

"You are looking forward to being soul bonded to a Muggleborn, then?"

"You are highly intelligent, rather beautiful, and appear to have everyone quaking in their boots. I am certainly not opposed to the idea. And as you so succinctly put it, I like living."

"I loathe you."

"But do you really? How many men have you met who really challenge you... Hermione? I have been challenging you since you entered this world although you didn't know it and nor did I. You, the only person not of my line in a millennium to work out that there was a Basilisk in Hogwarts. Did you know that? A thirteen-year-old Muggleborn girl and you saw what no one else, not even that fool Dumbledore, could see. You kept Potter alive for years, you broke into Gringotts and kidnapped a dragon. You are quite extraordinary. Perhaps the Veil chucked me out because you touched it."

"How do you know about all that?"

"Lots of people to chat to when you're dead. Besides the earlier Aurors were quite gossipy. Something to do with a loose tongued ex-boyfriend spilling secrets?"

Ron, boasting in his cups again. Merlin.

"Are you serious? You've been talking about me in the after-life?"

"I couldn't move on, Hermione. I was stuck - shredded in pieces. They've been working on me to feel remorse since your little chum Potter ruined my diary. And every time you destroyed a Horcrux, there were the voices of the dead, and of -" He frowned and stopped. "I can't remember but... Each single part of me had to feel remorse. It was far beyond any of the Muggle conceptions of Hell preached to me by the nuns at the orphanage. My memory of my time there is getting hazier... but until you pulled me through that Veil I was in a world of pain beyond anything, trapped, forced to relive over and over and over again the harm I caused to others, to confront them. Including you are your little friends. I heard no end about you lot. And now I am whole. You are quite right, I was a fool and I ripped myself apart in a fool's quest, but let me assure you I have paid the piper for that. I was too arrogant to believe that it would ever come to the total destruction on every part, and so I ignored all the warnings about the price to be paid after death... an eternal price. But not, apparently, for me - thanks to you."

She was silent because, really, what you say to that? He had finished on a smug note but there had been a real tinge of horror in his voice. She almost felt pity and then, of course, he ruined it.

"You might well loathe me but you cannot deny that I fascinate you. Imagine what we could accomplish together. If I'd had you by my side perhaps I would never have made the mistakes I did."

"You do fascinate me, I'm genuinely curious as to how anyone so allegedly brilliant could make so many mistakes, but apparently not nearly as much as I interest you. And let's get one thing straight, right now. You'll be by my side. You spent fifty years fucking it up so now you can sit and watch my masterclass in how to get everything you want done, done."

"So we are agreed, you will bind yourself to me?"

"If it comes to it, I will be binding you to me. I'm the one with the untarnished soul and life-force here. I just... I'd like time to research the side-effects first."

And that was that. Soul bonded to Lord Voldemort. Except he wasn't Lord Voldemort: he was what he would have been had he not been bad at maths. For all her demurring she knew she was going to agree. She was far to ambitious to die yet, and there was so much left she had to do. It had taken her this long to sort out the disgraceful mess regarding the legal system and sentient Magical beings; she hadn't even started on the laws regarding witches and wizards yet. No, it was not her time to die.

Soon afterwards, Unspeakable Number 11 (they wore helpful silver badges with Roman numerals on) came into the room and bowed to her.

"Miss Granger, we believe you have a matter of hours to make the decision, if that, and would request you do not leave the Ministry tonight."

Her breath hissed out through her nostrils. Her pounding head sang soulbondedsoulbondedsoulbondedsoulbondedsoulbonded.

"I've made it. I'm choosing life. You can do your ridiculous ceremony, but my friends ought to be warned first. I'd like them to be present, if it's possible? Especially Harry..."

Although no doubt that would bring all sorts of problems. Perhaps presenting him with a fait accompli would be better? But... this was her wedding day of a sort. Harry and Ron had to be there, despite the circumstances.

"Very well. We will make the preparations."

"I'm extremely tired, how long do you think it will take?"

"We can be ready in half an hour. Time is of the essence."

"Fine. Send someone to collect us when you're ready."

He bowed and left the room.

She had half an hour left of freedom. Half an hour to prepare Ron and Harry... her headache increased dramatically and she saw Riddle flinch with pain.

"You too? Presumably this damnable headache will go away when we're properly bonded?" she asked.

"One can only hope."

.

.

Shockingly enough, Harry and Ron didn't take the news well. On the upside for Hermione, however, someone else got the happy job of explaining the situation to them and they'd already had Minister Shacklebolt to calm them down a bit before they arrived in the purgatory of Tom's holding cell so there was less disbelief and more resigned anger.

"Can't you just wait? There has to be another way!" Ron protested, grabbing her arm. "What about bonding to someone else?"

"I can't do that, we're linked. I can't even leave the room now and with every hour that he fades I have to stay closer. There isn't a choice here."

"Don't you think we make a good match?" Tom interrupted helpfully, an innocent expression pasted on his face. He was clearly enjoying every last second of the confrontation with her friends.

"Well you can bond with him and then we'll kill him!" Ron offered, ignoring Riddle.

"If you had half a brain, Weasley, you'd have realised that if I die, she dies." Tom said, eyes glinting. "Ironic isn't it? Finally a horcrux of mine that you can't destroy."

"You are not helping Riddle! And I am not your horcrux." she snapped, and jabbed her wand at him, silencing him. He rolled his eyes, but continued to smirk.

Harry was just sitting, head in hands in despair. She felt quite sorry for him, but equally they were making such a fuss, and she needed to think.

"Why isn't my scar hurting?" Harry asked, and Hermione wanted to hit him for making it all about himself. She knew he didn't mean badly but surely it was obvious?

"Harry you don't have a bit of him in your head any more. Even if we'd missed a horcrux and he'd come back as Lord Voldemort you wouldn't feel a thing now. As it is this, um, this version of Riddle is, well, a different person. Technically speaking. He's not, you know, reformed or anything, but he's... I don't know how to put it. A copy. A pure version of what he could have been. And don't take that as a compliment," she hissed at the Problem Himself.

They were interrupted by an Unspeakable, Kingsley, and two Aurors. It was time. And only just in time, judging from Tom's outline, which was getting blurrier and blurrier. They had to hurry. She lifted the silencing spell as they undid his handcuffs (she suspected those had become merely decorative as he lost solidity anyway, but he was behaving - for now).

As they left the room, she studied him for a moment, taking advantage of his eyes moving off her. At least he was handsome, even if he was a reprehensible bastard, and he was - despite her earlier words - extremely intelligent.

She wouldn't get bored, whatever else lay in store.

.

.

They walked in silence back down to the Department of Mysteries. Hermione didn't know what a soul bonding ceremony entailed, and indeed it would be illegal under normal circumstances. But she knew that once it was done, it was done - forever and whatever came after 'ever' had finished. In life, and in death she would be stuck with this man.

She was having second thoughts, truth be told, but she just wasn't ready to be done yet. She wasn't ready to die, so she'd have to face this challenge with all of her Gryffindor courage (and her Slytherin cunning, there had never been need to mention the hat's words to Harry and Ron but she remembered - if your birth were under different circumstances... or you were a little older you would find your place well in Slytherin... Sometimes I think I sort too early).

They kept going, until they were standing in the Entrance Chamber, the eerie blue light sending chills down her spine as it always did. She was glad that no one could see her eyes fill with tears, and hurriedly blinked them away. What was done was done, and she would just have to make the best of it.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked Kingsley - the Minister, Hermione corrected herself out of habit, but it was the Unspeakable who answered, face hidden beneath a cowled hood.

"We are entering the Ever-Locked Room, Mister Potter. You will be unable to speak of this room once you have left it, for its secrets are more closely guarded than any others we hold here. Do not touch anything," he appeared to be glaring at Ron, as though he knew about the brains...

Then for a moment they couldn't hear anything, ears muffled as the Unspeakable stood facing one of the twelve doors, lips moving in a chant. He bowed, and the door swung open.

She followed the Unspeakable, Tom Riddle close behind her.

"You are beginning to fade, Hermione," he whispered, and she looked down at her hands in fear.

He was right, and it was like all the air had been sucked from her lungs, her head pounding and dizzy until he took her arm, touching her for the first time, and the air came rushing back, both their outlines steadying a little.

His eyes were so dark in the gloomy light of the passage they had entered, and she felt trapped in them for a moment.

"Go on," he muttered, but took her hand as though he were anchoring himself. It wasn't romantic, but a shock of warmth ran up her arm.

.

"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all."—Albus Dumbledore

.

The passage ended, and they stepped out into a high-ceilinged chamber. She couldn't see through into the room, though, as her view was obscured by a golden mist burning almost too bright to look at. The air was filled with a music like that of phoenix song, and Hermione could feel the swirling magic of an ancient power, more terrible and sublime than any held within the Chamber of Death.

She stepped into the mist and almost dropped to her knees with the shock of it, heat rushing through her body, leaving her panting but unharmed. Next to her, though, Tom swayed back, grasping her hand so tightly that she almost cried out. She looked up at him to see his pale face twisted in pain, dark locks sticking to his sweating forehead, tears running down his cheeks.

"We must go on," the Unspeakable said, and she walked forward, pulling him with her. The mist began to clear and she saw the chamber rise up and forward, white marble shining everywhere, and a great golden fountain (she couldn't help reflecting that Wizards really weren't known for their good taste, even in such hallowed surroundings) filled with a potion shining like mother-of-pearl, steam rising like spirals... she breathed in and was hit by a smell of leather and spice and parchment and dark chocolate and a smell that had no name but was the colour of the forest in high summer, green and dark. The air smelt of Tom Riddle, and she wanted to scream that surely it was too soon for that, they weren't bonded yet, but the faded outline of her skin and the feel of his hand still clasped in hers indicated that of course she was tied to him already, had been tied to him since the moment he fell from the Veil, and whatever this ceremony was, it was merely an affirmation of that bond.

They walked past the fountain, Harry, Ron and the Minister close behind, and she had to hand it to Kingsley - whatever he'd said to them before they entered the tunnel had kept them in check so far.

At the very end of the room, five more cowled figures stood around what appeared to be a circular raised stone dais. Not white marble this time, mercifully. There was quite enough of that everywhere else in the room.

She didn't have time to examine the chamber properly; in fact it felt as though some unknown force was keeping her eyes forward, but they passed many things, nooks and entrances, tapestries and symbols, that flickered in the corner of her eye. She tried to turn her head as a pale winged being floated past but she couldn't.

"Did you see that?" she whispered in awe.

"Yes," Tom replied, faintly and she looked up at him. His face was even paler than it had been, jaw clenched stiffly as though he were in pain.

"Are you alright?"

"Just keep walking will you?" he hissed.

When they got to the dais, the Unspeakable leading them bowed again and stepped back to join the others. One was holding a great staff, two snakes swirling around it, topped with wings wrought in gold.

"The caduceus!" Hermione exclaimed, and could have sworn she saw a smile on the Unspeakable's face, hidden as it was.

"I see the bonding has begun," a woman's voice (at least, Hermione was about eighty percent sure it was female) came from under the cowl. "We must hurry. There will be time for explanations later. Please step onto the dais, and remember whatever happens do not let go."

Hermione's grip tightened around Tom's hand as stepped on the dais, and stood facing each other. She held her other hand out and he took it. Her hands were shaking a little and she wished she could take a moment to compose herself, but the Unspeakable struck the staff down onto the dais, and the stone trembled beneath them, as an arc of light enclosed them, holding them trapped.

And then an otherworldly song filled her ears, as beautiful and terrible as siren song. There was no going back now, she knew, and she held on tight as a horrific pain ripped through her body.

A silvery shadow began to rise from her chest, and she stared in horror. She looked at Tom and saw a mirror image, duller than her own as though tarnished, a shadow version of himself floating upwards, half joined and half out of his body.

Their souls (for what else could it be?) rose up and up and came together, and then she was screaming because she could feel everything, remember everything that it meant to be Tom Riddle, as though she had become two people, and it was like ice and fire coming together in a freezing, burning pain like no other she had experienced.

She couldn't see any longer, eyes blinded by tears, and she fell to her knees, clinging onto his hands, and he fell with her, clutching her tightly into his arms, screaming more terribly than she was.

As the pain began to clear she forced herself to look up and saw the souls locked in a battle and an embrace at the same time, burning with light as though they were welding together against their will... and then there was only darkness, welcoming her into oblivion's arms like a mother.

.

.

When Hermione regained consciousness, she found herself still lying on the dais, but the light of the ancient magic surrounding them was gentler now and not terrible, a soft warmth slowly fading, like the embers of a fire.

She sat up, still holding Tom's arms and he was stirring too and then his mouth was on hers, hungry and she felt as though she were falling through a galaxy of stars.

When he pulled away he stared down into her eyes for a moment, and she wasn't sure but it looked like he was absolutely terrified.

"Happy birthday," she said, stupidly, and to her surprise he started laughing.

"You can step down now, Mr and Mrs Riddle. The ceremony is complete." The woman again - her voice low and cool, but musical. Hermione, reminded of their audience, was suddenly embarrassed by the spectacle they'd made.

Mrs Riddle. Good god. No concept of keeping your maiden name in the magical world so there she was. Hermione Riddle.

"I should make one thing clear, husband," she whispered, "if you trying anything like your old tricks, if there's even a whisper of murder or evil I will kill myself and take you with me. If I die, you die, remember?"

"As if I could forget," he spat, but offered a hand to help her up nonetheless and they stepped off the dais to face their life together.

.

. 

Chapter Text

.

Hermione got home to the smell of simmering onions and garlic. Tom had decided to learn to cook a month ago. She had to confess – he was amazing at it. She'd spent years existing off scrambled-eggs-on-toast or salads or takeaways, never really bothering to cook for herself but now… a feast every night.

She could almost understand Ron's constant griping that she didn't cook like his mother, now she knew what it meant to come home to such glorious fare.

"I hope you never get a job," she muttered, dropping her work robes onto a chair.

He wrinkled his nose in annoyance and handed her a glass of wine without replying.

His face (now aged to match her own, thank the druids) was as unbearably handsome as usual but he looked stressed.

"It's still deeply insulting that I have to retake my exams," he said eventually. "I mean don't they know who I am?"

Hermione had been (not to put too fine a point on it) utterly delighted when Tom had been told that he couldn't use his previous qualifications without also facing all the charges associated with being Lord Voldemort. She'd been even more pleased when he'd seen the syllabus and realised that there had been just enough changes in the past fifty-odd years that he couldn't just sit them straight away. He had to actually study.

It was brilliant.

"Maybe you'll get a better mark in Arithmancy this time?"

She'd looked up his records, of course. She'd beaten Tom Riddle in three subjects: Arithmancy, Charms, and Transfiguration. She'd fixed a copy of her results over his desk with a permanent sticking charm after that.

He'd had a small tantrum, destroying only one building, but he'd settled down and started working afterwards. And when he was bored of reading books written for people many decades younger than him, he cooked.

And baked. She had photographs, which he'd made her take a Wand Oath not to send to Harry.

"What are you cooking?" she asked, smiling coyly.

Being dead for so long, and monstrous for so long before that, and incorporeal for so long before that did amazing things to one's earthly appreciations. He'd become, entertainingly enough, a foodie.

It was hilarious.

"Moules marinière. Have some more wine and shut up."

"You are so charming, darling."

"Your mother rang," he said after a few minutes.

He hated when her mother called, partly because (as far as she could tell) it annoyed him that her parents were clever, sophisticated and kind, and altogether removed from the Muggle figures he'd grown up with, and so it was hard to dislike them. She suspected the other part was because, when he'd experienced her entire life in that weird fucking chamber, he'd also experienced familial love for the first time. Tom probably loved her mother through Hermione's memories of her and that must be very confusing after seventy years of not knowing what it felt like.

"Did you have a nice chat?" she asked innocently.

"Yes, they're coming back from Australia. For Christmas. I –" he looked panicked and bent down to the oven so she couldn't hear him properly but it sounded like he said he'd invited them to stay. For the holidays.

She stopped herself from laughing aloud with great difficulty. Her hapless, idiotic, brilliant, evil husband had invited her parents, probably by accident, and certainly because her mother had manipulated him into it.

"I just – she was saying she didn't know where they'd stay but they wanted to see you on Christmas and it had been so long since you'd all spent it together in England and – anyway. Eat."

He thrust a plate in front of her and sat sulking, eyeing up her reaction to the food.

She tasted it. It was amazing.

"This is delicious, Tom. I hope you're looking forward to making your very first Christmas dinner."

He threw his glass against the wall and walked out.

It was adorable.

.

.

.

They'd been married for three months, Hermione realised, as she finished her mussels in peace. That was quite amazing actually – three months of living with a man supposed to be the Most Evil Wizard to walk the earth or whatever and it was going quite well really.

Well, sometimes they lost their tempers and duelled each other, and this was the second house they'd lived in because they'd accidentally burned the first one down, but all things considering it was rather a success.

He liked her. She could feel it through their weird and deeply creepy bond. She'd have known anyway, probably, because he hadn't been researching how to get out of it, and nor had she if only because this was the only way she was actually totally safe from him and if he did anything too drastic she'd could, well, deal with it. By killing herself, sure, but if he knew how reluctant she was to do that he would also know that she would if she had to. If she died, he died.

That was both leash and risk, and it made him extremely over-protective. Like the time she'd been held up late at the office and he'd come to find her in a total panic.

That had been sort of sweet, really, until she'd found out how many people he'd hexed to get into the Ministry and to her office. Technically he wasn't meant to go into government buildings unescorted, as he was still in a probationary period where no one trusted him enough to let him near anything important but where they also couldn't actually do much about knowing who he was/had been/it was all a bit confusing.

He'd hexed seventeen people just to check she was alright.

It was weirdly… endearing, even if she had laughed at him for a full five minutes before she could explain that he probably didn't have to worry about her.

Hermione Riddle was quite a capable witch.

.

.

She hadn't slept with him yet. She'd been tempted, of course, because he was was so beautiful and sometimes when they were arguing about something it just hit her how much cleverer he was than anyone else she'd ever met.

How he just measured up.

It was so annoying – of all the men – literally anyone who had ever died ever ever ever and he was her soul match or whatever it was supposed to mean that she'd dragged him out of death to be with her.

Something had picked him over every. other. person. ever.

It could have been Merlin himself, and she'd have been less baffled. Although baffled wasn't exactly the right word any more because the more time she spent with him, the more it actually made sense.

And that was in itself baffling and –

- she quelled her rampaging thoughts.

Sighing with irritation because she felt guilty about teasing him - he was still a bit oversensitive when it came to teasing, having never actually had friends - she waved her wand and sent everything in the kitchen dancing into a quick frenzy of self-cleaning.

Another charm and the sparkling dishes tidied themselves away.

Tom was so messy when he cooked, she reflected, wondering if it was a boy-thing (she'd have to ask Ginny) or if it was just one of his many irritating idiosyncrasies.

She took his plate, repairo-ed glass, and the bottle of wine and went to find him.

He was sitting reading at the table in the window of their smaller sitting room, which they used as a library. Hermione put the plate down, poured him a glass of wine, lit a fire and then picked up her own book.

The tension gradually dissipated, he'd probably just been hungry, and eventually he broke the silence.

"I've got a job."

Oh. Oh. That was new. She was immediately concerned – what sort of employer would take him on?

"That's exciting. Where are you going to work?"

"There's this group… they're setting up a university. A magical university. I've been asked to join one of their research departments. Magical Theory."

She was jealous, actually. Although her work – fixing everything wrong with the way this society was run – was important and she couldn't stop yet, it would have been nice to be asked.

She supposed he was probably more than qualified for this at least.

"Not… teaching?" she asked, tentatively. However bright, he probably ought not be allowed near impressionable minds just yet.

He glared at her. "No. Just research. Writing."

Well, then. That was perfect really.

"We should celebrate," Hermione offered.

"That would be – good. I'm going to bed now." He apparated, leaving his plate and wine glass on the table. She heard him moving around upstairs for a while. He was so... odd. It was strangely endearing.

She wondered if he was lonely. He barely left the house, and although it was a spacious one in Holland Park, with six bedrooms and a Potions lab on the top floor she thought that might get boring after three months.

.

.

.

Six months later.

She missed his cooking. He was so good at it. He was good at everything.

He was even better at kissing than cooking. She knew that because the night before Tom Riddle, her husband, had shoved her against the wall at the top of the stairs after they'd walked up to bed, still arguing about the magical creature rights, and snogged her till she was breathless, mindless, arching against him.

It had been idiotic, she reflected, prodding a chopstick into the takeaway box in front of her. It was Pad Thai from the Thai restaurant she didn't like. They used frozen prawns. She wished he'd never got a job. She had grown used to Michelin-level cooking and now he was always busy.

"Are we going to this?" he asked, disturbing her, waving an invitation.

She blushed, and hated herself.

"No. I hate them," she snapped.

They ought to go, really, rational-Hermione said, but the very thought of twirling insipidly around the ballroom in Malfoy Manor made her want to scream and burn down the house.

And why should she have to associate with his people?

"Your… friend Harry flooed my office earlier. He said I ought to make you go, but if you don't feel up to it…"

Fucking prat.

A challenge.

"Fine, we can go. I don't care."

.

.

They went. Hermione thought it was worth it, just to see his gobsmacked face when she walked down the stairs in her aubergine silk robes.

She scowled at him, but he'd just laughed and pushed up against the wall again and kissed away all her lipstick.

He really was evil. He really was good at setting her body on fire.

She took his hand.

"Are we doing this?"

.

.

"You ought to run for Minister," he said one day, thirteen years later, stroking down the naked length of her spine.

"Why the fuck would I want to do that?" she snapped. She'd been trying to go back to sleep. She was tired. They had three children under the age of eight.

She wondered where it had all taken such a detour.

"You'd be perfect," he muttered, distracting her as he kissed her thighs, her cunt, sent her spiralling into an ecstasy only he could offer (God knew, she'd tried).

"You are such a power hungry slut, darling," she hissed as her orgasm crashed down.

"Mmm," he agreed, pressing into her, until she forgot her name.

"I'll think about it," she said, as they lay tangled together afterwards.

She'd decided to be Minister when she was fourteen, but he was so much more enthusiastic about tasks when he thought they were his idea, and she really would need him to behave.

Not that that had been a problem so far. If anything public loved him. They always did love a reformed villain, though. He volunteered with orphans, founded an initiative called Mentors for Muggleborns, campaigned for all manner of worthy causes, even developed a treatment for longterm Cruciatus Curse damage.

Even Harry liked him. Harry.

But Hermione knew better, even as she dissolved under him, wrists pinned back against the headboard, knew what he wanted.

She knew him, every facet, too well to simply like. He was just this: a part of her. Half her soul, walking the earth beside her. But he was the perfect consort. And that was what she needed – even if he thought it was his idea (how adorable, he still thought he was in control. It was so sweet).

"What's for lunch?" she added. "The monsters will be home from that thing soon."

.

.

Five years later

Minister Riddle met her oldest friends, her husband and her youngest child, naughty little Merinda who was bidding to be just as swotty and manipulative as either parent, for lunch in a trendy new bistro in Islington. Then they wandered down to King's Cross Station to collect their offspring. Ariana and Leo Riddle, one in a blue and one in a green, were a set of bookends with their dark curly hair and matching smirks. She hadn't quite kept them humble, but she had kept them loved.

So had he.

Later, at The Burrow, Hermione embraced Potters small and tall and all manner of boistrous Weasleys and exclaimed how everyone had grown. She watched her husband make Molly, grey-haired now, giggle into her mead before hoisting an over-excited Merry onto his lap before she hurt herself.

It really couldn't have worked out better.

.

.