Chapter Text
The heat was unbearable.
Hermione Granger felt every bone in her body dissolve and rebuild itself in a whirlwind of pain and light. The potion was experimental, the spell was unstable, and the ancient magic the Order of the Phoenix had unearthed from some cursed manuscript was, in Kingsley's words, "our only chance."
She was being hurled back through time like a stone from a slingshot. 1938. The year Tom Riddle would enter Hogwarts.
The mission was simple on paper: kill the beast before it became a monster.
Hermione was 29 years old. Her eyes had seen friends die in the Battle of Hogwarts. Her hands had buried parents whose memories she herself had erased to protect them. Her body bore scars from battles that weren't in any History book. Her soul carried the weight of having survived when so many hadn't.
When the light ceased and her feet touched the stone floor, Hermione opened her eyes.
Diagon Alley. July 31st, 1938. The afternoon sun lit up the shop windows, and children ran between adults' legs, eager for their school supplies.
She stood up, adjusting the worn-out clothes she wore — the same ones she'd left in, dirty from battle, stained with blood that wasn't hers. Her reflection in a shop window showed a thin woman, with deep dark circles, dry, lifeless hair. War had consumed her.
I need a disguise, she thought. But before that, I need to see him.
---
She spent three days in Diagon Alley, disguised, waiting.
On the third day, she saw a small figure accompanied by a stout woman — Mrs. Cole, from the orphanage. The boy wore worn but clean clothes, and his black eyes scanned every shop window with a hunger that wasn't just for knowledge.
Tom Riddle was 11 years old.
Hermione watched him from a distance as he bought a wand (phoenix feather core, she knew), a cauldron, books. He didn't smile. Didn't show excitement. He just observed, catalogued, absorbed.
When he passed her on the street, their eyes met for an instant. Just an instant. But Hermione felt a shiver.
He's beautiful, she thought, surprising herself. Even as a child, you can already see it. The features, the eyes... it's true, everything they said.
She looked away quickly. He's a monster. He'll become a monster.
But the image stayed with her.
---
That night, in a cheap boarding house in London, Hermione stared at the ceiling and made the decision that would change everything.
She couldn't kill a child. No matter what that child would become. Not with hands that still trembled remembering her friends' bodies. Not with a heart that still bled from so many losses.
What if... what if I could change this?
The idea was crazy. Absurd. Dangerous.
But she was one of the most powerful witches of her time. She'd survived a war. She knew Tom Riddle better than anyone. Knew every step that had led him to become Voldemort.
What if I could guide him down another path?
What if... I could be the one thing he never had?
---
Before anything else, Hermione needed to rebuild herself.
The war had destroyed her inside and out. She'd spent the last years fighting, hiding, losing. Her body was too thin, her skin lacked luster, her eyes were dull. She needed to be reborn.
She used a small part of her future knowledge to make money — betting on events whose outcomes she already knew, simple investments. Bought new clothes, cut and treated her hair, learned to use makeup. Spent months recovering, strengthening, preparing.
When she finally looked in the mirror, she saw a 29-year-old woman in the prime of her beauty. Brown curls framed a face that had regained its color, her almond-shaped eyes had sparkle, her body was firm and healthy. There were scars — on her arm, on her back, on her soul — but those she could hide.
Ready, she thought. Now I go after what I need.
---
Hermione didn't wait to be invited. She went after it.
She crafted an impeccable resume: Hermione Granger, born in 1909 at Beauxbatons, war orphan, home-schooled by a strict grandmother, graduated with honors, world traveler, expert in Defense Against the Dark Arts with practical experience in real combat.
Documents? Perfectly forged. Letters of recommendation? Created using names of wizards who had already died, but whose signatures she could imitate.
She sent a letter to Headmaster Dippet, applying for the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position. She attached her resume, references, and a request for an interview.
The response came in two weeks. Dippet was impressed. He invited her to Hogwarts.
The interview was a success. Hermione answered all questions confidently, demonstrated spells masterfully, charmed everyone with her intelligence and experience. Dippet offered her the position on the spot.
She accepted.
---
September 1st, 1938.
Hermione sat at the teachers' table during the welcoming feast, observing the new students. Her dark blue dress, her shiny hair, her erect posture attracted glances. The other teachers — old, tired, settled — seemed even grayer beside her.
When the name "Tom Riddle" was called, Hermione held her breath.
The boy walked to the stool with erect posture, head held high. He was taller than months ago, more confident. His black eyes swept the hall with the coldness of someone assessing threats and opportunities.
When they met her eyes, he stopped.
Just an instant. But Hermione saw the question: Who are you?
She didn't look away.
The Hat shouted "SLYTHERIN!", and Tom sat at his new house's table. But throughout the feast, Hermione felt his eyes on her.
---
Within weeks, Hermione became the most talked-about figure at Hogwarts.
The students couldn't stop talking about her. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was young, beautiful, powerful, unlike anything they'd ever seen. Her classes were electrifying — she didn't just teach theory, but demonstrated spells with an ease that left everyone amazed. She told stories of real battles, of facing dark wizards, of surviving the impossible.
She was brave, but gentle. Firm, but fair. Beautiful, but approachable.
The boys sighed for her. The girls wanted to be her. Even the older teachers treated her with unusual respect.
Among them, one stood out: Professor Alistair Blackwood, the new Transfiguration teacher. Young, maybe 35, tall, with light brown hair and green eyes, an easy smile and a charming way about him. Coming from a traditional family, he was everything Hermione should find attractive — and, in fact, she did.
But Hermione noticed something strange: she didn't feel part of it. War had taught her to distrust, to isolate herself. She was polite with colleagues but kept her distance. She preferred the solitude of her quarters to the empty conversations in the staff room.
And Tom Riddle noticed.
---
Tom watched.
He watched everything about Hermione Granger. How she entered the room with firm steps. How her eyes swept the class, evaluating each student. How her smile was rare, but when it happened, it lit up her entire face.
He also watched how she isolated herself. How she ate alone at the teachers' table, reading. How she avoided small talk. How her eyes sometimes got lost in the horizon, as if seeing something no one else saw.
And he watched, with an ache in his chest he didn't understand, how Professor Blackwood approached her. How he smiled at her. How she smiled back.
She's different, Tom thought. Not just from the other teachers. She's different from everyone.
And he wanted to understand her. Wanted to decipher her. Wanted...
Wanted her to look at him the way he looked at her.
---
Tom grew. And his obsession grew with him.
At 12, he already knew everything about Hermione — or at least everything he could observe. He knew she took tea with two spoonfuls of sugar. Knew she preferred dark chocolate. Knew she wore a soft perfume of lavender and something citrusy. Knew that when she was tired, she massaged her temples with her fingers. Knew that when she was worried, she bit her lower lip.
He also knew she was the only person who didn't let herself be manipulated by him. And that fascinated him more than anything.
He tried everything.
In classes, he asked complex questions to impress her. She answered patiently, but always added something he didn't know — a challenge, a new perspective, a riddle.
In corridors, he would "accidentally" cross paths with her. She would nod politely and continue on her way.
At meals, he watched her. She read while eating, oblivious to the looks she attracted.
At 13, he started noticing different things. The way Professor Blackwood looked at her. How he invented excuses to be near. How she laughed at his jokes. Tom felt something strange in his chest. Something warm and uncomfortable. Something he couldn't name, but that made him want to place himself between them.
One day, after a particularly brilliant answer from him, she said:
"Very well, Mr. Riddle. You're a good boy."
Good boy.
Those words echoed in his head for days. He wanted to hear them again. Wanted to deserve them again. Wanted to be good for her.
---
At 14, Tom was beautiful in an almost painful way.
His features had sharpened, his dark eyes gained depth, his skin grew paler, his lips more defined. His height surpassed most older students. His movements had a feline grace, studied, perfect.
Girls sighed when he passed. Boys wanted to be like him. Teachers constantly praised him.
But he only had eyes for one person.
Hermione, at 32, was at her peak. There was a security, a strength, a maturity in her that girls her age didn't have. Her hair still curly, her eyes still alive, her body firm and elegant. She was a woman, and that, for Tom, was irresistible.
He watched her during breaks. Noted everything. Every detail.
She liked wearing dresses in shades of green and blue. She pinned up her hair when concentrated. She laughed with her head thrown back when something genuinely amused her. She had a scar on her left forearm that sometimes appeared when sleeves rode up — he desperately wanted to ask about its origin but knew it would be too invasive.
One afternoon, he saw her talking to Professor Blackwood in the corridor. Blackwood laughed, touched her arm, and she smiled back. Tom felt his hands clench into fists on their own. He didn't like it. Didn't like it at all.
She's mine, he thought, and the idea came so naturally he barely questioned it. She's mine. I just haven't told her yet.
---
Hermione wasn't blind.
She saw Tom grow. Saw the transformation from boy to man. Saw the beauty that blossomed, the intelligence that sharpened, the charisma that perfected itself.
And she felt something.
Something that deeply shamed her.
He's my student. I'm a teacher. He's 14 and I'm 32. This is wrong on so many levels.
But when he looked at her with those black eyes, intense, devoted... she felt a warmth in her chest. An attraction she fought to deny.
He's beautiful, she thought, alone in her quarters. Damn beautiful. And intelligent. And fascinating. And everything they said about young Tom Riddle was true.
She hated herself for thinking this. For feeling this. For desiring this.
But the desire was there. Growing every year. Every look. Every interaction.
No, she commanded herself. You're here to save him, not to lose yourself in him.
But the line between saving and losing was getting thinner and thinner.
And there was something else. Something she hesitated to admit even to herself.
After the war, after so many years fighting, obeying, following orders, sacrificing everything... there was a part of her that craved power. Control. For the first time in her life, to be the one in charge.
And when Tom looked at her with that absolute devotion, that total surrender... she felt she could have that. That he wanted to give that to her.
He wants to be dominated, she realized one day, with a shock. He wants to submit to someone. And that someone is me.
The idea was dangerous. As dangerous as killing him. Maybe more.
But it was also irresistible.
---
At night, alone, Hermione sometimes thought about her sex life. It wasn't something she usually did — war had taught her to bury memories — but now, with Tom awakening things in her, the recollections came.
Ron. Their relationship had been... confusing. Affectionate, yes, but always somewhat awkward. The few times they'd had sex were quick, almost mechanical, as if both were following a protocol. Ron loved her, she knew, but there was no... intensity. There wasn't that fire she read about in books, that she imagined existed.
Later, during the war, in the resistance bunkers, there was Draco Malfoy.
That had been different. It was wrong, dangerous, forbidden — and precisely for that reason, electrifying. They hated and desired each other in equal measure. The sex was quick, silent, in dark corners of hideouts, always with the adrenaline of possibly being discovered. Draco was handsome, yes, with his light hair and grey eyes, but there was a coldness in him, a detachment, as if even in the most intimate act he maintained a wall.
Neither of them — not Ron, not Draco — compared to Tom.
Tom was... perfect. His features were sculpted, his eyes deep as abysses, his mouth designed as if an artist had created it. And there was an intensity in him she'd never seen in anyone. When he looked at her, it was as if the whole world disappeared.
It's maddening, she thought. A 14-year-old boy is more attractive than any man I've ever known.
She hated herself for it. But she couldn't help it.
---
Tom perceived her conflict.
He saw how she sometimes watched him when she thought he wasn't looking. Saw how she blushed slightly when he got too close. Saw how her breathing changed when he spoke to her privately.
She feels something, he thought, his heart racing. She feels it.
And he used it to his advantage.
He started getting closer. Finding pretexts for private conversations. Mentioning things he knew she liked. Subtly touching her arm when handing in work. Leaning a little too far over her desk.
She pulled back. Always pulled back. But her eyes... her eyes said something else.
At Christmas 1942, he gave her a rare book he'd found in a Hogsmeade shop. She thanked him, surprised, and for a moment he saw something melt in her gaze.
"You didn't have to, Tom."
"I wanted to." He held her gaze. "I want many things when it comes to you."
She looked away first.
I'm getting close, he thought. Closer than ever.
---
Meanwhile, Alistair Blackwood was also getting closer.
He was charming, intelligent, and clearly interested in Hermione. He invited her to dinner in the staff room, sat beside her at meals, made jokes that made her laugh.
Hermione, starved for genuine human contact, let herself go along. There was nothing wrong with it, after all. They were colleagues, friends. And Blackwood was attractive — an adult man, from a good family, without the emotional problems of a former Death Eater or the immaturity of an ex-boyfriend.
One night, after a few drinks at Christmas, they ended up in his quarters.
It was good. Technically, it was good. Blackwood knew what he was doing, was gentle, attentive. Hermione felt pleasure, yes.
But while he touched her, while he kissed her, while he penetrated her... her mind wandered.
She thought of black eyes. Of perfectly shaped lips. Of a deep voice whispering "professor."
She thought of Tom.
And when the orgasm came, it was his face she saw.
Later, lying beside the sleeping Blackwood, Hermione felt shame. Deep, absolute shame.
What's wrong with me?
She looked at the man beside her. Handsome, decent, present. And she preferred imagining a 14-year-old boy.
Without a second thought, she raised her wand.
Obliviate.
Blackwood didn't even stir. When he woke, he wouldn't remember anything had happened. He'd remember only a pleasant evening of conversation and some drinks. He'd also remember that she had cordially refused to kiss him and they decided not to be friends anymore.
Hermione dressed and left, without guilt.
---
Tom was 14 then. And he noticed.
He noticed that suddenly, Professor Blackwood stopped approaching Hermione. Noticed they barely spoke. Noticed that when they crossed paths in corridors, there was a strangeness in the air.
He didn't know what had happened. But he was happy. Very happy.
She's mine, he thought, with deep satisfaction. So mine that the universe is preparing her for me.
---
At 15, Tom was already a prefect. At 16, he'd be Head Boy — the youngest in decades. His intelligence was legendary, his ambition, unshakable. He knew what he wanted and went after it.
And what he wanted was Hermione.
She sought him out one day after class, with a question about an advanced spell. He explained, she listened attentively, and when he finished, he didn't leave.
"Professor," he said, his voice deeper than she remembered. "May I ask something personal?"
She hesitated. "Depends on the question."
"Why have you isolated yourself so much? You're the most brilliant teacher I've ever had, the most interesting, the most... beautiful. But you have no friends here. You don't talk to anyone. Why?"
The question caught her off guard.
"I... have my reasons, Tom."
"You've suffered a lot, haven't you?" He took a step forward. "I see it. In your eyes. There's a sadness there. A sadness I know."
She swallowed hard. He was too close.
"Tom..."
"I know what it's like to feel alone," he continued. "To know no one really understands you. That you're different. That you're... more." Another step. "But I see you. And you see me. Don't you?"
Yes, she thought. Yes, I see you. And that's the problem.
"You should go, Tom."
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, stepped back.
"As you wish, Professor."
But in his eyes, she saw a promise. This isn't over.
And it wasn't.
---
The Christmas party in the castle was underway. Tom, now 16, was Head Boy. His position, his intelligence, his beauty — everything about him screamed power.
He wore a simple black suit, but on him it looked sophisticated. His dark eyes swept the hall until they found Hermione.
She wore an emerald green dress, fitted, with a discreet but elegant neckline. Her hair was loose, falling in waves over her shoulders.
Tom approached.
"Professor Granger. May I offer you more wine?"
She looked at him. His eyes were different tonight. More intense. More determined.
"Of course, Tom. Thank you."
He poured, handed her the glass, and didn't leave.
"May I sit?"
She hesitated for an instant, then nodded toward the chair beside her.
They talked. About books, about magic, about the future. He casually mentioned things he knew she appreciated — authors she'd cited in class, places she'd mentioned visiting, foods she liked.
She noticed.
"You pay attention to details, Tom."
"I pay attention to what matters."
She didn't respond. Just looked at him. And for the first time, Tom saw something in her eyes he'd never seen before: desire. Desire mixed with fear. Fear of herself.
The clock struck eleven. The party was beginning to end.
"I need to go," she said, standing too quickly. "Good night, Tom."
"Professor." He also stood. "May I accompany you to your quarters? The corridors are dark."
She opened her mouth to refuse, but something made her hesitate. Perhaps the wine. Perhaps the loneliness. Perhaps his eyes.
"Alright."
They walked through the silent corridors. The castle was decorated for Christmas, garlands on the walls, floating candles. The light was soft, almost intimate.
When they reached her quarters door, Hermione turned.
"Thank you, Tom. Good night."
"Wait."
She stopped. He stepped forward. They were too close.
"I have something for you." He took a small package from his pocket. "Open it."
She accepted, confused. Opened it.
It was a pendant. A delicate silver chain with a small lioness sculpted in onyx.
"It's a lioness," he said. "Because you're strong. Brave. Beautiful. Because you're the most fascinating person I've ever known. And because... because I thought of you when I saw it."
Hermione held the pendant. Felt its weight in her hands. Felt the much greater weight of his words.
"Tom..."
"I know what you're going to say." He took another step. They were inches apart. "That I'm your student. That it's wrong. That I'm too young. But I'm 16. Almost 17. I'm Head Boy. I know what I want. And I want you."
His hand rose, hesitant, and touched her face. Her skin was warm. Soft. He felt his heart race.
"I spent five years trying to impress you," he whispered. "Five years trying to be good enough. Five years thinking about you every day. I want to hear you say I'm a good boy. I want to deserve your praise. I want to be what you want me to be."
He tilted his head. His lips were inches from hers.
"I want you," he murmured. "I want to be yours. However you want. However you command. I trust you. More than I trust myself. And I need... I need you to be mine."
He kissed her.
It was a soft, hesitant kiss, almost a plea. His lips were soft, warm, and for a moment — just a moment — Hermione responded.
Then, panic.
She pushed him away, eyes wide.
"No." Her voice trembled. "No, Tom. You're 16. I'm 34. This is... immoral. It's wrong. We can't."
His face contorted as if she'd slapped him.
"You felt it," he said. "I saw. You felt it."
"That doesn't matter." She passed a hand over her lips, as if she could erase the kiss. "You're almost an adult, but you're still my student. This can't happen. Ever." She opened the door. "Go, Tom. Please. Go."
He stood motionless for a long moment. Then, slowly, stepped back.
"As you wish," he said, his voice strangely calm. "For now."
She closed the door. Leaned against it, her heart beating so hard it hurt.
He felt it. I felt it. My God, what's wrong with me?
But deep down, very deep down, a small voice whispered: Nothing. You just want power over someone. For the first time in your life. And he wants to give it to you.
---
The following days were hell.
Hermione couldn't stop thinking about the kiss. About his lips. About his touch. About the way he'd looked at her.
He's beautiful. Intense. Devoted. He wants to submit to me.
She hated herself for thinking this. But couldn't stop.
Tom, on the other hand, was strangely calm.
He watched her in corridors, in the Great Hall. Saw how she avoided his gaze. Saw how she blushed when he passed near. Saw how her hands trembled slightly when he spoke to other teachers in her presence.
She feels it, he thought. She feels it, and she's afraid. But fear passes. Desire doesn't.
He waited. Planned. Counted the days.
On December 30th, he approached her after dinner.
"Professor. May I speak with you?"
She stopped, tense. "What is it, Tom?"
"Tomorrow is my birthday. I'll be 17."
She blinked, confused by the subject change. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." He held her gaze. "I just wanted you to know. Good night."
And he was gone.
Hermione stood still, heart racing.
17. Tomorrow.
She knew what that meant. Knew what he was saying. And knew, with absolute terror, that she wouldn't be able to resist.
---
The New Year's party at Hogwarts was more discreet than Christmas. Many students had gone home, but those who stayed celebrated in the common rooms. The castle was silent.
Hermione was in her quarters, reading (or trying to read) a book. The lioness pendant was on the table. She couldn't stop looking at it.
17. Today.
A knock at the door.
She knew who it was. Of course she knew.
She opened it.
Tom stood there. He wore a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled up, black pants. His dark hair was slightly disheveled. His black eyes shone in the candlelight.
"Today I turned 17," he said.
"I know."
"17. Not 16. Not 15. 17." He took a step forward. "Legally, an adult. And even if I weren't, I know what I want. I've always known."
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
"I know what I want," he continued. "I want you. I want to be yours. I want you to dominate me. Guide me. Call me a good boy. Make me what you need me to be."
Another step. They were inside the quarters now. The door closed behind him.
"You pushed me away at Christmas. I respected that. But now I'm 17, Hermione. I'm Head Boy. I'm the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen. And I won't accept no anymore."
She should refuse. Should send him away. Should...
But instead, she felt something release inside her. Something that had been trapped for years. Decades. A lifetime of following rules, obeying, being the good girl.
Now, for the first time, she could be the one in charge.
"You want to be mine?", she asked, her voice low, husky.
"Yes." His eyes shone.
"You want to obey? Do exactly what I say?"
"Anything. Everything."
"Then kneel."
He knelt. Without hesitation. As if it were the most natural place in the world.
Hermione looked at him. At Tom Riddle. The future Dark Lord. Kneeling before her. Waiting. Surrendered.
She felt a power so intense it was almost painful. Pure power. Absolute control.
"You're beautiful," she murmured, running her hand through his hair. "My beautiful boy."
He closed his eyes, a tremor running through his body.
"Since I arrived here," she continued, "you've watched me. Desired me. Wanted me. Haven't you?"
"Yes," he whispered. "Always. From the first day."
"And now you're here. Kneeling. Ready to be mine."
"Yes."
She smiled. A smile Tom had never seen before. Dangerous. Delicious.
"Then let's see how good you can be."
---
What happened next was intense, overwhelming, wrong and right at the same time.
She guided him. Commanded. He obeyed. Every order, every command, every whisper.
"Take off your shirt."
He took it off.
"Lie down."
He lay down.
"Kiss me here."
He kissed.
And when he did something especially well, she whispered:
"Good boy."
And he melted. Completely. His dark eyes closing, an involuntary smile on his lips, his body relaxing in surrender.
He's mine, Hermione thought, the pleasure of power as intense as physical pleasure. Completely mine.
Later, when both were exhausted, lying in her bed, Tom curled around her like a cat seeking warmth, Hermione stroked his hair.
He was quiet. Trembling. When she looked down, she saw tears streaming down his face.
"Tom?" She sat up, alarmed. "What is it?"
He buried his face in her shoulder.
"I never...", he murmured, his voice muffled. "I never did this before."
Hermione froze.
"You were a virgin?"
He nodded, still not lifting his face.
"Tom... why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I wanted it to be you." His voice was hoarse with emotion. "I always wanted it to be you. Since I saw you. I knew I wanted you. Only you. And now... now it was. It was perfect. You were perfect. And I... I've never been so happy in my life."
He lifted his face, eyes red, brimming with tears.
"You're everything to me, Hermione. Everything. I would do anything for you. Anything. Just... just don't abandon me. Please. Don't abandon me."
She looked at him. At Tom Riddle, the monster she'd come to kill. Crying on her shoulder. Begging not to be abandoned.
What have I done?
Felt a wave of guilt so strong it almost suffocated her.
"Tom..."
"Promise me," he implored. "Promise me this wasn't the only time. Promise me you'll stay. Promise me I'm yours and you're mine. Promise me."
Hermione closed her eyes.
This is madness. This is wrong. This will destroy everything.
But when she looked at him — at the vulnerability, the devotion, the absolute love in those dark eyes — she knew she couldn't refuse.
"I promise," she whispered. "I promise this wasn't the last time. I promise I'll stay."
He hugged her so tightly it hurt. And cried. Cried like the lonely child he'd never been allowed to be.
She rocked him, stroking his hair, until he fell asleep.
When his sleep deepened, she stared at the ceiling and thought:
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
---
The next morning, Tom woke before her.
He watched her sleep. Her serene face, hair spread on the pillow, lips slightly parted. She was beautiful. More beautiful than anything he'd ever seen.
Mine, he thought. Mine. Mine. Mine.
When she woke, she found his gaze fixed on her.
"Good morning," he murmured.
"Good morning." She hesitated. "Tom, we need to talk."
He sat up, body tense.
"What happened last night... can't happen again?"
"That's not it." She also sat up, pulling the sheet to cover her chest. "It can happen again. But it has to be secret. Absolute secret."
He relaxed slightly.
"If anyone finds out... I could lose my position. You could be expelled. Worse: we could be arrested. I'm your teacher, Tom. This is... complicated."
"I know."
"Do you promise? Never, ever tell anyone? Not even your closest friends?"
He laughed. "I don't have friends."
"Then promise. Just to me."
Tom took her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed it.
"I promise. No one will ever know. As long as you promise me one thing too."
"What?"
"That this wasn't the last time. That you'll stay. That I'm yours and you're mine."
Hermione looked at him. At the intensity in his gaze. At the possessiveness. At the madness.
He's dangerous, she thought. He'll always be dangerous. But maybe... maybe I can control this danger.
"I promise," she said.
He smiled. A pure, happy smile, one she'd never imagined seeing on Tom Riddle's face.
My God, she thought. I've created a monster. Or maybe... maybe I've created a man.
---
From that night on, they met every day.
Tom appeared at her door at the same time, punctual as a clock. And every night, after everything, he slept nestled between her legs, his head resting on her thigh, like a needy dog seeking warmth.
She stroked his hair, and he purred.
But she also needed to keep him interested, submissive, devoted. So she created games. Play. Challenges.
One night, she tied him with ropes and teased him for hours until he begged.
Another night, she made him read poetry to her while touching himself, unable to touch her.
Another, she made him use his tongue on her until she came, and only then allowed him his own pleasure.
He responded to everything. Always. With a desire to please that surprised her.
"You're so good," she'd whisper. "My good boy."
And he'd smile, happy.
---
Hermione wasn't naive. She saw the boys orbiting Tom. Nott, Lestrange, Mulciber — future Death Eaters. Saw the looks they exchanged, the whispers in corridors.
She knew they met. Knew Tom was forming his circle.
But he never missed a nightly meeting. Always appeared at her door at the same time.
Until students started appearing petrified.
Hermione's blood ran cold. It's now.
She waited. That night, Tom didn't appear.
She knew where to find him.
---
The second-floor girls' bathroom was empty. The sink was open. The dark tunnel stretched before her.
She descended.
The chamber was immense, frightening, full of bones and stagnant water. And in the center, before Slytherin's statue, Tom stood, wand raised, murmuring in Parseltongue.
"Tom."
He turned. His eyes widened.
"Professor? How... how did you get here?"
"That doesn't matter." She approached, the dirty water wetting the hem of her dress. "What matters is you're not going to do this."
"You don't understand." His voice trembled — not with fear, but excitement. "If I can control the basilisk... no one can stop me. I'll prove I'm special. That I'm Slytherin's heir. That..."
"That you're an idiot?" She stopped before him. "You think controlling a basilisk will give you power? Give you respect? Make people love you?"
"I don't need love."
"Yes, you do." Her voice softened. "Everyone does. And you need it more than anyone, Tom. Because you never had it."
He hesitated. The wand trembled.
"You have me," she continued. "You have my attention. My respect. My... affection. Isn't that enough?"
"You don't understand." His voice was higher now, younger. "I need to prove it. Need to show I'm more. That I'm better. That..."
"Prove it to whom?" She held his face, forcing him to look into her eyes. "To the other students? To the teachers? To the world? Tom, listen: you don't have to prove anything to anyone. The only person who matters already knows who you are."
"And who is that person?"
"Me."
Silence echoed in the chamber. Water dripped from the statues. The basilisk slept somewhere in the depths.
"Please," she said. "Don't do this. Don't become someone I can't... that I can't have."
He looked at her. At the woman who was his teacher, his lover, his owner. The only person in the world who saw him as he really was — and didn't turn away.
"Will you stay with me?", he asked, his voice small. "No matter what I do? No matter who I am?"
"No matter what you do," she lied. "No matter who you are. You're mine. And I'm yours. Remember?"
He took a step forward. Then another. Then knelt before her, in the dirty water, among the bones, in the darkness.
"Then make me be good," he said. "Make me be good for you. Dominate me. Guide me. Make me what you need. Just... just don't abandon me. Never."
Hermione looked at him. At the boy who would never be good — not in the pure sense of the word. He was ambitious, manipulative, capable of darkness. But for her, he would do anything. Everything.
She knelt before him. Held his face.
"You're mine," she said. "Mine. And as long as you're mine, I'll guide you. I'll dominate you. I'll... I'll love you. But you'll never touch this chamber again. Never again seek power you don't need. Promise?"
He opened his mouth to promise, but then hesitated. His eyes widened.
"How did you know?", he asked. "How did you know I'd be here? How did you know what I was going to do?"
She sighed. Time for a half-truth.
"Your gentlemen friends, Tom. Nott, Lestrange, the others." She looked into his eyes. "They're not very subtle. The looks, the whispers, the secret meetings. You think no one notices, but they do. I noticed."
His face paled.
"You... you knew? You knew we met?"
"Of course I knew." Her voice was firm. "And I did nothing because I trusted you. But now... now you're here, Tom. About to do something that could destroy everything. Why?"
He swallowed.
"I... I thought if I did this, if I proved my power, you... you'd see me as more than a boy. As someone worthy of you."
Hermione felt her heart clench.
"Tom... you're already worthy. You're mine. You don't need to prove anything with monsters and secret chambers. You need to prove it by being good. Being loyal. Being mine."
He looked at her, eyes shining.
"So... so I'm not pleasing you? With them? With the meetings? I thought... that building a circle, having followers, would make me more... more worthy."
Point for me, she thought. One point less for the future Death Eaters.
"You please me when you're with me," she said. "When you obey. When you're my good boy. These men you're gathering... they won't love you, Tom. They'll fear you. There are too many people in the world who will fear you. What you need is someone who loves you. And you already have that."
He buried his face in her shoulder.
"Promise me," he murmured. "Promise me you'll stay."
"I promise."
"Promise me you'll dominate me. Guide me. Call me good boy."
"I promise."
"Then I promise." He lifted his face, eyes dry now but still shining. "I promise I'll never touch this chamber again. I promise I'll be yours. Always."
She kissed him. On his mouth, his forehead, his eyes.
"My good boy," she whispered.
And at that moment, she sealed a pact more dangerous than any assassination mission.
---
Tom graduated from Hogwarts in 1945. He refused offers from the Ministry, Gringotts, traditional families. Instead, he accepted a researcher position in the Department of Mysteries — something Hermione helped him secure.
He was brilliant. Published revolutionary articles. Developed theories that intrigued the greatest wizards of the age. And every night, he came home.
To their home.
A small manor in Hogsmeade. Library upstairs. Garden in back. Fireplace in the living room.
She continued teaching at Hogwarts for a few more years, but when Tom turned 21, she retired. There was no more need to watch over him. He was hers. Completely.
To the world, they were colleagues. Close friends. No one dared ask more.
To them, they were everything.
She dominated him. He submitted. But his submission wasn't weakness. It was the greatest strength she'd ever seen. He worked to please her. Studied to impress her. Built a career to make her proud.
"You're my goddess," he'd whisper, kneeling at her feet. "My religion. My reason for existing."
She knew it was unhealthy. Knew he'd never be good — not in the pure sense of the word. He was still ambitious, manipulative, capable of cruelty to those who threatened him. But for her, he was devoted. For her, he was submissive. For her, he was everything.
And her? She loved him too. In a twisted, wrong, complicated way. But loved.
And above all, there was the power. The pleasure of commanding. Of controlling. Of being, for the first time in her life, the one holding the reins.
After years of war, of sacrifice, of losing everything... having Tom kneeling before her, begging for her orders, was the most intoxicating thing she'd ever experienced.
---
Dumbledore watched.
He didn't interfere. Didn't accuse. Just watched.
He'd seen Tom Riddle transform. The ambitious, cold, calculating boy was now... different. Still ambitious, still cold with others, but there was a crack in his armor. A weakness.
Hermione Granger.
Dumbledore didn't know where she'd come from. Her documents were too perfect. Her knowledge, too vast. Her connection with Tom, too intense.
One day, he called her to his office.
"Tea, Professor Granger?"
"Of course, Headmaster."
While pouring, Dumbledore observed the pendant on her neck. An onyx lioness.
"Pretty gift."
She touched the pendant, unconsciously. "Thank you."
"Mr. Riddle seems very... attached to you."
Her gaze hardened. "He was my student. Or is. Now he's a brilliant former student."
"Yes. Brilliant." Dumbledore took a sip of tea. "It's curious. A few years ago, I feared what he might become. Now... now I'm not so sure."
Hermione didn't respond.
"Whatever you did," Dumbledore continued, "or whatever you do... I won't interfere. But I want you to know: I'm watching. And if something goes wrong, if he turns back to what he was before..."
"He won't."
"How can you be so certain?"
Because he's mine, she thought. Because I hold the chains. Because he'd rather die than disobey me.
"Trust," she said aloud. "I trust him."
Dumbledore studied her for a long moment.
"Then I hope your trust isn't misplaced."
---
Tom was 25. More beautiful than ever. Temples already graying, black eyes deep, pale skin, perfect lips.
Hermione was 42. Her hair had a gray streak in front that Tom loved. He kissed it every morning.
"You grow more beautiful each day," he'd say. And it was true — to him, she was eternal.
That night, there would be a dinner. Tom was launching his candidacy for Minister of Magic. Not as a dark lord, but as a reformer. Someone wanting to modernize the Ministry, end corruption, bring progress.
Hermione knew not everything was pure. His ambitions were still dark. His methods, sometimes, questionable. But there were no Horcruxes. No mass murders. No Voldemort.
She controlled him. She guided him. She kept him in line.
And there was something in her, something dark, that loved the power she had. She, Hermione Granger, Muggle-born, Mudblood to many — was the only person in the world who commanded Tom Riddle.
He was a puppy at her feet. A wolf who chose to be tamed.
And she loved it.
---
The Riddle manor was full. The "Inner Circle" — businessmen, politicians, intellectuals who admired Tom.
Hermione circulated among them. Emerald green dress, discreet jewelry, hair with the gray streak framing her face. The perfect hostess.
No one knew that hours before, he'd been kneeling before her, begging for her orders, calling her "my goddess" while she dominated him with words and touches.
No one knew that while she praised him ("my good boy, my beautiful good boy"), he melted with pleasure and devotion.
When the time came, Tom tapped his glass.
"My friends," he said. "Tonight is special not only for launching my candidacy, but for a personal reason."
He extended his hand to Hermione. She approached.
"Many years ago, a person entered my life and changed everything. She taught me what love is. What loyalty is. What it means to be truly seen." His eyes met hers. "She's the reason I am who I am. The reason I'm here."
He knelt.
"Hermione, will you marry me?"
The hall held its breath.
Hermione looked at him. At that man she'd known as a boy. At the future dark lord who'd become an ambitious politician, yes, but also a man capable of loving — in his own twisted, possessive, obsessive way, but loving.
I came to kill him. And now he's asking for my hand.
"Yes," she said. "Yes."
He rose, kissed her, and the hall exploded in applause.
Later, alone, he hugged her from behind.
"Happy?"
"Happy."
"Good." He kissed her shoulder. "Because you're mine now. Forever. And I'll never, ever let you go."
In the mirror, she saw the reflection of his eyes. Black. Deep. Devoted.
He's mine, she thought. And I'm his. And that's what matters.
---
Tom Riddle was elected Minister of Magic.
Hermione Granger-Riddle stood beside him at the inauguration ceremony. Blue dress, lioness pendant on her neck, silver wedding band on her finger.
He spoke of unity, of progress, of a better future. The crowd applauded.
She watched him. Her husband. Her former student. The former future dark lord.
When his eyes met hers, he smiled. Only for her. A smile that said: All this is yours. I am yours.
She smiled back.
That night, at home, he knelt before her and thanked her. Thanked her for saving him. For loving him. For making him what he was.
She stroked his hair.
"My good boy," she whispered.
He closed his eyes, at peace.
When he slept, Hermione went to the window.
She looked at the stars. At the sky of 1955. At the future she had created.
It's better, she thought. It's so much better than the future I came from.
He wasn't good. He'd never be. But for her, he was everything.
And her? She was what held him. What guided him. What dominated him.
Madness? Yes.
But it was our kind of madness.
She smiled at the stars.
And when she felt his arms wrap around her waist from behind, when she heard his sleepy voice whisper "come to bed, my love," she turned and kissed him.
Because in the end, this was it: she'd come to kill a monster and, instead, created a man who worshipped her. A dangerous man, yes. A dark man, yes. But her man.
And that, for her, was enough.