Chapter Text
The Lancashire winds howled against the reinforced glass of Riddle Manor, a biting October gale that rattled the heavy windowpanes and sent sheets of rain slashing across the sprawling estate. Inside the High Chancellor’s private meeting room, however, the atmosphere was suffocatingly still.
Tom Riddle had done the unthinkable. Forty-five years ago, he had shattered the foundations of magical Britain, slaughtered Albus Dumbledore within the very halls of Hogwarts, and built a new world upon the ashes. He had not fractured his soul into seven pieces of madness to do it. He had done it once. He had been patient, lethal, and entirely merciless. Now, at the apex of his power, looking permanently locked in his early thirties, he ruled an empire.
He sat at the head of a massive mahogany table, a crystal tumbler of aged firewhiskey resting near his right hand. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing a violent orange in the dim light of the hearth, before exhaling a thin stream of pale smoke.
Seated along the length of the table were the architects and enforcers of his regime: Abraxas Malfoy, older now but still sharp as a blade; Lucius Malfoy, wearing the polished arrogance of his father; Severus Snape, draped in the heavy black robes of High Master; and Commander Draco Malfoy, who sat with a quiet, terrifying stillness that Tom found deeply fascinating.
"The Acolytes, Commander," Tom murmured, his voice incredibly quiet, yet carrying effortlessly over the crackling fire. "How do they progress?"
Draco shifted slightly, the leather of his dark, tailored uniform creaking. His silver eyes were cold, entirely devoid of the sycophantic warmth his father and grandfather often displayed. "They are largely ineffective, My Lord. I am currently spending the bulk of my time beating their inherited weaknesses out of them. They lack the instinct for the killing blow."
Tom took another sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid burning pleasantly down his throat. "An effective strategy, Commander."
"They will be ready for the anniversary military parade at the end of the year," Lucius interjected smoothly, leaning forward. "Draco will ensure it. The display of power must be absolute."
Draco gave a single, tight nod, his eyes remaining fixed on the High Chancellor.
"It is imperative," Tom agreed, tapping the ash from his cigarette into a silver tray. "We must ensure the populace properly celebrates the death of Dumbledore. It improves morale. A reminder of what happens to those who oppose the natural order."
Tom’s gaze lingered on the Malfoys. Three generations of pureblood supremacy, loyal to him since the coup. They were greedy, yes, but predictable. Draco, however, was a different breed entirely.
"There have been sightings of James Potter and the remnants of the Order near the foothills of Morsmordre," Snape drawled, his deep voice cutting through the companionable silence. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his dark eyes shadowed. "They seem to be growing bolder."
Draco let out a soft, dismissive scoff. "They have a limited number of blood traitors and Mudbloods hiding in the dirt. They are not a threat, Snape."
"It is infinitely unwise to discredit an enemy, Draco," Snape replied, his tone laced with a biting edge. "Arrogance breeds vulnerability."
"Severus is correct," Tom said. The room immediately fell silent. Tom did not raise his voice; he never had to. "Ensure the Acolytes are patrolling the outer perimeter of the grounds. Though the Commander's assessment is fair. The odd raid or skirmish that amounts to nothing is of no consequence to us. Let them freeze in the mountains."
He took another slow drag of his cigarette, his blue eyes narrowing slightly through the smoke. "However, security at the parade is paramount. There will be important spectators in the Chancellor’s box this year."
Across the table, Draco’s eyes flicked to Tom. It was a lazy, calculating look, but beneath it, Tom sensed a sudden, sharp spike in the young Commander’s attention. Draco knew exactly who Tom was talking about. They all did.
His little love.
"You are allowing the girl to watch?" Abraxas asked, his pale eyebrows rising in surprise. "In public?"
"I am," Tom replied smoothly. "It is important that we begin to introduce her to the public sphere before she turns twenty-one."
Lucius frowned slightly, exchanging a glance with his father. "You intend to marry her off, then?"
Draco slowly turned his head to look at his father. The movement was deliberately measured, but Tom caught the subtle tightening of the Commander's jaw. Tom had always liked Draco, in his own unique, detached way. The boy was driven by something entirely internalized. What that was, nobody truly knew, but he was quiet, lethal, and demanded absolute perfection from his soldiers. He was incredibly useful to the new era.
He was also ruthless. Draco had personally slaughtered the blood traitors Sirius and Regulus Black in their beds, forcefully taking the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black as his own through his mother's bloodline. It was a brutal, cold-blooded usurpation that Tom deeply respected.
"She will be married by her next birthday, yes," Tom answered Lucius, his tone brooking no argument. "Due to the tragic instability of her father's mind, I am in control of her future before she turns twenty-one."
It was a law Tom had meticulously drafted and passed with one specific witch in mind.
At the end of the table, Snape looked down into his whiskey, remaining entirely silent. Snape was fully aware of Tom’s true plans for his little love.
"To whom?" Lucius asked, leaning in with clear political interest.
"That will be revealed closer to the time," Tom said smoothly, swirling his glass. A dark, possessive warmth coiled in his chest just thinking of her. "She has been thoroughly spoilt and sheltered by me. She requires a gentle hand. A specific environment."
"She would be an excellent match for any of the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Lucius noted approvingly. "Her breeding, her intellect, and her beauty will make her extremely popular on the marriage mart."
"Yes," Tom agreed softly, the temperature in the room seeming to drop a fraction of a degree. "But she will not be married to just anyone."
Snape cleared his throat, neatly breaking the sudden tension. "She is excelling in her Potions mastery. Her experimental brews are going to be revolutionary for the apothecary guilds."
Abraxas chuckled, a dry, reedy sound. "High praise indeed from you, Severus. I believe you told Draco he was a blithering idiot at least once a week during his time under your tutelage."
"Because he was," Snape replied flatly, not looking up.
Tom smiled with a cold, hollow expression. "I am well aware of how gifted she is. Which is precisely why she remains under my protection."
"Yet she does not fare well in the halls of Morsmordre," Draco said suddenly. His voice was a smooth, icy drawl, but his silver eyes were locked onto Tom with an intensity that bordered on insubordinate. "She finds the Acolytes... overwhelming."
"Because they stare at her like a pack of starving dogs scenting fresh meat," Snape snapped, his lip curling in disgust.
A flash of genuine, murderous rage spiked through Tom’s veins. His grip on his crystal glass tightened until the magic in the room crackled, making the flames in the hearth flare violently. "And I have informed you *all* of what will happen to any man who corners her or makes her feel uncomfortable within those walls."
"I will ensure they do not bother her myself," Draco said quietly. He held Tom’s gaze without flinching.
Tom studied the young Commander for a long moment. There was a darkness in the boy, a tight, coiled spring. "See to it." Tom leaned back into the velvet of his chair, letting the oppressive magic fade from the air. "Draco. You are twenty-six, and you have not yet taken a wife. Why?"
Draco did not blink. He turned his head away from Tom, staring into the fire. "Because I have not found one that would be suitable for my station."
"He will have to soon," Abraxas grumbled, taking a heavy swallow of his drink. "The Black family, which you favour more, magic is ancient and unpredictable. It needs something pure to anchor the volatile bloodlines, or it will—"
The heavy oak doors of the meeting room creaked open, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet space.
Tom’s attention snapped to the doorway, and the cold, calculating High Chancellor vanished, replaced instantly by the man who had built a gilded cage.
Hermione stepped hesitantly into the room. Her heavy, dark curls fell in wild cascades down her spine, framing a face that was flushed with sleep and natural warmth. She was dressed in the soft, clinging silk pyjamas Tom had imported for her from France—a deep, rich emerald green that starkly contrasted with her creamy skin.
"Hello, little love," Tom murmured, his voice dropping to a velvety, gentle cadence he reserved exclusively for her.
Hermione’s cheeks burned crimson. She gripped the edge of the doorframe, her wide brown eyes darting nervously around the table of imposing men. "Tom, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you were in a meeting this late. I can—"
"We are just having drinks," Tom interrupted softly, standing from his chair. The other men immediately pushed back their chairs and stood in a show of pureblood respect, though Draco’s movements were noticeably slower. "But I can finish now, if you need me."
"No, it's fine," she said quickly, twisting her fingers into the silk of her trousers. She looked toward the end of the table. "Hello, Master Snape."
Snape bowed his head slightly. "Good evening, Miss Dagworth-Granger."
She offered a shy, barely-there greeting to the Malfoys.
Abraxas eyed her, a calculating gleam in his eye. "Miss Dagworth-Granger. I didn't realize you resided here permanently. You have a room at the Scholar's Keep at Morsmordre, do you not?"
Hermione stiffened, her eyes darting nervously toward Tom before looking back at the elder Malfoy. "Oh. Yes, I do. But Tom gave me my own rooms here. I prefer the quiet."
Tom’s jaw ticked. He felt a spike of deep, territorial irritation. He did not like that she felt the need to justify her presence in his home to anyone, least of all a Malfoy. She belonged here. She belonged to him.
From the corner of his eye, Tom saw Draco. The Commander was perfectly still, his chin tilted down, but his silver eyes were tracking every movement Hermione made. Tom followed the trajectory of the boy's gaze and felt a sudden, violent surge of possessiveness.
The cold in the room had hardened her. Through the thin, expensive French silk, her pert little nipples were clearly visible, pressing against the emerald fabric.
Every man in the room had noticed.
Tom stepped forward, purposefully placing himself between Hermione and the table, cutting off their line of sight. "Little love," he commanded softly, placing a large, warm hand on her shoulder. His thumb brushed against the bare skin of her neck, feeling her pulse race at his touch. "Go to your room and wait for me. I will be up soon to say goodnight."
Hermione looked up at him, her eyes wide and trusting. "Of course, Tom. I'm sorry for interrupting."
"You did not," he promised, his thumb stroking her jawline. "Go, my love."
She offered him a soft, brilliant smile that momentarily stole the breath from his lungs, before turning and disappearing into the shadowed corridor.
Tom watched the empty doorway for a second before turning back to the table.
As they took their seats, Abraxas let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Merlin. How you manage to keep such a pretty, ripe little thing like that in your house without—"
The old man never finished his sentence.
With a flicker of thought, Tom’s magic lashed out. Abraxas was suddenly yanked upward, his chair clattering violently backward onto the stone floor. He clawed frantically at his own throat, his face turning a mottled, hideous purple as an invisible vice crushed his windpipe.
Chairs scraped wildly. Lucius scrambled backward, his face pale with terror.
But it was Draco who reacted differently.
The Commander had drawn his wand with blinding, lethal speed. But the dark wood of his hawthorn wand was not aimed at the High Chancellor who was currently strangling his grandfather.
Draco’s wand was leveled directly at Abraxas’s chest. His silver eyes were wide, a flash of pure, unadulterated madness bleeding through his icy facade before he forcefully locked it down.
Tom narrowed his eyes, filing that odd, violent reaction away in his mind as he tightened his magical grip on Abraxas for one more agonizing second, before releasing him.
Abraxas collapsed onto the floor in a heap of expensive robes, coughing and gasping for air, clutching his bruised throat.
Tom stepped forward, towering over the gasping man, his aura suffocating the room. "I made myself entirely clear, Abraxas," Tom whispered, his voice a lethal caress. "I allow you certain liberties because of our shared history and your service. But do not ever overstep when it comes to her."
Abraxas forced himself onto his knees, wheezing. "Apologies... High Chancellor. I... I misspoke."
Tom stared down at him with utter disgust. "Get out. All of you. You are dismissed."
Lucius hurriedly hauled his father to his feet, bowing deeply before practically dragging the older man from the room. Snape offered a silent, respectful incline of his head and followed them out into the storm.
Draco was the last to leave. He stood by the table, his wand already vanished back into its holster. He looked at the doorway where Hermione had stood, a lingering, heavy look that Tom could not quite decipher, before turning his blank, silver gaze to Tom.
He gave a crisp, military bow. "My Lord."
"Commander," Tom acknowledged coldly.
When the heavy doors finally clicked shut, leaving Tom alone in the oppressive silence of the meeting room, he took a deep, grounding breath. The scent of her—vanilla and rain—still lingered faintly in the air near the doorway.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket, tossing it onto the back of his chair, and headed for the stairs. He had a little bird waiting for him in her cage, and he was eager to see her.
Tom left the oppressive silence of the meeting room behind, his measured footsteps echoing against the polished marble of the ground floor. The storm outside was worsening, the Lancashire winds howling like starved beasts against the reinforced glass of Riddle Manor. Inside, however, the air was warm, thick with the scent of beeswax and the faint, lingering ozone of his own volatile magic.
He ascended the grand, sweeping staircase, ignoring the painted eyes of the ancient pureblood portraits that tracked his progress. They bowed their heads in silent reverence as he passed, but Tom paid them no mind. His thoughts were already shifting, the cold, calculating armor of the High Chancellor melting away to reveal the insidious, obsessive warmth of the guardian.
He walked down the labyrinthine corridors toward the East Wing—their wing.
Tom had designed every inch of these rooms with her in mind. The architecture of the space was a physical manifestation of his control, built long before she had ever set foot inside it. He had laid the trap when she was seventeen.
He remembered the day perfectly. He had watched her from afar for years before that, catching only brief, heavily guarded glimpses of Hector Dagworth-Granger’s hidden daughter. Hector had been notoriously paranoid, locking his brilliant, elegant child away from the world, refusing all suitors, hoarding her intellect and beauty. Those fleeting glances had been enough to spark Tom’s intrigue. She had been a delicate, serious girl with eyes entirely too old for her face, carrying herself with a quiet grace that demanded his attention.
Then came the accident. Helena Rosier’s death in the family’s private laboratory had been brutal—a catastrophic potions failure that had melted the flesh from her bones. Hermione had seen it all. The trauma had shattered the girl, but it had destroyed Hector. The man had descended into a violent, potion-induced madness, frantically trying to brew a cure for a woman who was already ash.
It was the perfect opening. Tom hadn't needed to negotiate with a madman. He had simply used his absolute authority to draft a new law, one dictating that all unmarried pureblood witches under the age of twenty-one required a state-appointed guardian if their patriarch was deemed unfit. He had swooped in, a dark savior wrapped in velvet, and plucked her from the nightmare of her father's decaying home. He brought her here, to a cage so gilded and soft she hadn't even realized the door had locked behind her.
Tom pushed open the heavy oak doors to his master suite.
The room was bathed in the warm, flickering light of the hearth. And there she was.
Hermione was lying in the center of his massive, dark wood bed. The dark emerald silk of the French pyjamas he had bought her spilled across the silver-grey sheets. She looked impossibly small in his space, her heavy, tumbling curls spread out like a dark halo against his pillows. She was clutching one of his pillows to her chest, her eyes wide and deeply shadowed with fatigue.
Tom felt a dark, territorial satisfaction purr in his chest.
He walked over, his footsteps silent on the plush rugs. He stopped at the edge of the mattress, gazing down at her. "Little love," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing hum.
"Can you not sleep?"
She looked up at him, her brown eyes filled with a sudden, anxious guilt. "No. I..." She bit her lower lip, a habit Tom found both endearing and distracting. "You don't mind, do you? If I stay in here tonight?"
Tom leaned down. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of vanilla and rain that always clung to her hair. "No," he said softly against her curls. "I do not mind."
She let out a shaky breath, relaxing a fraction into the mattress. "I promise I'll try and stay in Morsmordre tomorrow. I know I should be in my own dorm, but I—"
"The Floo network is connected directly from your private laboratory to my rooms for a reason, Hermione," Tom interrupted, his tone gentle but leaving no room for argument. He brushed a stray curl behind her ear, his long, pale fingers lingering against the warmth of her cheek. "You have never slept in that bed at the Keep. You do not belong in those cold, stone dormitories."
"I know," she whispered, leaning slightly into his touch. "But I can't keep sleeping here. I take up your space."
"You can," Tom corrected effortlessly. He dragged his thumb across her cheekbone, his eyes darkening as she fluttered her eyes shut at the contact. "And you will. Let me change, and I will come to bed. Give me ten minutes."
He pulled away, though it cost him a sliver of willpower, and crossed the room to the sprawling en-suite.
The hot water of the shower washed away the lingering tension of the meeting, the smell of Abraxas Malfoy’s fear, and the smoke of his cigarette. When he stepped out, the chill of the manor air bit at his damp skin. He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked into their shared, monolithic wardrobe.
It was a masterpiece of psychological conditioning. Half of the massive, boutique-style room was filled with his severe, tailored Chancellor uniforms, dark suits, and heavy winter cloaks. The other half was an explosion of soft, feminine luxury. He had bought her everything. Rows of tailored Morsmordre scholar robes, delicate day dresses, and sweeping gowns in jewel tones that complemented her creamy skin.
He walked past her dresses and pulled open a velvet-lined drawer. Inside was a collection of exquisite, scandalous Parisian lingerie. Lace, silk, and ribbons in deep reds, blacks, and emeralds. She had been too shy to wear them at first, leaving them folded neatly in the corners of her drawers. But recently, she had begun to wear them beneath her heavy academic robes. He knew this because he made a point to check the laundry hampers the house-elves collected. The knowledge that she was walking the halls of the military academy wearing the intimate things he had bought for her sent a spike of dark arousal straight to his core.
Tom pulled on a pair of soft, dark sleep pants, leaving his chest bare, and walked back out into the bedroom.
Hermione was watching the doorway. When she saw him, a soft, incredibly beautiful smile touched her lips. It was a smile entirely devoid of the fear and sycophancy that ruled the rest of his world. It was meant only for him.
Tom rounded the bed and slid beneath the heavy duvet. He didn't ask for permission. He reached out and caught her by the waist, pulling her flush against his side.
Hermione let out a soft sigh, her entire body relaxing instantly as she settled against the hard planes of his chest. She tucked her head beneath his chin, her arm wrapping tentatively around his torso. She felt incredibly warm, her soft curves pressing perfectly against him.
He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to hold her securely in place. "Severus tells me your potions are extraordinary," he murmured, his voice vibrating through his chest and into hers.
"I'm working on one you will like," she said, her voice muffled slightly against his skin. She shifted, looking up at him with a spark of genuine intellectual excitement that made her eyes shine. "If it is ingested within an hour of a dark curse, it slows down the necrosis by seventy percent before it can affect the vital organs. It gives the healers time to counter the spell."
Tom looked down at her, genuinely impressed. It was an incredibly complex piece of magic. "My clever, clever girl."
A deep, rosy blush spread across her cheeks at his praise. She ducked her head slightly. "The ingredients are tricky. Boomslang venom is highly volatile when mixed with powdered asphodel, so I need to look at how different binding agents react. But I'm sure I'll figure it out."
"I have no doubt," Tom said softly. He began to slowly, rhythmically stroke her back, his hand smoothing over the expensive silk of her pyjama top. "Why don't you look in that sixteenth-century Herbology grimoire I acquired for your birthday?"
"I've already devoured it," she admitted, her fingers playing lightly with the edge of the blanket over his chest. "It actually gave me the idea for the potion originally. Master Snape saw it on my desk today and asked to borrow it."
Tom’s hand stilled on her back. "Did he?"
"Yes," she said, oblivious to the sudden, possessive darkening of Tom's eyes. "But I told him you gave it to me, and I didn't want to share it. He seemed a bit put out, but he accepted it."
A slow, terribly satisfied smirk touched Tom’s lips. He resumed his stroking, his fingers pressing a little firmer against her spine. "You don't like sharing anything to do with me, do you, little love?"
Hermione hesitated. She shyly shook her head, keeping her gaze focused on his collarbone. "It's silly. I know it's just a book, but... you gave it to me. It's mine."
"I did," Tom said, his voice dropping an octave, rich with dark approval. "And it is only for you. If you don't want to share our things, then you don't. You owe Severus nothing."
He relished the way she claimed his gifts. He was slowly, meticulously isolating her, ensuring that he was the sole provider of her joy, her safety, and her success.
"How was your meeting?" she asked softly, changing the subject. Outside, a crack of thunder shook the distant hills, but in the bed, she remained perfectly calm, anchored by his presence.
"We were discussing the military parade at the end of the year," Tom said. He shifted his hand, slipping his long, cool fingers beneath the hem of her silk shirt.
Hermione shivered slightly as his bare skin made contact with her warm back, but she didn't pull away. She leaned closer.
"And I told the council," Tom continued smoothly, tracing the knobs of her spine with his index finger, "that I want you to come and watch."
Hermione tilted her head up, her brow furrowing in surprise. "Why? You never let me come to Ministry events."
"Because you have turned into a beautiful woman," Tom said, his voice a low, hypnotic drawl. He let his thumb drag across the soft, sensitive skin of her waist. "You are incredibly intelligent, and it is time people see you. They will not be allowed to touch you or speak to you without my permission, but they should see my perfect girl. At least from a distance."
"I'm not perfect," she murmured, a fresh wave of heat flooding her cheeks.
"You are," Tom countered effortlessly. His hand drifted higher up her back, feeling the delicate shift of her shoulder blades. "I do not care about the opinions of many people, Hermione. But you are something different entirely."
She bit her lip again, a soft, incredibly vulnerable look crossing her features. She looked so beautifully pliant, so trusting. "What else did you discuss?"
"Nothing interesting," Tom dismissed lazily. He dragged his hand back down her spine, enjoying the way she subconsciously arched into his touch. "Just Draco's future marriage."
Hermione blinked. "Commander Malfoy is marrying?"
"No," Tom said. He shifted his hand, wrapping his arm further around her torso, bringing his hand around to her front, letting his forearm rest heavily against her stomach.
"He hasn't found anyone 'suitable,' apparently."
"He is rather intense," Hermione noted quietly. She traced a pattern over Tom’s heart with her index finger. "I saw him in the courtyard today. He scares the younger recruits."
"He is lethal," Tom agreed. "He is an efficient weapon. But I can imagine he doesn't want some simpering, empty-headed pureblood who only cares about the latest silks from Paris."
"Maybe some men like women like that," she suggested softly. "Quiet and agreeable."
"Men with low ambitions," Tom said dismissively. His hand shifted upward. The room was cool, but the heat radiating between their bodies was intense. He let his knuckles brush, seemingly by accident, against the side of her breast.
Through the thin silk, he could feel that her nipples were pebble-hard.
"I wonder who he will pick," Hermione whispered, her voice suddenly slightly breathless.
"You don't need to worry about things like that," Tom murmured.
He didn't pull his hand back. Instead, he shifted his grip, letting the back of his fingers drag deliberately across the peak of her breast. The contact was brief, but electrifying.
Hermione let out a quiet, sharp little gasp. Her entire body tensed for a fraction of a second, a jolt of pure, unadulterated shock and awakening arousal shooting through her veins. Her breath hitched, her wide eyes flying up to meet his.
Tom looked back at her, his expression perfectly calm, perfectly unbothered, as though the touch had been nothing more than the casual adjustment of a protective guardian. He didn't smile, but the dark, possessive hunger in his eyes burned fiercely.
He smoothed his hand flat against her ribs, grounding her, calming the sudden spike of panic in her chest. He pulled her a fraction closer, letting her feel the solid, unyielding strength of his chest.
"You just focus on your mastery for now, little bird," he whispered, his voice dark and heavy with promise. "Let me worry about everything else."
Hermione swallowed hard, her heart hammering wildly against his hand. The touch had confused her, ignited something entirely foreign in her sheltered mind, but the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath her cheek soothed her back into compliance.
"I know, Tom," she whispered.
She settled her head back into the crook of his neck, her body slowly relaxing again. Her breath was warm, ghosting rhythmically against his collarbone as her eyelids fluttered shut. The storm raged against the windows, a violent, chaotic world that could not touch her. Not in here.
Tom continued to stroke her side, his touch possessive and absolute, as her breathing deepened into sleep.
"Sleep, my little love," he murmured into the dark, pulling the heavy duvet tighter around them both. "You are exactly where you belong."
The storm outside showed no signs of breaking. Hours bled into the deep, pitch-black hollow of the night, the wind shrieking violently around the stone turrets of Riddle Manor.
Tom was not fully asleep. He rarely was. Decades of holding power had trained his mind to rest in a state of suspended awareness, always listening, always waiting. What finally pulled him from the edge of sleep was not the thunder, but the sudden absence of warmth against his side.
In her sleep, Hermione had shifted away from him. She was tangled in the heavy silver-grey sheets, her head tossing fitfully against the pillows. A soft, fractured whimper slipped past her lips.
Tom’s eyes opened in the dark. He moved immediately, sliding across the mattress and reaching for her. He caught her by the waist and pulled her firmly back into the center of the bed, dragging her flush against his chest. He wrapped both arms around her, caging her completely within the solid, unyielding heat of his body.
"Little love," Tom murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the quiet room. "You're safe. I'm here."
Hermione gasped softly, her body stiffening for a fraction of a second before she registered the scent of his skin and the heavy weight of his arms. She cracked an eye open, her brown eyes glassy and entirely unfocused in the dim light of the dying fire.
"You were whimpering," Tom said softly, bringing a hand up to stroke the tangled curls away from her damp forehead.
She let out a shaky exhale, burying her face into the curve of his neck. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling with the lingering terror of whatever she had seen behind her closed eyelids. "I know I should just take the Dreamless Sleep potion, but it makes me so groggy the next morning. I don't like the feeling of not being in control."
"You don't need it," Tom stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He smoothed his hand down the long curve of her spine, a slow, hypnotic rhythm designed to ground her. "I am here."
Slowly, the erratic thrum of her heartbeat against his chest began to settle. Her breathing evened out, matching the slow, controlled rise and fall of his own lungs. She pressed her soft lips against the bare skin of his chest, a gesture of absolute, innocent trust.
"I don't know what I'd do without you, Tom," she murmured into his skin.
Tom’s jaw tightened. He had to clench his teeth to stifle the dark, heavy groan that threatened to tear from his throat. The sheer, overwhelming possessiveness that rushed through his blood at those words was intoxicating.
"You don't need to find that out," he answered, his voice a fraction hoarser than before.
As if to prove her reliance on him, Hermione pressed even more firmly into his side. She anchored herself to his heat, throwing one bare, smooth leg over his waist to pull herself as close to him as physically possible.
The friction of her thigh sliding directly over his hips nearly snapped his iron-clad control. Tom closed his eyes, his fingers digging slightly into the silk at her lower back. He was a master of the mind, a conqueror of nations, but the soft, pliable weight of her body draped over him tested every ounce of his restraint.
"My poor girl," he whispered, forcing his hand to resume its soothing strokes.
She shifted again, letting out a frustrated little sigh. "I feel so hot," she complained softly. "And sweaty. I think I might take a shower."
Tom frowned in the dark. "It is late, Hermione."
"I know," she pleaded quietly, tracing the edge of his collarbone. "But I won't be able to sleep if I feel like this."
Tom exhaled a slow, measured breath. He hated the idea of her leaving the bed, pulling her warmth away from him, but he could feel the slight dampness on her skin from the nightmare. "Go, then."
She slipped out of his arms and padded across the dark room toward the en-suite.
Tom lay there in the quiet, listening to the sound of the running water. He stared at the ceiling, his mind meticulously calculating the months left until her twenty-first birthday. He had built the cage perfectly. Her father was locked away, lost to his own madness. Her mother was dead. The Acolytes terrified her, and the outside world was too loud, too unpredictable. Tom was the only solid ground she had left.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door clicked open.
Hermione emerged into the firelight, her curls piled damply on top of her head, completely bare save for the plush white towel wrapped securely around her small frame. Her skin was flushed pink from the heat of the water.
Tom sat up against the headboard, his eyes tracking every movement she made. The dark hunger in his chest flared to life, hot and demanding.
"Go and get one of my T-shirts," Tom commanded softly, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "And wear just that."
Hermione paused, blinking at him, before a soft blush crept up her neck. She didn't argue. She turned and walked into the massive walk-in wardrobe.
Watching her disappear into the dark, Tom knew exactly what he was doing to himself. The thought of her wearing nothing but his shirt—his scent wrapping around her, the hem barely covering her thighs, absolutely nothing underneath—was a psychological punishment he was willingly inflicting upon himself. It was agony.
But it was only for a few more months. Once the rings were exchanged and the blood vows tied her to him legally and magically, the waiting would end. He would be able to pull her onto his lap, bury his face between her thighs, and consume her completely whenever he wished. It was a delicate, agonizing game he was playing. She was so trusting, so heartbreakingly sweet.
Tom truly believed no one else had ever touched her. The very thought of another man’s hands on her skin made the magic in the room crackle with violent intent. If anyone had, they would be dead the second he found out. He would tear their mind apart before burning them to ash.
Hermione walked back into the bedroom.
She had chosen one of his soft, dark grey undershirts. On him, it was a fitted garment. On her, it swallowed her upper body, the collar slipping off one delicate shoulder, the hem stopping dangerously high on her thighs.
Tom’s eyes darkened to the color of a bruised sky. "Come here," he ordered softly.
She climbed back onto the bed and crawled toward him. Tom didn't wait for her to settle. He reached out, gripping her by the hips and pulling her firmly against his side. The movement caused the soft cotton of the shirt to ride up dangerously high.
He slid his large, warm hand down to rest heavily on her bare thigh, his thumb slowly stroking the impossibly soft skin. "You smell like vanilla," he noted, leaning in to press a kiss to her damp shoulder.
"I used the soap you bought me," she said, leaning her head against his chest.
"When I was in Paris?" he asked, his hand continuing its slow, torturous slide up and down her leg.
"Yes," she murmured, her voice turning slightly sullen. "But I don't like it when you go to Paris."
Tom smirked in the dark, deeply pleased by her possessiveness. "I have to for the Ministry, little love. But I always come back, don't I?"
"Not till the middle of the night," she complained softly, her fingers playing with the dark hair on his chest. "And I can't sleep when you aren't here."
"You can come with me next time, if you want," Tom offered. It wasn't an empty promise. He liked the idea of keeping her close, parading her through the French magical district on his arm, a silent warning to the rest of the world that she belonged to the High Chancellor.
"Or," she countered softly, "you could just stay here."
Tom chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated against her cheek. "You wouldn't miss me if I were here all the time. You'd grow entirely bored with me."
"I would miss you," she insisted stubbornly.
"Don't pout," he murmured, his fingers squeezing her thigh gently. "You can come with me next time. We could go shopping in the Marais, stay in a private suite in the hotel there."
Hermione sighed, sounding genuinely anxious at the prospect. "The press would find us. They follow you everywhere, Tom. There are always flashes and reporters shouting."
"You will need to get used to it eventually," Tom told her, his tone firm but patient. "You cannot always hide here in the manor, Hermione."
"Why?" she asked, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. "I like the quiet of the house here. I don't want the world looking at me."
"I know, sweet girl," Tom said, brushing the back of his knuckles against her cheek. "But you would be with me. I won't let anyone get close enough to bother you. It would be nice. Just us."
Hermione seemed to consider this, her brow furrowing. "I prefer it when we go to the Surrey house," she finally decided. "It's just us there. Without all your men coming in and out, demanding your attention."
Tom’s hand stilled on her thigh. "You don't like the Acolytes being at the manor?"
"No," she said, shivering slightly. "They... they all stare at me."
A cold, lethal stillness fell over Tom. The air in the bedroom seemed to thin, growing heavy with the sudden, sharp spike of his killing intent. "Who?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet.
"They always do," she said, oblivious to the murderous rage simmering just beneath his skin. "All of them, when they patrol the grounds. I don't like it. When I come into my inheritance, I'm going to restore Dagworth Manor. I'll just hide away in my own potions lab there."
Tom’s grip on her thigh tightened just enough to be a warning. He shifted, tilting her chin up so she was forced to look directly into his eyes. "You're going to leave me?"
Hermione laughed softly, the sound light and musical, entirely untouched by the dark gravity of his question. "No," she promised, offering him a sweet, sleepy smile. "I'll be back here every night. Until you tell me to stop."
"I won't," Tom said immediately, the absolute finality in his voice leaving no room for doubt. He relaxed his grip, sliding his hand up to stroke her waist, feeling the delicate prominence of her hip bone beneath his shirt. "But I built you a state-of-the-art lab right here in the East Wing. Is it not good enough for you?"
"It's your lab, Tom," she pointed out reasonably.
"No," he corrected, his eyes locking onto hers. "I built it for us. And I never have the time to use it anymore. It is yours."
A soft, pleased flush warmed her cheeks. "I love it," she admitted quietly. "Almost as much as I love the pools."
Tom smiled, the genuine, dark affection he held for her bleeding through. "I'm glad. I like watching you swim."
Hermione bit her lip, a shy twinkle in her eye. "I know. I see you watching from the balcony."
"I do," Tom admitted without an ounce of shame. He spent hours standing in the shadows of the gothic conservatory, watching her cut through the water, obsessing over the long, graceful lines of her body.
"You never join me," she pointed out, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. "I know you swim in the mornings. Before I wake up."
Tom arched a dark eyebrow. "Do you want me to join you?"
"Yes," she breathed. "It's your pool."
"It's ours," Tom corrected again, brushing his thumb over her lower lip. "And I will join you next time."
He leaned down and pressed a long, soft kiss to her bare shoulder. The tension finally drained completely from Hermione’s body. Her eyelids fluttered shut, heavy with exhaustion, and within minutes, the soft, even rhythm of her breathing told him she had fallen asleep.
Tom did not sleep.
He lay perfectly still, staring at the woman tangled in his arms. As she had relaxed, her legs had parted slightly, and the oversized cotton shirt had ridden up even further, pooling around her hips.
Tom’s gaze dropped.
The breath caught in his throat. Beneath the hem of the shirt, between the soft, pale columns of her thighs, the skin was completely, flawlessly bare. He knew of the hairless charm, of course—it was common enough among pureblood women—but seeing it on her drove him to the absolute brink of madness.
Why did she use it? Was it vanity? Was it simply comfort under her heavy Morsmordre robes? Or was it something else entirely? The mystery of it clawed at his mind.
He shifted slightly, catching a fleeting, agonizing glimpse of the delicate, soft pink flesh hidden between her bare thighs.
A heavy, violent surge of lust hit him so hard it made his vision blur. His hand twitched on her waist. It would be so incredibly easy. She was asleep, pliant, and wholly dependent on him. He could push her onto her back, pull her legs apart, and devour her right here in the dark. He could taste her, mark her, and ensure she understood exactly who she belonged to.
But he forced himself to look away.
Tom turned his head, staring rigidly at the embers of the dying fire, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. No. He would not take her like a thief in the night. He wanted to go slow. He wanted her awake, aware, and begging for it. He wanted to teach her everything, to systematically break down her modesty until she offered herself to him willingly.
He was going to make her so completely, utterly reliant on his touch, his magic, and his presence that she would never even entertain the thought of leaving his side.
Only then, when the trap was perfectly, inescapably closed, would he finally consume her.
Taking a slow, agonizingly controlled breath, Tom Riddle closed his eyes, pulled his little love tighter against his chest, and finally allowed himself to fall asleep.