Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter one

            Perhaps infiltrating the Malfoy Samhain masquerade wasn’t the best jumping off point for her debut back into British society, Hydra mused, feeling claustrophobic already. The grand ballroom was filled to the brim with ministry officials, pureblood families, and of course, the Dark Lord’s Elite. She had expected nothing less but after two and a half years sequestered in the Library of Alexandria and another three months in the Weave, this many people were overwhelming. Luckily, no one seemed to know who she was—with her hair an almost luminescent white rather than her old crow black and her eyes shaded by an intricately carved golden mask, it was nearly impossible to recognize the Girl-Who-Lived.  When eyes did stop on her figure, it was in admiration and attraction rather than hero-worship. And they should be attracted! She and Hermione had spent nearly a month planning her outfit, make-up, and hair. Putting it all together took hours! Multiple hours and about three liters of Sleakeazy’s. It was worth it though.

            Despite fabric covering most of her body, half of it was sheer black lace that hugged her shoulders, chest, back and blurred the beguiling v-cut that dipped almost to her bellybutton. Her white hair flowed down her back in spiral curls, preserving some modesty, while golden flowers embroidered delicately in a waterfall down her spine peek out with every sway of her hips. That same embroidery wrapped around her torso and petals seemed to flutter on the full skirt. The mask, though, was the piece of resistance. Burnished gold, carved by a master’s hands with her namesake flowers and lithe serpents that caressed her high cheekbones and settled against her crown. Vines and leaves made-up the bed on which the snakes rest. Frankly, she looked irresistible to any Slytherin worth their salt. And that was just who she was hoping to catch.

            But she mustn’t be too eager. After all, he was a man who liked the chase and Merlin, did he enjoy a nice, dramatic gloat as well. Best to let him believe that she was the prey, rather than the bait. So she danced with anyone and everyone who asked. She never gave away her identity, although she believed that Draco was suspicious. Snape, as well, immediately knew who she was without even dancing with her. He had managed to catch her eyes over the table of refreshments. Honestly, if she wasn’t so far into character, Hydra would have cackled. The man paled more than she thought possible and choked on his wine, dark eyes flashing toward her quarry in a panic. Before he could snatch her away from this place filled with people who wanted her dead, she was swept into another dance with a foreign dignitary. As she twirled around the ballroom, she made sure a pair of blood red eyes were on her at all times. Near midnight, her patience paid off.

            “May I have this dance?” a deep voice murmured into her ear, warm breath tickling the back of her neck. Turning to face her petitioner, she wondered just who he was trying to fool. A half-skull mask that was probably made of real bone accentuated his strong jaw and made his red eyes practically shine. Wavy dark hair was coiffed as perfectly as it had been when his “memory” came out of the diary with a single curl falling over his forehead. His robes seemed to be made of shadows and thestral hair that clung tightly to his shoulders and his waist. He exuded dark charm and sensuality as he towered over her by almost a foot. If she looked close enough, she could see the edges of the glamour but for the casual observer, it was more than passable.

            “Of course,” she replied with a curtsey—that she definitely hadn’t had to practice for a week before she could do it without stumbling. As they joined the others on the dance floor, his large hand settled on her hip, pulling her slightly closer than socially acceptable. She even saw a few older, pureblood women whispering behind their fans over the scandal.

            “Ignore them,” he ordered, gently guiding her gaze back to his. “Their gossip will hardly matter tomorrow and I rarely bestow my company on someone in this manner.”

            “Then I am flattered,” she grinned, thinking of Bellatrix’s jealous tantrum when the madwoman saw her beloved Lord dancing with someone else. “You certainly do seem like a man who would be particular in his choice of companion. Even if just for a dance.”

            “And you are not someone I have seen at such an event like this,” he said. “That alone makes me curious.”

            “Then I will satiate your curiosity,” Hydra chuckled lightly, pleased her ruse was going so well. “I have been away from in Egypt for a few years and only recently completed my studies. I have come home to officially receive my masteries from the Ministry here in Britain, although I do have the equivalent in other countries.”

            “Multiple masteries at so young an age? Very impressive,” he purred, leaning in even more. A shiver forced its way down her spine at his tone and by his smug smirk, he definitely noticed her reaction. The git.  “What might they be in?”

            “Ancient Runes and Warding,” she answered. “However, both titles are rather simplistic by what I’ve actually achieved.” Here she paused, building some tension. Nothing wrong with playing with the mystery a little when he so enjoyed digging for answers. Though, he seemed to catch on to her ploy quickly.

            “Well, don’t keep me waiting, little one,” he urged, brushing his nose against the crown of her head. His voice came out as a sibilant hiss, almost dipping into parseltongue. “Tell me of all your achievements. Astound me.”

She closed her eyes to hide her glee at how easily she had reeled him in. It wasn’t without effort, but his insatiable curiosity was so delightfully simple to manipulate. He was still the strongest dark wizard Britain had ever seen, after Morgana, and it was a dangerous game she was playing. Somehow that just made it all the more fun.

            Rising up on her tip toes, placing her lips close to his skin, she whispered. “I am one of only three Masters of the Weave, the youngest to ever achieve such a feat. The purest of magic is a part of my very atoms and my blood sings with its voice.” She pulled back, a dazzling smile on her face. “Are you astounded, my Lord?”

            If anyone ever dared to call Lord Voldemort dazed, he’d flay them alive, but there was no other term for the look on his face. She reveled in her ability to shock the man of a million masks into such an expression. Then it was replaced with a sharp, predatory grin. “Oh darling, I am more than astounded. I am ravenous for a taste of your power.”

            She might be a little out of her depth, Hydra realized as her knees went weak for a moment, and she stumbled. Merlin’s beard, the man’s voice was sin itself! He also truly looked like he wanted to eat her. Whether that was in the fun way or the murder way was unclear. Although, he might not have to murder her to cannibalize her. He was a sadistic bastard like that. No! Back on track!

            “Apologies,” she said, blushing furiously. “I’m unaccustomed to people. I only exited the Weave on Lammas.”

            “No matter,” he assured her, “but it appears our dance is over. Can I persuade you into another or perhaps we can retire to Lucius’ study? We can speak more of your studies.”

            She shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I must be home soon. I have a very overprotective house elf and portrait waiting for me.”

“A shame but easily rectified,” he smiled charmingly though practiced. It sent an unpleasant jolt through Hydra to be on the receiving end of such a smile. “Your name, Weaver, and your place of residence will ensure that our conversation continues.”

“I must once again disappoint you, my Lord,” she replied, slipping back into her coy persona. “I am playing the part of Cinderella this evening and my prince charming has yet to make an appearance, so I mustn’t leave behind a slipper.” His nose wrinkled at the reference to a muggle fairytale, but his eyes are still sparking with interest. They were motionless on the dance floor, and no one has dared to start the dancing again while the Dark Lord stands there. In fact, Hydra noted, they were causing quite a scene but Voldemort hardly seemed to care.

“You are no mere Cinderella,” he rumbled, towering over her and caressing her mask with long, pianist fingers. “You are innocent Eve, seduced to take a bite of forbidden fruit, filled with knowledge but no intent, no revelry. Revel in your power, darling, and let me give you purpose.” No wonder the Dark had so many more followers! How was anyone supposed to resist having all of his attention on them?

She laughed, the sound a little choked. “You have a way with words, my Lord, however the truth remains that I must leave some mystery behind me when I go. Though I do have an errant familiar to call before I can leave. Rouhi!” The last word is hissed in parseltongue and she had to hold back a giggle at the dumbfounded look on his face. In the meantime, several women and men scream as a descent sized cobra wound its way toward the young woman.

            Cowards, the snake sniggered, twisting around Hydra’s outstretched wrist. A few of the spawn tried to stomp on me, Weaver! One of them even threw a cutting hex!

            How terrible. she said dryly. Did you at least like terrorizing the peacocks?

            Yes, I did even though I almost died and my Speaker has no sympathy for me.

            Now don’t pout, love, Hydra murmured, stroking his head. We’re going home and I’ll let you sleep in the bed tonight.

            With a warming charm. he demanded. And I want a rabbit tomorrow.

            She laughed indulgently. Alright, Rouhi.

            “He’ll never leave if you let him onto the bed,” the Dark Lord told her as she straightened.

            She smirked. “Have some experience with spoiled serpents, do you?” Rouhi, of course, hissed indignantly at her and flicked her with his tail.

            “Unfortunately,” he sighed, though a smile tugged at his lips. How is it that you Speak?

            Slytherin does not have the sole claim upon the language. My ancestors were believed to have been blessed by Apopsis, the Serpent of Chaos, and so it is a gift no more loved in Egypt than it is here.

            But it is a gift?

            It can be nothing but. At her reply, he gripped her wrist—the one not occupied by a snake—and dragged her to terrace, away from lookers on. On their way out, Hydra couldn’t help the maniacal laughter that bubbled when she heard a screech of rage from the corner that she had last seen Bellatrix. Her companion gave her a small smirk and closed the doors behind him.

            “I wasn’t lying when I said I must go,” she said, leaning against the railing. His eyes flashed harsher red as he stalked toward her until he placed his hands on either side of her, boxing her in.

            I must have you, he hissed and took a half step closer. As she breathed, Hydra’s chest brushed against his. She squeaked, face burning again at the implication, and he let out a dark chuckle. Not like that, little serpent, though I’m not opposed. Join me and my cause. Your power level alone attracted me, but I cannot let a true Weaver go. Especially not one who can Speak. He leaned down, mouth open against her neck, scenting her as a snake would. His warm breath against the autumn chill raised goosebumps along her skin.

            And if I’m not available for the taking? she gasped, proud she got through with out stuttering. She felt him smirk against her neck.

            Then I’ll just have to convince you, darling. Without warning, his teeth clamped down on her pulse point. She tried to muffle her cry, but her hands were clutching his shoulders, Rouhi still wrapped around one. As the Dark Lord was sucking a hickey into her neck, her snake was demanding that he “release his Speaker at once!” All Hydra could focus on was the heat on her skin and the muscle beneath her fingers. Finally, he pulled away with a self-satisfied smirk on his reddened lips.

            “Not my usual Mark but it’ll do,” he told her, an almost boyish grin growing at her shocked expression. He took a step back to let her catch her bearings, but not terribly far away.

            “Did…Did you just make a joke?” she spluttered. “After giving me a hickey!”

            “It would appear so, wouldn’t it?” She couldn’t help it, she burst into loud giggles. The Dark Lord had given her a hickey like a teenaged boy in a darkened broom cupboard.

            “I…ha…I still can’t join you,” she said after calming down a little. “Though thank you for the offer. I am firmly neutral in your conflict. In fact, we have a binding contract which states just that.”

            “Binding…” he repeated, eyes going wide, and his glamour flickered, fading. There in all his snake like glory, Lord Voldemort stood. “Potter!”

With a final curtsey, she smiled at him. “Thank you for the wonderful dance and conversation, my Lord. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” Then she ripped a small hole in the Malfoy’s wards and apparated away, landing on the stoop of 12 Grimmauld Place. Quickly entering and shutting the door behind her, she released a relieved breath.

            “The young Mistress is home!” Kreacher popped into view. “Did Mistress have fun?”

            “Oh yes,” Hydra replied, kicking off her heels. “Loads of fun. Can you run a bath for me, Kreature? I’m dead tired and I still need to do the ritual.” With a bow, Kreacher popped away again and Hydra made her way up the stairs, stopping to say goodnight to Walpurga’s portrait. Though they hadn’t gotten on in the beginning, the older woman had taught her how to mourn her godfather in the Old Ways and during that time, they had spoken of Sirius and Regulus and Orion. Walpurga had told her all of the history of the Ancient House of Black and what it meant to have magic in your soul. The woman was still a cantankerous old bitch, but frankly, so was Hydra sometimes. They managed to coexist peacefully whenever Hydra is in the house.

            “Hydrangea Jamie Potter-Black-Peverell, just what is that on your neck!”

            Mostly.

Chapter Text

It had all started with a letter. As a Dark Lord, he didn’t get many letters and those he did were always from the same four people who weren’t in a position to return to meetings. So when a nondescript owl pecked incessantly at his window at Malfoy Manor, he was rightfully suspicious—and curious. It seemed to be his fatal flaw. After checking the thick scroll for curses, potions, and compulsions, he unfurled it. A lengthy contract made up the majority of the package, but a small note was also enclosed.

July 1^st, 1996

Dear Tom Marvolo Riddle (alias Lord Voldemort),

            I am writing to inform you of my official surrender. It was recommended to me by sources much more knowledgeable than me—ie my account manager at Gringotts who is editing as I write—that I should keep this letter civil and professional so that it denotes my seriousness. The terms of my surrender are as follows: I shall not actively seek to impede your rise to power, nor will I seek to assist you. However, if attacked, I will retaliate. I will cut all ties to the Order of the Phoenix and to the Ministry of Magic until such a time as I find it necessary to take up my seats on the Wizengamot. In fact, it is unlikely I will stay on British soil much longer and that is part of why I am writing this to you at all. If I simply disappeared, both you and Headmaster Dumbledore would search for me endlessly and that sounds tedious. Instead, I ask for nothing except my own neutrality and the neutrality of those close to me. If you leave me be, I swear to never fulfill the prophecy that so terrifies you. Yes, I do indeed know it in its entirety and until a legally and magically binding peace treaty is drafted and signed in blood, you shall not hear it from me. You and Dumbledore put such stock into the words of a drunk, two-bit seer and yet preach of defying fate at every turn. I have no interest in playing such a game. At sixteen, I’m hardly equipped to fight in a war that I never asked to be a part of. I hope that I never have anything else to do with you, Dark Lord, or the headmaster’s “Greater Good.” Enjoy tearing each other and the country to shreds.

Sincerely,

Hydrangea Jamie Potter

Head of the most Noble House of Potter

Head of the most Ancient and Noble House of Black

Heir to the most Ancient and Noble house of Peverell

P.s. Go fuck yourself, you absolute bastard.

            For a moment, he could do nothing but stare at the innocuous piece of parchment. The audacity of that little chit! How dare she? He was Lord Voldemort, the great wizard of all time, and she thought to bargain with him? To use such vulgar terms even if her goblin handler had tried to strike it. Out of pure vexation—and the fact that the owl seemed to be waiting for a reply—he grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, intent on giving the brat a piece of his mind.

July 1^st, 1996

You are either overly brave or overly stupid to speak to me in such a way, girl. Give me the prophecy and I shall not harm your little friends. My Death Eaters were very well acquainted with them at the Ministry. You may have gotten lucky in the past, Potter, but don’t think I’ll allow your farce of truce. Lord Voldemort does not surrender to little girls playing at hero.

The Dark Lord Voldemort  

            There, he thought and tied the letter to the owl’s leg. That should put her in the place. He merrily went about his business, thinking with glee of how her face would crumple at the threat against her friends. A few hours without a reply, however, and he was getting restless. Surely she must have gotten the note by now. Was she wallowing in despair? Plotting with the old fool? No, her letter said she was cutting all ties with Dumbledore. That was interesting. Severus insisted the girl was a spoiled brat who hung off the old Headmaster’s every word. What had happened that she sought peace with the man out to kill her? In fact, what did that peace entail? His gaze was drawn to the contract laying innocuously on his desk. Damn his curiosity! Oh well, at least, he'd have something to do until the girl replied.

            The owl didn’t return for three days and he was so furious, he shot a killing curse at the thing the second it perched on the window sill. He had to send a House Elf to retrieve the letter tied to its leg when the thing dodged out of the way and refused to come anywhere near the window.

July 4^th, 1996

Dear He-who-speaks-in-third-person-despite-it-literally-never-being-intimidating-or-impressive,

            Thank Merlin you’re such an evil, egotistical git! Now I can say whatever I want without Ragnuk giving me a lecture about “proper business etiquette.” So, once again without any editing, go fuck yourself! You’re a selfish, psychopathic dick who surrounds himself with groveling purebloods just to make himself feel better about having a muggle parent. You’d make a terrible wedding planner because not even the simplest of your plots work. Also, if you’re so smart, why didn’t you let me break into the Ministry, get the prophecy, and then tear it out of my brain while I was sleeping? No deaths, no arrests, and no grand reveal to Fudge.

            No, instead your idiotically convoluted plan got my godfather killed. By the way, tell Bellatrix that the first thing I did when I took on the Black Lordship was disown her and dissolve her marriage.

            Sign the contract or don’t. It honestly doesn’t matter to me. If I had it my way, I’d leave for the continent and never look back. And if you’re too busy looking for me to fight a war, more people will stay alive. All I’m saying is that it would be quite convenient for you to a have a magical piece of paper that makes the prophecy null and void. Use that genius of yours and think like a strategist instead of a divination-obsessed nutter!

Hopeful but not holding my breath,

The-Girl-who-lived-to-annoy-Dark-Lords

            The amount of magic released in his anger blew the glass out of every window on his floor. He let out an inhumane screech of rage. Not only was the girl infuriating, but now he owed the Malfoys an insincere apology because he was a guest in their home. Lord Voldemort never lowered himself to simpering regrets but the infinitesimal part of him that was still Tom Riddle insisted on politeness for the sake of politeness. And it was undeniably rude to destroy an entire floor of windows, despite magic fixing the problem in a matter of moments. What made the whole thing worse was that the little brat was right. Oh, it galled him but it couldn’t be denied. Somehow a sixteen-year-old girl was constantly escaping him and Hydra Potter wasn’t skilled—or lucky—enough for that to come from her own merits.

            Don’t get him wrong. The pesky girl had talent, power, and luck to spare, but it should be nothing compared his own power and experience. For Salazar’s sake, she’d defeated him and another full-grown wizard at age eleven, armed with nothing but a first year’s knowledge and “outstanding moral fiber.” Oh yes, he had heard all about that from his followers’ memories. Apparently, all of their spawn were still bitter about having the House Cup snatched away from them. The Malfoy boy was particularly vocal about it.

            When was the last time he made plans that didn’t revolve around the girl? When he broke his followers out of Azkaban? No, even then the prophecy had been on his mind, and he clearly remembered the glee he felt when thinking about how even such a blatant act wouldn’t convince the ministry of his return. He thought of the feelings of loneliness, anger, and resentment that would sometimes filter through whatever bond they shared, and he reveled in causing her such turmoil. Why was he obsessed with Hydra Potter?

            For the first time in too long, his rational mind overrode whatever madness seemed to shroud it. When he had studied the document, he was surprised at how reasonable the terms were. All she wanted was peace for herself and her loved ones while the Light and Dark fought for power. There were no other demands other than that if she did return to Britain, she would be able to take up her Wizengamot seats. She did not, however, offer up the prophecy or any other benefits for him beyond her neutrality. He was too Slytherin to allow a deal to not be in his favor. As he edited the contract, he found himself genuinely looking forward to negotiating with the little pest. 

July 5^th, 1996

Potter,

            Because I am a benevolent Lord, I will overlook your vulgar insults and accusations. You are very young and so are not worth squabbling with. You shall learn your own inferiority soon enough. I have looked over your proposed terms and have added a few of my own. I want the full prophecy and a vow that you will never fulfill it. I also want your seats to remain empty until you are able to fill them yourself. When you do take up the seats, you will declare them to the Neutral Faction unless you are willing to align with the Dark. You will have no contact with an members of the Order of the Phoenix, past, present, or future. When you leave Britain, you must inform me of where you are and if you intend to return, you must tell me that as well. You may only have five names on your list of people who are “off limits.” All of them must be underage or still in Hogwarts.

Do not keep me waiting,

Lord Voldemort

(Tom Marvolo Riddle)

Dark Lord, so appointed by Magic

Heir of the Ancient House of Gaunt

Heir to the Ancient House of Slytherin

Heir to the Ancient House of Lefay  

            Having to summon a Malfoy owl—the other one flew off the moment its task was done with a harsh squawk—he sent off the note with the revised contract. Her reply might take a little longer since she would no doubt have to go the Gringotts and talk over his demands with her account manager. That was fine. He was very satisfied with his changes and frankly, couldn’t see any reason why she’d reject them. Lord Voldemort was generous, after all, and so long as she did as she was told, there was no need to worry about her in the upcoming war. It was a shame that he couldn’t torture or kill her for her past actions but that was the price of compromise, he supposed.

            He should have remembered something fundamental about Hydra Potter; she never did as she was told.

            Three weeks! It had been three weeks since he sent his response and not a peep out of her, or Gringotts when he inquired with them about her whereabouts. Even the old coot’s Order was quiet—Severus said that they, too, were searching for the girl as she hadn’t been seen since leaving the Hogwarts Express. It was absolutely unconscionable! First, she had the nerve to demand things from him, Lord Voldemort, and now she was blatantly ignoring his generous offer of peace that she in no ways deserved? It was outrageous! In his fury, he ripped a piece of parchment from the bottom of the scroll he was working on—a copy of the original centuries’ old ritual text, thankfully—and scrawled a hasty note with no greeting or signature.

Who do you think you are, ungrateful chit? Cease with your tantrum at not getting your way as I’m sure the Goblins have advised. They, at least, have some sense of propriety in these things. Respond at once or all negotiations between us are null and void.

            With a vindictive grin, he layered the note with a nightmare hex before sending it off. Nothing too vicious or Dark, wouldn’t want to permanently damage her before she could reply. Still a week of her worst fears—most likely him, he thought with no little pride—was a fitting punishment. He would wait no more than a day for her reply before escalating his raids and attacks. He would tear Britain apart to find her and if she truly left it behind, he’d move on to the rest of the world. A small voice—the accent of an East London orphan coloring it—whispered tauntingly about obsession and avarice. As always, Lord Voldemort ignored it.

            He didn’t have to wait a day; he barely had to wait an hour before a ragged House Elf apparated straight into his study. The creature was stooped, wrapped in rags, and glaring at him as though it loathed him. He had a passing thought of how it had gotten through the wards before it spoke.

            “Mistress Hydra not be wanting a reply,” it said simply, holding out the same piece of parchment he had sent her.  With greedy hands, he snatched it up and waved the thing away, missing the sinister smile that grew on it’s face before it popped away. The girl had only bothered to turn his note over and scrawl on the back with what he was sure was a muggle pen—no respectable wixen would charm their ink to be iridescent, bubblegum pink.

Stop owling me, you snake-faced berk! I’m mourning my godfather in his ancestral home like the Old Ways demand. When my month of solitude is up, I’ll get back to you about your ridiculous demands. Morgana’s tits, you’re like a toddler having a fit. Also, if you want me to keep reading your letters, stop hexing them. The wards won’t let them through and Kreacher hates acting as an owl unless it’s to fuck with egomaniacal Dark Lords. Enjoy the itching powder!

            Merlin, he hated that girl…and he owed Lucius new windows. Again.

Chapter Text

           “Get the hell out of my house, Albus,” Hydra Potter said, glaring at the twinkly-eyed, bearded man standing in her entry hall. Grimmauld Place, while no means cheerful, was no longer the grimy, dirty cesspool of dark magic in had been three years prior. Kreacher and a few other helpful house elves from the main Black property had been tasked with the upkeep of the townhome. Because she hadn’t been living here full time, Hydra hadn’t much cared about interior design or comfort, but this was where she had spent most of her time with Sirius. Not to mention where she had mourned him, curled up in a tight ball of grief on the settee where he had lulled her to sleep with tales of brothers-in-all-but-blood and a flame-haired goddess of spring and laughter, of family and regrets and hopes for the future. Grimmauld would always be where she thought of family finally coming together.

            “Now, my dear girl.” And here was this man, intruding on her the morning after her arrival. Not to mention the exhausting party and ritual she had done the night before. Luckily, the ritual had been a success and the vials of pure Ley magic and soul was resting in the pocket of her dressing gown. Though she was tired down to her bones, she had managed to put a glamour over her hair to disguise its shocking new color. It wouldn’t do to have Albus asking too many questions or to have anyone connect her to the white-hair woman who danced with the Dark Lord.

            “Don’t ‘dear girl’ me, you meddling, old man,” she snarled. “I haven’t been one of your students in a very long time and I’ve made my stance on this war very clear.” Not that it was much of a war.

While the Order fell apart after she and Tom signed their agreement, the Death Eaters also seemed to disappear. Every once in a while, a muggle village was terrorized but the death count was always low to nonexistent. No, Tom appeared to be waging his war in the political arena even if that too wasn’t going very well. Neither side gained any ground between the Dark that wished for everything to stay the same—besides the muggleborn freedoms—and the Light that were vocal in their want for change but lacked any follow through.

            Albus too-many-names Dumbledore heaved a disappointed sigh. “Hydra, you must understand. I was only doing what I thought was best at the time. I can see now that leaving you alone was a mistake but running away wasn’t the answer!”

            Hydra pinched the bridge of her nose, wire-rimmed glasses pushing up. “For a man who makes his living working with children, you seem to be completely clueless about them. I had just watched a friend die, been forced to resurrect the man who killed my parents, subjected to the torture curse twice, forced to duel a madman three times my age, and then when I managed to escape, a teacher who I thought cared about me, tried to kill me. Please tell me what fourteen-year-old child would benefit from being cut off from all of their support systems?”

The man paled under the onslaught of biting words, never having had it laid out before him in such blunt terms. She could practically see the thoughts behind his eyes—not literally of course. She was pants at Legilimancy. A niggle of doubt wormed its way to the front of his mind. Could he have misjudged the situation so badly? No surely it had to have been worth it. For the Greater Good.

            “Hydra…” he started but furious green eyes opened to pin him in place. Instead of raging with fire as they had when she’d been child, now they glowed like moonlight on shards of emerald ice. A shiver wracked through him as he remembered brown eyes that used to cut him just the same.

            “Had you thought of me as a traumatized student instead of the Girl-Who-Lived, perhaps my godfather would still be alive,” she hisses, almost sliding into parseltongue. “Had you thought to give me even the slightest bit of information, perhaps I would not have had to seek it out elsewhere. Had you thought to support me and protect your students, perhaps I wouldn’t have my own handwriting carved into my hand. You made mistakes, Headmaster, and now you suffer the consequences.”

The walls ring with her pronouncement and for a moment, Dumbledore is too stunned to speak. To accuse him of not protecting his students…His eyes drift to her hand and the cursed scar that covered the back of it. I must not tell lies. How many times had she been forced to carve those words into her skin? How many other children wandering the halls of Hogwarts still had such scars?

            “Why have you come home, my girl?” he asked, clearing his throat, the twinkle long gone from his eyes. “The last time we spoke, you indicated that you wouldn’t be returning for anything less than an apocalypse.” The last time she talked to him was the Yule after she left for Egypt. She had been in the middle of negotiations with Tom and had just barely started to hear the Song of the Ley Lines. When she had said that she had fully meant it and a part of her still did. But now she had a mission to complete and a Dark Lord to manipulate in the kindest way possible. Besides, with what she had been shown, an apocalypse probably wasn’t too far off.

            Now Hydra was the one to sigh. “Because the goblins don’t like it when vaults that could be making money, aren’t. I’m also tired of turning down jobs just because the Ministry won’t accept my Masteries without an ‘in-person verification.’” At this, she rolled her eyes. Even after all this time, the Ministry was just as corrupt and controlling as it had always been. It was an obvious ploy to force her back onto British soil and frankly, an insulting one. She was the Lady of three Ancient Houses with two Masteries at barely eighteen and they were tying her up with tedious paperwork. You’d think they’d remember how well she responds to overreaching authority.

            “And will you simply finish your business and leave?”

            “I haven’t decided,” she shrugged. “Both you and Voldemort have been so preoccupied with finding me, that you are in something of a cold war conflict.”

Not that Tom wasted too much time looking for her. Sometimes, he’d get bored and treat her location like a scavenger hunt. The only time he ever got close was when she and a few colleagues had returned to Europe for a pub crawl through Vienna. One minute she was drinking and laughing, the next she was choking because a handsome, all-too-familiar stranger was offering to buy her a drink. His glamour was flawless, but she remembered how devastatingly good-looking he had been at sixteen. The too-perfect, two-and-a-half dimensional mask didn’t do him justice. Luckily she was also glamoured to the nines otherwise the game would have been over. With a drunken squeak, she turned him down politely and apparated on the spot. Thank Merlin they were in a wixen pub and not a muggle one. Still, she had splinched her eyebrows off and her tutor hadn’t allowed her to use a potion to grow them back. Tom made fun of her for days.

“I think I might take up my Wizengamot seats,” Hydra continued, as though she had to think about it. “They’ve been sitting idle and I need something to occupy me in between my projects.” And there was the twinkle back in his eyes.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” he smiled brightly. “We need fresh minds, such as yourself and Mr. Longbottom, to make the first steps toward change. I’m sure many will be pleased to see you taking up your responsibilities.” Her own smile turned sharp, once again reminding him of another brilliant young orphan.

“I assure you, Albus, that change is exactly what I hope to bring. Now get out and don’t bother me again.”

“Surely you aren’t still holding a grudge against me, my girl” he reprimanded.

She rolled her eyes. “Why yes I am but it’s also seven in the morning and I had a tiring Samhain.”

“Oh yes, Halloween has always been a difficult day for you.”

“Samhain,” she emphasized, “is the anniversary of my parents’ death but it is also a day in which we celebrate those who have passed on. No, I had to wait for the moon to reach its peak and then use its descent to complete a powerful rite. I’d only just gotten to bed when Kreacher felt you trying to break the wards.”

“Hydra, rituals are dark magic,” he intoned, shocked that the girl he knew was using such things. “They must be very closely monitored by a Master level wizard and should never be performed alone. Not to mention most are illegal here. What were you learning while you were away?”

“Albus,” she snapped, rubbing a hand over her face. “I am tired, hungover, and frankly, sick of talking to you. Leave or be ejected by the wards.” She didn’t wait to see which option he chose. There was a potion she had to deliver to a probably grumpy Dark Lord.

Just off the dining room, she had a wall of shelves built to house all of her message boxes. Most saw little use but were there in case of emergency. Only three showed signs of visible wear and tear after two years of use. One she had covered in muggle stickers of otters and books. Another was charmed the awful orange of the Chudley Cannons with doodled broomsticks, snitches, and three-ring goals. The last was plain but for a few scorch marks—from when he had been particularly vexing—and hand carved runic epitaph, “I shall know the soul, for it is my own.”

Out of her pocket, she pulled the two vials that she had labored over the night before. The potion swirling inside was beautiful on its own—like a black and gold galaxy—but it was infinitely more precious when she knew what it contained. She drew an intricate locket out of her dressing gown, stroking the carved “S” with her thumb. It had held her beloved’s soul for so long but it was now just simple jewelry. Though there was nothing simple about the process that made it that way. The night before, after a bath, she and Rouhi had gone to the backyard where the ritual circle was already drawn.

This one will be difficult, Weaver, the snake had warned, bumping his head against her cheek. The others were of a boy, alone and hurting. The next shall all be of a man who had cast away everything but rage and malice.

And you, my dearest Rouhi? she had asked as she entered the circle and the snake slipped to the ground, curling around the locket in the center. Why did you not fight me when I took you from my head and placed you into the most beautiful cobra I could craft?

If a snake could smirk, he would have. Because I was but a sliver of Lord Voldemort and I had been trapped in the head of a child for over a decade. I was desperate. He had hissed in a rhythmic chuckle, tongue flickering against the metal of the locket. But then I heard the Song and you cradled that broken, little sliver and called me “Rouhi.” You claimed me as “my soul” in the tongue of your ancestors. Belonging is powerful magic, Hydra, but you never used it as a blade.

Our little fragment here will probably disagree with you, she had murmured, caressing the locket with the tips of her fingers. As it had started to burn and shake, she had crooned the lullaby of the Leys, coaxing it from its container. Unlike with the wandering soul from diary or the boy full of hurt from the ring, the locket had tried to entice her join with it. When that didn’t succeed, it had lashed out in the form of a thirty-year-old Tom Riddle who was waxy and red-eyed.

“Cease this at once!” the apparition had hissed. “I will not give in, Weaver! If you destroy me, you destroy a piece of your precious soulmate.”

“Oh, Tom,” she had laughed. “Always so suspicious. I’m not destroying you; I’m putting you back together.”

“We’ll die,” he had pleaded.

She had nodded. “All things do but you will never be alone.” With that, the Song had begun again and golden light started to amass in her palms. The air had filled with magic as the Ley Lines replied with a sound like shimmering crystals. Out of the corner of her eye, Hydra had seen the figures of her otherworldly mentors, encouraging her and lending power as the horcrux fought the call of her magic.

She is giving us a gift, brother, Rouhi had assured the horcrux as Hydra approached. Her soul will meet ours and bind them with pure magic from the Ley Lines, never to be separated.

And the fragment of Tom Riddle who had been so bitter that another had dared to own his birthright before he’d even been born, that his mother had been so weak as to be swindled, as to die and leave him alone. He had clasped the golden light to his chest, letting it suffuse him in warmth he could no longer feel, and thought “mine. This girl is mine.”

“Yes,” Hydra had answered his silent plea. “I am yours and you are mine, Tom Riddle. We will be one soul in two bodies, and we will never have to feel lonely or cold ever again.” She had brushed her lips against his in a featherlight kiss just before he vanished, leaving her with a handful of shadowed gold.

With a final burst of the Song, Hydra had managed to manipulate the soul matter and Ley magic into two unbreakable vials. Then she had crawled inside and collapsed on the settee in the sitting room about thirty minutes before Albus Dumbledore disturbed her peace.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Hydra grabbed a piece of parchment from the pile she kept nearby. To annoy Tom, she grabbed the most obnoxiously colored muggle pen she could see and scrawled a quick note to attack to the potion.

Dear Tom,

            It was good to see you in person. I hope the next time won’t start with a hex. Blessed Samhain.

Practicing my Protego just in case,

Treacle

As she opened the box, she was surprised to see a note already in the bottom. Tom hardly ever initiated communication and when he did, it was always something trivial like venting about his subordinates. This, however, looked like his good stationery and had his seal on it which he never bothered with. Curious, Hydra picked up the note and placed her own in the box with the vial. It was better to take this potion as close to sunrise as possible, so it really couldn’t be delayed. She shot her own portion down as well before breaking the seal on the letter. The first thing she noticed was that he used her full name and title—harkening back to her first letter to him.

Lady Hydrangea Jamie Potter-Black-Peverell,

            Please join me at Gringotts at your earliest convenience. After discussing it with my account manager, I have a proposition for you and I believe such negotiations would be better suited to a face-to-face meeting. Unlike some that I’ve heard that take months and thousands of letters to settle. Breakfast will, of course, be provided as I have been told to never to speak to you before at least two cups of tea.

Sincerely,

Tomassen Pollux Riddle-Gaunt-Slytherin

P.s. I know you have questions, Treacle, but play along for now. All you need to know is that I’m collecting one of my boons.

            Her brow furrowed as she studied the letter. A boon? This must be much more serious than what she had anticipated. The year before, on the night before the summer solstice, her journey to become a Weaver truly began. As the Song had lulled her to sleep, two beings intruded on her dreams and told her of what the Fates had planned for her. They also informed her of what Tom Riddle had done to his soul and how a piece of it was now lodged in her head.  The next night, she had done the ritual for the first time with their aid, summoning the errant fragment that had been in the diary.

            The morning after, she had written Tom and told him to take the potion, no questions asked. The annoying git had demanded two favors in exchange and after a bit of back-and-forth, she’d agreed. For Tom to call in a favor meant that whatever he had planned was extremely important and/or something that she wouldn’t want to agree to. (It was a good thing that he didn’t know that he could persuade her into just about anything.) She heaved a sigh. This meant she had to get dressed up in her uncomfortable—if highly fashionable—semi-formal robes instead of muggle jeans and a blouse. The things she did for her soulmate.

Chapter Text

Voldemort was not an impatient man. He had spent thirteen years as a wraith, forced to possess random animals, and he had managed to wait another year and a half to revive his body after Wormtail found him. Beyond that, he didn’t just murder his Death Eaters when they showed their incompetence which, frankly, was a testament to said patience. He was no saint but really, he thought he deserved at least a little credit for that.  

The week and a half that he waited for the infuriating Girl-Who-Lived to reply was one of the longest of his life.

Especially when she did finally respond, it was with another contract that vetoed almost every one of his demands. So he sent her back a copy with everything redacted except for the words “Hydra Potter agrees to die and leave Lord Voldemort alone.” If she could be childish, so could he and in that vein, he added a stinging jinx to it that was mild enough to slip past the most paranoid of wards. She countered with a crude drawing of a two-finger salute and a tickling jinx that took him an embarrassingly long time to counter while he laughed his head off. The house elves were so terrified that they left his dinner on the floor in the hall.

            The negotiations went on for months but on the day that she should have boarded the Hogwarts Express, she left for lands unknown. Not even the Ministry knew where she ended up when they tried to track her. The devious little thing was apparently portkey hopping all over Europe and Eastern Asia. She never stayed more than a day in any place and then one day, her trail went cold in Bulgaria where it was thought that she was visiting Viktor Krum.

And they couldn’t follow her owls because two days after she disappeared, the same grubby house elf popped in and handed him a simple wooden box just big enough for a letter. He had dropped the thing like it was on fire and cast every cleaning spell he knew at the thing and his hands. There was no way he was going through the itching powder debacle again.  Inside was a letter detailing how the two-way box worked and how she had gifted one to all the people she was in contact with. (He stamped down on the twinge in his chest when he realized that she hadn’t gotten the box just for him.) This way her beloved owl couldn’t be tracked and wouldn’t have to fly all over the world.

            While both the Order and his Death Eaters searched for her, Hydra Potter challenged him and forced him to compromise if he wished to get anything out of this deal. She was doing an infuriatingly good job of hiding from the world and frankly, he was tired of her sniping at him. He had a government to overthrow!

It was agreed that her location would be kept a secret unless she wished it otherwise, but she could not return to England for more than a day without notifying him. Her list of neutrality would start at ten names and if she wished to add someone, he must approve it. If any of those people broke their neutrality, her protection no longer applied to them. She was to have absolutely no contact with Dumbledore or any current members of the Order, however those who were on her list or who hadn’t yet joined were permitted. Until such a time that they allied with the Order. She allowed that her Wizengamot seats were to remain empty until she could take them herself and that when she did, they would either all be neutral or equal amounts Light and Dark.

            The prophecy was a bit harder to concede on. She argued that if he signed the contract, the prophecy would be void so why did it matter what it said? He argued that he couldn’t be sure of that until he knew what it said. She called him a jackass and he called her an ignorant cow. Then they didn’t speak for a week.

            She cracked first, because of course she did. There were no apologies given but at the bottom of the box was an ouroboros delicately carved of lapis lazuli that just fit into the palm of his hand. He waited another day just to make her stew a little longer and then replied with moonstone necklace that would warm if danger was near. In the end, she agreed to give him the gist of the prophecy but not the actual wording. He grumbled that he wasn’t able to dissect it the way he wished to but what she told him did seem to indicate that the prophecy would be meaningless once they signed the contract. And if the ouroboros statue sat on the corner of his desk where he kept his wand, that was no one’s business but his own.

            On the morning of Ostara 1997, the Girl-Who-Lived and the Dark Lord Voldemort signed a treaty that…didn’t do much in terms of the war. The Ministry had given up searching for Hydra and with a semi-competent Minister, all suspected Death Eaters were being questioned and watched. It left only his spies and those still recovering from their stay in Azkaban able to move freely and even then, it wasn’t as though they could go waltzing about in public. Dumbledore was still frantically seeking his wayward savior and with the Weasley family firmly on Hydra’s list, half the Order was no longer at his disposal. The Second Wizarding War was a cold war fought on the political battlefield and within the walls of Hogwarts where the division between Light, Dark, and Neutral grew larger without Hydra there to unknowingly mediate.

            Now that the contract was filed and sealed away at Gringotts, there was really no need for further communication between the two of them. He told himself that this was how he preferred it. No obnoxious interruptions, no more snarky comments, and no inane questions about “how do you fix a Calming Draught that has somehow turned into a gas that can knock out a full grown Erumpet?” (The answer was that you don’t. You vanish everything, cauldron and all. Foolish girl.) Hydra seemed to have the same idea and so he got on with his plans. With no battles to rage, he needed people in the political arena.
            He allowed Lucius to plead to Imperius once again and bribe whoever he needed to bribe to get out of Azkaban, though his standing would never be the same again. Luckily Draco was just as easy to manipulate and more well-liked than his father, if only just. The boy was still arrogant and childish, but the Malfoy name came with connections. The same could be said of the Notts and Zabinis. Both had heirs that were more promising than Draco. If he remembered, all three were in Hydra’s year though that hardly mattered.

            For three months, he toiled away trying to get laws passed without being there to argue for it in person. And every day, he checked the box on the corner of his desk for letters and trinkets. Once or twice, a little charm carved with rudimentary runes would appear and he kept those surrounded by the ouroboros carving. It was disgustingly sentimental and he convinced himself that it was just the orphan in him that coveted pretty, shiny things that only belonged to him. Then the morning after the summer solstice, the box had not only a letter but a glass vial.

Tom,

I cannot believe that you are such an unbelievable idiot. You are so lucky I don’t know how to make a Howler. Drink the potion without asking questions and I’ll tell you the prophecy word for word.

Slightly hungover,

Hydra

P.s. For a genius, you’re so fucking stupid. Why do you make my life complicated halfway across the world?

            He should be mad. No, he should be absolutely furious. He should owe Lucius new windows or perhaps a new wing of his manor. She had called him Tom and stupid and an idiot and Tom. Yet, all he felt was a strange warmth in his chest and curiosity over the vial in his hand. It looked like it was filled with roiling shadows with flecks of gold and if he turned it a certain way, a hint of blinding white would peek through. He knew that she wouldn’t send him anything harmful; she didn’t have it in her to be malicious—petty, yes, but not malicious. However, he wasn’t about to give in so easily.

Potter,

            I am a genius and that’s why I won’t just drink a potion because you told me to. Especially if all you’re offering is a voided prophecy. Surely you can do better than that, dear.

Hoping you have a headache,

T.M.R.

Tom,

            No need to be rude. The Litha festival was a little more spirited than I expected especially with how crazy Beltane was. Anyways, don’t deny that you still want to know exactly what the prophecy said. But if you’re going to stubborn, I suppose I can offer you a boon of your choice. It’s very important that you drink that potion and any others that I give you in the future.

Wishing a pox upon your house,

H.J.P.B.P

P.s. You’re pretentious and for Godric’s sake, call me Hydra or a nickname or something other than Potter

Treacle,

            If you don’t want a hangover, don’t drink. And luckily, I have had the pox already both the muggle and magical kind. Your curse is wasted. I want two boons to be held in reserve but you must fulfill them without question or complaint. You will also give me the prophecy, if only to satisfy my curiosity. What is so important about this potion that you are willing to offer so much?

Intrigued,

T.M.R.

P.s. Dear Salazar, tell me you didn’t brew this yourself. If you did, my price just doubled.

Tom,

            I’ll have you know that my brewing has improved a lot! Besides, I had…help on this one and it’s important because I say so! I told you not the ask questions. Two boons seem excessive but I know better than to fight a losing battle. However, I have veto power over any request. It will not count as towards the boon if I veto it. Curiosity killed the cat, Tom, and satisfaction is not necromancy.

Overly generous,

Treacle (?)

Treacle,

            You created a new type of acid that eats through warded steel. Pardon me if I don’t want to consume anything you brew. Goddess help you if you cook for yourself. I shall take your dubious potion and others that you send in exchange for two boons that you will be able to negotiate but must fulfill. I shall continue to ask questions because how do you plan to stop me? You certainly don’t have to answer them, although you will undoubtedly let something slip. Are we in agreement?

Never satisfied,

T.M.R

P.s. Treacle because you are sickeningly sweet and cause stomachaches. I also hear that you have an unhealthy fixation with the inferior tart.

Tom,

            Treacle tart is wonderful and I won’t tolerate such slander! I should hold my agreement hostage until you take back your lies, but I’m quite through haggling with you for now. Two boons in the future with the option of negotiating and the complete prophecy. Let me warn you that it was a load of rubbish before our contract and it’s absolutely useless now.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...

If you go all Dark Lord on me over this, I send you nothing but itching powder and tickling jinxes for a whole year.

Not even a little bit joking,

Treacle

He wanted to curse himself. The damned thing was self-fulfilling! He’d lost the first war and, more importantly, his body over something that could have been ignored and avoided. Yet, a part of him couldn’t regret it because he was still alive despite everything, and Hydra was his ally? Neutral correspondent? Infuriating pest whom he didn’t want to immediately want to hex? Whatever she was, he knew that he wanted to keep bantering with her over their letters. So he took the strange potion and was pleasantly surprised when there was a letter in the box the next morning.

This daily communication continued for another year and whenever he needed something to distract him from how maddening it was to be in the shadows, he would try to find where she was hiding. He never got close except once where he coincidentally happened to be in Vienna at the same time she was. Her glamour was good, but he had seen a flash of verdant green in the dim light of the pub. Hoping to rile her up a bit, he had sauntered over—also glamoured because Severus couldn’t figure out how to fix his appearance—and offered to buy her a drink with his most charming smile. The little thing had squeaked, stammered out an apology, and apparated away, leaving her friends behind. He had to put up a silencing charm to avoid scaring the house elves when she sent him a letter telling him about splinched eyebrows and a Potions tutor that wouldn’t let her grow them back unless she brewed the Hair-Replenisher by herself. When was the last time he had laughed without the aid of her tickling jinx?

Then on his birthday, she told him that she was completing her training somewhere that she couldn’t send or receive letters. That note had been accompanied by another vial that he also drank without comment, trying to ignore the pang in his chest at the idea of being gone for an unknown amount of time. Beneath the letter and vial was a small pouch, that was much bigger on the inside than on the outside. As he felt around inside it, his fingers found fabric and he pulled out a set of dueling robes. Running his hand over the fine fabric, he felt a strange, raised texture. Upon closer inspection, he realized that she had embroidered—by hand—every inch of the fabric with protective runes in multiple different alphabets. Another piece of parchment fluttered out of the robes when he lifted them up.

Happy birthday, Tom Marvolo Riddle. I hope you find use for both the illegal Undetectable Extension Charm on the bag and the robes, though I hope my protections are unnecessary.

Yours,

Treacle

P.s. I’ll miss you.

Again, he wondered just why she could affect him this way, as he clutched the note. He had felt something close to sane ever since he had possessed her in the Ministry. With every letter they exchanged, his mind became clearer than it had been before he heard the prophecy. It made absolutely no sense why he felt a tugging in his chest whenever he thought of her. He was filled with anticipation for her every letter in a way that he had only previously felt when thinking of ruling over the Wizarding World.

Then there were the dreams! Though he needed less sleep due the horcruxes and a ritual he had done in his N.E.W.T. year, all of his dreams were filled with avada kedavra green eyes, content laughter, and a melody that he could never remember upon waking. They had shared dreams before, through their connection, but these had felt different. Almost as though they were a prophecy, in and of themselves. A foreign warmth radiated through his body whenever he woke, and he could swear that he was smiling. During her absence, he found himself craving those dreams just to get a glimpse of her.

It was extremely disconcerting and completely out of character for the man who scorned connection above all else.

Then, on Samhain, he had seen a fae creature enter the Malfoy’s ballroom with a waterfall of luminescent white curls and tantalizing bare, sun-kissed skin. The mask was a siren’s call in and of itself to Slytherin’s heir as the carved snakes seemed to caress her face with a lover’s touch. Her magic was light upon the air but still sang to him from wherever she was in the room and every so often, he’d catch an alluring smile on her lips as she glanced at him. Still, she did not approach and danced with everyone who asked. Something roiled in his stomach seeing her give her attention elsewhere and by midnight, he was at his wits end.

As they danced, he realized how small she was, her head barely reaching his chin. The nymph teased with coy delight, hinting at power and drawing him in with every word. This ball was a recruiting ground as much as it was a celebration, and he wanted the girl by his side more and more with every twirl of her hips. A mastery was no small feat and she had two when it looked as though she should have barely been out of Hogwarts.

Then she had leant up, her lips brushing just below his ear, and told him that she was full of unique power that few could tame. His mouth watered with the urge to taste her magic on her skin and little creature stumbled further into his arms when he told her so. He wanted nothing more than to sweep her away from the crowds and hold her attention like a trinket in a glass case, but she tried to escape him, much like the muggle fairytale she mentioned.

But there was no escape from him, not when he wanted something. Oh, how he wanted. Especially when she had called her snake to her in a language he had only ever heard spoken in his own voice. Not only was she powerful, beautiful, and filled with potential, now she was the key to receiving his full birthright. One of his ancestors had made the Slytherin Lordship dependent on the heir marrying a fellow parselmouth that would ensure the talent continued—ironically all it did was cause the ability to die out due to inbreeding. There had never been another parselmouth in England, so he was barred from his rightful inheritance. Yet, here was the answer to everything he’d ever wanted. He would never be letting her go.

The little Weaver wasn’t out of surprises, though. When she revealed herself, the last two years fell neatly into place. Of course it would be Hydra Potter that so quickly grabbed his fascination. She was his. The Fates had decided that before she was born, and her own actions had secured it. Had she fought him as the old man demanded, he would have never discovered this. He would have lived out his immortality without an annoying chit to bother him and send him random runes carved in cast-off wood. But now he knew that she was destined to be his in all ways. It made sense why he obsessed over her and her whereabouts. She was his! Of course they felt connected. She was made just for him, born just for him.Of course.

Then she had run from him with a mischievous smile on her lips and he couldn’t find it in himself to be frustrated. He was elated and mildly amused that she even contemplated getting away from him. He had immediately walked to the apparition point—not everyone could tear through wards like paper, the little showoff—and went straight to Gringotts. The goblins weren’t pleased to be woken, but when he explained the situation, they were more than happy to facilitate the reopening of a dormant vault. Within a few hours, they had a rough contract outline and a promise of a reserved room for the entire next day. He also managed to convince them that breakfast would be vital to negotiations. Hydra was not a morning person.

Sending off the invitation through the box, he settled into bed to await the notice that Hydra had arrived. Perhaps, soon, he wouldn’t have to rely on his dreams to see those green eyes shining at him in joy.

Chapter Text

            Gringotts was as imposing as ever but a part of Hydra felt safer just standing in its shadow. When Ragnuk had sent her a summons via Bill Weasley—it seemed someone was blocking her post as she had never received a letter from the bank despite numerous attempts— the summer after fourth year, she had been overwhelmed and traumatized. The goblin had taken one look at her and ordered for a healer to be sent for. Hydra was certain that it was only Ragnuk’s smooth talking that avoided another Goblin War to break out. Turned out that because it was so difficult for their race to procreate, all children were precious in their eyes. The healer, Brennagh, had to be physically held back after the diagnostic charm was cast. Apparently, about thirty percent of her magic was tied up in just keeping her alive. The Dursleys had killed her two times over if not for magic—although, if not for magic, she wouldn’t have needed saving.

            Ragnuk had taken it on himself, as the Potter account manager, to educate her about her Lordships, her inheritance, and her rights as a newly emancipated witch—take that you meddlesome, old coot! Together they had gone through her parents’ will—also mysteriously suppressed—and had a full inheritance test done. She had been shocked to see her ancestry traced back to Egypt; her great-grandfather had married a woman named Hathor Mabrouk whose family tree went back to the time of the pharaohs. Also, she was the Heir of Gryffindor through an apparently hard to accomplish technicality about not only pulling the sword out of the hat but also imbuing it with greater strength. The Founder had never had children for unknown reasons, but he wanted his legacy to go on. There had been only about twenty total Heirs and no one had managed to take on the Lordship which had very specific parameters that were a mystery even to the goblins.

            In the end, she was Lady Potter-Peverell, Heir Black, and Foundling of the Goblin Nation. Brennagh had adopted her the minute her magic was strong enough to withstand the ritual and would send her two letters a week reminding her to take her nutrient and muscle strengthening potions. Ragnuk had taken up writing for a month when Brennagh heard about Umbridge and had to be put into a coma so that she didn’t cause an international incident.

            Then, all of a sudden, she was Lady Potter-Black-Peverell and sobbing into the arms of her adopted mother. Ragnuk had remained professional but his eyes burned the spirit of a warrior ready to raze the enemy to the ground. He had asked her, “what do you wish to do, for yourself?” She had replied that she wanted to run away and never come back. He had nodded and drawn up the first draft of her surrender agreement.

            Now, she entered the bank as Lady Potter-Black-Peverell, Weaver of the Lines, and Foundling turned Emissary of the Goblin Nation. Rouhi was nestled around her neck sleepily, nose buried in her cloak for warmth. Ragnuk was there to greet her as always.

            “When you decided to return home, this was not what I had in mind,” he admitted, rueful smirk on his face. “May your gold ever flow, Lady Hydra.”

            She bowed her head. “And may your enemies tremble at your feet. Now tell me honestly, just how fucked am I? He called in a boon.”

            He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “I’m not about to ruin the surprise; I’d much rather see your face when he breaks the news.”

            “I hate surprises,” she pouted, “and I was promised breakfast.” Ragnuk just chuckled and led her into a large office with a table brimming with food and beverages. It looked as though a multitude of goblins had taken the time to cook her favorites upon hearing that she was coming. She especially noticed a few of Brennagh’s signature—delicious but obnoxiously healthy—dishes spread around. Once a Foundling, always a Foundling, she supposed. Though, Tom was in for a surprise when it came to negotiating because his account manager, Lirden, used to teach her to sword fight whenever she visited Brennagh.

            Hydra was halfway through her second cup of tea when Tom strode in, glamoured to look like his twenty-year-old self. Perfectly styled hair, cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, and cupid-bow lips. How was he prettier than her? He flashed her a half-smile before bowing low and pressing a lingering kiss to her hand. As he met her eyes, she got a surge of possessive contentment through their bond and for a moment, she thought that he knew about the horcruxes and the rituals and their tangled-together souls. But no. There was no way of him knowing, not without all of his soul in one place. Rouhi peeked his head up at the feeling as well, keen eyes on his originator.

            “Lady Potter-Black-Peverell,” Tom purred, “thank you for meeting me on such short notice. My name is Tomassen Pollux Riddle-Gaunt-Slytherin. It is a pleasure to meet you.”  Silence reigned for an interminable moment as her brain caught up to what he just said. What the fuck?

            “Excuse me?” she spluttered. “Just what are you on about?” She was distantly aware of Ragnuk and Lirden cackling in the corner. Rouhi flicked his tongue against her cheek, hissing in amusement. He is a tricky one, Weaver.

            “It has come to my attention that you are a parselmouth,” he continued, smirk growing to the point that his dimples appeared. (Of course, he added the dimples to his glamour, the vain prat.) “Due to an outdated requirement, the Lordship of Slytherin can only be passed down to someone who possesses the parseltongue ability and is also married to another parselmouth. My father, for instance, was never able to acquire the Lordship because there was never another Speaker in England.”

            “Your father?” she asked weakly, too stunned to even process what he’d said. Please don’t tell her…

            “Tom Riddle,” Tom fucking Riddle replied, putting on a contrite mien. Oh, and if that didn’t just make her want to punch his stupid, pretty face. “Though you probably know him as Lord Voldemort. I never knew him, you know, but my mother—Cassiopeia Black—would spin tales of his glory in between her bouts of madness. I’m told that I’m the spitting image of him.”

            “That’s one way to put it,” she mumbled, rubbing her temples. Then the first bit of the conversation came back to her. “Did you said ‘married?’”

            “That’s what this meeting in about,” he confirmed. “I know that we don’t know each other outside of a dance shared by two strangers, but…” and he dropped down onto one knee.

            “I swear to Merlin that if you pull out a glass slipper, I will kick you,” she told him and he laughed, deep and free. It shocked her for a moment, the vibrations of it sticking in her chest, but then she shook herself out of her disbelief. “And just why are we pretending that you are your own son? What are you hoping to accomplish?”

            His smile grew fangs, and he grabbed the arms of her chair, dragging it—and her—closer to him. “Mostly to see you flustered, darling, and you certainly don’t disappoint. But I have been planning to take this identity for quite a while. I grow bored of pulling strings from the shadows and I can’t trust my followers to be effective.” Well, that was fair. He had about two useful Death Eaters in total; one had been Kissed after her fourth year and the other was loyal only to himself and Lily Evans. That’s what he got for having sycophants instead of friends.

            “And the marriage part?” she demanded, chin stubbornly stuck out.

            “Just as I said, dearest Hydra,” he murmured, grasping her wrist and bringing it to his lips. “I have need of a parselmouth to gain the Slytherin Lordship and such a lovely, little Speaker has fallen right into my lap. Had I known when you first offered surrender, our contract might have gone very differently.” He nipped at her skin and she jerked back in surprise with a little squeak.

            “How did you not know that?” she asked, trying to bring her hand to her chest. Instead, he grazed his fingers up the back of her hand until he cradled it between his own. “I thought everyone knew about it after my second year.”

            He shrugged, tracing patterns upon her palm. “I was in Albania at the time, recovering from possessing Quirinius. When I returned, I could only focus on the fact that a twelve-year-old who had always been the bane of my existence also managed to kill my pet basilisk.”

            “To be fair, she tried to kill me first.” Tom was not amused and an attractive—if counterfeit—pout graced his boyish features. Hydra was pretty sure that he had copied it from either a Malfoy or a particularly cute orphan who didn’t grate on his nerves enough to avoid. Her bet was on a Malfoy though.

            “Thyra was my only companion that didn’t irritate me during me last two years of Hogwarts,” he sulked. “Surely, her death should be worth another boon.”

            “Frankly, I’m about to consider this farce of a marriage contract two boons,” Hydra snorted. This was not going to plan. She had a very detailed plan and nowhere in it did marriage come into play. Granted, sewing two souls together was perhaps a bit more commitment than signing a magical contract but it was the principal of the thing! She rarely made plans and even more rarely followed through with them; having the plans metaphorically ripped from her hands and then burned had her off balance. She was usually the one doing the burning—both metaphorical and literal.

            Besides, the part of her that was still an eighteen-year-old girl, wished that this hadn’t been destined. Soulmates were romantic until you realized you were being manipulated by three old women who liked to fuck with your life. If she was being honest, she would have never chosen this or him. But she wasn’t given a choice and her time in the Weave had let her come to terms with that. She didn’t love Tom but she knew she would. They would be as happy as two broken people, who understood each other perfectly, could be together. However, she would always mourn her dream of being “just Hydra” who was loved not for her power, or usefulness, or because some deity made it so, but for who she was.

            “It wouldn’t be such an imposition to marry me, would it, Treacle?” Tom crooned, gripping her chin, and forced her attention back on him. Where it should always be, the bond hissed and she was drawn into his gaze that glinted with greed and something close to warmth. As she leaned further into his touch and farther into a daze, Rouhi snapped his fangs a touch too close to Tom’s fingers. Crimson eyes merely crinkled in amusement.

            You are a worthy protector, pretty one, he told the irate serpent. (Hydra used all of her self-control to stop the laughter from Tom calling a piece of himself “pretty.”) but your Speaker is in no danger from me. Hydra shuddered as too cold hands cupped her face tenderly, like he was holding spun glass. So long as she is mine, she need never want or fear or worry. I shall be by her side.

            Well damn. That was almost romantic. How was she supposed to she turn down everything she’s ever wanted?

            Voldemort was feeling smug. Hydra’s luminous emerald eyes were half-lidded as she tilted her head to rest more heavily in his hands and he was sure that she was unaware of the contented hum coming from her throat. The goblins had politely left the room around the time he dropped to one knee and now it was just his little darling and him…and an overprotective cobra.

            You are manipulating my Speaker, the hissing creature spat at him. He raised an eyebrow—well the glamour of one. What an interesting turn of phrase from a serpent, even a magical one. Nagini could understand such human concepts, but she had been with him for decades. Hydra could not have had Rouhi more than two years and yet he showed above average intelligence for a familiar. Fascinating…and suspicious.

            No more than other humans manipulate their intended mate, Voldemort replied, thumb stroking the apple of Hydra’s cheek. Every inch of skin he touched burned him like Fiendfyre but he could not tear his hands away.  He had never like touch, even as a child—especially as a child—but with her, it was like their magic was singing discordant melodies until they touched. Then the air rang with harmonies and overtones and he couldn’t allow that music to stop, though the vibrations of it scorched its way across his tattered soul.

            Why? the snake demanded of him.

            Because she is mine. He had no other explanation for it, no other words to give. Hydra Potter was irrevocably his and so he would have her. Anything else was unacceptable. But so was any harm coming to her. Lord Voldemort took care of what was his, be it trinkets, treasures, followers, or the pest who would give him everything he ever wanted.

            You can’t own people, Tom, a sleepy Hydra murmured, nuzzling slightly into his palm. Oh, how he longed to tell her that he could. He could steal everything about her and keep it locked away. Her gaze, her attention, her soft little touches, her heart, her very soul would be his because he could not bear the thought of anyone else claiming them. But it wasn’t time for that yet. One doesn’t tame an animal by immediately bringing it into the home. No, it must be coaxed out with soft words and gently touches until it can’t bear the thought of being alone.

            “Not with that attitude,” he joked instead and sealed the lid tight over his obsessive desire to keep her locked away in the most beautiful cage he could find where she would want for nothing. “Now back to the topic at hand. You owe me a boon and this is what I wish to spend it on.” He moved to remove his hands from her face but she stopped him, gripping his wrist with tiny hands that barely managed to get all the way around.

            “There will be no going back,” she warned him. “If we start going down this road, Magic herself will not allow us to stop. Are you prepared for that?”

            “Oh darling,” he chuckled, leaning his forehead against hers. “There is nothing I want more.”

Chapter Text

            The air rang with Tom’s declaration and even Rouhi was grudgingly appeased, just winding his way through her hair until his triangle head rested atop hers. He grumbled about the “grabby, undeserving cradle robber” touching his Speaker and hissed threats of biting off the offending appendages as he fell into a warmth-induced sleep.

            “He’s right you know,” Hydra chuckled, pulling away and releasing Tom’s hands. His fingers twitched as though wishing to continue holding her, but then he just set them casually in his lap as he summoned a chair for him to sit. “Our ages do raise some concerns.”

            “Tomassen is only twenty-seven,” he said with an indifferent tilt of his head. “Eight years difference is hardly a problem for wixen and you’ve always been wise beyond your years. Surely no one would question it.”

            “We aren’t talking about anyone else though, Tom,” Hydra reminded him. “On paper, I would be marrying Tomassen Pollux Slytherin but in reality, it would be Tom Marvolo Riddle who is decades older than me. Do you see the issue?”

            “No.”

Merlin, the complete lack of sense had nothing to do with his soul being in tatters, did it? As Ron once said, how thick can you get? It was a good thing he was pretty.

            She sighed. “Tom, you are seventy-two, almost seventy-three. I am barely nineteen. The issue is that, though you’re emotionally stunted and I spent about fifteen years in the Weave, we have vastly different priorities and expectations when it comes to sharing a life.”

            “Emotionally stunted?” he repeated in disbelief. “I’ll have you know…wait, did you say fifteen years? You were only gone for six months. Does time work differently in the nexus? What did you do for all that time? Did your body age normally during that time?” Hydra couldn’t hold back her fond laughter as he threw out his endless questions. That was her Tom, curious to a fault even when indignant at being insulted. God’s teeth, she had missed him.

The Weave was wonderful and her mentors had become like family, but every day she still caught herself anticipating a letter or trinket. He liked to send her little, enchanted baubles that had almost no purpose but to look pretty and entertain her. Her favorite had been the marbles that projected the view from the Astronomy Tower on her ceiling.

            “I can’t tell you everything,” she told him. “You’d have to throw yourself into the nexus yourself but yes time works differently and my body is still nineteen. My mind is a bit ahead but that’s besides the point. Tom, neither of us has ever even seen a healthy relationship, let alone had one. Marriage isn’t something to rush into for your Lordship.”

            “That’s what negotiating is for, darling,” Tom replied determinedly. “This is what I want in exchange for one of the boons you promised me.” She studied his face, searching for any signs of wavering. His eyes, glamoured his old freshly-tilled-earth brown, gave nothing away but the bond trilled with resolve and purpose. The undercurrent chanted of mine, make her see, by my side, forever. Hydra heaved a large sigh and rolled her eyes. No convincing him, then.

            “Alright, you stubborn arse,” she grumbled, “we’ll negotiate but I’ll need my advisors.” With a flick of her wand, a silvery cobra sprung into the air and curled around her shoulders much like its corporeal counterpart. Tom eyed both creatures warily, as Rouhi awoke when the Patronus flicked its tongue against the snake’s nose.

            Begone, nuisance, Rouhi hissed, lazily baring fangs at the ghostly serpent that continued to nudge at him. Bother the other Speaker, he will play with you.

            “Severus said your Patronus was a stag,” Tom murmured as the creature did, indeed, circle to investigate him.

            Hydra raised an eyebrow. “Things change. Ask Snape about his Patronus sometime. You’ll find it enlightening.” Then she crooned at the ethereal cobra, calling it back over to her. “Go to Ron and Hermione. Tell them that their expertise is needed at Gringotts as soon as possible.”

            “Your blood-traitor and mudblood friends?” Tom inquired as the Patronus nuzzled her one more time before it vanished through the wall. Upon his words, her spine stiffened and her holly wand slid into her hand from the sheath on her wrist.

            “Tom,” she said in a tone far too sweet to be safe, “our treaty says nothing about me hexing you until you can’t walk. As long as I don’t kill you, my magic is not at risk. It’s best not to test me.”

            “Surely you’re not still on about this,” he exclaimed, not even flinching as she raised her wand to point between his eyes. His brow was furrowed in a way that expressed deep confusion, as though she was the one talking nonsense. “With all your experience, you still believe that mudbloods and muggles are equal to us? Next, you’ll be arguing werewolves and vampires should be allowed at Hogwarts.”

            “That’s exactly what I’m going to push forward in the Wizengamot,” she assured him. “Do you have a problem with that?” Tom leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and launched into a practiced lecture on the benefits of blood supremacy and the danger of muggles and creatures and anyone that wasn’t under his boot heel. A part of her heart twinged at the frantic look in his eyes and his wild hand gesticulations. Hydra knew this fear well—she felt it every single day—but Tom had deluded himself that his grand plans were based on truth rather than the dread of a world outside of his control. Her poor, broken fated love.

            “Our way of life is dying,” he finished, slightly out of breath, “and it’s all from muggle influence.” She allowed him to stew in silence, searching her face for any reaction. This would have to be carefully worded if she didn’t want him to explode. The soul binding potions made him more stable but this was still Lord Voldemort.

            “Then teach them,” she countered. “Muggleborns need more education, not less. In fact, I’d like to start formal education for all children earlier but that’s beside the point. You know that Purebloods are dying out due to inbreeding. We need new blood and you are persecuting the gifts Lady Magic has given us.”

            He scoffed. “Muggleborns are, at best, squib descendants and at worst, creating squibs by stealing their magic.”

            “Magic is life, Tom,” she told him. “Therefore, there is magic in all life, not just wixens. When needed, Lady Magic will allow life to run rampant and create magical children where there were none. That’s why there are so many more muggleborns here than in the States. We’ve had three wizarding wars practically back to back. Our numbers need replenishing.”

            “That’s preposterous,” he sneered. “If that were true, why do squibs exist?”

            “Because of science mostly,” she admitted. “Cousins weren’t meant to procreate because their DNA is too similar. Magic works much the same and if the magic is too alike, it starts to die. Where do you think the Black madness comes from? Magic has no way to grow when it stagnates, so it starts attacking things it can feed off.”

            Tom waved his hand as though to swat away her words like insects. “That doesn’t change the fact that they bring muggles with them! They’re dangerous.”

            “They most certainly are,” Hydra agreed. “We need better wards and increased secrecy, but that’s what magic is for. Muggles can be silenced when needed and muggleborns are an asset to diplomacy if it ever comes to conflict.”

            “And what of the children who are mistreated by muggles?” he demanded. Hydra drew in a sharp breath and closed her eyes to calm herself. Vitriol simmered in her chest, though much of it was Tom’s rather than hers.

            “We set up a better system to protect them. Earlier detection of magic, more oversight, and harsher punishments.”

            “That’s not enough!” he snapped, his words echoing off the walls. She let the silence—and her nerves—settle before continuing.

            “Are you aware of the muggle bible story of Creation and Lucifer?” she asked, sipping her tea with a tranquility she did not feel. Predictably, his shoulders tensed and his hands turned into claws against his legs.

            “Vaguely,” he gritted out. A dread, not her own, rose at the mention of Christianity and she struggled to keep her face blank. This had nothing to do with muggles but specifically with religion. This was terror similar to what choked her when she thought of the cupboard. Even Rouhi hissed in distress and wrapped his coils tighter around her. When she had seen glimpses of his childhood, nothing like this had surfaced and she wasn’t sure how to deal with this. It would seem odd if she abandoned this topic now, though, so she could do nothing but continue.

            “Lucifer wanted to save people too. At the beginning at least. Then his greed and his fear and his lust for power overtook him. He wanted to force people to believe and to obey. What started off as safety became slavery.”

            “Your point?” Tom growled.

            “You can’t save the Wizarding World by force, Tom,” she replied, setting down her cup with a clack. “Killing and torturing people doesn’t create loyalty, it creates fear and sentient beings—be they wixen, muggle, or creature—will always fight against fear.”

            “Then what would you have me do!” he shouted, roughly standing from his seat. He began to pace around the room, sneering at Ragnuk who had peeked his head in at the noise. When the goblin snarled back and glanced at Hydra, she simply shook her head. She was fine and could protect herself if need be. Ragnuk didn’t look pleased but retreated.

            “Listen to me,” Hydra answered, rising from her chair as well. “Remember that I spent years in a nexus of pure magic and that I have never once lied to you. If you cannot heed my advice in something so impersonal, our marriage is doomed to fail before it’s even begun.”

            That got his attention and his anxious pacing came to a halt. Eyes flashing crimson and slightly unhinged, he strode towards her with his hands stretched out. Before she could even think to curse him, she was wrapped in his arms and crushed against him. What should have been a romantic embrace felt like chains that kept her immobilized and vulnerable. Rouhi was flung across the room by Tom’s magic and it settled over her like cloying syrup.

            “Mine,” he snarled, claws digging to her skin. “You cannot escape me, precious girl. I will not let you and neither will your promises. Neutrality will be ever so easy when your whole world is but a lavish set of rooms. You’ll never have to worry your pretty, little head about anything again.” His voice turned into a hissing croon as he slipped into parsletongue.

            I’ll take such good care of you, little one. I’ll give you books and jewels and anything else your heart desires. I’ll drape you in the finest silks and you’ll sleep beside me on a bed softer than any you’ve ever felt. You’ll want for nothing. All you have to do is sign your name and bind your magic with mine. All you have to do is stay by my side and do as I say. Doesn’t that sound nice, Treacle? Just being mine?

            And Hydra…well, Hydra exploded

            Tom was knocked back by a fierce burst of magic that burned like phoenix fire when it touched his skin. The room was filled with inexplicable music that raged in harmony with the blinding light that seemed to emanate from the tiny woman looming over him. Oh, he realized, he had made a mistake.

            “Just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, Tom Riddle,” she screeched. Her hair had lost the crow-black glamour and the silvery tresses were writhing with magic. She looked like a righteous goddess about to strike down a disrespectful petitioner, her power barely contained. Tom had never been more willing to worship.

            “I am the Lady of the Weave, a Runes Mistress, a Wards Mistress, and have the highest recorded DADA score in I.M.Ps history. I am the head of three house and the heir of another. My childhood was dedicated to surviving my relatives and surviving you. I survived a basilisk, a werewolf, thousands of dementors, a death tournament, and a host of adults who wished me nothing but harm. What is it that you think you can provide for me, Tom, that I cannot achieve by myself?”

            “Hydra…” he began, but her magic pulsed again and he had to brace himself against the floor. Rouhi slithered through the haze of magic with ease and lay coiled at his mistress’s feet protectively.

Tom wanted to let his own power out and force her to submit but he doubted he’d be able to. Her magic was a perfect match to his, warm and bright where his was dark and icy. Even the way she held her wand was a reflection of him. Tom was prone to twirling his yew wand when idle and letting it loosely hang from his grip when in battle. The nonchalant and overconfident airs were learned behaviors but he found they suited him. Hydra, on the other hand, held her wand like an extension of herself, like a limb. Her grip was firm almost like she was holding the wand back from attacking. This display of his chosen had him in awe. She was his equal in every way and their clashes would always end in a stalemate. Unless one of them was willing to concede.

“I will not be a trophy,” she seethed, outrage still pouring out of her. “Or a pet or a pretty, little trinket you put on a shelf. How dare you even suggest such a thing.”

He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. “No, dearest. You are so much more than that. My emotions got away from me, but that is no excuse. I am sorry.” He cautiously approached her, mindful of the angry snake at her feet, and bowed over her hand. The music that rang off Gringotts’ marble walls faded and Hydra’s power slowly stopped leaking out of her. Tom didn’t lift his head until the only sounds were her harsh breath and Rouhi’s wordless hissing.

“My price went up,” she stated just as the silence became unbearable. “Two boons and you add a clause that allows me to refuse any bill you want to present to the Wizengamot.”

“Two boons and we must come to an agreement on anything we wish to lobby for,” he countered. His lips twitched up at her fierce glare. Without her magic forcing him to his knees, she seemed more like a lion cub that was more adorable than terrifying.  “Married couples must show a united front, darling.”

She rolled her eyes but Tom was glad to see her shoulders relax. “Fine but we each get one veto a year. And I swear by all the gods, Tom, that if you so much as put a lock on any door, I will disappear into the Weave for a hundred years.”

“I shall endeavor to remember just who you are, Hydra Potter-Black-Peverell,” he promised. And he would. Lingering madness still teased the edges of his mind and his temper had always been quick, but nothing could burn away the memory of her magic. Even now, with it tightly locked away, he felt electricity run up his spine and his own magic reached out, bereft of its mate. Looking down, his hands were mirroring his magic before he caught them and clasped them behind his back. His fingertips prickled with the need to touch but he restrained himself. There would be time for that later.

Hydra eyed his movements before sighing. “Oh come here then, you touch-starved creep.” Then she stepped into his space and wrapped her arms around him. Tom was frozen to the ground, but the foolish little thing just held him tighter and nestled her head under his chin. His own limbs moved cautiously, expecting her to rebuff him at any minute. Instead, she seemed to sink into his chest when his arms settled around her. Her warmth burned him, but he could only clutch her tighter. With his face pressed against her hair, he marveled at the scent of magic and springtime that clung to her. Merlin, when was the last time he’d been embraced? Had he ever? Surely as a babe, the Matron had held him if only to feed him.

My first hug was when I was almost twelve, he remembered from one of her letters. She had bargained for secrets and he had only agreed if it was quid pro quo. Hydra had learned of his favorite curses and of schoolboy antics. Tom had learned of scraps out of the bin, “Hydra Hunting,” and a cupboard under the stairs. It was a trade that made his stomach squirm and he never agreed to it again.

“Are we interrupting something?” a timid voice squeaked from the doorway while a rougher male voice let loose a litany of swears. The pair jerked slightly and were greeted to the sight of a blushing, bushy-haired girl with a gangly ginger behind her

“Buggering fuck,” Hydra groaned into his chest. Tom found that he couldn’t agree more.

Chapter Text

             “Bloody hell, mate,” Ron drawled, pushing further into the room. “You’re the one who sent for us. Least you could do is wait to take your pants off.” Hydra squeaked, mortified, and pushed out of Tom’s arms. His eyes flashed crimson for a moment before his mask fell perfectly back in place. Hermione rolled her eyes and politely allowed the goblins to enter before closing the door behind her.

            “Really, Ronald,” she sighed, making her way over to the breakfast spread. “They weren’t even snogging. Besides, Hydra is a grown witch that can lose her knickers whenever and wherever she wants.” Ron spluttered at the thought of his best mate’s knickers and quickly followed Hermione to the table. He wasted no time in a filling a plate and stuffing his face. Tom looked disgusted and amused in equal measure.

            “Hermione!” Hydra exclaimed. “Stop making it sound like I regularly lose my knickers!”

            She raised an eyebrow and sent a pointed look at Hydra’s neck where the hickey was no longer hidden but heat-seeking snake. “You have to wear knickers to lose them, Hydra and I know for a fact that you weren’t wearing any last night.” Ron choked on his breakfast and started coughing as Tom’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his glamoured hairline.

            “Shut up!” Hydra hissed, clasping a hand over her best friend’s mouth. “Are you trying to make me sound like a strumpet?” Merlin, her face was on fire and she could feel Tom’s eyes on her, burning her further.

            “Excuse me?” Tom inquired, voice a bit too rough for polite company. “You were bare beneath that siren’s song you called a dress? In front of everyone?”

“Oi, that’s practically my sister!” Ron cried, flushing almost as much as Hydra. Rouhi hissed in agreement and started climbing the embarrassed ginger. Hydra was almost distracted by the rush of affection at the sight.

When she had first introduced her friends to her familiar, Ron had been skeptical and wary of the serpent. Now they shared a strange camaraderie whenever the girls got to be too much. Ron would mumble about “batty females” while Rouhi hissed in commiseration. Whenever Hydra visited home, Rouhi would beeline for Ron and spin his tale of woe about being bonded to an emotional teenage girl, wrapped around the man’s arm. Ron would hum and hah in all the right places, despite not understanding a word the snake said. It must have been the shared male empathy that came from being surrounded by women all the time.

Hermione pushed Hydra away. “You didn’t know? Oh, good. That means this isn’t the wixen equivalent of a shotgun wedding. Godric knows Hydra isn’t known for her self-control around pretty faces.”

            “Oh?” Tom said as if he’d just learn to secret to ridding the world of all muggles. A gleeful smirk rose on his lips as Hydra buried her face in her hands. “What a delightful piece of information.”

            “Traitor,” Hydra grumbled but a smile grew the longer all her favorite people were in a room together. “And it’s not a shotgun wedding. It’s a marriage contract negotiation.”

            “I’ve been remiss,” Tom said suddenly, reaching out to kiss Hermione’s hand. “I am Tomassen Pollux Riddle-Gaunt-Slytherin. It’s a pleasure to meet Hydra’s closest friends.” The muggleborn witch eyed him, unimpressed, and Hydra had to stifle a laugh. Ron had no such compunctions.

            He snorted. “No need for the fake name, mate. We already know all about you and Hydra exchanging letters.”

“We Gryffindors don’t really do secrets,” Hermione continued, her own lips twitching, “especially not between the three of us. Very kind of you to swallow your distaste of my ‘dirty blood’ for her sake though.” If Tom was capable of feeling shame, Hydra imagined he would be right about now. At most, he looked mildly uncomfortable. And judging by the glare he sent her, a bit put out that his elaborate ruse was nipped in the bud. Dramatic arsehole.

“I was unaware that she had shared so much with you,” he muttered, straightening his robes. “Then let us drop the pretenses. I wish to claim my seats on the Wizengamot. However, I am unable to obtain my Lordship without marrying another parselmouth.”

“That’s where we come in,” Lirden cut in, motioning for all of the wixen to take a seat. “Last night, Mr. Riddle-Gaunt-Slytherin appeared and had us begin a basic draft of the contract.” With a tap on the stack of paper, a contract flew into each of their hands. Predictably, Hermione buried her nose into the document and devoured it with the efficiency she usually reserved for exam revision. Ron was glancing through his copy but he seemed more focused on making notes in the margins.

Hydra, herself, was bored to death with all the legalese, but diligently read through the beginnings of her future. The things Tom wanted most were an immediate marriage, a shared household, and heirs. Lots of heirs. One for each of their Lordships and a few spares. Just in case. Now, a part of her wanted to be livid at the idea of being treated like a broodmare. She was worth more than her womb and though she found solace in cooking, a kitchen was far from where she belonged. On the other hand, it was logical that a single child or even two couldn’t take on so many Lordships. She also knew that one of Lord Voldemort’s goals was the revitalization of the wixen population.

Her mind wandered to the hidden corner of her cupboard where, in broke crayons and blood, she had drawn a house with enough rooms to hold her dream family. The family she had depicted in childish stick figures grew with every injustice thrust upon her by her blood family. Aunt Petunia swung a frying pan at her head? A little figure joined adult Hydra on the wall. Dudley crushed her hand in the door waiting for a scream that never came? A child for every broken finger. Uncle Vernon laughing as she ate bacon fat out of the rubbish? A few pets would keep the happy children company. Her imaginary family grew on the wall under where she had scrawled “Girl’s Room” until she crossed those words out when she learned to write Hydrangea Jamie Potter.

Did Tom Riddle dream the same dreams in the monochrome London orphanage? Did he add a tally to his family counter with every morsel stolen out of his mouth, every hopeful couple that didn’t choose him, every whispered “devil child?” With how diligently he sought his heritage, Hydra wouldn’t be surprised. They were a pair, weren’t they? Just a jumble of broken pieces that they stabbed into their souls, desperate to make them fit.

“This is an acceptable start,” Hermione announced, pulling Hydra from her thoughts. She leaned back and just let her friends negotiate with her future husband. This was why she called them, after all. “However, the heir clause is ridiculous as it the wedding timeline. Isn’t a two year courting period customary in the Olde Ways?”

Tom waved his hand dispassionately. “Certainly, for those couples who have been engaged since birth and need a bit of an adjustment period going from distant cousins to lovers. Hydra and I have no such need and will have plenty of time to get better acquainted after the wedding.”

“Yes, but it will be better for optics if this doesn’t look like an elopement,” Ron mused, circling one of his little notes. “You’re trying to come onto the political scene as your own son, yeah? Well, the marriage of Lord Voldemort’s kid and the Savior of the Wixen World is a big fucking deal. It can’t just come out of nowhere or it’ll make you look suspicious.” Hydra chuckled at the dumbfounded look on Tom’s face. Ah, the Weasley Upset as she liked to call it. People saw Ron—and most of the other Weasleys—and couldn’t get past the red hair, freckles, and general puppy dog demeanor. In response, he would decimate them with carefully thought-out strategies and intelligent solutions, then offer them a hand up afterwards. Professor McGonagall challenged him to a chess match every so often and still hadn’t manage to win.

“Be that as it may,” Tom continued, regaining his composure, “the furthest I could put off the marriage is Yule. I can only stand to miss one more full Wizengamot session before the end of the year.”

“What does the Lordship stipulation actually say?” Ron asked. Hermione, in synch with his line of thinking, flipped through the file without hesitation. When Tom looked her way, questions in his eyes and the bond tugging at her, Hydra just nibbled on a pumpkin pasty to hide her smirk. He might have his Death Eaters but she had an army with Captains, Lieutenants, and more informants than he could imagine. A war of attrition was still a war and a General knew when to delegate.

“’The Heir shall obtain the Lordship when all requirements are met,’” Hermione read. “’First, the Heir must be male and take on the Slytherin name over all other names. Second, the Heir must be a Speaker with a Magic recognized serpent familiar to aid in family magicks. Third, the Heir must be united with another Speaker capable of bearing healthy, fully magical children.’”

“As you can see, I cannot gain the Lordship without this marriage,” Tom stated, glamoured face smug. “This point is nonnegotiable.”

Ron hummed. “It just says united. Surely a binding contract with a set date will be enough to satisfy that condition.”

Ragnuk, who had been silent up until then, shook his head. “No. Marriage, betrothal, or courting contracts are not binding in the eyes of Magic or law. It’s a matter of honor but there are no actual consequences to breaking these agreements beyond blood feuds and monetary compensation.”

“Law is enough?” Hydra probed, a wicked idea forming in her mind. “Any law?”

“In theory,” Ragnuk agreed and hid a smirk behind his hand. He was more than familiar with the look in her eyes. Tom, himself, was looking cautious, no doubt feeling her mischievous delight bleed through the bond. She caught his eye, a gleeful grin breaking across her face.

“Then it looks like we’re getting married in the muggle world.”

“No,” Tom said, wishing he could pinch the bridge of his nose. Instead, he settled for rubbing his temples to stave off the headache the little nuisance was causing. Her eyes were sparking with mischief, and he longed to wipe that smirk off her face by hexing her or kissing her or both.

“Then we’re not getting married until after Ostara,” she countered, crossing her arm defiantly. “I have rituals planned that require my magic to be unbonded.”

“Surely the rituals would be stronger with our combined magic.” He couldn’t imagine a rite that wouldn’t benefit from the surge in power. And their magic together would be intoxicating. The connection between them already pulsed with dizzying sensation and a shiver wracked his spine when he thought of their magics dancing together on the air.

“Tom, these rituals require Light or Grey magic,” Hydra explained. “Unless you’ve somehow survived a cleansing ritual without my notice, you are as Dark as they come.”

“Ostara is almost half a year away,” he argued. “That’s far too long.”

“Which is why I came up with a brilliant solution.” Never mind. He didn’t want to kiss her. He wanted to throw her over his knee like the child she was and spank her until she stopped being infuriating. Sweet Salazar, did she deserve it! Of course, now that he was thinking of her pert, little bottom, he remembered what the bushy-haired mudblood had said about her knickers. Or the lack thereof. At the time, he’d been tantalized honey skin displayed beneath sheer fabric, but, Merlin, the thought of her completely bare as they danced and bantered and he sucked his mark into her neck…

Hydra made a strangled sound and when he glanced up, he saw her face had darkened to the shade of brown brick. Oh, he must have been projecting a little too much through the bond.

Tom cleared his throat. “Yes, well. It’s unbecoming of two such prestigious houses to be attached through a muggle marriage.”

“Actually,” the mudblood—Granger?—cut in, “it would be perfect. The Lordship would recognize the marriage, but it wouldn’t be necessary to report it to the Ministry until you were also bonded in magic.”

“Beyond that, it would be easy to hide from the public as well,” Weasley continued. “No one in the Wixen community would ever think to look up muggle records. Especially if you only use parts of your real names.”

“And then you could court me like I deserve until after the Spring Equinox,” his little darling finished, flashing him a brilliant smile. And how could he argue with that? She did deserve to be courted, though he was loathe to fall victim to sentiment—more than he already had. It was a logical solution that gave him everything he wanted so long as he was patient. It would also tie them together that much sooner without the risk of a certain headmaster looking too closely into their affairs. Not to mention that he would endear himself, even just a bit, to the two pests his Hydra called friends.

He heaved a put-upon sigh. “Very well. We shall marry in the muggle world immediately and wait to bind our magic until Beltane. However, I insist that we live together in Slytherin Manor during the courtship.”

You can’t, Speaker! Rouhi interrupted slithering into Hydra’s lap from the ginger’s shoulders. Once he has you, he will want you all to himself! Tell him no.

Well, that was rude. Entirely accurate but rude.

Rouhi, Hydra soothed, stroking the cobra’s hooded head, I’m bound by my word, but I shall never allow us to be locked away. If he tries, I will throw him into the Ley Lines until his name is little more than a footnote in history texts.

I swear I shall not imprison you, Treacle. Tom hissed at her, knowing her threat was sincere. Then, just to see the blush on her cheeks again. Tied to my bed, perhaps…

“Shut up, Tom!” she spluttered in English once more. Her little friends looked confused, but seemingly used to Hydra speaking in parseltongue. Rouhi was glaring daggers at Tom, but couldn’t hold back a hissing chuckle at his Speaker’s embarrassment. The snake rubbed against her warm cheek to comfort her before winding his way back around her neck like a collar.

What say you, little Weaver? Tom asked, not wanting his words understood by any but the Chosen One. His Chosen One. Shall you lay your head to rest in our home? Or should I promise you more? “And I will make thee beds of Roses and a thousand fragrant posies.”

Tom, she started but he grabbed her hand to cut her off.

“A gown made of the finest wool which from our pretty Lambs we pull,” he murmured against her palm. He would give her this. This and more. More than any muggle poem could portray. All she had to do was agree. “If these delights thy mind may move, then live with me…” he paused to press a kiss to the finger where his ring—his mark, his claim, his vow to the world that Hydra Potter was his—would go. “…and be my love.”

The goblins and Hydra’s friends watched on in stunned silence, but his focus was on the girl by his side. She, too, was quiet but her head was tilted as though having judged him and found him wanting. Her emerald eyes held no warmth and even the bond was a bit chilly. Not blocked completely but dulled by something he couldn’t quite name. Disgust was too strong a term but it was more than a disliking of poetry. Disappointment, perhaps. Or…

Oh. Hydra loved easily and fiercely. It always seemed as though she gave her affection to even the most insignificant of creatures. Tom, on the other hand, berated the silly emotion at every opportunity and now here he was, throwing around love poems in an attempt to gain her acceptance. No wonder her adorable nose was crinkled in distaste.

Well, he knew he couldn’t love her—he was incapable of such an emotion—but he was genuinely fond of her, little pest that she was. He also couldn’t deny that her magic, intelligence, and figure were attractive to him. He wanted to wake up to her contented smile every day and read together before the fire in their library. He wanted to go out with her on his arm and have the whole world know that it was his bed that she went to sleep in every night. More than anything, he wanted somewhere that they could drop all the masks and be themselves. Together. So he pushed all those feelings through the bond and pleaded one last time,

“Come live with me and be my love.” He held his breath, hoping that she sensed his sincerity. The silence seemed to stretch to eternity before she finally responded, a little smile curving her lips as warmth returned to her eyes.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

To Tom’s surprise, the rest of the negotiations went rather smoothly. Slytherin Manor was rejected emphatically because “Who needs seventy-three rooms, Tom? And if you even mention filling them with children, I’ll make the itching powder will seem like child’s play.” Tom, wisely, didn’t mention that the itching powder was the definition of childish. Hydra agreed that they would choose their home together from their combined properties and he was confident that he could steer her away from the cottages she would no doubt love. They deserved a house that denoted their status.

The combining of their assets was also easily agreed upon. They would keep their vaults separate because Lirden and Ragnuk looked ready to riot if he suggested anything else. However, they wouldn’t be barred from the other’s vaults or properties. Hydra also proposed that they use the Riddle account for their everyday expenses and for the housing of new money. That way their heirs to the larger Houses wouldn’t have to handle a diminishing vault. Tom was less than enthused by the thought of using his horrid muggle name for anything, let alone his gold, but the minx just had to tug at his possessive, covetous nature.

“After all, I shall be first and foremost, Mrs. Tom Riddle,” she teased. “Our children will be Riddles and Heads of noble houses. This way, your name will always be linked to five of the most powerful Houses in the country.”

And that was entirely too tempting. His common, dirty name that caused him nothing but ridicule would become the face of historically Pureblood houses. Without a single drop of blood shed, he would eradicate the purity of some of the most ancient Houses in Britain and complete a multitude of his goals at once. A combined vault with his surname on it was hardly a steep price to pay. If only the topic of heirs didn’t spark more debate.

The mud—Granger argued with him over the heir clause for almost twenty minutes while Weasley looked a little green about the gills with the numbers Tom was throwing out. He intended to set a good example for his followers and the rest of the wixen community. Their numbers were much too small and the infertility rampant throughout the Purebloods needed to be nipped in the bud. Besides, Weasley didn’t have a leg to stand on with his gaggle of siblings. For a powerful, young witch like Hydra ten was a reasonable number of sprogs.

“And who will attend to these imaginary children while you take over the country and I keep you in check through the Wizengamot?” Hydra asked. “Not to mention that I intend to actually use my Masteries rather than rest on my laurels.”  

“House Elves and nannies have been used to great effect for generations,” Tom waved his hand dismissively. “We need not be involved in their rearing at all, if we do not wish to.” The redhead sucked in a sharp breath that echoed through the abruptly silent room. Granger seemed to be physically biting her tongue—her face had screwed up when he mentioned the elves—and threw a worried glance at Hydra. Even the goblins looked at him with a mixture of outrage and pity, like he had just stepped over a cliff.

Hydra set her teacup down with a sharp clinking, her eyes lacking their usual fire. “Why do you want children, Tom?”

“To carry on our family names and create our legacy,” he answered without hesitation. What kind of question was that? Was there another purpose to the squalling, messy things?

She nodded. “Then why not pick any child up off the street and give them your name? Even your blood if you chose to Blood Adopt them. You could even do just that and let their current family keep them. Hell, just find a muggleborn in the muggle welfare system, force them to carry your blood and your name, and then leave them to the muggles.”

“As if I’d leave my child to filthy muggles,” he spat. “And Blood Adoptions don’t make them fully my blood, more like a distant cousin.”

“If legacy was all you cared about, that shouldn’t matter,” Hydra countered. With a flick of her wrist, some kind of magic shimmered around the two of them, seeming to hum with a tune that tickled his memory like he’d heard it in the moments between waking and dreaming. “Tom, what was the worst thing about your childhood?”

He jerked as if struck, attention shattered. “What are you talking about?”

“Why did you hate the orphanage so much?”

“Because it was filled with too many muggles, not enough food, and tended to have bombs dropped on it,” he snarled, glancing at the other occupants of the room. None of them were reacting to him or Hydra. In fact, they were conversing among themselves though Tom couldn’t hear the words. A two-way Silencing Charm? He didn’t know that was possible.

“We’ve spoken in vagaries about our pasts, but both of us were unwanted,” Hydra said, softening her voice a little. He didn’t want softness, though. His skin was crawling to send hexes and curses at her until she agreed to his demands. He wanted her to fight back with flames in her emerald eyes and a confident smirk on her face. He wanted to stop talking about this. Right now.

“Yes and?” he ground out.

“And if you got what you wanted, you’d be subjecting ten magical children to the feeling of being unwanted by their parents. Their needs would be tended to, but that loneliness that we felt as children would carry on to them. Don’t you want to give them better than what we had?” Through their bond, Tom felt the brush of genuine sorrow at the idea of children living in such conditions. The sadness filled him up so completely that he felt actual tears prick his eyes. Merlin, he hated when she did that! How did she feel so much all the time? He barely felt anything beyond rage or greed, and even that was exhausting. It was wonder she didn’t collapse beneath all the emotions swirling around in her mind.

Despite his resistance to the emotions of her claims, the points, themselves, were valid. Children were the future of the Wixen World, and his own children would be a cut above the rest. They required the best care available to them and Hydra, he knew now, wouldn’t stand for it to be fawned off onto someone else. The image of her standing over a crib, babe in arms, singing a half-remembered lullaby flashed across his mind. Yes, he thought. His children would know no better caregiver than their mother.

“Besides,” Hydra continued, a smirk pulling on her pink lips, “you wouldn’t want our children to turn out like Draco Malfoy, would you?” Tom physically shuddered at the thought. Lucius and Narcissa had done just what Tom had suggested, leaving their House Elves to raise their son while they spoiled and coddled him. Had it not been for Severus, the boy would have been completely useless at everything but shouting demands and spending galleons. Luckily, the potions master had stepped in so that the brat didn’t get himself killed while the Dark Lord was living at Malfoy Manor. Now, the Malfoy Heir was almost tolerable, and Tom could use his influence without worrying about the fallout.

Tom sighed in defeat. “Very well, darling. I concede on the point of child rearing. What is your counteroffer?”

“Two children to begin with,” she smiled, grabbing a pumpkin pasty from the plate. “They’ll be raised solely by us and other trusted family members. Maybe an elf to help with the cleaning and such, but no nannies. If we decide we want more children, we can discuss that at a later date.”

“Two born children and the ability to Blood Adopt a child if we so wish,” he countered, just to see what she’d say. She was the one who initially brought it up and it was an idea with merit. There were plenty of magical children that would benefit from his or Hydra’s blood. Blood Adoptions were rare for a multitude of reasons, but the goblins offered them to anyone who asked. If worded correctly, he could even use them to further his political aspirations.

For a moment, he thought that she’d refuse, but his Hydra was nothing if not unpredictable.

She beamed at him, her face radiating joy as the bond sang with contentment. Tom was stunned at how beautiful she looked, how pleased; he had never seen her look so dazzling and it was all because of him. He wanted to bottle the moment and keep her that happy forever.

“Agreed,” she said, though Tom barely heard it through his daze. Dear Salazar, he was lucky. Fate truly did favor Lord Voldemort. No. With this contract, he was giving up that title. He could hardly be Tomassen Riddle-Gaunt-Slytherin, husband to the Girl-Who-Lived, and Lord Voldemort at the same time. He’d probably have to orchestra a grand defeat by the hands of his lovely bride-to-be—perhaps at their Bonding? Would Hydra find that too much of a spectacle? — and Lord Voldemort would be remembered as yet another vanquished Dark Lord.

A year ago, that thought would have sent him into a rage-induced killing spree. Anything less than the entire world at his feet was intolerable. Somehow, a little slip of girl had changed him so much that he was aching for the domesticated life of a politician, children with her eyes and his nose clinging to his leg. He would have power over Wixen Britain, his horcruxes to keep him alive, children to carry on his legacy, and Hydra by his side. The mundanity of it should chafe but Tom could not find an ounce of rage at the idea.

Hydra was beyond pleased. This negotiation was going much smoother than their last, mainly because many of their desires were, at least, similar enough to compromise. Oh, Hydra knew that Tom didn’t care much for actual marriage. This was simply a means to an end, a way to get what he wanted. He didn’t really view this as the beginnings of a family. Not yet anyway. Perhaps he’d figure it out once she finished weaving their souls together, but it was more likely that he’d stay oblivious until he held his child the first time. Then again, her soulmate was an oblivious idiot so he might never figure it out.

“How soon would you have to start having children?” Hermione asked after Hydra informed the group of the compromise that had been reached.

Tom shrugged, trying to gain back his composure. Something about her smile had seemed to rattle him. “No need for a set timeline. Hydra is young, yet, and we have plenty of time.”

Hermione nodded. “Alright, then onto the issue of the Wizengamot.”

All business, that one, Hydra thought fondly. After Hogwarts, Hermione had gotten an apprenticeship in a Law office within the Ministry. She had been the only muggleborn but with her N.E.W.T. scores and the political climate, they couldn’t deny her the job without causing a riot. Not to mention that Hermione was more than willing to use her blackmail over Rita Skeeter to expose the corruption. Now, she was the assistant directly under the head of the office and would have her Mastery within the year.

Ron, on the other hand, had mediocre N.E.W.T.s but he had immediately proved his worth in the more practical side of life. His talent shown in business and marketing. In the year that he’d been working at the Weasley Wizard Wheezes, their net worth increased exponentially. With some help from Hermione, Ron had researched muggle marketing ploys and used them to great effect through radio ads, posters, and even Quidditch sponsorships.

Between the three of them, they had the ear of almost every wixen in Britain—and a few outside of it, as Fred and George were talking of expanding onto the Continent. Hydra would be one of the best informed and most respected people on the Wizengamot. Her little “Defense Association” had become a veritable legion of allies, informants, and behind-the-scenes combatants. She had a person for almost every aspect of the Wixen World and when she didn’t, she had someone who knew someone.

She had laughed when Umbridge and Fudge accused her of gathering an army. Hydra hadn’t had to gather anything; they swarmed to her like little, vicious ducklings, eager to follow a leader who promised neutrality and peace. The wixen who wished to remain neutral grew in number and in power even when she had disappeared because her people knew how to spread the word subtly until the official peace was declared between Voldemort and the Girl-Who-Lived. By that time, her own studies and the mysteries of the Ley Lines had Hydra too busy to truly lead the neutral party, so she had left it in her deputies’ capable hands until she returned.

Then she had been given her quest by Magic herself and though it wasn’t going exactly to plan, she was still on track to succeed. Hydra smiled behind her teacup as Tom immediately agreed to the clause that basically said that they would stay out of each other’s business when it came to politics. Their marriage would have no effect on their Wizengamot voting and if either of them wanted a law passed, they had to approach the other as a political ally, rather than a spouse. Her husband-to-be was in for a rude awakening during their first Wizengamot session. He’d see just how far her reach stretched and how difficult it will be to push his Pureblood dogma. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he realized how much he was giving up.

Beyond that, the marriage contract was all little things like fidelity— “I’m very possessive,” Tom told her, grinning with a few too many teeth. She had just rolled her eyes at him—and the repercussions of raising a hand or wand to each other or the children.

“Because I’ll do more than kill you, Tom,” she promised. “I’ll slice you into pieces and scatter you to the five winds.”

“Never again,” he vowed, pressing a kiss to the scar on her forearm. “Our children will not have to live in fear.”

“Now all that is required is a few signatures,” Ragnuk said as he added the last provision. Lirden produced two achingly familiar quills that had Hydra’s hand clenching, scars standing out white on her skin. Ragnuk, recognizing this reaction, was quick to reassure her. “A simple initial will do, Lady Potter-Black-Peverell. As long as the blood is yours, a full signature is unnecessary.”

She smiled at his, eyes tight. “This will be the last time I sign my name this way though. I should do it justice.” Tom was a bit baffled, if the bond was accurate, but Hydra didn’t have the heart to explain it to him now. Hermione and Ron had also gone a little pale at the sight of the quills but didn’t shake when they signed as witnesses of the contract. Once she was done, Hermione clasped Hydra’s left hand between hers. Ron was a silent guardian behind her chair as the contract was slid over to her.

Drawing on her Gryffindor bravery, Hydra signed her full name and stopped herself from wincing with every cut into her skin. Lirden and Ragnuk were quick with the Murtlap Essence and the trio’s hands were soothed quickly. Tom watched on, confusion furrowing his brow, and then glanced at the contract before him. To Hydra, he seemed to be struggling over a decision in his head.

“Will this document be given to the Ministry?” he asked the goblins as he was handed the Blood Quill.

“No, this is purely for Gringotts’ records,” Lirden answered, confusion evident in his tone. “When you file for a license to Bond you might have to produce a copy to prove that no one is being forced…” he glanced at Hydra, “…into anything, but that is unlikely.”

“Very well then,” he nodded, hand flowing across the parchment. He raised his face to capture Hydra’s gaze. “As you said, darling, we will be Mr. and Mrs. Tom Riddle. It seems only right that we have one document that says so.” He reached for her hand and gently turned it over, thumb tracing the old scars and new cuts below them. He then placed his bleeding left hand next to hers.

There, right beside the messily scrawled name on her own hand, was his elegant, effortless script cut into the back of his.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Chapter Text

Tom waited impatiently on the steps of Gringotts as Hydra bid farewell to her friends with promises to meet at the Burrow for dinner. After everything had been signed and sealed away, he had insisted that they go through their properties to find somewhere suitable. The sooner the had a place to live, the sooner he could have access to the Wizengamot. Beyond that, he was sick of living in Malfoy Manor. It was ostentatious, cold, and filled with incompetents. Narcissa was fine, he supposed, but she was only a Malfoy by arranged marriage and therefore didn’t really count. And the peacocks! Sweet Salazar, he wanted to avada kedavra each and every one of those bloody birds.

“Where to first?” Hydra asked, pulling him from his thoughts. Granger and Weasley had slipped away into the crowds while he wasn’t looking and she had rejoined him.

“I had thought we’d start with the smallest and work our way up,” he suggested, offering her his hand. He had noticed the difference in size when they had danced, but he was forcibly reminded of it when his fingers closed over hers, almost completely encompassing her entire hand. Merlin, she was just a little thing, wasn’t she? Like a baby bird whose fragile bones would snap without any kind of effort. Although, Hydra Potter could never be called fragile. Delicate maybe, but her bones were laced with steel and magic. It’d would take more than he had to break her.

“I think the smallest is a studio flat in above Flourish and Blotts,” she replied, grinning at him. “Why don’t we focus on location instead? I’d like somewhere I can fly without worrying about Muggles.” She took the list of properties from him and summoned a hideous muggle pen before sitting down on one of the steps. As she crossed off properties, the ink shone an iridescent yellow that was almost too bright to see.

“Very well,” he agreed indulgently, holding back a grimace as he sat beside her. “I enjoy the sea. Perhaps somewhere on the beach or close to one.” She nodded, scratching out a few more locations. “And it needs to be big enough to raise a family. I don’t fancy moving when we decide to have children.”

“Considering I’ve only agreed to three at the moment, it doesn’t have to be too large,” she sniffed imperiously, but dutifully crossed out anything with less than five bedrooms. Tom grinned and slid closer, pressing his side tightly to hers as his arm went around her waist. Rouhi hissed, irritated, and plopped himself into his Speaker’s lap. He seemed to have given up on deterring Tom’s advances, no doubt sensing the futility of it.

“I’m sure I can convince you,” Tom purred, fingers tracing patterns on her hip. He leaned down, breath tickling her skin as he nipped at her ear. A delightful little shiver raced up her spine and Tom pressed her closer to him.

Speaker, Nagini and I need a forest to hunt in! Rouhi chimed in, catching Hydra’s attention. Perhaps the snake hadn’t quite given up yet. And Myrddin and Vivienne will need a garden for when they visit.

Right you are, Rouhi, Hydra replied, pressing a kiss to his snout before crossing out a few more properties. Tom felt an irrational sense of jealousy at how easily the snake and her friends and even the goblins received her physical affection while he had only received a short hug. Everything else had been initiated by him—which was shocking in and of itself. What was it she called him? Touched-starved? Tom had never particularly liked touch, it usually led to pain, and he was more than happy to do without. When he was a teenager and filled with hormones, he had experimented once or twice with the girls who fawned over him but he never saw the appeal. Yet, now he was jealous of a serpent for being on the receiving end of Hydra’s lips. Perhaps all he had to do was experiment again to get it out of his system.

While she was merrily chatting with the cobra, Tom gently grasped her chin and turned her face to meet his. Under the glamour, he didn’t have much of in the way of lips but he pressed his mouth to hers all the same. Her sweet breath mingled with his as she let of a little gasp of surprise. Tom didn’t allow it to go farther than a soft caress, a featherlight brush of skin, but his skin burned down to his toes. He had forgotten what warmth was and just this simple touch was enough to scorch him away to ashes if he let it. Then Hydra, as always, did the unexpected.

Hesitating only slightly, she pressed back into him, a hand coming to his cheek. Now Tom was the one who shuddered, and he tightened his grip on her waist. Tilting his head, he let the tip of his tongue glide along her bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth. As he tugged at the skin, the infuriating little minx broke out in giggles and had to lean back to catch her breath. Tom felt as though he should probably be offended.

“I didn’t…ha! I didn’t expect the…the forked tongue,” she chuckled breathlessly. His expression must have shown his discontentment because she rolled her eyes at him before gripping his face between her hands and bringing him down for a heated kiss. “I’m not making fun of you, Tom, I was just surprised. Do I prefer you with hair and a nose? Yes. Will I ever turn you away, forked tongue or not? No. Now help me narrow down our houses because I swear, we still have about a hundred on the list.”

God’s teeth, his witch was incredible. How could he have ever thought having an equal was repugnant? Even at his most handsome, Tom had been spurned by those who looked down on him for his blood or those who seemed to sense that his darkness was made up on blood and bones. Once his body had started to fall apart as the horcruxes took their toll, no witch in her right mind would find him attractive—it was rather telling that Bellatrix was more than willing to crawl into his bed. During that time, it hadn’t mattered to him. A Dark Lord was above such things, and he much preferred people screaming in pain, rather than pleasure.

But now, Hydra Potter who had seen him at his very best and his very worst, was saying that she would never turn him away. With how much time he’d been spending in his glamour, he almost forgotten what he looked like underneath. No nose, no hair, thin lips, a forked tongue, and too sharp teeth. Yet, the Savior of the Wixen World had allowed him to kiss her, had kissed him back! Twice! And then went straight back to choosing the home where they would live together and raise their children. Tom made a mental note to arrange their muggle—he sneered the word even in his thoughts—wedding by the next day. If he waited too long, someone else might realize just how amazing Hydra was and steal her away.

It's ugly, Rouhi said as they wandered around the fifth house the trio had looked at.

Nothing a little paint and transfiguration can’t fix, right? Hydra replied trying to be optimistic. Both Tom and the snake gave her unimpressed looks. But the garden is perfect and the kitchen is huge!

Treacle, there’s no saving the entire third floor, Tom reasoned. Not to mention the mural of the niffler orgy.

“It was not an orgy!” Hydra exclaimed, a little too loud, and her voice echoed off the stonework. Tom and Rouhi chuckled, reminding her in the moment that they were parts of the same soul. “We’ll put a tapestry over it,” she argued weakly, leaning her head against Tom's chest. “I don’t want to look at anymore.”

“Chin up, darling,” Tom said cheerfully, petting her hair. “There’s only ten more on the list.” She groaned, lifting her head and letting it fall back with a thunk.

I liked the second one, Rouhi hissed. The cellar was full of rats and it wasn’t made of cold stone. Oh, and the potions lab was quite nice.

You are truly a magnificent snake, Tom stated, eyeing Rouhi suspiciously. My Nagini has barely grasped that it’s inappropriate for humans to be without clothes and she’s been my familiar for years. Yet you seem to know and understand humans with no difficulty. Hydra had been worried about this. Tom was too curious to simply let it be and Rouhi was too much like the original soul to not utilize such a weakness.

Mother Magic gifted me to my Speaker, Rouhi told him proudly. My body was crafted from pure magic and my soul was pulled from within the Weaver. All technically true, though not quite how it happened. After her first Litha in Egypt, Hydra had a dream where Vivienne had filled her in on a few things. She woke up with a bleeding scar and instructions on how to craft a temporary body for the soul shard in her head. From there, she done the ritual for the first time and combined her soul with the errant diary fragment.

It had taken Rouhi and her a few weeks to stop being cautious around each other but soon they were inseparable. When Hydra had one of her nightmares, she woke to the albino cobra curled on her chest, hissing comfort. While she studied in the Library of Alexandria, Rouhi lounged across her lap, offered advice, and demanded pets. This was how she knew that Tom was desperate for touch even if he didn’t know it. If Rouhi, who had been with her for eighteen years, needed physical affection, then Tom definitely needed it after being all alone for the same amount of time. If not longer.

Remarkable, Tom murmured, stroking Rouhi where he hung around Hydra’s neck. You are part of her soul then? Or a part of her magic?

Something like that, Rouhi responded, a smile evident in his voice. But I am still a snake with all its instincts and my venom is more powerful than an average cobra.

Then I shall be content in the knowledge that you will protect your Speaker, Tom smiled. Now, let’s abandon this travesty of a manor before Hydra chains herself to the kitchen.

Hydra perked up. “Is that an option?”

“No, little serpent,” Tom grinned. “Onto the next.”

“Fine,” Hydra sighed and pulled out the portkey the goblins had given her. The little amulet had two dials to input latitude and longitude, so that the enchantment didn’t have to be cast over and over again. Tom had found it fascinating while Hydra struggled against telling him that it was inspired by muggle technology. After calibrating it to the next location, she pressed the button on the back to activate it.

The house they landed in front of was practically a castle—one of many left by the Peverell family—and Hydra immediately started to reconfigure the portkey. Her boys began arguing the merits of the house as she worked. Tom thought it looked grand and the lawn was manicured to perfection by whatever House Elves still remained. A place befitting the two most powerful people in Britain. Rouhi was adamant that it would be drafty and rough on his and Nagini’s scales. Besides, the ocean was quite far away and did Tom wish to be near the coast? Hydra didn’t bother with arguing. She simply grabbed Tom’s hand as the portkey whisked them away.

As they landed, a wild sea breeze whipped around them from where the ocean rested, just over a small hill. Nestled in the valley of two hills, a stone cottage greeted them. The front was all grey stone and climbing ivy. A rose bush was planted on either side of the door, the pale pink contrasting with the green vines. To their right, a shed stood and Hydra could practically see Tom’s plans to turn it into a potions lab that was away from the rest of the house.

“Let’s go inside,” Hydra urged without letting go of his hand. The front grass was wild and messy but didn’t seem to be in disarray. She liked how free it felt and she wanted to see if its charm continued. Tom followed after her, a bemused smile on his face at her enthusiasm. The bond was humming with something she couldn’t quite name but it didn’t feel negative.

The front room was just as lovely as she imagined. A large fireplace dominated one way with built in bookshelves on either side of it. The ceiling had exposed beams running across it but the multitude of windows kept the room feeling light and airy. The couches were a deep sea-green that looked comfortable enough to nap on while the hanging lights were made of richly colored sea glass that sun vibrant shadows on the white walls. At the side, a staircase led up to the second floor and beyond that, a dining room. Hydra let go of Tom’s hand and rushed to where she thought the kitchen might be. Rouhi seemed to be content to go with her, having nothing bad to say so far.

Hydra practically squealed when she entered the kitchen. It was beautiful! Granite countertops, brass fixtures, and three whole ovens! Whoever had been living here before had set up the place for muggle appliances that ran on magic. Which when she thought about it…seemed a bit odd. This was one of the Black’s holiday properties and the only Blacks who would be okay with muggle anything were Sirius and Andromeda, neither of which had access to this house. In fact, the appliances looked modern as well and just what she would have picked out if she had the choice. This entire house seemed tailored made for her and Tom.

“Hydra,” Tom called from the front room, voice wary. “We have visitors.”

What in the actual hell?

Hydra left the kitchen, surreptitiously sliding her wand into her hand. As she exited the dining room, she was greeted to Tom standing stiffly by the stairs while two familiar people smirked at him from a couch. Rouhi recognized them immediately and practically flung himself to the floor to slither toward them. She rolled her eyes at his antics and stowed her wand away.

“Was this you two then?” she questioned, hands on her hips. “How did you even know?” Myrddin put a finger to his nose and winked while Vivienne chuckled before rising to wrap Hydra in a hug. After fifteen years in the Weave together, these two were as close as Hydra would get to older siblings. Rouhi was excitedly telling Myrddin about all the houses that they had visited before and how they had done a wonderful job creating this house.

“Darling,” Tom interrupted, his own wand at the ready in his hand. “Who are these people and how did they get past the wards?”

Chapter Text

“Oh, I’m sorry Tom,” Hydra said, pulling out of Vivienne’s embrace. “This is Myrddin and Vivienne Wilde. They are…well, I guess you can call them my predecessors. They’ve taught me quite a lot and spent some time with me in the Weave.” She went to stand by him, gripping his hand in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. His shoulders relaxed slightly and the yew wand dangled lazily from his hand, but he never put it away.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Vivienne smiled, all blue eyes and fiery ringlets. Myrddin was her exact opposite with straight, silvery hair and eyes the color of moonstone. Both looked young, but their gaze seemed to hold eons of knowledge. Which they did.

“Myrddin?” Tom repeated, still cautious even though Rouhi was happily wrapped around the man’s leg, prattling away. “That is Welsh, correct? It’s rumored to be Merlin’s true name.”

The man in question smirked. “My mother had great expectations for me.” Hydra barely held back a snort. She had forgotten that Myrddin liked to play the game of answering truthfully while giving away no information. Hydra couldn’t wait to reveal to Tom that these two, seemingly innocuous wixen, were, indeed, the famous Merlin and Nimue of Arthurian legend. Though now they held the titles of Weaver of Fates and Keeper of Souls respectively. Rouhi was still in some kind of hero worship daze whenever he saw them, demanding stories and secrets from the immortal beings.

“Stop teasing the boy, Myrddin,” Vivienne scolded even as Tom quietly squawked at being called a boy. “Hydra is very precious to us, and the Lines whispered that you two would be looking for a house. We decided to surprise the both of you. Call it an early wedding present.”

Oh dear, if that glint in Tom’s eye was what she thought it was, they’d be here all night while he asked questions. The last thing she needed was both of her boys enraptured by her mentors.

“I take it you’ve set Tom up a library then?” Hydra asked, grasping at straws for a distraction. Myrddin continued to smirk at her, guessing her thoughts easily. She—very maturely—stuck her tongue out at him. Luckily, Tom was, indeed, distracted by the promise of a library. The great nerd, she thought fondly. Vivienne happily led him upstairs, Rouhi following because fireplaces are warmer in libraries, Weaver. Hydra trailed behind and raised a brow when Myrddin grasped her arm.

“You haven’t let anything slip, have you?” he demanded.

Hydra rolled her eyes. “Have I told the man who’s terrified of Death that he’s destined to become the personification of said deity and be bound to me forever? Yep, he took it great. Proposed on the spot. Of course, I haven’t, Myrddin! Just because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“Vivienne and I learned about it together from Hades and Persephone, brat,” he growled, playfully tweaking her nose. “As you two would have from us if the moron didn’t go splitting up his soul. We waited a long time for you two and he had make it complicated.” Myrddin groaned the word like it was the cause of all the strife in the world and Hydra couldn’t help but chuckle at his dramatics.

“You’re still just bitter that you became ‘Mother Magic’ rather than Death,” she teased. “That’s really why you’ve been impatient since Godric and Salazar fucked up.”

He groaned again, flinging himself onto the couch. “Don’t even get me started! Did you know that they’re still bickering behind the Veil? Vi has been at her wit’s end trying to get them to own up to their mistakes for centuries and neither will back down. Salazar has been especially unhappy because you killed his snake with Godric’s sword.”

“I’m sorry I accidentally stabbed the murder serpent with his ex-lover’s sharp stick, but I was twelve and it was trying. To. Kill. Me!” Hydra exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Blame the phoenix for dropping it on my head.”

“I’ve missed Fawkes,” Vivienne said as she descended the stairs, Rouhi curled in her hair like a crown. “He hardly spends any time in his ashes anymore. Apparently, Albus has been growing more dependent on the Song.”

“You haven’t murdered my fiancé, have you?” Hydra asked. “I’ve put a lot of work into him, you see, and I’d hate to have to go searching for him behind the Veil.”

“Cheeky,” Vivienne laughed, flicking Hydra’s forehead. “I’ve just put him in a gentle sleep. He hasn’t been getting enough rest while you were in the Weave.”

“Ah, so this is an intervention,” she joked, plopping down in the goldenrod armchair while Vivienne cuddled up to her husband on the couch. “I knew I should have never trusted a friendly visit from Death and her mistress.”

“Don’t make me curse you, kiddo,” Myrddin muttered, lazily sending a wandless Confundus at her. Hydra simply dodged out of the way. “We really did want to surprise you but we’re also here about the Hallows.”

“Has Tom accelerating the timeline screwed things up?” she questioned. “I thought we were waiting to get the Elder Wand until Albus passed over.”

Vivienne sighed. “That was the plan, yes, but as I said, Albus has been weakening and needs Fawkes with him almost constantly. It’s frankly a miracle that he and Gellert have managed to stay alive this long without each other. But he’s not going to go quietly as we hoped. The Fates have been meddling again.”

“I hate those old cunts,” Hydra grumbled. “What is it this time? Another prophecy or some new way to screw with me?”

“They’ve been denied an epic battle between the Dark Lord and the Girl-Who-Lived,” Myrddin spat, no greater fan of the Fates than Hydra was, and he had to work with them every day. “The strings they’ve been sending me to Weave all end with you and your Keeper against Dumbledore and whatever is left of his Order.”

“Do we know when?” she inquired. “Will it be before or after Tom and I go through the Trials?”

“After, we think,” Myrddin replied, “but not by much. You’ll both be weakened but the Weave shows that you have about a sixty-five percent chance of winning. We can’t tell you more than that.”

Hydra snarled and stood up to pace. “Do the Fates not realize that Magic is dying!? We are out of balance and if I don’t correct it, nothing will remain!”

“Oh, they’re very aware,” Myrddin drawled. “They just enjoy their chaos too much to care. A part of them wants to see what will happen even if it means their end. They also don’t like you very much because you ruined their prophecy.”

“Then they shouldn’t have left a loophole,” she snapped. “They were probably rooting for Dumbledore and Grindelwald to make it through the Trials and now they’re bitter that I’m going to succeed.”

Vivienne rolled her eyes. “They root for every pair because they’re eager for new playthings. Though, they have been especially cruel to you and Tom.”

“Speaking of Tom,” Myrddin said, “it’s probably about time he woke up and started planning the wedding. You two are doing this all out of order, kiddo.”

Hydra shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve successfully done anything according to plan ever. Why should the beginning of eternity be any different?”

“Be careful with him, dear,” Vivienne cautioned, depositing Rouhi on the couch as she stands. “He’s not all there yet and he’s volatile, but he’s also feeling emotions that he’s never felt. He’ll be vulnerable for the foreseeable future and sooner or later, he’ll start to worry about your mortality.”

“Don’t let the Dark Lord talk me into making a horcrux,” Hydra said. “Got it.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Vivienne exclaimed, rummaging in her pocket. “Give this to Tom when he wakes up. He’s been having trouble finding this because he doesn’t have access to the Chamber of Secrets.” She pulled out a piece of parchment with parselscript scrawled over every inch of it.

Hydra took it from her with a wry smile. “I take it you aren’t going to tell me what it’s about?” Vivienne just laughed. “Alright then. Now, please, get out of the house you’ve kindly made for me.”

“Brat,” Myrddin tutted. “Add some extra parselmagic to the wards. Everything else was done to the best of my extraordinary ability.” Vivienne tugged on his hair in reprimand and blew Hydra one final kiss before they Shadowstepped away.

I missed them, Rouhi pouted from where he had been left on the sofa. He silently made his way over to his Speaker and began to scale her body until he was wrapped around her waist.

Me too, Hydra murmured as she ascended the stair to her soulmate. But we’ll see them again at the Yule ritual. It’s barely more than a month away.

Tom was dreaming, again. As always, it was filled with laughing, viridian eyes and a feeling of warmth in his chest. Now, however, the crashing of waves joined the music around him and child-like giggles of glee sounded in his ears. A heart-shaped face with achingly familiar green eyes and riotous chocolate curls looked up at him, tiny hands outstretched, as a child’s voice called out “Papa!” Somewhere in the distance, Hydra is there with a downy-haired infant cradled to her heart waiting for the both of them. Without a thought, he scooped up the reaching child and strode toward her. The walk took eternity and no time at all, in the way of dreams. His burden snuggled in his arms, curls that smelled of sea-air tickling his nose.

“Tom,” she greeted, stroking his cheek, when he arrived. A toddler in his arms, a yawning baby in hers. The infant blinked up at him with his own muddy eyes. “Welcome home,” she whispered against his lips.

He woke with a gasp when he realized that the sensations were too real and someone—and really, it could only be Hydra. No one else would have dared—was kissing him. Hydra was perched on his knee, an impish smile on her lips as she pulled away. The image of her, babe in arms, was still seared in his mind and he couldn’t resist wrapping his hand in her curls to bring her smile back against his. Unlike their kiss on the steps of Gringotts, Tom didn’t hold back. He devoured her mouth with all the passion and possessive fury that he felt. Here in a home that they would create together with her killing curse eyes sparking with mischief, he couldn’t resist her siren’s song.

She didn’t seem to be of any mind to stop him, either. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she opened herself up to his seeking tongue. This time it didn’t surprise her. When she broke away to catch her breath, he trailed kisses down her jaw until he reached the spot behind her ear that made her shiver. He scrapped his too-sharp teeth against her skin, watching as the goosebumps followed his path. Her fingers scrapped against his scalp and he realized that his glamour had fallen while he slept. Yet, Hydra still pressed closer to him and let him ravage her mouth. Merlin, this witch was perfect.

“Have a nice nap?” she asked cheekily when he pulled away again to breathe.

“Very nice,” he growled, nipping at her bottom lip. “Though this was a lovely way to wake up.”

“Glad you approve,” she quipped, “but it’s almost dinner and I promised the Weasley I’d be at the Burrow. I also had to lock Rouhi out when he figured out that I was going for the Sleeping Beauty method. He’s not happy.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against hers. “I suppose I should let you go then.”

“Hmm,” she agreed. “Besides, you a wedding to set up and a proper engagement ring to procure. If you want to marry me this week, you’d best get started.” Tom sighed again but released her so that she could stand. With a final peck on the lips, she removed herself from his lap and offered him her hand. He didn’t hesitate to grasp it and kept a hold of it once he was on his feet. With one hand, he waved his wand over his body until his glamour flowed over him again with the feeling of cellophane sticking to his skin. He really needed to figure out a way to get his old face back.

“Your friends did a wonderful job setting up this house,” he commented. “I like them even if Vivienne shot me in the back with a Sleeping Charm.”

She just giggled. “She used to do the same to me and Myrddin when we stayed up too late arguing. Oh, I almost forgot. Vivienne asked me to give this to you. Don’t ask me how she got it ‘cause I have no idea.” Curious, Tom took the little folded parchment from her, eyes widening when he saw just what it was. Merlin, it looked like page ripped straight out of one of Slytherin’s journals. When he looked at Hydra in question, she shrugged helplessly before tugging him toward the door where he could now hear Rouhi’s angry shouting.

Hand in hand, they exited his library and went back down the stairs while Hydra appeased the irate cobra that wrapped himself protectively around her arm, teeth aimed at Tom. She insisted that they exit through the back garden so that she could approve of it. Tom was pleasantly surprised that it was more of a utility plot of land than a garden bursting with useless but pretty flowers. The north side was dedicated solely to potion ingredients while the west wall was dwarfed by two towering lilac bushes. His eyebrows shot up when he noticed the farthest corner was nothing but poisons. Deadly poisons. Knowing that he had no experience with said plants, he warily glanced at Hydra whose shot him a devious smirk. He didn’t know whether to terrified or aroused.

“Will you be happy to live here with me?” he asked, suddenly needing the assurance that she wouldn’t slip something into his tea. A little voice whispered that he was just scared that she would leave him but he immediately locked the thought away behind five layers of Occlumency shields.

“Tom this will be the very first place that truly belongs to me,” she replied. “It has no memories attached to it at all and I’m excited to be the first ones to call this place a home. Yes, I’ll be happy here. Will you?”

“I have a library, a potion’s lab, and a pretty, little wife to come back to,” he smirked. “What else do I need?” Hydra rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until she Apparated away. Tom lingered a few moments longer at their new home.

He, too, had never had a place that was truly his. Unless you counted the dingy flat he had rented from a hag in Knockturn Alley. Or that little corner of London he’d claimed while hiding from the matron and other orphans. Perhaps, he’d ask Hydra to plant some honeysuckle to remind him on that hidden wall behind the London Library where he used to read. His mood soured when he remembered the summer that he had come back from Hogwarts to find the honeysuckle and the library destroyed in the air raids.

But there was no use dwelling on the past. He had plans to make and House Elves to order about. They’d probably be ecstatic to help him move all his things out of Malfoy Manor. The creatures were rightfully terrified of him, even after all these years. With a final glance at his—their—new home, he thought back to his dream and the warm look in Hydra’s eyes. As he Apparated away, he vowed that he would make that dream a reality as soon as possible. The first step was getting a ring worthy of his precious fiancé and binding her to him as tightly as magic and law would allow. Forever.

Chapter Text

Hydra woke up on the day of her wedding to the blaring of Bonnie Tyler's "Holding Out for a Hero" outside of her window. Rouhi hissed threats as he burrowed under the covers while Walburgha started to screech about “filthy muggle music.” Kreacher was thankfully sequestered in the basement level kitchen, preparing for the luncheon the grumpy House Elf insisted on once he heard that she was getting married. Still, Hydra groaned before rolling out of bed to confront the inconsiderate sods who disrupting her rest.

“Oi!” she shouted, sticking her head out of the window. “People are sleeping.” Below her, on the street, stood a gaggle of Weasleys, Hermione, Neville, and Luna fucking Lovegood with a boombox held over her head. As Hydra appeared, that cheeky bint pressed a button on the boombox, and the song changed to “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins. The blonde smiled airily at her as Hydra gaped at her audacity. Merlin, she knew that introducing muggle music to her wixen friends was a bad idea.

“The Nargles told me you were going to get married without letting anyone know,” Luna called up. “So I made a…” she hesitated briefly and Hermione leaned over to whisper in her ear. “…a mixtape! Hermione helped!”

“Of course, she did,” Hydra sighed pinching the bridge of her nose. “Come up then. Kreacher has been cooking since he found out, so just let yourself in.” As she was closing the window, the music once again changed to Abba’s “Dancing Queen” and she held back a snort. Her friends were the best.

When she had thrown on a dressing gown and tied her hair back into so semblance of order, she joined them down in the sitting room where the freeloaders had made themselves comfortable. Fred and George were dramatically draped across the feinting couch like heroines in a Bronte novel.

“How could she, Gred?” George wailed as she entered the room. “How could our sweet, little Hydra keep this from us?” He flung himself into his twin’s arms, sobbing with abandon.

“I’ve only known for forty-eight hours,” Hydra protested. “And we only need two witnesses.” Tom had sent her a simple note through the box with only a date and location on it. The dramatic prat had chosen Gretna Green because if they were eloping the muggle way, “they were going to do it right.”

“A betrayal, it is, Forge!” Fred replied. “Our own partner in crime turned on us when we least expected it. For a Dark Lord, no less!”

“All hope is lost,” Ginny intoned, wry smile creeping up her face. “The Light’s Savior abandoning us for a pretty smile and a nice arse.” Hydra rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. It was a well-known fact that Hydra Potter was a bisexual disaster that couldn’t resist a nice face and a smug attitude. Before Tom, that is. Now she’s stuck on a particular smug bastard whose face was better suited to classical art than the real world.

“Pretty smile?” “Nice arse?” the twins squawked in unison, turning disbelieving looks on their sister.

“He’s got no nose, Gin,” Fred reminded. “He’s also ancient.”

She shrugged. “I knew him as Tom, and he was plenty attractive.”

“No nose!” George repeated.

“No hair, either.” Neville pointed out just to be shithead if his smirk was anything to go by. Fred gesticulated wildly as though to emphasize the point.

“Can’t forget the scales,” Luna chirped. “Must be awfully hard to properly care for those.”

“He was wearing shoes at Gringotts, though,” Ron added. “So that’s a step up.”

“I’m with the twins,” Hermione jumped in. “No nose trumps all of that. Although, if his glamour was accurate, it was a nice nose before it fell off.” Then, as if they had one hive mind, they turned on Hydra, eyes begging for her opinion.

“The nose is a great loss,” she agreed with a put-upon sigh, eyes sparkling deviously. “I’d have to go with the forked tongue though. Rather shocking when I felt it the first time.”

Her friends stared at her for a beat of silence before exploding in a riot of disbelief and curiosity. Hydra held her stomach, laughing harder than she had since she had dared the twins to go into a muggle sex shop. They’d come out wide-eyed, flushed, and brimming with new ideas. Merlin, the look on Molly’s face when they’d left one of their “experiments” lying about. That also happened to be the year that they had drunkenly decided to send the Dursley’s a last-minute Christmas presents filled with all kinds of…ahem…marital aids. Magically enhanced of course. The purple one sang Marvin Gaye.

“Alright,” Hermione called everyone to order. “We’ve got six hours until we need to be at Gretna Green. What’s the plan of attack?”

“Dress,” Ginny and Luna chimed together.

“Hair and make-up,” George followed with a wink. He was a dab hand at beauty charms because his boyfriend had three demanding little sisters that George loved to spoil. He’d been distraught when he’d been unable to do something elaborate for the masquerade.

“Moral support,” Fred volunteered while Neville nodded in agreement.

“And Mia and I are on bodyguard duty,” Ron finished.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “We’re the witnesses, Ronald. No one’s going to attack Hydra at a muggle government building.”

“You never know,” he shrugged. “I’m still half-way convinced that this has all been an elaborate ruse to get us to drop our guard. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard.”

“We best get started then,” Ginny said. “He’ll definitely double-cross us if we don’t show up on time with his blushing bride.”

“Then I’ll leave you lot to the preparations while I shower,” Hydra replied. “You know where everything is.”

“And will our illustrious host—” Fred started.

“—be providing refreshments?” George continued.

“If you’re willing to brave a fanatic House Elf in his kitchen, be my guest,” she called over her shoulder as she exited the room. Just before the door closed, she heard Luna cry “Montage!” and the first strains of “Under Pressure” by Queen started. Hydra didn’t stop chuckling until she was under the spray of the shower.

By the time she finished washing and shaving the muggle way—because she never got the hang of the hair removal spells that Ginny tried to teach her and there was no way she would ask someone to do it for her—her friends had gathered into her bedroom, their various weapons of choice collected. Ginny, Luna, and, surprisingly, Ron were sorting through a pile of old dresses and robes. Rouhi was wrapped around his favorite ginger’s arm, making his opinion known when an option was unacceptable. Hermione and George were debating how to tackle Hydra’s wild curls that seemed to break or slingshot any attempts to pin them down. Neville was deftly winding a crown of deep purple asters and white heather while Fred rummaged through the boxes of jewelry Walpurga left behind.

For a moment, Hydra just watched her closest friends—and fiercest lieutenants—do everything in their power to make her plans succeed. It was heartwarming that they supported her in this crazy endeavor, despite not knowing anything about the Fates or soulmates or even exactly what Weaving the Ley Lines really entailed. All they knew was that their friend was marrying her parents’ murderer in some kind of political move and they just trusted that it was the right decision. Instead of dragging her off to a Mind Healer, they were arguing over fabric, style, and whether her make-up should be bold or understated. Who needed simpering minions when you had family?

“Figure he’d be offended if I wore all black with a veil?” she joked, drawing attention to herself. Her amazing friends didn’t even grace her with a response, simply dragging her into the room and getting to work.

Tom was uncomfortable. He was in a muggle village, wearing muggle clothes, and patiently waiting outside the little room that housed the famous anvil for Hydra to actually appear—she wasn’t late but Malfoy Manor just became more and more stifling the later the day became, so Tom had come a few hours early. His only consolation was that Lucius and Severus looked just as uncomfortable as he did. Severus, at least, had some experience with the muggle world but Lucius was one sneer away from his face permanently sticking that way. Neither knew the exact reason they were here, but, despite Lucius’ general uselessness and Severus’ questionable loyalty—Merlin, he needed better followers—they were his closest advisors. It was only right that they be privy to their Lord’s machinations. He also wanted to see their Slytherin masks shatter when it was revealed that the Girl-Who-Lived was marrying the Dark Lord.

The ring that he’d found in the Slytherin Heir vault burned a hole in the pocket of his muggle suit. It had taken more time than he’d have liked to find it, but it was worth the wait. The delicate gold wound around an emerald in a halo of snake-shaped filigree while the band shimmered with diamonds. Truly jewelry worthy of Lady Slytherin and Tom couldn’t wait to see it on Hydra’s slim finger. He had also added a few protection charms just to ensure his darling’s safety.

Beyond his search for a suitable ring, he had wanted to wait until he completed the potion to fix his appearance. The scrap of paper that Vivienne had left for him was exactly what he’d been looking for all these years and he was burning to question just how she’d gotten it. Or even how she knew that he needed it. Tom was suspicious to a fault and the Wilde’s just didn’t make any sense to him. Hydra had never once mentioned them in her letters and yet treated them like long time friends. They didn’t seem to have any exemplary power but were powerful enough to the survive a nexus of Ley Lines. Rouhi, who didn’t seem to like anyone beyond Hydra and her ginger friend, followed them about like an overeager puppy. If Tom had to guess, he’d say that Vivienne was a Hufflepuff and Myrddin was a Ravenclaw, but they also maneuvered and held secrets like a Slytherin. They were a puzzle and there was nothing that Tom Riddle liked more than puzzles and challenges.  He was already devising a strategy to get Hydra to invite them to dinner.

The telltale crack of Apparition sounded behind him and when Tom turned to look, he had to hold back a delighted laugh. How his little serpent managed to land in Gryffindor, he’d never know. Every aspect of her appearance was designed to manipulate him in some way and frankly, that only made him want her more. Her hair was its silvery white—shining almost like unicorn hair—rather than glamoured to be her old color, curls tamed into a demure chignon. Delicate flowers were braided into her hair on the crown of her head. Sheer, cream lace hugged her shoulders and arms while the sweetheart neckline accentuated her curves and the skirt flared out at her waist. It ended just below her knees and Tom was forcibly reminded of women’s clothing in the 50s. Oh, and the minx knew exactly what she was doing. From the string of pearls caressing her throat to the tips of her lace kitten heels, she was the image of the pretty, little housewife every young man had dreamed of back then. However, he had never been affected by such trifling dreams.

Still, she was a vision of beauty, and it was adorable to watch her attempt to influence him.

“Very devious, darling,” he commended her, “but a miscalculation. Had you appeared draped in green and silver, you might have gotten the reaction you wanted.”

“I have no idea what you mean, my Lord,” she demurred innocently, but the glint in her eyes and the quirk of her blood red lips ruined the illusion. “It’s only right that a bride wears white to her wedding, after all.”

“And where is your familiar?” Tom asked. “It’s been a whole minute and I haven’t been threatened yet.”

Hydra smirked. “I figured the officiant wouldn’t appreciate a large cobra as best man, so I transformed the attic into a small desert for him to enjoy while he hunts the rabbit that he conned me into conjuring.” Weasley snickered from behind her before Granger whacked him upside the head to quiet him down. Tom’s own entourage was still too shocked to speak and when he glanced back at them, a flare of possessive rage filled him.

Hydra was his. How dare they even look at her with those awestruck expressions. He would ripped their wandering eyes out right after he crucio-ed them to the brink of insanity so that their last coherent thought was of their transgression. Perhaps, he’d do the opposite and take away all their senses. For the rest of their miserable lives, they’d be locked in a prison of their own body and forced to do nothing but ruminate and repent. He would…

All of a sudden, he was flooded with warmth that soothed his ire but also held a sharp edge of reprimand. The bond hummed with calm, safe, too-much-you’re-scaring-them and he realized that his magic was writhing in the air around them. Severus and Lucius were a harsh word away from dropping to their knees while Granger and Weasley looked pale and nauseous. Only Hydra—his treasure, his darling, hishishishis—stood her ground, small hand on his arm and steel in her eyes. He could lock her away too, a princess in a tower. Then no one else would look at her or receive her smiles or touch her. It’d be so easy too. He’d make sure she was happy until her whole world was him and his whims.

But no. Then she wouldn’t be Hydra, who challenged him and sassed him in equal measure, who debated magic theory with him and told him to “piss off” when he attempted to treat her like a child, who sent vindictive House Elves to prank him, who kissed him despite his physical deformities. No, life would be far less interesting if Hydra was just a treasure that he hid away.

He took a deep breath and raised her hand to his lips. “Apologies, Treacle. I let my emotions get the better of me.”

I am yours, Tom Riddle, she assured him. But never forget that you are not the only important person in my life.

Just the most important, he countered.

She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh Tom, you’re going to be a nightmare when I have to give attention to our children.”

“Of course not,” he scoffed, smile tugging at his lips. “What cause would I have to be jealous of my own flesh and blood? Especially when they will be half you, as well.”

“Children?” Lucius squeaked while Severus looked more sallow than normal.

“My Lord,” he started, cautious after Tom had lost control of his magic, “forgive my impertinence, but could you explain what is happening here?” Which in his own way, was the potion master’s approach to saying “what the fuck?”

“We’re getting married,” the little imp by Tom’s side chirped. “Obviously.”

“Yes, but why?” Lucius moaned and it was all to obvious to see why Draco had never outgrown his petulance. It seemed to be a learned trait.

“Because she is the key to secure my place on the Wizengamot,” Tom said, “and my credibility will only benefit if I am engaged to the Girl-Who-Lived. Despite my unfortunate origins.”

“Also, because I owed him a favor,” Hydra shrugged. “Who am I to deny the man who wanted to waste it on being leg-shackled to me?”

“Hardly a waste, darling,” Tom purred, “and I think you’ll find that you might enjoy being shackled.” She spluttered and blushed so brightly red that she almost matched her lipstick. Weasley made a disgusted sound and was, once again, smacked by the chuckling muggleborn. Lucius looked vaguely ill—with a hint of interest in his eyes that made Tom grind his teeth—while Severus had drawn his wand and yanked Hydra from his side. Ah, his true loyalties were finally revealed.

“Did he slip you something?” the traitor demanded, shaking the girl by her shoulders. Tom growled at the harsh treatment of his bride but when he lunged toward them, he was held back by a powerful shield. “You can throw off the Imperius Curse, but he might have used another mind-altering curse.”

“You’re causing a scene,” Hydra snapped, pushing him away from her. “And you blew your cover, you fucking ingrate. Do you know how hard it’s been to keep him from getting suspicious all these years? You just threw it all away over something so insignificant.”

“He’s Charmed you!” Severus roared. “Or dosed you with Amortentia or something equally insidious. How can you say that you’re marrying Lily’s murderer of your own free will?”

“I will swear on my magic that I have not been influenced to be here,” she answered. “So will Ron and Hermione. They witnessed the betrothal contract.”

“Hydra,” Tom hissed, eyes flashing crimson, “let down the barrier and come here.” So I can rip the traitor to shreds, he left unsaid.

“Do you believe me, Severus?” Hydra asked, ignoring him as he slammed on her shield. He sent anger, betrayal, protect-her down the bond in an attempt to make her waver but she didn’t even glance at him. Her friends had retreated slightly, wands out, while Lucius was looking around to make sure no one was watching them. Incompetent, as always.

“Why?” Severus questioned, face tight with anguish. Good, Tom thought with a sneer.

“For the greater good,” Hydra replied with a sad smile. “And because the Fates demand it.” Something rose up underneath the rage at those words, something that caused his chest to ache, but Tom pushed it down. He had no time for such useless emotions.

“Do as I say, Potter,” he ordered, his voice high and chilling as it had been before their peace treaty. “Or you face the consequences of my fury.”

“I can’t let you kill him,” she responded, not taking her eyes off her old professor. “He’s a git but he’s also the best Potion’s Master in Europe. He’s useful, Tom, and he’s saved my life many times.” Her jewel-bright eyes cut to Tom’s, void of their usual fire. “Usually from you.”

“He’s betrayed me!” Tom exploded. “All for some worthless, little mudblood that didn’t even return his affections!”

His head whipped to the side a second before he felt the sting on his cheek. She’d slapped him. The Dark Lord Voldemort had been slapped by a little slip of a girl with glowing avada kedavra eyes and roiling power. As he turned his head back, he saw her wand aimed at his heart, shield forgotten. There was not bond singing between them now, cut off from her end, and he’d never felt so empty. It brought to mind the years he spent as a wraith but somehow leaving the tatters of his soul even more cold. Still, he was entranced by the magic that whipped around him.

“Never speak of my mother like that again, Tom Riddle,” the wrathful creature before him snarled, “or I will forget all our agreements and drag you before Death myself.”

Chapter Text

Hydra had never been so angry. Not when she blew up Aunt Marge, not when she found out about Peter, not even when she’d been filled with Tom’s emotions during fifth year. The only thing that came close was the moment right after Sirius had fallen through the veil and she’d failed to cast the Cruciatus at Bellatrix. She doubted that she’d have trouble casting it now. And wasn’t that just a laugh. Hydra Potter, Savior of the Light, more than capable of casting an Unforgiveable at her soulmate when the evil bastard showed his true colors.

            But really, she should have known better. Tom, nearly whole soul or no, was a sociopath with no regard for anyone but himself. Somehow, she had forgotten that. He was a child who tortured other orphans into insanity without a hint of guilt or remorse. Hydra was powerful magically but even she couldn’t make someone change their fundamental self. Despite being relatively fond of her, Tom would never treat her as an equal. Eternity looked bleak and she wondered why she was even trying.

            Hadn’t she given up enough? It was bad enough that her soulmate was her parents’ murderer, that he had tried to kill her on multiple occasions, but now she was supposed to redeem him? How do you save someone who doesn’t recognize that they’re damaged? She should just finish off his horcruxes and then let him kill her for the offence. Then someone else could play with the Fates and she could finally find peace behind the Veil with her family. Tom, without his whole soul, would languish in Limbo until he gathered enough remorse to sew his soul back together. He would no longer be her problem, so he’d have to figure it out himself.

“I don’t…understand,” Tom said, dazed, as he brought a hand up to his cheek. Hydra felt like screaming. Their audience had backed away ages ago, all of them in various positions to ensure their privacy from the muggles. It was just her and him in an alley behind their wedding venue. Classy.

“I’m furious because you’re a cunt, Tom,” she snapped. “What is there to understand?”

He shook his head, eyes wide and confused. “No, I understand that.”

“Then what?” she demanded.

“Why do I feel guilty?”

“Oh…” she said in surprise, wand dropping slightly. “Oh, Tom.”

“Don’t pity me,” he hissed, drawing himself up like a cornered animal. His accent lost a bit of its posh façade and became colored by his true East London cadence. “I haven’t felt guilt since I was a child, sittin’ in church while a priest talked abaht the devil and pointed at me. Why do I feel guilt when I spoke the truth?” Okay, Hydra was going to have to talk him through this step by step without punching him in the face. Emotionally stunted might have been an understatement. Morgana’s tits, she wasn’t qualified to be the Mind Healer of Lord Voldemort.

“You dislike it when I’m distressed, yes?” she asked him. He gave a jerky nod. “It makes you angry and you want to hurt whoever made me feel that way?” Another nod. “What would you do to make it so that I was never upset again?”

“I’m findin’ there ain’t much I wouldn’t do for yor smile, Treacle.” Why did he have to be so suave while also being such a dick? Merlin, he sounded like a London urchin wooing his lady and it was doing funny things to her heart. He probably had those Pureblood heiresses all atwitter with his deep voice, rough accent, and beautiful face. A new flash of irritation rose. Even when she was pissed at him, the thought of other witches twisted her stomach in knots.

“You made me feel that way, Tom,” she continued, trying to stress his accountability. “The things you say affect me and these beliefs you carry cause me pain. Do you get that?”

“Why?” he demanded, brow furrowing. “Why does it hurt you?”

She sighed. “Would you enjoy it if I brought up your mother and her origin?” She took the flashing of red eyes as a resounding no. “I never knew Lily Potter, but she loved me enough to die rather than let me be hurt. You killed her, Tom. How dare you reduce her to nothing but her blood status when she is the only reason that you’re about to become Lord Slytherin.”

“No, no,” he muttered, hands going to his hair. Hydra distantly noted that it was his actual hair and not a glamour. “Muggleborns are a scourge on our society. They will bring the muggles with them and destroy the Wixen World.”

“The most powerful wixen in Britain are half-bloods,” she countered. “Why would that be true if muggle blood was tainted?”

“I must be right, Hydra,” Tom insisted, eyes filled with frantic light, tugging on his hair. “I must be or it will have all been for nothing. All my accomplishments and goals will be meaningless.” Gently, she gripped his wrists and drew them away from where he was torturing his scalp. With chestnut curls in disarray and tilled-earth irises seeking validation in her expression, Tom had never looked so vulnerable. Another piece of Hydra’s heart broke for the boy who was forced to grow up too fast and yet never grew up at all. Not for the first time, she cursed her compassionate soul for being unable to hate him.

“We will give it a new meaning,” she promises, letting go of his wrists to cradle his face. “Together.” With a choked noise, Tom desperately clutched at her and buried his face in her neck. Merlin, he was touch-starved, wasn’t he? Over his shoulder, Hydra saw Lucius and Snape gaping at the image of their Lord embracing someone. She glared at them until they took the hint and turned away. Hermione and Ron had left a few minutes ago to reassure the officiant who was getting a bit frantic at how late his next appointment was. Tom needed better followers. At least, her friends were useful.

“I’m not going to hug you after every time you piss me off,” she told him eventually. Her hands had been stroking his spine in an unconscious, soothing motion. He made noncommittal humming noise and burrowed a bit deeper. How strange it was to feel his nose nuzzling her skin. “I mean it, Tom. I don’t know what makes a good relationship, but I can bloody well recognize a bad one when I see it. This is a shite start to a marriage.” She slid her hands up his neck until she could lift his head to meet her eyes. “Do you get that?”

“Is it not common for ‘good girls’ to get into relationships with ‘bad boys’ to change them?” he pouted, leaning his forehead on hers. “Do you plan to change me, Treacle?”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s a trashy romance novel stereotype. Besides, who said I was a ‘good girl?’” A smirk rose on his lips. As he opened his mouth to comment, Hydra pinched his side in reprimand, causing him to yelp indignantly. “No, luv, you’re going to have to change yourself. I’ll help keep you on track, but this is your task to puzzle out.”

Now, Tom enjoyed puzzles and mysteries and while he had never felt like the hero of his story as a child, he had dreamed of a quest like the one he’d read of in The Hobbit—he had bought a copy with stolen pennies and kept it safe under his pillow until his Pureblood year mates had thrown it into the lake during his first year. In some ways, Hydra’s demand felt like a quest, and a part of him wanted to embark on it with her. The other part wanted to scoff. Lord Voldemort had no need for silly pursuits and he certainly didn’t need to change. But Tom had felt less and less like the Dark Lord, lately. He was filled with emotions that he thought long dead and impulses that didn’t make any sense to him. Somehow, he was once again Tom, half-blood nobody with a coarse accent and a desperate desire to not be alone.

Merlin, how did people put up with all these feelings all the time? He expressed as much to Hydra who just had the nerve to laugh at him.

“Most people talk about it to get it off their chest.” So putting it into words would make it go away? Alright, he could do that.

“I want nothing more than to rip up the British political structure up by the roots and complete remake it with myself at the head. Something is poisoning Magic and you say it isn’t muggles or muggleborns but I don’t know if I believe you yet. If it isn’t them, what could it be? Magic can’t die, Hydra. I’d rather raze the entire Earth to the ground and start over than be without my magic for even an instant. The thought of being ordinary sickens me, so I’ve done nothing but strive for greatness. I don’t think I’ve succeeded in anything but having people fear me. Fear is useful and makes me feel powerful, I’ve lusted after power my whole life and I became the most prolific Dark Lord of all time. Yet, I’m not satisfied. No one has more power than me. Why isn’t it enough?”

“It all started with you. I was perfectly content with all I had achieved, and I was reaching for even higher feats until you threw me out of your mind at the Ministry. Ever since then, the emotions I had cut from myself decades ago started to surface again. And now, instead of killing you and scattering your ashes to the four winds, I just want to keep you near me. What have you done to me? Your distress fills me with rage, I crave your smile like water, and I feel like there’s no way for me to be too close to you. I want to embrace you and keep you safe and it infuriates me. I want you to be mine totally and completely: your smile, your kisses, your every thought. I want to crack open your chest and crawl inside until nothing can separate us ever again, until no one knows where you end and I begin.”

Hydra pulled back, blinking rapidly. “O-okay. That was…a lot. Do—do you feel any better?”

Did he? Tom was breathing hard, as though he’d just finished practicing a powerful spell. The emotions he’d hope to get rid of were still there—which seemed like false advertising—but his chest did feel lighter. His mind was no longer in turmoil, though he was still a bit frustrated that he had no answers to why he had these feelings. Hydra hadn’t left the circle of his arms to run away from him—he’d catch her, of course, and persuade her into keeping up her end of the bargain—and her verdant eyes weren’t filled with disgust. Still, he felt hollow and chilled far more than the early November air could accomplish. Tentatively, he pushed sorry, please-let-me-in, alone against the block on their link. There was a pause before the door opened and he was flooded with warmth, fondness, don’t-do-it-again-you-git.

“Thank you,” he murmured, shuddering at the sudden influx of heat coursing through him. “I will…attempt to do as you ask, but don’t expect too much from me, darling. I am what I am.”

“Perhaps you are what the world made you,” she replied and then snorted. Somehow, he still found it charming. “Then again, I don’t think anyone taught you how to be creepy, yet sweet. That’s all you. That and your unexpected London accent.” Tom felt the blood rush to the tips of his ears at her teasing which only made her grin grow. It had taken him almost two years to get rid of the Cockney cadence that had outed him as a poor, mudblood orphan. Every now and then, he slipped into bad habits—usually when he was by himself and frustrated.  Still the bond hinted that Hydra wasn’t opposed to the way he spoke. Just the opposite, in fact.

With a grin of his own, he leaned down and ran his nose up her neck until his lips were right by her ear. Lowering the pitch of his voice and allowing some of the rough growl to shine through, he spoke fully in his true dialect for the first time since he was seventeen.

“Ya still wanna be me trouble and strife, ‘drya Potter?” he crooned, conjuring up the charm he hasn’t felt the need to use for years. “I’ll take care of ya, tell ya ‘a bleedin’ pretty ya ‘re. Make ya smile every day.” He paused to press a wet kiss to the spot behind her ear that made her shiver. “Keep ya warm at night. Say ya will, Treacle.”

“I’ve given you a dangerous weapon,” Hydra realized, eyes wide. “You’re going to use it against me whenever you want something.”

“Most definitely,” he agreed, catching her pout between his lips for a too brief second. “Now, ‘re we gettin’ ‘itched or not?”

“That’s not fair,” she whined, fingers tangling in his hair. His own hands were sitting dangerously low on her hips, thumbs stroking at her navel. Merlin, he could almost encircle her entire waist with both his hands.

“I’m the Dark Lord, precious,” Tom chuckled, going back to his normal tone. “I don’t play fair. You should answer quickly before I decide that your pretty throat needs a different kind of necklace.” He nipped playfully at her pulse point to make his meaning known.

“Not necessary,” she squeaked, pushing her way out of his arms. Silly darling. Didn’t she know that tempting a predator into the chase was dangerous? “I’m a witch of my word, so I won’t leave you at the altar. But I swear to Merlin, Tom, that I will divorce you faster than you can say ‘Bat-bogey Hex,’ if you continue to act like a bigoted, possessive wanker.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promised. She didn’t look like she believed him but she still placed her delicate hand in his when he offered it. He tucked it into the crook of his elbow like the gentleman he was pretending to be. As they exited the alleyway, Tom caught sight of the traitor that instigated his vicious words. The same incandescent rage filled him and he ached to pull out his wand, but Hydra dug her nails into his arm the moment he twitched for it.

“You need him, Tom,” she murmured. “And I owe him the courtesy of not letting him be murdered in broad daylight.”

“Betrayal is a greater sin than murder,” he snarled. “He took my Mark, became one of my most trusted. How am I supposed to just let him live after that?”

“Give him to me,” she suggested. “That will get him away from Dumbles and you can still make use of his talent if needed. Call it a wedding present.” The offer was tempting. Tom had no compunctions about killing, but he knew Hydra disapproved. As much as he was loathe to let the traitor escape punishment, he wanted his Lordship and the political power it brought more. Not to mention the lovely wife and all the benefits marriage came with. Then, of course, there was the added bonus of taking an asset away from Dumbledore.

“Very well,” Tom conceded. “You may have my Potion’s Master so long as he stays out of my sight. He will not be welcome at our home and if I so much as hear a rumor of him speaking to the old coot, his life is forfeit.”

“Whatever shall the students of Hogwarts do without his sparkling personality?” Hydra asked dryly and he couldn’t hold back a snort of amusement. How many times had he read her complaints about the “absolute shite” method of teaching Snape subscribed to?

“My Lord,” said turncoat greeted warily as they approached. Lucius looked like he wished to be anywhere else while Weasley and Granger were watching the drama unfold like they were in the cinema. All that was missing was the popcorn.

Tom sneered at the title. “I am no longer your Lord, Severus. Apparently, I haven’t been for quite some time. You should get on your knees and grovel before my bride; she is the only reason you still live.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” he bowed his head and turned his beady eyes to Hydra, “and you, Miss Potter.” He spit her name out like it tasted foul and it was only Hydra sending careful, restraint, muggles-about down the link that kept him from crucio-ing Snape then and there.

“You will keep a civil tongue in your head or I will rip it out,” Tom threatened, hissing words almost slipping into parseltongue. “She is your new Master and you will address her with the deference she is due. Refer to her by her full title or Lady Hydra if you can’t remember just how many ways she is superior to you.”

“My apologies, Lady Hydra,” Snape said through clenched teeth. “It will not happen again.”

“Don’t worry, Severus,” Hydra smirked. “You’ll find that I’ll ask much less of you than either of your previous masters. While you won’t be teaching at Hogwarts anymore, I can’t promise you’ll have less things thrown in your cauldrons. You’ll be working closely with the Weasley twins, after all.”

The horrified look on his face was almost enough to make Tom pity him. Almost.

Chapter Text

It was the oddest wedding Tom had ever been to. Granted he hadn’t been to many—He was the Dark Lord in the middle of a hostile takeover. His followers’ weddings weren’t a high priority even when he was fresh out of school—but he assumed that most didn’t have a Confunded officiant, two Purebloods gawking at the boiler in the corner, and a bushy-haired girl having a heated debate with a man twice her age about the superiority of Kant over Neitzsche. All the while, Hydra hid a smirk behind her hand—the one not fastened to his with a silver ribbon—when Tom’s eye began to twitch.

            “How do you expect to witness this marriage,” he hissed, eyes flashing red, “if you don’t shut up long enough for us to make our vows?” Lucius snapped his mouth shut and his perfect Pureblood mien slid back into place, while Weasley reluctantly drew away from where the boiler was exuding heat. Snape and Granger fell silent as well with glares and muttered insults. Tom’s eyebrows shot up at some of the phrases the goody-two-shoes spat at the Potions’ Master. He recalled Hydra using those same curses at one point or other. His witch was a bad influence, it seemed, and his chest welled up with pride.

            “Get on with it then,” Hydra teased, jostling their bound hands, “before I decide the married life isn’t for me.”

            “Not on your life, little serpent,” he countered without hesitation. “I, Thomas Riddle, do hereby take Hydrangea Potter to be my lawfully wedded wife. I vow to be by her side in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy. Her burdens shall be mine and I do thereto pledge my troth.” He nodded at Lucius, who produced the ring from his breast pocket and placed it in Tom’s unbound hand. The gold seemed to both blend with and stand out against her skin, but the emeralds glinted at him, almost as bright as her eyes. Hydra laughed when she noticed the snakes, shooting him a fond glare. As she continued with her section, her thumb absently stroked the band as though she couldn’t quite believe it was there.

            “I, Hydrangea Potter,” she wrinkled her nose at her full name, “do hereby take Thomas Riddle to be my lawfully wedded husband. I vow to annoy him with random questions until he kicks me out of his library.” Tom couldn’t hold back a snort. Merlin, this girl. “Saturdays will be pastries for breakfast while Sundays will be a Full English. I vow to always handle our Gringotts business because the Goblins like me more than him and won’t cheat me out of our money. Oh, and I vow to never make him tea from my poison garden, even though not all of them cause horrible, swift death.”

            “Just my tea?” Tom asked wryly while Lucius spluttered beside him.

            Hydra shrugged with a wicked smile tugging at her lips. “I try not to limit my creativity.”

            “Oh yes. Merlin forbid we stifle you,” he grumbled sarcastically, shaking his head. But his own lips were twitching.

            “His burdens—past, present, and future—will be mine and I do thereto pledge my troth,” she finished.

            “I now pronounce you man and wife,” the officiant—who Tom had honestly forgotten about—intoned. “You may kiss the bride.”

            Tom didn’t need to be told twice. What was the term Hydra had used? Touch-starved?  He’d never really thought of it before, but he supposed that he was. The itch in his bones whenever Hydra was close, but not quite touching him certainly reminded him of when his aching stomach forced him dig through the rubble of the market for anything even resembling food. While his stomach could only last a week at most before he stooped to moldy bread and rancid grain, his skin had gone decades without another human’s touch. It had probably been over forty years since his last…dalliance and that had been little more than a fumble in the dark after a revel, too drunk on Dark magic and firewhiskey to properly take their trousers off. Hepzibah had cooed and patted his cheek, if he remembered correctly. After that, well, the darkest of magicks always had a cost and the third horcrux had taken what little sex-drive he had possessed.

            Now, with his witch—his wife—in his arms, he felt as though he couldn’t get close enough. He clutched at her waist, plastering her every line against his. She was shaking laughter, the little minx, as he tried very hard not to let his hands wander in front of company. It seemed that all she did was laugh at him and he should find it insolent, punishable by at least torture. Instead, he was desperate to taste her happiness, to chase it with his tongue and teeth. Maybe if he found the source of it, he could replicate it and keep her tethered to his side. Maybe he could infect her with the same ravenous hunger that clawed at his chest. Why clip her wings when he could make her crave the cage?

            A discrete cough—probably Granger, the killjoy—cut through his spiraling thoughts and he pulled himself back from Hydra’s lips. As Tom looked around at their audience, he was pleased that he got exactly what he wanted: the complete lack of poise from everyone in the room.  Lucius was red-face and gaping at his Lord as though he had been convinced Tom was a block of ice carved into the shape of a man. Snape and Weasley had almost matching looks of disgust bordering on nausea that only increased when they looked at each other and realized they had something in common. Granger was smirking at Hydra, not quite brave enough to give him such a look, but her face was flushed in the way of a girl who had never been on the receiving end of such an embrace. His little wife, however, was struggling to keep her composure.

            She looked breathtaking with kiss-swollen lips, a golden glow to her cheeks, and viridian eyes sparkling with mirth. He was never one to resist temptation, so he ducked back down to worship her smile with his lips. Hydra, his vicious little serpent, sunk her teeth into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and then soothed the sting with her tongue. However, the bliss didn’t last long. Lucius, with a scandalized “My Lord!” was the last straw for Hydra and she burst into peals of laughter. Her enjoyment of the moment was the only reason Lucius found himself relatively sane and untortured.

            “Oh, I almost wish Moony could have been here!” she exclaimed, gasping for breath. “He’d appreciate the humor in this, if it wasn’t his cub being molested by the big, bad Dark Lord.” As she lost herself in her amusement, Tom gently untwined the ribbon from around their hands. Once they were free, he surreptitiously slipped the silvery material into his pocket. Hydra was sentimental enough to want to keep it, surely. He was only holding onto it so it wouldn’t be lost. However, he didn’t release her hand, thumb stroking her skin. Tom’s brow furrowed at the rough texture, so different from the rest of her skin. As he looked down, he noticed the shimmering glamour over the top of her hand. What was she hiding?

            “You should have invited him,” Snape sneered, breaking Tom from his thoughts. “A satisfactory end to the beast, running his mouth at the Dark Lord.” Granger and Weasley growled, looking ready to charge the man, and Tom had a hex already on his lips when Hydra snuggled into his chest, newly free arms wrapping around his waist.

            “I know you gave him to me as a wedding present,” she told him, looking up through lowered lashes, “but I’d be happy to share. I only need his hands and mind functional, so anything else is fair game.”

            “Oh darling,” Tom purred, cruel smile growing at the way Snape paled. “You spoil me.”

            “Just remember than a Potions Master isn’t a toy that can be replaced if you break it,” she said. “I’ll be cross if I have to hunt down another one.”

            “I will break nothing that can’t be fixed,” he promised, pressing a kiss into her hairline. “Eventually.”

            “What happened to you?” Snaped hissed, looking at Hydra in horror. “You were our only hope, you idiot girl!”

            “I grew up, Severus,” she replied as she turned her gaze on him, shards of glass cutting through him. “I stopped letting two power-hungry men manipulate my entire life and effectively ended the war almost three years ago. When was the last time a battle was fought outside the Wizengamot? That wasn’t initiated by Dumbledore, that is. By putting myself and my loved ones before a stupid war that I didn’t even want to fight in, I ended it with much less bloodshed than the old man’s ‘Greater Good’ would have wrought.”

            “Lily…” Snape started, protests growing weaker.

            “My mother didn’t die to allow me to fulfill some inane prophecy, you twat!” Hydra yelled. “She died so that I could live in a better world than the one she left.”

            “He killed her!” he screamed, pointing at Tom who was towering over his wife’s small form. He barely held back a flinch as the accusation as thrown at him. He did kill Lily Potter over a half-heard, self-fulfilling prophecy. He had killed many more with even less provocation. When Tom dreamed of his rule, it never involved quite so much death. Some was to be expected when planning a coup de tat but he had spilled more than necessary. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret a single drop, not even his darling’s parents. Every moment had led to this one, with Hydra, safe and secure, in his clutches.

            “Leave, Severus,” she ordered coldly. “Inform Dumbledore that you are taking an indefinite leave of absence due to being placed on my neutrality list. Do not speak of anything you saw here today or your freedom is forfeit.”

            “Not my life then,” he taunted. Tom could tell, however, that he was clinging to his disdain by its unravelling threads. Snape hated Hydra for daring to be the spawn of James Potter, but in these moments where she was all fire and cutting words and implacable compassion, she is her mother’s daughter.

            “The peace of Death should be reserved for victims and the innocent,” she sighed. “You are neither. Now go.” Without another word, the man turned on his heel and apparated with a sharp crack.

            “What now, Treacle?” Tom murmured, still fixated on that uneven texture on her skin.

            “Now we obliviate the poor muggle we dragged into this and go get smashed.”

            Perhaps, she made a miscalculation. She had dragged Tom with her to the Leaky Cauldron where her friends—and a blackmailed Rita Skeeter—were waiting for them. Predictably the snob had complained about the dingy pub but Hydra reminded him that they were playing the part of two young people celebrating their engagement. They were there to drink shite alcohol until they couldn’t walk straight and pretend to be infatuated with each other. Tom, of course, took that to mean public displays of affection that caused all of her friends except Luna extreme discomfort. Ginny especially looked a little pale at his newly restored appearance—Hydra had to remember to ask how he managed that—but then the twins turned it into a drinking game. Take a shot whenever the Dark Lord touched the Girl-who-Lived unnecessarily. Take two if he pulls her onto his lap. Down a bottle if he shoves his tongue down her throat. By the end of the night, everyone but Hydra and Luna were blackout drunk. Even Tom who literally would rather crucio himself than lose at anything. If only he had noticed Fred slipping shots into his beer for every drink he pretended to swallow, then wandlessly and wordlessly vanished.

            Neville—fucking Neville—had drawn Tom into a drunken debate over the benefits of Devil’s Snare versus Venomous Tentacula when it came to defense. It had then spiraled into all the dangerous plants that shouldn’t be illegal to grow just because they were used to summon demons one time. Of course, Tom couldn’t help but mention that you didn’t even need said plant to summon demons. All it took was the blood of virgins or something equally disturbing. Which then triggered Hermione’s need to know everything about everything and the two nerds exchanged facts like they were candy until Hydra decided it was time to go. She loved Quidditch but she could only defend the Chudley Canons against Ginny’s tirade about the Hollyhead Harpies for so long. Especially when her backup, Ron, was busy flirting with a giggling blonde at the next table.

            All in all, it was a fun night that no one would remember in the morning. Leaving Luna to drag the Weasleys to Grimmauld, Hydra pulled Hermione to her feet and called for Kreacher who grumbled about being a babysitter before apparating with the unsteady bookworm. She then coaxed Tom up, leading him out into the cool London air. Hydra was feeling pleasantly buzzed but her magic burned through alcohol like petrol so it wouldn’t last long.

            “Where to, luv?” she asked as he swayed on his feet. “Our new house or Malfoy Manor.”

            His nose scrunched up adorably. “F’ckin’ peacocks! Useless!”

            “Very true,” Hydra said seriously, suppressing a smile. “But I need to know where you want to sleep, Tom.”

            “Wherever ya ‘re, Treacle,” he answered, slurring out in his hidden accent. “Married na, ain’t we? Meant ter be sleepin’ side by side.” He then wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her into his chest and nuzzling her hair line.

            “You’re going to be embarrassed in the morning,” she told him, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “If you remember, that is. Now, where are we going?”

            “Closest,” Tom requested, and Hydra had to stop his wandering hands before they got too indecent for public. He lowered her head to whisper in her ear. “Want ya in me bed, underneaf me, quick loike.”

            “Grimmauld it is then,” she said, flustered, and began to pull him toward an alley, so they could apparate without being seen. “Everyone else is there too, so that will at least deter you.”

            “Don’t count on it, darling,” he grinned at her, eyes flashing red in the streetlamp light. His voice was a bit crisper but she could still see the drunken haze in his movements as he plastered himself to her back. “But I promise to behave. For now.”

            Hydra shivered at the cold night air that seemed more prominent with his scorching heat at her back, trying to focus on apparating. The git didn’t make it easy, trailing wet kiss up her neck and along her jaw, but eventually she managed to get them to the front step of the townhouse. She was a bit worried about being vomited on. Side-along was hard enough sober but Tom only groaned into her hair as he clutched at her for balance.

            “Come on, luv,” she whispered, leading him into the house once he caught his breath. “Let’s get you to bed.” The stairs were a bit tricky to navigate when all he wanted to do was press her against the nearest wall and kiss her breathless. But she finally got him into the guest room furthest from the others. It was also the closest to her room. By the time she managed to wrestle Tom out of his shoes and take off his belt—and he was too drunk to do much but waggle his eyebrows at her when she did—he was mumbling something about smiles and the music. With a final kiss to his forehead, Hydra made to leave for her room but his hand shot out to grasp hers.

            “Stay,” he demanded, but it sounded like a plea. “Stay with me, Hydra.”

            “Tom,” she sighed but knew she was going to give in. “Just to sleep and if I feel your hands wandering, I’ll hex your bollocks off.” With a wave of her hand, she transfigured her outfit into loose sleep pants and a vest. Tom was sitting up in bed, blatantly staring at her.

            “So powerful,” he crooned in awe. “My precious wife. All mine.”

            Hydra rolled her eyes. “Sure, you possessive weirdo. Now budge over so we can sleep. I’m knackered.” He did so without complaint but she had barely laid down before he was spooned behind her. She felt a bit like a child’s plush toy meant to keep the nightmares at bay. Her hair, free of pins, was a wild mane that stank like the pub but he buried his face in it all the same. With the heat behind her and the days event catching up to her, Hydra slipped into sleep quickly. Just before she succumbed, he murmured into the top of her spine.

            “Thank you, Treacle.”

Chapter Text

Hydra woke overly warm with Tom draped over her whole body, curls in disarray and snoring softly into her neck. She had the bite her lip to stop the giggles from breaking free at the ridiculous situation. The symbol of the Light fell into bed with the Dark Lord after a drunken night out. Hydra could see the headlines now and the looks of horror on everyone’s face. It was going to be bad enough when Dumbledore and McGonagall recognized Tom’s face in the engagement announcement. She couldn’t hold back a snort at the thought. Merlin, she almost wished she could be at Hogwarts to see the reactions.

            This is no laughing matter, Weaver! a very angry Rouhi hissed from somewhere above her.  He’s crushing you!

            Where are you, dearest? she asked, trying to find the albino scales in the green bedding. Then his head popped up from the nest of Tom’s hair and Hydra noticed the rest of him was hidden beneath Tom’s nightshirt. There was a beat before she began to shake with silent laughter.

            He’s warm, Rouhi defended as Hydra struggled for air, and he wouldn’t get out of the way so I couldn’t sleep on your chest like normal.

            She’s my wife, Tom slurred, nuzzling his face into her cheek, and I don’t share, so I’m the only one who gets to sleep with her.

            She’s my Speaker, Rouhi countered, slipping out of Tom’s shirt and onto the bed, and I was here first. Stop attacking her! The wolf, his mate, and the squalling thing are waiting in the kitchen.

            “Remus is here?” Hydra gasped through her laughter. “Oh dear. He must have seen the Prophet.”

            “Prophet?” Tom asked, lifting his head, and almost setting Hydra off again. God’s teeth, he was cute. His brown eyes were hazy with sleep and his obvious hangover while his usually perfect hair was sticking in all directions, frizzy and fluffy. She wanted to run her hands through it, mess it up even more, but she doubted he’d let her up if she reciprocated his touches.

            “Our engagement party is probably on the front page,” she explained, pushing at his shoulder as she sat up. He flopped to the side with a groan and threw his arm over his eyes. “We have a journalist…on retainer, shall we say. I might have let slip that the reason I was back was to be closer to my secret beau. What she did from there was out of my hands.”

            “Is that all I am to you, darling?” Tom pouted from the bed—that Hydra only saw because she finally found her glasses. “A publicity stunt?”

            “Of course not,” Hydra assured him with a cheeky smile. She summoned a dressing gown from down the hall and wrapped it around herself. No need to get dressed up for family. “Rouhi gets bored when he doesn’t have an enemy to protect me from and you’re the only one who can actually understand his threats.” Said snake hissed in smug agreement and slid into the pocket of her dressing gown that had been reinforced just for this purpose.

            “Brat,” he growled, lips twitching up. “I’m your past, present, and future. Admit nothing has ever been as important as me.” Though he seemed to be teasing, the glint in his eyes clued Hydra in that he was more than half serious. Even the repetition of the words that the Diary had used when revealing he was Voldemort was another puzzle piece that made up the picture of “Tom Riddle: Narcissist.” Still, Hydra wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing.

            “Make me,” she taunted and pecked his cheek before dancing away from his grabbing hands. Rouhi didn’t hesitate to start berating her from her pocket while Tom’s eyes flashed crimson as a hungry smile broke across his face. She cackled as he immediately rolled out of bed and attempted to advance on her with his usual panther like grace. Instead, his foot got a bit tangled in the sheets causing him to stumble and giving her a head start. As she exited the room, she could hear his pursuit and knew that she had to keep moving if she wanted to escape. Then a shrill voice rang out that stopped her in her tracks.

            “Hydrangea,” Walburga shouted as Hydra skidded to a halt on the landing where the portrait rested. “What are you doing running about in your nightclothes!? That is not how a Lady behaves. You are the Head of many venerable Houses and must act as such.”

            “It’s my own house, jida,” Hydra replied wryly but she did wrap her dressing gown tighter around her. Rouhi groused a bit as he was jostled by the movement.

            “Filled with guests!” the portrait exclaimed. “Not to mention that you returned quite late last night with a drunken man in your arms. It could be dangerous for such a man to see you in that scandalous get up.”

            “Very true, ‘Burga,” Tom said as his arms wound around Hydra’s waist from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. Walburga gaped as he leered at the painted woman and pressed further against Hydra. Rouhi shouted obscenities as he was jostled in her pocket. “She’s positively delectable, isn’t she? Gives me a mind to eat her up. Although, I do protest being termed ‘such a man.’” Hydra rolled her eyes at the man’s dramatics. She yelped as his teeth sink into her earlobe and whacked his arms in reprimand. The berk just chuckled.

            “Tom Riddle,” the painting sniffed after gaining her composure. “I see you’re just as much of a lowborn cretin as ever.”

            “And you’re still the same prissy, uptight banshee I remember from school,” he countered. “The entire dorm got pissed with Orion when Cedrella ran off with Weasley and left you as the only cousin eligible for marriage. I think Nott offered to obliviate him after the wedding night.”

            “Considering you’re clinging to Hydrangea like a lamprey, I don’t think you have a leg to stand on,” Walburga sneered. “The girl is young enough to be your granddaughter!”

            “And yet I am somehow the more mature of the two of us,” Hydra snarked, hoping to stave off Tom’s anger. “It’s okay, jida. My virtue is perfectly safe.”

            “I wouldn’t say ‘perfectly,’” Tom mumbled.

            Hydra turned to glare at him. “Not helpful.” Facing Walburga again, she continued. “Didn’t Kreacher tell you that I was entering into a contract marriage that had to be finalized in the Muggle World first? That’s why the poor thing was locked in the kitchen yesterday.”

            “He mentioned it,” Walburga admitted grudgingly. “I had hoped you were marrying a Pureblood heir to further the Black legacy. A half-blood with no name and nothing to show for his long, long life—really, dear, you couldn’t choose someone younger? I’d settle for even the Longbottom boy or Narcissa’s brat—wasn’t what I had imagined.”

            “Me either,” Hydra agreed, “but it is what it is. If it brings you any comfort, he’s about to be Lord Slytherin thanks to this agreement.”

            Walburga glared at Tom as the smug radiated off of him. “Mine,” he purred and pressed his lips to the Hydra’s pulse point. Walburga’s painted mouth tightened even further as she fought the urge to shriek at the impropriety of it all. Hydra got the feeling that if it had been anyone but Tom Riddle, the painting might have already been screaming.

            “Luckily, you won’t have to put up with him much,” Hydra cut in, pushing Tom away with a glare. “We’ll only be staying in London when the Wizengamot is in session.”

            Walburga sniffed haughtily. “A daughter of the Ancient House of Black deserves more than an uncouth urchin even if he’s the Heir of Slytherin.”

            “Yes well, he didn’t have a jida to whip him into shape,” Hydra joked. “He had to settle for the likes of his dormmates and follow their example. A pity, truly.”

            “Lord Slytherin,” Tom grumbled under his breath, glaring at the painting. “Didn’t you say your werewolf is waiting for us, wife?”

            “And getting impatient, cub,” Remus called from the base of the stairs, looking unimpressed. Tonks stood behind him, babbling at the baby in her arms and changing her features to make the little boy laugh.

            “We’ll speak later, jida,” Hydra promised and flew down the stairs into her Uncle Moony’s arms. “Hi, Moony! Have I told you that I love you lately?”

            “Nice try, Hydra,” Remus said wryly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Want to explain why Rita Skeeter has a picture of you in your new fiancé’s lap on the front page of the Prophet?”

            “I got engaged and we went to celebrate,” Hydra replied blandly, hoping the werewolf wouldn’t smell the half-truth. It had been much easier to lie to him when Sirius distracted him for her. “It’s hardly my fault Skeeter chose one of the risqué photos.” She gestured behind her where the bond sang with reluctant amusement and mischief. “Remus, this is Tom; Tom, this is Remus.”

            “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Tom greeted with a disarming grin and wrapped an arm around Hydra’s waist. “My fiancé has told me so much about you.” Said fiancé rolled her eyes at his possessive antics. Remus just raised an incredulous eyebrow while Tonks snorted behind him. Baby Teddy just gurgled at his godmother with a gummy smile, hair turning the color of Hydra’s silvery locks.

            “She’s told me absolutely nothing about you,” Remus told him, eyes flashing a bit gold while the hint of a growl entered his tone. Tom stood his ground, pressing even closer to Hydra’s side. She resisted the sigh that was building in her chest. It hadn’t been in her plans to tell Remus who Tom was but if they kept up this posturing, it was going to turn into a full battle between the Dark Lord and an Alpha werewolf.

            “I’m Tonks, by the way,” the metamorphmagus spoke up with a smirk. “Believe it or not, I also married into this crazy family. Think of me as the fun aunt.”

            “Excuse you!” Hydra exclaimed. “You asked for this when you seduced Moony with my double fudge biscuits. Besides, you’re more of a Black than I am.”

            “Officially disowned, cousin!” Tonks rejoined brightly. “And you were Blood Adopted by the main branch. Can’t be more family than that.”

            Hydra huffed, pouting. “Just give me my godson before I reinstate you and make him my heir.” She pushed out of Tom’s arms and made gimme motions toward the giggling infant.

            “We are proud Lupins and Tonkses, thank you very much,” Tonks said and plopped her son into Hydra’s arms. “It’s my goal that the Black family never has another metamorphmagus.”

            “You’re so petty for a ‘Puff,” Hydra rolled her eyes and cooed at Teddy. “Is your mummy vindictive, Teds? Yes, she is!” She turned back to the men that were still in a Mexican Standoff at the base of the stairs. “Let’s talk over the breakfast that Kreacher slaved away making. My entryway is no place for this.”

            “Of course, cub,” Remus agreed, seemingly yielding. “Just one more thing.”

            Then Remus Lupin punched Lord Voldemort in the jaw.

            “Moony, what the fuck!?” Hydra hissed, gently passing Teddy to his mother and rushing to Tom’s side where he was collapsed against the stairs. Tonks was struggling to stifle her laughter while Walburga was openly cackling from her frame.

            “That was for James and Lily,” the werewolf growled. “If you do anything to Hydra, I’ll tear you to pieces.”

            “I’m not entirely sure why you are under the impression that I had anything to do with the Potters’ death,” Tom replied, rubbing his jaw as Hydra helped him sit up, “but I assure you, Hydra is completely safe with me.”

            “As the only werewolf within the Order, I was often sent to track your whereabouts,” Remus said, eyes burning gold. “I know your scent very well and I’ve seen your glamoured façade while you were seeking alliances with Geoffrey’s pack.”

            “No need for pretense then.” Tom straightened and his eyes flashed red. The bond sang with the urge to rip-tear-make-him-submit. Hydra tried to send back something soothing but she was just as riled up. She brushed the back of her fingers over his skin, healing magic trailing behind her touch. As she drew back, he ghosted his lips on the inside of her wrist in thanks.

            Rounding on Remus, hands on her hips, Hydra laid into him. “What were you thinking!? You knew who he was and you still decided to hit him? Sirius and my dad never got the chance to grow out of their recklessness but you should know better!”

            The damned man just bloody shrugged! “I knew you wouldn’t let him hurt me.”

            Hydra pinched the bridge of her nose. “How am I the only mature adult in this entire country? Just…” she waved her hand at the little family “…go sit down at the table. I’ll explain over breakfast. The others will be down shortly.”

            I approve of the werewolf now, Speaker, Rouhi chortled from her pocket, poking his head up.

            Does no one in this house respect that I am the most powerful Dark Lord to ever live? Tom grumbled, glaring at the cobra. Rouhi, as much as possible, stuck his tongue out at the Dark Lord. Behind the anger and frustration Tom was radiating, Hydra sensed a deeply suppressed feeling of bitterness that seemed to come from the lack of acceptance. She was all too familiar with that feeling.

            That’s enough, Rouhi, she chastised, eyes never leaving Tom’s. He is my mate in life, magic, and fate. He should be treated as an extension of myself and vice versa.

            He is not worthy of my Speaker, let alone a Weaver! Rouhi insisted viciously. Almost imperceptibly, Tom flinched at the accusation before his hurt was covered completely by rage. In moments like this, where Tom was overshadowed by Voldemort, Hydra couldn’t afford to flinch back from his anger. Though her instincts advised her of the danger, she stepped close enough to feel his breath in her hair and took his clenched fist in between her hands. Slowly, she coaxed the tension from his fingers and brought his open palm to her cheek.

            “We are both works-in-progress,” she conceded, resting her face in his hand. “But he is as worthy as I say he is.” Rouhi hissed wordlessly and retreated into his pocket to give them the illusion of privacy.

            “You are…choosing me?” he asked hesitatingly, thumb stroking the delicate skin beneath her eye almost subconsciously.

            “So dramatic,” she teased with a grin. “No one is making me choose but on the off chance someone did? Of course, I’d choose you. You’re my husband.”

            “My wife,” he murmured. “My vanquisher, my ally, my equal. Mine.”

            She nodded. “As you are mine. You come with an army of Pureblood supremacists, I come with a gaggle of overprotective menaces with a distaste for authority. We will both have to adapt.”

            “So we shall,” he sighed, pressing a kiss to her scar. “Well then, Treacle, introduce me to the concept of a family meal.”

            After a boisterous meal filled with hungover young adults and an angry werewolf, Tom bid goodbye to Hydra’s friends. With a final kiss to his wife—to the consternation of almost everyone at the table—he had apparated to Malfoy Manor for a meeting of his Death Eaters. Once, the ostentatious mansion and grounds had pleased him—except for the peacocks. It was truly a place worthy of Lord Voldemort and he owned it as surely as he owned Lucius Malfoy. Now, the ornate marble and gold felt cold and aloof, much like the Malfoy’s themselves. Had one breakfast filled warmth and laughter and teasing affection been enough to infect him with the silly sentimentality he so despised? Acceptance was heady drug and his little wife handed it out like candy.

As Tom—glamoured in his inhuman form—stood over his followers who cowered at his feet and simpered to his ever whim, he still reveled in the power, the fearful reverence, and he knew he could be satisfied with the entire world looking at him like this. He was much changed—even he could admit that—but the fundamentals of his person were fixed. Lord Voldemort and Tom Riddle were two sides of the same coin, both obsessed with power and crushing his enemies with his superior magic. It was a hollow and chilled kind of adoration, but it was enough for his inferiors to be beneath him where they belonged.

But Tom had never been satisfied with “good enough.”

He wanted the level of devotion that Hydra had. Her friends formed a wall of protection around her as though she couldn’t destroy a city block with a flick of her wand. They piled extra food on her plate when she wasn’t looking and made sure she ate enough. Even the gremlin she called a House Elf threatened to poison Tom’s food if he hurt “Mistress Hydra.” Tom had never had anyone care whether he lived or died, except for himself. Yet this girl who he once thought of as weak had throngs of people that sought her happiness above their own. The foolish little creature didn’t even notice the power she held over them. Tom was convinced that all of her followers would give away everything they owned just to see Hydra smile.

Likewise, she gave just as freely. In fact, she seemed to think that her contributions were less valuable than everyone else’s. She clucked at the red-heads as they tromped down the stairs and scolded the Longbottom heir for denying the others use of the hangover potion. The little dreamy blonde was fussed over when she arrived at the table slipperless and shivering in the cold November morning. Hydra had made almost all of them tea individually by hand. Tom had been shocked that his own cup had been made perfectly and to his delight, the first the be handed out. His little darling seemed to show affection by being a mother hen.

It filled him with a desire that he hadn’t felt since the Orphanage. What would it be like to be lov—cared for? Someone who worried about his health. Someone who lit up just at the sight of him. Someone who knew how he preferred his tea after only one breakfast. Someone who threw themselves in front of Killing Curses to protect him.  

Such things were for weak minded fools but Tom couldn’t get it out of his head. Hydra had truly corrupted him with a terminal kind of feebleness and Tom felt slightly grateful for it. Power was only as good as it was useful. So far, his power had been of no use to anyone. Perhaps, he thought as he made plans for his first Wizengamot appearance, it was time for a change.

Perhaps it was time to let Lord Voldemort die.

Chapter Text

Cohabitating with his wife was nothing like Tom expected. He had vivid memories of the men around London complaining about their “naggin’, old lydy” ruining their fun. Even his married followers were more prone avoiding each other unless they had to appear together in public. Tom was cautiously optimistic that he and Hydra would continue where their letters had left off. He wasn’t about to tiptoe about his own home—his first true home after Hogwarts—but neither did he want to spend his days bickering about inane trivialities when he had an internal coup to organize!

Hydra, however, was exceptionally easy to live with. Her three elves—who all worshipped the ground she walked on and glared at him so often that he started checking his every cup of tea—made quick work of moving their meagre, combined possessions. (Tom made a mental note to take the both of them shopping for clothing befitting their station.) Rouhi and Nagini got on like they were nestmates and they often curled up together in front of the fire in the library while their masters read. Not wanting a repeat of that morning in Grimmauld Place, Tom created a room just for the two snakes where they could rest and chase each other until the weather warmed up outside.

The first few nights at the cottage, they had slept separately in their individual rooms. It was completely reasonable and Tom found he had no complaints…beyond that he always woke up cold, clutching a pillow to his chest, in the middle of the night. It would take him hours to get back to sleep and on the other end of the bond, he sensed the same frustration. Finally, on the fourth day, Hydra had had enough and stormed into his room with true Gryffindor daring. Tom couldn’t look away at the vision she made. Riotous curls tumbled down her back like a lion’s mane, emerald eyes flashing. She was wearing an oversized Quidditch shirt that hung down to her knees, fluffy socks that didn’t match, and a quilt around her shoulders like a cape.

“Trouble sleeping, Treacle?” he had asked to disguise his racing heart and dry mouth. His little darling just grumbled under her breath about “meddling old women” and “bloody nightmares” before crawling into his bed without so much as a pause. She curled around herself, wrapping herself in the quilt so that only her eyes and nose were visible.

“Cuddle me,” she demanded, glaring at him as though it was his fault.

“I suppose I must if my wife demands it,” Tom had sighed dramatically. “However, all I see is a lump of blankets hissing at me like a kitten.” She had freed her hand enough to send him an impolite hand gesture. He had chuckled and caught her wrist to press a kiss to her palm. “At least get under the covers with me, darling, and discard your socks. No socks in bed.”

“What kind of rule is that?” she had pouted as she squirmed out of her blanket cocoon.

Tom had shaken his head sadly. “And they call me a monster. I’m afraid it’s me or the socks, Mrs. Riddle.”

He had promptly gotten a sock thrown at his face.

From then on, they shared the Master Suite with very few complications—mostly an embarrassing morning routine of cold showers and a petulant albino cobra. They moved around each other as though had lived together for years rather than weeks. Hydra would ensure there was always fresh tea at his elbow whenever he was lost in his paperwork—which was often the last few days before the Wizengamot session—and would greet him with a peck on the cheek when he surfaced for meals. Tom, in turn, dragged her inside whenever she had spent too much time elbow deep the wards surrounding their home and ate whatever she put in front of him even when it looked rather dubious. It was always delicious but some of her Egyptian recipes had a bit more color and spice than his poor English palate could take. (Don’t even get him started on her baking.)

Their little cottage was constantly filled with music; either the Song of Magic that Hydra would hum whenever she was lost in her thoughts or an eclectic variety of muggle music blasted on a Rune powered stereo. Tom learned very quickly to read her moods by what genre greeted him when he entered the house—he stayed far away from the kitchen when Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov were playing—while Hydra knew not to bother him whenever the door of his library was closed. Most nights were spent together, curled up on a couch and talking about whatever was on their mind that day. There wasn’t a single topic they avoided and though their arguments grew heated, the anger never seemed to last. All in all, it was a tender kind of intimacy that didn’t require—or even elicit—anything beyond sharing space and Tom had never experienced anything like it before.

 That wasn’t to say that they didn’t get a little carried away when kissing each other goodnight, or good morning, or when the little minx had thrown a snowball at him before running away with a delighted shriek. He had caught her easily and tackled her to the ground, using his height and weight to pin her there. By the time they got back inside, their faces were red from more than the cold.

After a few weeks of domestic bliss, it was December and time to return to London for the last Wizengamot session before the New Year. Both Hydra and Tom would be introduced, received, and therefore, able to claim their seats. Tom was practically vibrating with excitement and vindictive glee. This was everything he ever wanted, before his sanity left him, and now he was starting on his journey to ultimate power right under Dumbledore’s nose with the Chosen One by his side. Hydra wasn’t much better.

“I bet you ten galleons that Dumbledore chokes on his lemon drop when he sees you,” Hydra murmured into his ear as they entered the Ministry. Tom chuckled, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. The ring on her finger glittered obviously to any who gave them a passing glance, just as Tom wanted. And they were getting plenty of curious looks. Hydra Potter on the arm of a young unknown and a betrothal ring on display was sure to get tongues wagging again. It had been a month since their “engagement” announcement in the Prophet and they hadn’t been seen together until now. His new name hadn’t even been released. Now, here they were, arriving together, both dressed for the Wizengamot. It was gossip rag gold.

            “Twenty galleons and my choice of dinner that he accuses me of being my ‘father’ in front of the entire Wizengamot,” Tom countered, running his nose along her hairline. She had somehow wrangled her lion’s mane—still glamoured to her plain black—into a sophisticated crown of braids, though a few tendrils escaped near the back to caress her nape.

            “You’re on,” Hydra a smirked. “He’ll try to call a private meeting with the Minister before going straight to accusations.”

            Tom pressed a kiss to his ring. “It’s a bet, darling. Now go find Lord Longbottom before he decides to come looking for you.”

            “See you on the other side,” she replied before disappearing in search of her friend. Tom, in turn, went in search of Lucius. It was an old custom that new members had to be introduced by existing members but the tradition somehow had a resurgence in the last fifty years. Tom suspected it had something to do with Light leaning families wanting to know just who had connections to Dark families. Regardless, it meant that he and Hydra had to be separated up until they declare their political alignment. Knowing his little serpent, they’d be separate even after that point. The silly girl was stubbornly holding to her neutrality even in the political sphere, despite his very logical and persuasive arguments. It irked him but Grey was better than Light which everyone assumed the Girl-Who-Lived would cast her lot with. Tom’s smirk grew wider at the thought of the look on Albus Dumbledore’s face when he realized the Light would no longer hold the majority.

            “Calling this session of the Wizengamot to order,” Dumbledore announced, voice amplified by a sonorous.  Hydra was stood by Neville, the man looking every inch the pureblood Lord. She was so intensely proud of her friend that had blossomed after she had disappeared. The loveable giant had punched Zacharias Smith in jaw—why did all the men in her life end up punching people in her defense?—after the Hufflepuff had gave an interview to the Prophet about how cowardly the Chosen One was. Ginny had sent her a memory of the event where Hydra couldn’t hear anything but the redhead’s maniacal laughter. From then on, Neville had stepped up as a kind of leader in Hydra’s absence. Hermione and Ron had always been the brains of the operation, but neither held the political clout needed for their plans. Before her sabbatical in Egypt, that had been Hydra’s role. Somehow, the Trio had forgotten about the boy who had been raised for that very purpose. Luckily, they all realized their mistake when Neville stormed into a planning session, called them all idiots, and asked how he could help.

            “Usually, we would begin with the claiming of any new seats, if there be any,” Dumbledore continued, eye twinkle absent as he stared at Tom. “However, I find that I must bring to attention the grave danger that Lord Malfoy intends to bring into our proceedings today.” Hydra groaned under her breath and stuck her tongue out at the smug git smirking at her across the way. She should have known better than to bet against Albus Dumbledore’s flair for dramatics.

            “Chief Warlock, you are out of line!” Lord Greengrass exclaimed. His daughter Daphne was set to marry to the eldest Warrington son and it was, in general, a good match both magically and personality wise. Astoria, on the other hand, was courting with Draco Malfoy (also arranged). Hydra’s informants hadn’t been able to inform her whether it had been a love match for either pairing but what she did know for certain was that Gareth Greengrass loved his children. Though he was Dark, most of his politics were Neutral leaning. He’d be a good ally to have.

            “Just what are you accusing me of, Chief Warlock?” Lucius asked coolly, no doubt prepared for this reaction.

            “You have brought Lord Voldemort to the center of our government!” The entire room outraged protests, some directed at Dumbledore and others against Malfoy. Minister Scrimgeour was ineffectual as usual at bringing any order to the proceedings. When, after a few minutes, it didn’t show any signs of quieting down—and of course Tom just smirked and watched the chaos—Hydra decided it was time to step in. With a croon to the ley lines that wove themselves under the Ministry, she plucked at them until the entire room was encased in a silencing charm. As they realized they couldn’t speak, Hydra stepped into the center forum.

            “Well now that I have your attention,” she quipped to the stunned wixen, “would you perhaps give my betrothed a chance to explain himself?” Dumbledore opened his mouth to protest, still silenced, and she waggled a finger at him. “Ah, ah, ah. No talking until the accused gets his say. Tom, love?”

            Tom snorted elegantly, joining her in the center. “Truly a marvel, darling. Thank you.” With a smile and a kiss to his cheek, she ceded the floor to him. Neville was grinning at her knowingly when she returned to his side and mouthing something about being smitten. Hydra just pouted and watched the show. “Now, how to respond to such a blatant allegation? As you know, there is no possible way for me to glamoured or polyjuiced due the protective wards around these hallowed halls. I obviously don’t look like a bald, skeletal snake-man with no nose.” He got a few silent chuckles at that. “However, I doubt that’s enough to convince the Chief Warlock. Perhaps I should start by introducing myself.”

            He bowed dramatically. “My name is Tomassen Pollux Riddle-Gaunt-Slytherin. For the few of you that know Lord Voldemort’s origins, those names might be shocking. I am not Lord Voldemort, though his blood does flow in my veins. My mother, Cassiopeia Black, was unwed and pregnant with the Dark Lord’s child when she ran away from a family that would surely kill her child. Much of my life was spent on the move but my mother never hid my origins from me. Even when my father disappeared in 1981, she assured me that he would be back and more glorious than ever. The horrors she reveled in terrified me.” Tom’s voice cracked as he grimaced and ducked his head, shoulders shaking in what seemed to be tears. The bond tugged at her and Hydra was quick to follow its insistent prodding.

            She rushed to his side, the picture of a concerned fiancée, and wrapped him in her arms. Furious green eyes met Dumbledore’s and she snarled at the man for putting her love through telling his traumatic backstory. Tom, the arse, was struggling to keep his laughter quiet where his face was buried in her neck.

            “You don’t think this is little much?” she asked, stroking the back of his head.

            “They’re soft-hearted like you, little serpent,” he murmured, lips brushing the skin behind her ear. Hydra supposed she shouldn’t have underestimated her husband’s penchant for dramatics either. “Easy to manipulate.” Hydra pinched his side in retaliation. “Stay up here with me and hold my hand for moral support.”

            “You’re lucky that you’re pretty,” she teased quietly and pulled back, cradling his face and swiping away crocodile tears. He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand and then laced their fingers together. Hydra glanced at Dumbledore whose face was steadily growing more and more pale, the closer she stood to Tom. Frankly, she was surprised the old man hadn’t apparated between them. He was still silenced by the gentle binding of the Weave but his mouth continued to move in protest.

            “Please excuse me,” Tom sniffled—fucking sniffled and made it look attractive too. “This is difficult for me to talk about. Once my mother passed away and the Dark Lord hadn’t returned, I allowed myself to settle down in France and work towards my Defense Mastery. By the time I found out my father had been resurrected, the Girl-Who-Lived had reportedly disappeared. I’m ashamed to admit that I immediately fled France and kept out of the public eye until I met Hydra by chance in a bar in Vienna. It was love at first sight.”

            Tom turned to her, affection and devotion in his expression, but it was a bit plastic. His smile was too wide and his crows’ feet were absent. Even his dimple disappeared between one blink and the next. Hydra wondered when she had become so familiar with his face that she recognized when his fondness was real or manufactured. Or perhaps it was all fake and she was deluding herself.

            “They don’t need to know the whole story, love,” she interrupted. “That’s ours.” She turned back to other Wizengamot members. “If you need more proof, we have documentation that has been verified by the Goblin Clan of Gringotts Bank. Are you satisfied, Chief Warlock? Minister?” With a wave of her hand, Hydra released the Ley Lines with trilled thanks.

            “What did you do?” Scrimgeour demanded. “How did you Silence all of us for so long?”

            “That information is a matter of public record as of a week ago,” Hydra shrugged. She had finally gotten paper pushers of the Ministry to document her Masteries and her title as Lady of the Weave. The latter was a matter of courtesy and pride. England hadn’t had a Weaver since Myrddin was courting Vivienne. The only two others in the world were in South East Asia and the southern tip of Africa. Vivienne was also confident that another was beginning to hear the Song in North America.

            “My girl,” Dumbledore sighed, disappointment and pity hanging on his shoulders like a shroud, “that man is Tom Riddle and you of all people should recognize his magic and his soul.” Tom’s eyes narrowed at that and Hydra knew that she had distract him before his brilliant mind jumped to (correct) conclusions. She also needed a surefire way to convince the public that there was no chance Tom could be Voldemort. Drawing the Lines back around her, so her very voice rang with an echo of the Song, she stepped forward and raised her wand.

            “I swear on my magic that this man is my Tom, my soon-to-be Bonded husband, my partner in battle and in peace, my companion for life and beyond,” Hydra turned to meet mahogany eyes that were wide with shock, “and the person I care for more than anyone else on this Earth. So mote it be.”

            And with a burst of music, her Patronus glided out of her wand and twined around Tom’s shoulders in a possessive display. Let someone dare doubt her now.

Chapter Text

“What have you done?” Dumbledore demanded, aghast, after Hydra’s declaration rang through the air. “Tom, what have you done to her!?”

“He has done nothing but have his father’s face,” Hydra answered and lifted her chin in defiance, trying to ignore the stunned, silent quivering of the bond. She knew that if she looked behind her, Tom’s face would be equally hard to read despite his mask of a besotted young man. The shimmering cobra was probably nuzzling against his face and hissing at anyone who looked at them funny. “Hardly a punishable offence.”

“My girl…” the old man started but Hydra cut him off with a snarl.

“I am not your ‘girl,’ Chief Warlock.” How she hated that word! Behind her, the spectral Rouhi warbled with the Song as her tight leash on the Lines slipped as did the glamour on her hair. “I am the Lady of three of the most powerful Houses in Wixen Britain and have two Masteries. You, yourself know that I am immune to the Imperius Curse and therefore, it is extremely difficult to use means of influence one me. Most importantly, I am a Weaver of the Lines, the youngest since two young men began to hear the Song in the late 1800s. They both failed,” she spat out the word with derision just to see all the color leave his face, “in their Trials and so I alone hold the distinction of youngest. Do you think even the most powerful Dark Lord of the century could make me do anything against my will, sir?”

Silence met her proclamation only broken by her heavy breathing. Her Patronus came to offer her comfort as she reigned in her magic and soothed the writhing Lines with a hummed melody. Without her notice, the bond ceased its reticence and had reached out with a gentle harmony of I’m-here-you’re-safe. Large hand brushed her fly-away hair out of her eyes.

“And you tried so hard to tame it, darling,” Tom teased with a sweet smile. Then his eyes flashed red before he turned to the stunned Minister. “Are you all quite satisfied? Have the both of us entertained you enough with our vulnerabilities? I was led to believe the last session before the New Year was the most important and yet we’ve wasted much of our time on unfounded accusations.”

“Quite right, young man,” Scrimgeour cleared his throat. “We shall proceed with the introduction of new members and then move onto any proposals of new policies.”

“Rufus, you must see reason,” Dumbledore pleaded after he had recovered. “If you allow this man to be sworn in, it is the beginning of the end. Voldemort has managed to turn the only person capable of defeating him away from the Light. We are losing the war.”

“What war, Chief Warlock?” an older Lord from the Dark Faction drawled. “When was the last time there was a Death Eater attack? In fact, the last time an incident occurred, it was your little club that attacked members of Ancient and Noble Houses without any provocation.”

“No one can deny that You-Know-Who is back!” Lord Macmillan exclaimed from the front most seat of his Faction. Ah, so in Neville’s absence the next most powerful house took over as faction head. In all reality, the leader of the faction was meant to be voted on by the other members. In practice, it was just another way purebloods had the advantage over the laws being made.

“And no one is,” Madam Bones agreed. “However, it is also true that this war has been waged on the political floor rather than a battlefield. Frankly, I prefer it this way.” Now here was someone Hydra was familiar with. Amelia Bones was more Light leaning than true neutral—to be expected after the war killed her brother and sister-in-law—but she was also one of the few uncorruptible politicians still around. Between Bones and Scrimgeour, Hydra would have preferred the Minister to be a level headed solicitor over a grizzled Head Auror with a bias against Dark Magic. But in a state of fear, the people had wanted a politician of action rather than words. Too bad such a thing didn’t exist…yet.

“If You-Know-Who wants to take over the Ministry from the inside without violence,” Neville piped up, “is he any different from our other political leaders?” The entire room broke out in outraged scoffs and murmurs. Hydra hid a smirk in Tom’s chest. For such a soft-spoken man, Neville sure liked to stir the pot. Perhaps he’d been spending too much time with the twins.

“It is far more likely that my father has been spent all his time searching for Hydra,” Tom added, his own amusement plucking at the bond. “Now that she’s back in the public eye, he will probably resurface as well.”

“Then perhaps she should go back into hiding for the safety of us all,” Theo Nott mocked, a sneer threatening his lips. Hydra was a bit shocked by his appearance, both as the Lord of House Nott but also his physical appearance. Merlin, he’d grown fit, hadn’t he? She remembered him as a hunched, lanky boy with his nose perpetually in a book. Now he was all strong jaw and icy blue eyes.

Mine! A sinister hiss echoed through the hall as her ring burned slightly in outrage. The bond shuddered under the onslaught of look-at-me-only-me-mineminemineMINE!  Hydra immediately sent exasperated, soothing croons back. Yours-promised-calm-down-you-psychopath. His magic reached across the bond, coiling around her mind the same way his body would curl behind hers at night. It seemed to purr with contentment as Tom got himself back under control. The Light and Neutral Factions were warily watching the unknown Lord while Dumbledore exuded triumphant self-satisfaction. Those from the Dark Faction were in awe that their Lord’s “son” was keeping the Slytherin legacy alive.

Tom cleared his throat, putting on an embarrassed mien and gathering Hydra to his side again. “I apologize. I’m rather protective of my fiancée and due to my parselmouth inheritance, it often comes out quite harshly. In all honesty, I didn’t have much cause to use it until I met Hydra.” The older members grinned down at the lovestruck young man who couldn’t bare to let go of his beloved hands. Hydra wanted to roll her eyes at how easily these sheep were swayed by a few passionate words and an annoyingly pretty face

“No!” Dumbledore shouted, eyes frantic and hands shaking, as he lurched to his feet. “You are all playing into his plans! I cannot let this stand. I shall not let Britain be overrun by a Dark Lord, not so long as I live!” His chest heaved with labored breaths and entire Wizengamot could seen how pained his eyes were. All the Lords and Ladies were staring at Dumbledore and whispering behind their hands. The vultures. Tom himself was smug at goading his nemesis into an outburst.

Hydra could feel the Song trying to comfort the man who had once been destined to weave the Lines. However, without the bond severed from Gellert, it had no conduit to flow through. The ancient man clutched his heart and staggered, eyes blazing at Tom as though to burn him to ash. Hydra knew that the end was close for her old Headmaster; Death herself had confirmed it. The part of her heart that remembered a grandfatherly professor standing next to her hospital bed broke to see Dumbledore so unwell.

“Albus,” she called gently, the Song a warbling harmony beneath her words, “summon Fawkes and go visit him. It will be good for the both of you and I can send word for the Masters to meet you there.”

“He told me not to come back,” the man gasped.

“Yes well, he’s just as stubborn and hurt as you.” Albus met her eyes, apparently sensing the laughter in them. His gaze flicked to Tom by her side, face darkening again but it was more resigned than before. With a nod, the Chief Warlock turned to the Minister.

“I apologize for my outburst, Rufus,” he said. “It seems I’m a bit out of sorts. I shall take my leave for the day and trust this session in your capable hands.”

“It’s quite alright, Albus,” Scrimgeour replied, eyes narrowed. “One’s health is to be a top priority.” Without much more fanfare, Dumbledore took his leave as quickly he could without looking like he was fleeing. As he passed through the center, he placed a hand on Hydra shoulder.

“Come have tea with me soon, Hydra,” he murmured. “We seem to have much to discuss.”

Hydra smiled and nodded. “Tell my Masters that I say hello and don’t argue with Gellert too much.”

“An intelligent debate is good for the soul, my dear,” he returned her smile and then glanced at the glowering man beside her. “Although do remember that a relationship cannot stand if it is built upon opposing ideologies.” And the old man was gone. Tom was less than happy that she had deigned to show the old man any kindness or mercy. Through the bond, she lovingly reminded him that such things cost her nothing and that revenge was only for obsessive, emotionally-stunted, failed Dark Lords. Predictably, he wasn’t amused by that.

Scrimgeour cleared his throat. “Let us get on with the session, then. Let those with new Lords to present step forward.” Both Neville and Lucius Malfoy do so while Tom and Hydra separate with a squeeze of their hands. The minister indicated that Neville may begin with the ceremony.

            The ceremony was just as dull as Tom expected it to be. He did get the pleasure of watching the Light Faction almost cause a scene when Hydra declared all of her seats into the Neutral Faction—and therefore becoming the de facto leader. Only Longbottom managed to keep his professional façade, although Tom thought he saw a flash of a smirk before it was hidden behind a hand.         His own declaration into the Dark Faction didn’t cause much drama, beyond claiming seats that hadn’t been in use for generations. A part of him was put out that much of the spotlight wasn’t on him—He was the Dark Lord’s “son!” Surely that warranted a bit more notice— but Hydra tugged on the bond whenever his thoughts wandered down that path too far. Tom got the distinct impression that his little wife was rolling her eyes at him near constantly.

            After the tedium of tradition, the session started in earnest. The last meeting before the end of the year was important because it was the last chance to argue your case for a law. The first Wizengamot gathering in January was when the actual voting would happen. A similar kind of situation happened at the Summer Solstice but it was usually reserved for smaller policies such as the thickness of cauldron bottoms. Tom wondered whether anyone remembered that their society, down the foundation of government, was fashioned around the Wheel of the Year. Did first-year Hogwarts students, even the purebloods, know when the sacred days were? To that point, did Hydra? She surely must, if she was so connected to Mother Magic. Yet, they hadn’t spoken of performing a Yule ritual this year and the holiday was fast approaching. It seemed Tom would have to bring it up after the meeting.

            “All due respect, Madame Undersecretary,” Hydra was saying, voice saccharine and lilting, “but that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Creatures are dangerous and incapable of controlling their base urges? What a broad overgeneralization of hundreds of different peoples! Can you honestly tell me that you haven’t met humans just as capable of violence, if not more so?” Murmurs ran through the gathered wixen and Tom felt his chest warm with pride at how easily his chosen mate stirred up the crowd with just a few words.

            “Very pretty words, Miss Potter,” a toad-like woman simpered from beside the Minister. When Tom focused on Hydra’s side of the bond, it radiated with loathing-disgust-shrivel-up-and-die-you-evil-bint and beneath it all, the smallest tremor of fear. What had this woman done to his little darling? “But what of werewolves and vampires who prey on innocent witches and wizards?”

            “Her name is Lady Potter-Black-Peverell,” Tom cut in, glaring at the pudgy woman. A high collar of the most repulsive pink he’d ever seen peeked out beneath her Wizengamot robes. Surely the entirety of her clothing wasn’t that color? “I suggest you use it, Madame Umbridge.”

            “Besides, most vampires form blood-letting bonds with willing humans,” one of the Department Heads pointed out. “Those who partake from unwilling victims or kill their partners are prosecuted by their own laws and courts.”

“Also, they are not classified as creatures at all,” a wizard sat beside Hydra in the Neutral Faction added. “They are considered ‘Beings’ like goblins and house-elves and wixen.”

“But werewolves!” Lord Abbott, from the Light Faction, cried. “Those monsters do nothing but hunt and murder wixen and muggles alike. They’re uneducated, feral beasts!”

“Have you given them the chance to be anything different?” Hydra countered, calmly getting to her feet and moving toward the center. “If I may, Minister?”

Scrimgeour nodded. “Proceed, Lady Potter-Black-Peverell.”

She granted him a blinding smile—Tom stomped down the urge to pluck out the man’s eyes for glimpsing such a sight—and entered the forum. His lovely girl captured attention like honey attracted flies, like the sun coaxed flowers to chase after its warmth. If Tom didn’t know better, he’d accuse her of doing it on purpose, but Hydra hated attention more than anything. She used to write in her letters how much she enjoyed the anonymity of travelling abroad and not having eyes watching her every moved. He’d asked once why she was so set on politics then and she responded with a simple “because I care about my people more than I hate being a public figure.” Maybe one day, Tom could take that burden from her.

“Most werewolves live in packs that are forced to hide in uninhabited forests, far from civilization, despite only being dangerous three days out of the month,” Hydra continued. “They cannot get a job in the Wixen World due to their affliction and they cannot work in the muggle world because they are forced to take time off every month. It is true that most have no education, muggle or otherwise, but that’s hardly by choice. Can you see how this might perpetuate a cycle of oppression?”

“What of the Wolfsbane Potion?” another Lord called out. “Surely most employers would hire a werewolf on that potion.”

Hydra shook her head. “There are two problems with that solution. Do you know how much Wolfsbane sells for commercially? Almost 40 galleons per vial. Most working class wixen would find such a high monthly expense unsustainable. Beyond that, it is not a guarantee of employment and it would be dangerous to admit their affliction so openly.”

“It can’t be as bad as all that,” an ancient looking man beside Tom scoffed.

“If we, at the highest point of government, are arguing to restrict even more werewolf freedoms right at this moment, why would you think that anyone else would give them a chance?” Tom asked, not bothering to lower his voice at all.

 “Very true, Lord Gaunt-Slytherin,” Hydra grinned up at him with sparkling eyes. “My own godfather was forcibly bitten by a werewolf when he was only three—lycanthropy is rarely passed through birth, you see, and frankly, it should be classified as a virus or disease— but he is the softest, most level-headed man I know. Many Hogwarts students can attest to that fact, including your daughter Lord Abbott.”

            “He was teaching our children?” a witch from the Light Faction demanded, scandalized. “With what credentials?”

            “Remus Lupin attended Hogwarts with my parents with no complications, beyond those instigated by human interference,” Hydra declared, her fire burning bright through every word. “He was consistently top of his class, a Prefect for three, and had some of the highest OWLs and NEWTs in Hogwarts history. Through a warded space and pack bonds formed with Animagus classmates, he was able to be like every other student. His time as a professor was just as admirable.”

            “I can attest to that,” Longbottom agreed, eyes cutting to the pink toad. “Professor Lupin was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we had through the entirety of my schooling. Many of my classmates would say the same.”

            “He was certainly better than Lockhart or Quirell,” Nott admitted—Tom bit his tongue to keep himself from snarling at the boy who Hydra thought of as fit. “Our fifth year also left much to be desired, though Professor Snape was by far the most successful.” Many other members who had either been students or guardians of students murmured among themselves in agreement.

            “And you expect us to offer the same to every dirty, half-breed that reaches beyond its means,” Umbridge sneered. Hydra’s smile grew sharp as she whipped around to address the woman that conjured so much hatred in her—even more than Voldemort used to.

            “I expect us to treat all sentient beings with the respect and consideration they deserve,” his little serpent hissed. “Being allowed to hold a wand does not make us superior, it makes us privileged. It is our duty as the ruling class of Wixen Britain to ensure that those who are disadvantaged receive the aid they need. Be they creature or wixen, Muggleborn or Pureblood, Light or Dark.” With a small bow of her head, Hydra conceded the floor to the silent watchers-on and returned to her seat.

Grinning ear to ear, Tom sent everything he was feeling down the bond. How absolutely glorious his Treacle was. In one fell swoop, she had stated what her tenets were and just what policies she wished to implement. All without actually declaring anything explicitly. The Dark would suss out her wish to see all magic recognize while the Light would feel confident that she was fighting for Muggleborn and Creature Rights. It was positively Slytherin. Merlin, he was a lucky wizard. He might not agree with all of her ideals, but he was glad she had them. It made life more interesting and if she kept smiling at him like he hung the moon, Tom could see himself being persuaded to her point of view.

Chapter Text

As public figures, they had many social obligations during the Yule season. The Ministry held a few charity events and a small ball that promised to be dreadfully boring as Hydra had it on good authority that Umbridge was part of the planning committee. Then there were the endless invitations to take tea or dine with various members of the Wizengamot. Not to mention that Hydra had insisted on spending Christmas Eve with the assorted Weasley clan as she had since she was fifteen. Of course, Tom had his own responsibilities to his people and they would be attending the Malfoy’s Yule Ball the night before Tom’s birthday. It would be the first time that Hydra would be as introduced the Dark Lord’s consort to Tom’s followers. Honestly, she was looking forward to it, if only for the chance to put some people back in their place. Mostly Bellatrix. Merlin, Hydra couldn’t wait to flaunt her wedding ring in that bitch’s face.

On top of everything else, Hydra would have to find the time to release the horcrux from the diadem. The week of Yule had wildly inconsistent magic saturation as it was the last flickering coal of the year’s fire. The guttering flame would never be properly extinguished as it would spark the pyre of the New Year, which was beautiful and symbolic (or whatever), but really bloody inconvenient for ritual construction. Because the timing was reliant on unpredictable fluctuations in the Weave and her ability to maneuver around Tom, she couldn’t pin down the specific moment until it flitted past her senses like a rogue snitch.

Despite her frustrations, the celebrations started easily enough and all the politicking was finished by the Solstice. Neither she nor Tom put much stock in celebrating beyond a little ritual to thank Mother Magic—and yes, Hydra was aware of the irony of doing said ritual with Myrddin and Vivienne there personally. The pair of demigods were terribly busy, but made time to share in a ritual with their successors the first night of the holiday. Tom and Rouhi spent much of their time together enraptured by Vivienne’s stories, full to bursting with questions. Hydra had simply watched her two boys and basked in their happiness while putting together a few treats for their guests. She wondered when the last time her husband had been sane enough to admit that he didn’t know everything and therefore ask questions. Perhaps, when he first entered Hogwarts, bright eyed and eager to prove himself? Maybe later on, when a foolish Potion’s Professor told a boy with half a soul that more than one piece was possible.

            The thought of Tom’s past caused hot anger to rise in her chest and not for the reasons most would assume. Last week, she had gone to Hogwarts to make good on her promise to meet Albus for tea—and to pick up a certain diadem. Tom had tried to stop her from going at all but Hydra had quickly reminded him just who she was. In the end, they had compromised and she had left a pouting Tom in the Chamber of Secrets while she went to reconcile with her past mentor as much as possible.

Of course, that didn’t happen and they were even more at odds than before because the old goat was stubbornly stuck in a world of black and white. Hydra had stormed through the halls of Hogwarts, magic sparking in her footsteps, as she left a pleading Headmaster behind. Luckily, most of the students had gone home from the winter holidays and couldn’t hear the Savior of the Wizarding World plotting the old man’s demise with her cobra familiar draped over her shoulders. Her pockets had clinked with endless bottles of memories that she had commandeered from Dumbledore’s illicit hoard.

            “Tom will never share power, Hydra,” Dumbledore had stated after a few moments of silence over steaming tea. “The Trials will tear you to pieces before you even begin. That is not the fate I wish for you, my girl.”

            “No, instead you wished for me to die on an entirely different altar,” she had replied, causing all the blood to drain from his face. “You put your faith in a future where a child had to die for peace. I’ve chosen to believe in a world where no more children must be sacrificed for the greater good.”

            “You don’t understand all that he has done!” the man had exclaimed, hands shaking and clenching around the Elder Wand. The Hallow sang and reached out for Hydra but it wasn’t yet time. “Let me show you the truth of the man you have bound yourself to. I had wanted to show these to you over the course of your sixth year but this will do.”

            Then he had dumped memory after memory into the Pensieve until he was content with the story they would tell. Hydra hesitated only a moment before entering with Dumbledore, leaving Rouhi on her armchair. It took an hour or more to go through all that he had collected of Tom’s origin and life. With every passing second, Hydra grew more and more furious. How dare he!? He must have started collecting these since Tom opened the Chamber or perhaps since the moment that he had heard a young boy, desperate to feel special and important, bragged to an adult about his abilities. The memories wouldn’t be so clear otherwise. He had taken time out of his teaching schedule and the conflict with Grindelwald to collect obscure memories of a student who hadn’t even done anything yet. And despite all this effort on Dumbledore’s part, these memories revealed nothing she didn’t already know.

            When they emerged, Hydra was shaking and her glamour had fallen in the burst of magic that she struggled to control. Even from that far away, the bond had hummed with worry-anger-destroy-anything-that-hurts-you as Tom sensed her emotions. Dumbledore had been droning about the darkest of magics and a soul too tattered to repair, but Hydra could barely hear him above the ringing in her ears.

            “Give them to me,” she had interrupted through gritted teeth. “Give me every last memory you have of Tom or related to him.”

            “Hydra—”

            “Now,” she had spat, “before I ruin the wards with Fiendfyre.”

            The old man had given up quickly after that but even as she wrenched the door open, he had continued to try and persuade her that Tom wasn’t worth saving. Most she just ignored but then he had said something that made her tense up as her rage turned icy and hard.

            “He will let you down, Hydra. He is incapable of living up to your expectations.”

            She had thrown one last glare over her shoulder, eyes glowing with power. “You know nothing about him. You haven’t seen him light up at the sight of magic, any magic. You aren’t there when he gracefully loses chess to Ron and debates law with Hermione and plots violent protective plants for our garden with Neville. Did you know he helped Luna narrow down what kind of divination would be best to focus her abilities? Tom has even managed to win over Remus to a degree. He struggles with emotions, not because he doesn’t feel them, but because no one told him how to deal with them.”

            “It is all a lie,” Dumbledore insisted. “He is deceiving you.”

            “You know better than that, Albus,” Hydra had chided. “We are Bonded, one soul in two hearts. He cannot lie to me just as I cannot lie to him. He will not let me down because I will not let him.” With that, she swept out of his office and joined her husband in the Chamber of Secrets where the two of them enjoyed smashing the little glass vials against the wet stone.

            Now it was Christmas Day and they were preparing to head to dinner at the Weasley’s. Tom was pouting and complaining but nothing could bring down Hydra’s mood as she brushed invisible lint off of his very own Weasley jumper with a large “T” on the front. That morning they had stared at the large pile of gifts from various Wizengamot members, Death Eaters, and delusions fans that wanted to curry favor. They had unanimously agreed to let the house elves open and sort through the mess while they were gone. Hydra had suggested that they simply exchange their own gifts first and casually open the others over breakfast. The look of horror on Tom’s face when he opened the navy, handmade sweater almost made Hydra snort milk through her nose. She had promised herself that she’d do anything to make sure he wore it to dinner that night. It had taken a lot of careful maneuvering and bribery, but she had managed to get him into it with about five minutes to spare.

            “This is humiliating,” Tom grumbled as Hydra dragged him out the door. “I’m a Dark Lord. I don’t do Christmas dinner.” She just rolled her eyes at his dramatics and reminded him that he could spend the whole evening in the corner with Hermione like when they went out to the pub.

            “Besides,” she continued, straightening his scarf, “you can strike fear into the hearts of all the Order members that believe Dumbledore’s ramblings.”  He visibly perked up at that, walking a bit faster to the edge of the wards so they could apparate. As he moved in front of her, Hydra couldn’t quite resist the urge to do something that would have dire consequences if she didn’t have a clear escape route. Hydra Potter reeled her hand back and without an ounce of shame, slapped the Dark Lord Voldemort right on his perfectly sculpted arse. Unable to hold back her giggles as he made an undignified squawking sound and whirled around, she danced out of reach of his grasping hands as she darted past him to the edge of the wards.

            “Ya best run, lil’ rabbit,” he called out, growling voice slipping into his natural accent, as he pursued his prey, “’fore I decide ter take a bite aahhht of ya!”

            “Promise?” she taunted, stepping over the ward line just before apparating to the field outside the Burrow. Smothering a cackle that wanted to rise in her chest Hydra took a moment to compose herself before preparing the continue the chase. Even from so far away, the bond was ringing with fond exasperation, desire, and a bit of mortification. It seemed the big, bad Dark Lord had never been handled in such a casual way before and had no idea how to react to it. Or well, he had one idea.

The tell-tale crack of apparition split the air and Tom appeared directly in front of her as she set off to the safety of the Burrow. With no way to slow down or course correct, Hydra had little choice but to fall into the trap of his arms.

“Caugh’ ya, Treacle,” he purred, not bothering to hid his smugness from showing on his face. She pressed her chilled nose to his throat in retaliation, enjoying the involuntary shiver that wracked his spine.

“Did you?” she hummed, draping her arms around his neck. “Or did I lure here with minimal fuss?” Had that been her intention? Not consciously. Was she going to take credit for it anyways? Absolutely.

Tom chuckled, pressing a kiss onto her nose. “A snake in lion’s clothing. What a mysterious creature you are, darling.”

“No more mysterious than a coarse-mouthed ruffian masquerading as a stuffy swot.”

“It was the other way around, I assure you,” he sniffed haughtily before releasing her just enough to walk side by side, hand in hand. “The matrons didn’t appreciate the devil child coming back from school, sounding more educated than their priest.” Hydra’s heart squeezed in her chest. He hated talking about his past; he never brought it up unprompted. Not inclined to push him further than he was willing to go, she pulled their joined hands up to press a kiss to his fingers.

“Well, I’m quite taken with both sides of Tom Riddle,” she told him, letting the bond prove her sincerity. He stared at her in what looked a little like awe, color in his cheeks only partially because of the cold. Deciding to lighten the mood a little, she added, “What other Dark Lord could I convince to wear a handknit jumper to Christmas dinner?”

“Yes, well, consider yourself blessed by the mercy of your Lord,” he replied as she knocked on the door of the Burrow. Now, the raised voices on the other side should have been a bit of a hint to their reception. Still, it came as a bit of a shock when they were greeted, not by the Weasley’s, but to a horde of angry Light wizards pointing their wands at them.

Tom was…unamused by the turn of events. Hydra’s little friends were arguing with many of the old guard that Tom had only met from across the battlefield. It was practically an official Order of the Pheonix meeting. Through all the arguing, Mad-Eye Moody, Elphias Doge, and Hestia Jones were being especially vocal and less than willing to lower their wands. Naturally, Tom was obliged to return the favor while Hydra heaved an annoyed sigh.

“Dumbledore,” she cursed under breath, then a bit louder, “Everyone kindly shut up! What’s going on here?”

            “Stand aside, girlie,” Moody growled, wand already glowing a menacing green and aimed directly at Tom’s chest. A visceral fear gripped his heart in a way he hadn’t felt in ages. That green light, so intoxicating when seen at the end of his own wand or reflected in his darling’s eyes, had never truly been target at him. None had been so foolish or so willing to throw aside their moralistic grip on Light magic to even attempt it. A part of him want to scoff at the hypocrite before him while the rest of him was frozen as a loop of falling bombs sounded in his ears. Surely this wouldn’t be the end. How ignoble for Lord Voldemort to die on the front stoop of the lowest of blood traitors. No matter, he would return just as before. Perhaps even easier with Hydra’s aid. Still, the emptiness of being without a body was…

            He was pulled out of his spiral by the crackling magic of the witch by his side.

            “Get bent, Mad-eye,” Hydra snarled right back, taking a half-step in front of Tom without hesitation. It was like a punch to his gut. Was…Was she protecting him? Him? Surely not. Hydra Potter was known for her “saving people thing”; she had told him so herself. Tom had just never imagined such a thing to extend to him. The beautiful witch shared his home and bed, promised to bind herself to him completely. She had defended him with her words and actions. It was another matter entirely to stand in front of a Killing Curse. Briefly, another fearless Potter woman flashed in his mind’s eye and the two images seemed to overlap. Neither moved aside when ordered, firm as a sacred oak with roots that stretched into eternity.

            “That is Lord Voldemort!” Jones shouted, flanking Moody. “How could you align yourself with him? He killed your parents and hundreds of others!” Vaguely, Tom was aware of Granger and the youngest male Weasley herding the rest of the family back inside, despite the many loud protests. The matriarch in particular was screeching at the audacity of pointing a wand at Hydra. Tom was in total agreement with that sentiment.

            “And how many people did you kill?” Hydra retorted, magic writhing and snapping. Tom was in awe at the feel of it, as always. Salazar, what had he done to deserve such a woman as he Fated equal? “How many deaths did Dumbledore order for the Greater Good? How many school children did he conscript into a war that he could have easily ended had he only gotten his own hands dirty?” That was debatable. Even at his prime, the old man would have had trouble against Tom at his strongest. Still, the point stood. Albus Dumbledore had rarely deigned to grace the battlefield with his presence.

            “It…it was war…” Doge stuttered, suddenly looking distinctly uncomfortable.

            “If it was war, then why is only one side being condemned for fighting for what they believed in? Surely not every Dark family you wiped from existence were pure evil?”

            “Then you’ve gone Dark,” Moody said, revulsion clear on his scarred face.

            Hydra scoffed. “I’ve been neutral since I was fifteen. What I’ve chosen is forgiveness and moving forward to better our world.”

            “It will never be a better world while that monster still lives!” Moody screamed, wand raising again in preparation. Fear gripped Tom again, not for himself, but for the girl shielding him. The thought of her lifeless at his feet, once all he wanted, now caused bile to rise in his throat. “Now move or I will cut you down with him.”

            Hydra’s magic blazed with righteous, Gryffindor fire, the same that had forged her spine of Goblin steel. With conviction, she stepped closer until the tip of Moody’s wand pressed against her throat. Tom lurched forward to stop her, to grab her and apparate away, but the bond sent him assuring waves of fondness-trust-warmth that made him pause. With a carefree smile tossed to him over her shoulder, she turned back to the threat. Merlin, he felt useless. It was unlike him to just stand back but he was overwhelmed. By fear for the both of them, by admiration for Hydra, by possessive pride that the she was his, by the small flame in his chest that had been lit the moment she stepped in front of him.

 “My fiancée is not Lord Voldemort, no matter what Dumbledore told you. If you wish to murder him in cold blood, you’ll have to go past me first.” She leaned further in, teeth bared in a shark’s smile. “Of course, if you’re not fast enough, I’ll have no choice but to defend myself.” They stood in a silent stalemate, Hydra daring the man to make the first move.

“You can’t be serious,” a forgettable wizard exclaimed from somewhere in the lump of people behind the three main instigators. “That’s the Girl-Who-Lived!” The rest of the crowd murmured in agreement.

“Alastor…” Doge fidgeted. A beat passed, then another, then Moody lowered his wand with a disgusted huff.

“This is not the end,” the disfigured man promised.

“Remind the old man that if this is a declaration of war, the previously named ‘Dumbledore’s Army’ is no longer under his command. If I see a hint of children in this conflict, I’ll raze his legacy to the ground.”

With that, the dredges left from the Order of the Phoenix disapparated away. Some looked conflicted, others glared hatefully, but soon they were alone in the Weasley’s front garden. Immediately, Tom closed the distance between Hydra and himself, pulling her to him. The thrum of the bond was the only thing calming his racing heart. His wand was still subtly pointed at the retired Auror, never letting his guard down. He had almost lost his Treacle, a mere breath away from losing the only warmth he’d ever known.

Never again, he hissed into her neck. Never risk your life like that again, Hydra.

We’re safe, she replied, sinking into his embrace. It’s alright, love. We’re safe.

He lifted his head to meet her eyes, cradling her face in his hands. “You cannot leave me, Treacle. Never. Promise me.” Small hands wrapped around his wrists as she tilted her head up, lips brushing against his. Their bond was singing in a harmony of mine-stay-forever and yours-here-always.

“I will stay with you as long as I am able,” she vowed, fingers tightening on his skin. Not precisely what he wanted but good enough for now. Ideas and schemes were already circulating behind his eyes. Soon, he’d convince her that forever—whatever the means, whatever the cost— would be worth it with him by her side. Until then, he kissed her as though she was about to disappear from his arms, reminding himself that she had chosen him, was willing to die for him. He ignored the quiet voice that questioned whether he’d do the same for her.

Chapter Text

Tom knew nothing of warmth. It was a truth that Hydra understood, resonated with. She had been thawing him out with the delicacy of playful touches, sweet kisses, and hushed assurances of commitment. If occasionally the small flame of intimacy roared into a bonfire of biting teeth and gripping fingers, then Hydra could hardly be blamed. She woke up next to Tom Riddle every day, for Merlin’s sake, trapped in the cage of his arms with his face buried in the space where her neck met her shoulder.

            Still, Tom was unused to affection from anyone but Hydra and Nagini. Just last week, Tom had practically flung himself out of a chair when Hermione had accidently brushed against his arm while the two swots had been pouring over a piece of legislature. He had covered it well but Hermione was more than familiar with the reaction from dealing with a jumpy eleven-year-old Hydra. The look of sympathy in her eyes had caused a wave of shame-fear-DON’T-YOU-DARE-PITY-ME had woken Hydra from a light doze in front of the fireplace. Needless to say, that visit was cut a bit short.

            The Burrow held nothing but warmth as it filled to the brim with family, blood and otherwise. It was still an overwhelming, if welcome, experience for Hydra even after all these years. It was no surprise that Tom still looked a bit shellshocked after Mrs. Weasley had gathered him up in encompassing embrace and then pushed a plate of food into his hands. The twins had cackled when they overheard their mother muttering about the “poor boy needing some meat on his bones.” True to form, all through the dinner Molly filled Tom’s plate whenever it was empty despite his protests. She even went as far as to pat his cheek when he laid on the charm about the food, the house, and whatever else he could think of to distract her from his appetite. Ron had practically snorted his drink out his nose, as Ginny turned an alarming shade of red trying to contain her laughter.

After dinner, the ever-popular Celestina Warbeck record was put on as everyone all split off into groups for quiet conversation. Fred was in a heated debate with Hermione about muggle fashion of all things while Ginny occasionally interjected with nonsense just to set them off. Bill and George watched with lovestruck expressions as Fleur and Martin, the latter’s boyfriend, chatted in rapid French. Percy was sitting with his mother, quietly making up for lost time. And Tom…Tom got stuck between Charlie and Ron’s endless Quidditch ramblings. From experience, Hydra knew that those two could extol the virtues of the Cannons for literal hours with pause. It only took about ten minutes for Tom to catch Hydra’s gaze from the across the room, eyes and the bond pleading for guidance or rescue. With a fond smile, Hydra motioned for him to join her next to Mr. Weasley and Percy’s wife, Audrey. The look of relief on his face as he rushed to her side was so obvious that Ginny barked out a laugh as he passed her.

            “What are you discussing, Treacle?” Tom murmured, as he slipped an arm around her waist.

            “The benefits of integrating muggle technology into the Ministry,” she answered, smirking as he struggled to hide a sneer. “Arthur is a bit of a clandestine tinkerer and has been messing about with telephones lately. Audrey had many enlighten ideas on the use of runes in the endeavor.”

             “On my summers back from Hogwarts, I would carve runes into all of the appliances seeing if I could power them with magic,” Audrey explained with a sheepish smile. “Mainly it was an attempt to lower the electric bill while practicing my rune work. Some things took to it very well, especially the smaller ones. We did have to replace fridge though.”

            “I’m not one much for runes,” Mr. Weasley admitted, “but Hydra has a knack for ‘em. We’ve also noticed wiring made of copper and the like work the best…” The man continued to passionately describe the findings of his experiments. Tom was doing his best to smile and nod in the appropriate places but he only grudgingly put up with Hydra’s fully modernized kitchen—mostly because he knew better than to argue with her over her domain. Still, he just gripped her waist a bit tighter even as he was less than enthused by Mr. Weasley’s effusive praise of all things muggle. Hydra knew that he only had so much willpower however, so she didn’t let it continue much longer.

            “Dance with me,” she requested, tilting her head in a way that made her eyes shine a bit brighter (Tom had once admitted while drunk that he was so fascinated by her eyes that he used to want to pluck them out and keep them in a jar which was…sweet? Incredibly disturbing but sweet in a Dark-Lordy sort of way).

            “Of course, darling,” he answered smoothly with a polite smile to Audrey and Arthur and led her over to an open space.

            “So which conversation did you hate the most: Quidditch or Muggle appreciation?” Hydra teased as they began swaying to the music.

            Tom grimaced. “Both were dreadful but at least I could understand half of what the muggle lovers were saying. What in Merlin’s name is a Wronski Feint and why is the one you do brilliant?”

            “Oh, you’ll hate this,” she snickered. “I pretend I see the snitch and point my broom directly at the ground. The other seeker then follows and we have a battle of wills to see who will pull up first. I, of course, have never lost said battle of wills. Closest I’ve ever come was against Victor Krum and that ended in a tie and a broken collarbone.” Tom stared at her in horror for a moment before composing himself. Though the bond took a little longer to calm down.

            “I do, in fact, hate everything about that. I don’t suppose I could convince you to give up your death sport?”

            Hydra grinned. “Not a chance. You’re lucky the brooms haven’t been broken out tonight.”

            “Then I will content myself with a disappointed sigh and an ‘I told you so’ when you come home with broken bones from flying into the ground like an addled bird.” Hydra couldn’t help but laugh as she agreed with a nod. As they continued swaying to the crooning radio, they talked of nothing and everything. Weasleys and Co. had all begun their own dances or quietly snuck to bed, but Tom only drew her closer when she started to pull away.

Just a little longer, darling, he murmured into her hair as his hand spread across her lower back. Hydra couldn’t bring herself to protest. They’d be sleeping separately—or at least trying to—for the first time in months. Molly was adamant about that and it wasn’t like they could just tell her that they were technically already married. Tom had pouted about the rule from the minute he heard about it. (Hydra had had to prod his ego a bit about how the Dark Lord Voldemort couldn’t go one night with his Girl-Who-Lived plushie. The affronted look he gave her would conjure many a Patronus in the future.) So, she didn’t begrudge him a few more minutes of closeness. Hydra couldn’t sleep without him either.

Instead, she’d simply hummed her agreement and tucked her head under his chin, resting against his chest. They swayed together in a rhythm all their own for the rest of the evening. Even after the music swelled for the last time and faded into echoing chimes, matching heartbeats kept time while the bond wove a melody amid breath shared between parted lips. For the first time since the Weave sung to her and she discovered the machinations of the Fates, Hydra didn’t wish that someone else had been chosen. She didn’t long for the fantasy of “just Hydra” because this moment would have never existed. “Just Hydra” would have taken one look at him and ran for the hills. Hydrangea Jamie Potter, the Girl-Who-Lived, was the only one who could ever hope to hold Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort, close to her heart and feel safe in his arms.

“Happy Christmas, Hydra Riddle,” Tom told her as the clock chimed, cradling her face as though she might shatter at the slightest touch, and pressed his lips to hers.

“Happy Christmas,” she replied with a soft smile, the bond singing with contentment.

Fuck being “just Hydra.”

            It only took a week for their peaceful holidays to be ruined. Tom really should have been expecting it but perhaps his wife was slipping some of her optimism into his tea. Granted, the week after Christmas had been filled with a lazy sort of joy that Tom couldn’t help but sink into. After a cheerful breakfast spent with the Weasley’s, the eccentric Lovegood family, and the Longbottom heir, Tom and Hydra had spent the rest of Boxing Day going through the pile of presents they had left behind. It had consisted of horrendously expensive—and useless—gifts from his followers on top of the less expensive but equally useless trinkets sent by Ministry officials or anyone else wanting curry their favor. The only thing of any actual worth had been two large orbs, equipped with warming and cushioning charms, that allowed Rouhi and Nagini accompany them through the snow without causing them discomfort. Hydra’s familiar had staunchly refused to “parade around in a ball like an overgrown gerbil” and his darling had spent the next half hour arguing over the benefits. Once again Tom wondered at how a snake spoke with so much understanding, but it was quickly overridden by the sound of Hydra’s uncontrolled laughter. It seemed that she had managed to get the albino serpent into one of the orbs.

            “You’re—ah—you’re ad-dor-rable!” she had gasped as the irate cobra slammed into her chest, knocking her to the ground. Tom had risen to his feet in shock but his darling had just continued to giggle as the snake had berated her.

            How dare you laugh at me!? I have never been so humiliated!

            Not even when you were first created? Hydra had hissed around a grin. I seem to remember you flopping around dramatically when you realized movement wasn’t instinctive.

            You promised to never speak of that! Rouhi had replied which set off another round of snickering. Later that night, the pair had made up when Hydra offered him a whole rabbit but not before she had taken countless pictures of the orb-bound snake. The days that followed were filled with nothing but comfortable intimacy and affection. They rarely left the house, let alone the property. Tom, who had once scoffed at such domesticity, had never felt more content than after day long discussions that ranged from magical theory to memories to the intricacies of flower meanings. It was bound the fall apart sooner or later and it just happened to come on the eve of his birthday as they were preparing for the Malfoy Yule Ball.

            Hydra had been trying to cajole his favorite meal and flavor of cake out of him. Frankly, anything that she made would be more effort than anyone had ever put in to celebrating. Tom had never cared before that his birthday was overshadowed by the New Year. He was unsure if anyone was even aware of the date anymore. Before he had gone off to Hogwarts, the matrons would give him a left-over orange from Christmas if there were any but that was as close to a gift as he’d ever gotten. When he had assured Hydra that there was no need to fuss, she had puffed up like an angry kneazle and went on a long rant over having a day just for him. Tom simply smiled as he watched her continue to mumble under her breath as she pulled her wild hair into tight, intricate braids before they were cut off by a loud pop!

            “Master Dark Lord, sir!” a vaguely familiar house elf squeaked from their bathroom counter. “I is being sent from Mistress Malfoy. Mistress urges Master Dark Lord to come to the manor immediately.”

            “Tippy, is anyone in danger?” Hydra asked, worry etched across her brow and down the bond. “Was there an attack? The ball doesn’t start for another three hours. No guests should be there yet.”

            The little thing—of course Hydra knew the name of a completely random Malfoy elf—shook its head, large ear flapping. “No, Missy Hydra Potter. Tippy is just being told to bring Master Dark Lord as soon as possible.”

            “Return to Narcissa,” Tom ordered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Inform her that my wife and I shall be arrive within the hour. Whatever is so dire will keep for that long if Lucius didn’t use the Dark Mark to call for me.”

            “Yes, Master Dark Lord, sir!” the elf squeaked before popping away. Tom made a mental note to ask Hydra to add anti-apparition to their Ward Stone. Did that work on house elves?

            “I take it that we are using the hour to become properly terrifying rather than just intimidating?” Hydra remarked, amusement sparking along their bond. “How likely is it that your idiot followers are planning a mutiny before the ball?”

            Tom sighed with a bitter smile as he pulled his robes on. “Extremely. Almost all have been quite pleased with a political approach these past few years, specifically those with school age children. Even those that I rescued from Azkaban have fallen in line for the most part. Only those like Macnair and the Lestranges are unhappy with the less violent approach. Bellatrix, especially, has been bemoaning my lack of action and believes that you’ve bewitched me somehow.” He stood in front of the mirror, fixing any wrinkles or lint that appeared on his person. The mirror also gave him a perfect view of Hydra as she laughed outright, head thrown back and bearing her vulnerable neck—and the deep V of her dressing gown—to his heated gaze. Tom was tempted brand his claim on her golden skin, the impression of his teeth leaving no doubt of who she belonged to. Something on his face or down the bond must have given away his thoughts because as her laugh died down, Hydra’s smile grew fangs.

            “I’m flattered she finds me so captivating,” Hydra purred as she prowled behind him before wrapping herself around him from the back, breath warm on his own neck. Tom suppressed a delicious shudder at the feeling. “Have I bewitched you, love? Beguiled you into having morals?” Tom clenched his jaw as his darling’s delicate hands began to wander his chest and her soft form pressed closer. “Did I enthrall you so thoroughly that I have tamed the most powerful wizard of the century? A bit of seduction to transfigure a Dark Lord into a sweet…” (a kiss to the back of his neck) “…devoted…” (nails dragging down, down, down his stomach) “…beloved husband.” (Teeth sinking into the skin behind his ear and Tom snapped.) With a snarl, he whipped around to grip Hyra’s waist and plant her on the counter in front of him.

            “Ya tryin’ ta kill me, Treacle?” he growled, pulling one of her bare legs up and over his hip. “Ya keep it up, I’ll put ya ova me knee ‘til ya beg fa me’cy.”

            Draping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer, jewel eyes shining, she murmured against his lips, “Promise?” and Tom really couldn’t be held responsible for anything that happened after that. Suffice it to say that they didn’t make it to Malfoy Manor within the hour.

            Tom’s robes survived mostly unscathed, if a little wrinkled. The same could not be said of his hair or the smears of lipstick across his lips that Hydra stated him “wasn’t his color,” whatever that meant. Hydra, on the other hand, had to redo her hair and make-up completely as well as raise the neckline of her dress robes. He hadn’t been able to resist marking her and apparently “hickeys aren’t intimidating, Tom!” Personally, Tom had doubted that his tiny Treacle could look menacing without her wild magic sparking on her skin. Then she had exited the closet like a storm cloud of dark magic and sex appeal. Where her gown at Halloween had been an enticement, her robes now were a declaration of war.

Cut like battle robes, the thick, black brocade hugged her curves like a second skin from her chest down to her knee high, dragonhide boots. At her waist, a flare of a fabric added movement and femininity to the stiff, armored look.  Elaborate, deep green lace covered her arms, shoulders and neck in what was apparently called a faux neckline. Rouhi rested around her shoulders, lazily arranged but tensed to strike. All in all, she would be more at place on a battlefield than a ballroom and Narcissa Malfoy certainly agreed, if the tightening of her lips were any indication. Tom couldn’t have cared less about what his follower’s wife thought. Hydra was dressed in a way that left no doubt that she deserved to stand at his side.

“Apologies for running late, Lady Malfoy,” Hydra said as they exited the Floo chamber to the Malfoy couple waiting right by the door. “We had an unexpected delay. Please tell us what the issue is.” With a blank face and a glance at him, Narcissa wove a tale of an ill-advised plot to “rescue” the Dark Lord from the Light’s clutches. Bellatrix, her husband, and whatever low-level Death Eaters that could be riled into revolution with the promise of violence and glory. How Gryffindor-ish. Rabastan Lestrange was decidedly not a part of the scheme, despite being dragged along by Bellatrix and his brother. In fact, he had been the whistleblower, so to speak, and had made Narcissa swear to tell their Lord that he would never betray him.

Rage filled Tom the longer that Narcissa spoke. How dare they betray him!? Had he not given them freedom and the promise of a better world for their precious children? What more did they want from him? Power? What more power could there be than controlling the whole of the government with miniscule opposition. None of them want for wealth or security. Most of them hand never stared death in the face as his follower. Since his truce with Hydra, he had only resorted to torture in the most extremes of rage. Perhaps that was Tom’s mistake. His followers became too comfortable in their safety and now he was paying the price. Well, no more. Mercy would have no place in the face of treachery.

“Lucius,” he snapped, causing the blonde man to flinch. “Give me your arm.” Pressing his wand harshly to the man’s Dark Mark, Tom called his followers, urging the Mark to burn hotter than usual until they arrived. A small price to pay for his anger. They should be grateful he didn’t allow the dark magic to eat away at their flesh until the arm rotted off. Even that was too good for the traitors. For them, he would flay their skin, layer by layer, until his mark was no longer visible on their undeserving arm. Unluckily, they were branded down to their bones. Perhaps even further; he had never tested it.

“Gather everyone in the ballroom as they arrive,” Hydra ordered, gripping his hand as his mind spiraled into images of blood and screams. “We shall enter when everyone is here.”

“Do not order me in my own home, girl,” Lucius sneered as Narcissa sucked in a sharp breath. Tom’s vision was overtaken with red at the disrespect of his Lady while both snakes hiss warningly at the blonde Lord, fangs bared. Lucius flinched but in some show of foolish bravery, he did not back down. In fact, the stupid man even attempted to continue. Tom’s wand rose to Lucius’ heart, already glowing red. Suddenly, Hydra was between him and his follower, fingers covering his own.

“I am above you in every way that matters, Lucius Malfoy,” she told him, eyes never leaving Tom’s. “Even if I wasn’t your Lord’s wife and equal, my standing with both the Wizengamot and the Goblin Nation would entitle me to speak to you any way I please. And before you attempt to curse me while my back is turned, let me remind you that the last time you tried to kill me, you were defeated by a house elf.” Shooting a look over her shoulder, eyes sharp enough to cut diamond. “Do you truly fancy a rematch with a fully realized Weaver?”

Rushing in to save her idiotic husband, Narcissa bowed her head. “No, my Lady. We shall do as you say.”

“See that you do. Now go.” The sycophants scurried away, leaving him alone with his Treacle. With gentle pressure, Hydra stroked the line of his hand where his knuckles were white from how tightly he clutched his wand. His chest heaved with effort as he tried to wrangle his wrath but it flooded the bond like molten lead, causing Hydra to suck in a startled breath. For a terrifying moment, it felt as though he was trapped inside his own mind, drowning, while his body thrashed and screamed his fury. Was this what it was like before? Before negotiations, before rune covered trinkets, before promises made over ribbon-bound hands, before lazy kisses beneath rumpled sheets, before her? If so, how had he functioned? It was…pathetic. Lord Voldemort was meant to be more than this, more than a rage-filled lunatic who couldn’t even manage to pull himself out of his anger.

Then, small hands cradled his face and forced him to still. Down the bond, Hydra sent him peace-breathe-look-at-me until the only thing Tom could see was avada eyes, freckles like stardust, and the determined tilt of a stubborn chin. Suddenly, he was no longer drowning, alone in sea of rage. Instead, he was held safe in the eye of the storm. Feeling seeped back into his body and his wand clattered to the floor as he wrapped his arms around Hydra’s waist. Rage still trickled through his every cell, but the raging inferno had banked to smoldering coals in the face of Hydra’s calm. Without a word, Tom clutched her close and buried his face into her neck, jostling Rouhi who hissed in displeasure. Nagini curled around their feet, wordlessly hissing at her Master’s distress.

“Never leave me,” he ordered, voice cracking. “Never, Treacle.”

“I’m here, love,” she soothed, stroking the back of his head and murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. Tom’s arms tightened and he ruthlessly ignored that, once again, despite all her assurances, she never promised to stay.

Chapter Text

His hands clutched her close, pressing his forehead against hers until he felt composed enough to speak.

How dare they? I am their Lord! They swore their magic, wealth, and life to me. I own the very breath in their lungs! In return, I have led them toward a glorious future where Magic is free from short-sighted classifications and their children may live without fear of practicing their worship Rites.

“But you were not always so clear in your cause,” Hydra reminded him. Tom bristled, despite her magic plucking at the Lines to weave a soothing melody around them. He opened his mouth to protest but the brat just pressed a kiss to his lips to interrupt and kept going. “They are undoubtedly yours, luv, but those masterminding the rebellion are the ones who you recruited in the height of your violence. They are the ones who are the most loyal to you and not what you propose to fight for.”

“Then what would you have me do, Hydra Potter?” he snarled, his fingers digging into her skin much to Rouhi’s displeasure. “Forgive them? Let them live, only to betray me yet again? Just as you forced me to do with Severus? My followers are not your little friends who rush to their deaths for nothing more than loyalty and your smile. I must show the others that treachery will only lead their lives and legacy to ash.”

“First of all,” Hydra started, pulling away with a glare, “its Hydra Riddle now, you berk, and you’d best not forget again. I am yours as you are mine. Second, who the fuck said anything about forgiveness? I have no sympathy for traitors, however well intentioned. All I’m saying is that the timing and the suspects are suspicious.” Forcing himself to calm down and actually think about his darling was saying, Tom came to a conclusion rather quickly.

“You think they’re being manipulated?”

“I think they’re spineless bigots who can’t take a piss without your direction,” she replied, lips quirking up and Tom couldn’t help but huff a laugh. “That being said, it seems likely that this is Dumbledore’s opening move.”

“To what end?” he demanded, the mere mention of the old coot sparking his anger anew. “If it’s just to weaken my forces, there are easier targets with less loyalty than the Lestranges. Frankly, this feels more like a threat to you than to me. You are the Golden Girl, regardless of our relationship. Why would he use people intent on harming you?” Hydra froze, a fissure of guilt vibrating down the bond. Tom’s brow furrowed. He knew full well that his wife had secrets from him. It was simply the nature of those with power not to show all their cards. Despite almost a year passing, Tom still didn’t know what was in the potion she sent after each sabbat.  However, he had always assumed that whatever it was for his benefit. Hydra’s reaction filled him with paranoid doubts. Had she really been poisoning him this whole time? Was everything a ploy to weaken him? Surely, she couldn’t live beside him and sleep in his arms while planning to slip a knife between his ribs.

Hydra bit her lip, hesitating, before she replied. “Can you agree that you have…changed during the course of our truce negotiations and subsequent relationship?”

Tom nodded, though suspicion still swam through the bond. “In a manner of speaking, yes. I suppose I have been more prone to compromise with you.”

“Would it be fair to say that you have lost some of your instability, especially since we began living together?”

“I am not unstable!” Tom sneered, fist clenching. “Nor have I ever been, Hydra. What are you getting at?”

She grimaced and tugged at his wrists. It wasn’t until then that he noticed that his nails had once again dug into her skin but this time red tipped his fingers. A wash of something he’d rarely felt before carved a hold in his chest. He had hurt her without even realizing he’d been doing it!

“Tom, you once told me my letters used to make you blow out the windows of an entire wing of this manor,” Hydra told him, her magic gently washing her blood from his hands. “Stable magic doesn’t react to emotion like that.”

“Yours does,” he stated absently, still staring at his hand.

“I never claimed to be stable either, Tom,” she huffed, gripping one of his larger hands in two of hers. She brought his knuckles up to her lips, pressing against his skin. Finally, he allowed himself to meet her eyes and saw nothing but warmth there. “Sometimes, two unsteady things just need each other to stay upright. Think of what you would do if I was taken or hurt or even dead. And then think of how Dumbledore would take advantage of your rage.”

Tom could imagine it all too easily. Hydra, bloodied and broken at his feet, as his own Knights proudly presented her to him. He has to pretend that her chest is still moving because the alternative makes him want to claw out of his own skin. From there, his fury would never be contained. It would spread beyond those who had hurt his Treacle, to anyone that failed to fix her or stood in his path to saving her. Dumbledore would rally an army against the newly resurrected Voldemort and without Hydra by his side, Tom would bathe the world in blood until all of his enemies drowned.

“You…make me better,” he realized, the epiphany catching him off guard. He’d never thought that there was better than him. Lord Voldemort and Tom Marvolo Riddle were the peak of human existence and thus his actions were beyond reproach. No choice was bad simply because he had made it. And yet…he glanced at his hand again and, for a moment, all he could see was the shadow of every slaughtered innocent staining his soul. He had the ridiculous urge to yank himself away from Hydra so that the shadow would not stain her delicate, scarred skin. Rouhi peeked his hooded head up from beneath his mistress’ hair and the slitted red eyes seemed to pierce through him. The snake had always been a bit too smart, but now Tom felt as though the serpent could see right through him. Frankly, it was both disturbing and encouraging when he bobbed his head in concession before sinking back into his hiding place.

“I—do I?” she choked out and Tom finally noticed that the bond had gone silent in shock and something tremulous that he had never felt before. Almost like the first hesitant light of dawn. Avada eyes caught him in a wide, question gaze and all the rage burning through him was doused in a wave of sweet, soft fondness. For all her confidence, Hydra was still human—why did that idea no longer disgust him?—and required assurances of his affection. Well, who was he to deny his darling?

“Hydrangea Potter-Riddle-Gaunt-Black-Peverell-Slytherin.” Tom laughed as she scrunched up her nose in disgust. With a sigh of pure warmth, he lent his forehead against hers. “My Treacle.”

“You know, I really should come up with a similarly saccharine name for you,” she joked, nuzzling her nose against his.

Not a chance, darling. Now let me speak. Tom took a bracing breath. We are proven equals by not only the heavens but by action. Truly, not even previous Dark Lords have measured up to my power or conviction. Then a little slip of a girl called me a liar and defied me at every turn. And she never stopped pushing back against me, even when we were on the same side.

Hydra shrugged cheekily as if to say “someone had to” and then yelped as Tom pinched her side gently.

Hush, brat. I’m not done. Though we are equals, we are not the same. Where I am Dark, you are Light. I am the cruelty to your compassion while you are hope to my apathy. So yes, my dearest darling. You make me better, more complete. Just as I do for you.

The bond was wavering between wonder-bone-deep-relief and doubt-do-you-mean-it? The only thing Tom could think to do was to send back assurance-devotion-promise. They stood that way, lost in the warmth of their bond, until they were both content to be parted.

“Now, shall we go squash a rebellion?” he asked, pulling back slightly with a roguish grin. Hydra seemed to search his face for something before nodding. As he moved to go to the door, her hand on his chest stopped him.

“Tom,” she said, her voice ringing with the overtones of church bells. “I swear I will tell you everything…on your birthday. I promise.”

A gentle smile grew on his face as he clasped her hand in his. “Whenever you’re ready, Treacle.”

Hydra was feeling a bit overwhelmed. And by that, she meant that she was in a spiral of panic, hope, and crippling anxiety. Intellectually, she knew that the truth would come out soon. It was only a few months until Imbolc and there was no way Tom would allow Nagini to be used in a ritual without knowing what it was. Still, the dread of her husband’s reaction kept her up at night the closer the date became. Despite his protests, Tom was unstable and she never knew what would set him off. He never seemed to direct any of his harsher feelings toward her, but her scar let her know whenever he was torturing his followers. As time passed from the last soul potion they shared, the incidents became more and more frequent. The minute Tom was back in her presence, the fraying edges of his soul softened enough for some clarity.

To admit such a thing to not only himself but to Hydra? It was a strike of good luck that she would suspect was engineered if it wasn’t for the mutual hatred she shared with the Fates. That wasn’t to say that the thought of tomorrow didn’t terrify her. Rouhi was murmuring cautious assurances in her ear as Hydra tried to exude the confidence that “Consort of the Dark Lord” required. Tom tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as they entered the ballroom. The Death Eaters stood in stringent lines according to rank—shown by the intricacies of their masks. Their families stood huddled against the wall while attempting to remain their Pureblood affectation. With a cursory glance, Hydra assured herself that no children under sixteen were present.

Tom steered her to the dais at the front of the room and deposited her onto one of the matching thrones. As she sat, he raised her left hand to his lips and pressed them against her wedding ring. A startled gasp sounded from one of the families near the back doors and Hydra was sure that she heard an aborted shriek of anger from behind a mask. Nagini, who had taken a cue from her master, draped herself across Hydra’s lap with the majority of her body coiling around throne’s base. Hydra had no doubt that she made quite the picture with two very magical, very lethal snakes curled around her contentedly and the Lord of Serpents staring at her with smitten eyes. Tom seemed to like the image presented if the bond flaring with possessive heat was to be believed. To reassure her partner—and to stir the pot a bit—she allowed a besotted smile to engulf her face and brushed her fingertips on Tom’s sharp cheekbones in a way that bordered on indecent in Pureblood etiquette. His lips twitched in amusement before offering Hydra a regal nod before facing the awaiting masses.

“There has been…dissent amongst you, my dearest friends,” Tom hissed, every word elongating almost to the point of parseltongue. “Petty quarrels, doubt, insubordination.” The word rang through the extravagant hall, bouncing off the tall marble pillars and echoing back to where he was pacing. “I am a merciful Lord and I shall grant you the opportunity to air your grievances out in the open. Come now, who’s first?”

The silence afterwards was deafening.

Tom cocked his head to the side. “No one? Perhaps if I offered some incentive? Those who confess and fall upon my mercy shall be allowed to speak freely before judgement is passed. Any who I must hunt will be offered no such guarantee.” Still, no one stepped forward, though a few near the back seemed to squirm in discomfort. Frankly, Hydra was surprised no one had pissed themselves yet. At the lack of a response, Tom sighed in exaggerated disappointment and continued. “Very well then. Rabastan, step forward.”

Gasps echoed through the hall as a tall figure broke ranks with a deep bow and a murmured, “my Lord,” before removing his mask. Behind him, his brother was attempting to hold Bellatrix back from lunging forward like a rabid dog. Rabastan stood unflinchingly before the Dark Lord with the remains of his family hostile at his back. Hydra was unsure whether the man’s loyalty was truly strong enough to defy those closest to him or if it was just the fear of retribution, but it was no easy thing to be caught between two such forces.

“Rabastan Lestrange has come to his Lord with news of a rebellion,” Tom announced, his voice what finally drew Bellatrix’s attention away from her brother-in-law. “Those that I thought to be my most faithful conspire against me and my consort. Despite my orders and the oaths that they have made, these traitors thought they knew better than their Lord and sought to save me, Lord Voldemort. Tell me, Rabastan. Is the Dark Lord so pitiful a figure that I must rely on my own servants for protection?”

“No, my Lord,” Rabastan replied, face blank. “There is no greater wizard in history and though I do not understand fully, I trust in my Lord’s vision of the future.”

“And are you aware that my consort was the main architect of that vision?”

Surprise flickered through dark eyes. “I was not, my Lord. It is reassuring to know that our new Lady shares in our goals.”

Tom smiled with vitriol dripping from every word. “And yet, not all seem to understand the importance of my consort. Hydra Potter holds more power in a strand of her hair than most of you combined. She is to be the wife of the greatest Dark Lord in the world, your Lord, and holds her own distinctions beyond that. She is the key to our victory and more importantly, she. Is. Mine. And now, some insignificant usurpers have had the audacity to try and TAKE HER FROM ME!”

Hydra was immediately on her feet, after gently nudging a distraught Nagini to the floor, as the bond snapped and roiled with rage. The air felt electrified like the moment before lighting was about to strike. Still, she strode forward fearlessly and placed herself between her husband and his followers. Though it would be inappropriate ground him with much more than a brush of her hand, she allowed the bond to hum with here-promise-by-your-side-always.

“No one has taken me, my Lord,” she assured him, making a face at the address if only to make him crack a smile. “I am as yours as I have ever been. The same can be said of your followers. Do not punish all for the sin of a few.”

Tom drew a sharp breath through his nose and nodded. A collective sigh seemed to ripple through the room as everyone lost a bit tension—well, almost everyone. Red eyes flashed to the assembled behind Hydra while a sneer marred his beautiful features. “Your Lady is merciful. She cares for the fates of those who scorn and curse her name. You would do well to remember this moment when doubts enter your mind.”

“Merciful, perhaps, but also just,” Hydra smirked, turning and addressing the crowd. “Though I am against torture and death, I see no reason to forgo warranted punishment. I shall give you all one more chance to step forward before I call upon Lady Magic to seek my vengeance.” Unsurprisingly, the ringleader herself couldn’t hold herself back anymore.

“You filthy half-blood!” Bellatrix shrieked, wrenching away from her husband. “You dare to stand beside my Lord, the most powerful wizard to ever live! He would never abandon his glorious purpose for a scrawny mudblood. He has been bewitched by your Weaver’s magic!” Tom took a step toward, trembling with fury, but Hydra gave a minute shake of her head. His followers would never respect (or fear) her if she didn’t show herself capable of being his equal.

“Which is it, Bella?” Hydra taunted, her smile growing sharper as she sent confidence and assurance down the bond. “Is he the most powerful wizard alive or have I bewitched him? It can’t possibly be both. Perhaps you do not actually believe in your Lord.”

“I am his most precious servant!” the madwoman screamed, finally pulling out her wand. “I will rid him of your influence so he may rid the world of filth like you!” With an inarticulate shout of rage, she fired a wordless hex at the dais. Tom, to his credit, didn’t flinch as he watched the spellfire approach Hydra but the bond was vibrating with the urge to collapse the entire room on his followers. Hydra simply chuckled and unstitched the spell before it even reached the first step. Rabastan, in another unprecedented moment of bravery, conjured chains to secure Bellatrix before she could utter another spell. With a nod of acknowledgment and reassuring squeeze of Tom’s hand, Hydra descended the dais to stand before the hysterical woman.

Hydra shook her head, waving a hand through the air to pluck at the Weave all around her. “How unwise to draw your wand against the head of your family. Of course, as a Weaver I could do this to everyone in the room if I wished. Luckily for me, I take much more than just your magic in punishment.”

Trailing her fingertips against the gossamer threads of magic, she urged it seek out the Black family magic within the woman in front of her. Trilling like struck crystal, pure magic pierced the center of Bellatrix’s chest where her core rested. Harmonizing under her breath, Hydra willed the threads to find the veins of magic and slice through them, like severing an umbilical cord. Bellatrix whimpered and collapsed, unable to feel the magic that had been with her since birth.

“What have you done?” she rasped, glaring up at Hydra through her wild hair. “What have you done!”

“I have cut off your magic,” Hydra replied bluntly. “You still have a core because not even I can destroy what Lady Magic has given but you will never again wield a wand or perform anything but the most rudimentary of magics.” A gasp rippled through the ballroom as Hydra’s words settled. The fiercest fighter among the Death Eaters was little more than a squib and their new Lady said that she was capable of doing that to anyone. Hydra supposed that would be enough to break many a pureblood mask of indifference. At her feet, Bellatrix began thrashing about on the ground within her chains, screaming wordlessly.

Hydra ignored the fit of the Black madness. “In the past, I graciously allowed you to keep your name mostly because I never wanted to be face to face with you again. I see now that my mercy was misplaced. Bellatrix Black Lestrange, from this day you have no right to the family magic, no claim to any wealth of the family, and no name to uphold your blood. As Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House Black, I banish you from our family and severe all ties you have within it. So I have spoken it, so mote it be.”

She felt Tom approaching before he ever reached her, bond shimmering with awe-pride-wantwantWANT. Placing his hands upon her shoulders, he stood behind her as an obvious pillar of support and unity.  Bellatrix’s wails grew in hysteria and Hydra could imagined the pitiless, glee-filled eyes she saw as the Dark Lord viciously hissed,

“So mote it be.”