"I want a ring," Hermione states causally as the couple prepared themselves for a tedious Yuletide Ball hosted at Malfoy Manor. "Also how do I introduce myself?"

True to his word, Abraxas Malfoy had executed the nascent of plan: Make-Tom-Minister with Tom none the wiser through allowing his wife to host the annual elite get-together rather than the Rosiers.

"Lady Riddle works, I suppose. Diamond?"

"No," Hermione shook her head, referring to the gemstone, "Make it interesting,"

Tom smirked, "Shall I get you something similar to what darling Walburga was wearing the other day?"

The curly haired witch shuddered as she remembered the monstrosity of an heirloom the Black witch had adorned during one of the Knights of Walpurgis' meetings. Though she despised the haughty witch (especially due to her first impression as a portrait in Grimmauld Place in the 90s), Hermione had managed to convince her husband to allow not only males with connections, but females exerting extraordinary power too.

Something that most Black children had.

"You dare get me anything like that hideous thing and I'll burn both of your horcruxes into crispy cinders," she threatened with narrowed eyes, her vinewood wand twirling between her fingers.

As intimidating of a stance she had adopted, the witch could never quite frazzle the immortal man. He would simply incline his head with a devilish smirk planted on his sinful lips, before pressing them to hers with an amused gleam in his eye.

"Of course," he pressed a kiss to her unjewelled palm, "Expect it soon, my saviouress,"

"You don't seem to like the name Riddle, yet you won't change it to Gaunt. Why?" Hermione questioned as the couple gracefully glided across the lengthy distance from the gates to the darkishly beautiful manor.

"The Gaunt name is irreparable. Pureblood or not. Their insanity and their disrespect for their ancestry lost them all respect," Tom explained, the hand hosting the ring containing both his soul and the resurrection stone resting on her seemingly dainty one clutching loosely to his inner elbow, "Riddle — as much as I hate my father — is new. Fresh." there was an excited glimmer in his eyes that most would disregard as a trick of the light, though Hermione knew him well enough, "Proving my heritage and then keeping a good public face would raise the reputation of Slytherin. Especially with a muggle name."

"You'll gain supporters from more than simply the aristocratic?" Tom nodded in confirmation. "You might end up losing some of your original Knights then," Hermione pointed out wisely as she smiled at a passing albino peacock strutting in the lavish gardens.

"True. However, popularity with the press and the wider public will gain weight. And with the Malfoys and the Blacks ranking close to Wizarding Royalty had there been a monarchy, then the remainder are inconsequential."

Hermione hummed as they drew close to the daunting building. Although much time had passed since her deposition into the 1950s and her torture in the very building she was now acquaintances with the wards, the witch still couldn't control the fear lingering within her, causing her to hesitate in climbing the first step to the archaic door.

"Hermione," Tom breathed closely to her ear as her grip subconsciously tightened in the presence of the location of her nightmares. They both hoped the Ball wasn't anywhere near that particular drawing room. "Little witch, we shall only remain for a few hours. Excuse yourself for having caught—"

"No, no," the nineteen year old witch shook her head reverently, tamed caramel curls hitting the luxurious dress Cygnus had gifted her for her birthday softly, "I have to get over it someday. Technically it hasn't happened. And it won't." she steeled herself.

Tom was fond of his wife. He still did not yet understand the pool of love, though he had a faint feeling that he was drawing close to it even if the words would never leave his lips for his witch's ears to hear. Bending down to pick up a stray, white feather; the man placed it in her hands before hovering his over them. Closing his eyes, he felt his magic slither towards the inanimate object and coil around it like the predator his power (and he) was.

Tom picked up the transfigured object to assess it for any faults that needed tweaking. The white feather had been manipulated into the shape of a floral, rose gold tiara.

Collecting a small pebble dusted to the corners of the staircase, the wizard duplicated it before waving his hand over to effortlessly transfigure them into diamonds.

Hermione gasped, "Are they real?" she asked as she examined the gems that twinkled under the flitting lights of Malfoy magic.

"Pure," Tom said as he silently attached them to the tiara, "At least, until a directed Finite,"

"It's beautiful," Hermione complimented in awe, her breath catching in her throat when she felt him adjusting her hair to clip it in.

He smiled — a small, handsome grin he had developed over the time he had spent with Hermione (which she hoped to enlarge to a laugh later on). "Rose gold suits you."

Another kiss to her temple and they were inside.

"My, Abraxas," Hermione greeted as she sipped a glass of champagne while her husband conversed with people of political power, "This is a nice party,"

The blonde man ensured there were no eavesdroppers by placing a carefully cast Muffliatio, then he snorted, "Nice? I'm trying not to fall asleep standing up!"

Hermione grinned her agreement, "Tom's doing well, I take it?"

"Oh, more than well," Abraxas praised, "He's a natural politician. I thought I'd have to guide him into meeting the people that'd help him attain control over the Ministry but he's gone and done it all by himself,"

Hermione allowed herself a concealed smile behind her glass of alcohol at her husband's success. This was another step for a brighter future where her past didn't exist. "Thank you, Malfoy," she said before commenting offhandedly, "How do you think Ignatius Malfoy would look under six feet of soil?"

A shaky breath escaped the blonde man before a cunning smirk grew on his lips, "Wonderful," his eyes lightened at the idea of regaining his son back, "Absolutely wonderful,"

Tom was leaning against a bare table, surrounded by men who would unconsciously help him pave his way into the Minister's Office when Hermione had intertwined her dainty fingers with his and rested her head against his shoulder tiredly.

He placed a kiss on her shimmer-powdered eyelids — a form of affection he had noticed becoming more subconscious than purposeful — and introduced her to the hoard of men while wrapping a protective arm around her waist. "My wife, Hermione,"

Jealousy and disgust sparked within the deep pits of his dark being as he observed the lustful leers and appraisal of her aesthetic appearance present on every man he had been conversing with's faces. They were all married with their own wife and children to care for; his witch was only for his pleasure, nobody else's.

Clearing his throat, he caught their attention, "Gentlemen, we'll be taking your leave," he turned to eye the Delacour Patriarch, the only male that hadn't thought his wife attractive, "I'll be looking forward to future communication, Monsieur Delacour. Have a pleasant journey home,"

A final dazzling smile and the couple were escorted to Abraxas' private floo and were whisked away through brick walls until they toppled through the fireplace in their adjoined living room.

Hermione had barely made it to the sofa before falling asleep, exhausted from the extensive social dances and verbal tangos attempting to find the next demoralising piece of gossip that held the potential destroy. Tom realised that he too was tired when the chime of the clock in the nearby town had tolled midnight.

Carrying the sleeping witch to their shared bed, the dark haired wizard eyed the white oxford hanging on the armrest of the single desk chair in the room. Smirking, he removed it from its hanger and proceeded to undress his wife — first with her heels, then her dress and corset and the modest stockings she wore underneath to shield herself from the cold.

Tom hushed her whimper as he buttoned the shirt before removing his formal robes. Placing a kiss to her neck, he wrapped his arms possessively around her, as though doing such would remove the appreciative glances she had received during the night from any other but himself.

"Tom," she whispered as her eyes fluttered open yet shut just as quickly, "Tom?"

"Here, little witch," he murmured against her throat, "Sleep, you're tired,"

"No," she denied with a yawn, "I'm hungry."

"Didn't you eat a bit at the party?"

Hermione snorted, "Did you know that taking even a single finger food is considered bad etiquette?" her left hand moved to tangle itself within his dark locks, "Go make me spaghetti,"

"That isn't something I have the ingredients for, witch,"

Hermione groaned as she blindly reached for the nightstand and fumbled for her wand. Upon finally grasping a hold of it, she waved it over herself to remove the cosmetics she had applied. "What can be made really really fast?"

"Egg?"

"I can't wait for more imports and exports to be introduced." Hermione said with a frown, not wanting an egg, "I'll cook you my mother's favourite chicken spaghetti— that reminds me, do you remember a boy named James Granger? And a girl, Dorothy Swan?"

Tom tensed as his memories guided him back to Wool's Orphanage; a time he would rather forget than reminisce. "The names ring a bell," he said indifferently, his voice failing to betray his confusion in the manner his curious gaze did.

"They are— were my grandparents," she sighed as her fingers twirled an ebony curl, "Dorothy is a witch, you know."

"Is she?" he queried, "I never sensed an aura around her..."

Hermione smiled faintly as Tom inadvertently mimicked what he had said during their first stand off but in a much tamer manner.

"She's average in magical prowess but she's a genius in potions." the witch explained, "James is from a long line of squibs. Or that's what I found in my research in the original timeline." she began to draw abstract patterns on the soft flesh of his pale cheek, "With Dorothy's magical blood being diluted with muggles so much, the magic line stayed dormant in my parents and somehow reconciled in me."

"You are a descendant of Dagworth-Granger," Tom stated in awe.

Hermione shrugged, another yawn escaping her, "Time messes up a lot of things. I'm not quite sure what I am, or what my purpose is anymore,"

The dark wizard placed his finger on her lips, ending her short rant of confusion regarding her life and existence, "You are my saviouress, My Hermione," he purred in the quiet of what was once his and was now their room. "You now hold the responsibility in helping me continue Salazar Slytherin's bloodline. No pressure," he grinned.

Hermione bit her trembling lip, willing herself not to cry at his sweet words and light jest. She tried to remind herself of his silver tongue — quick to say what was wanted to be heard — but found that she couldn't as she stared at her husband, Tom Riddle's eyes that betrayed his sincerity.

Perhaps he didn't love her in that moment, but he could assure anyone that he was most certainly a multitude of steps closer than he had been five months ago.

And to think that it had all started because she felt the need to reprimand and admonish his former, psychotic, petulant self. Well... Tom was confident when he said he had learned his lesson and thus had earned his reward for his almost-redemption.

After all, as strong a persuasive hand Hermione independently held, Tom's influence was far greater. She swayed him away from destruction and he dragged her between what was considered Light and what was considered Dark.

And despite his previous grandstand failure, Tom knew that with Hermione there would be little chance of it ever happening again.

.