Archive of Our Own

Voldemort had known from the moment he saw his own reflection, seeing the vision from her nightmares, that there was something more to Hermione’s background. For a fleeting moment he thought she might have been gifted with Sight, but his witch was almost unreasonably logical. The Fates would have wasted a gift of that nature on her. Only after Albus Dumbledore’s death, when they said Potter and his Mudblood had vanished, did he learn her name and realize she had traveled through time for him. 

Hermione Granger. 

The name had been sneered cruelly by the young Parkinson witch who fawned over Draco, and he had nearly killed her for it. House Malfoy had been made to pay for her transgression, and deep down, he thought Abraxas would have agreed with that decision. He had always adored her. In his youth, when he was still Tom Riddle, he had been irritated by Abraxas’ brotherly affection towards her, but with age, he was grateful for it. No one would have dared speak of her this way, within these walls, had Abraxas still been around. 

Then he saw her in the fractured memories of Antonin Dolohov and Thornfinn Rowle. She had leaned over them, held her wand to their temples, and Obliviated them. She had done quite well with the spellwork and it had taken hours under the Crutiatus before he was able to break them. 

Hermione had looked like the young, scrappy witch he had first met, and was not yet the bold young woman he had been married to. Meaning, at that point, she had not gone back yet. What was the catalyst for her sudden time travel? Why hadn’t she remembered anything from this time? Where had she gone? Was she coming back? The never ending questions kept him up at night. 

But now, it had been at least five years since anyone had seen her. The last time she was spotted was when she infiltrated the Ministry with the Potter boy and their tag along Weasley. If he thought about it, it all made sense. That is exactly the type of plan his wife would have come up with, and she had certainly had the tenacity to follow through with it. With the knowledge he had now, he often found it interesting that she had been drawn to the Potters and the Weasleys of his generation as well, even without her memories of the ones she had previously been close with. Time travel was clearly a fickle thing. 

Being a ruler was a position that did not offer much respite, but there were two days in the year that he took for himself. The first being 7 May, their wedding anniversary, and the second being 19 September, his wife’s birthday. 

It was not that he was terribly sentimental, not usually at least, he truly just wished to be alone on these days. If she were still here, he would have spent those days isolated from the rest of the world apart from her, so it felt fitting to do the same, even though he was alone. He had often been accused of living without love, and that much was true, although not in the way Dumbledore and his acolytes intended. Voldemort was very much capable of love, but it was reserved for only one person. It was a great and powerful thing, and he would not insult her, or their marriage, by comparing it to the weak, inferior love others succumbed to. 

His followers knew not to contact him for anything less than an extreme emergency on these days. If they were to do so for anything less than a full scale siege on Malfoy Manor, they would pay dearly.

For that reason, he was supremely irritated when he felt Bella summon him. He ignored it. It was his own fault, he supposed, for indulging in his more carnal desires. The insane witch had an unyielding infatuation with him that went well beyond obsession, and he simply could not shake her. 

Bella summoned him a second time and he ignored it. Again.

And then Lucius Malfoy summoned him. 

Voldemort leaned forward in his chair to look out the large ornate window of his private sitting room, and saw no siege at the gates. So, once again, he ignored the summons.

He jolted out of his armchair in the most undignified manner when a white hot brand seared the fourth finger of his left hand. His hand shook as he watched an obsidian ring materialize on the finger. 

His wedding band. 

In his old life, he had never taken the thing off, but had merely disillusioned it when conducting his business. He lifted his hand to inspect the stone ring and felt something hollow ache in the center of his chest. How had it come to be there? And what caused it to reappear now?

Before he could ponder its appearance further, he received a summons that he would never deny, directly from the ring.

There was only one individual who had ever lived who could summon him in this manner.

When he rematerialized in the grand Entrance Hall of the Manor, the scene was chaotic. 

There was a crystal chandelier smashed and splintered where it had been blasted from the ceiling, unconscious bodies littering the floor, and people running for cover. His Death Eaters, of all ranks and stations, lined the walls of the Hall, cowering in fear as brilliant crackles of magic exploded around the room. 

At the very center of all of it was his wife. Hermione. 

She was wearing the short dusty rose colored silk negligee and matching robe that she had worn the morning she had dissolved into golden embers right before his eyes nearly 52 years ago. Her feet were bare, her hair was wild, and her face radiated fury. 

“Oh, how nice of you to finally join us,” she bit out as she glowered at him. 

Voldemort couldn’t help but smile. She had truly never looked more beautiful. 

“Granger, what the fuck are you doing?” Draco Malfoy asked as he entered the far end of the hall with his wand drawn. “Why are you here? And how did you get past the wards?”

The Malfoy Heir had a bit too much concern in his voice for Voldemort’s liking. “Shut up, Draco.”

“Yes,” Hermione mocked. “Do shut up, Draco!”

An indignant scream wrenched the air, just before Bellatrix attempted to curse her. The curse was deflected by an invisible shield that made his own wedding band pulse, which meant his spellwork still held after all this time. “You dare? You dare to mock the Dark Lord?!”

“Bella,” he admonished. “Hold yo—“

He was cut off by a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, you cannot be serious?!”

He fought to repress another grin as a wave of nostalgia struck him. Her voice was shrill, she was completely incensed, and had even stamped her foot. It was utterly adorable. 

A ripple of stunned gasps echoed across the hall as many of his followers would never have dared interrupted him. Their fear was palpable. She, however, remained undeterred and took a step closer, kicking aside shards of glass with her bare feet. 

“Bel-la?” She asked incredulously, imitating his voice with a petulant sneer. “Really? Right in front of me? You have some nerve, Tom Riddle!” The irritation was now rolling off the witch in waves. If looks could kill, a lesser man would certainly be dead. She was beautiful. Striking. A goddess fueled with righteous anger. 

And she had come back to him. 

“M-my Lord,” Lucius said from his right. “I’m afraid I do not understand…”

Voldemort did not immediately respond, and instead began winding his way through her path of destruction, only calling out to his followers when he was a few paces from her. 

“My faithful servants, it brings me great pleasure to introduce you to my wife—“ sharp gasps sounded from all around the hall, but he continued. “Mrs. Hermione Riddle was once lost to time, but, as you can all plainly see, she has returned to me.”

“Y-your wife?” Bella asked in a hollow voice, with ill disguised panic in her eyes. 

It may have been several decades since he had seen his wife, but he knew better than to pay another witch attention in her presence, so he continued as if Bella hadn’t spoken. 

“To answer Draco’s question, she will always be able to access the wards here as my soulbonded wife.” He stepped closer to her and saw her jaw clench. “In fact, we were married in the Manor gardens in 1945, and she spilled blood here during the ritual.”

“What the fuck?” Draco swore, earning him a tut from his mother, as if he wasn’t a grown man and a seasoned war general. 

Voldemort closed the distance between himself and Hermione and reached out to gently coil one of her chestnut curls around his forefinger.

“Oh yes, Draco. We were Hogwarts sweethearts,” he said conversationally, which made his wife snort indignantly. 

But he knew better. He could feel her pulse thrumming rapidly through the charms on his wedding ring, and he could see her nipples straining the thin silk of the negligee. If memory served, the morning she had disappeared had been exceedingly pleasant, and there was nothing underneath. That was the moment something long forgotten flared to life in the back of his mind. His wife was standing nearly nude, bleeding, and frightened with dozens of his followers gawking at her. 

That was unacceptable. 

Voldemort gently unwound her curl from his finger as his wand hand came around her back and crushed her small frame into his front, shielding her from view. In the next breath he apparated them back to his private quarters. 

They had barely planted their feet on the floor when she crumpled. He sank with her as she began to cry, and stroked her back. The action felt foreign and natural all at once. She was the only one he had ever touched in this manner, and now he would never stop, not if he could help it.

After a few moments, she sat up and scrutinized him, while her chin trembled and the corners of her mouth pulled down. Hermione cupped his face tenderly, looking up at him with tear stained cheeks. “What have you done to yourself, pretty boy?”

He allowed his eyes to flutter shut as the pain of that name lanced him through the heart. 

For the first time since she had vanished, Voldemort nearly regretted it all. “I’m afraid I’m not quite certain, pretty girl, but please trust that I’ve been trying to unravel it so that I may fix it.” 

“Our soul, Tom… you mangled our soul. Ours. Not just yours. How could you?”

The accusation, while alarmingly accurate given her limited information, struck like a heavy blow. 

“Hermione, I did not think—“ he was cut off as she physically jerked away from him with a sharp gasp, blood trickling from where he had unconsciously gripped her too hard. 

“And why do you have claws?” She cried, truly sobbed, shielding herself as if he were a monster from one of her novels, whose sole purpose was to maim her. 

Voldemort looked down at his hand, and suddenly realized that he was not sure. Perhaps he had kept his nails sharpened for intimidation purposes in the beginning, but now it was merely a habit to do so. With a silent grooming charm, the kind he had used in another life, his fingernails were trimmed tidily. 

It was surreal to recognize his own hands for the first time in decades, but he did not dwell. Instead he flicked his fingers, healing the wounds on her legs. He showed her his hands before slowly reaching for her. When she didn’t stop him, he scooped her up and curled her into his lap the way he once had many years ago. 

“Tell me what happened to you, pretty girl.” It was not a question, but he had the good sense not to phrase it like the command it really was. 

She sagged into him and buried her face in his chest. “I don’t know,” she sniffled. “For me, it was just this morning, but I know it’s been years, decades, for you. Do you remember the way I broke apart?”

Yes, he certainly did. Watching her panic as she dissolved into golden embers in the middle of their bedroom. He simply hummed in confirmation. 

“Everything went dark, and I was stuck in complete blackness for what felt like a long while, and then I was suddenly in the Forest of Dean, with memories from another life flooding back in. That’s how I knew you would be here.”

Voldemort began to stroke up and down her spine as he processed her words. Hermione was a terrible liar, and always had been, so even though there were portions of her tale that did not make sense to him, he knew she was telling the truth. 

“How did you know it was the Forest of Dean?” He asked after a long moment. 

She sighed heavily, and her hot breath permeated through his robes. “That’s where I was when I was sent back. The old campsite was still there, meaning Harry and Ron never found their way back to it.” She sighed again. “Are they alive?”

The melancholy in her voice nearly crushed him. Out of everyone, it was only ever her that affected him in such a manner. 

“Yes,” he replied, steeling himself for the ugly part. “Although, I am not sure how. Harry Potter simply refuses to die.”

That earned him a hard smack to the chest, then more sniffles. “He was my best friend, you unimaginable arse.”

“You do not understand, my love. I hit him squarely in the chest with a Killing Curse, and he somehow survived it,” he explained gently. 

She jolted in his arms at that news, and twisted her face to look up at him. He hated the slight way she flinched upon seeing his more serpentine features. “God, I should hate you, but I already know that I can’t. I badly want to hate you for what you've done to us.” She sniffled in an unladylike manner. “You betrayed me, Tom. I trusted you with my soul, and you destroyed it.”

Her large amber eyes were still glassy with tears and her lower lip began quivering more forcefully. He never could handle her crying. It was so unlike the small children from Wool’s, or the insufferable teenage dramas of their Hogwarts years. Her tears had always felt like a tragedy, even before they were soul bonded, but especially after when he could feel the echoes of her pain.

Voldemort pulled her back into his chest and placed a tender kiss upon her unruly curls while she sobbed into his robes. 

At some point, after she had cried out all of her tears, she dozed off in his arms. Carefully, he shifted her in his arms so that he could stand and carried her to his private bed chamber, where he tucked her in at the very center of the massive four poster. Voldemort knew she would likely wake with renewed anger, so he did not completely strip as he usually would for bed. Being horrifically maimed and cursed by his vicious little wife would be significantly less appealing in the nude. Instead, he shed everything but his trousers and then crawled in after her. Snaking his arms around her and pulling her back tightly against his front was second nature to him, and was evidently the right thing to do, because she let out a contented sigh and relaxed into him.

For the first time in a long time, since the day he lost her, Voldemort allows himself to relax and drift into a light sleep with somebody else in his bed. 

“Tom?”

The sweet sound of his name in that voice felt like a dream. Except that wasn’t his true name anymore. He had eradicated it from their world after he lost her.

Unfortunately, there was also no reasonable way to justify the placement of his hands at that particular moment. His right fully cupped one of her breasts and his left was between her legs, tucked snuggly in between her thighs, and his thumb brushing the overbearing heat of her cunt. 

From the way the light slanted through the windows it was clear they had only slept for a few hours. It at least gave him a path to a safe conversation. 

“Hello, pretty girl. Did you sleep well?” Voldemort asked softly as he brushed his lips against her neck, hoping to put a pin in her ire before she could really get it worked up.

“I did,” she replied breathlessly. 

Voldemort’s eyes snapped open. That breathy voice spoke directly to his cock. He could ignore it, or… not. 

“Happy anniversary, Hermione” he nearly whispered into her skin as he took a risk, and rolled his hips into her bum. “This is the best gift you could have given me. You being here with me.”

Slowly, so that she would have the opportunity to stop him, he removed his hand from its warm resting place, and guided her left leg over his own, spreading her wide. 

He skimmed over her mons with the same deliberate slowness. When she didn’t intervene, he pushed for more, and Hermione let out a sharp gasp as he dipped into her core briefly, then used her own wetness to circle her clit.

“You are so wet. Is this all for me?”

“We already made love this morning,” she panted out. 

Voldemort paused as he processed that information. That meant…

“Are you telling me that you have carried my come with you, 52 years into the future?”

Hermione squirmed against him, and he was certain she was blushing furiously. “Y-yes.”

The thought alone had sent all available blood rushing straight to his cock. He pinched his eyes shut in an effort to control himself. “You have been stuffed and dripping with my spend for over half a century.”

His complex emotions were hard to nail down, as it wasn’t a skill he had regularly used, but he could identify lust, and, what was unmistakenly, glee.

“Half a century,” Voldemort repeated, this time whispering it in her ear. “You are a bit of a drippy mess, pretty girl. Do you want me to fill you up again?”

Hermione gripped his wrist and halted his movements, but didn’t push him away. “W-wait! Your tongue isn’t… forked, is it?”

An unexpected deep laugh burst from him, then he leaned forward to lick the length of her neck, which made her shiver. “Definitely not.”

The immense sag of relief was almost a little offensive. “Do you truly hate my appearance that much? I have never known you to be so superficial,” he teased before liking and sucking his way up her neck again. 

“Your skin is nearly a pale green, Tom,” she deadpanned, like he was being ridiculous. 

Voldemort nipped her with his teeth. “You will be quite pleased to know that my cock is still the exact same—“

“Except for the color,” she interjected. 

“Well, if I recall correctly, it was never the color of my cock that made you arch off the bed while begging to be taken.” He bit her neck again and felt her shiver. “So tell me, do you want it?”

There was a pregnant pause, and then she nodded. 

Wasting no time, Voldemort vanished his trousers and freed his aching cock. Reaching down between them, he lined himself up with her soaking wet cunt  and slowly pushed the tip between her lips. Her nails dug into his skin on his wrist and her breathing hitched as he stretched her wide. He paused and looked down at her waiting for her to adjust, looking for any sign of pain or distress, and finding neither. 

The moment she relaxed, he began moving his hips forward, thrusting into her from behind. 

“Tell me,” he commanded, just as he had done so many time during their marriage. He needed to hear her say it. 

“You feel so good..”

Voldemort tutted at her and gave a sharper thrust. “Try again, pretty girl.”

She was truly panting now, and arched her back to allow him better access from where he spooned her body. “I love you, Tom.”

A deep groan rumbled in his chest at those words, and he pushed into her with all his might, just the way she like it. The harder he fucked her, the more obvious it became that Hermione could not control the moans or whines that eminated from her. She was intoxicating.

“And I love you,” he said easily. “You… you are mine, my beautiful wife. And you have finally found your way back to me.”

Voldemort snaked his free hand down between her legs and begin rubbing firm circles into her clit. He grinned to himself at the sharp gasp the sensation wrenched from her.  

“Tom, please. Please! Oh god...” Hermione was now nearing frantic as he pounded into her, begging for release with each ragged breath. 

“You want me to fill you up, pretty girl?” He asked in a low voice, feeling as though he was nearing the edge of his own pleasure as well. 

Hermione nodded furiously, as she turned her head and captured his lips and a kiss. It was sloppy and wet, but also sent a thrill of victory, pulsing through him. After the comment about the forked tongue, he didn’t think that she would ever kiss him.

The little minx then bit his lower lip. “Fill me up properly, pretty boy. Give me your baby.”

In another life, he would have given her as many babies as she wanted. Not that he liked them necessarily, but if it would have made her happy, he would have done so. The thought of her growing round with his child nearly pushed him over. Her cunt fluttered around him rapidly, and he knew she was close. 

Just when he thought he wasn’t going to be able to take it anymore, she shattered. Her whole body spasmed with her orgasm. 

Mere seconds later, Voldemort came with a ragged groan as his cock pulsed within her hot, and impossibly wet, cunt, filling her to the brim. 

He held her closely, kissing her languidly, as he felt his come beginning to drip out of her overly stuffed cunt. 

“I’m still mad at you,” she muttered against his lips. “And I’m still going to try to hate you.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I would expect no less.”

.

More than a week had passed since Hermione had reappeared in his life, and, shockingly, things had been fairly smooth. Well, she hadn’t tried to burn the Manor down or kill anyone, so it felt like positive momentum.  But, he knew her, his soul bound wife, and he could sense her restlessness, her unease and open disgust for his Death Eaters. There was also a large amount of anger towards him, and she lashed out frequently, lecturing him the way she had once done. Her favorite subject to scold him over was his allegedly cold demeanor, and his casual use of the Cruciatus Curse. 

Her rants and lectures usually came at breakfast, and that day’s topic was in regard to their current accommodations. 

“I would like to go back to our cottage. I hate it here.”

Voldemort could only blame himself. He never should have told her he had magically preserved their home, leaving it in the exact state it was in on the day she disappeared. 

“You are not leaving,” he said flatly. “End of discussion.”

Hermione’s beautiful amber eyes narrowed at him. “Excuse me? Not the end of this discussion. We have our own home, Tom, one that I would really rather prefer we return to.”

It had been decades since anyone had defied him in such a manner, in fact, she might have been the last to do so. “No.”

“And why not?” She asked with obvious indignation. 

“Because I said no,” he replied dismissively. 

Her magic crackled the air around them. 

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, looking as though she was holding herself back from clawing at him. “Perhaps you should try that again, Tom.”

Her tone was deadly, and he did not truly wish to fight with her, so he tried a new tactic. “We have a whole wing of the Manor to ourselves, and you are welcome to anything within the boundaries of the Malfoy Estate. There is the library, potions labs, gardens, dueling halls, stables, and quite literally anything you could want. I will not begrudge you or interfere in any hobby or interest within these wards that you choose, but you are not leaving them.”

Hermione shoved away from the table, leaving her breakfast untouched, and began to pace. “I don’t want hobbies, Tom! I want to go home! To our marital home! I do not want to squat in someone else’s stately Manor and pretend that we belong here—“

He was beginning to lose his patience. “Enough.” 

But she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “This is not what we wanted. We are not these people. Frankly, I am shocked that you would pretend otherwise. Or does this new form come with a lack of self respect? I su—“

“Crucio!”

He hadn’t meant it, not really, so it shouldn’t have hurt her. The enchantments on her ring had also flared to life, protecting her from feeling any real pain, while striking him like a thunderbolt, making him sway on the spot. 

One look at her face told him that she had felt just enough of the curse to be furious. 

“Your Lord has spoken! You should know better than to speak out of turn and I will not tolerate such insolence. From anyone.”

“Apologies, I seemed to have been under the impression that I was speaking with my husband—“

“Tom Riddle is dead! He is not coming back, and you would do well to remember that moving forward,” he hissed out in a low, deadly voice.

The way she flinched as though he’d struck her made something long forgotten and ugly bloom within him. Voldemort thought he would have to face her wrath,but  all traces of emotion vanished from her eyes. Like her spark had gone out.

“The mistake was mine, my Lord. If you’ll excuse me.” She gave a small bow of her head, keeping her eyes downcast. 

Her tone may have been perfectly polite, but it sent icy tendrils of dread shooting through his veins. 

“Hermione?” But she had already turned and was striding from the room. “Wait!”

She stopped walking, but did not turn. 

“Is that an order, my Lord?”

Voldemort hated the way she said it, his title. It sounded wrong on her lips. He also hated the detachment in her voice. “Of course not.”

Her steps resumed as if there had been no interruption. 

“Where are you going?” He called, but was met with silence. 

The only thing that betrayed her calm was the force in which she slammed the door. The air in the room felt oppressive without her in it, and made something sharp begin twisting in his gut. 

After several minutes of staring at the closed door, Voldemort realized that it was regret. Regret for attempting to curse her.  Regret for, as she had said, becoming so cold hearted that torture was his first instinct. Regret for all the choices he had made that currently drove a wedge between them. 

There was a part of him that wanted to force her to get over these obstacles, and it was a significant part of him. But he knew better. In their seven years together, two at Hogwarts and five married, he had never been able to force Hermione into anything. That version of himself would have never wanted to. 

The thought of it nearly made him sick. 

What a fool he had been. How had he lost sight of what truly mattered? Over and over he had told himself that everything he had done was for his lost love, but Hermione would never have wanted any of it. 

She had only ever wanted him and their quiet existence in Riddle Cottage with her books and potions experiments. 

He should have tried to find her instead of just accepting that she was gone. 

He should have never abandoned his name, their name. 

He should have never split their soul. 

What was the point of them living forever if she refused to do so at his side?