If there were two things that Hermione had learned from the night prior, it was that Tom Riddle was inexplicably wondrous at sex and he was also prone to possessive cuddling in the post-coital afterglow.

Stretching her sore limbs, the witch slowly edged her way to the shower after detangling herself from her husband's stiff arms and proceeded to wash off any lingering remnants she had missed in her tired state. It was truly a wonder how she had gone from loathing the man with every inch of her being to fucking him because of a few well placed, sensual touches. Naturally, Hermione assured herself that there had been little to no chance of receiving a dosage of any type of infatuation potion and had cast medical checks to ensure that nothing had been placed on her while she was dizzied with lust.

Had they used a contraception charm last night?

Hermione truthfully couldn't remember and her scans detailed the absence of lingering contraceptive magic. She shuddered at the thought of having to ask.

Thoroughly cleansed and smelling as lovely as the man himself, the curly haired witch frowned at the crisp white shirt hanging from the hook of the door. It had been close to ten days since she had last worn the garment meaning she had only been in the past for ten days. Time moved awfully slow in the fifties, Hermione mused as she dried her hair with the towel Tom had brought her. Although the rough texture did little to ease the frizzing of her curls, the witch didn't feel it necessary to pack the multitude of conditioners and serums her mother had bought for her a few weeks prior to being subjected to the Obliviate charm as her priority had been more for practicality than beauty.

And now, probably only three or four were on the market.

Leaving the bathroom, Hermione raised a surprised eyebrow at the sight of the fearsome yet attractive Lord Voldemort tapping his foot impatiently on the floor like an unimpressed father. "Honestly woman, it wouldn't kill you not to use all of the hot water," he hissed before slamming the bathroom door shut.

Blinking owlishly, Hermione shrugged. It was his fault for sending her back in time, now he would have to deal with the consequences of having a teenaged witch who hadn't yet had the chance to fully explore the depths of her feminine vanity living with him.

Cackling manically within the momentary privacy of her mind, Hermione turned on the stove as she whisked four eggs together; patiently cooking two large omelettes while the evil dark lord bathed.

"Can I have my wand now?" Hermione asked with an expectant hand raised after they had completed making their wizard's oaths.

"Wait," he ordered before disappearing into his study. Hermione – a sorted into Gryffindor for her spectacular moments of brashness – followed the formidable man in attempt to catch at least the minutest of glimpses as to where he had kept her wand and purse hidden only to find his large frame blocking the sight of the small, camouflaged alcove that only allowed his blood to pass. "Nice try, witch," he had commented as he placed the vinewood, dragon heartstring core wand into her hands.

A warm, refreshing wave of energy filled her as she made contact with the only thing she could truly claim as hers after ten days of separation. The core of the wand pulsed rhythmically in synchronisation with the thrum of the raw magic coursing through her veins. It felt as though she had momentarily stepped back into Ollivanders shop as she had when she was eleven years old on her first trip to Diagon Alley and had finally found the wand that had chosen her for her qualities.

Overcome with sheer happiness at the reunion, Hermione couldn't stop herself in time from hugging her wand's captor. The dark haired, dark eyed man stiffened under her touch. Despite having been in many more intimate positions the night earlier, Tom found them incomparable to the innocent catharsis of joy the witch he found himself bound to expressed. It made his stomach feel off in a manner it never had before and he idly began to wonder whether the egg he had eaten hadn't been fully cooked.

"Sorry!" Hermione scrambled away from him once the rational part of her rain caught up with her, "Accident. Sorry." She apologised hastily in slight fear of his reaction.

Tom nodded once before he pointed his wand at her. Gasping, Hermione's eyes filled with dread as her mind raced to decide which curse he was likely to place on her. Subconsciously, she took a step back; her head tilting to face sideways and her weight supported by the wall behind her as she waited for the pain to fill her from crown to toe.

Noticing her protective stance, the dark haired man slowly stepped forward; two pianist's fingers curling around her chin to force the witch to look in his direction. He leaned forward, placing a brief kiss to her temple as he silently transfigured the shirt she was wearing into a classily modest dress. Another kiss to her cheek saw him summoning one of his outgrown robes (that had remained in pristine condition under his care) and fastening it onto Hermione with small, wandless adjustment spells till it fell off aesthetically from her slim figure.

"We will be going to Diagon Alley to get you some more appropriate clothing," he informed quietly, "Then tomorrow we will be heading to Hog's Head to meet with-"

"Don't go there," Hermione interrupted. She took Tom's silence as a notion for her to continue, "It's run by Aberforth Dumbledore – brother to Albus Dumbledore. If you're planning on having meetings with your Death Eaters then it's better off you have it in the Three Broomsticks where people will stay out of your way,"

"Death Eaters?"

Hermione frowned, "Isn't that what your group of sychophants are called?"

"With insanity there was clearly a loss of intelligence," Tom clicked his tongue, "They are called the Knights of Walpurgis. I will send an owl-"

"Wouldn't a patronus be easier?"

Tom licked his lips, "If you can cast one, yes. Otherwise you have to stick to normal wizarding mail services,"

Hermione tilted her head with a small frown. Reaching up, she combed a few of the crooked eyebrow hairs before firing him a grin, "Five galleons that by the end of next year I can get you to produce a corporeal patronus,"

The dark eyed man rolled his eyes while shaking his head, a ghost of a smile brushing across his lips as he cherished the girl's determination, "Game on, witch," he challenged before dragging her out of the door and apparating them into the centre of Diagon Alley.

Hermione and Tom found themselves roaming around the extensive shop named Twilfitt and Tattings that had price tags far higher than they could ever be able to afford on Tom's lowly shop-assistant salary.

"How exactly are you planning on paying?" Hermione hissed quietly as her husband held dresses to her body and decided whether they would suit her or not.

The dark haired man raised a condescending eyebrow, "Who said I'll be paying?" he retorted as he found a smaller size of an elegant, lilac dress robe, "Malfoy will be arriving within a few moments to help with your new wardrobe. On his vaults, of course,"

"Malfoy?!" she nearly yelled but bit her tongue in time to stop herself, "I hate them. I don't want anything from them at all,"

"Not even revenge?" he asked, his voice a silky caress on her hearing as he disapproved of a rather hideous mustard coloured cloak. "You forget that I can see the dreams that stop you from sleeping properly, Hermione,"

"Then you will have realised that I truly want revenge on the Blacks, Dolohov and Lestrange,"

"But what about that blonde boy named after a constellation, Draco Malfoy was it?"

Hermione bit her lip. Draco Malfoy had been an utter prat to her and they had been nothing short of enemies during their Hogwarts years although the night they were captured in his home, his refusal to identify them allowed a minute amount of animosity to fade. "He tried to help as best as he could-"

"A year after he realised he couldn't cope,"

"Voldemort was living under his ancestral roof," Hermione snapped, "He couldn't afford to get help from Dumbledore without being found out and killed,"

Tom exhaled sharply, "Fine. As payment for the slurs he had called you in your first four years when Voldemort wasn't... around,"

Hermione nodded hesitantly, "I guess I could work with that,"

"Good." He said, "Spin." The witch turned around in the royal blue, knee-length dress he had found and magicked onto her. "That one's nice," he admitted, "Shorter than the usual but I suppose that is what comes into fashion given your attire upon arrival here,"

"My L- Riddle!" a disembodied voice stumbled over words, eliciting a shriek from the time traveller as her war instincts kicked in like a car jumpstarting. Hermione impulsively pushed her husband behind her as she had done with Harry many times during her childhood as she brandished her wand against the jugular of the platinum blonde threat.

"Easy, Hermione," Tom placated as he placed a hand on her shoulder, gently prying her wand away from one of his most devout sychophants (until Bellatrix Lestrange, that is), "It's only Malfoy,"

Resisting the urge to curl his lips into a sneer at the degradation of his status, Abraxas Malfoy offered the frazzled witch a polite smile as he bowed to kiss her knuckles, "Abraxas Malfoy, milady," he greeted kindly before resuming his proud pureblood posture.

Unbeknownst to the blonde, a flare of jealousy reared its ugly head within Tom's chest as he watched his school peer's pale lips touch what was now his hand by marriage. He could not interrupt for sake of his intervention appearing uncouth – which Tom was anything but – however, he tucked a mental note within his mind to remind him to ensure that none of his Knights touched Hermione after introducing her. She was his, even if he hadn't wanted it to be so initially.

Clearing his throat to garner the new-father's attention, Tom wrapped his arm around Hermione's waist, pinching her side to warn her not to let the little squeal she had held in, out. "Abraxas, how wonderful it is to see you,"

"You as well, Riddle,"

"I'd appreciate a little advice in fashion for my wife, care to join?"

"W-wife?" Abraxas' eyes had widened comically, his jaw lowered as he outwardly gaped at his former school mate before schooling his expression, "My apologies, I was unaware you had married,"

Tom shrugged as though it wasn't a big deal, "It was a private union. Shall we?"

Abraxas glanced at them warily before nodding his head stiffly, "Any colour preferences?"

"Anything is fine, really. Just not lime green, yellows and bright reds," Hermione said quickly, not giving Tom the chance to continue his control. It was her wardrobe after all. "They tend to unflatter my complexion greatly,"

The blonde nodded and began to manoeuvre through racks that Hermione hadn't even noticed were there. He worked at an alarmingly fast pace, flicking through hangers and selecting those he liked and disliked with grunts of approval and disgust. Within ten minutes, Abraxas had managed to find an additional ten items that the witch wouldn't normally have chosen had she been left to her own devices (to be fair she wouldn't have chosen any of the clothes in this time period at all) and had returned to them in a significantly lighter mood.

"Have you got any shoes to match?" he asked as he presented the array of dresses and robes and cloaks.

"Not many. They're mainly black." Hermione replied.

Abraxas blinked, "How?" he said in a confounded tone, "Surely you have at least one other colour,"

Hermione shot him a tight lipped smile, "War," was all she offered before she reached out to let the velvet material of one of the two burgundy dresses he had selected slip through her fingers, "This would suit golden or silver heels, no?"

"Abraxas," Tom said as the man nodded his response to Hermione's change in subject, "I have to collect a precious item. Take my witch to Flourish and Blotts, ensure she is satisfied. I won't be long." Pressing a kiss to Hermione's temple, the dark haired man whispered, "Hepzibah Smith is arriving to pawn some ancient texts. Is she the one who has my birth-right locket?"

The curly haired witch nodded, "Give it to me when we get back to your little hovel,"

"Why would I do that, witch?"

"To stop yourself from lowering yourself to insanity by creating another horcrux?"

Tom smirked, "Correct you are," he chucked her chin, "Try not to get into too much trouble within the hour,"

"You're leaving me with him for a whole bloody hour?!"

Tom smirked and waved his fingers, "Later," he said as he left the shop.

Hermione glanced back at where Abraxas had been standing, finding him to have taken a sudden interest in some truly hideously floral corsets as a large bag was floating behind him, "Shall we go?"

"Lets,"

"Would you quit acting like I'm going to hex you just for breathing?" Hermione finally snapped at the blonde as he stood stiff as a soldier on duty, "Be like that around Tom. He's the only scary one. Ask your question,"

"How do you know I want to ask something?"

"You keep opening your mouth then shutting it after you make this funky face," the witch mimicked the expression of a person who tasted something exceedingly sour, "As hilarious as it is, I want to know what."

Abraxas sighed as he looked around conspicuously, "What do you see in Tom?"

"Organs, blood, muscles. Bones hopefully, haven't gotten that far though, why?"

The blonde stared at her, unimpressed, "I mean romantically. How did you end up in marriage? When Tom was at Hogwarts he was always tempted to kill any witch that looked at him... like that,"

"Like what?"

"The way you do,"

Hermione blinked, "With eyes? I don't know how else I'm meant to see,"

"You know what I mean," Abraxas hissed as he sat in a nearby chair as Hermione perused the library she now found to be quite dull. The vast majority of her favourite reads would not be published until the sixties and none of the tomes resting on the shelves currently held any interest from her, "Do you really even know him? What he does..."

"Oh you're little illegal play group? I know all about that, more than you ever will actually," she responded evenly as she put another book back into the shelf, "I also know that your son is now your father's puppet,"

"How dare you accuse my family of something like that!" Abraxas glared, the hand curled around his inherited cane tightening its grip as despite his angered façade, he knew for her words to be true as recently he had come to a similar conclusion regarding his two-year-old son and his father.

"Don't fret, Tom doesn't know. Yet, that is." Hermione reassured, "I can help you get your son back, away from Ignatius,"

"How?" he sneered.

"Has Tom told you about his family ring?"

Abraxas denied with a shake of his head, "Though I have my suspicions that his diary that he always hides is also a... an anchor,"

Hermione smiled, "Help me stop him from initiating war. Make him take a more political route,"

"Can you not do that?"

"Oh, Abraxas," she hummed with a small smirk, "I'm a woman, I can't possibly understand politics."

But she did. She understood them as well as the books had taught her; however, as a man grown under a roof that dealt with politics regularly, he would be a more fitting choice.

Abraxas understood that too.

"I sate Tom's bloodlust, you help him become minister, I return Lucius to you,"

Abraxas didn't even bother questioning how she knew his son's name when he had yet to be introduced to the outer public, "I think we have come to an agreement Ms Riddle,"

Hermione fought back her grimace at the name, still quite unused to it. "Yes. Yes we have."

"I want your locket," Hermione demanded with crossed arms, a jutted hip and an impatiently tapping foot.

"Sharing is caring, Hermione. But you know I am not the sharing type,"

"Neither am I, give it!"

Tom moved away and kept it close to his chest, "At least give me a day to admire it."

"Sunset is in five minutes,"

"A day is twenty four hours," Tom cleverly reminded.

"You've had it for twelve,"

"And that is only half,"

"Tom!" Hermione huffed in frustration.

"Hermione!" he parroted, raising his pitch to mimic hers.

The witch narrowed her eyes at his pathetic attempt and swatted his shoulder with the book Abraxas had told her to get lest her husband Crucio him for making her leave empty handed. "Tom. The locket. Now."

"Such little trust in me," the dark eyed man tutted, "I'm offended,"

"Tell somebody who gives a damn!" Hermione snatched the heirloom from his fingers, her lips curling into a sneer as she remembered how the horcrux-inhabited one from her original time had caused Ron to desert her and Harry due to minor jealousy amplified by the negative feelings the horcrux brought. Upon touch, she tensed, waiting for the looming dark presence to invade her only to find nothing happened. It was just an ancient necklace now. Nothing more, nothing less. "Can I have my beaded bag?"

Tom leaned back leisurely in his chair, his ankle crossed over his knee with his hands resting comfortably on his lap and an expectant eyebrow raised.

Hermione grimaced. He looked so eerily similar to Harry in that short moment as the final few warm rays of the setting sun cast a golden glow around his silhouette, "Please?"

He nodded, "Later. I'm going to cook today,"

"You are? Why?" as pathetic as it sounded, Hermione did not wish that he had suggested so due to his disliking of her cooking. Although, she couldn't be blamed for the time she was supposed to be improving her culinary skills she had been preparing and fighting in war. Then there was simply eating whatever she could find.

"Should I have a reason to want to?"

"Well if it's that you don't like mine, then you should've told me a while ago!"

"I didn't say I never liked your food," Tom placated, "I like cooking,"

His efforts were futile. The mere fleeting thought of her lost past had triggered the tears she had forced herself to keep behind the emotional barriers she had reformed since her last outburst in front of Tom. Her shoulders shook with sobs muffled by the sleeves of the dress that had returned to its original state as the man's shirt. Warm tears slid over her cheeks and soaked the carpet upon contact as she breathed in heavily in attempts to regain control over herself.

Tom, still painfully untutored in the art of comforting, sat quietly as his mind raced with different ideas on how he should calm her. "Hermione," he called, "Sit,"

The crying witch moved to sit on the sofa opposite him, only to feel a tendril of his magic wrap around her and pull her body to his. The dark haired man shifted, making space for his witch to get comfortable on his lap – something he found to feel strangely pleasant. Tangling his pale fingers in her caramel curls, Tom rested his chin atop of her head as she slowly began to calm.