Chapter Text
Voldemort leaned against his desk, watching in silence as his wife paced his office. Her long robe flowed around her like liquid shadow, each step drawing the fabric tight along the lines of her body — her hips, her waist. It stole his breath. Even after all these years together, a single glance at her could still unsettle him; not with tenderness, but with that deep, possessive fire that had once driven him to madness.
She was tense — rarely so tense. Her hands twisted together as if she were trying to break something invisible. A warm flush coloured her cheeks, standing out sharply against her pale skin. Her curls had come loose, rebellious, sticking out in every direction, as though even her hair mirrored the unrest churning inside her. He had not seen her like this in a long time.
Slowly, he straightened. In two strides he was at her side. With an almost amused sigh, he drew her into his arms, turning her until her back rested against his chest, his arms wrapping around her. Together they stood by the window of his Headmaster’s office, his chin hovering just above her crown, their gaze drifting over the grounds of Hogwarts.
“She will be fine,” he said calmly.
Hermione folded her arms and let out an audible sigh. “I know she’ll be fine. I’m not worried about her.” She hesitated, her shoulders tightening. “It’s just…”
He did not need her to finish the sentence.
“I know, my love,” Tom said softly. “I know exactly who will be here today.”
“Well, of course you do,” Hermione snapped. He knew his wife well enough to picture the eye-roll that followed. “You’ve seen it all, you manipulative, self-serving, backstabbing cheater.”
Tom closed his eyes and rested his forehead briefly against her crown, the corner of his mouth curling. “Not this again,” he said, amused. “It’s been years. Haven’t you punished me enough already?”
She made a low, disapproving sound that made it abundantly clear she disagreed entirely. “Oh, I’m nowhere near done,” she retorted — but her hands found his all the same, her fingers threading into his grip.
He smiled. She was nervous, yes. But this — this was their language. The sharp edges, the barbed remarks, the effortless way they found each other even in moments of unease. His arms tightened slightly around her, a silent reassurance. Whatever today might bring, they would face it together.
Just as they had endured everything else over the past years.
Tom still struggled to comprehend the turn his life had taken since Hermione Granger had crossed his path. She had burned her way through all his carefully laid plans for the future with the same fierce intensity with which she lived. When he still called himself Voldemort, he had truly believed he had won.
He had power, loyal followers — and above all, he had her.
Her heart. Her memories.
Eventually, even her soul.
He had considered it his greatest triumph. A victory beyond compare.
In hindsight, he could scarcely fathom how naïve that belief had been.
He should have known Hermione would see through it. She was not a woman you could break without consequence and expect to return unscathed. She was an exceptional witch — sharp, relentless, mercilessly intelligent. That was precisely what had drawn his attention. But of that woman, little remained after the Unbreakable Vow.
The fierce, uncompromising force he had fallen for was gone.
At first, he had not understood it. One moment they had clung to each other as though nothing could ever tear them apart. They had been bound — truly bound. And the next, she had gone quiet. Withdrawn. Timid in a way he could not reconcile with her. The weight she had lost at Château d’Aupépine did not return. The dark circles beneath her eyes remained. She spent her days in the library, staring into nothing for hours, locked inside her own mind.
She barely looked at him. She did not speak.
He had summoned Healers — the finest he could find — but none of them gave him an answer that satisfied him. He had tried everything to reach her. Dolohov. Zoltan. He had even brought Thea and her elves to Keenbridge Castle.
No one could stir her.
His patience had worn thin. He had shouted. Pleaded. He had even considered forcing her with an Imperius to tell him what was wrong.
When Midsummer arrived, it had felt wrong to force the soulbinding upon her then. She had been weak — too weak. But he had made her swear it nonetheless. An Unbreakable Vow. On that day. And even he could not escape it.
He had had no choice.
The soulbinding had proven both curse and blessing.
With the merging of their souls, a power had been unleashed that even he had not foreseen. He had always known they were a match — long before words, oaths, or rituals had given it a name. But when the soulbinding was completed, he had felt it. Unmistakably. Hermione was no longer a separate presence; she had become a second heartbeat, constant, close. He could sense precisely where his own magic ended and hers began.
And he understood at once why a soulbinding was considered dangerous.
It had been effortless to reach for her strength. To draw her magic toward himself, to let it merge with his own. The temptation had hovered on the edge of instinct. Instead, he had pushed his power towards her — layer by layer, patiently — hoping it would reach her. That it would wake her from the rigid, drained state into which she had sunk.
The effect had been swifter and more violent than he had expected.
Hermione had awakened.
And with her, the fire from which she had been forged had returned.
She had launched herself at him like a living inferno. She had seized her wand as though it were an extension of her rage, and without hesitation unleashed everything she had upon him. Dark magic. Killing curses. Spells that left no room for doubt or mercy. She had not blinked. Had not hesitated.
“You stole my memories!” she had screamed.
And then he had finally understood.
She had burned herself out in her fury.
When she had collapsed into unconsciousness, he had brought her home — with a cautious, renewed hope that something might yet be repaired. That, at the very least, they might begin again.
He should have known better.
His witch did not surrender.
From the moment she opened her eyes, she had gone back on the offensive. Arrogantly, he had thought he could talk his way out of it. That if he kept her at Keenbridge Castle long enough, they would find a path forward together.
What he had not anticipated was the influence of the soulbinding on his wards.
His protective magic now recognised her as an equal. As an owner.
The spells that should have kept her safely inside no longer formed a barrier. And his clever witch had grasped that far sooner than he would have liked.
That was the moment he had truly come to know her rancour.
And he had never doubted that he himself had created that fury.
What followed was a game of cat and mouse that would last for months.
Hermione fled their home whenever she had the chance. She vanished without warning, resurfacing in corners of the world he had not even known held her interest.
She had learned to circumvent the vow she had sworn him with flawless precision: she never left with the intention of leaving him. In doing so, she exploited every loophole, skirted every boundary without quite crossing it. It was infuriating. And, to his own irritation, impressive. Her creativity, her stubborn refusal to be broken — he might have admired it, had it not worked so mercilessly against him.
No continent was too far, no distance great enough to leave him behind forever.
But however far she went — his Dark Mark always told him exactly where she was.
And he came.
Every single time. Inevitably.
Once she realised how much power that gave her — how deeply it frustrated him, how he continued to follow her no matter how far she pushed it — she began to play the game deliberately. She grew more reckless. More provocative. She tested the limits of his patience, his control, his self-restraint, and seemed to take visible pleasure in driving him ever closer to the edge.
She put him through hell.
It had been his birthday — a year after he had freed her from Château d’Aupépine — when Hermione came to him of her own accord for the first time. She had waited for him in the library of Keenbridge Castle, seated by the window overlooking Hogwarts, absorbed in a book as though she had never been gone.
He had been suspicious. Wary of another ruse, another move in a game whose rules she now set.
She had snapped her book shut and sighed audibly. “I can’t do this anymore, Tom,” she had said. “This year has been exhausting. And though I won’t pretend I don’t enjoy what this does to you, this is not a life we should be living.”
“So stop leaving me and come home,” he had snapped.
Hermione had laughed without humour. “Why? So you can keep me here like a faithful, well-trained dog? What kind of life would that be, Tom? A life with a front-row seat to all my nightmares coming to life?” Her gaze had been sharp, unyielding. “I already told you once — I can’t follow you down this path. Don’t force me. There won’t be anything left of me if you do.”
It had struck him deeper than he would ever let her see.
When he had decided to look into her memories, he had truly believed that knowledge would make him invincible. And in a sense, it had. He now knew what lay ahead of him — where he would fail, who would turn against him, who would ultimately betray him.
What he had not foreseen was how paralysing that knowledge would be.
It had been unbearable to watch his plans unravel one by one. To see himself deteriorate. To witness how far he would go — and who he would become. The being that had stared back at him from those memories he had scarcely recognised. A monstrous caricature, dehumanised, hollow. A face that still haunted his nightmares.
It had felt as though he were trapped once more in Gaspard’s hall of mirrors. Powerless. Futile.
He had devoted an entire lifetime to becoming the most feared and powerful wizard who had ever lived. And yet he ended — like so many others — humiliated. Defeated in his first home. Hogwarts. Outwitted by a boy who had not even finished his education there. It had been a humiliating spectacle, unbearable to behold.
Had Hermione known how excruciating it had been to see himself reflected so, she would have understood that she had no need to punish him further. Her memories had been punishment enough.
He had wished he had never seen them. Never known what a failure he had become in her time. It scarcely mattered that he now possessed the means to change that future. The knowledge that somewhere a timeline existed in which this had been his fate had wounded him in a way he had not known himself capable of.
That had been the moment he chose a different path.
He had thought of Hermione in the mirror hall. Of their children. Of the life he had seen there — not as a victory, but as an anchor. And he had chosen to follow that desire.
But Hermione had been furious that he had seen her memories. So furious that he no longer believed he could bring her willingly along that same path.
He had panicked.
And so he had reached for control.
In a moment of impending loss, he had manipulated her mind. Erased her memories of her first day back at Keenbridge Castle. He had calculated how to bind her without physically restraining her. How to shape her so that she could not leave him.
And it had worked.
What he had not anticipated was the cost.
A year.
A year without her in his arms. A year without her gaze. Without the words with which she had once chosen him.
He had yearned for it. For her. For a life together.
In whatever form it might take.
“A magical world where power lies in competence.”
Hermione had frowned at him. “What?”
“A world where the next Muggle-born witch will be welcomed,” he had continued, his voice low, steady. “Where ability matters more than blood. That’s what you wanted. Isn’t it?”
“Why — yes,” Hermione had replied cautiously.
“I’ll build that world for you, Hermione,” he had said. His voice had been low, controlled — inevitable. “If that’s what it takes for you to stand beside me again, then that is what I will do. Just give me time.”
He had stepped closer. “Just — just stay with me,” he had added. “And I will give you that world.”
Hermione had said nothing. Not at first. Her gaze had rested on him, searching, weighing. Hope had mingled with mistrust, longing with fear. Her breathing had been uneven, her fingers gripping the edge of her book as though seeking purchase. She had tilted her head slightly, as if trying to read him — not his words, but his intent.
For a long moment, she had remained silent.
And then she had nodded.
It had not been surrender.
It had been a choice.
Their life together had begun there.
He had laid aside the name Voldemort and faced the world as Tom Gaunt. Hermione had taken her place in that same society as Hermione Dagworth-Granger. It had taken months before she opened herself to him again. Weeks of distance, of cautious rapprochement, of words left unspoken.
But in the end, he had won them back — the most important words she had ever given him.
I love you.
He had still never been able to say the words himself.
Instead, he had gone down on one knee and asked her the most important question of his life.
She had said yes.
He had thought he could not love her more than he already did. That his capacity for love was wholly contained within her. That nothing and no one could ever come close to matching it.
But he had been mistaken.
Everything had changed the moment the love of his life gave him a daughter.
He had always known his wife was formidable. But when he had been forced to watch, helpless, for hours as she fought to bring the most precious gift of his life safely into the world, tears had fallen down his cheeks for the first time — silent and unseen.
From the moment he had held her in his arms, Merope Gaunt, he had known it. That there was no line he would not cross for her safety. No law, no morality, no world order that would restrain him.
For the girl with his eyes and hair, and her mother’s wild curls, he would do anything.
Destroy anything that threatened her. The world might call her innocent — he knew better. She was his. And he would make sure no one ever forgot it.
In the years that followed — as he slowly grew accustomed to his role as husband and father — he had kept his promise to Hermione. And to his own barely concealed satisfaction, it had been laughably easy. With his existing connections, his carefully cultivated reputation, and the unwavering loyalty of his followers, Tom Gaunt had effortlessly claimed a place for himself within wizarding society. Before long, he commanded a respect that scarcely fell short of Dumbledore himself — and eventually even eclipsed his position, when the once untouchable titan of the magical world was brought low.
To the public, he was seen as a modest chosen figure — a man on what appeared to be a selfless path towards a better world. His followers, on the other hand, were convinced he was quietly working towards his greatest coup yet. That he was preparing for the power he had once promised them, so that he might finally enact his true plans.
What they did not know was that Tom had not forgotten.
Not how he had been treated in his early years at Hogwarts. Not by whom. The same weaklings who had once hidden behind their blood status now followed him willingly, blind to the fact that he used them merely as tools. With almost casual precision, he manoeuvred through a web of political games. Thanks to Hermione’s memories, he knew exactly which witches and wizards would become influential — and who therefore had to be won early.
Men like Bartemius Crouch he wrapped around his fingers, carefully balancing between factions, always ensuring he had an escape route on either side. And when he had finally secured the power and standing that could no longer be taken from him, he turned — subtly, deliberately — against his own base.
It was the purest form of revenge he could have imagined: forcing the conservative pure-blood elite who had once humiliated, and later idolised him, into tolerance. Making them watch, step by step, as blood status lost its meaning, as power shifted towards competence.
They were not there yet.
But he had time.
And as long as Hermione stood at his side, he knew that his life — at last — would be driven by the fire she had kindled within it.
Tom turned his wife in his arms and placed his hands tenderly at her throat, his thumbs warm against her skin. “All will be fine,” he said softly, just before he kissed her — slow, reassuring.
Hermione leaned into him, her forehead resting against his chest. “I can’t believe our youngest is going to Hogwarts,” she said, her voice filled with a mix of disbelief and wistfulness.
Tom grinned. “We could always make another one.”
She laughed and jabbed him lightly in the side. “You could never,” she said. “You love the number seven far too much.”
“What can I say,” he replied calmly. “It’s the most powerful magical number.”
At that same moment, far to the south of Hogwarts, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley stepped onto the Hogwarts Express for the first time.
Harry had just said goodbye to his parents and to Sirius — his beloved godfather — when he boarded the train. His younger sister, Mia, named after their grandmother Euphemia, had barely spared him a glance. She was entirely absorbed in an excited conversation with Ginny Weasley, the two of them already dreaming of what it would be like when they themselves went to Hogwarts the following year.
Harry and Ron found an empty compartment and soon struck up a conversation. They did not yet know each other well, but their families did — their paths had crossed before. Both bought a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and a Chocolate Frog when a smiling, dimpled woman asked around half past twelve whether they wanted anything from the trolley.
Ron groaned loudly as he examined his card. “Hengist of Woodcroft,” he muttered. “That’s the third one I’ve got.”
Harry looked at his own.
HERMIONE GAUNT
CURRENTLY POTIONS MASTER AT HOGWARTS
Formerly known as Hermione Dagworth-Granger, descendant of the renowned family of potioners. Particularly famous for the discovery of the Wolfsbane Potion — a breakthrough that changed the aftermath of the werewolf uprising of the late 1960s. Mrs Gaunt is a prominent advocate for Muggle-born rights and the founder of S.A.M.E.: the Society for the Advancement of Muggle-born Equality.
Harry did not know why, but he folded the card carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron wouldn’t touch, which turned out to be pepper. The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder.
The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills. There was a knock on the door of their compartment and a round-faced boy came in. He looked tearful.
“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?” When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”
“He’ll turn up,” said Harry.
“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him . . .” He left.
“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Snivels, so I can’t talk.”
He pointed at the rat snoozing on his lap.
“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the difference,” said Ron in disgust. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look . . .”
He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end.
“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway—”
He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.
“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy black hair, and rather large front teeth.
“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, but the girl wasn’t listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.
“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”
She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.
“Er — all right.”
He cleared his throat.
“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”
He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Snivels stayed brown and fast asleep.
“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve already learnt quite a lot of spells. Far more than the basics, really. Both my parents work at Hogwarts, you see, so magic was never exactly distant for us. They’re already at school, so my grandmother brought me and my siblings to the station. I’m the youngest of five. My eldest sister, Merope, is currently studying at the Salem University of Alchemical Arts. She’s training to become a Potions Master, like our mother. And my eldest brother, Dorian, is in Romania at the moment, staying with acquaintances while he conducts research into ancient runes. My other brothers, Silas and Bellamy, are still at Hogwarts. I very much hope I won’t be running into them too often. They’re both idiots. I’m Delphini Gaunt, by the way, though everyone calls me Delphi. Who are you?”
She said all this very fast. Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he was just as taken aback by the fast-talking witch as Harry was.
“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered.
“Harry Potter,” said Harry.
"Well, pleasure to meet you," said Delphini. "Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.”
And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.