I hope everyone is gearing up for the holidays. Personally, I am prepping for finals next week. Wish me luck!

-XXX-

Somewhere down the line, Hermione is aware that she has become content in this life-of-the-past. The thought temporary unsettles her. But not so much that she allows herself to ponder for too much longer - something the Hermione of 2000 wouldn't have been the least bit keen over. She wasn't one for stewing, really, but definitely consideration. Hermione of the mid-twentieth century has a different policy on things: don't question what you don't want to know.

It's how she's steadfastly avoided knowledge of Tom's less-than-perhaps-legal goings-on. At the very least, she knows that there are less-than-perhaps-legal business occurring. But, in comparison to a brutal genocide of all non-magical peoples, Tom's meddlings appear to be relatively minor. Black market trades and that sort of thing.

She doesn't ask – she doesn't wish to know. Hermione's Tom is a witty fellow who abhors sarcasm from anyone but himself, spends too much time in second-hand bookshops, hates looking the least bit shabby, is as tempermental as a cat, prefers an immaculate kitchen, and likes his tea without sugar or cream, just plain. He's nothing like the bald, snake-like, red-eyed, marble-skinned maniac with a ego the size of Wales.

Except when he is. Which, thankfully, is not often.

She's only seen him that angry a few times. Coming home after a long day of bureaucracy, fury like a whirlwind, sweeping her up into his rage. His eyes flashed scarlet, the one remnant of the creature of hate that she knew. He blasted furniture to bits. Once their home is destroyed he turned to the garden. Thankfully, they'd installed silencing wards almost from the moment they moved in. Hermione will sit by the window, trying to focus on The Daily Prophet's drivel rather than the sound of her boyfriend tearing apart their back garden.

Sometime around twilight he'll return to her, out of breath, chest heaving, tie askew, hair terribly mussed. Oftentimes with long slashing cuts upon his face and arms as though he misaimed a cutting spell.

Hermione always lets him in, holding back all remarks. She sits the wizard down in one of their well-worn armchairs and cleans his wounds, summoning biscuits and then bustling to the kitchen for tea – tea being such a finicky beverage that no amount of magic could make a tasty cup.

Eventually, he'll resume speaking – voice always a little hoarse. It won't be about his outburst. Always an observation about something more mundane.

"Venus is particularly red tonight," he will say blankly. Or, "There are no snakes in London."

She never quite knows what to do with these statements.

-XXX-

Ministerial advisor suits Tom Riddle well. His rise – anticipated, welcomed by co-workers – has put the young man on the right track. The precise rung of the ladder that he'd planned upon. At this rate, he could easily become Minister by forty, if not sooner. "And if I had such ambitions."

He takes great pride in his office. It is immaculate, simple, containing only the necessarily furniture, orderly papers and files, a few helpful tomes, and a picture of himself and Hermione.

The Minister notes the photo one day a few months after Tom is installed. "Your wife?" he asks.

Tom spares a glance at the photograph. Hermione is half-turned, leaning against him in bright laughter. It's from New Years a few years ago. He suspects that they are slightly intoxicated. The motions are not smooth, not precise enough to suggest sobriety.

"Ah, not quite. Girlfriend."

The elder wizard nods. "She's lovely. How long have you been together?"

"Oh," Tom pauses. "Five years, I think."

"Some time." The Minister raises his brow. "Better pop the question to that one soon. Witches like that don't hang around long."

It strikes Tom that the Minister doesn't really know him at all. So, he smiles blandly. "I'll certainly consider it, sir."

-XXX-

St. Mungo's is a wonderful fit for a brilliant young witch. But, despite her passion for goodness and helping others, she quickly finds herself bored. Her supervisor gently suggests that she might find herself better occupied in the research division. She takes his suggestion and applies. They interview her a month later. In two months Hermione is accepted.

Tom takes her out to dinner to celebrate. He admires her shining sliver-white robes, smoothing the sleeves as they stand on their stoop.

"I never thought I'd be so settled here," she says softly. "I never meant to stay…."

They rarely speak of Hermione's condition. Something twinges in Riddle's eyes at her reminder. She sooths him with a hand to his cheek. His skin is cold.

"But sometimes – most of the time – I am glad that I did."

He glares mockingly. Hermione leans up to kiss him, smiling into the embrace.

"I'm glad I kept you."

She hits him lightly on the nose. "I'm still not pleased about that, Tom," she admonishes. "And I'm nothing for keeping – like a dog or vase or book."

"Nonsense. I'm keeping you."

The witch rolls her eyes. "Not with an attitude like that, Mr. Riddle. Selfish."

But she kisses him again anyways. They're both a little selfish, to be entirely honest.

-XXX-

The encounter was unexpected – as most are. She'd nearly forgotten that

Dumbledore still existed in this time. So, running into him at her place of word scared the young witch silly.

"Miss Garner!" he cries happily. "What a pleasure!"

Hermione immediately felt guilty. She never replied to Dumbledore's last few letters. How could she tell him she was now shacking up with the man she'd sworn was going to turn out to be the most notorious wizard of all time? Dumbledore's least favorite student? Shame and embarrassment prevent her from reaching out, and slowly, the letters had stopped coming.

"Professor Dumbledore," she replied after accepting his embrace, pressing the files she had been carrying close to her chest. "How are you?"

"I am doing well, my girl. And you appear to be rather grand yourself. Congratulations on your placement within St. Mungo's."

She accepts the praise, bowing her head. "What brings you here, sir?"

The older wizard lifts up a bouquet of daffodils. "Visiting an old friend. They were in a spot of trouble with a knarl. Thought they could use some cheering up."

"How kind of you.'

An awkward pause follows.

"You and Mr. Riddle are making quite a splash. Never a week when your names are not in the society papers."

She winces. "Yes. Um. We are. Tom…Tom's made ministerial advisor! He's doing quite well."

"Yes. Better than I had anticipated." His words are heavy.

"Me as well," she says softly. "I am rather proud of him."

"You believe he is on a better path now?" The professor leans in, brushy brows furrowed. "Can you live with him like this?"

"Well –" she stutters. "Yes. Everything is…different, you know."

"Is it?"

"Trust me," Hermione says, eyes flashing. "I know."

The elder wizard regards her for a long moment before leaning away. His gaze is guarded, yet thoughtful. "Yes. Yes, I believe you do." He brightens. "What a delight it has been to see you, Miss Garner. We must have lunch again soon. The Three Brooksticks now serves the most delicious sheppard's pie, you must make the journey to Hogsmead to give it a taste."

"I would like that."

"We'll strike up a correspondence again, and set the date," he agrees. "I know how busy you must be, being a researcher."

"Yes," Hermione murmurs with a subdued smile. "Quite. I look forward to our next meeting, Professor."

"Albus, dear."

She never resumes their correspondence, and they're merely distantly polite the next several times they meet. While her association with his least favorite student has placed Hermione Granger on the blacklist, he maintains a sort of cordial fondness for her that refuses to wane. Especially seeing as it appears Mr. Riddle has turned out to be not-so-bad after all. For the moment, anyways.

-XXX-

Research suits her just fine. It's not so interpersonal as Hermione had once imagined her career to be, but that seems to work well for the witch, who has only ever held a small circle of friends in her life. She's friendly, yes, polite, yet Hermione is not what one would call a "people person." Which is why studying the properties of Gorgetian Gingeroot and Sicilian Cactus in a windowless laboratory is, perhaps, the perfect position for her.

She's even gotten a little academic and written papers. Under the name "Beatrice Garner," but that's no matter. It's nothing worth an Order of Merlin of any class, but she gets positive critiques. Her name is whispered at the international conferences. Before her third year is up she's even been asked to be a keynote speaker as the Welsh All-National Conference of Healers (or WANCOH, as it's lovingly referred to). Her research is nothing incredibly ground-breaking, however, she's making a bit of a name for herself in certain circles. She finds that she does not mind.

St. Mungo's certainly knows that they have a gem on their hands. Hermione quickly rises up from being a lab assistant to the master of her own private laboratory, conducting her own research, mentoring other young researchers. She's no one's first choice of a teacher – something about hints of condescension – but every student grudging admits her to be vastly skilled.

Tom teases her that she's no longer got her head suck in a book, it's her ass in a lab now that she's got aims of writing her own tome. "Nonsense, I've not the slightest idea what I might write about. No one wants to hear about the seven uses of mandrake leaves."

"True," Tom always readily agrees. "But that doesn't mean it isn't worth putting down."

The idea sticks. One day he comes home to find her at the dining room table, clacking away at a use typewriter she'd picked up in muggle London.

"The middle of the 'e' is slanted funny," she complains. Tom hardly makes an effort to hide his smile.

-XXX-

It's January of 1954. Hermione has been by his side for nearly seven years – "It feels like all the time and no time at all," – and Tom cannot get the niggling words of the minister from his mind. The echoes of the man's advice finds him standing before the window of a muggle jewelry shop one snowy afternoon. He'd gone on a walk, hoping the brisk air might clear his head. Instead, he found himself lingering at the glass, eyes drawn to the sparkling baubles within. A little old man in spectacles within the shop approaches the display to adjust the velvet. His gaze meets Tom's. With a small smile, he beckon the wizard in.

"You're thinking of making the leap," he declares as Tom brushes snowflakes from the lapel of his coat. "But don't know where to start?"

Gritting his teeth, the young wizard admits that yes, he was thinking about asking his significant other for a deeper commitment. Tom grudgingly acknowledges that this little old muggle man might just be more experienced in this particular field.

"Well, let's start here…what's her style?"

Almost an hour later, Tom Riddle leaves the muggle jewelry shop, pocketing a small black velvet box. The ring inside is simple - a white gold band with a solitary white diamond flanked by a pair of smaller black stones. Later that week, he'll present it, heart in his throat, to an exceptionally surprised Hermione.

She slips the ring on with wonder, blinking at the jewelry slowly. Beside her, the young wizard hesitant, wanting to clarify, repeat the question, fill the blank space – but he's never been one for breaking necessary silence. After a long, painfully long moment, the witch nods. She's breathless, lightheaded, which is only intensified when he kisses her hard on the mouth.

A month later they're married before a judge. It's small, quiet, intensely private ceremony – precisely their style. They get a single line in the Prophet, then a few cards and gifts by owl the next week. Other that that, their life resumes its typical schedule of normalcy. The only difference, of course, being that every-so-often a faint twinkle from Hermione's hand will catch Tom's eye. A possessive pride wells up in his chest, and he rarely resists the desire to catch her hand or kiss her on the temple.

-XXX-

An owl arrives midmorning one Saturday in 1957. Hermione accepts the envelop after feeding the moon-faced barn owl a treat. To her surprise, the seal contains the Hogwarts crest. It's address to Tom.

When she returns to him on the couch, passing him the letter than resuming her books, the witch keenly awaits his reaction to the correspondence. She is not disappointed. Tom opens the letter interestedly. When he's done he sets the letter down on the coffee table with a satisfied smile.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Professor Dumbledore wishes to schedule an interview with me next week." This is said smugly.

"Your application got through!" she exclaims. "For the Defense Against the Dark Arts post?"

"Yes." He's restraining a smile.

They celebrate with a plate of biscuits from the bakery down the street and some wine. Hermione's uncertainty is easily masked by letting him talk through his excitement.

"I've wanted this for ages," he reminds her. "Since before I graduated."

"I know."

Hesitant, he makes a request. "Do you know…if I get the post? Is that part of my history?"

She's never answered a question like that before, so Hermione is surprised he's even bothered to ask. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she stares into the fire. Though it is springtime, the chill has stubbornly refused to leave.

"I don't know," she lies. But it's not a lie, really. This is a new timeline. A new life. A new Tom. "Truly."

This doesn't not appear to bother him. He kisses her temple, tracing the edges of the parchment again. He's not let the note from out of his site since it was delivered nearly two hours ago. The uncharacteristically childlike anticipation pulls at her heartstrings almost cruelly. "Surely Dumbledore does not mean to taunt him."

-XXX-

As it turns out, the new headmaster doesn't tease at all. He is very interested in hiring Tom – wary, but interested. Tom regales Hermione with the story of the interview. To his surprise Dumbledore was cautiously civil, warm even. They spoke at length on Ministry matters before turning to the position. Tom gave a demonstrative lecture, cast a few complex spells, then got down to the business of what kind of curriculum he would offer. Their conversation supposedly went quite well.

"He even asked after you, Hermione. Said he regretted not being able to making to the wedding but had some business in India." Tom scoffed lightly. "Don't know if I believe that. Still, it went unbelievably well. I've got that old coger wrapped around my finger."

"I'm still surprised he even gave you an interview," his wife replies dryly from the threshold of the their kitchen. "Dumbledore isn't your number one fan by any means, Tom."

"No," he agrees readily, turning to her. Hermione finds herself swept up in some kind of music-less waltz around their kitchen. "You're right. However, I think he managed to find some kind of redeemable qualities within me – thanks to you, dearest."

Now it is Hermione's turn to scoff. "I highly doubt –"

"He particularly mentioned your ability to find a 'good strong light within every soul you encounter,' or some such nonsense."

"Whatever that means," the witch murmurs as her husband dipped her low for a kiss.

-XXX-

The owl congratulating Tom for his new position as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry arrived by the end of the following week. Following a celebratory lunch, he met with his superiors at the Ministry to hand in his resignation. They were understandably surprised.

"You take after ol' Albus, boy," one department head had growled. "Brilliant mind at politics, but he only ever wanted to stay holed up in that school."

Tom cannot really see this remark as a compliment. But it is no matter. He's gotten everything he has ever wanted in the twelve years since graduating from Hogwarts. Nothing can possibly bring him down.

-XXX-

"Lily Evans!" the hat cries.

A flash of copper catches her eye and Hermione freezes. She had not anticipated this.

"You certainly should have," she chides herself, pushing back a few strands that have strayed from her bun. Then she winces upon noting the silvery tinge to them. Forty came and went a long time ago. She's still not used to being middle-aged.

Hermione pushes this thought aside to focus on the sorting. The young girl who recently glided up to the stool sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her wide green eyes scan the room. They don't even rest on Hermione for a moment, yet, her heartaches. "Just like Harry."

Tom's fingertips brush hers. She smiles at him tightly.

Remus, James, Sirius, Peter, and Severus Snape are all sorted in a matter of minutes. The hall rings out in applause after Dumbledore's speech, though whether it is a display of school spirit or an expression of hunger she'll never know. The headmaster nods to the both as he makes his way back to the head table. Tom returns the gesture on behalf of both of them.

"A new crop," he murmurs excitedly. "Think I'll begin with scaring them with a grindylow tomorrow."

"Tom, you know that's too advanced," his wife scolds. While not a full-time staff member, Hermione did have the distinct honor of sitting at the head table – a few years ago Tom had suggested (without her knowledge, naturally) that students interested in pursuing healing as a career might benefit from a few healer-specific courses. Dumbledore got the hint and proposed the idea to Hermione. She's fumed at her husband – "Meddling in my affairs!" – then happily accepted the post.

"We shall pick the strong from the weak," Tom enthused.

"Or the weak from the weaker," she mocks. More serious, Hermione adds, "You've got quite a powerful lot in this class. Watch out for Evans and Potter. Two of the brightest of their age, I guarantee you. Snape as well, I should say. Yes, 1974 is a big addition for Hogwarts."

He glances at her curiously. It is rare that his wife should mention anything so taboo as another's future. He has pleaded and cajoled and harassed for decades.

"Is that so?"

She smiles, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair thoughtfully. Once, she'd wondered aloud if his previous self, the self she had known in her youth, ever managed to look like this. He'd never really understood what she meant. Tom took it as a compliment nonetheless.

Her eyes drift to the sea of youths throughout the meal. It settles on a select few – primarily Evans and Potter, at the Gryffindor table, as well as Snape and several others he cannot name. "People from her past, no doubt." He wonders if she knew them, or knew of them. Hermione has resisted naming the precise date of disappearance into the past. Even after all of these years Tom has not used any manner of spell to persuade the answers from her mind – "Unsportsmanlike," he'd had explained once. He knows it is far-off, distant enough to not make her too nervous. Would he one day live to see a younger bushy-haired Hermione ascend the dais to let the Sorting Hat find her place in the school?

"Pass a treacle tart, would you, dear?"

Startled from his musing, Tom reaches for the dessert. Hermione accepts it, spooning herself a portion before reaching for the chocolate mousse for Tom. She makes sure to grab some of the whipped cream.

"Thank you," he says. "Will you leave before the school song?"

"You know I hate to miss it. No, I'll wait."

After the school has finished belting out the cheerful (if a bit ridiculous, in Tom's mind) tune and is sent to bed he rises from the table. Hermione is laughing lightly.

"It's funny, the teachers' attitude towards the song has not changed at all from now to my time." She's so sentimental at these Sorting nights.

Rounding the table, he takes up his wife's hand. "I am more than ready to go home…." He could use a glass of whisky and an hour of quiet before the fire. Tomorrow there is no doubt his sixth years shall put him through the wringer. "We'll see how they will fare with the voiceless duels."

He takes pause – Hermione is not beside him. She's a few steps behind, eyes locked on the double doors, where the teens are slowly filing out, taking time to catch up with friends. Following her gaze, he sees that she is again transfixed by the pair Evans and Potter. They're talking to one another. Evans has her arms crossed. Despite being a muggleborn, she does not appear terribly overwhelmed. Or, Tom notes wryly, particularly impressed with Mr. Potter. Snape is behind her, and he too looks a little disgusted with the messy-haired Potter boy. Tom turns to ask his wife what is so intriguing about the children, but is stopped by the expression on her face – wistful and teary-eyed.

"What is it?"

She seemed to shake herself from the reverie. "Oh. Oh! Nothing. It's just…I sometimes miss being that age."

Tom is skeptical. In fact, he's nearly certain she's lying. Hermione tends to touch her wrist when she lies. "Really?

"Only sometimes," Hermione admits.

Shaking his head, her husband extends a hand. "Come on, before you get too sentimental. Let's go home."

"Yes. Let's."

-XXX-

Somehow, the perfectly-punctual Tom Riddle wakes up almost an hour late the next morning. Upon seeing the alarm clock, he rises swiftly from bed, cursing loudly. Hermione, who lay beside him, fluttered her eyes before turning into her pillow. Unfortunately, she is not long for sleep – Tom's crashing about soon roused the witch. With a glare, she slowly sits up to find him struggling with putting on a sock half-standing.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" she hisses.

"Late," he pants.

Though tempted to stun him, the witch removes herself from her bed to head to the kitchen. "I'll make you breakfast."

When he meets her in the kitchen five minutes later she shoves him a sandwich, presses a warm kiss into his cheek, then, pulling her bathrobe tightly about her, storms back into their bedroom. He doesn't follow, but does call after her, "Have a good day, dearest."

With that, the One-Who-Was-Once-the-Dark-Lord rushed to his start-of-the-morning third years' class.

-XXX-

This ending isn't exactly filled with closer, but that's because it isn't an inevitable conclusion. There's still a lot of future left for this particular group of people, and I wanted to emphasize that.

Anyways, I dearly hope you enjoyed this story. I'm glad I finally wrote this pairing. Please review!