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It has been four days and they have not yet been taken to the excavation site. Instead, they have been subjected to a series of lunches and dinners and "small get-togethers" that have really been political events. Tom is not complaining about that, exactly. It’s good for him to build international connections, and it turns out that he’s just as charming in German as he is in English.
No, the real problem is the German Minister, Friedrich Klein. Perhaps it is because Friedrich looked surprised when Tom arrived with Hermione, or perhaps it is because Friedrich can’t seem to keep his fucking hands to himself, but whatever the reason, Tom dislikes the man. Immensely.
At first, Tom thinks the minister is just polite, escorting Hermione around on his arm to meet the various politicians. Something ugly burns in Tom’s gut at the sight, but he stamps it down. He knows, logically, that he has no right to feel that way. That he has no right to think of Hermione as his. That attachment is a weakness and he should not stoop to it.
But when Friedrich slides his hand too low on Hermione’s back, Tom imagines how satisfying it would be to tear the other man’s hands off. When the minister leans too close to her, whispers in her ear, Tom clenches the wand in his pocket, reminds himself that it would be an international incident if he killed the man right now.
(It does not stop him from counting the exits and the guards, from calculating just how many people he would have to fight through if he did kill the minister.)
On the fourth night, it is clear that Hermione has had enough of this charade as well. Friedrich is especially...friendly tonight, his touches lingering far longer than are permissible. It is no secret to everyone in attendance that the German Minister is attempting to make Hermione Granger his next conquest—Tom hears a rumor that Friedrich fancies himself a "tamer of impossible women"—and Tom is rather done with the whole thing. Hermione, too, looks to be three seconds away from pulling her wand on the man.
He would be inclined to let her. Hermione is a fearsome duelist, he has discovered. But, again, it would cause an international incident—one that Britain cannot afford to start with Germany given the high tensions following Grindelwald’s semi-recent defeat.
Instead, Tom suggests that the string quartet in the corner play something suitable for dancing, and before Friedrich can even begin to demand that Hermione do him the honor, Tom is already at her side.
"You’ll have to forgive me, Minister," he says smoothly, Hermione’s hand already in his. Friedrich looks as though he might protest, but Tom will not give him the chance. He would like to cut out the man’s tongue, but that will have to wait. "But it would be unfair to keep my stunning partner all to yourself, don’t you think?"
He keeps his tone light, teasing, almost. Enough that the Minister cannot reasonably accuse him of anything.
"That is, of course, if you’ll oblige me, Hermione dear," Tom continues. He has never in his life felt the need to adorn anyone with a pet name, but it comes out of his mouth naturally, almost as if it is already a habit of his. And besides, he likes the implication that she is his, that this intimacy is common between them.
"Happily, Tom," she says with a soft, fond smile that isn’t at all faked. Once they are on the dancefloor, away from prying ears, she allows a frustrated sigh to escape her. "We leave first thing tomorrow. This has been a monumental waste of time."
He smiles, in a better mood now that she is with him and not Friedrich. "I take it you’re not impressed with the Minister’s feeble attempts at seduction."
Her lip curls for a split second before a sly smile of her own replaces it. "I doubt he’ll have any question about where I stand on the matter after tonight."
And with that, she leans into Tom, so close that her head is nearly resting on his chest. His hand splays across her lower back, holding her against him. He resents the string quartet when the song ends and he is obligated to pull away from her. Still, she keeps her arm looped through his the rest of the evening.
In the morning, they leave Germany without so much as a goodbye to Friedrich. They return to Cape Horn. They do not talk about the dance.
Tom gets a letter from Abraxas asking when he’ll be back in England again, but—though it most definitely sounds like a poorly constructed lie—Tom loses the letter in a Louisiana swamp to a hungry alligator. And after that...well, he’s so busy reading through Haitian texts from the 1800s that he forgets to write back.
Hermione never gets personal mail. Sometimes, Gringotts will try to rope her into leading a curse-breaking team—which she vehemently refuses to do. Sometimes a newspaper will contact her to try to set up an interview. Sometimes a private collector will ask her to come determine what an antique artifact does.
But if Hermione has family, she does not talk about them. If she has friends, Tom has never met them. And he doesn’t push, though he is certainly curious. But then, he figures, she might ask about his family, and he doesn’t want to have to lie to her. He doesn’t know for sure that he even could.
It’s in Wales that this unspoken thing between them finally breaks. Ever since Germany—before that, really, if he’s being honest with himself—there has been an almost palpable tension in the air. He supposes that Hermione has been a physically affectionate person since the day he showed up in Cairo, but recently it has felt like more than that.
She never hesitates to grab him by the hand, tugging him along to show him something she’s found. She hugs him when she is excited. She sometimes—Merlin, help him—leans her whole body against when they both read in the tent in the evenings. And he has taken to occasionally playing with strands of her hair while he reads. It is infuriatingly domestic, and for some incomprehensible reason, he does not want it to stop.
She shoves him into the bloody lake after arguing that Merlin was a druid—because that makes sense—and somehow he still wants to kiss her. He does kiss her, even, but only once she’s soaked in lake water too.
For a moment, he thinks she’ll shove him away, yell at him for being unprofessional. It would be well within her rights—a relationship between colleagues would be entirely inappropriate—and it would be so very Hermione to want to build a wall between her professional and personal life.
She doesn’t, though, just threads her fingers through his hair as she tugs him closer. They are both shaking—part of it is definitely due to the cold; part of it is months of anticipation thrumming just under their skin. But Tom is not controlled by his desires, not entirely, and he is certainly not about to sit here kissing Hermione on a rocky beach next to a puddle of water that smells of dead fish and silt in the middle of November.
When they make it back to their tent, which is perched on a hillside not far from the lake, they don’t bother with modesty. They strip out of their soaked clothes and stand under the steaming shower water together, hurriedly scrubbing away the lake-smell with foams of lavender and lemongrass soap. He doesn’t touch her then—he wants to take his time. Somewhere proper, not in a shower, not yet at least.
It isn’t until evening when they fall into bed together, their kisses hurried as if they have to make up for lost time. Tom memorizes the delightful gasps Hermione makes against his mouth when he does something particularly clever with his fingers. He learns every scar on her body, traces them all with his lips. In turn, she presses soft kisses to his neck, his collarbone, down his chest, against his hipbones, and lower. She gives with a gentleness Tom is entirely unfamiliar with.
He thinks he may be greedy for wanting to keep her, wonders in the darkest corners of his mind if this is worth it for her, too. He is confident enough about sex itself—half of 6th year, he’d had Lucretia Black bent over a desk; he’s not exactly inexperienced. But this is different. This is Hermione and it’s not just sex.
She begs him so prettily with hoarse whispers of, "Please, Tom, please," and, "I need you," and, "More." He cannot find it in himself to deny her for long, not today. She breathes out his name in her climax—Tom decides then and there that this is his new favorite way to hear her say his name. When they are both sated, her head is still on his chest, one of her legs swung over his own, her body curled as close to his as physically possible—it is this that most assuages his fears.
He should have known, should have expected that things would not continue on in blissful perfection forever. Travelling the world with Hermione had given him the credentials he needed to impress Dippet, and starting in September, he will be the youngest Hogwarts professor in history at the age of 20. Dumbledore was clearly not happy with the decision, but really, that was an added benefit.
He should have known.
One second he is talking to Avery, Lestrange, Malfoy, and Nott, just catching up and checking in to see what progress they’ve made in the year and a half that he’s been gone, and the next he sees Hermione sprint for the bathroom. He has travelled with her long enough that his gut instinct is either food poisoning or malaria—neither of which would be pleasant for them to deal with now, in the middle of their engagement party.
He finds her bent over the toilet, clearly ill. She’s so pale, he’d almost worry she was dead if not for the ragged heaving of her chest. He’s never seen her look so terrible, not even when she’d been sick for almost a week straight in the Yucatan.
"Are you alright?" he asks, though he can see the answer for himself. She only looks up at him, eyes glassy and vacant, as if it’s not him she’s seeing.
"Hermione," and now he can feel the worry turning over in his stomach. This is definitely not food poisoning. She looks half-crazed, and suddenly he is reminded of the first time he saw her. Back when he had mistaken her for some homeless muggle. "If you don’t tell me what’s wrong right now, I’m flooing you to St. Mungos."
Or maybe it would be faster to get a healer here, he thinks. Yaxley is just in the other room; Tom could ask him to have a look—
"You," she says, voice cracking, breathless, unsteady. It is utterly terrifying, because he cannot comprehend. He has never seen her look so utterly destroyed. "You still want to burn the world down."
He frowns. "Hermione—"
"No." She jabs a finger at him, accusing. "You would claw and slaughter and torch your way to the top. You’re plans, Tom, are barbaric."
She has never looked at him like this before. Betrayed. As if he has somehow deceived her of his true nature. He pushes the hurt down, ignores how it stings to hear her condemn him. He has the sense of mind to throw up a privacy ward, at least. He doesn’t need the whole house to hear.
"Stop it." She’s being nonsensical. He cannot fathom what she’s upset about, what she thinks he’s done.
"You’re talking about murdering so many innocent people."
He stiffens under the weight of her words, not bothering to fight back a sneer. It hits him now that he has never asked about her opinion on blood purity. He had just assumed she would see it logically, that she would agree. Apparently, his wrong.
"You’ve known who and what I am for a long time. You knew about the horcruxes. You knew what I had already done, what I’m willing to do."
And he had thought she understood.
"And I tried to give you a different option!" She is shouting now, her voice raising to match his own.
"I don’t want a different option, Hermione," he says. What did she think? That she could sway him from his goals? That she could soften him? "You asked me what I wanted, once."
"This isn’t great, Tom." She spits his name as if it is something vile. He tries not to flinch. "This is...this is horrible."
"So I guess I can’t count on your vote of support," he sneers at her.
"I won’t let you—"
He snorts a laugh. "You won’t have much of a choice, wife."
"If you think I’m marrying you after this, Tom, you’re even more deluded than I thought."
The words cut through him with the efficiency of a slicing hex, and it twists something in his chest. He feels, for the first time in a long time, as if he is choking on some invisible weight, as if he is being held underwater with no bubblehead charm to save him. He raises his wand towards her without even thinking, because she can’t leave, she can’t leave, she can’t fucking leave him.
She doesn’t give him the opportunity to stop her; the moment his wand goes up, she apparates away with a crack. And then the bathroom is empty.
He stares, shocked, for another few minutes, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that she is gone. He did not think she would actually do it, not really.
She’ll be back, he tells himself. He knows her. Once her temper calms down, she’ll be back.
He tells their party guests that Hermione isn’t feeling well, that he’s sorry, but they’ll have to cut the party short. They send their sympathies. They don’t suspect a thing.
She’ll be back, he repeats again, mostly for himself. And if she isn’t...
Well, he has lived with her long enough to know her patterns. He doubts he will have any problem finding her.

On the 31st of July 1980 Hadrian James Potter and Ethan Henry Potter were born. They were born at Saint Mungo's hospital, late at night, at the closing of July. Ethan was born first, screaming at the top of his tiny lungs due to the sudden shock of being forced from the safety of his mother's womb. He continued to fuss after this, kicking his legs, face red in frustration and possibly anger. A tuft of brown hair sticks up upon his head and unseen through his screwed up face are dark brown eyes.
Both his and Lily’s screams fill the room as Lily births her second child. Five minutes later Harry entered this world, though in a much quieter fashion to his older brother, it was as if he felt his brother was kicking up enough fuss as it was. In fact, he just takes a deep breath and settles down easily. In comparison to his brother the little hair he had on his head is a deep black, like that of a Raven's wing and deep green eyes rest under his pale eyelids.
Their mother, Lily Potter ne'e Evans, looked at her twin sons in wonderment, as if she didn't believe that she had carried them herself. Her husband, James Potter, rushed into the room and looked upon his wife and two sons in relief. Relief that they were okay and that his legacy was secure as a Lord. He had elected not to be in the room during the birth, knowing that his pacing would irritate his already distressed wife.
Lily cradles Ethan to her chest, trying to calm him as he continues to wail, in response to his brother Harry begins to cry as well, though not nearly as loud as Ethan. James scoops Harry into his arms and makes shushing noises. Harry begins to quieten immediately, seemingly confused as to why he was even crying in the first place. Ethan ceased his wailing soon after, replacing the cries with quiet sniffles.
For the next year, the small family lived happily. Harry and Ethan's godfathers, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, visited often, showering the boys with gifts, and, if Harry was unnervingly quiet except for when he needed something, no one said a word.
Ethan liked to mindlessly babble, his first word being "no," reflecting upon his rather stubborn nature, even as a baby. Harry spoke little, and when he did speak he tended to be drowned out by his much louder sibling. Though sometimes Sirius would have Harry howling in laughter as he bounded around in his animagus form, frequently tripping over his large paws in his excitement. Sirius doted upon Harry, taking his duty as a godfather very seriously. Remus was more subdued, a little unsure of how to act with babies. He tended to follow Sirius’ lead with the boys, in that he strived to make them laugh and be happy. His way of making them laugh was different to Sirius'. He tickled them until they were breathless with their laughter and he laughed along with them. They made his tiredness lift from his shoulders and the burden of being a dark creature on the side of the light, in a war against the dark, lessen. Life was good, until it wasn't.
The Halloween, or Samhain, to more traditional families, of 1981 was just like any other. Children trick or treating, various parties going on, but the Potter household was a subdued one. The reason for the dark cloud that seemed to hover over the home was that a prophecy had been given. This prophecy foretold that a child born as the seventh month died could defeat Lord Voldemort. There was more to it though, this child had to be born to those who had thrice defied him. There were 3 children who fit these criteria, Neville, son of the Longbottoms', and Harry and Ethan. This caused both the Longbottoms and the Potters to go into hiding to try and protect their children. The small cottage in Godric's Hollow was under a fidelius charm. This charm hid the household from all but the inhabitants, a secret keeper and whomsoever the secret keeper told. The location could not be pulled from the secret keeper forcefully, they had to willingly give it away. The Potter's initially resided in James" childhood home of Potter manor, however, as a charm the fidelius could only cover a small section of the building, rendering it nearly useless. This resulted in their move.
Sirius has picked up on the moods of the Potters,
"Come on Prongs! It won't hurt. Just ask one of the neighbours you're friendly with to watch them!" James, the aforementioned Prongs, shuffles nervously and glances at Lily, who watched the conversation unfold with an unreadable expression on her face,
"I don't know Padfoot, it doesn't seem like a great idea, what with you-know-who baying for our blood and all", Sirius scoffs and addresses both Lily and James,
"Come on, you've been cooped up for months! One night isn't going to hurt! The boys are asleep already," Lily sighs,
"he has a point James. We've been stuck here for months." Lily is usually the more sensible of the two Potters but she can be just as bad as James at times. She would normally refuse Sirius, or at least argue but she’s sick to death of hiding away. She doesn't feel herself anymore really, she's tired, tired of hiding, tired of not going outside. Her sons had never seen the outside world and it was wearing on her. Whilst they are aware that tonight, of all nights, would be the most likely time for an attack the two parents feel that they need a break. Besides, Peter, their other friend, and secret keeper, is in hiding somewhere else so it should be safe for them to go out for a while. After all, it isn't them who are in danger, but their sons. As long as the twins stay under the wards then they should be safe surely?
Harry and Ethan are left in the care of an elderly neighbour called Dorothy Wright, a widow, she's glad to help her young, seemingly normal neighbours. A muggle, for that is what non-magical folk are known as, she had no idea just how unusual her neighbours were and settled down for an easy night, pulling out some knitting to pass the time.
A few hours after the twins were left in Dorothy's care the door of the Potter household suddenly blows inwards, pieces of door scattering haphazardly over the living room. There's a cloaked figure standing imposingly in the doorway, a pale stick, his wand, held delicately in bone white fingers. Dorothy lets out a shriek of surprise and terror. Stumbling away from the figure, she brandishes her knitting needles like a sword as if they will protect her. If he was a muggle like she, perhaps they would have. As it is he just sneers. He utters,
"Avada Kedavra," and a flash of green light illuminates the room. Dorothy falls to the floor, dead, her terror now permanently etched onto her face and her body rapidly turning cold.
Lord Voldemort, for that is whom the cloaked figure is, steps towards the corpse of the old woman, robes quietly whispering over the ground. The Potters were fools for placing their trust in Peter Pettigrew and they would pay the price with the lives of their sons, though he does wish there were another way. He steps, uncaringly, over the corpse of the muggle woman that is quickly cooling and gracefully ascends the stairs.
Once at the top of the staircase he moved towards a door marked "Ethan and Harry's room'. He heard a sad cry from inside and frowns in disdain. He had hoped that they would be sleeping, he must admit this would be the single kill that he would truly regret, they were magical children after all, he didn't want to look into their eyes as he killed them. Voldemort is not as emotionless as he portrays himself as, children and snakes are his only weaknesses. He's not even weak to death any more, he's removed that particular problem.
Now, Voldemort may be monstrous but he isn't entirely a monster. He doesn't believe that any magical blood should be spilt but Dumbledore forced his hand when he blocked the peaceful routes to him. He also cannot risk all he has worked for to be ruined by a child, no matter how powerful they may be. If the Potter family were less light he may have been able to make allies of them. That way the prophecy would most likely have been voided as they would not be his enemies.
He understands that what he is doing is necessary to secure his future, and the future of his campaign. Lord Voldemort steels himself then sweeps into the room, the door banging harshly into the wall as he does so. One of the children, the larger of the two and, presumably, the oldest, is crying at the top of his lungs, making his displeasure known, whilst the other is sitting sullenly, eyes scarily reminiscent of the killing curse seeming to look through into Voldemort's very soul. It is this one he decides to kill first. Being the younger of the two he's closer to fulfilling the prophecy. The quietness of the child as he approaches is quite unnerving and crimson eyes meet emerald warily. He takes a steadying breath, chasing away needless emotions. His face is blank, hiding the storm of emotions within him. He stands there for a moment, looking into the eyes of the child that would apparently have defeated him in future. There is an intelligence within those green depths that he didn't realize a child as young as he could have, but it is no matter. The man takes a steady breath.
Lord Voldemort raises his wand and utters the killing curse, with a flash of green light, not unlike Hadrian's eyes, an explosion ensues, brutalising the house. As his soul is ripped from its vessel, Voldemort wonders what went wrong.
The roof of the cottage had collapsed inwards with the explosion. It dips dangerously into the building, not protecting it from the elements as it once did and is instead endangering its young occupants. Ethan is still screaming as loud as he physically can, though it is more quiet now, as his throat is raw and painful from his continued crying. There's a bloody gash on his forehead, caused by some of the falling debris and it's shaped like a star from the impact. Blood trickles down the infant’s face getting into his eyes a little and making it seem as if Ethan is crying blood rather than normal tears. His dark brown hair is in more disarray than usual, he takes after his father in that department, and his face is an ugly shade of red. Between his cries he drags in deep, gasping breaths, replacing the air that he quickly expels. The boy is near hyperventilating and it's a wonder he hasn't passed out yet. He's terrified and in pain, and he wants his parents. They always help him when he cries, where are they? He kicks his legs a little, catching Harry slightly, causing the green-eyed boy to move away from his twin as much as he can in the confines of the crib that Dorothy, the elderly woman, had put them both in to make it easier for her to manage them both.
Harry, as usual, is quiet, his killing curse eyes fixed on the space where Voldemort stood only moments before. What is left of him is slumped on the floor, arm still slightly outstretched; his wand is cradled loosely in the palm of his hand still. Somehow, in death, he manages to look paler, more of a sickly grey colour than his usual bone white. Harry's eyebrows furrow minutely, whilst he is an intelligent one year old he has never been faced with death before; he doesn't know what to make of this new thing presented before him. He rattles the side of his crib a little, trying to get the attention of the man who, it seems to the child, had suddenly fallen asleep,
"up!" He shouts, not knowing a better word in his limited vocabulary. Harry feels distressed, he liked the pretty light that the man had made, it was like his parents and Moony did but a much different colour that Harry liked much better than others he'd seen. The man's skin has a strange texture that he wants to rub his hands on, it looked smooth but also like scales. Maybe the man is not a man at all? Maybe he's a snake or a dragon in disguise?
His eyes were also a pretty colour. Hadrian had never seen eyes that colour before. Why is the man sleeping though? He fell asleep so quick! Harry wishes his brother would fall asleep that quickly sometimes.
He gives up after the strange man doesn’t move and yawns, now disinterested, too tired to keep trying to wake up the strange man. Instead, he concerns himself with blocking out his brother's wails and going back to sleep, not knowing of how dangerous the unstable house is. Blood is smeared across his forehead from a cut shaped similarly to a lightning bolt.
A little over an hour later frantic voices can be heard outside the decimated building, signalling the return of James and Lily Potter. An agonized scream echoes through the ruined house and both boys startle awake; Ethan having fallen asleep not long after Harry, having tired himself out with his insistent crying. Hadrian's face scrunched in displeasure and his eyes show the most disdain a child can manage. He was tired and he would very much like to sleep. His eyes come to rest on the man on the floor, how can he sleep through all that noise? He wonders.
Footsteps thunder up the stairs and Lily is suddenly in the nursery fussing over Ethan, who has always made his grievances more well-known than Harry. His grizzling drawing attention first. James follows in soon after and scoops Harry from his cot, muttering a spell that cleans the blood off of his face and looking over the baby in his arms for any other injuries. Harry fists a little hand in James" shirt, holding on as the man moves through the room. James looks at the slightly singed body on the floor then at Lily,
"it’s you-know-who," he states. There's a tinge of fear in his eyes even though the man is clearly dead,
"We should call Dumbledore", Lily nods in agreement and they quickly hurry downstairs towards the fireplace, which, miraculously, is still connected to the floo network despite the magical backlash that had assaulted the house, near shaking it apart with its strength. At least one other thing is going right for them this evening, not just the continued survival of their sons.
"Albus Dumbledore's office, Hogwarts," James says clearly, throwing some powder into the fire, causing the flames to turn green, before sticking his head in up to his shoulders. Harry tilts his head upwards, not really enjoying being upside down whilst his father has his head in the fire, he much prefers being able to see the room the right way up. James has a quick conversation before standing back upright, still holding Harry. He steps back as an old, bespectacled man with long silver hair, a matching beard and eye wateringly bright robes steps through.
He looks around curiously before his eyes settle on the still crying Ethan, the older boy drawing the attention of all in the room, as always,
"what happened?" He asks in a grandfatherly voice, electric blue eyes twinkling,
"we're not sure", Lily replies,
"we came back after visiting friends and the house was decimated, you-know-who's body is upstairs and my poor babies are hurt", at this she clutched Ethan closer to her person, as if that would protect him from any more malicious forces meaning to cause him harm. The chubby boy squirms in discomfort, crying out in distress at being restricted. His little fists beat against his mother's shoulders in frustration when she doesn't immediately loosen her hold. Lily, realising she's most likely causing her son pain, stops holding her eldest son so tightly to herself.
Dumbledore raises a hand placatingly,
"I believe it is obvious what has occurred here. Lord Voldemort discovered your location; Peter has betrayed you." James and Lily close their eyes in pain and slight distress. They knew that Peter had to have betrayed them for this to happen, due to the Fidelius charm preventing the forced revelation of their location but they had sincerely hoped it wasn’t the case. They truly didn't want to believe that someone they thought of as their friend could do such a thing. Their trust in Dumbledore had them believing what he told them nearly without question the vast majority of the time, Merlin, they had given up life at the manor because he’d told them it would be better for them to be somewhere the dark lord wouldn’t expect, not just the fact it would be harder for the Fidelius charm to protect them.
However, they’d misplaced their trust in Peter it would seem, and it almost cost them greatly. Potter manor was warded to the gills, it probably would've provided them with plenty of protection. If Voldemort had turned up at the doorstep the time it took him to break through the wards would have given them enough time to get away, or at the very least call for backup. They don't think of this however, no, instead they allowed their faith in Dumbledore to let him make decisions about theirs and their childrens" lives without the consequences of such trust crossing their minds even once. Such is the power of Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore steps closer to the young parents, a sympathetic look on his face that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. James and Lily, however, don't notice this,
"what are we going to do?" James forces out through his grief of losing a friend to the dark. There's a tinge of disgust and betrayal in his voice,
"well," starts Dumbledore, carefully considering his words before he speaks,
"it is clear that one of the boys has defeated Voldemort as there were no other witches or wizards in the house at the time." He says this whilst casting a glance over at the body of the elderly muggle woman on the floor; Dumbledore flicks his wand and a sheet covers her, not out of respect but because he doesn't want to see the woman. He veils a look of disgust at the muggle corpse, he can't risk his welcoming reputation after all.

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