She can wield a blade in her hands as easily as she can put a Browning GP-35 in pieces and back together under a minute, blindfolded. She knows 24 different kinds of poison and hits her victims with a handgun at a distance of 400 meters spot-on. When Albus Dumbledore hires her to search and kill Tom Marvolo Riddle, she takes the money and leaves.

There's a book for each month of their relationship and when Tom starts to read Hermione understands.

"Will I be immortal?", he mutters, half in awe while his hands burn to touch her delicate skin, craves to kiss the taste of her flesh. She doesn't answer. He pretends he doesn't see her shoulders tense.

He stops for a moment and looks her once over, then shrugs, says, „You look like a butcher." She thinks she looks like Ashtar, babylonian goddess of war and blood. Maybe that's exactly what he means.

„What about Hermione?" There's a pause in his composure, a shift in his eyes and she watches his shoulder tense, hands tighten, taking deep breaths before he continues to give orders, ignoring her question outright. She doesn't ask again.

Tom is six years old. He's not a man, only a little boy and he's not even sure if he's a good one because he prays for a whipping boy that night and each that follows. He hates the pain but he learns to expect it.

When he was a child the man in the hood visited him in his dreams, sat by his side and told him he would be good enough, strong enough to sit in his place and wear his crown, rule his people, immortal one day, one day.

Tom's hand are covered in blood, thick and shining like honey, all down to his front and knees, all drenched and dark patches on his clothes but it's his hands what Hermione sees. It's the first thing she notices. It's always his hands.

Tom's fingertips trace the line of her cheeks, slow, gentle, a strange sensation that reminds her of the predator sleeping inside of him and it fills something in Hermione like swallowing honey, thick and sweet, covering her throat and gorge. (or is it blood? is it blood?)

He asks her to move in, right after the burial, somewhere between mourning Harry and ‚take half of the flat he left behind, his part of the rent for the coming months is already paid' and there was a glint in her eyes, something that just knew and Tom stopped, breaths, counts seconds until she imitates him, nods, „Sure, thanks."

She can feel herself dying but then he extends his hand and she takes it without thinking.

He feeds the ring with his blood to keep her alive, not a shell, not the lifeless puppet that they're talking about in the old tales from three brothers. The Grim Reaper is an atrocious beast and doesn't let his prey out of sight for very long so all Tom gets is one night a month. (one night is not nearly enough)

Later, Hermione will swear on everything she holds dear, that Tom was the one who spit out the first insult and started all of this. Tom will swear on his life that it was the exact opposite, that she was the one who twisted his every word. The truth, as both will see, was somewhere in the middle.

The first man Hermione killed, had been a stupid rugby player that followed her home one day in college and thought he could have his way with her in some shabby back alley behind some old pizzeria. She smashed his head with an iron bar - out of necessity of course. Tom is probably the only other person in the world who understands how boring necessity becomes after a while.

The Lie: It's a one-time thing. The Truth: It was supposed to be just once, not two times, not three times or four or five. Hermione's always the one who starts the subject, always reprimands him, harsh, brutally reminds him, makes him swear that this will be the last time, makes herself swear the same. (she waits to break the promise, again, again)

There's a dungeon beneath the long, dim halls of Hogwarts, a magical cell that drains the core out of every witch and wizard, not designed to kill them but to leave them behind weak, helpless, a muggle. Hermione conceptualized it herself and helped to steady it, made the walls as hard as granite and there was no way for anyone to break out of her wards and spells. Not even him.

It shouldn't be so simple for Tom to invade her personal space again, not after he left her behind three years ago broken in pieces, but Hermione can't find the strength to push him away, neither can she put up her walls high enough to defend herself against his brilliance and handsomeness which effects her on a whole personal level.

Ginny's words are meant to be good but they're drown in blame when she reminds her that there's no point of return as soon as she gets involved with Tom. (but Tom is pestilential and her lungs eat smoke, breathe green)

'Voicemail', Siri's robotic menu voice drawls in his ear, 'You have seventeen new messages.' This really can't be good.

He didn't fall in love, he crashed into it like a drunk driver who couldn't wait for the light to turn green and perhaps no one will die, but she'll get hurt and he'll apologize with marks on her skin like it's never happened before.