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"Powerful infatuations can be induced by the skilful potioneer, but never yet has anyone managed to create the truly unbreakable, eternal, unconditional attachment that alone can be called love." - Hector Dagworth-Granger


She was pure as gold, pearls, a lily in the muck of Hogwarts. Of course, there was nothing more meaningless to her than this distinction.

It was convenience of the highest order that she and Alphard Black became friends, bonded over their not-so-secret of indifference of their circumstantial birth. Though being squeezed between a sister such as Walburga, who perfected what it meant to be pure only in technicality, and Cygnus, who took Hermione and Alphard’s relationship to be one step away from engagement, she had to admit she had it easy.

If someone had asked, she couldn’t explain why she made things so hard on herself, then.

Perhaps it was dissatisfaction with most everything being handed to her. Or it could be the heavy weight of expectation placed on her, to marry, marry young, and spread her purity further through offspring, an odious plague of arrogance. Mostly, it may have been that niggling sense of feeling like an imposter.

Not to say Hermione couldn’t acknowledge her own skill. She was a dab hand at everything she touched, better than the boys in a way that wasn’t at all appropriate. Yet, because it was never enough, and her accomplishments were treated as though they were qualifications for impending nuptials with some as-yet named wizard, and she longed to be seen on the basis of her talents alone even as that pedestal was high. Higher than all the accomplishments of her family and then some.

To get there, she would need to be extraordinary.

And so in her darker moments, she felt a fraud. Questioned her own ability. Worked harder to be the kind of better she perversely believed might not be attainable for the pampered only daughter of her small, but impeccably bred, family. How was a bookish swot anything other than a secondary character to her own life? An encyclopedia wrapped up in breeding hips and unfashionably freckled skin. Not to mention the wild hair that was a trade-mark of the family.

Her twin cousin’s mops of hair looked to be sentient these days, leaving Hermione begrudgingly pleased she hadn’t been gifted the worst rat’s nest.

“This potion includes Runes now? I thought you had decided to forgo them, as carving it into cauldrons for a single use was a waste.”

“I can’t find a way around it Alphy. And if it works as intended, the price for the potion would more than make up for it.”

She felt, but did not look to check, Alphard’s gaze heating her back with the words that had always been on his lips these past months as they worked together on her potion. Well, she had directed, as Alphard had diced, pressed, julienned, crushed, rubbed, and stirred at all the times he’d been told to do so.


“No, don’t. We’ve discussed this ad nauseam and I won’t be deterred.” This was a thing that couldn’t be taken away from her. A potion was irrefutable, unconditional, lasting eternally. It was a labor of love.

“All right.” He agreed quietly.

That should have been her first clue.


Tom didn’t bother to ask what Alphard was handing him. The 6th year Ravenclaw was low enough in the pecking order that he knew very well there had better be a fantastically worthwhile reason to approach Tom.

He flicked through the parchment, eying up the delicate balance of Arithmancy within Divination. It was a potion of some kind, one of destiny, alignment with the universe. Anchored in Runes, it showed a path to victory for whoever took it.

The notes were incomplete, but the bones of the work were so solid that Tom struggled to maintain composure.  

Black hadn’t written one whit of this.

Tom knew very well who had.

There was no questioning why she had done it. The granddaughter of Hector Dagworth-Granger lived under the aegis of the man’s successes and failures. Hector had not succeeded in bottling love, but apparently Hermione had chosen to tackle the true underlying necessity in life.

This was a potion that would win. Luck was a creature of opportunity, but this, this made the very world move to make what was once a probability, reality. 

He’d seen enough, rolling up the parchment and tucking it into a deep pocket of his robes. Alphard shifted on his feet, tense.

“Well?” Tom prodded.

“It combines all of the disciplines except for alchemical and transfiguration, and-”  

“I know what it does. I want to know why you are bringing this to my attention.” Alphard’s face contorted, his pale features agonized. Who knew betraying a friend was so difficult, Tom mused.

“She has to be stopped. This isn’t right, and I can't, I tried. But you-” He trailed off, Tom’s true position in the world one that the common rabble ought not to discuss. Bribery, and when that failed, threats, kept the people he lorded over in line. He could almost like Alphard, for his deference, if he did not find disloyalty a distasteful character flaw.

Despite that he had already resolved to deal with this problem in the way he saw fit, he knew Granger hadn’t earned this man’s disservice to her. He would instruct Cygnus later as to the management of his errant brother.

Over the next hour, he grilled Alphard on Hermione’s wards, her schedule, etc.

“Thank you Tom, she’s my friend, but this is wrong. People should be able to make their own choice.”

“You were right to bring this to me. I’ll take care of everything.”


 For a potion that would make a person fall in love, it brewed quick and easy. It didn’t require blood, nor bone from the person imbibing. The most difficult part about it had been its multi-discipline requirements for crafting, and the cost of the Time-Turner dust. Being the child of a family of potions masters had its perks.

She knew why it hadn’t been done before. Trust a woman to find out, where a man could not, what it took to bottle love.

She would tell Alphard, after, why the potion wasn’t unethical.

Love could not be created, forced. 

The potion itself, was a magnifier of the future- a future that forced the stars themselves to shift down a path that could have been written, but wasn’t. She had operated from a first principle that everyone could love any person, even if only a little. Perhaps in time and space, there were two people who could hate one another more than anything, but even then, those two people, if they took the potion together, would hate and love each other in tandem.

It had taken Runes to isolate the sympathetic magic necessary to direct the opening of the floodgates to be limited between the two imbibing parties. There was something to the potion that could, perhaps, be built upon later to affect other deep characteristics of a person, or use it to make a possible future easier to attain.

Alphard didn’t understand, and she hadn’t wanted him to until it was done. He was already a poor supporter, even if he did chop flobberworms accurately.

She allowed herself some amount of pride, that perhaps only she could have made this potion. That years into the future, no one would have figured it out. After all, it required a not insignificant understanding of runes, arithmancy, divination, anatomy, potions, and even transfiguration, though that was tangentially related to the brewing of the potion itself.

It had been downright difficult to establish the variables for the arithmancy, and as far as she knew, the abiding perspective on divination and arithmancy was that never the twain should meet. Anchoring numbers to non-existent, as of yet, alignments had taken her years of work and not an insignificant amount of appropriation of muggle maths. 

Lost in thought, she was mesmerized by the swirling potion. It glowed a pleasing white, faintly reminding her of Felix Felicious, and it looked playful, an odd thing to describe a potion as being. But it was; it seemed happy to have been brewed and danced with the desire to be used.

Love always is, and is happy to be. She thought.

“Yes, it is lovely.” She reacted with ferocity, ducking tightly down and spinning on a single foot, her potion’s robes swirling about her as she shot off a curse. It was all she was able to get in before he swiped her wand out of her hand and she rolled, avoiding what was likely a stupefy.

Coming up into a run, she dodged another immobilizing spell from her assailant.

If she could just-

The next spell hit her leg, and sent her crumpling to the ground. Still wide eyed and aware, her limbs couldn’t be raised, they wouldn’t even twitch, she waited for Tom Riddle to make his meandering way over to her. Without being able to move her head, she only heard the slight shuffle of his robes as he stopped at her work table.

“You’ve done well. It’s unfortunate Alphard didn’t appreciate you well enough to understand that genius requires sacrifice.”

That colossal idiot. Her anger seethed under her skin, her useless body raging against the slippery magic that cut her off from retaliation. When her body rose and eased into a sitting position, Tom having transfigured a chair, her only option was to look at him.

Truly he was beautiful. Her parents would maybe not disown her outright if she married such a man, half blood though he was.

Honestly, she wasn’t mad at Tom. Not for him hexing her, breaking into her wards. No, it was Alphard who bore all of her cold disdain.  

Betrayer. Fool. Ignorant.

Tom was only a consequence of Alphard’s mistake.

“We’ve not spoken before. I’m Tom, and I do apologize for all this-” he gestured at her limp body that was secured to the chair by his magic.

“It wasn’t my desire to accost the person who has succeeded in bottling greatness. For that, I will offer you half of the potion, which we will simultaneously drink. In case there are adverse effects, I won’t find myself at wand point when I awake. We’ll be equally as incapacitated, or successful. I choose to believe the latter, but contingencies are what they are.” He talked, and talked, and if she could have, she would have trembled at what he was about to make her, them, do. The potion wasn’t a greatness of destiny! It made a destiny great by opening it to love. Love that had always existed, before there were people to conceive of such a thing.

On he went about how clever it was, how if she’d been in Slytherin he may have collected her sooner. She imagined rubbing shoulders with the likes of the Malfoy, Nott and Avery heirs and shuddered internally. That he would consider it a reward made her question how much he even knew about a woman like her.

But he would soon, wouldn’t he.

He didn’t monologue for long. Levitating the potion up he transfigured two cups and the liquid poured into each. She couldn’t even breathe at more than a steady clip, even as her chest felt tight with fear.

She should have reasoned this out, that others would see something else when they looked at the potion, should have known it would be misunderstood.

The cup glided to her mouth, and tilting, her throat swallowed in an unnatural contraction as Tom swallowed his portion. She knew how it was supposed to work, and when nothing happened, she expected Tom to be surprised.

“Ah well, effective is often subtle.” He vanished the cups, the table, every shred of evidence of what she had created. All her notes, gone in a blink.

It wasn’t idiocy then, for her to realize what was next.

“I’d end you, if I thought your path to victory would even come remotely close to mine. It would be a waste.” He raised his wand, then paused.

Hermione could still only blink.

Just do it. Do it already. Make me forget your handsome face ruining everything.

Oh. Oh no, she thought. 

What is this!” He hissed then, furious. She knew what it was, consciously. Experiencing the potion’s effect, however, made her wonder if words were sufficient.

When he slashed his wand down, his face a rictus of rage and molten hatred, barely masked want blurring the fine lines of his cheekbones, Hermione was released.

The chair became a bed that she tumbled back on. 

Her clothes disappeared.

So did his.

“Meddlesome witch. A lust spell? This is an utter waste. How dare you. How dare-” he cut off his own words as he straddled her, body hot and heavy on her own.  

They smashed their lips together brokenly, unevenly searching the other. He licked the seam of her mouth, and she planted a hand on his statuesque torso. Urgently, he crowded her downward, kneeing her legs aside to nestle between them.

“I’ll make you feel this, take every inch of me. You’re mine now, and I find I don’t care why.” Tom was frantic, his eyes wide with fear and loathing. He whispered filth in her ear as he steadily ground his erect cock into the curve of her groin. How pureblooded she was, and how he was going to despoil her forever; he’d make sure everyone knew so she’d have to come to him, marry him. At which point he’d make her beg for him, for the privilege . He said the word ‘ wife’ as sharp as any knife, and that she was his with a tenderness she’d never thought a man with such an aloof temperament to be capable of.

 The wiry hair tickled her thighs and she wanted to mind, she did. But even her magic moved with his, sliding and clenching against the darkness that lay inside Tom.

Unable to dredge any words up that would break through the barrier he had erected, and even further unable to stop the onslaught of rightness she felt as the potion worked itself into the fabric of reality, she nipped at his chest, peppering his warm pectorals with kisses and small bites. He grunted and snatched her hips tight when she rolled a firm nipple between her teeth.

Abruptly he pulled off of her and leaned above her on all fours.

“Is this what it means to win? Explain it to me, you insufferably clever bint.” At this, he began his real attack, licking the tips of his fingers he twirled a nipple between them as he made his way ever so slowly to her waiting cunt. Hermione gasped and writhed under him, and he hummed his pleasure into her skin.

“You witch, you utter slag. I hate you- ” The spell that had silenced her was wearing thin and her voice started, a little choking at first.  

“All-- your-- your fault!”

He hissed in response and hoisted her legs up over his shoulders, sitting back on his haunches. With not an ounce of table manners, he began his feast. First the lips of her cunt, suckled tenderly, then his rough tongue scooping into her hole as he sought out the fluid she could feel her body pushing out for him. Hungrily, he latched onto her clit, rudely sucking it with wet noises between his lips, before drawing up more of her juices to spread over her.

“You nasty indigent arsehole ! Not even worthy--” Hermione all but growled.  

“Of what, licking your pureblood pussy?” He glowered and opened his mouth wide to sloppily pull her lips as far into his mouth as he could, sealing himself around her cunt in a tight vacuum before popping himself off again, leaving her puffy and wanting. His hands released her legs, but only because she’d latched her ankles and bent her knees around his shoulders, anchoring herself. He moved down the planes of her abdomen hastily, cataloguing and enjoying as if he couldn’t decide which he should be doing. She felt him grab the sides of her hips, only for him to let go and squeeze her arse tightly, painfully.

Hermione reached for him then, how indignant she was surely written on her face. Tom slapped her hands away, and she slapped at his in turn.

“Bloody bitch -” he all but howled as he bowled her over, her legs slipping from him.

 When he landed on her in a heap, pressing her breasts down painfully, she bit the thick cord of muscle on his shoulder, securing herself around his body with limbs and teeth, as she rolled him under her.

 His cock slid pleasantly, perfectly along the wet line of her cunt, and she ground down on him as he gasped, his eyelids flickering with loosened control.

 “I made the potion, you tosser.” Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione open-handedly slapped him.

 “You listen, you little fool. You think I don’t see you lording it up with your little cadre of baby dark wizards? Hmm? That I don’t bloody well know what you are? Thinking all I am is some uptight little Ravenclaw queen that needs her quim stuffed by a husband? Fuck you, Tom Riddle.” Coltishly she pushed herself off him, and watched his shock with a tender ache already forming in her heart. He already loved her, and he just didn’t know it.

 And if this was Hermione’s fate, as she knew irrevocably that she would come to love him with equal fervor, she would not go quietly or willingly to a man that would sully their marriage bed, or their future. She was Hermione Dagworth-Granger and if Tom Riddle was the love of her bloody life, she’d make a worthy partner out of him yet.  

 His expression turned foul, he magicked his clothing back on and stood as gracefully as she was inelegant.

 “You will come to me, spread those frustratingly prudish legs of yours and let yourself be filled up by whatever I want to put inside you. My tongue, fingers, cock.” He stomped forward and reached for her hair, fisting it before she could stop him and giving her another fiery inferno of a kiss.

 “You’ll be seeing me, Ms. Granger.” Scowling, he all but ran out of the room, more disheveled than she’d ever seen him.


 “Tom, not here, no-”

 “Shut your beastly little mouth.” His two fingers worked their way inside her cunt from behind, pressing and pushing, robes hiked up around her hips. With precise movements, he fucked her into a wet mess, with sticky discharge oozing around his fingers and in between her legs. Switching his fingers to the front of her to tweak her clit, he easily slipped his fingers back in again. Quickly, he fisted himself against her before sliding his heavy cock between her legs. Instinctively she tightened her thighs and let him fuck her there, slowly working himself into the soft flesh, tightening her muscles to make every thrust take effort. He groaned, pleased at the resistance and pressure around him. 

She was eye to eye with a copy of “Magick Moste Deceyven”, written by Hereward, the son of Godelot. It was the exact copy she’d used to figure out how to make magical cores sympathetic to one another. Hereward had been able to hide from his father that he intended to kill him for the Elder Wand for some time, and a great many wizards misunderstood how monumental this feat was.

Now her forehead was pressed against one of the few copies left in the world as Tom cursed at her, doing his damndest to break her under his fingers before he spilled on her legs. It took Tom breathing into the shell of her ear that she was pure, and his to debase, his to ruin for her pussy to tighten around him, her body squirming into and away from the rolling pleasure of her orgasm. Tom held tight to her, forcing her to feel it as he came on her, the hot and slick mess spreading down her legs. 

Backing away slightly, his hand clenched around her robes to expose her, Hermione turned her head to lock eyes with him. He looked triumphant, satiated, until he caught her gaze and his mask dropped on as he let go of her robe. 

“Clean it up.” He briskly left her, dropping the silencing barrier in the restricted section.


Tom clutched the notes in hand, the oils from his skin having long since permeated the magically-thin parchment. It didn’t blur the words, each diagram weaving a compelling picture that had first ensnared Tom so thoroughly he had made a mistake more critical than that first moment he had revealed to Dumbledore that he enjoyed harming others. Dumbledore, at least, would have only followed his school years. Hermione was forever.

It was strong magic, fueled by the perfect ritual of love. To obtain the power to move the stars, it drove the consumers of it together, clashing and breaking like waves.

He couldn’t stay away, and he couldn’t deny after having studied her potion in depth, that it was anything but the elusive and cumbersome emotion, love. Something he had thought he was incapable of having for another.

The darkest truth was, when he considered her, she was perfect. Her willful nature like some fae creature, she was preternaturally smart at times, coming to conclusions much faster than he in their classes. And much like some of the best wild magics, was unconcerned with the packaging and selling of her ability; that which was the top echelon of power did not need to say so. But she was lustful, a wanton animal whose eyes dimmed with a giving over of herself to Tom, unrepentant in her enjoyment of his attentions. Unconcerned at what he could do to her. And then there was her kindness. Inconvenient and all too real. She was a champion of muggle-born rights, of equality and other concepts that had only become of interest to Tom through her. Families like hers still worshipped the three-faced goddess that Hermione so clearly embodied, and so Tom worshiped her in the quiet of his mind and in the ferocity with which he took her pleasure and his. 

He had thought a goddess needed a god. Now he wasn't so sure that it wasn't the opposite. 

He wasn’t confused as to his own nature; a lack of mother who he discovered had traded her self-respect and identity to shack up with a love-potion besotted muggle had driven him to see people, and especially women, as tools. He didn’t long for Hermione as a mother, but as the ideal of a witch, the kind of witch his mother should have, could have been. With her attached to him he could erase the mistake of his birth, take his place as the heir to Slytherin, and be above reproach. That she was breathtaking was a convenience. Yes, an accessory of sorts to the power he wanted to have. 


All of his musings aside, the most pathetic truth, was at this point it wasn’t the potion talking through him as he rationalized how he couldn’t stay away from her. Tom had changed, and part of love was that he was comfortable leaving some parts of himself behind.

 Even if he wasn’t about to let her know that.


 “No, you’ll be minister. And you’re not going to bloody Albania. I won’t allow it.

“Fuck, on your knees, I can’t stand the sound of your voice.” She opened her mouth willingly and groaned with delight to feel the smooth warmness of him sliding into her with abandon. Most especially they both adored feeling his cum slide down her throat in a deep swallow, as Tom told her repeatedly how he loved that she was filled up with him, that he’d give her more to take each day, how he wanted her to walk around filthy with his cum dripping out of her cunny and arse. He could barely keep himself in control these days, shaking and coming undone in front of her far too quickly. Needing her in the hours, nay minutes, after their classes.

And after his first orgasm, a frenetic bit of thrusting and groaning that had him spilling himself for her, he would begin to plead with her, his fingers driving deep into her with quixotic slowness that turned the pleasure of it into a burden. Any attempt to drive herself down harder onto him would result in his ceasing and instead toying with her breasts, waiting for her to be pliant once more. 

“You know what I want Tom.” She stood resolute, trembling as she struggled not to give in. Spitting into the palm of her hand, he wrapped it around his straining hardness once more, lazily stroking himself. In quick, jerking movements he brought himself over the edge, his hand clenched over hers, cupping his other palm to receive his cum.

Delicately but with a deliberation that made her body ache, he drew the mess along her skin. Trust Tom to know that there were magical properties to a wizard’s essence.

The man’s arrogance knew no bounds as he traced runes for power across her skin, the tips of his fingers massaging harvest onto her womb and liberation on her breast. When he drove endurance into her cunt, his fingers slippery, she gasped as the frisson of magic as it released itself.  

“Not long now.” He rasped, mouthing her neck gently, lips dry but supple on the skin under her hairline. Now draped wantonly over his person, but still resolute of mind, Hermione couldn’t help but agree.


Magnetized, she would lead them to an abandoned classroom before laying back on a dusty desk, robes flipped up. After, she would clean the grime off, but not before. Her one thread of defiance against the inevitable.

“Please Hermione.” Debased, he would ask, his fingers curling tight against the spongy spot of her, the cold wet of her clit when his mouth wasn’t there to protect it more offensive than his words were these days.

She would moan, wanton, and grip his hair to her tightly, pulling him in deeper.


 “I just never thought-”

 “No, you never thought, did you Alphard?” Hermione wore a traditional druidic cut gown, more skin and bone than fabric. Tom stood in the clearing ahead, waiting, a few members of her family gathered to stand watch. The wards surrounding the old oaks were strong enough to distort the air around, leaving Tom in the center of a haze of light.

She walked towards him, leaving Alphard behind.

Her family, not sacred twenty eight, but old, old in a way that even the Blacks would be forced to acknowledge, eyed her with something like pride. It had been impossible to conceal, the nature of her success with the potion, and from thence forth they had crowded her life as they hadn’t before. They stood in attendance, proud and hungry for the shared power of a union such as theirs. 

Of course she would marry the consequence of her success. Halfblood aside, the last of Slytherin’s line under a true love potion. A coup for their house.


“I paid for you, blood and bone, and I will get what I paid for.” Sometime through the past few years of Hogwarts, the sneering anger she beheld on his face had softened into something not sharp enough to cut.

“Perhaps I should complain to my family, that they sold me to you so cheaply.” She huffed, tossing her robe on the floor as she confidently strode to the bed.

“I traded my family’s heirlooms for you!” He groused, his chest bare and sooty with the ashes used to seal their marriage binding.   

“To me. You gave them to me.” The ring twinkled bright on her finger for all that the stone set in it ate light at most angles. She stood in front of him, the light haloing her hair, the wildness of their vows lingering in its strands, in the primitive want shining in her eyes. A muggle would have called her unnatural, barbaric, Tom knew. But Tom knew her as Hermione first and as power, second.

“And for what?” He asked rhetorically, his eyes hungrily eyeing her nudity, runes painted in whorls about her skin. Eihwaz trailed down between her firm breasts, Ingwaz crawled up her shapely arse, and Kenaz peeked out from between her thighs.  

“Why Tom. For the thing you have always wanted.” His eyes glimmered for a moment, and he smiled something wicked. In these twilight hours, he knew the potion had always been what he’d initially thought. It was a path to victory, sure and swift. With a beckoning tendril of magic, he pulled his wife to him.

“Get into bed, you unbearable swot.” And down she went, her smile as feral as his.