“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye,” Hermione read, tracing her finger beneath the gilded words. The Little Prince was a novel that she treasured, the worn copy an original. “Such pretty words.”
She felt his gaze upon her, as she set the book aside on the low table. “Do you believe them?”
“Perhaps,” her husband replied, closing their study door behind him. She knew from his taut stance what he wanted, and felt her cheeks warm. She had ridden him only hours prior when he had woken her with fervent whispers, and wandering hands. She never could resist him, coming alive beneath his touch, and both had been very satisfied after their morning play.
Surely that gave her reason to shiver as she knew what would happen, and she bit her cheek to keep herself from smiling. She wasn’t sure which of them was worse, both of them seemingly insatiable for the other. He strode over to her, the scent of parchment paper and a crisp, autumn morning greeting her as he bent over her seated form.
“They’re watching you, love,” Tom whispered, the kisses that he brushed across her skin burning her within, “Should we give them a show, little one?”
Hermione ran her fingers through his dark curls, knowing how he would nearly purr at the feeling. “If you’d like, My Lord.”
They came from a time that neither would forget, a time where if one tainted their hands with magic, they would burn for their sins. They were two scared children then, ignored, and unloved, by the same village. They were too young to burn, a nun plead, they hadn’t yet lived. The nun’s tears had moved no one, and had shorn their hair, and cut their bound limbs by herself, sending both of them into the forest.
“Be safe, my children,” she had called after them, as they clutched the other’s hand, and ran through the gleaning woods. Both had been terrified, the same as if they were sacrificed to the wolves.
Hermione remembered still, when they had found a filthy ravine, and both had fallen to their knees. They drank handfuls of water, their stomachs churning tight, and she had burst into tears after she saw her own reflection. Her waist-length curls were hastily cropped to her cheekbones, the effect the same as if she were a filthy, little boy.
“Shush, Hermione," Tom had urged her and pressed his own hand against her trembling lips.
They couldn’t stop running, fear nipping at their heels.
“We will make the world right,” Tom often told her, as she lay with her head curled against his shoulder. “You and I, together, one day.”
For magic ran in their very veins, a sense of life that couldn’t be burned away.
Tom was all that she wanted, the only one that she needed, and she had quickly learned that he felt the same way, after he skinned the rabbits that she coaxed into her lap, and called for the snakes that he whispered to, to chase the squirrels and the mice that she sang to away.
Hermione shook her head at the memory, remembering how she had sulked for days after, only breaking her silence when Tom had directed dozens of garter snakes to wrap around her. “Tom, please -" she had begged after one had nestled in her hair, while others wrapped around her arms, and her legs. She had refused to cry, but her lower lip had trembled all the same. “Send them away!”
Only he hadn’t, not that day.
“They’re our friends,” he told her, his dark gaze boring into hers. “Ours, Hermione. They’re the only ones that we can trust.”
It was a lesson that Tom taught her more than once, as their lives began to change. They found that magic pulsed inside them, words gathering on their lips that drew power itself to them. They found safety in the darkness and in the light, soon calling for haggard trees to renew with life, and for the forest itself to listen to their pleas. The animal soon came to respect their place beneath them and would gather food, and find shelter for them.
And as the times changed, magic stayed with them, as Hermione ventured into villages, and towns, and then cities, with Tom beside her. Her hand was forever in his, their fingers entwined around the other. He was the one who encouraged her when she learned to write her name, and they both found a deep love for books. There were things they had seen, and things they remembered that no one else ever would.
“Don’t call me that,” Tom murmured, and Hermione laughed without fear. She pressed her lips to his quirked brow, knowing full well she was the only person in his world that he wanted to call him by his true name.
Not Voldemort, the ridiculous anagram that he’d made, but Tom.
“My Tom,” she teased, and slipped her arms around his shoulders, drawing him near. “Do you need me still?”
He was never far from her, as she stayed in their apartments, as heavy as she was with his child. He had shown more emotion than she thought he would when she’d told him the news. He’d swept her into his arms and held her tighter than he ever had, before dropping to his knees before her, and rested his cheek against her stomach. “A child,” he’d whispered, and she had smoothed her fingers through his hair.
“Our child,” she’d replied, and he’d looked at her with an adoration she had never seen before. He kept her unbearably close after that, keeping her far from the revels they often led when magic took its right from them. He hid her away as if she were his alone, yet agreed to allow the Death Eaters to watch them on occasion. Their followers heard the cries from their rooms often enough, and soon there were portraits that allowed them to watch the amorous couple. It was intoxicating for them both to know how their followers desired her, though neither were interested in sharing.
He knew how to please her, frequently bringing her brilliant tomes to read from, and discussed his own theories with her. He knew how she wished to walk in the gardens and filled their rooms with flowers, including some that bloomed at night, for the nights that she lay awake. His dearest gift was when he provided her with companionship, in the form of a two-headed snake, one that she affectionately named 'Crook' and 'Shanks'. Her familiars played well with her husband's familiar, Nagini, who often hunted for rodents with them.
She lived in the cage that her husband had made, yet she wasn’t like a princess in the fairytales that she had once adored. No, Hermione thought, she had willingly accepted it, as she was at the center of the plans that he made. Magic flourished within their walls, as they introduced it to the light of day, and created a world that was far from the one that had put them aside.
Together, they were wanted and needed for the ones around them to thrive.
Hermione closed her eyes then, knowing that she would never allow their child to know the fear that they had, as they hid themselves from the world’s hate. The villagers had chased them away, their parents among them, and later, she had stood beside her husband as he set the village aflame. He wouldn’t forgive, nor would either of them forget, as they spared the nun alone, and made a home for her.
He lowered his head to her neck and drew his teeth across her hammering pulse. He knew every tell that her body had, and often seemed to delight in seeing the responses he coaxed from her. “Still,” he agreed, “I wish to have you without end.”
“We’ll have a full nursery, if so,” Hermione said, her voice breathless as he tugged down her chemise. Her breasts were exposed to him then, her nipples hardening in the cool air.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Tom said, and she felt as slick gushed against her lace panties. He knew just what to say, Hermione thought as if magic itself gave him a silver tongue.
And yet, she knew that he wouldn’t, no, that he couldn’t lie to her.
Her blush deepened as he nuzzled her breast before his tongue darted out to trace her areola. “T-Tom,” she croaked, as milk trickled from her nipple. Her breasts were increasingly sensitive as her pregnancy progressed; and she whimpered as he drew her nipple into his warm mouth. He was greedy, yet tender, so much that it scared her at times as if she knew that he would devour her to become one if he became desperate enough.
She rubbed her thighs together, as more slick dripped on to her skin.
There were times when he woke her during the night, with his face buried between her thighs. Her hands buried in his curls, often tugging him near until his mouth suckled from her cunt, and his tongue buried deep within her folds. “Give yourself to me, love,” he’d whisper, and she would lose herself in his hold, allowing him to take all that he wanted from her.
He left hickeys on her throat, and in other places, ones that only they would know; the inside of her wrist, the back of her knee, and the very curve of her breast that he often traced with his tongue. She often did the same with him as she raked her nails across his skin, and connected the beauty marks that were spread like constellations over his back. He was beautiful to her, more so than any other man she had ever seen.
Truly, there was nothing that compared to the picture that her husband made, when he would rise from between her legs, and show her his face, with his lips red and her come splattered across his face. It had shamed her at first until he coaxed her to ride his face and take what she wanted from him; his hands tight on her thighs, and her screams of pleasure echoed down the hallway.
“There’s nothing that matters besides your pleasure, in our rooms here,” Tom had said to her after, and when she collapsed in his arms, she acknowledged that he was right. Too right if she were honest, there being a valid reason to when he teased her for being a ‘know-it-all swot’.
She’d gotten back at him, taking his member in her mouth, and licking his length like a cat with a bowl of sweet cream, until he’d gasped her name. She had swallowed every drop of his come that he had to give, with her gaze never breaking from his. She had reveled in how weak he became for her, and how he had dragged her back up toward him, and covered her face in fierce kisses.
They were there for each other, in a way that no one else would ever understand; their very magic wound tight around the other. He knew what she wanted, and all that she craved.
His hand skimmed her side as he drew down to beneath her gown, and slipped between her thighs. “Oh,” she keened, as he drew his fingers against her wet folds, and pushed a thick digit inside. Her thighs pressed tight against his wrist, as she felt pleasure flare from within. It was a response that only he could elicit from her, her small hands never giving her the same feeling as his own did.
“Don’t tease,” Hermione whispered, her voice weaker than she would have liked.
Her nipple popped from her mouth as he moved to the other side, as attentive as he was to her needs. “You know that I will,” he murmured, his breath tickling her skin, as he urged her nipple inside. She arched against him as milk squirted from her nipple, and she sighed as she felt him swallow.
Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed, as she felt the gazes of their followers settle upon her.
"My love," Tom said softly, the words meant for her alone. He made their followers dance to his tune, taking from those who longed for power the most. Magic was their gift alone; one their followers could only accept from them if they granted it. They taught them to laugh in the face of death, Tom naming them ‘Death Eaters’.
Yet death itself feared Tom and his wife alone, as magic made them its vessel, their lives forever their own. Tom wanted to feel the world beneath his feet, while she -
“Tom!” Hermione cried, as his fingers thrust inside.
Her slick drenched his skin as he pleasured her, his fingers curling to find the special place inside her. Her walls were spongy and coated in slick, making it easy for him to move his fingers inside her, up to his very knuckle. She whimpered without shame, the pleasure mounting inside her all she could focus on.
She was his little bird, his sweet wife as he called her. He often stroked her curls as possessively as he had when they were children, one of the first spells that he’d cast making her hair grow thick, and long once again. He always wanted her near, an intimacy between them that none of their followers could foster with either of them.
The only ones that came close were the Malfoys, who soon found themselves without a home, as Tom claimed their great manor as their own. The library was one they both adored, the entirety of it like a labyrinth, one that only they knew how to follow. And at its center was Hermione’s favorite place, with a pool brimming with arcane knowledge, and in its dark, churning waters was where Tom fucked her often. Their followers would never find them there, as she writhed nude beneath her husband, and cried out with abandon.
“Let me hear you, sweetheart,” Tom purred, as he rocked his hips against her own.
He knew that she loved it when he held her beneath him and fucked her with abandon. She wanted the ache that he could give her, frequently leaving her with an ache between her legs that took days to heal. She still remembered when he’d had her on their wedding night, and she’d nearly fell on her way to the closet in the morning. He’d insisted on carrying her then, and had nuzzled his cheek against hers while radiating male pride. She had laughed at the ridiculous thought, though he hadn't denied it when she shared it with him; only giving her an amused smirk in response.
“Git!” she’d called him, and he’d taken her again, soon turning her faux outrage into explicit delight.
He was ever tender with her, often cupping the swell of her stomach with his hand, and mouthing her breast without leaving bruises behind, unless she asked for them. He wouldn’t hurt her, she knew, yet he used his strength against her; often keeping her beneath him, as he made her come multiple times.
Hermione squirmed as his fingers made squelching noises inside her, and her thighs strained against his firm hand. "I want," she started before her breath caught. "Please, Tom," she groaned, feeling as his fingers thrust in and out of her weeping cunt. She was so, so very close -
And then she was falling over the edge, his name on her tongue as her orgasm came.
“Tom! Oh, T-Tom -“
She had never had another’s name on her lips, nor had her husband, as he pulled his silk robes aside. His body was lean yet muscular beneath, and she keened as he replaced his fingers with his cock inside her. He thrust in without warning, and she adored it; especially as she wrapped her legs around his waist, and drew him closer to her still.
She wanted all that he had to give, the new angle urging him further inside her. He gripped the settee with his hands on either side of her and brought his temple to rest against hers. Beads of sweat rolled down his cheek, and she kissed it away, without thought. “Stay with me,” he breathed, and she agreed.
She knew that she never would leave him, nor the realm that he had made.
Her arms wound around his shoulders, and her nails raked across his skin as he quickened his pace inside her. His cock made her fee unbearably full, and she moaned at the feel of his balls as they slapped against her skin. There was a sin to it all that she adored, a feeling of absolute filth that coated their skin; the same as they'd once been accused of when runes were drawn across their limbs. “Always, Tom,” she panted, the words like spun sugar on her tongue, “I’ll always stay with you.”
And just as she knew that she wouldn’t leave him, she knew that he wouldn’t abandon her, nor their future children. There was no future that he wanted without them, nor did he have others in mind to replace them. There was a distance that Tom maintained with others, while even Hermione had made a friend with one Death Eater, a woman who amused her with stories of nargles and imp-like creatures. She was different from the other followers as if she truly understood the magic that lived inside their veins.
For Hermione was certain that there would never be another like Tom or herself, ones who were tied to magic like they were. They were the sheer embodiment of it; their wishes and their whims causing death and life alike, to heed them. It was an intoxicating power, yet a heady weight, as Hermione saw the world outside their golden doors.
It was a world that their children would know, one that would thrash against their will, the same as it would follow it. Theirs was a tie to magic that could never be undone, not by their hand or another, and Hermione often felt as magic tried to consume her. It would take all of her that she allowed it, the same as it tried to make its home within her husband’s soul. As long as they were together, they would always be safe, the same as when they were children fleeing into the howling night.
He gathered her close at night, pinning her against his chest and when he found her during the day. He often read to her aloud, his voice like silk against her skin, and he alone made her ginger tea and created charms to ease her morning sickness. There was a brilliant light within him that drew her near, the same as the shadows made her shiver.
She would never own him, no, his beast was too wild to ever be collared.
Yet when he held himself above her and grunted her name, she knew that he was willingly with her, giving himself away. They both cried out as their pleasure flared into ecstasy, and she relished the feeling of his release spilling inside her and dripping down her thighs. “You’ll keep everything inside,” Tom murmured as he withdrew from her, and -
He drew his hand across her thighs until he pushed the seed back inside her.
“Oh,” she whispered as he cupped his hand against her sex. “But why -“
“Because you’re mine, little wife,” Tom said, with a crooked smile.