The Beginning of Something Else
And so, the future belongs to him.
It was not a sudden shift, nor a sweeping change. No grand, spectacular transformation. It was quieter than that, the beginning of something darker, something more insidious, a slow unfolding that neither of them had truly anticipated. The world did not end in a flash of destruction, nor did it begin anew in the way she had once dreamed. Instead, it simply… shifted. The tectonic plates of destiny moved beneath her, under her feet, shifting the ground in a way that left her standing still, unable to escape. There was no explosion, no cataclysmic moment when she knew beyond all doubt that everything had changed. No, this was a quiet surrender, a soft, unrelenting slide into a future that was no longer hers to shape.
Hermione stood beside him, her heart heavy with the weight of the decision she had made, and yet, it no longer seemed to matter. She had chosen this. She had chosen to stay. To become part of something that was now irrevocable. The future that had once been filled with rebellion, with resistance, with the sharp tang of hope in the air, had all but vanished. It had been swallowed up in the darkness of this new world—his world.
The path she had once walked, the one that had led her from Hogwarts to the depths of the battle against the darkness, had now diverged. The line she had so clearly seen in her mind had blurred, fading into something unrecognizable. She had crossed it. She had crossed into a place where there was no turning back. The Hermione Granger who had fought so fiercely for the people, who had once believed in the power of unity and love, was no more. In her place stood something else. Something not entirely unfamiliar, but undeniably changed. Something that belonged to him now.
Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. She had given herself to him, yes, but it was more than just an act of surrender. It was a transformation. He had shaped her, slowly, carefully, until there was nothing left of the girl she had been, nothing left of the fierce, unyielding force that had once defied him. In her place stood a woman who stood beside him—his equal, in a sense. His partner. His wife.
The title seemed foreign on her lips, even now, as she turned her gaze toward him, the man who had become everything she had once fought against. The man who had shattered her world and remade it in his image. But as she stood beside him, now wrapped in the cool darkness of his power, the title was no longer so unfamiliar. It was hers now.
She had chosen it.
The wedding was a spectacle of impossible grandeur, an event so meticulously crafted that it would be spoken of for generations. It was not merely a celebration—it was a declaration. A coronation. The world would bear witness to the moment when its future was sealed, when the last remnant of opposition was bound in gold and silk, tethered to the very force she had once sworn to destroy.
It was held in the heart of his empire, in the Atrium of the ministry that had been reforged in his image. Dark banners hung from the enchanted ceiling, embroidered with the silver insignia of his rule, their edges glinting in the flickering candlelight. Chandeliers of obsidian and onyx cast haunting shadows against the marble floors, and the air itself seemed to hum with the weight of ancient magic, thick and unyielding.
Every seat was filled. Ministers and dignitaries, pureblood heirs and foreign ambassadors, the most powerful witches and wizards of the new world order—all had gathered to witness the moment when Hermione Granger ceased to be a symbol of rebellion and became something else entirely.
His.
She stood at the entrance, draped in a gown spun from the finest silks, its fabric shimmering like liquid moonlight, cascading in endless waves around her. It was not white—there was no pretence of innocence left to be claimed. Instead, it was a deep, smouldering gold, edged in crimson embroidery, a silent testament to what she had been and what she had become. The bodice clung to her form, intricate patterns of runes and spells woven into the delicate lace, a subtle display of power only those well-versed in ancient magic would recognize. The long train of her gown trailed behind her like a whisper of fire, pooling against the marble, a queen stepping into the throne that had always been waiting.
Her crown was no delicate thing of flowers or diamonds. No, it was crafted from dark gold, twisting metal shaped into something both regal and lethal. Serpentine in its design, it curled around her head like a coronet of fate, the weight of it a reminder that she was no mere consort. She was a queen in her own right.
Her heart beat once.
Then again.
Loud in her ears—so loud it drowned out the distant murmur of the gathered crowd, the soft rustling of silks and robes, the low pulse of ambient magic that thrummed beneath the floor. For a fleeting second, the grand chamber seemed to blur, its grandeur and weight dissolving into a haze of gold and shadow. Her pulse echoed like a war drum in her chest, and then—just as her heel poised to take the next step forward—she saw him.
Harry.
He was near the back. Not seated like the rest—no, that would have implied status, invitation, some form of recognition. Instead, he stood at the very edge of the assembly, half-shrouded in darkness, as though the room itself were trying to swallow him whole. He wasn’t dressed in Auror leathers or the casual rumpled layers of the boy she remembered. He wore the black ceremonial robes of the new regime, sharply tailored and unforgiving, trimmed with silver so bright it caught the firelight like a blade. And over his heart, embroidered in stark metallic thread, was the symbol of the world that had crushed theirs.
His posture was stiff, spine straight and shoulders squared like a soldier at inspection. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle twitched just beneath the skin. But it was his eyes that hit her hardest—those unwavering green eyes, locked forward, emotionless on the surface. Cold. Controlled. A boy pretending to be stone. A man carved by survival. He did not look at her. Not fully. Not yet. But she knew he saw her. Felt her. The bond between them, frayed and scorched though it was, had not entirely withered.
He was here.
And he had to watch this.
Riddle had planned it that way. Of course he had.
He had mentioned it days ago, casually, like one might mention changing the flowers in the hall or adjusting the guest list. A brief flick of his fingers, a faint smile curling his lips as he stood behind her, fastening the golden clasp of her gown with slow, deliberate care.
“A familiar face,” he had murmured, his voice a brush of silk against her ear. “Someone from the past. I thought you might appreciate it.”
Appreciate it.
As though it were a gift.
As if dragging Harry—her Harry, the last living remnant of who she had been—into this ornate display of dominance and submission was somehow a kindness. As if Riddle wasn’t twisting the blade deeper by forcing him to stand guard while she pledged herself to the very man they had once fought to destroy.
And yet, it was brilliant in its cruelty. Cold, calculated brilliance. Because Harry's presence wasn’t just for her. It was a message. To the world. To the prophecies. To every ghost of rebellion that dared still breathe. Look how easily your heroes fall. Look how willingly they fold.
Her stomach turned, a slow, sickened lurch, but she masked it with years of hardened discipline. She stood taller, straighter, shoulders back, chin lifted. She adjusted the weight of the gown on her frame, ignoring how it clung like molten iron instead of silk. The room no longer blurred. It sharpened. Crystallized.
Because she knew what Harry would see if she faltered.
If her steps faltered.
If her voice trembled.
If she looked back.
He would see her break.
And that… that, she would not allow.
Even if he didn’t remember. Even if he didn’t know who she was—or who she had been to him. Even if the name Hermione Granger stirred nothing in him but a vague, unplaceable familiarity, like a dream forgotten the moment one wakes. Even if he looked at her now and saw only a stranger in golden silk, walking willingly into the arms of a monster.
Especially then.
Because if there was even the smallest flicker of recognition buried deep within him—buried beneath the layers of reconditioning, manipulation, or simply time—then she owed it to him to stand tall. To be strong. To be unbroken, at least in appearance.
And at the end of the aisle, standing atop the blackened stone dais, was the man who had orchestrated it all.
Tom Riddle.
He did not wear robes of simple black. No, he was adorned in deep, storm-dark fabric threaded with silver, his cloak lined in bloodred satin, his presence commanding in a way that made the air tremble. The crown upon his head gleamed in the candlelight, its jagged edges sharp enough to draw blood. His eyes, burning with something ancient, something victorious, met hers across the vast expanse of the Atrium. And in that moment, as the world held its breath, she knew—there was no escape.
He did not wear the expression of a man about to be wed. There was no joy in his face, no affection in his gaze, and yet, the weight of his attention was unbearable. He watched her like a hunter watches his prey, like a king surveys his kingdom—possessive, calculating, knowing. The dark velvet of his suit was tailored to perfection, seamless in its elegance, shifting with the light as though woven from shadows themselves. The ring on his hand glimmered—a symbol of his dominion, his victory, the binding promise she would soon wear as well.
She reached him, her movements unhurried, measured, the last steps of a path she had long since accepted. Every footstep echoed through the cavernous hall, swallowed into the hush of the gathered witnesses. There was no music, no soft murmur of celebration—only silence, thick and heavy, laced with expectation. She was not a bride in the traditional sense, not a woman stepping forward into a life filled with tenderness and devotion. She was something else entirely. A queen to a king who had reshaped the world in his own image.
Tom Riddle stood at the altar, watching her with the patience of a predator, his gaze never wavering, never straying. The moment she stopped before him, that unbearable silence stretched, pulling taut like a thread on the verge of snapping. He did not reach for her immediately, did not move with haste or urgency. He had no need. This moment had already belonged to him long before she had arrived at it.
When he lifted his hand, it was slow—deliberate. His fingers brushed against her cheek, featherlight, yet heavy with meaning. There was no affection in the touch, no softness, yet it burned through her like an unspoken vow, a binding she could feel down to her bones. It was final, like the last words of a prophecy, like a fate sealed in blood and magic. The air itself seemed to tighten around them, charged with something electric, something inevitable.
She did not pull away. She did not flinch.
"You understand now, don’t you?" His voice was low, rich, a whisper of silk sliding over steel. There was no urgency to the question, no need for reassurance. He already knew the answer. He always knew.
The weight of his gaze pressed down on her like an iron shackle, heavy, inescapable. It stole the breath from her lungs, tightened its grip around her ribs, but she did not waver. There was no need for hesitation anymore. That time had passed.
"Yes," she breathed.
His lips curled, but it was not a smile in the traditional sense. There was no warmth to it, no triumph or arrogance—only satisfaction. Certainty. The war had never been about battles fought in the open. It had never been about victories won on the battlefield. This had always been the true war. And she had lost. Or perhaps, she had never stood a chance at winning at all.
"Good." His fingers lingered, tracing the edge of her jaw, slow, possessive. A silent brand. An unspoken claim. "Then you know your place."
She did.
The war was over.
But this was not the end.
This was the beginning of something else—something neither of them had words for, something that was neither love nor peace, but something far more permanent than either.
The ceremony unfolded around them, slow and deliberate, every moment stitched together with threads of power so old they hummed beneath the skin. The very air shimmered with the weight of it, thick with magic that predated names, predates empires. It clung to the walls, to their skin, to the breath in their lungs. There was no warmth in the words spoken—no love, no gentleness, no pretense of romance. This was not a joining of hearts. This was a binding of wills. Of futures. Of fates.
The officiant’s voice echoed through the Atrium like a bell tolling the end of something—something sacred, something hopeful. The language he spoke was not English. It was older, carved out of the bones of the earth, spoken in tones that scraped against the edges of the soul. Each word wrapped around Hermione like a thread of silk pulled taut, invisible but unbreakable. Binding her to him. To this.
There were no sweet nothings whispered beneath breath. No declarations of eternal love, no promises of comfort or fidelity. What they spoke instead were oaths etched in power. Promises of dominion, of obedience, of shared rule through conquest. It was a coronation disguised as a wedding. A war pact sealed in ritual.
And when he slid the ring onto her finger, her breath hitched—not out of sentiment, but instinct.
The metal was cold—too cold. Ancient runes shimmered faintly along its surface, glowing for just a moment as it touched her skin before dimming into silence. It was heavier than it should have been, weighted with meaning, with consequence. It wasn’t just a ring. It was a shackle. An emblem. A spell woven in the shape of jewelry.
A claim.
And still, she did not pull her hand away.
Because in that moment, with the cold bite of metal against her skin and a hundred gazes watching in silence, she understood—this was forever. Not just the act, not just the ritual. But everything. The role she would now play. The woman she would now be. The past she could no longer return to.
There was no turning back.
The air in the room shifted—something unseen passing over the gathering like a shadow stretching across the land. It was thick, tangible, humming with a kind of magic that felt alive. The final words were spoken, resonant and absolute. The ceremony sealed in full.
It was done.
And then—the kiss.
It came without warning.
It was not gentle. It was not soft.
It was possession.
His lips crashed against hers with unwavering certainty, claiming, sealing, ensuring that the world knew what had transpired in this room. His fingers curled around the back of her neck, firm, controlling, keeping her there—not as a man holds a woman he loves, but as a ruler holds what belongs to him. There was no escape, no hesitation. He did not ask. He took. And she let him.
And as the cheers erupted around them, rolling through the Atrium like the crashing of a tidal wave, she felt the weight of the moment settle into her very bones. It was not the joyous sound of celebration, not the tender applause of well-wishers gathered to honour a union built on love. No, this was something else entirely. This was the sound of triumph, of inevitability, of a world shifting around them—reshaped, rewritten in his image. In their image.
The air itself seemed to hum with the force of it, vibrating with the raw energy of something ancient, something permanent. Magic crackled in unseen currents, drawn to them like a force of nature, recognizing the magnitude of what had just been sealed. This was more than a wedding. More than a vow exchanged between two people. It was a coronation. A conquest. A final, inescapable truth.
Tom’s fingers had not left her skin, his touch a constant presence, grounding, possessive. She did not move, did not pull away, did not falter under the weight of it. Because there was nowhere left to go. No war left to fight.
And in that moment, standing beside him, her hand still held in his unyielding grip, she realized something.
There was nothing left to mourn.
Nothing left to grieve.
The girl she had once been—the girl who had fought, who had dared to dream of something better, who had believed in resistance and rebellion—was gone. Not in a violent, shattering collapse, not in a moment of dramatic finality, but in something quieter, something more insidious. She had unravelled, piece by piece, choice by choice, until there was nothing left of her but a memory.
There was no sorrow in the realization. No crushing despair. Only the quiet understanding of a truth she had already known but had never spoken aloud.
This was who she was now.
This was what she had become.
The wife of Tom Riddle.