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857 pages, ebook
First published January 1, 2012
“You are the finest thing I have ever seen,” he muttered. “How are you encased inside a bone and flesh shell like any mere mortal when I know you are as much a storm as you are a witch?”
[...] he held her as though the world could come crashing down around them, sky and sun and stars all together in an apocalypse of ash and fire, and he wouldn't let go.
“I don't know how to do this, Hermione.” It was stark and blank and unfumbled; a confession unburdened by pride. “As you well know, I have no yardstick by which to measure the normal affections of a man and a woman. All I know is that you're magnificent and you're mine, and I will kill anyone who touches you.”
There were two beautiful things in this world; power and Hermione Dearborn.
He understood he'd kill anyone who took her away. That when she looked at him, she saw him.
“Are you my making, or my ruin?” he wondered aloud.
I'll rebuild the world in my image, she'd told him, and they'll love me for it.
One day, she vowed silently to herself, staring up at the castle, one day it's going to be a very different world. This one if going to burn up in a fire of hate and then I will use the ashes to help a new order come to pass. I swear it.
He wanted to know every inch of her skin, rip it off and look underneath, dive inside her mind and eyes and body and ransack her secrets until she was flayed open beneath him, empty and open and burning hot.
If he ripped her open, would her secrets be burned into her skin on the inside? Would she tell him then?
She had once believed you fell in love with someone for who they were. She had not known you could fall in love with the person for what you could forge them into. For the person you became with them.
He had put his heart in a locket for her, and she'd turned away. (He had put his heart away in a locket for her, and he had found an empty chest was a grey and lonely thing.)
Tom Riddle was a liar and a dreamer and a doubter and he made his lies real and his dreams become truths and his doubts a leash.
“Are you my making, or my ruin?” he wondered aloud.
“Both,” she muttered sleepily, stirring at last.
He wanted to know every inch of her skin, rip it off and look underneath, dive inside her mind and eyes and body and ransack her secrets until she was flayed open beneath him, empty and open and burning hot.
He turned to her, and his eyes burned with confidence and passion and belief and she understood, really understood, why people would follow him all the way into the dark.
Except her. That Salazar-damned girl with her quick mind and her impeccable spell-work, unafraid to be challenged, unafraid to challenge. Most of the time. She was different and he didn't know why, but she was fascinating, and yet she was still pretending to be ordinary. Running around with that complete sap...
He'd been convinced she'd put a spell on him - or someone had on her behalf. He'd actually taken a bezoar (just in case) although he'd deny it til the world burned if anyone asked him.

hates herself for wanting him
Was it true? She asked herself. His dark eyes gleamed in her mind and – No. Of course she didn't want him. She didn't hate him for ignoring her, for avoiding her. She didn't burn to feel his eyes on hers again.
You are loved by a Slytherin as I was.
"Help," she whispered to no one. "Help me."
But there was no one there.

But this was not what they had. This was elevated far beyond what those fools called love. There were two beautiful things in this world; power and Hermione Dearborn.
Hermione did not wear the locket for long, for she left to one place and he to throw away another piece of himself, but for the time she had it, it was more hers than any other part of him he had left.
“He said it's because too much magic can be a dangerous thing... But I am already a dangerous thing, my love, and so are you, and I want to find out what, if any, limits exist."
"What if you lose yourself along the way?"
"I won't. I have you to tether me to myself.”