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Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort couldn’t get the Granger girl out of his head. He sat at the long, rectangular table in the formal dining room of Malfoy Manor; he’d dismissed his followers and now sat peering into the immense stone fireplace, his crimson eyes lost in the bright flames. 

He twisted the elder wand between his long fingers.  Nagini slithered from beneath the table and slid into his lap, resting her head on his thigh.

Voldemort scowled. The girl had been merely a mild fascination in the beginning, nothing more. He would peer into Severus’ mind, watching the comings and goings at Hogwarts, spying on Dumbledore and learning all that he could about Harry Potter. 

He noted that Snape disliked the girl, partly because she was a Gryffindor, and partly because of her closeness to Harry Potter. Voldemort had hated her as well, for the same reasons, but he quickly began to realize he was fixating on her despite his purported dislike.

She was a relatively smart witch, albeit narrowminded, and her lust for knowledge intrigued him. In fact, she quite reminded him of himself as a young wizard. The difference, though, was that Tom Riddle had always kept his intellectual pursuits private, but this witch seemed to want the entire world to know the breadth and depth of her knowledge.

An insufferable know-it-all, as Severus frequently referred to her.

Voldemort smirked. 

So! The witch loved praise and adoration… to be recognized for her achievements. 

He was somewhat the same, but he preferred that others fear him, rather than admire. He desired control, not praise. 

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed as he stared into the flames. He couldn’t decipher why he was fascinated by the witch. She was young and naive, and disgustingly noble. Despite those things, he’d begun to look forward to his meetings with Severus, if only to get a glimpse of her inside his death eater’s mind. He’d even observed her in the mind of Draco Malfoy, and found himself amused at the fact that Lucius’ son had a little crush on the Granger girl. That had embarrassed the boy to no end, to have Lord Voldemort witness his fascination with a mudblood.

He hadn’t the heart to tell Lucius that his own son had imagined what the girl’s lips would taste like.

Voldemort ground his teeth.

He also wanted to know what she tasted like.

In truth, she had grown in his mind from a mere fascination, to an unfortunate fixation, and then, into an all out obsession .

He thought of the way she raised her hand for every question, and the perturbed look on her face when Severus refused to call upon her.

What a desperate little witch, he thought. So eager, begging for attention. 

Voldemort was mildly frustrated. Not only because she was a mudblood, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix, but because she was just a girl. A self-righteous, frizzy-haired, brown-eyed distraction. Nothing special.

His nostril-like slits flared in irritation, because as much as he knew that the girl was indeed, nothing special, he couldn’t seem to convince himself of that.

His body ached for her. He longed for proximity.

To have the girl before him, on her knees. To breathe in her scent, to hear her voice with his own ears, and not as a muffled and indistinct memory, no more than an echo.

He was angry, because the girl was the last thing that should be on his mind with so many of his horcruxes destroyed. It was quite out of character for him to not be laser-focused on his goals, and he didn’t like feeling as though he didn’t know himself. Desire and emotion were confusing things, which is why he so often avoided them completely.

“What do you think, Nagini?” He hissed in parseltongue. “Why shouldn’t I have her?”

After all, such were the spoils of war. Even now, he had Harry Potter locked away in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor.

His bargaining chip. 

Harry had met him in the forest that night, but Voldemort read his mind all too easily. 

A horcrux. The Potter boy housed a piece of his soul.

It had been Dumbledore’s brilliant plan to send the boy to his death. A brilliant plan it would have been, perhaps, if it had been executed as he intended.

But the old fool had always underestimated Lord Voldemort.

Rather than kill the boy on the spot, he performed legilimency, which the boy was ill-prepared to counter. He too easily read the boy’s mind, and realized immediately that he’d already destroyed several of his horcruxes.

The Dark Lord saw everything. His destroyed locket, the ring, the diadem. Potter had even possessed his cup, which was as he’d feared after the break-in at Gringotts. He realized with horror that the elder wand which he held in his hand was not submitted to him, but to Potter. He saw through Potter’s mind that the wand bent its will to the boy. 

It didn't matter. Voldemort quickly remedied that problem by instructing Greyback to disarm Potter.

Then he killed Greyback.

Voldemort stroked the wand lovingly. In a way, he missed his old yew wand, but there was something deliciously satisfying about possessing the wand which had belonged to both Grindelwald and Dumbledore.

He wondered vaguely if it was cursed.

In any case, he’d called off the battle, and taken Harry hostage. 

“Her blood is filthy,” Nagini hissed. 

Voldemort chuckled. “I’m sure it tastes the same… perhaps even better.”

He thought of the redheaded boy… the Weasley .

He would kill the boy as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He despised the thought of the mudblood in the clutches of such a boy.

“He’s beneath you, my dear,” he whispered to the air.

He wondered if she’d given herself to the boy. Hot hatred coursed through his body at the thought.

He felt himself growing hard as nondescript feelings flooded through him, his cock throbbing as he imagined killing the Weasley boy. He imagined Hermione laid out before him, her thighs spread, a delicious offering to Lord Voldemort. 

His prize.

His witch.

He hadn’t been much interested in sexual engagements since the first war, when he and Bella cuckolded Rodolphus right under his nose.

There was little the Wizard could do about it, and Voldemort had enjoyed the freedom and power to do as he wished. He secretly hated his pureblood followers, and he loved the fact that he could fuck their wives and they couldn’t do a thing to stop it. 

That was real power.

Of course, even now, Bella was ever as obsessed with him, but his interest in her had waned since he saw the mudblood for the first time in Severus’ mind.

“A stupid girl,” he spat with distaste. “And a mudblood, no less. Perhaps I’ll bring her here, and discover what a disappointment she is. Then, I suppose, if she presents no value to me… I’ll simply kill her.”

Nagini hissed her pleasure.

Nagini was quite a jealous serpent, after all… perhaps even more so than Bellatrix Lestrange. 

Voldemort stroked her head with his long, ghostly fingers as he stared into the flames.

——————-

The remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix crowded around the table in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. 

Kingsley sighed. “We’ve received word from Lord Voldemort’s emissary.”

Molly Weasley waved her wand, cleaning the plates of the meal recently devoured by the Order and stacking them carefully one by one.

Bill Weasley scoffed. “Emissary! Ha! What a joke… imagine that psychopath pretending to be some merciful ruler.”

Arthur Weasley tilted his head thoughtfully. “He’s right. Voldemort hopes to convince us that our cause is pointless now. He thinks to act reasonably and with caution. He’s called off all the attacks and reigned in his Death Eaters, and with purpose, mind you. He thinks that we will perhaps give up the fight.”

“He has Harry,” Ron said numbly. “Harry was and is our last hope.”

The convening grew silent. 

After a moment, Molly spoke up. “I just don’t understand… Why in Merlin’s name would Harry go into the forest and give himself up like that? It has put us all in a terrible position. The resistance is completely demoralized now.”

“What did Voldemort want, Kingsley?” asked Ron quietly. “Is-“ He cut himself off, then cleared his throat. He took a deep breath, then started again. “Is Harry alive?”

Hermione placed her hand over Ron’s in a show of support, a comforting gesture. Since they’d lost Harry, Ron hadn’t been the same. He was fidgety and edgy, and seemed not to know what to do with himself. 

“Harry is alive,” Kingsley said, his deep booming voice echoing through the small kitchen. A chorus of breaths issued forth, betraying everyone’s relief.

Hermione and Ron looked at one another. They were the only two who knew the reason Harry had gone into the forest that night. It hadn’t gone to plan… and they were both relieved and terrified of what that meant.

Harry possessed a piece of Voldemort’s soul… and there was no destroying Voldemort until that piece was gone.

There were only two ways to undo a horcrux: to either have genuine remorse for one’s actions, or to destroy the horcrux.

Either way seemed unfathomable.

How could they destroy the piece of Voldemort’s soul without also killing Harry?

What was worse, Voldemort probably knew about it by now.

“We have to get Harry back,” said Neville. “There’s no other way.”

Kingsley looked gravely into the faces around the table. “He wants to parley.”

There was an uproar.

“Parley? Parley ?”

“Did the emissary say why?” asked Bill.

“No,” replied Kingsley with a sigh. “But I can take a wild guess. I imagine he wants to bargain: Harry's return for our surrender.”

“Never,” said George sourly.

Ron looked green. Hermione flicked her eyes at him.

Neville and Ginny looked at one another. Ginny’s eyes were filled with tears. She blinked, and they spilled over. 

Hermione wrapped her arms around her, but there was no real comfort to be had.

All seemed to be lost.

With Snape gone and the Ministry in Death Eater control, Hogwarts was lost. Many of the seventh year students had gone into hiding.

If only Harry hadn’t gone into the forest that night, they could’ve fought and maybe, just maybe they could have won.

That was the general feeling, anyway.

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances again.

“We will meet with Voldemort tomorrow… for Harry’s sake. Harry is the only hope we have left. We have to get him back.”

“You’re thinking about surrendering?” exclaimed Charlie.

Kingsley shook his head. “We will hear his proposal, then we will reconvene. That’s all that we can do for now… until we know what his game is.”

The kettle whizzed, whining on the eye of the stove. Molly hurried around the room, making tea and setting out cups as silence fell over the room.

———————

“What should we do, Ron?”

Hermione and Ron sat in Sirius’ old bedroom, their beds directly across from one another. 

Hermione hugged her knees to her chest as she stared at Ron, who leaned against the chest of drawers, his forehead resting on its edge.

“Do you think he knows, Mione?”

She sighed. “He definitely does. Harry’s a skilled occlumens, but not that skilled. I imagine Voldemort knows all about the horcruxes by now… and the piece of his soul attached to Harry.”

Ron opened the top drawer of the chest and pulled out a leather satchel. He reached into the satchel and withdrew a golden cup: the cup of Helga Hufflepuff.

“That means he’s dangerous. He’ll be weak and afraid.”

“He still has four pieces of his soul left,” she pointed out.

“What do you think he’ll want? Do you think he’ll offer Harry in exchange for the horcrux?”

Hermione twisted her lips to the side in thought. “I mean… Harry is a horcrux. I doubt he’ll let him go.”

Silence fell between them. 

“Do you think…” Ron swallowed. “Do you think they’ve hurt him? Tortured him?”

Hermione dropped her face to her knees. “I don’t know, Ron. I’m terrified to let myself think about it. I hope they’ve kept him untouched for the sake of the war.”

Ron let his eyes fall to the floor. “We let him go, Hermione. We failed him as friends.”

Hermione sighed and shook her head. “If there’s one thing I know about Harry from all these years of friendship… it’s that Harry is going to do what Harry has set his mind to do. There would have been so stopping him, Ron.”

He gave a wry, half smile. “Yeah… I suppose you’re right.”

He looked down at the cup in his hand. “So we shouldn’t destroy it, then?”

She flicked her eyes up at him, then down to the cup, then finally, to the bag where she knew he kept several basilisk fangs. “No, Ron… we may need it as leverage. If we destroy it, he will know, and there’s no telling what they’ll do to Harry.”

Ron nodded, gulping. He tucked the cup back into the bag and slid it back into the drawer. “I’m gonna go talk to Fred and George for a bit.”

Hermione nodded, and watched Ron as he sadly left and closed the door behind him.

——————

Something broke in Hermione when she watched Harry walk into the Black Forest that night.

It had been breaking since she obliviated her parents…

Since Bellatrix carved her up on the floor of the Malfoy Manor drawing room…

Since Ron abandoned them in the woods in the Forest of Dean. 

Watching Harry walk to his death, so brave and unafraid…

That was the last straw for Hermione.

It was as if the bundle of strings tethering Hermione to her morals had been steadily snapping, one by one, until the very last one severed with finality.

Since the Battle had ended so abruptly, she’d made a decision… in secret, buried deep in her heart, Hermione’s goals shifted.

Hermione wondered if she were to be sorted now, if she would land in Slytherin.

She vowed to become powerful beyond her wildest imagination. She would never again let her morals get in the way. 

Harry would disapprove, of course, but that no longer mattered to Hermione.

What mattered was keeping her loved ones safe.

Hermione began combing the Black family library, where she located ancient books on dark magic.

“Dark magic, Hermione?” Ron asked when he’d seen what she was reading. “Dark magic poisons the soul, Hermione. Why are you reading that?”

“Just research,” she muttered distractedly.

Day after day, Hermione studied spells, curses, ritualistic dark magic. She practiced wand movements and incantations. She read about blood magic and mind magic. She studied magical ancestry and elemental energy. 

Hermione was like a witch possessed, barring herself from no topic of study. 

“Never again,” she whispered. “Someone has to fight darkness with real weapons.”

Imagine believing they could beat the Death Eaters with expelliarmus and protego ?

How foolish they had all been!

“Never again,” she muttered. 

Morals didn’t matter if everyone was dead.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s dragon-hide boots crunched on the gravel. The Order’s delegation arrived in formation, apparating as one sidelong unit onto the bridge in front of Hogwarts castle.

They sent enough aurors in case there was an ambush, but not so many that their forces would be depleted should the parley devolve into a trap.

Kingsley was clear: Voldemort was not to be trusted to adhere to the rules of engagement. 

Kingsley made up the head of their formation, flanked by Charlie and Bill. Hermione walked alongside Bill, and opposite her was Ron, who refused to stay behind.

Arthur and Sturgis Podmore made up the rear.

They stood waiting, feeling very much like sitting ducks in their matching crimson uniforms. The Order had commissioned them to be made for practical reasons, but Hermione suspected that the uniforms were a way to boost morale, given that all the members of the organization were terribly demoralized by the loss of Harry.

It made them all feel a sense of unity, which they desperately needed.

Hermione chafed in her uniform in the summer heat. Her dragon hide boots were light, but thick-soled, buckling up her calves and over her tight leather trousers.

She sweated beneath the heavy canvas robes, which were tailored much like a structured coat and fell to her ankles. Its military-like lapels were stitched with gold thread, and the jacket itself bore hidden compartments and buckles, belting around her slim waist. An embroidered golden Phoenix was sewn into the shoulder, and around her upper thigh she’d secured a wand holster which held her vinewood wand. 

Each of the Order members were in possession of a hidden portkey somewhere on their person, in case an anti-apparation zone had been set up prior to the rendezvous. 

Minutes passed by. Hermione reached for her beaded bag, which was shrunken and secured into one of her robes’ zippered pockets. She drew her wand and pointed it into the bag, summoning her quick quotes quill.

They’d brought Hermione along only to take notes on the meeting and to potentially draft the terms of a magical contract should any type of agreement be reached.

The quill and parchment was poised and ready by the time that they heard the sounds of apparation.

Two loud cracks resounded, and suddenly standing before them were Bellatrix Lestrange and Thorfinn Rowle. 

Rowle was silent, his arms crossed in front of him placidly, his gnarled and knotted wand in hand.

Bellatrix, on the other hand, let her gaze roam between each of them, a look of utter contempt in her crazed, heavy-lidded eyes.

They lit up when they landed on Hermione. The smile that curved her lips made Hermione’s skin crawl.

“How’s your arm, dear?” she asked innocently, smirking in her signature taunting manner.

Hermione stared back blankly, determined to give her nothing. “How’s your vault?”

Bella’s smirk instantly transformed into a scowl, her eyes bulging like she might whip out her wand and cast the killing curse at Hermione any moment.

“Do not engage,” Kingsley reminded them, cutting his eyes back at Hermione.

She narrowed her eyes at Bellatrix, but said no more.

“Yes, Shacklebolt,” Bella sneered. “Rein in your little mudblood bitch. I can smell her filthy blood from here…” She sniffed the air. “Or maybe that’s just the stench of your imminent demise.”

Her gaze trailed over them all, one by one, and then her laughter echoed through the canyon, the sound haunting and unhinged.

“Enough, Bella.”

Voldemort’s voice penetrated the air, causing Hermione’s heart to stutter.

The Order’s delegation began to search the bridge, the sky, everywhere, looking for the source of the voice.

Bella chuckled, miming their actions as if to ridicule 

The sky darkened, and a shadow stretched over the bridge. 

A sinister wind began to blow, and a figure transformed from a dark fog, which circled like a whirlwind around the body that began to materialize.

Then, he was there, standing mere feet from them, shadows spilling from his form like water.

Lord Voldemort, in the flesh.

He towered over them all, his frame obscured by dark green robes that were nearly black.

Hermione had been sweating beneath her robes, but suddenly there was a chill in the air around them. A shiver shot down Hermione’s spine, but she shook it off. 

The slight movement drew Voldemort’s gaze.

His eyes narrowed as they fell upon her, and she noted his irises were the color of blood. They flicked momentarily to the quill which was poised and ready to make notes, then cut back to her. 

He stared at her as if he could read every thought in her mind. Hermione swallowed, and proceeded to check that her occlumency walls were still intact and secure.

His ruby eyes were intelligent and penetrating, though soulless, like windows that had long been boarded up. They housed no remorse, and no pity… only a promise of death. 

He stared at her so long that the other Order members shifted nervously, and even Bellatrix looked at him, her expression questioning.

His lips twitched, their corners lifting in what could have been a smirk, but it was so very slight. A split second later, it was gone. His eyes cut to Kingsley.

“Is your little band of misfits ready to surrender?”

Kingsley glared at Voldemort. “Surrender is not on the table. You’ve asked us for parley, which we have generously granted. Please state your intention for calling this meeting.”

Voldemort pointedly ignored Kingsley and cocked his head, once again fixing his gaze on Hermione.

“The Order has a uniform I see.” His crimson eyes dragged over her appearance. “Tell me, does it boost morale? Does it make you feel as if there’s some hope of winning?”

“We will win.”

Voldemort’s eyes cut over to Ron, who stood glaring at him defiantly.

The Dark Lord’s face darkened. “Ah, the Chosen One’s inconsequential friend.”

“That’s my son!” Arthur shouted, red-faced and tight-fisted.

“You must be so proud,” Voldemort replied slowly, his tone condescending.

“State your intent,” Kingsley said in his deep tenor, ever calm and commanding.

Voldemort’s eyes found Hermione once more. The look in his eyes was unmistakable; he didn’t bother to disguise his interest.

Bellatrix exhaled petulantly.

“I’m willing to make an exchange,” said Voldemort as he finally dragged his eyes away from her.

Hermione sucked in a breath, after realizing that she’d been holding it.

“What exchange would that be?” asked Kingsley warily.

“I’ll give you Potter… but I want something in return.”

Hermione’s quill scratched away in mid-air. 

“We don’t have all day. Spit it out, Voldemort,” said Kingsley.

Voldemort gave a ghastly smile, then drew his wand, eliciting a stir from the aurors behind Kingsley. Before they had a chance to react, he slashed downward with the elder wand, and Kingsley snapped forward at the waist, bending into a deep bow. 

“ Lord Voldemort,” hissed the Dark Lord.

The aurors now had their wands drawn, as did Bellatrix and Rowle. 

Hermione swallowed, her eyes sliding back and forth between the two parties. Her hand palmed her wand where it rested in her holster.

With a contemptuous scowl, Voldemort lifted his wand, breaking his hold on Kingsley.

Shacklebolt glared as he stood up straight.

“We won’t agree to anything until we know your terms, Lord Voldemort.”

“Potter and his friends took something from the Lestrange vault. That something happened to belong to me. I want it returned.”

Hermione and Ron involuntarily looked at one another, a look which didn’t escape Voldemort.

“Is that all?” asked Kingsley.

“No,” said Voldemort with a sinister smile as he toyed with his wand, stroking it with his long fingers. His eyes flicked to Hermione. “I want her. Granger, I believe.”

Bellatrix’s head snapped back and forth between them, her eyes bulging out of her skull.

“No!” Ron blustered, his face red like Arthur’s. “ Absolutely not.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, her brows furrowed in shock.

Her quill momentarily stopped its scraping.

Kingsley lifted his chin. “What exactly do you want with Granger?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“It most certainly is our concern,” Kingsley boomed.

Voldemort cocked a brow. “Do you want Harry Potter, or do you not? You have until tomorrow evening to decide, and no longer.”

Kingsley shook his head. “You cannot have both the object and Hermione. She is a valuable asset to the Order.”

“But of course. In that case, you should not question why I desire her as my prisoner.” The Dark Lord flicked his eyes to Hermione. “Unless of course, you consider Potter to be more valuable.”

Kingsley ignored his statement. “If we refuse?”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes flared like red hot iron. “Then Potter dies at sunset tomorrow.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged looks of horror.

“I’ll go,” said Hermione, but Ron broke formation to grip her arm. 

“No, you won’t.”

Voldemort was stoic as he observed the proceedings, but his eyes seemed to glitter with amusement. “Both,” he said firmly. “The girl, and the object that was stolen. There will be no negotiating. You have until sundown tomorrow.” 

He waved his hand in the air and conjured a small scroll. It glowed bright gold for a moment until it fully materialized, then his eyes found Hermione. 

“My terms,” he said as he held the scroll out to her. “Come and take them, secretary.”

Hermione glanced around herself nervously, then took a deep breath and darted forward to snatch the scroll from his hand. Just as quickly, she turned and retreated back to her company.

As she hurried away, Voldemort smiled and flicked his eyes at Bellatrix and Rowle. “Such valuable assets, notetakers.”

Bellatrix snickered, a high-pitched chuckle issuing forth from her chest.

Ron took her by the arm when she returned and pulled her behind him protectively. “This is bullshit, Mione,” he murmured under his breath.

Hermione turned to look back just in time to see Voldemort dissolve into a black cloud. He burst into shadowy tendrils that wound apart and dove into the stone beneath.

She could’ve sworn she still heard his voice, an echo of sinister laughter ringing in the air.

Ron pulled her into the circle for sidelong apparation, but she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from the spot where Lord Voldemort had stood, not until she felt the familiar tugging in her stomach, and both the bridge and Hogwarts disappeared into darkness.

Chapter Text

“You can’t go, Hermione.”

Ron sat drearily in their bedroom at Grimmauld Place, legs folded on the old bedspread. 

“He’s going to kill Harry, Ron. It’s a miracle he hasn’t already done it.” She flitted around the bedroom, packing her things into her beaded bag. “Probably the only reason he hasn’t is because we still have that cup.”

“Harry is the only leverage he has. He’s not going to just kill him.” His eyes fell closed, because deep down, he knew that wasn’t the truth. “You can’t go. We need you, Hermione. The Order needs you.”

Hermione stopped short and sighed. She heard the words echoing in the silence that Ron was too afraid to speak.

I need you .

“It’s like he said. I’m a secretary.”  She blinked back the moisture in her eyes. “Harry is the important one… a symbol of hope. For all intents and purposes, he’s our leader . If I can make a sacrifice to bring him back, then it will be worth it. Whatever I have to do.”

Ron grabbed her wrist. “He could be bluffing.”

Hermione wasn’t willing to take that risk.

Ron’s thumb dragged across her wristbone, stroking her skin gently. He’d been throwing hints her way for weeks, little gestures in his own way to show her how he felt.

But they were in the middle of a war. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to grow attached to someone that she might potentially lose in the end.

Hermione felt herself withdrawing internally.

She pulled her hand away. “Perhaps I can help the Order from within the Death Eaters’ camp… gain information, maybe.”

Ron’s face twisted into an expression of pain. “He could kill you, Hermione. Then what good would it have been?”

Her eyes flicked to the scroll on the bedside table. “The terms stipulate that he won’t.”

He scoffed. “Right, because Voldemort definitely seems like someone who keeps his promises.”

She ignored him and continued to pack her things, neatly stacking her books for transport in her bag. “I’m clever, Ron. I can find a way to survive. I have so far. Besides, there’s got to be something he wants from me. Otherwise...” She paused, looking down at the book on dark magic in her hands. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be trading Harry.”

“They could torture you, though.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly. “I know.”

He shook his head, his face drawn and tight with misery. “What if Bellatrix just wants you for a plaything? I wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to-“

“I really don’t need to hear this right now, Ron.”

Her voice was shrill and clipped, and on the verge of breaking.

Her chest heaved with anxiety. “I’ll see you and Harry again… and I’ll find a way to destroy the cup, once Harry is safe.”

Ron was quiet for several moments.

Then he stood and stormed out of the room, muttering to himself about self-sacrifice and stupidity.

Hermione knew that there was no other way. It had to be done.

She was the sacrificial lamb, for reasons she had yet to discover.

A part of her was deeply curious about Voldemort’s reasons for the trade. Another small part of her wondered what it was like behind enemy lines.

The larger and more dominant part of her was terrified.

Her fate would soon fall into the hands of a sociopath.

***********

Hermione took a deep breath and entered the dining room. 

The remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix all crowded around the table, and their heads turned when Hermione walked through the doorway.

She met their stares one at a time, then murmured softly, “I’m going.”

Molly exhaled, and her head fell into her hands.

“Now, just wait, Hermione,” said Kingsley firmly. “We may not have to resort to that. The Death Eaters are currently headquartered at Malfoy Manor, and we have reason to believe that Harry is being kept there in the dungeons. We may possibly have a chance to rescue him before-“

“It’s too dangerous,” she said, shaking her head. “We can’t risk Harry being killed.”

The room was silent.

They knew she was right.

“If you want to conduct a rescue mission, then do so after we’ve made the swap. I’d suggest being sure of success first.” Hermione sighed, and plopped down into her usual seat. 

There were grim faces all around.

“Merlin’s sake,” Hermione muttered in irritation. “It feels like a funeral in here. Can’t I at least enjoy my last night with friends?”

George was the first to pep up. He jumped up and busied himself with preparing Hermione a bowl of Molly’s stew.

Soon enough, the atmosphere began to shift and lighten. Hermione ate in silence, smiled when it was appropriate, and answered everyone’s questions.

But her mind was elsewhere, thinking of Harry, of the war, and of all the magic she’d practiced in the past two months.

She hoped it would do her some good in enemy headquarters.

***********

“Do you know why I’m here, boy?”

Harry sat on the stone floor of his cell in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, leaning up against the wall. He still wore the tattered clothing he’d worn at the Battle, and it was cold in the dungeons, so he hugged himself to stay warm. 

The cell block was protected by powerful magic. There was no disapparating, and no escaping. All spellwork was disabled. Harry knew it, because he’d tried everything.

For three months, they’d held him here. Voldemort would sometimes come to perform legilimency, examining his memories and analyzing them in great detail.

Harry couldn’t fight him off; Voldemort was too powerful a legilimens. The more he fought to keep his memories hidden, the more painful it was when Voldemort ripped them open anyway. He’d tried to resist at first, but soon he grew tired of the incessant, ever-present headache that split his head in half. 

If he simply gave in, the pain became no more than a dull ache.

Once Voldemort had everything he wanted, Bellatrix would come and taunt him, threatening to kill his friends. Harry didn’t have a clue what happened after they took him hostage, so he wasn’t sure if they did actually have his friends in captivity.

Bellatrix would taunt him, telling him how desperately Hermione had screamed when she tortured her, how Ron only had eight fingers now, how they’d cut off the other two.

Harry lost track of all the things she claimed to have done. Each was as gruesome and unsettling as the last.

Harry noticed that no matter what she said, she never touched him, never cast curses on him. 

Harry began to realize that she was under orders not to torture him. So she chose other methods of torture. 

She hoped to get inside his head.

The worst was when she would talk about her carnal relationship with Voldemort. That disturbed Harry more than the other things she’d say. 

“The Dark Lord came down my throat last night,” whispered the demented witch against the bars of his cell, her wild curls looking a bit wilder than usual, leading Harry to believe it was probably true. “You don’t know anything about that, do you, boy? That’s right. Bet you never laid hands on a girl before. Do you prefer boys? No, that’s right. You’ve a soft spot for the redheaded bitch, the child of the blood traitors… the ones who live in poverty . Shame about their little shack. My wand hand slipped.” She cackled, her wild eyes looking both hysterical and completely dead inside. “I suppose she thought she’d marry up with you, hmm? It seems only fitting since your father was a blood traitor as well. He had a soft spot for redheads too… which makes sense, given how mummy died… The Weasley cunt must fill the void for you, eh, Potter?”

Her maniacal laughter rang like an avalanche through the cell block. 

Harry didn’t respond, determined not to give her anything. He merely stared through her, determined to live out the rest of his existence in the quiet of his cell until they decided to kill him. 

He wouldn’t let her think she got to him.

“It’s too bad really, given that the Weasley girl is dead,” whispered Bellatrix against the bars of his cell, her dark eyes filled with frenetic energy.

Some part of Harry hoped that Ginny was dead. The world they were living in was far too grim and evil. He’d long given up hope that the Confederation would intervene. 

Voldemort probably had followers in the Confederation as well.

No, he hoped Ginny escaped this place. He prayed she boarded a train at King’s Cross Station and moved on.

He had to remind himself that she might still be alive, that the Order might be out there somewhere, waiting for him.

He had to keep it together for Ginny. For Ron and Hermione. 

“Your Lord has asked you a question, Potter.”

Harry focused back on the present.

He lifted his eyebrows. “My what ?”

Draco Malfoy stood before his cell, clearly as terrified as ever of Lord Voldemort, judging by the way he kissed his arse.

“Do you know why I’ve come, Harry Potter?” 

Voldemort intonated each syllable with precision, a serpentine lisp rolling off his tongue, which even appeared to be forked, but Harry thought that his eyes could’ve been playing tricks on him. The darkness of the dungeon had blurred his vision, causing the light of the torch to nearly blind him.

“To kill me, I suppose… or maybe torture me some more.”

Voldemort laughed, the sinister sound slicing through the air like the singing of a blade.

“No, Mr. Potter. You see, I have nearly everything I want from you. Today, I intend to take the piece of my soul which you’ve stolen from me. Then, tomorrow, I’ll have the cup you stole as well.” His sharp cheekbones folded back as he grinned. “Then I’ll steal something from you, to even the score… something you hold dear.”

Harry stared at him blankly, the light gone from his green eyes. Moments went by before he responded, “I have no idea what you mean.”

“You will, very soon. Get up.”

Voldemort flicked his wand and Harry stood on shaky legs against his will, moving toward the door of the cell, his body guided by some unseen force.

Then, Harry fell into unconsciousness.

***********

Harry awoke upon a hard bed. He attempted to move, but he found that his limbs were constricted, perhaps by a full body bind or devil’s snare. 

In any case, he was tied down to the bed, in a room that was both cold and dim.

Harry turned his head to find Lucius and Draco Malfoy standing against the wall across the room. Their faces were lit by an eerie red glow, causing Harry to search for the source of the light. He squinted his eyes and looked above to see a series of patterns and runes, many which he didn’t recognize. They glowed above his body in midair, floating in slow orbit. 

“This is a complex procedure, my Lord,” came a voice from Harry’s right. He turned to find a death eater with curly black hair and a thick beard. Augustus Rookwood.

“I am fully capable of performing magic of this kind, Rookwood. I don’t need your commentary.” 

Lord Voldemort stood at his left, the elder wand held aloft as he performed a series of wand movements. As he continued to cast the spell, more runes steadily appeared.

“Forgive me, my Lord. I only meant to say that… that this spell could potentially kill the boy.”

“I am well aware of the risks, Rookwood.”

“What are you doing to me?” Harry rasped, tugging at his bonds.

Voldemort said nothing, nor did he look at Harry. 

“I said, what are you doing?” Harry shouted.

The Dark Lord flicked his wand, and Harry suddenly lost his voice.

“Silence, Potter. Our little connection provided me with more than enough of your inane mental prattle. I hope to soon be rid of you once and for all.”

Harry jerked on the bed. “Are you insane?” he mouthed.

“Would you like to be free of the shard of my soul that lives within you?”

Harry stilled. 

He did want that.

But not at the expense of his life. 

The runes disappeared.

Suddenly, an effigy of Harry appeared beside the bed.

Dark magic permeated the atmosphere, thick and heavy, almost seeming an entity of its own.

In the center of Harry’s likeness, there was a glowing green orb. 

The orb pulsed and darkened, then began to unravel itself.

It was no orb after all, but a serpent slowly unwinding.

The luminous asp wound itself through his body, then Harry observed as Voldemort lifted his wand, and began to cut.

To his horror, he realized that the Dark Lord’s wand was magically cutting his soul from Harry’s own.

Harry felt a pain worse than the cruciatus. It wasn’t physical, but it felt a little like what he had always imagined death to feel like. 

The pain of the irreversible slicing of the elder wand racked his being, every part of his soul aflame with jarring agony. He screamed, but no sound issued forth.

All Harry could see was the molten crimson of the Dark Lord’s eyes before he completely lost consciousness.

**********

Hermione stood on the bridge, flanked by Kingsley and Arthur Weasley. The Order didn’t trust Voldemort not to have an ambush planned, so aurors lined the bridge on either side.

Her heart beat rapidly. Despite her outward show of bravado, fear gripped her heart. She recalled the anguish of the torture curse, and could only imagine the worst would happen to her once she was in the clutches of the enemy.

She was muggleborn, after all.

She bit her lip, shifting her boot-clad feet from one to the other. 

Hermione realized that she might not live through the night.

Ron had fought with Kingsley before she left, shouting and screaming until his voice became hoarse.

In the end, Kingsley said that it was Hermione’s choice.

“I’m an operative, Ron,” she said, trying to soothe his hurt and fear. “This is the best hope we have. This way, Harry is back to lead the Order, and I can maybe gain some useful intel behind enemy lines. Otherwise, we are currently at a stalemate, and that isn’t good. We need an advantage.”

“You could die, Hermione.”

She laughed incredulously. “I could’ve died at any point, Ron. Think about the crazy things we’ve already survived. I suppose my luck could stretch a little bit farther.”

Now, Hermione stood on the bridge alone, save for Kingsley and Arthur, and a perimeter of aurors, but they weren’t there to ensure her safety. 

They were there to make sure Harry was returned.

She was her own savior now.

No one would be able to help her, so she would have to be clever and careful.

“I’ll live through this, Ron,” she whispered under her breath.

The sky was blue, like an azure sea, the brilliant sun peeking out from behind the clouds, its rays glittering as they shone across Hogwarts’ stone turrets. The cheery sun seemed to mock her, deceitfully making the day seem happy and hopeful, instead of falling in line with the terrifying reality that she was about to walk into.

A black thunderstorm would have suited the day better.

Hermione would have loved to be sunbathing by the Black Lake, or idly watching quidditch practice whilst reading some ancient text.

Voldemort stood between her and that reality.

Somehow, that made her even more determined. She was tired. Tired of being weak and afraid, tired of her happiness being overshadowed by the cancer of Lord Voldemort. 

She was tired of fearing for the lives of her loved ones.

This, Hermione prayed, was fate answering her.

She’d been searching, studying, seeking after something that would make her stronger. Her qualms about learning dark magic were all but void of late. If nothing else, wouldn’t it merely give her an advantage? If she knew the spells the enemy was using, wouldn’t it help her to fight them that much more?

Hermione stood there in the sunshine, silence ringing in the canyon below. The weighty heat of the sun bore down on the top of her head.

Kingsley turned to her, his usually stern eyes soft and in turmoil. “Hermione, are you sure you want to do this?”

She took a deep breath, then nodded. 

He cleared his throat. “We can always find a way to get Harry. We can conduct a rescue… something. We can find a way.”

She blinked, her throat dry as she gave a tight smile. She knew he was full of shit; they hadn’t been able to get Harry back in the months since the battle, and the more time that passed, the more she was unsure that he would still be Harry . 

No, they needed him back while he was still himself.

If Voldemort hadn’t already broken him.

“No, sir. I’m ready. We need to get Harry back.”

Relief seemed to wash over his face.

Hermione realized that his offer had been a gesture, nothing more.

He knew they needed Harry back more than anything. Hermione was the bargaining chip, the pawn, something that Voldemort wanted… for what reason, none of them could comprehend.

Nevermind that the entire order thought that Harry had done it all.

Everything they’d done, it was as if Harry alone had accomplished it all. 

He was the chosen on e, after all. The answer to the prophecy.

Hermione didn’t mind. She never wanted to be center stage; she was always more than happy for Harry to be the hero.

But the truth of it was that it irked Hermione that she was seen as disposable, when neither Harry nor Ron would be alive if it weren’t for her.

She shook the thoughts aside. This wasn’t about vanity, it was about survival . She mentally chastised herself for being so selfish and vain.

Who cared who the hero was, if everyone died in the end?

Hermione checked herself, chastising her ego. When it came down to it, she knew that she would do whatever she had to do to protect her friends and family, even if she remained nameless in doing so.

If anything, this turn of events could be a way to save everyone. To gain information. To get behind enemy lines.

Or perhaps, Hermione was being overly optimistic.

They could kill her as soon as she stepped foot in their camp.

She peered up at the sky, willing herself to enjoy the warmth of the sunlight. 

It might be my last view of the sun for a while , she thought bleakly. 

For all she knew, she could end up locked away in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor.

That would be the best thing that could happen to her, truth be told: to be shoved in a dark cell and forgotten about.

Jet streams of darkness materialized in the sky, shooting down to the bridge, spitting black smoke in all directions.

Six death eaters appeared before them when the smoke faded.

She vaguely recognized Rookwood, Macnair, Mulciber, Yaxley, and to her immense nausea, Bellatrix Lestrange appeared, with Harry in tow.

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. 

He was emaciated and extremely pale.

His eyes had a strange glaze over the green orbs, displaying none of the light they usually contained.

She choked back the tears that threatened to brim over. 

She was staring at her future.

“The cup!” Bella spat.

 Hermione blinked, then reached for her bag and summoned the cup from its depths.

She held it aloft. Bella’s eyes widened, sharpening like a hawk’s.

“Come, mudblood,” ordered Yaxley in a deep voice.

“Harry first,” Kingsley amended. “Unhand him.”

Bellatrix cackled, her laughter echoing through the canyon. “Here you go,” she hissed disdainfully. “Your precious chosen one . All in one piece… mostly.”

She shoved him forward.

Yaxley lifted his wand and black ropes like tentacles shot forth and wrapped themselves around Hermione. She flew forward in the vice of the sinister vines, and immediately Yaxley wrapped his arm around her throat, holding his wand to her temple.

“Wait!” shouted Kingsley.

Hermione struggled for a moment, the shock of being manhandled causing her to buck against Yaxley’s hold.

Then she realized resistance was futile.

She’d agreed to go.

Kingsley gripped Harry’s shoulders, turning to face him. 

“What did the snitch say, the one that Dumbledore gave you?”

Harry blinked, then mumbled flatly. “I open at the close.”

Kingsley exhaled with relief, but still asked, “Where did you find the sword of Gryffindor when you were on the run?”

Harry swallowed. “At the bottom of the frozen lake.”

Kingsley nodded, and squeezed his shoulders. Then he turned to face Bellatrix. 

“Tell your Lord that should the Order find that any of the terms of our agreement have been violated… we have a secret weapon, and we will use it.”

Bella made a sort of laughing sound deep in her throat. “I’ll relay your empty threats.”

“Come,” she ordered the death eaters behind her. “Bring the mudblood filth.”

In the next instant, they disapparated.

Chapter Text

Hermione appeared in the immense dining room of Malfoy Manor. Death eaters sat in the chairs that lined either side of a lengthy stone table. 

A massive fireplace crackled with green flames, its mantle and facade intricately carved from marble. Hermione’s eyes focused on the snakes and strange beasts etched into the stone.

That was to be her company from now on: snakes and beasts.

She was shoved forward by Yaxley just as two more death eaters arrived through the floo.

Hermione didn’t recognize them.

In fact, there were many she didn’t recognize, but as her eyes scanned the faces lining the table, they fell on someone she did know.

Draco Malfoy.

His gray eyes gazed back at her.

They narrowed in distaste.

She looked away, her heart beating swiftly at the uncertainty of what would happen to her.

“Where is the dark lord?” Bellatrix hissed to Gibbon.

“He was just here,” he replied. “We are to keep her contained and await further instruction. He had to leave unexpectedly.”

“Where are we to take her?” asked Yaxley.

Gibbon glanced at Hermione, giving her an appraising once over.

His leer sent chills across her skin.

“The dungeons, I would imagine.”

“I’m sure he said the east wing,” Draco interjected.

Bellatrix glanced at Draco in disgust. “He wouldn’t have told you,” she snapped. “ I’m his lieutenant, and I will decide.”

Bellatrix marched toward Hermione and snatched her arm, jerking her forward. She ripped up the sleeve of Hermione’s auror robes and grinned malignantly. 

She shoved Hermione’s arm up into the air.

All eyes turned toward them, every gaze in the room locked on Hermione’s arm. 

“I carved her up after she stole something from my vault, the little thief!” 

She ripped the cup from Hermione’s grasp and toyed with it. “I got it back though. The dark lord will be pleased.”

She jerked Hermione to herself and gripped her thick hair, yanking her head back. Hermione could feel her claw like nails digging into her scalp.

“I should’ve cut up your face, too. I should’ve carved it into your cheek, or perhaps your forehead, where that big brain of yours is… perhaps then, the dark lord would never forget what you are… muggle swine, pretending to be like us. He’d have to see it every time he looked at your plain face.”

Bellatrix released her and held up her forearm. The burgundy dark mark stood out against her milky white skin and brilliant blue veins. “ This is the mark of greatness. A sign of purity, and real power. I hope the mark I gave you reminds you of your place in this world… If not, you’ll learn it soon enough.” She grinned, a broken, sadistic leer. “In case you don’t know yet, it’s at our feet.”

The smile on Bella’s face faded slowly into a look of pure disgust. Her head snapped to the side as she spat at Gibbon, “Take her to the dungeon. Leave her there.”

—————-

Hermione sat in a dark cell for three days. 

She had no visitors, no interaction, save for the moments when a sullen-looking house elf would appear bearing a tray of food.

She was rather starting to hope that they would forget about her. She had her bag and her wand, although the enchantments placed on her cell prevented her from using magic. She thought it odd that they hadn’t taken these things from her, but she thanked her lucky stars that she still had her books and could soothe her overactive mind with a bit of reading.

She was just brushing up on a text she’d found in the library at Grimmauld Place, a book detailing the magic involved in blood pacts, when she heard footsteps.

She quickly shoved her book back into her bag and used a shrinking charm on it, lest they should see it and decide to confiscate it.

The footsteps came closer and a moment later, Draco Malfoy moved into the light of the torch.

“Come, Granger. The Dark Lord wants to see you.”

Hermione stilled as she stared at him. He looked much thinner and paler than she remembered him.

“He’s returned from his trip then,” she mumbled morosely.

“I didn’t say that.”

She stood and looked him square in the eye. “You sure you don't want to call me “mudblood” too? They might start to think you’re sympathetic.”

He took a step closer, his lips twisting into a scowl. He gave a short laugh. “You are a mudblood, Granger.”

They glared at one another for a stretch of time in silence.

“But,” he breathed wearily, “I’m sure you’ll be called that enough in the coming months, if you last, that is. You’ll grow sick of hearing it.”

He unlocked her cell with a flick of his wand and turned to leave, as if expecting her to follow.

She began to work part of her plan immediately. “You didn’t identify Harry when we were caught, Draco. You hesitated… why?”

He stopped in his tracks.

After a moment, he turned slowly and crossed back to her in measured strides.

Gray eyes bore into hers, snapping with molten fury, like hard iron ore. His eyes flicked over her, then he gripped her arm and yanked her out of the cell. 

“Let’s go,” he said with contempt, jerking her along behind him.

*************

She followed him through the Manor, and she couldn’t help but admire the opulence of Draco’s childhood home, even as she was being brought to be tortured, or even potentially, to her death.

He led her up a sweeping marble staircase, which alone was wider than her bedroom had been as a young girl. Hermione gawked at the elaborate crystal chandeliers and costly millwork. 

“Where are we going?” she asked absently, her eyes trailing over the portraits lining the walls.

He exhaled through his nose in irritation. “The Dark Lord’s study.”

“So he does live here?”

“No,” he huffed. “But when he’s here, he has his own suite.”

“Where does he live, then?”

At that, Draco whipped around and gripped her throat, pressing her back against the wall of the corridor. “Listen, mudblood . You are a prisoner here. We are no longer schoolmates. I’m your jailer and your enemy. We were never friends to begin with, so don’t start pretending that we ever were. I’m not going to be someone who helps you… you should be just as afraid of me as you are of the rest. Got it?”

Hermione’s lips parted and she sucked in a breath, her eyes wide as she tried to comprehend the reason for his aggression. “Loud and clear.”

Draco’s cheek muscles tensed, his expression sour as he pulled back, bringing her with him. 

He blinked, his anger subsiding, and he moved to cast a charm on her neck, which he had handled too roughly. 

“I shouldn’t have touched you. I’ll pay for that.”

She didn’t dare ask him why.

He shoved her behind him and she followed him in silence the rest of the way.

*************

They entered a room in the east wing of the manor, a luxurious study lined with bookshelves which were filled with old texts. A carved wooden desk sat in the middle of the room, and the floors were shining black marble, so reflective that they almost seemed wet. A fireplace crackled before a velvet sofa.

She saw glass cases on the far wall which held magical instruments. She wanted to explore them, but she realized how foolish that urge truly was.

She might not live through the night. 

She had run through all of the possibilities in her mind many times, but she couldn’t fathom in the slightest why Voldemort would want to trade Harry for her .

She had no clue how muggleborns would be treated under his regime, but if the state of the chosen one was any indication… it wasn’t looking good for the golden girl.

She glanced around, taking in her surroundings.

Draco stood behind her in silence.

So this was Voldemort’s own study. 

She had a sneaking suspicion that this had once been Lucius’ study.

Confusion began to settle over Hermione, because the Dark Lord was nowhere to be found.

How strange it felt to be in this moment. She had placed herself here of her own accord, and she now found herself vulnerable, completely at the mercy of the Dark Lord. Hermione thought she would bear it with strength, but now that she was here, in the moment, she found that she did not like it one bit.

It was too soon for her to die.

There were no final thoughts in her mind in that moment… Hermione‘s thoughts were eerily blank.

“The prisoner, your Grace,” muttered Draco.

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed, and just when she was about to annoy Draco further by asking another question, the lights seemed to dim in the room.

Of a sudden, a chill waxed over the surface of Hermione’s skin, forming a thousand tiny goosebumps. She looked this way and that, her heart pounding in her chest with uncertainty.

As much as she hated Voldemort, she had to admit that she did fear him. If there was one thing he was good at, it was inspiring terror. 

A shiver shot down her spine.

Then, she heard him.

His raspy voice whispered, “You are right to be afraid.”

Her heart sunk into her stomach. It was the same voice she’d heard at the Battle of Hogwarts. 

Her eyes searched the room, but saw no one.

A sinister wind blew against her hair.

Her lips parted, her entire body vibrating with the thundering of her heart.

The room was suddenly several lumens darker, and several degrees cooler. A vile energy filled the room.

Dark magic seemed to leak from the walls like oil, seeping from its cornices.

She found it difficult to breathe beneath its stifling presence.

“So,” the voice whispered. “This is Potter’s mudblood.”

Hermione didn’t dare speak. She wanted to last long enough to undermine the bastard’s regime.

A dark chuckle sounded in her ear, giving her chills. She could feel hot breath on her neck, and it took everything within her not to shrink away.

“I dare you to try, little witch.”

Her eyes widened. “I-“

“Silence.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut.

The room grew quiet, but she could tell he was still there by the sinister energy in the room, by the way her hackles were still up.

She tried to occlude her thoughts, but she wasn’t sure if he could easily see past her defenses.

What was he doing, in this weighted silence?

Listening to her thoughts?

Observing her?

Watching her? Trying to make her afraid?

The silence was deafening, and Hermione shifted on her feet nervously.

Several more painful moments dragged by, before the voice hissed once more, “Take her away.”

“Back to the dungeons, my Lord?” asked Draco.

“No. Bring her to your mother. I have instructed her of my wishes until I return.”

“Certainly, your grace.”

Hermione felt the wind rush past her, a kind of suctioning movement, like she had been in the center of a whirlwind.

The room seemed to lighten, its atmosphere no longer heavy with the presence of evil.

“Come on, Granger,” hissed Draco as he opened the door.

**************

She was brought down the hallway to a sitting room where Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy sat talking quietly. 

Their gazes were cold as they came to rest upon her.

“So this is the filthy swine we must suffer to live in our home,” Lucius Malfoy sneered.

Narcissa was quiet, taking in Hermione’s appearance as she rubbed her lips together.

After a moment, she took a deep breath and clapped her hands.

A gray house elf appeared. “Gray” was the only way to describe him; his skin was a thunderous color, with silver hair and eyes that resembled the color of Draco’s.

He might’ve been the oldest house elf Hermione had ever laid eyes on, next to Kreature.

“Dawdle, you are to show Miss Granger to her room in the East Wing. 

Lucius’ eyes were narrowed as they settled on her, his dislike quite apparent. 

“Dawdle will see to it that you have proper clothing. You will no longer be allowed to wear this… costume. You will wear robes befitting of a prisoner of war. If you have need of anything, you must let Dawdle know. He will come to me with your requests.” 

She waited, her lips drawn into a tight line and her hands folded primly, her knuckles white as she waited for Hermione to show some sign of comprehension before she continued. 

Hermione simply nodded, bewildered that she would not be returned to the dungeons.

“You are not to leave your rooms. The Dark Lord was adamant about that. This Manor is headquarters for our cause, and is a dangerous place for someone… like you. Just to ensure that you adhere to these rules, your room will be spelled and warded. Do not try to escape. Do not show any attempt at resistance. That will only make things worse for you.”

Hermione swallowed. “I understand.”

Narcissa fixed her with a severe gaze, and within it there was an odd mixture of emotions, but Hermione could almost sense her pity and curiosity, almost a kind of stilted reluctance, hidden behind a frigid facade.

Narcissa cleared her throat dismissively, pressing her handkerchief to her lips in a ladylike gesture. “Away with you.” She cast a glance at Draco. “Oh, Draco, dear… do make sure the wards are intact upon the rooms.”

Draco gave a curt nod, then he took Hermione’s arm and apparated them both away.

************

They appeared in a lavish bedroom. The heavy draperies were pulled closed over floor-to-ceiling windows. The room smelled of dust, but looked as if it had been freshly cleaned, with no signs of decay or disrepair.

It had obviously not been used in many years, and Hermione deduced that it had been cleaned only prior to her arrival.

That comforted her, in some small way. 

She didn’t like to think that she was sleeping in a bed that a death eater might have recently occupied.

Draco had seemed so eager to be rid of her, that she was surprised when he lingered. He stood by awkwardly as Dawdle showed her around her rooms, indicating the door to the loo, and detailing to her the clothing she was permitted to wear.

Hermione cast a furtive glance at Draco, but his eyes were faraway, with deep valleys in his brows, betraying his troubled mind.

When he caught her staring at him, his face cleared, instantly becoming cold and aloof once more.

“I know you said not to ask questions,” she began hesitantly. “But I have to ask… Why did he trade Harry for me? What does he plan to do with me?”

His face betrayed nothing, an expressionless mask as he gazed at her thoughtfully.

“We’ve all been wondering the same thing, Granger.” His jaw ticked. “But what I’ve found is that it’s best not to try and understand. The Dark Lord’s mind is a mystery.”

At that, he turned and left.

Once she was fully left alone, and the house elf had departed, Hermione took her bag from her wrist and withdrew her wand, attempting to cast detection charms. She wanted to know precisely what kind of spellwork was being used on her rooms. 

The magic disabling spells and protective enchantments didn’t matter to Hermione… but surveillance very much did.

She wanted to know if she was being watched, or listened to.

Unfortunately, her wand had been rendered essentially useless, as she’d feared.

Next, she walked to the windows and ripped open one of the draperies, revealing the enormous windows. She wanted to know what she could possibly see. Could she form some kind of blueprint of the manor? Could she report back on its comings and goings to the Order? 

Any kind of useful information would be helpful. If anything, it would encourage Hermione, making her feel that the choice was worthwhile, that she was able to make lemonade out of lemons, so to speak.

What she saw beyond the curtain was disheartening, however.

A vast moor stretched out behind the manor, signaling to Hermione that she was roomed in the back of the estate.

The entire expanse of land was covered in a vast army.

There were tents and bonfires dotting the landscape, and it almost reminded her of the campground for the Quidditch World Cup.

But it was no joyous sight.

There were dark creatures milling about. Trolls and giants were roasting something over spitfires, and Hermione knew that she didn’t want to know what it was. There were also vampires and werewolves, half-breeds, enormous spiders and manticores, and even a swirling of dementors overhead, silhouetted against the darkening skies.

The view was terrifying to behold.

Hermione had hoped that they had done some level of damage to his forces during the battle, forcing him to recoup his losses, but from the looks of things, he hadn’t suffered a significant blow.

That was severely disheartening.

Not wanting to look at the sight anymore, she drew the curtains back over the windows and undressed, carefully laying her Order uniform out over the chair. She feared she might wake up and it would be gone.

She unpacked a pair of cotton jimjams from her bag, ignoring the contraptions that had been included in her wardrobe.

She realized all at once that she was exhausted. The fear and stress had worn her down to an alarming degree.

All at once, the knowledge of where she was and what she was facing overwhelmed her. Somehow, somehow, she had avoided torture and interrogation.

For tonight, anyway.

She made a mental note to brush up on her occlumency, but she doubted it would help much.

Voldemort had seemingly been able to read her thoughts with ease. That was a fearsome and disturbing thought.

What would he do with her, now knowing her intent?

Tears welled up and brimmed over as she thought of her parents, as she thought of Ron and Harry, the sight of him emaciated and nearly lifeless.

She hoped that with some time to recuperate, he would be back to his old self.

Her eyes traced the canopy of the immense four poster bed. The expensive green chenille bore a silver damask pattern. The manor was cold, drafty, like an empty stairwell. Hermione let her eyes trace the pattern until she fell into unconsciousness.

********

Harry awoke to find Ron snoring in the chair beside his bed.

For a moment, Harry thought he was dreaming. He looked around himself in a state of phantasmagoria, thinking this was only one of his dreams in a series of memories. He dreamed of Ron often, and Sirius, and Hermione… he rarely dreamed of his parents, although he wished he would.

Once, he’d dreamed of them. Of the night when he’d used the resurrection stone, thinking he was marching to his death.

He should’ve known that Voldemort would see through him… that despite Dumbledore’s best laid plans, Voldemort was always a step ahead.

Harry’s brow furrowed as he ran his fingers over the old bedspread in Sirius’ bedroom. This dream felt more real than the rest.

Ron snored loudly, waking himself.

He started when his eyes fell on Harry.

”Blimey, Harry! You’re awake.”

Harry blinked, eyeing Ron curiously.

”What’s wrong, Harry? You feelin’ alright?”

”Am I…?” Harry murmured, dazed. “Am I not dreaming?”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “Merlin’s sake, Harry… No, mate. You’re back at Grimmauld Place. Don’t you remember yesterday?”

Harry swallowed, his tongue like sandpaper. “No,” he croaked. “I don’t. What time is it?”

Ron checked his watch. “It’s 4am. You passed out as soon as we brought you back.”

Harry blinked a few more times, then reached toward the side table, feeling for his glasses.

Ron helped him, taking them up and handing them to him gingerly.

Harry slid them onto his face and glanced at Ron.

”Where’s Hermione?”

Ron’s face fell, his skin turning white as a sheet.

He swallowed, then looked down. “She’s… she’s gone, Harry.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, betraying his lack of comprehension.

Ron took a deep breath. “Voldemort offered a trade. You for Hermione. I tried to talk her out of it. Not because we didn’t want to get you back, mate, but because we thought there might be another way to get you out. But she… she didn’t think we could rescue you. Kingsley said it was her choice, in the end.” He mumbled the last part sullenly.

”She… she took my place,” Harry muttered slowly.

”Yeah mate.”

Harry was quiet for a few moments. “Voldemort… he wanted Hermione?”

Ron nodded, his expression pained and angry.

”Why?”

Ron shook his head. “Nobody knows.”

Harry looked down at his hands. “We don’t deserve her,” he murmured softly. Then he swallowed again, his eyes faraway, lost. “Something is strange, Ron. My mind is telling me I should be upset. I know I should be bothered, and I am bothered… but I can’t feel it.”

********

Hermione woke with the feeling of dread threatening to choke her. Her eyes opened to darkness, and it was a stifling kind of darkness, alive and permeated with the thickness of evil. Hermione’s hackles rose, feeling the kind of fear one experiences after a nightmare.

The flames in her fireplace had long gone out, leaving only the glow of coals in their place.  Hermione’s heart stammered, her pulse beating rapidly in her throat.

She was no longer at Grimmauld Place.

She swallowed, her eyes darting back and forth, searching the heavy darkness for the source of the terror she felt.

It was as if she had blinders on, so thick was the darkness. It almost seemed to move, like the uncoiling of a sidewinder, but she must’ve been imagining it.

Her lips parted.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

There was loud silence, but whatever entity was present seemed to laugh at her.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, a hand reached out and slid around Hermione’s throat. She gasped, and tried to move, tried to slide away, but she found that she was rooted to the spot.

Hermione’s heart pounded, thundering against her ribcage. “Who-“

She started to speak, but the hand of a sudden no longer felt like a hand.

There were scales, cold and reptilian, sliding against her skin, winding slowly around her throat.

“No!” she choked. “Please.”

She found herself unable to utter any other words. The fear was too palpable, the heavy, dark energy holding her hostage, silencing her protests, her pleas, even as they rose to her lips.

Her hands trembled as the serpent caressed her skin, coiling itself around her throat.

She closed her eyes tightly. “It’s you,” she murmured in a shaky whisper. “What do you want with me?”

The serpent’s movement ceased.

Then, she heard frightening, rasping laughter.

The sound rattled down her spine, piercing her heart like poison.

Then, the presence seemed to evaporate.

Suddenly, the scales all but disappeared, the growing pressure around her throat releasing all at once.

Hermione exhaled shakily, then fell against the bed with a choked sob.

She wondered miserably if death would’ve been a mercy. Whatever Voldemort had planned for her…

…she was beginning to think it would be a fate worse than death.

Chapter Text

No one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace.

********

Draco’s screams filled the Manor, echoing through the marble halls and muraled ceilings, through the home that might as well have been a vacuum to swallow his cries whole, for though there were many bodies in the Manor, there were none who could save him.

Narcissa flinched with the cut of every fresh scream that was wrenched from her son’s chest, his vocal cords strained, each roar finished with a guttural sob.

He bore the cruciatus better than her husband did. He was her strong boy, with so much steel beneath his bratty front.

Narcissa used to smile to herself at his impudent and cocky manner. She knew him better than anyone, and she knew intimately the secret depths in her son that he hid from the world, and she kept those secrets close to her heart, hoarding them like a Hebridean dragon.

She never smiled anymore.

She only prayed, sending out pleas to the gods and the magic of the universe, making bargains, silently requesting that the strength her son carried could somehow carry him through, could carry them all through.

Sometimes she wondered how it came to this, how their family had come to be so debased. She was a Black, deep down, and she sometimes felt the seed of madness attempting to germinate within her, especially when Draco was subjected to the Dark Lord’s wand.

Sometimes, she wanted to shut up the Manor, lock the doors, and burn it in a blanket of Fiendfyre.

She sipped her tea primly, leaving a slight maroon ring of lipstick around the edge of the cup.

Her shoulders flinched as another scream ripped through the silence.

Not a Malfoy , she chanted internally. You’re all Black, Draco, and Blacks are built for pain.

The blood of the Blacks ran with the magic of the ancient world. Blacks had endured for centuries, through hardship and toil, through magical persecution.

Blacks were no strangers to misery.

You are ancient, my son, she spoke to the realm of magic that was hidden, the invisible plane where energy flowed, hoping she would find a vein with which to infuse Draco with a mother’s strength. He will not break you .

Be strong, my love .

She looked across the room to Lucius. He stood gazing through the windows to the back of the Manor.

Watching the dark creatures lay waste to his land.

Purple-black circles shadowed his steely eyes, and he was pale, much paler than he’d ever been. 

He was tired, his eyes vacant.

Absent.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening across the hall.

She stood in an instant, nearly knocking back her chair upon the costly carpet, but she caught herself. She paused, then slowly made her way to the door and opened it, crossing the hallway to enter the drawing room.

Draco laid on the floor, face down, one arm stretched above his head, fingers dug into the floor like talons. His other arm lay beneath him, across his middle. 

He heaved deep breaths in the aftermath of the torture curse.

She knelt at his side, her palm resting solidly against the middle of his back. 

“Draco,” she whispered softly.

He groaned, clutching his middle, pressing his face into the cold marble.

“Draco,” she said again, “Are you sick?”

She saw the cords of his throat strain as he swallowed, then nodded miserably.

Before she had a chance to conjure a bowl for him, he retched violently, all over the floor.

Narcissa vanished it in an instant.

Lucius entered the room, his eyes fixed on Draco.

Draco moved to sit up, bowing his head between his knees.

“I’m fine, mother.”

She said nothing. Nothing that would show disrespect to the Dark Lord. Nothing that would compromise her son.

Lucius crossed the room and helped Draco to his feet.

In unison, they all glanced through the tall windows, gazing out at the fires scattered through the estate.

Searching for the source of the sound that had drawn their eyes.

Roars and cheers.

Draco and Narcissa moved closer to the window, and she reached out to rest her fingertips, with their long, maroon nails, gently against the glass.

Draco’s jaw ticked.

The army in view had parted to form a pathway, and on either side gathered vampires, werewolves, snatchers and death eaters.

Dark beasts and XXXX classified creatures roared and snapped as the Dark Lord walked the path, greeting his army.

Macnair used an amplification charm, his voice ringing out through the night, “The Dark Lord has returned!”

A thousand torches were lit throughout the camp.

Flames shot forth from the wands of masked, hooded figures, creating a roaring bonfire before which the Dark Lord sat upon a giant, black throne.

The night had only just begun.

———————

Hermione observed the raucous din behind the Manor from her room on the third floor of the East wing. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself or her location, so she dimmed the lights in her room and peeked through the curtain.

Voldemort sat upon a mammoth black throne, the leaping flames of the bonfire casting shadows on his preternatural face, lending him the appearance of a demon from her darkest nightmares.

Except he was the demon from her darkest nightmares, in the flesh.

Hermione had never really seen him until the parley, and even then, she hadn’t been able to observe him. Her every experience with Lord Voldemort had been in the midst of battle, while flying through the skies, or from afar. This was the closest she’d ever been to him, and the darkness he emitted was tangible, even at this distance.

She could tell that he was tall, an enormous wizard when compared to the others around him.

He was a pale specter, a statue, stoic and commanding, his body obscured beneath his black robes, a shadow cast over his eyes by his hood, but they still glowed bright red like an iron poker in the darkness.

Hermione’s eyes wandered to the ring of snatchers nearby. 

There were two Occamies released to fight in a kind of magical arena, a circle etched into the ground with incandescent red runes, and a spell cast which kept a perimeter that the beasts could not transcend.

They were like plumed serpents that stood on talons, part bird, part snake, and they were pitted against one another to protect their eggs, for which they became very aggressive.

Bets were cast, and the barbarity proceeded.

The soldiers of lesser import, namely half-breeds, giants, veela, and those considered to be minor races, who had been given less prestigious positions within Voldemort’s ranks, wandered along the outskirts of the camp near the forest. Hermione assumed that some of them had been contracted, either promised things or simply loyal to the highest bidder. 

Some of his death eaters disappeared into tents together, the only evidence of their saturnalia being the exaggerated figures silhouetted against the tent walls. Some were drinking and smoking pipes. Others were casting curses at cages which were suspended from the limbs of the ancient oak trees. 

There were muggles trapped in the cages.

Hermione was nauseous.

Her eyes wandered back to Voldemort. 

His throne was angled slightly away from her, so that she could only see his profile and the corners of his scarlet eyes. Bellatrix stood on the other side of his throne, a sinister grin curving her lips.

Her heart thudded, anxiety filling her as she realized the moment was steadily approaching when she would have to face him.

The Dark Lord.

Would he torture her? Would he violate her mind?

She gulped, thinking about Draco’s screams hours before.

Everyone in the Manor had heard them.

Voldemort’s head turned. 

Her brows furrowed as she watched, his face partially obscured by a black hood, only his red eyes and lips visible.

Then, he grinned slowly.

Her eyes searched the darkness, looking for the source of his amusement.

Then, his voice intruded into her thoughts as it had during the battle, and her heart dropped into her stomach.

“Your thoughts betray your eagerness. You are anxious to meet me in person. Soon, my dear mudblood. Very soon we will be face to face. Have patience.” 

Hermione jerked the curtain closed, her pulse jumping.

She had no doubts now about his intention to use her as a plaything.

He was toying with her even now.

She sucked in a deep breath to stem her nausea, her mind clouded with visions of herself trapped in a cage, surrounded by Voldemort’s army.

**************

“Harry,” Kingsley greeted warmly. “How are you my boy?”

“I’ve been better.”

“I’ll say you have.” Kingsley took a seat at his bedside, then looked at him keenly. “Is there anything I can do to help with your recovery?”

Harry glanced at Kingsley nervously. He said nothing, only shook his head.

“What’s the matter, Harry?”

“Nothing, just… everything’s gone the wrong way, it seems.”

Kingsley’s eyebrows drew forward. He knew Harry’s assessment was correct; the Order of the Phoenix was in a difficult position.

The Ministry was under Death Eater control, and the state of Hogwarts remained to be seen, but it wasn’t looking good. Voldemort had followers and spies in every branch of magical Britain. 

The Daily Prophet was already reporting on the change of regime, praising the reign of Pius Thickness as Minister, and quoting him as he praised Voldemort as the savior of the wizarding world, the leader who would bring the change and protection that was necessary for wizardkind.

He feared Thickness would soon disappear, to be replaced by Lord Voldemort.

Kingsley sighed. It was his job to help Harry at all costs; Harry was their beacon, their rallying point.

George was already reporting on the wizarding wireless that The Boy Who Lived had survived Voldemort’s clutches for a third time. He had been rescued by aurors and was safely resting from his time as a prisoner of war at Order headquarters. He was instructed to omit the trade that was made and the absence of Hermione Granger. 

It would only lower morale, said Kingsley. The world would find out about Hermione when the time was right.

Harry stared emptily at the wall. Kingsley gripped his shoulder.

“Is there anything you want to talk about, Harry? Obviously, any information you can give us that might help the resistance is vital, but your well being is first and foremost our priority.”

Harry shoved his glasses further up onto his nose. “I just… really need to speak to Ron and Hermione.”

Kingsley paused, then said apologetically, “Hermione is not here. Obviously, sending Miss Granger into enemy territory was not our best option. In fact, it was our last resort… but Hermione chose to go of her own volition. We had to let her go.”

Harry swallowed, then flicked his eyes at Kingsley. “Voldemort has the cup now?”

Kingsley nodded. “Ron has enlightened me about the assignment you three were undertaking. He says that Voldemort cannot be killed without the cup, which is unfortunate-“

At that moment, Ron entered the room.

His eyebrows rose when he saw Kingsley. “Oh, sorry, mate, I didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

“No, stay, Ron,” Harry mumbled.

“As I was saying,” Kingsley continued, “If we had been informed about the cup sooner, we would have instructed Ron and Hermione to destroy it. Now, it is back in Voldemort’s hands. I would appreciate it, from now on, if information were not withheld.”

“First of all,” Ron interjected. “We didn’t tell you because it’s dangerous information and the fewer people who know, the better. Secondly, Hermione and I kept the cup as a bargaining chip to get Harry back. We can always steal the cup again… it’s just a bloody cup. Lastly… Harry’s just returned, and he’s been tortured and starved, and everything else. Let him catch his breath, mate.”

Kingsley’s jaw muscles flexed, and he nodded solemnly. 

The air was heavy. Time was ticking, and the more time that passed, the stronger Voldemort’s forces became.

Their cause did, indeed, appear grim.

Harry’s eyes flicked to Ron. “Did you tell him everything?”

Ron’s eyes widened a fraction as he stared at Harry. Then, he frowned, and looked away, shaking his head.

“What else is there that I should know?” asked Kingsley. 

Harry swallowed thickly. “When Voldemort killed my mother, and tried to kill me… my mother’s sacrifice destroyed him… but a piece of his soul latched onto me.”

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, betraying a lack of comprehension.

“I’ve been a horcrux all this time.”

Kingsley looked at Harry in shock. He turned his gaze on Ron, who wrapped his arms around his middle and looked at the floor.

“How long have you all known this?”

“Since the battle.”

“Merlin.” Kingsley lowered his head to his hands.

Silence ensued, only broken by the ticking of the clock on the mantle.

“Gentlemen, I’ll admit, I don’t know what to do with this information. I don’t know who to consult… perhaps Minerva-“

“It’s fine now, anyway… Voldemort undid it.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Voldemort performed a complicated surgical procedure… a magical extraction. He cut his soul from mine.”

“Bloody hell,” muttered Ron.

Kingsley shook his head. “This is unreal. I’ve never heard of anyone performing this kind of magic… and You-Know-Who seems to crank it out before afternoon tea. Unbelievable.”

He laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “How do you feel?”

Harry’s ghostly green eyes met Kingsley’s. “I can’t feel anything. I don’t feel myself. Before the surgery, I still felt like me. I don’t feel like me anymore.”

Kingsley watched Harry for a moment, concern etched into his features. “You’ve been through an ordeal, Harry. It may take a while before you feel yourself again. We have a healer loyal to the resistance coming in tomorrow to examine you, and we will be bringing in a mind healer for you regularly as well. We will get you feeling back to normal… whatever it takes.”

Chapter Text

The Dark Lord stood in the shadows. The only sign of his presence in the room was a pair of red eyes, staring glowing and discarnate from the darkness.

His eyes fixed on the mudblood who lay fast asleep against a mountain of pillows in a luxurious bed in one of Malfoy Manor’s many guest rooms.

He thought to himself idly that her tanned skin looked more luxurious than the mulberry silk sheets upon which she laid.

He had the irrational urge to touch her, run his sharp nails down her arm as she slept, to see the gooseflesh pepper her arms.

She stirred in her sleep, her thick but fine brows knitting as if something had disturbed her peaceful slumber. 

He wondered if she could sense his presence, even in her sleep. He certainly had a sharp awareness of her presence in the manor. The moment he had set foot back in the manor, he sensed her presence altering the very magical atmosphere of the estate, and it stirred something in him, awakening something ravenous deep within his core.

This both frustrated and excited him. He was filled with a delicious anticipation to find out what this witch had to offer him. 

As he looked upon her, he wondered to himself how such a weak girl, one who had displayed such emotional tendencies in their first meeting, could possibly interest him? She was young, grotesquely so, he thought, and she possessed no magical blood whatsoever.

The slits of his eyes narrowed as he watched her, trailing over her thick, frizzy hair and the thin nightgown that she wore, which tightened over her breasts as she turned, granting him a limited view of her nipple, pressed tautly against the fabric.

He felt a rush of lust, and for a moment he pressed into it, finding it strange and fascinating, before he tamped down on it, feeling a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. 

He had plans for this… mudblood.

Though, if he could not make use of her, he would certainly kill her. 

However, at the present, she was valuable. If she was smart, she would abandon her foolish plans and accept reality. 

She hoped to continue to aid the Order, and though he did not fault her for holding onto a shred of hope, he intended to give her a swift and sharp awakening. 

Join me, or die.

The same offer he extended to all of his enemies. After all, assimilation was necessary to build a regime that would remain a strong international power. His followers couldn’t see past the end of their perfectly structured noses, but the Dark Lord would ensure that his reign would be long and enduring.

The Potter boy was of no use to him now. The Dark Lord had gained the intel that he needed from the boy’s mind, and he now had another piece of his soul, intact and well-preserved, and he would soon discover whether the mudblood had been a worthy trade.

The Order of the Phoenix hadn’t realized that the trade had been a strategic move of his own design.

Since the battle, order members had lain low, recouping their numbers and counting their losses. Hiding in their safe houses like fearful children.

No matter how many times he had attempted to lure them out of hiding, the loss of their leader had significantly affected their courage.

That simply wouldn’t do. The Dark Lord was not interested in a lengthy war; he desired a swift and unquestionable victory.

The Order needed their champion, their chosen one. Now that they had Harry Potter, he hoped that would give them the boost of morale necessary to draw them out of hiding.

Harry Potter was brash and impulsive. He could almost hear Potter’s emotional entreaties…

We can’t just sit here and hide! We have to do something!

Sharing a piece of his soul with the Potter boy for so long had certainly given him an intimate understanding of the young wizard’s mind.

”Yes, Potter,” Voldemort hissed. “Provoke them… make them feel guilty for their inaction. Drive them into my clutches.”

His spies had already intercepted several attempts by the Order to send for aid, entreating the Confederation to step in and intervene.

Though the Confederation had scheduled a convening for September, in which they would discuss the political climate of Great Britain, the Dark Lord held sway over the British representatives and over the Ministry itself. There was no one to speak for them but their pathetic group of former aurors… if they even dared to come out of hiding.

Dumbledore was gone. 

Their champion, the famous Harry Potter, would soon demonstrate that he was not fit to lead a rebellion.

The Dark Lord had made sure of that.

His eyes left the mudblood and wandered to the window, which she kept closed and locked.

He moved from the shadows to the window and gazed out, long fingers toying with the elder wand.

He was no fool. He knew the elder wand was cursed. The wand had a bloody history, after all. Every owner of the wand had been murdered, but the curse only mattered if there was a wizard alive who was stronger than Voldemort.

There was no one stronger than The Dark Lord.

Voldemort’s thin lips curved slightly as he stroked the wand lovingly, watching the fires of the camp through the glass panes, observing as two giants fought over a scrap of human flesh.

He turned back to his prisoner.

A brilliant move on his part, he preened. There was something about the girl, something that inexplicable drew him to her, some essence that he had yet to extract from her.

He determined to draw out her hidden darkness, however deeply buried. Voldemort knew that it was there; he could feel it teasing him, begging to be uncaged.

Yes, the mudblood would be the very tool he needed to see his wider vision come to fruition.

For his eyes weren’t merely upon Great Britain…

They were upon the world.

———————

“How good of you to join us, Pius,” hissed the Dark Lord, eliciting snickers and leers from a line of death eaters seated at the table.

Voldemort sat at the head of the table. Fear hung in the air like a tangible blanket, sitting like a weight on the chests of everyone in attendance.

His followers kept their eyes fixed on the table, carefully curating their thoughts, occluding, thinking through their words.

One wrong move, even one thought or word out of place, could mean torture or death.

The Dark Lord was paranoid these days; it made him edgier than a sharp blade, and more dangerous than ever.

Minister Thicknesse sat beside Augustus Rookwood, his eyes appearing glazed over… seeing, but not really seeing at all, his gaze bearing the signature vacancy of one under the influence of the imperius. He inclined his head politely.

“I am most honored to be your guest this evening, Lord Voldemort.”

“Indeed,” Voldemort rasped in his own exact brand of pronunciation, his red eyes burning like the flames of hell as they settled upon his guest. “It is an honor to have you among us, while you’re still alive .”

Laughter filled the hall.

His gaze slid to Rookwood. “What news from the Ministry?”

Bellatrix sat at Voldemort’s right side, her deep set eyes scanning the room, watching, snatching up facial expressions, catching furtive glances, examining every reaction for a hint of disloyalty.

“Yaxley is conducting investigations into the Hogwarts faculty. Senior Undersecretary Umbridge will be replacing educators whose curriculums are found wanting. The Wizengamot voted on Friday for the new headmaster. Of course, it will be Alecto, as you’ve instructed. The Daily Prophet will report the appointment in Tuesday’s issue. I have also prepared a report detailing the trial of our most recent capture, one Justin Finch-Fletchley. Muggleborn. Hufflepuff. A recent graduate. He was apprehended, as you know, traveling through the floo network whilst in hiding… he was identified by Madam Edgecomb and apprehended by Yaxley. His trial was on Friday, and he was sentenced to Azkaban.”

“How unfortunate,” he chuckled insincerely, accompanied by more nervous laughter from the rest of the table. “What captures this week?” He asked sharply, his eyes wandering to Scabior, whom he’d placed in charge of his brigade of snatchers since he’d done away with Greyback.

Scabior started, obviously not expecting to be questioned so soon.

“Ah, none yet, my Lord. It seems the resistance is weak and as such, has determined to lay low for the time being.”

Voldemort didn’t look at Scabior. His gaze was fixed on his wand, which he turned over in his hand, twisting it between his long fingers. “They have suffered great losses,” he replied. “It will not be long before they make a move. I predict that before Samhain, the Order will do one of two things. Either they will come to me to cut yet another deal, or they will attempt a major coup. I suspect it won’t be long before they discover that their child hero is no longer all in one piece, as they’d hoped.”

Bellatrix, who’d been listening with rapt attention, leaned toward him and interjected, “You have never been wrong, my Lord. We will prepare for either outcome. I will enact strategic plans, with your approval-“

“In either instance,” Voldemort interrupted, waving her to silence. “It will spell the end of their rebellion. Then, we can shift our focus upon the rebuilding of our society, a new magical world… given that the confederation does not intervene with our plans. If that happens, it will push back my desired timeline quite a bit.”

“What will we do, my Lord,” Bellatrix asked, her head low in subservience, “if the confederation does cause problems for us?”

“I have devised a plan to deal with that possibility. We will handle the confederation tactically, from the inside out.”

“Marvelous, your Grace. I await your orders.” Her voice was doting, and her sultry eyes shone with the depths of her obsession.

“Antonin,” he continued, ignoring her fawning. “How is recruitment coming along?”

Dolohov met the Dark Lord’s stare with a grin.

“We have several new recruits, my Lord. Fresh graduates. Two are here today.”

Draco’s head snapped up.

The doors to the hall opened, admitting a pair of Slytherin students who were quite familiar to Draco.

“Here to join our ranks, and pledge their loyalty to our Lord,” Dolohov announced. “Miss Pansy Parkinson, and Mr. Blaise Zabini.”

A handsome, dark-skinned wizard entered alongside a petite witch with pale skin and short, black hair. 

Draco tensed immediately as he laid eyes on his ex-girlfriend and his close friend, her new boyfriend.

Her eyes snapped with defiance as they met Draco’s.

“Welcome,” muttered Voldemort as he addressed the pair. He stared at them, observing them closely. “Are you ready to take my mark, to sit amongst the most revolutionary magical forces in history? Are you prepared to serve me with utmost loyalty and devotion?”

“We are,” said Pansy proudly.

Blaise’s eyes met Draco’s for an instant before dropping to the table. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good,” the Dark Lord whispered, twisting the elder wand between his fingers, his sharp nails glistening like talons. “Because disloyalty will be met with one punishment… death .”

Pansy gulped.

Voldemort’s lips quirked. “Welcome to the winning side. You shall be inducted tonight.”

The faces along the table sneered and snickered.

“My Lord, if I may interrupt.”

Voldemort turned to Lucius Malfoy with a scowl, his glowing eyes narrowed.

Lucius trembled, bowing his head low. “I believe the news that I bear will please you, my Lord.”

“Then do come out with it.”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes in disgust.

Lucius gave a tight smile. “My son and I were successful in casting the imperius curse upon a young lady who is close to the Order. You’ve been seeking an individual whom you might utilize as a spy. I believe she might be the tool you are looking for, your Grace.”

Heads turned as the occupants of the room looked at one another in surprise.

Voldemort’s countenance showed no change. Nagini wound herself around his form, sliding upwards along his shoulders, her tongue darting out to scent her master. Her beady eyes rested on Lucius as she laid her head on the Dark Lord’s shoulder. “Name,” he commanded.

 “Gabrielle Delacour.”

Voldemort turned to Draco. “Who cast the curse?”

“I did, my Liege,” Lucius interjected. “She is young, but that will put her beyond suspicion, I suspect. Her brother-in-law, Bill Weasley, is a member of the Order of the Phoenix. She is quite close to her sister, who is also an Order member. She will perhaps be privy to inside information concerning their movements and plans.”

“Very good,” whispered the Dark Lord as he stroked Nagini’s head gently. “It seems you have found a way to make yourself useful, Lucius. Let’s hope that you can continue to do so.” 

He turned his gaze upon Draco. “You have done well these past few months, Draco. I have a feeling you will do well in my service… provided you learn to handle my possessions with better care in the future.”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling in a snarl of disgust. “I’ve no idea why he’d want to put his hands on a filthy mudblood in the first place.” She gave Draco a look of admonishment. “I hope you washed them after, nephew.”

Draco was aloof during the exchange, his face blank. The only acknowledgement he gave was a nod of thanks to Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort took note of his demeanor, cataloging his reaction carefully. 

In many ways, Draco reminded him of Severus.

Useful, but unpredictable.

Untrustworthy .

“Prepare the induction ritual for tonight. There will be need for blood replenishing potions,” he ordered, causing Pansy and Blaise to look at each other with wide eyes. “We will meet again in two day’s time, after we receive a report from our plants in the confederation. I will now see Potter’s mudblood.” He smirked as he sat back, stroking Nagini’s long, muscular torso. “I suppose I should call her my mudblood now.”

“Her?” Bellatrix asked with disgust. “You mean it . Can’t tell what she is under all that hair.”

“Leave me.” He cut his eyes to Draco, who was standing up to go. “Bring the mudblood, Draco… if you can manage to keep your hands to yourself.”

Draco gave a short nod, and departed, followed by the rest of the attendees.

———————-

The sky was dark and gray, overcast and drizzling light rain onto the grounds of the Manor. Pits of ash issued the remnants of smoke from the previous night’s fires, now tamped down by the rain.

Hermione stared through the window at the scene behind the Manor. The revel had continued long into the night, causing most of the army to remain in their tents until far past noon the following day. 

The muggles who’d been used as entertainment had either died during torture or been killed. Hermione hadn’t wanted to watch. 

Now the giants roasted their corpses on a spitfire. 

Hermione wanted to kill Voldemort more than ever, but she feared she wouldn’t live through the week.

She realized she would soon be face to face with him, and she feared him, because now she knew for certain that he could read minds. His gift was unlike any she’d ever witnessed.

She hadn’t even known that it was possible to read minds so easily… and perhaps it wasn’t, unless one happened to be Voldemort.

He would most certainly sense her intent. It would be all too easy for him to use his gift to discover her secret hope to somehow continue to aid the Order.

No matter how much she practiced her occlumency, she feared it was pointless.

But hadn’t Snape fooled him? Or had Snape been deluded to believe he’d hidden his loyalties from the Dark Lord?

Perhaps it had been Voldemort’s intention to kill him all along.

Hermione sighed, resting her forehead against the glass. The rain grew heavier, obscuring her view of the camp.

Perhaps honesty could be her best asset. She only needed to discover Voldemort’s motive in trading Harry for her.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Hermione.

Could one lead him with false thoughts? Or would he see right through any attempt at deceit?

Hermione groaned in frustration. From now on, her life would be a series of moments in which she would need to think quickly on her feet.

“At least I still have my books,” she whispered drolly, fingering the beaded bag which was shrunken and hung around her neck.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Hermione jumped away from the window, tucking the bag into the collar of her shirt and jerking her Order robes tighter over her chest.

“Who is it?” she asked hesitantly, fingering her wand in her pocket even though the wards on her bed prevented her from using magic.

The door opened, and Draco entered the bedroom.

His eyes flicked over her once in a quick appraisal before he announced, “The dark lord wants to see you.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. 

She’d known this moment was coming, but now that it had arrived, it felt too soon.

Draco’s eyes fell to her open mouth, then rose back to her eyes. “Come on Granger. Let’s go.”

“Was that you screaming?”

He stopped in his tracks, and she could see his cheek muscles tense as he turned his head. A sign of pain? Or irritation?

“What do you think?”

Hermione paused, observing Draco, attempting to read something beyond his stony exterior. “Why was he torturing you?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart? I’ve always found you rather dense, to be honest.” His silver eyes narrowed. “Let’s go.”

———————-

“I can’t believe he’s got Hermione,” whispered Harry.

Harry sat on his bed, his eyes resting on the colorful array of potions left on a bedside tray by Mrs. Weasley intended to aid his recovery. 

He didn’t feel like taking them; he wanted to see Ginny, but she was training with several of the other Order members.

Ron lay with his back flat on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling sullenly. For days, he’d been racking his brain for ways to get Hermione back.

He wished he’d told her how he felt before she left.

“She’s been reading about black magic, you know,” Ron mumbled. “S’pose your being kidnapped caused her to snap a bit.”

“We have to get her back, Ron,” said Harry. “He will torture her. Bellatrix will do worse than she did before.”

Ron turned his head to gaze at Harry. “Wonder why he wanted her?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Ron blinked. “What did he do to you?”

Harry’s chest heaved as he took a deep breath. “He cut out the piece of his soul. So now he’s got four pieces left… and I’m no longer a horcrux.”

“But you said you don’t feel the same?”

Harry bit the side of his cheek. “Something isn’t right.”

“Do you think he damaged something?”

His best friend swallowed. “Kingsley has sent for a specialized healer… a soul surgeon from Zambia. Only trouble is getting her into the country without him knowing.”

A knock came at the door suddenly, causing them both to sit up straighter.

Harry stood and walked to the door. When he opened it, Andromeda Tonks stood in the hallway outside. She held little Teddy in her arms, fast asleep.

She fixed Harry with a bright smile and whispered, “I thought you might want to see him, seeing as you’re his godfather.”

Ron started as she entered the room, always a bit on edge around her due to her striking resemblance to Bellatrix.

She passed Teddy into Harry’s arms, then took a seat nearby. 

“Are you doing well, Harry?”

Harry smiled down at the infant in his arms, watching as the crown of hair turned bright teal. “I’m alright,” was all that he could choke out.

“What news from the safe house in Kent?” asked Ron. “Weren’t they planning something?”

“Dean Thomas and Ernie Maximillian are leading an organized attack on the snatchers’ camps. We have a spy who was able to locate a map of their network. Unfortunately, Justin was captured last week trying to escape, but I pray that no one else will be taken after this.”

Harry glanced at Ron. “How are they going to stop them?”

Ron’s eyebrows rose. “Well, er… the plan was to take them as prisoners.”

“They should just kill them. Kill them all.”

Ron’s brow furrowed, lips twitching slightly. “I mean… you know we don’t do that. Killing is what they do… and we aren’t them. That’s what you’ve always said.”

“I don’t care what I’ve said,” Harry said coldly. “They all deserve to die for what they’ve done.”

Andromeda’s piercing eyes moved from Harry to Ron, then back to Harry. The crystals on her wrist jingled as she reached for baby Teddy. “Mr. and Mrs. Weasley wanted to see you, Harry. They wanted to know if you were up to attending an order meeting.”

Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Of course, I am. It’s what I’m good for, right? I’m the order mascot. Of course, I’m up to it. Nothing’s moving forward without me, it seems.”

Ron and Andromeda eyed one another curiously, confused by Harry’s words. 

“Right,” murmured Ron. “Let’s go then.”

——————

Chapter Text

Hermione was led down a dark hallway in the west wing of the Manor and brought through a set of mammoth double doors.

The hall seemed to be some kind of meeting room, with a ring of chairs set up in a semicircle around a round mosaic of black and green tiles embedded into the marble floors. 

Voldemort sat at the apex of the circle, in a large gothic chair.

The heavy wooden doors echoed as Draco shut them behind her, trapping her in the room with the star of her worst nightmares.

The aura around the Dark Lord was stifling, the sort of darkness where you couldn’t see two inches in front of you. It was heavy and vile, and the weight of evil seeming to wrap itself around Hermione as she entered the room. Dark magic filled the space, not a snapping and sizzling energy as normal magic was, but a slinking, sinister poison, unseen but certainly felt. 

Hermione shivered, her skin crawling with a thousand warnings. 

He sat upon his throne, his legs spread, arms resting on its carved sides. He wore pitch black robes, and his pale skin was milky and devoid of color, stretched over his skeletal frame. 

Hermione moved in slow motion, walking closer. Her eyes trailed down his arms, obscured by his dark robes, til they reached his skeletal hands and long fingers, the nails of which were sharp and glinted in the low light. 

She stopped several feet away.

Being in the dark lord’s presence was very strange, indeed.

It seemed unnatural to be in the company of one so mutilated, a man who looked more like a creature, more like something otherworldly and unsettling.

His features and skin were waxy and appeared unreal, as if she might be dreaming them entirely. He reminded Hermione of the wax figures in the museums her parents had taken her to.

She felt a subtle hum in the air; at first it was nearly imperceptible, but as she stood there gazing at the wizard whose glowing eyes fixed on her with no emotion, she felt it begin to penetrate the barriers of her magic. A seed of fear, of darkness, of perversion… something that called to her and made her feel dirty, and excited, and very uncomfortable.

Hermione’s face twisted into an expression of disgust as she fought against the feeling.

She felt tempted…

But by whom?

And to do what?

She didn’t know. She only knew that she felt lured forward as if in a trance.

She blinked away from his gaze and lowered her eyes to the floor, her chest heaving with each labored breath, a weight threatening to crush her.

A fever dream, she thought, confused. That’s what this feels like.

Lightheaded. Dizzy.

Perhaps she’d been drugged.

“Come here, Miss Granger,” came the Dark Lord’s voice, shockingly deep despite its raspy quality. “Let us talk.”

Thunder rumbled loudly, rattling the glass window panes.

Not mudblood? She thought with indignation, eyes narrowing.

She wondered why he feigned treating her with respect when she knew he possessed none.

She was nothing to him. Potter’s mudblood… that’s all she was.

A table appeared beside her, and upon it sat a wine glass filled to the brim with dark red liquid, darker than blood.

She blinked several times.

“Would you care for a drink, mudblood?”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, thank you,” she murmured. Her gaze flicked back to his face to find him regarding her with a smirk.

In his hand, he held a glass of wine like the one that had materialized beside her.

“Of your own mind’s admission,” he began, “you expect me to call you mudblood. Have you grown fond of the term, perhaps?”

Hermione swallowed, a cold anger springing up from her gut like a well, momentarily overtaking her fear. Her chin lifted fractionally though her voice shook slightly as she answered, “I consider it a badge of honor. I would rather be raised by muggles than bow down before a noseless coward… one whose blood isn’t even pure, I might add. The insult means nothing coming from you.”

She shocked herself with this speech, the words leaving her lips before she’d even registered she was saying them. Perhaps Harry’s gusto had rubbed off on her in recent months.

If she had kindled his rage, he did not show it.

In fact, he seemed amused. His thin lips curved upward slightly. “And yet, as true as your statement might be, Miss Granger… they do bow down, as will you, in time… I assure you. True power will always result in exceptions being made.”

That strange feeling pricked at her, raising the hair on her arms. She was breathless against its onslaught. She wasn’t sure where her sudden bravery came from. She should be absolutely terrified, but a strength she didn’t realize she had had begun to manifest itself. “I would argue that true power is to make the rules… not simply be the exception to them.”

He showed no reaction.

Hermione realized of a sudden that she had not seen him blink once since she’d stepped foot in the room.

In that moment, he blinked… very, very slowly, punctuating the fact that he could discern her thoughts.

It was unnerving. She wondered how one was able to read minds like that, and how that ability worked.

Was it like normal legilimency? Did it require eye contact? Was it a powerful kind of wandless magic? Perhaps a form of divination?

Against her will, her mind ran amuck with questions.

Her thoughts came to a sudden halt as she watched his lips peel back in a disarming grin.

“You’re very curious. Hungry for knowledge. I can relate to that. Let me ask you, Miss Granger… do you think I’m making the rules?”

She swallowed, feigning nonchalance. “If you are, I haven’t seen any real evidence of it. All I see is you coddling a group of overgrown children plagued with superiority complex.”

He gave her a placating smile, and it speared her with irritation. “Those overgrown children would love to see you dead.”

Point taken.

If it weren’t for Voldemort, she’d likely be dead already. 

So why wasn’t she?

“Why haven’t you killed me?”

He merely smirked, and sipped his wine. “We are in a war, my dear. The final stages of a war require much more than brute strength… they demand a more refined touch, as earlier stages also demand. The middle is always messy, but thankfully, we are almost beyond that.”

He sat his drink down on a table made of air, then gazed at her coldly. “You speak to me almost as unwisely as Potter. Dumbledore has instilled you all with foolhardy notions, with his particular brand of ill-advised courage and a lack of self-preservation.”

He stood and crossed the room, coming to stand before her. His eyes glowed red, like molten lava, and it unnerved Hermione having him so close. She backed away instinctually, but he followed, closing the distance.

A strange tingling sensation danced along her skin, and she fought the urge to scratch her arms. His eyes roved her face, then dragged down her form. Lightning struck, illuminating his face for a moment, followed by a peal of thunder.

His eyes narrowed to slits. He moved closer, forcing Hermione back a step.

She swallowed as his dark energy surrounded her, thick and poisonous. Her breathing became labored, and she swallowed as a shiver ran down her spine.

Her eyes lowered, fearing he would use his powers of legilimency. He held his wand in hand. No, not his wand. Not the one that had cast the curse that had murdered Lily and James Potter.

He now held the elder wand.

Dumbledore’s wand.

The sight of it made her feel sick.

“You were raised by muggles?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yes,” she breathed, the evil in the air around him threatening to choke her. “So what?”

He cocked his head as he looked at her. A moment passed, then he reached out, dragging a fingernail along the underside of her jaw. She trembled, fighting the urge to pull away. “Why does your magic feel so… different?”

Her brows scrunched as confusion twisted her features. “What?”

A sudden hissing sound disturbed their interlude, and Hermione’s eyes cut downward to see Nagini slithering toward her master’s feet.

Another shiver shot down her spine, flashes of the night in Godric’s Hollow replaying themselves in her mind.

Voldemort laughed. “You are not fond of my pet, I see. I thought you were an advocate for magical creatures?”

“I am,” she muttered shakily. “Just not the murdering kind.”

He chuckled, then hissed something to Nagini, and she began to slide up the back of his leg.

His eyes came back to rest on Hermione. They were pensive and cold, wandering her face as if she were some puzzle to be solved.

A knock sounded at the door, interrupting the unsettling energy that was building between them.

Hermione hadn’t realized that every muscle in her body was tight until the knock gave her relief.

She exhaled, and Voldemort scowled as he turned.

Bellatrix Lestrange entered the room flanked by a house elf, her eyes instantly roaming the narrow space in between them, catching sight of Hermione with her back against the wall.

She looked to Voldemort, who turned to her with his hands folded behind his back regally.

“Yes, Bella?”

“The house elf you requested,” she said coldly, flicking her wand, which shoved the elf forward.

“Deedle is pleased to serve his Lordship,” the elf said in a crackling voice, her hands trembling as she hunched before Voldemort.

Voldemort stared at the house elf for a moment, as if only just remembering that he’d sent for her. Then, he turned back to Hermione, his imposing figure towering over her as he reached toward her chest.

Hermione gasped as he jerked open her robes and ripped the top button of her blouse.

For a split second, she thought he would grab her breast as his ghostly hand wandered beneath her shirt, but soon she realized his target was the beaded bag which hung around her neck.

He tugged on the chain, dislodging the bag from where it was nestled between her breasts.

With one swift movement, he yanked the chain from her neck.

Then, he turned to fix Bellatrix with a scathing stare as she watched, aghast.

“Have the house elf show the girl back to her chambers. She will be attending the induction feast tonight.”

The house elf was still bowed low, as she was not allowed to make eye contact with wizards.

Bellatrix kicked her with the steel toe of her boots, knocking her onto her hands and knees. “You heard your Lord! Get going, elf trash!”

The elf quickly stood and bowed low again, then waved her hand, gesturing for Hermione to follow.

As Hermione trailed behind the elf, she heard Bellatrix whisper, “My Lord, will the girl not reside in the dungeons?”

“Do not question me further, Bella. We must discuss this chaos at the Ministry. Contact Rita Skeeter and have her-“

His voice became muffled as the door shut after them.

——————-

Hermione awoke to the sensation of cold metal against her skin.

She opened her eyes, her vision immediately swimming as she rose slowly to consciousness.

She inhaled deeply, nausea rising into the base of her throat as she lifted her head. Voices reached her ears, laughter… the sounds of many people and of glasses and cutlery clinking.

Her tongue scraped along the roof of her mouth, dry as sandpaper. Another deep breath.

Why did her head hurt? The space behind her eyes pounded like a ceremonial drum.

She slid her legs along the metal and pushed up with her upper body strength, lifting herself into a sitting position.

Her fell closed as she became overcome by instant vertigo.

Shaking her head, she attempted to clear her vision, to clear her mind of the unsettling delirium.

She had definitely been dosed with some sort of hallucinogenic potion. Hermione knew the signs. 

Hermione’s brows furrowed as she took in her surroundings. There were faces, all hidden behind eccentric masks bearing the images of various magical creatures. Her eyesight blurred their lines, melting one body into the next.

When she tried to stand, she realized that she was unable to.

She was trapped in a metal cage with thick bars, like a type of birdcage one would find in an owlery, only much larger. Heavy iron shackles were fastened around her ankles, attached to the cage by thick chains.

Fear struck her heart like lightning when she saw the fresh blood stains on the floor of the cage. She realized with dread that she was trapped in one of the cages which had contained muggles, the ones who had been tortured, killed, and eaten by giants only nights earlier.

Another tidal wave of nausea rose into her throat. She scrambled back, her eyes searching the room hastily to assess her situation.

Blurs of color, the warmth of bodies melding one into another, echoes of laughter. Her senses betrayed her, refusing to function properly.

This was it, she realized. She must have angered Voldemort with something she said in their encounter.

She dragged her nails down her arms, suddenly realizing that she was cold. Her eyes lowered to her clothing, and with a delayed moment of shock, she became aware that she was no longer wearing the plain gray robes that Narcissa Malfoy had provided, nor the pajamas she’d fallen asleep in.

She wore a small little slip of a dress, a deep burgundy color, leaving very little to the imagination. Her eyes widened in horror, wondering who it was that had undressed her.

Her eyes searched the room, trailing over the masks of birds and magical beasts, much more animated and sinister in her inebriated state.

Several sets of eyes turned on her, noticing that she was now awake.

Some ignored her. Others pointed, laughing and jeering.

At last, her eyes fell upon Voldemort.

He sat elevated above the rest, on a great throne in what Hermione now recognized was the drawing room.

She glared at him, but the more she looked at him, the less defined his features became, the edges of his jaw seemed to glitch and shift, and his eyes, oh, merlin, his eyes… they burned as if there were flames within them, as if they could scorch a black hole into her skin.

They turned on her, and Hermione felt scalded.

You’re just dosed, Hermione, she told herself. She realized that Voldemort wanted her to feel vulnerable.

She resolved not to show fear. If these moments were to be her last, she would not go down as a coward.

It was tempting, though, to give in to the absolute terror coursing through her body.

She heard the deep chords of a piano being played, but the sounds seemed off pitch, an echo from far away.

Hermione didn’t recognize anyone, save for Bellatrix Lestrange and the Malfoys. Their long locks and distinct gaits gave them away.

Bellatrix stood at the base of the platform, next to Narcissa Malfoy. Had the room always been flooded with people? Why did there seem to be so many death eaters of a sudden?

She had not realized how immense their numbers had become. Were there more joining Voldemort’s cause?

“Mudblood swine,” hissed a man who passed by, and he spat at her feet.

Hermione could just barely make out the voices of a group of women chatting nearby.

“Why is she here?”

“It’s the golden girl, no? Potter’s girlfriend, I suspect.”

“Filthy.”

“Shameful.”

“The air smells fouler with her here.”

“Only a step above the muggles-“

“Just as bad-“

“Worse than muggles… because they steal their magic and dirty our bloodlines on purpose.”

”Usurpers, the lot of them.”

“Didn’t you hear? The Bulstrode’s nephew married a half-blood, and she produced a squib! That’s what happens, you know.”

From time to time, someone would pass by, sneer some insult and then carry on.

But no one cursed her. No one touched her. At most, they spat at her.

Hermione didn’t know whether to be thankful for small mercies or to expect something worse to come.

“Come, Miss Parkinson,” Voldemort hissed as the room grew quiet. “Mr. Zabini. Yours will be the first induction this week. There will be many more in the coming weeks. Our numbers do grow, not only here, but throughout the world.”

Hermione watched as her old schoolmates approached the platform amid cheers.

“Do not worry, my friends,” he said, feigning a warmth that did not translate. His words came across hollow. “We will not sully this moment by performing the ritual in front of one of impure blood. Such sacred rites should be carried on in private, where there are no… witnesses.”

There were snickers around the room.

Hermione thought she could’ve been confused by the potion, but his tone seemed to carry a hint of sarcasm.

A door opened to the right, and guests began to filter through slowly.

“Well…” A deep, warm voice startled Hermione. “Look what we have here… a pretty pigeon in a cage.”

She looked to her right and found an obscenely tall man dressed in maroon velvet, a Graphorn mask covering his features.

His eyes were a sparkling, amber brown.

She glared at him silently, sizing him up as the guests all filed into the hallway one by one.

“Where are they going?” she asked.

Her companion’s eyes wandered over her once before answering, “To the ceremonial chambers.”

“What will happen?” she murmured.

“They will take the mark… among other things.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed as her eyes cut back to Voldemort, where he sat stoically upon his throne, watching and waiting.

The music had begun to die down. Hermione looked back to the man, who now leaned against the cage.

“Why am I here?” she asked softly.

There was something vaguely familiar about this man, but she couldn’t place just where she knew him from. Something about his stance, his voice.

“I’d like to know the same thing,” he muttered, his golden-brown eyes narrowing slightly. “But now that you’re here…”  He knelt down beside her, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Why don’t you let me see it?”

Her face twisted in confusion, his eyes seeming to dance in her drugged state. “See what?”

His gloved hand lifted, forefinger outstretched toward her chest. “I can see the top of the scar. I’d like to see the rest. Come closer.”

Hermione suddenly felt a pricking just under her skin, the sensation of her hackles rising. She pressed back against the opposite bars of the cage, and shook her head.

His lips curled upward. “Now, now. There’s no need to be afraid. You were a feisty little thing, I had to do what was necessary at the time.” His voice lowered still further, his deep timbre but a rasp. “But perhaps the dark lord will give you to me.”

“I’d rather die,” she whispered, a shiver running down her spine, both from the frigid coldness of the room and from the chilling presence of Antonin Dolohov.

He tilted his head as if considering. “You might. No one knows yet what he intends to do with you.” His eyes fell to the scar, the top of which was visible above her dress. “Mudblood or no, I certainly wouldn’t have you in a cage fit for muggles. You are still the golden girl, are you not?” His full lips spread into a disarming grin.

Hermione swallowed, her heart thudding wildly against her ribs.

“Dolohov!”

Bellatrix’s screech could be heard throughout the drawing room.

Dolohov smirked, then winked as he pushed away from the bars of the cage. “Until we meet again, pretty mudblood.”

She watched the death eater saunter across the room as Bellatrix glared, then followed along behind.

Voldemort sat very still upon his throne until the room had emptied, then, before Hermione’s eyes, he dissolved into a black, noxious mist.

——————

Bellatrix stared at the dark lord’s broad shoulders, feeling the steam rising from the water. It coated her wrists and arms in wet dew.

The water he soaked in was rose pink, tinged with the blood that had washed from his hands.

She yearned to touch him, but she was not allowed to do so without permission.

It made her want to do so even more.

She lifted the lave and poured scalding hot water over his pale shoulders. Her eyes trailed over the dips and indents of his muscles. 

Those muscles held the capacity for great power. She had watched him duel more times than she could count, and had always admired the way his muscles flexed when he cast curses, his style both chaotic and calculated, wielding magic more artfully than any wizard she had ever known.

She had hardly believed it could really be him, when he had returned after all those years. 

A new body, but the same dark lord. A slightly different voice, but the same power. As soon as she saw him duel for the first time, she knew it was true.

The Dark Lord had truly returned. Against all odds, he had defied death itself, something no other wizard had ever achieved.

He had come back to her. 

Nevermind all the years she’d spent in Azkaban, mourning his loss. Mourning their dreams. His vision had become hers, after all. 

He had seen her. Like no other man had seen her.

Not only had he seen her, but he acknowledged her. He taught her, he elevated her.

Her lips parted. She gazed at his flesh, which seemed to relax under the warmth of the water, the same as any man’s would, but he was no man. To Bella, he was more god than human.

“May I touch you, my Lord?” she whispered reverently.

He sat still, unmoving as she carefully laved more water onto his back. Several moments passed.

“No.”

This was not unusual. Bella curbed her disappointment, knowing that the Dark Lord had his moods.

He often had things on his mind, plans that Bella was not privy to.

In time, he would tell her his thoughts. She was always the first he would divulge his plans to.

Sometimes, he even asked her opinion. It was his treatment of her that had earned her more respect from her family, from the ranks of other death eaters.

They feared her, and that power was a drug for Bellatrix. She fancied herself like a female version of the dark lord… his closest confidant, his most loyal follower, his protegè. 

Though she’d been powerful as a young witch, she grew to be absolutely lethal beneath the dark lord’s tutelage.

Their carnal relationship had been something she never could have dared to believe for. It had entered her mind more times than she could count, her desire for him sometimes growing to an all-encompassing degree, so that she knew he could read the thoughts in her head, bold and brazen as they were.

She had lusted after him during their practice duels, during meetings. Her hunger for him was a razor sharp edge that fueled her bloodthirsty, murderous attacks on the Order, on blood traitors as she razed their homes.

She’d feared that he would take it as disrespect, that she’d be punished.

She never thought he would acknowledge her in such a way, not with her husband being his right hand at all times.

But on the night of the capture of Peter Pettigrew, she’d noticed that his crimson-flecked eyes had begun to follow her… more than usual.

He’d fucked her in her marriage bed that night, all black hair and pale skin and sharp thrusts. 

“Good girl, Bella,” was all he’d said to her after, before he left the room.

She’d never told Rodolphus, but everyone knew.

Even Rodolphus had to know, but he never said a word, because no one challenged Lord Voldemort. A glance from those cold, piercing eyes could make one’s blood run cold.

Anyone who challenged Voldemort ended up dead…

Until the night she lost him.

After that, everyone had wavered, but not Bella.

Narcissa said there was something they must not have foreseen. Macnair said they had endangered their lives and families for a half-blood who was bested by an infant.

Bellatrix nearly gouged out his eyes with her wand for that.

Lucius went back to his old simpering ways, making excuses and cowering before the Ministry.

“He’s gone, and that’s that,” said Goyle dismissively, though his eyes darted this way and that, riddled with fear.

“He will rise again,” hissed Bellatrix, sneering at them all. “He will be back, and I’ll have kept a record of everything you’ve all said and done in his absence. There will be a reckoning for all of you.”

That was the night before she’d been arrested.

She’d spent all those years waiting, mourning him, reimagining those five, precious times that he’d taken her, filling her with his body, and his essence, and his magic. 

She replayed them over and over in her mind so she would never forget every little detail.

He looked different now, but he fucked her the same.

What was it like to fuck a god? Bellatrix knew.

It was transcendent. A divine, out of body experience, an apogean pleasure.

She watched the dark lord conjure a goblet full of absinthe. He took a single sip of the green liquid, then she leaned forward to take it from him hastily, setting it aside.

She had determined he would never have to ask her for anything. She would be the perfect servant for him, and one day, she hoped against hope, she would reign at his side.

Was that too much to hope for? She didn’t think so.

After all, she’d never dreamed in a million years that his attention would be drawn to her in a carnal way, that she could be his second-in-command, that he would open himself up to her and be intimate with her.

She had merely wished it, but never had she believed it would come to pass.

But it had, and so she secretly wished for more.

She had even determined that she would bear him children, if he ever decided that he would like an heir.

She’d long ago told Rodolphus that she would not give him children. 

She carefully guarded her thoughts, knowing that if they were mild and muted in volume, they would escape the dark lord’s notice. Perhaps not if he was intent on hearing her thoughts, but at the moment, he seemed lost in his musings, and she dared not think so loud as to interrupt them.

He stood abruptly and climbed out of the porcelain tub, dripping, leaving a river of water trailing behind him.

She watched his thighs flex, the muscles of his arse rippling as he walked away from her to stand at the window, completely naked.

Her chest burned, body heating as she observed him. He summoned the goblet and it flew into his hand without so much as a drop being spilt. 

He languidly took a sip. 

Bellatrix stood, her heels clacking on the marble floor as she crossed the room to take up a towel. She came to stand behind the dark lord.

“May I?” she breathed softly.

His head turned only slightly, as if she’d broken him out of his reverie, and he gave her the barest hint of a nod.

She hurried to gently pat his skin dry, so pale and colorless and thin that she could see the dark veins beneath. When she reached his waist, she wrapped the towel around him, letting her hand brush his manhood in the process of tucking it in at his Adonis belt.

“Will you stay with me tonight, my Lord?” she asked before reluctantly releasing the towel. 

The dark lord lifted the goblet to his lips and tipped it back a fraction. 

Bellatrix watched him with wide, sunken eyes that had once been beautiful.

“No,” he said shortly. “I will see Narcissa to discuss the girl.”

Her brows rose. “What girl?”

“Potter’s mudblood.”

Bella’s expressive brows pulled forward sharply. 

The mudblood.

Another plan which he deemed it necessary to keep from Bella. 

She couldn’t think of a single use for that trash, and the fact that he’d traded Potter for the cunt just boiled Bella’s blood.

She comforted herself in the fact that he always did things she didn’t understand… but they always made perfect sense, in hindsight.

She trusted that this was one of those things.

He looked away.

“What do you think of Draco, now that his mission is complete?” he asked impassively. 

She rubbed her lips together, the fires of the camp reflected in her eyes as she gazed over his shoulder, through the window. “He has a lot of his father in him, unfortunately.”

The dark lord snorted softly through his nose. “And his father, adversely, has very little of his father in him, which is also unfortunate.”

“Abraxas has always been loyal and strong, but he is still a Malfoy,” she said with some disdain.

The dark lord’s lips quirked. “We cannot all be Blacks, Bella.”

“It’s too bad, really… but Draco has more strength than Lucius. I’ve seen it. More of Cissy’s quiet fortitude. He took too much after his father in his younger years, I daresay, but I think now, more than ever, he sees the disadvantages of being a pompous prig and desires something he’s never sought before… real power. He’s finally realized that daddy’s money can’t buy him everything.”

The dark lord stared through the window, digesting her words. 

They stood in silence for a moment longer, before he turned his head. 

“Go and check on the Parkinson girl… make sure I didn’t bleed her too excessively.” He turned back to the window, and Bella’s eyes met his in the glass. In his gaze, she saw amusement. “The Parkinsons have owed me blood for decades… I may have felt compelled to take what was owed.”

Bella smirked, a hoarse laugh escaping her full lips. “As long as she can still hold a wand.”

The dark lord heard, but did not answer.

He was once again lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the pit below, where two acromantulas fought to the death under the imperius.

Chapter Text

Pansy awoke in a guest room of Malfoy Manor. As soon as she opened her eyes, she startled to find Draco standing against the far wall, observing her.

She had always stayed in this room when she’d come to visit during the summers. She liked it because it was decorated in blue and gold damask. Pansy had grown weary of green.

Their eyes met across the room and he kicked off from the wall, sauntering closer, his costly robes fluttering behind him.

“You look like shit, Pansy.”

She scowled at him and sat up, turning to look at the ornate gilded mirror hanging on the wall beside the bed.

Her vision spiraled for a moment in bands of blackness as she struggled to right herself. Then, her hand flew up to her face. She was paler than normal, quite sickly looking actually, with dark rings beneath her eyes.

She looked as if she’d contracted dragon pox.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “You’re right.”

He glared at her as he came to stand at her bedside. He took up a vial of potion from the side table, then uncorked it. “Take this.”

She glanced at it.

He held out a blood replenishing potion.

She twisted her lips to the side and flicked her eyes up at Draco. Cool grey eyes stared back at her, his expression full of disappointment. “Take it. I’m not asking.”

“I don’t have to do what you say,” she snapped.

He cocked a brow. “Actually, you do. I’m your superior… always was, but now it’s official.”

Her eyes glittered. “Kinky,” she muttered before she took the potion and threw it back.

Draco rolled his eyes, his sharp jaw tensing.

“Where’s Blaise?” she asked.

“Home,” he said curtly.

Her mouth fell open. “He’s home?! Already?”

His eyes cut to hers. “He recovered quickly.”

“I thought he would’ve stayed until…” Her words trailed off.

Draco’s eyebrows lifted pointedly. “Until what? You thought he’d stay to see if you were alright?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He leaned back against the wall again, arms folded. “So what’s your plan, Parkinson? Tell me the big grand plan.”

She shrugged. “Be a death eater. Learn dark magic. Make a place for myself. Voldemort is winning, everyone knows it.”

Draco snorted. “Be a death eater.” His voice was laced with sarcasm. “What does your father say?”

She swallowed. “He’s not happy.”

“I should think not.”

“Why do you care?”

He ran his tongue over his top teeth. “Oh, I don’t. Don’t worry about that.”

“You never did.”

Silence settled over the room.

“You never were much good in duelling club, Parkinson. I don’t know what you think you’re going to be able to offer.”

She shrugged again. “I can be a spy. Work for the ministry.”

“I don’t think anyone would mistake you for an Order sympathizer, not after that little stunt you pulled at Hogwarts… spying is out for you.”

“It’s up to the Dark Lord,” she retorted. “He will decide where I’m useful.”

“Maybe he’ll decide you work best on your back. Seems to be where your true gifts lie.”

She glared at Draco, anger and pain twisting her mouth. “Maybe so. Maybe he’ll favor me more than you and your traitorous family.”

Draco smirked. “My family has served loyally, unlike your cowardly kin. You lot never could stand on a side… neutral and worthless.”

Pansy shot out of bed. “Forgive us for not wanting to fall on our knees for a half-blood!”

Draco strode forward quickly and gripped her by the hair, yanking her head back. “You had better not let him hear you talking like that. You’ll lose a lot more than a few pints of blood.”

Pansy’s pale throat bobbed as she swallowed. She searched his face as she murmured softly, “You’ve changed, Draco. When did that happen?”

Draco gazed back at her coldly, a thin lock of his moonlit hair falling across his forehead. “I’ve served him for two years. For two years I’ve borne the weight of this mark, paving the way for his second rise while you were off sucking face with Zabini. You don’t know me anymore, Pansy, and I won’t know you by the end of it. We’re both just masks in this war. The past is the past… it won’t ever be the same again.”

She watched him for a moment, taking in the lines of his face, the edge of his jaw, his features much sharper now than they ever had been. Then, she leaned closer, her breath mingling with his as she whispered softly, “We’ve chosen this, Draco. Now we have to commit. It’s all or nothing. If we lose this war, it’s Azkaban for us.”

Draco’s eyes were cold, charcoal grey and flecked with silver, like icebergs in a churning arctic sea, rimmed by pale lashes. They narrowed with disdain, and he leaned closer, so that their lips almost touched, and he whispered slowly, “I didn’t choose this.”

Pansy’s lips parted, her dark eyes roaming his face. “Well,” she muttered. “That may be so… but we have to see it through, regardless.”

He released her, and she stumbled back.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said sharply, bitterness lacing his voice. “But now that you have… yes, you will see it through. That’s for damn sure.”

—————

Hermione spent the next three weeks locked away in her suite. She received no visitors, which she counted as a blessing, none save the little elf named Deedle who had been assigned to her care. 

She mourned the loss of her bag, which Voldemort had confiscated. There were no books to read, and without her wand she could barely practice magic. Despite the fact, she focused her efforts on reciting arithmancy sums and honing her wandless spells. That, to her surprise, was permitted within her quarters. Apparently, only wands were disabled by the wards.

One day, when the little house elf popped in to inquire if she had any needs or requests, Hermione asked if she might bring her some books to read. The elf grew nervous, and informed her that the books belonging to the Malfoy Library had been spelled to jinx non-purebloods.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but thanked her nonetheless. 

No books. How depressing.

The lack of reading material, she reminded herself, was the least of her worries.

In fact, she counted herself lucky that she was still alive.

Some days, she could hear duels taking place in the far reaches of the mansion. The death eaters duelled incessantly, each on rotation so that they all were able to face up against various styles and skill levels. She couldn’t be sure, but she imagined that Voldemort would observe them, analyzing their stances, pointing out their strengths and weaknesses. 

It seemed something he would do, but Hermione didn’t know for sure what exactly went on in those rooms. She wasn’t allowed out of hers. She merely woke bright and early, was given coffee and breakfast, then proceeded to bathe and get ready, though she had nowhere to go. 

During the first week, she often watched the camp behind the Manor, until it grew nauseating. She saw things she would rather forget, and considered obliviating herself.

Hermione saw no one for those three weeks, barring one night a week that death eaters would congregate at Malfoy Manor. First, they would sit in the formal dining hall and strategize, giving their reports of war advancements, recent captures, future plans of attack, and so forth.

Hermione was usually dosed with potions for those meetings, only waking, dazed and dizzy, once dinner had commenced.

One evening, she awoke early. She didn’t move, nor did she open her eyes, but she lay there, still and unmoving, listening intently to the drawl of Thorfinn Rowle as he discussed the divvying of seats in the Wizengamot, tallying their number of inherited seats, plotting on how best they might usurp the elected seats, listing off the members who were currently under imperius, and so forth.

Hermione had filed everything away, occluding it all carefully, lying there quiet as a mouse, until she began to feel a familiar pricking, similar to the sensation of feeling watched. 

When she finally opened her eyes, she caught Voldemort’s eyes upon her, scalding and penetrating. 

Somehow she knew that he had been aware she was conscious the entire time. In fact, the reality that he had her attending these meetings, only to dose her with potions, struck her as quite bizarre.

The next week, her potion dose had been stronger. She awoke during the dinner, but still carefully filed away the names and faces of the attendees.

There were, of course, those one would expect to be present. Those belonging to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, namely Rowle, the Malfoys, the Lestranges, Avery, Dolohov, Macnair, Rookwood, Yaxley, the Carrows, Goyle, Crabbe, the Notts, and even once, Parkinson and Zabini.

Though there were half-bloods among their ranks, they were not in attendance at these gatherings.

Voldemort was rather cunning, Hermione realized, as he only dined with his most powerful supporters. In that way, he set them apart, gifting them with the intimacy of his presence.

He rarely ate much at these dinners. A few bites, a few sips of wine.

Hermione imagined that he was most likely reading their minds, tapping into their thoughts once their guard was down, inebriated off food and wine, chit-chatting amongst themselves like old Slytherin schoolmates.

Their wives were often in attendance as well, and on occasion, their children. Bellatrix was particularly incendiary towards the women, making catty little remarks for fun, since they were forced by their husbands to hold their tongue. Bellatrix was Voldemort’s second-in-command, after all.

Rodolphus rarely corrected her, though a time or two, Hermione caught him laying his hand over hers in an effort to silence her.

It worked only part of the time.

This night, in particular, Hermione awoke in the cage once more to the scraping of cutlery. 

Her fourth week with no visitors, no books, almost no magic. She was feeling herself growing rather dull, and she found herself wishing that Voldemort would hasten whatever plans he had for her and be done with it.

She attempted to clear her blurry vision, and set her mind to observing. She hoped that something would be said, that someone would slip up and say something that would be useful if she could ever find a way to relay information back to the Order.

All in all, Hermione hadn’t expected the banquets of Voldemort’s death eaters to be so… barbaric. 

No, barbaric wasn’t the word.

They weren't base in the sense that they were animalistic or uncivilized. They were quite proper in all the ways one would expect from a congregation of wealthy, pureblooded aristocrats. There was dancing, as would be anticipated.  There was fine dining, each couple precisely paired according to what each specific bloodline demanded. The women were paired with men they hardly desired, bred like cattle in order to preserve what they deemed to be magical, genetic perfection.

Immaculate blood.

Unsullied lineage.

Untainted with dirty blood.

Hermione watched as Lucius Malfoy, who sat in a place of dishonor in his own home, handed his wife a heavy, iron goblet, engraved with the magical history of their family. 

Voldemort’s followers danced a sinister social dervish around him, one which Hermione was not privy to.

She didn’t understand the furtive glances, the secret smiles and eye contact. Hermione caught Voldemort watching her on many occasions. At intervals, his followers would stand and approach him, whispering in his ear.

Voldemort’s expression would remain aloof and tacit, only perhaps broken by the distant turning up of his lips, indicating his amusement at something.

Often, muggles were brought in as entertainment.

Sometimes they were tortured. Jeered at like they were animals. Sometimes they were killed immediately.

Once, two muggle women were even made to fight to the death.

His death eaters laughed as if it were nothing.

Nothing… because muggles were like animals to them. Only lower than animals, because even some death eaters kept magical creatures as pets.

Only a few of them didn’t seem to enjoy it. Among them were Draco and Theodore Nott.

Draco seemed to turn green at the display.

Hermione worried he might vomit.

Seeing Draco in this scenery shed a new light upon him. He seemed quite removed most of the time, very seldom speaking, like a statue. At times, he seemed to fit perfectly, and then, at others, he didn’t seem to fit in at all.

Voldemort never reacted to these little shows. He sat stoically upon his throne, his long, pale fingers twisting his wand… the elder wand. His eyes would lock on the victims, but he never smiled, nor laughed. 

When it was over, and the laughter and jeering had subsided, he would call the dinner to order, lifting his cup in a toast as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Once, they brought in a muggle child.

There were shouts from his death eaters, namely Bellatrix, for the torture of the little girl.

Only then had Voldemort shown any level of perturbation. He drew his wand and cast the killing curse at the onset, leaving the girl’s body lying limp upon the cold marble floor.

His death eaters hadn’t dared to protest.

Hermione sat in her seat, staring at the girl’s corpse, tears threatening to brim over.

She swallowed and cut her eyes angrily to the Dark Lord. He simply sat staring at Hermione with narrowed eyes, boldly meeting her gaze, unflinching and brazen beneath her obvious rage, holding her hostage with his scarlet eyes.

After a moment, he looked coldly away.

Her merciful new ruler.

She thought she might be sick that time.

Up until then, she’d refused to show any weakness, any nausea or emotion, any sign that their barbarism and savagery had any affect upon her.

That was their intent, after all… to disturb Hermione psychologically.

Perhaps because they knew Voldemort had adopted her as some kind of new pet.

Perhaps for that reason, Bellatrix had it out for her.

Because Bella couldn’t destroy Hermione, she took her rage out on innocent muggles.

Bitch, Hermione thought.

Hermione looked up at that moment and her eyes met his scalding red orbs. 

He was smiling at her, his lips twisted into a sinister smirk.

Perhaps he had read her thoughts. 

She hoped he had.

She looked away, vowing to hate him for the rest of eternity… no matter what she was forced to do, or how her story ended.

In her heart, she would always hate him. It would be written on her gravestone.

If he did manage to live forever, she vowed, she would make plans to return as a ghost and haunt him forever.

He couldn’t kill her, or hurt her, then. It would all be over, and she could torment him as he was tormenting her now.

“Care to share your thoughts with us, mudblood?” 

Hermione’s head snapped up from where her gaze had been fixed on the floral centerpiece.

All eyes were upon her.

His lips were curled upward in amusement.

So, she thought inwardly. You have been listening to my thoughts, coward.

Hermione’s cheek cracked against the floor of the metal cage. 

Her hands were flat beside her, glued to the floor as well.

Black burst into her vision, and her cheek radiated with splintering pain.

She choked back a sob, a tear involuntarily falling from the corner of her eye. 

She couldn’t move. Every eye was trained on her as the Dark Lord glided toward her.

She heard the door of the cage open, and the sound of his boots, faint and growing nearer, then she felt the tip of his wand brushing her hair away from her face. 

“What was it that you called me, mudblood?”

Hermione steeled herself internally, knowing this moment would be her last. 

“Coward,” she spat.

There were gasps around the table. 

“You filth!” Bellatrix shrieked. “You absolute trash!”

“Bella,” came his stern admonishment.

All was quiet.

“Crucio.”

The Dark Lord’s torture curse fell like a sword, slicing its way through her mind, her body, every cell screaming in pain.

Her mouth fell open wide, forehead pressed to the floor, her muscles twitching as she writhed in agony, her body twisting unnaturally across the floor.

She vaguely heard Bellatrix’s laughter echoing, bringing back memories of the night she’d been tortured in the drawing room of this same Manor, how she’d been permanently maimed for life.

Then, as soon as it had begun, it ceased. Hermione panted, clutching her hair in her hands. She realized that she had curled into a fetal position, her abdominal muscles constricting against the force of the torture.

At least she hadn’t screamed.

She heard something clatter beside her. She crawled to her knees, cutting her eyes to the side.

She laid eyes on her wand.

“Are you angry, Miss Granger?” he asked softly, as if the words were meant just for her.

The room was deadly silent.

“Take up your wand.”

Hermione sat very still, her knees bent beneath her, hands planted firmly on the ground as she contemplated his command. 

“Release your anger,” he whispered. “Take up your wand.”

Her eyes trained on the wand, but something inside of her rebelled. 

She was no match for the Dark Lord, and she knew it. What was his game? He didn’t need a reason to kill her. He could do so with ease, and his followers would applaud him. They would dance on her grave. 

So, why? What sort of charade was this?

She felt like a toy, a source of entertainment. Her anger flared.

Hermione turned to look at him. His crimson eyes watched her with something akin to… anticipation.

Her eyes flicked to her wand.

She sat back, then used her toe to push it away, back towards his feet. 

“No,” she answered in defiance, her chin lifted.

He watched her for a moment as laughter rang out through the hall. Snickers and jeers echoed behind them, but her gaze was fixed on those red eyes that gleamed like a blood red sunset, the kind that drowned sailors at sea.

His intensity unnerved her.

What do you want from me?

“Until next week, then, mudblood,” he rasped, his words precisely intonated. “It will only be worse, the longer you resist.”

He turned and walked from the cage.

Chapter Text

Lucius stood still as the tailor took his measurements. Dobby had always been the one to do this part, but the elf no longer served his family. 

According to Bellatrix, he’d helped Potter and his friends escape capture, and she’d pierced his heart with an enchanted blade. 

It gave him a strange twinge of sadness, which he hid beautifully behind a sneer.

Dobby had been with his family for five generations. From time to time, Lucius regretted his treatment of the creature, but his father had treated the elf even worse, so not only was it learned behavior, but Lucius had always struggled to live up to his father’s reputation and had adopted many of the old man’s traits in an attempt to compensate.

Now, with Abraxas dead and Dobby as well, Lucius felt quite forlorn. The elf, though gone, represented a better time in Lucius’ life, one where he wasn’t bound in chains to serve the Dark Lord, one where he was treated with the respect and deference owed as the heir to his ancient bloodline.

He didn’t feel as if he knew Draco anymore.

Perhaps, he never had.

Though his son had received many of his physical traits, had emulated him as a young boy, much as Lucius had emulated his father, deep down, he knew his son possessed his wife’s disposition. 

Composed, calm, enduring. Clever.

Determined. 

The door opened, and his wife entered the room. 

“Our lord is being fitted for new robes as well. He tortured the seamstress for pricking him with a pin.”

The tailor currently pinning Lucius paused with a shudder, but continued on, though his hands shook.

“Is the seamstress not utilizing her wand for measurements?”

Narcissa shook her head primly. “No. The dark lord refused to let her so close with a wand.”

“Ah.”

The door opened, and Bellatrix sauntered in. 

“He kicked me out.”

Lucius snorted. “He grew tired of you offering to help just to get a chance to touch him, did he?”

Bellatrix shot him a glare of warning. “Careful, cousin.”

She flicked her wand, levitating a grape from the charcuterie on the table. It floated toward her and she popped it into her mouth. 

Lucius rolled his eyes.

He’d known Bella was fucking the dark lord since the first war. Everybody knew it, even Rodolphus. At one time, Lucius had suspected even Rodolphus might be fucking him.

But recently, their lord had seemed to grow weary of his cousin, and it had put her in a foul temper, indeed.

“I think you need to get laid, cousin.”

Her eyes narrowed as she nibbled on a bite of havarti.

“I’m not interested in you, Lucius. You can please stop trying.”

—————-

Narcissa sighed. She’d been privy to the bickering of her sister and husband for decades now. She hated to think it, but she felt like she’d lost her sister when the latter had begun spreading her legs for the dark lord. She’d never been the same after that, and since her stint in Azkaban, something seemed to have snapped. She was no longer the same witch, nor the same sister that Narcissa remembered.

It was as if the dementors had drained every last happy memory of their childhood together from her remembrance.

When Bella had killed Sirius, Narcissa had been appalled.

They’d grown up together. Bella and Sirius had once been as thick as thieves, loved one another like brother and sister.

Capture him? Yes. Curse him? If necessary.

But to cast the killing curse upon another Black?

It had never been done before.

Narcissa had once believed that Bellatrix would do whatever she could to protect Draco, but now, she worried that wasn’t the case. As Draco moved up in their ranks, vying for Bellatrix’s own position, she’d grown short-tempered with him. Narcissa sometimes caught Bella glaring at him with jealousy sparking in those wild gray eyes.

She was succumbing to the Black curse.

Narcissa turned her attention back to Lucius, who was still exchanging barbs with Bellatrix. Her gaze trailed over him. 

He was much thinner now, more hollow, his skin pale and paper-thin, but he was still a Malfoy. Proud as the moonlit peacocks that wandered the grounds of the Manor. 

Narcissa smiled weakly. He was still handsome, still tall and imposing. She loved him, was grateful for him, for the things he’d tried to do for them. 

It was never enough, of course, but she knew that it never would be. She’d known from the moment the dark lord returned that they would die in his service. 

She had hoped against hope, when she saw Potter approach them in the forest, that he had a plan.

Silly, girlish hopes and dreams.

She secretly missed the days when Lucius had been acquitted, when Draco was merely a toddler and they had no conflicting loyalties. Lucius had once been an adamant follower of the dark lord, loyal to his core, but Draco’s birth had changed him forever.

Their son was the reason Lucius had lied to the Wizengamot. Their son was the reason he hadn’t sought out the dark lord in all those years prior to his return.

Lucius Malfoy would do anything for his son, and it was that reality that caused Narcissa to fall in love with the wizard over and over again, even when love was futile.

———————

Hermione threw herself back on the expanse of the bed, huffing in frustration. 

She’d lost count of the weeks she had been locked up in this manor. She missed her wand, her books. She missed studying, missed exercising her mind and magic. 

She felt her brain was beginning to rot in this stupid, slytherin green bedroom. She gripped the silk sheets, tearing at them, kicking and screaming as rage ripped through her. 

She knocked over a candelabra that had been sitting on the nightstand. She yanked on the curtains surrounding the bed, but they’d been spelled not to budge or rip.

She was ready to burn the entire Manor to the ground, with everyone in it.

That would surely end the war, wouldn’t it?

She’d seen muggles murdered, week after week. Magical creatures mistreated. It had sickened her at first, but now, she was becoming numb to it. Desensitized to violent murder. 

Voldemort’s numbers grew. Every week, the camp behind the Manor seemed to expand with new recruits. Everyone assumed that Voldemort was winning, so they grew bolder, pledging their service in hopes of being ceded some measure of influence, of favor, or protection. 

She was tired of being drugged. Each week, she woke up in that hall, surrounded by death eaters, cold metal beneath her skin, her vision bleary.

She wondered why he brought her there, why he insisted that she be there through those gatherings. Her body was becoming immune to the potions, so they’d taken to injecting them, giving her higher doses. They made her psychically sick, but still he brought her there, as if he were waiting for something, always watching her with those cold eyes, so brutal and full of fury. 

Hermione needed desperately to do something. To learn, to study, to grow stronger. She wanted to find some way of helping the Order, but she had learned very little during those gatherings. She often awoke after business had already been conducted, the potion usually causing some measure of memory loss, muddling everything together.

She’d grown used to the jeers and insults, the hissed mudblood , the lewd whispers, but Hermione still couldn’t fathom why nothing had happened to her yet. Not a single death eater had drawn a wand. She hadn’t been tortured, beyond the brief moment in which Voldemort himself had cast the cruciatus upon her.

The next morning, a healer had been brought in to see her.

Why?

She had honestly been more than a bit afraid she’d be dead by now. 

Instead of being relieved, Hermione was beyond unsettled. Voldemort was obviously keeping her alive on purpose, preventing his followers from hurting her for a reason, preserving her for some intent that could possibly be worse than death. 

She feared he might use her as a weapon against her friends, against the people she loved.

She would have to be clever.

But how could she be clever, when she was shut up in this room all day? How could she help them when she didn’t know what Voldemort had planned for her?

Nausea simmered in her gut. No matter how much she despised him, she had to admit that he was cunning, and that fact terrified her. Despite Harry’s bravery and gusto, despite Kingsley’s wisdom and strategic skill, neither would be a match for the almost preternatural omniscience that Voldemort possessed, for his disturbing level of foresight and intuition. He seemed to be always operating one step ahead of the Order, as much as it made Hermione sick to admit it. 

She was stagnating. Unable to practice magic, to strategize. Unable to contact the Order. Weakened by Voldemort’s potions, on edge, growing more and more impassive by the day.

Some nights, she dreamed of his eyes. They watched her, blazing like molten iron, seeing everything, knowing her thoughts, twisting them until they laughed at her confusion and hopelessness.

Hermione began to feel as despondent as she’d felt on the run with Harry after Ron had left. They’d passed the locket back and forth, night after night, and Hermione had never felt so alone, so broken and useless. Her frustration at her own helplessness then only mirrored her current feelings. 

She prayed they were safe. She hoped that the return of Harry had boosted morale, that he had somehow gained valuable intel in the months following the battle. Though she knew Voldemort had probably wiped his memory prior to the exchange, it still comforted her to hope.

She thought of Ron. His eyes upon her as she studied the books she’d found in the Black family library. 

Hermione sighed, throwing her arm over her eyes, the ridges of her scar brushing against her eyelids.

It seemed that she would have to play into Voldemort’s hands. Otherwise, she would have to sit here in isolation and watch him win the war.

She would rather die than sit idly by. Her parents were safe, protected, hidden away in the muggle world. Hermione needed to discover what exactly Voldemort wanted from her.

She had nothing left to lose.

**************

When Draco came for her, Hermione was wandlessly levitating the objects on the mantle, rearranging them into a circle, a star shape, a square. 

Hermione lowered her hand as he walked in,  dropping the objects back to the mantle, but accidentally let the miniature aventurine skull slip and it crashed to the floor, cracking against the marble.

Draco lifted a dubious eyebrow.

She looked at him in misery. “Has it been a week already?”

“Arm out,” he said curtly. 

She usually gave him her unmarked arm, unwilling to suffer scrutiny of her scar, but today she was feeling prickly.

She thrust her arm out, revealing the grotesque gashes that formed the word she’d learned from him. It had never fully healed, the marks still appearing pink and irritated.

His eyes caught on the scar, and he blinked. Then, his eyes lifted to hers, resting on her for a moment, before flicking down over her body.

She shifted uncomfortably. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her nightgown, which was little more than a silk shift, thin straps holding it up, barely concealed by a matching robe that reached mid thigh. She normally slept in an oversized t-shirt or a set of Jim jams but these were the items Narcissa had provided for her. They were well-made from expensive fabric, which Hermione thought was strange considering she was a muggleborn and a prisoner of war. Why would it matter what she wore?

She hadn’t been expecting him to come for her so soon, so she wasn’t exactly dressed appropriately. It didn’t matter anyway, as she was always garbed in something similar when she awoke at gatherings. 

She didn’t actually know who was responsible for changing her clothes, either. She hadn’t wanted to think about it too much.

She swallowed, hoping it wasn’t Draco.

His gaze lingered so long that her cheeks heated.

As the potion slowly seeped into her veins, and her vision blurred, heart beating sluggishly in her chest, she murmured drowsily, “Who is it that undresses me?”

Draco observed the vial as he carefully measured her potion, always precise to the amount he’d been instructed to administer. Then his eyes rose to meet hers.

She stared into his gray eyes as her eyesight clouded, sleep washing over her in waves, each stronger than the last.

Just as she was beginning to fade, her eyelids heavy as they drifted shut, Draco leaned down to mutter in her ear.

“The Dark Lord.”

***************

Red eyes rested on her throughout the night. They burned into her, impatient and searing. 

Hermione stared right back, dripping with defiance, gripping the bars of her cage.

Bellatrix approached the Dark Lord, and his eyes slid away, focused on Bellatrix.

Voldemort said something, muttered a few words softly. Bellatrix stared at him, enraptured, eyes wide and shimmering.

“What are you thinking about?”

Hermione was startled by a familiar voice. She turned to find Dolohov leaning against the outside of the cage, sipping some dark liquid from one of the goblets engraved with the Malfoys’ axiom, Sanctimonia Vincet Semper .

Purity will always conquer.

Hermione glared at him through the bars of the cage, her acidic gaze touching on his chin-length brown hair, his short beard, the distinct cut of his clothes.

He’d killed two muggles only last week, right in front of her.

He turned to meet her hatred with a smirk, his gaze wandering her form, then lingering on the scar peeking out above the nightgown. “Come on, love. Sickle for your thoughts.”

Her eyes dropped to his throat. “I’m thinking about whether I can fit my hands through those bars and use that necktie to strangle you with.”

He laughed, drawing the eyes of several death eaters. “What a coincidence.” He turned to face her, wrapping his hands around the bars. “I think about strangling you as well.” He cocked his head, eyeing her throat. “If only you weren’t a sad little bird, trapped in this cage. He keeps you under lock and key.”

“With good cause, it seems,” she said, cutting her eyes at him. 

He shrugged. “You’d better hope I never run into you, get you alone.”

Hermione lifted her chin, scowling. “I don’t think he would like that very much.”

Dolohov smiled, tilting his head as he observed her. Then, he laughed. “I think you’ve mistaken this time of brief reprieve as mercy. Don’t be fooled into thinking he cares what happens to you. You’ll discover soon enough that he will only use you. He uses all of us, granted, but you ended up on the wrong side.”

“I’m Muggle-Born. There was no other side for me to choose.”

He was quiet as he contemplated, observing her. Then, he smiled. “I think you’d have been on ours, if circumstances were different.”

Hermione stayed silent for a moment, her eyes sliding to the black throne where Voldemort sat. “You couldn’t be more wrong about that.”

Dolohov took another sip of his wine, ignoring her statement. “I did well on a mission this week. Perhaps he will give you to me as a reward.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me.”

His eyebrow rose sharply. “No? Are you baiting me?” He leaned in closer, his brown eyes darkening, pupils blown wide. “Because I love to play games.”

She turned her attention back to him, her eyes communicating her disdain and condescension. “Fuck off.”

He chuckled, eyes sliding down over her bare legs as the doors to the drawing room opened.

Travers and Rowle entered, dragging two bodies behind them, both in binds and heads covered by sackcloths. Hermione closed her eyes, knowing what was coming.

Probably two helpless muggles, snatched up off the street.

Voldemort didn’t seem to react, but his eyes flicked toward Hermione, meeting her stare.

Then, his lips turned up slightly.

“Bring forth the prisoners,” he said softly.

Voldemort never had to raise his voice to command attention. His power was more than enough to demand the respect of the entire room.

Hermione had thought many times, reluctantly, about how sad it was that someone of his power and potential had decided to use it in such a dismal way.

Dolohov looked over at Hermione and winked. “Shows about to start.”

Hermione’s stomach turned.

Death eaters lined the path leading to the throne, jeering as the two muggles were dragged before Voldemort.

Hermione saw a pair of blue converses, and for a moment, there was a brief flash of recognition.

Travers and Rowle jerked the victims to their feet, then ripped off the sacks from their heads.

Hermione gasped. ”No…”

Luna and Fleur.

Hermione’s head shook in disbelief. 

No.

This couldn’t be happening.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, but otherwise, betrayed nothing, blank, as always.

The jeers and laughter died down, and Voldemort said, “You have been serving the Order, foolishly, spreading propaganda in order to undermine my influence. Do you deny it?”

Hermione knew that Luna and Fleur had been tasked with printing, replicating, and distributing papers which were meant to tell the real story, to counteract the lies that Skeeter was printing in the Daily Prophet.

They must have somehow been caught.

Hermione’s eyes cut to Dolohov. Was this the mission he’d been referring to?

Fear shone in their eyes. Beads of sweat trickled down Fleur’s forehead. They both shook their heads stiffly, eyes lowered.

Voldemort stood. In a moment, his wand was lifted.

Hermione gripped the bars, rattling them.

“Crucio.”

The curse fell softly from his lips, drowned by the screams that tore from her friends’ throats.   

“No!” Hermione screamed. “NO!!!”

He was torturing them both, simultaneously. How was that possible?

“Stop it!” Hermione shouted, tears suddenly appearing on her cheeks. 

Death eaters laughed, thoroughly enjoying the display of emotion, the proof that they were winning, that their Lord was superior. 

Luna and Fleur were on the ground, writhing against what Hermione knew was unbearable pain, in nearly the same spot she had been tortured by Bellatrix, in the very same room, right beneath the chandelier.

“Coward! Monster!” Hermione spat. “Let them go! Please… please just let them go.”

She pleaded desperately, barely aware of what she was saying, uttering a stream of entreaties, bargaining, anything to not hear Bill’s wife choking on her own saliva, gurgling grotesquely. Luna sobbed on the floor as the worst pain imaginable ripped through her body.

Hermione’s voice was barely heard over the din of screams and laughter.

She finally let out a roar of frustration.

Suddenly, the door to her cage opened wide, and the room went silent.

On the floor, by some miracle, Hermione’s wand appeared. 

Not a miracle, no… In the back of her mind, she knew it was there for a purpose, but her emotions were running high, anger coursing through her veins and she could only think of cursing Voldemort.

Even one well-placed curse would be worth whatever came after. Just one.

Dolohov’s eyebrows drew forward sharply as he watched Hermione snatch up the wand and run from the cage, barefoot and in a thin gown, but he let her go.

Hermione’s feet padded furiously across the marble until she shoved her way through the line of Death Eaters to kneel beside Luna and Fleur.

She checked them over, ensuring that they were still alive. Fleur was coughing. Luna shook violently, holding back from emptying the contents of her stomach.

Hermione’s head snapped up, her gaze meeting Voldemort’s.

“Let them go,” she demanded.

His eyes tightened. “Stand aside, mudblood, or you’ll join them.”

“You won’t hurt them anymore,” she spat defiantly, holding her ground as she stood between the Dark Lord and his prey. Adrenaline flooded her veins, blurring her judgment.

He moved forward swiftly.

His movements were usually slow, calculated, intentionally unhurried. But rage drove him forward… was it rage? Frustration? Or something else…

He loomed over her as his inner circle watched. “I am not impressed with your Gryffindor stupidity. Stand aside.”

Hermione felt something choking her, a dark aura that surrounded him like a noxious fume. “What’s stopping you from torturing me as well?” she whispered, her eyes searching his inhuman face.

There was something stopping him, wasn’t there? A hesitancy, otherwise, he would’ve simply tortured her alongside them, or called his death eaters to restrain her.

But his followers stayed on the sidelines, observing, unwilling to step in.

Why did you open my cage?

He reached out, and Hermione flinched. Long fingers curled around her chin, nails sharp against her skin. “Nothing stops me, mudblood,” he said softly, sending chills across her skin. “I can hurt you as well, if that’s what you would prefer. Do you enjoy pain? Or is it my magic that you long to feel again? It must be, because you are clearly provoking me.”

He spoke to her in her head, his voice a whisper, There are more pleasurable spells than the torture curse, if that is the case.

Hermione swallowed, feeling swept up in a trance. She had her wand, but something prevented her from lifting it against him. Her breathing halted, hands trembling. “Let them go. Whatever it is you want from me, you can have it. Just let them go, please.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, unbidden. 

He watched her, his preternatural gaze all-seeing, penetrating, power leaking from his body. “You think you can bargain with me? Make no mistake, I will have what I want. Let there be no illusions about that.” He stood back, the elder wand raised, giving it a more sinister appearance than it had when it belonged to Dumbledore. “Stand aside, mudblood.”

His command was forceful, dominant.

She clenched her teeth. “Make me.”

Suddenly, Hermione was thrown back several feet. She tumbled roughly, rolling until she landed on her back, her side and ribs bruised.

She scrambled to her feet, drawing her wand quickly as he advanced on her.

“Protego!” She threw up her shield as he cast some dark curse, the purple beam of light dissolving into her shield. 

As soon as she blocked, he cast a second time, then a third, lights flashing by her head on both sides, dangerously close, though Hermione was under no pretenses that he wasn’t aiming. He was casting with dangerous precision, his curses acting as warnings, so close that the tingle of his magic cooled upon her cheeks.

She ducked out of the way, death eaters scattering back as she rolled across the marble, fleeing his barrage of curses. 

“Come, now, my dear,” he laughed. “I thought you were a brave Gryffindor… Why are you running?”

He snarled the last word, his voice shifting into something dark and feral as he waved his wand in an arc, creating a family of flaming serpents. 

Fiendfyre.

The serpents fell to the floor, zigzagging toward Hermione at breakneck speed while he laughed.

Death eaters shouted, fleeing backward, but with barely a flick of his wand, Voldemort corralled the serpents, controlling them with expert skill as he honed them in on Hermione. This was nothing like the Fiendfyre that Crabbe had cast. This was measured, restrained, yet just as deadly. 

“Run, ‘ermione!” screamed Fleur.

Hermione did run. Bellatrix’s cackling laughter echoed behind her, but Hermione stayed focused, fear driving her forward.

She felt the heat from the fiery serpents encroaching, waves of scalding flame rippling around her, burning at her back.

***********

Draco watched as Granger ran, her bare feet padding swiftly across the marble, the Dark Lord’s curse hot on her heels. His stomach twisted with nausea, his gut telling him that this was the moment when the swot would meet her end.

She couldn’t just stay silent? She had to run headfirst into danger like every other infuriatingly predictable Gryffindor?

She’d been friends with Potter too long, that was obvious.

Hermione leapt up onto the long, formal dining table, running swiftly from the curse even as she also kicked plates and bowls and cutlery into the death eater’s laps, seemingly on purpose. The attendees all jumped back snarling and exclaiming, and Narcissa Malfoy covered her eyes with her hand, unwilling to watch. 

Draco’s muscles tensed as the swot whipped around, wild hair flying back over her shoulders, and threw a curse at the Dark Lord, a blood-boiling curse; Draco recognized the wand movement. 

A dark curse. How would Granger know that curse? It was banned from all books in the Hogwarts library. Malfoy had only ever seen it in the library at the Manor… and Granger had no access to those books.

The Dark Lord blocked the curse, but grinned triumphantly, seeming pleased with her choice of spell. 

As the blistering serpents bore down upon her, fangs bared, very nearly devouring her, Granger did something that no one expected. She suddenly dropped to the floor in a burst of black smoke, seeming to disintegrate into nothing. Gasps and panicked shouts rang out through the hall. 

Narcissa came to stand beside Draco, placing a hand on his arm.

As the smoke cleared, a black bird, a raven, Draco decided, emerged in place of Granger, flapping its wings as it soared above the flames.

“An animagus, my Lord!” shouted Dolohov, his eyes trained on the bird.

The Dark Lord’s eyes blazed like fire, their crimson orbs dark and dangerous. Everyone in the room flinched as he lifted his wand, watching the serpents dissipate, shrinking into nothing as they retreated back into the elder wand. Then, he cast a complex binding spell, capturing the bird mid-flight. It cawed in alarm as it dropped to the floor.

The Dark Lord approached the raven, his black robes fluttering about him, and he waved his wand, countering her transfiguration. 

Draco watched in disbelief as the bird turned back into Granger.

How had she hidden the fact that she was an animagus for so long?

Even Luna and Fleur looked on in shock, their jaws dropped.

As soon as she shifted back into her human form, Granger instantly jumped to her feet, making a beeline toward her wand, which lay several feet away. 

Voldemort did not try to stop her; he merely watched her with narrowed eyes, observing detachedly.

Suddenly, there were shouts, and several Death Eaters drew their wands, pointing them at Granger.

The Dark Lord scowled, because she now had her arm hooked around Rabastan Lestrange’s neck, and had somehow wrangled the Death Eater to his knees, her wand shoved sharply beneath his chin.

The Dark Lord’s scowl soon morphed into delighted laughter.

The laughter had an unsettling effect, being the only sound that echoed through the thick silence of the hall.

”Brava, my dear,” rasped the Dark Lord, his gaze falling disapprovingly upon Rabastan.

Bellatrix jabbed Rodolphus in the ribcage. “Do something!” she hissed.

Voldemort held up his hand, effectively silencing her, the intensity of his gaze locked on Granger.

Then, many things happened all at once, so quickly that the sequence seemed to occur in fast motion.

There was a vicious crack like thunder, and the Dark Lord disapparated, suddenly appearing behind Hermione as he snatched her away. Then, Lestrange was alone, all in a matter of seconds. 

A moment of mass chaos descended on the room before Draco located the Dark Lord. He stood before his throne with Hermione restrained in his arms, his wand to her temple.

“Very clever,” hissed the Dark Lord against her ear, dragging the tip his wand down her cheek. “What will you do now, little mudblood? You’re trapped.”

Draco watched with something akin to horror as the Dark Lord toyed with his prey. He’d seen this song and dance many times before.

Nausea rose into the base of his throat.

The Dark Lord pressed his face into Granger’s hair, as if inhaling its scent. Draco flicked his eyes to Bellatrix, caught her enraged glare, then met Lucius’ gaze.

There seemed to be a wave of confusion in every expression, save Rabastan’s, whose face had turned red as a remembrall, angry to have been overpowered by a young girl.

“I can feel your power,” said the Dark Lord softly. “Dark energy clings to you. What is it that you are hiding from me?”

The Dark Lord gripped her cheeks roughly, turning her to face her friends. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he muttered darkly, more of a hiss than an utterance. “A bargain would do nicely, I think. Pledge yourself to me, and your friends will walk free. Deny me, and they will die.”

Draco took a step forward, his heart thundering in his chest.

What could the Dark Lord possibly want with Granger?

Out of curiosity, Draco’s eyes flicked to Bellatrix. 

Her wide, gray eyes were narrowed, watching her Lord with cold fury, a sneer painted across her face.

Right then and there, Draco knew he would have to find a way to handle Bellatrix. Otherwise, she would kill Granger. He had no doubt about that.

Granger hesitated. Her eyes shifted this way and that. She was thinking, trying to find a way out of the situation, but Draco knew there was none.

“Bella, take them to the dungeons,” Voldemort ordered. “See how they fare in the torture chambers.”

“Wait!” cried Granger in a shrill voice.

The Dark Lord’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. 

He lifted his ghostly hand, halting Bellatrix, who still hadn’t recovered from shock.

“Pledge- pledge myself how?” Hermione stuttered, out of breath.

He dragged his wand down her face, moving her hair back behind her shoulder. “You will give yourself into my service… a pact made in blood. You will bend yourself to my will, obeying my every command.”  He leaned closer, hissing softly, “You will give me your loyalty, your free will… everything you do will be subject to my discretion. You will belong to me, Miss Granger.”

Hermione swallowed, shivering as her surname rolled off his serpentine tongue. Her eyes wandered the faces of those who looked on, seeing shock in the eyes of his death eaters, until her gaze met Draco’s. 

After a moment, she blinked away, and Draco’s chest tightened.

”Don’t do it, Hermione!” shouted Luna, until Travers silenced her.

Hermione swallowed thickly. “You would make a blood pact with a Muggle-Born?” she asked shakily. “I thought my blood was too dirty for your standards?”

He chuckled, the sound menacing against her ear, sending a jolt down her spine. “Exceptions can always be made for those who possess unique magical abilities. I believe I, myself, exemplify this.”

She clenched her teeth, irritation coursing through her even as his wand struck fear into her heart. “So basically, you have standards… when it suits you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile, as if something she’d said had pleased him. “Make your choice, mudblood. Join me, or die.”

Chapter Text

Draco hauled Hermione down the hallway and jerked open the door to her bedroom, thrusting her inside.

She whirled around to glare at him as she stumbled into the room, scowling, rubbing the raw skin of her arm where his fingers had gripped her.

He advanced, towering over her. “Since when are you an animagus ?”

She looked at him as if he’d gone mental. “Excuse me?”

He clenched his jaw, his lips forming a hard line. “When did you learn to shift? And from who? McGonagall?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

He drew closer, eyes narrowing. “I’m talking about tonight, you daft cunt. You shifted into a raven. To escape the Fiendfyre.”

Hermione blinked, her lips parting. She looked around the room. “ I did?”

Draco cocked his head. “You don’t remember?”

Her eyes were wide, and she shook her head. “No… I think….” She swallowed. “I think there was a moment that I blacked out. All I remember is jumping up to grab my wand.”

Draco stared at her, dumbstruck. “That’s not possible. How is that possible?”

Hermione looked disturbed. She shrugged, and muttered, “I have no idea.”

He twisted his lips to the side, chewing his cheek. Then, he shook his head, frustrated. “You’re fucked now, Granger. I wish you had kept your bloody mouth shut. But I suppose that’s always been too much to ask of you-”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you care? I’d have thought you’d be happy, now that I’m going to be forced onto your side.”

His gaze was intense, but he said nothing.

After a moment, he replied, “So you’ll say yes, then? To the pact?”

Again, she looked at him like he was crazy. “You can’t actually believe that he’s giving me a choice? If I say no, and he kills my friends, he could always imperius me anyway. As if I’d even consider it. I won’t let him kill my friends.” As an afterthought, she muttered, “Voldemort doesn’t play fair.”

“A slytherin trait,” said Draco acidly.

She took a deep breath.“I’ll have to say yes. There’s no other alternative.”

“He could order you to kill people, you know. People in the order.”

Hermione was silent for a long moment, staring at the floor. Then, she sighed. “He seems to think I have some ability that I’m hiding.”

Draco cocked an eyebrow. “I can see why he would think that.”

“But I don’t .”

“Then how do you explain turning into a bloody raven?”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to Draco, and she bit her lip. “I’ve never done that before.”

He snorted. “Apparently, you don’t remember it, so how do you know that’s true?”

Hermione groaned. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I always am.” His jaw tensed. “Tomorrow, he will come for you. He’ll want your answer.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “I’m shocked he’s even giving you time to think it over.”

Hermione sat on the bed, her head dropping into her hands. “There’s nothing to think about,” she mumbled unhappily. “I can’t watch Luna and Fleur die.” She heaved a deep breath. “Take a good look. Next time you see me, I’ll be Voldemort’s puppet.”

Draco watched her pensively, his face unshifting. 

Hermione suddenly realized that this was the nicest he’d been to her since she arrived at the Manor. For weeks, he’d been nothing but harsh and cutting. Cold and clinical.

It was as if he’d been caught off guard at the gathering, and had allowed some humanity to slip through the cracks.

“Do you know what sort of pact this will be, Malfoy? Will it be an unbreakable vow? A blood troth?”

Draco seemed to rouse from his pensiveness. He shook his head distractedly. “I wouldn’t know.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his expensive robes. “All I really know for certain, is that whatever he has planned, it will be orchestrated to benefit his purposes. His bargains are seldom mutually beneficial.”

“I could decipher that for myself, thanks.”

Draco reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hermione watched him, observing that he seemed completely knackered, which she decided was a good thing. Instead of being even more irritable than normal, as would be expected, he was actually nicer . He was simply too tired to be an arsehole, she realized.

“Look,” he said, glaring at her. “You need to stay out of Bellatrix’s way from now on.”

Her brows knit in perplexity. “I don’t ever leave this room. You know that. Besides, she already hates me… there’s nothing new about that.”

Draco turned to look behind him, then shut the door and wheeled on Hermione. “Listen, you made a complete fool out of Rabastan. They won’t forget that. Not only that, but… you’ve embarrassed Bella, too. She’ll have it out for you, I guarantee it.”

“Embarrassed her? How ? Because of Rabastan ?”

He took a deep breath through his nose, his cheek muscles tightening. “Fuck it. Nevermind. Just stay away from her. If… if she comes, if she does anything… call the elf.”

Draco turned swiftly to leave.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said, taking a step forward.

He turned back, his eyes hard once more.

Her lips parted, and she hesitated for a moment before asking, “Why are you trying to help me? I thought… I thought you hated me.”

Malfoy gazed at her coldly, then he scoffed. “I’m not helping you, Granger. Far from it. I’m just trying to keep you alive so the Dark Lord can make you a mindless slave. Because I want the Order to lose. Don’t get it all confused in your head. I want the Dark Lord to win, because I don’t fancy a life sentence in Azkaban.”

At that, he yanked open the door and walked out, slamming the heavy wood in her face.

************

Hermione woke early the next morning. She’d barely slept, her mind and emotions in turmoil, clouded with a storm of dark thoughts about Voldemort and his intentions.

She thought of Draco’s strange behavior. 

She thought of his insinuation that she’d somehow angered Bellatrix.

She thought of Voldemort’s behavior the previous night, how her cage door had opened, how her wand had appeared.

How he’d goaded her into a duel.

Now, she was fairly certain that he was using Fleur and Luna to bait her.

She thought of his face against her hair, his sharp nails cutting into her skin. 

The way he’d called her mudblood, not with disdain or disgust, but softly, as if the slur were an endearment .

Had she imagined that?

It sent a shiver down her spine. It was becoming apparent that she’d captured Voldemort’s interest, but in what capacity? One thing was certain… he was clearly interested in her magical skill.

What is it that you’re hiding from me?

Had she really shifted into a Raven? Hermione had never shown a strong predisposition toward transfiguration, though she was proficient enough. McGonnagal had asked if she had an interest in learning to shift, but Hermione hadn’t had a desire at the time to take any form but her human one.

The thought of becoming a furry or feathered beast with a tail had been quite distasteful. 

But Draco was right... If she didn’t remember doing it, then it was entirely possible that she’d done it before.

That unsettled Hermione. Not only that, but the possibility that Voldemort could have sensed something that even Hermione didn’t know about herself… well, that was quite unnerving.

Do you enjoy pain? Or is it my magic that you long to feel again?

Her skin crawled. She could feel his poisonous magic still clinging to her aura, refusing to let go. His hands still seemed to ghost across her skin, raising gooseflesh along the surface of her arms. 

Hermione suddenly felt as though she couldn’t breathe. Stifled, something alien and seductive twisting in her stomach, the Dark Lord’s presence surrounding her like a plague that left no part of her untouched.

She buried her face in the blankets on the bed, trying to draw breath.

She wouldn’t be able to deny him. If he ordered her to do something that would compromise the Order, she wouldn’t be able to say no…

… and she would rather die than betray her friends.

But she couldn’t watch Fleur and Luna die either. He would do it slowly, torturously. She knew that.

A thought suddenly occurred to Hermione. Could he have polyjuiced someone to look like them? She didn’t put it past him.

She steeled herself. She would need to make certain of their identity before she pledged herself into his service.

Hermione racked her brain for ways out of her predicament, but there seemed to be none. 

The only thing she could do… was to find a way to manipulate Voldemort, once she was in his service.

To manipulate the manipulator? That would prove to be no simple task, and Hermione was not in the least bit gifted with deception. It would go against her honest nature, but she decided that if there were ever a time to be sneaky and duplicitous, this was it, wasn’t it?

Could she discover his weakness? If so, then she could exploit it. Was there a way around his legilimency? She wondered if Draco knew, if he could tell her, though she doubted he would, even if he knew.

Snape had done it, hadn’t he? Circumvented the Dark Lord’s gift?

Or was he simply delusional, along with Dumbledore?

Perhaps, Voldemort secretly had known all along… he had killed Snape without a second thought, after all.

That fact chilled Hermione, her blood turning to ice in her veins as she remembered the sound of Nagini’s fangs sinking into Snape’s neck, the sounds of gurgling, of blood bubbling forth.

She turned her head aside, stomach twisting with nausea.

Sometimes, she wished she had traveled to Australia with her parents. It was a selfish thought, one she rarely entertained. But now, as she found herself in the clutches of a monster who was toying with her, who potentially had ghastly things planned for her… Hermione suddenly wondered what would have happened if she’d retreated to the muggle world.

Your friends would be left alone, she reminded herself. Harry and Ron wouldn’t have gotten far without her. She knew that.

Doubtless, they wouldn’t have even destroyed the locket. 

Hermione thought about her beaded bag. There were still basilisk fangs inside it… had Voldemort searched it? Would he also find Harry’s invisibility cloak? 

She groaned into the mattress. So many things were going wrong. 

She feared she was making an awful mess of her attempted espionage.

Still, she couldn’t help but be pleased with herself for taking Rabastan Lestrange to his knees. A small morsel of revenge against Bellatrix for what she’d done to her. Hermione could hardly believe she’d done it, truth be told. It had simply happened; she’d acted completely on instinct.

Brava, my dear. 

Hermione swallowed, bothered by the brief sense of satisfaction she felt beneath his praise.

The praise of an evil, psychopathic murderer.

That was nothing to be proud of. She would have preferred if her actions had made him angry, but he seemed to be only amused by her rebelliousness.

Hermione spent the rest of the morning contemplating her plight. By the time the elf showed up with her lunch, she’d come up with a plan.

She would pump Draco for knowledge about how to evade Voldemort’s legilimency, and when Voldemort performed the blood pact, she would find some way around it.

There were always ways around even the most binding spells.

There was sure to be a loophole, and Hermione would find it. She had to.

She really had no other choice.

——————

Draco didn’t return for her in the evening. It was Narcissa Malfoy who showed up at her door.

She said nothing for a moment, merely stood primly in front of the bedroom door, hands folded, garbed all in black robes trimmed with silver. Her gaze roamed Hermione coolly, communicating something akin to wonder or perhaps, curiosity. 

Then, her gray eyes met Hermione’s. 

“The Dark Lord requests your answer.”

Hermione felt faint. “Does he?”

Narcissa said nothing. The two women stood opposite one another, sizing each other up, Narcissa impassive and Hermione full of rage, two opposing forces. 

Hermione wore the only article of clothing she owned that hadn’t been confiscated and replaced: her crimson auror robes.

“It is not wise to keep the Dark Lord waiting.”

Narcissa’s voice was deep, authoritative.

“No,” Hermione muttered sourly. “We wouldn't want to do that, would we?”

Narcissa’s eyes hardened to the color of steel. “Shall I bring you to the Dark Lord? Let him deal with you himself?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Actually… yes. That’s exactly what I’d like you to do.”

Narcissa tilted her head, a bit of anger creeping through her facade. “I will warn you. He does not take well to rebellion, nor disrespect. He is your master… it would benefit you to submit.”

“As you all have?” Hermione laughed breathily, her tone incredulous as she responded, “It seems to be working so well for you all, no doubt, but unfortunately… No one is my master, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa smiled. “We will see if that proves to be true.”

The two women glared at each other. 

“Take me to him,” Hermione said, folding her arms over her chest. “There’s something I need to know before I can decide.”

*************

The room was dark, lit only by the flames of a candelabra that sat in the center of a round breakfast table. A glass of wine sat on the table, and a plate of food, untouched.

Hermione’s eyes wandered to the bed, and she realized this was where Voldemort slept when he was at the Manor.

By the looks of it, he was given the Master’s Suite.

The Dark Lord stood by the window, gazing out at the many fires raging behind the Manor. Tents dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see, packs of werewolves wandering the perimeter of the forest, vampires and snatchers with muggles tied up against the trees, their blood promised as food for the bloodsucking vermin. 

Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust as she looked over his shoulder, out to the camp beyond. 

Voldemort spoke, his voice breaking the silence, “Did you not eat the duck that was brought to you for dinner?” 

He turned, and Hermione’s blood ran cold at the sight of his unnatural eyes, red as glowing embers. “I wasn’t hungry,” she murmured.

“I imagine you weren’t.” He ran his long fingers along his wand, Dumbledore’s wand, toying with it. “To our vampire friends, a muggle is simply a duck. Everything is food for something, Miss Granger. It is how the world works.”

The use of her surname did not escape her notice. “Except you.”

The corners of his lips turned up. “Yes. Except me. I am not, and will never be, anyone’s prey.” He moved closer, and Hermione backed up a step instinctually. “What about you? Will you continue to be prey, mudblood? You have deluded yourself into believing a faulty system of morality. You pick and choose what you consider to be acceptable murder and then you call it ethics. Was it acceptable for Dumbledore to sacrifice Potter? What does he consider to be a worthy cause for such sacrifice?”

“I don’t like it when you read my mind.”

“You did not answer my question because you have no answers.” His eyes flicked down, wandering over her attire. “Is this what you’ve chosen to wear for your induction?”

She looked down at her clothes, then back to Voldemort. “You assume that I will say yes?”

He took another step forward, but this time, he withdrew his wand and waved it, freezing Hermione in place. Her feet stuck to the floor, and he approached, looming over her, reaching out a long finger to lift her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “No matter what you choose, I shall get something that I want. Your friends, dead… or you, bound to me. Although, admittedly… I desire you much more.”

Hermione swallowed, her heart beating violently. She was painfully aware of Narcissa’s presence in the room, standing in the shadows, awaiting the Dark Lord’s orders.

 Hermione decided she would ask about something that had been plaguing her, even though she was afraid of the answer.

“That reminds me,” she began. “Have you been undressing me before the parties?”

His eyes bore into hers, a mysterious smirk turning up his lips, as if he found her question deeply amusing.

He stood back, releasing her as he waved his wand, transforming her auror robes into a sleek, black gown. 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, and she reached up, feeling the thin, criss-crossing straps and the neckline that plunged daringly low. 

“My uniform…”

He gave a muted, impatient smile. “You won’t be needing it, my dear.”

She looked back at him, realizing that he’d effectively changed her attire with only magic. “So you didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t…” 

Her cheeks heated, because for the life of her, she couldn’t voice what she’d been thinking. 

He cocked his head, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “Would you prefer that I undress you with my bare hands? I don’t typically perform services for other people, being a Lord, but I could be convinced… as long as you agree to return the favor.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror. She was beginning to feel as though the Dark Lord… was flirting with her.

He was, wasn’t he?

She couldn’t be imagining it, not unless the potions had addled her brain.

Hermione cleared her throat, feeling Narcissa’s presence behind her and it gave rise to heat in her cheeks. To put distance between them, and to calm her racing heart, she focused back on the task at hand. “I want to see them… my friends.”

He studied her for a moment. “You don’t trust me.”

Her eyes widened. “Not at all, under any circumstance. Why would I?”

He smiled. “That’s very wise of you… not to take my word.” His eyes wandered down the length of her body, no doubt admiring his choice of attire for her. It made Hermione feel self-conscious. “You may see them, to confirm whatever concerns you.”

The ease with which he complied gave Hermione a pang of hopelessness. She had hoped against hope that her friends were simply polyjuiced death eaters, nothing more than a dramatic ruse to get her to comply. 

His lips curved upward again, and she knew he’d read her mind. “You realize, Miss Granger, that I could have simply cast the imperius, and forced you to make the pact? To allow your friends to walk free is a concession on my part. It isn’t necessary. Neither is my giving you a choice. I could have your obedience in a moment, should I wish for it.”

Hermione swallowed. She had thought of that, but hated to admit to herself that he had so much power over her.

“Then why didn’t you?”

He was quiet for a space, watching her, reading her. After a moment, he blinked away and answered, “Brute force is not always the best tactic when dealing with… persons of value.” 

Hermione tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Persons of value? As if people are simply a commodity that you can leverage?” Hermione was disgusted. “I wonder what your followers will think when they hear you calling a mudblood a ‘person of value?’ According to them, I’m of less value than the dirt beneath their feet.” She flicked her eyes to Narcissa. 

“They value you as a slave, and nothing more. But we are not talking about them, are we? Because they are not in charge.” He lifted his hand, and the glass of wine flew from the table into his waiting hand, without a drop being spilled. He held it out to her. “To settle your nerves.”

She looked at him incredulously. “I’m not nervous.” Lie . “And I don’t fancy being poisoned tonight… thanks anyway.”

He smirked, then lifted the glass to his own lips, and drank deeply. When he lowered the cup, he said, “To give you a choice means that I will learn valuable information. I am pleased that you asked for time to think about your decision. It shows that you do not act rashly, upon emotion. I’m also pleased that you requested to see the prisoners. You are wise not to trust me, nor to trust what appears to be true. Now, as for the choice you will make… that will reveal a great deal about you.”

He reached out and held the cup to her lips. “Drink.”

She shook her head, but he pressed the rim to her lips, giving her no choice but to partake.

The wine was deliciously smooth and bitter, but she was grateful for the warmth that spread through her chest and radiated through her body, all the way to her fingertips. A maroon rivulet ran down the side of her mouth, then dripped from her chin into the valley between her breasts. 

He brushed away the wine from her chin with his thumb, but his eyes followed the trail that the drop made. His hand fell lower, and the sharp point of his nail began to trace the long scar on her chest, causing her breath to halt, every muscle in Hermione’s body tense.

“Draco tells me that you were not aware you had the ability to transfigure.”

That fucking ferret.

Of course, he’d been nice to her. Now it all made sense. He’d been talking to her to gain information for Voldemort… not to help her.

To his credit, he had told her they weren’t friends. She’d just been so rattled last night that he’d caught her off guard. She’d needed someone to talk to, because she’d been alone in her bedroom for weeks without an ounce of human interaction.

Stockholm syndrome was real, she decided.

“Did he tell you, or did you use legilimency?”

He glanced at her, eyes narrowed murderously. “Does it matter?”

Hermione shrugged.

He took another sip of the wine as he watched her thoughtfully. “Do you imagine you have an ally of sorts? Someone who would help you?” He smirked when her eyes met his. “I assure you, you do not. You have no friends, nor allies here. You have only me and my mercy. So, again, I’ll ask you… were you aware of your ability to transfigure?”

She took a deep breath, glancing at the wine again. “I wasn’t, no. I don’t know if I’ve ever done that before, but… it wasn’t voluntary.”

He moved closer and lifted the glass to her mouth, urging her to drink. “Fascinating.”

When she had finished drinking, he floated the wine glass back to the table, and she decided to ask something else that had been on her mind since the gathering. 

The wine in her system emboldened her, though somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it was insanely bizarre to be having a civil conversation with such a monster, as if he was a normal person who could be reasoned with. “Are you going to make me take the mark?”

His red eyes danced with mirth. “Of course. I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to brand the golden girl. The brightest witch of her age.”

Hermione felt her skin prickle. “Are you mocking me?”

“I am,” he said, gazing at her with dark crimson eyes, his ghostly skin glowing in the low light. He moved closer, causing Hermione to retreat until she hit the wall, but he continued to advance,  crowding her in. “Bright is the least of what you could be, mudblood. You could wield true power, but you choose to follow after illusions.” His eyes fell to her lips. “There is a darkness in you that calls to me. I want to draw it out of you… I sense it even now, something hidden, begging to be woken.”

His hand came up and took one of her curls between his fingers, rubbing its texture between them. 

He was close enough that his scent curled around her. As distasteful as she found Voldemort, his smell surprised her, a blend of sandalwood, bergamot, and amber, with a hint of citrus. It brought to her mind the night sky, with the churning waves of the ocean beneath.

Did one simply arise from the cauldron smelling like a dream?

Hermione swallowed, feeling a bit besotted by his scent, despite the wash of fear that spread across her skin in a thousand tiny goosebumps. The contrast between his eldritch appearance and his exquisite scent short-circuited her brain, causing a wave of disgust. 

She watched as he brought a lock of her hair to his face, his scarlet eyes fixed on hers as he scented her.

“You smell divine as well, witch,” he muttered with a smirk.

“Don’t read my mind, please.”

“Impossible. You think so bloody loud, I’d have to be unconscious not to hear.”

“Could that be arranged?”

He cocked an invisible brow as interest sparked behind his eyes.

The more she baited him, the more he seemed to be intrigued with her. 

But he had already been intrigued with her, hadn't he? Because he’d traded Harry for her. What did he know that she didn’t?

“Why did you ask for me?” The words left her lips before she realized she’d uttered them. 

His unnatural eyes pierced her, and he released her hair, letting the velvet curl fall against her shoulder. “You don’t want to know the answer to that question.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped, and she turned her head aside, her eyes locked on his broad shoulder as she attempted to escape his heated regard.

Part of her wanted to reach out and touch that shoulder, to see if he was real, or just a figment of her imagination. It was an intrusive thought. She knew that, but sometimes he seemed so larger than life, that Hermione wondered if he were merely a nightmare come to life, and not a real human that breathed and ate food and slept in a bed. 

It didn’t seem possible that one human, like herself, had done all this, had destroyed her world so completely, causing so much death and fear.

He leaned down and Hermione shrunk back into the wall. His breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “If you long to touch me so badly, little raven, then you have my permission.”

Narcissa coughed uncomfortably in the background.

Hermione swallowed, balking at him. “I’d rather be given to Greyback,” she murmured. 

He smirked. “Or Dolohov, perhaps?”

Her eyes widened. 

Laughter emerged from somewhere in his throat, deep and unnatural. “Trust me, you do not want to be given to either of those individuals. Dolohov has plied me with requests for you.” His eyes narrowed as they flicked over her. “It is amazing how one little mudblood can rile so many purebloods.”

“Pureblooded men, you mean,” she scoffed. 

He cocked a brow. “You have the women riled too, but for different reasons.”

Narcissa sniffed, reminding them of her presence in the room.

He was very close, arms planted on either side of Hermione, his stifling magic swimming around her, crackling with power. Was it the wine, or his magic that made her feel so bold, so fearless? “Are you riled?” she asked, unafraid.

He blinked, surprised by her question. “Do I look riled to you, mudblood?”

Truly, he didn’t. In fact, she never had seen him rankled, nor provoked. Every time she had seen him, he seemed calm and in control. Brutal? Yes. Cruel? Absolutely. 

But never out of control. Never apoplectic with rage. Even his anger had a cold, calculating quality about it.

Before she could answer, the door opened. Hermione turned her head, glad for the interruption, and found Draco standing in the doorway, his eyes locked on the two of them.

He blinked, then cleared his throat. “The ritual is ready, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord never looked away from Hermione’s eyes, his searing eyes seeming like pendulums, disturbingly hypnotic.

“Take Miss Granger to the dungeons. She has requested to see her comrades.” He straightened, then turned away, crossing back to the window where he’d been when she entered. “Then, there will be either an induction… or an execution. The choice lies with you, mudblood.”

Chapter Text

Hermione flipped numbly through the pages of the storybook Dumbledore had given her. 

The magical contraption that Hermione had spelled to keep the tent warm had long lost its heat, needing more of her magic to keep it circulating, but Hermione couldn’t find the energy or will to get up and recast it.

Harry laid nearby, staring at the ceiling.

The chosen one, Hermione thought. You wouldn’t have made it far without me. Even now, you don’t have a plan.

Hermione’s brows knit faintly as she became vaguely aware that the thoughts weren’t her own.

At least, they didn’t feel like hers.

Her eyes flicked down to the locket that lay in her lap. 

Harry had given it to her an hour ago, but she had delayed putting it on. 

She’d needed a moment’s reprieve to collect herself. The weight of the horcrux threatened to destroy her sanity.

When she wore it, she felt in a daze. Depressed, short-tempered, feverish. Blind to reality, almost.

With a sigh, she lifted it over her head and let it fall around her neck, the viridian pendant laying over her sweater, between her breasts.

A familiar heaviness settled over her, her mind becoming cloudy with a fog of confusion and sadness.

She turned the pages, staring at the illustrations.

A shiver rattled down her spine from a chill that permeated through to her bones. She couldn’t tell whether it was the frigid winter air or an effect of the locket.

As she stood, her muscles and joints ached, and she crossed the room to the miniature heater she’d crafted. She waved her wand, chanting the incantation, “Focillo ventus.”

With an extraction charm, she was able to encase the heat in the contraption, and it whirred to life, the fan turning as a magical wind circulated the warmth through the tent.

She cast stasis upon the heater, which would preserve the warmth for most of the night.

She turned to find Harry still staring at the ceiling. They’d only escaped Voldemort’s serpent in Godric’s Hollow a few days before, and he was still thinking about his parent’s grave.

Hermione sighed, fidgeting with her wand. 

“I’ll go to bed,” she murmured, turning toward the opening of her room.

“Do you suppose,” Harry began, but paused as she turned back around. He stole a glance at her, then continued, “Do you suppose he can see us through the locket?”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed.

She’d contemplated it. Sometimes, when she was falling asleep, she felt as if there were eyes upon her, watching her… but she’d convinced herself that it was merely the piece of Voldemort’s soul that resided in the locket.

If there was a connection between Voldemort’s mind and his horcrux… well, that was something she didn’t want to think about, or imagine.

It was rather odd that he’d known they would visit Godric’s Hollow.

Hermione chewed her cheek. “Are you thinking about Godric’s Hollow?”

Harry was quiet for a moment, still staring at the ceiling. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “He wouldn’t have left Nagini there to wait for us for that long, Hermione, not on the off chance that we’d show up. He’s too protective of his horcruxes. He had to know we were there.”

Hermione swallowed, her stomach twisting with anxiety.

She reached up absentmindedly and touched the locket. Her fingertips tingled, the magic of the locket reacting to her touch.

“We’ve got to destroy it, and quickly, Harry.” She took a deep breath. “It isn’t alive, right? Not sentient, anyway. It’s only an object, it doesn’t have a mind of its own. I mean, he didn’t seem to be able to see you through the journal, did he?”

Harry shook his head, muttering, “I don’t know, Hermione. He wasn’t in his physical form then.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Do you think he knows? When a piece of his soul is destroyed?”

Harry’s eyebrows drew forward. At length, he nodded. “I think so. I think he can feel it.”

Her fingers had begun to inadvertently stroke the locket as she fell into deep thought. After a moment, she realized what she was doing and ripped her hand away.

“Be careful, Hermione,” Harry said sternly. “Be wary of that locket.”

“I am being careful,” she snapped peevishly, and turned to enter her room.

As she laid in bed that night, a deep weariness fell over her, and she closed her eyes as tendrils of dark magic wove themselves around her, wrapping her in a blanket of fear and hopelessness. 

She felt him, felt his eyes fixed upon her, heard his poisonous whispers echoing in her subconscious as she fell into the arms of Morpheus. She descended into obscurity, into the trap of his damnation, the sliver of his soul like a world of emptiness that Hermione could not escape, not even in sleep.

“I see you,” hissed a voice in some strange language that she should not be able to comprehend, but somehow her mind understood in her dreamlike state.

Not a dream, no… a nightmare.

A realm of nightmares, where the Dark Lord existed.

She felt the locket dragging her down, dragging her away from the tent, the woods. To a pitch black, starless void.  It wasn’t long before she was unable to discern her thoughts from his.

“Be wary of that locket.” Harry’s words echoed through her mind.

“Quiet,” said the voice, and hers, both in unison.

Hermione turned fitfully upon her cot, red eyes watching, monsters pursuing her, hot at her heels.

“I see you, golden girl,” the voice whispered. “You cannot escape from me. You cannot defeat me.”

“I will,” she whispered, her voice faltering and faint.

“We are the same, you and I,” said the voice. “Ron and Harry… they are not like you. They are not like us .”

“No,” she whimpered lucidly.

“They only want to use you,” the voice whispered so seductively, she felt she could almost feel its vibrations against her ear. “I would elevate you, witch. Join me. You could become so much more.”

Hermione sobbed into her pillow, the excruciating fear becoming painful, her subconscious fighting against the confusion inflicted by the locket’s magic.

Her mind warred with the voice, begging desperately for sleep, for rest .

“I will never let you rest,” the voice said viciously. “Until you belong to me.”

Hermione’s breathing seemed to stop, and she gasped for air in her lungs, her muscles seizing up as fear paralyzed her. 

Suddenly, there were hands upon her, touching her shoulders, and she could feel sharp talons digging into her skin, the icy chill of his presence crawling along her skin. 

“No,” she shouted, but the hands gripped tighter, shaking her roughly. 

“Hermione! Wake up!”

Her eyes flew open.

Harry. 

He stared down at her, his warm hands holding onto her shoulders in an effort to wake her.

Her heart thudded in her chest. She gasped for breath, then whispered shakily, “I’m sorry. I… I was trapped in a nightmare.”

Harry nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah. I know.”

His eyes flicked down to the locket around her neck. “Why don’t you let me wear it tonight?”

Her gaze met his, and she saw that his green eyes were grave. 

She swallowed, and nodded silently. She sat up in bed and lifted the necklace from around her neck, handing it to Harry.

He took it, giving her a wry smile, and hesitantly put it on.

Then, he left, and even after the locket was secured around Harry’s neck, she heard his repulsive laughter echoing in her head. 

*************

“Tell me,” the Dark Lord said as Nagini wound herself around his waist, her head leisurely trailing up his abdomen. “What should I do with the mudblood?”

Death eaters knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet, their knees meeting the stone floor of the ceremonial chambers beneath the manor. 

Bella was the first to speak up, as usual. 

“Perhaps… an exhibition, my Lord?” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper, though sharp as a needle point. “She’s the golden girl . Britain already whispers that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has released Harry Potter back to the Order. It gives them false hope. They imagine you weak, injured…”

The Dark Lord’s eyes slid to her, staring through her as she spoke, like two red hot pokers skewering her.

“-a demonstration of your power and ruthlessness would strike fear into their hearts. It would show the magical world that it is truly you, my Lord, who exercises dominion over our world.” Her eyes shone bright with yearning as she looked back at him. “ Steal the golden girl from them. Leave her body where the world can see. It will suck the wind from Potter’s sails, leave them all broken, and cement your victory.”

She lowered her head in order to punctuate her remarks.

Voldemort gazed at her for several moments before he looked down, running his fingertips along Nagini’s scales. He turned his head slowly, looking over to Dolohov and Lucius.

Lucius remained silent, tight-lipped, but Dolohov held his hands out, palms facing upward. “You know what I’m going to say, my Lord. Give her to me… I will subjugate her most thoroughly .”

The Dark Lord’s face showed no change, not even the slightest fraction. He slid his gaze to the left of Bella. “What do you say, Draco Malfoy?”

Draco ran his fingers down the buttons of his robe’s collar. He blinked, expression careful. “I think Bella’s suggestion is too public. The confederation is an ever present threat to regime change. Such a violent act would no doubt have them at our doorstep, moving in favor of the Order.”

The Dark Lord’s blood-red eyes seemed to sharpen as he listened to Draco.

“You are right, Draco,” said the Dark Lord, his voice soft but chilling. “What do you suggest?”

Draco’s eyes were lowered, his jaw ticking. “She was a terrible know-it-all in school, as it stands… but she is intelligent. She could give strategic information on how to dismantle the order. She could be useful.”

Voldemort’s lips turned up ever so slightly. 

He asked the question not to determine the mudblood’s value, for he had already decided what he would do with her.

He asked in order to observe Draco’s reaction, to hear his thoughts.

He found it amusing how desperately the Malfoy heir wanted to save the mudblood. He harbored a deeply buried concern for her, which he tried valiantly to conceal, but his occlumency, though advanced, was no match for Voldemort’s mental sorcery.

His death eater’s all whispered fearfully about his powers of legilimency, but it was not legilimency. It never had been.

The Dark Lord had tapped into the magic of the ancient world, untaught and long forgotten.

His chest stirred with titillation as he imagined himself teaching the girl what he knew.

Such potential was unheard of.

He would mold her into a power beyond that of any witch that had ever existed.

Slowly, systematically, he would dismantle her ideals. Her notions of heroism .

He would savor her confusion and turmoil, even as he seduced her into his bed.

He was not used to pursuing a witch. Even in his youth, witches had always fallen at his feet. Something awoke within the Dark Lord, a spark of excitement.

It had been a long time since something intrigued him so profoundly. He had not lusted after something as intensely since he’d discovered horcrux magic.

His eyes wandered back to Bellatrix, whose lips were drawn into a tight line, rage simmering beneath her exterior. 

He dragged his nails along Nagini’s back, feeling her muscles react beneath his touch. When he responded, his words were measured, carefully pronounced. “Very good, Draco. That is what we shall use her for. As we move from a time of violence into a time of assimilation, a more delicate hand may be required. A more diplomatic approach…” Bella’s gaze rose to meet his.

He blinked slowly. “Bella, you are powerful, but reckless. Emotional. My second in command must think with their intellect, rather than be… impulsive.”

He did not trust either Dolohov nor Bellatrix with his new charge. Bella’s jealousy and Antonin’s lust would be their undoing, and he did not relish placing the girl in harm’s way when he had yet to uncover her secrets. 

Draco, at least, had a vested interest in the girl. Therefore, the Dark Lord would trust him with her interests… that is, unless he became too attached to her.

Lucius’ son was smart and deliberating, but his feelings for the witch could prove bothersome if left unchecked. Much like Snape’s had been for the Potter witch.

Voldemort was one to hold grudges, particularly against those who coveted what was his. He didn’t like anyone touching his things.

Even Dumbledore knew that.  

***********

The heavy iron door opened. 

“Hermione!” called Luna, her voice soft as always. “Are you alright?”

Hermione stepped into the cell, into Luna’s outstretched embrace.

“I’m fine. Are you?”

“Just as chipper as always.” Luna gave a wry smile. “Well, maybe not quite as much as always, but better than I could be under the circumstances.”

Fleur gave her an odd look, then reached for Hermione, taking her by the shoulders. “You cannot do it, ‘ermione. Z’ere is no telling what he could force you to do!”

Hermione sighed. “He could imperius me anytime, Fleur.”

“Zey would be stupid to kill us,” she said haughtily. “We are valuable prisoners. I say zey are bluffing.”

“Perhaps,” said Hermione. “But I’m not going to take the risk. I will be fine. But… I need to ask a few questions, just to make certain of your identities.” 

Fleur’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“How did you know Harry was under the invisibility cloak in sixth year, Luna? On the train?”

Luna seemed as if she was trying to remember the incident in question, a wrinkle appearing in the center of her forehead, then her face cleared. “Oh, his head was full of wrackspurts!”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, then looked to Fleur. “Where did you meet Bill?”

Fleur answered quickly, “At Gringott’s.”

“Which vault?”

“Six hundred and thirty-three. I was working at the bank part time… I led him to the vault to help with breaking a curse.”

Hermione nodded, her worries partly assuaged, but heart disturbed. “I had hoped you were imposters. It worries me to know they were able to capture you both. How in Godric’s name did it happen?”

Fleur shook her head. “We don’t know. Our safe house was secure, under strong protections. Very few people knew our routes… Someone must have betrayed us.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. Who would do such a thing?

She clenched her teeth, her frustration brimming over. Now, she was as determined as ever to infiltrate Voldemort’s inner circle. 

Because if there was a traitor… the Order could be in grave danger.

Hermione blinked, cold washing over her. “How is Harry?”

Luna and Fleur looked at one another. “He’s… different.”

Hermione paused, holding her breath. “Different how?”

Luna looked disturbed, which looked quite out of place on her usually serene face. “He’s more angry. Seems a bit like he did in fifth year. Very reclusive. He stays up all night. Doesn’t sleep much. He’s been… advocating for the use of dark magic.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “ Oh .”

That was very unlike Harry. Hermione wasn’t completely against the idea, of course. She’d had the same thought herself, many times. 

But… she wasn’t Harry .

Harry would never ask the Order to use dark magic. It fundamentally goes against everything he and Dumbledore stood for.

“He lashes out a lot,” said Luna. “Even when nothing is happening. He and Ron… they stay in their room most of the day, planning and strategizing. But they don’t tell anybody what they’re planning.”

Hermione blinked several times. She didn’t know what to say to that. Sure, she knew that it must look that way to those on the outside. She was always privy to those plans, and Dumbledore had always been so secretive, that the three of them had always felt they needed to keep things to themselves. 

Maybe Harry had a plan. At least he was alive and healthy. At least he wasn’t broken .

“Time’s up, Granger,” said Malfoy, moving forward to open the door of the cell.

Fleur whirled on him and gave him a death stare that could freeze over the Thames.

“You,” she spat. “You sold out your school, your Headmaster, your-“

“Save it,” he said poisonously, shoving Hermione through the door in front of him. He looked at Luna and Fleur through the bars of the cell. “You’ll be lucky to make it out of here alive.”

He walked ahead of her and led Hermione out of the block of cells buried deep within the dungeons.

Then he brought her into a complex labyrinth of corridors. The magic was thick and heavy, and grew darker the further they went. There were strange runes and glyphs carved into the stone walls, and rows of skulls lining the shelves near the ceiling, reminding Hermione of catacombs.

As they advanced deeper below ground, taking steep flights of stairs, Hermione’s heart began to race.

He’s taking me to the induction, she thought. That’s where this leads.

She thought of Harry. What had Voldemort done to him to make him so angry and reclusive? To change his mind about dark magic?

She didn’t think it was a bad thing. After all, she’d been studying dark spells, herself. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

After tonight, she would bear the mark. She would be a servant of Voldemort’s.

Was there a way that she could circumvent whatever spell he’d placed on her?

Her mind ran rampant with possibilities.

They approached a massive, arched doorway. 

He spun to face her. “Have you made your choice?”

Hermione was very still, determined. “Will he really kill them, Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

“Then he has his answer.”

Malfoy watched her intently, his face unreadable, hesitant. His jaw muscle ticked, eyes flicking downward, over the black gown of sleek silk that draped over her frame. 

Then, he turned, and opened the heavy door.  

Hermione followed him into the chamber, a circular room lined with torches. 

All around the room, death eaters knelt, hooded and masked. Silent.

The air sizzled with terrible energy. Grisly stains marked the stone floor, the remainder of blood that couldn’t be scourgified away. Hermione didn’t want to know who it had belonged to.

In the center of the room, there was a stone seat. In front of the seat, stood Voldemort. He towered at an immense height, his horrid wand in hand.

Did the elder wand really ensure victory? Hermione wondered.

Clearly not, as Dumbledore was disarmed so easily.

Hermione’s brows knit. Unless…

Unless Dumbledore had always planned to be defeated. The thought struck her like a knife to the heart in the reverberating silence.

Anger welled up in her chest. He had left them… with only riddles and hints to guide their way.

And now she was here, in Voldemort’s grip.

“Come here, mudblood.”

Hermione’s heart rate skyrocketed as she met his gaze.

She swallowed thickly, her breasts rising and falling with the intensity of her breathing, reminding her of the low cut of her gown.

He didn’t seem to notice. His scalding eyes were upon hers, perhaps, reading her mind.

She stepped forward, aware of the gazes that were upon her, eyes that were obscured behind a circle of masks. 

She approached Voldemort, feeling faint. She was vaguely aware of the words he spoke as the blood rushed in her ears.

“Do you pledge yourself to me, golden girl ?”

Her teeth clenched, but she managed to grit out, “Yes.”

He reached out and took her hand, lifting her arm and turning it upward to expose her wrist. Draco marched forward and Hermione could see that he held a goblet. He stopped beside them, waiting.

Voldemort’s fingers were cold as they wrapped around her wrist. It made her shiver, and his eyes flicked to her, gauging her reaction.  Then, he produced his wand, and cast a wordless spell upon her wrist that made her skin tingle. 

“What did you cast?” she murmured quietly.

He did not answer her out loud, but he spoke to her mind as he had done at the Battle.

A numbing spell, mudblood. Unless you prefer pain? I would be happy to bestow it.

His eyes met hers as he awaited her answer.

She shook her head silently, eyes falling to her arm, where he had administered the spell, which caused her skin to lose feeling, a sensation of tingling numbness crawling along her inner arm. 

He moved to stand behind her, looming over her shoulders as he reached around her with both hands, one holding her wrist, the other brandishing his wand.

Her pulse quickened, partly in anticipation of whatever pain he would inflict, and partly due to their proximity, to the sense of alarm at having Lord Voldemort at her back where she could not see him. Her blood thumped through her veins and she was sure that he could feel it, with his thumb resting over the pulse point in her wrist. 

“The cup… Draco.”

Draco moved forward and held the iron goblet beneath her wrist.

Hermione’s eyes grew wide as Voldemort stretched her arm out over the cup and flicked his wand.

She started to jerk her arm away, uncertainty causing panic to rise up into the base of her throat, but he held her wrist in a vice-like grip.

With the tip of his wand, he created an incision, slicing her wrist open. Hermione felt no pain, only an uncomfortably sharp pressure. Her mouth dropped open, shock registering in her face at the show of her own blood seeping from the deep cut. 

He leaned over her shoulder until his face was level with hers. The feeling of his chest pressed against her shoulder blades made her back prickle. 

As her blood dripped slowly down her wrist and trickled into the goblet, he turned to whisper in her ear, under his breath so that only she could hear, “This is an old vampire contract. It was once used to bind their created children to their makers, ensuring their obedience when walking among the living. There is no inherent magic in it; the magic that fulfills the vow lies in the blood itself. However…” He turned her wrist away from the cup, leaving a dribble of blood leaking down her olive skin. He ran his thumb over the seeping fluid, smearing the rusty red color across her skin. “The contract can be replicated for wizardkind, because magical blood is even more powerful than that of vampires.”

Hermione’s lips parted as she watched him scourgify the blood from her arm. He dragged the tip of his wand across the deep gash, sealing it with precision, demonstrating a particular prowess in the art of healing.

Why would he heal her?

She had expected nothing but violence when she entered the enemies’ camp, a daily reliving of her encounter with Bellatrix. 

But she was not prepared for this… gentleness?

In the back of her mind, she knew that Voldemort had ulterior motives. He hoped to use her, to manipulate and control her, as this pact would ensure. His pretended gallantry was nothing more than a method of seducing her to his service, a way of distracting her from the violent monster that he was.

Hermione gasped as she looked at her skin, which was good as new, no sign of a wound or scar.

Even with the cleanest, most shallow cuts, Dittany often had to be applied to speed up healing, and to prevent any scarring. Without Dittany, most wounds had to be attended to daily with healing spells in order to heal them to such perfection. 

But he had sealed it up in a moment, as if it were nothing, as if it required no amount of effort at all.

His voice cut through her reverie, interrupting her thoughts.

“Are you impressed, mudblood? You know, I can teach you magic such as this. You need only ask me.”

Bellatrix coughed behind them.

Hermione said nothing, too dazed to answer. 

What he did next startled her.

He lifted his own arm above the goblet and drew a line downward with his wand, slicing open his wrist.

No numbing spells were administered.

She watched in horror, eyes wide and mouth agape as his blood, not crimson, but a dark umber shade nearly black in hue, leaked from the cut like a sanguinary river.

It filled the cup, mingling with hers.

Hermione blinked as she watched the blood trickle down in a thin stream, like a waterfall that belonged in the Underworld.

With another swish and a flick, his magic sealed up the wound, leaving not a drop of his blood behind. 

Hermione could feel the electric charge of his magic like a cloak all around her, and it was intoxicating, his energy buzzing with power until she felt almost drunk with it.

So this was what it was like to be in his presence, she mused. Terrifying, sickening, but also seductive . 

There was a very real temptation to lean back into him, to draw on the energy emanating from his person, to feed on his magic in order to channel her own. 

Power, she decided, was dangerous. No wonder Bellatrix had become deranged, a devout follower,  completely enslaved to his power and worshiping this evil, ethereal creature named Voldemort.

Riddle, Hermione reminded herself. His name is Tom Riddle.

That boy does not exist , he spoke to her mind. You would be wise not to speak the name. Now, drink .

He had lifted the cup to her lips. 

“You want me to drink this?” She asked shakily, releasing her breath in halting degrees as she looked at the goblet with disgust. “Your blood?”

He said nothing. Hermione’s eyes lifted to meet Draco’s. He watched her passively, his silver eyes intense, but cold. 

“The Dark Lord has ordered you to drink, mudblood.”

Hermione swallowed as she looked down at the contents of the cup. A thick, black substance pooled at the base of the goblet, and it seemed to be swirling like a whirlpool of its own volition, emitting a magical fragrance that resembled roses.

The sight of it entranced her for a moment, but he lifted the cup closer, pressing it to her lips, giving her no choice but to partake.

Whatever magic she hoped the cup contained did not affect the taste whatsoever. It still tasted like blood, tangy and metallic as it washed over her tongue. Hermione gulped it down with a wince, her nose scrunching as the cup was lowered away. 

Voldemort waved his wand over the goblet, muttering the incantation, “Sempur fidus.” 

Then, he lifted the goblet, and Hermione turned abruptly, unable to help herself, just in time to see him bringing the cup to his own mouth. 

Her lips parted, eyes wide as saucers.

Lord Voldemort was drinking her blood.

The blood of a muggleborn.

There were shiftings among the cloaked figures surrounding them. Coughs, sniffs. A soft murmur here or there.

The discomfort of his followers was apparent.

Yet, he did not seem to notice. His lips were slightly tinged a rusty vermillion when he lowered the goblet from his mouth, his glowing eyes meeting hers, nearly sparkling with amusement.

He reached out and gripped her by the throat, pulling her against him. “Recite the incantation, mudblood.”

Hermione closed her eyes tightly. “Semper fidus,” she whispered, heart fluttering in her chest.

“Good,” he muttered, his eyes heavy lidded, thumb stroking the expanse of skin covering her jugular vein. “Very good.”

Hermione began to feel the magic taking hold. She felt drunk, weightless, uninhibited. 

She didn’t like that feeling. Hermione liked to have her wits about her, and at that moment, she felt as if she’d taken elixir of euphoria.

Voldemort released her, stepping back to take her by her other wrist. When he examined the soft flesh of her inner arm, he found the scar.

His eyes narrowed. 

She watched as he dragged his thumb across the letters etched there, feeling the ridges and dips of each mark.

Hermione looked away. She clenched her teeth angrily, frustrated at the feeling of shame that surged inside her. She knew that it was a feeling she didn’t deserve, an emotion that should not even exist within her, yet there it was, ugly and damning, twisting around her insides like a serpent.

She resisted the urge to jerk her arm away.

He watched her. She could see him eyeing her in her peripheral vision.

Her gaze was focused on the stone floor; she refused to look at him. He was the reason it had happened to her. 

She would never let herself forget, nor would she delude herself into thinking that he wanted her for anything beyond what use she could offer him in his grab for power.

Power was all that Voldemort understood. That was his only currency.

The heat of his eyes turned elsewhere, so she took in a breath of relief and flicked her eyes to him. 

He had her arm out before him, casting some kind of complex spellwork upon her flesh.

When she looked down, to her bewilderment, the scar was disappearing.

Not fading, not changing color. It was actually melting into her skin, completely dissolving, leaving only unmarred, tanned skin behind.

When the scar had fully vanished, he placed the tip of his wand to her wrist and she watched, brow furrowed, as two black serpents seemed to jet out from the point where his wand met her skin. The ink-like asps slithered along her skin, curving in and out of one another, and began to weave a complex insignia. 

Revulsion crept up her spine as she watched the jets of ink form the dark mark, glowing bright red with magic as the skull took form upon her skin.

Finally, the serpent slid through the eye of the skull, emerging from its mouth grotesquely. When the glow of the spellwork settled, the mark faded to red. Hermione stared at it in shock, disgust twisting her mouth into a snarl.

When she turned to look at him, she found him smirking.

Her eyes narrowed. “I would rather have the scar than your mark,” she spat.

His smirk widened. He reached out, a sharp nail resting under her chin as he tilted her head upward. “Do you think it matters what you want, mudblood?”

She stared back at him with every ounce of hatred she could muster. At that moment, she wanted it to matter. She wanted to somehow make him listen to her, to demand respect from this mad creature.

How could one demand respect from someone so arrogant, someone with so little regard for human life?

He smiled, and it chilled her to the bone. His thumb stroked the fresh dark mark, his eyes glinting with something absolutely terrifying. Leaning down to her eye level, he hissed softly, ““If anyone is going to mark you for life, it will be me… your Lord and Master. Now, you truly belong to me, little raven.”

Chapter Text

“If anyone is going to mark you for life, it will be me… your Lord and Master. Now, you truly belong to me, little raven.”

As soon as the words left his lips, a burst of black smoke enveloped her, obscuring her vision, shrouding the room in darkness. She felt Voldemort’s arms enclose around her and suddenly she was weightless, her feet lifting off the ground as she spun into nothingness.

Terrified, she sensed her balance slipping, forcing her to cling to him, arms around his neck with her face buried in his chest.

Her heart thudded like a ceremonial drum, his unusual scent stinging her nostrils until he at last set her on her feet.

As the smoke fell away, she placed her palms on his chest and shoved him back in frustration, retreating several feet, shame and anger painting her cheeks in brilliant crimson.

He simply watched her, a pale wraith in his ghostly robes.

She looked around and realized he’d brought her back to her room. She shook slightly, feeling lightheaded from the loss of blood and uncomfortable with his presence in her room. She knew how silly that was, being that she was currently his prisoner, and now under the influence of a blood contract. But this room had been her safe haven for the past several weeks, and having him here seemed to shatter the illusion of privacy, of safety .

“You are not safe from me,” he said matter-of-factly. “Of course, you are under my protection. But I will not hesitate to push you beyond the boundaries of your comfort.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He tilted his head as he moved forward, and she retreated instinctually, playing into his cat and mouse game. “I intend to push you to the edge of your very sanity, mudblood. I want to see what hides within you.”

Hermione blinked, bewildered by his statement. 

Nothing was hiding within her.

She gave him a wry expression.  “I hope you’re prepared for disappointment.”

He waved his hand, and once more her feet were stuck to the floor. He reached down and took her wrist in his hand, examining the new mark there, his expression triumphant. “My dear, nothing about you has been disappointing thus far. Except, of course, your unrealistic notions of heroism.”

“How predictable of you. A villain who doesn’t believe in heroism? Who could’ve ever imagined it?”

He narrowed his eyes, but his lips quirked, as if he was pleased. He leaned in closer. “Since you’ve been here in my headquarters, have I, at any point, proved myself to be predictable to you?”

Hermione thought about it for a moment and realized that he truly hadn’t. 

She’d expected many things from him, but he’d done none of them.

Now that she thought about it, his followers were incredibly predictable. But him? 

She didn’t think so, but perhaps it was all for show. Perhaps, he would eventually show his true self to her. 

She wouldn’t forget the monster that he was, how her friends had been murdered because of him, what he’d done to their parents. Neville’s and Harry’s, and many others.

How she would likely never see her parents again.

He was ruthless, unhinged.

A serial murderer, one only interested in his own power, without a care in the world about how many people he hurt, how many lives he destroyed.

Hermione’s stomach twisted with disgust.

He inclined his head, bringing his wand up to drag its tip along the scar on her chest. The soft scrape of the yew wood against her flesh made her shiver, goosebumps pebbling her arms.

“Who did this?” he asked sharply, an edge to his voice that startled her.

Her eyes flicked down to where his wand rested against the swell of her breast, pointing to the pale pink scar.

“Don’t you already know?”

He cocked an invisible brow as his eyes met hers. 

When he looked back down at the scar, he used the end of his wand to push back the neckline of her dress slightly, exposing more of her skin, baring part of her chest to his gaze.

Hermione stiffened uncomfortably, but she observed that he only seemed to be studying the scar.

“This was made by a very dark curse,” he stated matter-of-factly. “In fact, I created this curse, so I know it was one of my death eaters. Who cast it?”

She swallowed. Part of her wanted to challenge him, to see what he would do if she refused to answer him.

His eyes narrowed a fraction.

But then… part of her was terrified of his cruciatus.

His laughter rang out through the room like a poisonous fume. “I command you to tell me who cast it, mudblood.”

“Antonin Dolohov.”

The words left her lips before she’d even had time to think, to process his command.

Her mouth dropped open, shock registering in her face as she realized he had pulled upon the blood pact for the first time.

Fear cut through her chest. 

Anything he commanded her to do, she would be forced to do. The pact would see to it.

His smile was sinister as it spread across his face. “You see, my dear,” he hissed softly, “You are at my disposal. Such a proud witch you are… and yet, I could bring you so low, if I wanted to.” He dragged the wand lower, veering away from the scar until it brushed the curve of her breast beneath the fabric. “I could completely debase you, ruin you before the eyes of the world.” He leaned closer. “There is no one on this earth who could stop me.”

His eyes trailed over her features, her wide eyes,  the hair that tumbled wildly over her shoulders, her tanned shoulders and décolleté, bare to his gaze. “However,” he continued, dragging his eyes back to her face. “If you prove yourself useful, you will have my favor. I will abstain from forcing you to do my will, if you will demonstrate obedience of your own choosing. I may ask you to do things you do not wish to do, however… I can be merciful. I can be prevailed upon to see reason, despite what Dumbledore may have told you.”

“Dumbledore didn’t need to tell me you’re insane. It’s glaringly obvious.” 

He smiled. “All the more reason to be on your best behavior, wouldn’t you say?”

The threat in his tone made her shiver.

His wand wandered back to the scar and applied pressure, its tip almost puncturing the puckered skin, which had never fully healed, remaining irritated as magical wounds always do.

She winced.

“View our arrangement as transactional, if you must,” he continued. “But forsake this notion of aiding the Order. You will not be able to do so, and any attempts will interfere with your progress in my service. If you truly wish to save your friends, betraying me is not the way to do it.”

Hermione glared at him, teeth clenched. 

There was seemingly no way around his power of legilimency. He read every secret thought that Hermione tried to keep hidden. Even utilizing occlumency did not shield her from his invasion.

Hermione looked down at her wrist, gazing at the dark mark on her arm.

“Is that all?” she asked. “Is that the ritual that occurs when your followers are inducted? I expected something more… scary.”

He stared at her for a moment, then broke into  rasping laughter. “Dumbledore appears to have painted such an exaggerated picture of my depravity, it’s a wonder he didn’t give you all nightmares as children.”

Hermione looked at him in horror.

He couldn’t actually believe that he was anything less than a monster?

Hermione stared back at him in shock, unable to form words. 

His disdain for Dumbledore was so apparent in his face that it almost came across as bitterness. “I can and will be a competent ruler, Miss Granger.”

“You’ve killed so many people!” she spat indignantly, disbelief written across her face. “Your followers have tortured- you… you murdered Harry’s family! You’ve killed countless innocent muggles… imprisoned muggleborns-“

“Brutality is a necessary evil in war, my dear. One day, that will come to an end. It must, or our magical population will be decimated.”

“It certainly will be,” she said with venom. “Because no one will accept your rule. Especially not if you continue to subjugate muggleborns. We will always fight you.”

He smirked. “Perhaps, that is where you come in, golden girl.”

She blinked, eyebrows shooting upward. “Excuse me?”

He reached out, gripping her chin roughly. His nails were sharp against her skin. “You have much to offer me, mudblood. My plans have brought me here, to the brink of victory. I have even defied death. No one has ever achieved what I have, and yet, I have realized that I can no longer do it alone.”

She felt his eyes upon her, observing her closely, like a cold-blooded serpent would observe its prey. She couldn’t fathom what he found so intriguing about her, what he could possibly hope to gain from using her, especially as a muggleborn. She was truthfully still in shock that he’d actually consumed her blood.

Would his followers not revolt against him for that?

“No,” he answered, as if her thoughts were a normal part of the conversation. “I am too powerful. They cannot defy me, and neither can you.”

Hermione swallowed, but stayed silent.

She could never accept that.

“So…” she said shakily, swallowing, “that was the ritual then? That’s what happens when your followers take the mark?”

“No. They do not make a blood pact.”

Her eyes wandered over his face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones that were so unnatural, the colorless pallor of his skin, inhuman. “Why not?”

He cocked his head, a chillingly snakelike movement. “That pact requires a measure of my magic to become active. The blood you consumed contains my magic, and vice versa. It is what binds you to me. I will not sacrifice any more of my magic than necessary. Fear is enough to keep them in line.”

Hermione recoiled in revulsion, finding the thought of his magic inside her utterly distasteful.

He continued, “I do typically bleed them more than I did with you. The purebloods must pledge their oath to me in blood, a sacrifice, if you will, to prove the strength of their loyalty.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

As they spoke, she noticed that occasionally his eyes would wander, falling to her lips, flicking to her hair, her shoulders, trailing over her features.

She realized with no small amount of shock that Voldemort found her attractive . 

She swallowed nervously, unable to grasp that reality. Was he not revolted by muggleborns, as she’d always been led to believe?

“For them to spill their pure blood in oath to a half-blood is an act of humiliation.”

She cocked a brow. “You like to humiliate your followers?”

His lips curved upward mysteriously. “I have reasons for everything I do, mudblood.”

“So you didn’t want to spill my blood?” she asked caustically. “Not pure enough for you?”

His crimson eyes sparked as they met hers. “I will have to remind you that I drank your blood only moments ago.” He smiled, tonguing his sharp incisors, and she could swear his tongue was forked, like a serpent’s. His voice lowered conspiratorially as he murmured, “I would drink other things from you besides your blood. I wonder if you taste as delicious as you smell?”

Hermione’s eyes widened in horror, and she resisted the strong urge to slap him.

She might have slapped Draco Malfoy in third year, but this was Lord Voldemort. Her practical side won out over her rage, albeit barely.

He chuckled, and his twisted amusement at her expense rankled her.

She watched as he waved his wand, conjuring a glass of red wine. In his other hand, a vial appeared. He poured it into the glass and held its edge to her lips.

“Drink.”

She turned her head aside. “What was in that vial?”

His eyes narrowed. “I command you to drink, mudblood.”

She reached for the cup, compelled by his magic, and lifted it to her mouth.

“Every drop,” he ordered.

She swiftly emptied its contents as he watched, the wine warming her chest as it went down her throat. 

When he saw that the glass was empty, he took it from her and answered, “It was a blood replenishing potion.”

“Are you my nurse now?” she spat, her tone scathing to conceal how shaken she felt.

“You need your strength,” he muttered patiently. “For tomorrow.”

Hermione froze. “What happens tomorrow?”

He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, wiping away a drop of wine. “You’ll see.”

She pursed her lips, irritated. “I don’t like surprises.”

He smirked. “I find that ironic… because you seem to be full of them.”

She shook her head. “You’re imagining things. I’m nothing special.”

He reached down and took her wrist, dragging his thumb across the dark mark. The magical tattoo reacted to its creator’s touch, the serpent twisting and coiling itself around the skull. His touch made her skin crawl. “I will summon you tomorrow. When your mark burns, you are to disapparate immediately, without delay.”

She suddenly had a thought. “You never asked me who left that scar on my arm.”

His eyes flicked to hers, his long fingers tightening around her wrist. “I’ve known since it happened. Bella wasted no time in informing everyone that she’d maimed Potter’s mudblood.”

Hermione gritted her teeth. “I hate her,” she whispered softly, resisting the urge to recoil from his touch.

“Good,” he said as he released her. “Hatred and anger are fuel for the most potent forms of magic.”

“You mean dark magic.”

He inclined his head. “Precisely.”

She shook her head. “Light magic is more powerful. Everyone knows that.”

He smiled, but it felt mocking. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But like all magic, its potency is subject to the vessel. The darker the soul of the user, the more power that person can wield. Likewise, the more pure in heart the caster is, the more light that person is able to channel. The problem, however, lies in the fact that no one is entirely pure… not even your savior, Dumbledore.” His eyes flicked over her face. “And certainly not you, little raven.”

His eyes pierced hers, rattling her composure, because something deep inside told her that what he said was true.

She felt his magic reaching out for hers, teasing her edges with tendrils of darkness. It made her skin prickle, like the static energy in the atmosphere before a lightning strike. Hermione was suddenly curious about him, against her will. His magic, though dark and unsettling, was riddled with intensity and felt ancient , for lack of a better word. She wondered what things he knew, what things he had learned that she had no knowledge about.

“Tomorrow,” he said softly.

Then he was gone, dissolving into a cloud of black smoke.

—————-

Potter’s Mudblood: Captured!

Hermione sat on her bed long after Voldemort had left, her mind reeling. 

A copy of The Daily Prophet lay spread out in front of her. Hermione wasn’t allowed any books, so she’d requested copies of the newspaper from the elf so that she could at least keep up with the date and current events.

Well, not exactly, she thought wryly. The papers didn’t actually report anything accurately. They’d made it seem as if Hermione had been captured on some perilous Order mission, one which would have endangered countless residents of magical Britain. They painted her to be some maniacal, crazed witch hellbent on revenge. There was no mention of Harry, or the trade. As far as the general public knew, Harry was still imprisoned by Voldemort.

Of course, Hermione knew who was pulling the strings at the Prophet, and he wouldn’t want anyone to know about Harry’s return. That would give people hope .

Hermione sighed, wishing she had her beaded bag. She had a book inside it on blood magic, one she’d nicked from the Black library at Grimmauld Place, and she desperately wanted to research the blood pact. If she could understand its magic and how it operates, perhaps she could find a loophole, a way around his commands.

The way he’d commanded her to drink felt absolutely degrading. She’d do anything to avoid experiencing that again. 

She climbed off the bed, clad only in a lavender set of Jim jams, which she’d donned after peeling off the offensive black gown and kicking it into the corner, never to be worn again. She walked to the window and peeked through the curtains. It was dark, nearly two in the morning, she estimated. The fires had burned low and Voldemort’s forces had retreated into their tents. 

She spied a dark figure near the treeline. As her eyes adjusted, she realized there were two figures. One of them had to be Voldemort. He was too tall to be anyone else.

She watched the two of them, seemingly having a deep conversation. Then, the shorter figure turned, and she saw his face.

It was Ronan Blackthorn, the alpha of Greyback’s former pack. She’d learned from the house elf Deedle that Voldemort had murdered Greyback, and Ronan had replaced him as head of the pack.

Suddenly, the hooded figure turned, and she saw that it was, indeed, Voldemort.

She moved away from the window quickly, unwilling to draw more of his attention than she already had.

“Hello, mudblood.”

Hermione whirled around with a gasp, the sound of a man’s voice causing her hair to stand on end.

She fell back against the window, fear spearing her chest as she discovered Antonin Dolohov leaning against the wall beside her bedroom door.

He smiled, arms folded across his chest.

“What are you doing here?” she choked out, heart thudding erratically against her ribs.

His eyes narrowed as he cocked his head. “Who were you watching so intently through that window?”

Hermione swallowed. She didn’t have her wand. Her eyes cut around the room, looking for anything she could use as a weapon.

He pushed off the wall and moved toward her, causing Hermione to scramble back toward the bed.

He made his way to the window, then peeked through the curtains. “Ahh,” he said sorrowfully. “The Dark Lord. Do you miss him already? He misses you, I’ll wager. I’ll admit, I’m a bit jealous, although I cannot fault his taste in the least.”

“How did you get in here?” she whispered, hands starting to shake.

He grinned. “It seems Bella has a bone to pick with you. You shouldn’t have captured the Dark Lord’s eye like you have, love. She’s absolutely feral to see you dead at the bottom of the ocean.” His eyes flicked down to her chest. “She altered the wards for me. I told her I just wanted to see it… the scar I left on you.” He chuckled. “I think she knows I want a bit more than that, but it’s nothing a little obliviation can’t cover up. You’ll be none the worse for wear.”

His dark eyes glinted with lascivious intent.

Hermione’s stomach turned, and she bolted for the door. 

Unfortunately, Dolohov was quicker. He intercepted her and she felt his arms encircle her like bands of iron. 

Hermione screamed, thrashing wildly, trying to reach behind so that she could drag her nails down his face, but he brandished his wand.

“None of that, tiny bird. I would hate to have to silence you.” His hand found its way around her throat, tightening with brutal strength until her air supply was threatened. “I do love the sound of a witch weeping.”

Then, as if remembering himself, he released her throat and wound his fingers into her hair. “No marks, no evidence,” he said with a chuckle.

Hermione bucked, fighting with every bit of her strength. 

“Let me go!” she shrieked. “I hope he kills you for this!”

He wrestled her onto the bed. “I’d better make it worth it, then, in case he does.”

Hermione ripped her wrist away, already reaching for the dark mark, intent on touching it to summon Voldemort, but he snatched both her hands, pinning them above her head. 

“Ah, ah, love,” he said, shaking his head. “We can’t have that.”

Ropes shot out from the tip of his wand, wrapping themselves around her wrists. He reached down and ripped open the buttons of her shirt, exposing her chest.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured as he leaned down to drag his tongue along the scar. “It’s fucking perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

“You’re insane,” she gasped, a sob rising into the base of her throat, which she choked back. “I can’t wait to watch you die.”

He chuckled. “You won’t remember a thing, love.”

His mouth found her nipple, tongue swiping around it. Then, he bit down, hard, and Hermione screamed. 

Then, tears really did well up into her eyes. 

He groaned as he sucked on her breast. She could feel his stiff cock pressing against her thigh through his trousers. “Couldn’t let him be the only one to taste your blood. I was jealous of that, I’ll admit.”

Suddenly, his weight lifted from her body as he was ripped away by a mass of darkness. 

Hermione gasped, rolling over onto her stomach to leverage her weight onto her knees. She sat up just in time to see Lord Voldemort appearing in a swirl of black shadow, smoke spilling from his body, his wand arm outstretched toward a pleading Dolohov. 

“Crucio!”

Dolohov cried out with a bloodcurdling scream. His body arched unnaturally on the floor, giving the appearance of an exorcism. His arms and legs flailed as the Dark Lord’s cruciatus ripped through his body.

Voldemort gave him no reprieve between curses. 

With each fresh cast, Dolohov writhed in agony, veins and tendons popping out everywhere, until he finally fell unconscious.

Voldemort moved forward in long strides and knelt above his limp body. He reached for his death eater’s jaw, squeezing his cheeks until his mouth fell slack.

Hermione watched as he reached into Dolohov’s mouth and gripped his tongue.

She gasped as he lifted his bone-like wand, realizing his intent. 

With a quick and precise cut, he sliced off his death eater’s tongue. 

Dolohov awoke then, with a violent scream, arms and legs thrashing, blood spurting grotesquely from his mouth. 

But Voldemort wasn’t done.

He dropped his wand and with his bare hands, eyes glowing brilliant red like iron pokers, he dug his nails into Dolohov’s eyes amid the death eater’s agonized, high-pitched screams. 

Hermione looked away, her stomach turning at the sight of so much blood. Her entire body shook with the force of her racing heart, adrenaline rocketing through her system.

The sound of the door opening reached her, with several voices exclaiming and footsteps rapidly approaching.

She took a few deep breaths before she could look back at the gruesome scene. Voldemort had moved to stand, though Dolohov had not ceased his wailing.

Voldemort dropped two eyeballs to the floor, nerves, blood vessels, and gore all attached.

Hermione felt nausea rising up from her stomach. 

Then she noticed Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius standing by the doorway in astonishment. It took Narcissa only a moment to take in the scene.

Realizing what had taken place, her face cleared, and she turned to close the door behind them. 

Narcissa approached Voldemort slowly, cautiously, but he was already pressing his wand to Dolohov’s temple. He extracted a memory, and placed it in a conjured vial.

“Should I see to the girl, your Grace?”

Voldemort looked up quickly as he corked the vial. Standing, he turned toward Hermione. His eyes were almost black with fury, their usual carnelian glow as dark as basilisk blood.

Hermione’s lips parted, her cheeks growing hot beneath the collective attention of everyone in the room. 

Voldemort’s eyes fell to her chest, and Hermione quickly looked down. Her shirt was only slightly open, buttons popped, but thankfully, she wasn’t overly exposed. Unfortunately, what drew their attention was the bright stain of blood on the expanse of fabric, just over her left breast.

Voldemort gazed at it for a long moment, so long that the room seemed to darken, lights dimming, the temperature dropping several degrees.

“My Lord?” 

He roused, finally becoming aware of their presence in the room. The lights flickered, returning to their usual brightness.

He turned his head a fraction, toward Narcissa. “Cut her binds. Heal her. Restore the wards.” He paused for a moment, then muttered, “Prepare to move her… to Chateaux Tenebris.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she murmured quietly, her eyes wide with surprise.

Lucius walked forward, kneeling beside his Lord. 

Voldemort looked down at him. “Fetch Bella to my study.”

“Of course, my Lord,” said Lucius reverently.

Voldemort’s eyes flicked back to Hermione for a moment, a muscle jumping in his jaw, and then he turned to leave. On his way out, he turned and looked back at Dolohov, who moaned and wept on the floor, his hands grappling at his empty mouth that still bled profusely. 

“Throw this wretch in the dungeons,” Voldemort hissed. Then, he left.

As Lucius left and Draco levitated Dolohov out of the room, Narcissa approached Hermione, a grave look on her face. With her wand, she severed the ropes around Hermione’s wrists and then reached for her blouse. 

Hermione winced and jerked away. 

Narcissa’s eyes lifted to meet hers, a hesitant softening within them. “This has to be attended to, Miss Granger.”

“I can heal it myself,” she said pleadingly, her teeth chattering. “If I could only have my wand back for a moment.”

Narcissa eyed her cautiously for a moment. Then, she nodded.

She called for the elf and when she appeared, Narcissa instructed her to fetch Hermione’s wand.

When Deedle returned with the wand, tears sprung into Hermione’s eyes. To see her vinewood wand again caused an unexpected rush of emotions. 

Narcissa was quiet as she handed it to her, allowing Hermione to turn aside to cast a series of healing spells.

“Dittany, Deedle,” Narcissa murmured to the elf. 

With a pop, the elf apparated away, then returned mere moments later with a silver vial of Essence of Dittany.

Narcissa’s steel-colored eyes met Hermione’s as she handed her the vial.

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” she mumbled numbly. 

Narcissa’s lips parted, but closed again. She nodded, clearing her throat.

Hermione applied the Dittany and then scourgified the blood from her pajamas. When she had finished, she reluctantly handed the wand back to Narcissa, tears streaming down her face.

“I have to take it,” Narcissa said, although Hermione knew she didn’t owe her an explanation. “But, perhaps… perhaps the Dark Lord will allow you to have it back, after you are moved.”

“Where am I being taken?”

Narcissa sucked in a deep, weary breath, answering in her delicate pronunciation, “Chateaux Tenebris. It is the Dark Lord’s estate.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “Oh.”

Narcissa gave a short nod. “Deedle will ready your things. You’ll be moved there tomorrow.”

Hermione swallowed, uncertain whether she should be happy about that, or not.

“Rest, Miss Granger.”

Narcissa turned and left, without another word.

*******

Hermione didn’t rest. She’d changed into a thin nightgown and sat in front of the fireplace for hours, contemplating the ritual, the Dark Lord’s words, the ghastly actions of Dolohov, and the grisly scene that took place after.

Much, much worse could’ve happened if Voldemort had not intervened. 

Should she be thankful?

She wasn’t. Because he was the reason she was in this predicament, trapped in this depressing pit of vipers without her wand. It was because of him that Bellatrix had it out for her, even more than she had before.

Still… he could have allowed it to happen. No one had ever stopped Greyback from raping young witches and muggles. 

No, she reminded herself. He wouldn’t let that happen, only because he perceives me as too valuable.

Because he planned to use her. It was all about power for him. Lord Voldemort didn’t possess an ounce of humanity. He would protect her until the moment when she wasn’t needed any longer.

Then, he would dispose of her as he disposed of Snape.

The fireplace was empty, but Hermione longed for the warmth of a fire. She had no wand, thus no way of lighting the flames.

With a sigh, she finally called out, “Deedle!”

She refrained from calling upon the elf as much as possible, because the elf wasn’t freed, and it grated on her sense of principle.

When Deedle popped into the room, Hermione asked if she could please start the fire. 

With a snap of her fingers, the flames roared to life. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled miserably.

The elf asked if she needed anything else, and when Hermione declined, she disapparated again with a clap. 

Hermione stared into the dancing flames, imagining that she was back in the Gryffindor common room.

A flood of memories resurfaced, of a time when Voldemort had merely been a distant threat, and not someone real and tangible. At times, when spirits were high, like the Yule ball or quidditch matches, Hermione liked to imagine that he wasn’t real, that she would wake up one morning and realize she’d been imagining it all.

Because it couldn’t really happen, could it?

An evil dark lord couldn’t really destroy their entire world, could he?

For the second time that night, tears brimmed over Hermione’s eyes. 

She’d been so naive to hope they could win.

Even with all her careful planning, her years of reading and study, everything they had sacrificed to go on the run, to hunt his horcruxes…

It hadn’t been enough.

Hermione sobbed into her knees, drawing them tightly to her chest. 

It was late, and it had been eerily quiet since Narcissa had left.

Hermione wept for a few minutes, letting the tension of the past two days melt into the puddle of her tears.

Suddenly, a cold wind blew in the room, and Hermione jumped up, backing away as a swirling black mass of shadows appeared, spilling smoke on all sides. 

As the darkness dissipated, Voldemort stood in the center of her room amid the shadows. He turned and fixed his gaze upon Hermione. 

The room grew colder, causing Hermione’s skin to prickle. She hurriedly wiped at the tears staining her cheeks. 

He stalked closer, coming to stand between Hermione and the fireplace. He was silhouetted like a shadow against the flames, looking every bit like the devil himself, come to drag her to hell.

“Perhaps I am,” he hissed in his particular cadence, so exact and measured. 

His eyes flicked over her, as if taking stock. When his gaze met hers once more, he continued, “Narcissa tells me that you healed yourself.”

Hermione blinked, feeling suddenly self-conscious, although she didn’t exactly know why. She nodded without a word.

He stepped closer, lifting his wand. She stiffened, but he merely dragged the top of her nightgown lower, revealing the scar. 

The muscles in his jaw rippled. After a moment, his eyes flicked back to hers. “Lower the straps.”

Her eyes widened, mouth falling open. “No,” she said sternly. 

His eyes narrowed, and he lifted his hand, but she jerked away before he could touch her. 

“Do not pretend to be concerned,” she snapped venomously. “You’re the reason all of this is happening. You left me here without my wand. I don’t need your help.”

His expression was like stone, hard and unyielding. “You will have your wand, mudblood.”

“Thank Godric!” she laughed, tears threatening to spill over again. “What are you all afraid of? It’s not like I could ever win in a duel against you, or even any of your death eaters, for that matter.” 

“Not yet,” he said icily.

Hermione scoffed, so much anger and hatred and white hot rage bubbling out of her that she barely cared what happened to her at that moment. She turned her back on him and walked to the window, gazing out over the camp behind.

Silence ensued.

A few minutes went by, and she’d almost begun to hope that he had given up and left, but she had no such luck. She suddenly saw his reflection appear behind her in the window panes. Their eyes met in the glass. 

“I command you to face me, mudblood.”

She was forced to comply, and when she had turned to face him, she stared at him with all of the loathing she possessed, her eyes shooting daggers at him.

But he was calm, unmoved. He reached for her shoulder but she shrunk back.

“Do not touch me.”

His gaze locked with hers, and she could tell that he was seething.

But instead of reacting in anger, he lifted his wand and waved it.

The straps of her nightgown slid off her shoulders, baring her skin.

With another wave of his wand, the nightgown fell away, exposing her breasts, the scar, the healing wound left by Dolohov’s bite.

Hermione’s heart beat violently in her chest as she watched him, so nervous she thought she might faint.

He blinked, a rarity for him, and then tilted his head, examining her spellwork.

After a moment, he dragged his wand along the puckered pink scar. 

Unable to resist her curiosity, Hermione glanced down to see the scar disappearing, bit by bit.

The air surrounding Voldemort was cold and caused her nipples to grow taut. Hermione clenched her teeth at the absurdity of it all, dying for the moment to end.

“You are more skilled in healing than I anticipated,” he said softly. “But still, imperfect.” 

With a flick of his wand, she felt warmth spreading through her breast and then a pleasant tingling as the battered flesh returned to normal. 

She couldn’t help but be impressed by the ease with which he healed. 

How was someone so destructive able to fix things with such sophistication?

He watched as she quickly slid her straps back onto her shoulders.

Then their eyes met.

His were cold and tacit, like shuttered windows.

“Rest,” he said as backed away. “No one is allowed in this room tonight.”

He was just about to apparate away when she spat out, “Fear will keep them in line, hmm?”

The shadows rising around him fell away as he whipped around to face her once more. 

His gaze swam with crimson fire as he stalked across the room, looming over her as rage simmered behind his eyes. She could feel his magic channeling his rage, snapping and sizzling around them like live wires.

She should have been afraid, but she found herself breathless, a bit exhilarated to have elicited a reaction from the Dark Lord.

She’d insulted his competency, insinuating that he had failed to maintain his artfully cultivated control over his followers.

His eyes narrowed, roving her face, halting on her eyes, her mouth.

A muscled in his jaw jumped, and he reached out to grip her throat roughly, jerking her against him as he pressed his face into her hair, his breath tickling the shell of her ear as he hissed, “Careful, mudblood, or I will take your tongue too.”

Then, in an explosion of shadow, he disappeared.

*********

Hermione did rest. It had been nearly thirty-six hours since she’d slept, and sleep came crashing down like a wave intent on drowning.

It was a fitful and disturbed rest, filled with sporadic dreams, bits and pieces of nightmares, and the feeling of sharp talons digging into her skin, glowing red eyes watching her innermost thoughts, the places in her mind she couldn’t hide. They examined her childhood, her deepest insecurities, the dark thoughts she never wished a single soul to know.

She felt him, his insatiable interest in her that manifested as violent curiosity, an obsession that seemingly couldn’t be satisfied. He devoured her in sleep like a sea monster swallowing ships.

She felt much the same as she’d felt when wearing the locket all those months.

When she woke the following morning, she realized it was the measure of Voldemort’s magic she’d consumed in his blood.

It lived within her and connected her to him in a visceral way.

She hoped that the bit of her magic he’d consumed tortured him the way his tortured her.

Chapter Text

Hermione lay on her side beneath the pale billows of a lofty canopy bed set in the

center of an oversized nursery. Her eyes were scanning the ivory beams of the high ceiling of her childhood bedroom, running down the baby blue walls, counting the moonlit ridges of the costly crown molding. The dimly lit room glistened like the inside of an icicle, ice blue and pearl gray. She seemed to be trapped in a lucid dream, because she knew she was dreaming, and her body felt small, smaller than it had been in years. She held out her hand, her tiny fingers outlined by moonlight.

She gazed for a moment at the large window in the center of the room, noticing that its doors

had been pushed open, leaving the black starry sky bare, allowing in a light breeze which rustled the voluminous canopy, creating a breath of sound in the hush. 

“Mudblood?” She heard a young voice whisper. It had come from the opposite side of the bed.

She turned her childlike body over in the bed to find a boy, somewhat older than her, squatting on the floor, his head visible above the bed’s edge.

“Are you awake?” came his muted whisper.

“Yes.”

Black eyes gazed back at her, framed by thick, dark lashes. Hermione blinked, shocked by the beauty of the boy, his inky black hair curling over his forehead and pale skin making his features more pronounced. 

He sat still for a minute, blinking at her. Then he rose slowly. When he spoke his voice was  calm, but in the moonlight, his eyes glinted with anticipation as he held out his arm to her.

“Come. Come, look.”

Hermione sat up in bed and watched as he moved toward the french doors that led out onto the balcony. Her brow furrowed, because she didn’t remember having a balcony in her parent’s home, though the bedroom seemed to be the same, down to the tiniest details. She even caught sight of her old rocking horse, Benjamin, in the corner of the room.

He turned and faced her, his face both guarded and eager.

She followed him to the doorway and out onto the balcony. He was older than she was, and much taller, so he knelt by her side, his arm wrapped snugly around her nightgown-clad waist.

“Do you see them?”

“See what?” She leaned further over the stone railing as he helped to lift her higher. She peered down the three stories from the bedroom, where there were gardens, and then beyond, countless acres of trees and fields.

Hermione realized that she was staring at the back of Malfoy Manor, but there were no werewolves, no death eaters, nor snarling, dangerous creatures.

No dead muggles in cages.

His long white arm stretched out to wave over the scene. His eyes caught hers intensely, never  wavering. “The fairy fires.”

And of a sudden she saw them, a thousand flickering lights scattered throughout the fields, like  stars that burned brighter, and seemed to laugh. When it came, his whisper was soft against her ear, his sweet, real breath tickling her pale cheek. “They’re dancing for you.” The sentence was a caress, and his straight, leonine nose touched her hair.

She turned in the crook of his arm. “Who?”

“The little folk.” It didn’t surprise her that he did not smile. He seemed to smile through his words, and through his eyes. Her brows knit as she examined his face, wondering how she knew him, but she did not know him, this mysterious boy.

She felt as though she did.

Silence lingered. Time passed slowly as she stood next to him, listening carefully to the soft, ethereal cadences of the songs sung by the fairies, seraphic melodies of worlds that could not exist here, not in this house, not in the Manor, not with anyone but this strange boy.

The laughter and glitter finally settled themselves upon her eyes, painting sleep across their  lavender lids.

“Who are you?”

“Mmm?” He still stared at the dots of flame flecking the landscape, but she knew she had his  full attentiveness.

“What’s your name?” Her voice sounded tiny and high pitched, youthful.

“I don’t exist. I don’t have a name anymore.”

The fires began to go out, one by one, the tiny dancing fae disappearing into the earth, then reappearing moments later. 

“Where do they go?”

He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Into the heart.”

“The heart?” she whispered.

He looked at her, his pale features a centimeter from her own. “Well, the heart of the earth, or

the heart of your eyelash, or that mirror over there.” She thought he smiled, but she couldn’t be sure. “Or your rocking horse, Benjamin. Or your very dreams.”

“I can dream of them?”

He watched her closely. “Are you not dreaming now?”

She thought for a moment. “No,” she finally answered. “I don’t think I am. I think… I would like you to show them to me like this, again sometime.”

He reached out and brushed a curl away from her face. “They are shy. They only dance for the prettiest, saddest children. I know they would visit

your dreams again, if you wish for it.” They listened to the voices of the fae as their chants slowed, their songs becoming mournful, listless. “They used to visit me as a young boy.”

“They never visited me.” Her whisper, much like her voice, was strained and grainy and rich.

He blinked with those long lashes of his, the starlight and the fairy flames dancing over his features. “Perhaps you weren’t sad enough.”

More time passed with both beings silent. Soon the fires began to dim.

“Are they going back to the heart?”

He stood. “Yes, little one.” She didn’t notice him calling her this. He didn’t seem to do it in a  patronizing way, but in a way that merely stated the fact that she was short, and he was tall. “And now you must go back to the heart… of your bed.”

He had lifted her into his arms and she drifted slowly towards the billows, watching the  round, high ceiling with its crown molding passing above, and she met his inky, liquid eyes with a yawn.

She ran her fingers absently through his hair, one last gesture, before he set her down on the  soft coverlet. She watched him, the shadowy figure of a boy as he set a record upon her old record player, one her father had given her for Christmas as a child. She’d had a hard time making friends at her muggle primary school, and the music of her records seemed to soothe her.

She watched the boy disappear into the shadows of her bedroom as she was lulled into a peaceful and unscarred sleep by Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

**************

Pansy stared at Draco from across the table. 

He glared back, his lip curled upward in a snarl of disdain.

She smirked, winking at him as she sipped the white wine that had been artfully paired with her fish in a lemon caper cream sauce.

The Dark Lord sometimes held these luncheons in the drawing room, perhaps once a month. Only for his inner circle, of course, but this time, Pansy had been invited. 

Draco made no secret of his dislike for Pansy’s presence there.

Pansy didn’t care what Draco thought. She stopped caring when she realized he’d never cared what she thought.

She’d just been a cunt for him to fuck, and it still stung, to this day.

Although, he did care about her. She knew that he did. Just not that way. Not in the way that she wanted him to. 

It made his concern for her well-being that much more unbearable. It made her want to get into trouble. Do something dangerous .

She glanced toward the head of the table.

Bellatrix Lestrange sat at the Dark Lord’s right hand, pale and looking a bit battered, her lips colorless and her eyes crazed. She stared at the table, hands planted on either side of her plate, not eating.

Everyone was whispering about the events of the past forty-eight hours.

The duel between Granger and Lord Voldemort. Their bargain, the blood pact.

No one dared to mention the obvious attraction that seemed to be growing between the mudblood and their Lord. Pansy was afraid to even think about it, lest he read her thoughts. Though Draco had coached her on how she might avoid the Dark Lord’s unique legilimency, she was still paranoid.

Dolohov had gone and done something very, very stupid. Even Pansy, who knew how mad Antonin was, was shocked by the level of his brazenness. Particularly because he’d always been so unerringly loyal to their Lord.

Pansy wrinkled her nose. What was so bloody irresistible about that frizzy-haired swot anyway?

She didn’t get it. But then, men’s primal natures had always confused her.

She always known just how to give them what they wanted, but rarely got what she wanted.

After ending her short-lived relationship with Zabini, she recently contemplated trying her luck with witches.

“Contact Rita Skeeter,” said the Dark Lord, commanding the attention of all those at the table. “I require a personal meeting with her. There will be changes to her instructions, going forward. A new strategy.”

“Certainly, your Grace,” said Narcissa softly.

The Dark Lord never ate with them. He always took his meals alone, according to Draco. His father had told him it had always been that way, even during the first war. All that sat before him now, was a cup of black coffee, half consumed.

The Dark Lord turned his terrifying gaze upon Lucius. “What news from our spy?”

Lucius cleared his throat, then answered respectfully, “The Order all seem to be in quite the tizzy over the capture of the prisoners. They spent the past two days interrogating their inner circle with the use of veritaserum. Nothing was revealed, of course. Although there is a bit of information that you might find interesting, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord cocked a brow, and at that moment, Nagini slid up and over his shoulder, leveling her beady gaze at Lucius.

Lucius swallowed thickly, then continued, “According to our informant, the Order has attempted to smuggle a Soul Healer into Britain, from Zambia. He is a skilled magical surgeon specializing in the restoration of the soul. They hope he will be able to examine Potter’s soul to see what damage may have been done by your… procedure.”

The Dark Lord stared at Lucius unblinkingly for several moments. “Is this surgeon in the country?”

“It appears so. They managed an illegal portkey. I assume he is at the Order’s headquarters currently.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes flicked down to the table, and he appeared to fall deep into thought. 

Pansy sipped her wine, watching the exchange with interest.

Draco shook his head a fraction, a warning for her to stay out of it. She flipped him the bird when she thought no one was watching.

“Have you the name of this healer?” asked the Dark Lord. 

“I will discover it.”

“Find him. Bring him to me.”

Lucius blinked, surprised. “That may be a bit difficult-“

The Dark Lord waved his wand, cutting Malfoy off mid-sentence. “You will work with the International Portkey Office to trace the origin of their illegal portkey. When it activates, you will intercept them and bring him here as a hostage.”

“Of course, my Lord. I will see that it is done.”

The Dark Lord straightened, placing his hands on either side of his massive chair as Nagini wound herself around it. 

“Now,” he hissed, his tone commanding. “You will find that our ranks are changing. I have been contemplating a reallocation of power and a shifting of the dynamic in our chain of command. I have taken on a new protégé. Draco Malfoy will be trained to take his place as my General, my second-in-command.”

There were gasps around the table. Then, a hush fell as all eyes turned to Bellatrix.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the table, humiliation and regret etched across her face.

Pansy was shocked. Everyone had already accepted, Draco included, that there was very little Bellatrix could do to earn the Dark Lord’s disfavor.

She’d been on the receiving end of his wrath many times for perceived failures or even slight disobedience, the kinds of things that would earn any other death eater the killing curse, but Bellatrix usually came away mostly unscathed. At most, she would be tortured, but the nutty witch enjoyed the Dark Lord’s cruciatus.

But this time… clearly she had found the end of his patience.

It had something to do with Granger.

Pansy wondered if the mudblood cunt had spread her legs for the Dark Lord in exchange for her life.

Pansy could hardly believe Lord Voldemort would be interested in poking a mudblood, as much as he seemed to hate them, but again, Pansy had never understood wizards and what made their cocks twitch.

She sighed, reaching for her glass of wine. As she sipped it, she mused that she couldn’t really blame Granger, if she had done it. Pansy would have done the same thing, if she found herself in the same situation. If it was fuck or be killed, Pansy would rather be fucked.

She looked back at the Dark Lord. If she was being honest with herself, she found him slightly attractive, in a disturbing, taboo sort of way.

He was tall, at least. Had razor sharp cheekbones. Definitely looked like he might have been handsome, once. His shoulders were broad, the forearms that showed just past his sleeves were muscular, and his hands…

His hands were large, with long, adept fingers. If he’d just trim those blasted nails…

Also, what was with the missing nose? It had always irked her that he seemed to be able to grow back people’s body parts and dissolve scars like it was nothing, but wouldn’t grow his own nose back.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord’s eyes turned on her, narrowing viciously. 

Pansy’s inhaled sharply and immediately looked away, cursing her overactive mind. 

She swallowed nervously, then glanced at Draco, who sat staring at her, shaking his head.

She was sure he could tell that her mind had wandered. It happened often enough when they were dating. Because his constant whinging was boring-

“Miss Parkinson will train with Rowle and the rest of our new recruits,” said the Dark Lord, eying her coldly. “We have three more inductions this week.”

The doors to the drawing room then opened, and three men walked through the door. 

Pansy’s heart sunk to the floor.

She flicked her eyes to Draco, and caught him gaping.

Theodore Nott walked into the room and took a seat at the table.

Pansy resisted the urge to jump up and shove him right back out the door.

If Draco wanted to protect her , then she wanted to protect Theo.

He’d been her closest friend, always.

She closed her eyes, weeping internally. One thing  Theo had always said to her, “You’ll never see me take the mark.”

She’d tell him, “Never say never, Theo. You’ll jinx yourself.”

She thought she might cry.

The other two men sauntered in, all long hair and rough leathers.

Werewolves. Ronan and Kieran Blackthorn. 

Two brothers, both wizards from Ireland, turned by Greyback.

Now that Fenrir was dead, they’d risen to Alpha and Beta of his pack.

Pansy wrinkled her nose as they stood nearby. She flicked her eyes over Ronan, taking in his straight, shoulder-length black hair, blue eyes, and sharp features.

The contrast between him and Greyback was night and day. Greyback had been bulky and beast-like, whereas Blackthorn was just as tall, but leaner, more human than wolf. Though he still had a wild presence about him, he was clean-cut, his hair pulled back at his nape, tattoos scattered down his arms.

Pansy blinked as she took him in, her face twisted with dislike. When her eyes wandered back to his face, he caught her staring. He cocked his head, and a slow grin curved his lips.

She narrowed her eyes and made a fake gagging gesture.

Draco rolled his eyes.

The Dark Lord spoke again. “Our two wolf friends will be the first inductees of their kind.”

Again, there were gasps around the table.

“ Werewolves ?” exclaimed Nott. “Bearing the mark?”

Red eyes cut over to Nott, cold and unforgiving. “You forget, that while they are infected with lycanthropy, they are also magical, and loyal to our cause.” 

Ronan’s eyes met the Dark Lord’s. He gave a nod of agreement.

“But… both of them?” asked Travers.

The Dark Lord’s eyes slid to Travers. “Are you questioning me?”

Travers shook his head. “No… no, of course not.”

Pansy had almost failed to notice Kieran, so formidable was the presence of his brother.

They looked almost nothing alike.

Ronan had all the physical traits of the Black Irish, coal-black hair, blue eyes, pale skin. 

Kieran was lankier, darker skinned, with curly, light brown hair that was cut close to his head. His eyes were an odd green color, almost golden, like harvest moons. Their ethnicities were obviously vastly different, making Pansy wonder if they were merely half-brothers, or perhaps, not blood at all.

“Today, we will be releasing the prisoners back to the Order. However, we will be extracting valuable information, before we do so. You, wolves,” said the Dark Lord, his gaze aimed at the brothers, “You will accompany Rowle, Nott, and Malfoy to the dungeons to see my instructions carried out.” His eyes flicked to Pansy. “Take Parkinson with you. It’s time she make herself useful.” He looked to Narcissa. “Give her a room at the Manor. She won’t be returning home anytime soon.”

********

Hermione awoke to the sound of thunder. She’d slept through the night and into the next afternoon, and no one had disturbed her slumber. Though her sleep had been fitful for part of the night, her last dream had been oddly comforting, albeit somewhat confusing.

She rose from the viridian silk sheets, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet falling onto the costly Persian rug.

She walked to the window to find dark clouds in the firmament, rain beginning to smatter against the glass panes.

Hermione thought of the previous night, her mind reeling with confusing thoughts.

There were a few things she knew for certain.

Voldemort had a spy, perhaps multiple, in the Order.

Voldemort was seemingly winning. It certainly looked that way to the rest of the world. The Order was probably demoralized… Even Luna and Fleur had seemed discouraged.

Voldemort… he seemed interested in Hermione. Has she imagined that he was intrigued with her, beyond merely his plans for taking over Britain? Beyond what he could use her for?

No. That couldn’t be. Everything Voldemort did was tied to his lust for power. He was only capable of manipulation, deceit, and control.

But… if Voldemort was attracted to Hermione, if he saw her as someone with potential, then perhaps she could leverage that. 

Godric knows, I need leverage, she thought wryly.

His words rang in her ears, repeating over and over in her mind.

Perhaps, that is where you come in, golden girl.

I have realized that I can no longer do it alone.

I would drink other things from you besides your blood. I wonder if you taste as delicious as you smell?

Hermione shivered. The thought of Voldemort as a sexual being was incredibly distasteful, though Hermione couldn’t help but be somewhat pleased that he saw potential in her.

It’s not like I could ever win in a duel against you, or even any of your death eaters, for that matter.

Not yet. 

He might be a monster, but he was still currently the most powerful Wizard in the world, wasn’t he? It was still a compliment, particularly because he saw potential in her despite her blood status.

She wondered what his followers thought of that. 

Would they revolt against him? 

Bellatrix already hated Hermione, and clearly she despised her even more now that she’d caught Voldemort’s attention.

Could Hermione… leverage his favoritism? She hated the thought of treating him with any sort of deference or familiarity. She wanted to spit in his face and make him angry. To show him how much she hated him for ruining her life, for ruining Harry’s, for killing Lavender, Fred, Remus, Tonks, and so many others it was impossible to keep count.

But anger would get her nowhere.

Hermione swallowed, gazing at the blur of rain upon the landscape. If she positioned herself properly, perhaps she could help her friends if things went south.

If Voldemort won.

And if she was clever enough, she could find a way around the blood pact. A way to help the Order, without helping them.

Maybe there were others amongst Voldemort’s ranks who could be swayed. Perhaps there were those who also planned to play both sides, in order to prepare for either outcome. Hermione could utilize those alliances.

Maybe, just maybe… she could earn Voldemort’s trust.

She sighed heavily. After all, things were not going as planned. She would need to be cunning and practical. She’d spent the past few weeks feeling helpless, depressed, even hopeless. The lack of reading material or really anything to occupy her mind had not helped her mental and emotional state.

But she was done feeling sorry for herself.

She was sick and tired of inaction.

Hermione knew it was time to put her brilliant mind to the task and figure a way out of the mess she’d found herself in… even if the way out was to go in deeper, delving into the serpent’s den.

She would be moved to Voldemort’s personal residence today. Hermione felt a nervous fluttering, a simmering anxiety about it. Would she be safe there? What would she experience when she was all alone with Voldemort?

She felt unsettled, apprehensive. What would his home be like? And where did he even get his own home?

“It is the Dark Lord’s estate.”

Estate… Hermione was surprised, but one thing was for certain…

She would be in the perfect position to learn more about Lord Voldemort than anyone else ever had.

Hermione took a deep breath, nodded to herself, resolving to get straight to work. 

She crossed the room, barefooted and still in her silk nightgown, determined to dress accordingly.

She opened the ornate mahogany doors of an antique armoire. She no longer possessed any of her own clothing, but that was no matter. She would choose something that would garner Voldemort’s attention. Something that would stun everyone.

She didn’t want to come across as a helpless kid who needed Voldemort’s protection. After all, she had helped to destroy Voldemort’s own horcruxes. She’d saved Harry and Ron’s arses more times than she could count. She was not helpless.

She might be in a difficult position at the moment, but she was determined find a way to work it in her favor.

She wrinkled her nose as she rifled through the armoire, put off by the fancy robes supplied by Narcissa. 

She really would prefer a simple sweater and a pair of muggle jeans, but besides not having those items, she didn’t want to draw more attention to her blood status than necessary.

Is that what Voldemort had done? Redirected their attention away from the fact that his father had been a muggle? 

She huffed in frustration as she tossed several gaudy, expensive sets of robes and gowns on the bed. 

She needed something that still allowed her to feel like herself. 

Finally, she spotted something. A simple, form fitting lavender dress sewn of crushed velvet, with a v-shaped neckline and thin spaghetti straps. 

Hermione pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it aside before she slipped the dress on. It fell easily over her form and dropped to knee-length, fitting her body perfectly.

Hermione smiled at her reflection, then turned to check the armoire for something to pair with it. Behind where the dress had hung, there was a wizarding robe made for the summer season. Its maroon velvet was smooth and fine, with long sleeves of breezy lavender chiffon that cuffed around the wrists, bearing intricate gold buttons. Hermione slipped her arms through, opting to wear it open, although it could be worn belted tightly around her waist.

As an added surprise, she noticed that there were deep pockets in the robes, which would be perfect for keeping her wand, if she ever got it back. 

She winced as she looked down and saw the red ink of the dark mark showing through the chiffon sleeves. She sighed, knowing there was no help for it. It was there forever, a part of her now.

She swiped a plum lipstick onto her lips and spritzed a bit of perfume, the only one that she liked from the silver tray of vials set out in her dressing room, one with notes of lavender, vanilla, sea salt, and a hint of black tea. 

Lastly, she slipped a pair of heeled sandals onto her feet and sat down, awaiting the little elf who usually showed up to bring her lunch.

********

Pansy watched as Rowle and Travers administered veritaserum, and proceeded to ask a series of probing questions. 

Once the questions had been answered, they drew their wands and performed legilimency upon Luna and Fleur.

“You said you were letting us go!” snapped Fleur indignantly. 

“We are,” said Rowle with a leer, and Pansy imagined his big dumb brain was already succumbing to her half-Veela charms. “But only after we take what we want.”

Pansy rolled her eyes.

Death Eaters loved to play with their food. 

The Blackthorn brothers stood by, watching in silence. Pansy eyed them disdainfully.

Her father had always hated werewolves, as did most pureblood families. 

Dangerous, unruly creatures , her father had always said. Shouldn’t even be classified as human. 

Beasts that belong out of doors, not in wizarding establishments.

Pansy’s eyes trailed over them. They were an odd pair. No one would think of them as brothers by looking at them… but they looked human to Pansy.

Greyback hadn’t looked human. But these men did. 

She noticed Kieran’s wide hazel eyes fixed on Lovegood. They hadn’t budged during the entire interaction.

As she was observing his brother, Ronan cut his eyes over at her.

Pansy at first tried to ignore him, but after a few moments, his stare became uncomfortable.

“Can I help you?” she hissed snarkily.

He continued to stare at her, but his lips curved upward in a mysterious smile.

When he didn’t respond, she scowled, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Wolves,” she sneered dismissively. “Your abhorrent wet dog smell is pungent.”

He slowly sidled closer to her. “I am sorry to offend your sensitive nose, Miss Parkinson.”

“Then why are you moving closer ?”

He tilted his head toward her, blue eyes crystalline and mesmerizing. 

Pansy faked a gag.

“My nose is much more attuned than yours,” he muttered softly, smiling. “Since I am a dog, as you say. I can sense the finer notes of your perfume, for example.”

“Oh, do try to impress me by telling me what’s in my perfume, as if I don’t already know.”

He smirked. “Let’s see… Jasmin sambac… Turkish rose… Black cherry and… Tonka bean? And vanilla, perhaps.”

She examined her nails, appearing bored. “Wrong. It’s almond, not vanilla. Now, let me guess yours.” She appeared to be thinking. “Mud. Grass. Raw meat. Dead leaves. Sweat. Let’s see… one other thing… oh, yes, other dogs. Don’t you all sleep together in a dog pile?”

His eyes narrowed, but he’d steadily moved closer. Draco’s head turned, keeping a watch over them. 

“Are you curious about my sleeping habits? You’re welcome to find out for yourself.”

She gave a wry smile, her eyebrows lifted dubiously. “Oh, joy, I’ve been invited to sleep in a kennel for the night.”

He flicked his eyes over her. “You might enjoy yourself.”

Pansy cocked her head, a mocking smile playing on her lips. “I’m sure you’re quite good at humping things, but I’m not interested.”

Ronan chuckled, amused.

“I think we have all that we need,” said Travers as he pulled out of Luna’s mind. He nodded to the Kieran, jerking Luna up by her arm. “Put her in binds.”

“Do not touch me,” Fleur said to Rowle. He leaned in, pretending to lick her face, and she turned quickly, hauling back to slap him. 

He caught her wrist. “Oh ho! Feisty. Let me ask you this, can the curse breaker handle you? Because I surely can.”

“We are to let them go. Unharmed,” said Draco sternly.

“But of course… General,” he said with a pointed look at Draco.

Draco looked at him coolly. 

Pansy didn’t recognize Draco of late. He was no longer the whiny boy she’d known since they were children.

In some ways, she missed that version of him, because she was totally unfamiliar with the Draco who was before her now. 

Pansy’s eyes slid to Kieran, who had bound Luna, his hands gently resting on her shoulders. Luna turned to look at him, and he cut his eyes at her briefly.

Oh, brother, Pansy thought. Could they be more obvious?

She’d never had that sort of instant attraction to someone. Well, she had, but it had never been returned.

She always wanted someone who didn’t want her back.

As the men shoved the prisoners forward, leading them from the cell, Ronan leaned over and sniffed, to Pansy’s utter disgust.

He grinned, winked, then murmured, “You’re right. It is almond.”

“I’m always right, dog,” came her haughty reply as she marched forward, leaving him gazing after.

***********

There was a knock at Hermione’s bedroom door.

When she opened it, Narcissa stood in the hallway outside.

Narcissa took in Hermione’s appearance and nodded, seeming somewhat pleased. “You will be moved to the Dark Lord’s estate, now. Come.”

“Wait,” Hermione said, halting in the doorway. “My friends… where are they?”

Narcissa turned back around. “They’ve been released. Only this morning, actually.”

Hermione blinked, then nodded, relief washing over her, causing her muscles to unwind a bit.

“Come, Miss Granger.”

Hermione followed her from the bedroom, leaving her not-so-safe haven behind.

************

A few of you were asking how I envision Voldemort, and this topic of discussion also came up in a discord group read for this fic, and this sketch was born! Follow the artist @crymsy on Tiktok and Instagram, she’s so talented!)

Insta: https://www.instagram.com/crymsy?igsh=aWtiZ256Z3VoZGtm

Tiktok:

https://www.tiktok.com/@crymsy?_t=8ndK5lDJCYQ&_r=1

Chapter Text

Ronan found his brother sitting by the fire, shirtless, wearing only a pair of leather pants and his dragonhide boots. He had his knife out, a sinister looking blade, and was using it to carve slices off an apple. 

The rest of the pack were sleeping. They were to go out hunting tomorrow with the rest of the snatchers. 

“I found out about the blonde bird you’ve got your eye on,” said Ronan as he sat by the fire, opposite his brother.

Kieran looked up, his moon-like eyes sparking with interest.

“Name is Lovegood. She’s an Order member. Got a boyfriend, as well.”

Kieran was silent, as usual.

Ronan sniffed, then leaned back, reclining on his elbow. “They caught her a while back. Before the battle. Had her imprisoned in the cellar here.”

Kieran blinked, his jaw muscles rippling with tension.

“She got away. Some house elf I think they said. Potter and his lot. Then they caught her again, but the Dark Lord struck a deal with Potter’s mudblood. Now she’s free.”

Kieran lifted the knife, popping a bit of apple into his mouth. He chewed while he stared at his brother.

Ronan took a deep breath. “I’ve never seen you this interested in a witch before, brother.”

“She’s my mate.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Ronan’s eyebrows knit. “She’s on the wrong side.”

Kieran said nothing.

“You can’t be cuntstruck by the enemy, Kieran.”

His brother snorted. “Yeah? Why are you flirting with pureblood witches? You hate purebloods.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “Stay out of it.”

Kieran’s nostrils flared, and he sat forward. “Why are we on their side? Greyback’s gone. We can do what we like.”

“We are on the Dark Lord’s side, because he is on ours.”

“The purebloods aren’t.”

“They aren’t in control.”

Kieran swallowed his apple and leveled his brother with an intense stare. “Some of them are.”

Ronan shook his head slowly. “Not as much as you think. Trust me on this, brother.”

“The Order-“

“The Order isn’t winning… and they won’t win. You will listen to me.”

Kieran looked away in irritation. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Ronan eyed his brother with bladelike blue eyes. “Think of it, brother. A colony, hidden away from society. Just like theirs. But for our kind.”

Kieran’s eyes reflected the flames of the bonfire.

“… and we will lead it. The Dark Lord has promised us this.”

Kieran smirked, shaking his head. “He promised the purebloods they would rule over muggleborns and muggles alike. Now look at him.” He tossed another piece of apple in his mouth. “He’s fucking one.”

Ronan gave his brother an exasperated look. “We don’t know that.”

“That’s what everyone’s saying.”

“They say we all fuck each other. But you know that isn’t true.”

Kieran smirked. “Not entirely true.”

Ronan rolled his eyes as he stood, pointing a finger at his brother. “That was one time… and he’s dead now.” As he walked past his brother, he laid a hand on the latter’s shoulder, leaning down until his voice couldn’t be heard throughout the camp. “Because I stuck a blade through his heart.”

***********

“The pensieve you requested has been removed from the Headmaster’s office, my Lord. It will be transported to your abode posthaste.”

“Thank you, Rookwood,” said the Dark Lord as he stroked Nagini’s head. “You may go.”

Augustus left the room and Runcorn approached, flanked by Travers and Rowle.

“Did you discover anything of use in your interrogation?” hissed the Dark Lord.

Runcorn gave a curt nod. “We have extracted memories for your perusal. They will be transported along with the pensieve. Though… there is something of interest, something the Order has tried to keep quiet.”

The Dark Lord cocked a brow. “Continue.”

“The Lovegood girl… she has presented… as a seer.”

Voldemort stared at him, unblinking. “And you let her go?”

“Your instructions were to extract information and then release the captives to Dawlish.”

Nagini slid up the Dark Lord’s chest, then slithered behind his shoulders and wrapped her head around the back of his neck, gazing at Runcorn with beady eyes. 

“How exactly did she present?” the Dark Lord asked, his syllables short and cutting. 

“There was a prophecy,” Runcorn replied.

The Dark Lord took a breath through nostril-like slits. “This prophecy… who has heard it?”

Rowle cleared his throat and spoke up. “Only myself, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord’s head cocked preternaturally, not unlike Nagini’s. Then, he stood, and approached Rowle, lifting his wand.

“ Legilimens .”

**************

Narcissa knocked upon the massive double doors, with Hermione in tow behind her.

The doors opened on their own, admitting them both into the room.

Hermione glanced around as she entered, finding Voldemort sitting upon his throne, with several death eaters surrounding him.

Anxiety spiked in her veins for a moment, sending her pulse speeding, until she realized that neither Dolohov nor Bellatrix were in the room.

Voldemort’s eyes fixed on her as soon as she entered, following her as she trailed behind Narcissa to approach the throne.

Hermione met his gaze boldly as she came to stand beside Narcissa.

“Here she is,” he announced. “My prize.” 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, but she stayed wisely silent. 

His gaze slid downward, assessing her appearance, and blazed with heat as they returned to meet hers.

“A mudblood dressed up as pureblood royalty.” His lips turned up slightly, in that disarming smirk so typical of him. “The attire suits you, my dear.”

Hermione heard a few coughs, the shifting of feet coming from behind her.

Voldemort stood, and the death eaters surrounding him immediately fell to their knees.

All except Hermione and Narcissa.

He approached Hermione and lifted his hand to drag a sharp nail along her cheek. “You look like a formidable witch, but the outfit leaves much to the imagination.” 

“Is that what you spend your time imagining?” she asked saucily. 

He didn’t respond aloud, but he answered in her mind.

If you are asking whether I have imagined you naked, my dear mudblood, then the answer is yes.

Hermione’s heart raced wildly, and she could feel his sinister magic teasing hers. It made her shiver.

Determined not to let him get the upper hand, she thought her reply, knowing that he could read her mind.

I would assume you’d be preoccupied with thoughts of your destroyed horcruxes… rather than thinking about someone you consider to be beneath you.

His lips curled into a frightening grin.

I will have you beneath me, mudblood.

Hermione blinked, her lips parting in shock as she caught his meaning.

He laughed. The sound was hellish, echoing starkly in the quiet room.

Hermione was painfully aware of the eyes upon them. She suddenly wished she had seen Draco again, because she had things she wanted to ask him, and she doubted she would see Draco anymore, now that she was moving to the Dark Lord’s home.

He stood back, extending his hand to her. 

“Come,” he said softly, his voice hypnotic.

And she went, compelled by the pact. Hermione didn’t have time to contemplate how exactly the magic of the pact worked, because she was placing her hand in his, his cold skin and sharp fingernails sending a shudder down her spine. 

There were several gasps as she laid her hand in his, as if his followers couldn’t believe she was allowed to touch their Lord.

It suddenly struck Hermione that she hadn’t actually seen anyone touch him, not in the weeks she had been at the Manor.

Rather than initiating sidelong apparation, as Hermione had expected, he used her hand to jerk her closer, wrapping his arm around her waist like a band of iron.

She gasped as she was pressed to his chest, finding him all hard muscle, with his wickedly delicious scent bathing her.

Rather than look at him, she curled up against his chest, hiding her face from those looking on as her eyes fluttered shut. In a burst of black smoke, Hermione felt a familiar tugging in the pit of her stomach and a rising nausea. Shadows engulfed them, and they spun together in a whirling vortex until they at last arrived somewhere else entirely.

Hermione attempted to quickly extricate herself when her feet touched upon something solid, but he refused to release her. He was unusually strong, his arm like a shackle around her waist, though she shoved against him. 

Finally, she gave up, becoming still as she grit her teeth. She felt raindrops coating her skin, one by one.

She heard an evil chuckle from the back of his throat, then he released her. The suddenness of it surprised her, so she nearly stumbled to the ground.

Rocks. They stood upon a rocky path. 

Hermione whirled around to find a massive iron gate towering before them, and beyond, a mammoth gothic mansion. The scent of saltwater hung in the air, a balmy breeze caressing her skin. She could hear the sound of ocean waves, and when she turned, she saw in the distance, below the edge of the rocky crags, the churning sea beneath heavy rain clouds.

Hermione’s hair was steadily being soaked. Voldemort took a step closer, then he waved his hand in what might’ve been a wand movement, if he’d been holding his wand. 

The rain stopped pelting them. She looked up, and saw that the rain was falling upon and trickling down an invisible wall, like a forcefield around them, a bubble that shielded them from the rain.

“Come, mudblood” he said again, and he gripped her arm, towing her with him as he walked. The looming gate, with its spiky points like pyres, opened silently as he approached.

It led to a stone path, lined by towering pale silver birch trees. Hermione looked up, observing the gargoyles on each corner of the mansion, and she could swear she saw one of them move, its wings flexing, its eyes following them as they walked closer. Her eyes followed the trailing vines of ivy, dead and brown, as they crawled along the side of the manse.

To the left, beyond a stone wall, lay an overgrown and long untended garden, and even further past that, what looked to be a greenhouse, with more ivy climbing its walls like a thousand serpents. 

He dragged her up the endless stone steps, and before they entered through the arching doors, he brandished his wand and spent several moments altering some sort of protective spell.

Then, he flicked his wand and the doors opened. He shoved her through unceremoniously. 

She stumbled into a vast foyer.

The first thing she noticed were the ornate winding staircases, one on either side of the foyer, with delicate statues acting as pillars and intricate spindles. The entire room was like art, so detailed were its baroque adornments and elaborate embellishments. 

Her lips parted as her eyes trailed along the costly cornices and crown molding, the mansion boasting a rococo style of architecture, until her eyes fell upon the most beautiful thing in the room: massive stained glass windows in the center of the platform, between the staircases.

Sunlight began to peek through the dark rain clouds, filtering through the glass and illuminating the scene of Christ and his sheep. Hermione almost snorted.

She turned to find him gazing at her.

“I wouldn’t take you for a religious person,” she said mockingly. “What with all the murder and torture.”

His lips stretched into a leer. “I quite like it, actually. It reminds me of the beauty of immortality.”

She scoffed. “Well, for someone of such hideous morals, you certainly do have a beautiful home. What did you do to get it? Imperius a muggle?”

“No,” he said calmly. “I killed one… along with his entire family.”

Hermione swallowed, her humor lost. “Of course you did. You’d have to, wouldn’t you? Because for all your rich followers and your influence, you are still quite poor, aren’t you?”

She’d meant it to be a jibe, but it felt bitter rolling off her tongue.

It felt like a low blow, with him being an orphan. Not that he didn’t deserve it-

His smile didn’t fade. “Not all of us were raised by affluent muggle dentists.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped wide as saucers.

His smile widened. “Did you imagine I didn’t know about your parents? That you’d hidden them beyond my ability to find them?”

Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

“I know exactly where they are, mudblood.”

Hermione clenched her teeth, her fists balling up at her sides.

His crimson eyes laughed at her. “You’ll have to forgive my lack of manners. Welcome to Tartarus, my dear.”

********

Draco lay staring at the ceiling, his stomach twisting with frustration.

He saw the heated look in the Dark Lord’s eyes as they rested upon Granger.

He saw her caught in the arms of the Dark Lord, pressed against his chest. 

He remembered the way that the dress had clung to her body, outlining the shape of her breasts, her waist, visible beneath the opening of her robes.

His chest tightened.

He couldn’t sleep, tormented by memories of the past few days.

The Dark Lord, drinking her blood.

The Dark Lord, healing her.

The Dark Lord, towering over Dolohov’s maimed face.

He had never witnessed the Dark Lord in such a state. Yes, he’d seen him lose his temper. He’d seen him displeased, but there was always a calculated quality to his anger, a calmness to his rage, like a cause that demanded an effect.

But what he’d seen in the Dark Lord’s eyes that night… it frightened him.

Draco was no Dolohov. He wasn’t willing to risk his life.

No matter what he felt.

Draco shook his head in frustration. 

Can’t save the mudblood, he told himself. 

She’d made her bed, now she had to lie in it.

He hated her for it. For her tendency to run headfirst into danger, for her uncanny ability to attract trouble.

Like fucking Potter, always seeking attention.

Well, now she had it, and the Dark Lord’s attention…

Which inevitably spelled death.

They had that in common, he supposed.

Draco’s promotion had been just as much a punishment for him as it had been for Bella.

He supposed the Dark Lord knew of his feelings for Granger. He would be testing him, and Draco was determined to steer clear of her.

But why? He whispered internally. Why prolong what is inevitable?

He had always imagined he would die in service to the Dark Lord.

Just like Granger would.

She would’ve died anyway, he reminded himself. There was no reality where a mudblood wouldn’t die under their Lord’s regime.

Perhaps, whatever it was about Granger that attracted the Dark Lord’s attention, would keep her alive a bit longer.

Draco was grateful for that, he supposed.

Still, his stomach turned at the thought of them together.

The thought of the Dark Lord touching her, kissing her.

He turned over, eyes squeezed tight in aggravation, his chest tightening with desire.

He let himself think about it. Her hesitant eyes, gazing up at him. His fingers finding her chin, turning her face upward toward his. Her perfectly shaped lips parted, confusion painted across her face.

Then he imagined himself kissing her. She’d pause in surprise, having never expected it in a million years.

He let himself think of his hand wandering her waist, touching the soft skin beneath her shirt.

Would she jerk back, shove him away? Slap him, as she had in third year?

Or would she let him kiss her, remaining neutral and still?

He couldn’t imagine a universe where Hermione Granger would kiss him back. Not after everything he’d done.

Not after he’d stood by while his aunt tortured and maimed her.

He swallowed, gazing up at the ceiling. 

It would never happen. The dark lord had claimed her, and Draco knew that soon, he would want everyone to know it.

Chapter Text

May 3, 1998

Voldemort flew up the winding staircase, climbing to the very top of the tower, seeking out his private study.

Potter was now in chains in the Malfoy Manor dungeons. 

Voldemort’s chest constricted with rage. The diadem had been consumed by fire. Already, four of his horcruxes were destroyed. 

He seethed with anger. 

Potter! A horcrux all this time!

Which means he’d split his soul a total of eight times.

He’d suspected that his magic had left an imprint upon Potter, causing the connection between their minds. But this?

He reached the top of the stairs and burst through the doorway, clawing at his face and neck in frustration.

Eight. Eight!

It was wrong. Imperfect. He choked, unable to breathe.

Not only did Potter ruin his plans during the first war, but he’d stolen a piece of his soul. 

Now, he knew that he couldn’t kill Potter. Doing so would destroy his own soul.

He hadn’t trusted Potter that night. When he’d seen the boy emerging from the darkness of the forest, he’d known there was something amiss.

Potter wouldn’t sacrifice himself only to leave his friends and loved ones in Voldemort’s hands, without a defender. He’d spent too much time in the boy’s mind to believe that. Potter had too much belief in heroism, like Dumbledore. The old headmaster had cloned his ideals in the boy from a young age, the belief that light would always win.

He’d heard the boy's thoughts. He sensed the boy’s emotions, a mixture of fear and a strange, unnatural sense of peace.

Then, he heard Dumbledore’s voice, echoing in the boy’s mind. 

Voldemort couldn’t believe it. He had to perform legilimency to confirm what he’d feared.

It had been such a shocking blow, that Voldemort had immediately called off his forces and taken Potter in binds to the Manor.

His mind was still reeling from the weight of the truth.

He would need to extract his soul from Potter’s. He should be grateful to have another piece of his soul intact, with so many of his horcruxes already destroyed, but he couldn’t seem to find an ounce of joy in that fact.

All he felt was fury.

He came to stand before a cloth-covered object. It towered above him, even at his immense height. 

Dumbledore had thought to hide it at the bottom of the Black Lake, in the mermaid city. He didn’t fathom the fickle mermaids joining Voldemort’s forces, serving as his spies and yielding the object to him, as a gift.

The Mirror of Erised.

It had already revealed many things to Voldemort. The first time he’d gazed into its murky depths, it had merely shown himself, with Potter dead at his feet. Power was all he wanted, and he’d already achieved that. Only Potter’s death would cement his victory. 

The only thing that had stood out in the reflection was a long, knotted wand that he held in his hand, in place of his pale, yew wand. 

It had taken him a year to learn the history of the elder wand and to track it down, only to learn that Dumbledore had won it from Grindelwald.

He’d assumed wrongly that it bent its will to him after he’d killed Severus, only to discover from Potter’s mind that it answered to the boy.

So many miscalculations. Voldemort felt nearly blinded by fury.

“Disarm the boy,” he spat at Greyback.

Fenrir did as he commanded, and once Potter was disarmed, Voldemort murdered Greyback.

He’d been itching to do so for some time, in any case. Two birds with one stone, as the orphanage matron used to say.

Now that he had Potter imprisoned, and the elder wand was in his possession, he desperately wanted to know what the mirror would show him.

The reflection was bound to change.

Voldemort ripped the cloth away.

The mirror’s surface was dark, at first, like an endless abyss. Then, the glass began to fog over, rippling like water as an image materialized in its depths.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

He gazed at the reflection, stunned, his eyes trailing over the scene before him.

He saw himself standing in the mirror, a black crown upon his head, and his hands rested on the shoulders of a witch.

Not Bellatrix, no.

This witch was younger.

She wore a gown as dark as night, as if it were made of the celestial sky, glittering with stars. Her tan skin glowed, and her golden brown curls were loose and wild all around her, braided in places and woven with stone beads. A crown of silver sat atop her head, inlaid with gems of onyx and moonstone. On her shoulder, a raven was perched. 

In her hand, she held his yew wand. He brandished the elder wand, himself.

Voldemort blinked, taking in the cosmic beauty of the witch, and suddenly, he realized he knew her identity. 

He hadn’t recognized her at first, so dark and powerful was her energy as it leaked through the mirror.

A witch he’d watched for months through the locket, through the minds of Draco and Severus.

Potter’s mudblood.

Her eyes met his, and he watched a mysterious smile curve her lips.

He smiled back, his lips slowly curling into a dangerous grin.

************

Thunder rumbled as Hermione slowly rose to consciousness.

At first, when she opened her eyes, she didn’t recognize her surroundings. It took her a good space of time to recall that she’d spent the night in Voldemort’s own mansion, and that she would spend every night hence in this place.

He’d promptly left her as soon as he deposited her in her room, with a command to never leave the manse without his permission, and instructions to call upon the little house elf Deedle if she should need anything.

Hermione hadn’t left her room that night, but in the morning, she’d woken bright and early, determined to see how much freedom she’d be allowed. 

No one else lived here, as far as she was aware, so she had no fear of running into death eaters. No anxiety about being tortured or worse.

Hermione lay in bed, gazing up at the silk draperies around her massive four poster bed. The floors were a beautiful dark wood, a mosaic patterned after leaves with varying rich tones.

She stood and crossed the room, which was nearly three times the size of her room at Malfoy Manor, and pulled back the heavy curtains.

She discovered a wall of windows and a set of French doors, which led out onto a spacious stone veranda. She tested one of the doors and found it unlocked, so she stepped outside.

She was hit with a blast of cool air, signaling that autumn was in the air.

As she neared the edge of the balcony, the view took Hermione’s breath away.

Voldemort’s mansion was built on a cliffside cascading with trees, their colors already changing to varying tones of gold, orange, and red, and below the home lay a rocky bank which merged into a white beach, with the ocean lapping at its shores.

Not only was the veranda large enough for entertaining, but on the far side, it contained another set of doors.

Though Hermione was curious, she wasn’t bold enough to try those.

She walked further out to the stone balustrade and looked over.

She was on the third floor of the mansion, but below where she stood, an even larger balcony lay beneath her, one large enough to host an entire party.

A balmy ocean breeze whipped at her face and hair. She looked up, observing the ominous black clouds with their rumbling thunder, and high up on the elaborate turrets of the mansion, the gargoyles watched her closely. She could feel the weight of their eyes, even with her back turned.

She imagined Voldemort had spelled them to watch over the mansion.

Still, the view was much more peaceful than it had been at Malfoy Manor. She’d rather look at the ocean all day, which reminded her of her childhood vacations, than wake up to the sight of snatchers, vampires, and giants roasting dead muggles on spitfires. 

Despite the beauty of the manor and the landscape, Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be safe here, in the Dark Lord’s grasp. There was absolutely no one who could help her, if things went south.

“I’ll have to be cautious and clever,” she whispered to herself. She hadn’t yet been on the receiving end of his wrath, but his actions when angry… well, they were legendary.

She had heard stories of the things Voldemort had done during the first wizarding war. How he’d hung an auror publicly in Diagon Alley, his body maimed beyond recognition, left in the square for the public to witness.

A warning to any who dared to rebel against him.

Would he resort to such violence if she were to defy him?

She would have to pretend, at least, to go along with his plans for her. Perhaps, along the way, opportunities to help the Order would present themselves.

For now, she would familiarize herself with her new home, and hope that he would soon grant her access to her wand and her beaded bag.

Hermione left the veranda and made her way across the room to the massive wardrobe. She opened the heavy doors and found the clothing that Narcissa had given her, all perfectly organized and in pristine condition. She wrinkled her nose at it. The articles were nice, expensive, even, considering that she was a prisoner of war.

But they didn’t suit Hermione’s taste at all.

She selected a simple set of royal blue robes and took them to the washroom.

Her eyebrows rose at the opulence of the washroom, with its gilded fixtures and costly marble.

She ran a bath and disrobed, then sank into the extravagant clawfoot tub, allowing the warmth of the water to soothe the tension in her body.

She sampled the oils set out on the tray beside the tub, then poured one into the water. Lavender vapors rose from the steaming water. Hermione leaned back and closed her eyes, resting her head against the tub’s edge, and allowed her feet to peek out through the peaks of foaming bubbles.

She thought about Harry and Ron, and the Order. She’d been so thrown by the blood pact and the encounter with Dolohov, that she’d forgotten to ask Voldemort about Fleur and Luna.

She didn’t trust him to make good on his end of the deal, nor did she trust that he wouldn’t find a loophole.

She would question him about his promise next time she saw him.

“You may ask me now, if you like.”

Hermione gasped and started, accidentally slipping beneath the water’s surface, soaking her hair.

She emerged, hair dripping, choking for air, and nearly sat bolt upright before she realized that she was entirely naked below the layer of bubbles.

Thank Godric she’d overdone the bubble bath.

Wiping the water and soap from her face and blinking back stinging tears, she focused her gaze on the intruder.

Voldemort stood several feet away, leaning with one shoulder against the wall.

Hermione breathed heavily, fear stroking its way down her spine at being caught in such a vulnerable moment. She was bathing, for Merlin’s sake. 

Though she was perturbed, she let her eyes trail over him, because he looked… different.

Instead of his regular robes, he wore thick black breeches that looked to be made of Tebo hide, with dragonhide boots that laced up his calves. His hood was drawn, and beneath his cloak he wore a dueling tunic of embroidered black velvet. Its collar was stiff and fastened with silver clasps around his neck, and extended past his hips, covering his-

Hermione looked away quickly. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

Her heart raced wildly, her skin prickling with warning as his poisonous magical aura saturated the room.

Black magic. He had been dueling today, she just knew it somehow.

She could feel a heavy, stifling energy fill the room.

He didn’t answer right away, and the intensity of his gaze caused her to cross her arms over her chest, though nothing was visible beneath the water.

“Are you going to ask me, mudblood?”

Her gaze hesitantly wandered back to him, and she suddenly remembered what she’d wanted to ask.

“Did you release them? Luna and Fleur?”

He nodded, expression pensive as he looked away. “They were delivered by Nott and Travers to John Dawlish Thursday afternoon.”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. If nothing else came of her imprisonment, at least she’d been able to garner their freedom.

She swallowed, flicking her eyes over at him nervously. He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixed on the window. For a brief moment, she let her eyes roam his form, her brows furrowing as she realized that he wasn’t as thin as she’d always thought him to be. She could see the elder wand peeking out of the leather wand holster that was strapped to a harness against his ribcage.

“You will have dinner with me tonight,” he said coolly, his tone brooking no refusal. “At six o’ clock. The elf will come and fetch you.”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond, to agree or deny his request.

Because it was a command, and not a request.

He turned swiftly on his heel and walked out, through a doorway on the opposite side of the washroom. His cloak curled around him as he disappeared through the doorway and shut it loudly behind him.

She was too relieved to be rid of him to worry about where that door led.

She leaned back against the tub and groaned, because she realized that she’d have to sit and dine with Voldemort that evening.

She had a feeling her appetite would evade her.

**********

Pansy stood on the sidelines with the rest of the death eaters, watching as Draco and MacNair dueled.

She was more than a bit nervous, because she hadn’t properly dueled in a minute, and the Dark Lord’s followers had been trained by Bellatrix and Rodolphus.

And they had been trained by the Dark Lord himself, which was terrifying.

Lucius was absent, as was Dolohov, who was presumably still recovering.

She clung to Theo’s side.

Draco shot a blistering hex at MacNair. It hit the mark, but not before Walden sliced open Draco’s shoulder.

Both wizards were red-faced in their attempts to refrain from howling in pain.

Since when had Draco become so good at dueling?

He’d sparred with Macnair for a good twenty minutes, holding his own the entire time.

Pansy’s eyebrows rose in surprise. 

The two of them left the hall, seeking the healer, and Rodolphus walked to the center of the dueling hall, eyeing the group.

“Theodore Nott,” he called out, pointing at Theo. “You’ll spar with Avery.”

Pansy gave him a wry smile. “Don’t lose any fingers,” she said jokingly.

“That would be a tragedy,” he said with a wink. “I’m so good with them.”

Pansy rolled her eyes as he strode forward to the dueling circle.

She watched as they bowed, and began to spar. After a few moments, her lips parted as she admired her friend’s footwork, the nimble way that he dueled, as if he were dancing, not fighting.

“Why, Avery… have you ever considered a career in bullfighting?” Theo quipped. “The muggles love it. It’s all the rage in Spain. You’d be great at it, the way you lumber about.” He spun around and cast a tripping jinx, causing Avery to stumble. “Not as a matador, mind you… I think the role of the bull would suit you best.”

Pansy rubbed her lips together to keep from laughing.

Avery grew red faced. He spat at the elder Nott, “Your boy has your arrogance, Thaddeus.” He turned back to Theo, dodging his stinging hex. “Pride comes before a fall, little Nott.”

“Looks like you’re the only one falling,” sang Theo as he cast a confundus that missed its mark.

Suddenly, Avery whipped his wand several times in succession, catching Theo unaware. The bright red curses hit Theo in the chest, and Pansy started forward, but stopped herself.

Her mouth fell open as it appeared that Theo’s chest had caved in entirely. He fell to his knees and choked, unable to breathe.

Avery smirked as he loomed over Theo. “No more taking it easy on you bratty little upstarts. You’re going to have to learn fast, and it will be painful. Get him up.” He gave a sharp nod to Zabini and Goyle, who dashed forward to take Theo to the healer.

Pansy gulped as she watched them levitate a gasping Theo from the room. She wanted nothing better than to run after him, but to demonstrate their closeness in this den of vipers was to show weakness that could be exploited.

Pansy stayed rooted to her spot.

“Don’t tell me you’re sweet on the Nott boy.”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, and she whirled around to find Ronan Blackthorn standing beside her, uncomfortably close, as usual.

With a huff, she muttered, “Why is it that you’re always around? I’d rather you stayed out of my general vicinity.”

He grinned and tilted his head. “Oh, I’m just doing what us dogs do best… sniffing out bitches.”

Pansy’s eyes bugged out. She blinked in disbelief. 

“You’re brave,” she choked. “Talking to one of the twenty-eight like that.”

He chuckled. “Your blood may be pure, Miss Parkinson, but as it stands, I still outrank you.” He turned to her and winked, flicking his eyes over her once, further enraging Pansy.

“Why are you even here?” she hissed. “Dogs don’t spar with purebloods. Shouldn’t you be off… I don’t know, licking yourself?”

“I’d rather lick you.”

Pansy pretended to gag, ignoring the way her pulse quickened. “I wouldn’t let you touch me in a million years, not with those dirty fingernails.”

He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a soft whisper. “Oh, don’t worry, love. I’d clean them before I fucked you with them.”

Pansy couldn’t let that stand. She hauled back and let her hand fly, her palm striking with a stinging slap against his cheek, one that rang out through the hall.

Ronan glared at her, his jaw ticking as the room grew quiet.

Rabastan Lestrange whistled.

Ronan swallowed, then he looked back to Pansy with rage and heat in his gaze. “You could’ve just told me you like it rough, love.”

Pansy seethed in anger. With a snarl, she turned and stomped to the other side of the hall in her Chanel mary janes.

Bellatrix sauntered over to Ronan, her confidence and imperiousness seemingly restored. 

She cocked her head, her bouncy black curls streaked with silver on one side. Her laughter rang out as she sneered, “So! You like to condescend to witches. Maybe someone should teach you how to respect your betters.” She gave a toothy grin. “You’ll duel me, I think… puppy dog.”

Pansy stood by, her curiosity peaked as she watched Bellatrix and the werewolf stand on opposite ends of the circle.

Bellatrix gave an exaggerated bow, more of a mockery than a show of deference. 

Then, before Ronan could even react, she whipped her wand in a complex movement, wrapping long, black serpents around his arms and legs like vines. 

The serpents’ hissing filled the room, drowning out the sound of Bellatrix’s laughter.

In a flash, two blades appeared in Blackthorn’s hands, and he sliced the serpents asunder. They made a thumping sound as their severed bodies dropped to the floor. 

Ronan then wielded his oak wood wand with precision, circling Bellatrix as she taunted him, barking like a dog. 

“So sorry,” she simpered. “It seems I need to brush on my canine.”

His blue eyes fixed on her, pupils dilated, his sharp features calm, focused. 

He cast a hex, which she blocked with one hand, yawning as if he bored her.

She cast again, a statue curse, and he dodged it, his eyes trailing over her, attentive to her movements, her footwork, the timing of her shield, the level at which she held, blocked, and cast.

Pansy bit her nails, the anticipation becoming too much for her, and she didn’t exactly know why.

Part of her hoped Bellatrix would hand him his arse, so she could laugh him out of the hall.

Another part of her hoped he would win, because… well, why, exactly? Pansy wasn’t sure.

Probably because she disliked Bellatrix.

Yes, that was it.

The two of them launched into a tango of spellwork, each casting and blocking in tandem, brilliant flares of red, blue, and purple shooting across the hall.

Pansy was rather impressed that someone without proper instruction was able to hold their own against Bellatrix Lestrange, even if it was a fucking wolf.

Pansy suddenly had a million questions. Why hadn’t he and his brother attended Hogwarts? Where had they come from? Who had taught him to duel like that?

Surely, it hadn’t been Greyback.

She hated him, of course. He was a disgusting, vile creature, but she couldn’t help the spark of curiosity that lit inside her.

The doors to the hall opened at that moment, admitting none other than the Dark Lord himself. He stood away from them, observing the duel as he donned and fastened his dueling gloves.

Suddenly, Bellatrix slashed her wand downward viciously, and a bright red curse shot from her wand.

Pansy recognized the wand movement. It was a transmogrifian torture curse.

At first, it looked as if Ronan had blocked the curse…

Until he fell to his knees, gripping his head as if in pain.

Bellatrix laughed as she sauntered closer. “Awww… does the wittle werewolf have a headache?”

Bellatrix was about six feet from Ronan, when he suddenly brandished his wand and leapt up, casting a jinx which disabled her wand hand. 

She shrieked as she dropped her wand, and he used that moment to hit her with a jelly-legs jinx. The jinx hit its mark, sending Bellatrix toppling to her feet quite disgracefully. 

“I think we are done, Miss Lestrange,” said Ronan calmly.

She roared with rage, reaching for her wand with her other hand. She grasped it with a desperate sort of fury and waved it in an arch.

Ronan threw up his shield, but rather than curse him, she’d conjured a deadly Runespoor.

The three-headed venomous serpent zigzagged across the circle, straight toward Ronan.

As Ronan turned to run, Bellatrix cackled, shouting, “See… Spot… Run!”

Ronan turned, mid-flight, and cast the expulso curse. It hit the serpent’s tail, blowing it into a fleshy explosion, sending bits of meat and skin flying onto the nearest bystanders.

That didn’t stop the serpent. It continued its pursuit of Ronan, until the Dark Lord strode forward, hissing a command to the snake. Its three heads bobbed as it slithered toward the Dark Lord.

Then, with a wave of his hand, he turned the Runespoor to ash.

Pansy blinked, always impressed with the Dark Lord’s magnificent power, the ease with which he wielded the most complex magic.

“Enough,” he said coldly as he withdrew his wand. He turned his gaze on Bellatrix.

“It seems an untrained werewolf was able to best you with a simple jellylegs jinx. How disappointing.” He turned to Rodolphus and Rabastan. “And a mudblood brought you to your knees with a blade to your throat, Lestrange.” 

His displeasure was evident.

“You are all growing overconfident,” he hissed, his red eyes instilling dread in every heart. “The war is not yet won, and even still, when it is, our work will be only just beginning.” 

He glared at the Lestranges. “Do not ever forget that you serve me. I reward your service with the things that you desire, do I not? But if you fail me… I will not hesitate to replace every last one of you. There are two things that I do not tolerate: disloyalty and incompetence.”

He twisted his wand between his gloved fingers. “Parkinson and Goyle. You will spar next.”

Pansy gulped down a lungful of air, and made her way into the circle, determined to impress the Dark Lord.

*********

We have another dreamy Voldemort sketch from @crymsy! Follow her on tiktok and Instagram 💚

Chapter Text

The Dark Lord stood before the mirror.

He hadn’t looked into it since the night after the battle, but now that the mudblood was in his possession and bound to him, he wondered if the reflection might change.

He’d spent a long time contemplating its magic, studying the mirror's history.

He was determined to understand precisely what its reflection meant.

His deepest desire. That is what the mirror was designed to display.

He’d nearly driven himself mad trying to comprehend why Potter’s mudblood would be the key to his happiness.

He had notably decided he would use the mudblood long before the battle, before he’d first gazed into the mirror.

He’d intended to utilize her diplomatic position in his negotiations with the Confederation, to present her as a symbol, a strategic rallying point for magical Britain, something to pacify them in their anger and grief once he’d established himself as the Grand Mage of Britain. She would be a balm which he could utilize in the assimilation efforts to soothe the wounded and fearful population. 

The Dark Lord was a student of history. He knew quite well that the purebloods only served him in order to secure their power, to establish a new order in which they would rule.

Slowly, as the balance of power shifted, they would seek to mutiny. To turn against him, for that was the way of things. History books were tinged red with the blood of betrayal.

Voldemort saw it from afar, as if he were a seer. 

But at the moment, his followers feared him. They feared his power, and soon, he would make peace with the muggleborn population, which in truth, was greater in number than the purebloods. Fear of an uprising would keep them in line, with a few morsels of power thrown their way to mollify their unrest.

Yes, Voldemort had always had plans for the mudblood, but since he’d observed her in the mirror, had taken possession of her and felt her, had tasted her magic and that inexplicable quality about her that drove him to distraction… Since he’d seen her demonstrate an intriguing amount of power and spirit… Now he was curious more than ever about the vision the mirror had shown him.

Mind, he didn’t enjoy thinking about it… what he desired most.

Because that desire was rooted in that which he had always been denied, that which he had lived without since his childhood.

He had always desired connection… intimacy .

And yet, he also loathed it. No one had ever been worthy of knowing him.

Was the mudblood worthy? Was she capable of being his equal?

Perhaps not. Perhaps the mirror merely reflected his desire for an equal, for a counterpart.

The mirror couldn’t predict the future; that much he was sure of. It merely interpreted the innermost repressed longings of the user.

The Dark Lord reached for the cloth, yanking it from the mirror.

When the reflection appeared, he lifted an eyebrow in surprise.

The Granger girl was still there with him, but in a much different state than the last time he’d looked into the glass…

She was entirely naked, and wrapped in his arms, limbs entangled with his. 

Their mouths met, and he watched as his reflection explored her body, her breasts, the heat between her legs, his fingers winding themselves into her thick hair, palming her arse without inhibition.

His eyes narrowed as he viewed the sight.

Part of him felt it was a transgression to be observing her so voyeuristically, to be staring  shamelessly at her naked body….

He cocked his head, watching with calculated curiosity as his reflection bit her lip, hands wrapping around her waist to lift her against him, her lithe legs encircling his hips.

He would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to fuck her. Truthfully, he had desired her since he’d watched her through the locket, although he hadn't acknowledged the attraction to himself until months later, when he’d seen her in the mirror.

The Dark Lord didn’t quite understand his own fascination. She was still only a girl, a mudblood, one who ardently opposed him, clinging to unrealistic ideals instilled in her by his mortal enemy.

She wasn’t beautiful. Not like Bellatrix was, anyway. Not in the kind of flawless, refined way in which so many pureblood witches were. 

But despite that fact, he found his pulse racing. There was something about the girl, something lurking beneath the surface. The Granger girl’s edges were softer somehow, but her words were more poisonous than Bella’s ever could be. He had sensed a cavernous depth inside of her, something resounding and turbulent that called to him, disturbing his magic and piercing him with hunger.

His magic ignited anytime he laid eyes on the witch. She was tempting. Distracting .

Mesmerizing, even.

He didn’t like to admit that he saw himself within her. Her lust for knowledge, her desperate need to prove herself… Those were sentiments which he was all too familiar with.

He also didn’t like to admit that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted Bella.

His jaw muscles flexed as he watched the mudblood moan against his lips, and he decided he had seen enough.

He was painfully hard in his leather dueling breeches, and that would only make him irritable when he met with the witch for dinner.

He threw the sheet back over the mirror, shielding the scene from view.

He exhaled sharply, quite sure that he would be thinking of nothing else all evening.

*************

Hermione stared in horror at the items on the bed.

The house elf Deedle had only just apparated into her room with a crack, bearing a large box and a copy of the Daily Prophet.

The rectangular box was tied with burgundy velvet ribbon. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she gingerly untied the bow and lifted the lid. 

Atop the tissue paper sat a black card. Hermione plucked it from the box and read it.

In silver ink, there was a short note scrawled across the paper in spiky letters.

Wear this tonight, or wear nothing at all.

The note wasn’t signed, but Hermione didn’t need to guess who it was from.

Her brows knit sharply as she tore away the tissue paper to reveal a gown of burgundy velvet, so dark that it was nearly black. She lifted it from the box, fury washing over her. The sleeves appeared to drape off the shoulder, and the dress boasted a neckline that plunged daringly low.

She dropped it back into the box with an unladylike snort. 

As if she would take orders from Voldemort! Nevermind that she’d made a blood pact which could force her to obey his every command. If he wasn’t going to enforce the pact, then she wasn’t going to adhere to his wishes.

She gazed at the dress, and though she had decided firmly that she would rather wear nothing than wear anything that monster had gifted her, she also didn’t want to imagine what would happen if she pranced to dinner completely nude.

She might have a bit of an attitude, but she wasn’t that brave.

“No,” she said decidedly as she crossed to the wardrobe. “I’ll just wear something else, and damn what he wants.”

When she opened the wooden doors, she gasped in rage.

Every single article of clothing that had been given to her by Narcissa Malfoy was gone.

The wardrobe was completely empty.

“That bastard,” she hissed venomously.

At that moment, she looked down to find that her nightgown had also disappeared, leaving her fully nude.

Hermione shrieked and her head snapped this way and that, finally locating her nightgown on the bed beside the box. She snatched it up and slid it back over her head, only to find that it disappeared the instant it touched her body. 

She blinked as she watched the piece of clothing materialize on the bed beside the gown.

“Bloody hell,” she gritted out through her teeth. She couldn’t transfigure any other clothing without her wand, and even if she could, she doubted it would stay on her person.

The note must be acting as an order, which she was unable to refuse.

With a sharp exhale, she snatched up the gown.

*************

Once the dress was donned, Hermione waited on the velvet settee for the elf to come and fetch her to dinner.

Eager to catch up on current events, she lifted the copy of the Daily Prophet and began to scan its contents. 

Immediately, her mouth dropped in horror.

In giant letters on the front page, the headline read, “ Potter’s Mudblood Takes the Dark Mark! Has the Order of the Phoenix Surrendered to the Dark Lord?”

Hermione’s stomach turned. Was that Voldemort’s game? To turn the entire world against her?

Because the public surely would hate her if they suspected her to be a traitor.

She trusted that the Order would find a way to get the truth out… unless Kingsley decided that informing Order supporters of the trade wouldn’t be in the best interest of the war efforts. 

If she knew Kingsley, he would paint Harry’s return as a successful rescue mission, rather than a deal struck with Voldemort.

In that case, it would look to all of Britain like Hermione had been captured, or worse, that she’d switched sides.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered to herself, feeling a bit bleak.

She didn’t have hope that she would emerge from this war alive, so what did her reputation really matter? She was bound to Voldemort until he could be killed, or the pact could be magically broken. 

She wasn’t hopeful that either of those things would happen anytime soon.

All she could really hope for was to get close enough to Voldemort to become a useful spy for the Order. If she could ever find a way to contact them.

That would require Voldemort’s trust, and she had a feeling he didn’t trust anyone.

The only other possibility left to Hermione was to attempt to discover where he’d put Hufflepuff’s cup.

One more horcrux destroyed would be another step closer to defeating Voldemort.

“At least I have a goal for this week,” she reminded herself. “Don’t piss him off. Get your wand back.”

Use whatever leverage you have to gain the upper hand.

It made her feel better to know that she had a mission, that she could potentially still help the Order, despite her abysmal circumstances.

She tried to imagine that she’d just been given homework by McGonnagal. That was it. This was just another assignment.

Life and death weren’t on the line, nothing of the sort.

Hermione took a deep breath, and adjusted the décolletage of the gown.

*************

Deedle led her into the dining hall. 

Voldemort sat at the head of a long table, silhouetted against the crackling flames of an immense fireplace, his hands planted on the arms of his gothic chair. 

His unsettling red eyes came to rest on Hermione as she slowly moved toward him, causing a shiver to skitter across her skin. 

Their eyes locked for a moment, and she watched as his gaze lowered, trailing over her, taking in her appearance.

She came to stand several feet away. Her eyes flicked over the table, noting that the seat perpendicular to his had a plate already set, covered by a silver dish. There was nothing set before him.

He stood, giving her a knee-jerk feeling of alarm, her heart instantly hammering in her chest.

He merely pulled out her chair for her, gesturing for her to sit.

The action made her feel ill.

“Such a gentleman,” she said in a rather biting tone, though she’d meant it to sound polite.

Remember your assignment , she reminded herself.

“I can be,” he said softly.

“Good to know,” she said, her demeanor indifferent.

Silence fell between them. She stared down at the silver dish before her, and he watched her.

After a few moments, he lifted his wand and waved it. The flames of the black votive candles flickered to life, and a pair of gold goblets appeared. Hermione watched as hers filled with a dark liquid.

“Eat,” he commanded. 

The silver dish covering the plate vanished and before Hermione appeared a delectable plate of food. Around the plate, several dessert dishes appeared, bearing sorbet and sticky toffee pudding.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied.

“You will eat.”

Hermione reached for her fork, eyes narrowing. “Are you just going to order me around, then? Does it thrill you to know that I can’t say no?”

He sat back, forearms planted on the chair. He watched her as she took a bite of braised meat. 

Hermione chewed quite awkwardly, feeling the weight of his stare, the disturbing energy surrounding him that filled the entire room with power.

When she had swallowed, he responded, “Does control not also thrill you, Miss Granger?”

Hermione lifted the goblet to her lips and sipped. The bitter taste of Merlot teased her taste buds as she contemplated. “The rest of us do not require complete control over other people, like you do. It’s actually quite sad.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched, as if something had struck him as funny. “That depends. I would consider trapping a reporter in a jar to be very controlling behavior.”

Hermione’s jaw fell slack.

Voldemort sat back even further, making himself more comfortable as he smirked.

Hermione had paused, fork still midair. 

His red eyes flicked to the utensil. “Do continue eating, mudblood.”

She stiffened, then continued to violently slice at her meat. “I don’t like you. I hope you know that.”

“No,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. “I shouldn’t think so. But I think that is partly because I refuse to allow you to play the part of the spotless golden girl, and rather, I choose to see you for everything that you truly are.”

“And what is that?” Hermione snapped, her fingers turning white around her fork. 

He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head. “Passion. Rage. Darkness. Hunger .”

Hermione clenched her teeth in silence, refusing to look at him again.

If she looked at him, she would either spit in his face, or she would want to study him, because she… she thought she saw something in his face. If she looked very hard, she could almost see the shadow of who he might have been, the specter of Tom Riddle. It was believable that he had once been handsome. The perfect bone structure was still there, his features sharp and angular.

He appeared to be a ghost of that person now, his form silhouetted against the fire, black robes draped over his towering frame, which was almost always obscured from view by a tent of shadow. 

“What do you intend to do with me?” she asked through gritted teeth.

He lifted his goblet and took a drink. She watched his throat bob, then he held the cup away from his body in midair as he replied, “Would you like the truth, or would you like me to lie to you?”

That made Hermione’s heart race.

Fear pricked the surface of her skin.

“I’d like the truth,” she choked out.

His lips tugged upward, eyes shining like rubies as they flicked up to meet her own. A dark chuckle sounded from his throat. “I find you intriguing, Miss Granger. There is a darkness in you which calls to me. Thus, I intend to train you, and perhaps you will prove useful to my cause.”

Her lips parted, brows lifting in surprise. “Teach me?”

Voldemort stared at her, his red eyes cold and unblinking… his face a blank mask. He took another sip of wine. “You’re a smart witch, although you do limit yourself by being close minded. I could teach you things, you know. Thinks your hungry little mind could barely comprehend.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed in confusion as she attempted to decipher his motives. “I’m sorry, but… why would you want to teach me magic when I’m essentially your enemy?”

He watched her for another minute. His penetrating stare was unnerving, and she wondered if he were reading her mind. As the silence thickened, she contemplated his powers of legilimency, wondering how it was possible that he could read minds without one even feeling his invasion.

“Hermione,” he began, his voice arresting despite the intense revulsion she felt by his use of her given name. It pulled her from her reverie, and she looked up to find his lips curving into a smile that was far too self assured. “Did I say anything about magic?”

Her lips parted.

If not magic, what was he referring to?

He set his goblet down. “Surely you realize the war is nearly over.”

“Hardly.”

He chuckled. “For you it is. You belong to me now.”

Hermione waited a moment as that statement sunk in.

“Fair enough,” she breathed, feeling a bit choked.

Voldemort didn’t seem rushed to say anything more. He sipped his wine in silence, emanating cold confidence. There was a languor in his mannerisms that was both regal and beautiful, like the deadly, revolting beauty of a serpent.

Her skin crawled, feeling his power leaking from him in waves of energy, too great to be contained by his physical form. 

Hermione desperately wanted to know what he intended to use her for. Was she to be his leverage? Would he use her as bait for the Order? A trap laid for Harry and Ron?

He set his goblet aside. “How does it feel to know that the Order traded you so easily for Harry?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think it was an easy decision?”

The corners of his lips turned up slightly. “Because I listened to Shacklebolt’s thoughts when I requested you. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation, no question whatsoever.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold. “Liar.”

His crimson gaze weighed heavily upon her. “Tell me, my dear, do the rest of the Order realize that their precious Potter would have been dead many times over if it weren’t for you?”

Hermione’s heart pumped furiously in her chest. “You’re trying to manipulate me, like you have with all of your followers. I’m not stupid, Voldemort.”

“Of course, you aren’t. Do you think I’d be interested in training a stupid witch?”

“Why do you want to teach me?” she asked in a muted whisper. “How could I possibly be useful to you?”

“I have told you everything you need to know, for now,” he said dismissively. “You may learn more, in time, if you prove to be trustworthy.”

“Ha!” Hermione barked a caustic laugh. “I took your mark. I can’t disobey you even if I wish to. You could order me to never betray you and I would have to obey. You could imperius me… so why haven’t you?”

Voldemort said nothing, but his brilliant flame-red eyes scalded her with their intensity and coldness. He took another sip of wine as she seethed in her chair.

“You touched me,” she added, gauging his reaction.

His eyes turned sharp and vicious. “What?” he hissed.

“You touched me in front of everyone… before you brought me here, and your death eaters were shocked. Why?”

“Are you asking why I touched you, or why they were shocked by it?”

“Both.”

“I never told you to stop eating.”

Hermione seemed to remember herself, and speared a potato, popping it into her mouth.

He leaned back. “They were shocked, because no one is permitted to touch me. And I, in turn, do not bestow my touch lightly.”

“They were surely all repulsed that you would touch a mudblood . So why did you?”

He cocked his head. “Do you pretend to be unaware that I find you desirable?”

Hermione choked on her food.

A glass of water suddenly appeared, and she gratefully gulped it down.

Then, she turned her eyes warily on him, all oxygen gone from her lungs. “Pardon?”

Her voice was barely a whisper.

He said nothing, but his eyes wandered her face before meeting her gaze with undeniable heat. 

It took Hermione a moment to process his statement, but slowly, it sank in.

He, the Dark Lord, king of the pureblood army, who espoused hatred of muggleborns…

A man who once turned a basilisk loose through Hogwarts to purge the school of impure blood…

… desired her ?

Shouldn’t she be repulsive to him?

Unless…

Hermione’s face twisted into an expression of disgust. “You cannot be serious? You’re… you’re fetishizing my blood status?”

She instantly realized she’d said something wrong.

His smirk dissolved into a deep scowl, ruby eyes darkening to crimson. His sculpted jaw muscles flexed as he replied, “Trust me, my dear, of all the things I might find attractive about you… your blood status is not among them.”

“Now you insult me.”

“You expect me to.”

She stood, anger driving her. “Can you blame me?” she half-shouted. “I know you hate all muggleborns. I’m quite well-educated on your prejudices, as is all of Britain, so you don’t need to say it out loud .”

“Why does it bother you so much coming from me, I wonder?” he mused, and at her answering snarl, he laughed, causing chills to dance across her skin. “You forget who you’re speaking to, mudblood. I’ve killed your friends and their families. Tortured them. What makes you think you are special, that you can make demands of me?” He twisted the elder wand between his fingers, and it gave Hermione a pang of longing, a chilling reminder of Dumbledore and the fact that he no longer existed in her world… because of him . “What makes you think I won’t kill you?”

Hermione’s chin lifted a notch. “You’ve brought me here… yet you haven’t made an attempt to torture me or kill me. In exchange for Harry, no less, a much more valuable prisoner. You cut out a wizard’s tongue and took out his eyes for attacking me. I’d say I’m special… I just don’t entirely understand why yet.”

He stared at her. Then, all at once, he stood and closed the distance between them. She retreated from him instinctually, her pulse racing as he neared, his dark aura curling itself around her, heavy and suffocating.

She didn’t know why it shocked her, to discover that Voldemort desired her. She had already suspected as much, but to hear him say it aloud? It created a tension, an expectation that Hermione had no time to process. Of all the potential reasons he’d asked for her, she had never in a million years anticipated that she had caught the Dark Lord’s eye in that way.

There were more beautiful witches, with much purer blood. She should disgust him, based on everything she knew of him.

But what did she really know of him, besides hearsay and secondhand information? 

Her thoughts were broken by a movement in the corner of her eye. She turned to see what it was, but found nothing, only the flickering of candlelight upon the ornate mahogany table. She swallowed, convincing herself that her eyes were playing tricks on her, even though she was sure she had seen the figure of someone, even if for an instant.

Voldemort leaned closer, his voice a rasping whisper as he muttered, “I feel I must inform you that Harry Potter is not the more valuable prisoner, between the two of you.”

He lifted his hand to brush a coarse curl from her cheek. Hermione realized suddenly that her heart was thundering, breasts heaving against the plunging neckline of the gown.

“Are you toying with me? Is this a game you’re playing?” she breathed.

He tilted his head in a serpent-like manner. “What reason would I have for such meaningless pursuits? I am currently in the midst of fighting a war.”

“I don’t know. I don’t pretend to understand your twisted mind. You’re a sadistic bastard, and I’m Harry Potter’s best friend. A muggleborn. Why wouldn’t you take some sort of sick pleasure from owning me?”

Why wouldn’t you want your followers to see me debased and brought low, humiliated and chained to the bed of a monster?

He took his time answering. He reached up to grip her chin between his thumb and knuckle, lifting her face to his. He stared at her, forcing her gaze to meet his own. Hermione felt the creeping of his magic along her skin, like a thousand tiny spider legs. Fear shot down her spine, and she shivered in response. 

His lips curled into a grin. “What a paradox you are, Miss Granger. You fear me, and yet I excite you.”

Hermione’s skin crawled as he drew closer.

“Could it be that somewhere inside yourself, deeply buried in your subconscious, there is a part of you that admires me?”

She shook her head, overcome by sensory overload. He stood before her, looming at an immense height, shoulders broad, his person overwhelming in every way.

His magic was stifling. It was dark and alive, and she felt it almost choking her. She remembered Harry trying to explain the sense of dread and evil that he’d felt in the cave when he’d stolen the locket horcrux, how the darkness had seemed heavier, more alive. 

It was this, what she felt now, this sense of terror she felt in his presence.

Like the moment just before one wakes from a paralyzing nightmare.

“I don’t admire you. I despise you.” Fear weakened her voice, but she managed it nonetheless.

“You admire my power. My magical skill. Your thoughts are too easily read, my dear, and you are a terrible liar.”

She blinked. “How would you know that?”

He gave a rasping laugh. “I’ve been watching you for some months, mudblood. We spent a good deal of time together in your little tent in the woods, don’t you recall?”

Hermione was quiet.

Terror was building in her insides, bubbling up through her chest, constricting and noxious.

So he had been watching them through the locket. All those months, he’d been privy to her thoughts, to their conversations. He’d known they would go to Godric’s Hollow. He had sent Nagini there to wait for them.

She felt sick.

“What part of this arouses you, Voldemort?” She spat his name. “Is it the fact that you hold me prisoner? Is it because I’m Harry’s friend? Is this your way of getting to him? Are you that sadistic?”

He blinked once, then twice. She had observed him long enough to know that only frustration caused him to blink. “Miss Granger… you seem to think I care about Harry Potter far more than I do. He is no threat to me. He is a foolish boy, a very lucky one, but I would not waste my precious time on petty endeavors, such as fucking his best friend for sport.”

She flinched when he said the word.

Voldemort wanted to fuck her. He’d already said it without saying it.

Hermione thought she might cry. 

She didn’t trust her voice to remain steady, so she stayed silent.

He cocked his head, peering down at her. “I am not going to rape you, mudblood.”

Hermione could feel her heart beating in every part of her body.

That was exactly what had crossed her mind. She had no way of knowing if he would, or if he wouldn’t. 

One of his followers, Fenrir Greyback, had made rape a hobby of his, and Voldemort had never made any effort to stop him.

His jaw ticked. “I can assure you, that is not something that interests me.”

Her lips parted, but she was unable to form words. She felt tethered to him, on a plane of fear, while his poisonous, seductive magic circled around them. At length, she swallowed, then whispered, “I don’t like it when you read my mind.”

“Then you should speak it more often,” he hissed.

“You won’t like what I have to say.”

He laughed. “You have yet to disappoint me.”

“I suppose I’ll have to try harder.”

His expression was smug as he leaned closer, brushing his knuckle against her collarbone, then dragging it lower, over the swell of her breast as he followed the cut of the gown. “Such perfect cleavage,” he mused. “I much prefer you without the evidence of another man’s curse.”

Hermione jerked back, batting his hand away in frustration. “If you think you’ll seduce me, you might as well just kill me now and save yourself the disappointment. I hate you, and I will always hate you.”

He examined her, then replied, “Hate is a strong emotion, a dark emotion… quite unusual for one who professes to be on the side of the light. Hatred is the best fuel for dark magic.”

She lifted her chin. “Good, then you can teach me, because I have plenty of it. My hatred for you is limitless.”

He took a step closer. “You will hate me even more, before it is all said and done. You will give me the Order and all of your friends on a silver platter. You will be a tool in my hands, and I will mold you to suit my purposes. You will obey my commands graciously… or your friends will all die.”

Hermione blinked several times.

She didn’t intend to do any of those things, not without a valiant fight. She would rather die. There had to be a way to save them.

The war wasn’t over, and she had to stop thinking as if it was. It was easy for Hermione to imagine resistance to be futile, being surrounded by the enemy. 

But she trusted that Kingsley and Harry had a plan. 

Hermione swallowed, reigning in the flood of fury that threatened to roll off her tongue. Instead, she asked calmly, “When do you plan to start teaching me?”

“A week from today,” he said calmly, taking a step forward.  

Hermione held her ground, refusing to retreat again. She gazed up at him as he towered over her.

He reached down and took her wrist, turning her arm over to expose the dark mark. He dragged his fingertip slowly across the red ink, and the tattoo reacted to the magic of its maker, moving upon her skin as Hermione turned her head aside, closing her eyes.

The magic of the mark must have permeated her blood, because anytime he touched her, particularly when he touched the mark, it sent a jolt of pleasure through her body that left her trembling. She couldn’t tell if the reaction was chemical, or magical, but it disgusted her nonetheless.

“How does it feel, mudblood, to know you’ll be taught magic by the most powerful wizard in the world?”

She lifted her eyes to find him staring at her with an unreadable look. She stared back, trying her best to look unafraid despite the fear coursing through her veins. “I don’t know, Tom, you tell me. How did it feel to step into Albus Dumbledore’s classroom for the first time?”

His eyes narrowed instantly, and his hand shot out, long, pale fingers wrapped snugly around her throat. He jerked her against him, knocking the breath from her lungs. 

“Never say that name again… or it will be the last thing you ever speak.”

She tried to swallow, but his grip was too tight. She rasped out, “Which name?”

“Guess.”

Hermione was so close to him. The proximity was unsettling, as well as the atmosphere around him that seemed to drown her in its black waves. 

“Either,” she choked out.

“Very good,” he hissed. “I knew you were a smart witch.”

*************

Bella couldn’t breathe. 

The Dark Lord’s grip cut off her air supply, squeezing tighter and tighter until her vision blackened, her eyes feeling like they’d fall out of her skull.

A moment later, he let her go, and she sucked in a labored, jagged breath. 

“If you disobey me again, Bella, I will kill you.”

Between coughs, she rasped, “I understand, my Lord.”

He watched her coldly. 

When she had gained some semblance of her composure back, she straightened, keeping her head bowed low.

Several moments passed in silence. 

Then, with a sharp exhale, he brought his hand up and slid a knuckle beneath her chin, lifting her head.

Her gray eyes were wide as they roamed his face. Her chest tightened with emotion. Did he know just how much she loved him, how much she worshipped him?

Surely he did. He could read her thoughts, especially thoughts laced with emotion, because she laid them bare for him. 

He lifted a vial. “Take the potion, Bella.”

Bella’s eyes flicked down to the vial. 

The Dark Lord hated to be touched, even when they had first begun having sex. But Bella was often incapable of following his orders, especially in the throes of passion. She’d often lose herself and touch him, his face, his shoulders, before she caught herself. 

It seemed to trigger something in her Lord, and oftentimes he would stop and simply walk out.

Sometimes, he would become so angry that he would torture her, but Bella was just twisted enough to enjoy it.

Occasionally, to avoid any mishaps, he took to tying her up, but other times, especially when he was cross with her, he’d dose her with a potion, rendering her unconscious.

In their sexual encounters, touching had become a kind of reward for Bella, something he only acquiesced to when he was pleased, but the potion had certainly become a punishment.

She hadn’t always minded. Any way that he wanted her, she saw it as an honor. To know him in a way that no one else did. To be intimate with her Lord, that he would bestow that special role upon her, that she could serve his needs in a way that no one else could.

But now… he was angry with her, still so enraged at her disobedience. For endangering her .

That fucking mudblood trash .

Bella swallowed, gazing at the potion.

“I won’t touch you, my Lord. I swear it.”

He said nothing, merely shook his head in denial of her plea.

He knew that she wanted to savor the act, to remember it. But the potion would steal that pleasure from her. It would render her as an object, a tool for service, nothing more.

He knew her better than anyone. Were he to torture her, she’d only enjoy it.

She had actually come to orgasm beneath his Crucio before. He didn’t react when it happened, but she thought he found it amusing, albeit probably a bit frustrating. That night was the first night they had fucked. Bella had always wondered if he truly wanted her, or if he’d only realized that he needed something with which to punish her. Something to take away, to use against her. Something she desperately wanted .

Once, she only pretended to take the potion. That had earned her a month of his avoidance. He wouldn’t even look at her, nor address her… the worst kind of torture.

Bella bit her lip.

When her eyes met his once again, he muttered, “It’s up to you. Take it, or don’t.”

In other words, take it, or walk away.

“Are you fucking her?” she blurted out, all in one breath. She hadn’t meant to ask it; the question had slipped out. She swallowed, then whispered, “The mudblood. Have you taken her to bed?”

He blinked, and she held her breath.

“No, Bella.”

Her breath released in a rush, relief washing over her. 

Suddenly his arm shot out, a ghostly white hand gripping her throat and snatching her against him. “But if I decide to do so, there’s not a thing you can do about it. Do not even attempt to get in my way, Bella. Your life will end badly if you do.”

Bella blinked, and a single tear fell onto her cheek, staining a wet path down her cheek. She nodded, and with one hand she grappled for the potion, taking it gingerly from him, careful not to make contact with his skin.

************

The Dark Lord sat on a velvet settee in the master bedroom at Lestrange Manor, staring at the limp body of Bellatrix Lestrange.

His legs were crossed, the elder wand in his hand, but his body was tense. 

He had come directly to Bella’s room after his dinner with the mudblood. Had he come out of frustration? Anger?

His eyes traced her delicate profile, her pert nose and petal-shaped lips, the long, sooty lashes that fanned out from heavily lidded eyes onto translucent cheeks.

She had lain out in the fashion she’d always been instructed to, arms lying limply at her sides.

The Dark Lord observed her clinically, wondering how he’d ever thought of this arrangement as arousing.

He thought continually of the vision he’d seen in the Mirror of Erised, of the Granger witch entwined around him, her hands gripping the back of his neck, mouth opening to his.

His rage and lust simmered simultaneously. 

Tom .

She’d called him fucking Tom.

He’d longed to choke her into unconsciousness.

Instead, he’d come here, had taken out his rage upon Bella.

Bella could handle it. She was made of strong substance.

Was the mudblood resilient as well? She was certainly more delicate than Bella was, in many ways, and yet… he sensed a different sort of strength in her. Something he couldn’t place his wand upon.

Something that perhaps had not yet revealed itself.

The Dark Lord leaned back his head and closed his eyes. 

Smooth, tan skin, stretched over delicate bone structure. Supple breasts, their curves swelling against the pressure of the gown’s structured bodice. Unruly hair. Keen, alert brown eyes. Expressive brows. Nails bitten down to nothing, a nervous habit. No... A thinking habit, perhaps? A maddening scent of lavender and vanilla, stinging his nostrils and shooting straight to his-

His eyes sprung open. 

With a sharp exhale, his gaze landed on Bellatrix. She seemed as one who’d been laid in her coffin. 

If she ever acted outside of his wishes again, he would make that vision a reality.

He stood.

His magic was pulsing at his fingertips, rolling along his limbs, begging to be let loose.

This would be yet another punishment for Bella. Even more so, if she ever realized that he hadn’t touched her.

He was positive that he never would again.

He left her slumbering under the potion’s influence, and walked out.

************

Chapter Text

“Merlin, help us!” screamed Cho as she backed away from Luna, toward the bedroom door. “Your eyes!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Luna sleepily. She blinked, batting her pale, translucent eyelashes. “Why are you shouting?”

“Luna… y-your eyes!” Cho stuttered fearfully. “C-can you still see?”

“Of course I can see, silly,” Luna said, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be able to? I haven’t had a problem with my eyesight since I caught Clabbert conjunctivitis-“

“Padma!” Cho shouted through the door. “Find McGonagall. Hurry!”

Luna cocked her head, yawning sleepily. She hadn’t slept well the past few days, what with all the dreaming. The amount of dreams her brain had conjured up recently was very unusual, indeed, and her sleep had suffered tremendously.

Just as Luna was deciding she’d rather skip this particularly bizarre bit of drama and go grab a cup of tea, McGonnagall came barreling through the door with Padma and Parvati in tow.

“What seems to be the commotion, Miss Chang?” chirped Minerva, looking down her nose through her spectacles. 

Cho pointed a shaking finger at Luna.

The moment Minerva’s eyes fell upon Luna, her eyebrows shot to outer space.

“Oh my... She has presented.”

Parvati’s face scrunched up. “She’s what?”

Minerva huffed, turning upon the three witches. “She is presenting as a seer . You may or may not recall, depending on whether you paid attention in divination class, that when a born seer is ready to manifest his or her magical gift, their eyes will seem to cloud over. That is a sign of the sight , of the ability to see beyond the veil, and indicates that a prophecy may be imminent. This may happen at any time in a seer’s life, at any age.”

All three witches turned their eyes upon Luna, who gazed back at them with a bluish, milky haze covering her normally gray eyes.

“What should I do, Professor?” asked Luna.

Minerva straightened her glasses, then cleared her throat. “Keep someone trusted with you at all times, Miss Lovegood. Stay vigilant, and wait. When the prophecy has been released, your eyes will return to their previous state. You must not leave this house. The prophecy may not relate to the war, but then again… it very well might, and we could certainly use the guidance.”

*****************

The next morning, Hermione was woken by a violent crack of thunder that rattled the panes of the ancient glass windows. Her eyes fluttered open, feeling the floor shake beneath the rumble of a brewing storm.

The previous night came rushing back.

She groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes.

Not only was she now central to Voldemort’s plan for world domination, but he’d confirmed quite boldly that he wanted her, at least in a carnal way, if nothing else.

I much prefer you without the evidence of another man’s curse. 

That could be both bad and good, she surmised. She could use it to her advantage, but at what cost? What would she have to give up in order to win Voldemort’s favor and save her friends?

Hermione swallowed thickly. She knew exactly what she would have to give up, and the thought made her stomach turn. Not only would she be labeled a traitor if she slept with Voldemort, but she also utterly despised him and couldn’t even imagine engaging in such an act. To her, it was unthinkable.

Her lips parted as her mind began to run wild.

Was he toying with her? He was evil to his core, so she didn’t put it past him not to completely debase her, to use her and humiliate her in front of the world, in order to completely discredit her, and by extension, Harry as well.

She could already see the headlines.

Golden Girl Caught in Sordid Affair with the Dark Lord!

Sleeping With the Enemy: Potter’s Mudblood Makes a Deal with the Devil!

Rita Skeeter had already once painted her as a loose witch set on attaching herself to famous wizards. That hag would have an absolute field day if given the opportunity.

Thunder struck again, a foreboding harbinger of the forthcoming storm.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart.

She felt… confused. Terribly so.

Everything she had expected to experience in the enemy’s camp had failed to happen. Voldemort had not tortured her. He didn’t rape her, nor did he allow Dolohov to do so. She was still alive and protected thus far.

She couldn’t help but feel as though her luck would run out at some point, that perhaps the worst was yet to come.

Voldemort had promised to train her, and then what?

What would he ask of her? Would he command her to murder her own friends? Would he threaten her family?

Hermione exhaled slowly. If she allowed her analytical mind to run amuck, it would drive her completely crazy. Her situation required a present and calm mind; the only way to handle it was to take it one day at a time. 

Don’t piss him off. Get your wand back.

Hermione threw back the coverlet and slid out of bed, making her way quietly to the French doors. 

She opened the door and stepped outside, only to be hit immediately with a cool blast of chilly air.

It wasn’t yet raining, and the sky was quite dark, indicating that the hour was still early. Hermione took in the indigo gray clouds and the almost black sky. Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head, observing that the storm clouds seemed to move incredibly fast.

In fact, the ocean beneath the mansion was churning viciously, unnaturally so.

She approached the stone balustrade, wearing only her thin satin nightgown, and the crisp autumn wind whipped at her bare skin, with dead leaves of chestnut brown and golden ochre swirling past. She placed her palms on the stone and leaned over, her eyes devouring the view, trying to decipher what precisely seemed out of place. 

Of a sudden, her gaze fell on a figure who stood past the rocks, on the beach below.

Voldemort stood out against the white sand, his dark robes billowing about him. Black smoke poured from his body, a physical manifestation of his magic, a phenomenon that only Dumbledore had ever made mention of.

Hermione leaned further over the balcony’s edge to get a better look. 

She had never actually seen Voldemort practicing magic, but it was clear where the storm had originated. 

He wielded his wand in sharp motion, his movements precise and distinct as he mastered his magic, molding the storm as if the very ocean were channeling his mood. 

Lightning jetted from his wand, releasing complex spellwork that gave rise to dangerous waves. The ocean seemed angry, as if it were vexed to be controlled by the wizard’s wand, but was unable to fight against such a demonstration of brute magical strength.

It was as if the wizard truly was a god. The sight terrified Hermione, to see him wielding such magic as if it were nothing, just another morning for Voldemort.

Suddenly, he lifted his wand, and with a grin, a surge of power burst from his wand and lit the sky in a brilliant explosion of light. In turn, a beam of lightning ricocheted straight into the ocean, sending a forcefield of deadly energy skittering along the surface of the water. Hermione watched as that electricity flashed through the turbulent waves, creating a dangerous zone of death throughout the water.

Then, Voldemort rose into the air, black smoke rolling off of his body and robes whipping about him. All Hermione could see was his black silhouette against the flashing clouds, rain tumulting down around him. 

Voldemort was a thunderstorm of power.

Hermione heard a crack from behind her, and she turned to see Deedle apparating away, having left her morning tea and breakfast on the table in her bedroom. 

Feeling quite disconcerted by Voldemort’s ability to fly and exercise power over the weather, and hoping sincerely that this wouldn’t be a daily affair, she retreated back into the bedroom to grab her tea.

She slipped on her robe, because the air coming through the French doors was quite chilly, then unfolded the morning copy of The Daily Prophet. 

She read the first headline.

Draco Malfoy Appointed The Dark Lord’s General!

Hermione’s eyebrows knit, because as far as she was aware, his first-in-command had always been Bellatrix Lestrange.

Her eyes slid down, resting upon the next headline. 

Hogwarts’ First Term Resumes: Rebuild Underway!

Hermione scanned the article, feeling quite disgusted by the way that Skeeter applauded Alecto Carrow for her revolutionary new policies as headmistress and kissed the Malfoys’ arses for their generous donation to the rebuild efforts.

“ … this daunting undertaking would simply not be possible without their monetary aid.”

Disgusting , thought Hermione. There wouldn’t even be a need to rebuild if it weren’t for their support of Voldemort.

She would always blame Draco for Dumbledore’s death.

At the bottom of the page, there was a very disturbing headline, indeed.

The Dark Lord and The Golden Girl: In Peace Talks?

Hermione quickly scanned the article.

A trusted source tells us that not only has Harry Potter’s best friend, Hermione Granger, taken the dark mark and joined the Dark Lord’s army, but she is the key to negotiation efforts between Death Eaters and the remnants of the renegade group, formerly known as Dumbledore’s army, now dubbed the Order of the Phoenix. 

“She feels there has been too much death already,” says our source. “She is being moved to The Dark Lord’s private abode as we speak, and we can only hope that there will be an agreement reached for peace. The Dark Lord is merciful, and values magical blood above all else. If the Order of the Phoenix would surrender, he would grant them clemency. Everything he does is to strengthen the might of magical Britain, and he will be the best ruler we have ever had.”

Even now, the Order of the Phoenix spreads lies through their pamphlets, filled with propaganda, even inserting that Miss Granger has been placed under the imperius curse. This is undeniably false, as we have reports from expert cursebreakers that state that the dark mark cannot be made under the influence of the curse.

What about muggleborns, you might ask?

We can only hope that Miss Granger can act on behalf of this misunderstood group of alleged witches and wizards.

“Alleged!” Hermione spat. She threw the paper in the bin, unwilling to read more. 

Simmering with rage, she snatched up her tea cup and walked back out onto the balcony.

Just as she had sat her tea on the balustrade, her eyes bugged out of her head.

Mouth agape, her eyes fell on the backside of a fully undressed Voldemort.

She blinked, staring at his black robes, lying in a heap on the sand. Then, her gaze trailed over his pale shoulders, much broader and more defined than she would have imagined, and then the rippling muscles of his arse and thighs as he walked into the water.

Her breath left her in a rush, and she swallowed, unable to drag her eyes away.

Was she really ogling Voldemort’s arse?

All of her anger seemed to deflate beneath her shock.

The waves had calmed, and she observed as he slowly waded into the ocean, the indigo waters embracing him, obscuring his body to the waist.

He sank below the surface, then re-emerged several feet away.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from smiling. Why did she find it so funny that this murderous dark lord would fancy a mid-morning swim?

Only after conjuring a deadly hurricane, of course.

Suddenly, he turned, and in fear of being caught lurking, she backed away from the balcony’s edge, pressing against the wall.

Droplets of water coated his muscular chest, trickling down the hairless line of his abdomen where his hips met the water. Her eyes absentmindedly wandered his perfectly carved out Adonis belt, until her thoughts were interrupted by a rasping voice.

“Enjoying the view, mudblood?” came his hissing cadence.

Hermione’s heart jumped into her throat, thumping wildly.

“I will take your silence as affirmation.”

She stood frozen, too aghast to think of a response.

“Await me in your chambers. I shall visit you shortly.”

Hermione groaned and quickly retreated back into her bedroom, her cheeks crimson with mortification.

She did not want to see him, particularly after reading that infuriating article.

Don’t piss him off. Get your wand.

Hermione took a seat at the little breakfast table and sat back, attempting to look as nonchalant as possible while she sipped her tea.

Ten minutes later, he appeared in her bedroom with a burst of black smoke and a chilling wind that blew across the room. 

His lips were twisted into a smirk.

Hermione didn’t look at him, but sipped her tea blankly, refusing to acknowledge what they both knew: that she’d gaped at his naked arse.

“Can I help you?” she simpered coolly.

He approached and pulled out the chair across from her. Then, he took a seat, and a cup of tea materialized in front of him. He took the pitcher of milk from the serving tray in front of her and poured a dash into his tea. Then, he levitated a cube of sugar from the silver bowl and dropped it into his cup. He twirled his finger over its contents, mixing the sugar into the tea with magic.

As he tasted it, Hermione asked, “Do you always conjure storms before breakfast?”

He sat his cup on the table, then fixed his red eyes on her face. “Not always. Sometimes it’s sea dragons, or the kraken, or perhaps ghost ships from the abyss.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

She huffed impatiently. “It’s hard not to gawk when you’re murdering every fish within a five mile radius with a metelojinx and a lightning spell.”

“I wasn’t talking about the storm, my dear.”

Hermione clenched her teeth. “You did it on purpose.”

“Perhaps. And, by the way, you know very well that it wasn’t a metelojinx. Don’t insult me.”

Hermione’s eyes sparked with interest. “What was it, then?”

Voldemort cocked his head, lips curling into a sinister smile. “In a week, little raven. I will teach you anything you wish to know.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

She didn’t like that he used her love of learning to seduce her. 

She shrugged nonchalantly. “There’s nothing I want to learn from you. Your magic is poisoned.”

He took another sip of tea. “Nevertheless, you will learn, and we will see just what powers you house within that lovely frame of yours.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, her cheeks pinking. 

He leaned back, eying her smugly, his eyes intensely fixed on her face.

She refused to meet his gaze, instead choosing to change the subject.

“Why do I never see your snake with you?”

He paused, then replied, “She is not fond of you, and you are not fond of her. So she remains in a protected place.”

Hermione blinked, wondering why he would care about her preferences, but she decided not to question it, because she definitely did not like the snake and would be happy to never see it again.

“I will be gone this week,” he continued. “You will have to find a way to occupy yourself until I return. Then, we shall begin your lessons.”

“I don’t suppose,” Hermione hedged, “that there’s a chance of getting my wand and my bag back, is there?”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes as if in thought, then he waved his hand, and her beaded bag and wand appeared on the table. 

She almost jumped in excitement to grab her wand, but she held herself in check.

“I have removed any items from the bag that would be a… temptation ,” he asserted. “However, it is vital that you become reacquainted with your wand in order to start your training. I must say, I was rather surprised when I took inventory of your belongings.” 

He opened the bag and summoned several books from its depths and laid them on the table in a steep stack, cocking a brow as he looked at her. 

Hermione’s mortification grew as she saw the books in question.

Before her was a stack of titles from the library at Grimmauld Place, the tomes Ron had been quite reproachful about. 

Books she had snuck away late at night to analyze.

“Blood Magic?” Voldemort quipped, his lips twisting into a smirk as he read the titles. “ Dead Dark Arts… Curses and Maledictions for Everyday Use… Malleus Maleficarum… The Transitive Vampire… Advanced Black Magic… The Nightshade Guide to Necromancy… Poisons and Deadly Potions… The Corpus Hermeticum… Grimorium Verum… The Resurrectionist … and my personal favorite, Summoning the Dark Forces .”

Hermione glared at him, but he merely smirked back at her, his lips slowly stretching into a grin as he leaned forward.

“I think, my little raven, that you and I shall get along better than I even anticipated.”

Chapter Text

Hermione took a deep breath. “I think I’ll go search for some more wormwood. We’ll need more Dreamless Sleep potion if we’re going to keep wearing that locket night and day. My stores are low.”

“Alright,” Harry said dejectedly. He was still saddened by Ron’s absence, and had taken to lying on Ron’s bed whilst toying with the snitch given to him by Dumbledore.

Hermione layered several sweaters and then tucked her beaded bag around her neck. Then, she slung her foraging bag over her shoulder and started toward the tent opening.

“Hermione,” Harry called.

She turned back, her warm brown eyes meeting his green ones.

“Be careful.”

Hermione gave a weak smile. “I will, Harry.”

Then, she turned and walked out.

Hermione carefully climbed over bramble and brush, ever watchful and with ears attuned to any and all sounds in the forest, listening for voices and snapping twigs.

She came to a trickling stream that had carved a gorge in the hillside over time. Just over the stream, Hermione knew there was a grazing pasture of well-drained soil where wormwood liked to grow.

Just as she had crossed the stream and began to scale the other side of the gorge, she heard the crack of a branch, much too close for comfort.

Before she had a chance to search the forest, a hand roughly covered her mouth and she felt herself jerked back against a hard body.

“Oh, how delicious,” came a gravelly voice. “You smell like sin.”

Hermione’s nostrils filled with the scent of an unwashed man.

Her captor spun her around and shoved a wand to her temple. Only then was she able to get a good look at the individual.

A snatcher. That was obvious.

The wand proved he wasn’t muggle. 

“Please,” Hermione whispered. “My family is coming back for me. We are camping not even a full mile from here.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and he reached for her wand which was stashed in her pocket. He plucked it from its hiding place and twirled it in his fingers.

“You think I wouldn’t recognize Potter’s mudblood?”

Hermione immediately snatched at her wand and shoved him back, capitalizing on the element of surprise, then took off running. 

In mere seconds, she heard his footsteps behind her. 

“Wonder what you look like under all those layers?” he shouted. “I s’pose I’ll have to turn you over to the Dark Lord first, eh?”

Suddenly, he apparated directly in front of her, and she skidded to a halt. Hermione quickly spun on her heel, but just as she was about to apparate away, she felt the man grip her hair, jerking her off balance.

A geyser of magic rose up from her heart into her throat, and Hermione launched herself forward, falling to the ground, and then, everything went dark.

**********

The snatcher’s hands came up empty.

When he searched the ground in front of him, he found no sign of the mudblood, no sound in the wood aside from the cawing of a raven perched on the tree branch above his head.

Or was it a crow? He wondered. 

He preferred to think it was a raven, because to see only one crow foretold misfortune.

He shrugged. The mudblood must have disapparated somehow.

He wouldn’t tell the Dark Lord about his failure to capture her.

He would simply comb the wood for the next few days, because where the mudblood appeared, Harry Potter was surely not far away. 

The Dark Lord would reward his efforts were he to be successful.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he spat at the raven.

****************

“We should still be hunting horcruxes, Ron,” said Harry impatiently. “He’s only got a few left.”

“Wonder what he did with the piece he took from you?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know, but we need to find out. Maybe he encased it in another object.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Dumbledore trusted us to do this. The war isn’t over, Ron. We can’t give up.”

“But what about Mione? How are we going to get her back?”

Harry pushed his glasses back up his nose and clenched his jaw. “We will have to find out where she’s being kept. If the papers are right, and they’ve moved her to Voldemort’s private home, then she could be anywhere.”

“Could a patronus find her?” asked Ron. 

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s dangerous, Kingsley says.”

Ron sulked. “Yeah, well… so’s sitting around, doing nothing.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

“Do I think what’s true?”

“That Hermione took the mark.”

Ron’s brows furrowed. “I mean… if she did, it’s because he forced her. Least that’s what Fleur said. He made her do it. You know Mione won’t sacrifice her friends.”

Harry nodded, pacified. “Wonder how she’s doing?”

Ron’s face fell even further. He swallowed. “I hope she’s alright.”

Harry stared at his friend. “She’s smart. She can take care of herself.”

Ron blinked into the flames in the hearth. “She didn’t take care of herself when Bellatrix tortured her.”

“Because she was too busy taking care of me with that stinging jinx. She’s always thinking of everybody else.”

Ron’s eyes flicked to Harry. “So… you’re feeling alright then, mate? Back to normal?”

Harry shrugged, then leaned back. “Of course. I feel just fine.”

Ron paused, then nodded, laying back on Sirius’ old bed. “Good,” he sighed, running his fingers through his ginger hair. “Good.”

**************

The full moon was like a giant pearl in the sky, a beacon that both drove Kieran Blackthorn and terrified him. He hated being controlled, but this one thing had held sway over him for the better part of his life.

He couldn’t remember a time before Ronan. Before Fenrir. Before that searing pain that almost took him from the world of magic.

He had little memory of his mother. He often wished he did, but then, if he remembered, he would probably long for a life he could never return to.

His family now ran beside him, padding along in a canine-like manner, retaining some human qualities. 

Ronan drew closer. His fur was the blackest and thickest, his snout longer. His blue eyes glowed brightly as they met Kieran’s green-gold gaze. 

They weren’t forced to take the ministry-ordered potion that stemmed their transformation. Not under Voldemort.

They did take the Wolfsbane Potion which kept their minds intact during the full moon. Kieran didn’t mind that potion; he preferred to have his mind about him.

A wolf howled behind him, one of the newest to join their pack. The last recruit before Voldemort killed Greyback.

The grass was soft and dewy beneath Kieran’s feet, and the moon was high, causing a warmth to blossom in his chest. 

Ignoring the moon was torture, but to give in was bliss.

Ronan barked, “Keep to the treeline. The Order watches the perimeter, just past the protective barrier.”

Voldemort himself had warded and protected the Manor’s grounds, ensuring that his growing army couldn’t be tracked or discovered by the Order, nor his enemies in the Ministry.

Umbridge was currently trying and sentencing those enemies, and they were fewer and fewer by the day. 

Most had learned to keep their mouth shut, to lay low, to allow the balance of power to shift, knowing that resistance was futile.

Because the Dark Lord held the Ministry, and London, and Hogwarts, and the most powerful families. 

Kieran was positive He now sought to secure the Wizengamot, and the favor of the Confederation.

Ronan might be the alpha, but Kieran was the eyes and ears. He was quiet and watchful, with a keen, perceptive mind.

Ronan hoped that they might build their own place among wizards, free from the interference of the Ministry.

Kieran was doubtful. He didn’t trust Voldemort, nor the purebloods, nor wizardkind for that matter.

The witch’s face bloomed in his mind, unbidden. He saw her moonlit skin and pale hair, gray eyes wide and uncertain as they met his.

Her eyes were ardent and penetrating, like his. Somehow he knew that she saw things others did not.

Like he did.

Heat flooded his body, the same affectation that he experienced when the moon shone on his fur.

His moon.

Luna.

Suddenly, his nose picked up a familiar scent.

Was it a scent? It was… a pulling.

A seductive energy riding the wind.

Something drew Kieran, and he found himself breaking formation.

He turned away, drawn inevitably to the east.

Kieran!

Ronan’s voice called to him.

Where are you going? We must stay within the boundaries.

He heard, but did not respond.

He knew his brother wouldn’t pull rank on him.

Kieran was the only person he saw as an equal.

Ronan felt that if he pulled rank, it would break their bond.

Up until now, Kieran had never tested that brotherly bond.

But something stronger tugged at him, igniting his veins like the pull of the moon.

Kieran!

He ran, and ran, crossing water and scaling rock.

He knew the scent; it grew stronger as he moved.

Luna.

His mate.

Hours passed as he followed the scent on the wind and the tug of his moon.

Branches tore at his fur. His claws left deep gouges in the earth.

He chanted her name like an incantation, infusing it with the memory of her essence that was more magnetic and powerful than the tides of the ocean.

Where are you?

He wondered if she could hear him, if she could feel him, as he undeniably felt her.

He climbed a steep hill of rock, somewhere far away from his camp, and emerged in a glade surrounded by trees, where the moonbeams lit the landscape unhindered by the forest canopy.

Then, he saw her, glowing beneath the starlight. 

He circled her as a planet orbiting her brilliance, feeling uncertainty tight in his chest.

Far in the distance, he heard Ronan’s howl.

He shook his head, unable to resist his base impulse to respond.

He threw his head back and howled. 

Down in the valley, his mate stood, her eyes wide as she caught sight of him.

There you are, he thought.

Slowly, he made his way down the hill. 

**************

Luna began to back away, terror crawling up her insides.

She hadn’t meant to venture so far from the safe house, but she’d caught sight of a family of flitterbies, their genus unique in that they had transparent wings that glowed in the darkness.

She hadn’t seen those since her mother passed, and she’d felt as if her mother were calling to her. She followed them into the glade, completely unaware that she was being stalked by a massive, hulking beast.

A werewolf. 

Luna’s heart fluttered with fear like the wings of the flitterbies.

She had heard that Greyback was dead, and she pleaded with the universe that it was true.

She backed away slowly, so as not to draw the beast’s attention.

To her horror, it dropped onto all fours and began to descend the hill, its chocolate brown fur gleaming in the starlight.

Luna prayed, then turned on her heel and began to flee.

Thorny barbs snatched at her dress. She was thankful for the soft, dewy grass beneath her boots, allowing her to retreat toward the protective barrier of the safe house quietly.

But she knew that werewolves had unparalleled senses, particularly to scent their prey. 

Soon, she heard its padding behind her, but no snarls nor howls.

No snapping of its jaws, its razor sharp teeth.

She could see the light of the safe house in the distance.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she ran with all her physical might, but her heart sorrowed to hear the wolf approaching, its beast-like breathing almost tickling her neck.

She spared a glance behind her, and realized that the wolf wasn’t attacking her at all.

He was pursuing her, but only at a safe distance.

He padded along behind her, to the left a bit, almost beside her, with very little speed, matching her gait quite casually, in fact.

As if it were intentionally giving her space.

Luna’s mind told her to keep running, but something told her to stop.

The wolf could have caught her easily, but had chosen not to.

Since when were werewolves mindful when they phased? They were almost always dangerous for humans. 

Curiosity got the better of her, and she slowed to a stop.

The wolf mirrored her actions, coming to a halt. 

Luna turned, blinking, chest heaving as she attempted to calm her racing heart.

The two stared at one another in silence, and as Luna watched, she began to feel a sense of familiarity about this wolf. 

She took a deep breath, and took a step forward.

The wolf moved, and she gasped, halting in her tracks.

But the wolf only bent down into a kneeling position.

Luna’s brows knit, and she cocked her head as she stepped forward, drawing closer to the wolf. 

Her hands shook as she came to stand in front of the creature. A swarm of ethereal flitterbies floated by, drifting around them as they flapped their luminescent wings.

She was close enough to look into its eyes, though the wolf was much taller than she was, even on its knees.

Luna gazed up into the wolf’s large, greenish-gold eyes.

Her breath left her lungs.

“It’s… you.”

Chapter Text

Ronan veered away from the pack as he crossed the border to the Manor’s grounds, rounding the back of the estate before he transformed back into his human form.

Anger was tight in his muscular frame, because he’d spent all night searching for his brother.

He hauled back and drove his fist into the trunk of an ancient oak tree. 

“Fucking werewolves!” he growled in frustration.

“I hate to break it to you,” came a familiar voice from behind him. “But you are a werewolf.”

Ronan twisted round to find Pansy Parkinson seated at the base of a tree, her skirt riding dangerously high up on her thighs, exposing the top of her black stockings which were attached to her underthings by hooks. A book lay open in her lap.

It only took Ronan a moment to observe these things. 

“What are you doing here?” he spat.

She shrugged indifferently. “Breathing in the fresh air… though I’ll admit, the air is less fresh since you arrived… Where were you, rolling in the muck and mud all night? There’re twigs in your hair.”

Ronan was in no mood for banter, nor barbs. He glared at her, his cheek muscles rippling with irritation.

Pansy cocked an eyebrow. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the kennel this morning.” Her lips fought against a smirk as her eyes flicked downward. “By the way, I feel it’s my civic duty to inform you that you are completely naked.”

Ronan didn’t seem to mind. He moved away from the tree and came to stand directly in front of Pansy, gazing down at her.

She tore her eyes away from his nudity and lifted her gaze to his, pressing her tongue against her cheek.

“Aren’t you a lucky girl?” He muttered under his breath. “Right place, right time, I suppose.”

At that, he turned and walked away, affording her a generous glimpse of his arse.

Pansy drew her wand and waved it, garbing him in a pair of trousers. “You’re welcome!” 

He halted, standing still for a moment. 

Then, he turned around to face her.

She held back a giggle, letting a muted smile play on her lips.

His eyes narrowed. This witch was typically of a much thornier disposition, but he supposed that was just her general reaction to his forward behavior. Now that he was in the role of the thorny one, it seemed that her playful side was making an appearance.

He remained silent as he stared at her.

He would usually not pass up the opportunity to flirt, but his mood was quite foul today, and he couldn’t shake the frustration.

“Tell me, dog,” Pansy simpered. “What’s got you punching trees on this fine morning?”

Ronan heaved a deep, exhausted breath. He wanted nothing more than to escape to his tent and sleep, but the lure of Pansy’s good humor and exposed thighs was too great a temptation. 

Pansy motioned to her left with her chin.  “Have a seat, Wolf. Tell me all about it. It might be your only opportunity.”

Ronan ran his tongue over his top teeth, but begrudgingly drew closer and sat at a nearby tree opposite Pansy, if only because he was completely knackered and could hardly stay on his feet any longer. 

His eyes locked on her thighs as he muttered, “I sincerely doubt it’ll be my only opportunity.”

She shrugged. “What’s got you all bothered this morning?”

He cocked a brow. “Besides your incredible thighs… my brother. He doesn’t seem to think he has to obey my orders.”

Pansy couldn’t hide the pinkness that spread across her pale cheeks and throat, though he noticed that she attempted to act unphased. It confused Ronan greatly, because the witch had, up until now, only showed abhorrence toward him. Though he found himself intensely attracted to Pansy, he’d honestly thought she was truly revolted by him. His anger began to dissolve beneath his burgeoning curiosity.

“Has it crossed your mind that maybe you aren’t as alpha as you think you are?” Pansy asked sweetly.

Ronan snorted. “The issue, darling , is that I have a soft spot for my brother.”

“You don’t look anything alike.”

“We aren’t blood. But we might as well be.”

Pansy blinked, then rubbed her lips together. “Did you two quarrel? Where is he now?”

His jaw ticked. “I’ve no bloody idea.”

“What are you going to do?”

Ronan yawned. “I’m going to sleep. Then, in a few hours, I suppose I’ll have to go and look for him… if he doesn’t bring his sorry arse back before then.”

Pansy bit her lip. “Do you want me to help you look for him?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I hate to break it to you, but if an alpha wolf can’t track him, then you, despite being a paradigm of pureblood perfection, will certainly not be able to.”

Pansy fidgeted with her nails absentmindedly. “I’m actually quite skilled at finding things… and like I said, this might be your only opportunity to spend time with me.”

His eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I want to spend time with you, princess ?”

Pansy shrugged, shifting position so that her skirt hiked a bit higher up her thigh, revealing a tiny glimpse of the knickers underneath. 

Ronan cocked his head, feeling the blood instantly rush to his groin. 

His pulse hammered thickly in his veins as his gaze cut back to Pansy and found her snickering.

Ronan pressed his tongue into his cheek, his blue eyes darkening. “I hope you know that it’s a dangerous game you’re playing at, Miss Parkinson.”

She closed her book and slid her fingers along the paper edges, slipping a finger between the pages as she stroked downward innocently. “What game is that?”

Ronan’s mouth twisted to the side. “This afternoon. Three o’ clock. Come find me.”

At that, he stood up and sauntered away, leaving Pansy staring after.

**************

Pansy could scream. 

She wanted to kick herself.

A fucking werewolf.

Flirting with a werewolf!

She liked to think she was better than the other girls. Smarter. More cunning. Less prone to theatrics and emotional displays.

Certainly less eager to spread her legs, unless of course, it was for Draco.

He had always been her soft spot.

But in reality, she was just as weak as Astoria. Just as prickly as Granger. Just as giddy as Lavender Brown had been.

She had hated Ronan Blackthorn and everything about him. His manner, his boldness, his sarcastic attitude. His preening about as if he was some kind of leader.

He was a dog. Unfit to breathe the same air as Pansy, and yet…

She had one dream about the wolf, and now she was acting like a bitch in heat.

Pansy groaned, tears of frustration threatening to spill over.

She couldn’t help the way her eyes had followed him the past week. The way her pulse spiked when he made his little quips and barbs. How the vivid memory of the dream came rushing back anytime she heard his deep voice say, “princess.”

It had made their dueling lessons quite difficult, as she could hardly focus with that wolf in the room.

She had half a mind to ask Theo to obliviate her, but then she would have to inform him of specifically what to obliviate, and Theo was not one to let things slide. She loved him, but the less ammunition he had to tease her with, the better. 

No, she wasn’t better than the other girls.

She was arguably worse.

Because now she desperately wanted to live out that dream and fuck a werewolf.

Once Pansy set her sights on something, there was absolutely no stopping until she got what she wanted.

She had come here thinking she might win back Draco, or even seduce the Dark Lord himself.

Nothing was going to plan.

Desire flooded her body, and now she’d seen his cock. As if she needed more to think about! She’d thought about the dream all week.

He had chased her in his wolf form, pinned her against a tree and fucked her senseless, all while staring at her with those brilliant blue eyes. At some point in the dream, he’d phased back into his human form, but she hadn’t known which she preferred, in all truthfulness. 

It was erotic. It was bizarre.

But it was… disturbingly sensual and had Pansy hot and bothered all week, her desire only intensifying with every day that she didn’t fuck him.

Her heart pounded with frightening inevitability.

She was a pureblood witch, one of prized pedigree… and she was horny for a werewolf, and she was going to fuck him.

He wanted to fuck her. He’d made that blatantly obvious.

So, what was to stop it from happening? 

She didn’t think she had the will to stop it herself, so she ardently prayed that Ronan would do something disgusting and doglike to quench her lust.

Perhaps all it took was a dream to get her going, but no one could get the ick faster than Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy swallowed, and went to the washroom with shaking hands to run a bubble bath.

*************

“That’s a werewolf track, is it not?” Pansy asked. 

“It is, indeed,” Ronan answered, eyeing her short skirt as he walked behind her. “We’ve been tracking them for almost a mile. Have you only just noticed?”

“I’m making sure that you’re paying attention, dog.”

“Oh, I’m paying very, very close attention.”

She threw an apprehensive glance over her shoulder, catching the innuendo.

“So,” he continued, “How did you come to be good at finding things?”

She laughed smugly and rolled her neck on her shoulders. “More like… good at finding out things. I always had methods of learning how and who Draco was cheating on me with.”

It was quiet for a moment, then Ronan snorted. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a soft-handed, weak-minded brat could pull witches.  I am a bit surprised by you, though.”

Pansy was offended. “Oh?” she spat venomously over her shoulder. “Surprised by my taste in wizards?”

“Aye.”

“I suppose I would be so much more impressive to you if I preferred being humped by canines than properly fucked by a wealthy, powerful pureblooded aristocrat.”

“You wouldn’t know if you prefer it, would you?” he jabbed with a smirk.

The dream unfurled in Pansy’s mind in that instant, causing her heart to beat more swiftly. 

“Where are you from?” she asked, changing the subject as they crossed the terrain, following the tracks. 

“Ireland.”

Pansy paused, deep in thought.  

Moments later, she asked, “Why didn’t you go to Hogwarts then, if you’re magical?”

Silence stretched between them for a few seconds before he replied, “That… is a story for another time.”

Being denied the information made Pansy want to know all the more desperately.

She hated secrets she couldn’t uncover.

It made him seem all the more mysterious, which unfortunately, wasn’t staving off her lust one bit.

**********

They searched for several hours, mostly in silence, with Ronan pointing out little signs that would help them search, such as disturbance in the pattern of the leaves, fur that had been pulled by thorny brambles, muddy places where his wet paws had dug into the earth, the path of the wind through the wood that and how it carried scents. 

He asked her if she smelled anything particular, but she never did.

Ronan, on the other hand, could hardly smell the faint traces of his brother over the distinct scent of Pansy, an earthy mixture of fruity and floral, a subtle perfume, rich and intoxicating and brimming with pheromones.

Fuck’s sake, he wanted her.

What exactly was this blind need that he experienced anytime he was around the witch? It weakened him, and he hated to feel weak.

Finally, their search came to a halt as they reached a rocky hill, just beyond a stream. The tracks ended there, but Ronan knew how to read signs even upon the craggy rocks. 

“Tell you what, Parkinson. I’ll scale this hill and check it out while you follow the stream and do as I taught you. Agreed?”

Pansy nodded, seeming preoccupied with her own thoughts.

Before they split up, he gripped her arm, halting her in her tracks. “Be careful,” he commanded, more sternly than he had intended. 

Pansy eyed his rough, callused hand on her skin for a moment before he released her.

She gave a curt nod and then turned to leave.

It took him a good ten minutes to climb the hill, and when he did, he found what he’d been looking for.

Ronan blinked as he stared into the valley below, where on a patch of grass in full light of the sunshine, his brother lay with a blonde witch in his arms, both of them fast asleep.

The witch he claimed was his mate…

One who belonged to the Order.

Ronan took a deep breath, running his hand over his eyes. “Fuck.”

He stared down at the pair, at a loss for what to do.

Deep down, he’d been worried this is what he might find. He had hoped that perhaps his brother was simply besotted, that the fascination might fade with time, but he knew his brother too well.

Kieran Blackthorn was loyal to a fault, and he rarely said anything that he didn’t mean.

If he said this witch was his mate, Ronan did not doubt it one bit.

But it did present a huge problem. One they would have to navigate, as if they didn’t have enough to figure out.

Worst came to worst, it would be another favor to ask of the Dark Lord, and they would be asking many of those already.

Ronan would have to prove himself extremely valuable in the Dark Lord’s army to acquire the type of leverage necessary.

It was a good thing Voldemort already liked Ronan. He sought him out often, even placing him as equal to many of his death eaters whenever possible, angering them to no end.

“Blackthorn!” called Pansy. “There’s no sign of any tracks on the river bank. Shall I come up there?”

Ronan tensed. “No,” he called back. “I’m coming back down.”

He pulled out his wand and waved it, chanting a series of incantations as he wove a protective barrier around the glade.

It was foolish for his brother to leave the camp, and to be vulnerable like this in broad daylight…

But his brother could be deeply passionate when he wanted to be. He was keen and intelligent, but also stubborn and unerringly loyal, which often got him into trouble.

It was a good thing he had Ronan for a brother.

Ronan turned and slid down the rocks on the other side of the hill, then ran the rest of the way, nearly colliding with Pansy at the bottom.

“Come on, Parkinson. Let’s call it a day. He’ll show up at camp when he feels like it.”

Indeed, the sun was starting to set, and he didn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to his brother’s little tryst than necessary.

He gripped Pansy by the arm, and apparated them both back to the Manor grounds.

****************

When they arrived back at the Malfoy Estate, the trolls and giants were just getting ready to roast two more muggles on a spitfire. Mulciber and Rowle were drunk on firewhiskey and practicing their dueling, with an occasional unforgivable cast at the manticores in their cages. 

“Makes them meaner, more vicious,” said Rowle. 

Pansy shivered, desperate to retreat back to her bedroom on the West Wing, far from the gory camp.

“Parkinson!” called Ronan as she started to leave.

She turned back to find him gazing at her with piercing blue eyes. 

“Fancy a drink?”

Say no, she chanted internally. Don’t do it.  

She shrugged. “I guess so. As long as we aren’t lapping it from a muddy puddle.”

He chuckled, then held his arm out, indicating that she should follow him.

She did so, quite nervously, though she didn’t show it.

I’m sorry, Grandfather, she thought shamefully.

But shame wasn’t enough to deter Pansy Parkinson.

***************

“Not scared of the big bad wolves, are you, princess?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Watch your mouth, and stop calling me that.”

“Back to your old self, eh?” he jibed as she followed him into the camp. “Wonder what put you in such a good mood this morning?”

Definitely not getting myself off to the dream I had of you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A roaring bonfire crackled and hissed in the center of the wolves’ camp. Several members of the pack eyed Pansy with something akin to hostility, but she didn’t feel unsafe in Ronan’s company.

He stopped into his tent and emerged with a bottle of firewhiskey, then led her away from the pack, to a smaller firepit behind his tent. 

Pansy’s heart rate had steadily been picking up speed, but now she could feel it thrumming in her veins.

A glass of firewhiskey would be welcome. 

“You’re not averse to whiskey are you?” he asked teasingly. “Only wine and champagne for you?”

“I like whiskey,” she said, a sudden shyness coming over her, though she didn’t know why.

Perhaps, because she wasn’t in her element. Pansy was used to the company of purebloods and aristocrats. Wealthy, well-bred society types that met for high tea and gathered for wizarding balls and fundraisers.

She knew the proper things to say, how to greet those people, how to banter, when to stay silent, when to smile.

She wasn’t accustomed to sitting on logs and drinking shitty alcohol with smelly werewolves.

Although, to be fair, Ronan smelled quite nice for a dog.

She eyed him in silence as he handed her a glass he’d taken from his tent. His blue eyes met hers as he poured her a draught. He poured his as well, and then he lifted it. 

At his prompting, she lifted hers as well. 

“To finding out things,” he muttered, and his deep voice and thick Irish accent made her shiver. 

Their glasses clinked, and Pansy very much did want to find out more about him, so the toast suited her. 

They gazed at one another in silence as they each imbibed deeply.

He refilled her glass without a word.

The sun was setting, darkness falling swiftly. Crickets chirped, and though her black sweater was made of thick wool, she still shivered against the bite of the autumn evening.

Pansy took a seat on a log near the fire, and Ronan disappeared into his tent again.

She sat uncomfortably for a moment beneath the hard stares of his packmates, until he returned with a heavy cloak and tossed it around her shoulders.

She didn’t argue or make a joke about it smelling like dog. It smelled like Ronan, and she pulled it tighter around her, reveling in the unfamiliar but delicious scent.

She looked up at him hesitantly. “Is now the right time for you to answer my question?”

He had seated himself against a nearby tree, one knee bent and the other outstretched. His wrist dangled over his knee, bearing his glass of firewhiskey.

Be pressed his tongue against his cheek before answering.

“I’m muggleborn.”

Pansy’s lips parted, and she froze for a moment.

“Oh.”

He smiled, then took a drink. “Am I out of the circle now?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You always were. You’re a werewolf.” She took a sip, made a face, then drew the cloak closer, savoring the fresh wave of scent that drifted up from the heavy fabric. “I’m still here, though, drinking with you.”

Ronan blinked once, then twice. “Getting drunk in the dirty darkness and one night stands aren’t the same as courting and marrying.” He held out his glass, swirling the amber liquid. “This means nothing. Tomorrow, it’ll be like today never happened.”

Pansy cocked a brow. “Excuse me, but… do you want it to mean something?”

He snorted. “I’m just speaking in general, Miss Parkinson. I’m speaking of politics, of pureblood tradition.”

Pansy’s heart beat unevenly, and she felt a discomfort she’d never felt before.

“Alright,” she murmured. “So, you’re muggleborn. There’s more to the story, I’ll wager.”

“Why are you so interested in my personal history?” he asked sharply, his tone more than a bit derisive.

Pansy thought for a moment, falling quiet, and after a few moments, she swallowed, realizing that she had no answer.

She had no idea why his story was so intriguing to her, nor why she found herself fascinated by this person that she should greatly dislike on all fronts.

He took a deep breath, then tipped back his glass, emptying it. Then, his eyes met hers, and her lips parted, for they were angry, not calm like clear azul waters, but they sparked with rage and pain, like the bright blue center of a flame, burning hot and powerful and deadly.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse from the firewhiskey. “Greyback had spent his entire life infecting children with lycanthropy. Since he was seventeen years old, as it were. He was a twisted, mentally disturbed individual. I can’t even tell you about some of the things I saw that man do. I’ve had Kieran obliviate some of it.” He poured himself another glass of whiskey. “During the first wizarding war, the Dark Lord promised Fenrir free reign, a life without consequences, one free of Ministry interference, as long as he and his pack would serve his purposes. He knew that Fenrir was creating an army of werewolves through infecting children, but he told him rather than biting muggles or half-bloods, to infect muggleborns instead.”

Pansy’s eyebrows drew forward sharply, her eyes wide. “Why?”

Ronan gave a bitter laugh. “Numbers.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “Let me tell you something, Parkinson. The Dark Lord doesn’t care about blood purity. Not the way you purebloods do. He cares about power. The purebloods wouldn’t ever accept muggleborns into their ranks, but werewolves? Well, you all don’t like us, do you? But you’ll accept us, because you view us as creatures, not people. So, in that way, muggleborns are even less than magical creatures to you.” He leaned back again, sipping his whiskey. “He needed magical numbers without compromising his supposed ideals. So he used Greyback to target muggleborn children who hadn’t yet received their Hogwarts letters, and in that way, he inducted more magical people into his army without compromising his pureblood ideals and angering his most important supporters. I should add that muggleborn children are less knowledgeable about the magical world, and more impressionable… and once infected, we’re no longer thought of as mudbloods, are we? We’re just werewolves. No longer people, just beasts.”

Pansy was silent, processing his words.

“Anyway,” he continued. “Thanks to Fenrir, the wizarding world fears us more than ever. But, I’ve got to hand it to the Dark Lord. He’s smart. He uses every resource at his disposal to full advantage. Probably comes as a result of growing up an orphan. I don’t know his story in full, but that’s the rumor anyway.” He laughed again, full of bitterness. “Probably another reason why I like him. We didn’t grow up so different, he and I.”

In the course of their conversation, the drink seemed to have loosened Ronan’s tongue, and adversely, it silenced Pansy’s. 

She listened, sinking deep into her thoughts.

“How did you and Kieran become brothers?”

Ronan nodded, his eyes faraway. “When I was eleven, I received my Hogwarts letter.” He glanced at Pansy, then looked down into his firewhiskey. “My mother died before I could talk. Muggle drugs. My father was a drunk. Abusive. All of that. I had to make my way to Hogwarts without his help, and that’s when Greyback found me.” 

The flames of the bonfire danced on his face, highlighting his sharp features and strong jaw. 

Pansy thought that it brought out his pain even more.

“In a way,” he continued, “Fenrir was better than my father.  Sure, he was scary and mean, but so was my father. At least, with him and his wolves, I had a family.”

Pansy drew the cloak tighter around her. She felt frozen, shocked at the reality of where Ronan had come from, of her complete removal from the knowledge of this other world beyond her own.

She felt ashamed for the insults she had thrown his way in previous weeks, though she had never felt shame for insulting mudbloods at school.

“Greyback came back one night with two little ones. Younger than any of the others. Kieran was three, four maybe. His sister was even younger. She didn’t survive the bite, though our healer tried to save her. Kieran didn’t know his name, so I gave him an Irish name. He’s never known his birthday, or even where he came from. Maybe the Ministry knows. I’ll find out for him, one day.” He leaned his head back against the tree, gazing up at the stars through the forest canopy. “He was so young, so vulnerable. I raised him like a brother, and gave him my name. So, that’s what he is. He’s not my blood… he’s something stronger.”

Ronan leaned forward and refilled Pansy’s glass, and she sipped it thankfully, grateful for the bitter warmth that spread through her chest. 

Silence fell between them.

Pansy wanted to say she was sorry, to express some kind of apology, or condolence, something to relieve the tightness in her chest and the lump in her throat, but she knew it would sound hollow coming from her.

So she drank, and stared at the crackling flames.

After they had imbibed several more drinks, she was aware of his gaze resting heavily upon her.

She flicked her eyes to him, raising a questioning brow.

He tilted his head. “Are you satisfied now, princess?”

She ignored the shiver that ran down her spine. “I’m glad that I know.”

“What about you? Why did you take the mark?”

She looked at him, shocked that he asked.

Gazing back down at the ground, she laughed incredulously. “I guess… I guess I was bored.”

A pause, and then Ronan burst into laughter. “I guess that’s as good a reason as any. It’s right fucking typical of you, Parkinson.” He pressed his tongue against his cheek, shaking his head. “Sure, join the war because you’re bored.”

His laughter seemed to lighten the mood, surprising Pansy, who joined him because she realized it was rather ridiculous. “It was incredibly stupid, now that I think about it.”

“I don’t think you were bored, Miss Parkinson. I think you feel unseen, and I think you want to stick it to some people.”

Pansy froze, because even she hadn’t realized why she’d done it, and Ronan had so easily seen right through her, as if she were made of glass.

Their eyes met as they each took another drink.

“I’m drunk,” she said as she lowered her empty glass. 

He ran his tongue over his teeth, tilting his head to the side as he murmured, “It takes a lot more firewhiskey than that to get me drunk.”

“So let’s keep drinking.”

He chuckled. “Why? Want to see me drunk?”

She nodded, fighting back a tipsy grin. 

He eyed her pensively. “You are far different than I imagined you to be.”

Pansy stood, then came to sit against the tree beside him. “I’m no good, Ronan. I’m no good at all.”

“I believe that.”

She laughed softly. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

Pansy’s lines were becoming seriously blurred, and the longer she sat in his presence, the more she wanted to kiss him.

She found herself wondering when this happened. When exactly did she find herself attracted to a muggleborn werewolf? Was it because of the dream…? Or had the attraction been there for some time, perhaps even causing the dream?

She felt unsettled. 

In the back of her mind, she hoped nothing would get back to her friends or family about her little drinking session with a werewolf. But then, her befuddled mind questioned her own thoughts. 

Why did she care if it got back to them?

She enjoyed Ronan Blackthorn. Why wasn’t that enough?

Confusion set in, and Ronan seemed to sense the shift in her energy. 

“Can I walk you back to the Manor, Parkinson? It’s getting late.”

In the distance, Pansy could see the crowd of vampires, werewolves, and snatchers jeering as two occamies fought in the ring. 

She swallowed, then nodded. He stood, offering his hand to her, and she shivered when her skin touched his rough, calloused hand. 

She followed him through the dark wooded area, until they neared the rose gardens. 

Pansy stopped at the edge of the tree line. She began to slip his cloak from her shoulders, but he shook his head. “I’ll get it from you tomorrow. That way, at least I know I’ll see you again.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, vision blurring, heart hammering. That blue fire in his eyes threatened to burn her.

“Go on, princess. Get back to your tiny little world.”

No, she thought. She didn’t want to get back to her little world, and she didn’t want to be ordered around by a dog.

She reached up and slipped the cloak from her shoulders, letting it fall around her feet. Then, she retreated until her back hit the tree behind her. She bent her knee, letting the sole of her expensive dragonhide combat boot rest against the wood. “Come here, Blackthorn.”

He cocked his head, eyes narrowed as he advanced on her slowly. There was distrust in his eyes, but oh, there was hunger too, and raw, animalistic lust.

He placed his hands on either side of her head, and she could have almost been intimidated by that tall, hulking wolf, but she felt his cock suddenly, hard against her abdomen as he pressed his hips into hers, and it made Pansy feel powerful. He leaned in, oozing threats and promising violence.

“What do you want, Parkinson?”

She bit her lip, turning her head to the side because his deep Irish cadence reverberated along her skin, his hot breath caressing her cheek and it awoke a pulse between her legs. “I want you to fuck me, wolf. You’re a beast… but I think you’re handsome… and obnoxious… and terrifying… and you’re real. You’re so strange and different… and real… and I want to know what you feel like.”

She hoped that her drunken words made some iota of sense.

He stared at her, jaw muscles tensing and untensing as he searched her face. The pressure of his hips against hers intensified, until he was almost grinding against her. 

It took everything within Pansy not to moan, so she bit her lip against the effort, releasing a shaky breath. 

In that moment, he reached up and gripped her jaw, turning her to face him. When her lips inevitably parted, he claimed her mouth with his.

Pansy did moan when his tongue slid against hers, unable to quiet her raging lust. 

This, this was so much better than a dream. He was hard and seemed a giant compared with her, and he smelled like a roaring fire and camphor and pine bark.

She could hardly believe he really existed, and that he was touching her now as if he had every right to, and it frightened her.

She slid her hands up his steely chest and around his neck, using it to gain leverage so that she could wrap her legs around his hips. 

“Fuck,” she whispered as her skirt rode up, his cock then firmly pressing up against her knickers. 

His mouth snatched at hers in a kiss that was so devastating, Pansy didn’t think she would ever recover.

No kiss had ever felt like this, and she’d had plenty of drunken, ardent nights.

What made this one so different?

Their lips parted for a moment, and they each panted heavily, breathing in tandem, so that she inhaled his breath, and he, in turn, breathed hers. His eyes fell to her mouth, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Their breaths created a vaporous fog between them in the cold night air. 

“Oh, I’m going to hate you, Parkinson,” he whispered, and she saw him swallow hard, his throat bobbing quickly. “I know I’m going to end up hating you.”

He leaned in to kiss her again, and she didn’t stop him, even though his words cut like a sharp knife.

They came together in drunken passion, expressing weeks of pent up hunger with their mouths and their bodies in motion against one another.

His hand slid along her thigh, stroking softly, exploring her skin as he kissed her hungrily.

“Gods, if you don’t fuck me now, Blackthorn-”

“No,” he whispered, breaking away. “No, I won’t fuck you.”  He swallowed, then repeated, “I won’t fuck you tonight.”

Pansy’s eyebrows shot up, trying to comprehend in her drunken haze. 

He gritted his teeth, then pulled away, setting her on her feet. “If you’re brave enough, princess, come and find me when you’re sober.”

He turned to leave, and Pansy simply stood there, confused and embarrassed and shocked by his abruptness. 

He spun around and added, “Go back into the Manor. Don’t stay out here.”

Then, he disappeared into the darkness of the woods, leaving Pansy nearly in tears, but for the first time in her life, she felt that her tears were real, so she let them fall and didn’t fight them.

Chapter Text

The Dark Lord strode down the street, navigating the slums of Tirana, Albania, drawing strange looks from the muggles, though he was under disillusionment.

He was searching for a particular house. He had tortured its secret keeper for nearly seventy-two hours until the location was revealed.

Finally, he found the home. It was a slim flat wedged in between two others, its crumbling plaster covered in runes and protective glyphs. 

Voldemort walked right up to the stoop, ascended the worn concrete steps, and unlocked the door with a flick of his wand.

The sitting room within was dark, save for the low light of a table lamp, which struggled through the red fabric of its shade. He looked to the hallway, where a sharp triangle of light had leaked out onto the wood floor. He made his way through the sitting room and down the hallway.

He ducked beneath the low arching doorway to the kitchen where he discovered the person he’d been searching for. She had her back turned to him as she searched her cabinet for a tea cup. The kettle steamed on the stove.

When he’d last seen her, the lengthy ringlets of her hair had been a deep auburn shade.

Now they were a pale gold, streaked with gray and white.

Her figure paused as she caught sight of the looming shadow cast upon the cabinetry. When she turned, her face instantly registered shock, and she dropped the tea cup, shattering it.

Voldemort blinked, then kicked a shard of glass from atop his dragonhide boots.

The kettle whined on the stove.

“Zinaida,” he said softly. “Have a seat, my love.”

The woman’s eyes were still wide, but she seemed to have recovered from her initial shock. With a thick swallow, she dropped weakly into a chair at her breakfast table, her face pale, but less terrified now.

“Do you remember me?” he asked.

The witch’s eyes trailed him from head to toe warily. When she spoke, her voice shook. “I remember those red eyes… but I do not remember you. The young man I knew all those years ago was handsome.”

His eyes narrowed with mirth, and he smiled. “So you do remember me. Be informed, that young man no longer exists… I am Lord Voldemort.”

She eyed him for several moments, her warm eyes alight with curiosity, though the whites had yellowed over time. “So you are. I have followed you, you know. The man who terrorized England. I thought you were dead and gone.”

His lips quirked. “Did you now?”

“It’s what the world believed.”

“Then I can only imagine your surprise.”

“To find you in my fuckin’ kitchen? Certainly.” Her eyes wandered to Nagini, sharpening significantly as she took in the massive serpent. “I feel as if I’m meeting your ghost.”

Voldemort did not sit. He silently walked over to the stove, crunching upon the glass as he did so, and began to finish making her a cup of tea. As he did so, he turned to observe her.

She had aged much since his youth. He was amazed to find her still alive. Her brown eyes were sunken in, but still as sharp and astute as he remembered.

After a moment, she stood and slapped his hands away. “Oh, let me do it. You never were good at making tea.”

“That’s because I prefer coffee.”

“Yes, you’re the most American Brit I know.”

He watched her make two cups of tea, and did not fail to notice that her hands were shaking.

He smiled. “Do you remember the things you taught me?”

“Some of them. Magic isn’t all that I taught you.”

His lips curled into a devilish grin. “No, it wasn’t. However, in all ways, the student has surpassed the teacher.”

She turned with two cups in hand and sat once again at the table. “I do not doubt it. I am old now… and I have long given up the pursuit of dark magic… I abandoned the dark forces before they could destroy me.”

“What a shame,” he whispered. “The darkness loved you.”

She gazed at him for a long moment. “I thought you loved me once.”

He laughed softly. “Everyone I love ends up dead. My love is very deadly, Zinaida.”

“But you didn’t kill me.”

“No. I did not want to kill you.”

Her eyebrow rose. “So you left.”

He nodded, his hellish eyes glowing.

She took a deep breath. “What do you want from me now, Lord Voldemort?”

He drifted closer, and at length, leaned over the table, placing his pale hands on the table in front of her. 

“I am on the verge of victory. Britain will be mine, and then the rest of the Europe will follow.”

She swallowed. “I do not doubt that what you say is true. You always were tenacious and unrelenting when you wanted something.” Her eyes twinkled a fraction.

His diamond-shaped pupils flared. “There is something I want… but that something confuses me.”

Her gaze saw through him. “Something? Or someone?”

He was unmoved, his silence so deafening that she shifted uncomfortably. Her eyes roamed his face until, at length, she asked, “So are you in love, Voldemort?”

His eyes narrowed. “Not in love, no. But I am drawn to a witch, and I am confused by her aura. The magic she has is deeply buried and… seductive.”

Her brows knit, creating a deep crease between them. “She is powerful, you mean?”

He leaned back, straightening. “Her power is dormant. She has not been taught to use it properly. I thought perhaps that it had gone unrecognized by my enemies, but now I believe that Dumbledore sensed it.”

“Dumbledore is dead.”

He smiled, and it unnerved her. “He is dead because I wished it.”

She searched his face for a hint of his intent. “You say this witch has power… what manner of power do you speak of?”

“A dark power that I have never encountered before. I believe it has been dormant thus far, but my own magic seems to be drawing it forth.”

The witch blinked. “Is she born of one of the old families?”

His jaw muscles rippled. “No. She has no magical blood.”

The witch’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, her lips parting. At length, they widened, darting back and forth as she contemplated.

He nodded, having read her thoughts. “That is why I have come. I recall something you made mention of long ago.”

“The bloodline gifts.”

He waved his hand, and the chair across from the witch whined as it creaked across the floor. He sat in it, twisting his wand between his fingers. “How could it be possible? She has no bloodline to speak of.”

The veneer of her cheap table was peeling, and she picked at it with her nails. “There are some gifts that have been lost over centuries.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is possible that there is magic somewhere in her past. Perhaps a squib.”

He scoffed. “How could a bloodline so powerful produce a squib?”

“It has happened.”

Nagini wound herself around him, sliding her head into his lap. He stroked her scales gently. He took up his tea cup and sipped the tea she had made. 

The witch watched him do so with sharp eyes.

His gaze met hers over the cup, and his reptilian eyes seemed to smile at her.

He swallowed, then lowered the cup.

His forked tongue slid over his lips, and her eyes widened when she saw it. 

He smiled. “Runespoor fang. Not what I would have chosen, but then, you never were gifted with poisons.”

She swallowed, saying nothing.

“Who tasked you with killing me?”

“Petrovich. I owe him.”

He sipped the tea again. “It was a poor attempt.”

She laughed. “Well, I am old. I’m not so sure I don’t want to die.”

Voldemort exhaled slowly. “If you answer my questions, I will spare you, despite your stupidity.”

Fear shone in her eyes for a split second. “Are you no longer human? How is it that you come back from the dead? And looking like… like a serpent?”

“I am a god, Zinaida.”

Her eyes softened. “You always were obsessed with immortality.”

Nagini slithered onto his shoulder, her beady eyes staring directly at the witch. Voldemort cocked his head. “Did you doubt that I would achieve it?”

She nearly spoke, then hesitated. At length, she muttered, “All paths to immortality have consequences.”

His eyes narrowed, and seemed to grow distant. 

Silence fell.

Minutes later, she tilted her head. “What questions can I answer for you?”

“How many bloodline gifts are there?”

“In existence? I’ve no idea. I knew a Wizard here once who traced them, but he died years ago. In the British Isles, it is rumored that there are eight. The Great Eight, they are called.”

“And here, in Albania?”

“My mentor was one of them. He was born of the line of Rasputin. He was called the Necromancer.”

The Dark Lord’s pupils blew wide. “Tell me about these gifts.”

She leaned forward. “The bloodline gifts are ancient powers that are passed through magical blood. Gifts from the gods, some say. Others say they are gods, incarnated. They sometimes lie dormant for generations, only to re-emerge.”

The Dark Lord contemplated her words for a moment, twisting the elder wand in his hand. “You once thought that I possessed one of these gifts.”

Her brown eyes were intense as they fixed on his face. “I think it is quite clear now that you do. The most powerful Wizard in the world, they call you. They whisper your name with fear in every corner of the world. But I know what you are. You are the incarnation of the Serpent.”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

She took a deep breath, obviously unused to prolonged conversation. “These gifts… they often accompany a strong familial connection to a certain creature, for which there will be special powers inherited. You once told me you were descended from Salazar Slytherin. Slytherin was a descendent of the Great Serpent, Herpo the Foul. An ancient and powerful dark wizard. You are a parseltongue by blood, no?”

She gave him a moment to digest the information before she continued, “If you haven’t realized it already, Albus Dumbledore is descended from the line of Merlin. Dumbledores possess an affinity for the Phoenix, a creature which is tied to their family. Dumbledore possessed an uncanny amount of the same magical powers that Merlin himself did… because they possessed the same bloodline gift.”

Voldemort’s eyes sharpened. “Tell me, Zinaida… is it possible for someone to become an animagus without trying? Without even knowing it?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Against their will? I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Could it be a bloodline gift? I am a parseltongue by birth. Could someone be an animagus by birth?”

She bit the inside of her cheek as she contemplated. “That would be a shapeshifter, a kind of changeling. What kind of creature are we talking about?”

“A raven.”

The witch gasped, lifting her hands to cover her mouth.

Voldemort’s eyes blazed crimson as he leaned forward.

The witch’s hands shook as they dropped away from her mouth to press against her chest, where her breathing had grown shallow. “The Morrigan,” she whispered.

“You mean the witch Morgan Le Fay?” Voldemort prodded.

She shook her head. “Morgan Le Fay was an incarnation of the goddess Morrigan. Ravens were her omen, and she would often shapeshift into such a bird. Her magic is… unthinkably great. Morrigan is a goddess with unimaginable power. But her bloodline is believed to have died out long ago.”

Hunger consumed him. “What else can you tell me?”

Her eyes unfocused, growing distant. “I regret to tell you that I know very little, Voldemort. But I know someone who is better informed, a magical genealogist.”

She conjured a quill and parchment and began to scratch down a name.

Voldemort took it from her and read the name, then stood, tucking the parchment into his robes.

She watched him for a moment, her eyes caught in the past. “How did you find me?”

He paused, gazing down at her. “I have followed you as well, for many years.” He leaned over her, so that his breath fell against her ear as he whispered, “You know what they say… you never forget your first.”

His lips brushed her cheek in a phantom kiss, and then he disappeared as silently as he had arrived.

*************

Luna awoke to the warmth of the morning sun on her eyelids and a pair of strong arms wrapped around her.

The previous night came rushing back. 

“It’s… you.”

The boy she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since she’d seen him in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor…

Somehow, miraculously, he had found her.

That boy… he was a werewolf.

She had spent nearly the entire night riding atop his fur, until they both collapsed back in the glade, exhausted.

All she remembered was falling asleep buried in a cocoon of warm, chocolate fur, but at some point during their long sleep, the fur had been replaced by hard muscles, and a pair of soft lips sought her own, his hot mouth devouring hers.

She hadn’t exactly been in her own mind when it happened. Sure, she had been sleepy, and tired, but she’d also found herself in a strange state, almost like a potion-induced frenzy. She hadn’t been quite aware of herself, not exactly present, yet acutely aware of every touch and sensation.

Luna hadn’t thought; she had simply given in to it.

However, now she was in her right mind, and the frenzy had ended, and she realized with no small amount of concern that she was wrapped in the arms of a naked werewolf who happened to be loyal to Lord Voldemort.

And she had a boyfriend whose name suddenly escaped her.

What in Merlin’s name was happening to her? Had the full moon made her completely lose her sense of reality?

Luna’s eyes widened, and she turned in the boy’s arms to get a better look.

Wow, she thought as she stared at him in stunned surprise, seeing him directly for the first time.

He certainly was beautiful, even more so than she remembered. 

The sun gleamed on his brown skin, where beads of sweat shone in the dips and crevices of his muscles. His hair spilled about in wild, light brown curls. Thick lashes fanned out on his cheeks into an array of freckles, and Luna couldn’t help but reach up to run her fingertips along those pillowy soft lips.

Luna was at a loss to understand what had happened. The entire night seemed like a fever dream, and she’d let her instincts take over, relying very little on her mind.

Luna was familiar with her mind being taken over by something beyond herself before. It had happened several times throughout her life, when she’d received visions, or gone into trances prompted by the sight . Her mother and father had kept these occurrences very secret when Luna was a child. According to her father, the Ministry would be watching them too closely if they knew that their daughter was a potential seer and would one day present.

But this… this was something different.

She should feel fear, but she couldn’t seem to ascend from the cocoon of peacefulness she felt with this boy.

Carefully, she extracted herself from his grasp, being certain not to wake him. As she left his warmth behind, the cool autumn air instantly made her shiver. 

As she scooted away from him, her dress dragging through the dew-flecked grass, her eyes caught on something.

Upon closer inspection, she recognized the dark mark upon his arm.

Luna went very still before her eyes wandered back to the boy’s face.

“What have I done?” she whispered to herself.

Her heart ached and thundered as she scrambled to her feet and spun around, running in the direction of the safe house as fast as her boots would carry her.

**************

Ronan was woken by his brother’s return to their tent in the early morning.

He sat straight up, bare chested and fully naked beneath the furs, but Kieran barely spared a glance his way.

Ronan glared at him, his rage seething as his brother sunk into a wooden chair without a word.

At length, Kieran’s green-gold eyes rose to meet his.

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “Care to explain where you’ve been? Why didn’t you answer my call?”

Kieran’s jaw muscles ticked. “I got lost.”

Ronan laughed, but there was little humor in the sound. “Bleedin’ liar, that’s what you are. You’ve got us in a cat now.”

Shock registered on Kieran’s face.

“Aye,” answered the former to his unspoken question. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you? You’re good, but you’re not that good, brother. And you roll back into camp like nothing happened, after going out of bounds… Lucky you weren’t picked up by an auror. You smell like sex, by the way.”

Kieran blinked several times, then replied, “Yeah? Yeah, alright then… and you smell like firewhiskey and the Parkinson witch.”

As they stared at one another, Ronan’s lips twitched.

Kieran’s eyebrows rose. “What happened? Did you fuck her, or did she finally beat your arse in a duel?”

Ronan sighed and stood, fully nude, reaching for his trousers. “Nah, brother.” His gaze flicked to his Kieran. “Seems you had better luck.”

Kieran shrugged. “Did you at least have a shift?”

Ronan cleared his throat as he tugged on his trousers. “There might’ve been a kiss, yeah. But not a word.”

“No feckin’ way!”

“Aye.”

“Bloody hell.”

Ronan turned around and eyed his brother, sucking in a deep breath. “You’re mated, then? You’d better tell me the truth.”

Kieran ran a hand over his face, shading his tired eyes. “Yes.”

Ronan clenched his teeth, but nodded. “Great.”

“Can’t be happy for me? Honestly?”

Ronan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course, I am. But… that doesn’t change the fact that it’s bad luck for us that your mate happens to be an Order member and a criminal wanted by the Ministry. If the Dark Lord gets his hands on her-“

“You’ll make sure that won’t happen, won’t you, brother?”

Ronan closed his eyes, feeling unsettled. “You know I’ll do my best.”

Silence fell in the tent.

Ronan stared listlessly at the furs covering the floor for several minutes, then crossed the space and sat down across from his brother.

“This is going to require quite a bit of strategizing,” he sighed. “But enough of that for now. How was it, lad?”

************

Pansy was hungover, but her nausea had little to do with the whiskey.

What in Salazar’s name had she been thinking?

She turned over in bed, trying to avoid the glaring light of the sun, wrapping herself in a cocoon of blankets and mortification.

She could already hear Grandfather Parkinson scolding her with his signature reproachful tone. 

“Off cavorting with werewolves! Getting your arm permanently stained with a half-blood’s doodle! You are a disgrace to the Parkinson name. I do hope you run away and marry one of the filthy creatures and cease to carry your father’s name once and for all. Then we can forget you ever existed.”

Those were the kinds of speeches she got from her dogmatic Grandfather as a young child. And her uncles. And her aunts. And her alcoholic mother.

Pansy closed her eyes as the room spun heinously, bile rising up into the base of her throat.

She’d kissed a werewolf. Not only that…

But he was muggleborn. 

The moment she thought about it, she recoiled internally. 

“He’s not a bad guy,” she whispered. “He’s just not right for me… not for my family.”

She felt nauseous suddenly.

Because she realized that if they’d had sex, she could’ve been angry. She could’ve convinced herself that he’d gotten her drunk on purpose, so that he could brag to his pack that he’d fucked Pansy Parkinson.

But he hadn’t done it. He’d walked away from her, leaving her feeling very empty, like a blistered hull, lifeless and cold.

If you’re brave enough, princess, come and find me when you’re sober.

Well, Pansy wasn’t brave, and she wouldn’t find him. As far as she was concerned, he’d had his chance, and he’d blown it.

What was she thinking really, spreading her legs for a werewolf? If her mother knew, she’d take Pansy’s wand away and make her come home.

Pansy thought to herself that she’d love to see the Dark Lord go toe-to-toe with her mother.

She’d certainly gotten her spunk from her mom’s side. The Prewetts had always been a salty lot. 

With a miserable sigh, she checked her watch. Theo would be coming by soon. 

When he did, she’d ask him for a hangover potion.

Then, she’d shake the wolf from memory.

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke the next morning with a sense of relief knowing that she was all alone at Voldemort’s estate.

Thankfully, a few of the items Narcissa had gifted to her were returned to her wardrobe, so she donned a velvet dressing gown lined with mulberry silk, and sat down at her vanity. 

When she looked down at the table, her eyebrows scrunched, because she noticed that several new items had appeared. There was a porcelain bowl filled with water, upon which several rose petals floated. Beside it lay a silver filigree mirror, along with a brush and a comb carved of ivory. On a matching silver tray sat an array of oils and perfumes.

Hermione sucked in a tired breath, chocking it up to Deedle’s interference. Hermione slept hard, after all, particularly with the amount of stress she was under, so it was entirely possible that the elf had placed the items there while she slept.

When she met her own gaze in the mirror, she almost laughed. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her cheeks were slightly hollow.

She was thin and tired, more so than she’d been since the war began.

Hermione realized she’d been eating very little and sleeping even less. Perhaps the stress and worry was getting to her, or maybe the potions she’d been constantly dosed with had affected her appetite.

Her nights were fitful, full of tossing and turning and terrifying dreams.

She worried constantly about her parents, whom she’d hoped had remained undiscovered in their new dental practice in Queensland. She prayed that Voldemort had left them undisturbed.

Not only was she concerned for their safety, but she feared for Ron and Harry, and the rest of the Order. Without Dumbledore’s guidance and Hermione’s help, would Harry be able to lead the Order to victory?

She wished she could get in touch with someone on their side. Perhaps things only looked bleak from her perspective because she was trapped behind enemy lines. After all, the Daily Prophet provided little useful information. The headlines were curated and biased, painting a picture of Voldemort as some desperately needed savior of the wizarding world. 

Hermione couldn’t believe how easily he’d overtaken her world. The Ministry was under his control. The papers did his bidding. Hogwarts followed his specified curriculum. 

He was essentially a self-appointed dictator.

And Hermione… she was somehow instrumental to his plans, which against her will, piqued her interest. With Great Britain under his thumb, what more could he want? Did he even have a plan beyond winning the war?

What would a country run by Voldemort look like?

And what did he want from Hermione?

Hermione released a weighted sigh and stood, intending to explore the castle, but as she did, Deedle suddenly appeared with a tray of food which she sat on the breakfast table.

In the center of the tray was a vase containing a single baccara rose. Hermione paused as she neared, because tucked into the center of the bloom was a tiny card.

She snatched the card up and ripped it open much too eagerly, though dread sunk into the pit of her stomach.

On the black card, in silver ink, a message slowly appeared.

Good morning,

You are free to explore, but do not leave the grounds.

Draco Malfoy will be visiting you today to prepare you for your training.

You are forbidden from entering the eastern tower. It is protected by dangerous enchantments. Do not attempt it.

Until I return,

V

Hermione tossed the note onto the table. 

Was he baiting her? Or was there something important hidden in the eastern tower?

Admittedly, her first instinct upon reading his words was to instantly try to get into the tower.

Maybe that’s what he wanted.

She shoved that thought to the back of her mind, because a visit from Draco Malfoy was exactly what she needed. She had been hoping to see him again ever since she left Malfoy Manor, because if anyone would have an answer to her burning questions, it would be him.

Seating herself at the breakfast table, she flicked her wand, levitating the lid of the tray to the side. 

Merlin , it felt good to do magic again.

As she poured a cup of tea, something caught her eye near her bedroom door.

In the seconds it took to turn her head, whatever she sensed had disappeared.

Hermione’s skin crawled with uncertainty. 

“Will the mistress be needing anything else from Deedle?”

Hermione turned back to the house elf. 

“No, I don’t believe so. But thank you for the breakfast.”

The elf looked nervous, as she always did when Hermione thanked or complimented her.

“Misses is welcome. It is Deedle’s duty to serve.”

Then, the elf disappeared with a crack.

Hermione began to eat breakfast, while she retrieved a quill and parchment from her beaded bag, intent on planning her day.

One of the swiftest ways for Hermione to organize her thoughts and motivate herself had always been to write out a list. So that’s what she did. 

1. Explore the chateau 
2. Take inventory of possessions
3. Research the blood pact
4. Ask Draco how to avoid Voldemort’s legilimency
5. Search for a way to contact Harry

With a crisp list of actionable items, Hermione felt much better.

After breakfast, she ran a bath. 

While soaking in the steaming water, she let herself relax, comforted by the knowledge that she would be alone for several days.

She resolved that she wouldn’t worry about what came when Voldemort returned. For now, she would focus on the tasks at hand, and once those things had been accomplished, she would create a plan to get close to Voldemort. That seemed to be the most practical way to gain both favor and intel, both of which were advantages that she would need to help the Order.

After bathing, she donned a crisp white blouse and a gray tweed skirt, which she paired with a thick brown leather belt and matching boots. It was one of the few outfits she had left from the things Narcissa had given her, and she wondered if she had any of her old clothes left in her bag, or if Voldemort had done away with those, too. She pulled on a thick robe over her clothes, recalling that the mansion had been drafty on the day she had arrived.

With her heart thundering nervously, she opened the door of her bedroom and made her way down the hallway.

She had to admit that though the chateau was beautiful, it was also creepy. It was everything one would expect the private residence of Lord Voldemort to be: ominous, eerie, and slightly macabre.

Hermione mused as she walked through corridors of peeling wallpaper and dusty sconces, that it was even more chilling than Grimmauld Place.

Not only that, but it was dark. She waved her wand, lighting the sconces as she passed by.

Most of the doors were locked, she discovered, but she found she was able to explore the drawing room, where she discovered a grand piano that was muggle-crafted and oddly devoid of the thick layers of dust that seemed to coat everything else.

She located the kitchens, which were fractionally more charming than the rest of the mansion. She’d brought along her Quick Quotes Quill™ which she had instructed to take down a sort of rough map. If she was to live here for the foreseeable future, then she wanted to know her way around. She even contemplated the idea of making her own version of the marauder’s map, so that she could know when Voldemort was coming and going, and perhaps be aware if anyone else showed up unannounced.

Of course, Voldemort had told her that no one else came here, but after her encounter with Dolohov, she decided she couldn’t be too careful.

She discovered the entrances to the east tower, the one she’d been warned against entering. She made a mental note to examine those “dangerous enchantments.”

“For research,” she whispered.

Most of the rooms in the mansion were locked, and she didn’t feel the courage to try and open them today. Perhaps, in a few days time, when she knew her surroundings better.

Lastly, she attempted to leave to explore the grounds. He never said she couldn’t leave the mansion, did he?

Fortunately, the doors to the courtyard opened, permitting her to explore the gardens. 

There wasn’t much to explore, really.

Of course, the gardens were massive, with what might’ve been hedges once, enormous trees, and statues that were so beautiful that Hermione found herself staring at them for prolonged periods of time beneath the shifting eyes of the gargoyles on the turrets above. Vines crawled along the walls of the mansion, along the sides of the gothic greenhouse, over the statues, covering their eyes, and all along the mammoth iron gate.

Hermione wanted to clean up the garden; it was a trait she’d inherited from her mother, who was an avid gardener. 

The thought of her mother created a pang of loneliness and regret.

Perhaps, she should have gone with them.

And abandon your friends?

Her inner voice whispered softly, reminding her of her duty to the wizarding world.

If they didn’t win this war, many of her friends would die.

Hermione reminded herself that she was in a unique position, one that could influence the course of the war.

She was close to Voldemort, and he wanted something from her.

It spelled danger for her, but it was also a prime opportunity for espionage.

Hermione’s fingers brushed the rough surface of a statue, a stone rendering of Perseus, bearing the severed head of Medusa. A crisp autumn wind blew, sending dead leaves swirling around her. Her cloak whipped at her legs, and her exposed skin prickled.

She wandered the gardens, exploring the greenhouse and breathing in the salty air of the sea that churned below.

To her surprise, she discovered a stable inhabited by several horses. 

She didn’t even wonder if they belonged to the previous owners of the chateau, because they weren’t the typical horses owned by muggles.

They were enormous , winged horses.

She took stock of them, rubbing their noses as she passed by.

There were two Abraxans, two Granians, and one Aethonon.

Hermione had only once witnessed winged horses up close, when Madame Maxime had brought hers to Hogwarts in fourth year, and had granted Hagrid the opportunity to use them for his Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

They seemed to be well cared for, which surprised her. Who was caring for them, if not Voldemort?

Her eyebrows scrunched as she tried to comprehend why he would be in possession of such creatures. 

Horses were wary of snakes, after all.

Once she had explored the entirety of the grounds, she found herself at the top of the rough hewn steps which led downward, to the ocean.

Only a gate separated her from the stairs, but she didn’t dare attempt to cross it. That would mean she would be leaving the grounds, technically, and hadn’t he commanded her not to?

But then again, the blood pact would see to it that she obeyed.

Tomorrow, she thought. I’ll attempt it tomorrow.

Reluctant to go back into the gloomy mansion, she wandered the perimeter of the iron fence line, gazing at the foggy forest beyond and admiring the hues of crimson, gold, and ochre that made up the forest’s canopy.

*************

Draco hated threatening civilians. 

One would think he’d love it, as much as he spewed threats and insults as a boy. 

But he was only mimicking his father in those days. Making empty threats toward classmates before one’s frontal lobe has developed isn’t the same as drawing a wand upon an innocent shop owner and dragging them out their establishment in binds.

He led Madam Malkin through the streets of Diagon Alley, before he apparated them both to the gravel path leading up to the Dark Lord’s mansion.

When he located Granger, he found her staring longingly out through the iron gate, and for some reason, the sight made him want to laugh.

Though he hadn’t laughed in months.

He didn’t laugh, though. He jerked Malkin by the arm and walked faster.

He shouted, “Granger!” 

She turned around with a start, brown eyes wide with fear.

When her gaze fell on him, she seemed to deflate with relief.

Draco didn’t like that. He didn’t like how she seemed to trust him, not fearing him as she did the other death eaters.

That was a mistake.

Some deeply buried part of him was warmed by the thought.

It was like a tiny spark of flame within a giant block of ice.

He motioned for her to follow him.

She did so hesitantly, her eyes trained on Madam Malkin.

Malkin and Hermione fell into step together behind Draco. 

“Miss Granger,” Malkin murmured in a hushed tone. “Are the papers true?” Her voice dropped even lower. “Have you taken the ma-“

“I was basically kidnapped,” Hermione whispered quickly. “And forced to take the mark.”

Draco whipped around, his teeth gritted. “Stop talking.”

After climbing the endless steps, they entered the mansion and Draco led them into the drawing room. 

“You’ll take Granger’s measurements,” he muttered sourly. “My Lord has specific instructions for you regarding her attire.”

Madam Malkin gulped, then murmured nervously, “You mean.. the Dark Lord?”

Draco blinked at her. “Take it to mean whatever you like.”

Granger stood still as the seamstress cast a spell which unfurled a magical measuring tape.

Draco looked away, careful to appear bored.

When the seamstress measured Granger’s hips and bust, Draco turned around and walked to the nearby window.

He didn’t want to know what her sizes were.

He didn’t want to think about Granger’s breasts spilling over her bra cups.

He closed his eyes, irritation coursing through his body, drawing his muscles up tight.

If he was to be the Dark Lord’s general, why was he being sent to do these menial tasks?

He exhaled sharply, because he knew exactly why.

He was being tested. The Dark Lord wanted to know if he could trust Draco with Granger.

But why?

Why did Granger matter so bloody much?

He’d always known the Dark Lord to despise mudbloods, to find the lesser breeds distasteful, but recently his Lord’s behavior had seemed to change.

Lucius said that the Dark Lord knew best how to win the war, and that everyone should just trust him.

But Draco suspected that Lord Voldemort had never despised mudbloods at all, not the way he always claimed.

Draco was beginning to think that everything the Dark Lord said and did was an act.

No one, not even Aunt Bella, knew who their Lord truly was. He would never let a soul get that close.

That scared Draco. To serve someone whose motives and intentions were unknown. To lay down one’s life for someone who might have no real loyalty, at the end of the day.

Thoughts about the Dark Lord kept Draco up most of the night.

When Malkin had finished taking Granger’s measurements, Draco handed her a scroll. 

“These are your instructions. You’ll be compensated well. Just keep your mouth shut.”

He took the seamstress by the arm and turned to leave, only after giving Granger the order to “stay put.”

Draco walked Madam Malkin out to the apparation point, then lifted his hawthorn wand to her temple, obliviating her memories of Granger and the location. He replaced them with false ones, as he’d been instructed, then placed his mask over his face and drew his hood.

Then, he apparated her back to Diagon Alley.

************

When he returned to the chateau minutes later, he discovered that Granger had not, in fact, stayed put. 

He searched the grounds until he found her in the stables.

“I know you’ve been irreversibly ruined by Potter, mudblood, but are you really this averse to following orders?”

She turned around, surprised, a glass and a bottle of whiskey in her hands, which she’d apparently been feeding to the horses.

“I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“Believe me, this is the last place I’d like to be today. Come on.”

They walked in silence back into the chateau.

He could feel Granger’s presence behind him, and he could almost hear the wheels of her oversized brain turning like the gears of a clock.

He brought her into a dining room that had been transformed into a dueling hall. 

Draco could feel the Dark Lord’s sinister magic saturating the space, heavy and stifling.

His eyes slid over her attire.

“I’m here to train you until the Dark Lord returns.”

Her nose wrinkled with distate. “I don’t need training from you, Malfoy. I’m better at magic than you are and we both know it.”

Annoying swot.

“You and I haven’t dueled since third year.” He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it aside. “But that’s irrelevant. I’m not here to train you in magic. I’m to train you physically, to prepare you to duel the Dark Lord.”

Granger blinked, batting long eyelashes. “Physically?”

“Yes,” he said curtly. “The Dark Lord thinks you are out of shape, judging by your little display at the Manor. You barely outran his Fiendfyre curse-“

“It was fiendfyre!”

“In any case, you’ll train with me daily.”

She crossed her arms petulantly, cocking a brow. “Are you in shape, Malfoy?”

Draco exhaled his irritation, then rolled his eyes. 

His hands moved to his wrists, unpinning his cufflinks, which he shoved in his pockets.

Then, he lifted his hands to his collar and swiftly undid the buttons of his shirt.

When he shrugged out of it, Granger’s mouth dropped open slightly, her eyebrows lifting momentarily.

Her eyes paused on his chest, his abdomen, his arms, before lifting back to his face.

Draco felt a stirring of something dangerous in the pit of his stomach as he watched the blush tinge her cheeks, her cheeks appearing to burn hot as she cleared her throat and looked away quickly.

“Okay, point taken.”

Draco’s pulse hammered in his veins as he threw his shirt back on and fastened the buttons. “The Dark Lord has standards, unlike Dumbledore.”

“Is that why he’s got you for a General?”

“Like I said… standards. I think you’d find that I could wipe the floor with you, Granger. I’ve been trained well, thanks to the Dark Lord.”

She crossed her arms again. “Do you ever call him by his name?”

He glared at her. “No. You’d better not try it, either.”

When she fell silent, Draco moved to the wall and leaned against it. “You’ll start with stretches, then sit ups. Then a sequence of lunges, push-ups, mountain climbers-“

“You cannot be serious!”

He narrowed his eyes. “The Dark Lord gave me permission to enact the blood pact on his behalf. So unless you’d like to be forced, you’ll do as I say.”

Granger didn’t like that. She stared aghast at Draco, steam practically leaking from her ears.

He leaned back, smirking, enjoying this small triumph over the girl he’d always hated and coveted. “You can’t wear that, by the way. You need something more appropriate. Something you can move in.”

She huffed, glancing down at her skirt. “I can’t very well change right here in front of you. Besides, I don’t have anything suitable to change into.”

“Then transfigure those clothes.”

Her head fell to the side, a disbelieving look on her face. With the movement, her voluminous curls fell away from her neck, exposing the smooth skin there.

With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from the spot.

He turned away, looking out at the gardens. “Muggles wear lots of that kind of stuff. Just transfigure those clothes into something else. Anything else, Granger. I don’t have all bloody day.”

He gazed through the window while he listened to her cast.

A few minutes later, she huffed, “Well, this will have to work for now.”

When he turned around, it was his turn to gawk.

Her white blouse had transformed into a form-fitting camisole with barely any straps at all, and her skirt had been transfigured into skintight trousers that looked more like undergarments, leaving very little to the imagination. He did find that they reminded him of muggle clothing, but he was unused to seeing them on anyone that he knew personally, especially not Granger. 

The articles hugged her curves far too perfectly. Before he realized it, he had swallowed thickly, his eyes lingering on her body.

“That is the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever laid eyes on in my life.”

“You’re the one who recommended it, Malfoy! It's muggle activewear, and it’s suitable for exercise. Your prejudice is showing.”

He was afraid something else might be showing as well, so he turned back to the window. “Stretch, Granger.”

So she did.

Nothing else occurred in the space of an hour, besides Draco instructing her on a series of simple exercises and then staring out the window as she did them.

As she wrapped up her last set of planks, her head snapped up and she fell.

Draco turned around as she sat up and looked over her shoulder. ”What is it?”

Her brows were furrowed sharply, and Draco’s eyes caught a bead of sweat trickling down her chest and into the crevice between her breasts. “I… I just… thought I saw something.”

Draco’s eyes flicked around the room, but nothing was there. Finally, he tore his eyes away from the annoying swot and turned away. “That’s all for today.”

He reached down to pick up his cloak and swung it around his shoulders.

When he left, he muttered angrily over his shoulder, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

Then he slammed the door on his way out.

Chapter Text

What was it about the girl that tempted him?

The Dark Lord had begun to wake each morning breathless, his cock hard and muscles taut, always a vision in his mind of warm brown eyes and a mass of unruly curls.

Tanned skin, smooth and lustrous. Delicious curves that he wanted to touch, to trace, to savor the sensation of that skin against his own.

The scent of lavender and salt, a slight hint of vanilla.

What sounds would she make? What could he do to make her come apart?

The Dark Lord found himself wondering these things, and it surprised him, because he rarely ever craved intimacy.

Sex? Perhaps. He enjoyed sex as much as any man. But he preferred his partners to be submissive; he liked to stay detached.

But the girl… he found himself contemplating what she was doing in his absence. Had she explored his home? What did she think of it?

Draco Malfoy reported to him daily with her progress, but nothing satisfied him.

He longed for proximity.

Granted, he’d known far more beautiful witches. More powerful ones, too.

So…

…why her?

She was intelligent, yes, and proficient in magic despite the holes in her education. She was hungry for knowledge, a trait that he found particularly appealing, but he’d known witches like that before.

Zinaida had been one such witch.

But there was something… more.

There was something different about the mudblood.

Was it her bloodline gift? That fragrant magic that saturated her core and bathed her aura in electric power? It was a seductive energy that reached out toward his own. He could feel it reverberating like a song that vibrated against his magic. He felt drunk when he was near her. He felt hungry.

It had been many years since something like this had been awoken in the Dark Lord.

Yes, it must be her magic. Her bloodline gift called to his own.

It couldn’t possibly be the blazing heat in her eyes that threatened to scorch him, nor the mental acuity he witnessed within them. It wasn’t the foolhardy courage and infuriating amount of self-assurance she displayed when she willingly defied him, again and again.

If couldn’t be the deeply buried ruthlessness that he knew existed within her, though she tried to deny it.

It couldn’t be any of those things.

Could it?

Perhaps, he had merely fooled himself into believing she was special.

But…

Then again…

A bloodline gift of such magnitude wouldn’t have chosen an average vessel to house such power.

The Dark Lord leaned back, legs spread wide, the elder wand twirling around his fingers.

He had to admit, watching the mudblood race barefoot across the Malfoys’ formal dining table, kicking plates of food and goblets of wine into the laps of his death eaters as she fled his deadly curse… he found it oddly attractive.

He found it charming. He found it to be bordering on insanity.

Although, judging by his former sexual partners, Bellatrix included… one could say he liked a bit of insanity.

She was special, and he knew it.

It wasn’t just her magic that drew him.

Her very essence called to him, arousing him, stealing his ability to rest.

A mudblood can be special?

The Dark Lord tested the thought in his mind, letting the idea settle, tasting it on his tongue.

He had never cared much for mudbloods in the larger scheme of his pursuit of power. If his followers wanted to murder some and subjugate the rest, why should he care?

He still didn’t care, truth be told.

However…

He was wise enough to realize that mudbloods, too, had a place in the magical world. He admired Slytherin, but he differed with his ancestor on that ideology.

Half-bloods could be more powerful than purebloods; he himself exemplified this.

Why couldn’t a mudblood demonstrate unique magical skill?

True, most of them were probably worthless, but that was true of all blood statuses. Humans and wizards alike were rather dull and unremarkable, from the Dark Lord’s perspective. He was rarely impressed by anyone, magical or muggle.

No, he wouldn’t let a magnificent gem like Hermione Jean Granger go to waste because of his followers’ ill-advised prejudices.

Imagine killing the very incarnation of the goddess Morrigan, a veritable maelstrom of power! Imagine justifying that kind of error by touting misguided beliefs designed to validate one’s superiority complex.

He tried to imagine the fire and humanity leaving her eyes.

It made him blind with rage.

His grip upon the elder wand tightened.

He didn’t know why he liked her, but the reality still stood that she endlessly excited him. She had steadily become an ever present thought in the back of his mind that both sharpened and pacified him.

He thought of her constantly. Her body, her scent, her voice.

Her magic.

Especially that.

In truth, he’d been drawn to her since he’d felt her through the locket many months ago. Since he’d heard her muffled voice each night, speaking to Harry Potter.

Before her reflection ever appeared in the mirror.

There had been nights when the Dark Lord couldn’t sleep, his overactive mind ever strategizing, ever thinking. To calm his racing thoughts, he would drift into hers through the horcrux, swimming through her thoughts and dreams, her mind a pleasurable distraction.

Somehow, though he couldn’t determine exactly when it had occurred, he had become fascinated with her. What a contrast to Potter’s inner world! On the surface, she espoused the same noble ideals, but deep inside, she was rather… vicious. Many times, she fought her instincts, instincts that the Dark Lord knew would be ideal for channeling dark magic.

So, it couldn’t just be her magic.

Because Dumbledore had also born a bloodline gift, but Voldemort had despised his old transfiguration professor.

Could he teach her? Could he mold her to suit his purposes?

… or would be break her?

Tom Riddle broke all of his toys.

Anyone who came too close ended up destroyed.

Could the Raven survive the Serpent?

Only time would tell.

**********

The following morning, Hermione awoke from a bone-chilling nightmare.

Cheery sunshine streamed into her bedroom, a sharp contrast to the terrifying dream she’d just emerged from.

When she stood, she belted her robe only to find another rose on her breakfast tray, accompanied by a new note.

Good Morning,

I trust your training sessions are going well and that you are following Draco Malfoy’s instruction.

I have been informed that you’ve discovered my steeds. Astra prefers sugar quills, but only the gingersnap flavor.

If needed, should your nightmares continue, you will find several vials of Dreamless Sleep potion in your bedside drawer.

A good duelist must get proper rest.

Until I return,

V

Hermione stared at the note, perplexed.

She could hardly believe that Voldemort himself had written it. Why did he insist on seeing to her welfare? And how did he know about her nightmare?

The message almost seemed… attentive.

The more she read it, she decided that he was purposefully showing kindness in an effort to manipulate her, as he’d done at the Battle.

His kindness was always empty and hollow.

She decided that the end of the note gave away his motive.

A good duelist must get proper rest.

He only cared about the imaginary magical powers that he insisted she possessed.

He longed to craft her into his own personal weapon; he told her as much.

Hermione grit her teeth. A reluctant part of her wanted to learn magic from the most powerful wizard in the world, even if he was a madman.

A more dominant part of her was revolted by the idea of being trained to suit his purposes, as if she were a prize horse being bred to race.

After much consideration, she decided it was best to go along with his plans for the time being. In that way, she could gain more information and possibly, obtain leverage.

Voldemort might be powerful and shrewd, but so was Hermione. 

She could dance with the devil.

**********

Hermione spent the rest of the day exploring the mansion, where she discovered an owlery in the western tower.

She wished she could send an owl away with a note for Harry and Ron, but she knew it wouldn’t be that simple. No doubt, Voldemort would have anticipated something like that, and she’d get herself and her friends into more danger.

She only petted the birds and asked Deedle to bring her treats for them.

In her exploration, she passed by the entrance to the eastern tower stairwell, and she could feel a chill in the air as she walked past, the kind of cold draft that accompanied dark magic.

She was tempted to cast detection charms, eagerly curious about what kind of enchantments he had placed on the tower.

But upon reflection, she decided if they were anything like the spells protecting his horcruxes, it would be best not to pry.

Later that afternoon, Malfoy returned and put her through a rigorous exercise regimen. Hermione was still sore from the previous day's workout, so she dragged her arse until he insulted her petulantly and left early, his expensive boots clacking as he stormed out.

She wondered if there was ever a time when Malfoy wasn’t a thorny brute.

The next day, she woke from another dream, but this time it wasn’t a nightmare. She’d felt cold hands touching her, and something about the person’s scent was familiar, and it stirred up a thrumming desire between her thighs, making her pulse race with anticipation. Lips touched her throat, her shoulder, her stomach, and her breasts. Even as she ascended slowly into hazy awareness, the intoxicating scent curled around her, fanning the flames of lust. When she finally opened her eyes, her fingers were between her legs, coated in her heat and wetness.

Her heart hammered as she rose to find another rose on her breakfast tray and a note tucked once more inside its petals.

The first day she’d found a note, dread had curled around her insides.

On the second day, she was more curious than fearful.

By the third day, she almost looked forward to opening it, which was a strange and unsettling occurrence.

In his message, which was short as usual, he’d  commended her good judgment in abstaining from sending owl post to the Order.

His tone was somewhat backhanded and condescending, which made her want to prove herself more than ever.

In the back of her mind, she knew she shouldn’t care what the homicidal maniac thought of her. 

She knew that.

But another part of her wanted to stick it to him, to stick it to all of them.

She wanted to shock him with her intellect and sagacity.

Hermione couldn’t help it. The drive to prove herself was so deeply woven into her being that she’d even sought Snape’s approval, despite the strength of her dislike for him.

She despised Voldemort, and that hatred made her more keen than ever to embarrass him. She’d hoped that shoving her wand against Rabastan Lestrange’s throat would’ve kindled his ire, but rather than infuriate him, it only served to impress him.

He seemed pleased with her.

That was a dangerous drug for Hermione Granger.

She swallowed and ripped the note into small pieces, then tossed it through the window.

Then, she stalked off toward the owlery.

**********

Harry,

I hope you’re well. I am as well as can be expected living with a brutish dark lord.

I miss you and Ron so much, and I want you both to know that Voldemort is the single most disgusting creature I’ve ever set eyes on and I hate his noseless face and bald head.

Love,

Hermione

***********

Two days later, on the fifth day of the Dark Lord’s absence, while Hermione was in the middle of a grueling set of bicycle crunches, there was a rap on the window.

Malfoy, who had been leaning against the wall nearby with arms folded, turned around and leaned over to open the window.

Hermione watched as the Bay owl she’d sent off two days earlier came into view. Her heart lurched into her throat.

“Ah, that will be for me, actually,” she said breathlessly, the pitch of her voice slightly higher than normal.

Malfoy took the note from the owl with one eyebrow cocked. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

“Yes, but-“

He was already opening the note. 

His eyes slid across the parchment, then both of his pale eyebrows rose sharply.

He blinked twice, then she noticed a muscle jumping in his jaw. 

Then, he cleared his throat and held out the note. 

Hermione’s heart hammered as she climbed to her feet and snatched the note from his hand. As she did so, his gaze met hers, and his eyes were narrowed suspiciously.

Hermione folded the note nonchalantly and shoved it in the pocket of her leggings.

Malfoy was quiet for the rest of the session, and resorted to staring through the open window as if the cold air didn’t bother him.

Once he had left, Hermione dug the note from her pocket and unfolded it feverishly.

She recognized the spiky handwriting.

What a daring little mudblood you are, attempting to provoke me on purpose.

It begs the question: if I am so abhorrent and distasteful to you, why were you touching yourself while you dreamt of me last night?

Food for thought,

V

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, her eyes bugging out in rage.

Was she so vulnerable that he was able to know her very dreams?

And Merlin’s sake, why did the note have to come when Malfoy was around?

Hermione’s face turned beet red. She hadn't actually hoped that the note would reach Harry; she wasn’t stupid enough to endanger her friends or reveal their whereabouts.

But she hadn’t thought that it would reach Voldemort, either. She assumed he would somehow be alerted that she was attempting to send post, or that the note would be intercepted by his death eaters…

But of course not. Voldemort was on top of everything, as usual.

She swallowed as she stared at the note. It was impossible to miss the sexual undercurrent in his words, and she found his taunting tone quite infuriating.

Now, more than ever, Hermione knew she needed an upper hand, or she would quickly find herself in over her head. She needed to know if there was any way to bypass Voldemort’s uncanny ability to enter her mind.

Was he really that powerful a legilimens? Or did the blood pact give him access to her mind?

Troubled, Hermione tucked the note in her drawer and with a mortified sigh, she turned to pick up her beaded bag. 

She’d been meaning to take stock of her belongings for days, but she’d been so sore in the first days of her training, all she could bring herself to do was read. 

She carefully unpacked the bag, summoning the items she remembered packing. She discovered that he’d confiscated a few of her items, one of them being the time turner given to her by Professor McGonnagal, and another being the destroyed locket. 

He’d also confiscated her cauldron and potions stores. Apparently he didn’t want her brewing her own vials, which made sense, as she still had all the ingredients for polyjuice potion.

He had left all of her books, thankfully, which were many in number.

She organized them alphabetically, drawing comfort from the feel of their weight and the touch of their structured spines.

“Achievements in Charming, Advanced Potion Making, Advanced Rune Translation,” she hummed happily as she stacked them. “Ancient Runes Made Easy, An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, Aqua Eructo’s Spellbook…”

On she went, summoning them and stacking them neatly on her dresser.

When she reached Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart, she promptly tossed it into the flames of her fireplace.

“Confronting the Faceless, Defensive Magical Theory, Dominating Dementors, Draconifors Spellbook…”

She placed her hand on the next book, withdrawing it to add to her stack when she realized it wasn’t a book, but a wooden box.

She didn’t recognize it, so she turned it over to examine it more closely.

On the outside of the box were the letters H-A-R-R-Y written in blue crayon.

She recognized it as the box Harry had kept since his childhood, in which he stored all his trinkets when he had lived at the Dursleys. 

On the night the three of them left for Hogwarts, before the battle, Harry had put it into her beaded bag for safekeeping.

It still smelled like Harry.

She unlatched the small metal catch and opened it gently.

Inside was a photo of his parents, his Dumbledore’s Army coin, and one of Fred and George’s extendable ears. Hermione felt a pang of sadness when she touched the items, thinking of the days when Fred and Dumbledore were still alive, of the days when they’d all trained together in the Room of Requirement.

So much had changed since then.

Her throat felt tight as she brushed her fingers over the crimson and gold scarf. 

Tears brimmed over her eyes.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to win.

Good always triumphs over evil. Light always beats darkness.

She wondered how Ron and Harry were now. She hoped they had a plan.

Atop the scarf was his first chocolate frog card, bearing Dumbledore’s image, and the penknife given to him one Christmas by Sirius, one that was able to unlock any door, spelled or not.

She moved those items aside and lifted the scarf, revealing the Marauder’s map. Hermione was surprised Voldemort hadn’t removed it, but in all likelihood, he didn’t know what it was, as Snape hadn’t.

Hermione brushed aside more quidditch paraphernalia until her fingers suddenly caught on something sharp.

“Ow!” she hissed, pulling back her hand to find her middle and index fingers bleeding.

She sucked on them for a moment, then gripped her wand to cast a healing charm, and then searched the box for the offending item.

Her eyes widened into saucers. 

At the bottom of the box was a shard of mirror.

Not just any mirror…

The shard of mirror that had connected them to Aberforth.

Hermione swallowed, her heart pounding violently in her chest.

Without sparing another moment, she shoved the items back into the box, covering the shard of mirror, and then tucked it back into her beaded bag.

Finally! She had a method of contacting the Order.

But… she would have to be clever and careful, so as not to reveal her secret to Voldemort.

Hermione spent the next hour occluding the information to the furthest reaches of her mind.

Then, she set to work on planning exactly how she would broach the subject with Malfoy. Voldemort would be back any day now; she didn’t have a moment to spare. It was absolutely vital that she find a way around his mind reading abilities.

Chapter Text

The next day, Hermione woke up with her mind set on her task.

She also found her breakfast tray empty, with no rose and no note.

At first, she felt a twinge of disappointment.

Then, she rebelled against the feeling.

Why did she wonder suddenly if she’d made Voldemort angry, and why did she care if she had? She could only hope to make him angry; it was the least he deserved for everything he’d done. 

The fact that she suddenly felt the need for his approval was a testament to his uncanny ability to manipulate. Something about Voldemort made people want his praise and validation, which was twisted and sick, considering what a monster he was.

The thought made her furious.

“I hate you,” she whispered, just in case he could hear.

She prayed that he couldn’t, because then he’d see the conversation she planned to have with Malfoy that afternoon.

She donned her active clothes and threw a set of thick wool robes over them, then set out to visit the horses.

She tested Voldemort’s sugar quill claim, and quickly discovered the smaller of the abraxan horses to be Astra, the horse he had referenced in his note.

Had Voldemort given her the name? If so, what had he named the others?

It was strange to imagine Voldemort owning magical creatures and caring for them enough to know their preferences. Hermione found it almost bizarre, but then again, nothing about him had been predictable thus far.

After she tended to the horses, she visited the owlery. Then, she went outside and set to work on cleaning up the garden with a bit of magic and elbow grease. She was enjoying her little daily routine immensely, so much so that she could almost have forgotten about the war and Voldemort.

Of course, she could never forget, but it did her soul some good to find joy in simple things again, if only for the moment.

It had been too long since she’d felt any joy whatsoever.

As she kept busy, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched throughout the day. Hermione wasn’t sure why she felt that way, so for the sake of peace of mind, she chocked it up to the gargoyles whose eyes moved this way and that, watching her. By now, she’d presumed they had been spelled to inform Voldemort of her whereabouts.

She’d just finished cleaning the greenhouse when she realized that it was almost 2pm, which happened to be the time of her appointed training sessions with Malfoy.

Hermione sprinted back up the endless stone steps and into the mansion. As she made her way back to her room, following the little map she’d made which she kept in her pocket, she decided to take a different path back to her bedroom through a corridor she hadn’t explored yet. She’d been avoiding it because it was quite dark and gloomy, and sat adjacent to the eastern staircase. Still, Hermione was bothered that she hadn’t yet been able to add it to her map, so she braved it despite her hesitation.

Her footsteps echoed as they met the mahogany wood floors. She tried a few of the doors, but found them all locked. The door handles all bore thick layers of dust, which let Hermione know that Voldemort, in all likelihood, didn’t make use of the rooms. It seemed as if they’d been locked up and untouched for years.

As she made her way down the vast hallway, fully intending to venture to its end and then retreat back to her room to freshen up, Hermione happened upon a set of double doors.

The doors were carved of dark mahogany, and appeared to be etched with illustrations of some kind. Hermione approached the doors, running her fingers over the dips and crests of the wooden engravings.

As she examined the carvings, she recognized them as illustrations from The Canterbury Tales.

“Curious,” she mused. 

Her fingers drifted down to the Victorian handles, fingertips brushing over the embellishments forged into the dense iron.

“ Aberto ,” she muttered.

She pursed her lips when the door didn’t open.

She cast a few more spells, but the handles remained firmly locked.

Then, she had a thought.

She pulled her beaded bag from around her neck and summoned Harry’s penknife.

Sirius had given it to Harry for Christmas in fourth year, and he’d used it once to break into Umbridge’s office.

The blade had nearly been destroyed by the door to the Love Chamber in the department of mysteries, but Harry was able to have it mended by Mr. Wiseacre.

She pulled out the knife and slid it into the crack between the two doors.

Her excitement bubbled over when she heard the latch click, and she watched as the heavy bolt slid back slowly.

Triumphant, Hermione gripped the thick handles and opened the doors.

When she stepped into the space, she gasped.

Before she noticed anything else, Hermione drank in the sight of walls of books, many of them hand-bound with gold lettering.

She stood in the center of a circular library that loomed at three stories, with curving staircases built to access the upper levels. It was well lit by a rotunda whose pinnacle was formed of glass and displayed the sky. The center of the rotunda consisted of glass panes and a skeleton of wrought iron beams. The rest of the ceiling was adorned by a series of elaborate, hand-painted murals that she immediately recognized as Dante’s Inferno.

The one caveat that Hermione’s parents gave when she got her Hogwart’s letter, was that they didn’t want her to forsake her muggle education in favor of the wizarding world’s schooling. So, during her summers and holidays, she caught up on reading her textbooks, or what would have been her textbooks, if she’d attended a muggle school. She studied history, art, psychology, and science. It wasn’t too difficult for Hermione to catch up. She was intelligent and a fast learner, and occasionally the subjects had some overlap. For example, her History of Magic curriculum often explained or presented the full scope of historical events, and proved to be very enlightening for Hermione as she reviewed her muggle history texts. There also happened to be some overlap in arithmancy and science, particularly because the early alchemists were trailblazers for many muggle scientists and chemists. 

Hermione felt her heart speeding like a hummingbird’s wings as she salivated over the books. 

The walls of bookshelves were arched in the very distinct style of art nouveau, which Hermione knew was characteristic of the Belle Èpoque period at the turn-of-the-century. Hermione scrunched her eyebrows. In fact, now that she thought about it, the style of this house was very much reminiscent of late 1800s architecture, so she theorized that it must have been built around that time.

Hermione took several steps across the mosaic floor, which bore a star shape in its center and was surrounded by celestial rings.

The sight of the library took her breath away. She was silent as she spun around slowly, craning her neck to take in its vast beauty. On the highest level, she spied what looked to be a Celestia Contemplor telescope. They were rare, having been introduced in 1890, and only a few were left in existence.

There were so many books! Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen so many in one place. She pinched herself, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. She’d spent the past year on the run with only the books she’d packed, and though the library at Grimmauld Place contained many old and rare texts, there weren’t nearly as many books there as there were here. 

Months without her bag and deprived of reading material had taken its toll, and she could almost have cried at the beautiful sight of such a well stocked library, even if the books proved not to be magical. If only she had discovered the library at the start of the week, she could’ve spent the week reading and combing through Voldemort’s books. Surely he would be back soon, and she didn’t know if he would allow her to browse his texts.

Were they his books? Or did they belong to the home’s previous owners?

She started forward to examine one of the shelves, but at that moment, she heard a crack of apparation.

She spun about to find Deedle the elf in the center of the library. 

“Master Malfoy is in the drawing room looking for the Mistress.”

“Oh, bollocks,” she groaned. “I forgot!”

She grabbed Deedle by the hand and yanked her along as they sped into the hallway. Hermione cast a simple locking charm on the double doors before Deedle apparated them both to the drawing room with a resounding crack.

***************

Draco glared at Granger.

“Where were you?”

She shrugged, holding her hands out awkwardly. “Exploring.”

“Are you allowed to explore?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she snapped. 

He stared at her a moment longer. He couldn’t quite figure Granger out.

He had thought of nothing the past twenty-four hours but the note the Dark Lord had sent to Granger. The death eaters in their ranks had been whispering about her, gossiping about what their Lord had done to Dolohov, theorizing that the Dark Lord was now fucking a mudblood and had demoted Bellatrix for that reason.

Their whispers were kept very hushed. But Draco heard them all. 

He’d thought he knew Granger better than that, or at least, he thought he had an idea of who she was. He wouldn’t have believed in a million years that she would sleep with the Dark Lord, but now… he wasn’t so sure.

He’d accepted that if that had indeed taken place, that it would’ve happened as a result of the imperius, or the blood pact that was made. He never imagined Granger would yield her body willingly to someone she considered to be so evil, but perhaps she’d made a deal. Maybe this was her way of saving her friends. She was like all Gryffindors, after all… nauseatingly self-sacrificing.

But even if that was the case… Draco couldn’t understand why the Dark Lord would want her.

No, that wasn’t right. Granger was considered attractive in their circles. He’d heard the things that were said about her. Vile, disgusting things. Things that painted hideous pictures in Draco’s mind.

No, he understood that. Her blood status didn’t seem to deter male lust. 

But he didn’t understand the Dark Lord.

Even with his unusual appearance, many beautiful pureblood witches had thrown themselves at the Dark Lord. He had rarely demonstrated any interest in sexual partners, aside from Bellatrix, but even that had a logical explanation. 

The Dark Lord also seemed to harbor hatred and disdain for muggles and mudbloods, which made it all the more confusing.

So, the only explanation he could think of, was that the Dark Lord wanted to debase her. To punish and humiliate her in the eyes of the world, and she would endure it to save her friends. 

But… the note had seemed flirtatious. Not exactly degrading, and therein lay Draco’s confusion.

He gazed into her amber eyes and wished he could use legilimency on her without angering the Dark Lord.

Did you fuck him?

He wanted to know, even though it didn’t matter.

Whatever happened to Granger didn’t concern him. It wasn’t his problem.

He had stood staring at her for far too long, but he couldn’t seem to rouse himself from his thoughts.

“I know you read the note,” came Granger’s voice, tentative and nervous.

Draco blinked, schooling his features into an emotionless mask as his eyes flicked to hers. “And?”

Granger swallowed thickly. Distress creeped into her features.

Draco felt his heartbeat pick up speed.

“I just… I know you won’t help me, but… can’t I just ask you one question?”

He snorted. “Why would I help you? I don’t even like you.”

Lie.

She seemed to deflate. “I know, Malfoy. I know you hate me and you hate Harry and I slapped you in third year-“

The scene came back to Draco’s mind instantly.

“But…” Her expression turned pleading. “You helped us once.”

“A mistake,” he said harshly. His stomach churned.

What did she want from him?

He thought of his mother.

He felt his insides tearing apart.

Draco turned to stare out the window.

Granger dropped to the ground and sat there, lowering her forehead to her knees in apparent anguish.

Draco felt dangerous things stirring in his chest.

He tamped down on them, his iron eyes fixing on a statue in the garden.

All was quiet for several minutes.

Even the silence was damning. He should say something.

Either start her training, or ask her what’s wrong, he hissed at himself internally.

Draco knew he had to be very careful.

With a perturbed sigh, he asked, “What is it, Granger?”

He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know.

Did you fuck him?

Did he make you fuck him?

Did you want to fuck him?

Does he want to fuck you?

He closed his eyes.

“I need to know how… how to get around his ability to read minds.”

Draco swallowed. 

“Why would I help you with that?”

She shook her head. “It’s… it’s dehumanizing.”

He snorted again. “You’re a prisoner. It doesn’t get any more dehumanizing . In fact, that’s the whole point.”

She dropped her head again into her hands, a show of mortification. “There’s some things a girl would like to keep private, Malfoy.”

What things? He thought angrily. Touching yourself and dreaming of him?

Revulsion crept up his insides. That image seemed so uncharacteristic of Granger.

His eyes narrowed. “You can’t keep your thoughts under control? Sounds like a ‘you’ problem to me.”

“Is it possible, then? Is it possible to hide them?”

Dangerous. That’s what she was.

This witch could get him killed.

“And what if it is?” He hissed, turning. “You’d have me tell you? Do you think the Dark Lord would appreciate that? You’ve caught his eye and that’s your fault.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Clearly, you did.”

“He just wants to use me.”

Draco laughed. The sound was bitter, but he didn’t care how it sounded. “That’s all Dumbledore wanted, as well. So what’s the difference?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Dumbledore wasn’t torturing people. Dumbledore didn’t want to annihilate my kind .”

“Doesn’t seem like the Dark Lord wants to annihilate you, from what I can tell.” He met her sullen gaze. “Well… I guess it depends on what your definition of ‘annihilate’ is.”

Her expression turned shocked and disgusted.

He instantly regretted his words.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” she said coldly. “In fact, I think you’re worse.”

You’d be right about that.

She had seemed to close off, crossing her arms over her chest, disappointment in her face, embarrassment in her posture.

“So you’re not going to ask me about the note?” she asked coolly. Draco detected a hint of emotion in her tone, her voice shaking slightly.

He gazed at her for a moment, and he knew she would read his expression as hatred and dislike.

Really, he wanted to touch her. To tell her he would save her if he could. If it wouldn’t mean his entire family being murdered.

“The Dark Lord keeps his business private. It’s none of my concern… not to mention, I don’t care .”

Lie.

Their eyes locked. She stared at him so long that his pulse quickened, and somehow he sensed cognition in her gaze. She was reading him, searching his eyes for the truth.

He’d always hated how Granger had this uncanny ability to see through his stony exterior.

Her eyes seemed to soften.

Don’t do that.

Draco’s expression hardened, lips drawing into a tight line.

She blinked away, then dropped to the floor with a heavy sigh. “What exercises today?”

Draco stared at her, observing her defeated demeanor, arms wrapped around her knees and head averted, eyes lowered… crestfallen.

He felt frozen. He felt leashed.

He felt hungry and parched suddenly, an uncomfortable dissatisfaction spreading throughout him in waves as his eyes fell on the way her camisole tightened around her breasts, the way they pushed up against her knees, pressing their swells upward and into view.

He swallowed thickly.

Yes, he understood the Dark Lord’s attraction perfectly.

But Granger? He would never understand her.

Why did she come to him as if he could help her? Didn’t she know he could barely help his own family? Why would she think he would ever help her, when he’d done nothing but treat her with disdain since he’d met her?

He hated that she seemed to see something in him that he didn’t see in himself.

Stop trying to see the good in me, mudblood.

Draco knew there was none to be found.

At length, her eyes slowly slid up to connect with his.

His jaw muscles ticked, and he fixed her with his stoniest glare.

“You need to control your emotions, Granger.”

Her eyebrows drew forward in confusion.

He kept his gaze locked with hers until realization dawned on her features.

She gave the barest hint of a nod, communicating understanding, and then she cleared her throat, looking away. 

“Push-ups. Thirty.”

He turned away to stare at the statue once more, to avoid the sight of her perfect breasts rising and falling with each movement.

Chapter Text

He’s returned.

Bellatrix had apparated to Malfoy Manor as soon as she heard. The blood wards welcomed her. They had long been fed by Narcissa and Draco, and recognized her as kin.

She ran down the hallway as Narcissa hissed at her, but she heeded no warnings.

She threw open the door and skidded to a halt just inside the Master suite.

He was there, in the anteroom, standing by the window.

She exhaled, releasing a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “My Lord…”

The Dark Lord turned to face her. Bella’s lips parted as she took in his appearance. He wore a fitted dueling suit and was strapping a glove onto his left hand. “Bella,” he said in soft acknowledgement.

Bella gazed at him as if he’d been gone for months. Her mouth tipped upward in a smile, not her usual sadistic leer but an expression of wonder, like that of a young girl who’d laid eyes on her first love.

“How are you?” she asked breathlessly.

His red eyes flicked up as he flexed his hand, testing the chameleon skin glove. “I’m well, Bella.”

“Good,” she breathed shakily. She wasn’t intending to seem so overeager, but she had suffered every moment of his absence, no longer knowing where she stood with him.

Perhaps if Bella had never experienced what it was like in his bed, she would have been able to bear the separation more admirably.

But she could never go back to the way she’d lived before being his lover.

She needed him like she needed air to breathe.

He was like the very magic in her veins. He made her come alive.

“I trust you are well, Bella?”

Her gray eyes met his, and she nodded.

He smiled, that cool, languid smirk of his, so self-assured.

Her stomach turned a flip.

She took two steps forward, and she noticed that his eyes sharpened. “Will we duel today?”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes faraway and smile faltering. “Not with me. You will train the new recruits. I have other business today.”

“Will you not rest, my Lord? You must be tense after your trip.”

He blinked. “Yes, Bella,” came his distinct intonation. “I am tense.”

“Can I help you with that?”

His jaw ticked, a hint of amusement flashing over his features. “No. Unfortunately, you could not possibly relieve me of that.”

“I see,” she murmured quietly, disappointment slipping into her tone. She walked slowly to his desk, running her fingers over the rolled up parchments there. “What business will you be attending today?”

His eyes slid sideways, piercing her with their coldness. “I no longer trust you with my dealings, Bella.”

His words felt like a jagged blade piercing her chest. She choked on her anguish.

“Can I ever earn back your trust?” She moved closer. “I know I was in the wrong. I made a mistake. I should’ve trusted you. I was emotional. But… that makes me who I am, and there was once a time when you liked that about me.”

His eyes were like scalding wheels of fire. “I still do.”

“Then tell me you will forgive me.” Her voice was pleading.

He sighed. “I am known to forgive… I am not known to forget.”

He’d been angry with her about the loss of his sacred cup, many months ago. He’d once told her he couldn’t trust her because of that failure. He became harsh and cold when his trust was rescinded…

Still, he’d forgiven her for that.

But this… something about this felt different.

It felt like he was leaving her for good. Fear speared her heart.

Bellatrix was embarrassed. He’d shamed her in front of his ranks of servants, placing her smart arsed nephew in her place as his right hand. Whispers that she had been replaced by a mudblood circulated throughout Malfoy Manor and Lestrange Manor, even throughout the Ministry. 

And still, Bella defended him and his reputation. She silenced their murmurings, threatening the life of anyone who would dare to question him and his choices.

What else could she do? They were marked for life.

Bella was marked. Not just her arm, but her heart. He was her beginning and her end.

Her fate was tied to his.

She drew closer. “My Lord…”

He watched her as a viper would, coiled and prepared to strike.

She treaded carefully. “I missed you.” She came to stand before him. “Ever since those years you disappeared… your absence is harder for me to bear.”

He gazed down at her, his eyes ever the same as they’d been in her youth. He had captivated her then, and her fascination had not dwindled. 

Bella could feel his magic, so fluid and invasive and unlimited. So all-encompassing . She loved the way it danced dangerously across her skin when they made love. 

He was capable of inflicting such devastation, or such pleasure.

She wanted both. She wanted anything he would give to her.

“May I? My Lord?”

Perhaps he grew weary of her entreaties, but Bella couldn’t help herself.

To touch him was such a supreme pleasure. 

In the back of her mind, she recalled the way he had touched the mudblood girl. So easily, as if it had been as natural as breathing.

That couldn’t be so. Perhaps he’d done it to punish Bella. The Dark Lord never touched anyone easily .

He’d done it to hurt her. Had her disobedience hurt him?

She liked to think that she could wound him. She didn’t want to wound him, but she loved to imagine that she could.

He gave the slightest nod of his head.

Bella tentatively reached out and slid her hand down his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath her palm, down, over the ridges of his abdomen.

She felt his magic buzzing over the plane of his epidermis, like a million angry wasps, deadly and capable of inflicting pain.

The Dark Lord was a weapon, one never to be seen by this world again.

He was unlike anyone she had ever known, and Bella didn’t want anyone else. 

She deserved the best .

Slowly, she knelt, dropping to her knees silently. 

No sudden movements, as he’d taught her.

She reached for his trousers.

He took a sharp step back. 

“No.”

He said nothing else, gave no explanation.

He merely walked around her and left the room. 

Bellatrix stayed on her knees for some time, feeling the residue of his magic in the atmosphere.

Frustration and despair licked at her insides, a sinking feeling of abandonment.

Fear began to take root, and with it, anger.

Hatred .

Not for him, no. But for anyone who might take him from her.

**************

The next morning, Hermione awoke with Draco’s words echoing in her mind.

“You need to control your emotions, Granger.”

The way he had stared so pointedly in her eyes… 

Was he trying to answer her without being direct?

Control her emotions…

Was Voldemort’s mind reading ability tied to strong emotions?

Hermione sat up in bed, recounting every instance in which Voldemort had known her thoughts, in an attempt to recall her emotional state at those times.

Almost every time Voldemort had read her mind, she had been feeling a heavy dose of fear or anger.

Hermione had always been one to wear her emotions on her sleeve. She wasn’t good at controlling them, nor hiding them. 

She heaved a deep breath. There would be only one way to find out: that was to test her emotions when Voldemort returned.

If she could find a way to skirt around his mind reading abilities and the blood pact, then she could find a way to contact the Order without his knowing.

As far as she was aware, unless he specifically performed legilimency, his mind reading abilities only applied to present thoughts. 

If she kept her mind quiet and didn’t give him a reason to search her thoughts, and perhaps, if she occluded well enough, she could act as a valuable spy for the Order. It was a daunting task, and one filled with risk, but she was willing to brave it nonetheless.

When she threw back the covers, intent on rising from her bed, she noticed a single red rose laid across the pillow beside her.

For some reason, the sight of it on the bed and not in a vase on her breakfast table made her heartbeat pick up speed. 

Had he returned?

Regardless, if he hadn’t, he would surely be back soon. It had already been a week to the day he had left.

Heart speeding, she snatched up the rose and ran out onto her balcony. The chilly wet ocean breeze pricked her bare skin as she released the rose into the open air.

She watched as it drifted on the current of the wind, whipping out to the sea.

It was a small act, but it made her feel better to reject him, even if it was petty and inconsequential.

She turned back to her bedroom with the intent to dress and visit the library, but she stopped dead in her tracks.

Hermione blinked, eyes fixed on the bed, where another rose was laid across the pillow.

Right where the first had lain.

She swallowed, feeling her heart drop into her stomach.

With a frustrated growl, Hermione snatched up one of the other pillows and threw it on top, bashing her fists into the fluffy down, smashing the rose beneath. 

“There,” she said triumphantly, a satisfied smirk turning up her lips. 

Just as she was getting ready to bathe, a knock sounded at the door.

She gasped, not quite ready to see Voldemort again. She’d grown used to being in the mansion alone, but instantly felt her sense of safety draining away.

She bit her lip. “Come in.”

The double doors opened, and Deedle entered with several other house elves in tow. 

Hermione stared in shock as the elves carried boxes upon boxes into the room, marching straight toward the bed and leaving them on the coverlet and upon the floor nearby.

Fairies flew in behind, holding tinier boxes and little objects in velvet bags, which were placed upon her bench and vanity area.

“What is this?” she asked, bemused.

“This is the order the Master placed, mistress.”

Hermione scrunched her nose at being referred to as “mistress,” particularly in proximity to her “Master.”

“But… what order?”

Deedle began excitedly opening the boxes. “Mistress was fitted by Madam Malkin last week. Did she forget?”

Realization dawned on Hermione. So much had happened since then that she’d nearly forgotten about the witch taking her measurements. But why would Voldemort replace her wardrobe when Narcissa Malfoy had given her such costly attire in the first place?

Hermione watched, utterly confused, as the elves brought box after box into the room, and Deedle eagerly opened them, exclaiming happily over the clothing, which was obviously obscenely expensive, perhaps even more so than the ones given to her by Narcissa. 

There were heavy sets of winter robes tailored from costly velvet in shades of black, emerald green, ice blue, burgundy, silver, and sapphire blue. The emphasis was heavy on custom . These weren’t the stock robes she was used to seeing in the shops in Diagon Alley. She realized they were hand-stitched and designed specifically for her. 

At first, she didn’t want to touch them, not until she came across a set of black robes with silver stitching. Upon closer inspection, she discovered elaborately embroidered ravens on the shoulders, perched upon trailing vines, and she found herself dragging her fingertips along the embellishments, in awe of their beauty. The vines reminded her of her wand, and the ravens…

It all seemed so deeply personal.

The boxes kept coming.

Gowns were revealed, some modest and others daring, crafted with particular attention to her assets and tailored to her exact measurements. The room was soon overwhelmed with colorful fabrics, chiffon and satin, taffeta and charmeuse. There were brocade corsets, gloves of silk, and fur-trimmed cloaks.

Hermione just stared at them, unable to comprehend why this was happening.

A very tall house elf presented her with a large box. When she lifted its lid, she discovered a pair of leather trousers and an embroidered vest, which was nearly a tunic, the collar of which fastened high around the neck with silver clasps. Beneath it was a black suede coat with the same intricate silver clasps and shoulders bearing a lightweight armor made of overlapping goblin-wrought scales, in the style of a dragon’s hide. It was a professional dueling uniform, the style that she’d seen Voldemort wearing the day that he left, although his was more sinuous and less embellished. Hermione had only seen these sorts of uniforms worn by professionals of martial magic. She recalled that Gilderoy Lockhart used to wear such clothing every day, as if he would be entering into a dangerous duel at any point during the school day. 

At the base of the box she found a set of chameleon skin dueling gloves, as well as a pair of dragonhide boots. 

Hermione blinked as she stared at them. When she lifted them out of the box, she realized they weren’t made of dragonhide, after all. They were entirely black, and very lightweight, much more so than her own dragonhide boots, and she could feel some kind of magic enchanting them. They possessed a low heel and laces, and the surface was smooth, less rough than dragonhide. Beneath the boots was a warm, wool cape, and it, too, carried some sort of enchantment, but Hermione couldn’t decipher its properties. She was too shocked by this ostentatious display of wealth.

The house elves set to work putting away the gowns, robes, cloaks, and shoes.

Then, the fairies began to display their wares. They presented Hermione with boxes of jewelry of obscene quality, dainty bracelets, teardrop earrings, all set with emeralds and rubies, a brilliant diamond and sapphire necklace, and a pearl inlaid ring. There were vials of perfume, with both floral and earthy scents, artfully layered scents which Hermione would have chosen for herself, but she found it rather confusing because she hadn’t chosen these. So who had?

When she reached for the final boxes which had been left for last, the elves hurried quickly out into the corridor, leaving behind a bewildered Hermione. She unwrapped the delicate tissue paper and instantly felt heat rising to her cheeks.

The boxes were filled with lingerie and undergarments.

“Merlin’s sake,” she huffed as she examined the items begrudgingly.

She hated that she was grateful for them, because truthfully, she had very few undergarments left and only one bra which she’d been wearing every day and it was starting to look pretty ragged. 

The first box held very practical items. Cotton knickers in various colors, soft and seemingly comfort-minded bras, which she discovered were a size larger than the ones she’d been wearing. On that front, she decided that she might’ve been getting the wrong size all along, because the band of the one she wore seemed awfully tight. 

She hated that she felt grateful for it all, but the girlish part of her was, indeed, rejoicing. 

Part of her was reminded that these were gifts from Voldemort. Some part of her wanted to refuse them. 

But what good would that do, really? 

She reminded herself of her goals: to get close to him, to gain intel, to learn magic, as much as she could, and to gain leverage. 

Perhaps receiving his gifts would bring her closer to those goals.

When she opened the last box, her eyes grew wide and her already blushed cheeks deepened in color.

This box held similar items, but they were… much more risqué. 

The bras were lace trimmed, some padded and others completely see-through. The knickers were lace as well, and came in a variety of seductive shapes. There were silk nightgowns and teddies, some cut quite low, and others with provocative slits at the thigh.

Was Hermione imagining that these frilly bits of lingerie accompanied an innuendo from Voldemort? 

No, she wasn’t imagining it. She knew that Voldemort wanted her, in some capacity. She didn’t understand why. Did that fact give her an advantage? Something she could use as leverage?

Or would it put her at his mercy?

Disturbed, Hermione emerged into the corridor. She found most of the elves and fairies gone, but Deedle was happily chatting with the last elf remaining. 

They sobered and separated quickly when Hermione appeared.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she said softly. “I just wanted to know who purchased these things.”

The elves exchanged looks. 

“It was the Master,” said Deedle in a hushed tone.

“You mean Voldemort.”

The elves’ eyes grew wide. “We cannot speak that name!”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said quickly. “I see. Thank you.”

She returned to her bedroom and shut the door quietly.

She looked at the items that still hadn’t been put away. Drawing closer, she dragged her fingertips across the costly fabric.

“It seems he’s dressing me for a role,” she whispered. 

What was that role?

Hermione couldn’t possibly imagine.

Chapter Text

The tension between Draco and his aunt had nearly caused Pansy to forget her anger toward Blackthorn.

Almost.

Bellatrix had shown up to dueling practice in a foul temper. Rodolphus and Rabastan had accompanied her, dragging four terrified muggles into the hall in binds.

“It’s time you all learn some proper curses,” she taunted, her eyes looking red-rimmed and crazed.

Rodolphus stared at Bellatrix, but said nothing. Rabastan grunted and pointed to Theo. “You first, Nott.”

Soon, Rabastan had them all lined up, with Theo front and center, followed by Blaise, Gregory, Pansy, Kieran and Ronan Blackthorn, Graham Montague, Runcorn’s daughter, and three other half-bloods who’d recently joined their ranks.

Draco came to stand beside Pansy as they watched Theo practice the wand movement required to cast the imperius curse.

Pansy was intensely aware of Ronan’s presence at her back, but she’d ignored him for days now, and he hadn’t attempted to speak to her, either.

If you’re brave enough, come and find me when you’re sober.

“Now, you’re really going to find out what that mark is all about,” said Draco coolly, his eyes on Theo.

Pansy looked at Draco sullenly. “Jokes on you. I’ve been itching to cast the unforgivables.”

“Then you’re in luck.”

Bellatrix whispered something in Theo’s ear. 

He attempted to cast again, but failed.

Bellatrix gripped Theo’s hand in hers, her long black nails curled around his fingers, emulating the necessary wand movements.

When he cast the third time, the spell shot forth. 

Immediately, the dark-skinned male muggle crawled over to a petite woman as she struggled against her binds and began to choke her. 

All was silent as the woman was strangled before their very eyes.

Pansy’s stomach turned.

To avoid looking at the scene, she glanced around the room. 

Some death eaters snickered and jeered. Others looked on with stony expressions, barely concealing their distaste.

Pansy cut her eyes to Draco. He stared ahead, right through the scene, his eyes faraway.

Pansy started to turn around, unwilling to keep watching as the woman’s face began to change color and turn blue. 

Draco caught her by the arm and jerked her back around. Leaning down, he whispered sharply, “You’ll watch… or it’ll be worse when it’s your turn. Trust me.”

Pansy swallowed. “You’ll have to teach me how you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Zone out the way you do.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond.

Pansy heard Ronan clear his throat behind her. A hazy memory of the night they kissed bloomed in her mind until she tamped it down.

Bellatrix intervened, breaking the imperius.

“We don’t want her dead… yet,” she laughed. “We need them for target practice.”

Pansy’s brows knit, and she fought the look of disgust that threatened to emerge on her face.

She might believe that wizards were superior to muggles, but this was a level of barbarity that nauseated her. 

Pansy might be many things, but at least she had class .

The Parkinsons had always avoided choosing sides in these political climates. Her father did the bare minimum to support Voldemort, citing his reluctance to put his family in danger of being imprisoned in Azkaban. Secretly, Pansy knew that her father disliked the idea of serving a half-blood.

The Dark Lord’s blood status wasn’t well-known, but in pureblood circles, particularly among those who had known him before he went by a new name, it was whispered that he had been the son of a muggle.

“Charmed the pants off of any witch,” her grandfather would hiss in disdain. “Charmed the pride out of Abraxas. Had them all on their knees, I never would’ve imagined it. Tells the lot of them what they want to hear. They preach about his beautiful promises and a new world where purebloods will reign over mudbloods and muggles. I supported Grindelwald when I was young, mind you, and I know how these things end up. I’ll throw some gold at the cause, of course, but… I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Her grandfather had always been disgusted with Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange. “Young rebels” he would call them, and he cautioned her father against joining the death eaters when the Dark Lord began to sway their loyalty.

He called them all barbarians for their crimes, their murders and public displays of violence in the streets.

“Didn’t I always tell you it would happen?” He’d said smugly to her father when Voldemort was destroyed. “I said he’d end up like Grindelwald. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. The way to revolution isn’t through a Dark Lord , it’s through money and government and legislation. That’s how we will win. We have a good thing going right now; no reason to rock the boat.”

He always prided himself that his family never ended up in Azkaban, that they were never on the wrong side, priding himself in his wisdom.

But… her grandfather was dead now, and the war was dangerously close to being won.

Her father wasn’t happy at all that Pansy had joined the ranks of Voldemort’s death eaters. 

But to not choose a side at this point was dangerous. The Dark Lord had sent her father a message earlier in the school year, long before the Battle, marking him for death if he didn’t state his loyalty.

That’s why Pansy had refused to fight in the battle. She had to choose a side; they all did.

She couldn’t turn against her family’s beliefs, against Draco and Theo, against her friends, the people she had played alongside in drawing rooms since she was old enough to walk.

Her side was chosen for her.

Draco’s hand still gripped her arm.

She leaned into him just slightly; he was warm and familiar. She would always care for Draco.

He couldn’t be more different from Ronan.

Pansy flinched as Blaise stepped forward and cast his curse.

“ Avada kedavra !”

The green light burst forth from his wand, but it sputtered toward the end.

Pansy’s hand shook.

The woman wasn’t dead. She was gasping for air, her breaths coming shallowly.  The curse hadn’t been executed properly.

Bellatrix stood gazing down at the woman. Rodolphus eyed his wife, but stood by stoically. Pansy wasn’t sure if she’d ever really heard him speak. They called him Voldemort’s rock, because no one could make him speak or budge, not even when he’d been interrogated and thrown into Azkaban after the first war.

You’d think he wouldn’t be so loyal with his wife shagging the Dark Lord under his nose, Pansy thought. 

Some had suspected Rodolphus would sometimes join in, and that’s why he allowed it.

Pansy couldn’t see it. Bellatrix was too possessive over Voldemort. Pansy doubted she would even share him with her husband.

For the first time, Pansy thought about Granger. Her side had also been chosen for her. What a predicament the mudblood had found herself in now. Pansy had never liked her much. 

Bellatrix nudged at the woman’s side with the steel toe of her boot, making a sad face, although she was anything but sad. 

“What shall we do with her?” she mused. “Decisions, decisions… Maybe practice the transmogrifian torture curse?”

“ Avada kedavra!”  

Pansy’s head snapped to the side to find Ronan, who had stepped forward, his knotted oak wand lifted, its tip smoking with the powerful curse he’d just cast.

The muggle was dead.

Pansy could still hear the ghostly sound of her labored breathing in her mind.

“If we are only practicing the unforgivables,” Ronan said, his voice carrying a hint of condescension. “Then may we be excused? We are more than familiar with them.”

Bellatrix’s eyes snapped with ire. For a moment, it looked as if she would lift her wand against him, but Rodolphus stepped between them, his enormous, lumbering frame blocking his wife from view. 

“You may go, Blackthorn,” his gravelly voice boomed throughout the hall. “Take your brother and the muggle. Give the body to the trolls.”

Ronan’s eyes flicked to the dead woman on the ground. A moment passed before he swished his wand in a sharp wrist movement, and vines issued forth to constrict her limbs and dragged her across the room, where Kieran swiftly levitated her out of the hall.

As Ronan passed by, his eyes met Pansy’s, and a split second later, they flicked down to where Draco gripped her arm, then he quickly looked away and walked out. 

Pansy gulped, knowing that her turn was imminent.

“Come on, Draco,” Bellatrix sneered. “Come join in the fun, dear.”

She whipped her wand, throwing the muggles prostrate, cracking their skulls against the marble. Laughter rang out through the hall.

Draco flashed icy silver eyes at his aunt. “I am here to observe and to instruct.”

“Good,” she shrugged with a smirk. “Then you can show them how it’s done. I taught you well, did I not, little nephew?”

Pansy gulped. She did not like it when the tension grew palpable between Draco and his aunt, and that was happening too often lately.

Bellatrix seemed to carry tangible rage and she used it to test Draco.

If he couldn’t handle it, and handle his aunt, then perhaps the Dark Lord would consider him unfit as a General. 

Bellatrix’s gaze wandered to Pansy. “Come, Miss Parkinson. You next.”

Pansy walked forward numbly, and she heard Draco following behind.

She withdrew her cypress wand as she came closer.

Draco drew his as well. 

“The cruciatus, Miss Parkinson,” Bellatrix crooned in a hypnotic manner. “You too, Draco. Show her how it’s done, dear.”

Draco didn’t hesitate. He lifted his wand, aiming it at an elderly man, then he cut his eyes to Pansy.

She could read the message in his gaze.

Show no fear, it said. Show no weakness. 

Pansy knew there was no other way around it.

She lifted her wand, fingers trembling, the crimson ink of the dark mark standing out on her arm. 

Two separate tenors of screams ripped through the air, and Pansy managed to focus only on the steady flow of power coursing through her body and into her wand.

Her mind went someplace else, rising up and out of the Manor, dissolving into the ether.

************

After Madam Malkin’s elves left, Hermione spent nearly an hour contemplating whether or not she should accept Voldemort’s elaborate gifts.

Did his costly clothing come with strings attached?

Would it really benefit her to reject them? 

At length, she decided that the clothes communicated that he wanted something from her. He’d said it already in so many words, although she wasn’t sure if the gifts were his attempt at softening her, trying to buy her, or simply his way of further shaping her for the role he was trying to place her in.

He was molding her. Everything within Hermione bucked against the idea.

So you think you can teach me and train me to be your puppet? Just some secret weapon you can dress up in your fancy clothes and…

And what? What would he have her do?

Whatever he had planned would surely enrage his pureblood followers and supporters.

A small part of Hermione feared every possible outcome, because she didn’t want to make herself useful to Voldemort at all, but she also worried that if she proved to be useless to him, that he might throw her to the nearest death eater for sport, or kill her and give her body to the trolls.

It would certainly hurt the Order’s morale to have her gone. It could potentially be the nail in the coffin of this war.

Would he really do that? Would he kill her when he discovered she had no special powers, as he imagined?

Or were there other ways that he intended to use her?

Hermione couldn’t help feeling that no matter what, his followers wouldn’t be happy about him involving a muggleborn in his political schemes.

She longed to find out. She’d been told stories about how cunning and strategic Voldemort was. How he manipulated and charmed his followers with ease, and how he carefully and systematically dismantled the Ministry of Magic from within, not once but twice now. 

What was his game? Part of her wanted to know so that she could reveal his plans to the Order, but another part of her… was simply curious.

She shouldn’t be curious about the twisted inner workings of Voldemort’s mind. Hermione bit her lip. 

No, she certainly shouldn’t.

After more careful deliberation, Hermione decided that it would serve her purposes best to accept the gifts, if only for the time being. 

He was attracted to her, wasn’t he? She was relatively sure of that now, though she still didn’t understand why . 

It made her nervous. She didn’t know what to expect, or what he was expecting from her. 

Her eyes flicked to the vase of roses that sat on her breakfast table. She’d collected them each morning, though they’d come with his notes. She’d convinced herself that the flowers themselves had been Deedle’s doing, but when a rose had appeared on her pillow, Hermione had been unable to ignore the message it sent.

But… what message was that, exactly?

Surely, he wouldn’t attempt to touch or pursue her. She was a “filthy mudblood,” for Godric’s sake! It made absolutely no sense.

However, when it came to the new wardrobe, Hermione imagined that he expected her to refuse them, to throw them back in his face. Perhaps he even wanted her to; he seemed to enjoy baiting her. 

No, Hermione planned to do the opposite of what he was expecting.

She wanted to see the look in his eyes when he witnessed her wearing the garments he’d chosen. He wasn’t one to wear his emotions and thoughts so easily in his expressions, but perhaps she could glean some hint of his motives if she caught him off guard.

When she opened the heavy doors of the wardrobe, she realized that it had been magically altered and extended into a separate dressing room. 

“Merlin’s sake,” she huffed as she stepped right onto the deep burgundy carpet inside the closet.

There were more items than she had originally accounted for, and the more she went through the items, the more she saw the need for room to accommodate them.

She settled on a form fitting black silk dress with a floral pattern that shone in the light. It possessed cap sleeves and a mandarin collar in the Chinese style. The fabric clung to her curves, but still felt modest. In fact, many of the clothes felt like her . They were items she might have chosen for herself out of a lineup, but she wasn’t sure how he would’ve managed that.

He didn’t even know her.

As she gazed at herself in the mirror, she realized that wasn’t exactly right. She wouldn’t have chosen this for herself, but… if she had seen it on someone else, she would’ve wished she possessed the bravery to wear it and the ability to pull it off.

She wished to be a person who could wear things such as this.

Why can’t I? 

She smoothed her hands down the expensive silk and her eyes flicked to her hair.

With a sigh, she began to cast charms, attempting to work it into submission.

At last, she managed to tame it and pin it up, so she snatched up a golden comb inlaid with rubies and tucked it into her hair.

She clenched her teeth, wondering how it came to be that she was here, in Voldemort’s mansion, playing dress up, and the rest of the Order was out there in hiding, being hunted like animals.

Anger speared through her.

She kept that thought ever at the forefront of her mind as she made her way out of the bedroom and back to the East wing where the library was located.

She dismantled her haphazardly cast locking charm and snuck into the room. A grin immediately curved her lips as she took in the sight of countless books.

She immediately began searching the shelves for some kind of code or method of organization. Were they organized alphabetically, or by genre? 

Hermione’s heels clicked across the floor as she set to work examining the books.

***********

An hour or two later, or it could’ve been several, Hermione wouldn’t have known, she found herself on the second level examining a book on blood magic.

She’d intended to search for the key to circumventing the blood pact, but couldn’t seem to find much on the topic. She supposed it was the fault of the wizarding world at large. They had lots of material about their own magic, but very little about the magic of other races, and the pact was technically a vampire contract.

The books were categorized haphazardly, and though the door handles of the library had been coated in dust, the library itself was clean as a whistle, not a speck of dust touching its shelves.

Voldemort definitely used this library, she surmised, because it was full of magical literature. Some sections contained books on magical creatures, whereas others were full of muggle books, which surprised her. There were entire sections of history books, texts on mathematics and science, books of poetry and philosophical treatise. His method of categorization fascinated Hermione, and she wondered why he chose to do it in such a complex and specific manner.

She was skimming Coven Culture: An In-depth Analysis of Vampire Social Constructs when she began to feel as if she were being watched. She often felt that way in the mansion, but never seemed to be able to detect what exactly was watching her. 

Her skin prickled eerily, so she tore her eyes away from the page and looked up to find a large, looming shadow several feet away. Hermione started with a gasp, holding the book to her chest. 

Voldemort leaned his shoulder against the shelf, arms crossed, his carmine eyes fixed on her with intensity. He said nothing, only stared at her, cocking his head as his eyes trailed down her form.

Hermione’s mouth went dry, heart rattling against her ribcage. His sudden proximity after a week of being alone gave Hermione quite a scare.

“You’re back,” she murmured breathlessly, chest heaving.

He nodded stoically, making no attempt to hide his interest as he examined her appearance with slow emphasis.

After a moment, he pushed away from the shelf and sauntered closer. 

She swallowed, feeling her heartbeat in every part of her body; it roared in her ears as he reached out and plucked the book from her chest.

His eyes scanned the pages she’d been reading, then slowly lifted to meet her gaze.

“Curious about our pact, mudblood?”

Hermione’s lips parted, and she held her breath. “Maybe.”

He blinked, then lifted his hand. Hermione’s eyes caught on his long fingers and sharp nails, adorned by heavy silver rings. On his other hand he wore a scaled dueling glove, black with a silver sheen. Not chameleon skin, like most dueling gloves, but it had a snakelike texture, similar to the boots he had given her.

A book dislodged itself from a shelf on the bottom floor and flew directly into his waiting grasp.

He held it out to her. “I believe this is the book you’re looking for.”

She stared at it for a moment, then reached out and took it hesitantly. “Th-thank you.”

She swallowed again, glancing at him nervously as she opened it and began to survey its contents. 

She could hardly focus on the words on the page with him watching her so closely, so she flicked her eyes up at him. “I’m allowed to be in here?”

His eyes were piercing, but shuttered. “It was locked, I believe? But yet… here you are.”

Hermione bit her lip. “You told me to explore.”

He cocked his jaw to the side. “It appears that nothing can keep Hermione Granger away from books… not even an ancient Egyptian locking spell.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, but her heart still raced. “I’ll admit, I was a bit disappointed at how easy it was to get in. I’d been expecting to be attacked by an army of Inferi.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “This library is full of books. Not horcruxes.”

“It is suspiciously bereft of texts on dark magic,” she hedged, glancing away from him. 

His lips quirked. “For an Order member and an acolyte of Dumbledore, you are suspiciously hungry for more books on… forbidden subjects.”

Her eyes slid back to him. “I’m simply curious what reading material the great Lord Voldemort would have in his personal library.”

“These are not all of my books,” he said with a disarming smirk. He leaned forward, so that his face was dangerously close. “I keep my favorite things locked away from the world. I protect them. I keep them… private. So that I alone can enjoy them.”

Refusing to be intimidated by his suggestive speech, she nodded slowly. “Right,” she breathed. “Private… like a public room filled with random objects that any student could access with the right intent.”

He smiled, seeming to thoroughly enjoy the way she was baiting him. Hermione didn’t like it. She wanted to infuriate him, not amuse him.

“Hidden in plain sight,” he muttered softly.

She cocked a brow. “I guess I should thank you for that. Made it much easier to locate your diadem.”

He smiled, his blood-tinged eyes falling to her lips, then her throat, then further still, raking her appearance.

Hermione felt subconscious… as if she were suddenly naked.

“No, my dear,” he hissed smoothly. “We are not quite there yet.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Stop reading my mind.”

“Stop making it so easy to do so.”

Hermione gulped, trying to calm her racing heart. 

Control your emotions .

She struggled to keep her fear under control around him. There was something in his aura that evoked it naturally, causing her pulse to spike.

He reached out, dragging a fingernail along her jawline. “Did you like my gifts, mudblood?”

Hermione gritted her teeth. She hated when he touched her.

When she refused to answer, he dropped his hand and stood back, eyeing her. “They suit you incredibly well.”

She despised being under his scrutiny, as if she were a prize mare. So, she stood back and crossed her arms, perusing his appearance as well, giving back to him exactly as he gave.

Her eyes trailed over his boots, which she realized matched her own, and his fitted leather trousers that hugged his thighs, which brought back to mind the image of his nakedness the week before as he’d walked into the ocean. Muscular thighs flashed through her mind, needling her with immense irritation. Still, she allowed her gaze to rise steadily higher, over the long sleeved canvas dueling jacket that buckled across his left shoulder, silver buttons with engraved serpents that lined the underside of his sleeves, and the elder wand that peeked out of his shoulder holster. He wore long, bat-like black robes over his clothing, shielding most of his form from view.

When she finally met his gaze, she found him grinning at her like a poisonous serpent. “Like what you see?”

“I do not.”

He tilted his head. “But you’re lying.” 

He took a step closer. 

Hermione clenched her teeth as he reached out and brushed a stray curl from her cheek, tucking it back into the coif at the base of her neck. “Draco Malfoy will be here soon for your training,” he muttered softly. “And after, we will begin your lessons.”

He began to back away, dark smoke curling up around his legs and waist. “You might try not to get him killed.” He winked. “But if you’re anything like your precious Dumbledore… you won’t mind sparing a few casualties in pursuit of the greater good.”

Then, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Draco came and went. He wasn’t overly talkative; in fact, he was quiet and distant. Voldemort did not attend their training, which Hermione was grateful for, as it was embarrassing enough to try and fail to do push-ups in front of Malfoy, especially when he seemed to be able to do them with such obvious ease. Hermione didn’t relish the thought of doing mountain climbers and pull-ups in front of Voldemort.

By the time she was done, her curls were falling out of her carefully pinned up hair, her cheeks were flushed, and she was out of breath.

She stood there panting as Draco turned back to her, away from the window where he always stood. She was breathing heavily, her lungs burning, chest rising and falling as she attempted to catch her breath.

Draco looked at her, and for a moment he looked confused. His expression was serious, but void of his usual iciness. He blinked, and his silver eyes wandered over her for a brief moment, brows furrowed and face twisted as if he found her absolutely abhorrent. Then, his throat bobbed, and he blinked away.

Hermione watched him leave without a word between the two of them.

**************

After Hermione had freshened up and changed back into her dress, she returned to the library, intent on examining the book that Voldemort had given her. 

She had very little time to do so, however, because almost as soon as she arrived, so did Voldemort. 

He seemed to know where she was at all times.

“Shall I show you where your classroom will be for the foreseeable future?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Hermione looked at it as if it were a snake that would bite her, which, in reality, wasn’t much of a stretch.

“I think I’d rather stay here and read,” she replied, crossing her arms.

His lips twitched, eyes narrowing slightly. “As much as it delights me that you’ve taken a shining to my library, I’m afraid reading is not on the agenda for today.” He held out his hand again. “I command you to take my hand.”

She gazed at his hand with its long fingers and heavy rings. She couldn’t refuse, for the pact compelled her. She placed her hand in his, and hers was dwarfed by his much larger one. A shiver ran down her spine at the contact, followed by the familiar tug of apparation as they disappeared.

***********

The room they appeared in was a large one. It was filled with magical instruments, and featured a long table with a potions lab on one side of the room. There was a podium and a large blackboard, and in the back of the room, there appeared to be runic circles meant for black magic. She saw cabinets containing bones and poisonous plants and divining paraphernalia.

“Come,” was all he said. 

She followed him through the side doorway, and they came into a room of similar size, but it was completely empty.

“We will duel on Thursdays in this room,” he said, then he led her back to the classroom.

“I still don’t understand why you would want to teach a muggleborn magic,” she murmured, perplexed.

He made his way to the podium, gazing down at a book that he had plucked from a bookshelf behind him. “It isn’t your concern why I do what I do. It is your job to obey.”

Hermione felt her hackles rise. “I think you confuse me with your followers. I am not Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Voldemort stopped short, cocking his head as he fixed his gaze on Hermione. “How well aware I am of that.”

“Then why do you treat me like I’m going to heel at your feet like a dog?”

He stared at her for a long, disconcerting moment. 

At length, he rounded the podium and came to stand beside her. “Whether you want to obey is of no consequence. You have submitted to a blood pact, and you are not able to refuse. Blood pact aside, you would still have no ability to refuse me, because I am more powerful. You are completely at my mercy. But, despite that, I will grant a truce… in this classroom, do not think of me as the Dark Lord. Here, I am simply your instructor, and you are my student. There is no need to fight me so adamantly. It won’t do you any good.” 

He waited for Hermione to respond, and when she did not, he continued, “I know your mind well, Miss Granger. You desire knowledge. Power. I can give you those things, and more. You should embrace the position you’ve found yourself in.”

“What position is that?”

“As a person of value to me. Someone under my protection.”

She stared back at him, silent and fuming.

“You despise me because I make you feel weak and vulnerable,” he continued, pronouncing each word in his unique way, with precision. “But I can also make you feel strong and invincible… if you will embrace what I have to teach you.” 

“Like you taught Bellatrix?” she spat caustically.

He cocked his head, smirking down at her. “There’s no need for jealousy, Mudblood. I will teach you things I‘ve never taught another soul.”

He reached down and took her arm in his hand. Hermione fought the urge to jerk away. He wrapped his ghostly hand around her wrist and ran his thumb over the dark mark etched into her skin. The mark danced for its creator, spearing her with pleasure, and that feeling disgusted her.

“Allow me to make use of your potential,” he muttered softly. “You do not see your own strength, but I do.”

Hermione swallowed, her heart thundering beneath his touch. The poisonous atmosphere surrounding him threatened to choke her; his stygian magic called to her, making her feel unsettled and rattled. “But I’m a muggleborn,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand.”

He smiled, his thumb still moving across the mark in circular motion, then he leaned forward to whisper, “And I’m a half-blood, Miss Granger. What of it?”

Hermione blinked as he took her chin between his fingers to tilt her head up. “Such beautiful exceptions can be made for witches and wizards who are, indeed, exceptional. You are destined for greatness, little raven. I believe even Dumbledore knew this. He hid you away and suppressed your power, smothering you between your two friends. Two unremarkable wizards who would surely be dead without your help.”

Rage speared Hermione at his comments about her friends. About Dumbledore. How dare he speak of him when he was the reason the headmaster was dead?

Still, she held her tongue, bearing in mind her goals and the power of the wizard who held her life in his hands.

“I will allow you to flourish,” he mused. “I long to see you bloom like the goddess that you are.”

He reached up and in a quick flash of his fingers, he conjured a rose from behind her ear.

He smelled it, then lowered it and pressed it into her hand, closing her fingers around it. One of the thorns pricked her skin, and Hermione gasped, attempting to jerk her hand back, but he didn’t release her. He squeezed until the thorn pierced her flesh, allowing a drop of blood to seep through the puncture. Hermione watched as he dragged his thumb over the droplet of blood, smearing it across her skin. 

Then, he lifted the pad of his finger to his lips, and she looked away quickly, not wanting to watch as he tasted her life essence.

No doubt he could taste their blood intermingled, his magic encased in hers.

Draco was right. She had caught the Dark Lord’s attention, and that was, in all likelihood, not a good thing.

She swallowed thickly as Voldemort released her and turned back to the podium.

Hermione’s pulse raced, and she knew that if she spoke, her voice would be shaky, so she stayed silent, concentrating on blanking her mind and regulating her emotions so as not to reveal too many of her thoughts. 

“In this classroom, we will focus on your powers and upon your academics. I will attempt to be as fair as I can be, and I will endeavor not to use my place of authority, nor my power against you in any way while we are here. However, outside of this classroom… I make no such promises to you.”

His voice was laced with meaning.

“Am I your means of living out a fantasy?” Hermione asked cheekily, unable to help herself.

He cocked his head. “You are going to need to be a great deal more specific about what kind of fantasy you are referring to.”

Hermione balked. 

She didn’t want to know what other fantasies he could possibly be entertaining.

She cleared her throat. “You applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position… not once, but twice. Did you not?”

“I did, yes.”

“And you were denied.”

Voldemort gave an amused smile. “Both occasions were Dumbledore’s doing. Our dislike of one another took almost instant effect.”

“So is it then? Some way of living out your dream of teaching?”

Again, his smile appeared to be one of amusement. He twisted the elder wand in his hand and fixed her with a heated stare. “Teaching was never my dream, my dear. But I assure you, if I have any fantasies of myself as your teacher, it most certainly is not owed to the irresistible allure of academia.”

Hermione’s lips parted, and deafening silence rang out through the room.

She cleared her throat nervously. “So, erm… what will you teach me first?”

Hermione couldn’t help herself. Excitement coursed through her at the thought of learning from someone so magically accomplished… even if he was primarily accomplished in the realm of dark magic.

The thought of potentially using his own knowledge and magic against him also thrilled her. How many other witches or wizards would find themselves in such a situation? None whatsoever. 

“First things first,” he replied. “Before we begin, you will repeat after me.”

Hermione held her breath.

Was this the moment when she would most regret the blood pact?

“I will listen.”

Hermione repeated his words. “I will listen.”

“I will learn.”

Hermione inhaled deeply. “I will learn.”

“I will try my best.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I will try my best.”

“I will not be an insufferable know-it-all.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, mouth falling open. 

He stared at her, tilting his head expectantly. 

She ran her tongue over her teeth, glaring at him. “I will not be an insufferable… know-it-all.”

“Good girl,” he smirked. “And last, but not least… Lord Voldemort is the most powerful wizard to ever exist.”

Hermione scowled. “Do you even believe that?”

“Of course I do. Why would I desire to live forever if I thought it wasn’t?”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you saying that life isn’t worth living if you can’t be the most powerful wizard to ever exist?”

“It does sound as if that’s what I’m saying, doesn’t it?”

“You’re a bloody case.”

Suddenly, devil’s snare emerged from the floor - tearing directly through the wood - and curled around Hermione’s feet, pinning her to her chair.

Then, vines shot forth from Voldemort’s wand, wrapping tightly around her hands and lashing them together. He gave a quick, sharp tug with his wand, bringing Hermione forward with her breasts and stomach laying flat against the surface of the table. 

The vines remained taut as the sound of his boots came closer. 

He knelt before her, too close for comfort, but she couldn’t pull away, bound as she was.

His crimson eyes laughed at her. “I believe you have something to say to me, mudblood.”

Hermione gritted her teeth, nostrils flaring with fury. “Lord... Voldemort... is... the... most... powerful... Wizard... to... ever... exist .”

The blood pact forced her to spit out each word against her will.

He smirked, eyes narrowing as they fell to her lips. “What a good student you are. You are learning quickly.”

“You’re also the most obnoxious and most hideous wanker I’ve ever set eyes on.” She hissed the words.

He knelt there, gazing at her for a long moment. His eyes fell to her lips, and he appeared to be contemplating.

At length, he tugged on the vines, tightening them around her wrists so that she couldn’t retreat as he reached up and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “I am going to enjoy silencing that mouth of yours very much.”

Hermione’s stomach turned a flip, and she decided she would rather not dwell too long on his meaning.

Because it didn’t matter, she decided. He’d already told her he wasn’t interested in rape.

And she wasn’t interested in him .

She would rather die than submit to whatever disgusting desires he possessed.

So that settled it. It didn’t matter how many twisted fantasies his deranged mind cooked up. She would never entertain him or them-

His lips quirked. “Do you always have these types of discussions with yourself?” he asked.

“What?” she asked, suddenly nervous.

“You seem to require a great deal of convincing… from yourself, I mean.”

Hermione didn’t like where the conversation had veered to. She decided it was best to change the subject entirely, to get them both back on track.

“What’s my first lesson?” Her voice sounded small.

His lips seem to fight against a smile. “Transfiguration.”

“I don’t need to learn that.”

“No? Let me guess. You can transfigure a rat into a tea cup.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m far more skilled than that.”

“Yes, I saw your pathetic attempts at activewear.”

Hermione was stunned.

At Hogwarts, she was considered the most accomplished witch in her year. 

But he treated her as though she had barely graduated nursery school.

“Miss Granger,” he said, drawing her attention back to him. “You must recognize the difference between intelligence, hunger, and knowledge. The brightest witch of your age you very well might be, but you are far behind the level which your potential demands. Lucius Malfoy is quite an intelligent wizard in his own right, but he has no hunger to learn. To get him to read is like pulling teeth.”

Hermione’s hand shot up to cover her mouth, suppressing laughter.

“Luckily,” he continued. “You possess both intelligence and hunger. But you lack knowledge, and the proper instructor to push you. Hogwarts has failed you in that way.”

Seductive. That’s what his words were. 

Is this how he was able to charm so many people into his service? Did his ability to read minds allow him to understand the desires of people, so that he could use those desires to manipulate them?

Hermione pictured Fred in her mind. She recalled the last time she’d seen him, how he’d hugged her at Fleur and Bill’s wedding, how they’d danced together. How he’d handed her off to Ron with a wink.

She pictured Fred, so that she would never forget the evil caused by Voldemort, no matter how seductive he seemed.

Hermione was the brightest witch of her age, and she refused to be manipulated. 

If Voldemort heard her thoughts, he didn’t show it. 

“You say that you do not remember transforming into a raven. Correct?”

Hermione nodded.

“It seems that you may be a changeling.”

She blinked. 

“If I were to dive into your suppressed subconsciousness, I could locate the precise moment when you first shapeshifted, and I could discover what triggered it. However, that would require a great deal of vulnerability on your part, which I highly doubt you’ll be-“

“No!” Hermione said quickly.

He inclined his head. “As I anticipated. Therefore, we will have to trigger your transformation in other ways.”

“But… What if I don’t want to transform? I opted out of animagus training. That’s not something I’ve ever wanted.”

Voldemort toyed with his wand. “There are several reasons why you should attempt to control your abilities. The first, is that if you do not, you will be susceptible to phasing at inopportune times, and you will not be aware of them, nor will you be able to control the occurrences. Secondly, I believe your powers are much sharper when you transition. If you lean into your dormant animal form, I believe it will stimulate your powers.”

Hermione stiffened. “I don’t have any powers.” 

Voldemort smiled. “You didn’t know about your raven form. So you must admit that it’s possible there are other things you aren't aware of.”

She swallowed.

He was right.

He nodded. “Let us begin.”

*************

Hermione returned to her room that evening, feeling exhausted.

When their lesson began, Voldemort had turned very clinical, focusing both their energies on his instruction. He had begun by teaching her how to transform her hands and arms into wings.

Hermione hadn’t enjoyed it. She liked transfiguring other things. She didn’t want to transfigure herself . It was an uncomfortable feeling, being out of her own skin. 

When she asked him how he knew how to do these things, and if he could also transfigure into another form, he had avoided her question altogether, causing Hermione to burn with curiosity.

She didn’t want to burn with curiosity about Voldemort.

Transfiguration required a great deal of magical skill, particularly when doing so electively. Hermione was completely drained and had a terrible headache, as a result. It made Hermione wonder for the first time if she actually did somehow have some dormant power living inside her, because to transform into a raven under duress would require a great deal of power, indeed.

Could he be right about her?

And if so, why hadn’t Dumbledore also seen it?

Was Voldemort right? Had Dumbledore seen it, but chosen to suppress it?

These thoughts troubled Hermione. 

She shook her head.

No. She had no special powers. His manipulation was getting to her.

“All I’ve accomplished today is the ability to grow some feathers,” she murmured to herself in frustration. 

That wouldn’t do at all. She had goals and plans, and she needed to be acting upon them.

Exhausted as she was, she crawled out of bed, donned a satin dressing gown that belted around her waist, and crept out of her room silently.

*************

As she made her way through the chateau halls in the darkness, she held out her wand to light her way.

She turned this way and that, wandering through the long corridors. She heard the soft tinkling of the crystal chandeliers above, and that was the only sound in the vast wasteland of the mansion. 

She shivered as a chilly draft swept over her skin, causing her flesh to pebble with goosebumps.

As she passed by a window, lightning struck, like a giant claw streaking the sky, illuminating the corridor for a brief moment.

Seconds later, thunder shook the walls, a great boom that sounded directly overhead.

Hermione followed her memory of the map in her mind, but the mansion looked different at night.

As she made her way to the east wing, Hermione became vaguely aware of the sound of soft feet trailing behind her.

She tuned her focus to the gentle pitter-patter until she was certain of what she heard.

Then, she wheeled around, aiming her wand in the direction of the sound.

Nothing. There was nothing and no one there.

She searched the hallway, but found that she was alone.

Heart thundering with the rhythm of the building storm outside, she turned and ran toward the east wing, with fear as her only companion.

At last, she passed by the entrance to the eastern stairwell, the very one that led to the tower. She stopped at the base of the stairs, aiming her light into the darkness of the arched opening, feeling an eerie presence and a cold air seeping from its shadows.

It felt as though cold hands touched her shoulders, so she walked away with a shiver, into the adjoining corridor, in search of the double doors of the library.

When she approached them, she found them unlocked, which lent her the courage to enter.

The library was dim, only lit by a roaring fireplace and the stars and the moonlight filtering in through the glass rotunda.

Hermione crossed to the mammoth marble fireplace and stood before it, letting the heat of the flames warm her and melt away the chill of the mansion.

She stood there for some time, gazing into the flickering flames. They seemed to mesmerize her, and in her exhaustion, her mind wandered, musing errantly that the flames reminded her of his eyes.

Warm, yet deadly. 

“Just don’t get too close,” she whispered absentmindedly. 

But she was drawn to the heat and the beauty of the fire, so she did indeed, draw closer.

It melted away her tension, little by little. 

There were chesterfield sofas and a pair of gothic chairs surrounding the fireplace. At length, she found one of the sofas and settled there, leaning back and curling up to rest.

She gazed up to the circular ceiling, her eyes trailing over the murals of Dante’s Inferno. The firelight created exaggerated silhouettes on the figures in the paintings, and it did appear as the very flames of hell were rising higher and higher.

”I’m in hell,” Hermione breathed sleepily. “I’m the devil’s prisoner.”

The warmth of the fire and the sight of the stars above lulled her into a deep sleep.

***********

Hermione was jolted awake by the sound of a page turning, but it seemed a violent act, for all its softness.

She had been dreaming, but she’d always been a light sleeper, and could rarely remember her dreams.

Hermione sat up quickly and found herself still in the library, reclining on a sofa near the fireplace. Voldemort sat in a chair across from her, his eyes fixed on a large book as the flames danced across the sharp planes of his face.

Hermione cleared her throat. “How long have you been here?”

His eyes flicked up to her. “Since before you arrived.”

She looked around the library. “I didn’t see you.”

He didn’t look up. “I’ve been working. At my desk.”

Hermione sat up and searched the vast room until her gaze rested on a large roll top desk near the wall of windows just beyond the fireplace. There were parchments set on top and a quill, still dipped in the inkwell.

Hermione blinked, feeling somewhat disoriented. “What are you reading?”

His eyes slid up to meet her own. “Summa Theologica.”

Her eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Thomas Aquinas?”

He inclined his head.

Hermione’s lips parted. “That’s surprising.”

His eyes fell back to the book. “Do not make the mistake of thinking you know me, mudblood.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know enough to determine that I don’t want to know more.”

“Good,” he said, his mouth almost twisting upward in a smile. “Everyone who attempts to know me ends up dead.”

Hermione’s blood chilled.

“That’s because you can’t be trusted. You’re not human.”

He did smile then. “What am I, then?”

Her face could barely hide her disgust. “A monster. A beast, nothing more. Something cold-blooded-“

“Like a serpent, perhaps?”

Her heart raced in her chest, as it always did when he looked at her. She felt a static hum in the air, the frequency upon which his magic drew its life, where it waited to be called upon, a sinister, ethereal energy with endless potential for death and destruction.

She wondered if he could feel hers as well. Did her magic carry an atmosphere as tangible as his did?

He turned the page.

An arrogant, ruthless dark lord, reading muggle literature. Studying their philosophies, their religions…

What a strange individual he was.

“Why do you study the great muggle minds?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Knowledge is power, my dear. A man named Sun Tzu said to know your enemy, and to know yourself.”

“But… a muggle said that.”

“Does that make it untrue?”

Hermione blinked, unable to comprehend the paradox that was Voldemort.

Instead, she stood and crossed to a nearby table, where she had left a stack of books for her perusal, including the book which Voldemort had given her.

With a sigh, she seated herself at the table and began to read.

*************

After an hour of scanning its pages, she realized that while the book contained a beginner’s introduction to binding blood magic, as well as a brief summary of the vampiric blood contract, it offered very little useful information. 

He probably knew that, she decided. Hermione was desperate for a way around his commands, and she seriously doubted he would hand her the book that would inform her on the topic.

Just as well, she shrugged, slamming the book shut. She didn’t want him to know what she was planning, anyway. 

She would find it herself.

For the next hour, she spent her time browsing the shelves, wandering each of the library’s levels, searching for answers. 

At times, her eyes would flicker down to where he sat, ensuring that she knew where he was at all times. It was a strange feeling, being there with him as he read his book. It felt intimate, unnervingly so. She felt as though she were intruding upon some part of him that the world rarely saw.

And yet, he didn’t banish her, or request that she leave. 

Hermione found a book entitled The Creation Covenant: Bonds Between Creatures and Their Makers , which sounded quite promising to Hermione. 

She plucked it off the shelf and made her way down the winding staircase, back to the first floor. 

When she reached the lounge area, he was gone.

A sense of relief washed over her, coupled with the unfamiliar presentiment of disappointment.

She shrugged off the feeling and curled up on the sofa, intending to enjoy her book as the thunder rumbled and the ocean waves crashed in the distance.

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke the next morning, alone in the privacy of the library. She had curled up on the couch with a book, and ended up falling asleep with the text open on her lap, lulled into sleep by the warmth of the fire.

She stretched and yawned, then recalled precisely why she had stayed up so late.

The text she’d found contained exactly the information she had needed.

The book discussed in depth the bonds between creators and their creations, touching on things such as spells and magic but was also particularly detailed when it came to creatures, such as werewolves and vampires.

In one chapter of the book, it had discussed the vampire contract and its implications, noting various studies conducted by magical researchers and referencing books written by magizoologists. 

The nuances of the contract were discussed, particularly pertaining to wizards.

This contract is such that the individual, be it creature or human, who partakes of the vampire contract, will be subject to the creator’s whims. That is not to say that any errant desire of the latter will be enforced. No, the creator must exert their will upon the former, leaving no room for blunder, for there are assumed loopholes to this kind of magic, though it is at the discretion of the creator to determine what those loopholes might be. 

Hermione squinted her eyes as she read. Though it was daytime, it was growing rather dark in the library, and she suspected that perhaps there was another storm brewing.

Knowledge is power, they say. If the creator of the contract does not specify their will in great detail, then the former might either haphazardly or intentionally circumvent the commands of the creator. If there is something of which the creator has no knowledge, then the command cannot exist, and therefore, the created will be unable to obey said command. 

Hermione grew excited, because although the language used in this rather archaic and outdated book was ambiguous at best, it sounded to her as if she could avoid following Voldemort’s every command as long as she could keep certain aspects hidden from him.

If he didn’t know about the mirror, he couldn’t command her not to contact the Order using it.

In order to keep it hidden, she would have to learn to regulate her emotions and to successfully occlude her thoughts and memories.

“Simple,” she whispered. “Just pull one over on the best legilimens to ever exist. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

She continued to read, but the room had grown so dark that she needed her wand to see.

Wondering if it was indeed about to storm, she looked up but found the windows on the other side of the library bright and sunny. 

When she looked up to the rotunda, she gasped and threw the book off her lap immediately. 

“ Merlin ! Godric’s ghost!”

Half of the circular glass rotunda was completely dark. 

At first, she thought the sky was turning black.

But upon closer examination, she realized that the darkness was actually a myriad of black spots. 

Then, she saw one fly away, and she realized that  they were birds.

Ravens .

Some of them peered down through the glass at her.

She heard the soft clap of apparation, and turned to find Voldemort had apparated into the library, with ribbons of black smoke curling around him. 

His eyes fell on her and he started forward, his gaze raking over her appearance. “What happened?”

Her mouth fell open. “I- what do you mean?”

“Were you not afraid just now?”

“I- yes… but… how would you know that?”

“Irrelevant. Tell me what happened.”

Hermione looked up, craning her head to look up at the ceiling. 

He followed her line of sight. “Ah. Of course.”

Her head snapped to him. “What do you mean , of course? Why are there ravens following me?”

He smirked, and moved forward to grip her arm. “Because you are a goddess. Now, come. Draco is here for you.”

He immediately apparated them to the drawing room. 

**************

Up, down. Up, down.

Hermione clenched her abdominal muscles, performing sit up after sit-up as instructed.

Draco stared out the window as he always did.

Voldemort leaned against the wall nearby, watching her with eagle eyes.

Hermione sat up, out of breath. “Isn’t this good enough for today? I’m starving.”

Draco turned around. “Did you not eat breakfast? Your elf was supposed to bring it every morning.”

Hermione paused. “No… I didn’t.”

“She slept late,” Voldemort interjected from where he stood. “The elf brought her breakfast, as usual… but she didn’t sleep in her room last night.”

Draco’s head snapped to Voldemort, then his eyes cut to Hermione, narrowed with suspicion.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I fell asleep in the library.”

Draco looked between them, obvious confusion in his expression.

Voldemort pushed away from the wall. “That’s good enough for today.” 

He walked to where Hermione sat on the floor and extended his hand. She swallowed, glaring at the hand.

“Take my hand, mudblood,” he said softly.

Reluctantly, Hermione placed her hand in his, and allowed him to help her to her feet.

Draco stood by, watching in silence.

“I… I think I should go change before our lesson,” she muttered, glancing down at her t-shirt and bicycle shorts.

Voldemort’s eyes roamed her appearance for a moment, then he waved his wand, and suddenly her clothes transformed into a form fitting, apple red sheath dress. The sheen of sweat that had just been a lingering layer over her skin had seemed to vanish, and when she reached up, her hair was no longer tied back in a messy ponytail, but it fell freely down her back in loose, wild curls.

“Oh,” she murmured, looking down at her attire self-consciously. 

“Now you don’t need to,” Voldemort answered, smirking.

Draco’s eyebrows were raised to the sky.

Hermione bit her lip as she glanced at him. “What? Does it look bad?”

Draco’s gray eyes lifted to hers, and they shifted instantly into something cool and distant. “No.” His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat. “Ah, no. It looks fine.”

Draco turned to the Dark Lord. “I have to go. If we are done here.”

“You are doing well, Draco. Her form has improved. She will be better able to keep up as we duel.” Voldemort looked at Hermione. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Granger?”

Hermione hadn’t really thought about it. She had simply been performing the sets that she had been ordered to, but now that she paid attention, she realized that she did feel stronger. Her arms and legs and stomach were more toned than they had ever been, and she felt a great deal of energy that she hadn’t previously. She definitely felt as though she could duel and fight much better now, even though it had only been a little over a week. 

“Yes,” she nodded in agreement. “I suppose I am getting stronger. Thank you, Draco.”

Draco blinked uncomfortably as he looked at her, seeming not to know what to say. “Um, you’re welcome. You look- Yeah, very strong. May I be excused?”

“Take tomorrow off,” Voldemort replied, still gazing at Hermione. “I will see you at the Manor tomorrow night.”

Draco nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”

Then, he turned and left quickly.

Voldemort took her arm and pulled her along with him to their classroom.

***************

“I said I was hungry.”

“Then you shall eat,” he replied as they entered the classroom.

When they crossed the threshold, Hermione realized that there was food already laid out on the table. A delicious nosh of salad, soup, and fresh fruit with baked bread.

There was only food set out for one. 

“Won’t you eat as well?” she asked.

“I don’t eat.”

She cocked her head, tossing him a disbelieving look. “I don’t believe that.”

He smiled. “Alright. I do, but I only do so alone.”

“Why?”

He removed the glass lids from the trays. “Old habits die hard. Now, eat.”

*************

As Hermione sipped her soup, she couldn’t help but wonder what old habits he was referring to and where they had come from. She’d never given much thought to his life as a young wizard, nor to his years as an orphan.

He sat across from her, which made her feel very self-conscious as she ate, and he enjoyed a cup of black coffee.

That was something she noticed about Voldemort. He greatly enjoyed his beverages, whether it was tea, coffee, wine, or occasionally, firewhiskey.

When she had finished eating, he launched directly into his lecture, and Hermione was mortified by the topic he had chosen.

“I have noticed since being exposed long term to your mind that you hold great disdain for the practice of divination.”

Hermione looked absolutely flabbergasted. “I thought you were teaching me transfiguration!”

“We will return to that. But you need a break, because it is mentally exhausting. So today we will examine divination and why it is a viable discipline, despite your purported dislike of the subject.”

For an hour, he lectured Hermione using her own thoughts as points for debate and he somehow successfully shredded her every argument into a million pieces. 

Feeling thoroughly verbally whipped, Hermione thought she would hit him where it hurt to restore their even playing field. 

“You might be right,” she said spitefully, “but that still doesn’t make you the authority on divination, seeing as you thought that you could actually circumvent a prophecy and in doing so, actually fulfilled the prophecy. Good job!”

He smiled, and she seethed because she never could seem to get under his skin.

If anything should’ve bothered him, it would have been that comment.

He circled the podium and came to stand before her, leaning against the edge of her desk. Hermione caught a whiff of his scent from the rustling of his robes, and it caught her off guard. She would never get used to how good he smelled.

“Yet here I stand,” he hissed arrogantly. 

“Twenty years later,” she retorted under her breath.

He only smiled wider.

“Let me ask you this, since you’ve brought it up,” he muttered softly, his face seeming pensive. “What do you think that prophecy means? One cannot live while the other survives? We are both here. We are both alive. My soul no longer clings to Potter, but it is in my possession. So… where do you think the prophecy leads us? I have spent years thinking about it.”

Hermione’s eyebrows knit, and she was quiet for a beat. 

She would’ve expected ridicule from him, an insult to herself or to Harry, or perhaps the age-old threat of killing Harry. 

But… he was simply asking her opinion. 

And that was the last thing she would’ve ever expected from Lord Voldemort.

She turned her head aside as she contemplated. 

Dumbledore had it all wrong. So what did it all mean?

She wished she could talk to Harry. She wished she knew that they were all alright, that they had a plan.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

Voldemort watched her for a stretch of time before reaching out to slip his knuckle beneath her chin to lift her face. “You know that I will kill him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, a chord of emotion tightening her throat.

“Do you think Potter would ever surrender?” he asked. It was an honest question, with no condescension in his tone.

Hermione blinked as she stared into those blazing eyes. “No… no, I don’t think so.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“You’ve killed too many people he cared about.”

He seemed to digest her answer, and then he nodded, as if this answer seemed acceptable to him.

Hermione realized all at once that Voldemort could hardly understand the concept, because there was no one that he had ever cared about.

“Do you… not want to kill Harry?” she asked, shocked.

“I don’t want to spill magical blood,” he said as he lowered his hand and turned away. “I meant it when I said so at the battle. If Potter surrenders, the rest of the wizarding world will follow. They will expect me to kill him. I do not think killing him is wise, but I am not sure that I want him alive, either. However, if he does not surrender, Britain will continue to rebel, and to fight. It will cause more bloodshed and violence than is necessary.”

She scowled. “People don’t want the kind of world you want to build. The world they are living in is the one they have chosen.”

His eyes met hers. “No one knows the kind of world I intend to build. Not even my followers.”

She stared at him intently, wondering what he meant by that. 

He placed his hands on the podium. “Let us talk about elemental magic.”

**************

Pansy rounded the corner of the maze hedge and suddenly felt a tight grip on her arm.

She swung around and felt herself pressed against the hedge.

Piercing blue eyes stared down at her.

“I knew I smelled something rank,” she said sullenly.

Ronan didn’t respond; his eyes narrowed slightly. 

“No more witty banter then?” she quipped. “You’re no fun.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. 

Pansy sighed, then shoved against his chest. “I have places to be.”

“No, you don’t,” he said sternly, shoving her roughly back by her shoulder.

“What the fuck do you want, Blackthorn?”

He tilted his head, eyes roaming her face. “Should I have fucked you? Is that what you’ve been trying to tell me?”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, and she shrugged. “I don’t know, wolf. Figure it out.”

He cocked his jaw to the side. “Have I been promoted from a dog to a wolf? Careful, Parkinson. You may even see me as human one day.”

“I doubt it.”

He smirked. “I said come find me if you’re brave.”

“I’m not brave.”

“Clearly.”

Her heart started to flutter rapidly like the wings of a hummingbird. “I’m glad it didn’t happen. So now we can pretend nothing ever did.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared at her, and she feared he saw right through her. “Right.”

Her stomach sank. She tried leaving again, but he gripped her arm, shoving her back once more. “You know, the muggles have a saying… nice guys finish last. But you know something, Parkinson? I’m not a nice guy. Never have been.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He tilted his head. “You don’t know very much about me.”

Pansy realized he was right. 

Ronan had run with Fenrir Greyback for nearly his entire life… and Greyback was a dreadful individual. Pansy also knew he required things from his pack, and that gave her a sharp pang of fear, because she didn’t actually know what Ronan was capable of.

His grip tightened on her bicep. “Close your eyes, Parkinson.”

Her eyes widened. “Someone might see.”

He looked down, then slid Pansy’s wand from the band of her plaid mini skirt, making sure that his fingers brushed her hipbone as he did so. He waved it, casting a disillusionment charm. Then, he twirled the wand between his fingers and tucked it back where it had been. “What are you afraid of?” he whispered. 

Her lips parted. “Everything,” she breathed.

Ronan gripped her chin roughly and kissed her.

Butterflies burst in Pansy’s stomach. 

Her thighs clenched. 

Her chest tightened.

He forced her jaw to relax in his hold, prying her lips apart with his mouth to grant his tongue entry. 

He invaded her mouth brutally. Pansy was quite sure she’d never been kissed like this, not ever.

Not by Draco. Not by Theo. Not by Blaise.

He slid her upward, gripping her fishnet-clad thighs. He pressed his knee between her legs, propping her up on his thigh as he kissed her. Heat flooded Pansy’s core.

This was how Pansy wanted to be handled. She wanted the choice taken away from her.

She wanted someone to kiss her in a way that made the fear dissolve.

Ronan did just that.

He broke away and muttered, “Are you fucking Draco?”

Pansy’s eyebrows rose. “Are you asking if I’ve ever fucked him, or if I’m fucking him now?”

His mouth flatted to a tight line, jaw muscles rippling. “Lovely.”

Pansy laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Did you imagine I’m a virgin, Blackthorn? How simple of you.”

He shook his head. She felt him smile as he whispered hoarsely against her ear, ”I’ll make you forget them all.”

Somehow,Pansy believed him.

Her heart galloped as he reached around to grip her arse, his fingers threading into the holes of her fishnet stockings. His fingertips brushed her knickers, dangerously close…

“Gods, Blackthorn.”

His breath was hot against the shell of her ear, “Soon. It’s going to happen.”

Pansy knew he was right. Something about the wolf was irresistible to Pansy, because she’d had no intention of kissing him this morning.

She’d planned to ignore him for the rest of eternity.

But when he looked at her with those haunted blue eyes…

Pansy was swiftly finding the limits of her composure. 

“I hate you,” she whispered. 

“It’s mutual,” he replied. 

Then he jerked her hips forward, grinding her center against his thigh.

Pansy gasped, but he swallowed her moan with a kiss. 

The friction against her clit caused hunger that radiated through her abdomen.

“Holy mother of Merlin!”

The sound of Theo’s voice broke Pansy out of her lust. 

“Shit,” she breathed as she shoved Ronan away. 

He dropped her to her feet, and they both turned to find Theo staring at them, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked. 

“Thank you, Nott,” Ronan muttered derisively. “Much appreciated.”

“I was only going to ask if you needed a third.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, shoved Ronan aside as she marched back toward the Manor. 

“Not a word,” she hissed at Theo as she passed. 

Theo held both hands up. “Just call me the chamber of secrets.”

He tossed Ronan a wink as he backed away and followed after Pansy.

Chapter Text

Over the following days, their lessons continued. She awoke each morning to a rose on her breakfast tray, although she was now certain that Deedle wasn’t responsible for them. She brushed it aside as some faux courtesy of Voldemort’s, a way to try to earn her trust and appear genuine in her eyes, perhaps to make him seem softer and less like a tyrannical brute. Still, each morning she secretly looked forward to them, and she took to collecting them in a vase which she’d placed under a stasis charm. When the vase grew too full, she pressed them in her books.

The flowers were beautiful, after all, and she saw no sense in throwing them out.

Some days Voldemort lectured her, and he had a miraculous way of expounding on theoretical ideas and exegeting even the most arcane texts in a way that opened up a new world of magic to Hermione. He brought such fervor to usually dry subjects, and the nuance with which he spoke about her favorite subjects was deeply inspiring, and Hermione found herself forming a grudging respect and admiration for him in the privacy of their classroom.

She couldn’t help but enjoy their shared academia, their debates and deep dives into areas of magic that were ambiguous and, as yet, unexplored. 

He taught her in the subjects of astrology, divination, arithmancy, legilimency, elemental magic, history, and ever steadily, transfiguration. Hermione noticed that he had carefully steered clear from the topic of dark magic, and she wondered if he was doing it on purpose. 

Her intuition told her that he was attempting to establish a rapport, a framework of trust and respect between them as student and pupil… before he broached that topic.

By the third week, he had begun to skirt the edges of darker subjects. He began by exploring the astronomical rituals and ancient Druidic festivals. Hermione studied the rituals of the old ways, those that existed during a time before muggles and wizards lived alongside one another peacefully, before the Statute of Secrecy was established. 

Voldemort taught her how to strengthen her spells using lunar magic. He drew charts entirely from memory, detailing which spells were strongest under the full moon, which were most potent during various signs of the zodiac and how some spells and rituals might be rendered weaker under certain planetary alignments.

One thing that he and Hermione agreed upon, was that divination was subject to higher powers and magical ancestry. 

“One cannot learn how to be a seer,” he said with finality. “It cannot be taught. That is subject to the universe, reliant on magical blood, as some powers are. However, it is still vitally important to understand the nature of divination, so that you might best utilize its advantages. Knowledge is power, my dear… and magic is might. Always.”

She didn’t dare point out that he, in fact, had done the opposite, by focusing too much on prophecy, he had, in fact, secured his own fall.

Their dueling had not picked up pace; he spent the first few sessions merely examining her style. Her speed, her agility, her method of casting. Hermione couldn’t help but feel she was a disappointment, even with her special training in Dumbledore’s Army. It wasn’t hard to feel inadequate next to him.

Voldemort, however, showed no reaction. He seemed neither disappointed, nor impressed, but was stoic and quiet, simply observing her skill and filing it all away, which made Hermione more nervous. She wanted to know what he thought of her, though she realized how ludicrous it was to want a raving lunatic to be impressed with her.

After Draco had come and gone, and her lessons were over, Hermione busied herself with practicing occlumency.

She spent hours in the library doing research, and discovered a book that contained a potion that could suppress the feelings of the drinker, making them numb and emotionless. This potion was especially helpful for those experiencing high levels of grief and loss, or even sometimes, was abused by those who found themselves overwhelmed by unrequited love.

Hermione thought it could be a brilliant solution to Voldemort’s ability to read her mind, provided that he didn’t discover that she was brewing it. 

Hermione was growing better at controlling her emotions, but better to be safe than sorry. 

The potion had been invented by a witch in 1942 who tried to capitalize on the lovestruck and grieving in order to mass produce it for profit, but the factory she had chosen, Portsmouth Potions, refused to start production due to ethical misgivings about the product. Eventually, the Ministry got involved and the Wizengamot ruled it as a medically essential formula and paid the witch a hefty sum for her rights to the potion.

It was now included in healing handbooks and administered specifically by St. Mungo’s healers.

In the book, there was a photo of the original ad for the potion, followed by the ingredients and brewing instructions.

The No-Emotion Potion!

‘Feeling stressed?  Go emotion-less!’

2 strands of Abraxan hair

6 unripe Boom berries

1 ladle of Moonstone tincture

8 Nightshade leaves (dried)

A pinch of Octopus powder (for extra strength)

3 fresh Rose petals (crushed)

1 Silver weed stem (whole)

6 blooms of St. John’s Wort

3 tsp Syrup of Hellebore

Hermione used a spell to replicate the page of the book that contained the brewing instructions and set to work in the greenhouse, growing the potions ingredients necessary to brew it.

Once she felt confident in her ability to conceal her espionage, she would attempt to contact the Order.

Alongside the potions ingredients, she planted several Baccara rose bushes. 

“To disguise the potions ingredients,” she said to herself. “Otherwise, it will seem suspicious.”

She tended to the roses every day after her lessons.

**********

“What an honor it is, Lord Voldemort.”

An old alchemist and magical historian sat across from the Dark Lord in a private room in the back of The Dragon’s Maw, a wizarding pub in the heart of Dublin.

“I have looked forward to our meeting with great anticipation,” hissed the Dark Lord softly as Nagini wound her way around his shoulder.

The man across from him was the same whose name was written on the parchment which was given to him by Zinaida. 

“I wouldn’t dream of refusing,” the old man said with a slight smile, but his trembling voice betrayed his fear. “I might end up… vanished.”

The Dark Lord gazed at him with glowing red eyes. His lips turned up, bequeathing the elderly man with a small smile. “I understand that you are an expert in the ancient bloodlines.”

“Oh, yes. I have followed magical genealogy for my entire life.”

“I was also told you are the authority on… bloodline gifts.”

The man leaned forward, brows furrowed as if he were unable to hear. 

When recognition dawned, the man’s sagging eyebrows rose fractionally, as if the inquiry surprised him. “Indeed,” he said in a voice gravelly with age. “I have traced the incarnations… though I have followed some of them to their natural end.”

“Tell me about the Raven.”

The man’s milky gray eyes gleamed preternaturally. “Ah… the Morrigan. Powerful gift.”

Voldemort’s skin pricked with the desire to know more. His insatiable hunger for more knowledge had never left him, even since he was a boy.

A server entered the room, levitating two drinks onto the table. The Dark Lord signaled for her to bring another round.

The two of them drank in silence.

“You are not afraid of me,” Voldemort stated. 

The man laughed hoarsely. “Oh, I very much am. I would be mad not to be.”

Voldemort took another sip of firewhiskey. “The Morrigan…”

“Ah. Yes. The Morrigan,” began the man, whose name was Uriah, “is unique, because she is the embodiment of three different deities. War, fate, and sovereignty. We first see this goddess in Celtic lore, but it is likely that she can be traced back to the ancient world under other aliases. She is a fearsome power, a shapeshifter taking the form of a raven… but the ability to transform into any creature is there. Human or otherwise.”

Voldemort eyed him as he sipped his firewhiskey.

“The manifestation of this particular gift tends to emerge in early adulthood. The last known emergence was a witch named Iona Dagworth in 1701. She was killed by muggles, and unfortunately didn’t reach her twenty-fifth birthday.”

“How can you be certain that she possessed this power?” Voldemort asked. 

“Each emergence is characterized by the ability to shapeshift into a Raven, of course, but there are other signs. Iona was also known to be a profoundly gifted healer, and a prodigy in the field of necromancy, but became legend for her immense magical prowess and strength. She possessed powers that were never recorded but were certainly alluded to in the historical documents that I obtained from the International Confederation of Wizards. According to those documents, she was a tremendously powerful witch that aided the Statute of Secrecy task force with enforcing the newly enacted law. Her power was so great that she was accused by muggles of being possessed. She was captured by those same muggles and handed over to the Huguenots in Germany to be executed.”

Voldemort blinked. “If she was so powerful, how could muggles execute her?”

“Ah, that’s just the rub about it. Such a tragedy. The Confederation at the time had developed a magical tool, a black lava stone that was enchanted to absorb magic, thus rendering witches and wizards powerless. It was designed to reduce instances of accidental magic, to help the Confederation keep troublemakers and dark wizards from violating the Statute of Secrecy. To get situations under control quickly, you see.  As you can imagine, when the Statute was enacted in 1689, there was a tumultuous time of transition. There was a great deal of opposition, you see, from sects who believed wizards shouldn’t have to hide their magic from muggles.” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Individuals like you and I still believe that.”

Voldemort was silent and still as he digested the information. “Go on.”

“The problem with such a magical device, is that in the wrong hands, it could be abused, and it was. It was outlawed and the remaining stones were destroyed following her death. Utilizing many of those lava stones at once, the muggles were able to dismantle Iona’s powers and put her to death. Her magical line died with her. Of course, it is said that she produced a child… a squib, ironically.”

Voldemort’s eyes sharpened. “Did you trace that squib’s lineage?”

“Of course not,” the old man balked. “I’m a magical genealogist.”

There was a moment of silence. 

“Dagworth,” Voldemort mused. “That name has some connection to the German potioneering family. The Dagworth-Grangers, perhaps?”

“I imagine that is a coincidence, but I cannot say either way. I have not examined that family tree.”

Voldemort’s jaw ticked. “You believe the Morrigan will not return, then.”

“I have seen no evidence of such… but I suppose it is possible,” answered Uriah. 

“Tell me about this goddess,” Voldemort whispered softly before taking another sip of his firewhiskey. 

The man waved his wand, casting a symbol in midair. A triangle with three points in the center of a circle; around the circle, a serpent coiled and hissed. In the center of the triangle, a raven beat its wings. “Morrigan is deeply etched into our magical history. She encompasses both dark and light aspects. On one hand, she exudes an aura of strength, power, and ferocity. Her fierce and unwavering nature reflects her role as a goddess of war and death. She is unyielding in her determination and fearlessly confronts challenges head-on.”

“However, beneath her exterior, there is also a mysterious side to Morrigan. She possesses an innate wisdom and a deep understanding of the cycles of life and death. This gives her a profound connection to the realm of fate and the unseen forces. Her ability to look into the future and manipulate destiny adds to her air of mystery. She is called the Phantom Queen, and is deeply connected to the motif of death. In fact, she is considered a guardian of the dead. She is an omen of war and impending conflict. Many historians have even connected this deity to the Serpent incarnation.”

The black diamonds of Voldemort’s serpent-like pupils pulsed and flared, dilating until they were black, threaded thinly with strands of crimson. “The Serpent, you say?”

“Yes. Another of the gifts belonging to an ancient bloodline. The bloodline of Salazar Slytherin himself. You see, the Morrigan personifies death and rebirth, but so does the Serpent, as is depicted by the snake who eats its own tail, ouroboros. The Serpent represents immortality, and the goddess, the unending cycle of life and death. These deities are mirrors of one another. Two sides of the same coin.”

Voldemort was as still as a statue. “Have you traced this bloodline as well?”

Uriah sighed heavily. “Another of the great bloodlines that has sadly been sullied and tarnished, falling into disrepute. The Serpent can be traced to Ancient Greece, to a wizard named Herpo the Foul. This dark wizard developed many dark spells, even discovering many forms of black magic that have been banned by the Confederation. He is also named as the father of the basilisk. His bloodline eventually migrated to Europe and produced a wizard named Salazar Slytherin, whose history I believe you are likely acquainted with. Bear in mind that bloodline gifts are nearly always associated with a special connection to a certain magical creature, and this bloodline is especially attuned to serpents, and passes down the hereditary ability to converse with snakes. Oh, what’s the bloody word…?”

“Parseltongue?” Voldemort offered. 

“That’s it! The very word. Parseltongue, the lot of them. It seems that this lineage devolved to the Peverell family and eventually, fell to a family by the name of Gaunt. The last remaining heirs died childless, only leaving behind a young half-blood wizard, who is believed to be dead now.”

“I’ve heard the name was Riddle.”

The man’s eyes widened, brows rising sharply. “Why… yes! I believe that was it.”

“Dead. In 1948, I believe.”

“Tragic, really. A shame to see such immaculate blood sullied and dirtied by muggle interbreeding.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I supported Grindelwald in my young years. I pray that you are successful in your endeavors, Lord Voldemort.”

Voldemort eyed him pensively, lifting the glass to his lips. “I have heard it said that Dumbledore also possessed one of these gifts.”

 The man scoffed. “Indeed. Descended from the line of Merlin, Dumbledores are. I once appealed to him to help me with my book on the subject, but he refused. Didn’t fall in line with his political beliefs, you see. He taught that every witch and wizard is magically equal, even mudbloods and werewolves. Rubbish!” He laughed, then his laughter evolved into a fit of coughing. “Anyway… that line is dead now, or close to it. Merlin was a Slytherin. It’s said that Dumbledore was meant for Slytherin house, did you know?”

Voldemort cocked a nonexistent brow. “I did not.”

The man nodded. “Apparently, he rejected his sorting and requested Gryffindor instead.”

“Sounds like him.”

The man took a long swig of goblin gin, emptying his glass. “What can I do for you, Lord Voldemort? Why is it that you are asking after these gifts?”

Voldemort withdrew his wand, twisting it between his long fingers. Nagini slithered around his waist, laying her head in his lap.

The man swallowed, eyeing the elder wand surreptitiously. 

“I would like you to compile all of your years of research for me. Keep this to yourself. Tell no one. And…”

The man leaned closer, craning to hear. 

“…research the line of Iona Dagworth’s child. The squib. Send your findings directly to me.”

*************

Voldemort was gone for three days. She was expecting him back anytime, so she checked her map of the chateau that would alert her when he had returned. She had enchanted it with the same magic used to create the Marauders’ map, so that she could see Voldemort’s comings and goings. 

The map wasn’t totally finished. There was an amorphous zone that made up the eastern tower, and she was still working on adding various rooms that she had yet to explore.

When she noticed that the chateau was empty, she threw on a set of weightless ice blue robes and made her way to the library to study.

More than an hour later, Hermione had located a book on sigils and their uses, and had it open and levitating in front of her as she browsed the aisles of the second floor.

Hermione gasped suddenly as a bookshelf moved, opening directly in her path, and Voldemort himself emerged. 

Hermione realized that she had dropped the book in her surprise.

He paused, looking down at the book in disarray on the floor. 

“I didn’t know you were back,” she said breathlessly. 

He said nothing, only flicked his wand, levitating the book into the air so that he might read the title.

“I have a better book on sigil magic than this one,” he said as he compulsively fixed the bent pages. One thing she had noticed about him was that he desired everything to be immaculate, without one item out of place.

Hermione was already examining the bookcase from whence he’d come. “Where did you just come from? What’s behind this wall?”

He smiled, as if she’d finally asked something he’d been longing to share. “Come. I will show you.”

With a wave of his wand, the bookcase opened once more, revealing a doorway. Hermione followed him inside and they came into a small, dimly lit room made of stone. The room had an eerie glow, lit by sconces with green glass shades. She wondered errantly if the room was magical, because the wall it had led into was a wall containing windows.

It appeared to be another library, but its shelves seemed to bear much older books than those beyond the wall. Throughout the room, there were pedestals which held glass domes and inside, there were books laid open. She could tell the texts were very archaic, with their parchment weathered and curling. 

“What books are these?”

He stopped, then turned to her. “Ancient grimoires from the most powerful witches and wizards to ever exist.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide. She paused by a pedestal bearing a book that was lit by a little ball of light inside its glass encasement. 

She felt him approaching, sensed his magic at her back. 

He leaned over her shoulder, and his breath tickled her neck as he spoke. “The Grimoire of Silas Amicus, with a commentary by Sir Thomas Selwyn. It includes the Druidic chants of the bards.”

Hermione stared longingly through the glass, her heart beating rapidly. 

He moved away and gestured to another text. “The writings of the alchemist John Dee.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “Holy cricket! Are you serious?”

She went over quickly to see, gazing at its wrinkled, stained pages and oxidized, flaking leather.

Her eyebrows rose as she stared at the faded ink on the pages. “Wow.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him flick his wand. In the same instant, the glass encasement lifted. 

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “No, I don’t want to touch it. It’s too fragile.”

“It has been magically preserved. You cannot harm it.”

“You would… let me look at these? And read them?”

He smiled as if he found her amusing. “I do not think I have ever seen such wonder in a person’s face when presented with new books.”

She shook her head, bewildered. “I just… I can’t believe I’m really seeing them, with my own eyes. I’ve read John Dee’s work in spellbooks, and I’ve studied rune theory from Silas Amicus since my first year… but never to see those words right in front of me, in their own handwriting. It’s surreal.”

She flipped the pages with her wand. “And these diagrams and sigil sketches… hand-drawn… as if they were discovering these things in real time. I can still feel their magic clinging to the pages. It’s as if-“

“They are still alive.”

Her lips parted. “Yes,” she whispered breathlessly. 

He came to stand beside her, holding his hand out over the pages of the journal. “Energy cannot be created nor destroyed. Only recycled, re-channeled. It is possible that they are still alive in some form. Magic does not go away, particularly dark magic. It leaves traces.”

Hermione could feel Voldemort channeling the magic that clung to the pages. His own aura seemed to crackle and pulse with power, no doubt fed by the weighty current of magic that seemed to be trapped by the books in the room, as if the energy that was alive and buzzing was simply waiting for a conduit. 

Voldemort was a magnet for power.

Slowly, she toured the room, amazed that he had allowed her to enter this very private space. Many of these books, journals, out-of-print volumes, and rare tomes were older than any she had seen in the Black library at Grimmauld Place. 

But perhaps the Blacks also had a stash of treasures from the ancient world, hidden somewhere, away from the world. 

She felt his eyes upon her as she wandered the secret room. 

When she neared another pedestal, she felt a sinister energy leaking from the book mounted upon it. The journal itself was quite plain, with no engraved leather, nor gilded lettering. But there was something indulgent about it, something decadent about the spiky letters that were barely legible. The longer she stared at them, the more they seemed to jump off the page and into her soul. 

She felt Voldemort’s unnerving presence beside her, felt the electricity of his body heat. A shiver went down her spine. 

She continued to gaze at the book, mesmerized by the magic surrounding it. She stared at it for several minutes, and even began to grow alarmed, fearing that she was in some sort of trance.

Voldemort waved his wand, and the glass case lifted. 

Then, he reached up and brushed her hair away from her ear and over her shoulder. 

She heard him hiss softly, and Hermione recognized the utterance as parseltongue. She’d heard Harry speak it enough to be familiar with its nuances.

The spell she seemed to be under loosened its hold, and she turned her head to find Voldemort gazing at her intently, a lustful glint in his serpentine eyes. 

He cut his eyes to the journal.

“The Spellbook of Salazar Slytherin,” he said softly.

Hermione swallowed, realization dawning. Her blood chilled as she stepped away. “I don’t think I’ll read it. It’s probably cursed to kill any muggleborn that touches it.”

She stood away awkwardly, refusing to look at him, because she felt angry and indignant that she’d been so mesmerized by the book. Her cheeks burned hot with rage and mortification. 

When she did at last look up, she found him gazing at her with an expression that was both pensive and questioning, eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted. 

Hermione gave him a curt nod and turned to leave. “Thank you for letting me see them.”

She began to march toward the opening, but he gripped her arm and snatched her back, invading her personal space more than she felt comfortable with. 

When he looked down at her, his eyes were full of hunger that she couldn’t quite reconcile with the version of him that she knew; his pupils were like gaping holes of gnawing desperation, bottomless and transparent for the first time since she’d met him. Windows to a soul that could not be appeased nor sated. “I think it is time that we broach some new topics… darker ones. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Hermione’s lungs felt airless. “You ask me as if I have a choice.”

He blinked, his blood-tinged eyes boring into her own as if he were searching for something within them. “Would you say no to anything that I desire to teach you?”

Hermione stood still, the Dark Lord’s hand gripping her with a strength as violent as the hunger in his eyes, and she felt the dangerous rhythm of her pulse asphyxiating through her veins.

Power snapped in the air like live wires, and Hermione could have sworn she saw a wind blow across the pages of the book from the corner of her eye. Strength surged through her cells, throbbing in her fingertips. She began to feel as if she’d had several glasses of wine, both heavy and light all at once, her judgement bleary and hazy.

“Teach me then,” she whispered. 

Voldemort nodded. “We will start tomorrow.”

He let go of her arm, and Hermione didn’t linger. She turned without a backward glance and escaped to the privacy of her bedroom.

Chapter Text

Ginny bit her lip so hard that she was positive she drew blood. Sure enough, the tangy metallic taste burst on her tongue.

She had to keep quiet. It wouldn’t do for the whole Order to know she and Harry were fucking in Regulus’ old bedroom.

Harry held her arms above her head as he thrust. Ginny’s knees were hooked over his shoulders.

His glasses had fallen off at some point, but neither of them cared.

She loved seeing those green eyes looking back at her, unobstructed. Even if they couldn’t quite see her. 

“Harry,” she moaned in a desperate whisper. 

“Ginny,” he muttered against her inner thigh, pressing his lips to her pale skin. “My girl.”

He gripped her chest as he rode her, becoming voracious in his quest for release. Ginny couldn’t believe he was here, inside her. Not after everything they had been through already. She reached up and ran her fingers through his messy hair. 

“Fuck,” he groaned as he finished, closing his eyes tightly. She felt him throbbing as she clenched around him, milking his spend. 

“Yes,” she breathed softly. 

When he opened his eyes, still riding his release, she noticed his eyes had turned white.

Completely white, not a speck of green to be found. 

She stared at him in shock until he blinked, and his eyes went back to normal.

He dropped her legs and collapsed onto her chest, not bothering to withdraw.

Ginny breathed heavily, shaken by what she had seen. Harry wasn’t a seer; seers’ eyes didn’t go back to normal until a prophecy had been released.

Besides, Luna’s eyes were cloudy, but Harry’s had been… like a bright flash of lightning.

“I can’t wait for the soul healer to arrive,” she whispered.

“Yeah. Same,” he said sleepily.

She was quiet for several moments.

Then, she murmured, “I love you.”

He lifted his head up with some effort, brows furrowed as he gazed at her. “I love you, too… I- I know that I do.”

**********

“I miss the other safe house. The one in the woods.”

“Mom says you can go back soon, Luna,” said Ginny reassuringly. “They want to be sure you won’t release another prophecy. Some seers do that shortly after their first seeing.”

Ginny placed two tea cakes on a little plate of hand-painted china adorned with serpents, skulls, and bones, which was unfortunately quite typical of most things in Grimmauld Place. She poured two cups of piping hot tea into matching tea cups. 

Kreature grumbled as he moved past. 

“Ginny,” said Luna in a dazed and faraway voice. “Do you remember when Parvati dated Graham Montague?”

Ginny snorted, trying to withhold laughter. “Yeah. Why?”

“Do you think they ever could’ve ended up together? I mean… if they would’ve fallen in love, that is.”

Ginny cocked a brow. “In what universe would anyone fall in love with Montague? He just wanted to get into Parvati’s trousers. I’ve no idea what she was thinking when she snogged him. I always wondered if he slipped her a love potion.”

Luna was quiet, staring at the floor in her usual way. It always made Ginny a little nervous when she stared off into space. She set the teacups down on the table in front of Luna and took a seat.

“Why are you asking such strange questions, Luna?”

As soon as she asked the question, she remembered who she was speaking to. 

Luna was always asking strange questions.

“Do you believe in love at first sight, Ginny?”

Ginny blinked, her lips parting, slightly tipping up in a soft smile. 

“Actually… yes. I do.”

Luna cocked her head, looking at her with eyes that were so glass-like, so silver and celestial, that they were almost see through, like a single facet of a gemstone. “Did you feel that way about Harry?”

Ginny rubbed her lips together. When she glanced back at Luna, she nodded. She blinked rapidly, beating back the wetness that welled up in her eyes. 

Ginny didn’t think she would ever get him back once Voldemort took him.

She also didn’t know how she would ever be able to repay Hermione for taking Harry’s place. 

It felt grotesque to be happy about it. It felt like betrayal. Every day, Ginny imagined what Hermione must be experiencing, what they might be doing to her. 

She shook her head. War was a strange thing. It was like a machete that had swung through Ginny’s life, rending asunder every remnant of normality and happiness.

Now, happy moments were few and far between. 

“Is this about Rolf?” Ginny asked Luna expectantly. “Because if it is… just know that love at first sight doesn’t always happen. Sometimes love grows in different ways.”

Luna seemed to be contemplating. At length, she murmured, “No… I suppose it’s more of a theoretical question.”

Ginny cocked a brow, then shrugged. “Alright, then. Tea cake?”

Luna nodded, her eyes faraway.

***********

“Bloody hell,” Theo groaned as he stretched his arms and legs. “I didn’t know those old men still partied like that.”

Draco snorted, sitting up on the couch he’d slept on. “They do worse when we aren’t there.”

The two exchanged a meaningful glance.

“Yeah… I know they do,” muttered Theo hoarsely. “Bostick!” His voice cracked. “Water!”

A little house elf appeared bearing a pitcher and crystal glasses on a tray.

“Now get your ruddy arse out of here,” Theo grumbled, and the elf disappeared from sight. Draco chuckled sleepily, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Theo was quiet for a moment as his head began to spin, then he remembered something. “D’you reckon my dad and Astoria’s mom shagged?”

“Some sort of wife swapping nonsense, no doubt.”

“My dad would never do that.”

“No? Then tell me why I saw your mom with Mr. Greengrass, cozied up in the elves’ pantry when I went to grab some more pixie port.”

“What you saw was an illusion… and that port was disgusting.”

“Goblin gin is better,” Draco yawned.

“Goblin gin is for witches.”

“Then grab me a side saddle, I suppose.”

Theo laughed. Then, he sobered and sat up. “I bet you did see them, actually. I bet she saw him with Mrs. Greengrass and decided to piss him off with Gail.”

“That’s likely.”

Theo leaned back against the abundant pillows on the bed. “Bostick! Tea!”

The little elf appeared with a crack, bearing a tray of tea, which he sat carefully upon the bed.

“Piss off!” 

Draco shook his head. “What have you got against the elf?”

“I don’t like the new one. His teeth are too sharp… he looks like he wants to eat me.”

“He probably will, the way you treat him.”

Theo glared at him over his tea cup. “I miss Dobby, alright?”

Draco sighed. “Yeah.”

Theo perked up with that first sip of his favorite tea. “You know who else had an interesting night?”

Draco cut his eyes at Theo.

Theo smirked, tilting his head for emphasis. “Your aunt and uncles.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Bella’s getting loose lately.”

“I always knew she was wild but I didn’t know they were like that.”

Draco groaned and ran his fingers through his silvery hair. “She only gets like that when things are on the rocks with the Dark Lord… as they often are.”

“She’s mad.”

“Very.”

Draco stood up and came around to the bed to pour a cup. 

He sipped it gingerly, then shook his head. “Doesn’t make it like Dobby did.”

“See what I mean?”

“Yeah, well… that, too, is my aunt’s fault.”

“I thought Potter lost you Dobby.”

“They’re both to blame.” Draco made his way back to the couch and sat down, reclining against the sloped end. “Didn’t see Pansy last night, now that I think about it.”

Theo was quiet, which made Draco turn his head expectantly.

Theo sipped his tea and shrugged, which also made Draco narrow his eyes. “What do you know?”

“Not a thing.”

Draco held out his hand, summoning his wand. 

“Salazar, you are nosy!” Theo whined, but it was obvious he was aching to spill. 

“Tell me. She’s been acting weird.”

“Why do you care?” 

“Because I’ve known her since we were in nappies and I don’t want her getting traumatized by this lot… like I’ve been.”

“Fair enough. But I told her I wouldn’t tell.”

“But you’ll tell me, won’t you?” 

Theo glanced up at Draco, whose eyebrows lifted expectantly.

Theo sighed. “She’s hooking up with a werewolf.”

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. “I’m too hungover for you to do this shit, Nott. Just tell me.”

Theo sat his cup on the tray. “I’m not joking. I saw them snogging in the hedges.”

Draco froze. “Who?”

“Blackthorn.”

“Fuck’s sake!”