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The Secret Life of Hermione J. Granger	By : brightneeBee Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 8533 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Fic Exchange Version - NoSex
- 1
Title story: The Secret Life of Hermione J. Granger

Fic exchange date: Story will be posted underneath this on 1st July 2012

Author: brightneeBee

Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape, Antonin Dolohov, and Lord Voldemort

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Rating: T (AO3), NoSex (AFF)

Warnings: dark!Hermione, misc. violence, UST

Genre: drama

Spoilers: OoTP and onward

Beta: I am super grateful to Nerys for Beta'ing this oneshot for me!

Summary: If Harry Potter knew what his best friend, the know-it-all Hermione Granger, was doing behind the scenes and under the radar of the Order of the Phoenix, he would be devastated. But what Harry Potter doesn't see coming, won't necessarily hurt him, will it?

A/N: There are actually 2 versions of this oneshot, both of which will be posted in a titled oneshot on AO3, and AFF.

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                She stood at the large window in her childhood homestead, watching the skies. Her bedroom spoke volumes about her middle class upbringing. There was a hint of yellow in the seemingly white paint and framed collages of dried blooms and herbs decorated her walls; short bookshelves served a second purpose as end tables, lining the walls; and a simple, white-washed antique desk could be seen, settled underneath the only other window in the room. Her bed had already been made for the day, and the linens complimented the walls with a subtle buttermilk hue. But no matter how calm and comforting the color scheme of her space, or the feel of being home, tried to make her, the ominous presence of the storm rolling in continued to keep her in a state of worry.

                The dark thunderclouds had not been on the weather forecast that morning. The newscaster had stated the heat wave would remain for the foreseeable future – no rain for the week. Her parents had jumped for joy upon witnessing the promise of cool, dampness that would stay after a bout of rain. It had not registered to them that the clouds were displaying strange formations nor that normal storm clouds did not – or never had before – rolled over the comfortable suburban neighborhood so swiftly. She had noticed the unnatural speed in which the blankets of dark gray had moved, how eerily formed skulls and snakes slithered through the wisps of precipitation. Something very, very bad was about to happen in her corner of the U.K; she could just feel it in her bones.

                She was not frightened, more worried; yes, quite worried. Along with the “thunderstorm” that had approached, there was a distinct chill in the air. Dementors had been freely attacking Muggles and magical beings alike, but now they had encroached onto her territory and she felt very apprehensive. Those sorts of creatures were not supposed to be here. The telltale fog misting about the river across the way signified their mating process, and to her it was threatening. Yes, she could produce a proficient Patronus Charm to keep them at bay, but it was futile to do so when she was leaving that very morning, never to return.

                “Hermione, dear,” her mother’s voice called up the stairs, “breakfast is ready!”

                “Coming, Mum,” replied Hermione shakily.

                She had spent most of her time home from Hogwarts with her parents. She had only been allotted a few short weeks to find closure and comfort in their presence for the last time before doing the unthinkable; she had assignments to complete, and He would not be accepting of failure. She prided herself on her unique ability of professionalism. She had hidden the leather-bound files containing her objectives and left them for the time being; she had been far too occupied taking in as much time with her parents as possible. The last few hours had been taken up by her attempt to justify the last year of her life to God; her persuasion to a different side of the war, her fall into the Dark Arts, and the horrific acts which she had done for Him. Even though her family had left their Faith behind once her nature had been revealed to be one of pure magic and wonder, recently she felt that if she sent a simple prayer, all of her sins would be forgiven, however cold and grim they had become.

                A tunnel of black smoke billowed out from the blanket of dark gray, landing on the river bank across the street. The robed figure kept its hood up, obscuring the being’s face, but she was certain of who was standing watch of her house. She turned her back to the window and swished her wand through the air, waiting.

                It was a gradual process. Pictures of her parents and her on vacation to France and other family holidays, all shrunk and flew through the air into the open beaded bag left on her bed. The youthful decoration of a teenage girl’s bedroom disappeared, leaving bare walls; and with another flick of her wandhand, the bed enlarged to fit a queen-sized mattress, and the desk she had used since she was just a quiet six-year-old vanished, transfiguring into a normal, antique nightstand. Grabbing the beaded bag, she left her bedroom as her magic continued to erase her very presence from the rest of the house. She noticed the collage of family portraits down the stairs showed her absence. There were no longer small, frizzy-haired girls with buck teeth waving from between two smiling adults in those sterling silver frames - the life of Hermione Granger disappeared before her eyes, no trace left of her presence as a loved for and doted upon only child.

Her parents were nibbling their fruit and salad, lazily listening to the noon news broadcast while reading their respective books. She was grateful that the doorway lay behind them, and she took in the moment before her heart hardened. Raising her wand, she cast a silent Memory Charm; first, on her mother, and then, her father. She could only imagine that their eyes had glazed over. The clink of teacups falling to the floor confirmed that she was, of course, performing the spell correctly.

                She checked her watch: six hours left. If she wanted to make her deadline, she had to hurry.

                “I am so…so sorry,” she whispered, looking at the backs of her parents.

                She reached out and touched her parents before they came out of their daze. It was the lightest of brushes, just a split second of nostalgia before she closed up her emotions - as she had been taught - and left the only home she had ever known in her life. Once the front door shut behind her, Monica and Wendell Granger would cease to be, and there would never have been a Hermione Jean Granger living under that roof for seventeen years. No, according to all the legal channels, the Grangers and their daughter did not exist, and Monica and Wendell Wilkins, well, they had never had children. They would remain dentists, but as of this Sunday afternoon, the childless couple would begin plans to quickly sell their practice and retire to Australia. Her parents would be safe, and that would be the only consolation she could grasp in wartime. As it was, with the depth and force of which she had taken their memories and replaced their identities, it would be impossible to return anything of substance in her parents. To even try would permanently damage their brains, which was exactly why she had chosen the more complicated (and slightly…minutely illegal) Memory Charm, instead of a simple Obliviate. If they were found, there was no way to reverse the effects of the charm she had placed on them, and they would die without fearing for their daughter. There would be no need, at any rate, to find them. The path she had taken would not allow her to cling to the past; she had to focus on what lay ahead.

                “Took you long enough,” the hooded Death Eater sneered as she crossed the road to meet him. He lifted the hood and fixed her with cold, grey eyes; of course, He sent Draco, never Snape, always and only Draco Malfoy.

                Pinched between her fingers, she held up a long, frizzy strand of her mother’s hair, “I needed to make sure there weren’t any traces of me left.”

                “And you needed hair follicles to do that?” asked Draco, pointing at the darker chestnut strand.

                She shrugged and proceeded to pull a flask from her beaded bag. Opening the top, anyone in close proximity who had a magical education would have noticed the pungent odor of Polyjuice Potion wafting from the small hole. “I just have one more stop to make.” He watched her intently as she pushed the strand of hair down the tiny opening and capped the flask once more, “Side-Along with me...”

                Draco grumbled, “You only have six hours, Granger -”

                “Plenty of time,” answered Hermione. “Besides, I need the hair so I can’t be recognized if anyone from the Order is present.”

                He merely gave a nod, grasped her arm – without flinching, for once – and allowed her to drag him through the uncomfortably tight tunnel that was Apparition.

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                Draco had maintained his invisibility and silence while Hermione (Polyjuiced as her mother) interacted with several officials and tellers who her parents used. Memories were altered; the names on her parents’ accounts were changed to reflect their new identities; and Hermione made a small withdrawal to cover her expenses for the coming year. She did not regret stealing money from people who would never recognize her again. It seemed fruitless to worry over the illegalities of what she was doing. She needed the money, plain and simple.

                One could not pre-pack groceries for a Horcrux hunt with two teenage boys.

                Back in the alley, Draco lifted his Disillusionment Charm and glared at her, “A bank, Granger? You are screwing our deadline because you needed to stop by the bank?”

                She returned his glare with an empty, icy stare, “How else am I going to pay for any expenses in the coming year, Draco? I don’t take charity.”

                “No, you just steal,” said Draco with a slight humor to his tone.

                She nudged his left arm with her elbow, “Look who is talking.”

                “I have never stolen.”

                “No, you just chaperone me as I partake in all forms of horrific debauchery,” retorted Hermione, grabbing his hand and bracing for the nauseating sensation that was Disapparition. “Sticks and stones…”

                “Pot calling the kettle,” was all he said before they twisted through space towards their first destination of the afternoon.

                They appeared in a maze-like neighborhood, every dwelling identical to the one before and all in extreme close quarters to each other. It was distinctly upper-middle-class, a suburb ten kilometers from bustling London, and purely Muggle. She could feel the tension in the blond pure-blood through his hand before she let go and began her journey down the street in search of any vantage points that kept her out of sight, but gave her the ability to do what had been asked of her. Looking like an ordinary person walking briskly towards the bus stop near the playground on a relaxing Sunday afternoon, Hermione’s mother’s form blended in well with the other Muggles travelling with their children. She knew Malfoy had not followed. He was merely tracking her with his eyes as he slipped into the shadows of tall hedges and disappeared from sight. It was his assignment to supervise and report back; it was her mission to complete the task handed to her. There were no margins to err, no room for mistakes – she was expected to excel in this as she had in all other missions given to her.

                Checking her watch, she moved with the small clusters of women and strollers, but she diverted from their set journey towards the playground; instead she moved through the lawn on the side of the covered concrete patios and onwards to the houses that lay behind it. There was one, particular home in Little Whinging that she was ordered to observe that afternoon, until the moment to act presented itself. She had five hours left before she had to meet Professor Snape in a specified location, to be taken to the “boss” since she had yet to prove her worth. No, after weeks of unspeakable acts done by her hand, she had yet to prove her worth to Him even though he was pleased with her continued success – extremely pleased, if the way he had run his fingers across her collarbone were anything to go by. She shivered slightly, taking a moment to remember how He had stolen glances at her while addressing others. Even though she was kept out of sight - Disillusioned or merely made to wear a hooded cloak that hid her identity - He always sneaked looks to the side to take her in as if she were a trophy.

                She stopped at the corner and stared across the street at the house on Privet Drive and the family cautiously loading their most treasured things into their car. Harry was right, she mused. Watching the obese husband and his willowy, horse-faced wife attempt to talk their equally obese son into leaving several unnecessary pieces of luggage behind, she realized how deserving they were of what was to come. She remembered everything she had learned about Harry’s life with the Dursley: negligence, abuse, berating verbal comments and the list continued as unsavory as it began. She had no qualms with Muggles, but these relatives of Harry had sent a silent, almost giddy shiver down her spine when she read her objectives regarding them in her files.

                Over an hour passed while she sat on the bench across the street, seemingly waiting for the city bus to make a scheduled stop, and no one from the Order had arrived. She had pulled a Muggle magazine from the inner pockets of her suit jacket and flipped through it. She had to blend in, seem inconspicuous, which had become as easy as breathing recently. Her transfiguration work was impeccable by now, and her tracking skills had improved under Snape’s tutelage during the last school year, leaving her to begin her work.

                While she waited, peeking over the magazine periodically and listening to the arguments and conversations carrying over from the Dursleys’ carport, she let her thoughts drift. She could not pinpoint what exactly had led her to the path ahead of her. There had been such a number of things over the last two years that Hermione had trouble picking just one; the one reason why she had begun absorbing the darker texts in the Hogwarts Library. It could have been when she had realized that Dumbledore was just the same as Voldemort, moving everyone around into compromising positions without explaining what for and why he did so. Or, maybe, it had been the way Ron had disregarded her feelings, throwing himself all over Lavender Brown and constantly snogging said witch to rub it in Hermione’s face. No, it must have been before that…her first encounter with Umbridge and the toady woman’s evil idea of school detention. Yes, it had to have been then. Because after Hermione had healed the wounds with Dittany, she had run to the library and pulled her first Dark Arts tome from the shelves. Oh, she had read for hours, memorizing every single, illegal curse in that book and visualizing about which ones to use on the vile Ministry witch. Soon, even more malicious reading had taken place: Potions, Transfiguration, curses, hexes, jinxes and even the theories behind the Unforgivables. With her eidetic memory, every page read had become a picture burnt into her mind, imprinted onto her retinas, all at the tip of her tongue and ready to be pulled up to the forefront in a split second. She had been content with secretly delving into the blackness of her magic to understand the astronomical reach of her own power. The basics they taught at Hogwarts refused to touch metaphysics, not even carrying books on the subject. It was considered “inappropriate” to allow in a school library.

                Of course, the Dark Lord provided the texts on the subject and all of its subcategory genres, she quipped silently with a small smirk.

                Professor Snape had caught her sneaking into the library’s Restricted Section way past her curfew that one night in her fifth year. “Caught red-handed” she could say, when he had voiced his presence from directly behind her, arms laden with books that an O.W.L. student should never have been interested in. She would have lied to him, but with the use of Legilimency, he could have easily caught her. Nonetheless, she had been reprimanded and given back the books with what she could only assume had been the professor’s attempt at a sly grin. She had not expected her detentions – shared with a sneering Draco Malfoy – to be done outside of the school. A covert portkey taken to unknown locations left Draco and Hermione to stand face-to-face with the Dark Lord. It seemed detention translated to Occlumency lessons and required reading on the books she had been desperate to obtain: Metaphysics: Purely Meta-Theoretical, The Darkest Arts of Metaphysical Applications, and Power in Strength: A Guide to Metaphysics and Its Teachings. And the list continued.

After all the time spent under Lord Voldemort’s supervision together with Malfoy, deciphering where Professor Snape fit in all of this became an afterthought, but a quizzical afterthought. His presence between lessons with the Dark Lord had become puzzling. The Potions Master was always there, in the shadows, observing Voldemort’s chosens’ behavior and stepping in for Malfoy at the most opportune moments. Hermione, on the other hand, was treated as she always had been. Nothing had changed between student and teacher; it was business as usual. She had questioned the Dark Lord regarding the professor, but her inquiries were dismissed with a simple, “Do not concern yourself in such matters.” Nothing else was said in relation to her curiosities, and the Dark Lord seemed to be just as interested as to where Professor Snape’s loyalty lay. Before the summer holidays had started, weeks ago, Hermione had decided the strange Potions Master was walking the fine line in between sides to see which king in the proverbial chess game would be victorious. It was quite an intelligent move on his part, she had conceded.

She was confident, by now, of Lord Voldemort’s victory in the coming battles. There was no denying that He had the upper hand, especially while Hermione continued to undermine the Order and Harry’s plans. But still, if the Dark Lord suspected Snape of playing both sides to suit his needs and had yet to do anything about it, who was she to question her Master’s decision? If the Dark Lord were assured, albeit not completely certain, of Snape’s allegiance to Him, then Hermione should trust - and did trust - that the Dark Lord knew what he was doing. It was not her problem to solve, and if anyone could dig up the truth regarding Professor Snape, she was one-hundred percent certain that Lord Voldemort was the person to do it. She smirked, There is a reason He is the Greatest Wizard of All Time...

                Two soft pops alerted her to the Order’s arrival at the Dursley household, and she dropped the magazine into the bin next to the bench. She pulled out her flask of Polyjuice Potion and dosed herself one last time. She did not need a painful transformation back into her true form in the middle of her assignment.

                Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones, she noted while checking her watch for the time. The Order could have, at the very least, sent two more formidable opponents to carry the Muggles off to safety.

                Standing from her seat at the corner of Privet Drive, Hermione straightened her jacket and listened to the conversation across the way. She had to resist the urge to snort at the two wizards and their difficulty in getting the Dursleys into the vehicle. Hermione was already well aware of the Order timetable for the day since she was expected at the Burrow in a mere ten minutes. Then she would Apparate back to the Dursleys as part of Harry’s “honor guard.” She checked her watch again and smirked. They are wasting time. Moody will be arriving in twelve minutes, with the rest of us to follow shortly after. Oh, finally…

                The Dursleys were ushered into the car, the large, beefy man – Vernon, she reminded herself – taking the driver’s seat and squeezing his large body behind the steering wheel. She checked her watch again and found the plans were running three minutes behind. “Bloody idiots,” she muttered.

Glaring across the street at the yet-to-be-started sedan, she noticed a bemused Harry watching her from the upstairs window of the suburban domicile. Her glare melted into a polite smile, a small wave and a quick turn of her body before she followed the Dursleys’ automobile down the street. Her luck was with her that day; Harry had never truly met her parents, merely glanced at them once in Flourish and Blotts before their second year – she suspected he couldn’t remember a little glance and “Hello” from almost five years ago.

                She could see a flash of white-blond hair up ahead and knew Malfoy was marking the vantage point to commence the objective: Capture the Dursleys and incapacitate the Order members. Her plan should be flawless; she had constructed it with Draco two days after she had arrived home. Even Malfoy had not had any qualms regarding the finished outline during the “weekly jaunt” through Diagon Alley. Everything had been drilled until it felt like they were beating a dead horse with a stick. It was all memorized; each party knew what they were to do, where to be and at what time. Every second was accounted for, so she grumbled when her plans fell several minutes behind as Diggle and Jones wasted time persuading the Muggles to get into the vehicle.

                Pulling out her wand, she aimed at the car’s tires.

                “Diffindo,” whispered Hermione.

                The left rear tire blew out from the slash in the rubber, and the car swerved a bit before pulling off to the side of the road. While the occupants of the automobile stepped out to see what the commotion had been about, Hermione used the diversion to catch up, playing the Good Samaritan, while Diggle and Jones stared at the anomaly that was a flat tire. A friendly smile on her face, she waved down Vernon and Petunia Dursley, noticing the little piggy in the backseat who was hugging his video game set to his chest.

                “Are you folks alright?” asked Hermione; her Polyjuiced face provided a perfectly straight, dazzlingly white smile at the husband and wife. “I saw you swerve from up the way.”

                “Just a flat tire,” Petunia answered, eyeing Hermione suspiciously while the beefy man started on a tirade about faulty assembly-line tires and foreigners that made them. The usual, upper-middle-class rant.

                “Do you need any help? I can run back home and get a wrench cross,” offered Hermione, her friendly smile never faltering.

                “No, no,” Hestia answered. “We have this under control, Ma’am.”

                Hermione gave a lilting chuckle, nodding her head in understanding, but she continued, “If you’re certain…”

                “Yes, of course,” said Diggle. “We thank you kindly for your offer, but we will have this fixed quickly; don’t you worry.”

                Hermione gave another smile as Diggle and Jones made to stand in front of the Dursleys, and then she withdrew her wand with an agile speed that would have made Voldemort proud. She made a precise swirl motion and shouted, “Deprimo!”

                The whirlwind encircled the Order members, blowing them off their feet and backwards about a meter. It gave her a split second to stun the two Dursleys and the pudgy teenager in the back-seat of the car, before turning her wand back to Dedalus and Hestia. The witch was already on her feet, drawing her wand slowly. Gods, the Order really should have sent better volunteers.

                “Incendio!” cried Hestia, her wandhand shaking.

                “Protego!” said Hermione, throwing up the silvery shield while Jones’s curse seemed to fizzle before it charged forth, gaining momentum.

“Avis Oppugno! Reducto!” shouted Hermione, quickly targeting the hexes to Diggle and thus unable to get a Shield Charm up in time.

Hestia’s next curse grazed her arm, burning through the jacket with a spurt of red. Turning her wand back to Hestia, Hermione sent another Shield Charm up to protect herself. Wand above her head, Hermione brought it down in a slashing motion. A silent Sectumsempra hit its target with the desired effect. As though a sword had sliced through the witch’s clothes and chest, the flesh burst open in a clean wound; bright-red blood blossomed and spread. Since Diggle was back on his feet, again – The wizard doesn’t know when to admit defeat, Hermione thought grimly – she repeated the action and the non-verbal spell and watched him crumple to the blacktop, clutching his bleeding abdomen.

Summoning their wands, Hermione strode to her butchered opponents, “I apologize for my bluntness, but you both could’ve done better. Too bad you won’t survive to learn from your mistakes.” Without another word nor a second glance, she sent two Entrail-Expelling Curses at the Order volunteers and left them for dead.

“Nice work, Granger,” said Draco. He materialized from the shadows of the uniform hedges a few meters away, closing the distance between the Dursleys’ car and him. “What was the point of the Dark Lord showing you those other curses if you don’t use them in a duel?”

“I save those for the more…deserving,” answered Hermione.

They left it at that, and Draco turned his attention to the unconscious Dudley in the backseat of the sedan. Hermione worked on Vernon and Petunia, sending them into a magically induced sleep. She checked her watch and growled her displeasure; she only had four minutes left before she was expected at the Burrow! She grabbed a firm hold onto Vernon Dursley’s obese arm and Petunia’s thin wrist, pulling them along as she Disapparated to Dolohov’s understatement of a house, which was hidden deep in the countryside of Wales. She did not bother waiting for Draco; she had places to be, and time was running out. She would come back later, before her meeting with Snape, and complete her assignment. The first half of the afternoon had been allotted to capturing and hiding them; she could wait to torture and end them. She did not want to disappoint when He inspected her work.

Levitating the unconscious bodies through the gates, Hermione met the wizard responsible for the burn scars running across her ribcage and dumped the Muggles unceremoniously in front of him, “No harm is to come to them until I return – Draco will follow shortly…I will be back, later.” And with that, she disappeared with a loud CRACK. She reappeared just outside of the wards around the Burrow. Falling to her knees, she grasped the burn on her left arm and groaned as the Polyjuice Potion began to transform her back to her original form.

Dusk was settling in on Little Whinging, Surrey, when Hermione’s Disillusioned form materialized in the Dursleys’ back yard. After scrambling to get off of the Thestral, she was grateful to feel solid earth underneath her feet once more. She had barely finished lifting the Disillusionment Charm when Harry wrenched the back door open to hurtle into the group’s midst. There was a general cry of greeting as Hermione flung her arms around him, Ron clapped him on the back, and Hagrid said, “All righ’, Harry? Ready fer the off?”

In her opinion, she had always played her part well; she was able to infuse every moment, since she had secretly turned her back on her friends, with convincingly genuine warmth and understanding. Hermione knew Harry and Ron – well, everyone – would never forgive her if – when – they found out about her full turnabout; they would never be able to understand the when, where, and why of her secret life. If she were lucky, she would stay behind the scenes, covert and invisible in her dealings, and no one would be the wiser.

“Definitely,” said Harry, beaming around at them all. “But I wasn’t expecting this many of you!”

“Change of plan,” said Moody, who was holding two enormous, bulging sacks, and whose magical eye was spinning from darkening sky to house to garden with dizzying rapidity. “Let’s get undercover before we talk you through it.”

Harry led them back into the kitchen where, laughing and chattering, they settled on chairs, sat themselves upon Petunia Dursley’s gleaming work surfaces or leaned up against her spotless appliances; Ron, long and lanky; Hermione, her bushy hair tied back in a long plait; Fred and George, grinning identically; Bill, badly scarred and long-haired; Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, balding, his spectacles a little awry; Mad-Eye, battle-worn, one-legged, his bright blue magical eye whizzing in its socket; Tonks, whose short hair was her favorite shade of bright pink; Lupin, grayer, more lined; Fleur, slender and beautiful, with her long, silvery blonde hair; Kingsley, bald, black, broad-shouldered; Hagrid, with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling; and Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty, and hangdog, with his droopy basset hound’s eyes and matted hair. Hermione chanced quick glares at Fleur, slightly jealous at the Veela’s effortless beauty and perfectly un-bushy hair. She was really a sweet witch, but Hermione would always be envious of her naturally straight, shining locks.

“Kingsley, I thought you were looking after the Muggle Prime Minister?” called Harry from across the room.

“He can get along without me for one night,” said Kingsley. “You’re more important.”

“Harry, guess what?” said Tonks from her perch on top of the washing machine, and she wiggled her left hand at him; a ring glittered there. Hermione had to restrain her eyes from rolling – hadn’t shoving that thing in every single female’s face at the Burrow been enough?!

After almost a half hour of wasted time, Moody had reclaimed control of the kitchen, and soon after, seven Harrys had dressed and stood out in the back yard near Petunia’s marigolds. Disguised as Harry, Hermione stood by Kingsley, wand at the ready, eyeing the Thestral with blatant nervousness. She really did detest flying, of any sort – even Dark Lord’s type of Apparition that she had been taught during the last school year! Though, she preferred that way of flying over an unreliable, invisible creature and broomsticks. Although, if she had a choice, she would just Apparate. However, since she would be around Harry, who still had the Trace on him until his seventeenth birthday at the end of July, she could not risk alerting the Ministry to the “goings-on” of the Order of the Phoenix or that there was magic being done around the Chosen One.

Finally dismissed by Moody, Hermione clambered up on the Thestral behind Kingsley and hugged the man’s middle section tightly. She may die one day, but it would NOT be from falling off a bloody hell-horse! She refused to accept that to be the reason for her death, let alone a sentence in her obituary.

“Secure, Miss Granger?” asked Kingsley, a slight chuckle to his voice.

“I. Am. Fine,” Hermione said through gritted teeth, yelping as the wizard gave a kick to the Thestral’s sides and called out their destination. The winged horse jostled her as it stood on its back legs, letting out a high-pitched neighing sound and setting off for the skies above.

“AGH!” she screamed as a violent, red jinx flew past her head. She had not been expecting an ambush of Death Eaters to be waiting for them. She reacted quickly, brandishing her wand and fending off the attackers as best as she could with spells she knew only Harry would utilize – she had to make them believe it was the real Potter, after all, “STUPEFY!”

A purple curse she was all too familiar with missed her by mere centimeters before she aimed another defensive spell at MacNair, “Expelliarmus!”

“It’s him! It’s him!” the Death Eater bellowed, diving out of sight after pressing his wand to his left forearm.

Oh, holy mother, she intoned silently as Lord Voldemort appeared a meter away, mid-air, flying on a telltale cloud of black smoke. She pointed her wand reluctantly at the Dark Lord, but aiming to miss him. She did not want to bring about his wrath nor did she want to give herself away to the Order. She had to remain unseen, hidden under the radar, as she had been told to do. She picked the one curse that would alert him to who she actually was, “Avis! Oppugno!”

He disappeared before her flock of birds could aspire to their intended target.

Unfortunately, several Death Eaters took his place.

The inhabitants of the Burrow had finally drifted off to bed. She waited for the snores coming from Ginny’s bed before leaving the room and checking the other bedrooms. Certain that everyone was sleeping, Hermione muffled her footsteps and descended the never ending stairs down to the first floor. A Silencing Charm worked wonders on the creaking floorboards and hinges of the kitchen door; she locked the door behind her and set off down the worn dirt path, Disapparating to Dolohov’s countryside estate under the cover of midnight.

Draco was already outside of the gates with his father and Professor Snape, waiting. She gave a jerky nod of acknowledgement and continued onwards into the small fortress, unwilling to wait for them to follow. She glared at Dolohov as he stepped aside to allow her entrance, motioning her towards the hidden doorway down to his torture chambers and holding cells. She might despise the vulgar man, but he did have impeccable taste in torture utensils.

The Dursleys were already awake. Petunia and her son were huddled together in a damp corner of their prison, while the cumbersome patriarch wrapped his thick fists around the magically enforced bars and shook them. “Where the bloody hell have you taken us? Let us out this instant!”

“Ah, they did not ready you,” noted Hermione, her tone disappointed.

To be honest, she could not remember when she had discovered her enjoyment of torture and blood – quite possibly around the time she had been brought before the Dark Lord on one more...personal occasion. He had forced her to dig deep into her more unsavory side as he had made her whip prisoners in Dolohov’s dungeons, perform the Cruciatus Curse on innocent adolescents and murder several Muggles. That had been during the sixth year’s Christmas holidays, but it had left Hermione completely changed. The incredible world she had entered when she was eleven years old was nothing compared to the things the Dark Lord made her discover in herself. That one session had unleashed a darkness she had kept under lock and key, and it could not, would not, be stuffed back in its Pandora’s Box. After the Dark Lord had shown her the potential underneath her fair skin, just at the tips of her own fingers, she had taken to torture, like a Giant Squid to water, with such finesse that she was certain she would be rewarded very soon. She hoped for it, longed for it – for Him.

“Let us out, you – you!” Vernon had lost his steam with an icy look from Hermione. “Please…”

She turned her back to the barred cell, shrugging out of her robes while she addressed the Muggle, “If you are finished, I need to speak with Petunia.”

Hermione folded her cloak in precise creases until it resembled a perfect square. Setting it down, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her blouse before staring at the group of Death Eaters standing off to the side, waiting for one of them to jump into action. Tapping her foot, she bit out a snappish, “Well?”

“Miss Granger, curb your…enthusiasm,” Lucius drawled. “We are to await the our Lord’s presence before commencing this interrogation.”

“Does that hinder us from setting up the scene?” asked Hermione, folding her arms over her chest.

“Yes, it does,” he answered, sounding equally bored as before. “You’ll just have to learn to wait.”

Growling her frustration, she sat down on the nearest stool and schooled her features to reflect the calm and collected appearance she knew the Dark Lord expected her to display. Petty emotions were for the weak, he had told her time and time again. Any expression that he deemed trivial was met with a prolonged duration under the Cruciatus Curse. Sometimes there were hard strokes from a cat ‘o’ nine tails, but most certainly there was always the use of the Cruciatus. It was one of His trademarks. How could he not use it?

Time seemed to slow, dragging on in excruciating minutes as they waited for Lord Voldemort to arrive. Impatient, she turned to examining her, now long, fingernails, using her thumb nail to clean any specs of dirt from under the others to pass the time. Dolohov had already left, his presence unnecessary for tonight’s agenda, and the Malfoys and Snape had commenced a rather boring conversation that she did not wish to be a part of; not like they would invite her to, at any rate. No, she was perfectly fine cleaning her immaculate nails and gazing at the Dursleys every few moments. She should have brought a book along with her; it would have made time move more quickly. She despised waiting, even for Lord Voldemort. She knew she should not think such things, but that was what Occlumency was for. He had required it of her since she would be in such close proximity to Aurors for the rest of the summer. And before Dumbledore died, well…the Dark Lord couldn’t have his archenemy reading the thoughts of his little Mudblood pet, could he?

Mudblood pet, it sent tingles up her arms and down to her toes before resting below her navel. It should sicken her to be so agreeable to Lord Voldemort, his ‘affectionate’ name for her, his presence and his appearance – it should all disgust her, repulse her, but no. It all seemed to accumulate into warmth that spread through her body. When he had taken her for the first, and up to then only, time, she had felt safe, secure; not something one related to the most evil wizard of all time. No, certainly not, but she did.

“Such obedient followers of mine,” the serpentine hiss of their Master whispered through the chamber. Hermione fought to control the delicious convulsion his voice created in her, instead choosing to stand from her seat and greet him accordingly. He moved through the space and stopped before her bowed form, tracing a skeletal finger down her spine as he examined her. She sighed contentedly at the touch. He had a rather devilish grin upon his snake-like features, and it pooled a pressure deep within her. Ooh, she wanted him soooo badly that it pained her.

He used his hand to dismiss the two Malfoys and Snape. “Leave us for now,” said the Dark Lord. “I will call you forth when we are done.”

There were no forms of objection; his obedient followers bowed and left without even a clucked noise in their throats. She kneeled before Lord Voldemort as he closed the tension wrought space between them; the prisoners silently shook in terror behind them at the sight of the snake-like wizard. Goosebumps erupted over her skin when the tip of his wand traced the contours of her neck column, sliding under her chin and raising her gaze to meet his. Glowing red slits pierced her very soul and left her panting; the power he exuded alone took her breath away. She wanted to please him, more than any other person in her life – in the world. Her obsession to keep his desire on only her fueled her to continue to content, to entertain and to surpass herself over and over again because he expected her to do so. It was a heady draught to swallow, one that made her skin prickle and tingle in the most palatable of ways.

“Stand, my little Mudblood,” said Voldemort. He grabbed her hair, still in a long braid hanging over her shoulder, and yanked her up to her feet, forcing her head back enough to display her pale neck. His eyes glittered in delight at her reaction. A hiss of pain and pleasure escaped her clenched teeth as her eyes rolled upwards; all the while, her body trembled in anticipation.

Bone-white and skeletal, his hands hovered over patches of her exposed skin, feeling the sizzling heat of her desire for him and the icy, electrical current that was her magic. The power she held, the potential hidden under that smooth and supple skin of hers, amused him; it had been one of the reasons he had been so adamant that she be swayed to His side, away from Dumbledore and that blasted annoyance, Potter. Snape had been lucky to catch her just before she completely delved into the Dark Arts, before she immersed herself so wholly that she could have lost control. Reports on the amount of strength hidden down in her darker being had created an allure for Lord Voldemort.

“An aura of darkness so powerful, my Lord, it could easily outmatch Bellatrix and myself. – S.S.”

Lord Voldemort had decided then that Hermione Granger would become his most precious follower, not only as a secret victory over The-Boy-Who-Continued-To-Live but also as one of his most covert operatives inside the Order. Snape’s position had been compromised by murdering that fool Albus Dumbledore; but now that he had Hermione Granger, the opportunities were endless. She was practically invisible. Her memories had proved to him that, to the Order, she was little more than someone to do others’ work for them, used and forgotten, but not to Lord Voldemort. He recognized her abeyant dexterities, a realm of inherent skill outside of a classroom, and he planned to use her to her full extent, which seemed to be becoming endless. Every task handed to her was completed promptly on time, or early, and with such acumen and competence that he could not allow her to slip through his fingers.

Her lacking attractiveness did not calm his constant need to procure her in his ranks. Her intelligence and adeptness in everything was stunningly beautiful to Him. There was no need to spend time dwelling on trivial things such as physical prettiness when the mind underneath was the largest, most potent aphrodisiac to him. He had waited long enough – almost a year – to finally possess her. After learning how insatiable and vicious her dueling skills were during the more confidential assignments (she was uniquely qualified for discretion; it seemed to be one of her many gifts), he had to see if her bloodlust translated into other aspects of her. She would be magnificent once he were finished with her. She would be his masterpiece, all his. Lord Voldemort did not share, and Hermione Granger was most definitely His now.

“My Lord,” her voice was breathless and it dripped with aspiration. “Please…”

He grinned evilly, “My little Mudblood pet…you have succeeded, yet again. Let us proceed with the questioning, and then I will reward you properly.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” said Hermione, controlling the convulsive shivers threatening to buckle her legs out from under her.

Before he released her, his bony fingers still gripping her skull painfully, he pulled her face close to his and devoured her lips violently. His teeth bit down on the flesh of her lower lip, drawing blood, and she allowed him to lick away the rivulets that escaped from the corner of her mouth and leaked down her pale throat. In that moment, she was blissfully unaware of everything except the feel of his tongue dominating hers, his fingernails cutting into her scalp and his mouth leaving hot trails along her jawline and neck as he found every last stream of blood. She was his, and there would never be anyone else. If he lived forever, she would find a way to join him; if he died, by some stroke of luck on Harry Potter’s end, well, she would die as well. She could not imagine feeling the same craving and hunger for another like she did for the Dark Lord. No one else could compare. In that moment, she was perfectly content with the choices she had made; and as long as he continued to shower her with this immense pleasure of just kissing, she would do anything that he asked of her – just as long he did not stop.

Unaware to Hermione, Lord Voldemort’s eyes glinted with victory as her Occlumency walls had faltered during their heated kiss. He could not agree more with her line of thought. She would be his for eternity; he would find a way – and if he could not have her, no one would.

Breaking apart to inhale much needed oxygen, he smirked at his little Mudblood pet, his most treasured assassin, “Come, Hermione. Let us begin.”

She sighed contentedly, “Oooh…Yes, my Lord.”

The End.
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The Secret Life of Hermione J. Granger