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The Assassin	By : brightneeBee Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 3236 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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-The Assassination of Lucius Malfoy
- 1
Title: The Assassination of Lucius Malfoy

Author: brightneeBee

Title of the Challenge: Time Turner Reversal Challenge

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: M (fanfiction.net), Adult (AFFnet), Mature (AO3)

Warnings: Depictions of violence/murder, sexual intercourse, mild-adult language (some cursing), as well as an AU!Hermione (characterization is similar to canon, but slight alterations have been made to fit the storyline)

Genre: Crime, General

Summary: In a world where Muggles have been at war with wizards for over twenty years, Hermione Granger, world-class assassin, finds herself face to face with Lord Voldemort - a wizard that disappeared from existence several decades ago. An attraction develops and Hermione finds herself doing the impossible, untouchable of all jobs: assassinate the Ruler of the Wizarding World and his family...on Voldemort’s command.

Beta Appreciation: I am so grateful to my wonderful beta, Mariico, for holding the whip over my back and pushing me to finish this early, as well doing amazing work with my grammar and sentence-structure mistakes. She was a great distraction at times when my procrastinating nature wanted to do other things. Thanks, Mariico! <3<3

Word Count: 11,000+

Links:

                The breeze was cool, which meant the temperature would be quite cold once the sun rose in the morning. The sky was black and clear and speckled with bright, shining constellations. The moon was waxing, almost full, but there was still a week to go before the problem of werewolves became imminent. The woods were almost impossible to see beyond, but she the young woman danced and glided through the thick brush and clusters of trees as she sprinted after her target. Stray frizzy curls tore free from her severe bun as thorny vines caught on the bushy-ness, but nothing deterred her. She had been built for this; broken completely and then rebuilt by muggle and wizarding governments, like an experiment in a lame muggle film.

                Trained to assassinate, spy and steal, she had spent most of her life in a secret government facility being molded into what high-ranking government officials desired her to be. With the Muggle-Wizard War waging for years, she had been caught at an early age in the hopes to use a magical being against the wizarding world by the harsh muggles keeping her in captivity. Most of her life had been spent in muggle facilities actually, but after she turned eleven-years-old, that had changed. Some man, Snape, he called himself, had just popped right into the compound and left with her without a single problem. He took her to some barmy old man named Dumbledore who told her she was a witch, and then locked her in the dungeons of some creepy castle to be molded by Mr. Snape for however long it took to “train her properly.” Though, without Dumbledore’s supervision, Mr. Snape seemed to lean towards teaching her the more violent spells in his vast repertoire. He said that it was necessary to learn what the enemies had up their sleeves, and thus he pushed every bit of knowledge of the “dark arts” into her head through practice and study. She still couldn’t fathom why he would expect his enemies to be her enemies. Everyone was using her; she couldn’t trust the lot of them. They all treated her like the “muggles” they wanted to utilize her to protect. She had waited, biding her time, until all that Dumbledore and Snape knew had been taught to her, before she made her escape. It had been easy enough – Dumbledore had handed her a file with blue-prints and notes and told her what needed to be done, and had let her go. He let her go as if she were a faithful dog that would return at her Master’s command. She had done what Albus Dumbledore had asked of her, but she refused to return.

Assassin for hire was what she was in the muggle and wizarding worlds; invisible to even the most inscrutable, hawk-like eyes. She had disappeared, put her available services through the proper channels, and had taken to a life of what she liked to call “fun and games,” like a duck to water. When the price was right, she would steal priceless artifacts like a seasoned cat-burglar, seduce information out of high-ranking political figures without ever taking off an article of clothing, and even assassinated upon occasion, although those particular jobs were few and far between. She much preferred the capture and drop-off-anonymously jobs – they proved to be the most fun; “bounties,” she believed they were called. She enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the rush of adrenaline as she herded her target(s) into a corner, so to speak. Work was frequent, but there were periods of relaxation and tranquility that allowed her to go about her preferred time-wasting method of reading. Those occasional “vacations” gave her the time to delve into the other art-forms of magical education that she had yet been privy to. And she absorbed tomes on every aspect of magic that she could find before moving onto the next subject, the next tidbit of knowledge that she had been denied for so many years. It was the silver-lining to her solitary life. Although she did find that she craved the company of what some call “friends” – people to talk with, share things with. She lived a lonely life, but she sometimes wished for a social one; she wished she had been allowed to grow up properly, develop those detrimental relationships normal beings experienced throughout their lifetimes. Of course, there were far more people who lived more miserable lives than she did; she really couldn’t complain about never experiencing the moment of gaining friendships, could she?

The shadowed outline of a fallen tree trunk loomed up ahead and Hermione could see the son of Mr. Barty Crouch. Sr., the Head of the Auror Office, leaping over it and stumbling slightly. He was still on his feet and soon his sprint regained its form. She leapt over the trunk more gracefully than her victim had and found her stride gaining on him. She let a giggly breath escape her as she pulled out her wand and sent a Blasting Hex up ahead at Mr. Barty Crouch, Jr. It collided with tree and she watched the outline of the rather large tree waiver on its pivot before it fell to the side and blocked Crouch’s path. The man growled in frustration before attempting to turn on the spot and Disapparate away. He cursed when it didn’t work – did he really think she was so inexperienced that she wouldn’t put up Anti-Apparition wards? Did he really think she wasn’t the best out there? She may have only been active on the Black Market since she was twenty, but even now as a nubile, young twenty-five year old, she was the highest-priced hitwoman/hitwitch in the British Isles – most likely in all of Europe, as well. She may not be as capable in the magic aspect as others in the wizarding world, but when it came to targets and tasks, she found the muggle way always provided an advantage. What wizard expected guns and boomerang blades when a curse or jinx would work far better? It was all a matter of opinion.

“Damn it,” exclaimed Barty from up ahead. He had to change directions, and of course he began running to the left instead of the right. He was heading directly into her trap, just as planned. Wait! What was he doing? Where did he think he was going? Crouch was diverting from her trap by running too far to the left. What was in that direction again? A cliff? No, a canyon with a river running through the middle – damn. The wards would end halfway down, which meant he could apparate away before he hit the ground.

God, she hated taking the Death Eater jobs. If the jobs didn’t pay so bloody well, she would decline them all. But since she needed the mounds of gold to keep her well insulated and hidden from Dumbledore’s little cobra, there was nothing she could do but run at full speed before Crouch made it to the cliff and got away.

The little lip-licker was close, but he still had a ways to go before he could leap and escape. She was gaining on him, and she could hear his panted declarations of damnation as he stumbled through the thick underbrush. Her feet felt light, barely gracing the forest floor as she leapt over the more dense thickets and narrowly missed the thorny vines. If Crouch, who was ahead of her, had ever been trained properly (of course, reading up on Emperor Malfoy and his following, they would be quite easy to overthrow. They were a bunch of lazy wealthy snobs that exercised by raising wine glasses to their mouths) the stringy wizard would have fared better in this environment. Oh well, not everyone could be abducted by the government after a display of accidental magic when they were four years old and be tested on before being trained as an elite soldier to protect Queen and Country. Crouch was lucky to not have fainted from overexertion by now. As chases went, Hermione was quite impressed with this wizard’s resilience. He utterly refused to be caught. Apparently, going back home to face Daddy Dearest was not on his agenda, at all.

She was barely a meter behind him now as he reached the edge of the cliff.

A flash of green light illuminated the forest around her, the source of it dimming before her near the cliff-ledge, as she lunged forward in a last spurt of energy and strength. A pale, handsome man in his mid-thirties with crimson eyes appeared just has she leaped into the air and soared gracefully past him and over the edge of the cliff. The man’s – no, the wizard’s – eyes widened for a split second before he schooled his face into a mask of calm collectiveness. He just watched coolly as she dropped, pointed feet first and arms spread wide in grace, over the edge and rushed downward on a spiralling cloud of wispy black smoke towards her target. She descended through the air with increasing speed, grabbing ahold of a screaming Crouch and disapparating away as the river below rushed up towards them. They disappeared before hitting the tips of the rock clusters peeking out just above the surface of the turbulently moving waters.

She reappeared with her bounty at the predetermined drop site, letting out a long-held breath as the thrilling sensation of adrenaline coursed violently through her veins. At the moment, Barty Crouch, Jr. was merely looking at the firm and solid ground in dismay – as though he could not believe that he was alive at all. It gave Hermione the few seconds of advantage to slip his wand from his pocket and incarcerate him in magical bindings. She conjured a piece of paper and a pen, writing a note to the target’s father, before Stupefying the now struggling wizard. She rapped on the solid wood door of the Auror Head’s home in Suffolk and apparated back to the river bank she had just left only moments previously.

Checking to see if her wards were still in place (they were not, unfortunately) she popped out of existence and back again on the edge of the cliff, looking around at the dense expanse of forest facing her. It was too dark to see clearly. The breeze played tricks on her mind as it rustled through the low-hanging branches and leaves and of the underbrush. Everything organic moved, causing Hermione to become slightly paranoid as she stepped through the trees cautiously. Her favored Browning Hi-Power 9mm handgun had already jerked upwards and been aimed with trained agility before she realized there was nothing but thorny vines fluttering out of the corner of her eye. She let out another slow breath and released the trigger before she squeezed too tightly; she didn’t need the gun going off and signifying her presence if the wizard was still around. If he was trying to lure her into a false sense of security, he would be sorely mistaken. She never let her guard down, not even when she slept. It was a deeply ingrained habit, but she felt it was a positive one to have; it would keep her alive if an enemy attempted to sneak up on her in the dark, like tonight.

She let her mind wander slightly as she stepped through the underbrush lightly, her ears tuned in to the natural sounds of the forest. She looked for anything out of the ordinary as her eyes scanned the darkness for any peculiarities. She wanted to know who he was. What had that green light been? Where had the wizard come from? How did he come about having glowing, crimson eyes? He was by far the most handsome man she had ever seen. He had perfectly symmetrical bone-structure, gorgeously arched eyebrows; his hair must be silky as it looked. It was ebony hued and expertly styled – not a hair out of place on that beautiful head. And his skin! Oh, his skin had been so pale, so smooth – almost like white marble. His body, even surrounded by billowing black robes, seemed to be in even better condition than her own physique. Who was this man?

The red eyes had slits for pupils, and there was something about that particular choice in physical-transfiguration that Hermione found nagging at her memory. There had been a wizard – if one knew where to look for the more interesting tidbits in magical history – that had emerged with pale skin and red, serpentine eyes before disappearing again in the 1960s. He had been feared, hadn’t he? And there had been a growing army of followers that he controlled. He called himself…Bloody hell, she couldn’t remember at the moment; Lord something or another, was it not? It was on the tip of her tongue, just there hidden in the shadows of her mind, evading her. Hadn’t that Dark Wizard from the past called his followers Death Eaters as well? Yes, and before that, they had been called his Knights of Walpurgis. If she could remember that miniscule piece of information, why could she not draw out the bloody name of the wizard she had read about on so many occasions?

Swoosh!

Something had flitted through the underbrush a few meters away from her – something that was most certainly not an ordinary sound found in a thick forest. Hermione’s gun flew up with precision and she pointed it in the direction of the noise as she moved towards the disturbance carefully. Whoever the wizard had been, he most certainly had stayed around to see if she came back. Or else it was someone else that had been following her, in which case the unknown person in the woods with her had a bullet with his or her name on it - just for having the bollocks to mess with her when she was already wound up tighter than a line of twine.

Another swooshing sound alerted her to the fact that someone was closing in on her, tracking her like a predatory animal in search of prey.

She cursed her stupidity and lack of visibility as she turned to aim at the noise, only to be attacked from behind and slammed into a rather large tree the moment she spun around to fire a warning shot. Muscular legs stepped between hers, keeping them spread to avoid an attempt to escape. Elegant, pale hands with beautifully sculpted and masculine fingers pressed the pressure points of her wrists to make her hold on her gun slacken enough for her assailant to slide it out of her grasp. He must have pocketed it because his fingers returned and grazed the inside of her black tights clad thigh up to the holster holding her boomerang-blade - the one that she had spent hundreds of Galleons to have handcrafted just for her. The fingers gripped it, pulling it from the sheath slowly while the man’s free hand kept her wrists locked together, holding them painfully against the rough bark of the tree. The blade was pocketed, as well.

“You are a witch,” he stated. It was not a question. “And with all of these muggle contraptions I can only assume that you were raised somewhere muggle in the world...am I correct? Of course, I am - the Dark Lord is never wrong about such things. You have that muggle stench on you.”

She frowned. She did not stink of muggles - non-magical beings did not have a differentiating scent! How the hell did he know she was muggleborn, anyway? And if he was going to grope her for every piece of weaponry she had on her persons and drop it all in his robe pockets, he would be running out of room before he got to her ankles. Was this the same man with the crimson eyes, or was this a new individual with gorgeous hands and flawlessly pale skin?

He took her wand next as he hissed into her ear, “Tell me your name, witch.”

She let out a breathy chuckle at that demand. Who the bloody hell did he think he was? And why was her body reacting to the sound of his baritone low rumble? She had ignored those urges during puberty, and after she had finally known freedom, she had forgone the normal adult ritual of random one-night stands to take jobs that paid thousands of euros, Galleons, or pounds. Money, security, and multiple identities had become more important, and then books and learning had taken up her focus when she wasn’t working. Sex was not high on the list of her priorities, but at that moment, with a dominant man groping her for weapons, she found her nethers responding with throbs and tingles. Her skin flushed with a warmth that she could only identify as lust - a sexual indulgence she had yet to experience, but had read about on several occasions. Was he doing this to her on purpose?

“I told you to tell me your name,” he hissed again, with more vehemence than the last time. His hand was now pulling up the hem of her tight-fitting jumper and skimming the soft skin of her stomach before feeling around the waist of her tights and finding several blades hidden there, as well. He let out a seductive laugh as he tossed the blades off into the darkness of the forest. “I have never had a trained assassin in my grasp before...interesting...Your kind is quite elusive...un-obtainable. But very exotic, in a way. So...tell me your name, mudblood.”

She jerked in his grip but was unsuccessful - he was far stronger than she was - and resigned herself to an irritated snarl at his choice of name-calling. “Which name do you want? I have so many it’s hard to keep track-”

“Your real name, mudblood.” His tone held that air of authority to it that captured her attention. It let her know that he was dangerous - far more dangerous than she - and powerful. The air around them crackled and sizzled from the force and heat of his own raw power, making it hard to breathe.

She wasn’t exactly sure why she did it, but if she ever looked back at that moment, she would be certain that it was because of the fact that she had never found a more dominant presence besides herself and found the experience rather thrilling, in a way.

“Hermione Granger.”

“Hmm...Hermione Granger, mudblood assassin,” he mused as a foot of his felt around her ankle, finding the telltale signs of guns taped underneath her tights. “I wonder...how does a mudblood become an assassin?”

The guns disappeared with a wave of his free hand, most likely well-practiced non-verbal and wandless magic. He was above and beyond her level of magical ability - far above her capabilities. The feared Dark Lord that disappeared in the 60s, crimson eyes and slitted pupils - this was him, it had to be. He had been extremely well-versed in all aspects of magic, nothing was beneath him to learn, and he was pressing a half-erected bulge in his pants against her lower back in order to keep her body firmly against the huge trunk of a tree! What was she supposed to do with that kind of information? And why, for the life of her, could she not remember the wizard’s bloody name? Or was it nickname? Lord something....Lord something....The Dark Lord....something - what was it?!

“Your heart is racing,” he said into the skin at the back of her neck. His nose brushed up against her nape and she responded with a small gasp, a tiny inhalation of breath as the sensation of pulsing warmth spread through her body.

What was he doing to her?

“Do I intimidate you, mudblood?”

Did he have to sound so amused by that possibility? “It’s not everyday that a ‘filthy mudblood’ like me is in the presence of a Dark Lord that disappeared over twenty years ago-”

“Twenty years?” he asked, intrigued but his tone held a hint of agitation. “I have been gone for twenty years? Tell me the date, mudblood.”

“It’s the 28th of September...2005,” answered Hermione.

His grip on her wrists tightened to excruciating pain as the skin dug into the bark of the tree, scratching her flesh until she could feel the wounds welling up with blood. She bit back a grunt as he forced the bark in deeper, dragging her wrists down the trunk and up again. He snarled, but it came across as hissing to her ears. Did he think he was a snake? What kind of lunatic was pressing up against her?! Did he escape from an asylum or something?

“I am no lunatic, Hermione Granger,” growled He-Who-Refused-To-Introduce-Himself. “I am the Dark Lord - the only Dark Lord. And, for your inferior information, I speak fluent Parseltongue, which explains the hissing that you so ignorantly commented on.”

“A Legilimens,” she acknowledged, rolling her eyes and earning herself a shove into the tree. The bark dug into the skin of her cheek, causing her to let out a short, “Umph!”

“Do not offend me again, mudblood,” hissed the wizard behind her. He pressed his front against her back more forcefully, pinning her completely against the tree and keeping her from being able to move enough to throw him off. His breath was hot against her skin, raising the hairs on the back of her neck in a very sensual manner. “From this moment on, I am your Master...you will answer to me!”

She scoffed as best as she could, but it came across as more of a sigh than anything else she could muster. She was able to manage an impressive clipped tone, “I. Am. Not. A. Slave.”

“You will be anything that I deem you to be,” said the wizard maliciously. He grabbed the bun at the base of her neck and wrenched her head backwards so his cheek was caressing hers. “You will take me to your secured place of residence, mudblood, and then you will tell me everything that has happened since I left 1963. Do you understand me?”

She swallowed with difficulty, but answered regardless in a tight voice, “I understand you perfectly. Unfortunately, I do not see how you think I will help you when you are keeping me compressed against this tree. But I will take you to one of my ‘places of residence,’ just to get you off of me.”

He patted her head like she was a dog - like she was a “good girl” for obeying him - before stepping away and dragging her backwards with him by her wrists. He brought her wrists down from above her head and she twisted on the spot, taking him with her into that inconceivably compressed space that was disapparation. They reappeared in one of her hidey-holes; a sparsely furnished flat in a low-rent section of London. It was the one she used when Dumbledore’s hound was close to finding her. At one point she had decided Snape’s overly large nose was used to sniff her out when he was a hair’s width away from catching her - sometimes she would even call him “the Bloodhound” when she was in a tenacious mood. Although, she had to give Snape a small round of applause for his ability to track the unfindable. She had spent a lot of time and energy and money keeping her own self hidden from all of those who wanted to re-capture her, to own her again.

“Who is this Snape that you keep thinking about?” asked the handsome wizard that she had seen before when she flew over the edge of the cliff after Crouch.

She still couldn’t remember his name.

She sniffed, “None of your business.”

Hermione set about making tea and pulling stale biscuits from the cupboards in the open kitchen. She ignored him as he settled on the threadbare sofa in the next room. Pulling down a ceramic plate from another cabinet full of cobwebs, she wiped the thin film of dust off before dumping the box of biscuits onto it unceremoniously. The wizard irritated and titillated her simultaneously and she damn well wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of presenting nummies to him on a silver platter, laid out in a way that was aesthetically pleasing - no, siree. He may have turned her on, something she had never experienced before, but he also enraged her sense of self. How dare he call her a “mudblood” and treat her like filth? Who the hell did he think he was?

“I am waiting,” came an arrogant voice from the living room.

Rolling the tension out of her shoulders because she was weaponless to the extreme, she carried the small plate and teapot into the small sitting area, setting them down on the ragged coffee table. She remained silent as she turned back to the kitchen to retrieve two teacups. He was smirking at her, like he was pleased with her over something she had done. Was it because her first priority was to set a semi-decent tray of biscuits and tea? If he thought that then he would bitterly surprised when he bit into that first cookie and found it stale as all hell.

She set the cups on the table and sat across from him in a frail chair with little padding. She set him with a blank stare, “How did you travel through time?”

                “There is a very simple answer to that, mudblood,” he answered with a smirk. “I am sure even your miniscule brain would be able to understand.”

                “And what is the answer?”

                “I felt a tug around my navel, I disappeared, and then I reappeared in front of you.”

                “So, you don’t know.”

                “Lord Voldemort always knows,” he sneered, taking a bite of a biscuit from the plate. He made a disgusted face and spat the stale cookie onto the floor, “What is this shite?”

                Hermione smirked. “Well...let’s get this over with, shall we?”

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                She didn’t understand how she came to be in such a position, but if he continued grinding into her with that delicious swirling maneuver that he was doing right now, she would be die happy. “Please...please!” she whimpered, feeling that wonderful pressure building up inside of her but unable to jump over the ledge into oblivion. It was so good - so very good - but he delighted in torturing her. Making her hold her own release back while he found new positions to fold her into, new ways to claim her body, enjoying her as long as he wished, while she slipped further into exhaustion. She wondered what he would do to her if she actually succumbed to the boneless-ness and fell asleep while he slammed into her?

                “I would Cruciate you,” answered Voldemort from behind her. To emphasize that she would remain awake, he lifted her leg, bending it back and upward, before wrapping it around his waist and holding it there with a tight grip around her ankle. His free hand grabbed a chunk of her frizzy hair and yanked it back until her back was arched painfully. “And I would keep you under the curse until I finished. You remember how frustrated you became after the last time, do you not, my little mudblood?”

                She whimpered again, but stayed awake, moaning as he continued to hit that sweet spot inside of her. At that moment, she didn’t even care that her hip joint was bent, stretched and twisted to the point that it could pop out of socket. She felt amazing - she always felt amazing when this cruel, domineering man was pounding into her - and part of her did wish that it would never end.

She didn’t mind that he stole the covers because he tended to pull her against him while he slept. Or that he had taken it upon himself to test her magical abilities when she wasn’t absent accepting and completing jobs offered to her. After the lengthy time it had taken to grow comfortable around him, she had found him quite a titillating conversationalist. It was the first time she had held a conversation with anyone that didn’t revolve around her capturing or killing another human being.

She hoped that he stayed here with her forever, just as long as he kept doing the swirl-thing with those gorgeously pale hips.

“Scream for me, Hermione...Show your Master how much you appreciate what is given to you,” he hissed, pulling her hair back as far as her spine would allow and releasing his hold over her body. “Come for me!”

She convulsed and screamed as her nerve-endings exploded in a symphony of pleasure; her orgasm drowning out everything around her. She vaguely felt him lower his torso against hers and biting her shoulder as he growled his own release into her flesh. His teeth pierced her skin, drawing blood, and she could only derive jolts of electric indulgence from the sharp pain. She slumped down against the mattress as he let go of her leg. He collapsed on top of her, breathing harshly while he moved her mass of bushy hair off of her back, nipping the nape of her neck before resting his forehead against her skin. He stayed there, softening inside of her, while they both attempted to regain their strength.

They were both slick with sweat, leaving the mattress underneath them quite damp. Hermione could not fathom why she had put off sex as long as she had. Months ago, when she had first encountered Lord “I-Travelled-Through-Time” Voldemort, she had found him quite attractive, but extremely off-putting. The fact that he refused to leave her alone - following her back to her more furnished and larger flat in Wales - had irritated her to no end. She still did not know how he found her so quickly after she left him in the dump apartment in London, or how he took down her wards without her knowing. It was confusing, to say the least. The fact that he declined to go back to where he came from and instead had made himself at home in her master-bedroom had enraged her to an entirely new level. Being a very stubborn person, she had sent all of her banished things from the spare room to her room, several times. She refused to be shoved out of her own space, so she had told him bluntly that she would not be sleeping in any other bed but her own. Oh, how daft she had been.

“You will never rid yourself of me, Hermione,” breathed Voldemort against her shoulder-blade. “You. Are. Mine.”

She sighed, completely content, even if he was a rather unbearable person most of the time. “Anything you wish...”

“Say it,” he hissed, biting down on her shoulder again.

“My Lord,” she obliged, squirming underneath him and enjoying how slippery their bodies were. “Anything for you, my Lord.”

“Good,” said Voldemort. “It pleases me when you are compliant, Hermione. As long as you continue to obey, I will continue to reward you. Does that not sound appealing, mudblood?”

She nodded and sighed; the once offensive name had become a term of endearment to her that she enjoyed hearing him say, over and over again. Especially while he shagged her into a coma. She realized that she would do anything for him because the perks were just that amazing. The opposite was terrifying - no one desired to be put under the Cruciatus Curse for ten minute intervals during sex - but the evil wizard was a catch-22 in so many ways. She could please him and he would reward her with a Crucio just to make certain she knew her place; she could displease him and be punished with aforementioned curse, or she could please him and be shown the pleasures of his body and what he could do with it, for hours on end. Sometimes, the pain was worth the end result, as she had always been told. Better to be honest with herself and take the attentions of the Devil she knew, instead of the Devil still unknown. And Lucius Malfoy was still very unknown to her.

She licked her lips and spoke after a long, silent pause, “Will you be accompanying me on the Malfoy job, my Lord?”

“Yes,” he answered, rolling off of her and pulling her with him. He was growing hard again inside of her and she hoped it would go away. The man really couldn’t go for six hours, could he? That would be the third time today! He could not possibly expect her to be able to perform again after everything all the contortionist-like things he had done to her already...could he? He chuckled into her neck, “I wish to see how you plan to kill him. I desire to see you butcher him...I want to see you covered in the blood of the Malfoy family...”

The hard thrust against her cervix told her that, yes he did expect her to keep up with his stamina. And as he spoke of what he wished her to do to the Malfoys, she could only shudder in the anticipation his smooth baritone was laced with. Her muscles clenched around him and he sucked in a breath at how tight she was - she couldn’t believe she was actually still in the mood for more. He pulled out and slammed back into her. It amazed her how thick he was; long and wide, Hermione was certain the average male genitalia was not THAT large. Although, she didn’t have any other man in her bed to compare penis-sizes with. The wizard in her bed was the ONLY man she had ever seen in the nude. But it seemed quite rude to be thinking about comparing penis sizes when moaning while the darkest wizard of all time was running his hands over her breasts and thrusting into her.

The date was set; her surveillance would begin the following night in preparation, and Hermione would do the impossible: assassinate Lucius Malfoy, Ruler of the Wizarding World. And his family.

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                The winter night was clear, and the air was crisp as Hermione formed a hole in the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor. Stepping through, she slid to the side and allowed Voldemort to enter as well. The wards filled in behind them as they looked up at the tall expanse of the stone wall looming over them. Without hesitation, Hermione began scaling the fortress wall with practiced ease; each limb pressing against the stone and sliding up to prevent any accidental “tripping” of the wards. It would be disastrous if they were apprehended before they even made it inside the property. It would definitely ruin Hermione’s outstanding reputation in the cat-burglary market. Getting into a highly secured building, stealing something, and getting back out without being caught was kind of a give-in when being offered a job. Well, slipping in and out without being caught was something that applied to a range of jobs that could be offered to her in her line of profession. Failure was never an option for her; it was beaten into her DNA after so many years of C.I.A.-like training.

                Halfway up the wall, she looked back and saw Voldemort standing below, gazing up at her. Confused, Hermione whispered down to him, “What are you doing?”

                He cocked his head to the side in amusement, “Has it ever occured to you that magic would have worked far better in this instance? Or are you so muggle that using magic is something that has to be suggested to you?”

                She glared and continued to climb the wall, ignoring his sniggering as she reached the top and peered over the ledge. Three security-wizards were walking the perimeter of the wall separating Malfoy Manor from the rest of the world. Up towards the manor, she could make out four more of the security detail walking along the outside of the ridiculously large house. She wondered if there was a gala being held that night to have twice as many Aurors outside checking for any gate-crashers or...attempts at assassination. There shouldn’t have been anything more than a civil familial dinner tonight - the Christmas gala was scheduled for the next week. The amount of guards must be a coincidence that Hermione could not foresee, and that was what she told herself.

                With a practiced Silencing Charm blanketing the two guards passing each other underneath her, Hermione cast a Disillusionment Charm on her and jumped down from the wall. She almost shrieked when Voldemort appeared next to her for a brief moment before becoming invisible again, melting into the darkness. Hermione slinked off after the guard closest to her, bristling over the Dark Lord’s blatant display of how wonderfully brilliant he was at magic compared to her. Close enough to press her face against the wizard’s back, Hermione snapped her arms and placed her hands around the Auror’s head expertly; she twisted his neck back quickly, hearing the sickening snap of the vertebrae separating from the spinal cord. The tall, wiry man dropped dead on the spot and she banished the body to one of her less-used flats for her to take care of later.

                Turning around, she saw a dim flash of light - emerald green and not incredibly difficult to determine what spell her “associate” had used - and she cringed. He used magic too much and he was going to get them caught before they even made it into the house. At least her maneuver went unnoticed in the dark. Sometimes, the muggle way was the most effective way, and he was unwilling to see that. She would have growled in frustration if the third guard wasn’t strolling towards her.

                Hermione flattened her back against the wall and waited for the wizard to...Oh, it was a witch. Well, that would be easy, wouldn’t it? Apparently, no.

                As the patrol-witch passed in front of her, Hermione reached out to snap the woman’s neck as well, but found her attempt blocked. The witch dropped to the ground in a crouch, jutting her leg out in a sweeping motion to knock Hermione off of her feet. Noticing the move, Hermione did a backflip, catching the witch’s chin and throwing the woman backwards as Hermione flipped and landed on her feet in a fighting stance. So far, no wands had been drawn, and Hermione was hoping to keep it that way. Flashy spellwork and the lights that followed would only alert other security guards of the fact that there were people on the grounds that weren’t supposed to be there. The last thing Hermione needed was for her location to be given away.

                The Auror stepped closer, swinging out a fist and finding air instead of an opponent’s face. Taking the opportunity, Hermione lunged and kicked out a foot, hitting the woman’s knee with enough force that she blew out the joint instantly. The Auror caught herself before she completely crumpled to the ground, hobbled on one leg and attempted another punch at Hermione’s face. She missed again, and Hermione fell back on her arms and caught the woman’s head between her thighs. Twisting in a jerking motion, the witch’s head snapped to the side and fell to the ground, dead. Hermione opened her legs and flipped backwards back to her feet again. A flick of her wand banished the woman’s body to join the male Auror that Hermione had taken down previously. Out of sight and out of mind for the moment.

                Wiping the sweat from her brow, Hermione slid along the wall until she could see Voldemort in the shadows, waiting for her. His pale skin stood out the closer she inched towards him. Sometimes, his otherworldly beauty took her breath away at the most inopportune moments. His eyes glittered with the adrenaline from killing a man, but he hadn’t even broken a sweat. What a show-off, Hermione grumbled as he smirked at her. Yes, a big show-off.

                “Are those the only guards walking the perimeter?” he asked, an amused tone lacing his words.

                She narrowed her eyes, even though she hadn’t lifted the Disillusionment Charm, and glared at him, “The only guards walking the wall. There are four Aurors securing the perimeter of the manor.”

                He disappeared under his own Concealment Charm, “Then get to it, mudblood. I do not have all night.”

                She glared at him a little while longer before she took off in a sprint across the dark grounds. Her objective was to slip into the house through a window in the library; the room was less likely to be checked during a guard patrol. Hopefully, her plans would go smoothly from this point onward. A tussle inside would make far more noise than on the grounds, and Hermione really didn’t want another bout of hand-to-hand combat with another Auror.

                Pulling out a more modern piece of weaponry from the holster at her lower back, Hermione screwed on a silencer and raised it with both hands, ready to aim and kill at a seconds notice. The metal of the gun felt ice-cold through her leather gloves and she realized that it was snowing. She breathed out through her nose, thankful that the past week had been warm enough to melt the blankets of snow on the grounds before tonight. She didn’t have to worry about her footprints in the snow, and that was an upside.

                “An’ Jimmy told his wifey there that it won’t none of ‘er business if he were out all night. Said she needed to get her pert arse in the kitchen an’ do the washin’,” a thickly built Auror barked out a laugh as he clapped his partner on the back. The younger wizard looked at his mentor nervously, wheezing out a chuckle as the wind was repeatedly knocked out of him. “Isn’t that ther the most hilarious thing yeh ev’r ‘eard, Albie?!”

                “Yea-yes, sir,” Albie answered.

                Hermione smirked. Aiming her gun, she squeezed the trigger gently and fired one shot into the larger Auror’s forehead. His brain matter flew out of the back of his head, and Albie did a double take as the beefy man fell to the ground and bled into the grass, mid-laugh. Moving the gun a swift three centimeters to the left, Hermione fired another shot and prided herself at the clean bullet-hole present between Albie’s eyes as the scrawny man fell to the ground the same way as his mentor - actually, the body fell on top of his mentor’s - and the man’s brain matter painted the stone wall of the manor in globs of blood and brains and skull fragments.

                A wave of her wand and it all disappeared. The bleeding bodies at her feet transfigured into inconspicuous pebbles that she tossed out into the grass before she continued to search for the library window.

                She encountered Voldemort on her search, but he had already taken care of the other two patrolling Aurors on the other side of the manor. Hermione let her fingertips graze against the large, french windows of the library as she looked for a loose hinge, but the windows were latched and sealed tight. Pulling out her wand, she cast a Silencing Charm on the windows before casting an Unlocking spell on the latch on the inside. The hook popped out of the clasp and the windows swung open towards her. The library was empty and Hermione lifted herself up and swung her legs over the windowsill. She landed on the hardwood floors inside the warm room, crouched down behind the desk in front of the windows, and leaned around the side of the desk to scan the room.

                Certain that they were alone, she stood and turned to pull Voldemort through, only to find him standing behind her. His hand covered her mouth before she could yelp, stifling the gasp that she experienced instead. Did he have to do that every time? He was going to give her palpitations! And he did it so silently - how the bloody hell was he able to do these things so silently?!

                She settled for glaring at his, once again, smirking face before she set off through the library, her eyes catching sight of some rare texts on the shelves. If she had the time, she would scour the library for any tomes she needed to add to her collection, but she had a job to complete - the Malfoys weren’t going to off themselves. She would have to come back before the Ministry swept through and disposed of any dark artifacts before the rest was put up for auction.

                Masking her frown, she sustained her Concealment Charm, feeling Voldemort’s presence directly behind her, and cracked the large mahogany doors open to peer out into the corridors. For the moment, the hall was empty; there were no signs of disillusioned Aurors or jolly party-guests traveling through. Hermione slipped through the small opening between the double doors and slinked off down the corridor, taking care to not make a sound with her light-weight shoes on the marble flooring. She kept close to the walls, feeling around the enormous paintings and wall-tapestries for any hidden doors or passages that were supposed to be there. At least, that was what the blueprints of the manor had indicated.

                Behind a tapestry of the Malfoy family tree, Hermione found a small, dented square that was pressed into the wall. A narrow archway materialized. There was a staircase ascending to the second floor in the East Wing. It was unlit, but a muttered Lumos allowed her enough light to see the steps before she tripped on them. She glided up as gracefully as she could, noticing that the Dark Lord behind her was managing grace easier than she with his billowy black robes, and she felt a twinge of jealousy. He was so God-like and she was just ordinary and plain. He floated more than walked; and she had to assume that he had more time during his life to perfect that air of entitlement and poise that he exuded so effortlessly. His nature was so ethereal at times and yet, so wrathful when something displeased him in any way. All in all, he was a beautiful and peculiar specimen to behold.

                He chuckled softly as they neared the top of the stairs, “I will take that as a compliment, mudblood.”

                She sniffed, “Take it as a compliment if you wish, since I don’t hand those out...ever. Nevertheless, don’t let it go to your ever-expanding head, my Lord.”

                “Offending your Master will not earn you a reward once you complete the task that I have given you,” he hissed into her ear, his front pressed firmly against her back. Her eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment before she shook off the rising arousal and answered with a curt, “Hmph!”

                Extinguishing the tip of her wand, Hermione peeled back the tapestry blocking the passageway and scanned the hallway with an invisible eye. Seeing two Aurors standing guard outside an elaborate bedroom door, she turned and grinned at Voldemort before pulling out a blow-dart from the depths of her overly-bushy ponytail. She withdrew two darts from her hair-tie and inserted one into the exhale end and eyed the distance between the first Auror and herself. With expert precision, Hermione took in a deep breath, pressed the blow-dart to her lips and blew out with force. The poisoned dart zoomed in a straight line towards the jugular of the short, blond wizard closest to her position. While the first dart flew towards its target, Hermione had already packed the second dart into the weapon and was aiming for the second, dark-skinned Auror.

                Seeing his partner grab at his throat and slump to the floor, the dark-skinned wizard withdrew his wand and threw up a shield, but it was of no use. Hermione’s second dart soared through the shield and sunk into its target’s neck, paralyzing him almost instantly. She scanned the corridor again before stepping out from her hiding place and taking cautious steps towards the guards on the floor. Pointing her wand at them, she bound their limbs with magical rope and banished them to the flat holding the bodies of the two other Aurors she needed to dispose of after she was done here. The paralytic would last four hours; it was plenty of time to complete her job.

                “How many types of weapons do you have hidden on your person, mudblood?” The Dark Lord breathed against her ear from behind. “Where do you hide them all?”

                “Wherever there is space to hide them,” answered Hermione, amused at his surprise.

                She turned and held a dainty finger to his lips, signifying silence before she began working on the wards on the bedroom doors. The room was just as heavily warded as the manor itself. In a short amount of time - knowing what she was working with now - Hermione created an opening that she enlarged to allow entry through the double doors. She could hear voices filtering through the doors, angry voices, and she knocked upon hearing a woman shriek her climax. Pulling a roll of twine and unwinding enough for a line, she stepped to the side as the door opened and a young, blond man with pointy features stepped outside.

                “What, Lawrenc-” he stopped, noticing that his guards were missing.

                Taking another tentative step out of his room, the young man wrapped in a robe of the finest, richest fabric looked up and down the hallway to find it empty. Seriously, how dimwitted was this family? And they were ruling the wizarding world with an iron fist? Hermione stretched the twine in front of her and lowered it over the blond’s head, catching his adam’s apple and pulling his back flush against her. His fingers grasped the thin, metal line cutting into his windpipe, but she had already tightened her grip and knew that the twine was already slicing into the skin. Maneuvering the young blond into the room, Hermione saw a nude, frightened woman on the bed who opened her mouth to start screaming.

                Aware that she was now visible, Hermione witnessed the Dark Lord sending a Silencing Charm over the woman - Astoria Malfoy nee Greengrass, the Malfoy heir’s wife - keeping the woman mute.

                The bedroom doors were shut, locked, and more heavily warded than before they had entered. Voldemort sneered at the snivelling blond woman on the bed before dispatching her quickly with a simple Killing Curse. He turned to Hermione and her struggling victim. Malfoy Junior was still kicking his legs out and scratching at his throat in an attempt to free himself. It only caused Hermione to pull the twine towards her more, securing the pure-blood as she forced him to walk towards the bed.

                He was almost an inch taller than she, platinum blond hair, slate-grey eyes, and a pale yet peachy complexion. He looked to be the same age as her, and his face was pinking from overexertion, but none of that mattered to her. She forced him to lay down on the bed next to his dead wife and put a secure knee onto his back to keep him from trying to throw her off. Removing the bloody twine from his neck, she pulled her wand out and cast a strong Imperio. The sensation settled upon her, that feeling of controlling a marionette that spread from the tip of her wand and outwards to her target.

                “Turn over on your back,” she ordered and watched the young Malfoy do as commanded. His eyes were glazed over and his face was unresponsive, but the rising of his chest and the fact that he obeyed confirmed that he was still alive. Withdrawing her pistol with the silencer attached, she held it out to the Imperio’d wizard and he took it willingly on her order. “Sit up and put the gun in your mouth.”

                He did so without blinking, a dazed smile on his face.

                “Pull the trigger,” ordered Hermione, and she did not cringe when the Malfoy heir obeyed. His mouth filled with air as the gun expelled a bullet through the open cavern, through the space behind his uvula, and discharged through the back of his head. The bullet flew out and imbedded itself into the headboard behind him, along with chunks of his brain, skull fragments, and globs of blood.

                She took the wizard’s wand from his nightstand and pointed it at the witch in the bed. Already dead, Hermione cast another Killing Curse at her; the emerald light illuminated the candlelit room before disappearing just as quickly. Placing the wand in Malfoy’s other hand and curling the fingers around the base, Hermione turned her back on the scene and left the bedroom. There was no need to take the gun back since it wasn’t even hers. Besides, the Aurors would need it for the investigation into the murder/suicide. As far as her intel told her, the wife of Draco Malfoy had been cheating on her husband for several months now, a likely motive for her murder and his subsequent blowing his brains all over the walls. And the only child of Lucius Malfoy liked to collect high-end muggle pistols in secret, apparently. She only had to lift the gun from his wall panel the last time she had followed Draco Malfoy to his estate in France; the naughty boy hid his hobby from his father very well. All in all, it was enough to cause any investigators to pause and scratch their heads in confusion. And that was the point of setting up such a befuddling scene.

                Gripping her wand in one hand and a new pistol with a silencer in the other, Hermione eyed the grinning Dark Lord next to her as they journeyed through the corridors of the East Wing of Malfoy Manor. They worked together in the shadows, in sync with the other’s movements as they incapacitated guards and guests alike - whoever crossed their paths - on their way to the West Wing, where Ministerial Ruler Lucius Malfoy and his wife resided. It seemed the closer Hermione and Voldemort got to the leader of the wizarding world, the more difficult it was to take down the Aurors. But eventually, their opponents fell and the bodies vanished, most likely creating a nice pile in the living room of her dusty, unused flat in London. And then the Dark Lord and his pet mudblood-assassin were back on track and closer to destroying Lucius Malfoy, and soon after, everything he had built in Voldemort’s previous image.

                “Do you feel that, too?” breathed Hermione, feeling the telltale tingle of Disillusioned people up ahead.

She looked to Voldemort, only to see him nod once. They tapped their wands on their heads and dissolved into invisible shimmers as they moved stealthily down the corridor. The concealed Aurors suddenly appeared, their Concealment Charms cancelled out by an unknown spell cast by Voldemort. Hermione used their moments of shocked pause and rushed up behind one, snapping his neck before any of the others could react. As her first victim fell to the ground with a dull thud, Hermione swept another’s legs out from under him and put a bullet through his temple.

The reaction to two fellow Aurors dropping dead in the span of twenty-three seconds caused a rush of shouts and yells from all the guards that were still alive. Shields were raised and curses were thrown down the corridor in her direction, but she was able to dodge them as she made quick work of giving each guard a swift death from whatever opening the guards gave her. No one checked behind them anymore; it was really too easy with wizards, sometimes.

When all of the Aurors lay crumpled on the floor, Hermione materialized near the shimmer of Voldemort before vanishing the bodies to the empty flat to be dealt with later. “Why don’t you stay cloaked in that charm until Lucius is secured? I’m sure he will be pleasantly surprised to see your handsome face. Seeing as how his father denied being your follower after you disappeared.” She smirked, “This should be quite fun.”

His shimmer chuckled, and a cool finger traced the line of her cheekbone before sliding over her lips. He withdrew his hand as he spoke, “You are quite amusing, my little mudblood.”

“You say that to all the mudbloods,” replied Hermione, taking down the wards on the bedroom doors completely, and under thirty minutes as well. It was her quickest time so far.

With her wand at the ready, she opened the doors enough to slide through and entered the room swiftly while Voldemort followed. It was dimly lit, but there was enough light to work with. The carpeting glittered around the edges, the silver-thread border standing out against the emerald-green lushness. The floor-length curtains were a darker shade of green; no border or metallic silver thread embroidered into the rich velvet material. Everything corresponded to everything else, complementing subtly or contrasting in an aesthetically pleasing manner. The bedroom doors closed and locked with a click while Hermione stood next to the bed, peering down at the slumbering form of Narcissa Malfoy nee Black. She was quite a beauty, and Hermione could see the witch’s son in her features. Yes, the Malfoy heir took after his mother, especially around the eyes and mouth. For a moment, Hermione wondered if the Malfoy bloodline had ever intermingled with veelas in past generations. The family of three were all so blond and beautifully pale. Perhaps the Blacks and Malfoys did have veela backgrounds at some point, but what did that matter, really? The son was dead, and his parents were soon to follow. Hermione’s jealousy at Narcissa and her angelic beauty and that perfectly straight hair was irrelevant.

Aiming her wand at the snoring man to Narcissa’s left, Hermione cast a Sleeping Charm, heavy enough to keep him in a dream-state until she brought him out of it. She slid the wand into her hair for the moment as she continued to gaze down at the breathtakingly beautiful woman in the bed. Taking a long blade out of a sheath strapped to her thigh, Hermione gripped it tightly as she raised her free hand and slapped the woman hard across the face, leaving a pink handprint on that flawlessly pale cheek.

Narcissa woke with a yelp, bringing an elegant and manicured hand to cup her stinging face. Her eyes widened at the sight of Hermione, the blade in her hand, and Narcissa screamed, throwing her arms up in defense. Hermione slashed the blade downward, slicing through her target’s supple flesh and feeling the hot blood spurt out to splatter against her face. The arms lowered and Narcissa turned towards her husband, giving Hermione the perfect opening - she took it.

“Your family is quite moronic, Narcissa,” Hermione said, her voice void of any emotion as she slashed the blade downward at an angle one last time, cutting through the woman’s carotid artery as though the skin were made of butter. The resultant spray of arterial blood coated Hermione’s face and throat in crimson; Narcissa Malfoy died in seconds, her blood drenched the mattress and pillows around her. “The Order of the Phoenix would have put up a better fight.”

“Turn around, Hermione,” Voldemort said from the end of the bed. His voice held uncontainable excitement, “Let me see you, carmine and oleaginous.”

There were a few candles floating around the room, enough to make the blood on her glisten as she turned and looked at him. His red eyes flickered with lust as he looked her up and down before motioning for her to come hither. She obeyed and crossed the distance, allowing him to reach out and drag her those last few centimeters until she was flush against him. His lips crushed hers in a bruising kiss and he licked her mouth before shoving his tongue between her teeth to overpower her own. His kiss was dominating and passionate and searing; everything that made him such an extraordinary lover and vicious Master.

She moaned into his mouth.

“You. Are. Beautiful,” he rasped between kissing her and pushing her backwards onto the bed. “I must have you, Hermione...right...now...”

He vanished their clothing and moved her further onto the bed, climbing up her body to hover above her. Blood was smeared over his mouth and chin, contrasting with his own pale skin and complementing his red, slitted eyes. He looked crazed in that moment, but so resplendent that Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. He nudged her knees open with his thighs and entered her swiftly, his mouth attacking her blood-slickened neck. He buried himself to the hilt and Hermione groaned at the feel of him filling her completely.

He pulled out and slammed back into her, thrusting against her cervix violently, over and over and over again. She moaned as he rolled his hips so his pelvic bone ground against her little bundle of nerves and his hand reached up to pinch and pull at her hardened nipple. He smeared the blood at her neck over his face even more as he attacked the sensitive spot just under her ear, biting and suckling before moving onward to her collarbone. It was individually hot and wrong to Hermione, how erotic this moment was, and how disgusted she should be by participating in such an act on a bed with a dead body. He swirled his hips as his pelvis met hers, and she found that she did not care. This was amazing; he was amazing, and a dead body didn’t care if Hermione was laying half on its legs being shagged two way from Sunday.

Another thrust, teeth grazing over her nipple, two more thrusts, a roll of his hips against her to massage her clit - oh yes, Hermione definitely did not care where she was or what she should be doing. Her surroundings melted into black and all that was left was him. The sensations that his body transferred to hers, the feel of his teeth biting down on her breast, the brutal and intense assault of his cock into her, and his free hand wrapping itself into her ponytail and yanking her head back; it all overloaded her nervous system. The experience was too much and she bucked underneath him, undulating to meet his thrusts and reveling in the sound that his bollocks made as they slapped against her bottom. He hissed in Parseltongue, growled and grunted against her slick skin, heightening her pleasure as he continued to bury himself inside of her deeply as possible.

She felt more alive than she ever had in her entire life. It was like Voldemort had awakened something inside of her; he had breathed a fire into her withered soul, given her one thing to cling to in life...Him. Voldemort was her lover, teacher, Lord and Master, and she found that she quite liked relinquishing the reigns to him. He was a cruel bastard, but he had shown a small glint of tenderness through his cold words that no one else had. Yes, he was a master at manipulation, a liar at times, a stone-cold murderer, but who was she to judge? She was exactly the same, only slightly less experienced. There was so much still to learn from him, and if she helped him regain control of the wizarding world, she would be given a safety she had yet to know. She would be allowed a freedom she had been denied for so long, and she would be allowed to do as she pleased once Dumbledore and his little Order were destroyed. Life would be better...

He slammed into her again, with more force than before, and he snarled against her cheek, “Come for me, Hermione...Scream for your Master!”

Her body clenched around him painfully and she screamed like she was told, “My Lord! Master, yes!”

“Mine,” grunted Voldemort, planting himself against her cervix and stilling as he emptied his bollocks into her. His mouth covered hers and they moaned in unison as they came down from their high. After a pause he collapsed on top of her, his breathing labored. “All...mine...”

“Yesss....all yours,” she replied breathily.

They lay there for a long while, catching their breath and listening to the loud pounding of their heartbeats slowing down to a normal pace. She could feel him softening inside of her before he pulled out and stood, cleaning himself with a flick of his wand and dressing himself with another wave. He stood there and gazed down at her with a closed-off expression before turning his attention to the slumbering Lucius and lifeless Narcissa next to Hermione. His look was calculating, like he was deciding on what form of death would best suit the blond pure-blood who dared to take Lord Voldemort’s place in history. When his sanguine and serpentine eyes narrowed, Hermione understood that whatever the Dark Lord had planned would not be a merciful and swift death.

“Stand and dress, Hermione,” he said, his tone slightly softer than what she expected. His eyes still held that coldness she knew too well. “You still have work to do, and I have a wizarding world to liberate.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

She stood and dressed on weak legs. Still covered in Narcissa’s blood, she grabbed her blade and wiped the cardinal-hued residue on the bed-sheets before sliding it back into its sheath. She pulled her wand from her hair and levitated Lucius Malfoy from his bed to a waiting chair near the dying fireplace. The wizard was secured into the overly stuffed chair with a whispered Incarcerous before Hermione cancelled her Sleeping Charm, bringing him to alertness quickly. She leaned against the bedpost as she watched the pompous aristocrat scan the room, his eyes falling on the horrific sight that was the bed and his bloodied wife carved up. The man stared in horror for what seemed like a long time before he looked at Hermione, venom in his eyes.

Before he could open his mouth, Hermione gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Good evening, Mr. Malfoy...I’m not sure we’ve met? I would assume you at least know of my Master...he’s quite a powerful wizard - the most powerful wizard in history, if I remember correctly...Everyone knows his name - Lord Voldemort - does that ring a bell?”

Lucius remained silent, but his eyes widened in fear as Voldemort stepped around the chair, moving to stand a few meters away, but just in the pure-blood’s line of sight. Hermione watched Malfoy tremble, his complexion growing so pale he looked gray and sickly. He gasped and blubbered, stammering apologies for his father’s error in judgement - begged for his life like a coward - all the while offering up the wizarding world on a silver platter like it would save his neck. It made Hermione question how weak the wealthy really were. The snobbish muggle politicians she had been given files on to eliminate had whined like Malfoy as well. The poor and less fortunate died with more dignity than this man was exhibiting. She decided that money gave a person power and standing, but it didn’t give the same person courage and dignity when facing Death. A waste of oxygen, in her opinion.

“Come here, my little mudblood,” called Voldemort, and Hermione obeyed. “You will use your blades first. Take care to keep him alive as you butcher his pretty skin...”

And her work began. She used her weapons as she was commanded, striking his flesh in ways that maximized pain but minimized fatality. She had never tortured a target before, and she found she did not like it. It was easier to fall into the quiet place in her head before she pulled the trigger of a gun and put a bullet between a person’s eyes; to set up a sniper rifle hundreds of meters away, wait for a clear shot, and watch through the scope as her victim’s head exploded and collapsed to the ground, dead. Listening to a victim beg her to stop, cry and scream for mercy was not her cup of tea, but she did it anyway because Voldemort told her to. It pleased him, so she tuned out Lucius Malfoy’s pleas until all she heard was the sound of Voldemort’s voice instructing her on what to do next.

It lasted for more than an hour before she was ordered to decapitate the butchered man. She did so quickly, feeling the man’s livelihood soak her almost completely in red before handing the head to her Master, wiping her utensils clean and sheathing them. With all the Malfoys dead, the wards crashed down around the property, allowing Hermione and Voldemort to disapparate away from the master bedroom to the security of her own heavily warded fortress. The moment they arrived, Voldemort set aside the head of Lucius Malfoy - a Stasis Charm placed on it to prevent decay - and claimed her body several times that night. The Dark Lord’s victory would arrive expeditiously the following day, and Hermione would begin luring Dumbledore and his Order out into the open for a massacre of historical proportions. It had already been promised to her: Dumbledore and his little bloodhound, Snape, were off limits to everyone but her. She would take a small pleasure in taking them out.

Life would be better...Or, at least, better for Hermione Granger.

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Fin.
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The Assassin