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My Own Personal Hell	By : dweek Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 6431 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-My Own Personal Hell
- 1
A/N- I would like to thank Eclectic Pet my awesomely awesome beta for helping me to revise this drabble! It is a short little thing that I wrote for a Voldmione challenge. It made me giggle and I am thinking of somewhere down the line expanding on it.

She was the cruelest and most evil witch he knew. He laughed at the idea that she was considered a beacon of light by others in the wizarding world. He knew better. She was pure evil, pure dark, sometimes he wondered if she was darker than even him. On days like today he was sure she must be.
“I don’t really think I should mis my treatment today.” He called from the room as he fixed his dress robes. “Maybe we should skip the reception.” He added almost sounding hopeful.
“We both know your treatments aren’t doing a thing.” She reminded him bluntly as she walks into the room.
“They are required under the terms of my freedom.” He countered as if that would get him out of the day she had planned.
“Darling, don’t worry, I got special permission.” Hermione said with an evil glint in her eye as she rested her hand on his shoulder. “Your Healer thinks this will be good for you. To show how much progress you have made.” She added in a fake sweet tone.
“How much progress will I show if I kill the groom?” He asked and the first smile of the day graced Voldemort’s almost invisible lips.
“You look nice.” She ignored the threat and ran her hand down his arm.
For the first time that day he actually looked at his wife in the reflection of the mirror he stood in front of. She wore a powder blood cocktail dress and a single string of pearls. She had decided to tame her mass of curls that he had grown to enjoy over their life together. He resisted the urge to yank it out of its neat twist and show her she shouldn’t displease him in even these small ways. He decided he would wait till they got home for that.
“You look plain.” He responded and turned her chin up, sticking his non existent nose in the air.
“You’re upset about the hair.” She said reading him in the infuriating way she could always do now that they were married.
“I am upset that you are forcing me to go to this thing.” He countered and schooled his features so he wouldn’t give anything else away.
“It isn’t a thing its a wedding. My best friend's wedding.” She said in a warning tone. “You will be nice or I will use the stone.” She threatened seriously.
He looked down at his witch as his eyes narrowed into slits. “I can only promise not to kill anyone.” He told her stiffly.
“That is it.” She snapped and ran her finger over a small gem that was imbedded in her wrist. “It is staying on for the wedding and the reception. So there is no point to even bringing your wand.” She told him and turned on her heels.
“What if we are attacked!” He hissed as he followed her out of the bedroom. He didn’t like the feel of his magic being suppressed.
“Then there will be about fifty Aurors to protect you.” She quipped.
“They are the most likely ones to attack!” Voldemort pointed out as they headed down to the first floor.

Hell. That is where he was: hell. Not only had she forced him to sit in the front row at the wedding between her father and an even more disgusting sweaty muggle. He was now sitting at the same table with the family of the bride and groom. He had absolutely no doubts she was the most evil witch he had ever met in his life. Usually this fact made him wish to brutally bed her and made her scream his name. At the moment he wanted her screaming for a completely different reason.
He watched silently as she chatted with the redhead brood of Weasleys and glanced to the three muggles at the table. She was distracted at the moment so he briefly fantasized about taking the steak knife and gutting the fat one who had dared to sweat on him during the ritual.
When his head twitched towards the knife it disappeared from the table, glancing up to his wife he scowled, but she seemed very pleased with herself.
“What is wrong with your face?” The one sitting next to him finally asked, he had been staring since they had all sat down.
This one was the youngest of the three muggles and had a stocky yet muscular build. Voldemort didn’t know if he could stab him with the fork and get away with it without his magic. Physically they seemed to at least be a match, and the boy did have youth on him.
“There is nothing wrong with my face.” Voldemort answered with a sneer. Why was it even talking to him?
“You almost look like a snake.” The muggle then turned to the fate one next to him. “Doesn’t he remind you of a snake?”
“Dudley you made us come to this thing, but we are not looking at some freak show.” The older one snapped and poignantly turned away from looking at Voldemort.
“Dad doesn’t like wizards.” The one he knew now was called Dudley said. “But Harry is my cousin and he has done a lot for us.” The young man said firmly.
“It would have been better of him if he did not allow his best friend to bring her muggle hating husband to this celebration.” The dark wizard answered as he worked to scare the thing from talking to him any longer.
“Muggle? Oh yeah that is what wizards call non wizards right?” He said as if it took greta concentration for him to figure this simple fact out. “Can you point out this guy to me? So I can avoid him?” He asked a moment later.
Voldemort hissed under his breath and his hand twitched towards the fork, if he stabbed it in deep enough the muggle couldn’t put up a struggle. As his hand slowly moved towards the cutlery he looked to his wife out of the corner of his eye to see if she was paying attention. She looked to be engrossed in her conversation, but as his hand was about to settle on the firk it disappeared as well.
“Is it that guy, he looks shady?” The muggle nudged his arm to get his attention then pointed towards some wizard Voldemort did not know.
“How much longer?” He leaned over and hissed in his wife’s ear. “It’s touching me.”
“A few hours.” She answered in a distracted tone. “Be nice.”
Hell. This had to be hell.
- 1
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My Own Personal Hell