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Taking His Mark	By : Nerys Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 719 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter JK Rowling does and I make no money from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Taking His Mark
- 1
Taking His Mark

There was a hushed murmur running through the masked crowd when she entered the Great Hall of Hogwarts, opening both of the doors all the way with a push of her magic, her head held high. The hood of her black robes hung on her back, completely covered by her unmistakably wild, brown curls. The mask he'd provided her with was in her hand. She wanted all of them to know she was here, a Mudblood in their midst, and proud of it. She wasn't going to hide in the shadows like a coward for this ceremony.

Even though Lord Voldemort had his expressions firmly under control, she could tell from the minute quirk of his lipless mouth and the glint in those red eyes that he approved of her choice even —dare she hope— relished it. He was on a slight elevation and appeared to be lounging in what used to be the Headmaster’s chair. It was a hardback, uncomfortable wood contraption, so undoubtedly he’d used a Cushioning Charm or something else with the way he leaned sideways, his legs crossed at the ankles, those pale feet sticking out against his pitchblack robes. She wondered if that chair had always been so small or if it was just his presence in it.

To Hermione, he was a sight for sore eyes in a sea of hate; his snakelike features no longer frightened but intrigued her. She’d bothered him with a thousand questions on how his physique had changed, but he’d merely grinned at her, showing off those pointed white teeth deliberately, and told her to inform him once she’d figured it out.

She still hadn’t.

Apart from the change in his eyes, which had been rather obvious if you asked her, every theory she’d suggested had been met with nothing more than a resounding ‘No.’ on his end.

He could be terribly frustrating at times.

However, she did love to research, so she hadn’t given up. There was a lot more magic she hadn’t studied. Somewhere there would be a book or a scroll with an answer. She knew it. Besides, giving up would mean admitting defeat to him. She wasn’t ready to do that.

Yet.

The gloating alone would be positively horrendous to stomach.

During their private meetings, she'd come to realise he enjoyed the things about her that others had told her to tone down. They'd told her to change, to be less present, less loud, less abrasive, just less her. Make yourself invisible, be nice, caring, social, helpful, kind.

All the things she was not.

Be of service so others could have their moment in the sun. It irritated her, grated on her nerves, and made her want to lash out at those nearest and dearest.

Voldemort didn't mind when she gave her opinions rather bluntly. He enjoyed her instant rush to books for answers when faced with a problem. He laughed when she was crass, loud or unkind. His eyes glinted in mirth, not horror, when he found out what she’d done to Skeeter, Umbridge and Marietta. They had it coming, she’d said.

He’d agreed.

She didn’t have to make herself smaller for him or tone down her intellect or magical abilities. She could be a capable witch without worrying he’d think she was showing off or that he would tell her to stop trying to be such an overachiever. He never called her a bossy know-it-all. He wasn’t that easily threatened by someone else, someone with a mind of their own. He accepted her for who she was and what she was, a Mudblood.

Muggleborn, she’d corrected immediately, bringing out a devious grin that looked positively terrifying on his snakelike features to any outsider.

She'd come to love what that grin would lead to.

Mudblood, he’d countered at once.

It had turned into quite a fight, which ended in him fucking her on every surface of the room and making her cry out his name while he called her Mudblood upon every climax he granted her. The word had become quite a different kind of trigger for her now.

That was what Voldemort did. He had a way of turning her world upside down, making her question right from wrong and countering her beliefs, but he was never dismissive, never told her to just shut up already or stop reading so many books. She knew she wasn't above his manipulations —she could tell when he tried playing her— but she'd come to prefer his machinations over the Ministry's dismissiveness of her abilities or the belittling concern for her wellbeing of the Order. He treated her like the competent adult she was, not the child she had been. Even when he didn't agree with her, he took her suggestions seriously. She felt valued by him.

So, here she was, in the viper's pit.

It was strange being at Hogwarts again as an adult, especially the way it was now, his domain instead of the school it once was. The Order of the Phoenix and Ministry for Magic held London, but he’d swooped in during a summer vacation and took over Hogwarts a year after Dumbledore’s death. He’d made it his headquarters, his home. They hadn't been able to make as much as a scratch on his improved wards.

Hermione knew he was determined to draw out every last bit of ancient magic, every secret the castle held, and make it his. He could talk for hours about every magical theory known to wizardkind. She loved that about him. His knowledge was like a drug to her.

She wanted it.

She wanted to learn everything he knew.

She wanted to open that bald skull of his and rummage through his brain to see what made him tick.

He was magnificent, an out-of-the-box thinker, unlike her. She was very much a by-the-book practitioner. It cost her when he seemingly came up with solutions to problems in manners that were contradictory to everything she knew and had learned. He mixed and matched totally unrelated subjects and took a sadistic pleasure in proving her wrong. The way his red eyes would shine when they had a discussion mesmerised her. She grew under his tutelage, learned to question the status quo and eventually realised she didn’t belong in the Order anymore.

She didn’t want to work in her menial, administrative job at the Ministry for the rest of her life. Their thinking was rigid, their solutions restrictive. She very much hated his blood purity views and found it ridiculous that someone as smart as him believed that baloney, but there was something about the way he treated her that made her wonder. A true purist would’ve tortured and killed her the moment they’d met, not debate the finer points of Arithmancy Theorems with her. Once she was in, she’d prove them all wrong. All that bigotry had to be dismantled from the inside out.

Besides, it wasn’t like the Order or the Ministry didn’t hold the same damn views. They were just more backhanded about it, sneaky. They would never call her Mudblood to her face as he did, but they held her back just the same. She would be passed over for promotion at work for some dumb ass who had the right wizarding ancestry. They were fine with her being Ron’s girlfriend, but when he got older, they wanted him to move to more appropriate witches—those who were fine with being stay-at-home witches like his mother, which was just another word for who had the right blood without saying it outright. Ron was very susceptible to his mother’s suggestions, and eventually, their relationship hadn’t survived.

When Harry and Ginny eloped, Hermione was the only witness to their wedding. It was a tearful goodbye as they fled the country, not wanting to be pawns to the Order and the Ministry in a war, but live a life in quiet solitude. They’d wanted her to come, too, but she’d rather not be the third wheel on their wagon.

Besides, her life was here in the United Kingdom. She wanted to change things. Free people of ridiculous, outdated norms. Abolish the abomination that was house-elf slavery. Acknowledge creature rights. Integrate wizards and witches into Muggle society. Learn from each other. Update wizarding schooling with science and methodology. Improve the Wolfsbane Potion to a cure. There was so much; she could keep going forever.

Harry and Ginny had understood. They still exchanged owls regularly. They would occasionally check up on her parents for her whenever Ginny visited Sydney with her Quidditch team, the Melbourne Dropbears. She’d been made the godmother to their firstborn son, James, and it had been a delight for her to see Harry so happy and carefree. He now worked as a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at the Melbourne Magic Academy. Last she heard Ginny was pregnant again, probably to the despair of her coach. It had been partly how she’d been able to convince Voldemort Harry wasn’t a threat anymore, and because of that, she felt certain about the choice she was making now.

The Death Eaters parted ways for her as she started her approach to the dias. Their disbelief and barely veiled hostility felt like a balm on her soul.

Yes, I'm here. Deal with it.

If you dare.

She stopped right before the steps to his raised seat and lowered herself on folded legs, sitting on her heels, looking straight at that all-knowing gaze as she presented her wand to him on the floor before her. His eyes roamed over her perfect posture, making her thighs clench in reflex, before his attention went over her head to the crowd, ushering in their silence without a single word before returning his focus to her.

'Hermione Jean Granger,' he said barely above a whisper but his voice carried to the farthest corners of the large area. 'You come before me, exposed, your hood off and unmasked.'

'You've offered me the prestige of joining your elite rank. I wouldn't dream of dishonouring such a privilege by hiding my identity, my Lord.’

There was a small ruffle of unease going through the masked Death Eaters at her bold declarative put down. It was obvious to her that amused Voldemort, so she continued,

‘My allegiance to you is not a secret to be hidden in the dark. Not from the Ministry, not from the Order, not from anyone. I'm not ashamed of it but proud. Proud I'm yours.’ At that, she bowed her head before him in supplication, her curls tickling her face in a rather irritating manner while she reverently added, ‘My Lord.’

Her wand vanished as was common procedure in this ceremony. It signified his acceptance of her offering, a symbol of her power submitting to him. She heard him rise from his seat; his power suddenly unleashed, weaving through the Great Hall. Hermione closed her eyes, savouring the way it caressed her. Behind her, everyone fell to their knees—some with a cry of pain. She wondered briefly why, but didn't care enough to check what had happened. She just wanted to bathe in his power, his dominion. She was here for him, to hell with everyone else. She rejoiced in the delight he gave her.

He stopped before her, his robes brushing against her head. As he squatted down, his hand fell on her exposed neck. She shuddered at the touch of skin on skin.

‘So responsive, my little Mudblood,’ he said softly.

She didn't speak. A reply wasn't required or wanted. She knew him well enough to know those words weren't for her; they were for his followers, especially those who might object to her presence.

‘You have no shame when you prostrate yourself before me and are more willing to do my bidding than anyone else in this room.’

That erupted a chorus of denials and ‘my Lords’ in the room to which Voldemort laughed coldly in response. Masks and hoods were pulled off demonstratively as they all claimed their unwavering support and loyalty. As they each claimed they were more devoted to him than the next guy. It was rather revolting to Hermione. If she could detect the false notes, the fake praise, the immense fear, then so would Lord Voldemort.

Who did they think they were kidding?

The hand on her neck slipped to her chin, lifting it. There was an intensity in his gaze unlike ever before, a warning and trust mixed in equal quantities—his confidence in her abilities took her breath away and had been the deciding factor that made her change sides.

But now he was going to ask her something they hadn’t discussed; he was going to ask her something he figured she would be reluctant to do.

She’d prove him wrong. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him. There was nothing he could ask that would be too much.

‘You acknowledged your place honourably, but will you shed your last veil for your Lord and Master as is his wish?’

Her last veil?

‘Show everyone you’re mine all the way, Hermione.’

Her first name felt like a lustful sin coming from his mouth in this manner.

Her face burned when that made her realise what he meant, what he desired of her. And she knew that now that he’d voiced it out loud, there was no turning back. If she refused, he would’ve no choice but to force her and that would ruin everything she’d done so far. That would ruin the place she desired at his side.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

If everything so far had been an elaborate lie on his end, she was fucked no matter what she did and better to know fast than draw out that embarrassing possibility. If it hadn’t been an act, if he truly wanted her, then she found safety in the knowledge that Lord Voldemort didn’t share his toys. She swallowed away the lump that had formed in her throat, steeled herself and pulled off her robes in one swift move, letting them pool around her legs, not looking at anyone else but him. It was empowering to be under his scrutiny. His approval washed away her brief embarrassment and uncertainty.

Now she felt like two could play this game.

Teasingly slow, she pulled down one bra strap, then the other, before fiddling with the hooks behind her back and allowing her breasts to spill free from their confinement. His slitted pupils had blown to ovals as he took in her deliberate actions. She kicked off her shoes with her toes before looking down at her knickers, glad she had foregone a pantyhose, knowing how much he loathed them. She raised her buttocks a tiny bit to slip her knickers down, keeping eye contact with him all the way through, and when they were at her knees, she had to wiggle to get them all the way off in order to keep her kneeling position. She felt utterly ridiculous doing so and her body flushed in exertion, but she knew she wasn’t supposed to get up before he’d marked her, and he had her wand so she couldn’t just vanish them. Ceremonial traditions were key that she wasn’t allowed to divert from. He’d instilled that knowledge upon her in a most adamant way.

When she was finally completely naked, she said, ‘I serve solely at your pleasure, my Lord,’ before bowing her head in supplication again.

‘Look at her,’ he ordered, pride filling his voice as he strolled around her. ‘Look at how a Mudblood honours me like no other, like none of you have seen fit to do during your initiation. A witch with no pedigree knows better what’s required of Dark Arts rituals than all you purebloods put together.’

Ouch.

Voldemort sure knew how to hit them where it hurt. Once more the ‘My Lords” and declarations of eternal service echoed through the room and had her strain to hold back her laughter. Luckily her hair was a great curtain to hide her feelings behind.

Apparently, Lord Voldemort’s followers didn’t like to be seen as dishonourable, less worthy or unknowledgeable compared to a Mudblood. They likely also feared his wrath since no one outright voiced their disagreement to his statement of her superiority or her presence here, worrying that if they didn’t proclaim loudly they lived to serve only him, they’d be made an example of: cast out, tortured and killed.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Voldemort said, holding up his hands to stop the continuous announcements of servitude. ‘I know you’re all my loyal Death Eaters, and together we will build a brand new wizarding society where all magic is free and unhindered by bureaucratic nonsense, where the Dark Arts are allowed to not only exist but thrive.’

She could feel the excitement of the crowd rising as his speech progressed and his magic inflamed everyone. She wouldn’t say she was unaffected even though some of his statements had her roll her eyes. He could really get carried away when he was talking about his favourite subject, but this wasn’t the time nor the place to rip him a new one. She would’ve to wait till after. The titillating brush of his robes against her naked back as he passed by had her shiver, and if she could’ve seen his otherworldly face, she knew it would sport that obnoxious smirk at her receptive reaction to him. He stopped in front of her, holding out one pale, long-fingered spidery hand.

‘My susceptive, obedient, little Mudblood, rise.’

Confused, Hermione frowned. This wasn’t what he’d told her would happen.

However, she wasn’t about to scold him for breaking procedure so she took his hand and rose on her bare feet, looking into his eyes for guidance. His small smile was enough of a reassurance. She simply followed his lead as he turned her around, pulling her back against his front with one arm around her waist. His arousal pressed ever so evident in her back. The crowd was fully on their knees. Some had also taken off their clothes, she noted, as if announcing they were just as worthy, just as eager.

All their eyes were on her and Voldemort. It wasn’t just her body that was laid bare, put on display. It was her soul, she realised, her obvious magical connection to him. By showing her off like this, he established not only his dominance over her, but also her dominance over them, her superiority. That wasn’t something she’d expected him to do at her initiation already. Perhaps he hadn’t planned it either, but her actions had triggered it.

He flicked his wrist, materialising his wand in his hand. He stroked the side of her face with its tip, electrifying her senses to a heightened state. She moaned, leaning her head back against his chest and closing her eyes. His wand travelled farther down the side of her body, igniting her magic and sex. She didn’t care anymore that everyone could see her. She wanted them to see. She wanted them to acknowledge what he was doing to her and only her.

His wand slipped between her folds. She was already wet there but the stroke of his magic had her nearly come undone.

‘So ready for her Master, my perfect witch,’ he breathed into her ear, pulling her down with him into the large, plush chair he’d conjured behind them. ‘Show them.’

Excited, she placed her legs over the armrests of the chair, giving everyone a spectacular view of her glistening cunt.

‘This,’ he said, gesturing over her body, ‘is a true testament to the power a fully comprehensive immersion into the Dark Arts can behold. Watch and learn, my devoted Death Eaters, how a powerful witch can cleanse herself of her unfortunate pedigree and be born anew.’

On that note, his cock entered her roughly while his wand flashed. Her clit felt like it exploded, her orgasm rushing through her from head to toe. Her whole body sang, attuned to his thrusts, his magical stimulation, the darkness he provided her with. She felt like she would never come down, like she would soar forever. His mark burned itself into her skin, the pain enhancing her ecstasy. He rode her higher and higher on that wave of seemingly never ending delight. Her magic exploded; painfilled grunts filled the Great Hall. His laugh rolled around her with a wild happiness.

‘That’s it, my Mudblood. Show them the power you hold.’

She had no idea what he was babbling about and she didn’t care as long as he kept thrusting his cock inside of her. She didn’t want this feeling to ever stop. She was on top of the world.

‘Show them what power you gave me,’ he added, pushing one more time inside of her and unleashing his load.

She followed when his nimble fingers magically stimulated her clit, screaming out his name.

Strangely exhausted, she lay in his arms. There was nothing but quietness and tranquility as she came down from her high. The room had gone completely silent. Everyone stared at her in shock and some even exhibited signs of fear. That was when she noticed her arms were surprisingly blank. She was certain he’d marked her. She was certain she’d felt that magic in the moment.

For a brief moment, disappointment and confusion made its way through her until she realised her chest burned ever so slightly. Dropping her head to see, she witnessed he’d placed his mark there, but it was different from the others. The dark skull was in the middle of her chest and three snakes left its mouth. One curled down over her belly to her sex. The other two circled her breasts before disappearing behind her back, whirling over her shoulders and clearly going up her neck. Her fingers touched her throat, feeling the tattoo underneath come to life. The gasps, corresponding clutching of arms, and choruses of ‘my Lady’ in the room had her looking up to Voldemort in surprise.

He winked at her before breathing into her ear,

‘My most loyal, my Hermione, my Lady.’

The End.

Author’s Note:

With thanks to LadyMiya and everyone at the SQ discord for reinvigorating my desire to write for this ship. I may also have a shocking surprise next week for y’all. ;)
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Taking His Mark