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Two Steps From Hell	By : Ssserpensssotia Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 30378 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. No profit is being made. No copyright infringement is intended. Everything Harry Potter related belongs to J.K.Rowling.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
Kelli, thank you so much! Here I have FOUR new chapters ;)
Beta: Serpent In Red
Please review!
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Two Steps From Hell
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Chapter Eleven
"Tell me, Avery, are you colorblind or you have missed my attention for way too long, hm?"
The prostrate figure of Caius Avery lay before his feet, and Voldemort suppressed the urge to just kick him in his stupid face. Casting a disgusted glance at the offending fluffy blue carpet, the yellow drapes, and the moss green sofa, Voldemort gritted his teeth.
When he had told Avery to supervise the reconstruction of his new home, he didn't mean that Avery could paint his manor with all the colors of rainbow. If he'd wanted eye-twitching decoration, he would have given the task to the Malfoys.
Was he the Dark Lord or was he Dumbledore?
"Crucio!"
Through the screams of the now—once again—thrashing figure of his Death Eater, the Dark Lord heard a pop of Apparition.
So plebian.
Voldemort preferred to Apparate quietly, without making any pop sounds, without letting the others know that he had arrived.
He wasn't an ice-cream truck that made sounds before approaching.
Lifting the curse from the now quiet Avery, the Dark Lord looked at the bowing blond head of Lucius Malfoy.
"Yes, Luciusss," he intoned almost lazily, enjoying the flinch by the Malfoy Patriarch.
Lucius—despite his new position as the Minister of Magic—was still not forgiven for his failures, and it pleased Voldemort that Malfoy had not forgotten this simple fact.
One failure from him and all three Malfoys would join their ancestors—a very simple and elegant solution if he wanted to make sure no mistakes happened in the future.
"My Lord—" Lucius lifted his head from the floor—where it belonged—and took a deep breath—like his little Mudblood did so often—before quickly voicing the reason for his presence. "It is done, my Lord." Malfoy's voice sounded proud and even a bit boasting, but it was very respectful and very procumbent.
"Is it really?"
Well, it looked like the Malfoys would be able to produce more arrogant blonds in the future, if what Lucius was telling him was correct.
If not …
"Yes, my Lord. We are ready and waiting for your command," Lucius said in an almost relieved tone, looking him in the eyes.
Well, it looked like his house decoration would have to wait for another time.
Getting up from his throne-like chair and carelessly stepping over Avery's drooling figure on the floor, Lord Voldemort walked over to the windows that offered a gorgeous view of the gardens around the manor.
While the Dark Lord didn't feel any need to have a home—his only home had always been Hogwarts—he was still a Dark Lord and he definitely wasn't homeless.
Like his amusing little Mudblood thought on a few occasions.
He could have thrown all the Malfoys—with their pink fluffy carpets and huge golden mirrors—out of the manor and claim it for himself—who would stop him?—but it would still be Malfoy Manor.
And he wanted something as magnificent as he was to represent his home.
That was why as soon as he had full control over Gringotts and the goblins—sneaky little shits—Voldemort opened the secured files—that should have been his from the very beginning—and found what he had been looking for.
Slytherin Manor.
A thousand years weren't very sparing to the furniture and the overall appearance, but the magical wards that only the Heir of Slytherin could control had held the enormous manor in an otherwise almost perfect condition.
Six months after he had won the war—it didn't even start, if he were to be honest with himself—Voldemort had a perfect home all for himself.
Maybe he would let the Mudblood decorate it?
She couldn't be worse than Avery, could she?
Looking at his reflection in the windows, the corner of Voldemort's mouth twitched as he imagined his little Mudblood's reaction.
Wouldn't that be hilarious?
Pushing the thoughts about one curious little Mudblood aside, Voldemort stopped before Lucius and, taking his wand out, he activated the Dark Mark.
It was time.
No more mistakes.
xxx
Hermione suppressed the urge to just smack this arrogant chit in the face.
Here she was, standing like an idiot in a fully-crowded hall, listening to this arrogant woman viciously lash on her.
"If you aren't aware, Granger—" The bitch actually sneered at her last name. "—today is the final show. We're sold out."
Holding her temper in an iron grip—months in Voldemort's company did wonders to one's control—Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and sneered back.
"If you're not aware, I had pre-booked the ticket and I want to get it. Now."
Hermione inwardly clicked her tongue in disappointment—when Voldemort spoke in such tone, it sounded much better.
And much more efficient.
"No tickets for the Mudblood," a rough voice barked from behind her and the crowd leered.
"Dirty beggars not welcomed in Paris!" A heavily-accented voice bleated from the crowd, adding his two cents, making Hermione's blood boil with anger and the blond receptionist's smile turned even nastier than before.
If it were possible.
"You heard the gentlemen." The receptionist blinked her stupid eyes at Hermione before gesturing towards the door. "You may take your leave now. Don't stand in the way of your superiors."
The nasal voice was grating on Hermione's nerves, and the arrogant smirk on the stupid face didn't help matters.
Holding her chin up and refusing to allow angry tears to cascade down her cheeks, Hermione roughly yanked her pre-booking confirmation from the blonde's manicured fingers and walked towards the exit, trying not to pay attention to the laughter behind her.
Some of the onlookers whispered to one another in French, all the while pointing at Hermione.
Bastards!
Opening the door, Hermione gritted her teeth, and for a second—a tiny second—she thought about what Voldemort would do if she told him.
Would he also laugh at her?
She didn't think so.
Calling herself stupid for even thinking about it, Hermione cast one last glance at the huge poster of 'The Duel. The final show!' before Apparating away.
There was nothing she could do.
xxx
Sitting in her spacious red chair with her feet tucked under her, Hermione opened a bottle of wine.
Ginny couldn't come as she was at Hogwarts, and Harry was once again busy with Lupin and George doing Merlin knows what—they didn't share that piece of information—and Hermione found herself alone in her beloved apartment with a bottle of wine as her only companion.
There was nothing new happening with Ron still in coma and the British magical community fully under the Dark Lord's control. It wasn't as bad as Hermione had expected, but she preferred not to voice her opinion when Molly was around. Or Harry.
Cleo—her owl—was flying somewhere in the evening skies and Hermione had no one to talk to.
Even Voldemort wasn't answering her Portkey activations.
Turning the radio on, Hermione sipped her wine and thought about the show she would miss.
The Duel was a magical show where the duelists performed on a huge platform in the middle of an even bigger stadium that was built like the Roman Coliseum and could fit up to twenty thousand people.
While The Duel had nothing to do with the Dark Arts, it was mostly the pure-bloods and the Dark Arts fanatics from all over the world that cheered almost daily on the tribunes.
There were no restrictions and no rules; a transparent barrier separated the crowds from the platform and two huge screens hung in the air, showing the duelists.
While Hermione had first attended because it was mandatory for all Illuminus students to see the quality dueling at least once, she later went all by herself because it was fascinating.
She had so much to learn!
The tournament was supervised and financed by the British government as the French Ministry of Magic did not have the time nor the money to deal with something of such magnitude. Dark wizards were demanding the same rights that the British now held—with Voldemort in charge, no magic was prohibited, and wizards who dabbled in the Dark Arts didn't have to hide anymore. They were the power.
The only thing the French Ministry asked for was that the finale of The Duel to be held in Paris, at the main stadium.
Hermione had so far attended five shows—three in Venice, one in France, and one in Germany—and today was the finale where Aurelius Girard—the best dueler!—would perform.
Aurelius Magenta—for his love of magenta colored robes—was a pure-blood Dark Arts Master who had finished Illuminus ten years ago. He was brilliant with his spells, and there were rumors that Aurelius Magenta was planning to become a Dark Lord in France, where the Ministry could not control the Dark Arts enthusiasts anymore and there was chaos in the magical part.
Hermione didn't know if to believe the newspapers, but the agitation had been big.
And she couldn't even see it!
Gulping her wine, Hermione rubbed her tired eyes.
It was December already, and in the last six months, she had read and done more than she had during her whole life.
The Charms, Transfiguration, and Arithmancy tests were completed, and Hermione could only hope she had done well.
She gave it her all, but she still wasn't sure how she had performed.
I'll find out from Voldemort soon, Hermione pondered with unease as she thought about the Dark Lord.
What was he doing anyway?
xxx
There was a knock on her door.
A neighbor? Hermione thought as she lifted herself from the chair and a bit dizzily limped towards the door.
He wouldn't knock.
The greeting froze in her throat when Hermione saw who was on the other side of the door.
What was she doing here?
"Miss Granger." Narcissa's cold smile did not reach her blue eyes. "The Dark Lord sends me," she continued when Hermione made no move to let her in.
That's something new, Hermione thought with unease, but if Narcissa wasn't lying—and Hermione could feel that the proud pureblood wasn't here on her own will—then Voldemort really did send her.
"Why didn't he come himself?" Hermione asked the blond witch, refusing to let her in just like that.
Narcissa's incredulous expression told Hermione just how stupid her question sounded.
"I think the Dark Lord has matters more important than to visit you on such a simple matter," Mrs. Malfoy drawled—like all Malfoys did—before shoving a letter into Hermione's hands.
"Let me in, Miss Granger."
Hermione opened the letter and "Do as she says" was written in Voldemort's unmistakable handwriting.
With a heavy sigh, Hermione made a grimace before slowly, but firmly, nodded her head in greeting before letting the person in.
"Mrs. Malfoy."
xxx
Narcissa Malfoy stayed only for a short time, informing her that the Dark Lord would be attending The Duel today, and that she, Hermione Granger, would be going with him.
Apparently, Dark Lords also liked such blood-thirsty shows and even Voldemort would be present for the finale.
Hermione did not need her yet-unattained Mind Arts knowledge to know just how pissed the proud pure-blood was at being treated as delivery and make-up service, and Hermione had to suppress the smile that itched to bloom on her face as she watched Narcissa pamper her.
She had had enough pure-blood shit for today!
Narcissa had also brought her new robes and two house-elves to help her with her appearance, but Hermione didn't appreciate being treated like a dress-doll.
While Hermione wanted to be stubborn and argue, there was not much time left and the letter with a cursive hand-writing was still clutched in her hand.
She had no choice; she was Voldemort's official ward.
Even so, Narcissa had to remind Hermione twice that what Dark Lord demanded was to be done without any questions asked. She told her that one did not go out with Lord Voldemort looking like riffraff.
And Hermione understood that if she looked anything else but perfect today, not only she would suffer for it, but foremost, it would be Narcissa herself.
That was the only reason Hermione could come up with as to why the older witch was all business with her.
So far, Hermione had seen Lucius Malfoy twice and Rabastan Lestrange once—no other Death Eaters disturbed the Dark Lord while she was studying in his presence. And they both had nodded their heads towards her in greeting, without saying a word.
Hermione did not know what Voldemort had told his Death Eaters, but whatever it was, it made them behave around her.
She wasn't a riffraff, and her old clothes were of the best quality, but she had to admit she liked what she saw in the mirror now.
Twirling her now smooth locks around her fingers, Hermione looked over her reflection one more time.
She felt so pretty!
The warm-green robes with silver linings fit her perfectly, the hood of her airy aubergine cloak was spacious but light, and the knee-high leather boots were soft brown in color; her long brown hair was smooth and shiny and the bit of make-up lit up her face.
After Narcissa Malfoy told her that Voldemort was expecting her in an hour at Malfoy Manor, Hermione did not know how she felt.
On one hand, she was very happy she would still see The Duel and that she wouldn't spend the evening all alone—and drinking wine probably—but on the other …
She would be going to see The Duel with Lord Voldemort.
Was he going to wear his damn hood again?
xxx
Hermione tried to tell herself she wasn't nervous, but her hands refused to listen to her as she twirled the golden ring on her index finger.
It was half past nine and the show would begin in a half an hour.
And she was still here.
Checking her appearance for the second time—she didn't want an aperitif in a form of Crucio—Hermione wondered if Voldemort had done this on purpose.
She felt like an idiot—all dressed up and eager to see the show—sitting in a room in Malfoy Manor, and just as Hermione was about to leave the room and, maybe, go look for the Dark Lord, the door opened.
Voldemort's tall figure was clad in dark voluminous robes, and Hermione's heart sped up a notch at his presence.
"Are you always this eager, Miss Granger?" The Dark Lord's voice sounded sincerely interested, and Hermione could feel her face heat up in a spreading blush at Voldemort's innuendo.
How did he always manage to do that with just one simple question?
What was she supposed to say? She didn't know the answer herself.
Hermione saw Voldemort nod a bit a few times, as if mulling something over before he extended his gloved hand, and Hermione understood that it was the best she could hope for.
He approved.
Telling herself she wasn't disappointed that his hood was up, Hermione took his outstretched hand and the Dark Lord Apparated them away.
xxx
Paris
The noise was deafening. The enormous crowds of witches and wizards whistled and cheered from all the levels of the Coliseum; two enormous monitors that showed the performances were illuminated by the French Ministry's Insignia—a raven with a roll in its claws—and the air was filled with anticipation.
Looking around her, Hermione saw that they had arrived at the right entrance to the Coliseum—the so-called VIP entrance—and there were still about a few hundred people in front of them.
Last time she had been to the show, Hermione had to stand in line for three hours before she could get to her place in the middle-row.
She wondered how long they'd have to wait now when the show would start in thirty minutes.
"What did I tell you about benefits of being the Dark Lord?" Voldemort's amused voice interrupted her musings and Hermione shivered at its close proximity.
Telling herself she was just very anxious to see the final show, Hermione tried to calm her once again quickly beating heart before finally noticing that the crowd before them started to part.
Trying not to fidget under the attention of the onlookers, Hermione raised her chin higher—it was easier under the hood!—and confidently walked near the Dark Lord's also hooded figure as they approached the gates.
Hermione stilled for a second when she saw through the crowd the blond woman from the reservation and sales department lingering at the entrance.
That bitch!
"Language, Miss Granger."
Hermione wished to apologize for her swearing, but the rage at the woman that had caused her such humiliation today was just too strong.
"She deserves it, sir," Hermione whispered to the Dark Lord as there was no need to scream when she was standing this close to him. Again.
"Does she really? And what are you going to do about it?"
Hermione wanted to smack the blond witch in the face—like she had once smacked another blond in her third year—but she wasn't that violent.
When so many people were watching her every move.
"There is nothing I can do, sir," Hermione frowned, accepting the fact that life wasn't always fair.
At least she got to see the show!
"You still have so much to learn, little girl." Voldemort's hood was directly above her right ear, and Hermione lifted her gaze to look the Dark Lord in the eyes—or where they should be.
Damn hood!
"Tsk,tsk."The hissing was quiet, but the voice was definitely amused now, and Hermione released the breath she was holding.
Well, at least Voldemort would not humiliate her even further with an episode of Crucio in the middle of a gigantic crowd.
"But I could," the voice offered wickedly.
"But you won't," Hermione said before she could catch herself, and her eyes widened when the hood leaned even closer.
Her hood was now touching his!
Her breath hitched.
"And how do you know that?" A mere whisper, but Miss Granger was left behind, and Hermione understood that it was one of those days.
She was—for some hopefully academic reason—in his favor today, and that allowed her more than the Dark Lord allowed others. She told herself she wasn't smiling.
"I just do," Hermione whispered while licking her again dry lips and quickly adding "Sir" as Voldemort's gloved hand coiled itself around her wrist and squeezed hard.
What was wrong with her?
Did she drink too much wine? Or was she crazy, egging the Dark Lord on in the middle of a crowd?
Hermione wanted to ask if they would enter now when she saw Lucius Malfoy appear behind them.
Calculating grey eyes looked at Voldemort's hand around her wrist for a second before he quietly bowed.
"Everything is ready, my Lord."
What was ready? What was going on?
"I sure hope so, Luciussss."
Hermione shivered at the ice-cold tone and the dangerous edge it had.
If that was how he spoke to his best Death Eaters, then Hermione thought she should thank all her lucky stars he had almost always used another tone when talking to her.
"You should, little girl."
Malfoy was now standing a few steps behind them—talking to Rabastan Lestrange—and Hermione, licking her dry lips, dared to hiss back.
"I am not a little girl."
Shit.
The Dark Lord tilted his head to the right, the hood not letting Hermione see anything, and she thought for a second he'd finally snap and would torture her right here, right now. Or blow up a crowd. Or the whole Coliseum.
Highlight of the evening.
Judging by her reaction to Voldemort, she may not be all there in the head, but she wasn't a little girl.
"Then prove it," the Dark Lord hissed before pushing her forward.
The force was enough to make her stumble a few steps forth, and when she lifted her head, she was face to face with the blond witch who had so rudely humiliated her today.
Hermione almost turned around to see where Voldemort was and to ask how she could prove it, when something clicked in her brain and she finally understood.
He was giving her a chance.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
xxx
Hermione watched an expression of pure annoyance and arrogance blossom on the blonde's face when she saw Hermione standing before her.
"You!" the woman laughed while casting Hermione a repulsive look. "Mudblood, you didn't hear what I said in the hall earlier today?!"
A slow smile spread over Hermione's face.
Patricia, she read on the name-plate.
"Oh, but I did. It's you who didn't hear what I said, Patricia. You have my ticket now, don't you?" Hermione's voice was calm and collected, not letting any emotions seep through.
She wasn't mimicking the Dark Lord, Hermione stubbornly noted.
"You stupid shit, I'll—"
Patricia suddenly stopped, and all color drained from her face.
"Is there a problem?" an arrogant voice drawled from her left, and Hermione saw long blond hair with her peripheral vision.
So it was Malfoy Senior covering her arse.
How the mighty had fallen!
"Mi-minister Malfoy," Patricia stammered before bowing.
Pathetic.
"Is … is she with you, Minister Malfoy?" Patricia asked in her nasal voice, smiling like a shark at Hermione when Lucius simply shook his head.
"Mudbloods don't understa—"
Patricia's sniveling remark was interrupted when Lucius added with a sadistic smile on his refined face.
"She's with the Dark Lord."
Well, if Hermione thought Patricia looked a bit pale before then now she was as white as paper.
A sincere smile spread over Hermione's face as Patricia's huge, terrified eyes locked onto someone to her right.
Turning her head a bit, Hermione saw Rabastan, Rodolphus, and Bellatrix Lestrange stand around a tall, hooded figure.
Hermione was horrified at herself, but she felt so pleased …
She was crazy.
"You may take your leave now. Don't stand in the way of your superiors." Voldemort's cold voice made the blond witch shiver in snivelling fear, and she bowed down so quickly that Hermione was surprised that her spine didn't crack.
He used the very same words.
The next second, Patricia was in a corner, still bowing, and Hermione smiled.
This is how you do it.
Hermione heard a whisper in her mind before Voldemort proceeded through the now empty gates with all three Lestranges in tow.
A small nudge from Lucius Malfoy let Hermione know she was to follow.
Interesting beginning, Hermione thought as she climbed the stairs to the balcony. She just hoped the ending would not disappoint.
Sitting on the Dark Lord's left in the best possible lounge that was looking directly onto the dueling platform, Hermione was happy.
xxx
a/n Yay! A Duel show with twenty thousand onlookers! Why would I need it? Gasps in mock horror. Is it Harry I see? ;)
Thank you for reading! Waves!
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Two Steps From Hell