Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Two Steps From Hell	By : Ssserpensssotia Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 30375 -:- 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
- 13
- 14
- 15
Beta: poor Serpent In Red who had to beta almost 60 thousand words in one month because she's an awesome friend ;P
All mistakes you find are mine.
Please review!
xxx
Two Steps From Hell
xxx
Chapter Fourteen
20th December
Sapphires or diamonds?
Or both?
Should he order from Chopard—now, if anyone says that it is Muggle, it's not; pure-bloods in their 11th generation and he was friends with the current Lord Chopard—or should he turn to goblins?
They were sneaky little bastards, but the jewelry they made was simply flawless.
All gems of the best quality, the perfect cut, and the purest gold.
He wanted something special for Narcissa. This year had been so crazy, and his wife deserved a gift that would be very dazzling even for a Malfoy.
Not that he cared about the price.
He was one of the richest purebloods in the whole Europe—if not world—and not only because he was a Malfoy.
Wizarding banking, correct investments, black market, Muggle-wizarding currency exchange market—money was money—and Lucius knew how to make even more money.
The funding of the Dark Lord's campaign had been fully on his shoulders from the beginning, and he would have had as many Galleons in his vaults as the Weasleys had he not known how to create miracles with finances.
Now his service to his Lord was filling his already overflowing vaults instead of draining them. And it was filling them rapidly.
Lucius closed his eyes—he didn't care about the Mudblood, and his Lord was reading the documents Lucius had brought with him—and leaned a bit into the chair.
His Lord had control over the whole Magical Britain and France.
And Lucius was in charge of it all.
Financially.
He was a financial guru, and everyone knew it.
Even his Lord didn't question his financial decisions, and Lucius was allowed to do whatever he deemed necessary.
The last six months—and this month especially—Lucius felt like a child in a candy store.
And the store was his.
Well, not his, but Lord Voldemort didn't care how he made money as long as he made it.
Lucius did not even doubt that his Lord knew both Magical Law and Finances—his two specialties—but it, apparently, did not interest him that much. If at all.
Lord Voldemort did not care about such things.
And Lucius couldn't be happier.
Speaking about happiness …
Should he buy lingerie from Dior—12th generation, related—or should he buy something more interesting …
"Sir, what is RSA?" Mudblood's eager voice interrupted him from his internal musings as he waited for Lord Voldemort to read the documents and magically sign them.
Radix-Stem-Appix. The base rule for building a Dark Arts attacking spell.
So, the Mudblood was studying the Dark Arts under Lord Voldemort's tutelage.
Lucius, still leaning a bit into the chair, looked to his left at the Mudblood. She was sitting on the sofa, papers and books all lying around her pretty form.
Beauty was beauty, and she was magical in a way.
After the euphoric night in Pairs, Lucius took a much closer look at the girl who sat to his Lord's left at the show and who was also a living Horcrux. This Mudblood had a piece of Lord Voldemort's soul trapped in her nicely shaped body.
He wasn't blind.
The girl—Miss Granger, he corrected himself again—was now staring at the reading Lord Voldemort, her ardent eyes expecting an answer.
Was she always this eager?
"Is there something I should be aware of, Lucius?
Shit.
"I apologize, my Lord."
The Mudblood was staring at him now with a knowing smirk on her face. He didn't doubt that she knew what had happened, and Lucius wondered how many times she had to apologize for her thoughts.
Lord Voldemort reached out a hand and his magic called for a book that swiftly flew into the Mudblood's avid hands.
Lucius smothered the inappropriate thought that once again wanted to appear even before those cruel pale eyes landed heavily on him.
Had it been anyone else, Lucius would have said the eyes were twinkling, but Lord Voldemort didn't do eye twinkling, so it was the light from the windows.
Or rage.
Lord Voldemort's wand appeared in his hand, and Lucius braced himself.
The bone-white wand's tip—that he had seen way too many times—suddenly lit up in bright purple—Lord Voldemort's signature—and a swish appeared on the papers.
Was it his lucky day?
Lucius breathed out as Lord Voldemort sent the papers into the folder before throwing the folder at him with his magic.
Lucius barely caught it before it could hit him in the face.
He did redeem himself—his Lord's direct words—but you never knew with Lord Voldemort.
The Mudblood's fervent eyes were watching them from her comfortable position on the pale grey—nice shade—sofa, and Lucius's inappropriate question appeared again before he could even stop himself.
Whenever he had seen the Mudblood, she had always looked so eager, and Lucius could do nothing when he again wondered if she was always this eager.
"You're not the only one."
A sudden, disbelieving laugh escaped Lucius's lips before he could stop it.
Was he crazy today?
Did his Lord just …
Before Lucius could even apologize again—or even think—Lord Voldemort waved his hand at him before picking a book he had been reading prior to Lucius's arrival.
"You're dismissed, Lucius."
His Lord was smirking now, and Lucius saw the man he had come to all those years ago.
Cruel, but charming; dead serious, but with a very unique sense of humor; charismatic beyond measure, and he had such a magnetic personality that it was impossible to resist him.
Especially when he looked like he did now—human.
The whole Britain and France takeover and the show with the Killing Curse seemed to bring his Lord to a better mood when dealing with him, and Lucius couldn't be more relieved. He had been one step from hell, but now he was back to business.
He would make his Lord proud.
With a nod to the Mudblood's curious face and a deep bow to his Lord, Lucius Malfoy Apparated away.
xxx
26th December
Hermione was sitting near the Christmas tree in the living room of the Burrow.
It was late at the evening—probably after midnight—and the lights were out.
Hermione told herself she wasn't crying when she wiped her eyes with her sleeves; she wasn't sitting under a Christmas tree, crying waterfalls, feeling alone and unhappy.
The Christmas evening and the Boxing Day have been weird to say the least.
Luckily, no one here was there when she had screamed out at the stadium, and Hermione did not plan on sharing that little detail. It wasn't in the newspapers—a very unexpected, but a very nice gesture from Voldemort—and only Death Eaters nearby knew who she was—she had been wearing a hood—so Hermione decided not to tell. How would she explain it?
She didn't know how to explain it to herself, let alone to Harry and the Weasleys.
Everyone knew what had happened with Aurelius Girard and the French Ministry, but not what she had done.
And could have done, had Voldemort not put her to sleep with a spell.
She wouldn't have done anything …
She wouldn't!
Hermione still didn't know what to think about the challenge, and her own behavior during—and especially—after the show.
Voldemort was something else, and she had never dealt with someone like him, with someone of such magnitude, so it was logical that she would have mixed feelings.
Enigma.
He'd even shared a private joke with Malfoy while she was in their presence. What they'd joked about, Hermione did not know, but Lucius had looked so shocked that Hermione came to the conclusion that Lord Voldemort didn't show his funny side even to his best Death Eater very often. If at all.
When Hermione Apparated to the Burrow on the 24th of December, the first person to greet her had been Ginny.
Ginny had been at Hogwarts and didn't have much to tell, but apparently, the curriculum changed and now many new subjects were introduced. As for discipline, Hermione understood that the Cruciatus was not allowed to be used by the Professors, and only the Headmaster could give out such brutal punishments.
She and Ginny talked about her studies, the show—without the detail about her outburst—and the current situation in the Wizarding world, with France being now a British ally.
Ginny asked about Voldemort's looks, as all newspapers had his refined face on the front pages, and it wasn't a secret anymore how the Dark Lord looked like.
Hermione explained to her red-haired friend that it was a shock for her as well, as Voldemort had been wearing the hood all this time. Ginny asked her, if she'd wanted to talk about it, and with a heavy heart, Hermione had to say no. It didn't matter, she said to her friend.
And she'd lied.
She wasn't ready to discuss Voldemort's—the Hood's!—new looks even with herself.
Ginny had to agree that not that much had changed for most of the population. Everything was running even smoother than before, and it did not look so bad for most people.
It were the Weasleys, however, who were taking a full blow.
George did not say a word, looking pale and still in serious grief.
Arthur looked older than before, grey hair almost fully covering his usually orange mop.
Bill, Charlie, and Percy were looking worse for wear.
Ron was still in a coma, and it looked like he wouldn't make it through the mental barrier, but Hermione still hoped that he'd wake up, and maybe she'd find a way to wake him up!
She'd promised that to Ron as she sat near him this whole morning, before Molly came in to check on her son.
To see if the Horcrux hadn't maimed him.
Molly …
Hermione felt as if a part of Mrs. Weasley died with Fred, the funny, laughing part, and now the Weasley Matriarch could be described with one word: misery.
And of course, everyone knew that Voldemort had taken over France, and the warm but tight smiles Hermione received when she had arrived told her that it would not be a Merry Christmas.
The money situation with the Weasleys was getting worse and worse; Harry looked closed-up and uptight, not talking much to anyone; and the general atmosphere was so depressing that Hermione felt she was at funerals instead of Christmas.
Harry was more silent than usual; he seemed really depressed, and Hermione couldn't really blame him. He asked her if she was ok, and that was it. Hermione did not know what to think about it.
There was nothing to celebrate, but she so wanted to spend time with them and to give them at least something! They were her family—with her real parents Obliviated—and she had no one else to go to.
Well, that was a lie, but Hermione hoped the day would never come when she'd ask Lord Voldemort if she could stay with him in Slytherin Manor on Christmas.
No matter how magnificent the manor was, there was something very wrong sharing a home with Lord Voldemort on Christmas.
Hermione wanted to be here!
A road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Wiping her wet cheeks, Hermione felt like an idiot.
She needed her mother!
She was such a smart witch—even Voldemort said she wasn't stupid when she made the effort not to be!—but somehow, in everyday life, when it came to relationships, she felt like a retard.
Who asked her to buy all those presents for everyone without thinking? She was very careful about it and bought only small, inexpensive things. But, apparently, inexpensive for her and for the rest had now a different meaning.
It wasn't her fault that she shared company with the likes of Lucius Malfoy—not talking about Lord Voldemort—and the rest of pure-bloods for the last half a year. She saw them more often than she saw the Weasleys. And even more so than she saw Harry. Something was going on with her best friend, but as Harry refused to talk about anything Voldemort related, all Hermione could do was guess what was going on.
Who asked her to open her mouth and honestly say she hadn't dressed up and that she wasn't wearing anything special when Ginny had joked about the amount of time she'd spent in front of the mirror?
Who told her that Lord Voldemort—the Hood!—would give her anything for Christmas?
He did give her an owl for her birthday, but it was already the end of the 26th of December, and she had not received anything from him.
Even Lucius Malfoy had sent her a golden feather with an endless supply of dark green ink!
She had created such a beautiful cup for the "Hood", a much improved replica of her first failed practical test, and she'd hoped he'd appreciate it.
Hermione told herself she wasn't disappointed.
xxx
30th December
Hermione collected her papers and looked at the still reading Lord Voldemort.
He was leaning back in the chair; one of his hands was lying calmly on the armrest and the other was holding the document. His fingers were long and slender, the nails manicured, and the hands looked like he did.
Elegant.
The dark blood-red shirt and the black vest were on even though it was eight in the morning, and Hermione felt out of place with her casual cloak that she had thrown on in the hurry when her ring burned at seven twenty.
As Voldemort continued silently reading, Hermione allowed herself a moment to just watch him.
He hadn't said anything about her gift, and Hermione did not know what she had expected.
If he'd even opened it, Hermione thought with a frown.
Did he like it, or did he throw it away?
He looked relaxed, but it seemed like he was concentrating. His pale-blue eyes were trained on the paper, giving it his full attention, and Hermione remembered for a second how it felt to have those eyes pierce her from just centimeters away.
That night, that horrible night in Paris, when Voldemort took over Magical France, she saw—felt—him so close that Hermione felt as if he had left a mental image behind.
She clearly remembered the way his lips moved, the way he looked at her, and the way his hand felt in her hair. She remembered his heartbeat.
Even if she had been drunk, she remembered everything with absolute clarity.
Even if it had happened almost a month ago.
One month since that crazy millisecond when she'd thought he'd kiss her had passed, and nothing changed.
And Hermione wasn't sure if she liked it.
Hermione had spent the morning after with millions of thoughts flying around her mind, wondering what would happen now. She'd spent hours wondering how he'd meet her when she had to return for the "barrier renewal", as she called it.
However, when Hermione—all nervous and sweating in anticipation, having barely slept—saw him in two days, he was back to his usual self, minus the hood.
As if nothing happened.
Well, nothing did happen—except the whole terrible evening, and France being "Dark" now—but Hermione had expected many things but not this.
He didn't even comment on her outburst.
Voldemort was back to business and to "Miss Granger" instead of "Hermione", and Hermione started to think it had been her very sick, drunk imagination.
The new looks aside, he was exactly the same Hood he'd used to be.
Hermione's internal debate was interrupted as the papers were put on the desk, and he had his pale eyes trained on her.
Hermione cast another quick look at the papers that were innocently laying there. She knew that they must be the reason behind why she had been called here. For the past forty-five minutes, Voldemort had been reading over those papers while she studied her notes for today's final lesson in the evening before the new semester started.
She hoped it was nothing bad.
"These documents contain evaluations of you by all of your professors as well as your examination results for the semester."
Oh crap.
She tried so hard, but she had missed a whole year at Hogwarts, and even though she was a very bright witch, everyone had their limits.
But not her!
"Transfiguration—" Voldemort paused as he smirked a bit, and Hermione was ready to jump up from the anticipation. "—Outstanding."
Yesss! I knew it!
But the others?
Voldemort was now looking at her with a familiar tilt of his head to the right, his eyes serious but not angry.
"Charms …" A pause.
Did he do it on purpose?
Stupid question, Hermione thought as she saw one black brow rise.
"Outstanding."
Yes!
She knew it!
"Arithmancy …"
Yes, yes, drama pause done, was it Outstanding?
"Exceeds Expectations."
What?
Hermione didn't know why she felt so disappointed, but she did. Arithmancy was her favorite subject, and no matter how she had started her studies, she had planned on finishing as the best.
"Is that disappointment I see, Miss Granger?"
She should be feeling all happy and light, as Exceeds Expectations was great, but it wasn't perfect.
She had two perfect scores and one imperfect.
Hermione almost hit herself in the face when she felt angry, bitter tears of disappointment gather in her eyes; the mocking gaze of those pale eyes did not help in the least.
She would not be crying in front of Lord Voldemort because she had gotten Exceeds Expectations instead of Outstanding during her first semester in Illuminus University of Magic for her Arithmancy semester test!
Was she crazy?
At least she passed.
Hermione still didn't know what Voldemort expected from her, but she hoped it would be enough.
Enough for him, but not for her.
"You are my magical ward—" Voldemort accented the word "my" and Hermione licked her dry lips. "—and I expect you to perform as such. The only mark I'll accept from you is Outstanding."
Shit.
"Indeed." Voldemort 's eyes had a sadistic glint in them, but he was smirking at Hermione's gaping expression.
What was he planning to do?
"If you ever get anything other than Outstanding in any subject you take, you will be punished."
Hermione felt her bottom lip tremble a bit as she remembered all his previous—there weren't many, but they all were very memorable—punishments. Gathering her courage, she looked him in the eye.
"What kind of punishment, sir?"
She was a Gryffindor and she was Hermione Granger!
She'd own her mistakes. It was her who failed to perform as she should have!
Hermione thought that she deserved a portion of some healthy Crucios because she had been stupid enough to get an Exceeds Expectations.
Maybe then my brain will switch on, with all the shocks running through the body.
"I will make you torture the professor who failed to teach properly."
Hermione's mouth opened in horror, and her eyes were staring at the now red eyes that weren't letting her gaze drop even for a second.
"And then …"
Hermione's palms were now sweaty with cold, sticky fear, and it was hard to swallow.
She didn't even doubt that he could. And he would.
Voldemort's bright eyes were drilling holes in her, and Hermione understood that the next punishment would be even more brutal. Would he kill the professor then? Or her?
Hermione pursed her lips and clenched her fists, when Voldemort leaned forward, his hand on the table—behind which he had been sitting all this time—and his red eyes were burning as they looked her over.
"And then you'll cook him."
What?!
Hermione couldn't close her mouth, and as she tried to find words, something clicked in her head.
Not again!
Voldemort leaned back into his huge leather chair and held a hand over his eyes, slightly holding his nose as he laughed, his blood-red shirt and black vest shaking slightly.
"You're just too amusing. It's like seeing a puppy and walking by without kicking it. The temptation is just too big."
I'm not a puppy! Dear god, was it a joke?!
"Come now, Miss Granger. Even Dark Lords have a sense of humor. We just don't use it very often." Voldemort was smirking slightly as he added, "Not everyone appreciates it."
Hermione held her lips tightly pursed as she was sure she'd laugh otherwise.
She did.
"If you get anything else than Outstanding, I will find an appropriate punishment. Don't worry about it."
Just when Voldemort finished his sentence, a knock sounded from the door, and after an "Enter" from the Dark Lord, Rabastan Lestrange walked in.
As the Death Eater was bowing, Hermione's mind suddenly came back to life.
But wait, I had already received an Exceeds Expectations!
As Rabastan took a seat after a nod to her, Voldemort levitated the papers to her lap before giving his full attention to the Death Eater.
As Hermione's quick eyes found Arithmancy and the result on the paper, she wanted to cry, laugh, and hit something. Or someone.
"I don't do drama pauses. They come naturally."
Smiling like an idiot, Hermione nodded respectfully to Lord Voldemort and slightly to Rabastan Lestrange before Apparating away.
She had all three Outstandings!
I knew it!
xxx
It was late evening of the 30th of December, and Hermione Granger was sitting in a large, very tastefully decorated room in Slytherin Manor.
Tomorrow would be a New Year's Eve, and Hermione thought about what she would be doing. After the whole Christmas happiness at the Burrow, Hermione wasn't sure if she would go to the Weasleys or stay at her Venice apartment. Ginny told her that there would be no celebrations and that Ginny herself wished to stay at Hogwarts, as the gloomy, depressive atmosphere in the Burrow couldn't be healthy.
Hermione wanted to see the redheads, but she was just so confused, and she needed time for herself, away from everyone.
She needed to relax—somehow—before she went crazy.
Totally crazy, as crazy had many definitions, and sane she was definitely not.
Hermione's thought process was interrupted when Voldemort stepped away from his desk and walked over to the second chair, opposite of hers.
He had no vest on this time, and his shirt was blue, instead of black—like Hermione thought at first—when he sat down in the chair and light from the fireplace reached the silky material.
Did he always wear silk?
"Yes. You like it?"
Voldemort was leaning in the chair, his eyes amused and voice calm.
What was she supposed to say?
She shouldn't have even been thinking about the color of his ever-changing shirts in the first place. Or material.
Voldemort's pale eyes were watching her as he placed something on the table between them.
It was a folded letter, and Hermione was so curious as to what was in it that her hands started to itch.
"Take it with you and open it at home," Voldemort said in a pensive but slightly amused tone.
He was constantly amused when she was around, and Hermione did not know if it was a good or a bad thing.
She wasn't a clown!
"You're a Gryffindor. It's far more amusing that any clown could be."
Well …
"And what do I do with the letter, sir?" Hermione asked tentatively, reaching for the folded paper.
"Unless you've changed your nutrition intake, you would normally read it."
It was an idiotic question, and Hermione had to agree that she deserved the sarcastic remark.
Changed your nutrition intake …
Hermione wanted to think "smartass" but caught herself before she reserved herself a nice, refreshing Crucio.
"You may go."
Voldemort opened the book he had on the table and continued reading.
Getting up from her chair and gathering her stuff, Hermione couldn't wait to get home and read the letter.
She'd call him names at home.
xxx
"My Lord, we still have about sixty Mudbloods that refused your generous offer." Rabastan Lestrange was going through the files on the desk, sitting near Lucius and opposite his Lord.
After that euphoric evening in Paris, Rabastan found himself even busier than before.
After he had lowered the magical barrier from the outside—but only for Magenta's tribune—Rabastan went to deal with the wards for the French Ministry, so that his comrades could wreak havoc all they wanted.
He was a Charms and Transfiguration Master for a reason, and while the years in Azkaban did damage his mind—a bit—he wasn't all crazy. He was the Headmaster of Hogwarts!
"And the rest?"
His Lord was calm as he looked over the reports. Lucius's financial part was done, and Malfoy could sit a bit more relaxed.
Rabastan, on the other hand, wasn't finished yet.
"The rest declare their loyalty to you, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort got up from his chair and walked over to the windows, looking at the almost full moon that hung in the sky.
It was so incredible seeing his Lord like that, in full power, human and immortal.
Rabastan went to Azkaban for his Master and now, seeing his Lord revert back to his original self—insanely powerful but charismatic and magnetic instead of simply frightening—he would go to hell and back, if only his Master wished so.
"Hang the Mudbloods on the posts around the French Ministry and alert Greyback." Lord Voldemort was now smiling as he turned to face them.
Rabastan's lips twitched in a sadistic smile as he understood what his Lord had in store for those filthy creatures.
"I want it done on New Year's Eve. Exactly at midnight."
Lucius and Rabastan exchanged quick glances—they needed to act fast—and when their Lord waved his hand at them, they Apparated away.
xxx
Looking at the almost full moon, Lord Voldemort tilted his head to his right and thought about his decision regarding his best Death Eaters.
After the whole fiasco with Severus—his most trusted follower!—Voldemort decided to change his tactics and revert back to his original plan.
He would be as he was—charismatic and powerful—but he would be more lenient with some of his most valuable servants.
They were that—just servants— but Lord Voldemort could not rule if he had no one to take care of idiotic, everyday, mundane things.
That was why he had allowed Lucius to escape without getting Cruciated today— he didn't do anything wrong, but it was a tradition—and he could already see the results.
Devotion and worshipping would be natural and honest, and all his important Death Eaters would serve him even better because they wanted to and not only because they were afraid of what he'd do to them otherwise.
They would want to see his more human side, and for this small attention, they would move mountains.
Just like his little eager Mudblood.
No more mistakes.
xxx
31st December
Five a.m.
It was five o'clock in the morning and Hermione was already up. She just couldn't sleep; she kept turning left and right until her bed sheets resembled a battlefield for trolls.
After she had Apparated home to her beloved apartment, Hermione immediately opened the letter Voldemort had given her—not even bothering to remove her cloak—and she still did not know what to do.
She had been thinking all night, twirling the light paper with elegant script in her hands until she almost bore a hole in it.
She had barely slept, but she was so full of energy that it was driving her mad.
What was she supposed to do?
Hermione pursed her lips as she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
That was not the question that bothered her the most.
The real question was what did she want to do?
She had two options and the choice was hers.
Would she or would she not?
xxx
One p.m.
No, no, no!
Throwing all her clothes onto the floor, Hermione almost smashed the mirror as nothing sat right.
The blue dress was too simple, the green one was too short, and Hermione had nothing to wear, even though she had a closet full with best quality clothes.
She had felt something similar only once, in her fourth year, before the Yule Ball, and she could honestly say that now she was much more agitated and more picky.
Her heart just would not calm down, no matter what she tried to think about, and her hands were a bit sweaty. She couldn't eat as the food tasted of nothing. Hermione had already cleaned her apartment twice, tried to read her assigned books but could not find the necessary concentration, and now she was standing like an idiot, looking at her scattered things, not knowing what to do.
She couldn't even think straight!
What was wrong with her?
xxx
Three p.m.
She had showered—again—and drank another cup of tea—her third—and the time wasn't moving. It was standing still, mocking her with its unmoving arrows.
And she still didn't know what to do.
Hermione saw Cleo appear near the closed window, and jumping from her position on the floor—picking a dress—she opened the window and let the owl in.
Cleo had some sort of small parcel in her claws, and Hermione wondered who could it be from.
Ginny?
Taking the small box, her heart missed a beat as she saw familiar handwriting.
Hermione tried to open the box quickly, and when she couldn't, she wanted to smack herself for being so stupid.
"Open."
It still felt so strange …
Hermione didn't even know the Magical World existed before her eleventh birthday, and now she spoke Parseltongue.
Parseltongue was something so unique, so magical, that only two people spoke it.
Voldemort and her.
Well, not her, but the Horcrux in her, but it was so silent, so invisible, that Hermione didn't even pay attention to it after six months.
She spoke the language of snakes.
Six long months have passed since that day, and Hermione still could not believe what her life turned out to be.
It was so much more complicated, so impossibly difficult, so challenging, but it was magical.
Pushing the thoughts about the main reason for her internal suffering aside, Hermione opened a now big box, the Parseltongue having removed the Shrinking Charm.
With disbelieving eyes, Hermione reached out a hand and touched the material inside the box.
"Wear this" was written on a small note, and a tremor ran up her spine before collecting itself somewhere in her stomach.
The fluttering feeling intensified, and Hermione tried to deny her own treacherous thoughts, but she knew it already.
She would.
xxx
It was five o'clock in the evening, and it was only one hour left before she would go and meet Lord Voldemort.
Hermione would go on her own will, without any Imperius Curse or other outer influences; she would go because she wanted to. She was curious.
Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Hermione blushed.
She had never looked like that before.
She wasn't a little girl anymore.
She was looking at a beautiful young woman with glittering eyes and a nervous smile on her face.
And that woman was her.
xxx
Hermione tried to tell herself she was so nervous because she was afraid, but that would be a lie.
She had been lying to herself for some time now, denying the traitorous thoughts that didn't leave her mind.
She was crazy.
It began somewhere in September and intensified in October and November.
And in December, it just blew up into her face, not letting her deny it any longer.
She was attracted to Lord Voldemort.
Hermione had always been honest with herself.
And she had already read all psychiatric books from St. Mungo's library.
She got access when she simply asked Voldemort for it—it was a library!—and read all she found on mental illness.
Because she had to have one if she was attracted to someone so evil and psychopathic as Lord Voldemort.
He was a psychopath and a true sadist.
He was so fucking bad that it was hard to imagine someone worse!
He killed people on a whim and demanded full obedience from absolutely everyone. Hermione had yet to see Voldemort speak with anyone on equal terms, with respect. He was very polite—too polite—but he didn't respect anyone.
Everyone and everything was beneath him, and he was so high on his horse called "Ego" that it was hard to see him through the stars.
Hermione noticed this annoying habit of picking up Lord Voldemort's language structure. It sounded weird, but she started asking questions the way Voldemort did.
Stating instead of asking.
It wasn't very difficult to ask normally, was it?
She really didn't like it and fought with it hard, but sometimes, they just seeped through. Together with sarcasm. Hermione spent so much time in his presence that it became normal for her.
She didn't have many people in her life.
Mom and dad—Obliviated—Harry—who wanted to be left alone at the moment—Ron—in a coma—the Weasleys … Ginny was at Hogwarts and couldn't meet often, and the others …
Well, Hermione didn't have many people, but those who she had, she treasured.
She had been and was a true friend.
But something in her mind was obviously not right, as at the same time, she wanted to know Voldemort better. She wanted to crack his puzzle.
She looked forward to her time with the Hood; she constantly—and obsessively—studied Voldemort's every movement and habits.
She knew more about Lord Voldemort's habits than she'd initially thought she did, and when she'd first realized it, she'd tried to write it off on precaution. Voldemort was like a predator you needed to constantly watch.
But it was more than that.
Voldemort was more than predator.
He was relaxed, he was always very polite, very elegant—even as a monster—and he was so smart.
That was probably the biggest turn on.
His mind was so brilliant that when Hermione imagined how much good he could have brought to the world if he had chosen the title of Light Lord, she wanted to weep for the lost opportunities.
And he was such an interesting person that she wanted to research him closer.
And then his magic.
It was mind-blowing!
That's what probably happened to her mind, alongside with common sense, virtue, and sanity.
Blown out.
She wasn't in love, as she knew what it felt like with Ron and, at some degree, with Victor, and it wasn't love.
Hermione felt there was a huge difference between attraction and being in love.
She was obsessed with Voldemort, and she didn't know why.
He liked his tea with two sugars and milk, his red wine had to be on a sweeter note, and he liked minty chocolate.
He preferred darker and more neutral tones for furniture but liked his clothes in many colors—she had seen him wear dark red, blue, green, silver, black, grey, but never pink or orange.
He was very elegant and had a thing for vests and silk.
He sat in a chair often with the same pose—with legs crossed and his head on one hand. Or leaning back.
He read a lot. Really a lot.
He played with the wand, letting it hang on his—always— ring finger.
He tilted his head more to the right that to the left.
He smirked often, smiled very rarely, but his eyes had never been empty.
The desire to live, to learn more, to be absolutely in power was burning in Voldemort's eyes no matter if they were pale blue or bright red.
He had beautiful white teeth, and, at first, Hermione refused to acknowledge she even noticed it.
His handwriting was exactly like he was—elegant.
He preferred quills with dark green ink.
His scent was very cool with a bit of a wooden note, but not spicy; it was like breathing in fresh air in the night—cold and crispy, but so clean and toxic. It was elegant, just like the rest of him.
His magical signature was purple, bright, shining purple.
As Hermione researched the topic—why would Voldemort choose purple and not green?—she found out that one did not choose the color of one's signature. It was magic itself, showing its true color, and one did not control it.
The specter went from pale yellow— the weakest—to bright orange—the strongest.
Purple signature did not normally exist, but it was explained that in case the magic was unique and extremely powerful, it would take a color it deemed right. Dumbledore had had bright pink—it was written down in one of the catalogs she went through.
And Voldemort's was deep but bright purple. A much darker shade of pink, but it was the same color, or was it not?
He liked ties.
Hermione had seen him wear a tie a few times and it did look good.
Hermione believed that after so much time as a spirit and then later as a creature, Voldemort was now making up for the lost time, when before he didn't care. Not that he had had a body to dress up.
Unlike now.
She wasn't blind.
These was his true looks, as he would have looked at thirty something hadn't he started his transformations. Hermione had to often remind herself just how old Voldemort mentally was.
His new image was doing miracles to the public, and Hermione had to agree that he looked much better than the snake-face he used to be. People saw this handsome, insanely powerful wizard, and they wanted to be near him. The support of almost every old, pure-blood family completed the image, and many witches and wizards willingly allowed themselves to be drawn towards Voldemort.
But it weren't just his looks that made her heart flutter, it was his impossibly magnetic personality.
She had cared for the Hood even when she'd thought he looked like his old self.
He was a murderer and a psychopath, but when he didn't show this side of his, Hermione now only saw the Hood.
Hermione hated herself, but there was nothing she could do.
She wanted Voldemort dead, but she wanted time in his company.
She hated what he stood for, but she wanted his attention.
She knew who he really was, and she still wanted his approval.
She wanted it so much.
Her heart went one way, and her mind the other.
She knew what was wrong and what was right, but he was like your biggest temptation that you simply could not resist.
The apple of Eden.
She couldn't lie to herself anymore. She tried, but it didn't work.
Hermione knew and understood everything, and she'd kill herself before she'd join Voldemort's cause, but she could do nothing as she wanted to be in his presence.
He was giving her a choice, and Hermione understood that it was one of those rare moments, when he was sincere. He was giving her a choice to step aside and, with this, telling her that he would not approach her for any other reason but the barrier in her head.
Or he was giving her a choice to step closer.
To take this one step and look the abyss in the eye, like on the cliff, so long ago, when he held her above the raging waters.
She had been balancing on a thin cord for so long; the only safety net was torn away with the inhuman face gone.
Taking the letter into hands, Hermione read it again before putting it on the night table, and twisting her ring, Hermione whispered "Morsmordre!" and disappeared two minutes later.
xxx
If you're still interested in my musical taste, I am willing to show you.
Either you're at Slytherin Manor at six o'clock in the evening or you're not.
If you are, then look appropriately.
This is a one-time offer.
The choice is yours.
No punishments and no rules apply.
Choose carefully.
xxx
Hermione was standing near the window, looking at the beautiful view outside.
Voldemort was nowhere to be seen when she had arrived two minutes ago, and Hermione kept twisting the golden ring on her index finger because she needed to do something.
Hermione saw in reflection the door open, and she met a pair of piercing, pale-blue eyes.
They were both looking at the same reflecting surface, just like the first time she saw him tête-à-tête.
When she tried to kill herself.
How had the picture and the emotions changed!
Voldemort took a step into the room, and Hermione tore her gaze from the reflection and looked at the real figure of the Dark Lord.
Dark, heavy velvety cloak that was blood-red on the inside—silk—a dark red vest and black trousers; dark, polished shoes; and a black, light shirt with a strange runic symbol instead of a tie.
The contrast with his pale-blue eyes was astonishing.
The eyes were watching her, and then Voldemort offered her his arm, not like he usually did, when Apparating them, but he offered his elbow.
Hermione was so thankful her hands weren't sweating now, as when she took his elbow, her fingertips glided over the smooth velvet, and she didn't want to leave wet fingerprints.
He was so close.
"Maybe there is a reason you should be in Gryffindor …"
Was he really telling her that she looked good?
"You may be many things, but ugly you are not."
Well …
If she ever heard a compliment…
"Don't let go."
Hermione tightened her hold on his elbow, the velvet under her fingers smooth.
Looking Lord Voldemort in the eyes, she hissed back.
"I won't."
She didn't add "sir", and she saw in his eyes that she had been correct when she assumed no rules meant no rules.
No sirs for tonight.
But only for tonight.
xxx
a/n Your feedback is much appreciated! I hope you liked this huge chapter. Waves!
- 13
- 14
- 15
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Two Steps From Hell