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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
- 14
- 15
- 16
A/N Hi!
Before we continue, I think I need to issue a warning.
So here is a warning.
Story is rated M.
I do not condone violence or rape. I respect human rights, and I do not believe in blood supremacy or skin color. I'm not a maniac and I am not a psychopath. But since I write Voldemort's POV (Point of View)- who is all those things- then the thoughts written will be respectively. He's not a fluffy bunny but a Dark Lord.
I'm sorry, but he's not the best role-model. Hermione is 18 in the story.
This chapter I had to break in half, as it was pretty big already, and I haven't even started on the main scenes…so yeah, the second half should be soon. Haven't written it yet, but I write fast.

Relatela, thank you so much :) Here is a chapter with only Hermione and Voldemort ;)
I would ask you to be lenient with me, as Geography and Time-zones are not my best subjects.
Hope you'll enjoy it! Please review!
Beta: Serpent In Red
xxx
Two Steps From Hell
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Chapter Fifteen
They landed on a high point.
A thin, rocky peak was all there was below her feet, and Hermione almost screamed, but the velvet under her fingertips was reassuring, and she opened her for a moment closed eyes.
She was standing on the highest mountain peak she had ever seen, and all around her was so small and vague; the clouds were below, and the full moon was so close that if she tried, Hermione felt she'd reach it with her fingertips.
"Qomolangma."
Mount Everest.
His voice was smooth, just like the velvet under her hand, and Hermione looked up, meeting his gaze.
She was standing on the highest point on Earth, holding tight to Lord Voldemort, dressed in a red, gorgeous dress and a black cloak—colors absolutely symmetric to the Dark Lord—the heels of her blood-red shoes were hanging in the air, and there was just abyss below.
"You listen to music here?" Hermione asked quietly, looking around at the other smaller peaks and snow everywhere.
Merlin!
Pale eyes were watching her closely, the irises almost the same color as the ice on the tips of the mountains, and Hermione shivered.
It was cold.
"This is a mid-Apparation point that I particularly enjoy. Nothing is higher on this planet."
Hermione swallowed when she imagined the preciseness of Apparition one had to have in order to get here. It had to be millimetric, and it was so far away from England!
"Where did you learn to Apparate like that?" Hermione dared to ask, looking Voldemort in the eyes, searching for signals if she was doing everything right, or if she would fly down in a second.
With him, you never knew.
"Do you want to fly?" He was looking at her with curious eyes.
Hermione held tighter to the smooth velvet under her palm, her heart beating so fast and erratically, that it was a bit hard to breathe. The altitude wasn't really helping, and combined with the proximity of Voldemort's tall figure, Hermione couldn't get enough air.
It was hard to remind herself just who she was so tightly holding to.
This was Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord of Great Britain and France. He was the only power in those countries.
Voldemort was now not only magical but also political and everyday life in both countries. The people—the sheep!—bought everything he fed them through their governments and press.
Hermione tried to remind herself just why maybe it hadn't been such a bright idea to "go out" with Voldemort, no matter how tempting.
It wasn't their usual lesson and Hermione could feel it.
She didn't know if she dared to imagine just how she could end the evening.
As she thought about just who she could end her evening with, a tremor ran her spine.
She needed to be hospitalized, to be thrown in a ward for the mentally ill, next to the Longbottoms.
The next second, her lungs were filled with oxygen, and Hermione almost took a step back at the sensations of the Dark Lord's magic surrounding them now.
"There is nothing to be afraid of if you know what you're doing."
Voldemort's lips were smooth and pale pink; their elegant but cruel shape was just centimeters away from her face when Hermione lifted her gaze to look him in the eye.
Hermione could only stare into his eyes as he lifted one hand to touch her cheek, his fingers warm and beautifully shaped, the fingertips soft and smooth.
Their first skin to skin contact.
Hermione licked her lips, the blood-red lipstick not moisturizing the tender flesh enough, and she saw Voldemort's eyes drop lower, letting go of her gaze.
He was looking at her lips, and the pink tongue that again peeked out.
Hermione felt as if she was electrocuted from the inside; the blood in her veins was running so fast, her heart pumping it with much more force than needed; and her insides were twisting in anticipation.
The hand on her cheek wasn't helping.
She saw Voldemort's mouth twitch and then he leaned closer.
Hermione forgot how to breathe.
She didn't know—it was a lie—what she had expected, but as she felt his lips near her ear, almost touching the shell of her ear, Hermione swallowed hard.
His hair—styled back but allowing the winds to play with short black strands—looked even silkier from such close distance, and Hermione closed her eyes.
He smelled even better when he was so close.
"Do you want to fly?"
His voice was as smooth and silky as the robe under her now sweating palms when he repeated the question, his nose touching her earlobe now with its tip.
"Not alone." Hermione didn't believe she dared to tell Lord Voldemort she wanted him as her ride.
White teeth were revealed in an amused smile, and the pale, squinted eyes weren't cruel as he looked at her with his head now tilted back a bit.
"Brave, aren't we?"
And insane.
"We are many things, but funky we are not."
There, she said it! Using Voldemort's own words from before, plural instead of singular, her voice confident but lower than usual, looking directly into the pale eyes.
"If we are so sure …"
His laugh wasn't creepy, and the next second she was in the air, flying around and over the snow-covered mountains before speeding up and Apparating in the air, the velvet under her fingers smooth.
xxx
Hermione felt the solid surface under her feet, and she let a disbelieving laugh escape her mouth.
Now that had been flying!
Hermione was not afraid of heights—not that much—but the speed and the altitude of the short flight she had had with Voldemort made her knees tremble a bit in aftershocks.
The air was humid and warm, and Hermione wondered for a second why she and Voldemort had needed the cloaks—aside from the visit to Mount Everest—when icy wind suddenly blew from all directions, lifting the sand from the ground, and the temperatures dropped.
It was warm but cold; it was windy but silent; water was running in beautiful pirouettes—on moving sand in a desert!—and fire flames erupted from glowing red holes in the ground, illuminating the dark area.
And they were standing on a glowing stone road that led to a big rock that towered over the sands.
Where were they?
Hermione had never seen anything like this before, and her curious gaze met the pale eyes as they kept watching her; her hand was still on the Dark Lord's arm as they stood in a middle of a desert. They were close enough to feel the heat of the body, but not enough to fully touch.
"We're in India," Voldemort actually replied to her silent question.
India.
"Are we going to Manasa University?" Hermione let the pause hang as she refused to add "sir".
"Yes, because there is only one place in India where you could listen to music, and it has to be the University that specializes in Necromancy." Voldemort's head was tilted to his right, but he wasn't angry; his voice was calm and a bit sarcastic. He was the most relaxed she had ever seen him, and Hermione had seen him a lot.
Hermione had to agree it sounded idiotic when she thought about it.
Why did she always ask stupid questions with Voldemort around and the smart ones when he was away?
"I have already told you no rules apply, and I meant it. I will allow you to think and say what you want without inflicting any serious pain, but only until midnight. And no, I will not punish you tomorrow for whatever you do today. Nor will I discipline you any time later." The Dark Lord was looking at her gaping expression with one dark raised eyebrow.
It was too good to be true.
"And the catch?"
It couldn't be that simple with the Heir of Slytherin.
"No catch." Voldemort tilted his head to the right and a corner of his mouth moved up a tiny bit.
Well …
"What midnight?"
India was ahead of Britain by five hours, so it was rather necessary to clear it up.
The pale lips twitched again as Voldemort nodded.
He approved.
"French."
"Why French and not British?" Hermione asked with squinted eyes, looking at the tall form of Lord Voldemort.
"Because I thought we'd finish our night in Paris," Voldemort actually answered again, both dark brows raised a bit. "I cannot think of a better city for us."
All kinds of inappropriate thoughts almost made it past her death grip on them, and Hermione mentally slapped herself.
"What do you mean by 'serious pain'?" Hermione decided to avoid the topic of her own fanatical mind.
No wonder she liked him. She was also a psycho.
Did he think Crucio was serious, but everything else was not?
Did he mean pain as in pain, or pain while other … activities?
I'm not only mentally sick, but apparently, I'm a pervert as well, Hermione thought as she saw Voldemort actually smile at the question.
That smile did not make her insides burn!
It was better to ask before she said the wrong thing to a psychopath and a sadist in a middle of a desert somewhere in India. Not that location mattered …
"Here lies the mummy of one brave but insane witch by the name of Hermione Granger" would be written on the tomb somewhere around here in between the sands.
If he gave my cold body a tomb at all.
He'd just let her lie on the ground, the bright dress drawing attention from scavengers.
"And the heels," Voldemort added with a light smile as Hermione gaped at him again.
Hermione could already imagine her body in the beautiful red dress on the ground.
She called him a psychopath and a sadist, and he let her?
"And I don't see anything bad in being both. We cannot all be very sane, can we? If you're quite done imagining your last resort, we should get going. We are here for a reason."
The jab was intentional, and Hermione mentally sneered—she looked like a Lady, she'd behave like one—and was about to move her high-heel clad foot when the question just popped out of her mouth.
"Do you like high-heels?"
Hermione swallowed hard when she saw the Dark Lord lean closer again.
"I haven't tried them on, if that's what you're asking."
Smartass.
"That I am." Voldemort was now looking her in the eye, and Hermione almost choked on her saliva.
No rules at all …
What a New Year's Eve!
She had Lord Voldemort all to herself for several hours and she could ask whatever she wanted without a crowd being blown up or twitching on the floor after a nasty Cruciatus.
"Exactly."
If he was allowing her so much freedom, she'd be a fool not to use it.
"That is not what I meant with the question."
He was allowing her full freedom in her own mind and speech today, and Hermione just had to use the opportunity to learn more about Lord Voldemort.
"Then ask the questions that way, so they couldn't be interpreted in any other way but the one you want."
The Dark Lord took a step forward on the illuminated stone-road, and as Hermione was about to open her mouth and ask again, he turned to look at her, the fire from the stones making his pale-blue eyes shine.
"I do. Now come."
Smiling lightly, Hermione followed.
xxx
As they approached the stone, Hermione noticed four glowing symbols carved onto the surface.
She had seen them before, in one of the Dark Arts books that Voldemort had made her read.
Well, made was not the correct word, but …
Those were the elements she saw in the desert! Hermione realized with a start.
The flowing creeks—Water—the dancing sand—Earth—the sudden silent Wind, and the erupting Fire.
And Voldemort himself had one such symbol on his shirt, instead of a tie.
He could control an element!
Hermione's eyes landed on the Dark Lord's outfit, and she understood immediately which element was his.
He was fire.
Nodding in approval, Voldemort conjured a ball of fire on his palm, and Hermione watched in fascination how the flame danced between his fingers, slowly swinging left and right in the now strong wind.
The flame suddenly turned purple—his signature—and he pressed the burning hand on the stone, on the fire symbol.
The next second, Hermione felt warm fingers around her wrist, and as she was about to think that Voldemort was holding her hand, she started to burn.
The flame was running up her arm, to her chest, and as it reached her face, Hermione was ready to scream when she felt the cool fingers on her wrist add more pressure.
"Open your eyes." The cool hand and the fact that she didn't feel any pain allowed Hermione to breathe; the calm voice and the elegant scent so near made her finally open her eyes—she didn't even quite know when she'd closed them.
The fire was now gone, and as a smirking Voldemort stepped aside, the stone with symbols disappeared as well.
My god!
xxx
The cone-shaped hole was at least two hundred meters deep, and its surface was so smooth that Hermione thought for a second that someone spilled quicksilver on its surface. It was shimmering with silvery light, and with the otherwise dim illumination from the above glowing stars, it looked like someone stole a piece of the moon and caged it inside the hole. And Hermione stood in the middle of the wall, in a dimly illuminated corridor with transparent walls, taking in all the beauty.
The balconies on the whole perimeter of the cone were very few and they all were dimmed, and only the burning element symbols could be visible on the parapets made of what could only be caged fire, water, wind, and earth.
"What is this?"
Her voice sounded so breathless and so awed that Hermione had to actually clear her throat.
"You wanted to know which music I like." Voldemort was looking at her, and Hermione had to blink her eyes a few times.
Where were they? She had never even read about it!
Hermione was sure this was something not very normal she was seeing.
Elemental magic belonged to the Dark Arts, and there were very few elementals in the whole world.
From what Hermione knew, one was born with affinity for one element, but it didn't automatically make one an elemental. There weren't many elementals because one had to suppress the element's natural power to one's will and magic. Looking at the dimmed balconies, Hermione came to conclusion that probably all wizards and witches who could control an element were here now.
Was it some kind of secret order?
The atmosphere was like one in a theater, and Hermione really could not understand where she was.
The balconies were illuminated by four different colors—mostly deep blue and silvery-white—a few green and only two were red.
She needed to clear her head!
"What is this place?" Hermione finally asked as something appeared from the ground in the corridor they were standing, overlooking the cone. Hermione watched something materialize and with a pleasant surprise she saw a normal house-elf.
A small creature—Hermione swore if she gave him a hat, he'd resemble Dobby—dressed in bright red clothes with fire instead of hair was standing before them, his burning head bowing deeply.
Hermione had seen Voldemort and house-elves interact before—the burning head was so cruel!—and it didn't look so good for the elf.
She should be happy if Voldemort didn't kill him in the end, Hermione thought with pursed lips.
Like he had done a few days ago.
The house-elf—Tinky—drank a lot, and that day she had dropped the tray in Lord Voldemort's lap—like she had done twice with Hermione during the last month—and even before the hot liquid touched the black pressed trousers, a green light illuminated the room.
He had killed a house-elf and didn't even blink.
It was always hard to remember just what kind of monster was hidden behind a beautiful image.
As Hermione looked at the Dark Lord, she almost got a heart-attack.
His head was bowed a bit in the greeting—to the house-elf!—and Hermione wished she had a camera.
Voldemort was showing respect to someone, and she simply couldn't believe it.
Was she dreaming?
"We welcome you, Lord Voldemort. May your fire burn."
The voice wasn't simple and nervous, like all house-elves had around the Dark Lord, it was harsh and confident. It was fiery. It was magical.
Hermione had never heard such voice before, and with an uncomfortable wince, she realized it must have been not a house-elf.
And Voldemort had heard all her thoughts.
And the not-elf had heard all her thoughts, Hermione realized as they both were both looking at her with similar expressions on their faces.
Talk about embarrassment …
"It is my pleasure."
The Dark Lord said in a calm but serious voice, looking at the not-elf, and there was something in his tone she had never heard before. There was no arrogance.
This was the most un-arrogant tone Hermione had ever heard from Voldemort.
And he wasn't sneering, smirking, or looking mockingly, like he did often with everyone around him. He looked serious but relaxed.
As if talking to someone he knew and did not want to kill …
Who was it? Hermione wondered as she watched the not-elf bow to Voldemort again.
Today was a day so full of surprises regarding one shady figure in her life that Hermione wasn't sure if she knew Lord Voldemort at all.
And she thought she knew at least something about him.
Hermione wondered about what the next surprise would be.
Maybe one day he would wake up and decide to become a Light Lord?
"I wouldn't count on that."
The arrogance was back, and though he was smiling with all those white teeth showing on that refined face, she didn't miss the mockery underlying his tone or present in his expression.
Hermione saw not-house-elf disappear, and Voldemort offered his elbow again.
"Come."
The silvery light was making his eyes even paler, and they glowed in the dim atmosphere, a contrast to everything around them.
Her high-heels clicked on the hard ground as she walked closer to the Dark Lord and took his offered elbow.
"Who was it?" Hermione asked tentatively, still not used to the fact that she could ask and say what she wanted. However, if she thought about it, Voldemort had recently started to comment her thoughts less and less.
"The house-elf?" Voldemort's voice was laughing and amused, and Hermione smiled nodding as they climbed the narrow stairs that led to one of the dimmed balconies.
"It was the element, Hermione."
It was what?!
He called her Hermione …
"I beg your pardon?" Hermione stopped when Voldemort stopped near red curtains that led to the balcony, and her disbelieving eyes were watching Voldemort's face to see if it was one of his usual jokes.
"It was Fire." His voice was serious and his eyes squinted a bit as he touched the curtain and led a still disbelieving Hermione in. He wasn't joking.
She met the Fire itself and called it a house-elf.
What was wrong with her? What would it—the Fire!—think?
"It doesn't matter. Don't worry yourself about things that do not matter."
Hermione felt Voldemort's arms around her cloak-clad shoulders, and the next second her cloak disappeared.
He was such gentlemen when he wanted to be!
For a short moment, she marvelled at the beauty of the dress again with its red material cascading down from from the thin, sparkling ring around her neck and leaving the shoulders and hands bare.
"How do you know if you worry about things that matter or not?" Hermione asked while taking a seat in a huge red armchair, overlooking the whole cone-shaped hole. There were only two armchairs on the whole balcony, and with sick anticipation, Hermione understood they would be completely alone.
"You don't." Voldemort said simply as he sat next to her in the second red armchair.
What was the point then? Hermione thought in irritation, and even opened her mouth to ask, when Voldemort leaned to the right, and she felt his silky shirt on her naked arm.
"I do."
Hermione wished to say something nasty—just because she could!—but the quicksilvery surface started moving. She leaned a bit forward, watching the silvery waves and missed the satisfied and, for a second, bright-red eyes on the handsome face of the Dark Lord.
xxx
Schizophrenic or masochistic …
Well, at least not the Stockholm syndrome...
His companion was sipping the wine and thinking all those wonderful thoughts—he rather liked how everything was fulfilling by itself—and while some thoughts were simply naïve, some were more entertaining.
When he thought about it, he had to agree that she wasn't very normal, but normal was overrated.
The girl read so much on psychiatry, trying to understand what was going on with her own mind and body, and it was simply delicious watching her analyze her emotions when he knew already why she was feeling what she was feeling.
No one could resist him.
She had her weak points, and it wasn't his fault if he was the impersonation of all those little turn-ons.
While at first he found it simply hilarious, now he found it beneficial and interesting.
Lord Voldemort cut a small piece of the tender chicken fillet with a sharp knife, before elegantly putting it—using a silver fork—into his mouth.
He wasn't a pig.
Slowly chewing the tender meat—he demanded perfection even from the chicken and even if it was already dead—he looked at the now relaxed Mudblood.
Hermione.
It had taken her an hour to finally relax—he behaved—and she was now sipping on the sweet, red wine.
As a pink tongue peeked out to collect a drop of wine from her bottom lip, Voldemort squinted his eyes in pleasure.
She was smart and she was beautiful. A perfect package in a perfect body.
He wasn't blind.
Nor was he stupid.
She'd choke on the tender chicken—he liked the crust—if he voiced even one of his thoughts.
He could shape her to be a perfect vessel for his soul—if he demanded perfection from the dead chicken, then it should be obvious he would demand perfection from the carrier of a part of his own soul—and the endless possibilities that opened then …
Talking about chicken ...
It wasn't very often when he thought about carnal pleasures.
He enjoyed sex, but he didn't need it.
He wasn't a horny teenager—even when he was a teenager, he was more busy with the Dark Arts and murders than paying attention to all the willing witches around him—and while he appreciated beauty, he didn't feel the need to bend the Mudblood over the table, throwing the meal and glasses onto the floor, and simply fuck her.
He could.
And she'd enjoy it.
But he didn't want to. It wasn't interesting. He wanted her to beg for it.
He found it funny that Hermione thought in the beginning that he would force himself on her.
He didn't do rape.
He had tried it a few times in his youth—if you didn't try, you wouldn't know if you like it or not—and it was so pathetic and simple that it was hard to find any pleasure it in. It was interesting from some perspectives—how long the bitch struggled before giving in or to do exactly what the woman was most afraid of and see her reactions—but it was nothing to think about.
It wasn't to his flavour.
He dominated everyone around him without even lifting a finger, so why would he force himself on some filthy, undeserving creature? If just to hear the screams?
He was above everyone, and that was why he preferred to use Crucio when he wanted to hear some refreshing screams.
He didn't want to touch that dirt. He saw all the dirt from their previous encounters, and he didn't want to touch that.
Magic or no magic, but he had already lost his nose once.
Syphilis was syphilis, and Lord Voldemort, the Heir of Slytherin, would not be syphilitic.
He didn't want used products.
He simply did not feel any need to run around with his cock on fire, and while he did not plan on having any sort of physical relationship with anyone, now he wasn't so sure anymore.
If he decided to seriously fuck anyone, it would be a part of himself, sealed in a pretty package.
It would be something he hadn't tried before—he had had a wild youth full of Dark Arts and weird acquaintances around him—even if only for a learning experience.
He was so crude and corny today, but then again, it was his birthday.
If not today, then when?
And today was the first time he would spend his birthday here without having to look at Albus Dumbledore's bright pink signature opposite of him.
The usually blue-lit balcony was now black, and it meant that the owner of the balcony was fully dead.
He had checked already—as soon as they stepped in—but it was such a pleasure simply to just watch the empty spot where usually a bright blue element shined that he couldn't resist.
Had the balcony stayed blue—Dumbledore had to be the complete opposite of him even in the elemental magic—he would have been so pissed that he'd have killed the Mudblood—Hermione—on the spot. Element died only with its Master, and if the element stayed lit, it could have meant only one thing.
That was how the old fool knew he had been alive all those long thirteen years; his hypocritical old ass—Dark Arts are not good!—sat here, in the cave full of Dark Magic, listening to magical music, while also controlling one element with a mix of Dark Arts and Legilimency. Too bad no fighting—the not talking part was perfect—was allowed between anyone present.
He hated Dumbledore so much that the glass he was holding exploded, and Voldemort saw Hermione flinch.
Her pretty head with long, dark brown curly hair, turned a bit to look at the same black balcony he had been looking all this time, and he saw the wheels turn in her head.
Her pursed red lips told him she had understood whom the balcony used to belong to even without reading her thoughts, and Voldemort smiled.
His Horcrux had seen enough idiocy in those seventeen years it spent with Potter to last a life-time.
Hermione was a much better choice.
xxx
Hermione was trying not to pay attention to the elegant hands that held the utensils with perfection; she tried to not notice how the beautiful fingers closed over the thin glass full with sweet wine and, most of all, tried not to notice the lips as they closed over a small piece of tender chicken.
She was such a sick individual and she never even knew it.
The slow music was flowing from the cone, and Hermione closed her eyes at the beautiful violin tones.
They sounded …
If there is one word she had started to hate, it was the word "elegant".
No matter what Voldemort did, he did it elegantly. He was so elegant that Hermione had to slap herself mentally when she thought if he was always so elegant.
"Yes."
Shit.
"Come now, Hermione. There are only two of us here." Voldemort was smiling slightly as he drank his wine, and Hermione could feel a blush spread over her heated cheeks.
They had been here for only over an hour, and the main show hadn't started yet—or so Voldemort had said—and after the most delicious dinner she had ever had, she let her thoughts free, forgetting for a second just who was sitting opposite of her, leaning slightly in the armchair while drinking his wine.
The dishes were gone, and Hermione felt as if some sort of safety net was removed. Voldemort's eyes were shining, and Hermione didn't want to know what he was thinking of.
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
Voldemort had known everything from the very beginning, and he didn't humiliate her with this topic, not even once. He never even commented on it, and Hermione did not know how to behave.
She had never dealt with someone like him!
While she loved Ronald, she couldn't watch him eat, and she definitely wasn't obsessing about his hands and appearance, nor was she thinking every minute about how close Ron was sitting. Hermione felt angry tears in her eyes as sick realization spread in her stomach.
She wanted Voldemort much more than she had ever wanted anyone, Ron Weasley included.
How could she feel anything for Voldemort, when she had Ron?
How Voldemort could be so charming—so perfect—but so evil at the same time?
"Hermione, Hermione."
Hermione's internal beatings were brought to a halt as the Dark Lord slowly said her name twice.
She could only stare into his pale-blue eyes as he put both elbows on the glass table and put his chin on his cupped hands before him.
"I am unique."
Well … talk about ego.
"And what about your ego, Hermione?" Voldemort smiled slightly at her disbelieving expression.
"I don't have an ego."
"Don't you?" The Dark Lord's voice was lightly mocking, and one black, perfectly-shaped brow was raised as he got up and walked over to the parapet, before leaning on it a bit, his back to the cone.
Hermione watched the black silk shimmer lightly, the now red symbol instead of a tie was glowing, and he looked so sinful that Hermione had to lick her dry lips.
"I remember one pretty, little witch cry pretty, little tears when she thought she had gotten anything other than Outstanding for her tests just yesterday. Do you know this witch, Hermione, hm?" Voldemort was now slowly walking towards her, and Hermione's heart was going to explode with anticipation.
He called her "pretty".
And he was now standing behind her.
Hermione almost jumped from tension when she felt a hand slowly play with her long curls, twisting one curl on a finger before releasing.
"How can you have such silky, curly hair when it's brown?" The question was said in a pensive but light voice, and Hermione was about to state that color of hair had nothing to do with the curls, when she understood what Voldemort was telling her.
She wasn't turned on, Hermione tried to tell herself, but she could feel something coil inside her stomach when one hand gripped her hair in a tight hold and tilted her head back.
"How can your lips be so red when they are so full?"
She was now looking at the standing Voldemort, her head tilted back, the elegant hand still holding her hair in a fist.
Hermione couldn't breathe from the tension, and with horror, she understood that her underwear was now soaked with arousal.
Just how sick was she exactly?
"Would you like to find out?" Voldemort was now looking her in the eye, and Hermione understood that it was it.
If she said yes, he would show her. Right here and right now.
Hermione reserved herself a nice spot in the deepest of Hells when her mouth opened and a "yes" was breathed out. She couldn't even find her voice.
Maybe if she tried him once, she'd never want him again.
"I highly doubt that, but we will see." Voldemort's lips were now near hers and Hermione closed her eyes.
Fuck it all. She wanted him to kiss her. She'd punish herself at home, now was not the time.
"Later." Soft lips almost touched hers before Voldemort released her hair and stepped away, sitting back into his armchair.
Hermione had to blink a few times to drive away the arousal and tension, and when her enlarged pupils met calm but twinkling pale eyes, she wanted to seriously hurt him.
A wink, and the Dark Lord turned in the chair, facing the cone now.
"The show is about to start. We don't want to miss it, do we, Hermione?"
Hermione took a deep breath, and with trembling hands, she took the offered wine glass.
She'd kill him if she could.
"You can always try." His voice wasn't serious, but something told her he wasn't joking.
As Hermione was about to ask what he meant with it, the lights in the cone disappeared, and everything was engulfed in darkness with only bright colors of the elements illuminating the whole place.
xxx
a/n And to be continued...I hope you liked the chapter. Please review and let me know! Waves!
- 14
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Two Steps From Hell