Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Shared Flame	By : TheLadyMiya Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 58984 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I do not make any money writing this.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
Hello everyone! Sorry for the delay in updates. Real Life continues to be in the way. Oh, well, I hope you’ll enjoy this chapter at least!

Huge baskets of cookies and thanks to everyone who have read and reviewed! Special thanks to Nerys and Serpent in Red for betaing.

Review replies can be found here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/20494-shared-flame-by-lady-miya/

WARNING! Torture and murder.

Chapter 15
Voldemort woke up, panicking when he felt someone lying next to him. It took him a couple of seconds to realise that it was Hermione and that he had fallen asleep again. What was wrong with him? No one was trustworthy enough to sleep with! Yet, with Hermione, he had fallen asleep every time he had spent the night with her.
He watched the clock standing on her nightstand. Five in the morning. He had slept for five hours. Groaning quietly, he rubbed his hands against his face. Perhaps it was due to all the sex they had been having? He just couldn’t stop himself when she was near. Never before had he allowed someone to touch him as much as Hermione did. He even made her touch him.
What had happened to him? The most feared man in the whole world, turned into a lovesick puppy by a Mudblood.
Not able to stand the rage that came from the confusion, he got out of bed, careful not to disturb her. With a flick of his wand, he dressed before he Apparated under a Silencing Spell. He landed in Moscow. It was already morning there, and when he stepped out on the street, he felt himself starting to focus, forgetting the confusion. Salazar, he needed a good kill. He wanted to see blood and hear screams and pleading, just so he knew he hadn’t lost himself somewhere deep inside Hermione’s cunt.
A man walked by him, speaking quickly in Russian on one of those new phones you could bring everywhere. He was well-dressed, and from the conversation he was having, he seemed to be some sort of politician. Voldemort followed him. It was funny how no one seemed to be worried about being taken away in the morning. It was the night everyone worried about.
Keeping his distance, he waited until the man turned away from the main street and into some sort of enormous office building. Voldemort followed, acting like he belonged inside the building just like everyone else. He smirked when the man didn’t go into the full lifts but decided to take the stairs instead. Now he had finished his call and looked rather frustrated. Voldemort sped up. When they were in the middle of the stairway, out of sight from the lobby, he could grab the man and Apparate away. He had his own special location for these sorts of things.
The Muggle didn’t get scared right away when Voldemort Apparated them to the old factory in the middle of nowhere. Instead, he yelled and threatened Voldemort with some mafia connections while Voldemort tied him to a chair. However, when Voldemort didn’t say anything, the man seemed to get more worried. He started to ask Voldemort questions. It was the usual rubbish: “Who are you?”, “Do you have any idea who I am?”, blah, blah, blah. In the end, he asked the question Voldemort was longing to hear.
“What do you want?”
Voldemort, his Russian almost perfect, answered, “I want to start by picking out your eyes. There will be no need for you to see what I will do to you. I only need you to feel. And scream. Do you think you can manage that?”
He could.
It was seven o’clock when he Apparated back to Hermione’s flat, feeling much more at ease with himself and also quite horny. Without waking her, he climbed into bed again and slowly began to stroke her body. Hermione sighed in her sleep, starting to wake up. His fingers found their way between her labia, finding her wet. He increased the wetness by massaging her clit for a few moments before he pushed inside of her.
That woke her up fully. “Good morning,” she said breathlessly, moving against him.
“Good morning,” he purred.
And it really was.

xxx

I’m living in denial, Hermione reflected as she sat in the big classroom, watching Voldemort lecture. Even though she now knew who Marcus Foster really was and hated him for it, she couldn’t stop herself from spending time with him. Every morning, she decided that she wouldn’t fall for him again. She would fight and she would put up some boundaries and she would definitely not sleep with him. Alas, every night, she found herself falling into an exhausted sleep in his arms after yet another orgasm. She just couldn’t touch him without losing control. And since he made sure to touch her as much as possible, she was just … screwed.
“A Metamorphmagus can change their appearance at will,” Voldemort said. He was standing on the stage, leaning against his desk. “There are countless of theories on why this is. All we really know is that it’s genetic and extremely rare. In the whole world, there are only around forty wizards with this ability. Interestingly enough, studies have shown wizards and witches inheriting it from a Muggle parent or even grandparents. Here in Britain, we have one reported case of this happening. A half-blood witch, now deceased …”
Hermione pressed her lips together. It was amazing how careless he could talk about his victims. Sure, Hermione wasn’t certain Voldemort had killed Tonks. However, she had died during the final battle and thus, on Voldemort’s orders. Merlin, she couldn’t believe she was actually allowing herself to sleep with Lord Voldemort! Well, Voldemort rarely seemed to take no for an answer. Just the other night, she had tried to tell him she would rather spend a night alone, but somehow, he had managed to make her forget about her wish. It hadn’t been until much later, when she was too exhausted to move, that she had realised he had manipulated her with sex again.
“As postgraduates, you are expected to learn how to transfigure your own appearance the same way a Metamorphmagus does,” Voldemort continued as he waved his wand at the board behind him. The name of one of their course books showed up, next to page numbers. “You’ll find the best instructions here. But this is really hard work. All of you, I hope, are able to use a glamour to look like someone else. However, why can it be dangerous to rely on glamours all the time?”
A dozen of hands flew up in the air. Hermione’s was not among them. She didn’t want him to look at her with those hot, piercing eyes. To her great distress, it always made her horny.
“Because of the shimmer,” a young man Voldemort had pointed at answered. “Since a glamour is only an illusion, from some angles, a shimmer is visible. Also, there is always a risk that the glamour appears to be a bit two-dimensional. It depends on how good the caster is.”
Voldemort nodded. “Yes, however, if the caster is too weak to make a three-dimensional glamour, this type of magic is not appropriate. Why is transfiguration of the appearance so dangerous?”
Hermione bit her lip, wanting to answer. However, she kept her hand down.
“It’s because it’s very taxing,” Cynthia Bernard answered instead. “The human body is used to being a certain way. It takes a lot of energy to maintain the transfiguration unless you are a Metamorphmagus, because then, the appearance is, for some reason, so used to changing that it can be any way you like.”
“Indeed,” Voldemort answered. “Therefore, if you want to transfigure you own body this way, you first have to know your own body extremely well—down to every single molecule. Only then can you start to change it. That is also why it’s so hard to do this form of transfiguration on another person. You have to know what is there to begin with to be able to change it.”
But Voldemort had found some way to change his appearance for real, with a potion. However, it didn’t seem like something any normal person could do. He had asked the fairies for help. They were such helpful creatures. Her stomach began to hurt. Every time she thought about the fairies, she suddenly felt this worry inside her. She had no idea why. After all, she had no reason to doubt the fairies. Morgana had been quite clear about that.
“We want nothing but good in the world. Tom Riddle forced us to help him! You have no idea how much we regretted it afterwards. Revealing his secret to you was the only way we could think of to help you.”
Morgana had looked so sincere when she’d said it, Hermione had completely believed her. Yet... why did she have a horrible feeling that she was forgetting something about the encounter? Hermione rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache form. Merlin, she was under too much stress to begin with. There was no reason to start questioning her encounter with the fairies. What bad things could they possibly do?
“For the next several weeks, I expect you to train at this type of transfiguration of your bodies,” Voldemort just said when she turned her attention to him again. “However, I thought we would begin small. Try to only transfigure one of your fingers. Make it bigger, smaller, longer or shorter. Make sure to really feel everything in the finger before you try to change it, and then, say the spell as you focus on how you want the finger to change. I’ll walk around, helping you if you need it.”
He walked down from the stage as everyone took up their wands and books.
“Merlin, I can’t believe he lets us try something like this already!” Victoria Cole said nervously.
Hermione and Victoria had already made it a habit of sitting next to each other.
“I think you’ll do fine,” Hermione reassured her as she flipped through her book, wanting to read about the spell before attempting it. Her focus hadn’t been the best today.
She and Victoria were already trying to do the spell when she saw the two young women in the row in front of them call for Voldemort’s attention.
“I just can’t change it at all,” one of them said to him, holding up her pinkie in the air.
Hermione couldn’t remember what her name was, but she was one of the prettier students in the class. Her brown hair was thick and shiny, and the still suntanned hand she held up seemed newly manicured.
Hermione felt a very strange sensation in her chest when she saw Voldemort take the other woman’s hand.
“You have to know what you got to begin with,” he said to the girl. “You are trying to change this finger, right? Well, then you have to feel it yourself first, like this.”
He slowly ran his own fingers over her pinkie. Hermione felt like growling. Right then, Voldemort glanced up at her. For a moment, she almost thought he was smirking at her, but then, he looked down at the other woman again, continuing to give her instructions.
Hermione was in a foul mood for the rest of the class. When she got back to her own flat, she actually slammed the door shut.
“Is something wrong?” Miss Cooper looked up with a worried expression. She was sitting on the couch, knitting.
Hermione grimaced. “No, not really. Just a bad day in school.”
“Mum!” Althea came running from the bedroom and threw herself around Hermione’s legs. “Mum, I make a sholl.”
Hermione arched her eyebrow. “A what?”
Althea took a hold of her hand, dragging her into the bedroom. “Look!”
She made her way up on the bed and then rolled over it, with her head first. “See?”
“Very good, Althea,” Hermione praised her daughter, her mood lightening somewhat.
“Yes, she has been practising the whole day,” Miss Cooper said, coming up behind Hermione. “But now, if you don’t need me for anything else, I will take my leave.”
“Yes, of course,” Hermione said and followed Miss Cooper out to the hall. “Same time on Friday, then?”
“I’ll see you then, dear,” Miss Cooper said and left.
Right after Hermione had closed the door, Voldemort Apparated into the flat. Hermione felt her bad mood come back with a vengeance. Before she had time to say anything though, Althea ran up to him, hissing happily in Parseltongue. Hermione didn’t have to understand the language to know that Althea wanted to show her new ability to her father as well because the next moment, the girl had pulled him into the bedroom.
Hermione grimaced. Now that Althea had seen him, it would be impossible to get rid of him—no matter how much Hermione wanted him to go. Althea was too fond of him. The one time he had had to leave for a meeting, Althea had cried unstoppably for almost a half an hour.
“What an amusing daughter we have,” Voldemort said when he came out, apparently leaving Althea to her own games.
“Hilarious,” Hermione replied through gritted teeth.
He arched an eyebrow. “Something wrong?” he asked innocently.
She scowled. “Do you always have to be here?”
He fell down on the couch. “Why, of course. You are here, after all.”
She huffed, crossing her arms. There was no reasoning with the man. At least she hadn’t found a way to reason with him yet.
“Has this foul mood of yours anything to do with the fact that you are jealous?” he asked, smirking.
The question caught her off-guard. “I’m not jealous.”
“No, of course not, you were simply worried over the welfare of your classmate when you saw me helping her,” he teased her.
“Why would I care about that?” Hermione asked and walked over to the couch. “Although, if they knew who you were, they would be running as fast as they could in the opposite direction.”
He looked so amused. “Certainly. But why would I tell them when it is so much more fun to have them try to flirt with me? Especially since you become so jealous when they do.”
“I’m not jealous!” Hermione cried.
It was ridiculous. Why would she care if he flirted with someone else? Sure, she didn’t want him to flirt with anyone else, but that had nothing to do with jealousy. Nothing good could come out from him flirting with another person. He only acknowledged people he could use.
Voldemort, however, just laughed at her. Before she could stop him, he pulled her down onto his lap. She tried to get off him, but he moved them around on the couch so he was lying on top of her. He grinned at her as she made an attempt to push him off. When he grabbed her wrists, a bolt of pleasure ran through her body. His breath was hot against her skin as he kissed her throat all the way up to her ear.
“You were jealous, even though you have nothing to worry about, Hermione. Why would I care about some half-blooded slut when I have you at my disposal?”
Hermione didn’t want to moan but couldn’t prevent it from leaving her lips.
“All mine, now and forever,” he whispered.
Before Hermione had time to protest, he was snogging her senseless, and it didn’t take long until she forgot everything but his touch.
It wasn’t until much later that night, when Voldemort was asleep next to her, that the guilt

from earlier returned. Why did he have so much control over her? Why couldn’t she tear herself away from him? It had to have something to do with the Soul Mate-thingy. If only she could find out more about it, then maybe she could break his hold on her. Or, at least, have something to bargain with.
Hermione thought back to her conversation with Ginny.
If Dumbledore did indeed know something about the matter, then perhaps she should try to contact him? However, his portrait was hanging inside McGonagall’s office at Hogwarts. How was she supposed to get to see him there?
The answer hit her like lightning. Dumbledore had been a Transfiguration Master. He had written a lot of essays about Transfiguration. Everyone who mattered knew that Hermione was studying Transfiguration. It wouldn’t seem too weird if she wanted to see her old headmaster regarding some issue she had with one of his essays. Now that she thought about it, she recalled a text she had read last year in Australia that had been written by Dumbledore. The theory had been quite complex.
Filled with a new resolve, Hermione started to make her way out of bed. She froze in fear when Voldemort’s hand grasped her arm.
“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice muffled against the pillow. He was lying on his stomach; his eyes were still closed, and he sounded half asleep.
“Eh, just have to … powder my nose?” Hermione lied, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. What would he do if he found out what she was planning?
Voldemort chuckled tiredly and let go of her. “If you have to poop, just say so.”
“Yes, well …” Hermione trailed off, shaking her head, her heart slowing down. Voldemort had given her a solid excuse to leave the bed for the time it took her to write a letter.
She rose and hurried into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She had an old notebook as well as pencils in there. You never knew when you got an idea for an assignment. Hermione hated not being able to write it down immediately, no matter where she was.
After ten minutes, she had managed to compose a short letter to McGonagall, explaining her fake reason to want to see Dumbledore’s portrait. The problem would be sending the letter without Voldemort noticing. Or, maybe not. He always left earlier when Miss Cooper was due. If Hermione hurried, she would have time to visit the school’s Owlery before the lecture on Friday.
Her mind set, she hid the letter in one of the bottom drawers under the sink. At the last moment, she remembered to flush the toilet and wash her hands before she went back to bed.
For the rest of the week, she was too busy either enjoying him or feeling guilty about enjoying him that she didn’t notice Voldemort was going through a similar pattern. She never saw that he disappeared in the middle of the night, and she never questioned the morning shag.
Two weeks had gone by since she found out about him when she came home to find him on the couch, looking grim. She had only been in the library for a couple of hours after Althea had gone to bed, looking up a few things for a paper.
“What?” she asked, worried that Althea had done something.
She quickly walked to the bedroom door and glanced inside, but her daughter was sleeping peacefully in her bed. Frowning, she threw her schoolbag next to the coffee table and sat down at the opposite side of him, in the armchair.
“An owl came while you were away,” he answered coldly and pulled a letter out. A broken Hogwarts insignia was clear on the back; clearly, he had opened the envelope.
She reached out for the letter, but he pulled it away, not looking happy. Hermione tried not to show her worry over what the letter could contain and how Voldemort would react to it.
“Care to tell me the real reason why you would want to visit Dumbledore?” His eyes were hard.
“Not at all,” she retorted, hiding her worry under a mask of annoyance. She stood up and tried to get the letter from him.
He swatted her hand away. “I’ll find out one way or another.”
She growled but knew the danger of wrestling him for the letter. He would either use Legilimency on her or fuck it out of her. Since she didn’t want to risk telling him more than she had to, she sank down in the armchair again.
“I think Dumbledore knows about Soul Mates.”
Voldemort arched an eyebrow. “And what made you draw that conclusion?”
“That really isn’t your business.”
She could see him thinking and hoped he wouldn’t come to the right conclusion.
“You told Ginevra about us being Soul Mates, and she told you something about Dumbledore.”
“What makes you think that?” she growled, hoping her angry tone would hide her fear. She didn’t want to give him any reason to hurt Ginny.
“Well, I’ve searched every book there is about Soul Mates—which are all utterly ludicrous—and none of them make any connection to anything Dumbledore has ever done. Hence, you must have talked to someone about being a Soul Mate, and since I highly doubt you would tell a stranger that, it must be one of your friends. Ginevra is the only one of your friends who knows about us.”
She sighed. Well, it was close to the truth and didn’t involve the part she didn’t want him to know, namely the fact that Ginny could be Harry’s Soul Mate. At least that was something.
“I didn’t tell Ginny anything. She doesn’t really believe in it, she just … overheard Dumbledore mentioning it to someone before.”
“I can see when you are lying, Hermione.”
“Fine! For some reason I don’t care to explain to you, Ginny found out that Dumbledore knows about Soul Mates. And she told me because she thought there had to be something extraordinary to make me sleep with a teacher.”
She crossed her arms. There, she hadn’t said anything about Harry.
To her great surprise, Voldemort didn’t ask any follow-up questions about that. Instead, he asked: “And how exactly did you plan to tell Dumbledore about us without guilt showing all over your face?”
She grimaced; she hadn’t really thought about that yet.
“I don’t plan to tell him anything about you. If he asks about specifics … well, you are still my teacher, and therefore, I should feel guilty for sleeping with you.” The last things were said in a mumble. Guilt did wash over her every time she thought about it.
Voldemort shook his head. “Dumbledore is almost as good at Legilimency as I am. I can’t risk him finding out about me.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Dumbledore is dead. You know as well as I do that portraits can’t use any magic, let alone Legilimency. Surely, you aren’t afraid of a dead man?”
His eyes narrowed, and she could see that he was angry.
Quickly, she added, “I mean, even if he had been alive, why would he even for a moment think that I could have anything to do with you? That is just so unbelievable to begin with. Besides, you have already put that hex on me to prevent me from saying anything that could lead to you, right? How could he possibly find out?” She could see that he still wasn’t convinced, so she continued, “Also, if you haven’t found anything about Soul Mates now, there probably isn’t anything written about it. Dumbledore may be our only chance to find out what it means. And it’s not like you can ask him, right? Don’t you want to know?”
She could see the anger in his eyes shift to calculation. “Very well. I assume you plan to tell me everything Dumbledore knows about Soul Mates and that it’s completely unnecessary of me to remind you that I’m a master at Legilimency?”
Eyes narrowing, she lifted her head. “Quite.”
He smiled. “Excellent.”
He handed her the letter.
McGonagall’s reply was short but friendly, saying that she would be more than happy to see Hermione and that she usually could be reached in her office between lunch and dinner. Hermione quickly wrote a request for meeting her old professor on Monday since she didn’t have any classes then.
Once that was taken care of, Voldemort waved her over to the couch. Hermione knew what he had in mind, and since sex would most definitely make him lose interest in whatever Ginny could have said, she happily went over to him. Sleeping with the enemy was not as hard when you did it to protect your friends.
However, she would be lying to herself if she said that she only slept with him to help her friends. There was much more to it than that. Even though he was still her enemy and she hated him, there was also a part of her that didn’t. Perhaps she was going mad after spending too much time with him. The truth was she had never felt this way for anyone before. She had had crushes and heartbreaks. Yet … this seemed to be so much more. But it wasn’t love. You needed to be able to trust the ones you loved. Or so she had heard. She didn’t trust Voldemort. Not where it counted at least. He had lied so much to her, and she was certain that if he ever were faced with a choice between her and some sort of power, he would let her go without hesitation. Even if it meant killing her. Because she had only made him swear not to torture her magically anymore. He could still kill her.
Still, she craved him like he was some sort of drug. Her rational mind knew that it was like a drug, and if she ever had to, she would be able to live without him. There would be withdrawal, but she would manage. However, she wasn’t strong enough to quit by herself. Not that she thought he would allow her to quit. He craved her, too. At least she thought so. Why else would he be with her so much? It didn’t fit his profile. Not from what she had gathered from Harry. The most basic thing about Voldemort was that he was a loner. He didn’t need nor want friends or family. He had always done as much as possible by himself. If he, for some reason, had been unable to do something by himself, he hadn’t asked for help; he’d ordered someone to help him.
Yet, here he was.
It wasn’t just sex, even though she sometimes would like to think that. It would be easier to think they were only using each other for sex. Then, she wouldn’t feel so guilty. But it was much more. They talked. Although they seldom agreed with each other, they still talked. And he got her thinking in ways she never had considered thinking before. It scared her. He was such a master of rhetoric that she always had to be on guard to not swallow what he said without thinking. And sometimes, she wasn’t up for that. Sometimes, she was afraid she wasn’t critical enough to hear what he was really saying. She feared even more for Althea than herself, though. The girl was barely four! And Hermione had no idea what Voldemort told her daughter because she couldn’t understand what they were saying to each other. Somehow, she had to make sure Althea grew up to be more like her than Voldemort. Teach her the equal value of all living beings and such things. Because it didn’t look like Voldemort planned to go anywhere for the near future.
It frightened Hermione beyond belief that a very small part of her was happy about that fact.

xxx

As usual, Voldemort came home a couple of hours before Hermione woke up. He stripped and lay down in bed, feeling like he could finally relax. Two more dead bodies were now floating around in the Pacific Ocean, waiting for a hungry shark or some other human-eating animal. The satisfying feeling of control that killing gave him made him able to act normal around Hermione. Or, well, as normal as he could ever be.
He didn’t care to think of the reason why he had killed over twenty-three people these past two weeks. It would only bring the need for control back. So, he wouldn’t think about how this thing with Hermione scared him. Nope. He would not. Definitely not. Neither would he try to work out exactly what it was he was feeling. That was a big no-no. It would only make him angry since he didn’t know what he was feeling. He had tried reading about what the feeling could be but had come up empty. The feeling just didn’t fit into any explanation he had seen. It wasn’t unpleasant, quite the opposite, but it was unfamiliar and he didn’t like it. Not at all.
Turning to his stomach, he groaned into his pillow. Damn, why did he have to open that can of pixies?
Their conversation earlier that night had disturbed him. Why was he even thinking about feelings? He didn’t really have feelings! Or well … that could be a question about definitions. He could feel angry and happy, pain and pleasure, lust and disgust. The feelings he didn’t feel were the ones that required empathy. He didn’t feel guilt, compassion, shame, loneliness, love … definitely not love. He could never really understand what people talked about when they claimed they had these feelings. He could mimic it but never connect. This was something he had always been very proud of. However, he didn’t like it when there was something he didn’t understand. Like now, with his feelings for Hermione. It was new, and he had yet to find a way to control it.
This was a problem because Lord Voldemort always needed to be in control. Therefore, he tried to keep to the things he could control. Like the life and death of other persons.
Like her pleasure and pain.
He looked at the time. It was already seven. It meant he could wake her up and once again show her that he was in control over her. With a smirk, he moved the covers away and crawled over her deliciously naked body. He carefully moved her legs apart and lay down between them. He traced his fingertips over the inside of her thighs and into her centre. After only manipulating her clit a little, she began leaking. He pushed a finger inside her and heard her moan in agreement.
As he worked her towards an orgasm, his eyes landed on the scar between her breasts. Dolohov had done that. Voldemort felt a spark of jealousy. Dolohov had marked her and he hadn’t, at least not where it counted. That was just wrong. Lord Voldemort should have his mark on her as well, to prove that she belonged to him. However, it couldn’t be on any visible place. What to do …?
She was whirling underneath his hand when he came up with the perfect place. The inside of her thigh. Only those who wanted something … not approvable would see the inside of her thigh. And then, she would have to explain that she already belonged to someone else.
When she was just a nudge away from an orgasm, he bit down in the flesh of her thigh.
Hermione yelled in pain, and he was glad he had made it a habit to cast a Silencing Spell around Althea’s bed. Hermione tried to pull him away, but he didn’t let go until he was certain he had left a permanent mark. Then, he noted that she was still grinding down against his fingers, even though she was pulling at his hair for him to stop. Satisfied, he moved upwards and let her taste the iron texture of her blood on his lips. He removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock, sending her over the edge. She was all his.
“Why did you do that?”
She winced when he had emptied himself inside her. He chuckled and rolled off her.
“Just wanted to try something new. You seemed to enjoy it.”
She scowled at him. “It will leave a mark.”
“That was part of the plan.”
She smacked his shoulder. “I could just heal it, you know.”
“You won’t.”
“And what makes you so sure of that?”
He rose from the bed and stretched, very pleased with himself. “Because you like to be reminded of me.”
He caught the pillow she threw at him. Laughing, he went into the bathroom. She would leave it there. He was certain of it.

xxx

Sunday meant dinner at the Burrow for Hermione. Althea, however, had wanted to stay at home with Voldemort. Hermione had not liked how pleased Voldemort had looked, but she knew her daughter didn’t like the other two children at the Burrow. In the end, Hermione had allowed Althea to stay behind. She told the Weasleys that Althea had got a cold and that the nanny was there.
After dinner, Harry asked her if she wanted to take a walk with him, and Hermione happily agreed. She hadn’t been alone with Harry for more than a few minutes since she came back to the UK. Not that there was anything for her to tell him that couldn’t be said in front of others, but sometimes, it was nice when there was just the two of them.
“How is school? I mean, really?” he asked as they walked down the dirt road that led from the Burrow to the village.
“It’s fine. But I’m glad I decided to read it at a reduced pace.”
It wasn’t a lie. Ever since Voldemort started to be with her most of the time, she had got less time to study.
“And how are your school mates?”
Harry sounded worried. She had mentioned that Malfoy was there, and ever since then, Harry had asked if he had done something to her.
“They are fine. I don’t really know any of them. I usually sit with Victoria Cole, you know, that former Gryffindor I mentioned?”
She and Victoria had even been studying together one night, but Hermione wasn’t sure if Victoria had asked her because she wanted them to be friends or if it was because she really needed help. Either way, it had been a much needed relief from Voldemort. Like this was.
“Yeah. Cool. And Malfoy …?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Hasn’t said a word. He barely looks at me in class, and this week, he seemed really distracted.”
“I guess he is busy throwing a party now that his father is coming home,” Harry muttered darkly.
“What? I thought he wouldn’t be released until next month?” Hermione asked, annoyed.
“There was a fire, and a whole floor was destroyed. Has been a complete nightmare to make room for all the prisoners; hence, they let the ones that were going to be released anyway this year go now.” Harry put the hands in his pockets and kicked some pebble.
“And do you know what caused the fire?” she asked, following his example of putting her hands in her pockets. It was cold outside.
“Some of the guards were trying to set up a new set of wards. It backfired.” The dark circles under Harry’s eyes were given a reason. She patted his arm in sympathy.
They turned left on a lane that led over the field and back to the Burrow.
“Hermione …” Harry hesitated and blushed.
Hermione arched an eyebrow at him with a curious smile. Although she wasn’t new to Harry’s blushes, it had been quite some time since she saw him become red like this.
“Hermione what?”
He scratched his neck. “Are you a lesbian?”
Hermione blinked a few times. “No. Why?”
“It’s just, well, Ron and I … or well, mostly Ron, thought that we could set you up on a blind date with this man I know from work. But Ginny stopped him and said that she was sure you wouldn’t be interested in any man we could come up with. I just thought, eh, she emphasised the whole ‘any man’ part.”
Hermione started laughing. “No, Harry. I can, with certainty, tell you that I’m not a lesbian.”
“Okay, good. Or well, if you were, that would be fine, too. I just …” The blush made him look rather cute. “But I guess you don’t want a blind date, anyhow?”
“No, not really,” she answered, chuckling.
“Is it because you have someone already or …?”
She hesitated a moment too long.
Harry’s eyes widened. “You do!”
“It’s complicated, Harry,” she said with a sigh.
“But there is someone?”
“No. Or maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to … I don’t know what I want.”
The subject was making her very uncomfortable. How could she ever explain to Harry that she was having sex with the man who had tried to kill him on numerous occasions?
“Okay. Well, I just want you to be happy, Hermione.”
“I know, Harry. I want you to be happy, too.” She hesitated as well. “But you are happy, right? With Ginny?”
A brilliant smile lit up his tired face.

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