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
- 17
- 18
- 19
a/n Wow! You're awesome, guys! I loved all your thoughts and I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story.
Ice Empress- no need for the bites, yet :) I hope you'll like the twist!
Kelli- If the Horcrux is in Hermione anyway, I'd thought I'd use it :)
Lola- I like Voldemort too :) no worries, I'll update fast!
Sherlocked17 - ")) Well, I also didn't enjoy writing the first chapters, but they were necessary. But thank you for sticking with me! I promise a lot of goodies later XD
I hope you enjoy the chapter!
Please review and let me know what you think!
Beta: Serpent in Red
xxx
Two Steps From Hell
xxx
Chapter Eighteen
1st January
Hermione was holding Ron tight, sniffing into his neck, and she felt like she had a chance now. She could escape Voldemort's magnetism now when she had her Ron back.
Hermione tried not to feel the guilt for choosing Ron over all those people as she didn't know Voldemort would do something like that.
She should have though.
She and Ron have talked for hours, and while still weak, he was back to his usual self. She loved him so much.
Everything will be alright now.
xxx
End of January
"Can't you wear something less … flashy?"
Hermione slammed the wardrobe door so hard that the mirror on its surface almost broke.
Her original clothing was in the corner—the white dress was said to be too short, and the silver one was too opened on the front—and she was trying not to open her mouth and just bark in anger.
"Why can't you wear something normal?"
"I am wearing something normal, Ronald. I have to dress appropriately. You haven't forgotten who I am going to meet, have you?"
Hermione tried to keep the annoyance out of her tone, as she didn't want to sound like a bitch, but sometimes she wished that Ron would just keep his thoughts to himself.
"And the shoes? Can't you wear the flat ones?"
Hermione saw the red fog of annoyance cloud her mind, and she knew she had to hurry up before she said something she'd regret.
"How long will you be with the snake-face?"
She wanted to say he wasn't a snake-face anymore, but it was better not to remind Ron about Voldemort's new looks. To say Ron hated Voldemort was an understatement.
"I told you already that I do not know, didn't I?"
Ron was sitting in one of the chairs, his feet on the glass table—darning socks were dirty again—and he was eating while judging her outfits. The crumbs from the snacks were all over his bright orange t-shirt with the words "Chudley Cannons" in the front and the back.
After the whole nightmarish New Year, Ron was her only constant company—she didn't count Voldemort as he was always there—ashe refused to listen to his mother and stayed here often—but never for the night—in her Venice apartment.
Hermione had honestly told them everything—minus the part of why her dress was torn and what she had been doing all evening and with whom—and while she didn't regret it, she missed the Weasleys.
She had said that waking up Ron had been an award for getting three Outstandings.
When Molly took her to the kitchen in the evening and with tears in her honest eyes asked Hermione not to come to the Burrow often, Hermione told herself she wasn't disappointed.
She understood Molly perfectly, but it still hurt.
The Weasleys—Ginny especially—weren't in immediate danger when she wasn't around, and with Ron awake, she had no reason to come to the Burrow so often when she wasn't that welcomed anymore.
There was no Order anymore and Harry was always away.
Molly had cried when she had explained that she had lost one child already and she wouldn't be able to live if something happened to her other children, and while she loved Hermione like her own daughter—or so she said—she wasn't ready to endanger the lives of everyone in the family.
Hermione had told Ginny to keep her distance, since for some reason, Voldemort had chosen the redhead as the first target, and Hermione didn't know what counted as "stupid" in the Dark Lord's view.
Better safe than sorry.
She still had contact with her friend, but not that often and not that close.
Harry …
Harry was there when she had arrived from the "party", and while he was the Harry she knew, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that something was very off with her green-eyed friend. Harry told everyone he was alright and refused to answer any questions as to where he was spending all his time.
Hermione promised herself that as soon as she had free time, she'd find out what he had been up to.
She knew that even Ron couldn't get through to their friend, and it really bothered her.
Hermione was ready to storm Grimmauld Place and demand answers, but Harry was as stubborn as she was, and unless she learned Legilimency, she wouldn't get any answers from him if he was unwilling to share.
Hermione wished that Ron would try again, but apparently, he had more important things on his mind.
Like Voldemort, her outfits, and food.
Ron took the news about the events of months he was in coma not very well, but he had no choice.
He couldn't change anything.
She couldn't look like riffraff, and while she told herself she didn't pay extra attention to her wardrobe now, she knew she was lying.
She wanted to look good.
Hermione didn't know what awaited her when she went to meet the Dark Lord for the first time after that and was again surprised when after just one hour in his presence, he lifted his restrictions on her thoughts and speech—in private only—and she found herself relaxing slowly.
He was again the knowledgeable Hood but with Marvolo's charms, and it was an irresistible combination.
When he wasn't burning people, he wasn't that bad.
Well …
Hermione had spent long hours in the bathroom, vomiting from the horror she had seen, but she hadn't scrubbed herself to remove his lingering touch.
There was no point in it.
She wasn't a hypocrite.
She hated him as much as she wanted him.
And she really hated him.
Every time she looked at him, she remembered how it felt back then, and the tension between them was so thick that she could use a knife to cut through it.
Every time she went to see him, she didn't know what she had awaited—it was a lie—but every time she returned home with empty hands and disturbing thoughts.
He hadn't touched her even once.
Hermione decided she had a personality disorder with a lingering schizophrenia and some very weird kicks.
She was insane.
"Hermione, are you—" A burp. "—listening at all?"
Ron asked while chewing the onion rings he had brought from the Burrow—made with love and a lot of onion and garlic—and Hermione didn't know how many times she had to tell him not to talk—or burp!—with a full mouth.
The smell of the fried onion rings was now even on the balcony, and Hermione had to cover her nose a few times when Ron wasn't watching. She needed to invent a spell that would clean the air without anyone noticing it.
"I am, Ronald, and I have to go. I don't know how long I'll be there, so don't wait, ok?"
Please let me study in peace today.
"No problem, Hermione. I don't have anything to do anyway, so I'll wait for you," Ron said while wiping his oily fingers on the napkin, and Hermione had a flashback in which elegant hands were holding a piece of her red torn dress, and she kicked the corner of the wardrobe.
Dammit, it hurts!
While Hermione was trying to get rid of the flashback and the tingling in her lower stomach, Ron got up and now stood behind her.
Hermione saw their reflection in the mirror, and she was so grateful when Ron hugged her as she was able to close her eyes without Ron noticing it.
The picture was all wrong.
Hermione tried to tell herself that appearance did not matter—it truly didn't—but it wasn't the appearance only.
She loved his bright orange hair, but she didn't want to bury her fingers in it and feel its texture.
She loved his tender, boyish face, but didn't want to touch it with her fingertips.
She loved his carefree and honest attitude, but he wasn't elegant or brilliant.
She loved his blue eyes, but they weren't pale enough. Or smart enough. They weren't piercing her soul every time he looked at her. They paled in comparison.
She loved his pale lashes, but she found she preferred black.
She loved his spicy scent, but it wasn't cool or elegant, and the toxic note was missing.
She loved his outfits, but they weren't even close to the elegant style she truly liked.
She loved his wide eyebrows, but they weren't elegantly shaped, and they were orange instead of black.
She loved Ron, but she wanted another.
When Ron had kissed her tentatively on the lips, she didn't tremble from desire.
When Ron—the man she thought she loved—had kissed her—once—she had thought about the other lips—sensual and demanding.
While Ron had been in a coma, Hermione was able to imagine that she'd respond to his touch like she did to Marvolo's—and that she was just a horny bitch—but now, when Ron was awake and well, there was no denying her desires any longer.
She was a horny sick bitch, but she wanted one man only.
She did not want to be with Voldemort, but she wanted him physically.
Her mind and her body disagreed with one another and there was nothing she could do.
As Hermione saw Ron lean closer to her, she wanted to lean away as the smell from the onion rings was making her stomach tremble—but not in anticipation, unfortunately—and Hermione lied again.
She was lying all the time to everyone now and she didn't know when she became such a … Slytherin.
"He will Crucio me if I am late."
She still had at least twenty minutes and Voldemort didn't raise his wand at her at all, but Ron didn't need to know that.
It wasn't Ron's fault that she was a sick, twisted individual.
"I'll miss you, Hermione. I'll be right here when you return and I'll take care of you."
Right. Thanks.
"I'll miss you, too, Ron. But I won't be long."
Had she been Pinocchio, her nose would have reached Britain all on its own.
Hermione hated herself, but she could not control her body.
With a guilty but gentle smile, Hermione twisted the ring—Morsmordre—and hoped Voldemort would accept her early visit.
Her smile grew when she felt the burning on the ring, and in the next second, she was Apparated away.
Xxx
Looking at his reflection, he winced.
The yellow vest—while being silky and sitting perfectly on his lean form—was just horrible and he resembled a chicken.
"Crucio!"
As the tailor was enjoying his feedback, Lord Voldemort took off the offending vest and threw it near the silent—he had a lot on his mind and didn't need accompanying screams now—thrashing form of the person who had thought yellow would look good on him.
Everything looked good on him, but it didn't mean he had to wear idiotic colors.
He had his standards.
Closing the silver buttons of a pale blue vest, Voldemort smiled.
Now that was to his taste.
Turning left and right, he had to admit pale blue was his color—he was winter—and it fitted well with his eyes.
Should he try maybe purple? It was a complicated color, and it was hard to pull it off, but if anyone could pull it off, it'd be him.
Even Lucius—and he knew how much time Lucius spent obsessing about his looks—wouldn't pull it off.
Blond hair and purple didn't look as good as black hair and purple.
Purple was his most favorite because it was his magic's chosen color, and if there was one thing Lord Voldemort loved, it was his magic.
Deep purple vest, deep purple trousers and a blue tie would look good. All silk.
Or a red tie would look better?
Voldemort turned to the tailor to tell him to choose a tie and a new suit when he saw the tailor's twitching body with opened eyes on the floor.
He clicked his tongue.
He had forgotten to lift the Cruciatus, and the additional Silencing Spell removed the screams, so it wasn't really his fault.
He couldn't remember every Crucio he cast, could he?
Stepping over the now brain-dead tailor, Lord Voldemort picked a blue tie and a beige one before returning to the mirror. Which to choose?
He had no idea how many tailors Lucius knew, but three were already dead—he had really disliked the orange shirt and the bright pink tie—and he had no need for idiots around him.
His sensual Mudblood would be arriving soon, so with a swish from his wand, the tailor's body disappeared.
It was the end of January. One month had passed since their amusing date, and Hermione was back to her normal—as normal as one can be with him controlling everything—self.
When the Mudblood—Hermione—came to him the first time after the date, she was twitchy and nervous around him, and he couldn't allow it.
He needed her relaxed with him.
She had to learn so much, and she couldn't concentrate on anything when she kept thinking about what he had done that night.
He didn't do anything compared to what he was going to do to her later …
She was confused and silent, and he didn't like it.
He lifted all the rules and allowed her to be herself because he didn't want to deal with a twitching idiot instead of the normally brilliant girl.
He was proven right—like always—when he judged that it would help her move on from the mental trauma—the burning people weren't to her taste yet—and one month after their little fun, she was back to her usual self.
He behaved and didn't touch her, not even once, but he could see her lick her lips when she looked at his fingers or mouth.
She hated him, but she wanted him. He didn't want to remove the hating part yet—it was so amusing—but he wanted to hear her moans again.
Voldemort felt a tingle in his mind, and he knew Hermione had activated the ring. He allowed the Portkey activation—she was twenty minutes early—and the next second, she was standing before him, dressed in beige robes, a blue dress, and nude pumps.
Nice.
Xxx
He was standing with his back to her in a light blue vest, white shirt, and pale blue trousers, holding a blue and a beige tie and trying to decide which one fit more. The pale colors were a perfect contrast to his jet-black hair.
Hermione met his pale eyes in the reflection, and she wanted to kick the wardrobe again as butterflies started their usual dance in her stomach.
"Hermione."
She was Hermione now and she liked it. After their encounter, Miss Granger sounded wrong.
"Marvolo."
She still could not believe he had allowed her to call him by his middle name—in private only—and she liked how it sounded. Much better than "Voldemort" or, god forbid, "my Lord".
As Hermione stepped closer, she noticed a yellow vest on the floor and picked it up.
It was silk and it was of the best quality she had seen. Why was it on the floor?
Voldemort turned around, and with an impatient sigh, he held out his hand for the vest.
Was he going to put it on?
As she handed him the vest, their fingers touched, and a spark of electricity hit her directly there.
She had to lick her dry lips when Marvolo slowly took off the blue vest—never breaking their eye contact in the reflection—and as he put on the yellow vest, Hermione had to stifle a laugh.
No wonder he never wore yellow.
He looked like a chicken.
While Hermione very quickly got used to the no-rules rule—in private only—she still sometimes expected him to cast his favorite curse on her.
What she didn't expect was the genuine smile she saw in the mirror.
"Are you sure you're not a lost relative of mine?"
Judging by her sanity, she could be.
While he joked around with her, his not-so-pure blood was something that she didn't dare to talk about as he quickly lost his good humor then.
"You should kill whoever told you it would look good on you."
It was out of her mouth even before she realized.
When would she start thinking before saying something to a psychopath and a murderer who fried people instead of chicken?
The yellow vest was on the floor again, and Hermione didn't make any attempts to pick it up. She didn't like it.
"I already have."
Well … what did she say?
Marvolo had now the pale blue vest on and it looked perfect.
Hermione wanted to think that his admission should have made her cry in horror—a person was killed because the color was off— but it was something Marvolo—Voldemort—did on a daily basis, and it simply didn't shock her anymore. At least she hadn't been here then.
While Hermione did not forget who she was dealing with—how could she after he had so nicely reminded her—she knew the signs that would warn her when she was standing on a thin ice and below was just pain. He allowed her much more than he allowed anyone else, and Hermione was thankful for it.
"Blue or beige?"
He was asking her about the ties, and Hermione realized how normal their conversation sounded.
"Neither."
An elegant eyebrow rose, and a huge leather case that was on the windowsill opened.
"Would you like to choose?"
Hermione's sick heart missed a beat as her eyes landed on the ties in the case.
He was letting her choose a tie for him.
Did it sound sexy or was she just that sick?
"Both."
While Marvolo didn't comment on her thoughts often now, when he did …
"I wouldn't rely on your interpretation of sanity."
The pot calling the kettle black.
A small smile from Marvolo and Hermione's hands were now touching silk ties, one smoother than another.
She had seen him wear one of the ties—deep purple with silver stripes—once and it was her favorite. But she liked the half lilac, half silver one as well.
"One for you, one for me."
Hermione shivered when she felt him stand behind her, so close that the silky texture of his trousers was touching her naked shin.
She wouldn't be taking his tie with her, would she?
As her hand was about to put the deep purple tie back into the case, Hermione felt arms around her waist and her heart started to run a marathon.
"Temptation is a very tricky mistress, Hermione. Sometimes, you have to give in."
She should have been afraid of his arms around her waist because the last time they were there, she ended up like a horny slut, pushing herself onto his fingers while people suffered around her.
But she wasn't.
Marvolo was like an itch.
It felt like she had an itching place somewhere—she wasn't vulgar—and it looked like only Marvolo would be able to scratch that itch.
At least once. Then it would stop itching. Maybe.
Hermione closed the case and held one tie in her hands—the half lilac, half silver one.
"But not always."
She wouldn't be taking his tie. She didn't need an additional reminder of him when he wasn't around.
She was now looking into pale-blue eyes that were laughing and Hermione thought if she dared.
Marvolo was looking at her with his head tilted to the right, and Hermione lifted the tie before slowly tying it around his neck.
He was taller than her and only the heels of the pumps allowed her to stand normally and not on her tiptoes.
They were standing so close that she saw the moment his pupils dilated a bit.
As she was trying to make the knot, her fingers trembled a bit, but she didn't stop.
"Do you have a lot of questions today?"
She was so thankful for his study-related question because her mind was anywhere but not where it was supposed to be.
"Not really. I will have more at the end of the week."
Her voice didn't tremble, and her hands were now steady.
"Do you still have problems with the Mind Arts?"
His head was still tilted to the right, and it was making it harder to tie the knot, so without even thinking, Hermione tilted his head back so that it would be straight.
Her fingers didn't shake, but her other parts shook like crazy when his pupils dilated a bit more.
"I do. I have to study everything on my own. "
If there was one professor Hermione did not like, it was Professor Chantal.
Professor Snape had been a blessing, compared to Professor Brigitte Chantel. She was vicious and nasty, and she hated Hermione.
She had been studying the Mind Arts for a month, and it didn't look so good at the moment. That was why she spent more and more time with Voldemort as he had to clear so many topics for her before she could move forward with her studies in the Mind Arts.
Hermione had kept quiet for some time, but it was the professor's job to teach, wasn't it?
Hermione needed to concentrate on what she was saying, as the tie was so smooth and silky—and Marvolo smelled so good from such a close proximity—that she bit her lip when she imagined it around her hands but in a different situation.
She needed to get her mind out of the gutter!
The hands on her waist didn't help the matter, and as she finished tying the knot, she looked at the pale-blue eyes that were watching her with interest.
"Are you hungry?"
Was he talking about food as in food or something else?
"The food."
If she thought about it, she was hungry. She hadn't eaten well today, and the onion rings made her stomach turn.
"No onion rings, I promise."
Last time she went out with him, he burned sixty people and finger-fucked her while werewolves were eating human flesh.
She had the right to be hesitant, and he was asking instead of stating.
One did not last long in Lord Voldemort's almost daily presence without understanding the difference between a question and a statement.
She saw a corner of his mouth twitch.
What was so funny?
"You sound like someone I know."
He doesn't know any normal people, so it isn't a compliment, Hermione thought while correcting the knot.
"We will discuss all your questions, but first I want to eat."
One could eat many things, a five-letter vulgar word included.
The mental slap she gave herself was so hard that she saw Marvolo wince for a millisecond.
He felt it as well!
Well, well, well …
He let go of her waist and walked over to the mirror, straightening his white shirt and the tie, his dark eyes watching her in the reflection.
Hermione shivered when she thought as to why they were dark now.
Did she affect him like he affected her?
"Close enough."
The butterflies turned to fiery dragons, and Hermione needed fresh air.
He was always honest—except that one time—and she knew he wasn't lying now.
"Come, we're going out. Unless, of course, you're in a hurry?" Voldemort asked, his eyes twinkling with knowledge that she wasn't.
"No rules?" Hermione asked as she watched a black cloak materialize around his shoulders.
"There are no rules between us when we are alone, Hermione. Did you forget?"
He offered his elbow, and she tentatively accepted.
"It doesn't hurt to make sure, does it?"
She even talked like him, with statements and one raised brow.
Maybe she was his relative?
xxx
"How often do you come here?" she asked while opening a menu.
They were seating in a bar somewhere in China, and Hermione had to remind herself she wasn't dreaming.
They sat in a booth with slightly glimmering walls, and there was only a transparent table between them.
"From time to time. They have the best fillet-mignon and the sweetest red wine. "
Hermione could not believe what she was hearing.
Marvolo—Lord Voldemort—enjoyed food.
He was a foodie!
"Hermione, Hermione."
When he said her name twice and in such a tender voice, she heard the dragons roar.
The fire would come soon.
"Tell me, when you ate the first real meal after your long and admirable adventure in the woods, how did it taste?"
If he put it that way …
"It was delicious."
"And imagine now how it would feel after thirteen years of being a spirit?"
He was showing unusual straightness and honesty—he was always honest, just not like that—and Hermione licked her lips before taking a sip of the wine.
"How did it feel to be a spirit?"
She was curious.
Marvolo took a small sip from his glass, and Hermione's eyes zoomed onto his lips as a tongue darted out.
"I certainly didn't enjoy it."
That bad …
"Yes."
Hermione didn't know what to say when usually she didn't know how to shut up.
She couldn't say "I'm sorry."
She could say "You deserved it" and she'd get away with it, but she didn't want to ruin the atmosphere. She liked him like this—honest and straightforward.
And calm.
Looking at the menu was a better option.
Hermione at first could not get used to the fact that all menus in the magical world were in the language you knew best—a very interesting charm—but when instead of Chinese she saw English—the inclination was interesting—it didn't surprise her. Not anymore.
She ate out very often as she didn't want to cook—she didn't have the time or the will—and since Voldemort was extremely generous—she didn't have a limit set!—she had to admit she started to lose money value from her grasp.
She gladly drank a tall glass of Latte Macchiato or a shot of espresso before going to the university, and she ate where she liked and what she liked. She could buy any book that interested her; she could try on any dress she saw; she could do anything she wanted and she didn't need to think about money.
At first, it felt weird, but then again, she had every day since May—eight months—to get used to it.
Hermione had to admit it felt good.
"Would you like to taste a snake?"
Which snake … did he mean ...
Her mental slap for herself—she performed like in the Olympics, for the whole British team—echoed in her mind, and with tears in her eyes, Hermione saw Marvolo choke on the wine.
He coughed a few times, holding to his chest with one hand and the other in a fist, and she was torn between laughing in glee and putting her feet on the table—even the Master of Death choked on his sweet wine because she was such a sick individual—or getting up and trying to help him.
Would she help him?
Hermione was luckily saved from having to answer such a stupid—of course not!—question as now Marvolo wasn't coughing anymore, but he had a hand over his eyes and his shoulders were shaking.
"I really don't know how you do it."
He was laughing.
Which meant he had been talking about food.
Just how many times could she embarrass herself like that?
It wasn't easy to save face when every single thought you had in your mind was immediately read by those smart, piercing pale eyes. They might be laughing now, but they still knew everything even better than herself.
And she couldn't even learn Occlumency and Legilimency because the professor was a nasty bitch.
"The snake is delicious. You should definitely try it."
Hermione could do nothing but smile in impuissance at the smiling Marvolo at his double-edged phrase.
"Will it not bite me?"
She so did not ask that …
Hermione saw pale eyes get darker as pupils dilated, and her breath hitched.
"You are a snake charmer, aren't you, Hermione? You're a Parselmouth. So use your mouth."
Dear god …
Hermione wiggled in her chair as the dragons opened their jaws and fire started to burn her insides.
"Parseltongue is not only a language, Hermione."
She needed those underwear slips for people who peed without their knowledge.
She never knew she couldn't hold her bladder.
It wasn't the bladder, and she knew that he knew that she knew.
"The snake is served with a mouth-watering sauce that compliments the dish."
Fuck the slips, she needed diapers.
"And the texture of the snake is so tender but so hard at the same time that you cannot hold back a moan when it touches your tongue."
Hermione could only stare at his enlarged pupils and wish that she and Marvolo were somewhere else now.
In a bedroom.
"I don't need a bed to take you, Hermione. I can take you here, on this very table." Marvolo leaned a bit forward, and one hand took her palm while the other closed over it, the fingers at her pulse.
Her knees trembled a bit, and it was hard to breathe as those elegant fingers slowly drew lines on her arm while the other held still at the pulse point.
Hermione was so embarrassed at her own desires that she felt tears in her eyes.
"My sweet, there is nothing to be embarrassed about. If you cannot tell your future lover what you want, then whom can you tell?"
Did she hear right?
"Do you still have any doubts?" Marvolo was looking at her with a raised eyebrow, and his voice held a note of incredibility.
No, not really.
"Why me?"
Hermione wasn't blind, and she wasn't stupid, nor was she that naïve.
It was only because he was a psychopath and a sociopath that he didn't have hordes of willing witches around him, salivating over his power, knowledge, charisma, or beauty.
He didn't allow anyone near.
"Because you're special."
Hermione wanted to say she wasn't, but she didn't want to lie anymore. If he was honest, she'd be honest too.
"But that's not the only reason."
Marvolo tilted his head to the right as his thumb slowly drew circles on the inner side of her arm.
"It is not."
Very illuminating.
"Do you want me?"
She dared, but she was afraid of what he would say.
If he said "yes", she'd have to face her recent turbulent dreams in reality.
If he said "no" …
Hermione did not know what she would do then. She didn't even think about it before asking.
"You're asking the wrong question. Do you want me?"
They both knew it, so there was no one to lie to here.
"Yes."
"Do you want my special attention or do you want sex only ?
When he said word "sex", her inner walls clenched and Hermione had to take a few breaths.
Fuck, what was he asking?
She understood the difference—one meant more than just sex, and the other was just sex with no obligations.
"Correct. Which one do you wish for? I shouldn't remind you to be careful with your wishes, should I?"
No, she didn't need a reminder.
She wanted him physically only; she didn't want to be with him.
He was a monster.
And if he allowed that separation, she'd take it happily. That was what she had wished for!
"I wish for only sex."
There, she said it. Had she no modesty at all?
The smile on his face was genuine as he looked at her with squinted, pale-blue eyes.
"Had you said anything else, I would have been greatly disappointed."
She wanted him so much that she didn't care where he took her, if he took her soon.
"Patience is a virtue, Hermione, and I will teach you patience. Among other things."
The smile was so promising that Hermione shivered.
She couldn't wait.
"Should we try the snake, Hermione?"
Marvolo winked and Hermione smiled.
"With the sauce, please."
They deserved each other.
xxx
Hermione Apparated to her apartment several hours later with a smile on her face and a full stomach. The snake had been delicious, and she drank a lot of wine, so now she just wanted to crash into her bed and sleep. She had a lot of classes tomorrow and she needed rest.
She knew what kind of dreams she'd have today, but it didn't bother her anymore.
Sex was sex, Marvolo had said, and it had nothing to do with emotions.
She wasn't declaring her loyalty to the Dark side; she would just fuck with the Dark Lord.
Someday.
Marvolo wasn't in a hurry—his words—and she'd have to wait, but the knowledge that it would happen made her heart flutter.
"Had a good time?"
Shit.
Looking at Ron's pursed lips and squinted, suspicious blue eyes, Hermione felt the guilt eat at her insides.
No wonder she was obsessed about Marvolo. She was also a monster.
xxx
a/n I'll try to update soon! Waves!
- 17
- 18
- 19
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