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Granger's Anatomy	By : brightneeBee Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 2587 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Entering her dark, empty flat felt like a small luxury after an extremely guilt-ridden day. She didn’t even bother to turn on the lights as she floo’ed into the living room from St. Mungo’s, still in her Healer robes covered in blood smears. She dropped her purse onto the hook near the fireplace and stumbled through the flat to her kitchen. She needed alcohol and ice cream, and she needed the rest of her day off - night off, actually - to be free from pages calling her back to the hospital. She just needed a few hours of peace and quiet, and she needed to get drunk and cry before returning to work the next day. It was one small favor that she hoped would be granted.

“You look as lovely as ever, Hermione...”

                When I was a child, before my Hogwarts letter arrived, I skipped ahead a few years in muggle schooling. Instead of being in a class with normal nine-year-olds, I was sitting in multiple classes with thirteen- and fourteen-year olds. English seemed to provide me with enough to butt-heads with my teacher at every opportunity. Thinking back, I guess I was a cynical little swot.

                During one class - English literature, of course - we had to read “Romeo and Juliet.” Then, for extra credit, Mrs. Whitman made us act out all the parts. Basil Smith was Romeo. As fate would have it, I was Juliet. All the other girls were jealous, and a little miffed that a nine-year-old brainiac was picked above them.

But I had a slightly different take.

I told Mrs. Whitman that Juliet was a complete duffer. For starters, she falls for the one bloke she knows she can’t have. Then she blames Fate for her own bad decision. Mrs. Whitman explained to me that when Fate comes into play, choice sometimes goes out the window.

At the ripe old age of nine, I was very clear that love, like life, is about making choices. And Fate has nothing to do with it. Everyone thinks it’s so romantic. Romeo and Juliet; true love.

How sad.

If Juliet was stupid enough to fall for the enemy, drink a bottle of poison, and go to sleep in a mausoleum...she deserved whatever she got.

Maybe Romeo and Juliet were fated to be together, but just for a while. And then their time passed. If they could have known that beforehand, maybe it all would have been okay.

I told Mrs. Whitman that when I was an adult, I’d take Fate into my own hands. I wouldn’t let some bloke drag me down. Mrs. Whitman said I’d be lucky if I ever had that kind of passion with someone. And if I did, we’d be together forever.

Even now, I believe that for the most part, love is about choices. It’s about putting down the poison and the dagger and making your own happy ending, most of the time. And that sometimes, despite all your best choices, and all your best intentions, Fate wins anyway.

                The tears welled up and spilled over from her eyes and the bottle of cheap merlot she bought from the local grocer fell to the floor. The noise of shattering glass and liquid splashing was drowned out by the choked sobbing sound emitting from Hermione. Her whole body shook. It couldn’t be real. It was too much like her dream come true to be real.

                “If you doubt the seriousness of the moment, Hermione,” there was movement behind her and then a muscled, solid chest was pressing gently against her back. “Is this real enough for you?”

                “Yes,” she whispered, remaining with her back to him. “I thought I would never see you again.”

                “Potter cannot rid the world of me that easily,” replied the unmistakable voice of Voldemort, less the cold hiss of his serpentine elder. It was harmonic, a symphony of sound melted into a beautiful tenor that was pure masculinity. It was undeniably him, “and neither can you.”

                “I’ve waited for so long...” She could hear the tears in her voice, “So long, and I never gave up hope...but so long...”

                He brushed her frizzy mane over one shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to her skin with warm lips, “Well, I am here now...and you have pleased your Master by not alerting Potter to my deception.”

                “I would never.”

                She could feel him smirking against her skin. Oh, she had missed him. How had she survived so many years without him? In such a short amount of time, during the chaos of ensuing war, the Dark Lord had become her world.

                “Did you find my wand on the battlefield?” asked Voldemort, skimming his hands over her shoulders and down her arms. “Did you save it for me?”

                Hermione shuddered, “Of course, my Lord.”

                “Show me.”

                Her entire body suffering from a case of tremors, Hermione fumbled around in the darkness of her flat to find the switch in the kitchenette. Bright fluorescent light flooded the space instantly, stinging her eyes as she tried not to slip on the shattered glass and lake of wine on the tiled floor. She could feel him follow her, the presence of him alone enough to shake her to the core, but how long had she wanted this? How long had she waited? It didn’t need repeating and she knew that she was shaking so much was partly from the fact that there would never be another Grieving Day again. He was actually here, alive and in her flat demanding his wand. It made it more real in her mind, and that helped to calm her nerves, slightly.

                The light from her open kitchen dimmed as she traveled down the short hallway of her three-bedroom flat. (It was marvelous how a little magic could turn a one bedroom, one bath flat into a miniature one-story house.) She journeyed to the spare room at the end of the hall. It was heavily warded with an added muggle touch, a deadbolt above the doorknob that required a key. Even if someone were able to lift the key out of her pocket without her noticing, a prick of her blood on the jagged edge of the key was what really allowed access. She wondered how dusty it was in the room. She never entered save once a month when she cleaned her flat, or to pull out the velvet lined box containing the yew wand or trail her fingers over the many “furnishings” placed strategically around the room. She was still amazed that she had been able to slip into Malfoy Manor undetected to, for lack of a better word, “steal” all of Lord Voldemort’s belongings.

                Opening the door, she entered and noticed the lack of melancholy weighing upon her shoulders this time.

                “Always the attentive and innovative student,” said the Dark Lord in an approving tone. Yes, he would approve of her security measures. Especially regarding his belongings, “You did listen to my teachings all those years ago...And I was lead to believe you were daydreaming about the bedroom.”

                Hermione nodded, taking the nonchalant compliment with grace as she had been taught. She smirked and moved further into the room, her fingers glancing over the wooden objects closest to her. Her spine shivered in anticipation, hoping to put these dusty belongings to use once more. It had been so long since the cherrywood bedpost had been used to tie a body to it, the bench of floggers and wooden paddles had not collided deliciously with flesh since the summer of 1997. Everything in the room held a relatively small amount of dust, an extremely thin layer of it but it showed how Hermione avoided entering the room at all costs. Only when she felt she could not bear the pain of him no longer in her world did she enter and look longingly at all of the many things that still carried that hint of his signature scent. If she inhaled deeply enough Hermione could still catch that masculine cologne of unscented soap and forest air and parchment, even that slight tinge of ink.

                “I placed a modified Extension Charm on the dimensions of the room,” explained Hermione as she watched him take in the almost-identical nature of this room, his room. “And I tried to remember how you placed the furniture about your chambers, and where the shelves lined up. The books were never taken off the shelves, so they should all be where you last had them. And I transfigured the linens as best I could to resemble appearance and texture, but I might have failed.”

                He eyed her suspiciously, “It is exactly as I left it at Malfoy Manor...”

                “Yes, well...none of the Malfoys noticed a mudblood lurking in the shadows, taking everything I could from your alcoves underneath the Manor,” said Hermione confidently. “As much as I could fit in my lovely beaded bag. It got rather crowded by the time I got to the playroom.”

                “You preserved my library,” said Voldemort, another hint of approval in his tone. It made her heart swell. “My library and my priceless artifacts...the materials you knew I would need more than luxury linens and decorations. I am very impressed, my pet.”

                She took out her wand again and stepped up to a painting of Salazar Slytherin that she had confiscated from the Chamber of Secrets during the rebuilding of Hogwarts. The Chamber had been left intact, and no one noticed her gone for brief moments, everyone had been stretched thin to rebuild as much as they could, as quickly as possible. All those preoccupied and turned eyes never noticed her absence. It gave her the time to break down the wards on the antechambers and pillage as much as she could. She wanted him to be comfortable if - when - he returned.

                Her wand levitated the sputtering portrait of Slytherin, resting it gently against the bed-frame before she turned her focus back to the puzzle pieces in disarray locking her Master’s wand. One by one, her wand shifted the mismatched portions of wall into the correct spaces and then waved her wand one last time. The crevices melted into one another and then separated down the middle as a shining onyx box floated out towards her, embellished in silver filigree snakes surrounding the Slytherin crest. It gleamed in the fluorescent lighting of the room, the silver glinting and she could see her Master staring hungrily.

                Facing the Dark Lord, his un-serpentine-like features unbalancing her; she would have to get used to Lord Voldemort looking like a handsome human being. Not like he wasn’t extraordinarily breathtaking in his former body, by all means he was beautifully exotic to her, but this new face was his old-old face. It was the face he had before he disappeared after killing Hepzibah Smith. It was young, smooth, muscled just as his snake-like body had been, but his paleness was not alien in appearance; it looked like any other pale man walking down the streets of Diagon Alley, a normal British complexion. His eyes were not crimson and glowing, but cold, sharp pits of darkness that glittered and flamed with dangerous emotions or cool impassivity. His mouth was not thin or lipless; full lips with a slight pink hue were settled above his perfect chin and looked as though God had sculpted them from pure imagination and skill.

                “You are drooling, Hermione,” said the Dark Lord. “Open the box.”

                “Yes, my Lord,” she unlatched the lid and opened the lid to reveal two wands, the Elder wand and Voldemort’s yew. She had hoped that when he re-emerged from the shadows of time he would be most pleased with this, the two most infamous wands in wizarding history.

                “You retrieved both for me.”

                “Of course,” said Hermione, her smile watery. “I wanted to make sure you had the most important things when you returned.”

                “I will have to kill you in order to master the Elder wand, once and for all.”

                Her smile turned into a grin, “You only need to disarm me in a friendly duel and it will obey you. Not everything has to end in bloodshed.”

                He chuckled, lifting one wand and then the other out of the emerald green velvet cushions lining the interior of the box, “How did you get the wand from Potter?”

                “He snapped it in half. I just summoned the pieces and spent my rare vacation time learning how to make wands under Ollivander. It took me several years, but I finally managed to repair the Elder wand,” she frowned. “It took a few modifications here and there, but it should be just as powerful as it was before.”

                He raised an eyebrow, “You never tested it?”

                She scoffed, blatantly irritated, “Of course, I did! Took it with me to a pub and dueled the entire crowd gathered!” He snorted and she grew more aggravated, “No, I didn’t test it. I didn’t want to risk rumors of the Elder wand still being around and it leading back to me! It would have given me away!”

                He took his yew wand in hand again and rolled it between his fingers, feeling the weight and reveling in being reunited with his oldest friend. He closed the onyx case and sent it back into its hiding place, mimicking Hermione’s wandwork flawlessly, “You have pleased me greatly, my precious...little...mudblood. You need to be rewarded.”

                “Thank you, my Lord.”

                His eyes washed over her, the look hungry and almost starved. The Dark Lord pointed towards the bed, “I believe you remember the position I most enjoy, pet. Get to it.”

                Hermione frantically pulled her clothes off and practically lunged onto the mattress, contorting herself into his favorite pose as he watched her with a heated gaze. Yes, this was her Master, her Voldemort. Just because he had a new appearance didn’t mean he was exactly the same on the inside; and the inside had always mattered to her the most.

                He divested himself of his outer robes before resting on the bed and snaking up her body. He traced the soft lines of her bone structure while his mouth hovered over hers. She saw his eyes flash red, her skin burned and tingled behind the tip of his wand. “Did you miss me, pet?”

                She shivered and nodded.

                “Did you mourn me?”

                Tears welled up in her eyes once more. She nodded again.

                “And if I were a merciful Lord...what would you beg of me?”

                His breath was warm against her skin, causing her lips to throb achingly for him to kiss her. She licked her lips and answered him, her voice soft, “Please don’t leave me again...please...”

                He smirked, brushing his lips against hers briefly, butterfly light, “I am inclined to grant this one request...since you have impressed me...”

                She sighed blissfully as his mouth crashed into hers, bruising her lips and the skin around it. She didn’t care. Lord Voldemort was back, and this mudblood was jumping for joy over the occasion...

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Granger's Anatomy