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The Highest of Priests	By : PrettyDesdemona Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 5037 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe or any of its characters. I do not make any money off this story. Only love!

Chapter List
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THE HIGHEST OF PRIESTS

THREE.

PARADISIO

“Indeed I see that in your intellect

now shines the never-ending light; once seen,

that light, alone and always, kindles love;

and if a lesser thing allure your love,

it is a vestige of that light which – though

imperfectly – gleams through that lesser thing,”

Her eyes are brown, a black ring circles the irises. She has thick eyelashes that sit comfortably on her cheeks whenever she looks down. Her hair is dark brown, curly and appears to be supple in her fingers while she plays with it, which she does often. There is a dip in her waist where her ribs end, it curves inward softly, a curve so pronounced that it is almost, almost, unnatural in appearance. Her breasts are large, they bounce when she laughs and heave when she breathes heavily. She has thin ankles and full thighs, her legs taper down into small feet from a round bottom. Her hands are bony, the knuckles and veins protrude and shift under her skin when she moves them. Her mouth is the most expressive part of her face, she forms her words differently whenever her mood changes.

She talks but I don’t really hear her words anymore. She’s a blank in my mind. I went from hating her, loathing her to the very core of my being, to feeling nothing. This blankness. I feel empty. Like I need to fuse it with something. I’m empty.

“Have you ever had sex?” she asks, the fiftieth question in the last hour alone. All her others were about my earlier life and I answered without hesitation, every time, I give her automated replies. I do not want her to torture me. Not when I feel so insane.

“I’ve always wondered,” she says. Always wondered if I’ve had sex? Do I attempt to penetrate the meaning of that statement? Or do I leave it hang and answer her honestly? It seems an odd thing to always wonder about someone. But then, all her questions have been strange. Not how I would have gone about them. “How did you feel when you found out your mother had loved a muggle?” instead of “How did you find out?”

Always my emotions rather than my actions…

“Do you think you have a problem with your anger?”

My answer is no.

“Do you ever feel guilty about the things you’ve done?”

Again, no.

“Is there anyone you wish you hadn’t killed?”

I tell her that some murders, of course, have proved inconvenient later on but regret is not the word I would use.

“Have you ever loved someone? Or liked someone even?”

… Strange. All of them. All about feelings and regret. Why? Why does she want to know? Why does she care enough to ask? Why do I care that she cares?

This question is the first of its nature, the first about action. And I’m scared by it. Why? Because I fear her. Always fear her now. I’m cringing every time she opens her mouth. My hands are shaking.

“No. I have never shared my bed with another,” is my eventual reply. I won’t elaborate. I mustn’t. She knows too much.

“Why?” she asks. And now I must, or she’ll hurt me. Mustn’t let her hurt me.

What’s more valuable? The information or my physical wellness? I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

“Because I think to have sexual desires is impure.”

She scoffs. “But you have them anyway, don’t you?”

“I think to act on them is impure. It will distract me from my purpose,” I answer, my voice unusually high and nervous. My stomach is churning. My back, usually straight, is bent inwards, my shoulders slumped. I tried to contain my shaking, twitching fingers in my fists and so my knuckles are hard and white.

Moments pass. She says nothing. She has not been so silent yet. Not in the four hours she has been interrogating me. I look up at her.

Her brow is furrowed, her lips a thin, hard line. Her eyes are moist I think, as they stare at me. Maybe. I don’t know what this is. It’s not an expression I recognise. I can attach no emotion to it.

“Are you alright?” she asks after some time, her voice soft.

I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer.

“You’re shaking,” she says, “You’re rocking backwards and forwards. What’s wrong?”

There’s something on my cheek. I can feel it sliding down from my eye towards my mouth. I lift my hand to touch it. My hand comes away wet. I stare at the wetness. I don’t understand it.

“Are… are you crying?!” she asks then, dumbfounded, shocked.

Am I? I’ve never done that before.

She moves off the bed and approaches me. I get up and move away. I’m cringing. I don’t want her close to me. But she keeps coming until I’m backed into a wall and she’s inches away. Her eyes are narrowed, studying me like an open book.

“You’re scared of me,” she says. It is not a question.

“This… you… ask… I won’t… can’t… mudblood… understand… empty.”

Why can’t I speak? Her closeness is immobilising me, like she is using some magic to confuse my mind, to make my body small.

She’s taking away my breath, leaving my lungs empty. “Stop this,” I choke, my voice rasping and hard.

“Stop what?” she asks, her eyebrows bent inwards in that unidentifiable expression.

“Stop… what you are doing… stop… now,” I try to make my words sound like commands but I have a feeling I may have failed.

“I’m not doing anything,” she says in confusion, holding up her hands to show that they hold no wand, no instrument of torture. “Come and lie down on the bed,” she reaches out a hand to guide me but I shrink away.

She backs away from me then, her hands still held up, “Look, I’m not touching you. Come on, lie down, Tom,” she orders.

I don’t move.

Then, she points her wand at me and I can see the threat she means to convey. “Lie down,” she orders again, this time with a harsher tone.

My eyes do not leave her as I move towards the bed, my knees almost falling out from under my body, my feet stumbling. I sink onto the mattress and when my head hits the pillow, she falls out of my eye line, the shaking worsens. She appears above me.

“How do you feel?” she asks, wand still in hand. When I do not answer, she presses on, “Do you feel sick? Short of breath? Dizzy?”

“All,” I manage to choke.

Then her hand lands on my chest, right over my heart and a sound falls from my mouth, a sound I have never made before though I have heard it many times from those I have tortured. It is a whimper.

“Your heart’s beating a million miles an hour,” she breathes. Her wand moves over my head, my chest, leaving faint, soothing trails of warmth that comfort me. I want to push her away. “This charm should relax your nerves and your muscles,” she tells me, “You’re having a panic attack.”

I do not know what this is. I do not ask. I let her do what she does, I let her run this charm over my body, I let it relax me. When she finishes, she moves to the chair beside the bed that I had previously occupied and sits down.

I push myself up into a sitting position and watch her. She is not looking at me, her hand is rubbing at her chin, a frown creasing her features.

I do not speak. I will not be the one to break the silence.

Eventually, she sighs and her eyes return to my face. She looks shrewd but bewildered.

“I’m… confused,” she says after some time, “Everyone always saw you as this… this sociopath that didn’t feel anything other than your hunger for power. But you’re so much more damaged than that aren’t you? You… you remind me of Kreacher. You’re hateful and crazed because no one’s ever taken the time to actually be kind to you. How could they? You repel it. You make sure that people feel nothing but fear whenever they look at you. But how can you be frightening, emotionally numb, impervious to the impurities of humanity when you are capable of having panic attacks? That’s not possible.”

I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she’s giving me this look of dawning comprehension that worries me.

“I wish… I wish there was something I could say to you… something that would make all these issues go away…” her voice is quiet, as if she is speaking more to herself than to me. “Then… maybe it would all be different…”

I feel beaten by her tone, beaten by the situation. There is almost a part of me that wants to sink into resignation. I am aware that my situation is entirely my own fault. If I had not allowed my own boredom to get the better of me all those days ago, had not hungered for knowledge of Hermione Granger, had not taken her as my prisoner and interrogated her, I would not be as I am now. Wandless, without hope, desperate, weakened. I am not even capable of seeing what it is that I fear. My instincts tell me that she will not kill me, I feel that she is a noble Gryffindor at heart. She will kill me only if I give her no other option. It is imperative that I do not do this. She must have plenty of options.

Unfortunately, though I do not think it necessary to fear for my life, I do think it possible to fear for my physical safety. Hermione, it seems to me, is a vengeful kind of woman. I think that as I have already tortured her, she will not hesitate to torture me. And again, I do not want to be tortured. I have had not ever had an Unforgiveable curse cast on me. I aim to keep it that way.

“What do we do?” she asks suddenly, breaking me from my thoughts.

“About?” I respond, happy to find that I am once again capable of speech.

“This,” she says, “Us. I kinda think I should give your wand back and leave, with the agreement that we’ll never have to see each other again. But somehow… I don't think you’d honour that agreement. I don’t think you’d let me go, given how much I know now.”

“And how much I do not.” I say wryly.

She nods and gives a little snort, “Yes. And that,” Hermione sighs, twirling my own wand between her finger tips, “So that brings me back to my original point. What do we do? I have the power here, but honestly, I don’t really want it anymore. If anything, I’d just like to go and get on with the stunning clusterfuck that is my life.”

“I’m not sure I follow your meaning. Are you asking for suggestions?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Then I suggest you give me back my wand and tell me all I want to know about the spells you have created as well as this war that I am somehow involved in.”

Hermione laughs, “And I will do neither. This is the issue.”

I realise she has a point. She is acknowledging the dangerousness of our situation. And unfortunately, we are both in danger. If she is to return my wand and I allow her to leave, she might use the knowledge she has gained against me which would mean I would have to find her and kill her. Can I trust her not to utilise her new found information? No. Can she trust me not to kill her? No. Another paradox.

“I see only one solution,” I say after some time.

She gives me a level look. “And that is?”

“You must kill me,” I am, of course, bluffing, but this is really the only way I can see her leaving this situation unharmed, or no more than she already has been anyway. Why I care that she stays out of my reach and away from harm is beyond me.

“No, no. I couldn’t do that,” she answers, waving me off dismissively, “It would change the timeline. And because timelines are paradoxes in and of themselves, the past I’ve already experienced and the future you have yet to would dictate that I would have tried and failed to kill you… Making the whole thing not even worth the effort.”

“You are probably speaking to one of the only people who could follow that train of thought,” I say wryly in response to her musings. She is right, of course, but I was hoping she would not have realised it. I was counting on the fact that she would fail to kill me. Unfortunately, Hermione Granger is far too intelligent for her own good.

Silence. Both of us are lost in contemplation, two exceptional minds trying to think of a solution to a paradox. After some time, my eyes leave the ceiling at which I had been staring for the better part of a quarter of an hour, to return to Hermione.

I catch her in the middle of something. Her face seems to be undergoing some form of process, something I can’t quite describe. She’s not looking at me, she’s not moving and it almost seems as if she is not breathing either. It’s as if all the lines and harsh textures of her skin suddenly melt away. She’s come to some sort of realisation, some epiphany. I can see it like a rising sun in her wide eyes.

“You have come to your decision?” I say blithely.

“Yes…” her voice is breathless, her eyes unfocused. “Yes, I think I have.”

“Well, what…?” I begin to ask, but my words fade into nothing as she suddenly leaps off the chair and lands on the bed beside me, the unfocused look on her face replaced by a sort of manic defiance.

I scramble up the bed, away from her but she just keeps coming, until her face is inches from mine, her wide brown eyes, boring into my own.

“What are you doing?” I growl.

“I don’t know,” she whispers, moving slightly closer, “I’ve never… Only once… After the war Ron was… I never got to… and now… You wouldn’t understand.”

I don’t. It seems she is incapable of articulating sentences. Her face is too close.

And then her hands move very slowly onto my wrists. I look over her shoulder. Both wands are sitting on the chair she previously occupied. Her grip is strong. She is holding down my arms. Then her face moves closer and closer, until only millimetres of air lie between us. I don’t move. I don’t know why. I simply cannot make my limbs move.

Then her lips reach mine.

I have never been kissed before, of course, who would be game enough to try that? People do not touch me, they do not like to touch me. And yet, here she is, Hermione Granger, her lips are on mine and it’s soft and light and making my heart beat a wild tattoo against my diaphragm.

After a moment, she pulls away and the look in her eyes is careful.

“Did you like that?” she asks in a whisper.

I mean to shake my head, but I don’t. My chin moves up and down almost of its own accord. I’m nodding. Did I like it? Yes and no. My mind feels fogged in a way that has come upon me suddenly. Before I was myself, and now… I am drunk. I am most certainly drunk though not in the way that alcohol would make me so. I feel dizzy. My head is lazy, my eyes glued to hers, my stomach churning and there is a discomfort in my nether regions that I do not recognise.

“I liked it,” she says softly, her voice low, and the tone makes my manhood twitch just a little bit. There is the discomfort. A yearning kind of discomfort. I am having… strange urges. Something primitive is happening inside my body. I cannot help imagining something warm, something wet and tight, wrapped around my cock. I do not know what.

I have never had thoughts like this. There have been shadows, vague imagery that I have pushed to the darkest recesses of my mind, of course, but never like this. Never so lucid.

“Touch me,” she says, almost like a plea, almost as if she’s begging.

“You are holding down my hands,” I respond, my voice slightly cracked.

“If I let you go, promise you won’t push me away,” she whispers.

I think about this for a moment. I had not considered pushing her away until she suggested it and now, I do not know. There is a small part of my mind that is warring against the rest, urging me to throw her off, to make a grab for the wands, to kill her while I can. But of course, my body is in control in this moment and it does not want her dead.

After a long moment, I say, “I will not.”

She releases my hands, but they remain on the bed.

“Touch me,” she says again.

“Where?” I rasp.

“Anywhere.”

My hands raise. They land in her hair, her eyes close and my fingers tips rake through the smooth, curly mass. Her scent, strange in my head, engulfs me when her hair is stirred. My thumbs move over her closed eyes, across her cheeks, feeling the contours of her face.

I have never touched someone like this before. No one has ever been this close.

Her face moves forward again, an invitation, and I take it. I want to kiss her again, have wanted it since she pulled away the first time. And so I do, an act that is so wildly unlike me it stuns me. I can feel that it stuns her too.

More than anything though, I am shocked when her mouth opens and she sucks my lower lips in between her teeth. The fire in my belly rages into a blaze when she bites down.

Another sound I have never made before falls out of my mouth and into hers. I moan. She echoes it.

She begins to squirm a little then, her hips wriggling into my lap as she takes her weight off her hands. She straddles me as she would a horse, freeing up her hands to move on me, to flutter over my skin.

I realise then that I am… I am being embraced. And I, in turn, am embracing.

This flaws me, internally, but I do not stop. I feel so out of control now, that I do not think I could stop even if I wanted to, even if she asked it of me.

Her pelvis moves, pushing up against me, mounting a deep seated pressure in my stomach, before releasing, and with each release she makes a sound, something beyond my understanding and yet, I’m resonating it. The noises we are making are one in the same, my smooth baritone with her vibrato, like a song. But it’s animal.

“I want… I want…” she says, between breaths, “I want you to fuck me. And I want you to be violent.”

“I don’t… understand…” I pant in response.

And suddenly, she pulls back from my face, leaving my lips cold and abandoned, and she hits me. It is not hard enough to really sting or to draw blood, but it snaps me from the fog clouding my mind.

“I said,” she growls, “I want you to fuck me, and I want you to be violent!”

Fire is all I can see. And the only word I understand in her demand is violent. I feel as if I might be able to comply with this request; there has, after all, been a sort of violence lying in wait ever since she touched me, the sort which I have only ever released on those I meant to murder. To bring it into this situation…

“I know what you are, Voldemort,” she says lowly, shocking me again with the use of my preferred name, “I know what your appetites are, I know what you’ll like. I know what you’re capable of. And I’m ready for it. If you kill me, so be it,” she squares her shoulders and juts out her chin, “I’m ready.”

I give in. I feel my mind quite literally fall through the cracks in my soul, through those hollow, empty spaces, and into something… something else. Something far darker than murder, than torture.

I calmly put my hand on the centre of her chest, stare into her eyes for a moment, before slamming her backwards onto the bed. Her head cracks against the headboard. But I pay no mind to that.

My hands are in her robes and I feel as if I have grown claws, the fabric tears so easily under my hands. There must be magic at work in me because they almost dissolve under my skin.

I rip, I tear, I shred, until she wears nothing, until she is entirely bare before me. And even then, I do not stop. I slash at my own clothes with the same ruthless violence I would inflict on a room full of disobedient Death Eaters.

It is strange, these feelings, all so familiar, all so normal. Instead of blood on my hands, as I am so used to, there is another liquid coating my skin as I kneel between her spread legs. And it is hers. As I push my fingers inside of her, not knowing where the knowledge to do this has come from, it saturates me.

Her body bucks, as if it is being subjected to the cruciatus curse, but this time, she screams far sooner and her screams are so much sweeter. But I want the screams to be pain and pleasure, I want that peak. I want to hear both.

I bite her. I bite her inner thigh, her breasts, her nipples, her neck, until her body is peppered with bruises. And all through it, though her screams are exactly what I was yearning for, she smiles, she laughs. It taunts me.

How far can I push her before she begs for me to cease?

My eyes rake the room, my hands grabbing fistfuls of her malleable flesh and I find the knife she had threatened to impale herself upon sitting on the night stand. I seize it.

When I turn back, however, her hips buck again, but this time she draws herself up on her heels, and pushes herself onto me.

It is not the knife that impales her then.

The weapon falls from my hand and there is silence.

I cannot move. I am sitting on my knees, her legs snaking around my hips, clamping with a vice like grip, and my muscles have frozen.

She laughs again.

The warm. The wet. It’s so tight.

This is what I had been yearning for. This feeling.

I can feel… I can feel… Her muscles, pushing and pulling, clamping around me. I can see the exact point that I disappear inside her. And it is at this point that I stare.

Instinct, nothing but instinct, tells me to move, tells me to thrust. And thrust I do. In. Out. It’s smooth, slow at first. I’m testing this new ground, this untapped resource of power beyond my imagination. I had never thought anything could be more meaningful, more intense than the feeling of taking another’s life, of securing their agony with nothing more than the tip of my wand. Until this.

There is a thin, purple scar trailing from her right collar bone to her left hip I notice. I put the knife against her left collarbone. I drag it down to her right hip.

That scream, is all pain. I love it.

My thrusts become harder, faster and my face descends to hover over her body. My tongue runs up the bloody wound I have just inflicted on her. The taste is metallic and red and succulent, all full of life. I’m thrusting harder again, so hard I can feel her bones jarring under my hands.

Well, she asked for violent. She said she knew what I was capable of.

I can feel something, something deep and resounding building in my body. I don’t know what it is. It feels like an oncoming storm, like the heart of the fire. I’m moving towards it. It’s bright light, its euphoria. I’m nearly there, I can almost taste it, almost reach out and touch it…

Then I feel something poke into my chest, my thrusts do not slow. I look down to see Hermione’s face, all contorted in… in anger perhaps, or lust, or pain, and then I see her wand. My thrusts do not slow.

One muttered word.

“Crucio.”

The flesh of her legs, clutched in my hands, tears under my fingers. The blood gushes over both of us, followed by my seed, and her climax.

And I fall into… into something bottomless, profound, subterranean. I touch the very core of the earth. I touch its foundations. Pain worse than anything I could have imagined. Pleasure more paramount, more monumental than anything that could possibly be of this world.

I feel the weight of the dirt and the rock and the oceans on my back, it cracks my spine with an audible snap. The sky rips apart in a blinding white light.

And then it’s gone, the pain, and I’m left with the shadow of it and the bliss that is the afterglow.

Hermione is still there, her legs wrapped around me. She’s staring up at me, deep into my broken soul.

Slowly, she disentangles herself, but I remain sitting, slumped on my knees. I feel as if I have forgotten how to breathe.

“Your bones are broken,” she says softly, her wand already sliding over her mangled legs and the gash on her chest. The bed is soaked with blood and me and her.

I’m weeping. It seems I could not hold the water in my eyes even if I’d tried. It is intent to leak down my face, great, heavy droplets to fall and mingle with the blood and seed.

I am beginning to feel the pain now, still a shadow to the torture curse, but there nonetheless and becoming unbearable. She sits up, wincing slightly, and moves her wand over me. It lingers on my skull and one pain disappears, it lingers on my left leg, my collarbone, my lower back and the fingers of my hands, mending all the way, knitting the bones back together until all the pain is gone.

And I am just left with the afterglow.

I slump back on the bed, my body and muscles singing with everything heavenly, everything blissful. I am thinking… contemplating…

If I could have that, if I could have what she has given me, if it were mine always, I would not care so much about my purpose. What do I care for a broken world when I could be so entirely whole? I could… I could…

But she’s standing up. I watch as she transfigures a pillow into a dress when she discovers that her robes are beyond magical repair. Her body is soon shielded from my eyes. I hate it.

“Thank you, Tom,” she says quietly.

I cannot reply. I cannot begin to express…

“Hermione,” is all I can say, and even then, it is rough, my voice grating on my throat.

She walks towards the chair and picks up my wand, turning it over in her fingers. After a moment, she tosses it casually on to the bed beside me and moves to pick up her knife.

“You…” I rasp, “You are not… not leaving?”

It’s a half hearted question, I do not really believe it, but I would like the reassurance. I want to hear her say she will always be there, that I will always have her by my side.

She pauses, her fingers running across the blade of the knife lightly. Then, to my shock and surprise, she nods.

“I must. This isn't my life. I… I should never have left really.”

I drag myself into a sitting position. “But… no! I forbid it!”

“You can’t forbid me anything, Tom,” she says quietly, “I don’t want to end up a shadow of a person. I have to leave.”

“You have nowhere to go!” I growl, uncomprehending. How could she do this? After what she took from me?

She smiles slightly, sadly, and I’m not repulsed by it.

“Then that’s where I’ll be, if you ever want to find me. Nowhere.”

She raises her wand, pointing it at me, at my face, at the despair written on my features.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “Obliviate.”

Years later, when I have never heard the name of Hermione Granger, when I have spent many long, long years dedicating myself to my purpose, to the cleansing of the human race, I meet a woman. And this woman reminds me of someone I once met, someone I cannot place. Her name is Bellatrix Lestrange. I keep her close to me, because I feel as if I must, because it is instinct. But I cannot touch her. This would be wrong. It would be… heresy. Sacrilege. I do not know why.

But in death… in death, I remember.

Try for some remorse, Tom.

His words… the last I heard.

In death, I have remorse. But I am whole again, with her, she who looks exactly the same as she did the day she left me.

With Hermione.

End.

A/N Sorry for the wait everyone! I went away for a bit.

Again, this was a request done for mh21 and I've loved every moment of writing it! Getting into Tom Riddle's character was... interesting. I think I'll have to thank my ego for all his arrogance haha.

If anyone has a request, feel free to email me (my email is on my profile) or send me a message on FF.net!

xx

Desdemona

Green_Eyed_Mist - Hello lovely! Thanks for the wonderful review, as always. I hope you liked the last chapter! I mean, if you liked Hermione punching him, well... what followed must have been pretty titillating lol. xx

Ice Empress - LOVED your review! You know how I can't get enough of my broken characters lol. Hope you liked the last chapter! :D

Tori - You're back! Yay! I'm so glad you liked this story! You were, after all, saying how you wanted dark Hermione in Victim of the Fall! Well, here she is! Much love to you, my darling xx

lolo - Thanks! Hope you liked the final chapter! :)

The quote at the beginning of this chapter is from Dante's epic poem Paradisio. I own nothing.
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The Highest of Priests