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The Ivory Tower	By : MegiiOfMysteriOusStranger Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 12918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter in any way, shape, or form. I make no profit from writing this whatsoever.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
4. Heart of the Beast

Dooku: "What do you want? Tell me what you want and I will show you how the dark side can help you achieve it. Do you want friends? The dark side can compel them for you. Lovers? The dark side understands passion in a way you never have. Do you want riches—endless life—deep wisdom…?"

Yoda: "I want… I want a rose."

~Star Wars- Yoda: Dark Rendezvous

In retrospect, Hermione should have known that the members of Dumbledore's Army would make a rescue attempt. Even if it had been Harry who led them, the DA had been Hermione's brain-child. She knew the people involved in it; she'd watched them, noted their personalities. They had rebelled against Umbridge, fought in the Department of Mysteries and defended Hogwarts when Death Eaters had invaded it at the end of sixth year. They would be trying to defend it now as well, if only in secret.

Outside of her tower, the snow was rapidly melting.

She had been reading an enormous, old logbook with fine calfskin vellum pages. Hermione pitied the poor newborn cows that had been slaughtered to make the book, but… oh, it was lovely. The texture made the pads of her fingers sing; it was so different from the vegetable-pulp parchment that was most widely used these days, and the ink was deep, dark indigo—rare and expensive, considering the time the book was written in. The author was a perfumer; a French wizard who detailed the magical sides of the Silk Road and the beautiful cultural and magical differences between Europe and the Orient.

She had been in the middle of a passage detailing the Chinese Ghost Festival when a tap-tap-tapping noise made her jerk her head up. Her first thought was that it was Voldemort, coming to mock her again, however she just as quickly dismissed the thought, as the Dark Lord would never bother with something as courteous as knocking. Instead, the face that beamed anxiously at her from between the branches of the glass laburnum tree was a much friendlier sight.

"Neville!" she shrieked, scrambling out of the chair to her feet. The logbook fell heavily to the floor where its brittle pages bent, suddenly forgotten.

Neville Longbottom was sporting an impressive blue shiner, his hair horribly messy and windswept, but he grinned at her regardless; a tattered old broom wedged firmly between his legs as he hovered hundreds of feet above the ground.

"Hey, Hermione! We've come to rescue you!" He exclaimed, the sound of his voice muffled by the glass.

"Who's 'we'?" The witch asked, eyes scanning the sky.

"Quite a few of us DA members. This was the only broom we could get, though; everyone else is waiting on the ground." He fumbled around his robes for a moment, drawing his wand and pointing it toward the window. "Alohamora!"

Nothing happened, but it was obvious that had been expected. Neville's eyebrows tilted more sharply, his expression determined.

The visible change in him knocked Hermione's breath away. Gone was the nervous, insecure, slightly chubby young wizard she had grown up with. In his place was a tall, self-assured, indomitable young man who was fighting in spite of dire circumstances—who wouldn't stop fighting until he was stone cold dead on the floor. Of all people, Neville especially had reason to defy the Death Eaters.

She was startled out of her revelation when one of Neville's spells bounced violently off the window, sending him barreling several yards away. Hermione felt a bud of fear swell in her when the dragon of the window lifted its head, purple-red eyes opening as smoke rose from its nostrils.

"Stop!" she cried. "We don't know what kind of wards are on the tower! It's too dangerous!"

"Every ward can be broken!" he said optimistically, flying near and pointing his wand at the window again. The dragon bared its teeth as it snarled.

"Anyone who attempts any heroics will be punished severely," Snape had said. There was no way Neville could break the spells containing Hermione in the tower, she was certain. Voldemort himself had probably set up the wards—to ensure that no one touched his… prize. Hermione felt sick at the thought. She didn't dare let her mind wander to what sort of punishment Snape would assign to Neville and the others if they were caught. It didn't bear thinking about.

"Please, Neville, I'll never forgive myself if you die because of me!"

"I'm a pureblood, they won't dare kill me! Besides I'm not leaving without you!"

Black dots began to move in the blue sky. Hermione felt her heart drop right out of her chest, ice shooting up her spine and filling her veins until her fingers felt stiff with cold.

"The Dementors!"

Neville's head whipped around, his skin going ashen and his eyes growing wide as he caught sight of them. He began casting spells more fiercely, colorful flashes striking the window to no avail.

"Neville, no, just go!"

"Not-without-you!" The wizard enunciated through gritted teeth, sweat beginning to form on his pasty brow. The laburnum blossoms shook like soundless golden bells. The stained glass dragon stood up, hissing and spitting star-shaped sparks. A bright blue spell ricocheted off the lock and plowed back into him, and Neville was hurled backward, spinning rapidly, clinging to the broom by the tips of his fingers.

Hermione released a strangled scream, which was just as quickly cut short by clapping her hands over her mouth. The Dementors came steadily and rapidly closer; their tattered, black cloaks rippling behind their narrow forms. Frost was beginning to form on the edges of the glass as Neville shook the dizzy cobwebs from his mind and zoomed back to the window, his expression growing desperate, his breath misting in the air.

She pounded her fists against the glass in time with her rapid pulse, before gesturing wildly with her arms. "Go, Neville! Go! Run!"

The dragon roared, vomiting up blue and orange flames, and the iron frame of the window suddenly burned red-hot. They both jumped back from the window, shrieking at their burnt fingers; Neville wobbling dangerously on the broom. The Dementors were nearly on top of him.

"Neville, GO!" Hermione bellowed and the boy twisted his head around and dropped out of view like a stone, rocketing away, Dementors tailing him like the shadows of his shadow. Hermione pressed her face to the freezing glass and watched her classmate plummet like a brick; desperation and intent getting the tattered old broom to move at a speed that could have nearly matched a Nimbus 2000. Most of the Dementors hurled past the window after him, but a couple paused to direct their hooded visages into the room, causing Hermione to quickly stumble away. For one aching, horrible minute, she could summon no single happy thought; her wobbly gaze fixated on the dark, wicked creature that stared at her through the glass, feasting on the warmth that seeped through.

It finally turned and glided away. All Hermione was left with were blue skies and an angry glass dragon, which still prowled around in agitation, flames curling out from between its jaws. Hermione exhaled shakily, cupping her hand over her mouth and shedding a few tears for Neville's sake. She'd cried enough as it was; she wouldn't let herself collapse into hysterics, but she begged, prayed that Neville managed to outstrip the Dementors and make it to the safety of Hogwarts walls.

Not that being inside Hogwarts was very safe, but a whipping was better than having one's soul sucked out, at any rate. Still, she stumbled back and collapsed boneless into the armchair, the logbook at her feet. She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to swallow back the horrible scenarios that persisted on flashing through her mind. Neville being held under the Cruciatus Curse until he went mad like his parents. Neville being beaten. Neville being starved, locked up and spit on and defiled. Neville having his insides torn out, put back in and torn out again. Neville being dragged into darkness, his fingernails scrabbling at the stone floor until his nails broke with one half of his terrified face illuminated by moonlight.

There was a hard lump in Hermione's throat. It hurt, shortened her breath and prevented her from throwing up. She couldn't drive the images from her head with willpower alone. She leaned down and picked up the vellum book, shaking so fiercely that she nearly dropped it before finally setting its heavy weight on her thighs. She tried to smooth the bent pages with her palm, but the creases would not disappear. She drew her eyes across the calligraphy, but nothing registered.

She suddenly hoped Harry was safer than she and Neville were. She hoped he had found more Horcruxes. She hoped that he had found some way to destroy them. She hoped that he wasn't alone; that he had found Ron or had accepted Remus Lupin's initial offer to help. She didn't want him to be alone. It was so hard on him to have to be the hero all the time.

She wished she didn't need him to be her hero right now. She wished that she were still in their tent, crying over Ron instead of crying in fear for Neville's life. No matter how her mind cried for Harry to stay away, to not come for her and to stay safe, a traitorous part of her heart pleaded for him to come soon. She didn't need a white knight on a valiant hippogriff under her window, but she did need to be saved.

Hermione hated how helpless she was. She was unable to do anything useful, unable to help anyone, least of all herself. She despised the role of damsel in distress.

She lifted her head; an idea suddenly coming to mind. A brilliant idea. Hermione folded the logbook closed and mashed her hands over her face as she stood, smearing away the few tears that had fallen. She tore open the desk drawer, pulling out a quill, inkpot, and strip of parchment.

If you have found this note, please write back and put the book back and check for a response the next morning. Please.

Her writing was terribly sloppy, drips and smudges marring the letters, but she hardly cared. Blowing on it with a hurried breath to dry the ink, Hermione folded the parchment into a small triangle. She went to the bookcase and wished for a book she knew would eventually be picked up: Miranda Goshawk's Standard Book of Spells, Year Seven. Ruled by darkness or not, students still had NEWTs to worry about.

Hermione slipped the note she had written in-between the table of contents and replaced the book on the shelf, willing it to return the library. A moment later, the tome had vanished. Then she willed it back and found the note still safely inside. Exhaling a shaky, relieved breath she returned it to the library once more and staggered into the armchair, hands trembling from nerves.

When Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban in her third year, Hermione had gone straight to the books once it had come to light that Sirius was supposedly after Harry. The Wizard prison system was very different from the Muggle one. Wizards had a strict solitary confinement policy, and combined with the Dementors that made for a very, very grim environment. She had had to resort to Muggle literature to find out the effects isolation had on people and had read a passage about the extremities people would go through in an attempt to make contact with others. When a guard was making rounds with books, isolated prisoners would oftentimes tear holes into book covers and hide notes inside before putting the book back together in a way that the guards could not tell it had ever been mistreated. Of course, Hermione wanted to make sure that whoever picked up 'The Standard Book of Spells' could find the note, so there was no need for her to go to such extremes as disemboweling a book, but the purpose was the same.

She just hoped that the person who found the note was a friendly student, not a Death Eater in training.

The stars in the sky twinkled, blazing white, untouched by the tiny existence of human beings. A dark figure skittered across them, distorting the starlight and the blackened husk of the moon. In the stained glass window, the emerald green dragon was temporarily beheaded as it opened, allowing Lord Voldemort to enter, the only sound he made the ruffle of his robes settling.

His pale feet sank into the carpet, the cool breath of nighttime clinging to his clothes. The window closed behind him with a soft snap, his visage almost aglow in the darkness. The dying red embers in the fireplace sprung up with new life at a mere twitch of his wand, illuminating a young woman's form curled up in a chair. The room smelled warmly of wood smoke.

Hermione Granger had fallen asleep across a large book, the upper half of her torso resting uncomfortably across its open pages. Her legs were tucked beneath her and one arm jutted out over the edge of the book, hand hanging limply from the wrist. Her curly hair surrounded her head like a cloud, her lips slightly parted.

It was amusing to see her like this, so foolishly unaware of Lord Voldemort's presence. So vulnerable. Had she been awake she would be cowering in fear or bravely throwing her noble morals at him in spite of her terror. The little spitfire had quite the mouth on her and her mind was even sharper than her tongue. It was difficult to find stimulating intellectual conversation these days; most just groveled and agreed, as they should, of course. But at the same time it had been a while since he had encountered a challenge that did not involve dueling. Odd, that he should find it in this dirty-blooded slip of a girl. It was almost offensive except, caged bird that she was; it was hardly worth getting offended over.

As he glided near, he saw that she was crying in her sleep, teardrops tenderly staining the pages of the book. Voldemort knelt, his eyes focused on her softly moving lips, her fluttering eyelids.

"… leas… ah… ee…" she mumbled.

What was she dreaming? He tilted his head and drew the back of his hand across her soft, moist cheek. The young woman's breath hitched, a whimper shaking loose from her throat.

"Not… arry. Please. Please, not Harry. No… arry…"

Fury rose in the Dark Lord like a sudden whirlwind. The pupils of his red eyes shrank to slits, his clawed hand gripping his wand so tightly that the wood creaked. This little girl… dreaming about Potter in his presence! He wanted to take her skull and beat it against the floor until it broke.

"Crucio!"

Hermione bolted out of the realm of dreams, screaming. She fell out of the chair, thrashing violently, tearing at her hair and face. Every bone in her body was slowly being cracked into splinters. Her stomach was full of needles. Her skin was being peeled from her muscles, salt and citrus rubbed into every screaming, bleeding vein. A chisel was being hammered through her hard pallet, allowing acid to pour through her sinuses.

"You must not be as bright as I thought, Mudblood. Did you not know that your dear friends tried to rescue you today? And here you are, sleeping, while their backs are flayed before the entire school. The caretaker was most enthusiastic, I daresay. He hung them from the ceiling of the Great Hall by their thumbs. If only he had magic, he could make Bellatrix seem tame."

Hermione sobbed, the sound muffled by the carpet as her nose pressed against it. She cupped her hands against her chest, heart throbbing under her palms like a drumbeat.

"Nothing to say, Hermione?" Voldemort taunted, his teeth bared. "You were so very passionate the last time we spoke, I would have thought you would be spouting off self-righteous nonsense at me as soon as the opportunity arose."

"You're a monster." She whispered.

"I think you would be stunned by the number of people who disagree."

Hermione sniffed loudly and unsteadily pushed herself upright. Her limbs didn't want to cooperate, still partially trapped in REM, and the edge of the chair at her back provided support, pressing uncomfortably at the space just beneath her shoulders. She stared up at him defiantly, despite the fact that it hurt to look at the vicious twist of his animalistic features. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her legs sprawled like a child.

"Well, we all know that a number of the people who follow you aren't quite right in the head, are they?"

He narrowed his eyes until they were like two crimson drops. He rolled his wand between his fingers and her eyes were warily drawn to it.

"A means to an end, Hermione." He said softly. "Who ever won a war without cannon fodder? They die and ensure that my stronger men can move more efficiently to overcome my enemies. What other purpose does a pawn have in a game of chess besides to die for its king?"

She glared. "You can't do that to people. They're human beings, not just chess pieces."

"Either defend them or condemn them, Hermione," he chided snidely, "Switching back and forth only serves to make you seem more pathetic than you already are. Would you really try to spare someone like Fenrir Greyback from my wrath or would you stand by to let him suffer the punishment he rightly deserves? Even mad dogs have their uses before they need to be put down."

Hermione's eyes searched his face, brown irises trailing the oval shape of his face, the thin gash of a mouth, half of his head cast in lilac shadows, the flat nose. His eyes were the only part of him that seemed truly alive, a burning blood red that bored into her as if she were an insignificant, yet interesting animal. The darkness that saturated his being was invisible to the eye, but she could sense it oozing off him, curling around his feet. His power was wild and wicked, barely restrained, lurking just beneath the skin. The things this man had done…

People weren't pawns. What was his logic behind mistreating his own men? Fear kept them loyal to him, but one caught more flies with honey than vinegar. Wasn't it detrimental to his cause? She now wondered how many Purebloods that remained "neutral" were simply supremacists who refused to join Voldemort because of his cruel, inhuman ways. It made little sense that he mistreated the very people he was trying to bring to power and it couldn't be that they were all as barking mad as Bellatrix Lestrange.

"You're doing it on purpose, aren't you?" she whispered in dawning horror. His hairless brow rose, an expression of mild surprise flitting across his face. She slowly pushed herself to her feet. "The Purebloods. You're letting them die on purpose. I'd heard you don't treat your followers any better than you treat your prisoners, but… Yo-you let them scorn and kill Muggles and Muggle-borns, but you don't even practice what you preach! You—!"

He fell upon her, and a yelp burst from her mouth. His hand held her throat as he shoved her down into the green armchair, her ears filled with the noise of cloth catching on air, his wand pressed to her cheek like the skin would cleanly split under its tip. His eyes were wide and glinted deep burgundy with warning.

"Some epiphanies are best kept to oneself, would you not say? Be careful what comes out of that pretty little mouth of yours, otherwise you may soon find yourself without one." He hissed.

Hermione closed her eyes, shivering. Voldemort was a horrible, cruel man who just wanted the entire world to burn… it wasn't fair that his touch should feel so nice and welcome when it wasn't nice and it wasn't welcome! And yet, now that she had the sensation of another person's skin resting against hers, every cuticle ached with sensory deprivation. Her gut was twisted between disgust and elation.

She thought painfully of Harry. She missed him. She missed his hugs, she missed holding his hand when they Apparated, she missed sitting next to him with their shoulders lightly brushing. She missed having him smile at her, a smile that had grown so rare and precious since Dumbledore's death.

Voldemort moved his hand so that it cupped her cheek and she gasped lightly, her eyes snapping open to focus on his pearly inner arm. In her peripheral vision she could see his mouth curve in amusement.

"Still so lonely, Hermione?" he said, stroking the skin below her eye with his thumb. His forefinger curled about her ear, as did his voice. "My prize pet Mudblood."

She whimpered, unable to stop herself from gently leaning into his palm. She lifted one trembling hand and placed it over his. She warily, delicately traced the rise of his knuckles and the lines of his veins with her fingertips. His skin was soft and fragile, his bones hard and sharply angled. The slight scaly texture of his flesh was uniquely bizarre, almost synthetic.

A few glistening tears slipped loose when he lowered his wand to stroke his fingers down her face from brow to chin. His nails lightly scraped her cheek, making gooseflesh rise along with a rosy blush.

"So fragile." The Dark Lord mused. "A caged finch. Lovely too. The bad blood is a shame, really."

Hermione eyes snapped open wide, the world bursting into sharp, piercing clarity, her stomach roiling with disgust. Glaring fiercely at him, she tugged her face out of Voldemort's grasp. He watched her, slowly dropping his hands away.

"Don't spit at my blood when yours is equally disgusting." She growled. "Bastard child of a tramp and a Muggle, what have you to be so proud of?"

Voldemort's nostrils flared, his eyes lighting up with some strange, disturbing inner glow. She could practically see the hackles rise on his shoulders. His face was suddenly too close, enraged red drilling into brown. She pressed herself as tightly against the back of the chair as she could, her heart hammering madly.

"I have the purest, most sought-after blood there is. I am the last living descendant of Salazar Slytherin!" he hissed, his breath fanning across her face.

"Salazar Slytherin is a thousand years dead, he is nothing but a name and a portion of a school! Even if you're directly descended, your relation is distant at best." She countered sharply, masking her terror.

"My ancestor was the most powerful sorcerer of his time!"

"He was a peasant from a slew! His power came from being lucky enough to be educated by monks! What remains of his legacy besides the students of Slytherin House and your ability to speak to snakes? He left behind no fantastic heirlooms, jewels or gold. What little he had was left to Hogwarts, and you defile his memory by defiling this school!"

"Crucio."

Hermione threw her head back and screamed, limbs thrashing. Her voice quickly broke, blood boiling up her esophagus. Wild beasts were tearing out her innards. Her limbs were tied to ropes and twisted and twisted until they shattered in their sockets. Her muscles were being butchered like animal meat, electricity overloading her nervous system. Her eyes were being stabbed and torn out of her head with forks, her face cut to ribbons by razors…

"You never learn, do you?" Voldemort hissed, lifting the curse.

"I learn quite quickly, actually," she gasped from the floor, voice cracking. "I'm just stubborn."

"Clearly," he ground out.

She coughed, gasping for each breath. "Surely you know more than three spells, Voldemort."

"I know more about magic than you have ever dared to dream about. I have mastered spells you do not even know the existence of!"

"Why are you even here?" She murmured miserably, briefly curling into a ball. "You can't have come to here just to argue with me. You're not that bored, not with a war going on around you."

There was a downy silence. A moment where the only sound in the room was the keening whine of the fire and Hermione's breath as it slowly grew less labored. When she felt the end of a wand pressing under her chin, Hermione opened her eyes to the hem of Voldemort's long robes. Lifting her eyes, she allowed him to gently nudge her up until she stood; her head tilted back slightly, shoulders thrown back. Voldemort replaced his wand with his finger, feeling her tremble ever so lightly under his touch.

"I do have a purpose for being here, Hermione." He said quietly. "This afternoon your classmates attempted to take you from this tower. They have been punished. Now it is your turn."

"I—"

"You tried to escape." He said in a hiss even lower than before. Hermione could not hold back her whimper. "I shall be stripping you of your book privileges, Hermione."

Hermione blanched, her chest squeezing painfully and she met Voldemort's smoldering eyes, her own wide with horror.

"No…" she whispered.

"If you are a good girl and behave yourself accordingly, perhaps you will get them back in time."

"You can't do this to me!" she exclaimed throatily, her eyes shining like glass. She fisted her hands in the front of his robes, but Voldemort tore her bur-like fingers away with a disgusted sneer, clutching her wrists so tightly her tendons cramped.

"I am your Lord and Master; you have no choice in the matter, my little Mudblood pet."

"No!" She wailed, thrashing her arms in his grip, but she could neither pull free nor strike him. Tears began to earnestly fall down her cheeks in shimmering, starry trails. "Give them back! You give me my books back!"

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "Any particular reason you are upset to the point of madness over books?"

She froze solid, fear seeping into ever muscle fiber. He pulled her firmly against him, shifting his grip so that he held both of her hands in his right, and dove his left hand into her hair, tugging her head back so that she was forced to look directly into his eyes.

He penetrated her mind instantly, ripping her most recent memories to the front where he could see them. Hermione's cry was strangled by pain.

"Oh, I see." Voldemort said softly. He increased the pressure on her hands until the pain had her on her knees before him, green skirt flowering around her form. "Clever, Hermione, very clever. I am impressed, but… no one will find your silly little note now." He put his mouth to her ear, his voice so soft that it hurt. "I am all that you have now, Hermione."

A sob broke loose, her straight white teeth bared in utter misery. When Voldemort released her wrists, purple-red lines were already striping across her skin. She curled into a ball at his feet, hating how loudly his words rang true.

Boredom consumed Hermione Jean Granger like a flame. Without anything to read there was nothing to fill her days. At least Voldemort hadn't taken her quills and parchment, and she wrote essay after meaningless essay to keep herself occupied. Keeping a journal or something similar was something she didn't dare do, something that was only reinforced tenfold when she awoke one day to the Dark Lord sitting in her room and reading one of her papers.

It was a terrifying thing to have the morning greet you with an evil snake-man sitting on the edge of your bed and running a hand through your hair like you were a beloved furry pet. Hermione had completely stiff under his ministrations, too stunned and afraid to move until he had made some scoffing comment on her essay. She had scrambled away from him as though stung by the sound of his voice. However, he took a hold of her hair, preventing her from putting any distance between them.

He was very insistent on touching her. Not out of any sentimental attachments on his own part, but because he knew how lonely she was in mind, body and soul. He wanted her to get attached to him, to submit and accept defeat. Always his hands were brushing across her skin, making her feel claustrophobic and trapped, but it lit a deep ache within her also. Her mind protested any kind of contact with Voldemort, but she could not stop her skin from sighing at his touch and she could not help the relief that spread from her ears when he spoke, even if his voice was eerie. She hated this man, but she nevertheless leaned into his palm when he caressed her cheek and she argued furiously against him when he belittled Muggle-borns and Harry Potter.

Privately she thought that Voldemort almost seemed to enjoy their debates. Beneath his arrogant, superior sneer it was as if he purposely meant to pick fights with her, goading her into stating her opinions and philosophies so he could try to crush them with all the enthusiasm of a man half his age. But surely that was impossible, even if his use of the Torture Curse on her had grown sparse, usually only used when Harry was brought into the picture—her steadfast faith in her dear friend irritated Voldemort like nothing else.

Hermione would never give up on Harry. She would never betray Harry, no matter how invigorating an intellectual conversationalist Lord Voldemort was. No matter that he was all she had to ground her to reality. And it did not matter that she sometimes forgot that she hated him or that she found him fascinating on the occasions when she was not afraid.

Surely it was beneath his station to visit and debate with her as he did. Surely it was below his interest. She wondered why he hadn't simply left her in the tower and been done with it. She resented herself for not wishing that he would leave her alone. If only she could just destroy her human need for sociality and tell Voldemort to leave her alone. But it simply wasn't that easy.

She bent over the ebony desk; her fingers stained the same black color as the wood as she scribbled away a Transfiguration thesis. A low growl tore her attention away from her writings, the hairs on her back going erect. Hermione and the dragon in the stained glass window shared a relationship that was very much like that of a prisoner and its guard. After Neville's rescue attempt, the dragon had grown rather aggressive toward the young witch and though she knew it could not actually harm her, she still kept her distance from it, as its face contorted into a most horrible visage whenever she came close to the window, hissing and spitting red. That is was growling now, when she had done nothing to provoke it, meant only one thing.

The window swung open, the creak of iron hinges sharp and quiet.

Hermione did not move, her quill tip dripping a steady circle of ink onto the parchment, but she did not notice. She did not turn around, but her body was hyper-aware of every movement he made, the cold sweeping across her shoulders and ankles, the swish of his robes, his gaze on the back of her head. The aura he gave off was tainted with buried anger, the origin of which she could only imagine. She stared at the parchment before her with wide eyes, but not truly seeing it.

He stopped just behind her chair and oh, Merlin, every pore on her body ached. He leaned down and one of his hands came down, the sleeve of his robes rustling against her semi-bare shoulder as he placed his spidery white hand on the desk beside hers. His skin stood out as pale as Muggle printing paper.

"Evening, Hermione," he said softly, sibilantly.

Her skin gave a little jump and she hurriedly began writing again. "Evening." she squeaked.

He emitted a puff of breath into her hair, a short, silent exhale of amusement. The feeling of imminent danger did not vanish, though. In fact it grew. His large hand settled on top of her small one, stilling her.

"Stand up." His voice was stony, making little drips of ice flicker up and down her spine.

Slowly, Hermione pushed the chair back and rose to her feet, knees popping audibly. Voldemort's hand settled on the back of her neck, a silent, subtle threat. Her feelings of dread grew and when he pulled her around to an open space of floor she spotted the expression on his face. Something had gone very wrong for him.

"What…" she paused and swallowed; her stomach tight as he glowered down at her. "What is it?"

His gaze grew sharper, the press of his fingers tighter. "Your little friends are a thorn in my side. Perhaps I overestimated your worth, since they continue to evade and humiliate me even without you to help them."

Though her fear, a bright splash of joy burst in her chest, sweet and golden. "Harry?"

The Dark Lord sneered. "I suppose you would be glad to know that Potter and several of your meddlesome, worthless friends broke into the Malfoy's Manor and spirited Ollivander and the Lovegood girl away. The little brat was so bold as to leave behind a message. He will be coming to steal you away next."

Relief washed over her like a tidal wave, and she collapsed to her knees at the force of it, tears instantly cascading over her cheeks the moment the news truly registered in her mind.

Thank Merlin. Thank Merlin! Harry was all right! So were Luna and Mr. Ollivander, and surely Ron and others too! They were all okay!

Harry was coming for her. Harry was coming to kill Lord Voldemort and to free her. Oh, to feel the wind on her face, the grass under her feet, to hear and see other people! To wear jeans again and get out of these wretched dresses and skirts for good! Harry! She missed Harry more than anything and she would see him again. She had nearly died for him; she had expected to die for him, but she lived and he was coming for her, coming to rescue her! Voldemort would die and she would never see him again and…

That thought should not have stung as much as it did. It should not have stung at all.

There was absolutely no reason that she should feel any sort of grief or guilt at the thought of the death of this horrible—'brilliant,' her traitorous mind whispered—vile—'impassioned'—evil—'stubborn'—murdering, inhuman creature, ever! It could not happen! Her attachments were strictly physical, a basic human need for social contact, nothing more. Outside these walls there were gentler, more loving hands to embrace her and she would rejoice in them!

Tears fell with increasing urgency.

She hated him. She was not attached. She could not be attached no matter how much time had passed.

She was suddenly aware of Voldemort's hands encircling her head, yanking her chin up toward his infuriated face.

"Stop it!" he hissed, stretching the skin of her cheekbones tightly toward her temples, his thumbs catching her tears and sweeping them away. "Stop your useless sniveling!"

But she couldn't stop. In fact, the sight of his ivory-white face only served to make her cry harder. She shoved that detested feeling down so deep that it rattled her insides. The grotesque twist of his face only grew more intense as he felt her tremble under his palms.

He slid one hand into the hair at the back of her head, twisting it mercilessly between his bony fingers. She wailed aloud as she was hauled to her feet, wand tip at her throat, and dragged over to the bed. The thick olive comforter cushioned her fall as he cast her upon it, the sweet smell of yarrow and lavender soap rising, box springs creaking. Her hands flew to the back of her skull, cradling the sore skin of her scalp. Voldemort allowed her no moment to recover; a fraction of a moment later he was hovering over her, elbow cocked back to point his wand at the center of her forehead.

Hermione's tears retreated, her eyes drying and pupils dilating in an instant as her racing mind stopped short with terror. She did not want to be cursed with the Cruciatus. It was a pain that was impossible to get used to; no matter how many times a person was held under it. Her chest heaved with panicked gasps, breath shortened by the tight bodice pressing against her stomach and ribs.

"There." He sneered. "Much too frightened to cry now, are you not, my little Mudblood pet?"

Yes, she most certainly was. She stared at the blurry tip of his wand, nearly cross-eyed. He slid it over to her temple and took her chin in his hand, squashing her cheeks. Fiery red eyes burned into her frightened brown orbs.

"Do not think that Harry Potter is going to 'save' you." Voldemort snarled. "I won you from him. I own you! You are mine and I will kill you before I let Harry Potter have you!"

Such horrible, possessive and dark words. They sent a fresh stab of fear through her… but it was not only fear she felt. No, that tingly little thrill was unexpected and unwarranted. It was wrong. The high points of her cheeks tinged pink with shame. That wicked little pleasure was wrong and unwanted. It was only because she had had Voldemort as her only company for so long, surely! It would go away. It wasn't real; it was a baser, primitive response that was all!

"Why?" she whispered croakily, not sure whom she was asking: the Dark Lord or herself.

The angry expression slowly slid off of Voldemort's face. His narrow pupils darted between her eyes and then roamed other parts of her face. His expression was carefully blank, but she saw something questioning rise in his eyes. He moved his hand down so that it covered her throat and he leaned back a bit, his eyes still searching her lower and lower. And then, quite suddenly, he went very, very still.

Hermione stared up at him with a medley of anxiousness and bewilderment. A tiny, nearly unnoticeable tremor passed through his hand into her neck and something that was very nearly pain flickered across his face. She followed his gaze down, and realized he was staring at her breasts, which strained against the low neckline of her dress with each gasping breath.

A bit of air got stuck in her throat. Her stomach felt as if she had Splinched it. She dismissed the slight skip of her heart. She was suddenly very aware of Voldemort's physical presence: the uneven, heavy weight of his robes on her dress, the way his fingers bent around her neck, the slight press of his knee beside her thigh, the minute rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. His gaze scorched her.

Slowly, he unwound his hand from her throat, slipping down her collarbone to lightly curl his fingertips into the edge of the bodice, the smooth tops of his nails pressing against the tops of her breasts. Panic shot through her, and her arm bolted out to wind around his wrist. He tore his eyes up to hers and by that look alone she felt utterly pinned in place.

"Do not be so afraid, Hermione." He said quietly. "I only want to have a look. There is no harm in that. Any man would do the same."

A man! How dare he claim to be an ordinary man when he was everything but! He was barely human, much less a man! His head turned down toward her chest again and with a look of raw hunger he wrapped both hands firmly into the edge of the neckline. She jerked slightly, blushing right down to her shoulders as she felt the backs of his fingers press against her nipples. There was no need for a bra with this sort of dress.

"No," she mouthed despairingly, but her plea was silent. No sound would come forth.

She clutched at his wrists, but despite his frail form he was strong, much stronger than she, and with a violent, eager movement of his arms the dress tore right down the middle, her shriek accompanying the sound. His hand slid back around her neck, holding her down firmly as he quickly stripped her of the ruined dress' remains, the sheer sleeves easily tearing away from her arms and then flung away to the floor out of sight and then… Then time in the tower room seemed to stand still for one agonizingly long moment as Voldemort feasted on the sight of her naked flesh.

She shivered under his invasive gaze, which traveled down her collarbone, pausing at one rosy brown nipple then the other, counting her ribs as they strained against the confines of skin, then roving across the expanse of her belly and the thin scar that crossed it, the little indent of her navel, and the small cushion of curly hair protecting that sacred place between her thighs. She watched his neck contract as he swallowed, and she tightened her hold on the arm holding her down, fingernails digging into flesh. When he lightly brushed his fingers against the slope of her waist, she jerked violently, and when he drifted to touch another piece of young skin, she went blind with fear. She wasn't sure exactly what he'd done or even what it was that she did, but in the next moment she was sobbing uncontrollably, yanking the bed sheet over her exposed form.

It took her several moments to gather her wits about her enough to be the least bit rational. Shaking like a leaf, she peered out through her tears and saw Voldemort standing some paces away from the bed, looking as though he'd come to a very disturbing realization. His eyes flickered from her to an obscure corner of the room and back again, as if it burned him to look at her but she contained some unknown knowledge that he longed for most dearly. When he caught her looking at him, her eyes rimmed with red, shoulders trembling, her curly hair a mussed halo, a naked, pink leg temptingly exposed over the crumpled cloth, he stared more determinedly away, his thin mouth pressed so tight that it nearly vanished.

The Dark Lord whipped his wand at the stained glass window with such sudden violence that Hermione recoiled as if he had physically struck her. It flung open, coldness rushing in.

"Voldemort…" she whispered then found that she was not entirely sure why she did so.

He paused, for a moment a man carved from limestone, and then she saw a shiver ripple across his skin as if from the cold… but she knew it was not from the chill of the air. He still did not look back at her.

"Harry should be here within the week," he said softly, "The House Elves will be told to make sure that you are… presentable."

Then he was gone, the window yawning into empty air for a moment before shutting, coin-like blossoms swaying above a green dragon. And Hermione was afraid… for herself and of herself.
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The Ivory Tower