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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
- 4
- 5
The Ivory Tower

5. The Point of No Return

From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognize me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise.

~Victor Frankenstein to Robert Walton

The Immolation Scene music from Star Wars Episode III Revenge of the Sith— Hermione's Rape (Deflowering the Virgin)

Voldemort had returned the bookcase to her. Unfortunately, Hermione found herself unable to focus on reading long enough to take in anything of substance. Even in seclusion she could sense the thick atmosphere weighing down on the castle, the metallic tang hovering in the air that foretold the inevitable battle, which was creeping over the horizon. In the distance, smoke rose from Hogsmeade. There had been a brief battle some days earlier; the sky had been full of buzzing dots as people flew around violently on brooms and cast brightly colored spells at each other like fireworks, green flaring in abundance, and the Order had taken the Wizarding village out of the Death Eaters' control. Hogsmeade was not burning, but fires were lit.

Fires for war.

Voldemort had let the students go. He wanted as little pure blood shed as possible and since the youths of today were the adults of tomorrow, he had Professor Snape send them all home. Of course, that didn't mean that they all went home. She was positive that many had gone instead to Hogsmeade to join Harry and the Order. Though Hogwarts' halls were empty and Hermione was alone, even she could sense that the upcoming confrontation would be the final battle in this war. Voldemort and Harry would walk onto the grounds and only one would walk away. Hermione would not be able to save Harry from certain death a second time. The Wizarding World would either spiral further into darkness or drift back into the light.

Something had happened the day before. Two people had met alone on Hogwarts' grounds, one a Death Eater from the castle and the other emerged from the Forbidden Forest from Hogsmeade. Ambassadors, Hermione guessed, as they were much too obvious to be spies, and when they reached an agreement they parted, the Death Eater coming back to the castle and the other figure going back into the woods. The sense of impending doom was heavier after that and only grew heavier with each passing hour.

She wrung her hands until they were slick with perspiration and when the skyline was tinged with the first signs of dusk a soft pop drew her attention to the House Elf that had appeared earlier than scheduled. It stood by the bathroom door, silent as always, its large brown eyes imploring. Hermione exhaled slowly, dropping her hands to her sides, fingertips bitten raw from apprehension. The House Elf's gaze was apologetic. Hermione steeled her heart and willingly went forth.

It was not surrender to not tear her dress and jewels asunder as she did the previous times … was it? The House Elf had worked hard on her appearance; was it just that she hadn't the heart to put all its effort to ruin? Hermione didn't care about the superficiality of physical looks and she didn't care to go out of her way to look like a great beauty—not for anyone—least of all Lord Voldemort. But the silent House Elf had finished her hair and make-up and as she moved to wipe it all away she had caught sight of her reflection.

She found herself unable to smudge her crimson-stained lips or the forest green eye-shadow on her eyelids or to tear the pearls and peridot from her hair. She felt rather unlike herself. The woman in the mirror was so very lovely. Surely Hermione Granger was not this lovely? She was pretty enough, she supposed, but she wasn't beautiful like Fleur Delacour or Ginny Weasley or even Lavender Brown.

It wasn't surrender to allow herself to be that girl in the mirror for a short while, was it? It wasn't defeat. It wasn't… it wasn't surrender.

Her brown eyes trailed over her reflection: her momentarily tamed curls, held back by an ivory pin set with gold wire, pearls, and pale green peridot gems. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows and the light dusting of make-up across her eyes, cheeks and mouth. The small chandelier earrings and necklace she wore matched the hairpin. The bangles were back too, heavy on her ankles and wrists, exotically and richly designed; shackles disguised as jewelry.

The dress was very Celtic: leaf green and ivory white with gold detail. The sleeves were long and drape-like. Hermione trailed her fingers down the laced bodice, gently touching the zigzagging ribbons. She felt as though she were in mourning for something she hadn't yet lost. Her innocence perhaps? The lives that would soon be lost? The possibility that the Dark Lord might win the war and her freedom would be lost to her forever?

Hermione sucked in a breath and tore her gaze away from her reflection; shaking her head as if it would help clear her mind. She couldn't think that Voldemort would win. She had to have faith in Harry—that faith could never waver! Even if her feelings got lost she had to have hope. Hope was a tiny candle burning in a pitch-black room, but it did burn and even if it flickered in the wind it would not go out. She remembered one birthday when she had still been a little girl and her parents had decorated the cake with trick candles that sparked back to life after being blown out, driving her to tears of frustration. Hope was like that, she thought.

A timid tug on her sleeve pulled her attention down to the House Elf at her side. It held its hand out, palm up. Hermione inhaled slowly and slipped her hand into the smaller one. A twist and a pop later she was in the Great Hall, the horizon closer to eyelevel than it had been in months, the very sight of which made her heart leap into her throat with joy.

It lasted only a moment, however, as the next instant the House Elf shuffled away, bowing hastily and vanishing.

"Good evening, Hermione."

Her eyes left the world laying just outside the windows to the lone other figure in the hall. The red and pink hues had left the sky, leaving behind a cold blue twilight and he stood out in the gloom like a phantom.

"Voldemort." She returned softly.

She was acutely aware of his every movement as he glided over to her, one ghostly hand outstretched in a beckoning gesture. She didn't respond to it, of course, and his eyes narrowed with a flicker of annoyance. Soon enough he clasped her fingers between his, his other hand coming up to sweep across her brow. She shivered at his cool touch and when he pulled her chin up she met his eyes unflinchingly as he searched her face, finally finding whatever he sought satisfactory. Voldemort placed her hand in the crook of his arm and guided her to the table set where the teacher's table usually was.

As he had done when they dined together before, he gestured for her to sit first, but despite the small feast laid on the table Hermione was hungry for only one thing.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I will tell you later. We shall dine first." He said, pulling her chair out with his wand since she did not.

"No."

His eyes bored into hers and Hermione ground her teeth as she felt something cold and awful begin to creep up her spine.

"Tomorrow," Voldemort said quietly, "I shall kill Harry Potter once and for all."

Kill Harry? Tomorrow? His words made her knees go weak, and she sank into the chair, feeling horror overtake her. The chair abruptly moved itself into its proper place, but the motion did not shake the feelings from her. Voldemort took his seat to her left and began picking off his already filled plate. Hers was too, she vaguely noticed.

"Cou—" Her voice was hoarse and she paused to clear her throat. "Could you elaborate?"

He did not answer her right away, chewing slowly and contemplatively.

"The Order of the Phoenix has gathered for one last stand against me." The Dark Lord said at last. "They have taken Hogsmeade. Soon after the battle they sent an owl proposing…" he paused and spat the next world out as if it tasted bitter. "Negotiations. Diplomats from both sides have met and… we reached an agreement. Tomorrow at dawn the victors of this war will be decided once and for all. My Death Eaters will meet this ragtag band of blood-traitors and Mudbloods on the field and Harry Potter will finally fall at my hand. There will be no strokes of luck or," he drew a finger down the side of her face, "Lovely heroines to save him again, not this time. Now it comes down to Harry and me, he knows. He knows."

There was a hollowness yawning in her stomach. The space behind her eyes ached, but she didn't feel as if she would begin to cry. Voldemort's forefinger was paused at the line of her jaw as if stuck there. She searched his face, pushing aside the niggling echo of a thought: it wasn't right that she was so used to him that she could identify the subtleties in his malformed facial expressions.

"Something frightens you."

He looked coolly down at her, his mouth tightening briefly before he cupped her cheek in his hand, twirling a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger.

"Clever girl," he said, his voice dark but fond, "It would be better to say that I am… concerned."

'Liar,' flickered through her mind. "Is…" she began, and paused to swallow nervously. "Is it Harry?"

His eyes narrowed in anger, his flat nostrils flaring, and she quickly looked away, staring at his pale fingers instead.

"Is not Harry Potter always the trouble?" he hissed bitterly. "He is always getting in the way, ruining my plans, keeping me from the things that I want."

There was something in his tone of voice that made her breath hitch in her breast. She looked up at him hesitantly, awed, and she trembled when his thumb ghosted across her lips.

"Yesss, Hermione," he smiled horrifically.

"B-but I… I'm…"

"A Mudblood?" he offered.

She swallowed and nodded slightly. "For starters."

"It is… most unfortunate. But there are factors more important than blood: Your," his fingertips danced across her temple, "Intelligence, your power—on the precipice of maturity, that steadfast, unyielding loyalty and faith… however misplaced; it is quite commendable. You have many admirable traits, Hermione."

"T-the Death Eaters…"

"Have no say in what I choose to do." He hissed softly, drawing her face close enough that she reflexively held her breath. "They obey me, not the other way around. Anyone foolish enough to question me is dealt with accordingly. Regardless, it is not as if they need know about you in the first place. I have many secrets, Hermione; I have no qualms about obtaining another."

Her eyes darted back and forth between his. A tight bubble formed in her throat, a hysterical laugh or a disbelieving sob. This was a dream of some sort, a nightmare. It was outlandish and illogical. It was ridiculous. The Dark Lord, have any kind of feelings for a Mudblood? It was not possible.

That he had "many secrets" sent alarm bells ringing. Hermione quickly smothered them, forcing herself to focus on the here and now—no matter how appalling it was. A secret was only a secret when no one knew about it. Some of his secrets were no longer so concealed. She could not think about those secrets, lest he discover them whist riffling around her mind.

When it became clear that she would remain silent, Voldemort spoke again, his voice hushed and insistent. "Harry Potter's blood flows through my veins… it allows me to touch him when I could not before, though it causes us both some degree of pain, Harry more than myself, and it… burns… whenever I think of you."

Her very hair curled with some unspeakable, terrible emotion. No. No, Merlin, no. Voldemort's blood… He shared Harry's blood—in fourth year, Voldemort had stolen Harry's blood in order to acquire new life.

"Only when you are with me do I feel relief from it."

Lily Potter's sacrifice lived in Harry's blood.

"I have found no satisfactory explanation, but I have determined that you must belong to me."

Lily Potter's love lived in Harry's blood.

"I must own you entirely. I will."

The horror that had been blossoming in her gut came to fruit. It made sense, but it was still unbelievable. Just what effect had Harry's blood had on Voldemort's resurrection ritual? He had clearly gotten more than a slippery crack in a previously impregnable wall. It had done more than merely deepen the bond between the two males. It had… Merlin, did Voldemort even realize himself what he had taken? She was dreaming. She had to be.

She was still silent, speechless, and it must have unnerved him in some way because unease briefly flashed across his serpentine face, the textured skin around his eyes and mouth flexing.

"I can be a generous Lord, Hermione." He said softly, slipping his hand into hers, fingers interlacing together so that her heart leapt into her throat to choke her. "I am a cruel man, but I would not cause you undue agony. I have kept you comfortable, have I not? I have ensured that you remained lovely and whole; you have not been beaten and raped by my Death Eaters in the bowels of the Malfoy Manor or thrown to Greyback's pack. Have I not been generous? Have I not allowed you to speak your mind to me when I would have killed any other who dared to speak to me with such disrespect?

"You see, Hermione?" He said, holding her hand to his breast, allowing her to feel the steadily fluttering organ caged within. "Even I have a heart."

She turned her face away, mouth open wide with emotion. Her breath came in shallow gasps. There was a prickling in her sinuses as if she might sneeze. She bit her lip, trembling. "Yes, a black withered thing without pity."

His fingers held her pink digits all the more firmly. "Why should I pity anyone? The situations they find themselves in are naught but the results of their own folly."

"Am I not pitiful?" Her brown eyes were wide as she looked at him, shining brightly in the candlelight, the tilt of her eyebrows pained.

He lifted his hands to cup her face. She leaned into his touch, pressing her lips to his palm, eyes lowering to follow the blue rivers of blood that shone through the marble skin. His gaze was heavy on her head.

"Pitiful…? You are… beautiful, Hermione. Beautiful and sad." He drew her face close to his and placed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

There was a sickening swoop in her gut, as if she'd plummeted downwards very suddenly, yet she felt the ground under her feet, solid and unmoving. She was not falling through the clouds, awaiting the impact that would kill her. This was happening. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times.

"Harry will save me." She managed, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears. She wanted Harry to save her, of course she did. And she told herself that that bubble of… something in her belly was just hunger. That was it; she was so hungry she was nauseous from it. The aroma of the barely touched dinner on the table was so strong she could taste it on her tongue—vibrant and savory—not dull. She was hungry for… for the food on the table, not for anything else. She wanted Harry to rescue her, she wanted to be free, and she didn't want… she didn't want whatever this was.

Voldemort burst with emotion, shooting up from his chair like he'd grown out of the wood, his face suddenly much too close to hers, eyes darkly mad. Her back pressed harshly against the back of her chair as she pushed against it; she could smell his breath as it mingled with hers. He caged her to the chair with his arms.

"Harry Potter will die! Your boy-hero will not take you from me; he will not even manage to save himself—not this time!" He hissed furiously. "And when he falls, at last I will claim you, mind," his spidery fingers skittered across her forehead, "Body," his other hand coiled tightly around her bicep, "And sssoul!" His hand found its familiar seat around her neck. He pressed his cheek to the side of her head, feeling her shake under him.

Her terror acted as a sort of balm for his blazing temper, some of the tenseness seeping away from his body and his harsh breath softening. Hermione felt her fingertips begin to tingle with sharp pinpricks from lack of blood flow. She stared unseeingly over his shoulder into the blue darkness, soft fabric that smelled faintly of soap brushing her chin.

"I will win this war, Hermione. Your faith is misplaced. I will kill Harry Potter and you will be my darling little Mudblood pet until you die." Voldemort said quietly, almost affectionately. He pressed his mouth against the place where her jaw met her ear, inhaling the scent of her hair, his large hand cradling the base of her neck. The world blurred and Hermione felt tears roll swiftly and silently down her face.

When they pitter-pattered onto the shoulder of his robes he drew back, shushing her softly as his thumbs stroked her temples, so she cried into his hands until they slowed and finally stopped altogether. He bade her to eat, but it all turned to ash in her mouth, sickening her. The wine was tasteless too, and the entire display failed to draw her eye.

The only thing that did draw her eye was the lone person she shared the table with and she did not allow herself to look at him, not his tall, slender form which seemed so brittle and willowy yet was capable of such powerful, terrifying things, not the unnaturally smooth line of his face's profile, nor the long, elegant digits of his hand that seemed to be constructed of living marble; faint blue webbing veined throughout. She tried not to think of the way his red eyes glowed in the dark like the candles. She tried to forget the feel of her palm against his ribs, that strong, steady thrum that beat against her fingers, the concept that he had a heart too and it would bleed if stabbed. A heartbeat was such a human thing to have; it was inconceivable that Voldemort had one at all, much less one that was possibly capable of feeling.

It wasn't right that her thoughts centered on him; that her skin ached for the Dark Lord's possessive caress when it was possible that Harry could die tomorrow. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

'There's no such thing as fair,' a part of her consciousness argued, 'Especially where Voldemort is involved.'

The Dark Lord gave a long-suffering sigh and stood, the food vanishing from the table. Hermione's hand stilled in the air, the fork she had been absent-mindedly twirling disappearing right from between her fingers mid-spin. She stared stupidly at the empty air for a moment until the light press of fingers under her chin tilted her head up.

"Come," he beckoned quietly.

She stood without protest, her mind in too much of a numb whirl to fight him. His eyes held hers firmly, almost accusingly, and she found herself unable to tear her gaze away from him. A tremulous little gasp escaped her when his hands slid around her waist, gripping her hips firmly, and her hands came to press against his chest as she steadied herself against the sudden weakness in her knees. She could feel his ribs expanding and shrinking with every breath, felt that steady rhythm of his blood pumping through his body. The red of his eyes darkened as he looked down on her.

Little eddies of magic twirled in the air around them for a moment and then they were flying, her feet were no longer touching the floor. Hermione shrieked as panic swelled up and tried to drown her; her arms darting around the clutch at the robes at Voldemort's back. Her heart beat frantically against her ribs like a caged bird. There was nothing under her! No broomstick or hippogriff or thestral was beneath her to provide support, those two claw-like hands on her middle were all that kept her from falling.

The fear was enough to break the connection between their eyes and she instead stared down at the ground over her shoulder, trembling as she did so. There was an amused puff of breath at her ear and those white hands held her tighter, so tight she felt as if she were bruising. The Great Hall was a blur as Voldemort soared out of it and into the night air, the sky full of stars that blazed like jewels.

Despite her better instincts, she clung to him desperately as they flew—the ground was so far away, the wind howled in her ears, making her deaf, and all it would take would be one slippery finger and she would fall, fall, fall and splatter on the ground and she would die and, oh, just because she was prepared to accept death didn't mean she wanted to die, and…

"Stop squirming or I may drop you," he suddenly whispered into the shell of her ear.

She froze, quivering. She had not even realized she had been moving at all, and she promptly squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face into the crook of his neck as her fingers pressed into his shoulder blades. She had been able to handle flying on a thestral, but the sensation of this sort of flying was like that fraction of a moment when a person was just about to fall asleep only to be jolted awake by the feeling of falling. Only the feeling didn't stop, it kept going on and on and on.

Finally the rush of air softened and ceased entirely, her feet touching down on chill stone. Hermione gasped as though she had been holding her breath; perhaps she had. Voldemort stroked her hair as she slowly disentangled herself from him, looking around at the balcony they stood upon. Burning guilt welled in her. She couldn't believe she had allowed herself to cling to Voldemort so shamelessly, impending death or not.

She threw her arm up suddenly, but Voldemort caught her hand before it could reach his face, his eyes narrowing.

"Don't ever do that again!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice warbling as if she would burst into tears at any moment. Indeed, her eyes sparkled with them.

"And you will never attempt to strike me again, understand?" he said, his voice nearly a growl.

She sniffled once and nodded. He slipped his fingers between hers then, his pale, pale blue nails a stark contrast against her skin, and he tugged her through the balcony doors. Candles lit upon their entrance, chasing the shadows into corners, though the dark color scheme kept the atmosphere deep and foreboding. The balcony opening vanished behind them, dark grey stones shuffling into place until it was only a small window.

"This isn't my room." She stated the obvious, anxiety curling in her abdomen.

"No," he affirmed, "These chambers are mine."

Her stomach lurched and she felt as though she had swallowed a lead weight, heavy and poisonous. She was so overwhelmed. She could hardly think. Her confused emotions combined with the weight of Voldemort's twisted confession churned in her like a storm. It crackled in her fingertips like static electricity.

"Why have you brought me here?" she whispered, fearful of the answer.

He turned to her, running his thumb across the back of her hand. "You cannot guess?"

She could guess, of course she could, but she didn't want to. She didn't want to let her mind travel down those forbidden avenues. Dark things lay in wait for her there, wrong, terrible, sinful things that would turn her entire world on its head.

She shook her head vehemently. "I'll never submit to you. Not now, not ever, you can't make me—!"

"I can."

"No! You can't!"

"I will."

"No, you won't." she insisted, tugging fruitlessly at their joined hands. She couldn't stand to be near him, she couldn't stand to have him touch her. Her hand was blistering where he touched her. "You can beat me into the dirt for the rest of my life, but I will never break…"

"You are breaking even now, Hermione." He said softly, and a strangled little cry broke free from her mouth. He tugged her close, dropping her hand to hold her waist and neck.

She should have stiffened; she should have fought and pulled away, but instead she found herself leaning into him, her lungs pushing out an easy sigh. Hermione closed her eyes, disgusted with herself. Voldemort's hand lied firmly on the small of her back, his other palm swept stray tendrils of hair away to massage her neck. Goosebumps broke out all over her body as his nails lightly raked against her nape. And still there was that unnerving, steady melody of his heart under her hands.

"Why could I not have met you sooner?" He wondered aloud.

Hermione inhaled sharply, looking up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

"I should have liked to have had you when I was a youth."

"I…" she swallowed, throat flexing under his hand, and his fingers held her a little more snugly in response. "I think I would have be more afraid of that version of yourself than as you are presently."

The Dark Lord cocked his head. "Why is that?"

"Well," she swallowed again, "You looked human then. That's what frightens me. Th-they say Lucifer was beautiful before he was cast from heaven…"

Voldemort chuckled softly, his cheek bulging as he smirked. "You fear the idea of me beautiful more than you fear me now… And I suppose you would identify as Eve in this tale? Or perhaps Lilith would be more suitable?"

She had no immediate answer, too aware of how he was drawing her upward, forcing her onto tiptoe. She watched as his nostrils flared with his breath, fanning across her nose and cheeks, making her eyes flutter.

"Because I should like to fancy myself the apple. After all, the Serpent never derived the pleasure of tasting Eve's lips."

His thin, thin lips pressed against her neck, and her mouth went unbearably dry. She arched away from him, but his hands held her firmly in place and she only succeeded in bearing more of her neck to his slow, appraising motions. His large hand cradled the back of her head and the bangles tingled with magic, their weight preventing her from gaining any leverage that she might have used to push him away. He sucked and nibbled lightly up her neck, leaving a blazing trail of faint moisture to the base of her ear. He kissed along the edge of her delicate jaw and finally met her lips for a brief moment before pulling away.

Hermione's knees gave out entirely at the sensation of his kiss and only his thin, strong arms kept her from collapsing to the floor. She trembled all over, her hands, her heart. Voldemort arched over her, a supportive palm splayed across her back, his eyes glittering with want and an eerie softness.

His hands were gentler than they had any right to be, removing her hairpin, earrings and necklace and placing them on the dresser. When his fingers found the zipper at the back of her dress, she placed her hands on his arms, stilling him.

"Please don't," she begged softly, her brown eyes shining with tears. Her voice shook.

Voldemort lifted one hand to her cheek and she leaned into his hand as his thumb gently wiped away the wetness trailing down her face.

"I will have you, Hermione," he said softly, "Whether you wish it or not. But… it would be better for both of us if you did not fight me. It will hurt less, for you, if you close your eyes and allow the pleasure of the flesh overtake you, my dear." He pulled her into the cage of his arms, an endearing embrace, but panic flooded her as soon as the sound of the zipper moving down reached her ears.

"No!" She screamed, thrashing. She beat her fists against his chest and kicked at his legs. His grip on her loosened in surprise and she took the opportunity to slap him viciously, the sound of flesh on flesh resounding through the air with a sharp crack. She ran for the window, skirts clutched in her white-knuckled hands, but Voldemort grabbed her from behind and she fell to her knees, fingers gripping at the wooden sill.

"No, no, no!" She wailed, nails digging into the frame. His large hands covered her own, white and pink fingers laced together, prying her fingers away, leaving behind shallow grooves in the wood. "No, please! Please no!"

He forced her to her hands and knees on the floor, the hard, bony planes of his chest pressing against her back. He began laying kisses on the exposed nape of her neck and over her shoulders. She wept freely.

"It is useless to run." He whispered into the shell of her ear. "You shall come to enjoy it soon enough, Hermione, you will see." One of his hands removed itself from hers, and the zipper resumed its downward descent. This time she didn't fight him.

He laid feathery kisses along her neck and down between her shoulders, creeping lower and lower with every caress, and her dress was slipped down her body, revealing young, creamy skin. She wished desperately that she had underwear, if only to hinder him for a while longer, but there were none—the House Elf had known that this was going to happen, and deep down she had realized it too, though she had vehemently denied it.

Voldemort slid back up her body, his hands slipping up her spine like spiders. A shudder went through her and his chin nestled in the crook of her neck, his mouth whispering into her ear.

"I told you not to try and strike me again, Hermione. You will be punished for that, you know… but not now."

She sobbed lightly in response. He murmured hushing noises to her as his hands wandered.

He fondled her breasts with the same delicacy that he held his wand, and the touch of his hands caused heat to pool at the apex of her thighs, unwanted and uninvited. It beat uncomfortably, as if her heart had suddenly been moved to her groin. A rush of self-loathing nearly drowned it out, but not quite.

He pressed against her stomach, pushing her upright into a kneeling position. Hermione's hands automatically came up to cover her exposed breasts, but Voldemort pried her wrists away from her chest, pressing his mouth against the crown of her head as he stared down at the puckered tips of her breasts, breathing shallowly into her hair. Desire oozed from him, thickening the atmosphere unbearably. His leg came up, his black robes brushing sensually against her side, and he pulled her to her feet as he stood. Something twitched against her back and, horrified, she arched away from his body and into his hand, twisting her head grievously to the side.

This was wrong on so many levels. It was wrong; so very, very wrong. She wished it was only a dream, but even her subconscious imagination would not have been able to come up with something like this. Voldemort's hands were on her naked body. His breath was on her skin. This was really happening.

"I was wondering: Where did you get this?" He asked softly, tracing the long, thin scar that split across her belly from rib to hip.

Her breath hitched. She could never forget that night. "Fifth year in-in the D-department of Mysteries…"

The atmosphere darkened, making Hermione tense.

"Who?"

"I… A-Antonin Dolohov."

Voldemort turned her around to face him and kissed her deeply, running one hand up and down her spine. He tasted of wine.

"I shall be sure to punish him later." He murmured.

Punish Dolohov? She couldn't fathom why; it had happened on his orders! The scar was years old now, what did he care?

Her raging thoughts were suddenly cut short. Voldemort's tongue slid across her lips, nearly making her jump out her skin, unintentionally opening her mouth to him as she gasped. He quickly took advantage of the opportunity. His tongue was forked! She screeched against his mouth, pressing against his arms, but he drank in her cries, his tongue dominatingly curling and sliding against her own, while her arms were pinned against her sides.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She was not experienced in kissing and she felt herself becoming light headed, the wine on his breath making her dazed. When at last he pulled away she gasped deeply, feeling blood rush in her head, her lungs fluttering with sweet relief.

Voldemort pressed his forehead against hers and murmured, "Undress me."

For a moment her world froze. His fiery eyes dug into hers.

"Now."

Hermione swallowed thickly, and shakily lifted her hands to his chest, curling her fingers timidly around the hem of his outer robes. There was no escaping this was there? No matter what she did, how she fought, he would still force her to sleep with him. The intensity of his stare made her feel so small. She could try to slap him again, kick, scratch and bite every bit of the way; she could scream, thrash, and cry, but what would it accomplish? The end result would be the same: his cold, white body on top of her, her virginity stolen, and if she fought it would only hurt that much more. No one would magically come and save her from the Dark Lord. No one had thus far and no one would now.

He held her gaze unwaveringly as she slowly and somewhat clumsily pushed his outer robes off his shoulders. His physical mass shrunk substantially without them, becoming especially tall and slender. Her fingers fumbled badly with the clasps of his second-robe, and it was only when Voldemort covered her numb fingers with his and guided her through the motions that the article of clothing was free to be shrugged away, pooling at his feet like a puddle of oil.

Horror bloomed in her at the sight of him. She almost felt like gagging, her face going as white as a sheet. Lord Voldemort's naked form was even more emaciated than she could have imagined. He was all skin and bones, the mere skeleton of a man. His hips and shoulders jutted out sharply, his stomach painfully concave and she could count his ribs if she dared to do so. His skin was perfectly smooth and white, stretched taut over his bones, the rippling snake-like texture of his hairless flesh visible even in the dim gold candlelight.

She had only a moment to look upon him before he descended on her again, her breasts pressed against his chest as his arms encircled her, his tongue delving hungrily between her lips. His penis pressed against her belly, stiff, proud and pale, its fleshy crown flushed deep purple with blood. Hermione began to struggle again, but Voldemort touched the bangles around her wrists and the heavy jewelry flew up to lock around his neck, dragging her hands up with them.

She made a noise of distress into his mouth; her toes barely skimming the floor now that her arms were around his neck. He tilted his head to kiss her more deeply, his tongue roaming so intensely she wondered if he meant to suffocate her. His hands slipped down to her bum, giving it an appreciative squeeze, and he gripped her thighs to pull her clear up off the floor, causing his phallus to slip against her sensitive core.

With a startled cry she wrenched her mouth free, throwing her head back, though he nipped and sucked at her neck without missing a beat. The world blurred for a moment and the next thing she knew she was being laid back against the four-poster bed, warm, soft wool under her back, her legs slightly lifted by the drawn-back comforter. Voldemort hovered above her, his hands skimming her sides, teasing the undersides of her breasts and then gliding down to her hips and back up again.

The bed sheets were white. It seemed sacrilegious that he should have white sheets. It felt as though they should have been black or even green, not that pure, innocent, color. Nothing about Lord Voldemort was innocent.

Her hair fanned around her head in a fluffy nebula, glorifying her face with wispy bronze spirals. Voldemort covered her body with his, his hands and mouth moving across her in sensual attempts to get her to participate, to get her to kiss him back and to move along with his body. She didn't respond to his affections, though, but merely lied under him, stiff and miserable.

She hated this. She hated how he kissed her as though he meant to devour her. She hated how, despite his skinny body, his weight crushed her, and how he held her so possessively; maneuvering her with so little effort it was as if she were a doll. Most of all, she hated herself. She hated that her body secretly relished his attentions. She hated that she wasn't able to lie back and think of England, only of him. She despised herself for wishing he was an ordinary man instead of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

Very suddenly, he grabbed her wrists, their kiss breaking as he pulled her hands over her head. Hermione watched his movements with sharp alarm. A long, Slytherin green ribbon appeared in his hands, which promptly wove itself into the bangles. A ball of dread unfurled in her stomach.

She stammered, painfully self-conscious and equally anxious, "W-w… Wha-what are yo—"

"In South Asia, you know, bangles are worn by brides," he said softly, tying the satin ribbon to the headboard, "She wears as many glass ones as she can during her wedding and when the last one breaks it signifies that the honeymoon is over." The ribbon was set in place with one last, firm tug. Hermione felt horribly exposed with her arms bound over her head. Tearfully she buried her nose in her bicep, blushing deeply, and Voldemort lowered himself until his lips lightly caressed her ear.

"As long as I live these will never break." He hissed. Then his tongue curled out and he drew her ear into his mouth. She yelped, the sound and sensation of his wet tongue moving across her ear strange and uncomfortable.

The tail end of the ribbon was laid sensually across her neck and torso. Voldemort held the end of it and ran it over her nipples as he palmed her breasts, suckling on her throat. He seemed to have some strange obsession with her neck, she realized. When he lightly raked his nails down her sides, every hair on her body stood on end.

She bucked, a fresh wave of tears coming as she tried to remove him from her person, but he only sighed in pleasure as she writhed beneath him. He placed a lingering kiss on her mouth before pulling back, watching her expression avidly as his elegant fingers slipped between her legs. She jerked as his touch brushed against her clitoris.

He was not pleased to find her dry, it was written all over his ivory face; for a moment she was absolutely terrified of his reaction, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he slithered down her body and began lying kisses from her navel until he finally reached her mound. Now Hermione understood why "sexy" women in magazines always shaved, the nerves were so sensitive, the sensations magnified by the absence of hair. She cursed the House Elf. There was no holding back her strangled shout or the slow mounting arousal as she felt him smirk against her labia, as his inhuman tongued laved at it, massaging the little pink crescent of flesh that was her hymen.

He kept her firmly pinned down, though her hips helplessly pushed against his hands.

"Stop! No, no, no. Stop, ah, please st-sto-OP! Ah!" she babbled, begging, but he did not, eating at her without mercy, determined to have her prepared for when he took her fully. Heat surged through her body as if it had been injected into her veins. Hermione tossed her head to and fro, sweat forming on her flushed brow. The two ends of his tongue wrapped around her clitoris in a way that made her arch back and scream, though no orgasm washed over her. She tugged furiously at her bound wrists, her toes curling and unfurling reflexively. Her heels scraped at the blankets.

Voldemort finally moved away from her genitals, prowling up her body as she visibly shook, panting. He placed a kiss on each of her breasts before taking her mouth, stroking her forehead. She could taste herself on his lips, slippery and sweetish. He settled between her thighs, the heated, eager head of his cock pressed against her delicate entrance, which a moment later was torn asunder as he buried himself inside her with a swift thrust.

"You are mine, Hermione," he breathed.

The pain went deep and he consumed her mouth as he entered her, swallowing her cries as though he were sucking out her very innocence. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes to her temples. He gave her no time to adjust to his intrusion, only gasping for a moment to relish the feel of her squeezing him so tightly. Then he rocked against her, unmindful of her discomfort and pain, a frantic thrusting building up in his hips, his forehead crinkled in pleasure.

It wasn't as horrible as Hermione had feared, though she supposed that could be due in part of how he had psychologically ripped her apart upon their initial meeting—this rape lacked mental impact. Voldemort was a greedy and demanding lover, and he couldn't be called gentle by any stretch of the imagination, but he was shockingly tender for a man so evil. He lavished attention on her neck, ears and upper arms. His hands constantly roamed her waist and her shoulder blades.

There was arousal on her part, but self-loathing and grief outweighed it by far and it didn't grow or stir any sort of hungry passion in her. It only served to make her feel guiltier.

Voldemort's frenzied motions eased up into a steady rhythm, the worst of his desire for her curbed. He began murmuring to her and rubbing himself against her, his hands wandering to pluck her skin with little tickles and pinches so that she would respond to him. It made her chest ache, the way he tried to get her to move with him, tried to prompt her to do more than just lay there like the dead. He kissed her with increasing urgency, the grip of his hands grew tighter and tighter, his thrusts grew longer and deeper as he searched for that little spot inside her that would make her world burst.

To Hermione, there was almost something childish about the way he pressed against her, the way he whispered, "Mine. Mine. You are mine, Hermione. My pet. My prize. My girl. Mine," repeatedly into her ears. Voldemort was a dark, evil, controlling man and she had no illusions about whether or not the sex was really all about reinforcing that control and possession, but it seemed too that he had some strange need to assure himself that she was really there; that he had her and that she wouldn't unexpectedly disappear and a need for her to respond and acknowledge his passions. Hermione wondered what strange, layered complexities there were inside the Dark Lord's mind; what had made him the way that he was.

He nipped at her earlobe harshly enough to pull a gasp from her. She turned her head to the side, exposing more of her neck to him.

"Forget them, Hermione. Forget them all." He murmured silkily, but she could hear the slight strain in his voice and it struck her just how sorely he wanted her. "For this one moment, let yourself be free of your worries and your guilt, and surrender to the desires of your body, surrender to me. Hermione."

He turned her to face him, and kissed her deeply and leisurely, his serpentine tongue swirling around her own.

'For one moment, let yourself be free…' his words echoed in her mind, so painfully tempting. She was so tired, so tired of fighting, so tired of being imprisoned, tired of being tired, and freedom… freedom sounded so nice. If she closed her eyes and didn't focus too hard on the sharp angles of his body, she could almost-almost imagine that he was someone else; that he was… yes.

So, for one moment, she let go.

She felt him stiffen slightly above her, obviously startled at the intensity with which she suddenly returned his kiss. A moment later, however, he melted against her, groaning into her mouth. He sped up his thrusts and her hands were released from the headboard. She immediately looped her arms around his neck, running her fingers over his shoulders and head. A large, smooth hand slid down her thigh, capturing the back of her knee and raising it to drape the appendage over his hips. The new angle allowed him to sink deeper into her, and she broke the kiss, throwing her head back with an impassioned cry. His mouth went straight for that pale column of throat he was so strangely fond of.

"Hermione,"

The way he said her name, whispered so reverently, made her shiver. She forced herself to stop thinking, diving into the physical sensations that surrounded her. The taste of his kiss, the smell of his skin, the sounds of their mingling moans, the harsh ridges of his spine under her hands and the stinging, but filling thrusts of his hips. Now that she was no longer blocking him out she could truly feel the way he moved inside her and moans and gasps tainted her every breath. She arched against him, her breasts pushing against his chest, her hips rising to meet his—awkwardly at first—but she soon caught the pace of it.

They kissed frantically, sharing sweat and breath until they were hot and slippery with perspiration, her hair clinging wetly to her skin. She dragged her fingers down his back so that his spine curved and he hissed. He covered her neck and collarbone with love bites and she left a few of her own. Her heart pounded a tattoo against her chest, and if she concentrated she could feel his beating in return.

He nestled his face into her neck, his hot breath embracing her ear.

"Say my name."

She was so startled that she nearly opened her eyes. His name? No. No, she couldn't, it would remind her who he was, whom she was doing this awful sin with. To say his name would be to be drawn back into the harsh realm of reality.

"Say it." He insisted, tilting his hips.

"V-vol… ah! Oooh-ldemmm…"

"Hermione,"

"My Lo-ah… m-m-my…"

Her lips quivered, and tears fell from beneath her closed eyelids, soon kissed away. "My love." A lie. A sweet, deceiving lie, in which rested an honest seed the size of a grain of sand—perhaps in a difference circumstance, a different time, he was… she could have grown to…

But things were what they were. She was not ready to leave her fantasy; she would shatter. The man so passionately consuming her body had to remain nameless.

"My love, my love,"

"Ah, Hermione."

"My love!" She cried, voice cracking softly. She said it repeatedly, like it was the spell that should save her but refused to spark. His thrusts rose in tempo, her breasts and body bouncing as he pressed her into the mattress, her cries of "My love!" becoming erotic wails of pleasure. She felt something building in her, something that grew with each meeting of their hips, a warm pressure in her womb that coiled and swelled and melted.

"Open your eyes, Hermione; look at me!" came his whispered command.

She could not refuse, and her lashes finally parted, revealing cloudy brown. The world collapsed around her, fantasy fading and orgasm washing over her in a drowning wave of reluctant, irresistible pleasure—Voldemort had brought her to her zenith just as their eyes met and he watched her unravel beneath him with wide, red, fascinated eyes.

Hermione's entire body went rigid, toes curling, spine arching, her hips twitching uncontrollably as her muscles clamped down around his member so tightly he tipped over the edge himself several thrusts later, and she felt him spill inside of her. Gasping and trembling from exertion, she sagged into the bed, every muscle going slack with heat. Voldemort had enough sense of mind to lower himself beside her and she winced when he withdrew himself from her. She still tingled with pleasure and would bask in it for a short while longer, but she knew that it would not be long until soreness overwhelmed every other sensation and the unrelenting guilt began to seep back in.

Voldemort's arms slinked out, wrapping around her body and drawing her close. He held her firmly against him, spooning her from behind with one large, spidery hand resting possessively at her belly and the other curled gently at her collarbone, his thumb gently stroking the skin there.

"You are mine." He rasped fondly. "You will bring me victory and you are mine."

Shame struck her like a physical blow. It was felt all the way down to the marrow of her bones, crippling her. Tears overflowed and fell without a blink, soaking silently into the cloth under her cheek. She felt not the touch of Voldemort's hands or the pain between her legs. If he noticed her tears or moved her or if he fell asleep, she didn't know. The world was gone except for that shame, that all-consuming guilt.

Despite her exhaustion, her guilt, her fear… Hermione did not sleep at all that night, staring out blankly into the darkness, empty of all thought… and of all feeling.

This dress-robe was the finest yet. Dark green (crape fabric; she was told) with shining gold embroidered throughout in elegant, swirling Victorian patterns. It was even corseted; her breasts crushed into a full cleavage delicately veiled by a bit of lace, skirts and sleeves. The hair at her neck fell down in perfect ringlets; her usually untamable frizz viciously restrained. The gold that bound her hands and feet were gilded and lovely. It was not possible for even the distant onlooker to mistake them as jewelry this time; the shape was too distinct: shackles. A Leafy gold chain linked each set together. The House Elves had dressed her up - but it was Voldemort himself who added the last piece: a collar. Deceivingly delicate-looking, it almost seemed to be a choker necklace, but it clasped at the front, extending out into a gold and green braided leash. A jade snake ornament hung in the little triangular indent where her clavicles met.

She had fought when he moved to put it on her; she felt defeated in many ways—but the fight had not left her yet. She twisted and writhed away from his grasp, but in the end he had won and the collar was snapped around her throat. She had never felt so humiliated and she had not seen Voldemort look so pleased since he had presented her to his Death Eaters; freshly captured. Lacking the proper rest, her body protested the slightest movement, but the Dark Lord pulled her along with him to every errand. His snake accompanied him just as Hermione did—only willingly. To think that Voldemort had put her on the same level as Nagini was disturbing.

Words could not describe how it felt to be around people again. Hermione felt simultaneously relieved and awkward; the fact that the people were all Death Eaters only made things more difficult. Their voices were foreign to her ears. Only Bellatrix Lestrange openly glared at Hermione, but no small amount of puzzlement was aimed in her direction from the others. In Voldemort's presence, however, none dared question it. A few of the Death Eaters—remembering the speech Voldemort had given so many weeks and weeks ago—smirked arrogantly at her when the Dark Lord was not looking.

Voldemort assembled his Death Eaters before the sun even rose; faint movement could be detected on the hems of the Forbidden Forest: the Order organizing.

Voldemort stood at the front of the line on a slight crest that overlooked the Hogwarts Grounds, holding Hermione before him like a trophy on display—or perhaps a human shield. The leash was wrapped tightly around his hand, his fingers lightly brushing her neck. His other hand rested on her stomach; keeping her close. Nagini coiled tightly around their feet—its enormous head settled on Hermione's ankles.

Voldemort's forces were a black, writhing, bloodthirsty mass behind him. Growls, snarls and the occasional uncontrollable insane giggle cut through the brisk morning air. Dementors lurked in the skies above and once in a while, a flake of ice fell down far enough to sting somebody's skin. When fiery gold began to burn across the horizon, people began emerging from the forest in a ragged-robed trickle.

The Order's numbers were far too small. How could this be all that the Light had to offer for this battle? How were there so few people willing to fight the good fight?

"Look, Hermione, the shining knight has come to rescue his princess from the fearsome dragon." Voldemort whispered into her ear. It was then that she saw him; causing her heart to swell in such a way she felt it would burst

Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry! Wonderful, sweet, heroic Harry! Elation rose in her, making her feel weightless. She almost ran to him—only Voldemort's presence at her back kept her from rushing forward—heedless of the dangers. She felt tears rise in her eyes, though they weren't plentiful enough to fall. Her lips trembled upward; she was so happy to see him! He looked horrid, pale and gaunt; dark stubble on his cheeks—eyes sunken with shadows. The robes he wore were clearly given to him by someone else—they were at least three sizes too wide—but they were clean, even if it did look like he was wearing a potato sack. Her beaded handbag hung at his side, something silver and red sticking out of it. His expression was grim and determined, and his eyes were sharp and bright.

He had never looked so wonderful. He had never looked so noble, so brave, so handsome, so Harry… HarryHarryHarry—!

And there right beside him was Ron; tall and broad—not as thin as Harry but just as ragged—his red hair dirty but standing out like a flame nonetheless. Neville was with them too, as were Remus and the rest of the Weasleys, Hagrid, Madam Rosmerta and a bitter-looking old wizard that bore an uncanny resemblance to Professor Dumbledore. Joy touched Hermione's every nerve.

The Death Eaters jeered and howled at the emergence of the Order, but those haggard-looking people did not respond to the taunts. Determination stiffened every back: the Order meant business. If they could not win this battle, they would all die. The tension between the two sides was so potent she felt suffocated. No declarations or words were exchanged, no weighted monologues; they seemed to be mutually waiting for some decisive, flickering moment that would signal the beginnings of battle.

The sun finally tipped over the horizon, and a white-gold light fell first upon those positioned highest: Voldemort and Hermione. As her face was illuminated, Harry finally spotted her. She watched his green eyes widen, his mouth dropping open, and a myriad of emotions racing across his features: disbelief, elation, hope, horror, guilt, anger; his mouth began to form her name…

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort's suddenly snarled.

The spell bolted past her like a streak of green lightning. A hoarse shriek ripped itself from her throat as it rushed toward Harry, narrowly missing him as he threw himself to the side. The spring grass where he'd stood moments before was burnt black.

Voldemort roared, furious that his most opportune moment, his chance of surprise, had failed. Both sides exploded with spells, the crowds rushing at one another. Centaur arrows sprung from the Forbidden Forest like a rain of needles. Hermione yelped as the Dark Lord pulled back to vanish within the surging mass of his Death Eaters, dragging her with him by the collar. She caught a glimpse of Harry's wide-eyed face before she was forced to turn away.

Harry would chase after her—of that she had no doubt.

The Dark Lord knew it too. "Never fear, Hermione," Voldemort hissed, "I am not yet out of ideas; far from it."

Her heart jumped into her throat. The air was already full of screams. Towering over every head, Hermione caught sight of Hagrid's brother, Grawp, emerging from the forest to kick and swipe at Death Eaters as though they were pesky ants. Dozens of bright red stunners were shot his way, but they rebounded off his thick skin harmlessly, only serving to anger him and the careless strokes of his tree-trunk arms took out more and more of Voldemort's forces and a few of the Order's own.

Nagini moved up Hermione's body, settling heavily around her and Voldemort's shoulders, binding them closely together. She glanced up at the Dark Lord, but he was not looking at her, his wide eyes focused on the writhing crowd, his body taut like a snake waiting to spring out and strike. Then he stuck his arm out, moving it upward fluidly until it pointed straight up. A little black light pulsed from the tip of his wand and the Dementors moved, descending on the chaos below.

Terrified wails rose from the masses and "Expecto Patronum!" echoed through the noise. Silvery mist filled the air above people's heads; smoky animal shapes racing after the soul-sucking wraiths. Despite the Patronuses, some Dementors managed to wriggle through and feast on several unfortunate persons. Above the hoods and heads of the Death Eaters Hermione could see Harry's stag Patronus galloping, tearing through the Dementors with the points of its antlers; it passed through the ranks of Death Eaters like a ghost. It was headed for Voldemort.

A snarl vibrated the Dark Lord's chest as the Patronus charged at them, and he dispelled it with a hard slash of his wand. Its smoky remnants brushed across Hermione's face, its power dispelled but not its momentum.

"I'm coming…"

Her eyes filled with tears; her heartbeat rising to a frantic pitter-patter.

Voldemort must have heard it too, for he hissed unpleasantly and slipped his hand away from Hermione's body to wind his fingers around the end of the leash. He strode into the crowd, Nagini draped over his shoulders as if he were some demonic Oriental deity, dragging Hermione behind him. She stumbled after him breathlessly; her neck ached. The grass was slippery with the morning's dew, and it was slowly growing slicker with the blood of the dead and dying. She shuddered, feeling her toes squelch between something hot and syrupy.

A symphony of dark spells burst from the end of Voldemort's wand as he began to cast. Bolts of shimmering green, poisonous purple, and burning red-orange struck the people surrounding him, including his Death Eaters who made the mistake of not getting out of the line of fire quickly enough. People dropped dead, collapsing with blood gushing from wounds or were burned alive and reduced to grey ash…

Voldemort's movements were… stunning. Hermione felt terror and awe fight for dominance inside her. She had never seen him duel before and the graceful, powerful motions of his limbs—so smooth and sinuous—had her breath fleeing her. His hands twirled with masterful precision; not a single twitch was unnecessary or wasted. The rope of her leash wound around his wrist as he jerked her to him so that she fell to her knees at his feet, blood tainting her green robes. And still she stared up at him; enchanted by the sight of him.

The Order was losing badly. They were outnumbered and outmaneuvered. Acromantulae gushed out of the forest, grappling with centaurs and dragging their unfortunate victims into the darkness. Fenrir Greyback's werewolf pack, though untransformed, was savage and blood-thirsty. They tore out throats, fed on the fallen, and killed with animalistic expression of pure elation. Monsters. Even wild beasts didn't hunt like that. There was no hesitation in their movements or howls; they killed because they loved to kill.

An ear-splitting battle cry cut through the air. Shock pulsated through the Death Eaters' ranks as a new group of Order members appeared from behind them. A surprise attack! It had been the order's plan all along; no wonder their numbers had seemed so small! Even from a distance, Hermione could spot Draco Malfoy—looking both elated and utterly terrified—as he hurled a brunt circle into the air with a fantastic yell. Luna, Professor McGonagall and a dozen others flew in on the backs of thestrals; cutting through the sky like Muggle fighter planes. The Death Eater's ranks tore themselves in two.

Voldemort, a snarl on his gash of a mouth, hissed something angrily to Nagini and the great serpent launched itself eagerly from his shoulders, hitting the ground with a muscular thud and it quickly vanished in the crowd, screams following in its wake. Chills shot up Hermione's spine at the memory of those enormous fangs sinking into her flesh and she nearly gagged; her shoulder giving a phantom-throb.

The Dark Lord turned back to his own battle; the momentary distraction had been enough to allow the Order to push itself strongly forward and gain a foothold in battle. The air smelt burnt from all the spells.

A masked Death Eater ran up to Voldemort, only taking enough notice of Hermione to sidestep her. He panted heavily, sweat and blood dripping down the visible portion of his chin.

"My Lord! They came from inside the castle!" The Death Eater said.

Voldemort whirled to face his minion, his flat face a mask of fury. "What? How?"

"W-we don't know, my Lord! We had believed we cut off all the secret passages, but…"

"Avada Kedavra!"

The Death Eater dropped like a stone, his mask breaking loose from his face as he hit the blood-soaked earth, revealing a young face framed by wispy golden curls, frozen in an expression of terror.

Hermione screamed and backpedaled away from the young man's hot cadaver, his dull brown eyes seeming to stare at her as though blaming her for his death. And she felt guilt. Such terrible, irrational guilt that she was hardly aware of the leash dragging limply along the ground like a dead snake, of how Voldemort seemed unaware of her rapid retreat, the distance between them increasing. She pushed herself to her feet, her eyes still fixated on that fallen young man—no, boy's—face and ran.

Guilt. 'I'm sorry.' Guilt. 'I'm sorry!' Oh, Merlin, the guilt! 'I'm so sorry!' How is it my fault? 'I don't know, but I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry!

'If only I was stronger.

'If only I was braver.

'If only I was better.

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'msorry I'msorrysorrysorry—!'

The ground was hard under her feet, sending jolts up her calves and ankles with every pounding step; her breath was rapid and sharp, the air stinging her lungs until she tasted iron and her mouth felt like it was bleeding even though every bit of saliva had dried up.

Something splintered under her heel—a wand? A centaur arrow?—and she tripped as wooden needles were jammed harshly into her flesh. It was a hard, sloppy fall; she somersaulted twice and scraped her forearms and right cheek against the ground; her skin tearing raw and beginning to bleed. She coughed a little —the wind knocked from her—the sky spinning. There was a horrible, stabbing pain in her foot, a thousand tiny splinters that jarred her out of her blind fear; her blind guilt. The panic receded, adrenaline leaving her limbs feeling smooth and warm. The fight or flight instinct was fading, logic taking over her brain as a slow, potent ooze.

She had run away from Voldemort! She had taken off and he hadn't even turned around to glance at her! Giddiness formed a bubble in her chest, uncomfortable and hysterical, but there wasn't time to rejoice. It was too early to celebrate her freedom. A wand, a wand, she needed a wand… a witch without a wand was helpless. She was a woodlouse in a tree full of bowtruckles and it was only a matter of time until one of them smelt blood.

Some poor person had lost his insides, the sight and smell making her gag, but she kept her wits about her, crawling on her hands and knees—to avoid agitating her injured foot and the spells chaotically flying overhead—until she found the rest of the person a good half-dozen yards away. His bloodless face was trapped in an expression of eternal surprise. She pulled his lids down over his eyes and began searching his robes, breathing hard.

No, no, this was stupid. His wand wouldn't be in his robes; he would have been holding it when he died, which meant it would be somewhere on the ground now. She patted the grass around him, but it wasn't nearby. She almost sobbed aloud but forced it down, tugged at the hair at her temples, teeth grinding. The dress-robe was soiled beyond repair, gold threads sticking out at odd angles.

'Move on, Hermione. It'll be around here and if it isn't someone else's wand will be.'

She patted the earth, tearing up dead and bloody grass; her eyes sharp for the slightest hint of ruler-straight brown, black or even pale yellow—there!

An explosion shook the grounds, tearing her attention away from the black wand jutting out from the ground as she whipped around to see people and chunks of earth sent flying. A reducto or perhaps confringo, it was hard to tell. Shrieks filled the air. Thestrals screamed, twisting in the air so that their riders fell. Hermione pulled herself in a fetal position, covering her head with her hands as debris showered over her. A body landed with a sharp yelp near her, a low groan following the harsh landing.

Hermione finally lifted her head and saw another girl had been thrown over from the explosion. The girl made a deep keening noise and rolled onto her hands and knees, coughing wetly like she was going to hack up a lung. Spit made a glimmering, trail from her bruised mouth to the ground and she bled from a thin gash above one eyebrow.

"Lavender?"

Lavender Brown looked up, her eyes fighting the haze of pain and breathlessness. Her dirty blonde hair cobwebbed across her face like cracks on porcelain.

"'Huu-Err—" she coughed. "'Er-my-nay?"

A watery smile split Hermione's cheeks, relief spreading through her like a golden flood. She scrambled to the other girl, dirt and blood pressing up under her fingernails, until she could clasp her classmate's shaking hands in her own.

"Lavender… Lavender, are you okay? You're okay! Oh, Merlin, oh, thank Merlin, thank God…"

Lavender looked at Hermione as if she'd never seen her before, as if they hadn't shared a dorm room for six years, as if Hermione was a stranger who had suddenly claimed to be there in the room while Parvati and Lavender gossiped about Witch Weekly, her powder-blue eyes wide and blank. Suddenly her thin, bruised little lips began to move.

"Lavender?" Hermione didn't catch what was being said.

Lavender's voice rose, her eyebrows forming a sharp, angry V. "…itch. You little bitch. You fucking traitor! I can't believe you, Hermione! You traitor!"

What?

Wait, what?

"Lavender, I—"

The tip of Lavender's wand was stabbed into Hermione's stomach and with a hoarsely uttered spell she was sent flying back. She coughed as the wind was knocked from her, roaring from between clenched teeth as her injured foot was jarred. Her raw cheek and forearms cried out in pain.

'It's just splinters! Oh, Merlin, stupid bloody splinters just have to hurt so bloody much…'

"I never betrayed anyone, Lavender!" Hermione protested, 'except maybe myself. But not the Order or the DA or Harry, I definitely never betrayed anybody that counted!'

Lavender stood up, her wand clenched tightly, pretty face crinkled into an ugly scowl.

"Liar!" The girl snarled. "I saw you! I saw you standing up there with You-Know-Who, you little traitor, you little slut! How dare you, how could you, I thought I knew you—Harry Potter is supposed to be your best friend you rotten traitor—!" She raised her wand over her head like a war hammer, curse forming on her furious lips.

Hermione fumbled for the dead man's wand, and it burned hot and hard in her hand. Between woman and wand it was a bad match, a terrible match, but it would do. It was like riding a bicycle—wand-motions and spells came to her mind as if she'd never lost her wand, as if she hadn't gone weeks and weeks without casting a single spell, though the wand was cripplingly reluctant to work with her.

Trouble was, Hermione didn't want to hurt Lavender—they'd grown up together! They'd slept in the same room, did homework, stayed up late giggling and spoiling themselves on ice cream, Lavender had helped Hermione prepare for the Yule Ball in fourth year—but Lavender definitely wanted to hurt Hermione. A year in a school under Death Eater rule and fighting, watching people die in this battle… she hadn't managed to stay as strong as Neville and Ginny had. Hermione sensed something in Lavender had been shaken loose. She was hurt, scared and angry.

And unfortunately, even if Lavender was a mediocre duellist, Hermione was only defending. The wand didn't want to cooperate. Hermione didn't want to hurt her former roommate, but it increasingly looked as though she would not have any choice but to curse Lavender to get her to let up.

"Stupefy!" Lavender shrieked.

"Protego!" Hermione countered. The spell came out thin and sloppy despite the perfect movement and incantation, barely managing to divert Lavender's spell. She cringed. She probably would have worked better with Bellatrix Lestrange's wand than this untamed beast!

Lavender threw her arm back for another curse, and Hermione felt icy dread creep into her stomach as she recognized the incantation forming on the other woman's mouth.

And then suddenly Lavender Brown was gone, the sinuous, muscular coils of an enormous snake flying through the air from the side.

Lavender was crying, squealing like a dying rabbit as Nagini's deadly jaw clamped around her torso, fangs sinking deep into her chest cavity. Her pale skin was flushing purplish as black ichor visibly branched through her blood veins. She wailed, fruitlessly beating her fists against Nagini's diamond-shaped head, but the desperate motions of her arms quickly slowed and her cries quieted. Nagini's jaw convulsed, widening.

Hermione threw up.

"—mione? Hermione!"

Through her sickness, Hermione felt her heart skip, sparks of hope alighting in her skin.

Slowly she turned, eyes wide as they alighted upon beautiful, wonderful Harry Potter. His emerald eyes blazed; robes splattered with blood, wand in hand, sword hilt sticking out of the beaded purse at his side. Her wounds went numb and she unsteadily stood, favoring her uninjured foot.

"Harry," she murmured, tears spilling from her eyes again. She took a step toward him, "Harr—!" Someone sharply tugged on the leash and she choked, stopping short to scratch at the gold at her neck.

Lord Voldemort stood behind her like a lion guarding his kill. He pulled her against him, the grip of his hand so tight she was sure that it would leave a bruise in the days to come.

"Ah, Harry, at last you join us." The Dark Lord purred.

Realization set in. Hermione hadn't been able to run due to his carelessness—it had been intentional. He had let her run away. He had been sure that, if left alone, eventually she would find Harry and he had been right. Harry had found her and she had led Voldemort to the Boy-Who-Lived just like a piece of bait. She thought she might be sick again.

"Let her go, Voldemort!" Harry demanded, alarm crossing his face as he took an unsteady step forward.

"I cannot do that, Harry. The girl is mine!"

Hermione couldn't hold back the little smile that quivered on the corners of her lips, tears falling from her eyes in a steady stream. "You came," she mouthed silently, "You came for me… Harry…!"

"Let her go!" the Boy Who Lived shouted hoarsely. "You give her back! Give Hermione back!"

"You are too late, Harry!" Voldemort exclaimed. "She belongs to me now."

"No! She has nothing to do with this!"

"Oh, do you really believe that? I would have to disagree. Do you really think you would have survived to be seventeen if not for Hermione, Harry? How many times has she saved your worthless skin from certain death? More than once, much more than once, Harry…"

"This is between you and me, Voldemort!" Harry snarled, brandishing his wand like a sword. "Leave Hermione out of it; she isn't involved! It's you and me! You and me!"

"Not hiding behind your sorry little friends anymore, Harry? My, my, this is new, such foolish bravery… but Hermione is involved, I daresay she has been involved from the moment you befriended her.

"It is your fault, you know. Everything is your fault!"

Harry's expression became stricken.

The Dark Lord continued mercilessly. "If only you had been brave enough to take Hermione's place at Christmas this would all be over now! If only you had listened to dear Hermione and not followed Bagshot's corpse straight into my trap, this would have never happened! If you had only gone straight back to the hovel where you were hiding she would never have had to sacrifice herself for such a pathetic little boy! Dear Salazar, if you had not been born your parents would never have died! Hermione had never led you astray before, had she, Harry? Have not all of her past suggestions proved to be the better path? But you did not learn did you, Harry, even after all this time? You did not listen. You failed dear Hermione, you failed her and now I own her. She surrendered herself to me to buy you a short extension on your life. That time is up now, Harry, and… She. Is. Mine!"

'It's not true! None of it is true!' Hermione's mind wailed, but how could one deny that the Dark Lord made resounding, strong points, his words striking hard and with such dark truth? Harry staggered with the force of Voldemort's words, looking as wounded as she had ever seen him, such grief and self-loathing poisoning his green eyes!

'Don't! Don't listen to him, Harry!'

Voldemort pulled Hermione intimately against him, one white hand sprawling across her belly and the other weaving into her wild, tattered hair. He pulled her head to the side to expose her collared throat as if he meant to slit it, lowering his flat nose to her flesh whist maintaining eye contact with his most hated enemy. Her neck was possibly the only part of her that remained clean after all her tossing about in the blood.

"Always mine." He whispered sibilantly, something that was almost affection lacing his tone, and proceeded to extend his forked tongue and lick her from collarbone to ear. She gasped, shivering from head to toe, ice racing down her spine, which was battling with the condemning warmth curling in her gut. Every hair on her body stood on end and she cried out, weakly protesting his possessive action as her head flinchingly tilted toward his.

"Noooooo!" Harry howled at the top of his lungs. He sprinted toward them, brandishing his wand like a blade, tears flying from his cheeks and his teeth bared in emotional agony. Voldemort threw Hermione to the side and she fell to the ground, hands slipping on the blood-soaked grass. Her fingers came away sticky and slightly warmed, red blood staining the underside of her arms up to her elbows. She whipped around, loosened curls springing across her vision.

Voldemort was right: Harry's anger gave him strength. He cast spells like a madman, spells that flared brightly and hurled themselves toward the Dark Lord with deadly precision. However, Voldemort had practice and precision on his side, over half a century of experience under his belt and Harry's spells, while strong, were sloppy and driven by painful, messy emotion. Skill beat out talent any day, no matter how good.

Their duel was vicious; like an unstoppable force slamming against an unmovable object. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named versus the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry was nearly on top of Voldemort now and the Dark Lord was allowing the teen to get close, a mocking smile curving his thin lips, and finally Voldemort cast his own curse, hitting Harry point-blank in the chest. Yellow flashed and Harry flew backwards; arching in the air as he fell. His eyes rolled back in his head and his limbs fanned out limply like he was a ragdoll. Watching helplessly, Hermione felt as if it took a lifetime for him to finally land on the grass, where he moaned and shivered weakly.

Voldemort laughed gleefully. "I have waited so long for this! Did you really believe you could defeat me, Harry, I, the greatest sorcerer in the world? You are nothing but a pathetic, worthless little boy! Not a lifetime of preparation could enable you to defeat Lord Voldemort! You have lucked your way out of my grasp for too long. Farewell, Harry Potter!" His wand rose over his head, the incantation of the Killing Curse forming on his lips.

Absolute dread filled Hermione to the brim, horror and disbelief blending. Her mind was numb, but her body knew what to do. She scrambled to her feet and threw herself at the Dark Lord, wrapping her arms tightly around his raised one like binding snakes, holding his elbow to her breast.

"No, please!" she cried.

The incomplete green spell whirled off in a random direction as the incantation died on his tongue and his head twisted around to look at her in shock.

"What are you doing? Let go! Let go this instant!" He ordered, but she shook her head mutely, refusing to let go even as she cried.

Voldemort's chest heaved, his pupils burning a pattern on her face.

"Leave Harry alone! Kill me instead!" she sobbed.

"You would willingly die in his place? You would die for him?"

She couldn't respond with words, her entire body shaking as she minutely nodded.

"No," the Dark Lord began in a whisper. "No! I will give you everything, Hermione! Everything!" He cried, cupping her face in his white hands. She leaned into his touch, weeping.

'But there's nothing you can give me that I want.' Her chin trembled, her voice a weak croak. "I'd rather die."

She knew that Lord Voldemort was not capable of actual love, no matter what Harry's blood had done to him, but that did not stop her from thinking that his expression was that of a man who had his heart torn out and stomped on, and however she tried to deny it she felt her own heart crack deeply in response. His eyes shone brightly for a moment before his entire demeanor became that of deep, horrible fury.

"Then you shall die with them!" He hissed. He slapped her so hard she felt her teeth rattle and she fell to the ground beside Harry. She latched herself onto her friend, crying miserably as Harry's green eyes wandered dazedly, unseeing. He was concussed; a Y-shaped crack split one of the lenses of his glasses. She pulled herself close to him, fumbling for some feeble reassurance and comfort if these were to be her last seconds alive.

Voldemort towered over her like the Grim Reaper himself, his familiar bone-white face contorted with hatred.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light burst from his wand and, strangely, Hermione felt utter peace settle on her. For a split second she was completely calm, content even with certain death striking at her. She wasn't scared and she wasn't sad. The spell never collided with her, however. Something dark rolled on top of her and then crushed her with its weight as the Killing Curse hit its back. She still saw green.

Voldemort crowed with triumph.

Hermione screamed.

"HARRY!" She screamed his name, watching his pupils dilate, her voice stressed so hard that the sound broke. "No! Harry! No, no, no, Harry, no!" She ran her fingers desperately over his face, trying to rub life back into him, trying to search for some hint that proved he wasn't dead. His skin was still warm. His stubble scratched her palms.

"Harry, Harry, HarryHarryHARRY—!" He couldn't die. He wasn't allowed to die, damn it! She had sacrificed herself so that he could live, not sacrifice himself in return! He was supposed to live! The world needed him; it didn't need her!

"No, Harry, you can't do this, don't leave me; come back to me, please, Harry!" She sobbed desperately, pushing against his chest so that he rolled limply off her. She sprawled herself over him, tears falling onto his still face like raindrops, but despite her pleas Harry did not rise or even so much as twitch.

Something pointy and hard was digging into her side. She went to move it away, but her fingers stilled at the touch of cool metal, lungs hiccupping. A sword. Of course! Gryffindor's sword! The night Ron had left she had realized that Gryffindor's sword, impregnated with basilisk venom, had the ability to destroy Horcruxes! Harry had found it, somehow!

The sword could destroy Horcruxes…

Hermione felt something hot begin to bubble in her gut. She gritted her teeth, tears drying up as anger took form and frothed inside her, pushing aside her grief like a tidal wave, burning so powerful she felt she might vomit from it.

Harry was dead. Her best friend in the whole world was dead. Voldemort killed him. Voldemort killed Harry! Harry!

She heard hissing come up from behind her, the snake's scaly middle fat with Hermione's friend, and she tightened her grip on the sword hilt. The sword could destroy Horcruxes. Nagini was a Horcrux, possibly the last one. With Nagini's death, Voldemort would be as mortal as he had been when he was a young man. If Harry didn't get to live then neither would Voldemort. Hermione closed her eyes, steadying the dark fury within her, the desire for revenge tearing at her insides. Gently, she kissed Harry on the cheek.

"I'm going with you." She murmured.

Slowly, she sat up, hiding the sword in her robes as she pulled it out of the beaded bag. Voldemort's face was contorted with wicked joy, his wand pointed upward to fuel an enormous Dark Mark in the sky. He grinned savagely at her when he felt her glare, blood-red eyes aglow. A snarl curled her lip as Nagini slithered between them to get to her master.

With a swift downward cut, Hermione Granger beheaded Nagini the Horcrux.

Voldemort's ecstatic face transformed and he howled in fury and disbelief.

"Crucio!"

Pain. Pain like she'd never known it. Pain that burned her, tore her apart, broke her, cut her and consumed her. This was Hell coming to take her. She felt as if she was bleeding from every pore, as if every nerve had been shredded apart, every bone crushed to dust, her mind was reeling, cracking under the onslaught of pain, madness trickling in at the hems of her mind—soon now, she'd be just like Neville's parents…

But the spell did not hold. It broke. Why did it break? When sense had come back to her she was choking, being hauled to her feet by the collar. The Dark Lord fisted his hands painfully in her hair, tearing out pins and dirty curls, and pressed his face so close to hers that she was blinded by crimson and ivory. His touch burned like fire.

"You Mudblood! You filthy, wretched Mudblood! You have no idea what you have done! What have you done? What have you done you wretched girl!"

He dove into the deepest recesses of her mind without prelude, pulling out memories, yanking forth all she knew about his Horcruxes. Her secret revealed just when it became impossible for him to prevent disaster.

"You knew!" Voldemort shrieked. He clutched her head, holding her so hard that she felt as though he were crushing her skull in. "All this time, you knew! You knew my secret! How dare you—How could you—!"

Hermione didn't hear the spell that was cast, but Voldemort's eyes went wide open with surprise and his hands fell limply away from her face.

He fell.

He fell as though his legs had been cut out from under him.

The world seemed to pause. There was blood everywhere, deep gashes curling around his sides from his back, revealing the pale, skeletal frame that was hidden beneath his robes. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, blood bubbling up from between his lips. At first, he started blankly at the sky before turning his gaze onto her accusingly.

The sight of the Dark Lord's fallen blood-soaked form crushed Hermione with grief. She staggered at the force of it, falling to her knees beside him. Her chest heaved, but she felt as if she could get no oxygen. The wrong feelings were overwhelming her again, filling her with compassion and sorrow and-and—

He looked so feeble and shrunken, every inch the deformed old man he was. Was this pathetic creature really the person that had killed and put such fear into the hearts of thousands? He was so small now. So mortal, so pitiful, so… His mouth moved as though he meant to speak, but only blood came forth, starkly red against his face, which was, somehow, growing paler and paler. This mortal, dying man was Lord Voldemort?

She was crying, she realized, crying like the world was ending, but her cries sounded so far away. How could he die? Even before she had known about the Horcruxes he seemed an untouchable being, someone who broke all boundaries of life and death. Despite the mission left to Harry, she had strongly doubted Voldemort could ever be killed—she had never really believed that they could win, even if she hoped that they would. Even now it seemed impossible. Her mind could hardly comprehend that this man who had been her only company for months and months would soon be…would be…

His large, white hand rose, shaking and smeared with blood, to caresses her face. She clutched his wrist, crushing his palm to her face as if to burn an imprint of him to her forever. She kissed the heel of his hand, his wrist, his fingers, tainting her mouth with the taste of salt and iron.

'I'm sorry. Oh, Merlin, oh, God, I'm sorrysorrysorry I'm sorry—don't, please don't, please please—because I-I-I…'

Her grief resounded in her like a physical pain, squeezing her heart, striking her back like a whip…

'Oh.'

It was a physical pain. Her grief wavered with realization. Before her eyes her good arm split open. It was like a flower blooming. Voldemort's touch was no gesture of comfort or farewell—he was stealing her life energy, transferring his wounds over to her. She watched his mirroring wound slowly shrinking, the sharp pain growing in her body and wounds came into existence all over her. His eyes burned, filled with nothing but hatred and the unyielding determination to live. His breathing gradually grew less strangled, the choking gurgle now a harsh rasp. A shard of silver interrupted Hermione's line of sight, the point pressing into the center of Voldemort's chest, drawing his eyes away from her.

"Move away from him, Hermione." Came a man's voice.

"No…" she moaned miserably. She didn't want to leave him, no matter which of them was doomed to die.

"Ron, would you…?"

A pair of strong hands wrapped around her middle and lifted her away. She screamed, trying and failing to wriggle free as her wounds impeded her, though they stopped growing with the loss of contact. She reached out towards Voldemort's fallen form like a child, wailing.

"Shh, Hermione, it's okay!" A familiar, rough voice spoke into her ear. "You're safe! Everything's going to be okay!"

Except that it couldn't be okay. Nothing would be okay ever again, not after all that she had lived through, not when a person who had been such an integral part of her life for so many years lied there like a corpse… her fingernails left deep scratches on her captor's lean muscled arms.

Despite having transferred part of his wounds to Hermione, Voldemort was still in no condition to stand or defend himself. He glared darkly up at the young man that stood over him with Gryffindor's sword in hand. They were talking.

"It's your last chance," said the man, "it's all you've got left… I've seen what you'll be otherwise… Be a man… try… Try for some remorse…"

The trouble was that the man's voice sounded like Harry, but that couldn't be, Harry was dead, she saw him die and…

She missed Voldemort's reply. Harry Potter's shoulders stiffened and he seemed to sigh, lifting the sword high over his head, gleaming silver, and with the force of his entire body brought it down upon the pale tower that was Voldemort's neck…

Hermione's scream trilled hysterically. The arms that held her still kept her close, saying bittersweet nothings, things that didn't matter, things that were stupid and useless and wrong because the world had just ended for the second time that day…

"The Dark Lord has been defeated!" someone exclaimed. She closed her eyes against the sight as Tom Riddle's decapitated head was lifted into the air. "Harry Potter lives again!"

Cries of disbelief melded with victorious shouts, making for a dreadful symphony of voices that drowned out Hermione's uncontrollable sobbing. And at last the dark fell.
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The Ivory Tower