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Weave a Circle Round Him Thrice	By : SRaven_Underhill Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 14592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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AN: Thank you to Talented Ms Lupin, Mark’s Pet, VestalHarlot, Mekom, and Reine for reviewing! I really appreciate your support and encouragement. This chapter is where the story will begin to differ from FF.net. I’ve added an extra little bit to this chapter that I didn’t think was appropriate for FF. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter VI – The Price of Desire

Hermione looked down, running her hands along her subtle curves, which were currently clad in the dress the Dark Lord had given her. It was a simple shift. Almost surprisingly simple from someone who seemed so extravagant. Not for the first time that evening, she wondered what this ceremony was about. Why did he require her presence?

            Before her hour had elapsed, the house elf returned to style her hair and highlight her features with soft additions of makeup. Her lips, however, were painted a deep, bloody red. It was peculiar, seeing herself dolled up. Her fingers moved to touch her lips, but they hovered just above, not wanting to smudge the color. I look like a clown, she thought, but as she adjusted to the shock of riotous color, she realized it made her lips look full and seductive, inviting. What ceremony, she wondered, would cause the occasion for such deep red lips?

            “It’s time to go, miss,” the house elf said softly.

            Hermione glanced down. “I don’t have any shoes,” she said, gesturing down to her bare feet.

            “Miss doesn’t need any,” the elf said, heading to the door. With a snap of the elf’s fingers, Hermione’s arms were magically shackled behind her back. Invisible shackles, how utterly profound. Bare feet, a simple yet elegant dress, and red lips. Was he simply trying to show his current power over her?

            As the evening progressed, she felt more and more like a sacrifice. Perhaps Voldemort had finally had enough of her. Perhaps he had reconsidered. She lifted her chin and walked out into the hallway with as much dignity as she could muster.

            Hermione could feel the chill of the stones even through the carpet. With every step her nervousness seemed to increase, as if she was walking to her death, and she suddenly felt incredibly foolish for accepting Lord Voldemort’s offer.

            The cool stones against her feet reminded her of being in the Forbidden Forest. A place of cold and isolation in her dream. Except…the Dark Lord had been there. Her cheeks flushed at the mere memory, which caused her brow to furrow. Her strange desire for her captor was unwanted, but somewhere deep within Hermione’s subconscious, it was undeniable. She attempted to reason that such desires were simply the product of isolation from everyone but Him.

            The slight elf led her through the maze-like manor, finally coming to a halt before an imposing set of heavy oak doors. Hermione could hear faint voices behind the door, but the voices ceased as the elf knocked. After the elf knocked three times, the doors parted, opening slowly to reveal a surreal scene.

            Lord Voldemort stood on a raised dais, dressed in his usual black silk robes. Around the dais stood a small sampling of masked Death Eaters, his inner circle no doubt. It was oddly quiet as all of the masked faces turned to stare at her.

            “Please come in, Ms. Granger,” the Dark Lord hissed, spreading his arms and gesturing to the dais on which he currently stood.

            Hermione remained a statue in the doorway, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

            “Do you require additional encouragement, my dear?” His tone mocked her and barely heard chuckles rippled through the masked assembly.

            That comment spurred her into action, the imperius curse would only add insult to injury. She walked to him in slow but deliberate movements, through the small pathway created by the bodies of his followers. Hermione took a deep breath as she ascended the stairs, thinking that her life was surely coming to an end. Killing her in front of a handful of his followers would prove that he was one step closer to winning. Perhaps the Dark Lord thought her death would encourage Harry to make rash decisions.

            She stared into the scarlet eyes of Lord Voldemort and he returned her gaze in a way that would make any sane person shudder. With a snap of his fingers, the invisible shackles ceased to bind her.

            “Brave as you are, little Gryffindor,” he whispered, “I know you do not wish to die, or you would have refused my offer.”

            Hermione remained silent, wondering if he was going to have her beg for mercy. Her silence, however, only seemed to amuse him.

            “I’m not going to kill you. I’m just taking certain…” he paused, a small smile playing about his lips, “precautions.”

            Hermione stared at him incredulously as he drew a small vial from his robes. It was filled with a thick, dark liquid, the likes of which she had never seen before. Her eyes flicked from the vial, to his face, and back again.

            “This,” he held the vial up, “will ensure you do no damage to me or my followers while under my tutelage.”

            “Why this potion? Why not an unbreakable vow?” Hermione said.

            “Because this will make sure you do not sneak through any loopholes that can sometimes occur when making an unbreakable vow,” he explained, surprisingly patient. “But the choice is still yours, Ms. Granger. You can take the potion or I can leave you to waste away in the dungeon.” He took a step back, waiting for her to say it, to submit to him.

            An enormous amount of guilt and trepidation settled on Hermione’s shoulders. She felt heavy with it. The potion was suspicious, she couldn’t know all of its effects and yet if he really wished to, he could keep her in a cell until he wanted to imperius her to kill Harry or something equally foul. There were no good outcomes, not in a situation like this. The potion, suspicious though it may be, might be her only hope of escape. If he trusted her, if he was teaching her, there would be more opportunities. She wouldn’t simply have to wait for someone to save her.

            She took a step forward and held out her hand, knowing that verbal assent wasn’t necessary. Lord Voldemort smirked and uncorked the vial, ignoring her outstretched hand.

            He gripped her shoulder and turned her body so that she faced their silent audience. “This might hurt a bit,” he said as he held the vial to her lips.

            Hermione suffered a brief moment of panic, the panic one feels when a big decision has been made and there is no going back. She was on the precipice of something dark and unknown. The thick liquid slid past her lips and the Dark Lord snaked an arm over her chest to steady her, to ensure that every last drop was swallowed. It felt like tar sliding down her throat, which caused Hermione to gag and her eyes to water.

            “Ah ah ah,” the Dark Lord admonished softly, tilting her head back and whispering something in parseltongue.

            Her throat suddenly felt warm and her gagging ceased. The rest of the liquid slowly worked its way over her tongue and down her throat. Hermione panted slightly as she swallowed the last drops, waiting for something to happen. Lord Voldemort released her.

            It started in her stomach, but soon branched out to her chest and limbs. A searing pain traveled through her, similar to that of the cruciatus, but even more intense somehow. She screamed and fell to the unforgiving floor with a resounding thud. The pain was just as slow moving as the potion. Her screams filled the room for several agonizing minutes as the pain traveled towards her toes and fingertips. Hermione wasn’t sure if she would survive it. It just kept going and going and going….and then suddenly, it stopped. It was so sudden that Hermione gasped as if she had been doused with cold water.

            Lord Voldemort looked down at her and she noticed a light sheen of sweat on his brow. Hermione remained on the floor, using all of her energy to calm her labored breathing.

            The Dark Lord seemed pleased as he looked into her eyes.

            “Hermione Granger is mine,” he announced, looking up to address his inner circle.

            Hermione heard him, though her eyes fluttered and it was a struggle for her to stay awake. There were murmurs and chuckles from the small sea of masks.

            “Soon, Harry Potter will be dead and the wizarding world will be ours,” he said, stepping over Hermione and pacing along the dais.

            She felt like she was missing something, as if the entire room was prematurely celebrating his victory. Her heart sank as she wondered why she was so important. What had she taken?

            Lord Voldemort looked down at her again, his eyes raking over her form as if he had only just noticed her mussed state. Her black dress had bunched around her thighs, the straps slipped from her shoulders. She quickly adjusted her garment.

            “Up, Ms. Granger,” the Dark Lord ordered.

            Much to her surprise, she complied, pulling her exhausted body up from the floor. Well, her fuzzy brain mused, that certainly wasn’t promising. She had to find out the exact effects of the potion and soon.

            He beckoned for her to follow him before he addressed his followers once more. “Our meeting is concluded. Keep in mind all that I have said tonight.”

            The masked figures bowed and murmurings of “Yes, my Lord” floated towards them. The Dark Lord descended the steps with Hermione in tow, his followers bowing as he walked among them.

            The large oak doors closed behind them and her legs buckled. Before she could hit the floor, however, an invisible force caught her and levitated her behind him. He continued to walk and Hermione fell asleep while floating through the air, the only sound the delicate swish of the Dark Lord’s robes.

            She awoke sometime later to soft sheets and the scribble of a quill. Her muscles ached as she tried to shift and see her surroundings, which caused a soft groan to escape her lips. The scratching of the quill halted and a moment later the Dark Lord was standing over her. He seemed softer somehow, as if the harsh lines of his face were now outlined and overwhelmed by the soft blurry light that seemingly only occurred in dreams. Hermione studied him, saying nothing, for several long moments. Lord Voldemort smirked.

            “What did you do to me?” She asked, her voice sounding as tired as her body felt.

            “I took precautions, just as I told you,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed.

            She should know by now that getting straight answers from the Dark Lord was a difficult task. He spoke in partial truths, never revealing all of his secrets. However, he should know by now that Hermione Granger didn’t give up so easily.

            “I’m bound to you,” she pressed, knowing that it was true, but not the full extent of what it meant to be bound.

            “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said, clearly not taking her bait to provide more information.

            Hermione rolled her eyes and tried to push herself up into a sitting position. With a fair amount of wincing, she managed to do so. Seeing her discomfort, the Dark Lord stood to retrieve a vial from his desk. When he returned to her side, he slipped his hand underneath her head and held the vial to her lips.

            “Drink,” he said, “It will help to relax your muscles.”

            Hermione gasped at his touch, slight though it was. His fingertips grazing her scalp sent delicious shocks through her body all the way to her toes. Though it was painful, her body arched towards him as she drank the potion he offered her. As her eyes fluttered closed, she missed the pleased smirk that tugged at Lord Voldemort’s thin lips.

            The potion began working immediately, and though it didn’t completely dispense with all of her aches, she felt much more comfortable. Opening her eyes again, she took a deep breath. It was as if her senses were suddenly heightened. She could feel the gentle thrum of his magic against her skin, smell the sandalwood and sage that clung to him. Without even realizing it, she reached out a hand to touch his chest.

            He watched her with intense interest, as if witnessing a peculiar experiment. Her fingers entwined in his robes and she pulled herself to him. Her expression was conflicted.

            “What in the hell did you do?” She asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly. She longed to touch him, to kiss him and breath him in…and yet part of her rejected those feelings so strongly that it was painful.

            “The effects of the potion are intensified over the next twenty four hours, my pet,” he said, brushing his fingernails along her cheek before entwining them in her hair.

            She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to melt into his embrace. She began to scream out of frustration, but he cut her off with a searing kiss. Hermione Granger was lost. This need was far greater and more overwhelming than the need for answers or her need to despise him. She clutched his robes and pressed her body to his, drinking him in through a battle of tongues.

            Removing his hand from her riotous curls, he grasped her wrists and pushed her down into the bed before ending the kiss. Hermione let out a whimper of disappointment and attempted to catch his lips again. He chuckled darkly.

            “Ah, Hermione, you are lovely when you submit to me,” he said, his voice a low growl that made her press her thighs together.

            Lord Voldemort whispered something she couldn’t quite catch and her wrists were latched to the bedpost. He pulled back from her and ripped her dress open in one fluid movement. The cool air against her skin caused her to gasp. He didn’t touch her for several minutes, only studied her naked form, his eyes raking over every curve, every inch of deliciously bare skin.

            When he created the potion, he only knew for certain that she would become his, bound to him in a way that had never been attempted. It was assumed that she would feel more connected to him, though her free will would still be present. He had not expected her body to be so hungry for his touch, but he welcomed this new development wholeheartedly. He could use her desire for his benefit; to make her fall for him, need him, love him. Her submission would be even more exquisite. It was his hope that her current ravenous desire would remain after the potion settled in fully, though he knew it would be to a lesser degree.

            As much as he wished to, he wouldn’t take her tonight. He wanted her to crawl to him, to beg him for his touch when she wasn’t quite so intoxicated. That did not mean, however, that he couldn’t give her a taste, an infuriating sample of what could be.

            He grazed his fingernails over her small pink nipples, eliciting a gasp from her pouted lips. With a smirk, his hand traveled lower, over her abdomen and her thighs, narrowly avoiding the area she most wanted him to touch. He reveled in every gasp, every squirm, and every moment when she clenched her eyes shut tight. Curious, he gently worked his fingers between her folds and she bucked against him, a sensual moan escaping her. Evidence of her arousal quickly coated his middle finger, which, while it pleased him, hadn’t been what he was looking for. Slowly, he inserted his finger into her tight opening until he reached a barrier. Much to Hermione’s disappointment (and perhaps, deep down, relief) he quickly withdrew, a pleased smile gracing his pale face.

            His little pet was still a virgin. It seemed that he would be teaching her more than lessons in the Dark Arts.

            “Please,” she suddenly whimpered, pulling his attention back to her lovely brown eyes.

            “Tell me that you’re mine, I want to hear it from your lips,” he said as he raked his fingernails down her thighs before pressing his thumb against the small bundle of nerves just above her opening.

            “I’m yours,” she breathed, though her face contorted briefly, as if fighting the words that spilled so effortlessly from her lips.

            He leaned down to kiss her again, sucking what little defiance existed within her, at least until tomorrow. For now she was his, completely. His precious little horcrux.
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Weave a Circle Round Him Thrice