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The Prisoner	By : Nerys Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 63563 -:- Recommendations : 6 -:- Currently Reading : 13
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author’s note: I want to thank everyone who read, rated and reviewed: Lady Miya, Fleur K., iheartskittles, MarksPet, crimson0707, magentasouth, Poppy, Marieve, Summer Leah, shinobinaraku.
Review replies can be found at:

http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/19576-the-prisoner-by-nerys/page__st__20
xxx
Special thanks to my amazing betas: Serpent In Red and Cosettex. And another special thanks to Lady Miya for coming up with the name “Winmar”. I just draw blanks every time I have a house-elf to name.
xxx
The Prisoner
Chapter 7: Birthday Gifts
Trees, trees, trees and … dun, dun, dun … some more trees.
Hermione cast another irritated glance at the coordinates burning in red ink on the envelope as she stomped through the forest—or to be exact, as she stomped through the Forest of Dean. Again. She swore if this was some elaborate practical joke she failed to catch the meaning of, she’d find a way to implode Azkaban tower on top of his precious, smug, almighty, self-absorbed, irritating, over-the-top arrogant head. Grumbling, Hermione halted when she reached the edge of a clearing—a very familiar clearing since she’d camped out here with Harry for quite some time.
‘If anyone shows up with a tent, they’re dead,’ Hermione muttered, tapping with her wand against her ankle-length, woollen, pearl coat subconsciously.
The tip of her wand gave off a continuous yellow glow, supplying her with enough visibility of her immediate surroundings. This Illumination Charm was a variation of “Lumos” but much more useful because it didn’t interfere with other castings you performed.
She stared at both coordinates again. The one at the top was where she was supposed to go, and the one underneath stated where she was. They almost matched now, but that wasn’t telling her if she reached the end of this journey already. The coordinates had matched four times already, and every time she’d stopped and tapped the envelope with her wand, it had given her a new destination.
Right now, she was becoming considerably fed up with this whole sightseeing tour of Britain’s forests she was getting. Wearing her knee-high, black-leather boots that had a stiletto heel the size of Big Ben wasn’t making her feel anymore complacent towards Riddle. No, she didn’t care that she’d placed an Anti-Tripping Charm on them, making it similar to walking on combat boots as she trotted through the rough terrain. After all that was her doing, not his.
Surely, he could’ve just sent her directly to wherever the hell he wanted her to be? He’d known she would be late since she had to go to the Ministry of Magic and hand Moore his precious recipe first, after which she had to go home to change into one of his desired outfits before being able to go on this mission. So, what was the point of sending her from one bloody forest to the next one at …?
She checked the time.
It was almost three o’clock in the middle of the night: the Witching Hour. Perfect. Just perfect. She had to be at the office at eight if she wanted to make it to Azkaban before nine. She still had some papers to fill out and she’d promised Angolius—one of her Unspeakable colleagues—to assist him with his experiment’s set up. Apparently, she wasn’t going to get any sleep at all tonight. Brilliant.
Was that a snowflake that fell on top of her head?
Groaning, Hermione looked up at the clouded night sky. Sure enough, she noticed a few greyish-appearing flakes swirling down and rapidly expanding in numbers. Shivering, she pulled up the collar of her coat, wrapping the thick woollen fabric closer to herself as she cast an Impervius Charm around her, keeping the snow at bay. She could be in a nice, warm, comfy bed, but instead, she was prowling through nature again. As if she hadn’t done enough camping to last her a lifetime.
Hermione came to an abrupt halt when the letters on the envelope flashed brightly, showing her she’d arrived at her destination.
For now.
Swearing this was the absolute last time she was going to try this, Hermione raised her wand to the envelope and cast the complex enchantment again.
Not expecting anything to happen but the appearance of a new set of coordinates, she stared at the envelope when it burst into flames. Shocked, she let go. It didn’t drop to the ground; instead, it hovered in the air in front of her, forming a big ball of blue flames. There was no heat coming from it at all. Magical fires had always been a speciality of hers, and she frowned, realising there probably was no danger. Besides, she had an oddly distinct feeling she shouldn’t have let go. There was a thrumming, aching need inside her chest pushing her towards the flames. Slowly, Hermione extended her left hand closer and closer to the cold flames, while she clutched to the wand in her other hand just in case. She had no desire to become a burn victim.
Yet, her fingertips reached through the flames without injury and touched what appeared to be a thick piece of something inside. Touching it made her feel at ease, joyous even. She caressed the object, trying to determine what it was before acting. It felt velvety, like some old parchments did. It was also heavier than the envelope she’d had before but still rectangular, and it had a triangle-like rim on top. Another envelope? Made from parchment perhaps, and slightly larger with more filling than before?
How was that even possible? Had she done this? Riddle couldn’t do magic in his cell. All he’d done was write down the first coordinates and given her the charm on how to activate them. Somehow, this had to be her casting, even though she had no idea what happened.
Pull … pull, a voice in the back of her mind resonated.
Her fingers clutched around the “could be” envelope, and she yanked it out, the flames disappearing instantly. She’d been right—it was an envelope made of parchment. Quickly, she flipped it around. Her heart stopped beating for a second when her eyes fell on the green Dark Mark, the snake swirling around a name printed in black ink: Madame Moirae.
‘No way,’ Hermione said, stunned.
Her eyes widened as she stared at the familiar, infamous name. Curiosity rose inside of her. Was she about to meet the most wanted and elusive dark witch on the planet? And he’d sent her here. There could only be one reason to send her to Madame Moirae. Her heart skipped a beat in aching excitement before her logical mind ran over what her emotions were suddenly considering a possibility. No, that couldn’t be. She knew what Madame Moirae did, what she was famous for. He’d never send her for that, would he? Shaking her head, Hermione removed the ridiculous thought from her mind.
A second later, she no longer had time to contemplate on her silly ideas because the ground shook and literally opened up in front of her. She stretched out her neck to try to peek into the tiny rabbit hole but soon realised it was expanding into something much, much larger. Hermione stepped back hastily. More and more soil dropped down into the gaping, seemingly bottomless pit. The edge of it kept creeping closer to her feet, causing her to back off at an even speed with the envelope in one hand and her wand clutched in the other. Her back collided into a tree. She was about to move around it when the rim of the pit stopped moving at the edge of the clearing. Her eyes quickly swept over her surroundings. As she’d expected, the entire clearing was now one big, humungous ravine.
Somehow certain she was no longer in any danger, Hermione let out a relieved breath and inched forward to look down.
Then, earth swirled into the air like a weird upside down tornado of dirt, causing her to back off into the tree again. The wind blew her hair around her face; the bottom, loose pieces of her pearl coat whirled around her legs; she flung her arms around her waist protectively and watched the dirt storm in front of her with unusual clarity. Hermione didn’t feel scared at all for some insidious reason.
A low rumbling noise increased in strength, becoming louder and louder, and she gasped when two pointed rooftops emerged from the pit. Astonished, Hermione watched as the dark building rose from the depths of hell in front of her, dirt falling all around it like black snow. Its build was definitely medieval with the two round towers on the side and the slightly lower, square tower in the middle. The latter contained two huge wooden doors that had to be at least four storeys high and opened at the centre. There was no knocker.
Her eyes fell on the many creepy ornaments and statues decorating the castle-like building. They showed the most horrendous of scenes to deter unwanted intruders. Crows cawed at her as they landed on them. It took a while before Hermione realised they weren’t real but made out of the same black stone as the building.
On each side of the doors, the wall morphed and contorted. A paw with a huge claw emerged, then another, followed by an impressive head with a big dark mane, until the entire lion became visible and roared ferociously at her. On the other side, what seemed to be a female version stepped forward, joining its mate’s roar and showing off her impressive teeth.
‘Oh, shoo,’ Hermione said, waving dismissively with her wand-filled hand towards the lions, causing them to snap their mouths shut immediately. ‘I’m who called forth Madame Moirae. I mean her no harm.’
Intelligent eyes reflected the glow coming from the light of her wand as they stared at her, weighing the truthfulness of her words. Yawning and turning their heads away from her, both lions sank to their bellies and lay down. When they each placed their heads on top of their crossed front paws, steps erupted from the building’s stones underneath the door, until they halted in front of her feet. A click echoed in her ears, and both doors swung open without a sound.
Great maintenance, Hermione thought, her eyes wandering curiously over the complete darkness behind the well-oiled doors. She couldn’t see a thing inside from her current position even though her wand-light’s reach was far beyond that. Something seemed to be blocking her Illumination Charm. It was a bit unsettling, not getting a single clue on what was beyond those huge doors.
Still, I’ve come this far …
Taking a deep breath and one last look at the envelope for support, Hermione decided to go for it and moved up the stairs while the eyes of the many stone statues followed her progress with interest. When she reached the doorway, she paused, staring into the darkness. She still couldn’t see a thing and felt slightly apprehensive about stepping into the unknown. There was no telling what was on the other side.
Gathering her courage, she moved across the threshold. Immediately, her wand-light lit her surroundings. Her jaw dropped at the splendour. The hall was beyond magnificent and huge. She undid the Illumination Charm of her wand when a massive chandelier flared on, filling the hallway with a warm, inviting glow as its crystals twinkled in all the colours of the rainbow. She craned her neck to look at the ceiling, but all she saw was that impressive chandelier as if there were nothing beyond it.
Hermione turned back to investigate the hall. Her eyes automatically fell on the centrepiece: a large, black marble staircase, curving up to the landing on the first floor. The individual steps just floated there, not attached to anything she could see. The black contrasted heavily with the white marble on the floor. The white, stone walls were covered with colourful, velvet tapestries, taking away some of the coldness the interior otherwise would have had. A dark wood, heavily decorated wardrobe stood on her left. Next to it were an umbrella stand with two umbrellas and a rack holding a diversity of wizarding hats and coats. It was so domestic and ordinary that Hermione grinned. This was not exactly what she’d expected after seeing the building’s intimidating exterior.
Two suits of armour stood beside a door on her right, as if on guard duty. Potted plants with bright coloured flowers took up a vast amount of the floor next to them, filling the place with a pleasant, fresh scent. Above the plants, there were shelves with countless puppets, none the same. Hermione blinked at the ugly collection; it reminded her of when she was five and her mother had collected little frog figurines until someday all their heads had miraculously exploded. If there was anything Hermione disliked, it was stupid collections without any apparent use. Her wandhand itched to destroy the puppets.
‘Oooh, a sole visitor,’ a croaky, female voice spoke up behind her, sounding surprised.
Hermione swirled around, taking her attention away from her desire to blow up those puppets’ ceramic heads, too. The witch who slowly proceeded down the stairs, leaning on her staff every other step, was so much like the way Muggles drew witches in fairy-tale books that Hermione wondered if Madame Moirae had been the inspiration at some point. She had the obliged wart on her extraordinary long, hooked nose and long grey hair cascading messily over her shoulders. A long, black dress with gradually widening sleeves and a pointed hat made the picture complete. When Madame Moirae arrived at the ground floor, Hermione realised she was taller than she seemed due to the hunched way she held her back.
‘It’s not often that one person comes to visit me. The last one was around … hmmm … let me think, yes, fifty-five years ago.’
Madame Moirae rubbed her prominent chin in contemplation, watching Hermione curiously before she pointed her staff at the doors, which slammed shut at the command immediately.
‘This is already a drafty place, no need to let the cold in further,’ she explained loosely as she circled Hermione in a wide arc once, eyeing her top to bottom, while her staff made an audible “thump” every time it touched the floor. ‘So, child, who are you and what services do you require from Madame Moirae?’
Hermione glanced at the envelope in her hand before answering, ‘My name is Hermione Granger and—’
‘Interesting,’ Madame Moirae interrupted. ‘I’ve heard of you, naturally. You’re omitting your husband’s surname. Unsatisfactory marriage? Need me to place a curse on his house? Pox always have wonderful results. Or perhaps the Black Death? I haven’t had a chance to play with my Plague Potions for a while now. ’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Hermione said icily.
‘Sure? Got some cursed apples, too, if you prefer to limit collateral damage?’ She turned her wrist around, and a shiny red apple appeared in her palm. ‘Guaranteed to cause a swift and horrible death or you get your money back.’
‘I’m not here to curse Ron.’
‘Oh,’ Madame Moirae said, her face turning utterly disappointed. ‘Then what are you here for?’
‘I …’ Hermione paused, extending the hand holding the envelope, ‘I have something to give you.’
The infamous witch narrowed her pale blue eyes in distrust. ‘I don’t accept packages. Sorry, dear, nothing to do with you, but bad, past experiences have ma—’
Madame Moirae stopped talking abruptly when Hermione turned the envelope around and showed her the fluorescent Dark Mark. It was funny to see how the elderly witch’s expression became dumbstruck, her eyes flickering between the envelope and Hermione in disbelief. Eagerness came next, and the envelope flew from Hermione’s hand directly into Madame Moirae’s. She opened it hurriedly, discovering a scroll of parchment and a blood-filled handkerchief. Madame Moirae started reading, while Hermione blinked at the sight of what had to be his blood on that handkerchief. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
I’m not into sharing, Granger.
Holy crap! He wasn’t kidding when he’d said that. Did she really want to do this?
The answer she knew in her heart was yes. She’d gone indoors after all, knowing full well what Madame Moirae was most wanted for all around the globe. She’d gone indoors because of that. The realisation gave her pause. She’d hoped it would be for this reason that he’d sent her here. But–but that was just wrong, wasn’t it? This witch was wrong, evil—her drawn commitments archaic. She shouldn’t want this.
But I do.
Hermione’s mind protested fiercely, laying down all the pros and cons. But the deep, dark well of her heart thumped in joy at the idea of being controlled, of submitting to him fully. The thought was as stimulating as it was frightening.
Dangerous.
It was one thing to release control for a moment and another thing altogether to do it for a lifetime. Especially when the one you were releasing your control to had a tendency to abuse his power. She’d never be able to explain it to anyone that she’d agreed to this type of union. They’d never get it. How could they?
Every magical law enforcement unit on the planet tried to apprehend Madame Moirae for precisely this reason and with little success. She was just impossible to locate to them, and the frustration about that flourished wildly, especially since there was nothing they could do to reverse the effects of Moirae’s potions, charms and curses. Once cast, it was permanent.
Till death do you part, literally.
This was why Hermione knew she had to keep a clear head and really consider her options. She couldn’t just jump in because she wanted to—because this would get her out from the drag she was in—because it felt … right to marry Tom Marvolo Riddle. No, this would have far reaching consequences, the kind that wouldn’t go away with time.
Ever.
Still, she doubted she’d get bored with him. He was anything but predictable. And so smart. Hermione closed her eyes and swooned. His extraordinary intelligence really was his most attractive feature to her. On top of that, he was just so god damn hot. Yeah, she knew it was superficial of her, but she really didn’t care as her mind recalled his hair; his lean body; his long, slender hands; his dark eyes; that intense gaze …
The moan escaped her lips unknowingly, and she opened her eyes straight away, staring red-faced at Moirae who was too busy reading to take notice. Fortunately.
Hermione noted the witch had a deep frown on her wrinkled face. Was Riddle demanding something impossible? Something Moirae had issues with? Something else from what she’d considered moments ago?
Disappointment flooded Hermione at the thought that things might not be as they seemed.
Well, at least then she wouldn’t have to explain it to Harry. Because how could she? She envisioned the lovely talk in her mind.
‘Oh, by the way, I married your archenemy, Harry, the one who killed everyone you loved and tried to kill you over and over and over again, and who probably will do so at the next available opportunity once he gets out.’
‘Oh, no worries, Hermione, as long as you’re happy.’
Yeah, that was how that conversation would pan out. Besides, it was one thing to divorce Ron and another thing altogether to betray Harry. And this would be a betrayal. She knew it in her heart.
Unless …
Unless she could help—perhaps prevent things from happening by marrying Riddle? If they were married, surely she’d be able to do something, to stop …
A sour expression appeared on her face, and she scolded herself for having such delusional thoughts even for a moment, blaming society as a whole for implanting them to begin with. People didn’t change. Men didn’t change. The rapidly expanding collection of orange outfits in their wardrobe at home was proof enough.
Merlin, she’d no idea she could develop such a hatred for Quidditch in just three years’ time. She’d liked the game at Hogwarts. But Ron was just too much into it—a regular fanatic. At least Riddle didn’t seem obsessed with the sport, or was he?
Frowning, Hermione realised it wasn’t exactly something that would’ve come up. Damn, she should’ve inquired about his feelings concerning this–this absolute deal breaker. Because if she had to watch and listen to one more dressed up moron, shouting obscenities through a bullhorn at the supporters of the other team, she’d go insane.
‘Ms Granger?’
‘Uh?’ Hermione looked up, noting that Madame Moirae had apparently finished reading and was now looking questioningly at her. ‘Sorry, I was thinking.’
‘I noticed,’ Madame Moirae said calmly, gesturing to the front door which, to Hermione’s surprise, stood ajar. ‘Last chance to leave.’
Leave? To more and more Quidditch-filled evenings? Hell no!
‘I’m good right here,’ Hermione replied, certain.
‘Very well,’ the dark witch said, satisfied. With another wave of her staff, the door closed with a heavy thud. ‘We shall begin then.’
She thumped three times with her staff on the floor. On the third one, sparks erupted between the marble floor and the bottom of the staff, crackling around in a wide circle. The marble inside swayed, twisted and turned underneath the assault of magical energy. It was almost too bright to watch. Hermione narrowed her eyes to protect them from the flare of light that erupted when a cauldron as high as her waist emerged from the marble.
‘Incendio!’ Moirae cast.
As she touched the side of the cauldron with her staff, high burning flames erupted underneath, heating the entire hall quickly to a much more comfortable temperature. Hermione stepped closer to the cauldron and peeked into it. It only contained a clear, base liquid. She looked up just in time to see Moirae flicking her staff at the staircase next. The steps swung against the wall behind the staircase, forming shelves. Once they were stationary, all types of potions bottles appeared on them. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, Hermione waited knowingly, watching potion after potion and ingredient after ingredient being tossed and stirred into the cauldron. When Moirae was about to add Diluted Fairy-Wing Draught, Hermione drew her wand and incinerated the bottle. She’d read enough about Moirae’s potions in the Unspeakable Files to know what adding that compound would mean for her.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said coldly before the dark witch could open her mouth.
Madame Moirae smiled. ‘He stated you wouldn’t go for that one.’
‘Then why try it?’
‘It was at the top of his list.’
‘Tough.’
‘We’ll continue then,’ Moirae said, still smiling amicably.
A second potion went up in flames and a third. By now, Moirae wasn’t smiling anymore. She summoned another potion, but before it left the shelf, Hermione had already blown it up.
‘Insolent child,’ Moirae hissed. ‘You should feel privileged the Dark Lord is granting you the honour of becoming his wife. Many witches would’ve given up their right hand to be where you are today.’
‘And have it replaced by a silver one that strangles you when you don’t comply? I think I’ll pass on that honour,’ Hermione snarled sarcastically.
‘Well, you just did because that was the last choice on his list.’ Madame Moirae seemed positively annoyed.
‘I thought it might be,’ Hermione replied calmly. ‘Why don’t you show me all the possibilities, and I will pick the one I am okay with.’
A snort erupted from Madame Moirae’s lips. ‘I owe him the favour, not you, dear. You’ll pick one of the four now or I’ll pick for you.’
‘You’re doing this as a favour?’ Hermione asked, ignoring the threat.
‘Yes.’
‘How much does a service like this normally cost?’
‘Nothing the likes of you could afford.’
‘Try me,’ Hermione said, staring at the witch with determination spread all over her features.
‘Flagrate!’ Moirae cast.
Five digits appeared in the air next to the gleeful witch who seemed certain there was no way Hermione would be able to match that number. Blankly, the bushy-haired witch took in the number and then opened her coat, drawing a thick sachet from its magical inner pocket and tossing it to Moirae.
‘I trust you’ll find it sufficient,’ Hermione stated calmly, while the astonished Moirae checked the contents of the sachet.
‘So it would seem,’ the dark witch said, closing the sachet hesitantly. ‘However, I fear that this is not an option.’
There was clear reluctance in the hand that held out the sachet back towards Hermione. She reckoned it had to be related to the decreasing numbers of customers that required Moirae’s services these days.
‘Why not?’ Hermione inquired, placing her hands on her back.
‘Do I look like I have a death wish, child? The Dark Lord required a certain union of me under specific terms. I’m not going to look over my shoulder in fear for the rest of my life for any amount of money.’
‘He won’t come after you.’
Moirae snorted. ‘Oh, come on. From what I’ve heard of you, Hermione Granger, you’re an intelligent witch. Surely, you’re not delusional enough to think that prison they created for him will hold him forever.’
Hermione shook her head slowly. ‘You’re not listening properly,’ she said quietly. ‘I guarantee that he won’t come after you ever again. How’s that?’ She tilted her head daringly.
Madame Moirae became positively still, the wheels of her mind turning and turning.
‘Now I know what he sees in you,’ she finally said, smirking. ‘You have a deal, dear. Here’s the complete list.’ She turned her wrist around, and a list popped out of thin air. With a wave, she sent it flying over to Hermione. ‘Let me know when you’ve chosen.’
While a humming Moirae ruffled through the contents of the sachet, Hermione was rapidly going over the list.
‘Ugh,’ Hermione snarled as her eyes flew over several conditions that were beyond out there. ‘Oooh, you’ve got to be kidding me.’ She looked up at Madame Moirae who was waiting patiently until she was done. ‘Was number fifteen on his list?’
If it were, she’d kill him slowly. She wasn’t into bestiality.
‘No, three, one, six and eight were his. In that order.’
Fine, he could live another day.
Actually, as her eyes moved over all the conditions of all the magical bonds to be wedded under, six and eight were surprisingly reasonable compared to what else was on it. But Hermione wasn’t looking for reasonable, she was looking for that one choice that would best suit and protect her. She snorted when she read the beginning of number twenty-two.
“22. The wizard will forego all autonomy to his witch, relinquishing all material and immaterial items to her care. He will not speak unless spoken to. He will do all chores she hands him without question and delay. His body is there to satisfy her needs, and as such, he will not be allowed clothing at any time, unless his witch deems it necessary.”
Hermione didn’t even read the rest of it. She was in a fit of laughter, imagining the look on his face if she’d pick this one and had to tell him he’d have to walk around naked twenty-four seven.
Hmmm … nude Tom, yummy.
For a while it was a very tempting image, and she daydreamed about the idea of his nude body (which she still hadn’t seen!) at her disposal all the time. Then, she moved on, sure it would inevitably lead to her mutilated, dismembered, dead body being discovered in the woods someday.
Still grinning, Hermione read the last number, twenty-five. It was another “mild” bond, making her wonder about the logic or lack thereof in this list. Scrolling back to numbers eighteen and seven, she compared them vigorously. In the end, she figured seven was slightly better and picked that one.
‘Seven,’ she said out loud, holding out the scroll to Madame Moirae.
The woman’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Seven clearly hadn’t been on her lists of choices Hermione would pick. ‘Seven? Are you certain about that one?’
‘Absolutely, one hundred percent positive.’
‘Haven’t had a seven in five centuries,’ Moirae said to herself as she whisked her staff to the potions again. ‘Nobody dared.’
Two bottles flew towards the bubbling cauldron, turning upside down and releasing their contents simultaneously. The two streams spiralled around each other as they sank towards the cauldron’s contents slowly—as if gravity didn’t exist. With a snap of Moirae’s fingers, the ladle stirred: three times clockwise, two times counter clockwise. It repeated that motion until the ladle suddenly dissolved.
‘Your hand, please,’ Moirae said, beckoning to Hermione to join her at the cauldron.
They stood face-to-face when Hermione placed her hand in the witch’s above the bubbling potion.
‘I will need your wandhand for this one,’ Moirae corrected.
After Hermione pocketed her wand, she gave the witch her right hand. Moirae turned Hermione’s wandhand around—palm up—and grabbed a tight hold of her wrist. Next, her staff rapidly shrunk, shifting into an oddly coloured knife. When she placed it against Hermione’s palm, she said, ‘Last chance to change your mind about seven. ’
‘Just get on with it,’ Hermione responded, slightly annoyed she had to wait for the cut. It only enhanced her anxiety. She might have picked this number, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware what was at stake and how badly it could go wrong if she were mistaken about her abilities to control it.
‘Very well,’ Moirae said at the same time she sliced open Hermione’s hand.
The cut was deeper than expected, and Hermione cried out in pain, trying to pull her hand away but finding the elderly witch stronger than she seemed. Or perhaps magic was involved? For her hand was now turning a quart by itself.
‘Make a fist and keep your hand low,’ Moirae ordered. ‘We’ll need quite a bit of your blood for this one.’
Hermione complied, occasionally stretching her fingers to stimulate the blood flow to her hand. It seemed to work quite adequately by her judgement, for she saw a steady flow of blood leaking into the potion.
‘I’m getting light-headed,’ Hermione said after a while, pressing her eyelids together and moving the muscles in her face to feel she was still consciously there.
‘Only a little bit more,’ Moirae coaxed. ‘Yes, just a few more drops. Get ready to open your hand on my mark. That’s it. Now.’
Hermione opened her hand, and the “knife” got pressed against the wound. Moirae chanted in a sing-song voice, closing the wound instantaneously. When she let go of Hermione’s hand, the bushy-haired witch inspected it right away. There wasn’t even a scar. Impressive.
Plop.
The blood-stained knife landed in the potion and shifted back to a staff. Moirae grabbed it with both hands and began chanting again, this time with her eyes closed. Hermione watched quietly from the side, witnessing how the potion turned from one colour to the next, moving through the entire visible spectrum and back again.
Suddenly, the potion in the cauldron stopped bubbling. The surface turned still, a silent plane without any wrinkles. A tiny cup, which couldn’t contain more than one sip, rose from the liquid without disturbing the peace. It hovered in front of Hermione.
‘Drink.’
Hermione sighed, grabbing the cup that reminded her of a child’s tea set and downing the liquid in an instant. The cup vanished the moment the potion was in her system.
Moirae raised her staff and plunged it back into the potion, thumping three times against the bottom of the cauldron. Sparks flew from the cauldron, electrifying the air around them.
‘Get ready,’ Moirae warned as she held Riddle’s blood-stained handkerchief above the potion, ‘this is going to be one hell of a ride.’
Hermione braced herself when it dropped in the cauldron, but nothing she could’ve done would’ve prepared her for this. It was like standing at ground zero of a magical explosion unlike she’d ever witnessed. In the far away distance, she could hear the boisterous laughter of Madame Moirae as power beyond Hermione’s wildest dreams swirled through the air around her. The pressure was tremendous. She couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. A scream formed in her throat, unable to come to completion. Her head–her head, it felt like it were being squished in a vice. This had to stop.
Now.
Oh god, what had she done? Why had she chosen this? She couldn’t hold it. Panic flooded her like a tidal wave, right before she blacked out and crashed to the ground.
As if it were what it had been waiting for, the potion immediately flew from the cauldron and entered Hermione’s body through every orifice available, dragging all the power in the room into her until it all turned silent. Madame Moirae stood still, leaning on her staff while the hall around her turned back to its previous shape as it had been when Hermione had first entered the castle. When all was back to normal, Moirae let out a relieved breath and stepped towards the motionless body on the ground, looking down satisfied.
‘Well, well, well, such a powerful, little witch, no wonder she’s caught his eye,’ Moirae muttered to herself as she poked Hermione with her staff, transporting her to one of the guest bedrooms.
xxx
Hermione yawned, curling into a tiny ball underneath the soft sheets. She felt well rested and extremely relaxed as the sun shone comfortingly on her face.
The sun!
She jumped to a seated position, dropping the covers. Oh no, it was broad daylight outside. She was late for work and … where the hell was she? Staring around the unknown bedroom and trying to ignore the puppets with their out-of-proportion, ceramic heads that stood on every available flat surface, Hermione’s memory of what she’d last done came back. She’d passed out in Madame Moirae’s hall, so this had to be one of her bedrooms. The décor certainly fitted.
But where were her clothes? What time was it? She had to get up and leave.
Hermione was about to swing her legs over the edge of the bed when a squeaky voice spoke out loud.
‘Mistress Riddle is awake. How can Winmar assist Mistress?’
Hermione yelped and pulled the covers back over her naked body when she realised she wasn’t the only one in the room anymore. Where on earth had that short, fat-bellied house-elf come from?
‘Ermm …. Ermmm…’ Hermione mumbled, red-faced, watching Winmar’s pointy ears drop, ‘where are my clothes?’
Immediately, the ears perked up again at receiving instructions. ‘Mistress’s clothes are in the wardrobe. After Winmar removed them from Mistress’s body last night to prepare her for bed, Winmar washed, dried and ironed them all night long—used new fabric softener, too. Smells like spring breeze.’
‘Oh, thanks, I guess,’ Hermione said, not having the heart to tell him she didn’t appreciate being unclothed by strangers and that her dress was dry-clean only. She hoped it wasn’t ruined.
Oh Merlin, it had washed her clothes. She had to check the contents of her coat. Apart from several sachets of money, she had quite a large stash of classified Unspeakable items and weapons hidden in various magical pockets. Well, one didn’t go unprepared on anything Tom Marvolo Riddle sent them out to do. That coat had basically turned her into an army of one. She just hoped the house-elf had followed the credo of its race and put everything back where it came from.
‘Ermm … I need to get dressed so could you give me some priva— Eep!’
An unknown force yanked her out of bed when the house-elf snapped his fingers. As she hovered horizontally in mid-air, her arms were abruptly tossed above her head as if she were planning to dive into a swimming pool. The brief discomfort of being unable to cover herself up was quickly replaced with a feeling of relief when her periwinkle blue, strapless dress flew over her arms and head. The dress pulled itself down around her body, zipping up immediately when it was in place. Next, her stockings and boots slid back on. Her bracelet, watch and necklace followed suit. However, the wedding ring Ron had given her was conspicuously absent.
Another snap of Winmar’s fingers and she landed on her feet, wobbling as she fought to regain her balance.
‘Where’s my coat?’ Hermione asked frantically. It worried her that it hadn’t been put on her body, too.
‘On the hanger next to the door,’ Winmar replied, pointing. As Hermione paced to her coat, Winmar added, distressed, ‘But surely, Mistress Riddle wants to eat breakfast first?’
Mistress Riddle, that will take some getting used to.
‘I’m late for work already,’ Hermione said soothingly, as she ruffled through the pockets and found everything was still there.
‘Mistress is not expected at work today. Mistress called in sick.’
‘What!?’ Hermione swirled around. ‘I didn’t owl anyone.’
‘Winmar owled for Mistress. Mistress needed to rest and recover from number seven. Winmar made sure she wasn’t missed.’
‘Tell me you didn’t use the name Riddle,’ Hermione said, panicking.
‘Of course not. Mistress Riddle needn’t worry. Winmar knows and obeys Mistress Moirae’s rules. Marriage must not be detected before full consummation.’
‘Oh no, the Marriage Scrolls,’ Hermione said, dropping her head in her hands. She’d planned to go back to the Ministry of Magic immediately afterwards and intercept them. It was obviously too late to do that now.
‘Winmar stated Mistress Riddle needn’t worry. Marriage Scrolls will always be put under a Temporal Restraining Jinx to avoid premature detection. It will take a full week before they arrive at the Ministry. However,’ Winmar looked down sadly.
‘However what?’ she asked, concerned.
‘Mistress Moirae can’t stop divorce date from appearing on modern marriage scrolls. Divorce is beyond her reach. We do not understand the concept of the magic behind it. So, Winmar stole it for Mistress Riddle,’ the tiny creature said proudly, holding out Hermione and Ron’s official ministerial wedding document to her.
“Terminated, December 31st 2002” was stamped all over it in blocks of big red letters.
‘Oh, thank you,’ Hermione said, swallowing at the concept of having to put it back unseen.
She didn’t want to disappoint the house-elf by informing him that nobody would’ve checked this scroll if it had just remained in the filing cabinets. Putting it back, however, was a huge hassle. Everything was done in a specific order at the Department of Magical Family Affairs and Genealogy. For her to put this scroll back, she’d have to file away all the waiting scrolls first. The cabinets wouldn’t allow access before that. And a huge pile of scrolls miraculously being filed would be noticed by the staff. She had to think of another method to solve this problem, but right now, she had bigger issues—such as Winmar owling to work for her. There were procedures to be followed when owling from an outside source, procedures designed to detect others impersonating as Unspeakable staffers. The slightest diversion from it would bring the entire department in uproar.
‘What did you write in your owl to my boss?’ she asked, remembering that a calm and soothing tone would have better results with house-elves than shrieking.
When Winmar explained what he’d written, Hermione shook her head, pressing her lips together in aggravation.
‘They’ll know it’s not from me. Katie will—’
‘Mistress’s boss already sent owl, telling Mistress to take it easy and get back when Mistress is feeling fully recovered.’
‘Show me.’
Winmar showed her the note, and to Hermione’s surprise and relief, it didn’t hold the code that Katie would’ve used had they realised Winmar’s owl had brought them a forged letter.
When her eyebrows raised at that, the house-elf said, ‘Winmar is excellent at forgeries. Winmar can do anyone’s handwriting perfectly and knows all the world’s governments’ operating procedures. Mistress Moirae relies on it.’
Oh really? Thanks for the info. I’ll make sure to pass it along someday.
‘That’s nice,’ Hermione said instead, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
‘So, Mistress will stay for breakfast?’ the short-statured creature asked hopefully. ‘Winmar hasn’t made breakfast for guests in a long, long time.’ His entire posture dropped in sadness at admitting that.
Empathy rose inside Hermione. Now she couldn’t really say no, could she? It would obviously hurt his feelings. Oh Merlin, now he was batting his eyelashes at her, showing her big puppy dog eyes in an extremely hopeful face. Well, she supposed she needed to eat anyway, and if there was no hurry …
‘I’d love to eat your breakfast,’ she said, resigning to staying a little while longer.
Winmar cheered; his big belly bounced as he happily jumped on the spot several times. ‘Does Mistress prefer—’
‘Winmar,’ Hermione interrupted.
‘Yes, Mistress?’
‘Where is my wedding ring?’ She needed it to keep up appearances, at least for a little while.
‘Mistress means old or new one?’
‘New one?’ Hermione asked, frowning in confusion.
Winmar nodded and walked past her to the nightstand where a black velvet box—ten inch wide and four inch high—stood. He picked it up and moved back to Hermione, holding it out to her.
‘Master needs to put it on Mistress before consummation,’ he said, while Hermione looked in the box briefly.
‘I see,’ she replied slowly, placing the box beside her on the bed. ‘And where is my old one?’
‘Mistress doesn’t know?’
Hermione shook her head.
Winmar shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. ‘Mistress Moirae always explains this—it’s not Winmar’s place to talk about Wizarding Matters. Winmar is only a house-elf. Winmar—’
‘Just tell me, I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.’
‘Mistress Riddle promises?’
Hermione nodded, displaying certainty.
‘Old rings …’ Winmar looked around, his eyes shifting nervously around the room, ‘all type of rings interfere with Marriage Magic of the Olde, even ones from modern day marriages. Their circle represents eternity and can therefore not be broken easily. When a marriage is happy and based on love, they’ll always prevent a new bond being formed unless they are destroyed beforehand. Not even Mistress can overpower that kind of magic. Love is too powerful a force.’
Winmar swallowed as if he’d given up a huge secret, which Hermione supposed he had. When he stared at the standing lamp longingly, as if contemplating on smashing it against his head, Hermione took a hold of him.
‘And when a modern marriage isn’t happy or loving anymore?’ she asked curiously.
‘Then the new bond will obliterate the rings until there is nothing left.’
Rings? As in both of them!?
‘You mean Ron’s—my former husband’s—ring is gone, too?’
Winmar nodded quietly, and Hermione let go of him, leaning back in shock. She could’ve explained away her missing ring easily, but if Ron’s was gone, too, well, he wasn’t completely daft. He’d know something was up, maybe not what, but he’d have enough information to go on and an entire Auror Department at his disposal to find out the truth.
Oh dear.
Perhaps she could transfigure something to appear like her old ring? Would it even be allowed by her new bond? She was about to ask Winmar when loud noises reached her ear.
Bang – bang – bang.
‘Winmar bad elf, bad elf.’
Bang – bang – bang.
Hermione flew to her feet and pulled the house-elf away from the standing lamp he had been using as a battering ram on his head.
‘It’s all right, Winmar. You didn’t do anything wrong.’ Apart from telling me the details about your skills in fooling the governments. ‘I needed to know this or I’d be found out and prevented from completing Madame Moirae’s work. Now, she wouldn’t want that, would she?’
Winmar tilted his head and nodded. ‘Thanks, Mistress,’ he squeaked, rubbing his aching forehead.
‘Winmar, would it be possible to wear a fake wedding ring once I’ve put on the new one?’
He shook his head. When he saw Hermione’s disappointed expression, he said, ‘Mistress could use a Glamour on the new one to appear like the old. That works. I heard Mistress Moirae advise the Manda—’ Immediately, he slapped his hand in front of his mouth and struggled to get back to the lamp.
‘No, Winmar,’ Hermione said, strict. ‘I order you not to hurt yourself. I didn’t hear a thing. Okay?’
He nodded thankfully.
‘I think I will like that breakfast now,’ Hermione added, smiling brightly, ‘if you could show me where I can brush my teeth and freshen up first?’
Winmar’s face brightened, and he hurried to show her the bathroom door that Hermione had already spotted on her first glance through the room.
‘Winmar made everything ready for Mistress in here. Mistress will be pleased, yes?’
Hermione rose and checked out the bathroom. ‘Very pleased, Winmar, thank you. If you could excuse me, then?’
‘Mistress doesn’t need assistance?’
‘Mistress prefers to wash her privates in private,’ Hermione replied, wanting to slap her forehead for mimicking the third person use. ‘I’ll come down to the dining room in a couple of minutes. Where is it?’
‘The dining room is down the stairs, first door on Mistress’s left. Mistress Riddle can’t miss it,’ the elf said excitedly.
When he was finally gone, Hermione hurried to her coat. Ruffling through its pockets, she discarded several of the newest Unspeakable Tracking Items and settled for a simple Muggle GPS locator device. Hermione figured that anything magical would be detected by Madame Moirae or else she would’ve been apprehended years ago.
Now … where to put it?
Swiftly, her eyes roamed the room. A smirk crossed her face when they fell on the ugly puppets with their hideous, ceramic heads. Vengeance was sweet.
Stepping to the dresser on which the biggest collection in the room stood together, Hermione decided on the blond-haired puppet with the rosy cheeks, pouting lips and huge blue eyes. It was of medium height and build and wore a wide, white dress which was decorated with pink and red hearts of different sizes and shapes. Hermione picked it up and turned it around, lifting the dress over the ceramic head to reveal the soft, sand-filled body underneath. How the puppets remained standing on that had to have a magical answer. A magical answer that she had no interest in uncovering.
Swiftly, Hermione made a tiny slice in the body with her wand and stuffed the GPS locator firmly between the sand. Another wave of her wand completed her work. Satisfied there were no visible signs of tampering at all, she fondled the puppet for a moment but couldn’t feel the minuscule locator. She checked all known Detection Spells, but they came up empty, too. Placing a triumphant kiss on top of the puppet’s head for being so cooperative, Hermione put it back from where it came. She made sure it was standing in exactly the same posture as before because she recalled how her mother had always been able to tell if one of her frog figurines had been moved by even a bit.
Crazy, obsessive-compulsive disorder collectors.
Scowling at the collection one last time, she moved to the bathroom and quickly made herself ready for breakfast.
When she finally left the old castle—after learning she was now somewhere in Kenya and would require multiple Apparitions before being back home—she smirked at the knowledge that someday she’d be able to find Madame Moirae if need be.
After all, she’d only promised the witch that Tom wouldn’t come after her. She’d never said anything about herself or others.
xxx
Tom Marvolo Riddle was pacing to and fro in his cell. What was keeping her? Nobody should be allowed to make Lord Voldemort wait. And surely, after what he’d sent her out to do, she would be punctual, if only as an aftereffect of the terms of their union. Certainly nothing could’ve gone wrong. Madame Moirae wouldn’t dare. His wrath would be unimaginable in all its ruthlessness. The witch would know that. Moirae was anything but an idiot and knew he’d find her, no matter how long he had to wait, how many stones he’d have to turn or how many holes he had to dig. Lord Voldemort had never been an impatient man, and he would find and destroy her. Utterly and completely. Until there was nothing left but screaming ashes.
His hands clenched into fists, briefly wincing at the pain in his left hand from spanking Hermione. It didn’t make him unclench his hand though—no, it made him ball his fist even tighter, savouring the pain to take his mind away from the things he couldn’t control. If ever before he’d been frustrated about being locked up, this moment was topping it. If something happened to his Hermione, he’d—he’d—’
The door flew open and the object of his anxiety appeared, wearing a long, pearl coat he’d not seen before. He immediately unclenched his fists and schooled his face to show an appropriately benign expression. He could tell from her fluent motions that she’d followed his order to heal her bottom even though he’d seen the disappointed flash that had travelled across her expression. But he’d known it would be too big a hindrance for the other task he’d laid out for her to do, so he’d insisted.
‘Hi,’ Hermione said, smiling broadly.
Okay, unexpected.
He’d expected her to start ranting about the archaic, old-fashioned, sexist marriage he’d forced her into the moment she walked in. Instead, she was busy unbuttoning her coat as if there weren’t a single cloud in the sky. Suspicion rose inside of him. What had she done?
‘Hi,’ he replied, smiling back at her. Sweet Salazar, this is making Lord Voldemort’s teeth hurt.
His eyes widened when the coat fell open. Oh my, nice, tiny dress … why didn’t she take off that damn coat already? He wouldn’t mind watching her parade around in those heels and— She was frowning at him.
‘Are you going to take it or do you prefer to gawk a bit longer?’ she asked, tilting her head daringly at him while her hand wiggled a black, velvet box in front of his face.
He couldn’t help but notice that her wedding ring was missing. Perfect.
‘I think I can do both,’ he smoothly replied, taking the box from her with a charming smile.
‘Didn’t seem like it a moment ago,’ Hermione muttered, turning away as she slid the coat off her bare shoulders slowly.
‘Tease,’ he commented, hearing her snort in reaction.
‘Takes one to know one,’ she said, her tone light and airy.
Merlin, she is chipper. What am I missing?
He looked at the box in his hand. On the lid, it stated “MM” in gold filigree. So, Hermione had definitely obeyed his orders to the letter and fulfilled her end of the bargain even if she didn’t have to. Her promise to him was, after all, merely that: a promise. There had been no magic in play to enforce her compliance, and apparently, it hadn’t been necessary. That pleased him more than he cared to admit, so he drew his eyes back to the little witch who was putting her coat on the hanger.
Sweet Salazar, that is a really tight-fitting, tiny, itty-bitty dress, and her arse is so slap-worthy in it.
Had she worn that around other men? If so, he’d have no other choice but to execute them. Eventually. He should get her to tell him about her entire night and day; that wouldn’t arouse suspicion and he’d get names. Names of those who needed to die.
Perhaps that hideous tracksuit served a worthy purpose after all?
Hermione turned around, and immediately, he discarded that idea for she looked positively amazing. The way the corset of the dress clung to her curves, the way it served up her breasts on a silver platter, the way the hemline of the skirt just barely reached mid-thigh, the way the lack of interruption in the fabric showed she wasn’t wearing any underwear, the way it brought out her legs as she stood on those stiletto heels, it made his cock harden in a flash. She was positively fuck-worthy, and if it weren’t for his expert skills at self-restraint, he’d have that delicious, little body of hers up against the wall servicing him already.
Perhaps later?
He’d need an excuse though—some reason why he’d be allowed to break their rules and touch her. She took a step in his direction, swaying with her hips.
Definitely later.
He would think of something. He always did. He was brilliant after all.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ she asked sweetly.
Too sweetly. Something’s definitely up.
‘I’m admiring the view,’ he said suggestively, his eyes roaming over her body from head to toe and back to her face again. ‘Nice dress.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, finally turning somewhat red to his delight.
He enjoyed it when she was off balance, so he added, ‘I wouldn’t mind if you took it off, though.’
‘Why don’t you open the box first, and we’ll see if it will come off?’
Okay, that sounds far, far too triumphant coming from my nice, little, obedient wife.
With a flick of his thumb, he unhooked the toggle of the box and opened it.
For the first time in his entire life, Tom Marvolo Riddle was stunned. He stood utterly still. Motionless. Unable to utter a single word as he looked at the contents of the box and knew precisely what it meant.
Number seven.
xxx
- 6
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The Prisoner