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Weave a Circle Round Him Thrice	By : SRaven_Underhill Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 14494 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
AN: I’m so sorry that this update took so long. I meant to post this weeks ago, but I’ve been so busy. I hope you all enjoy it! I’m hoping that the next chapter will be up at the end of the month.

Review replies can be found here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/34731-weave-a-circle-round-him-thrice-review-replies/#entry278702

Thank you (again) to all those who read and review. It seriously makes my day.

Chapter VIII – A Weapon of Mass Destruction

            After the Order meeting had concluded, Harry and Ron began to plot. They had been too stagnant, wallowing in the fact that they felt so lost. As Harry fiddled with the locket that hung heavily against his chest, they spoke in hushed voices. In the late hours of the evening, or perhaps early hours of the morning, they decided that they would head to Godric’s Hollow the following evening. It was risky they knew, but it was the only lead they had.

            “That place means something to him too,” Harry said, more to convince himself than Ron. He hoped that his gut instinct to want to visit his birthplace didn’t steer them wrong.

            Hermione had woken up next to the fire the following morning, her limbs stiff and unforgiving as she pushed herself into a sitting position. She groaned. How pathetic it was to fall asleep on the floor, pining after Lord Voldemort. Her /captor/.

            The house elf, who she learned was called Haxy, entered the room with another tray full of breakfast items. It wasn’t quite as extravagant this morning, probably because she was being punished for last night, Hermione mused. After setting the tray down on the table next to the fireplace, Haxy summoned a quill and several sheets of parchment.

            “For taking notes, miss,” Haxy said, dirty trembling fingers holding out the items to her.

            Hermione took them and thanked her, setting the supplies on the desk next to the small stack of books and asking the elf to light a few candles. It was so early that sunlight had yet to shine through the windows. The elf nodded, lit several candles, and disapparated.

            Lacking the enthusiasm of yesterday, but grateful nonetheless, she had a light breakfast of buttered toast and tea. Raking her fingers through her unruly hair and sighing, she sat down at the desk and plucked a book from the top of the pile. She took a moment to trace her fingertips over the brown leather cover, appreciating the suppleness that only came with frequent use. Hermione could barely make out the title, ‘A History of Ancient Egypt: 3150 BC – 2686 BC’, which was engraved with flaking golden letters.

            She opened it and began reading.

            While Hermione spent the majority of her day quietly devouring book after book, Harry and Ron prepared for their venture. An increasing sense of uneasiness seemed to infect Harry like a fast travelling virus, but he didn’t want to back out now. For well over a week, Harry had kept the locket stowed away in his room at Shell Cottage, but it didn’t feel right to leave it there. After donning it during their initial discussion, he hadn’t removed it. He could feel it affecting him in subtle ways, perhaps that was where some of the uneasiness was coming from, perhaps that meant he was on the right track.

            “Alright, mate?” Ron asked, obviously feeling a bit uneasy himself. The wind from the beach on which they currently stood seemed to carry his words away into the vast expanse of the sea.

            Harry simply nodded. They both cast a few minor spells to change their appearances and he swung a brown leather bag over his shoulder before taking Ron’s arm. With a crack they disapparated, appearing somewhere on the outskirts of the small wizarding village. Snow was falling peacefully upon the cobblestones and thatched rooftops, making everything look like a festive postcard. With some reluctance, Harry pulled the invisibility cloak from his bag and draped it over the two of them. They had to hunch awkwardly in order for it to fully cover their bodies. As such, it was a long trek to the center of town. Harry continually cast a spell on their footprints to make them disappear from the snow, but as they passed a pub full of raucous laughter, he spotted the graveyard. He froze, almost causing Ron to walk out from under the cloak.

            “What did you stop for?” Ron whispered.

            “Come on,” Harry said, pulling him towards the cemetery.

            Realizing where they were headed, Ron didn’t respond, nor did he respond when they finally found the grave of Harry’s parents, choosing instead to place his hand upon his friend’s shoulder. They stood for several minutes in silence. Just when Ron was going to offer his condolences, he noticed a woman staring at them.

            “Harry,” he whispered so softly that Harry himself had trouble hearing him. “That woman is looking at us.”

            Harry turned to the woman in question and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her. Before they could decide what to do, the woman gestured to them to follow her. Harry and Ron shared a glance.

            “I don’t like this, Harry,” Ron said. “She shouldn’t be able to see us.”

            “Maybe she knew Dumbledore. Maybe she has a special enchantment and actually has a message for us,” Harry said. It was, perhaps, a long shot, but there had to be a reason she could see them when they were wearing the invisibility cloak. Dumbledore would have thought he would come to Godric’s Hollow, right? And they weren’t currently recognizable as Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, though they were staring at the grave of Harry’s parents.

            “Isn’t that…Bathilda Bagshot?” he asked.” Perhaps she has been waiting for us,” Harry said, pulling a reluctant Ron along.

            “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ron moaned. They shed the cloak, suddenly feeling it wasn’t really necessary.

            They followed her all the way to a house, which they assumed was hers. They walked inside, the house rather warm, but sparsely lit.

            “Are you Bathilda Bagshot?” Harry asked, but the woman didn’t answer, instead gesturing for them to follow her into a sitting room.

            “I don’t like this, Harry,” Ron reiterated, but they followed anyway.

            After an awkward sitting room encounter in which traditional pleasantries were noticeably absent, the woman beckoned for Harry to follow her upstairs.             “Come,” she whispered to him softly so that Ron wouldn’t hear the Parseltongue that spilled from her lips with hisses and gasps.

            When Harry and Ron started to follow her, she shook her head almost violently and gestured first to Harry, then herself, and finally the ceiling.

            “I think she wants me to go upstairs with her alone,” he said, gazing into the strangely milky eyes of who he still presumed to be Bathilda Bagshot.

            “I don’t know, mate,” Ron said, staring at the old woman suspiciously.

            “She probably has something that she can only give to me,” Harry responded, giving Ron a quick glance.

            “Well…be quick, will you?” Ron said, shoving his clammy hands into his pockets.

            Harry gestured for the woman to lead the way. She led him from the sitting room and up the stairs, her steps oddly disjointed as if she weren’t used to the mechanics of having legs. They stopped in a small bedroom in which the only light was a pale beam of moonlight shining in through the window. Harry cast lumos so that a small bubble of luminescence encased them.

            “Do you have something for me?” He asked, expecting her, perhaps, to give him some kind of weapon that would destroy horcruxes.

            The woman, however, simply stared at him.

            Harry asked her again, but her face remained blank.

            “Are you Harry Potter?” She asked, her voice low and raspy.

            “Yes, yes I am.”

            As if on cue, his scar blinded him with pain to the point that he almost crumpled to the floor. A voice floated through his fog-addled brain; hold him, it said. He grasped his head and shouted, not even noticing that the body of Bathilda Bagshot had been carelessly discarded upon the floor, and it its place a gigantic snake sat coiled.

            Ron stomped up the stairs. “Harry?!” He yelled, bursting into the room.

            “HE’S COMING, RON. HE’S COMING.” The snake dove at Harry, but Ron cast spell after spell to distract it. They had to apparate. They couldn’t stay. Voldemort was coming.

            Ron raced towards Harry and Harry reached out for Ron’s hand, planning to make an escape through the window. But everything was a blur and during such moments of panic, things hardly ever go as planned. Harry had taken hold of Ron’s hand and shouted something about the window through the haze of pain. They ran and Harry jumped, scattering glass upon the floorboards and the grass below, but Ron’s fingers slipped from his grasp as Harry apparated. Ron’s pale face stared, his mouth frozen in a scream just before Nagini wrapped her body around his.

            Harry landed on the beach somewhere near Shell Cottage before falling unconscious. The waves lapped at his body as the sun began to rise over the water. Considering the circumstances, the scene was oddly peaceful.

            Several hours later, Harry woke, tasting salt.

            What began as elation quickly turned to disappointment when Lord Voldemort arrived at the former home of Bathilda Bagshot. Nagini held a Weasley, her body so tightly coiled that his skin was starting to turn blue. They spoke for several minutes in whispered hisses before he addressed his newest prisoner.

            “Mr. Weasley. What a disappointment,” he said dryly, twirling his wand between his fingertips.

            Ron stared up at the Dark Lord with an expression of shock. Voldemort hissed a command to Nagini, who released him immediately. Ron tumbled to the floor in a heap as he gasped for air. After several heaving gulps of oxygen, he spoke.

            “Harry is long gone,” Ron said, trying to push himself up into a sitting position. He attempted to inconspicuously look for his wand.

            “So I’ve noticed,” the Dark Lord replied. So far, he was rather underwhelmed by Ron Weasley. He seemed like a weak link. With a sigh, he summoned Ron’s wand and pocketed it.

            “I suppose you’re going to kill me now,” Ron said, though he didn’t seem defeated. Typical Gryffindor.

            “Not yet, Mr. Weasley,” he said, beginning to pace around Ron’s sitting form. “I’m planning a little reunion.”

            Ron simply stared at him, not quite catching on.

            Deciding to waste no more time on such an inferior mind, he bound the boy with a wordless spell before turning to Nagini. “Stay here. Perhaps Potter will return in hopes of rescuing his friend,” he hissed. The Dark Lord touched the snake’s head affectionately before apparating back to headquarters with Ron in tow.

            He left the boy with several of his Death Eaters, instructing them to take the prisoner to the dungeons. Voldemort smirked and glanced towards the grand stairway. He may not have been able to catch Potter, but the Weasley boy would make an interesting gift for his pet. He had a feeling that the boy would react emotionally when seeing how much sway he held over Hermione. He wanted the wretch to become angry, to think that Hermione had switched sides or was at least headed in that direction. Her friend’s anger would help break her just enough for her to succumb to him. If worse came to worse, he could always force the boy’s tongue, but Lord Voldemort didn’t think that would be necessary.

            Hermione was reading, her left hand propping her chin, when the Dark Lord entered. He glided over to the desk and closed the book she was studying. The silk of his robes grazed her arm and she felt that now familiar tingle race along her skin.

            “Care to take a break from your studies?” He said, a smirk playing about his lips. It wasn’t a question.

            Hermione stared up at him. The coldness he had shown her last night was no longer apparent and she wondered what had changed his attitude. After all, Lord Voldemort’s happiness seemed to hinge upon her discomfort.

            “I’m pretty sure that I don’t have a choice,” she replied, standing.

            Not dignifying her statement with a response, he instead transformed her rather plain dress into a flattering set of black robes. He began to walk in a circle around her, making small adjustments to her hair and the robes. He even supplied her with shoes.

            “What…? Why?” Hermione began to ask, but she stopped short when the Dark Lord stopped just in front of her.

            He took her chin in his long fingers. “I want you to look nice for our guest, Hermione.”

            Her eyes fluttered closed at the touch, but flew open again at the word ‘guest’. “What?!” She exclaimed, her eyes a window into all of the worry she felt. Did he have Harry? Who had he taken? She felt torn over wanting to yell at him and wanting to beg for mercy.

            “Follow me,” he said simply, placing his hand at the small of her back as he led her to the door.

            It was a long and silent walk to the dungeons. Hermione felt sick, wondering if she was about to watch one of her friends die a horrible death. Once they reached a larger cell at the end of the corridor, Hermione gasped and practically threw herself against the bars.

            “Ron!”

            Ron looked up at her, taking in her well-groomed appearance. “Hermione?” He said, seemingly unsure.

            Voldemort waved his hand and the door to the cell opened. “After you, my dear,” he said, using the dark tone that made Hermione’s stomach do little flips.

            She rushed in and ignored his word choice. The Dark Lord’s word choice, however, was not lost upon Ron Weasley.

            “Ron, are you alright?” She asked, crouching down so that she could better assess his condition.

            “I’ve been better,” Ron said.

            Hermione stared at him, worry etched into her face. He didn’t seem pleased to see her. Hadn’t he been wondering if she was okay?

            “You seem just fine. Better than fine even. You weren’t even in the dungeons,” he said, as if accusing her.

            The Dark Lord remained silent, choosing to let the scene play out on its own.

            “Ron, I’ve been a prisoner here. I was down here for weeks, maybe months.” She was both hurt and irritated by his distrust.

            “Really, Hermione? Seems like the rumors are true to me,” he said, glancing away.

            “What rumors?” She asked softly.

            “Kingsley said he heard you had been bound to You-Know-Who of your own free will.” His eyes hardened as he spoke.

            “Yes, but…” Ron’s eyes blazed as the words fell from her lips. “But I didn’t have a choice, Ron! I had to.” She could feel the beginnings of tears sting her eyes.

            “Oh, but you did have a choice, my pet,” the Dark Lord said from behind her. “And who could blame you for not wanting to share a cell with Mr. Weasley.”

            She stood and glared at him. Ron glared as well, but his glare was seemingly reserved for Hermione.

            Ron stood with a grimace. “I only wish I could tell Harry the truth about you. I can’t believe you did this, Hermione. I can’t bloody believe you would betray us,” Ron spat.

            Hermione slapped him with such force that Ron’s cheek turned a deep shade of red. “Perhaps it’s YOU who has betrayed ME, Ronald Weasley!” The tears began to flow in earnest and Hermione wiped them away angrily. “If you truly don’t trust me…” She trailed off and turned towards the bars of the cell. His words had brought her own insecurities to the forefront. Had she betrayed them?

            “At least I didn’t become the enemy’s whore,” Ron said, his words full of venom.

            Lord Voldemort pointed his wand at him and whispered, “Crucio.”

            Ron fell to the floor as screams were wrenched from his throat. Hermione turned and watched for a moment, a sick feeling of satisfaction coursing through her. He wasn’t her friend. Not anymore.

            The Dark Lord halted the curse shortly after, pleased that Hermione hadn’t tried to stop him. This little meeting was going exactly as planned.

            A pang of guilt struck her as she watched Ron curled up on the floor, but the Dark Lord pulled her attention away.

            “Come,” he said softly, taking her out of the cell.

            She glanced over her shoulder as they walked away, her teary gaze locking with Ron’s. He looked at her coldly, though there was a hint of sadness lying just behind the sense of betrayal.

            The journey back to the room seemed longer, though less silent. Hermione tried to contain her tears, but it seemed hopeless. Surprisingly, the Dark Lord said nothing and when they finally reached the room and he had magically locked the door, he put his arms around her.

            “Shhh,” he said, petting her hair.

            Hermione never imagined that she would take comfort in Lord Voldemort’s embrace, but she also never imagined that Ron Weasley would betray her. She buried her face in his robes, letting herself give into those delicious tingles and the comfort he offered. She could always yell at him tomorrow.

            The Dark Lord smirked as the girl relaxed into his embrace. After several minutes had passed and Hermione seemed more calm, he led her to the bed and sat down with her. Placing his index finger under her chin, he forced her eyes to meet his.

            “He doesn’t deserve your tears, Hermione,” he said as he wiped away a stray tear with his thumb.

            Now that her initial sadness was beginning to subside, she closed her eyes and enjoyed his touch. He traced his fingers around her throat and before she opened her eyes again, his lips were upon hers. It was electric and Hermione felt herself giving in. A distant part of her mind admonished her, telling her to continue to fight, but she didn’t feel like fighting right now. She had been fighting for so long.

            When she began kissing him back and entwining her fingers in his robes, Lord Voldemort silently rejoiced. It was time to make her completely his. He pulled her body roughly against his before turning them and pushing her back against the mattress. He broke the kiss and looked down at her. Hermione stared up at him, breathless. Kissing him was like breathing pure magic, it made her feel lightheaded and yet she wanted more. It was raw power flowing over her tongue and along her every curve. With an unspoken spell, Hermione’s robes disappeared, the cool air of the room causing gooseflesh to erupt on her arms and legs.

            Lord Voldemort gazed at her hungrily, briefly imagining a collar around that beautiful neck. He held her wrists in a vice-like grip as he explored her neck with his lips and tongue. Hermione arched into him, her body begging for more of his touch. He played her body as if she were an exquisite instrument, exploring every inch of her supple flesh.

            “Please,” she begged, her mounting desire beginning to feel like a form of torture.

            “Patience,” he whispered against her lips. Long pale fingers pinched her nipples, eliciting a gasp from the witch beneath him.

            Hermione shivered and twisted her body, enjoying the feel of his robes against her sensitive skin.

            As she writhed, Lord Voldemort’s hand traveled to the apex of her thighs. Smirking, he pulled his glistening fingers away, forcing her to meet his gaze as he tasted her. Hermione blushed, her lips parted in an endless sigh. When his fingers returned to her folds, she whimpered. He continued to torture her until she begged and pleased nonstop, his name and ‘please’ becoming a sensuous mantra.

            With a flourish he vanished his own robes. Hermione’s hands flew to his body, tracing her fingertips against his pale chest. With a whisper, her hands were bound above her head and he smirked. Hermione pouted and tried to manipulate their bodies, which caused Voldemort to chuckle darkly.

            As she lived and breathed, she needed him. There was absolutely no turning back now; her senses were overwhelmed by his presence, his power, and the dark magic that pulsed invisibly along his skin. It all called to her, begging to be as close to him as possible. Had Hermione been more lucid, perhaps she would have questioned her overwhelming desire for someone who had so recently crucio’d her friend.

            He temped and teased, moans and sighs escaping her lips like a sensual melody. Just before he took her and fully claimed her as his, he looked deeply into her eyes.

            “Tell me what you want, my beauty,” he said, his voice low and almost dangerous.

            “Please,” she began and he wrapped his fingers in her curls and pulled, forcing her neck and body into a painful arch. “I need you…M-Master,” she said, her voice strained due to her desire and her position.

            Her submission was as beautiful and intricate as her fascinating mind. He rewarded her with one rough stroke, thrusting his cock into her tight opening until he filled her. With a cry that was a complex mingling of pleasure and pain, Hermione relished in her decision to give in. In what seemed to be a rare moment of mercy or thoughtfulness, the Dark Lord allowed her to adjust to him. In actuality, he simply wished to relish the feel of her muscles clenching so tightly around his member. His eyed closed briefly as he clenched his jaw.

            Their coupling was not slow and sensual, but almost primal. The room filled with the sound of skin slamming against skin and passionate trills. The Dark Lord was taking what belonged to him. She remained on the brink for so long that she thought she might pass out from sensory overload. It was only then that she realized the Dark Lord had to give her permission. Her body was his. Little did she know that her soul belonged to him as well.

            There was no love, but there was passion, and right at that moment, Hermione only cared about fulfillment. Lord Voldemort leaned over her so that he could look deeply into her honey brown eyes and feel her labored pants against his lips. He gripped her hair and placed his other hand around her throat; not so tight that he restricted her airflow, but rather as a reminder of his domination.

            With a whispered “come” from the man above her, she came undone, screaming as tendrils of magic snaked through her core and her limbs. The hand that was buried in her hair left to roughly grab her hip, forcing her to meet each powerful thrust.

            As he watched her unravel, Lord Voldemort decided that he couldn’t have found a better vessel for his soul. This was only the beginning. He would teach her patience, obedience, and pain. He would corrupt her by piquing her curiosity about dark magic and letting her slowly become addicted. She was his beautiful weapon of mass destruction. He claimed her lips again, swallowing her screams.
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Weave a Circle Round Him Thrice