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His White Queen	By : jsu1660n Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 13059 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I DO NOT own Harry Potter, neither the characters from the books or movies. I receive no profit from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-His White Queen
- 1
A/N: Hello everyone! I am back for yet another one-shot. And no, your eyes are not deceiving you. I dare to write for one of the most, if not the most, coveted pairings in the history of Harry Potter fanfiction—Hermione & Voldemort!! Dum, dum dum…anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and please review when you are done, even if you don’t.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own Harry Potter, neither the characters from the books or movies. I receive no profit from this fanfiction.

His White Queen

In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.”

- from ‘Ligeia,’ Edgar Allan Poe

They waited with baited breaths for Harry and Cedric’s return. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley both hoped that their return would be a safe one, but with Fleur Delacour being injured in an attack by the Imperiused Viktor Krum, the odds were not likely. Ron and Hermione did not talk. They did not seek comfort in idle touches. Their indifference to one another was not meant as cold or harsh, but that they were silent for two very different reasons.

Ron, although he truly feared for the safety of the boy who was his best friend since the age of eleven, as well as that of their fellow classmate, he had mixed feelings of the girl standing beside him. Ron had been in love with Hermione Granger from the moment she barged into their carriage in the Hogwarts Express and not so subtly announced that he had dirt on his nose before her exit.

But Ron had taken Hermione for granted. He, like nearly everyone else assumed that he would either, become an Auror for the Ministry of Magic or Keeper for the Chudley Cannons, marry Hermione, and have a bunch of bushy red-haired babies. He naturally expected things to fall into place without any real effort on his part.

Unfortunately, for Ron Weasley, Hermione really was one of “those girls.” You know, the ones who craved romance, spontaneity, and above all, being treated like a crystal dove once in a while. All of the things that his ex-favorite Seeker Viktor Krum offered her in just the few short weeks of his arrival. That over-sized pile of dung swooped in and stole Hermione right out from under him, his Hermione! Ron didn’t know how things were done in Bulgaria, but in England, guys did not poach on other guys’ women. It was so wrong, so sneaky, so…so Slytherin. He shivered disgustedly, and Hermione mistook it for nerves and automatically sidled closer to him.

Well, hey, maybe it’s not all lost for me yet, after all, he thought smugly.

Meanwhile, beside him, Hermione Granger’s thoughts were on a completely different spectrum. Sure, it bothered her that Ronald was so easily enticed by creatures meant to lead a man to his doom—stupid Veela’s—but even more so, she was deeply hurt that he decided to make her his “fallback girl,” as her cousin in America once explained to her. Not to mention he had the audacity to accuse her of being a traitor, her! If it had not been for Viktor showering his affections on Hermione, Ronald Weasley would still be on his hands and knees kissing the boots of ‘the most amazing Seeker in years’!

But now was not the time for such insignificant thoughts. Fleur and Viktor were both back already from the maze and neither unscathed. Something was deeply wrong. Hermione could feel it.

She knew something big would happen that year. One month before it was time to return to Hogwarts, Hermione began having dreams. Strange dreams. Dreams that were both foreign and yet familiar. She would be walking through the corridors of Hogwarts. Normal, right? Well, that was far as normal went before pitching itself off the Astronomy Tower. It was Hogwarts, but not her Hogwarts. Rather, it was Hogwarts from another era.

The skirts were longer than normal. Professor Binns, who she knew for a fact was a ghost, was very much alive and solid. Dumbledore was not the headmaster, but the Transfiguration professor and young enough to pass for late 30s early 40s. Instead of the chatty, yet horribly annoying portrait of the Fat Lady that currently hung over the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, she stood before a very beautiful portrait of who Hermione thought was irrefutably the smartest witch ever born—Rowena Ravenclaw. She perched elegantly on a windowsill overlooking a cliff with a book in her hands.

“Good evening, milady,” Hermione heard herself say, and yet, the voice coming from her mouth sounded nothing like that of her own. This voice was breathy without any conscious or unconscious effort. The voice of complete innocence with just a touch of seduction. The ultimate cockteaser’s voice, as she heard some of her muggle friends say.

At the sound of her voice, Hermione was met with warm blue eyes and a smile so loving, her heart ached.

“Good evening, my dear. I hope that you are well.”

“I am, milady.”

Rowena Ravenclaw tutted and gave a small shake of her head. “Now, now, what did I tell you about that ‘milady’ rubbish?”

Hermione could feel the slight coloring of her cheeks, even as she gave a small bow of her head.

“Forgive me, but it seems only right that you be addressed by your earned title.”

“And I agree, undoubtedly, but not from you, my dear. So, what are your plans for this evening?” she asked in a motherly fashion.

“Helena and I will probably be working on some notes.” Hermione felt cautious for some reason when she spoke of these mysterious notes.

Rowena nodded her approval, before a smirk befitting a Slytherin rather than the founder of the legendary Ravenclaw House, spread across her lovely features.

“You wouldn’t happen to have your young man helping you tonight as well, would you, dear?”

The flames flared in her cheeks. “Well, since it is a Hogsmeade Weekend tomorrow, I thought he might like to finish his homework tonight so that he could—.”

“Ask for your company tomorrow?”

“Well,” she said a bit petulantly. “I was going to say so that he may spend his time uninhibited by his scholarly responsibilities.”

“Of course you were, dear,” she said with a roguish smile. “We shall talk later as we are now upon the hour. With this in mind,” all smiles and teasing slipped from her beautifully aged face, leaving in its wake a startling passivity. “I am, wanted by many, hated by some. The downfall of leaders and swallowed by none. Seek me out and pain I will bring, for all men tremble before my king. What am I?”

She smiled, answering the riddle without a second thought. “I am pride.”

“Clever as always, my dear.”

And on it went for weeks. Hermione would dream of various academic and personal conversations with the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw before going into the tower. It was bizarre, but strangely thrilling. Hermione thought she might miss the antics and goings on in Gryffindor Tower, but she had even more friends in Ravenclaw. Yes, friends. Not two boys whom she was a sister to one and an eventual wife to the other—oh, yes, she was well aware of Ronald Weasley’s “best laid plans.” Not girls who were friendly to her face so that she might help them with an assignment or two, then turned more vicious than Blast-Ended Skrewts by the time her back had turned, but real, honest to Godric friends.

For once in Hermione’s life, she was surrounded by people her own age who shared her love of literature. Who appreciated the way fresh parchment smells first thing in the morning and who pondered the intrinsic workings of the most basic potion.

As for the other students, they all accepted her as a warm acquaintance, well, except for the Slytherins. But they did not treat her as the Slytherins of her time. No one dared to call her a mudblood or even sneer in her direction. Instead, they looked upon her with fond admiration. See? Normalcy did a nosedive off the Astronomy Tower and smacked face first into the ground!

The weeks passed and Hermione became more and more enthralled with her dreams. She even began documenting them in a journal, depicting details as small as the fact that there were marginally less girls to a room in Ravenclaw Tower than there had ever been in Gryffindor, to details as large as her choice in pets. An adorable albino python, fondly named Kadru.

Hermione learned other big things about her “alter ego.” At least, that was who she convinced herself she was in these vivid dreams. Meira. That was her name. Meira Natasia Belikov. Among these, three startling facts jumped out at her while she perused Meira’s memories during a particularly boring lecture on the History of Magic.

One, the identity of her other half’s parents. Meira’s father was the notorious dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald. That thought still managed to make Hermione ill and angry, especially when she viewed Meira’s memories of abuse at the hands of Grindelwald.

Her mother, Feodora Cyzarine Belikov was a beautiful Russian model and squib with a talent for potions that surpassed even that of the most skilled witches and wizards. Feodora was Grindelwald’s mistress, much to the displeasure of his equally nasty wife Linnet. Linnet hated both Feodora and Meira because Linnet herself was barren. When Feodora finally became fed up with Grindelwald’s cruelty and abuse, she decided to leave him. He came in just as she was about to take Meira and return to Russia.

It took only one hit.

The force of his fist knocked her backwards where her temple hit the corner of the coffee table just wrong. Meira was five-years-old when she watched her mother die.

Two, Albus Dumbledore was close friends with Grindelwald before he began his reign of terror. When Meira managed to escape him one night after he passed out beside her from too much celebrating his acquisition of Durmstrang, she went to Dumbledore. She confessed everything. All of the ways he hurt her, how he exploited her magic and abilities to torture and sway both enemies and allies alike, and even knowing all of this, Dumbledore refused to put the bastard out of his misery. It was only when Grindelwald threatened to invade Britain and destroy Hogwarts to reclaim her, did Dumbledore finally decide to meet him for a duel. Yet, at the same time, he wanted Meira to think of him as family. Good Ole Uncle Albus! Yeah, right.

And third, probably the most startling of them all, Feodora’s family were direct descendants of the daughter born to Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw.

Now, Hermione considered herself creative within reason, but it was beginning to seem less and less likely that she was dreaming up this alternate world all on her own. Something or someone planted those images in her mind. But who could she tell? They would think that she was crazy.

Exactly one week to the day Hermione would board the train to begin her fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she had yet another dream of being in Ravenclaw Tower, only this one was completely different from the others.

It had taken a day or two for Hermione to contend with Meira’s past, and even some aspects of her present.

She stood in front of a mirror. Icy gray-colored eyes stared back as she assessed her long corn silk hair that ended just above her high bum. Her nose was still small and button-like, but the splattering of brown freckles was absent. Her lips were a soft pink, and dare she say, pouty. Her cheekbones were higher and she had very becoming dimples. Her teeth were bright and straight, perfect even. Hermione had a modest B cup, but Meira was a C. Her legs were long and shapely. Her hips flared attractively. Her stomach bore no traces of baby fat. Her skin was as smooth and rich as the finest cream. Although it was like taking a dagger to her heart, Hermione was forced to admit to both herself and her dream journal that she had never looked better.

“What are you doing, Meira?” called her best friend Orphelia. That’s right. Her best friend was a girl. A very buxom girl whose hair was a natural Bordeaux wine color that would have made all the Weasley’s cry.

“I think I will transfigure my hair, Ory.”

“You had better not cut it, Meira Belikov.”

“I will never do that,” she vowed a bit vainly. “I just am sick of looking like that bastard who calls himself my father.” The sheer hatred she felt for Grindelwald left Hermione breathless.

“I know you do. What color then?”

“Why, black, of course,” she said, giving her best friend a radiant smile through the mirror.

“Now, Meira, is this really about not looking like Grindelwald or a ploy to get the Slytherins to cool it with the nickname so you and your uncle will stop butting heads about it?”

My uncle is a prat, she thought venomously. But aloud she laughed endearingly. “Ory, you do amuse me. However, I must concur with my uncle, this ‘White Queen’ moniker is a bit taxing.”

“Oh, you love it.” But in her mind, Orphelia was thinking of how wonderful Meira’s bare skin felt against hers the night before.

The flashes were so vivid that Hermione may have blushed in her sleep. Those thoughts were not lost on Meira either. It seemed that Meira was a natural telepath. An ability that was both extraordinary and virtually nonexistent amongst witches and wizards. No form of Legilimency was required and any attempts at Occlumency were futile. Only she could control whether or not she wished to be receptive to another person’s thoughts.

“Not tonight,” she said to the girl’s unspoken questions.

Orphelia blushed and adverted her eyes even though they were both alone in the room. Most of the students of Ravenclaw Tower were partying with the Hufflepuffs who were celebrating an upsetting Quidditch victory over the Gryffindors.

“I’m sorry. I knew that you and—.”

“It has absolutely nothing to do with that.” After all, she thought, it amuses him whenever I play with the girls. “I am going to visit him tonight. We are working on a project in Transfiguration, you know.” But what Orphelia didn’t know was that they had finished the project days ago.

“Of course. I should probably go join everyone at the party.”

Suddenly, Meira was bombarded with Orphelia’s thoughts of being too needy and pushing her away, when she should be grateful for the time and attention Meira gave her.

She cupped Orphelia’s chin and kissed her soft cherry lips. “If you are awake when I come back…,” she let the implication hang in the air as the girl’s eyes clouded with lust. “Good night, Ory.”

Again, Hermione traversed the familiar corridors until she began her descent into the dungeons. Hermione herself would never set foot in the direction of the dungeons without her wand in her hand and Harry’s invisibility cloak on her back. But Harry was not here and she was not Hermione. She was Meira. The strikingly beautiful, powerful, and intelligent Meira, who seemed to have no sense of self-preservation.

She stopped in front of a portrait of a python twirled around a branch that bore a single ruby red apple.

“Passsssword?”

“Naga.”

The serpent who was actually one of Salazar Slytherin’s pets, gave a snaky bow before opening the portrait. Meira had her hood up, but they already knew who she was.

“Good evening, all.”

“Milady.” Impossibly blond hair belonging to a tall boy with polished features appeared before her. Since entering her dream world, she had seen him many times. He kissed her hand as he always did.

“Abraxas, what have I told you about calling me that?”

A wolfish grin appeared on his aristocratic face. He looked a bit older than Draco and he was more handsome than Lucius—and that was saying something. “That if you hear it fall from my lips you may have to place me over your knee and punish me.”

Meira sighed indulgently. “And I suppose that is exactly what you are hoping for?”

“That would be inadvisable of me. For I, that is to say, we, are only following our lord’s orders. However, should you feel so inclined to do as such, it is my duty as your humble servant to acquiesce,” he finished with a dramatic, yet graceful bow.

“How gracious of you, Abraxas.”

This was the really scary part for Hermione. As Meira glanced around the room at the smiling faces, Hermione herself shivered in horror from seeing the descendants of his future followers.

Hermione knew that she should not have that knowledge. She didn’t. Meira did. Meira chatted amicably with Walburga Black about the latest fashion in Russia while she silently scanned the minds of those around her for any signs of treachery.

“…damn that itches. I suppose I should go to the infirmary…that’s the last time I go slumming in Knockturn Alley…”

“…if they will marry…I could be her bridesmaid…!”

“…so beautiful…so powerful. She should be a Malfoy…!”

“…months and I will be working for the Ministry of Magic. That should get me a higher favor than Malfoy…”

Satisfied with the lack of truly malicious thoughts, Meira climbed the stairs to the Slytherin Head Boy Dorm. Hermione was in a nervous fit as she came closer and closer to the dreaded door. She was ashamed to admit that even though she feared him, it was her guilty pleasure to let his perfect body lie between her thighs. The first time Hermione experienced it, she felt like a traitorous slag.

Meira knocked once and did a silent countdown.

5…

4…

3…

2…

“I distinctly remember saying that I wished not to be disturbed...”

The door swung open with a start, revealing a very irritated Tom Riddle. When face to face with the boy who would soon become the most feared and darkest wizard, second to none, she should have been quivering in mortal terror, dream or not. But Hermione was mesmerized.

His hair was black and had a voluminous shine that nearly looked blue in the sun. He had a patrician nose, a sculpted brow, dark coffee colored eyes that at a glance seemed innocent and not even remotely deceptive, but Hermione and Meira both knew better. He had a chiseled jaw and pillowy pink lips she was dying to kiss. Just by looking at him, you could easily forget that he would bring unspeakable horror and suffering to the world in just a matter of years. Hermione had begun to appreciate Ginny’s obsession back in second year.

Her heart pounded as their eyes met and he seemed significantly less irritated than before.

“Milord,” she said, well aware that the subordinates were still watching.

Tom Riddle scowled slightly. “Meira, how many times must I tell you to wait for an escort before traipsing about the castle alone?”

“Forgive my impatience, milord.”

“You will be punished.”

Hermione felt a rush of anticipation and fear from his dark promise. He stepped aside after drawing his yew wand, ignoring the collective gasps around the common room. She lowered her head subserviently and entered the room.

“I wish to not be disturbed again.”

A chorus of “yes milord,” rang out before he closed the door with a definitive snap. Meira watched as he locked the door and silenced the room before slowly turning towards her. If he was at all annoyed about her making herself at home on his bed, stroking young Nagini’s napping head, he did not show it.

“I expect that you have a good reason for not waiting for me?” he spoke in deliberately calm and quiet tones that as alluring as it was, would have made a cat’s hair stand on end for all of its silent menace.

“Three actually.”

“Go on.”

“One: I’m thinking of changing my hair.”

The young Dark Lord pinched the bridge of his nose with a deep sigh. “And this is relevant to me because…?”

“Because then we won’t have my uncle pitching a fit over your minions calling me your White Queen.”

His lips quirked quickly, before settling back into passive indifference. “Oh? I was under the impression that you wanted to be my queen. That it was your ambition in life, little heiress.”

Meira said nothing. She whipped out her wand as fast as she had seen Tom do and silently transfigured her hair to a silky sable. Tom’s nostrils flared slightly and his eyes darkened.

“An agreeable change then,” she teased, pocketing her wand.

“And your other two reasons,” he prompted purposely ignoring her obvious provocations.

“Two: I received a couple of important packages this morning at breakfast.” She reached inside her cloak pocket and retrieved a black leather-bound book. “It seems that while Grindelwald’s possessions and assets were being seized by the government, they stumbled across a blank journal with my mother’s name engraved on the back. They sent it to grandmother who in turn sent it to me.”

Tom’s eyes lit up in dark glee when he held the book in his hands. His face fell when he flipped through the empty pages, but only for a moment.

“Meira?”

“Yes?” she answered, knowing what he was thinking without scanning him.

“Give me your hand, please.” He said please, but it was clearly an order.

She held out her hand and watched the concentration on Tom’s face as he carefully drew a vertical cut on her finger. She barely batted an eyelash at the biting sting. He squeezed three drops of her blood onto the first page and healed her. Her blood absorbed into the page and Hermione had a déjà vu moment of Harry telling her and Ron about Tom Riddle’s diary.

Words and measurements formed on the once blank pages revealing antidotes, poisons, and cures of potions created by Meira’s mother.

“Slughorn would give his wand hand for even one of these potions,” he said in awe.

Meira recognized that look. In a matter of seconds, Tom would be lost in reading through, contemplating, and brewing her mother’s potions. Not that she minded. It was true that her mother lacked simple magical ability, but as for her talent in potions? She had it in spades.

“Tom?” Meira called softly.

“Hmm?” he mumbled distractedly.

“The third thing, with Grindelwald in Nurmengard and travel being safe again, my grandmother sent a letter calling me home for Christmas.”

Tom’s eyes stopped devouring the pages. They narrowed infinitesimally and his fingers tightened around the book.

“Home.”

“Home.”

“Home…as in Russia.”

“Yes,” she hesitated. “She requested something else of me.”

“And what might that be?”

“She wants me to bring you as well.”

Meira was so nervous about requesting anything from Tom that she completely missed the emotions quickly passing in Tom’s eyes.

“I know it’s wrong of me to presume you should do anything, but, well, that orphanage is atrocious. You don’t belong there. And staying here would be nice if your every move was not constantly being shadowed by Dumbledore,” she spat. “And you could go to Abraxas’s family mansion, but then the others are going to be there hoping to kiss up, and I just thought it would be nice to spend Christmas with you in a truly safe place. Grandmother lives alone except for the elves, and you could start brewing the potions, and I just know she has more information on Milady Ravenclaw and Lord Slytherin.”

Throughout all of Meira’s rambling, she failed to see Tom slowly approach her. At exactly six feet, he towered over her. He kneeled in front of her so that they were on eye level.

“You are correct. You should never presume that your lord will do anything.” He gently freed her lip from between her teeth as she had begun to nibble on it. She shivered from the smoothness of the underside of his finger. “However in this instance, being away from you would be…disconcerting.”

She knew this was the best she would get from him, but it was more than what he would ever say to another.

“I love you, too,” she whispered honestly.

His lips quirked in an almost smile before he became serious again.

“Stand up.” She complied, desire mixed with trepidation coiled in her belly. “I believe you and I have an appointment to keep.” He raised his wand, banishing her cloak. His jaw clenched at the sight of Meira clad in very tiny, laced emerald green panties she saw in a muggle magazine, high heels and nothing else. “And you walked around the castle this way,” he hissed. He circled her like a true predator, trailing the tip of his wand between her breasts down to her stomach. He swished his wand and invisible chains shackled around her wrists drawing her arms high above her head. The heels of her shoes barely touched the floor. His hand entwined in her hair, yanking her head back roughly. She moaned as her panties flooded.

“Tom, Tom, please.”

“Please what, witch?”

“Please…make it hurt.”

She could almost see his smirk behind her. “I promise.”

Hermione awoke panting that night. The pain of his whipping and the pleasure of his tongue gliding across her skin left her aching in the sickest way with no one to tell it to but her journal.

Back in the stands, Ron fidgeted nervously beside her. It was going on two hours now and there was still no sign of Harry or Cedric. Even the headmaster looked antsy.

“Mione?” he whispered, as she stood lost in her thoughts.

“Yes, Ron?”

“Why is Moody staring at you?”

“Ron, he could be looking at anyone,” she said, distractedly.

“No, he’s looking at you.”

Hermione glanced over and sure enough, Moody stood with his hands on his staff staring directly at her. He looked pensive, well, as pensive as a man with one-eye can. Hermione internally winced at the harshness of her thoughts. Since returning to Hogwarts, she felt different. Not a day passed without Hermione finding herself standing at the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower, gazing at the familiar portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw.

In the beginning, the school founder seemed annoyed that a Gryffindor who was supposedly the brightest witch of her age, stood before her, gawking at her like a slow Hufflepuff, but then they began to talk and Hermione would catch Rowena looking at her in the same way Moody looked at her now. It was as if they were waiting for something to happen.

The boys seemed too distracted to notice the small changes in Hermione’s behavior. They missed the way she wore her unruly hair in a neat braid down her back with blue ribbon at the end. They failed to see how she traded her oversized clothes for shorter skirts and snugger blouses.

No one even noticed when one of the girls in Hermione’s dorm asked her to help rub lotion on her back. Or the way Hermione licked her lips when the girl moaned. It went unnoticed how Hermione watched the girl, lust shining bright in her eyes.

Annoyingly enough, the only professor who managed to notice the changes in Hermione was the one who disliked her the most.

Professor Snape knew the stars had to be out of alignment the day Hermione Granger failed to raise her hand to answer a question.

“Well, well,” he taunted smoothly. “Are my eyes deceiving me? For once in your life, Miss Granger, you don’t know the answer?”

The Slytherins laughed while Harry and Ron gritted their teeth at Snape’s obvious bullying. But what shocked them all was the soft, airy chuckle that fell from Hermione’s lips.

“Not at all, professor. I was merely giving everyone else a chance to gather their thoughts and take a swing at the question themselves. However, I will answer the question, if you prefer it.”

For a moment, Professor Snape stood confused. There was something different about Hermione Granger. Something that he had never noticed. For one, she looked completely different. Her bushy mane was actually tamed in a neat braid with a few loose strands curling over her ears. Her brown eyes seemed brighter. There was an unmistakable glow of confidence surrounding her. It took him about ten seconds to realize that he had been standing there gaping at the girl.

“Five points from Gryffindor.”

He turned around to resume lecturing when a soft voice said, “may I ask what for, sir?”

“For asking questions instead of answering them.”

The small deduction of points was not as surprising as the little smile playing at the corner of surly Potions Master’s lips.

“Hermione, are you alright?” Ron said, with his hand on her shoulder.

“Ron?” she mumbled, her stomach flopping as though she would start to heave.

“Hey, you don’t look so good.”

“I don’t feel so…”

“Hermione!” Ron’s panicky voice echoed distantly.

She was in limbo or as close as a person can get without actually being in limbo. She stood in nothing.Just a white space void of any objects or people. She was nothing. Her body was just as transparent as the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw’s. A thick mist surrounded her as she frantically searched for an exit.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” she yelled. “Harry? Ron? Anyone?” She bit back her tears as she walked for what seemed like miles and miles of nothing. She fell to her knees and cried into her hands. This was not a dream. She was truly lost. ‘Tom,” she whispered.

Hermione.

She heard the name as clear as if he was standing beside her. “Tom? Tom, is that you?” she stood shakily, looking all about her for her raven-haired prince.

Hermione.

“Tom, where are you?”

Hermione, he is stopping me from getting to you.

“Who? Who is stopping you? I’m right here, Tom!”

I can’t save you. Not until you see.

“See what? Tom, please just help me!” she pleaded.

Not until you see.

“Okay, I will see! Just get me out of here!”

A bright white light blinded her and she was no longer in the nothingness world. She was in a large bedroom on a black and beige colored antique sofa reading. She knew that as soon as the light hit her eyes she was no longer Hermione Granger. The fire crackled soothingly, and every now and then, Nagini and Kadru would hiss things at one another as they lounged on the large bed.

He was in the room with her. She was as aware of his presence as she was her own heartbeat. Without taking her eyes off the page, she smiled invitingly, knowing he had something to tell her.

“Natasia is a notorious flirt,” he announced.

Meira laughed and let the book rest in her lap. “What did my grandmother do this time?” he lifted her legs off the sofa so that he could sit and then left them rest across his lap.

“Your darling grandmother regaled me with tales of how the men in her days would take the mother of their wives as a lover so as to not aggrieve his family.”

“Come on, Tom, between the two of us, you know she’s kind of hot,” she teased.

“We should bring Abraxas with us next time. Maybe then he can stop thinking that he is entitled to be your lover because he saw you first,” Tom said, a tiny flicker of anger in his voice.

“Abraxas is a faithful follower, Tom.”

“Yet the question still stands, who is he following, me or you?”

She treaded carefully, zoning in on the potential danger of his tone. “I am yours, and only yours.”

His cold coffee brown eyes held hers until he was satisfied that he believed her. “Daughter of the Papacy: The Complete Biography of Lucrezia Borgia. Why are you reading this?”

“No offense to Elizabeth Woodville and the Plantagenet’s, but if everyone insists on referring to me as historical figure, I would rather it be Lucrezia Borgia.”

“But you have not poisoned anyone, Meira.”

“That you know of, Tom,” she remarked, wiggling her eyebrows.

He sighed and pulled her up from the couch. “Come with me, my little viper.”

Her family’s manor was even more beautiful than the lovely grounds of Hogwarts. Even Tom enjoyed the snow covered grounds and wildlife drifting in and out of the forest at the oddest of times. They walked until they reached the cliff overlooking the darkened sea. The black waves crashed against the rocks. It was both beautiful and daunting.

Meira had the distinct feeling that Tom was looking at her rather than the waves. “Is everything all right, Tom?”

“Do you trust me, Meira?”

She was a bit worried at the sudden question. “Yes, Tom.”

“With your heart and soul? With your love?”

“Of course, you know this already.”

A cold wind blew between them, but neither acknowledged it.

“With your life?”

Meira could see that Tom was clearly searching for something. His eyes suddenly shifted from relaxed to cold and dangerous at the drop of a hat. It was as if he was anticipating her betrayal or even her abandonment. Well, he could wait all he wanted. It would never happen.

“With my life.”

“Close your eyes.” She did as he said, listening to the crashing of the waves and her love’s soft breathing. He moved closer to her. “Where is your wand?” Meira flicked her wrist and at once, her wand appeared in her hand. Wordlessly, she offered it to him, still keeping her eyes shut. His hands clutched her shoulders and she could feel his gaze on her face. Meira spread her arms wide just seconds before Tom shoved her off the cliff. She fell slowly, slowly down towards the ravaging sea waiting to claim the last remaining heir.

Dying was never pleasant to think about. Tom himself was terrified of death. The first time she met him, she saw in his mind that it was his goal to achieve immortality. She asked him about it once. It was how he discovered she was a natural telepath. It was also when she discovered that Grindelwald’s Cruciatus was like being hit with a pillow compared to his.

Those were Meira’s thoughts as she fell through the surface. She could hear or see nothing. The sea engulfed her. She didn’t feel cold. Oddly enough, she was as warm as if she was in bed. She felt drowsy. Most people would fight and swim until every muscle in their body cramped up like after receiving a succession of the torture curse.

Most people were not forced to torture others for a cause that was senseless. Most people did not have to sleep in the bed with their fathers because he wanted you to be a Russian whore like your mother. Most people never knew the shame and degradation of having their father sodomize you every night from the age of thirteen. They didn’t know how hard it was going to Durmstrang and having everyone there worship you, not because of your own magical capabilities, but because your father controlled the school. They could never understand how it felt to watch your lover marry another man because your father threatened to pass her along to his soldiers just to hurt you some more.

Meira was grateful for the time she had with Tom Riddle. If she could feel so much happiness in such a short amount of time, only to die because of it, so be it.

Just as she felt herself slipping away, her body propelled upwards, breaking through the surface with a loud crash. A dark angel hovered above the water catching her in his arms. She was dry and warm again as they drifted higher and higher above the water, but several feet away from the cliff.

“Grindelwald’s daughter is dead now. You have given your life to me, little Heiress of Ravenclaw. You are mine now, Mrs. Riddle. Dark Lady to the world,” his soft lips possessed and devoured her. “My White Queen.” His nostrils flared and his dark eyes smoldered as if daring her to disagree.

“Yours,” she whispered feverishly.

Later that night, with Natasia as a witness, Tom and Meira performed a dark binding ritual created by Salazar Slytherin himself. She could carry no other child but his. She could lay with no other man but him. Her allegiance rested with him in this world and whatever world would await her in the future. She was completely his.

The mist appeared before Hermione’s eyes again. She could hear shouting voices, but the mist was so thick that she could not see.

“Why do you refuse to see him for what he is, Meira?” a voice that sounded suspiciously like Albus Dumbledore pleaded to her.

“I know exactly what he is, Albus,” she spat his name with such hate. “He is the man who saved me and cared for me when you wouldn’t.”

“Gellert is not the issue right now.”

“No, he’s never an issue with you, is he?” she scoffed. “Tom and I love each other, Albus—.”

“Love? Don’t delude yourself, girl. Tom Riddle is a monster. He is not capable of love.”

“How dare you?”

“Meira, I just meant—.”

“Get out.”

“I don’t want to upset you, especially now, but you must listen to me.”

“Get out of here, Albus, or I will call Tom, and trust me, he will not be held responsible for what he does.”

Silence ensued and Hermione could only imagine they were having a silent standoff.

“Then what they say is true. You are his Dark Lady.”

“Please leave.” An unmistakable quiver of fear echoed in Meira’s voice that Hermione had never heard. She was always so strong and passionate, even when around Tom. What could Dumbledore have said or done to instill that type of fear in her?

“Will you leave Tom and come with me now?” his question bore a tone of finality to it. He already knew her answer and he would act accordingly. Hermione began to fear for Meira’s safety.

“I will never leave my husband, Albus.”

“Then I am left with no other choice, Mrs. Riddle,” he said coldly.

Meira suddenly screamed.

Then the memory ended and she could hear muffled voices.

“Tom…?” Hermione whispered before plunging into darkness.

~*~

Lord Voldemort was not pleased.

First, he was resurrected in the graveyard. That went as planned.

Second, he had in his grasp the fabled Boy-Who-Lived. That also went as planned.

Third, he expected a gathering of faithful Death Eaters. Yet when he summoned them, barely a handful responded.

If that was not a personal insult to a night that should have gone down in history as the return of the Dark Lord and the fall of the over glorified Harry Potter, the Killing Curse did not work—again! Instead, their wands connected in Priori Incantatem, giving the boy the chance to slip through his fingers all over again.

No, Lord Voldemort was not having a good night at all.

He could feel the nervous eyes of his followers as he stood with his back to them. For five minutes, he stood stationary, staring at the spot where the boy had just vanished, as if the sheer will of his glower alone would bring him back.

Behind him, one brave, if not incredibly foolish, soul attempted to engage him.

“Milord?” came the fearful and grudgingly astonished voice of Lucius Malfoy.

“Lucius.”

“Milord, we were wondering, that is to say, what are your orders?”

“You dare assume that I answer to you, my servant?” he whispered. Before Lucius could even think of retreating, Lord Voldemort spun with his wand raised, ready to curse aristocratic bastard. “Answer me, Lucius,” he hissed.

He hesitated, making the Dark Lord smile inside. Failing to comply with a direct order was more than enough reason to administer a healthy dose of the Cruciatus. Besides, he was still furious over Lucius allowing his diary Horcrux to be destroyed. Lord Voldemort opened his mouth to say the words when a loud pop sounded behind him. His once petrified Death Eaters spun around, wands drawn, ready for battle, but nothing could prepare them for what they saw.

Barty Crouch, Jr., still dressed in the clothes of Mad-Eye Moody surveyed the scene around him. Barty knew when Potter reemerged on the field dirty, bloody and sniveling with the Diggory boy’s body that the Dark Lord had returned. If he had any doubts, he knew for sure when he saw the Granger girl collapse in the stands. The Blood Traitor Weasley was beside himself with worry, attempting to follow Barty while he carried the girl away from everyone. Once the boy was stunned and tucked away at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Barty carried the girl to the Hogwarts gates, touched his now burning and writhing Dark Mark and Apparated them away.

Now he stood in the cemetery of Little Hangleton with the unconscious Granger in his arms, staring down the wrong end of his brothers’ wands.

“Milord,” he said, lowering his head, as it was difficult to bow without dropping her.

“Barty, I was wondering when you would return,” the Dark Lord’s attention waned from Malfoy and focused on the limp body in his arms. “Oh, look, you brought a friend.”

The Death Eaters parted as Barty approached his lord. By the time they reached him, Lucius Malfoy began spluttering unintelligibly.

“Would like assistance in loosening your tongue, Lucius?” the Dark Lord hissed, glancing over the girl in mild curiosity.

“Milord, that’s Potter’s mudblood! The little jumped up chit that thinks she’s better than my son!”

Barty whirled around madly, aiming his wand between Malfoy’s eyes. “She is not a mudblood, Malfoy. And had you bothered to stop and think for a second you would have realized what I figured out within a month of meeting her.”

“But that is the Granger girl!” Wormtail argued from the corner. “When I was the Blood Traitors pet, she was always around them. She helped them capture me and I’m sure she had something to do with Black escaping the Dementor’s Kiss.”

Barty couldn’t deny that. From what he already knew, the girl was more than formidable.

“Then who is she, Barty? Who is this little slip of a girl that you so avidly defend?”

Although Lord Voldemort could care less if Lucius was cursed into oblivion at that very moment, he could not afford dissension among his ranks. And, he wanted to do the cursing.

Barty lowered his wand and summoned the courage to look his master directly in his eyes. Lucius smirked to himself, knowing that such disrespect was sure to end in the lunatics pain.

Lord Voldemort knew that for his servant to risk staring in his eyes meant that he was either as insane as everyone believed or he wished for him to invade his mind.

Milord, yes, the girl is best friends with both Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, youngest son of the Blood Traitors Arthur and Molly Weasley, but she is NOT a mudblood. I have reason to believe that she may be…Lady Meira.

Lord Voldemort was a true master of deception and it took all of his skills to prevent the shock and glimmer of hope from showing. Quickly, he sifted through Barty’s memories of the so-called mudblood.

She was talking quietly to the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw… she was walking down the corridors talking to the Grey Lady afterhours…she wore fake smiles whenever Potter or Weasley would do something stupid…she was staring at a blond haired girl for much longer than a casual assessment…

It was not enough.

Barty, sensing his master’s frustration, pushed the memory that convinced him that she was the White Queen to the front of his mind.

[Flashback]

Barty Crouch, Jr., disguised as the overweight, nearly invalid, Alastor Moody limped to the front of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. His students stared back at him, afraid to let him out of their sights. They should be afraid.

“The ministry does not wish me to teach you this, but when you are in a battle, Stupefy, Expelliarmus, and Petrificus Totalus ain’t going to cut it!” he barked.

He turned to the board writing furiously while keeping Moody’s special eye trained on the fidgeting students, Potter, Weasley, and Granger in particular. She wore her hair braided down her back. She did not look nervous or terrified like the others. She was anxious. Excited.

“The Unforgivables?” Weasley whispered to Potter. “Is he mad?”

“Well, it isa part of his name,” the Longbottom boy whispered nervously.

“Now,” Barty barked, startling many of the students. “The Unforgivables. Can anyone tell me why they are called as such?”

Barty kept his gaze on the on the girl as she interlaced her fingers. Her eyes clouded over as though deep in thought while he absently called on the Malfoy boy who prattled on with his explanation.

“Good, Mr. Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin.” Barty removed a spider from a jar. A highly venomous black widow and enlarged it to three times its size. “Now administer the Imperius Curse.”

Barty never did like the Malfoy’s, especially Lucius, bloody coward. And he relished in the utter terror on the boy’s face, though he tried to hide it. His two sidekicks, the offspring of Crabbe and Goyle—those two should have never been allowed to reproduce—cheered him on as he walked to the cleared space in the center of the room. The spider brought its pincers together loudly as the boy raised his wand.

“Imperio!”

The spider still clenched its pincers.

“Imperio!”

Nothing.

“IMPERIO!”

On the third attempt, the spider relaxed and awaited its orders.

“You have it under your control now, boy, control it.”

Malfoy smirked and levitated the spider from the ground until it hovered directly over the Weasley boy’s head, who looked as though he would die of fright. The Slytherins laughed while the Gryffindors demanded Malfoy call the spider off.

“Alright, boy,” Barty said gruffly. “Release him, and not in Weasley’s hair.” He could see the disappointment in the spoiled brats eyes.

With the spider on the floor and immobilized by Barty’s stunning, he faced the class once more. “Now, who can tell me about the second Unforgivable? Perhaps…Miss Granger?”

A derisive snort echoed from the other side of the room from the Malfoy boy.

“The second Unforgivable Curse is the Cruciatus Curse, professor. It is said to cause the victim horrific pain and prolonged exposure can lead to insanity and even death.” She ignored the small wince from the Longbottom boy who was obviously thinking of his parents.

“And what else?” Barty prompted.

She hesitated for the briefest of moments. Her eyes no longer on Barty, but on the spider immobilized on the floor. She tilted her head as she spoke.

“While frowned upon by the ministry, the Cruciatus Curse is a convenient spell for acclaimed dark witches and wizards because of the simplicity. While you feel the pain, your body is not horribly damaged. If administered correctly, it can be the perfect tool for extracting information from your enemies.” Her head turned slightly as she gazed out of the window as if thinking of a time far away. “People are stubborn, professor. They would rather hold on to information that could quite possibly be the deciding factor of living and dying. Killing them outright is not an option. Legilimency can only go so far. Sure, you could take it easy on them and Imperius them so that they will cooperate, or even use Veritaserum and watch the horror fill their eyes as they find themselves unable to stop confessing their darkest secrets, but why should you?” she turned back to Barty. Her hands clasped in front of her face as if in a silent prayer. “Sometimes, it’s better to inflict a little pain to loosen a stubborn tongue.”

The Gryffindors looked disgusted with her. The Slytherins, aside from Malfoy, watched her speculatively, something not lost on the blond oversized ferret.

“As if a mudblood knows anything about torturing,” he laughed.

“You are right, Malfoy. Torturing is not exactly my favorite pastime. Perhaps you should consult your daddy on how it is done. After all, I am pretty sure he did not receive that lovely tattoo on his forearm for rescuing kittens,” she smirked.

Barty coughed to cover his snicker. This was turning out to be the best day of his “teaching career.”But he could see the boy going for his wand. “Mr. Malfoy, you will do well to keep your comments and your wand to yourself.”

“Why should I? She is nothing but a mudblood whore and her kind is only good for one thing. I wonder if that’s why Krum follows you like a lost puppy.”

Barty could feel the tension and hatred rising in the room. He could see that the Potter boy, who was having mixed feelings about his best friend at the moment, was still itching to defend her honor against Malfoy.

“What do you say to that, Miss Granger?” Barty said, before Potter could insinuate himself into the argument. “Mr. Malfoy here believes that because of your muggle heritage, you should not be allowed to hold a wand.”

“Of course she shouldn’t.” Malfoy turned to the girl wearing a cruel smirk. “Everyone knowsthat the only value you have, mudblood, lies underneath your skirt.”

Derisive laughter from the Slytherin side mixed with appalled gasps from the Gryffindors. The Weasley boy’s face had turned as red as his hair. He went for his wand when a soft hand touched his forearm.

“Mione?” he questioned.

“Professor, if I may?” she whispered in a voice familiar to his ears but foreign to theirs. Without waiting for his answer, she rose from her seat and glided to the front of the room. Her robe billowed behind her as though she had been taking lessons from Snape himself.

Barty stepped back and angled himself so that he had a clear view of the girl’s face and that of the others. She stood before the spider, but her eyes were locked on the smug Malfoy’s. He could tell that the boy hoped the girl would fail.

Slowly, deliberately, she pulled her wand from her pocket. She held it in her right hand and caressed it with the fingers of her left hand in the same meaningful way as the Dark Lord did so long ago. It was a vow that something or perhaps someone was about to experience unimaginable pain.

He noticed her classmates shivering from the sweet smile on her lips and the cold anticipation in her brown eyes.

Then as soon as it began, it stopped. With her wand pointed down at the spider banging its pincers in front of her, she held Malfoy’s eyes as she whispered, “Crucio.”

The indicative red flash left the tip of her wand. The Malfoy boy’s smile fell when the spider began writhing. It’s eight legs scratching loudly against the bare floor.

She turned her wrist slightly and the boy’s frown turned into sheer terror as the spider emitted and unearthly scream. Barty was thankful he put a silencing spell on the room. The students covered their ears as the spider screamed so shrilly that the window cracked.

A minute later, she released the spell and the spider, now sprawled on its back, fell silent. It’s eight legs still twitched from the after effects. Barty took the time to survey the classroom. The Longbottom boy had vomited all over his desk and robes, tears streamed down his face. The Weasley boy had fainted. Heart of a lion indeed. Barty looked expectantly at the Potter boy. His hands clenched into fists as he glared hatefully, not at the girl, but at Barty himself. He blamed him for her behavior. The other Gryffindors looked shaken. Some were holding themselves, others had their eyes squeezed shut as if hoping it was all a nightmare.

The Slytherins looked better, for the most part. They were intrigued and more than a little wary of the girl. Except for Malfoy. He was so pale that he could pass for an albino.

The girl moved slowly towards him. “So a spider can scream.” She stopped directly in front of Malfoy’s desk. “But I wonder, can a ferret scream?” the boy was shivering now as if the girl herself was the Dark Lord. “Professor?” she said, her eyes still locked on Malfoy’s.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” he answered almost gleefully.

“As an expert on the Unforgivables, would you say that I have proven myself as capable of holding a wand, or do you think I need to practice the Killing Curse to…quell those lingering doubts?” her voice was as soft as a feather and so sweet that it was poisonous. She spoke to Barty, but her eyes never strayed from the Malfoy boy who now blushed in embarrassment as piss trickled down his legs.

Barty laughed gruffly. “No, Miss Granger. I don’t believe there’s a soul in here who will ever make the foolish mistake of doubting you again.”

“It would be…unfortunate if they did.” She turned to Barty and for a split second, her soft brown eyes gleamed a cool gray.

[END OF FLASHBACK]

The Dark Lord withdrew from Barty’s memories after watching him place a sleeping spell over the class and altering their memories to an entirely different lesson from the one they originally had.

“You erased that memory from her mind?”

“No, milord. I merely made it so that she would think it was a dream.”

“Did he really wet himself?” he asked amusedly.

“Yes, milord. It is a pity that I had to remove it. He went back to bothering her only a few hours later.”

Malfoys. Always wanting more when they have it all. The Dark Lord turned to his followers who were standing rather lost without any orders. He really had been gone for too long.

“My servants, tonight was disappointing to say the least,” he hissed. “But make no mistake, Harry Potter will fall. In the meantime, return to your homes as though nothing out of the ordinary has transpired. I suspect that our illustrious minister of magic will turn a deaf ear to my return,” he smirked, which was a frightening sight in itself. “But prepare yourselves!” he warned. “In two fortnights, we shall free your brothers from Azkaban. Now, leave me.”

The Death Eaters Disapparated, only Barty, Lucius, and Wormtail remained.

“Milord, if she is not a mudblood, then who is she?”

The Dark Lord and Barty shared a silent glance. “Lucius, I will need you to prepare guestrooms at your mansion.”

“Of course, whatever milord wishes.”

A nasty smirk darkened Lord Voldemort’s reptilian face. “Oh, not for me, faithful servant.”

“For who, milord?” he asked hesitantly.

“For Bartemius and Wormtail, of course!” he laughed as the younger man flinched at the use of his full name. “They shall be rewarded for their efforts.”

“Yes, milord,” Lucius answered, albeit grudgingly.

“Good,” he levitated the girl’s body carefully from Barty’s arms. “And Lucius? It is because of Barty and Wormtail that I have a body and am no longer stranded in a forest. You will do well to remember that they are in my highest favor and will be treated as such, otherwise, I will be greatly disappointed.”

The three men bowed and Disapparated on the spot. Alone in the cemetery, Lord Voldemort allowed himself to really look at the girl. She was not that different from Meira, if you knew her as well as he did. He came closer as she hovered in the air. His cold, white hand touched her cheek. He shuddered as the telltale spark of their bond thrummed over his skin. The girl shifted and nuzzled further into his palm.

“…Tom.”

He cancelled the spell and held her tightly against him. “I am here, my queen.” He pressed a tender kiss against her forehead and Apparated them home.

It was as if she was having an out-of-body experience. She awoke in a large, four-poster bed. The darkened bedroom was only illuminated by the crackling fireplace and the large moon that seemed to hang right outside of her window. She sat up slowly to gather her bearings. The last thing she remembered was standing beside Ron in the stands waiting for Harry and Cedric to come back from the maze.

“Where am I?” she whispered to the empty room.

“The Black Sea Manor, Hermione,” a voice from beside the fireplace answered her.

She gasped and clutched the sheet to her body, as she wore a black silk nightgown with nothing underneath. The figure sat in the chair closest to the fireplace. He was shrouded in black, wearing gloves and a cloak with the hood drawn. His attention seemed to be focused on the leather journal in his hands that looked exactly like—.

“Hey, that’s mine!” she said, when fear gave way to annoyance. “It’s rude to take other people’s belongings,” she said bossily.

Two glowing red slits held the place of where his eyes should have been watched her steadily. Hermione’s apprehension washed over her as if someone poured ice-cold water down her back.

“Yes, and what an interesting little read it is. It actually reminds me of a journal I used to have.”

Hermione pinched her arms slightly, hoping that her other half’s memories had somehow mixed with her subconscious and that it was all a hallucination.

“Um…?”

“Yes?”

“Where is The Black Sea Manor exactly?”

“Russia.”

She was in Russia?? The man stood suddenly. And he was tall. Too tall. Tall like—no. She stopped right there. It was not possible. This was just a nightmare mixed with Meira Belikov’s memories. He stalked towards her slowly.

“But that is not what you really want to ask me, is it…Hermione…Jean…Granger?” he spoke her name slowly, deliberately.

“Who are you?” she whispered meekly.

“I believe you know exactly who I am, my dear.” He stood over her as she nibbled nervously on her lip.

“The Dark Lord?” better to be safe and show respect than to not and be sorry, she thought.

“Yes, and do you know who you are?”

She opened her mouth to say her name, but said instead, “I’m not her. I’m not your wife.”

He didn’t try to convince her that she was wrong, nor did he curse her for arguing with him. He sat on the bed beside her. For some strange reason, Hermione felt safer with him so close.

“You annoyed me the first time I met you,” he said suddenly.

“I—I’m sorry…”

He laughed lightly. “You weren’t at the time.”

If this was a dream, it couldn’t hurt to talk to him, could it? She was already alone with him, utterly defenseless and in no pain.

“How did we meet?” she asked when her curiosity won out over her fear.

“Unofficially, when you were sorted in the Great Hall. I was in my sixth year and you were about to begin your fifth. Headmaster Dippet announced you as Dumbledore’s niece.”

As he spoke, she could see it all as clear as day. After Dippet introduced her, the doors to the hall swept open slowly. She wore a long-sleeved, knee length white sweater-dress with white heels. Her corn silk hair trailed down her back as she walked in, head held high like a queen among her court.

“And everyone naturally assumed I would be in Gryffindor?” she guessed, not longer aware that she was referring to her and Meira as the same person.

The Dark Lord smirked in the darkness, aware of her unconscious acceptance.

“You were so beautiful,” he said, sounding almost reflective. “I expected you to be just another stupid blond. But you were so much more than I ever thought. Initially, I knew you would be one of those annoying do-gooder Gryffindors and I vowed to have Abraxas Malfoy court you so that he may bring you over to my side.”

“Anything to get underneath Dumbledore’s skin,” she smiled, almost fondly.

“Precisely. Imagine my surprise when the hat shouted Ravenclaw.”

“Together you will do amazing and devastating things,” she whispered.

The Dark Lord turned sharply. “What did you say?” he whispered.

Hermione swallowed fearfully and repeated what she had said. “Together you would do amazing and devastating things. It’s what the Sorting Hat said to me when it decided that while my loyalty was unquestionable, Hufflepuff would never work.”

“And what did the hat say next?” somewhere during their conversation, the Dark Lord had moved even closer.

“The hat had difficulty deciding between Slytherin and Ravenclaw because I was suited for both houses. It said, ‘my, my, what a delectable mind we have here. Oh, confidence, so much confidence. Bravery, too. Gryffindor, perhaps? No, a bit too ruthless for their taste. Hmm, intelligent, brave, cunning, and loyal to your last breath. Slytherin and Ravenclaw would both be wonderful houses for you. Yes, I see your questions, my dear. The one that you seek now resides in the House of Slytherin…together you would do amazing and devastating things…’ It left it up to me and…the temptation to go to Slytherin was killing me, but to become who I was truly meant to be, I had to go to Ravenclaw. That’s what I chose.”

“And when you made your way to the table, the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw stood at the door as if she was waiting for you.”

“No,” Hermione said, shaking her head as if to clear it. “You are trying to manipulate me into helping you.”

“Manipulation is not necessary, my dear. You will help me regardless. I am trying to help you remember.”

Hermione stared into the cold red slits. “Why are you keeping yourself covered up?”

“You have already experienced a great shock tonight, my dear. One more and I may have to set you up a bed next to the Longbottoms.”

The old Hermione would have been angered. She would have found it in horribly bad taste to make jokes about Neville’s mentally ill parents, but at that moment, she could not imagine him looking that bad.

Before she fully registered her actions, she rose up to her knees and reached for his face. He sat still as her hands touched his cold, sallow face beneath his hood. The sheer force of the contact made her moan as her body tingled all over.

“What was that?” she panted.

“Our bond.” He took her hands from his face so that he could maintain control over himself. The second she touched him, all he could think about was being inside her. His nostrils flared as he took in the sweet, musky scent of her arousal.

“Why can’t I remember everything? And why am I remembering things now?”

“You can blame Albus Dumbledore for that,” he said venomously. He released her wrists and went over to the window. “From the moment I heard the prophecy of the child born to the couple who thrice defied me, I knew that all my plans—our plans, could fail. That fool and his precious Order trailed our every move. He was determined to take you away from me. However, I never actually expected him to harm you. The night before I went to confront the Potters, as you slept, I placed a spell over you.”

“What sort of spell?”

“Our lives were bound and because of my Horcruxes I could not die and neither could you.”

If anyone overheard their conversation, they would think that the Dark Lord was being arrogant about his power and possessive with her, but Hermione vaguely recalled herself declaring that if he died, she would gladly follow him.

“The spell was of my own creation. If something happened where I was trapped and unable to be with you, you would revert back to an infant. When I lost my body, the spell activated. You should have been immediately placed with a family of my non-active supporters. But Dumbledore got to you.”

“That’s impossible. This manor is keyed to only allow entrance to you and I. It is completely unplottable.” Hermione covered her mouth as soon as the words left her mouth. How could she know that?

“But we were residing at Riddle Manor at the time. With you as an infant and me without a body, Dumbledore wasted no time taking you away. Had he not interfered, your memories would have been intact. I can only assume that he attempted to erase them, but the protection of our bond only allowed your memories to be suppressed. The closer I came to regaining my health, the more you began to remember.”

“So, the Grangers…?”

“Dumbledore placed you there himself and used a very powerful memory charm so that no one would remember you as Meira.”

“He knew…this whole time?” she felt betrayed. Violated. “What happened when he tried to get me to leave you?”

“That…that is something you need to remember on your own. I only arrived there afterwards.”

“But you do know what happened?”

“Yes.” He seemed to want to say something else.

“Was it bad?” she asked softly.

“I would rather you not have that memory at all, but it is vital.”

“Why don’t you want me to remember what happened that day?”

“Because it hurt you,” he said so softly she almost missed it.

A silent war raged inside of Hermione as she stared into the flames of the fire. If she refused, he would probably keep her with him anyway and use her to get to Harry. If she did remember, she would lose herself. Yes, it was debatable that she already had, but she liked being Hermione.

No, she was not the most beautiful girl in the world, but she was smart and she liked her life. She loved her parents. She loved her friends, even though they ignored her most of the time. She didn’t want to be a dark witch married to the darkest wizard of all time.

But you are not a dark witch, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Meira’s argued back. You are a witch who is the wife of the greatest wizard in the world.

But she would lose everything if she gave in.

And you will gain nothing if you do not. You love him. While you may love the Grangers, you know that they do not understand you. They wish for you to be “normal.” You see it in their eyes all the time.

Better the Grangers who don’t understand her than Grindelwald who only wanted to use her to sate his own appetites. What about Harry and Ron? The Lord would surely kill him and probably Ron too. How could she stay with a man who would hurt her friends?

What friends? They use you to further their own advancement. Harry may claim to see you as a sister, but whom did he pull from the lake for his second task? Even Ronald Weasley only sees you as a brood mare. That is what you will condemn yourself to if you let Him go.

The Dark Lord does not love. Despite every memory she had of him, never once did he say that he loved her.

Declarations of love from Tom are unnecessary. You do not measure a person’s love by how many times they say it to you, but by the lengths they are willing to go to protect and support you.

The Dark Lord watched the young witch as she stared silently into the dancing flames of the fireplace. He carefully pushed into her mind. He listened to her back and forth with herself. She was his. She knew this already. She just needed help accepting it.

“Being with me will never be easy Hermione. You may have believed yourself a blind follower before we were separated. That is not true. You were born to be my perfect mate,” he crept towards her, the intensity of his tone both calmed and frightened her. “You may experience things you thought impossible. You may feel pain, but I will do everything in my power to prevent it.” He kneeled on the bed, holding her face between his gloved hands so that they looked into one another’s eyes. “You are my one true weakness. I sincerely suggest you accept me, because now that I have you, finally, after thirteen miserable years, I will never, ever let you go.”

“How will you help me remember?” she trembled from their proximity.

His answer was a smoldering, bruising kiss. He drank her in like a man starved. It was so wrong, but so right.

“But my friends—.”

“Will come around or perish with the others,” he hummed against her throat. “Don’t you want to finish the memory, Hermione? Don’t you want to know what happens to you at the hands of the self-proclaimed Defender of the Light?”

“But, but you are evil,” she protested weakly as he moved even closer.

“Evil is a consequence of good, so in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of today, or the agonies which arehave their origin in the ecstasies which might have been,” he quoted in her ear.

She whimpered, lying back in the bed as he moved over her. “I love Poe.”

He chuckled darkly, ripping the gown from her body before banishing his own clothing. “I remember.”

The Dark Lord’s face was enough to make her scream and fight against his touches, but she couldn’t. Unnerved as she was by his appearance, the deathly white skin, the absence of a nose, and slitted eyes the color of wet blood, she could not deny the electric thrum that danced over her skin when they touched. It was like nothing she ever felt before. Even through the memories, it was muted because she was so disconnected from Meira, or rather herself. But now she could no longer deny it. Her body knew his touch and welcomed it.

Whatever this was, a spell, a potion, or even a sentence in hell, Hermione did not want to spend another second without this feeling.

He left no part of her skin untouched as he kissed, licked and bit his way down her body. He spread her legs, feasting between her thighs. She moaned loudly as he brought her towards her peak only to leave her wanting. She looked down and saw those red slits focused on her.

She did not need to read his mind to know what he wanted. “Do it,” she pleaded.

He bit down on her clit, sending her over the edge with a screaming orgasm. Her fingers ripped at the sheets as he lapped up her juices making her come again.

His cold body slithered up hers. “Do you accept me?”

She hesitated briefly before speaking the words that would complete her descent into hell. “I accept you.”

Before she could change her mind, he thrust inside her once, breaking through her barrier. Her screams washed over him as the flames of their bond ignited and engulfed them.

Literally.

Blue and green flames surrounded their bodies as the Dark Lord withdrew and slammed back into her, completely sheathing himself. Neither noticed their entwined bodies lifting off the bed and twirling. Hermione moaned and panted as her nails drew blood from the Dark Lord’s back. Neither would last much longer. As she rolled her hips and he bit down into her neck, drawing blood, they climaxed together and the flames flared misty silver.

The Dark Lord could feel his body changing. His muscle mass expanded and he was no longer the skeletal creature that formed in the cemetery. Hair as dark as a raven’s feathers sprouted from his scalp. His face shifted and molded to that of his former self.

By the time the flames faded away, the Dark Lord’s body was once again that of Tom Riddle in his early 30s with blood red eyes.

He looked down at Hermione who had fallen unconscious. Her sable hair spilled over the pillows. The Dark Lord used their bond to reach inside her mind.

He appeared in her memory as easily as though stepping into a Pensieve. Meira was in the parlor of Riddle Manor reading. She absently stroked her outstretched belly as she was five months pregnant with their first child. If it was a girl they would name her Eirene Merope Riddle—although, neither expected to have any peace with Dumbledore running around—and Ciarán Salazar Riddle, which meant Dark Prince.

Meira glanced up from the book she was reading when there was a knock on the door. She knew it was not Tom because there were certain things that the Dark Lord just didn’t do, and knocking was one of them.

“Mistress, you have a visitor,” their elf Ava said. Unlike the other purebloods, Meira refused to have an uneducated elf serve her.

She put the book down and got to her feet. “Who is it?”

“Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, mistress.”

Meira and Dumbledore’s relationship over the past few years disintegrated terribly. The last time they spoke, he accused her of being one of Tom’s mindless followers.

It had been almost a year since then. Meira knew Tom would be angered if she let him in, but there was no reason they could not behave like adults.

“Let him in.”

Moments later, Albus Dumbledore stepped inside the parlor.

He had hoped that the reports from his spies were wrong. He had hoped that he would be able to reach her in time, but it was too late. The closest person he had to a niece was carrying the child of the wizard whose dark deeds were quickly surpassing any of Gellert Grindelwald’s.

“Uncle,” she said, neutrally.

“Hello, dear.” He stepped forward, kissing her cheek, unaware of how uncomfortable his touches made her. “I would ask how you are doing, but…”

Meira called for Ava to bring them tea. It was a quiet and very awkward affair.

“How are things at Hogwarts?” she asked, making small talk.

“Marvelous, although we are having some troubles with the DADA position,” he confessed.

“Are you? Should have given it to Tom then,” she remarked quietly.

“I would offer it to you, but given your condition, that may not be the best idea.”

“It is a fine position, but I prefer Potions.”

“Perhaps you should open a Potions Apothecary some day.”

“Perhaps…”

“Assuming Tom allows you to work.”

Meira lowered her cup and followed her hands across her lap, which was easier said than done considering the size of her stomach. “Forgive my frankness, but what exactly are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk with you.”

“It is common courtesy to inform someone ahead of time before inviting yourself over. In all honesty, it almost seems as though you chose to come here when you knew Tom would be away.”

“I had no other recourse. You refuse to see me, you return my letters unopened.”

“What is this about, Albus?” she sighed.

“The ministry plans to bring your husband and his followers up on charges for their crimes. And before you try to deny it, we have witnesses that swear your husband has used the Unforgivables on both wizards and muggles alike.”

“I don’t care what the witnesses, the ministry, or you believe. I will stand by husband no matter what,” she said, standing. Dumbledore stood as well, grabbing her arms as she was about to turn away. “What are you doing? Let go of me.”

“Why do you refuse to see him for what he is, Meira?” he pleaded, shaking her slightly.

Meira wrenched herself out of his grip and stepped back slightly. “I know exactly what he is, Albus,” she spat his name with such hate. “He is the man who saved me and cared for me when you wouldn’t.”

The twinkle was long gone from his blue eyes. “Gellert is not the issue right now.”

“No, he’s never an issue with you, is he?” she scoffed. “Tom and I love each other, Albus—.”

“Love? Don’t delude yourself, girl. Tom Riddle is a monster. He is not capable of love.”

Meira’s icy gray eyes flashed as her wand hand twitched. “How dare you?”

“Meira, I just meant—.”

“Get out.”

“I don’t want to upset you, especially now, but you must listen to me.”

“Get out of here, Albus, or I will call Tom, and trust me, he will not be held responsible for what he does.”

Silence ensued and Meira watched the regret and sadness in Dumbledore’s eyes shift to indifferent resignation.

“Then what they say is true,” he summoned his wand. He stood calmly as Meira panicked, realizing that he had already taken hers. “You are his Dark Lady.”

She took a step back. “Please leave.” An unmistakable quiver of fear echoed in her voice.

“Will you leave Tom and come with me now?” his question bore a tone of finality to it. He already knew her answer and he would act accordingly.

Meira slowly shook her head as she held her stomach protectively. “I will never leave my husband, Albus.”

“Then I am left with no other choice, Mrs. Riddle,” he said coldly. “Inflexis Infecundus!” A bluish gray jet of light left his wand.

Meira screamed and doubled over. The light engulfed her body and absorbed into her stomach. It felt like her insides were burning. Blood gushed down her thighs and onto the floor.

“TOM!!!” she screamed, putting as much energy as she could into their bond.

POP!

She did not have to look up to see that he had Apparated into the room. She opened her tear-filled eyes to see his cruel red eyes and yew wand both drawn on Dumbledore.

“What have you done?” Lord Voldemort hissed, because in that moment, he was no longer Tom Riddle.

“You can try to kill me now, if you wish it, Tom,” he purposely used the name to further enrage him. “Or you can help your wife who is bleeding to death at your feet. Take your pick.” The trademark twinkle had returned full force.

“I will see you dead for this, Albus Dumbledore!” he hissed, mentally summoning his followers.

“She made her choice. Now she will contend with the consequences when she realizes you no longer have any use of her.”

Several pops sounded around the room as dozens of Death Eaters Apparated in, wands drawn. Dumbledore winked at Meira and vanished just as six Avada Kedavra’s came his way. The Dark Lord ordered his followers to protect the manor and bring him a Healer. He Apparated Meira to the bedroom and carefully lowered her on the bed.

“Tom…Tom, the baby…he hurt the baby,” she whimpered.

“Sshh, the baby will be fine, just breathe for me, darling,” he soothed as he banished her skirt and underwear.”

The Healer arrived then. “What happened?”

“My wife was cursed. Heal her,” he ordered, gripping his wand.

The aged woman nodded sharply and began clearing the blood away. Meira screamed and gripped the Dark Lord’s hand as she felt the baby pushing out of her.

“It’s not time, it’s not time!” she cried.

The Healer looked at her pityingly as the baby slid out on the bloody sheets. The underdeveloped child made no sounds and did not move.

“It’s not crying! Why won’t it cry?” she panicked, looking from the Healer to the Dark Lord.

He squeezed his wife’s hand slightly. “I’m so sorry, Meira.”

She screamed and wailed in such a way that would make the angels cry. The Dark Lord pressed his wand against her temple and put her to sleep where tears still fell from her eyes.

The Healer cleaned Ciarán Salazar’s body and wrapped him up. She healed Meira, gave her diagnosis to the Dark Lord, and left with her life intact and memory wiped.

He stayed by Meira’s side until she awoke late in the night. He would move her to her family’s manor at first light.

Meira opened her eyes and saw Tom on her left. He had his back turned to her. His head bowed and his shoulders shook. He made no sounds. She looked at her deflated belly. Hot tears poured down her face as she sat up and hugged his shaking shoulders.

“Eirene or Ciarán?” she whispered.

“Ciarán,” he said hoarsely.

“God,” she gasped. “Please forgive me, Tom.”

“What?”

“I—it’s my fault. I—I let him i—in,” she sobbed. “I killed your son!”

Tom spun around and gripped her arms harshly. His red eyes glowed angrily. “If I ever hear you say again that you killed our son, I will give you more pain than you can possibly imagine,” he threatened. “Dumbledore, Albus fucking Dumbledore killed our son! Not you! Do you understand me?”

She nodded silently. She cleared her dry throat and he summoned a glass of water for her. After she took a few sips, she spoke again. “He said that the ministry is bringing charges against you, you and the Death Eaters. He was trying to get me to leave with him.”

Tom pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I know. Regulus Black betrayed us. He was feeding Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix information about us.”

Meira’s eyes widened then narrowed. “Is he dead?”

“Very,” Tom seemed a little pleased by that.

“Walburga must be so ashamed.” After graduation, the two had remained close.

“I spoke with her briefly before…she has sworn fealty of her family to us because of Regulus’s betrayal.”

“Tom, what did the Healer say?”

He was silent for a while, refusing to meet her eyes. “He cursed you with a very dark spell. It was meant specifically to disrupt our bond, but only in one way.”

Meira dreaded his answer. “Which?”

“You can still conceive, just not with me.”

Scared to say the words, Meira carefully lowered her shield to listen to Tom’s thoughts.

“…kill him! Slowly…painfully…kill them all…traitors around every turn…no one to trust…no one’s safe…no man will touch her…! I will bathe in that twinkly-eyed poof’s blood!...all will fall before the power of Lord Voldemort and his Queen…my Queen…no one will ever take her form me…!...never leave her…”

Meira pulled up her shield and placed her hand over Tom’s. “And I will never leave you.”

He glowered darkly as he realized she had read his thoughts. Before he could yell or threaten her, she pulled him down into the cleaned bed beside her, laying her head on his chest.

“You will never do that again.”

She leaned up and kissed the hollow of his throat. “I love you, Tom.”

His arms tightened around her and didn’t let go for the rest of the night.

Lord Voldemort trailed his fingers up and down the soft skin of her stomach waiting for her to awake from her restoral. Ice gray eyes met his and she was proud of herself for not crying.

“Tom,” she breathed.

One Year Later…

It was a normal night in the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The students ate heartily and put the tragic death of Cedric Diggory and subsequent disappearance of Hermione Granger out of their minds. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, tried to tell those around him about Voldemort’s resurrection, but the Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, along with the help of the Daily Prophet, successfully made him look like attention seeking sociopath.

Only a handful of people believed him. It was only when the mass breakout at Azkaban occurred did people start to suspect that the Dark Lord may be about.

“Ron, you should eat something,” Ginny Weasley said to her older brother who stirred his mashed potatoes sullenly. Since Hermione disappeared, Ron became withdrawn and sullen, not at all like the loud, rambunctious, bottomless pit he used to be.

“Not that hungry.”

Harry’s scar began to itch just as a several screams sounded from the professor’s table. There on the plate of Headmaster Dumbledore’s was the severed head of Gellert Grindelwald, missing both teeth and eyes. A solitary tear fell down his cheek.

Professor Snape rose slowly feeling the throbbing pain in his forearm, a look of utter terror in his eyes.

“Headmaster,” he began, but he never finished that sentence.

The air suddenly grew thick with cold and death. The candles slowly extinguished and black rose vines sprung up over the tops of the tables trapping those unfortunate students who did not have the good sense to reach for their wands.

Dumbledore, who was slowly recovering from the shock of seeing his former friend and lover’s head sitting on top of his peas, lifted his wand to remove the vines when the double doors to the Great Hall blasted to pieces.

Horror-filled screams echoed around the room as the masked Death Eaters strolled into the hall stunning every teacher at the table with the exception of Dumbledore and Snape. The students sat stuck and petrified when the high, cruel laugh of Lord Voldemort echoed in the room.

He appeared in a swirl of black smoke, prompting many of the students to faint. He never grew tired of that particular reaction.

“Hello, Albus.”

“Tom,” he said stiffly. “What an unexpected visit.”

“Oh, well, I was just returning from Nurmengard and thought I would deliver your souvenir personally.”

“How thoughtful,” he said through gritted teeth.

“No worries. I assure you that he died miserably…I think he might have even said your name.”

In a blind rage, Dumbledore fired the Killing Curse at the Dark Lord who stood unmoving. The Curse bounced off his chest and ricocheted killing some nameless Gryffindor.

The hall was stunned into silence. No shield could stop the Killing Curse. Nothing could deflect it. It was impossible.

The Dark Lord tsked and shook his head. “If you didn’t like the gift, Albus, you could have just said so,” he smirked.

“Where is she?” Dumbledore said, stalling for time and hoping to distract Voldemort from noticing Harry.

A frightening smile spread across the Dark Lord’s reptilian face. “Where is who?”

“Meira, Tom. Where is Meira? She must be with you because we both know you are nothing without her,” he smiled.

An invisible hand wrapped around the headmaster’s throat and dragged him across the table. His wand fell to the floor.

“Hmm, good thing I am never without her then,” the Dark Lord said dryly.

“Let him go, Riddle!” Harry Potter shouted, struggling against the vines that held him tighter.

He gave the boy a sparing glance and snorted. “I would watch the vines, Potter, unless you prefer to bleed to death.”

“What do you care?” he said, continuing to struggle.

“He doesn’t,” a soft and slightly accented voice called from behind him. “But I do.”

Harry looked over his shoulder and gaped at the dark-haired beauty behind him. “Her—Hermione?” he stuttered as the students gasped.

She smiled and flicked her wand, releasing his hands. “Hello, Harry.”

“Mione?” Ron whispered, tears in his eyes.

“Ron.” She healed Harry’s bleeding wrists and gasped when he threw himself at her hugging her to him.

“We thought that you were dead. We searched for you everywhere.” He pulled back and looked her over. “But why do you look this way? And why are you with him?”

“That is a very long story, Harry.” She flicked her wand again, petrifying him from the neck down.

“Hermione!”

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I cannot trust you to not interfere in what is about to happen.”

“What do you mean? What has he done to you?”

“Oh, Harry, I promise you will understand everything soon.”

“So sorry for interrupting this…touching reunion, darling, but Dumbles here is turning an interesting shade of purple. Asphyxiation is too gentle a death for him,” the Dark Lord hissed.

Harry watched the cold ice form in his best friend’s gray eyes before she turned away from him. “Yes, it is.”

She loosened the hold on his throat and he gasped, greedily sucking in air. “Meira—.”

“Save it, Albus. You have nothing to say that I am interested in hearing.” She kneeled by his head. The silence of the hall served to amplify her whispered voice. “Because I do not wish to scar your students with a grizzly death, I will do you a mercy and kill you swifter than I intended.”

“Hermione, no! What are you doing? It’s Dumbledore!” Harry pleaded.

The Dark Lord waved his wand, silencing him. The boy had begun to give him a migraine with all of his incessant whining.

Meira stood to the Dark Lord’s side and met his eyes. His eyes softened momentarily as he nodded. She swished her wand and sent a silent curse to the wizard who staggered to his feet. A seemingly innocent pink light engulfed him. The students watched in morbid fascination as their headmaster screamed in agony and clutched his stomach.

Blood spilled from his lips as he clawed at his throat. Something silver fell from his mouth as he gagged and choked. The students shuddered as they realized what it was. Razor blades. They were making him vomit razor blades.

His gruesome death went on for a full ten, excruciating minutes before he fell back on the floor eyes stretched open.

The Dark Lord tilted his head. He cast a Fiendfyre snake that engulfed the headmaster leaving only a burnt spot where his body was. Meira cocked an eyebrow at him as he shrugged.

“Just in case.” He turned his attention to his Death Eater Severus Snape whose mouth hung open in what was either, fear, shock or both. “Severus, I know where your true allegiance lies. I confess that I am deeply disappointed. However, in light of…extenuating circumstances, I am willing to overlook your activities as a double agent just this once.” He turned away from the Potions Master knowing that he would return to him before the week was over. He strolled over to the petrified Boy-Who-Lived. He was crying silently over the loss of his beloved headmaster. “It would so easy to kill you now, Potter,” he taunted as the boy glared balefully. “But killing you now when they are so many unanswered questions would be like putting down a book when you are only a turn of a page away from discovering who did it.”

The Dark Lord that he faced now was not the same crazed sociopath from the cemetery. He seemed happy and a little amusing. Harry was very disturbed by him.

Meanwhile, Meira released the other students from the vines and made sure their wounds healed. She signaled for the Death Eaters to prepare to leave.

“I will call on you soon, Harry Potter, and at that time your actions will decide whether you live or die.”

“Mione, please don’t go,” Ron pleaded.

When the memory restoral was complete, Meira still remembered her life as Hermione Granger, probably as Dumbledore intended. But now that she was whole again, she did not feel as strongly for the people in her life as she did before. And anyway, compared to Tom, they were barely blips on her radar.

“Goodbye,” she said, before the Dark Lord Disapparated them on the spot.

They Apparated into their bedroom at Black Sea Manor and Tom dropped his Lord Voldemort glamour.

“Shower or soak?” he asked as she stretched.

“Shower.”

Tom and Meira stood underneath the showerhead wrapped in each other’s arms. Killing Grindelwald closed a chapter in Meira’s life. Killing Dumbledore lessened the pain of losing Ciarán, but only slightly.

With Dumbledore and Fudge gone, they could put in a new minister of magic and a new headmaster, one a little less manipulative than the last.

Stepping out of the shower, they returned to the bedroom without bothering to dress. Not being able to conceive a child did nothing to weaken the hunger they shared. Meira moaned softly as she lowered herself on her husband’s throbbing member. Her hardened nipples brushed against his chest as she rode him slowly.

Hours later when they both sore, sweaty, and satisfied, they discussed their plans for the wizarding world, the state of Hogwarts, and of course, Harry Potter.

“Do you think he will still try to kill you?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Good,” she sighed. “I imagine our lives would be rather dull if no one tried to kill us.”

He kissed her forehead and closed his eyes. “Indeed.”

A/N: I know, I know, very lengthy for a one-shot, maybe I will break it up in the near future and turn into a longer story detailing Meira’s early life. Let me know what you think!
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His White Queen