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The Binding of Hermione Jean Granger	By : Nerys Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 2009 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter JK Rowling does and I make no money from this fanfiction

Chapter List
- 1-The Binding of Hermione Jean Granger
- 1
The Totally Accidentally Absolutely Not On Purpose Binding Of Hermione Jean Granger

(Obviously)

Fear.

She knew fear. How it could paralyse you or make you act in a hurry. How it would freeze your breath and heart. How it would make you pant rapidly, too audibly—your foes could hear. How it had your heart race so fast it would feel like it was bursting out of your chest. How your mouth turned dry with a metallic taste inside. Fear would have cold sweat dripping down your spine, causing you to freeze like a deer in the headlights. Fear was a warning signal and a debilitating condition at the same time—something to overcome and challenge, or to listen to and take notice of. You never knew if you made the right choice in advance. Should you have waited or acted? Were you a coward or brave? What were you made of in the face of fear?

Even though people would say that the great war heroine, Hermione Jean Granger, would know firsthand what the right choice was in the face of danger—she’d made said choice many times after all—she wasn’t so quick to pat herself on the back and say she knew. One thing she knew of fear was that it came in many forms, rearing its ugly head in disguise.

Hermione Granger had lived with fear as a steady companion during her whole teenaged life. Her fear of failure, of not measuring up, had been the one that debilitated her the most. Yet her fear for her loved ones’ lives had made her act swiftly and decisively. When she’d been tortured, her fear had compounded, rising skyhigh. It had clenched her teeth together and forced her to lie.

Pain had overridden her body but not her mind.

The truth would not set her free. The truth would mean more pain. The truth would end her.

She’d been so afraid to die, she’d screamed her lungs out, telling Bellatrix Lestrange the sword was a fake.

Please, believe me. Please, please, please.

Then she no longer feared death, just wished for it to come, to end her misery, to stop her inevitable betrayal of her friends and herself and all she believed in. Her whole sense of self worth laid in the balance. Her nails ruptured, and she pleaded. She begged. She lied.

‘We found it! We found it!’

She lies.

The voice sounded like a cold hiss in her mind, coiling around her like a snake and sending a chill down her spine. Bellatrix’s form shifted and curled, dark clouds stringing along her feminine frame. She grew taller, skin whitening and hair receding. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, replaced by red eyes with catlike pupils. Her nose shrinked until slits for nostrils remained and a lipless mouth smirked down at her broken form viciously as he squatted down, placing his bonelike spidery finger under her chin.

No.

Yes.

He was never there!

I am now, silly girl.

He couldn't be here. He'd know. He'd find out about his Horcruxes. Oh god, she was going to get them all killed. She wouldn't be able to hide her thoughts from him.

Do you know how easy the minds of structured, unimaginative, organised witches are broken, Mudblood?

Terror, fright.

She could not move.

Someone help me, please.

Lord Voldemort ripped thread after thread of her memories apart, erasing them only one at the time. He made sure she knew what he was doing to her, that she’d feel every bit of loss of knowledge and of self. He made her defeat and failure a drawn out torment.

Such a complex Arithmancy equation of Wells, wouldn’t you say, Mudblood?

Please, stop. Please.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? How your knowledge to solve it is what lies at the foundation of the Memory Charm. You know how it works of course, or rather,’ his power stretched, curling around her synapses, and she whimpered, sensing another part of her being taken, ‘you knew.’

With a scream she woke, her body drenched in cold sweat, her recurring nightmares a constant reminder of a war she no longer had to fight. Her hands trembled as she counted off the Wells’ particles concerning Obliviation off on her fingers.

She still knew all five of them!

She still knew them all.

Her heart rate slowed down, and she focused on her breathing.

In, hold, one two three four, and out, one two three four.

They had won.

In, hold, one two three four, and out, one two three four.

Harry had beaten him.

In, hold, one two three four, and out, one two three four.

It was over.

In, hold, one two three four, and out, one two three four.

She was fine.

In, hold, one two three four, and out, one two three four.

It should’ve been over.

When they'd been recuperating at Shell Cottage, she'd gone through some of Bill's cursebreaker scrolls and journals. In it she'd found an ancient protection charm that seemed simple enough, doable enough, no-nonsense enough. Protection through a name, the translation had said. It had been used on one of the tombs Bill had worked at. It was easily broken these days, but only if they would’ve known she'd used it, and she’d doubted his followers would consider it.

If one of them uttered that blasted Tabooed name ever again by mistake, they'd be protected, and instead of immediately located, they'd be truly unplottable. She'd performed the charm that night when everyone slept.

In the end her additional protection hadn't been necessary, none of them had shouted out Lord Voldemort's name again, and the war had ended.

They'd won.

The end.

Full stop.

Yet those blasted nightmares didn’t fade. They remained—a constant companion and memory of childhood horrors. She'd tried everything the Healers had suggested and then she’d tried Muggle therapy, which was an absolute bust, because the therapist could clearly tell she was lying through her teeth. She’d tried EMDR therapy, hearing that cold, high-pitched laugh for days on end. It had all been for naught.

Eventually, she gave up and settled upon knowing he'd always be there. These were just nightmares. They couldn't hurt you. He was dead. It was only the memory of him. She just had to learn to live with it, live with this fear as a constant companion, live in this icy chill.

Forever.

And so she did, for years on end, resting assured, telling herself, no, knowing she was safe. She always remembered.

Everything.

How certain are you of that, my little Mudblood?

My?

What the …?

Shivers ran down her spine. She'd got used to the unimaginative slur, but my? Hell no.

I’m not yours.

Hermione trembled as his spidery finger lifted her chin to meet his piercing scarlet gaze. His presence was invasive and unavoidable—and she'd tried. Many times. She'd tried running for it, escaping him, only to have seemingly run in a circle and end up in front of him again. Other times she would run and run and run but gain no distance at all. He’d still be there, his eerie laugh surrounding her. She’d tried fighting, physically and magically, but nothing she did made an impact. It was like targeting something, someone, that wasn’t there. Strangely enough whenever he reached out, his touch and his magic lingered on her skin even after she’d woken.

So she'd stopped running, stopped hiding and stopped fighting him, trying to make him disappear. She just went with the flow, with whatever he wanted. And he wanted, demanded, everything: her mind, her body, her soul. His allconsuming presence glided over her skin, taking her however he wished, sliding into the deepest darkest crevices of her mind and spinning her world into his until all she smelled, all she heard, all she tasted, all she saw and all she felt was him. All that remained of her world was him. He occupied all her senses.

It was just a dream. It wasn't real. She'd wake up soon enough.

So you keep telling yourself, my Hermione.

Don't call me that!

Your name?

The mocking faux-innocent tone had her on edge. Why couldn't she wake up already? He'd be gone then.

Is Hermione Jean Granger not your name anymore, my little one? Should I erase it for you? Replace it with something more suited to your station? As you should know, there's a lot of power in a name, my-

She covered her ears, shouting,

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

She couldn't stand it anymore. She didn’t want to hear anymore. He was always ready to make her doubt herself, to have her question her sanity and sense of self. She wasn't falling for his manipulative lies.

Crucio!

The night filled with her endless screams, her body contorting in impossible ways.

When she woke, her muscles were cramping and her head pounded inside her skull, as if experiencing a mild aftermath of that horrific Unforgivable Curse. She reckoned she'd held her body wrongly in her sleep.

Again.

As the Healers had told her could happen, the magical echo of repetitive nightmares led to lingering aftereffects. It wasn't really him cursing her. Her own magic hurt her body. Nothing bad. Nothing truly lasting. It would subside within seconds. She didn't know what seconds these Healers counted time in, but hers seemed remarkably longer. She wished there was a dreamless sleep potion that actually worked on him. But even if there had been one, she couldn't take those endlessly either without damaging her synapses. She was truly and utterly stuck.

Sighing she got up and went to draw herself a bath to help ease her muscles. Why was she still having these nightmares after a whole decade had passed? Why was she the only one? It wasn't like Harry or Ginny or Ron hadn't fought him. Harry had had it far worse than her. Why couldn't she let it go? Why wouldn't her mind stop? Why was she the weak link?

Crying, she sank into the water. It was so unfair. She'd always been the strong one, the rational one, and here she was barely able to hold it together. Over a bunch of bad dreams. Over a figment of an imagination. Over a bloody dead, blatantly incompetent, fucking insane, run-of-the-mill, cartoonishly evil, dumb arse dark wizard!

She smacked the soapy water with her fist, her magic blasting it everywhere. Wiping her eyes out, she resignedly took in her now empty bathtub and the suds that dripped down the ceiling, walls, mirrors, and other bathroom fixtures.

Well, she supposed that was her cue bath time was over.

xoxox

‘You look tired, didn’t sleep well again?’ her coworker, Elodie, asked, a concerned expression on her kind, round face.

Hermione knew the concern was genuine and also warranted. Her disturbed sleep patterns and subsequent tiredness and lacking concentration had been the cause of accidents before, and she worked with volatile magic, so several of them had been pretty severe. Luckily no one had died, but there had been injuries in the past. She’d constructed a securely warded barrier around her work room to prevent others from getting hurt again.

However, she really didn't feel like explaining or listening to Elodie’s possibly solid advice today. She just wanted to take her mind off him and focus on her work. She needed the distraction.

‘Nothing less than usual,’ she replied noncommittally and walked through the door, just seeing Elodie shake her head before it closed behind her.

She grabbed her clipboard and started noting down the progress on the time sensitive potions, stirring and adding ingredients as needed, before adjusting the runic placements for this new stage and sitting down behind her desk to continue her Arithmancy calculations. They were incredibly complex and kept her awake properly. When it was done, she stirred several potions, added some ingredients and readjusted the runes as usual. Now she was at the Charm’s stage. She sat down and waved her wand around, softly chanting in a singsong voice. It was boringly repetitive but necessary.

‘The wind blows. The tides change. Fire burns. Earth grounds. Solid rock. Water flows. The sun rises.’

One by one the runes activated. How come she never noticed before how much the tonation resembled the lullaby her mother used to sing to her? It was soothing.

‘When the wind blows …’

Wait, what? Quickly she corrected, repeating the previous lines until she could feel the energy rising again.

‘Elements, hear my call, heed my voice …’

The room darkened; her wand whirled. Almost there. Her eyelids dropped. She shook her head, trying to focus on the repetitive task of chanting to the elements.

All light dimmed, not a single breath of air moved. The world vanished in a haze. A yawn escaped her.

She couldn't fall asleep now!

Concentrate, she told herself sternly.

The current’s flow receded. Flames lowered, desperately reaching for oxygen. One by one the activated runes’ light turned dark.

She could do this. Almost there. Almost… th… e… r…

With a crash she smacked to the ground, immediately waking up and realising she'd dropped her wand, but that wasn't the worst of it. Everything was on fire.

Everything!

Including her. The heat was unbearable and the pain, so much pain that she couldn't see straight, couldn't think straight. It felt like she was melting. The pain was everything, everywhere, her whole world. On impulse a bubble ward flew around her, but that would only briefly hold the inferno she’d created at bay.

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

His mocking voice pushed her over the edge.

‘Damn you, Voldemort!’ she yelled in fury.

‘Finally.’

His cold, satisfied voice reached her eardrums instead of echoing through her mind. A solid arm wrapped around her waist in a oh so familiar fashion, pulling her flush against his solid body—the pain that elicited almost caused her to black out again, and she screamed in agony.

This wasn't happening. He couldn't be here. She had to be asleep. She had to.

Yet the immense force of his magic coiled around her, expanding her safety bubble to encompass them both easily from the burning inferno. He held out his hand, summoning her undamaged wand into his long, white, spidery fingers.

Why had she cast charms to protect it from being destroyed? Why!?

A casual flick of his wrist extinguished the fire. An elaborate swirl cleared the air around them. Her emergency overhead lighting illuminated the completely destroyed interior of the room. Black soot coated the walls. There was nothing left to save.

‘Your fire charms are beyond impressive and—’

Her foot stomped hard on his, causing her more pain than him even though he cursed and shoved her away, hard. She stumbled, almost falling down and letting out another yell in pain as the clothing that had fused with her skin pulled and ripped off patches of flesh while she moved. She quickly turned around to face her nightmare come to life. She didn’t want him at her back. She had to keep him in sight even though she was wandless, severely hurt, alone and without ideas.

Silence stretched between them as they took in each other.

He hadn't changed one iota since the last time she'd seen him at the final battle. Though this close up, he appeared even more imposing than she recalled. It wasn’t just that he was so much taller than her or that his physique resembled a skeleton, hairless and skull-like, or that his face seemed to belong on someone not of this world with its flat nose with slits for nostrils and his skin so white it made his penetrative burning red gaze all the more striking. No, it was the power that rolled off of him in waves through the air, like a dense mass suffocating everything and everyone around him, an ominous threat clad in black.

Hermione realised they both looked monstrous, but she likely had him beat at the moment with her singed hair, the skin on her bare arms a furious red with blisters and spots of blackened loose flesh, showing the muscle tissue underneath. Her outer robe had all but vanished, but her trousers and shirt had melted and fused with her body. She had trouble breathing, feeling her chest’s constricted movement. Where she felt pain, it was indescribably horrendous, but the parts where she didn’t feel anything at all were much more worrisome. And despite the heat, she felt weirdly cold, so cold. She was glad she couldn’t see her face right now. If she’d been a Muggle, she’d likely be dead now. Something that might have been preferable with the way Lord Voldemort was now gazing at her intently.

‘As I was saying,’ he started, ‘you’re quite adept at—’

‘Just fucking,’ Hermione interrupted him, her voice scarcely above a whisper, and she had to stop talking to take a shallow breath, ‘kill me,’ another breath, ‘and be done with it.’

Her hands shook. She was barely able to keep standing. Yet his silence and the fierceness of his eyes emboldened her, kept her going. His strength fueled her strenght. She wouldn’t go down as a coward.

‘Give your usual long-winded speech,’ she gasped, ‘to someone who,’ breath, ‘gives a damn.’

His wand rose.

She knew this was the end. Pity she hadn’t been able to complete her experiment. Now she’d never know the result. Merlin, they were going to assume she’d died in a freak accident of her own making. The great legacy of Hermione Granger would be an insignificant, stupidly self-inflicted death. Damn, Rita Skeeter would have a field day. She should’ve let her suffocate in that jar.

The flash that had her close her eyes wasn’t green, however, but an unbearably bright white.

Then she wished she was dead, because there was a heat greater than before. Pain seared through her with a vengeance, returning to areas previously insensitive. She collapsed, not even able to scream as it felt as if every cell of her body was being fried and ripped apart at the seams. Her clothes disintegrated; she thrashed on the floor, grabbing her hair when the first scream finally left her lungs. She couldn’t think; all there was was that pain. Unwittingly, she pulled out strands of her hair until suddenly her arms and legs snapped alongside her body, and she couldn’t move anymore. All she could do was stare at the scorched ceiling and deal with the blinding brightness of her emergency lighting, while she lived through that horrible pain that-that (Oh my god!) started to itch. She needed to scratch. She needed relief.

Please. Make it stop.

Oh god, this was worse than pain.

Please.

She stared straight at those unforgiving red eyes as he’d glided into her view. His slitted pupils widened. A malignantly satisfied smile grew on his mouth as his gaze slowly dragged over her naked body.

Shit.

He wasn’t going to kill her.

Yet.

Shit, shit, shit.

Her whole body now tingled in the most irritating way possible. This would drive her insane.

Maybe that was the plan? Itch her into insanity.

Oh god, she needed to scratch so badly.

Please, she begged, eyeing him beseechingly. Please, stop.

He quietly observed her, like a bug he’d pinned to a board. Then he squatted down, a hand landing next to her head as he leaned in, his silk robes flowing over her skin like a caress. The brief relief that gave her was maddening. She needed more, so much more. Yet, he was silent still, looking straight at her, seemingly waiting for something.

Oh.

She swallowed.

No, she couldn’t.

But that itch.

She really couldn’t.

But it was driving her nuts.

She really shouldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

Please, my Lord.

“It seems you're teachable after all. That makes my decision so much easier.”

Suddenly she was able to move again. Her fingernails immediately started scratching the worst spots on her underarms before moving to the skin on her chest, belly and legs. Her eyes closed. Merlin, that felt so good. Such a relief. She let out a content sigh, scratching herself wherever she could reach.

Wait!

She froze.

Shouldn't she tear into ruined flesh?

Her eyes snapped open. She lifted her arms and head, only to see intact skin everywhere with some red stripes where she’d scratched herself.

He'd healed her.

Oh god.

Why?

Couldn't be good.

Her eyes flashed to his face, which was sporting a smug, expectant, condescending expression, and she saw red. Her fist collided with his jaw before she could think. Finally she felt an impact, unlike all those years in her dreams. A loud smack filled the room as his head moved sideways. The brief flash of astonished surprise that ran through his eyes—as if no one had ever dared to lay as much as a finger on his almighty being—felt incredibly empowering for but a split second. He moved faster than she could blink.

Before she knew it, he had her pinned down underneath him, her arms pushed against the floor next to her head, while he straddled her waist. She struggled, first trying to free her arms from the vice-like grip he had on her wrists, and when that failed miserably, because she couldn’t move them one millimetre, she bent her knees, pressed her feet into the floor and lifted her hips, trying to throw him off of her. His body fell forwards, their faces almost touching when he caught himself on his and her arms. Her rush of triumph fled away by the close intense eye contact that was far too intimate for comfort.

She stilled, not knowing what to do next. He’d not fallen off of her, had somehow been able to get himself positioned lying securely on top of her, and with the now far more extensive bodily contact, she was duly reminded of how very naked and vulnerable she was and how little that light-weight silky robe of his left up to the imagination. Her breasts rubbed against his ribs with every shallow breath she took. He also was a lot heavier and clearly stronger than his deceivingly skeleton appearance would suggest. There’d be no getting out of this situation physically.

Merlin, her only chance was to beat Lord Voldemort magically.

Wandlessly!

The fear, that had briefly been pushed aside from the sheer adrenaline her actions had invoked, trickled back into her body.

He was far too calm, too at ease, too in control.

She was feeling anything but.

Her heart raced; her shallow breaths ran ragged; drops of cold sweat coated her forehead and neck; her mouth had turned dry; and her whole body felt like a live wire, its pressure building and building and building with no release in sight. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them. Neither was moving or speaking. They merely stared at each other. Her legs started to tremble, her muscles tiring from holding his and her weight up, while the prickling sensation of her magic running through her body ballooned, until she felt bloated, overstuffed, too full, just too much. It had to go. Voldemort’s slitted pupils flickered up when her hair rose.

Merlin, she was giving it away!

Sparks danced over her skin as she directed all her force to her chest and outward rapidly.

He had to go.

Now!

Her magical burst blinded her fully. She groaned when its power smacked her body to the floor, her muscles unbelievably sore, but at least he was no longer there.

It worked!

She couldn’t believe that had worked. It had been risky throwing everything she had into that attack, but—

Loud, boisterous laughter reached her ears. She attempted to roll away but couldn’t lift even a finger. She was physically exhausted, magically depleted, and in short, utterly defenceless. Fortunately the attack she’d expected didn’t come, and when her eyesight cleared, he stood right next to her, a towering figure in black. Above his outstretched hand hovered a dark cloud filled with violent lightning bursts of magic, her magic. His dominant hand tapped with her wand against his leg. How he’d been able to catch and contain her magic so swiftly was beyond her. That should be impossible, unless…

No.

They were most definitely not related.

Her mind was spinning tales now. These crazy ideas came to mind because she was worn out, too tired to think properly.

‘I see you experimented beyond the Hogwarts’ curriculum, little one,’ Voldemort said casually, his hand whirling around her thunderous cloud as he strolled around her. ‘Such a pity you skipped the part of not thrusting out all of one’s magic.’

Her jaw clenched, holding in the immediate rebuttal that she hadn’t skipped that part. This attack had been her only chance. Expelliarmus wouldn’t cut it for her. She knew she couldn’t hold back against him. She wished it had been enough.

‘I suppose it’s not surprising—with your despicable blood and all—for you to be unaware of the finer details and intricacies of the supreme art of magic. Pity.’

He didn’t sound at all regretful as he touched her cloud with his fingertip—a bolt exchanged between it and him. Slowly, he brought his finger to his mouth and licked it. Closing his eyes, he moaned as if savouring the moment before looking down as she lay there, pathetically helplessly and barely able to take in another breath of air.

‘You do taste magnificent, Hermione.’ Her name sounded positively obscene coming from his lipless mouth. ‘I’m quite tempted to keep it.’

Her heart clenched in fear at seeing the malignant humour dance through his soulless eyes.

‘Would you like to be bestowed upon that honour? You would know your magic lived on, fuelling the great Lord Voldemort, making him more powerful than ever before. You’d forever be a part of something much greater than yourself, while your disgusting Mudblood flesh rots away,’ he spat.

She’d do anything for a quick Avada Kedavra about now.

‘It wouldn’t mean death, of course,’ he added conversationally as if they were talking about the weather and not her possibly horridly doomed fate. ‘You’d live on, while I live on.

‘Forever.

‘They say some lose their sanity faster than others. I wonder,’ his eyes roamed appreciatively over her nude body, ‘how long do you think you’ll last, Mudblood? How long until that wondrously curious, inquisitive mind breaks? Days, weeks, years … maybe even—dare I hope—millenia? Would you be all bones or still have rotting flesh to spare? Do you imagine it would hurt? I wouldn’t know—my previous specimen had all been too weak to convey anything to me—but I bet it does. I bet you’d scream on and on and on for me, wouldn’t you, my dear Mudblood? You’d share your pain, tell me everything I wanted to know and more. You’re strong. You’d last.’

He crouched down behind her head, making her swallow reflexively as he eyed her contemplatively.

‘I wish we had the time,’ he said, trailing the side of her face with her wand in threatening affection. ‘It saddens me that we can’t test your strength this way. Your mind held up so marvellously these past ten years.’

Wait, what?

A slight upwards curl formed on his mouth as he leaned in, their faces almost touching. Her eyes darted from side to side, wanting to consider what that meant for her in private, but he forced her to meet his gaze, up close and personal.

‘Oh yes,’ he hissed, satisfied, ‘those dreams of yours were more than mere dreams, much much more, little one.’

All blood seemed to recede from her face.

‘But you already suspected that, didn’t you, my clever little Mudblood?’

She would never ever be warm again. His broad smile was a frightful thing to observe, filled with sharp, pointed teeth as if he’d done experiments with vampire physiology on his body.

She’d always suspected, always known, that there was something off with her dreams deep down in her heart, but she’d never figured out what. She should’ve known it was him. It had always been him.

Every.

Single.

Bloody.

Time.

How could she have missed something so obvious?

‘You knew your symptoms didn’t match the Healers’ explanations. You got so close,’ he taunted, ‘so many times.’

‘Cl-cl-close?’ she stuttered, confused. She recalled finding herself weak, blaming herself for the symptoms she experienced, not being close to anything.

‘Yes, Lord Voldemort should probably apologise for that,’ he said, looking upwards in faux contemplation. ‘It was to be expected and unavoidable, unfortunately, with all the Obliviating your mind sustained.’

Her breath stalled. Anger grew like a poisonous fruit.

‘Obliviate,’ she repeated between gritted teeth, ‘of course.’

‘Yes, you should’ve known. I left you so many clues.’

‘Did you now?’ she grumbled, certain he would’ve erased any clue she’d actually followed up on.

‘Erase, burn, torture, kill … the things I caused you to do,’ he said, staring at her with a wild feral intensity. ‘You’re deliciously vicious, Mudblood.’

‘You know nothing about me.’

He threw his head back and laughed.

‘You understand nothing about people.’

‘Don’t I?’ he asked, tilting his head. ‘You’re no saint Potter, Hermione Jean Granger. You believe the ends justify the means. You follow the rules when and if it suits you. You pretend to be a good girl, poster witch of the light, so others will follow your lead and do as you say, but you hurt those who have wronged you or your friends. And you like it. You want them to suffer. You do what you want, because you know better, right? Everyone else is just too slow, too stupid to understand what needs doing, so you have to force the issue or it never gets done. You should make the rules, all of them, and everyone should listen and follow your lead.

‘Yet, you don’t want to look at yourself, your rigidity and your matter-of-fact thinking. You study so hard, read so much, overwork yourself, research everything a million times before even attempting a solution, not because you truly like doing that, but because you know—you fear—deep down within yourself that if you get a puzzle or a question you haven’t researched to death, a truly difficult one, everyone will learn you’re a fraud, a pretender, not as smart as everyone thinks you are. You believe, you know you’re not as smart as everyone thinks and you know you’ll inevitably fail at something, be exposed, laid bare and raw for everyone to see how your intelligence is just plain ordinary. Everything is regurgitated, nothing original. There’s no creativity. No true intellect. You’re ordinary. Common. Not good enough. A failure. And it will all be—’

‘Stop,’ she whispered, feeling tears slide down her cheeks into her neck and hair. ‘Please.’

He silenced, seemingly satisfied at her obvious distress. He inhaled the destruction he’d caused, bending over her face and languorously tracing his tongue along the lines her tears had left, as if catching those gave him power over her. If she could’ve moved, she would’ve shivered at these salacious acts, this utter objectivation. He absolutely relished in his perceived win, his victory over her. She knew there was no point in informing him how one sided his views were, the emotions and feelings he discarded as unimportant, bearing no value. She also didn’t want to get him started again. She was very aware she was imperfect and fallible. Her current powerless and pathetic situation proved the truth of that. She didn’t need to be brought down even lower when she couldn’t even move and was barely able to sustain herself.

‘You know who owes you, don’t you, little one?’

She stayed silent.

‘Tell me.’

Maybe Voldemort would kill her if she refused?

‘Or maybe Voldemort will turn you into a mere shell of a being,’ he added, whirling her cloud of contained magic demonstratively around in front of her face. ‘Surely, you want this back, don’t you, pet?’

Pet?!

What the hell is wrong with him?

With a sliver of a spell, her body slid up his thighs, the back of her head coming to a halt against his belly.

‘You’d feel so much better once it’s back. Here, have a little taster.’

Voldemort summoned her wandhand into his—Where had he left her wand?—and entwined their fingers before barely touching the cloud. The spark, however minor, shook her to the core of her being. Her arm spasmed in his grip, and her body hungrily took in his offer, needing more, wanting so much more. She didn’t realise she let out a moan at the same time he did, but he didn’t allow her the bliss of ignorance.

‘Liked that?’ he asked rhetorically, raising a non-existent eyebrow. ‘You sense your compatibility, too, don’t you, little one?

‘Actually, with your magic mostly outside your body, this is a perfect moment to demonstrate,’ he added, his eyes brightening.

He raised their joined hands to his mouth, his tongue trailing saliva all over her palm.

No, no, no, no.

He wasn’t going to—

But he pressed her palm against her breast bone, their fingers coming to rest on her breast, showing her he was indeed going through with this. Something started to build in the air, something dark and sinister and oh so powerful. It pressed against the back of her hand and through their entwined fingers. She tried to pull her hand free; she had to escape, had to free herself, but nothing happened except him tsking at her.

‘This is happening, little one.’

‘Please,’ she uttered, terrified.

Like rising water pressing against an unstable wall of a dam, wearing it out over time, seeping through the cracks until it eventually broke, causing a massive flood wave, his magic seeped into her hand connecting with his saliva on her skin. It stung and made her whimper. This—his—she couldn’t.

By Merlin, she couldn’t.

‘Please, don’t,’ she whimpered. ‘I can’t.’

People weren’t supposed to hold other’s magic; your body wasn’t designed to transport it. There were documented cases of wizards and witches who’d tried to gain power this way and had disintegrated every single magical pathway in their bodies, leaving them a mere husk of their former selves. And he specialised in dark magic. Sure, she had dabbled some, but nothing like what he’d been capable of. He was absolutely out of his mind to think she—

‘Brace yourself,’ he ordered calmly.

Her breastbone seemingly exploded as the full force of Lord Voldemort’s magic burst its way inside her secondary magical core, fusing her hand to her chest. Her body arched off the floor, trying to accommodate the ongoing tidal wave of dark magic skating over every single magical pathway. Her screams filled the air as a cold fire burned through her. She had to get him off of her, had to stop him before he bested the barrier and infected the primary core in her brain. Her free hand searched around, but before she had gotten a hold of his wrist, he’d caught hers. She wrestled against him, but his strength was larger than hers. With a malicious laugh, he clutched onto her arm, holding it tightly against his chest, while her body contorted in unnatural manners. It didn’t cause him to stop. He upped the ante. Relentlessly, he added more and more, shifting and curling his magic, making minor adjustments that had her thrashing under his will. She burned.

Again.

But this time it was a cold heat, on the inside. Her pathways overloaded as his dark magic engulfed them. She didn’t know where she was, what she was, who she was. All she knew were pain and a pair of burning red eyes, the eyes of a demon or even the devil itself. Her whole sense of self vanished in this burning hell. The pressure inside her rose and rose and rose.

A loud snap vibrated through her skull. That cold heat filled her mind, lit up her primary core with a darkness unlike she’d ever experienced. Instantaneously, she collapsed on the floor. The pain was gone. Everything was gone. There was only darkness generating this low hum inside of her, thrumming in sync with a pulse not her own, slithering through her in a most invigorating way.

Merlin, she’d made it.

Quickly she recited some basic knowledge. Her brain still worked. She was…

She didn’t quite know what and how she was.

Who she had become.

‘There she is,’ Voldemort said, satisfied.

Hermione looked up at him, feeling strange and unlike herself, like something foreign had wormed its way into her and settled down. She felt strong; her body revived, like she was on top of the world. She was of magic again.

His magic.

Her eyes darted around, trying to make sense of everything.

Maybe if she had a little bit more? She pulled at that tiny string she sensed between their connected hands. Sure enough more magic started trickling towards her.

Slow and steady wins the race.

Excited he didn’t seem to notice, she pressed on. A low giggle left her lips. Her cheeks flushed. Now it no longer hurt to receive his magic.

No, it felt nice, like a soft tingle enticing her pathways.

Really, really nice.

Not only was she positively relaxed, she also felt energised and just simply so very, very good. She felt like she glowed all over. She was reaching, reaching for something right outside her grasp, but it would come to her. She knew it would. She sensed it. So, so close. Almost there.

Good Godric, how did he ever get anything done feeling like this?

His body shook against hers with contained laughter. Confused, she looked up, noting Lord Voldemort’s quiet delight at her actions. She immediately froze and stopped pulling. If he enjoyed what she did, it wasn’t bound to assist her.

‘By all means, do keep going, my insatiable witch.’

Her face positively burned in embarrassment as he laughed some more at her. It got even worse when he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially,

‘Why, do you require Lord Voldemort’s assistance, Hermione?’

She shook her head vehemently, but he seemed undeterred, ignoring her.

‘I daresay my little Mudblood does not seem to know what’s best for her. She will have to be taught of course.’

A surge of his magic blew through her, electrifying her very being. She let out an involuntary moan as her insides clenched, and her pulse quickened. The hum inside of her increased to a powerful thrum, its pitch varying in strength and intensity. Instead of the regularity she got used to, it now beat to an irregular drum, echoing all the way down her pubic bone. A need far greater than her own surged through her, leaving her wet, panting and empty.

So, so empty.

Letting go of her arms, Voldemort rose to his feet, her head sliding off his lap and landing on the floor with a thud. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about her hand still being stuck to her breastbone. She didn’t care about being naked, wandless, and without any power of her own. She didn’t care that Lord Voldemort was alive and back. She didn’t care about anything other than that aching, pervasive need.

And he needed to do something about that.

Right now.

‘Do I now?’ he said with a teasing undertone as he circled her slowly. His words erupted goosebumps on her skin, like his voice had a physical quality, a touch. ‘Do you think you’re in charge, little one? Do you think you’re allowed to order Lord Voldemort around? And how would you manage this incredible feat, I wonder?’

His voice roamed over her body, sending delicious signals to her brain.

‘Look at yourself, Mudblood, low on the floor where you belong, so beautifully on display for your superiors.’

Fuck him, she still had one free hand. She could help herself. Swiftly, she opened her legs, licked her fingers, spread her folds and started rubbing her clit, just the way she liked it.

‘Oh, a show, don’t mind if I do,’ he said cheerfully, conjuring up a comfortably plush, green lounge chair with a simple wave of his hand and sitting down, crossing his legs.

Hermione ignored him, tilting her hips to push in one finger and focusing solely on her pleasure. She wished her other hand was free. Her lefthanded movements weren’t as coordinated or precise, but she still sensed it building, just not fast enough.

‘Frustrating, isn’t it? Feeling all that power inside of you and it being of no use.’

His chuckle felt like a thousand fingered touch, erupting a moan from her lips while she arched off the floor, a brief reprieve filled with delight. He leaned sideways, his bald head coming to rest on his hand as he carefully considered her.

‘Having to resort to Muggle methods like the filthy inadequate witch that you are. If you had any sense, you’d prostrate yourself before Lord Voldemort, begging for his mercy, vowing to please him in any way you could instead of focusing on your own pleasure, your own desires, your own needs.’

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment when his demeaning words stirred something deep inside her belly. She swore he’d added an extra layer to his voice, making her tremble all over. Her fingers moved as fast as she could. She pushed more of them frantically inside while her thumb circled her aching nub.

‘If only you and your insignificant, powerless self could access this.’

His hand waved through the air, causing her magical cloud to appear. When had it disappeared? She couldn’t recall. She hadn’t seen him move it. She should be more upset about that, shouldn’t she?

Merlin, she needed to come so bad. She desperately tried to reach her climax. Her lips trembled with every ragged outlet of air. Her heart felt like it tried to jump out of her chest. Her whole skin shined from perspiration. She spread her legs wider, feeling the strain on her muscles. She tilted her hips farther, desperate for better access so she could push her fingers in harder, while stimulating her button more forcefully than ever before. She had to come. She had to.

Soon.

He steered the cloud towards her, causing it to hover right above her, just out of reach.

‘Any proper witch would be able to regain control over her own magic.’

It was a taunt and a dare all wrapped in one soft spoken sentence, his way to get her to yield, to admit she was lesser, that she needed his assistance, his guidance.

She gasped when the magic inside her slowed, its stimulation lessening. An incomprehensible soreness weighed her down, making everything harder. She tried to combat it by moving faster, by pressing even harder, but it became more and more difficult to stimulate the right spot. It was as if she were clumsily missing her clit with every turn.

‘Then again, a proper witch wouldn’t show her needs so openly around her enemies. A proper witch would know not to expose her weaknesses, but I suppose Lord Voldemort can acknowledge the limitations of your unclean upbringing and your soiled blood and grant you certain accommodations to … overcome your debilitating impairments. It is, after all, not your fault you were brought into this world defective.’

Her frustrated cry filled the room. Her fingers cramped up, they hurt, but she couldn’t stop either. She had to get there, had to reach the top.

‘Such a wild savage sound, quite unsurprising, don’t you agree, Hermione? You are a Mudblood after all, closer to a beast than human, surviving mostly on instinct, not reason.’

‘Fuck you,’ she said furiously, her teeth clenching together as her reality began to sank in. He was blocking her.

‘Now pet, that’s what you need, isn’t it?’ he asked in a mock soothing tone as if he were talking to an upset child or animal.

Hermione groaned and removed her hand to pull hard on her hair, pain bringing her only a minor, short lived relief. Her legs dropped flat on the floor, the strain having become too much. Exhaustion sank in, making her realise her bodily reactions were grossly exaggerated. She couldn’t take any more.

And she still needed to come!

His responding cold laughter exacerbating her need drove her insane, but she couldn’t even find it within her to move from the stimulus.

‘Admit it, my feral little wildling,’ he continued in that same demeaning tone of voice, ‘Admit it to your Master.’

‘Drop dead,’ she hissed, her face scrunched up in anger and despair all at once.

Uncrossing his long legs and rising in one languorous move, he seemed as if he were gliding towards her. Too tired to close her legs, she watched him stop between them, his silky robes titillating her inner thighs, making her legs yerk reflexively. His lipless mouth curled viciously as he looked down at her. He was a terrible sight to behold, monstrous and strangely regal at the same time, the way he moved, commandingly, self-assured as if the whole world should bend to his every whim, as if the whole world had no choice but to bend to his every whim.

As if she had no choice.

‘Even my things are mastering you.’

Hermione swallowed away the lump that had formed in her throat. Fear was now amplifying her yearning for him. She never even knew that was possible. That previously dampened thrum slowly started to rise again. She hadn’t even seen the small movement of his fingertips.

‘Fear, pain … humiliation,’ he said, stretching out the word for it to sink in, ‘all can be such potent aphrodisiacs when used by a skilled Master. You’ll find, my little Mudblood, that Lord Voldemort is more than that. You will worship me like a god and pray upon my name, begging for salvation on your knees, and perhaps, if you please Lord Voldemort, truly please him, he will grant you exactly what it is you deserve. You think you can do that, Mudblood?’

Her heart pounded inside her ears.

‘Mute now, are we? Concerned you won’t be able to measure up, pet? Lord Voldemort never demands the impossible. Your magic, your body and your soul are already mine,’ he paused, smiling that horrifically broad, pointy toothed smile down at her. ‘You belong to me. I’m your Lord, and though your mind may struggle with acceptance, your body is already glorifying my mere presence.’

He raised his bare foot, placing it straight on her pubic bone before swiftly trailing downwards, his toes sliding through her soaked folds. Their contact was like an explosion went off inside her brain, her world became a blinding white light as her climax surged through her. Her limbs thrashed around. A desperate animal’s screams reached her ears, only to realise, as she came down from her high, that those sounds came out of her throat. Bewildered, she quieted down, staring up at him in horrified awe.

He wasn’t wrong; the attraction she felt towards him was unreal and most definitely artificial and involuntary. It had to be his magic inside of her that still obeyed him. It couldn’t possibly be anything else. His control was positively absolute. This wasn’t her fault. There was no escape. How had this happened to her? How could this be? How had she not died from this invasion? What had he done to her?

‘What makes you think it was something I did?’ he asked quietly.

Of course it was something he did. She had nothing to gain from this situation.

‘Little witches shouldn’t play around with spells they don’t fully understand, wouldn’t you agree?’

Spells she didn’t understand?

‘Still haven’t figured out what got you in this situation, my Hermione?’

Resentment filled her. He squatted down, his robes caressing her legs and belly as he straddled her waist. His spidery fingers reached out to the hand that was still fused to her chest.

‘I’m not yours,’ she bit out, whimpering when a rush of pleasure soared through her when his fingers made contact with her hand.

‘Now, now, now, no lying to Lord Voldemort; you’re an intelligent witch, my Hermione, you know that’s pointless. I can see your need for me, for your Master.’

‘You’re doing that to me,’ she hissed. ‘It’s not something I want.’

‘Ah, I have to admit that I do have a delicious form of control now over this delightful body.’

His magic flexed inside of her, causing a rush of something undefinable to rise inside of her. Her eyelids flickered, her mouth opened and a mix of relaxation and desire overtook her. She wanted him.

‘Of course you do, Mudblood. It’s inevitable. Imagine my surprise when you—Harry Potter’s Mudblood—begged for Lord Voldemort’s protection. I was most pleased by your request, so I gracefully accepted your offering.’

Now she knew he’d gone mad. Delusional. Insane. Her head shook. She’d never asked for his protection. Ever. They’d never even spoken before today, not counting that insipid blabbering of his locket Horcrux who just would not shut up. Ever.

‘How did you think those protection charms on the tombs worked, pet?’

A shiver ran through her overly heated body. Suddenly she felt cold, so very cold.

‘Protection through a name,’ he said, sounding incredibly amused. ‘Translation Charms can be so positively inadequate, wouldn’t you agree, my little Mudblood? Did you think it was something as simple as a ward? A one-sided charm, perhaps?’

Her mouth turned dry. Merlin, what had she done?

‘Did you really think you—a mere child—could undo my Taboo by reciting an outdated spell?’

There was an angry hiss to his voice now, slicing into her like a thousand papercuts. Hermione scrunched up, her hands turning to fists as her muscles turned taut while she tried to breathe through the pain. Blood swelled from the wounds, slowly dripping over her rigid form. Tears sprung from her eyes.

‘No, Mudblood, you offered yourself up to your Lord and Master.’

No, she couldn’t have. There’d been nothing in the scroll that suggested that.

‘You—a filthy little Mudblood—’ he spat, ‘had the nerve to request the usage of Lord Voldemort’s name. I’d almost rejected you immediately, knowing the rebound would lead to a horrifically slow death, but then I wondered whether that was punishment enough, whether I couldn’t turn this insolence into something you’d regret even more. So Lord Voldemort waited. He bought his time. When I realised you were destroying my Horcruxes, I had my answer. You see, my dearest Hermione, allowing a witch the protection of your name binds them solidly to you, more so even than a wizarding marriage, especially with these ancient spells.’

Oh god, bonds from those days weren’t equal at all!

‘No, they really aren’t,’ Voldemort said with a smug smile. ‘You tethered your life to mine, allowing me to survive once more, and now that you’ve finally called upon me, Lord Voldemort has come to collect what he’s due.’

There was a feverish pitch to his voice now, and his pupils had blown to full ovals as he dragged his gaze over her body. She winced, biting her lip to hold in the scream when the fingers of the hand not holding hers stroked over the wounds he’d made on her chest in an almost reverent gesture, spreading her blood all over her skin.

‘Such a pretty package you come in, Mudblood,’ he said, using her blood to massage her breast and turning her nipple into a swollen peak. ‘Lord Voldemort will enjoy using every inch of your body as he pleases.’

She felt disgusted at herself, at how readily her body was responding to him. How wet she was. Even though she now knew why it was doing that, it didn’t make it any easier. Her mind was too clear for that.

‘And it will remain that way,’ Voldemort added, pleased. ‘I won’t have you escape into blissful oblivion. You’ll feel the consequences of the path you chose. You will serve me knowingly and eventually willingly.’

He really was certifiable.

His cold laugh danced through her, enticing her pathways and making her arch underneath him, as he looked up at her cloud of magic and merely said, ‘It’s time.’

Opening his mouth wide, he inhaled deeply, drawing in her cloud. His bald head dropped back and he let out a moan that did things to her insides she wished weren’t happening. Hermione sensed her power wafting off of him, igniting him. He shifted on top of her hips, her magic engulfing her slowly. Where it touched her skin, it beckoned her attention, recognising her. It was enticing but frustratingly out of reach. She tried to draw it inside of her, but he wouldn’t allow it. He steered her magic similar to his own. He was in the driver’s seat and she a mere passenger, tightly bound by her own stupidity, her own ignorance.

‘Such power in such a small package,’ he commented, looking straight at her in utter delight. ‘You haven’t even tapped into half your potential.’

He brushed her hair with his fingers, sparks prickling her skin, forcing her to acknowledge his command over her magic, over her.

A pained whimper left her lips. She wanted, needed, it back.

Carefully, he pulled her hand from her chest with their combined magic and placed it above her head, resting his weight on it as he leaned in while still stroking her hair with his other hand.

‘Other hand above your head, too,’ he ordered coolly.

She bit her lip before following his order, not seeing a way out.

‘Open your mouth.’

Hesitantly, she complied.

‘Farther.’

A staggered breath left her lips before she stretched her lips as far as she could. Hermione winced from the stress that placed on the wounds in her face. Blood trickled down her cheeks into her neck.

Her worries raged rampant, his next move all daunting possibilities. He merely took in the sight of her, calmly, quietly, domineering the situation even further. It felt like she danced on a tightrope high up in the sky, her nerves were that frayed. Her jaw started to hurt, and she felt positively ridiculous lying there with her mouth wide open when his cock stirred against her belly. Her lips snapped shut in response.

‘Were you told to close your mouth, Mudblood?’

She quickly opened it again.

‘Answer me.’

‘No,’ she replied, not liking how timid her voice sounded and opening her mouth again.

‘You will reply to your owner with the proper respect, witch,’ he said, looking at her expectantly.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ she whispered.

‘Barely acceptable,’ he grunted, his fingers moving over her opened lips as if inspecting them.

It raised their sensitivity up a notch, making her reflexively lick a ticklish spot.

‘Good girl,’ he praised, sending a spark straight to her cunt. ‘Wet your lips for me.’

While Hermione circled her lips with her tongue, Voldemort twisted his hand to make a thick, impossibly long, silicon cock appear right in front of her eyes. Fear twisted in her belly. There was no way she could hold something that big down.

‘Lets see how talented you truly are, shall we, Mudblood,’ he ordered, holding it out for her to accept.

Hermione reluctantly removed her arm from the floor and took it from him. Maintaining eye contact, she brought the tip to her lips, forming an O around it, and started to suck while pushing it inside slowly. She kept moving it up and down, her throat swallowing. It made her feel dirty, objectified, like she was a thing for him to use and derive pleasure from as he humiliated her.

‘Deeper,’ he ordered upon her tenth pass.

Her eyes searched his face for guidance as she pushed it in again, lower and lower, until her gag reflex acted up and she pulled out at once, spitting and coughing. His hand grasped her hair, yanking her head back.

‘I see my Mudblood requires assistance with even the simplest of tasks,’ he said harshly.

Her hand flew back above her head, a shackle clasped around her wrist, pulling it tight against the floor. The cock disappeared from her hand and hovered in the air, pressing forcefully passed her lips. She wasn’t ready. She coughed and spat against the silicone, feeling it slide farther and farther into her throat. She tried to bite down on it, to stop it from going farther, but realised she had no control over her jaw. She choked around it, gagging, her body thrashing in Voldemort’s tight grasp in absolute panic. She couldn’t breathe. Her spit entered her lungs. Tears welled up in her eyes.

He shifted his weight, his legs rolling painfully over her hip bones as he leaned in, his breath wafting against her earlobe as he spoke barely above a whisper, ‘Magnificent.’

The silicone cock moved all the way up, giving her a brief moment of respite. Desperately, she coughed, spit out what she could and drew in all the air she needed. Hermione had given blowjobs before. She’d never minded them, even enjoyed the sense of power it instilled in her at the reactions she could force out of her partners, but this experience was nothing like that. He forced her to perform on an inanimate object. There was no control, no way to entice different sensations on his body. Yes, she could feel he’d grown hard at her humiliation, her panic, but that was all beyond her control.

‘That’s right, Mudblood,’ he cooed, petting her hair. ‘You finally realised why your kind exists, don’t you? What your rightful place in this world is. You are here to obey. Just listen to your body’s demands, feel how it delights at submission. It is after all within the inherent nature of your Mudblood self to satisfy and follow your rightful Master’s every will and command. All your years of existing without that guidance must have been so painful. The world must have felt so wrong, so cruel to you, but fear not, Lord Voldemort is here for you now. You’ll take everything he generously supplies you with, even, I daresay especially, when it causes you discomfort. Right, my Hermione?’

Quietly, she nodded, swallowing back her pride, knowing it would only become worse for her if she antagonised him now.

His smile grew before his face turned expressionless, harsh, and he ordered, ‘Now open wide, use that pathetic brain of yours and breathe through your nose, Mudblood.’

His fingers snapped. Her eyes widened, and she quickly adjusted, forcing herself to breathe through her nose as the toy forced its way past her lips again. Furrowing her brow, she hollowed her cheeks and swallowed rhythmically. She had to keep her cool this time around, had to keep it together and not panic. Her tongue stroked past the strange ridges that had appeared on the toy. Tentatively, she felt around, noting they resembled scales. Odd. Why would there be scales? They hadn’t been there before. Her eyes began to water again from how deep she was forced to take it, but she managed and kept going.

‘Good girl,’ Voldemort purred, erupting goosebumps on her skin and making her sex pool immediately.

His soft, corresponding chuckle made that even worse. She twitched underneath him. Voldemort slid off her and lay down beside her, his hand propping up his head, observing how well she performed.

‘Such a lovely praise kink, you have, little one,’ he said, stroking her belly.

Hermione’s moan vibrated around the toy.

Still, the removal of his weight on top of her brought about a strange sense of loss, growing within the pit of her stomach. His heat was gone, and she couldn’t keep herself still from the stimulating sensations he applied.

‘I’ll be sure to take advantage.’

Her limbs shook when his fingers delved between her folds.

‘Hmmm … I wonder what else my Mudblood could possibly require. She doesn’t seem to be able to hold herself under control properly without her Master’s help.’

Her back arched off the floor as a burst of magic engulfed her clitoris before his fingers plunged inside her cunt. Screaming against the cock buried deep inside her throat, Hermione rode out that orgasm. Her legs kicked, toes curling. Her right hand’s fingers clutched in her hair, desperate to hold onto something. The shackle on her left wrist kept her other arm firmly secure.

Voldemort clicked with his tongue in disapproval, while continuing to thrust his fingers inside of her.

‘So disorganised, so unruly. Zero composure or restraint,’ he summed up, ‘A typical Mudblood problem. Evanesco!’

Her throat abruptly empty, Hermione tried shutting her mouth, wincing at the soreness in her jaw and the drool that was disgustingly leaking from the corners of her mouth. Carefully, she moved her jaw from left to right to relieve the stress, while her hips bucked at Voldemort’s ministrations. Slowly, she started to come down somewhat, her breathing becoming more regulated and deeper as he’d slowed down his movements. Still, there was this constant present hum, reminiscent of her peak, a thorough reminder Voldemort wasn’t yet done with her.

‘Did I say you could come, little one?’

Hermione bit her lip and quietly shook her head, her body twitching when his fingers inside her brushed against her g-spot.

‘Indeed, I did not. I suppose Lord Voldemort was remiss in instructing his Mudblood, so I will let this slide just this once, little one. Next time, Lord Voldemort will not be so generously forgiving. Is that clear?’

‘Yes,’ she swallowed, ‘my Lord.’

‘Good girl,’ he said, enjoying how that made her close her eyes and shiver.

His thumb skimmed over her clit, making her moan and bucking her hips into his hand.

‘Such a needy good girl,’ he added laughingly. ‘Tell me you’re my little Mudslut, Hermione.’

Her elbow was en route to his face before she could think. Her arm froze right before it made contact.

‘Now, now, now, so violent,’ Voldemort mocked. ‘I suppose my little Mudslut needs restraints.’

He hissed and spitted without taking a breath. Alarmed Hermione looked at her arm, not seeing but clearly feeling smooth and strong muscles coil around it, pulling it taut above her head. The same sensation slided up both her legs, forcing them to bend and spreading them to the point of pain. Two forked tongues brushed on the inside of the top of her thighs, near her core. Hermione whimpered, not sure whether she liked or disliked this constraining sensation. Then sharp fangs sank into her thighs and she had her answer. Her screams filled the room, her body trying to thrash but unable to move. Finally she quieted down, whimpering at the throbbing of her legs as her blood seemingly pulsed into two mouths that were and weren’t there.

‘Say you’re my little Mudslut,’ Voldemort repeated, his eyes glinting.

Merlin, she didn’t want to say that.

Redness spread from her face all the way to her chest. She didn’t know where to look. She knew where she didn’t want to look. She couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to give him this victory. His fingers curved inside of her while his thumb skimmed her clit. Her gasp was one of despair.

‘No,’ she said, barely audible.

With a flick of his wrist, he removed his hand from her core, leaving with a burst of magic that rushed up inside of her, electrifying and sensitising every inch of her body. Her lips felt ticklish; her breasts felt swollen, her nipples painfully hard, and her cunt throbbed at the emptiness. Another thing resembling a snake slid down her arm past the shackle tying her to the floor and curled around her neck.

Once.

Twice.

His fingers pressed into her mouth, forcing her to taste herself on her tongue. Quietly, he coerced her to comply, to suck off her juices and clean his fingers one by one. He left her mouth with a pop, wiping her saliva off the back of his hand on her chest.

‘Your tongue was made for this, my little Mudslut. Now obey your Master.’

She couldn’t say it.

Hissing noises filled the room. Snakes glided up and down her belly, moved around her breasts, coiling and tightening. A thrumming noise echoed in her ears, her mind whirled when the snake around her throat squeezed slightly. Everything became a daze when fangs punctured her areolas and tongues suckled on her nipples. A sob left her lips when her clit received the same attention. She tried closing her legs, because it was too much, too soon, but her attempt was met with a tightening restriction on her legs—a firm hold reminding her she was trapped, imprisoned. There was nowhere to be but here. The continuous suckling on her clit was revivifying her need, her want, her desire in a most agonising manner. She was too empty. A dark void grew inside her quivering cunt. Her whole world became one pining, aching hunger—a yearning so immense she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t see straight.

‘Come now, be my good girl and say it for your Lord and Master. It’s only five words, my Hermione.’

She would’ve shook her head had she not been enclosed by those curled up snakes around her arms. She wished she could, but it was too much of an ask.

‘Is it though? You can feel it, can’t you? How you are one throbbing mess of lust, like the filthy little Mudslut you are. I think I would like to hear that now, little one.’

Her heart pounded so fast, she was certain it would jump out of her chest. Perhaps this would lead to her death. This much stimulation would be the death of anyone. That dark chasm surely would eat her whole. She wouldn’t have to say it. She wouldn’t say it. She wouldn’t—Oooh god—say it.

‘Ooooh, noooo,’ she moaned.

‘Yessss, that is right, my Hermione, all you can do is feel and surrender. You’re Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut. Admit it and perhaps he shall grant you salvation.’

Her inner walls constricted around nothing. She clenched her eyelids together, mumbling incoherent noises as once more a new, higher baseline seemed to be set. Every single cell reacted to his presence, forcing her to acknowledge his dominion over her. She needed to come so bad, but she couldn’t. It was just out of reach. She needed something inside of her. She needed him inside of her. She needed to be properly filled. This would drive her beyond insanity. She had to comply. Right?

‘I’m your little Mudslut,’ she whispered.

The world seemed to be on hold; like a pregnant pause, everything stilled. Briefly her mind cleared.

Oh god, she hadn’t said it right.

Quickly she corrected, ‘I’m your filthy little Mudslut.’

‘That would’ve been enough had you obeyed me right away, Hermione, but is that enough for a stubborn little witch like yourself now? Would you acknowledge what it meant? Would you truly accept it and admit to yourself this is what you are from hereon forward?’

‘I’m Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut,’ she said, louder this time, not wanting to repeat it.

‘Again,’ came the harsh order.

Hermione swallowed and said, ‘I’m Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut.’

‘What was that?’

‘I am Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut,’ she repeated, biting back a sob.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Please,’ she whispered.

‘Speak up, witch.’

‘I’m Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut,’ she said out loud, no longer able to hold back the sob.

‘You better make Lord Voldemort believe you or he will take you with him in this state and preserve you like this for a very long time coming.’

‘No, please!’ she yelled desperately, making direct eye contact with him. ‘I’m Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut! I’m Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut! I’m Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut!’

She kept on repeating it. Feeling his presence brush inside her mind she didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare disobey him. She had to convince him. She had to please him. She had to.

He had to know she was His.

She was Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut.

She always would be Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut.

Hermione could sense the words vibrating inside of her, marking her. She was Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut, forever and always.

His mouth captures hers, swallowing her words. He deepened their kiss, capturing the back of her head with one hand as his body slid on top of her. His robes vanished. The brush of skin on skin contact was beyond ecstatic. Her magic soared from his mouth to hers, diving inside of her, entangling with his magic, sinking her deeper into that never-ending abyss. She was the void. The void was her. That aching need was her darkness, waiting to be fulfilled, to be established, to be acknowledged and moulded by a power strong enough, a power worthy enough, a power that would claim her whole and shape her into something new, something entirely …

Invincible.

Beyond mere human beings.

She was Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut!

‘That’s right, little one,’ he said, delight spread all over his snakelike features.

The scarlet of his eyes had darkened, his pupils turning to blown ovals. He captured all of her attention. She didn’t dare look away. She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to look away.

He was magnificent.

The way he shaped and directed magic was unmatched by any other. And now he focused that ability solely on her. The power flowed around and through her. He steered not only his but also her magic to suit his needs. She was caught in his webb, stretched out, bound, laid bare, her cunt throbbing in want, clenching at emptiness, a need to be filled. Part of her recognised that she should feel embarrassed, embarrassed to be aroused by him, embarrassed of her desire, her will for him to take her, to make her his, to claim and mark her in any way he desired. But another more vocal part couldn’t bring herself to feel that anymore. Hermione wanted what was coming. It was meant to be. Destined. Her reason for being.

She had always been meant to be his.

The big bulbous head of his cock pressed against her entrance, a tinge of fright at his size and excitement became one. She was wet and more than ready for him. Her whole body wished to serve him, to please him, to accommodate his every need and wish. His head slipped in easily, her inner walls gave way as he slowly, almost arduously tardy moved onward. Slick, harsh ridges rubbed her vaginal walls, reminding her briefly of the toy he’d had her deep throat. Any concern about what that would do to her on the way out was blissfully swept away by the pleasure it brought. Voldemort felt nothing like any other man she'd been with. His cock seemed to have hard scales on its shaft that moved individually. When he bottomed out inside of her, those scales slowly extended and he let out a groan as she twisted her hips to accommodate him.

‘You fit perfectly, little one.’

Hermione couldn’t react, couldn’t talk, couldn’t move. She could merely breathe and try to relax her vaginal muscles as all her focus was on the way his cock thickened inside of her, those harsh scales not allowing her any reprieve, she had to relent, had to give way to his presence, his pressure. She had to surrender.

‘You’re doing so well, my filthy little Mudslut. Do you feel that? Your cunt recognises its owner.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ she replied breathlessly and with just the tiniest hint of fear in her voice for that moment when he would start to retract.

She could tell Voldemort relished that hint of fear. His scales had fully extended, its sharp edges digging inside of her. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Voldemort rotated his hips, making her gasp in surprise. It was a most extraordinary sensation, not pleasant but not unpleasant either, like she should be ripped open but wasn't, like he had direct contact with her sensory cells and forced them into obedience. She lost all control. He governed her. All she could do was follow his lead as he pulled back in an equally torturous slow pace as he’d gone in. She would’ve chosen to relax, to give way, to make this experience less daunting, but she wasn’t in the driver’s seat. His will contracted her inner muscles, making her grasp firmly around his thick cock and forcing her to experience every sensory input his scales brought upon her cunt as he slid outwards. It ignited every cell. Hermione trembled in his tight hold.

‘Please,’ she whimpered, certain this was too much to bear.

It was an alien feeling, out of this world, her cunt clenched when his head almost exited her opening, keeping only his tip inside. His gaze drew from where they were joined together up to her face, taking in her anxiety.

‘Afraid, Hermione?’

She nodded, seeing no need to deny it. She’d never felt like this in her entire life. It would surely be too much. She wasn’t built for this.

‘Who are you?’

Frowning, she wondered what he was getting at.

‘Who. Are. You?’ he said, enunciating every syllable with an emphasis that contained an answer, an answer to her worries.

‘I’m Lord Voldemort’s filthy little Mudslut,’ she resigned.

‘Good of you to remember.’

That was all the warning she had before he plunged inside again. He didn’t pause now. Instead Voldemort picked up the pace, no longer waiting for her to adjust. His snakelike constraints tilted her hips and forced her to meet his harsh thrusts with vigorous ones of her own. The harsh slaps of skin on skin echoed through the room. He was too thick, too long, too much. He was everywhere all at once. She didn’t know what was happening anymore. All she could do was feel, and there was too much to feel. Her brain glowed. Her whole body sang, making her reach higher and higher. He overwhelmed her, and she needed more. So much more.

Incomprehensible primal noises escaped her lips.

His constraints loosened briefly, its fangs let go, allowing her to thrash underneath him while her blood flowed to the floor. She didn’t care. She needed more, so much more. She needed everything. Seeing her lose all abandon made him growl victoriously. Fangs bit down again, the pain had her arch and clasp around his cock in a most delightful manner.

‘Mine, mine, mine,’ he muttered with every single thrust, forcing her bindings to stiffen again.

The snakes coiled, spreading her arms and legs wide and tightening ever so slightly around her throat, restricting her airflow. Her world spun out of control, she couldn’t get in enough air. Her cunt convulsed, unable to distinguish and keep up with the signals it received from his directives and the sensations it received from his scaled cock.

She came and screamed out his name.

The orgasm rolled through her, wave after wave after wave as Voldemort kept fucking her. She wasn't coming down from it and he wasn’t giving her an inch of relief to catch her breath. Au contraire, he kept her on that high. Her whole body tingled in absolute delight. From head to toe, she never wanted it to end. This was amazing. The best fuck she ever had.

There was nothing she could do but receive and bend to his will. She followed his lead as he flipped her around, taking her from behind on all fours, pushing between her shoulder blades to have her head touch the floor, her arms outstretched before her, making his thrusts feel even sharper, deeper, more intense. His fingernails dug into her hips, leaving small crescent marks, as he pumped in and out of her. She loved the way he manhandled her, forcing her to do his bidding. She had no input, no choice. All she had to do was receive everything he was willing to give. She soared higher than the highest mountain. She was on top of the world. When he exited her fully, he slapped her ass, once, twice, thrice ...

She lost count.

It hurt so good. So wonderful. She floated on a cloud. A furious red palm print remained as he positioned his cock back in front of her entrance and pushed inside fully. He leaned over her bend form, grabbing her curls and pulling her head back harshly, forcing her back on her hands and knees as he enveloped her with his much taller frame. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly to him and forcing her to hold them both up in this position. His breath brushed her ears as he whispered,

‘Crucio!’

Pain raced through her pleasure, battling over what took precedence, causing her to clench up and milk him for all she was worth. He groaned, spilling his hot release into her womb. It felt like a switch flicked inside of her, forming a lasting connection. She was bound to him irrevocably. There’d be no escape. Lord Voldemort truly was her Lord and Master now. The enormity of it wasn’t lost on her. Her arms and legs trembled. She wasn’t sure where the pendulum swung. There was pain, too much pain. But there was also pleasure, too much pleasure. It was everywhere. It was overall inside of her. It was overall outside of her. It danced over her skin, skated over her nerves’ endings and filled her up fully. She couldn’t understand. Her brain overloaded, like fireworks going off in her mind, and she screamed her throat raw in exaltation before her limbs gave way and she collapsed.

Exhausted.

Voldemort just managed to avoid her from smacking face first onto the ground. Swiftly he twirled them around, hovering in the air and capturing her tightly in his arms before slowly lowering himself to lie down on a now soft mattress he’d conjured up.

She was covered in blood, feeling sore and unbelievably satisfied all at once, still shivering in reaction. Her constraints had vanished, and she realised she felt like herself again. Normal. Just her magic and nothing else. He’d retreated fully from her body. Yet she could still sense his power surrounding the air around her, brushing ever so softly over her skin, reminding her what he was capable of, what he could make her do. She wasn’t sure if that was deliberate or merely his normal release of excess power. It didn’t really matter. Nothing would ever matter again.

She was His.
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The Binding of Hermione Jean Granger