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Enchanting Disguises	By : Nerys Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 86 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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- 1-Enchanting Disguises
- 1
Enchanting Disguises

It had been a choice they—He—had made to pose as another follower: some background, lowly, invisible Death Eater. The Dark Mark on his arm was after all something he couldn’t erase after they’d—He’d—pulled out his sixty-seven year old self from Nagini upon realising they were destroying his soul pieces. It had been a painful extraction that had required several human sacrifices in order to not only sustain him but keep Nagini alive for the necessary charade afterwards. All of it had weakened his other self considerably, but that was neither here nor there. Lord Voldemort had survived, and none were the wiser. Disappearing into the shadows had always been a special gift he had, which was saying something because he was absolutely the best at everything he ever did.

A painful procedure to rejuvenate his new body and change his appearance to someone less remarkable and disgustingly human again had turned him back to the spitting image of his sperm donor when said Muggle had opened the door at Riddle manor that day he’d come knocking. So, he’d transfigured his black hair to a mousy brown colour, turned his eyes a light shade of grey and broke his nose to heal in that crooked position. They were minor changes, but posture and attitude were everything. Nobody connected Ambrose Wakefield, age 44, born in Birmingham, to Tom Marvolo Riddle, not even Harry Potter. Running into Potter deliberately before his trial had been a calculated risk, but he had to know if his disguise stood up to proper scrutiny or if he needed to make adjustments.

No adjustments had been necessary. He’d always been an excellent pretender.

Clearly, the only way for anyone to know it was him would be for him to activate his mark and summon all those lowly traitors that were still alive today back to his side and show them Lord Voldemort was still very much alive indeed.

It had cost him though. Four years in Azkaban for being a ‘follower of the Dark Lord and committing unknown crimes against humanity’, the unknown part the reason he only got four as opposed to Malfoy’s lifelong sentence. His barrister had bristled furiously at the four, because they had no proof of any crimes committed, obviously, but he’d silently laughed. Four years was nothing. Plus he got to torment Lucius some more. That was always fun. Azkaban was no match for him. He came and went when he pleased.

And now that he was officially released after two-and-a-half years for good behaviour—the Imperius and Memory Modifications were such useful spells—he only had to report once a week to the dimwitted toad of a Ministry official in charge of his rehabilitation into proper wizarding society, which he planned to push to once a month today.

Had he mentioned yet how useful the Imperius Curse and Memory Modification Charms were?

Extremely useful.

To his surprise, the door to Ms Dolores Jane Umbridge’s office stood slightly ajar. The prissy bureaucrat always stood on proper procedure and thus always had her door firmly closed to ensure her and her clients’ privacy. It had come in handy when he’d cursed the woman. He couldn’t deny that.

But apart from that, the witch’s insistence on following the administrative rules to every single letter of the scrolls they were written on had grated on every single nerve cell of his body. One day he would make sweet Dolores pay dearly and permanently for her crimes against her Lord. Having to sit for even one second in that pinkish, cat-loving hellhole of an office was infraction number one.

He peeked through the small gap of the door and raised his eyebrows at the huge mess that was the office of the notorious neat freak. Several of the cat plates lay smashed on the ground, the cats inside having fled into one of the fragments and seemingly meowing furiously in protest at the destruction of their homes. Slivers of parchment circulated in the air in abundance. The bin next to Umbridge’s desk lay on its side; its contents spilled around the floor. A creamy white fluid leaked from a fallen cup over the edge of the wooden desk, causing a continuous dripping noise on the linoleum flooring. The cat teapot next to it had distinct swirl marks on the porcelain that were only caused by a specific group of highly illegal dark potions far beyond the knowledge and capabilities of that dimwitted broad.

His eyes drew to a nicely curved ass in a form fitting burgundy pencil skirt. Long legs ended in a pair of high heeled, black stiletto pumps behind which he could make out wild, brown curls since whoever this witch was had bent over to go through the lower cabinet’s drawer. He pushed open the door and knocked, startling her into rising and turning around, clutching a curious glass globe to her chest, while her other hand held her wand loosely by her side.

Potter’s Mudblood. What was she doing here? She worked at the Department of Mysteries last he’d heard. She couldn’t be here for him, could she? His disguise had been, still was, impeccable.

Her cheeks were flushed, but before she could speak, he said apologetically,

‘Sorry to interrupt, but the door was open.’

‘Oh,’ she merely replied, her eyes darting around.

What was she trying to hide? She clearly hadn’t considered the possibility of being disturbed all the way down here in the bowels of the ministry where they’d stuffed Umbridge away, which was foolish really. A typical oversight only a dimwitted Mudblood would make. One should never assume to go unnoticed.

‘I have an appointment with Ms Umbridge at ten o’clock,’ he added, demonstratively searching the room with his eyes for the obviously not present witch and landing on the clock that would chime in another minute.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’

Silence fell between them. Uncomfortably. He let it stretch out, determined to get to the bottom of this odd occurrence when his hair ruffled around his face and his robes swayed from the sheer force of the charm that ran past him, causing Granger to turn an even brighter shade of red. His grey eyes followed the charm as it moved on like an invisible storm, slowly tightening its circle around the chamber before widening again. From the degradation gradient he’d sensed as it had passed him, she would've had to have activated it around 8 minutes ago and it was still going strong.

Interestingly impressive.

Also explained why the door had been open: Charm interference. Not everyone knew how to combat those effects like he did with his Specialised Locking Charms.

He took a step forward, making sure to cross its path again. It was some form of Locator Charm but enhanced in an unfamiliar manner. It had clear dark elements that electrified his magical pathways and sunk its claws into the very marrow of his bones.

Magnificent. Why hadn’t he noticed this witch before?

With a small gesture, he wandlessly closed the door and locked it with a snap of his fingers. She was fast. He had to give her that. Her wand was immediately pointed at him, thick ropes flying through the air, binding him securely.

If he had been anyone else but Lord Voldemort.

Still, he allowed her this illusion of victory, of safety.

For now.

Her brown eyes narrowed at him in suspicion.

‘Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?’

Well, at least she wasn’t here for him. His cover was intact. Why was she here then?

‘I’m Ambrose Wakefield, and like I said, I have an appointment,’ he added smoothly, nodding to the desk upon which Umbridge’s agenda should lie.

She swallowed nervously but moved to the desk and opened the agenda, placing that glass globe she held next to it. It seemed to be some kind of paperweight. Within it, a storm seemed to be raging. Dark clouds and lightning bolts followed each other in rapid succession. He admitted to getting curious and curiouser.

‘All appointments were cancelled,’ she said, looking up from the ledger.

‘I didn’t get the memo.’

Surprise erupted on her face, and he realised in disgust he’d used the Muggle term instead of saying that he hadn’t gotten the owl. Blasted witch for noticing.

Her eyes darted between the clock, him and the agenda. She then went through the stack of files on the right corner of the desk and pulled out one to open it. Her eyes swiftly scanned through the contents. He couldn’t read it from his mummified standing position near the door, but he reckoned it was his. Let’s see what this Mudblood would do next.

‘Ambrose Wakefield, former Death Eater, on parole because of good behaviour,’ she huffed disagreeably at that, ‘since April 14th, 2001. Weekly scheduled check-ins. Lives with a landlady, Mrs O’Connell, age 123, at ...’

As her eyes went over this information, her face contorted briefly as if it was disappointment. The corner of his mouth quirked up.

Annoying, isn’t it, Granger? Additional complications, possible witnesses.

He was very pleased with himself for having given the Ministry a cover address instead of his real dwelling. The old lady would vow for him no matter what they asked. He’d made sure of that. He smirked when her eyebrows rose upon what had to be his academic results and his prior apprenticeship position with the ever seclusive and notorious Jonathan Grimshaw. Forgeries weren’t that difficult to create when you were in essence the ruling body of the country, and he hadn’t seen any need to lower his grades and other achievements.

Yes, Mudblood, not all of us are idiots.

Granted, most of his Death Eaters had had at the very least a tiny screw loose, but that never included him.

‘Gainfully employed at Odair’s warehouse as a janitor since May 29th, 2001.’

Her face contorted again, though this time it seemed more like she pitied him after having read his previous education and scores. He didn’t care. He knew what he was worth and capable of. People who looked down their nose at him for what he did would inevitably pay the price later, just ask Caractacus Burke. Not that anyone still could. Lord Voldemort made sure of that.

And just like when he had needed the job at Borgins and Burkes, he had secured the janitorial job almost immediately upon applying for the position—there wasn’t a human being he couldn’t charm.

Or curse.

However, he had to keep up some sort of pretense of having difficulties finding suitable employment as a former Death Eater towards busybody Umbridge, so he’d allowed the falsely sweet woman to mediate and eventually ‘help’ him secure said position. He’d even pretended to be downtrodden about the measly work he had to do, which the toad seemed to relish in. Something he would definitely have to pay her back for later.

Still, he couldn’t let Umbridge realise that he actually wanted said job in case the witch was industrious enough to investigate why. The job was perfect since it gave him access to all sorts of dangerous ingredients and finished potions. After all, his old stash had been properly confiscated by The Order after the war. Blasted traitorous Snape for granting them unlimited access. Blasted traitor altogether. It taught him to never give second chances ever again.

Ever.

Startled, he realised Granger had spoken to him and he’d not noticed when he witnessed her questioning expression towards him.

‘Sorry, lost in thought. I didn’t quite catch that.’

‘Dolores Umbridge has called in sick.’

Lie.

‘I’m afraid you’d have to reschedule with the administrator.’

‘Even if I were able to do so—’ Demonstratively, he looked down at the ropes and hopped towards the nearby chair that she’d placed her outer robe on before dropping himself on it. There, now he could check its pockets without her knowledge and he was closer to that peculiar globe. ‘—that would be impossible without me breaking the terms of my parole.’

There was an ancient guideline that would’ve allowed him to see someone at a later opportunity, but it was so obsolete that surely someone of her age and with her despicable bloodline wouldn’t be aware of.

‘You can—’ she paused, staring at him pensively before shaking her head.

She was aware? Yet she wasn’t sharing said option. This was getting more and more puzzling. What was the Mudblood up to?

‘Why did you ward the room?’

‘I figured you probably didn’t want to be disturbed with whatever it is you’re doing here.’

I sure as hell don’t want us to be disturbed, and you’re not leaving without Lord Voldemort’s explicit say so.

‘I left the door open,’ she replied, looking sideways when her cast charm chimed and lit up three spots in the room.

Clearly something of interest to her was right there. He wondered what it was as she walked towards the first one and waved her wand around the area to investigate.

‘Yes, that was your first mistake,’ he said lightly.

She frowned at him, obviously wondering about her second. He wasn’t going to enlighten her. Yet.

As she continued her casting, he recognised her wand movements. She attempted to pull something that was hidden out of nonbeing. Quite a difficult feat. Considering that took a significant amount of power and concentration, he cast on her robe when she was suitably distracted.

Oh, enlarged secret pockets. Countercharms and wards.

Ouch, nasty Trip Hex there.

If he hadn’t been bound, he would’ve shook his hands at the sensation of nearly getting his fingers chopped off. Luckily he knew how to evade the hex. This witch surely broke all the ministry’s rules, wearing something with enhanced properties like this. It was especially egregious for Unspeakables whose work and work product had to remain classified. Lord Voldemort approved of such outright disobedience and deception.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t go through the contents of said pockets without her noticing, her protective measures were that good, so he had to store that away for later. From the clearly present dark magic, she would’ve several items of interest there. He glanced at the stormy globe; he had an inkling what it was, but that couldn’t possibly be it. Not from someone associated with Saint Potter. It would be hilarious if it were. He’d figure it out later, too.

Unable to gain an answer there now, he took in the witch as she cast. The air was charged with her magic, erupting goosebumps on his skin at her delectable power. Her hair rose due to the static electricity she produced. Her pose was slightly off, a typical Hogwarts omission, and thus she had to put in far more physical effort than necessary, which caused her white blouse to stick to her perspiring skin, drawing his attention to her heaving chest. She surely had nice curves for a Mudblood. He wouldn’t mind showing this witch her rightful place beneath him; his cock twitched at the mental image of her bound on her knees before him, his hand fisting her unruly curls, her mouth open wide, forced to take all of him, choking her on his considerable length and girth …

Now his pulse increased, his cock rising to half mast. A drop of sweat slid down the back of his neck. He needed to—

Sweet Salazar, Lord Voldemort had better control over himself than this. He breathed in deeply, forcing his mind towards death, dying, being found out, the destruction of his Horcruxes, traitors, anything that wasn’t the Mudblood currently wiping off her perspiring forehead with her nondominant arm’s sleeve while jabbing her wand with the other: once, twice, trice.

The three points dimmed. They should’ve extinguished in one go. Clearly her nonverbal casting wasn’t yet up to par or it were her exaggerated movements that hindered her.

At least she didn’t break her concentration as she multitasked. So many did.

She whipped her wand around above her head, connecting all three darkening points together before giving it one final pull. With a loud crackle, three metal tubes fell from three gaping vortexes in the air. They bounced on the floor before flying straight into her now outstretched hand. A most vicious smile of delight erupted on her face, and with a swift circular move, she vanished the tubes. Had he not just been investigating her robe, he never would’ve realised that was where she vanquished those mysterious tubes to. She had skills; he had to grant her that. A tad unpolished and rough, but with loads of potential, dark potential. It filled the air around them, slithering up his nostrils and enticing his magical senses. If only she’d had a skilled teacher. His breath hitched when Hermione leaned forward, resting her hands on her thighs and breathing in deeply before rising up and placing her hands on her back. As she leaned backwards, a pain-filled groan left her lips. The sound shot straight to his cock, which hardened uncomfortably against the thick ropes, having nowhere to go.

That temptress surely would be Lord Voldemort’s downfall if he didn’t collect his faculties quickly.

Said temptress finally looked at him, her right ring finger tapping against the wood of her wand subconsciously. Then her wand raised, and to his absolute outrage, he heard her say,

‘Obliviate!’

The force of the charm clashing with his safeguards knocked him over, chair and all, but the protections he’d lain around his mind held steadfast. He had but a split-second to copy the memory the Mudblood would want to erase before she came into view, her wand still trained on him. He mimicked the glassy look people would get in their eyes, due to their brains being set on pause, and felt her expertly erasing his duplicate memory. That sneaky witch had definitely done this before. She was too much of an expert at it, targeting just the right areas of the brain where the memory would normally be stored and leaving everything else intact. Her supplanted memory was equally well-done, not overly complicated, short, to-the-point and believable. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve bought it. His brain was already struggling with the conflicting information as it were, which was made harder because he had to keep up the act. She flicked her wand and, as his chair flipped upright, her outer robe vanished from the chair beneath him and materialised around her body. The office quickly restored to its former glory with a snap of her fingers before she walked away, sitting down in the chair behind the desk and rubbing her forehead with a sigh before pulling out a flask with a yellow, bile-like fluid inside. She downed it in one go and shivered in disgust before her features changed to that of the toad-like witch. As her body changed, he noted that her clothes morphed to fit perfectly. It seemed the Mudblood had learned how to layer certain potions with certain charms. Her wand tapped the fabric, turning it into that hideous pink Umbridge always seemed to favour.

‘Relashio!’ she cast on the ropes before removing the hold she thought she had over his mind.

He pretended to shake out of it as if he’d really just been obliviated, setting some confusement in his expression before the ‘enlightenment’ of her faux memories kicked in where Umbridge had let him into the office. She didn’t give ‘Wakefield’ time to think and consider but immediately started talking, focusing his attention. Merlin, this witch was good at subterfuge and clearly knew how the brain worked.

‘Well, then, Mr Wakefield,’ Granger said in that sickeningly sweet tone he loathed beyond anything else in the world, ‘I do hope I misunderstood you when you implied you were above the quite suitable employment this ministry has so kindly granted you permission to fulfill.’

He was impressed at the spitting imitation. That had to be why he gaped like a fish on land in response.

‘It sounded for a teensy moment as if you were unhappy, so silly of me,’ Granger said, pouring herself a cup of tea with that saccharine smile on her toad-like face. ‘Surely you—a former Death Eater—couldn’t possibly be thinking he’d get his pick of the litter, right, Mr Wakefield? Not when you could so easily be sent back to a cold, dank cell in the drafty tower of Azkaban?’

Oh, that Mudblood was a far better actress than he’d given her credit for. He wanted to wring her neck right then and there.

‘Deep down you know you deserve to be there instead of walking around freely, don’t you, Mr Wakefield?’

Luckily he regained his composure. And well, wasn’t this amusing? Perhaps he could needle the witch a bit and see how good she really was at pretending.

‘There are many more people who should be locked up that walk around freely,’ he said in an equally sweet tone of voice just when she took a dainty sip of her tea.

To his utter delight, the tea went up Granger’s nose, and she coughed and spitted, turning sideways to avoid meeting his eyes, but he’d seen that moment of clear agreement in her mind already.

Oh, he knew just what to say and do next.

Before Granger regained her composure, he continued,

‘I daresay, I wouldn’t have to look too far, wouldn’t you agree, my sweet doll? After all, we had such a great time together, dealing out punishments to those who so rightfully deserved it. I miss it, don’t you?’ he asked, rising from his chair fluidly. ‘Remember how well we fitted together? How your cunt would clench around my cock as we sent yet another group of despicable Mudbloods to their well-deserved deaths.’

He stopped right beside her chair, leaning against the desk with his behind and towering over the wide-eyed, utterly shocked witch who didn’t seem to have a clue how to react to this unexpected development.

‘I know just what you need, my sweet doll. That’s why I warded the office. That’s why we always ward your office, isn’t it? So we can remember better days. So you can feel what you need again. So you can be conquered and forced to obey like your father taught you.’

Granger looked like she was going to be sick.

He swiftly leaned forward, capturing her wrists against the chair’s armrests when he could tell she was about to knock him out. His eyes glinted with pleasure, capturing her terrified gaze, as his breath brushed against her lips.

‘You wish for me to bind you, doll?’

Swallowing deeply, the Mudblood shook her head vehemently.

‘I think you do, doll. From the way you spoke to me before, it’s clear you need a strong hand to set you straight.’

The horrified thoughts he saw flying through Granger’s mind were utterly entertaining. She really couldn’t quite comprehend what was about to happen. She really didn’t understand how he was interested in Her. She never thought Umbridge was into something this kinky.

The toad wasn’t.

But he most definitely was.

This—this was utterly delightful. It broke the monotony of his current existence and allowed him to release his inner sadistic needs fully. Perhaps this would even break the Mudblood.

‘Dominum Pupa!’ he casually cast.

Granger swayed in the chair, her bulging eyes glazing over and her wide, slack mouth let out a whimpering high-pitched moan. The inability to move when your brain wanted you to move hurt her tremendously, he knew it. It was a wonderful secondary effect of this curse that he had created after Potter had broken through his Imperius Curse a tad too easily. It was a merger of the Cruciatus and Imperius Curse together. It sent pain signals back for every attempt at regaining control, building up in strength the more she tried. He could see it all in her mind; he relished in it. He dictated her movements like a puppet on a string. Her whole body was his to command. And unlike the Imperius Curse where its victims fled into an unknowing dreamlike happy state, this one kept them very much aware of everything that was happening.

‘There you go, doll,’ he talked down to her, letting go of her arms and pulling that ridiculous bow from her hair.

He flipped up his index finger, and Granger launched from the chair, her shocked shriek echoing around them. His smile widened, making sure she saw the viciousness of his delight before making a twirling motion with his hand, watching her dance around. He could feel her struggling against him, but it was no use. She would lose. There was no counter to this curse, only he could lift it. She was persistent though, despite the pain. He had her kick off her shoes, hold her arms above her head and made her twirl on the tip of her toes like a ballerina. Something the body she currently inhabited was surely unaccustomed to. He could sense the strain of her muscles, the dizziness, the nausea and the pain she felt as he forced her to keep going, while he slowly got up and settled down in the highback, leather office chair, turning it towards her.

When she faced him again, he pointed downward abruptly, smacking her to the ground hard on her knees. Her cry of pain was music to his ears and he enjoyed the tears that streamed down her face.

‘Have you forgotten there’s pleasure to be had, my doll?’ he asked, smiling condescendingly down at her. ‘Are you so in need of pain and punishment today that you keep fighting my control? You know it’s pointless. I’m more powerful. I own you. If you want this to hurt, I will oblige, but know your surrender would not only please me immensely, it will grant you a release as well.

He could see her need to vomit. He wouldn’t allow it. He allowed it to come up and then made her swallow it back, over and over again until she learned.

Please stop, he heard her mind’s whisper.

‘Open wide,’ he taunted, snapping his fingers to open that wide mouth fully and rinsing it with soap.

She struggled to breathe, panicking. Her panic enhanced the pain and her fear of him, of what he would do to Umbridge, to her.

And by Merlin, she was wondrous in her fear.

‘There, my doll is all cleaned up to service her owner.’

He curved his finger, making her crawl towards him until she rested fully on her knees between his legs.

No, no, no! Oh god! Really? With her? What’s wrong with his eyes? Is he insane?

He couldn’t agree more. Umbridge was hideous, but luckily he could look beyond it, knowing who was really kneeling down in front of him.

He had her stubby fingers open his trousers, freeing his cock before he forced her to go all the way down on him, while he had her hands massage his balls. He leaned back fully, stretching out his long legs as he closed his eyes and relaxed, enjoying how that powerful little bushy-haired witch had no choice but to take all of him in her mouth. He conducted her actions, fisting her hair and imagining grabbing onto those untamed curls instead of those slick short locks. Drool slid down her chin as her head bopped. With every move down, he gagged her. Feeling her throat convulse around his cock was magnificent and sent all sorts of delightful sensations through his body, but what was more astonishing was that the little witch was able to hold up under this harsh treatment. He didn’t have to direct her to breathe through her nose; he didn’t have to direct her to swirl her tongue around the vein underneath his cock; he didn’t have to direct her to suck properly; he barely had to direct her at all. She’d fully and utterly surrendered herself to him. Those bulging eyes shone at him with a delight that hadn’t been there before. There was no more terror, only ecstasy. She enjoyed being forced.

That just wouldn’t do.

He pulled her off his painfully hard cock, tucked it away, slid his chair back and pulled off her outer robe with a flick of his fingers. If she had Polyjuice, she’d likely have antidotes as well. He used her wand to bypass her protections. After some time of investigating the most interesting and decidedly illegal contents, he cast a Summoning Charm on her warded pocket and delighted in seeing her reaction as he threw the robe away and uncorked the flask. He levitated it towards her.

‘Swallow,’ he ordered, erupting a curve on his lips as he noticed that her pain returned upon her attempts to counter his control, the panic she felt upon realising he knew she wasn’t Umbridge, her worry about what he’d do to her once he would see who she really was, a Mudblood and not just any Mudblood, but Potter’s.

That he already knew was yet unknown to her.

He clicked his tongue mockingly at her struggles as she tilted the flask and drank the entire content. If she’d been able, she’d likely have doubled-over from the reaction. Polyjuice changes were never a pleasant experience, but he held her in check, forced her to keep upright and continue to meet his eyes. He wouldn’t allow her a reprieve or any privacy from hereon. Her mind, body, magic and soul were his to command.

‘There you are, Hermione Jean Granger,’ he spoke barely above a whisper, enjoying the flush of her cheeks and the worry in her expression. ‘So,’ he paused, picking up the globe, ‘is this what I think it is?’

He waved around the globe, watching it light up, and then laughed loudly upon getting his suspicions confirmed. That witch really was delightfully vicious. He grinned broadly at her over the globe.

‘Whatever were you planning to do with her?’

Granger bit her lip, fighting his control, her face contorting in pain.

‘Answer me.’

‘Bury her.’

‘In this?’ he asked, bemused.

‘Seems fitting,’ Granger said, staring at him in a way that made him realise she’d rather like to shove him into one of these orbs of torment right now as well. ‘Just because so many people at this ministry have egg on their faces doesn’t mean she should get to live on without consequences.’

‘For how long?’

‘For as long as necessary, until she learns,’ Granger said, viciousness dripping from her tone of voice.

Oh, she had planned to interrogate and torture the pink toad, alright. He very much approved of said plans. The delight that rushed through him almost made him come on the spot. It was better to table this for later. He had no intention to come in his trousers.

‘You’re wearing too many clothes, don’t you, Mudblood?’

He placed the orb on the desk and snapped his fingers, forcing her to slowly strip off her clothes in front of him. When she was done, he had her fold her hands behind her head, jutting out her perky breasts. Pain clearly soared through her petite body as he exited his chair to circle her, his fingertips trailing her warm, soft skin, exploring her at his leisure.

‘So pliable,’ he sneered into her ear when she tried to stop him from making her spread her legs and obviously failed, ‘Your desperate attempts at regaining control will only cause you more pain, my little Mudblood slave. Remember how wondrous you felt before? Do you feel how your body cries out in agony as you resist subjugation? That’s what happens when you go against nature, you hurt yourself, you feel lost and fearful. You need a strong hand, my dear Mudslave.’

He stopped in front of her, massaging her breasts with his hands and magic, working her nipples into hard peaks as he mixed her pain with the electrifying high of his power. He guided it through her, engulfed her clit, making it swell and hypersensitive so her whole body would throb in need while it screamed in pain simultaneously. She trembled, standing there with her muscles taut and strained, trying to resist. Her resistance suited him just fine. It helped him confuse her neural pathways. He’d make her beg for more pain when he was finally done with her. He wasn’t playing fair, he knew that, he never had. Playing fair was overrated. Playing fair was for losers, for weaklings who couldn’t overpower their opponents.

‘Do you have any idea who I am, my little Mudslave?’ he taunted, pushing her to her knees in front of him. He’d already seen her mind wondering about his wandless abilities, about why some nameless nobody was this capable, this powerful. Her hands trembled as he made her open his trousers again and forced her much smaller mouth to wrap around his cock. ‘Who is allowing you to suck off his cock like any proper, unworthy Mudslut would be honoured to do?’

He rocked inside her hot, slick mouth, enjoying the way she gagged, the way she desperately tried to accommodate for his girth and length, the way she sucked him off, her tongue trailing around his flesh. She felt better as herself, so much better. She was magnificent as she looked up at him, her big brown eyes tearing up, her cheeks flushed, her skin perspiring, her whole need for him on full display as he demeaned her.

‘Your throat was made to warm my cock. That’s what its true usage is for, but you know that, don’t you, war heroine?’ he mocked, forcing one of her hands all the way down between her legs, circling her engorged clit, while her mouth and other hand worked his cock. ‘Feel how wet you are, how swollen your Mudblood sex is now that it is properly stimulated. You’ve always had that innate need to rut. That internal feeling of never being satisfied, never being full. That immense internal craving of your sex pounding all the way in your ears.’

Her whimpered moan was a surprise but nevertheless music to his ears. On some subconscious level, this witch got off on his control. That he would most definitely use against her.

‘Finally you’re starting to realise how addicted your kind is to sex. How you need a Master to guide you, to steer your Mudblood needs to its rightful place, servicing your superiors.’

Slowly he pulled himself out of her mouth, looking down at the breathy, perspiring bundle of need he had created. She was a proper mess. Coldly, he stared down at her and released his hold in such a manner that her brain would be deluded into thinking she moved of her own accord.

‘Show me how a Mudblood should behave.’

He made her bow down, arse in the air, and lick his shoes.

‘Good girl,’ he purred, smirking at the shiver that ran through her. ‘Look up at your Master.’

Obediently, those big brown eyes found his gaze. This time he didn’t hide it. He forcefully entered her mind, breaking through all her barriers, having her gasp in shock at what had to be an excruciating intrusion. He plundered her brain, seeing what she’d hidden from him when answering his questions, seeing how she had planned to hide Umbridge’s disappearance (very clever method, too, he had to grant her that), seeing how she had planned to unearth everyone who’d been disloyal to them through Umbridge, seeing how she’d planned to eventually blackmail and if that failed Imperio Umbridge. He ravaged through every detail before he exited her mind equally rough and unforgiven as he’d entered it.

‘Do you know who I am now, Mudblood?’

‘Yes,’ she whimpered breathlessly, ‘Please, my Lord.’

Hearing her beg and use his proper title felt like a lust potion had been injected straight into his bloodstream. She was clever, alright. And by far more manipulative than he’d given her credit for. Lord Voldemort really shouldn’t have overlooked this witch in his hunt for Potter. He’d just considered her equally unsubstantial as the Weasley brat. But she thought quick on her feet and had a beautifully vengeful dark side, not to mention that the lingering sensation of her magic in the air around him was the most attractive thing he’d ever encountered in his life. He would take advantage of her latent desires and consume this witch whole.

‘Do you enjoy servicing your Master, little slave?’

‘Yes, I—I …’ she gasped, taking short shallow rapid breaths as if she’d forgotten how to properly breathe. He muddled her mind, relishing at her confusion and the fear it brought. ‘I need …’

He sighed, squatting down and cupping her cheek. ‘My cock. I know, my needy cockwarmer. Perhaps Lord Voldemort has left you to fend for yourself for too long? Perhaps it’s too late to salvage you and make you my perfect, little Mudslave?’

‘Please,’ she cried out, clutching to his legs and baring her throat as he willed her to.

His fingertips traced the side of her neck. A pleasurable tingle trailed up his arm. Her magic really was receptive to him. He could see the overload his magic caused inside her mind, the allconsuming need for more.

‘I suppose I could collar you.’

‘Please.’

She wasn’t aware of what she was saying anymore, what she was begging for. She was gorgeous this way. Full submission to his powers as she should be.

‘You would need no words, no will, no mind, no magic, no sustenance other than my cock can give you. You’ll be nothing but a hole to fill, a needy cockslut, a Mudwhore who will serve whoever, whenever and wherever I please.’

‘Please, my Lord,’ she said desperately, her mind a whirl, her body a thrumming void of agony and desire.

He spread his fingers, holding his hands sideways inches away from her neck. A greenish smoke grew between his fingers, coiling around her neck with a hiss. He responded in Parseltongue. She screamed out in pain as he branded her throat, neck and chest until the tattoo sank deep into her skin, disappearing until it were to activate again.

‘Now you can never escape me,’ he whispered, yanking her up into the air in a simple swoosh of magic and entering her wet, hot cunt harshly. ‘Now you are truly mine, Hermione Jean Granger.’

She keened, tossing her head back as he gripped her hips hard and pounded into her roughly. She spread her legs wider, pulling her knees towards her shoulders, so he’d hit her at precisely the right angle, while clenching her inner walls around him.

‘That’s it, Mudslut. Service your Master. Show me I picked the right Mudblood to bestow this honour on, Cockslut.’

He could sense he wasn’t going to last long. Besides, play time was almost over. Ambrose Wakefield had a job to perform. And Lord Voldemort had a world to concur. His Mudblood slave would just have to exercise patience, until he would see fit to claim her.

Eventually.

He grabbed the little witch’s throat, squeezing it tightly as the snake around her neck erupted from the skull on her chest, burning through her nerve endings. As she writhed around his cock, her mind whirling from the lack of oxygen, he unleashed his load inside of her, properly marking his little Mudslut with his essence again.

‘Come for your Lord,’ he ordered simultaneously, overloading all of her senses at once.

She convulsed around his cock, milking him for all he was worth. Her screams filled the air as her climax mixed with his Enthrallment Charm, strengthening it beyond disintegration, until she passed out fully.

He released her throat at once, checking to see if she was still alive. Satisfied at seeing her chest move and hearing the slightly hoarse rattle that left her lips, he summoned those three tubes from her robe. He copied the contents and then placed them back.

Well, that witch did have splendid ideas, and who was he to stand in the way of such wondrous, vengeful dark magic?

Too bad for her, he’d be the one executing it now for his goals. She’d be allowed to assist him, though. If Umbridge would think Voldemort was there to save her from Granger, that would be most advantageous.

And hilarious.

He dove back into her mind. Shifting and altering the memories in a way she’d think it had all happened between Wakefield and Umbridge. All she would remember was the sex, not the interrogation or that he knew about the true nature of the orb. He blocked everything that would clue her into the truth. That she was his now. That she had been conquered and tamed by Lord Voldemort.

Reluctantly, he removed his now flaccid cock from his precious Mudblood’s cunt. She really was a proper cockwarmer. He relished at the sight of her as he staged her defiled, naked body on the floor for maximum impact when she'd wake: ruptured clothes around her, arms above her head, bent legs spread wide, his cum leaking from her cunt, bruises from his tight grip, her throat sore and all alone. Hermione Jean Granger—war heroine, Mudblood, the girl who helped Harry Potter vanquish the Dark Lord—was His.

Made solely for him.

Used solely by him.

Tamed solely by him.

Oh, how she would beg when he would finally come to collect her.

It would be a sight to watch—a Pensieve worthy memory to cherish forever.

When the day would come for Lord Voldemort to claim her again, she would be helpless, a living breathing example of the unsatisfiable, inherently sexual nature of Mudbloods.

Hermione Jean Granger was to be his final masterpiece, an indomitable witch made to heel. Lord Voldemort would parade her around for all to see.

For eternity.
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Enchanting Disguises