A Nightmare of Red Silk

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Edgar Allen Poe, "A Dream"

Hermione's body was feverish beneath the thin cotton of her nightgown as she shifted agitatedly against the sheets. If the sounds coming from her mouth had any discernable words, they could not have been identifiable by anyone listening, and her dorm-mates slept on, undisturbed by Hermione's restless sleep.

Hermione was never one to lay in thrall to her nightmares. Even in sleep she was furiously ambitious, taking charge of the horrors her mind threw at her in order to triumph over them. There were no problems in her dreams that she could not eventually overcome, and she fought her demons in sleep as ruthlessly as she fought them elsewhere.

Tonight, however, her combative skills were sadly lacking.

That night, someone far more ruthless and adept at terror entered her dreams, and he was not content to let her banish him as easily as did her imaginary fears. All the terrors she confronted in her dreams were just whispers of reality always conceived by her own fertile mind. This new horror in and laid dormant, waiting for the right moment to strike, to sink fangs into her consciousness and slowly transmit poison into her vast, brilliant mind.

His smile cut through the night as he pondered her fate, eyes gleaming scarlet, drops of blood in the moonlight. He remained in the shadows and did not touch her, but the exquisite torment of her fear wrapped around him like a caress in the dark. It would not do to hurry this moment, oh no. This would satisfy him as few things had.

She was naked in the bed before him, the elegant and clean lines of her back highlighted by the pull of her muscles as she strained against her bonds. Her head was to the side, her eyes opened; in this dream, however, there was nothing there but a soft muted glow where eyes should have been. All that made her Hermione was asleep, that bright intelligence shimmered under the surface but was trapped by the considerable force of his Will. Her hair looked like a mass of snakes, lying around her as she pulled, moaning softly, hands clasping at the silken ropes that bound her

Silk?

The only touch of decadence was the red silk of the bonds holding her tethered to the bed. Her hands curled over them, tugging lightly. Voldemort sucked in a breath, momentarily off-balance, at the sight. He had designed this prison especially for her—iron bed, pedestrian white sheets; stark and brutal in its simplicity.

In a dreamscape dominated by black and white, the only color was provided by those strips of silk and the softly sinister glow of his crimson eyes. The eyes were his own; the soft, sensual strands of red silk were her own addition, a hint of her power in a landscape dominated by his Will.

It was obvious she was unsettled, not just from her twisting motions on the bed to which he had bound her. He could taste the franticness of her thoughts in the air between them, heavy with her fear. She was making a sound that might have been a whimper, but here to him it was a sweet sound of pleasure. The twisting of her facial muscles into fright was the same to him as a lover's expression of release. This was the most terrible of foreplay, and he was delighted to indulge in it.

She was so receptive. Just the simplest touches of his mind to her was making her shudder in delicious fright as her breath caught and her teeth worried her lower lip. The sinuous motion she made in her silken bonds was alluring, and he stepped closer to her without realizing what it was that he had done.

Patience.

He had no virtues save that one, after all. Those who were immortal could well afford it.

There was a moment when she ceased her struggling, falling slowly and blissfully into a deeper slumber. He watched her form upon the bed fade slowly into soft, blurred lines as if he were viewing a painting under a light that was slowly being extinguished. In a few moments, her mind would release the dream and she would drift further into sleep, perhaps remembering only the faint glow of his eyes and the sensation of being bound.

Was there a moment he considered letting her drift away? Perhaps, but only because pulling her back into the dream would make the fear so much stronger…

Deliberately, he waited until she was almost gone, until all that remained was a faint outline of her body on the rapidly disappearing bed, and then he smiled and pulled her back until the sight of her was as sharp and full as it was before.

He finally stopped his mental torment to approach where she lay. Her skin was flushed, her movements sensual although they were not intended to be so. The silk of the bindings kept drawing his eyes, increasing his desire to terrorize.

Softly, he began to speak.

He spoke not in English but in the softly sinuous language of serpents. If there had been any in the room they would have risen up to his commands, his whispered hisses. She tightened her hands at the sound, breath spilling out of her mouth in a sigh.

It was not the sound he expected to hear, and for a moment he stopped speaking, eyes narrowed. He had been staring at those long fingers of hers wrapped around the red silk, and when he brought his gaze to hers he saw the fathomless orbs of her eyes were staring directly at him.

Her lashes descended to rest upon her cheeks, but when she unveiled her eyes once more they were no longer the deep pools of light they had been previously, but instead her intelligent, coffee-colored eyes peered back at him. Despite his efforts to the contrary, a bit of her consciousness rebelled against his control, fighting back subtly, even if it was only in her gaze.

Their gazes clashed; a battle between light and darkness as each struggled for supremacy. He would not allow her to take over even though this was her dream he had invaded. Likewise she fought against his control, her defiance only strengthening his resolve.

Neither of them spoke—to do so would engage the situation on a level far too menial for what they both wished. He wanted to ask her why she had envisioned the dark red bonds; he had envisioned something like iron chains—inescapable and cold, like him. Instead, she had subtly changed the dynamic by throwing two innocuous, red silk strips of fabric into the scenario, and it was puzzling to him why this should be so. It screamed of seduction, of pain for the sake of pleasure…he hissed softly in the darkness, eyes narrowing.

Suddenly, the desire he felt was not only to terrify her, and this enraged him. This was not why he was here, this was not his intent… his intent had been to terrify her until her Mudblood heart exploded so that she was found dead in the morning from sheer terror, a death they would never trace back to him….

He would have done it. He had meant to do it, he had prepared for it. He planned that it would end with her death so that he would stand over her while she gasped her last breath and he would smile with triumph above her. Potter would never know why his beloved Hermione's life had ended, but Voldemort would take great pleasure in showing the meddlesome brat over and over again in his mind, and her death would lead to his, and he would triumph over them all… in a shadowy realm of dreams where noble sacrifices in the name of love would never save them.

Thus he had designed the scene of her death—trapped in a bed of black and white, light forever closed, fear her only companion. Then she had intruded upon his design and added ribbons of red, and he was almost undone. The thought sparked his ire, his fury glowing fiercely in his crimson eyes.

I want to kill you. What have you done, so that I will not?

Some other primal urge was rushing through him, and it was no longer merely to kill. He wanted to hurt her—oh, how he wanted that—but there was a darker desire beneath the pain, and death was no longer the result he craved.

She watched him, never moving, wary but gathering strength by the minute. He could not have that.

He started to hiss again, and something flashed in her dark eyes that was not fear, and it rushed over him like a cool wave of power flowing from her lithe body. She pulled against the bonds, chin tilted up, staring at him in defiance.

I have faced down a defiant witch before, Miss Granger, the though, continuing his soft, eloquent diatribe in the language she did not understand. I killed her.

He said it again, in Parseltongue.

I killed her. It was a lovely phrase in Parseltongue; it flowed easily in the space around them.

I killed her. Like poetry, the soft hisses.

I killed her…and I want to kill you. Even lovelier, with more words.

He stood next to her, eyes burning. One long-fingered hand stretched out. She watched him as he reached down, unsure of his intent until his fingers, cold as ice, touched her face.

She shuddered, and a moan escaped her lips, and it was not entirely fear.

Drawing his hand back, he commanded the shadows to enshroud him, and he moved behind her. His mind effortlessly slipped into her thoughts. He knelt behind her on the bed, using his will to force her head from turning to see what he was doing behind her.

Why?

Her mind was linked to his, but beneath the cloud of slumber he could make out only that one word. If she queried herself, or him, he did not know, but it no longer mattered. He knew with his Legilimency that she grew wet for him between her thighs even as she still feared him; that the strange language of serpents that slid from his mouth was erotic to her in ways she did not understand.

Does she know she created the red silk? Do you know that, little Hermione?

He crawled as up her body, moving like the snake he had become, muscles moving in ways no human being could replicate.

Softly, he breathed against her skin. I want to devour your mind, girl, he purred, enjoying the sound of the phrase in Parseltongue. Feast until there is nothing left within you but a shell. Until your eyes lose that glow.

She shifted restlessly against the sheets. Her hands tightened on the bonds wrapped around the iron of the bed, and she arched her back into his whispered threats. Do you understand me? I brought you here to kill you. He wanted to laugh as she moaned breathlessly, shivers racing up and down her skin, but he did not.

His cold fingers traced the skin of her thighs, she shuddered beneath him. Terror and lust swirled around him and he flicked his tongue out to taste it in the air. When his fingers skirted around her slick entrance, wet with moisture that both shamed and damned her, he smiled viciously in the darkness.

Pull harder on those bonds, he spoke against the slightly sweaty skin of her back, luxuriating in the softness and the chill of her flesh. She was feverish no longer under his fingers, his mouth, his dark promises. You wanted this, girl, or else you would be dead by now. Or screaming under my Cruciatus, not writhing under my body.

His fingers delved inside of her; her muscles clenched around him. She made no sound other than a breathless cry, and he leaned down to speak against her skin, hissing over her but never actually touching her skin with his mouth. I'll kill them all, he said in the serpent's tongue, moving his fingers in and out of her in a rhythm that matched his seductive hissing. They shall fall before me, dead, dead, dead… and oh, how I will laugh to see them all at my feet, Hermione, everyone you love… dead, dead, dead…

He released his will and allowed her head to move; she tossed her hair and fixed him with eyes of warm glowing amber, drowning in lust and shame. I shall chain you to my bed for them all to see. His mouth had moved up to her neck, he kissed her neck with his serpentine hissing, his words horrible and his body flush against her. They will see you writhe beneath me before I kill them. How delicious that shall be…

Back and forth, he moved against the sensitive skin of her neck, tracing up and down her spine as he felt her tensing beneath his fingers. Maybe I'll even let you live, he hissed, smiling against her flesh. Or maybe not. He spoke quickly, the series of hisses were coming faster and more furious against her skin. Maybe I'll make your death so exquisite, you will scream for hours at the pain of it… no Avada for you, girl, oh no… the last to fall will be you, after you've seen them all dead.

She came for him, arching and sobbing in pleasure or shame, pulling on the red silk bonds in her release. He was riveted by the sight, captivated as her fingers entwined in the silk. All the while he whispered to her; terrible things, depraved things, as she climaxed beneath him.

She lay panting when it was over, body warm from her exertions and cold still where he lay upon her. Gently, he moved her hair to whisper in English against her ear, "You came for me while I told you that I would kill you," he said, voice as cold as his touch. "While I told you I will kill everyone you love. You will scream in the morning when you remember. I shall never let you forget." Slowly he traced his fingers over the smooth skin of her back.

She looked back at him, eyes returning to the sunken glow, body softening as she returned to the abyss of sleep. She tossed a smile at him, striking in its sincerity.

"I know," she said quietly, voice strong but soft. "I heard you the first time."

At his stare, she fingered the red silk. Her hair fell in her face, obscuring it from his view. His fingers dug slowly into her flesh; bruising and harsh, as his rage grew. That she had done that, given herself the ability in sleep to understand his secret language… was such a thing even possible?

"In dreams, all things are possible," she said, as if he had given voice to his query. "And I shall never let you forget that, my lord."

She faded away, leaving the dream, and his hands were grasping at the sheets upon which she had lain. He reached his left hand out and fingered the bright strip of red silk, terrible ideas dancing in his fevered brain.

He moved off the bed, his long fingers wrapped around the small strip of red, and he brought it up to his face as he, too, faded from the room.

Perhaps I shall not kill her after all.

Finis