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Chapter Three

She felt daring, emboldened by what she'd already done so far, and by where she stood—both metaphorically and physically. The possessive gleam in the werewolf's gaze as it swept up from her mouth to lock on her eyes, once more, sent a shivery zing across her skin that, like so many things she felt in his closeness, she didn't quite understand. But she did like it. She did want more of it.

Reminding herself to breathe, she was distinctly aware of her own voice spilling out in a soft, rumbling whisper. "Did the Dark Lord say that? That you could have me?"

Fenrir shrugged, smirking when the movement caused her to jump just a bit in her place wedged between his body and the wall at her back. "He did. If you answer every question put to you to his satisfaction, he said I can play with you. Provided I don't do anything that mucks up your usefulness to him."

There was something in the purring tone of his voice that told her this wasn't a threat. She wasn't sure why, but she knew his words weren't meant to intimidate. His intent wasn't to hurt her . . . well, at least no more than would naturally be involved in a bout of rough—

She cut off her own thought, aware that with his canine senses, he could probably already smell the absolute havoc the simple nearness of him was stirring up inside her. "And if I don't answer to his satisfaction?"

Again, the werewolf shrugged. "He's a little less concerned about your usefulness to him."

Narrowing her eyes in an appraising look, Hermione laughed. God, the War really had broken her, hadn't it? Just yesterday she'd have been petrified and angry to find herself in this very spot. Now? Well, now she was intrigued . . . and maybe wondering just a little bit what it would feel like to have his mouth on her skin.

"But you wouldn't do anything to inhibit a second go, or even a third, now would you?"

"Second or third?" He tipped his head to one side as his eyes held hers, his hands clamping over her hips. "So you've already consigned yourself to the idea of me having you?"

She forced a gulp down her throat, cognizant of his fingers trailing down. Of them slipping around the back of one of her thighs and lifting her leg to the side, of the feel of him pressing himself tight against her. Her breath thundered out of her lungs and she thought she might've even let a quiet little moan escape. The movement had her heart rattling her ribcage and that sweet aching pulse tearing through her.

She had to struggle to find her voice as he moved away and pressed into her again and again. "Maybe I have. Something . . . something's telling me to give into you. Why? And why do you want me so much?"

Watching her face, the amber hue of his eyes brightened, sharpening to an incandescent gold and her breath caught in her throat. There it was. She knew. Somehow, deep down, that little growling whisper was telling her.

It was another thing she couldn't quite make sense of, the way the sight of his eyes changing like that sent a picture of wolves—running, hunting, mating—through her head. As he continued rocking his pelvis against her, she found herself lifting her other leg to wrap around his hip, letting the wall at the back support her weight while he moved.

She also had no idea how she could talk, let alone think, with the deliciously hard bulge beneath his robes grinding between her thighs like this, yet she managed. "I'm . . . somehow I'm like you."

"Just a little. Probably something in your ancestry." Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, his voice dropping to a gravelly pitch, "You've no idea how delicious you smell when you want me like this. I can only imagine how much more delectable you'll be when I'm making you come."

An inhuman sound of shock choked out of her then, and he chuckled.

He pulled back enough to meet her gaze as he continued. "Don't worry, Sweetness. I'll be sure to lick you clean, and you'll love every second of it."

The mental image that accompanied his statement made her shiver against him. She wasn't certain she'd ever wanted a man this much in her life! She didn't even know him beyond his reputation as the most savage werewolf in Wizarding Britain, and here she was with her body demanding that she let him tear off her clothes and take her any way he wanted her.

"So, what's say we get you in there so you can answer the Dark Lord's ruddy questions? Sooner he's satisfied, sooner I can see you'll be, hmm?"

There was just one thing she had to do before she nodded her agreement. Clamping her hands around the back of his neck, she pressed her hips to the wall, lifting herself as he rocked hard against her one final time. The added pressure caused sweet tremors to wrack both of them.

His breathing a bit heavy, he watched her face expectantly. "That a yes?"

Swallowing hard, she nodded as she lowered her feet to the floor. "Most absolute yes I've ever given in my life."


She was sure, just yesterday, she'd have been unnerved at the set up in the cavernous dining room of Malfoy Manor. With Voldemort seated in a strangely languid posture given his cold and bony countenance at the center of the long table and his followers gathered around him, the scene looked like some dark and warped version of The Last Supper.

Fenrir had done a fantastic job of appearing to drag her in by the back of her neck and marching her through the room—otherwise silent at their entrance, save for the sounds of their footfalls. He pulled her to a halt directly before the Dark Lord, giving as much of a bow as he could manage while keeping hold of her.

For several heartbeats, it seemed not a soul in the room so much as breathed. Hermione didn't know what, precisely, Voldemort was waiting for—if it was for her to flinch, or waver, if he was waiting for her to offer some show of fealty, they'd be here a long while—but she simply stared back at him.

From the corner of her eye, she recognized the Malfoys, though she didn't dare take her bored gaze from the Dark Lord's. Draco, in particular, stood out to her from where he was seated between his parents. Probably because he was the most familiar thing in her vicinity. She imagined Lucius had explained her presence to his son, but from the way his jaw was open just a little as he stared in her direction, she could tell that he still couldn't quite wrap his head around her, of all people, crossing battle lines.

Apparently, whatever Voldemort was looking for he got, because he nodded. Waving his lifeless-seeming hand toward the end of the table, he said, "Severus, if you would?"

With a nod, her former professor rose from his seat. Rounding the table, he came to stand before her. He appeared to study her features as he uncapped the bottle of veritaserum. Well, now, everyone was just so interested in studying her face today, weren't they?

She didn't know if he thought he was keeping her calm and focused, or simply couldn't help himself, but Fenrir was using the cover of her wild hair over his hand around her neck to stroke his fingertips and the edge of his nails along the pulse in her throat. Though, there was a third option, and it was that he was doing it to keep her primed and on-edge for what he had planned for her after she got clear of Voldemort's interrogation.

"Miss Granger, if you would?" Severus held the open bottle out for her to take. She found it an odd courtesy, likely prompted by the grudging respect he had for her as one of his best students. That, or he hadn't wanted to anger the werewolf holding her by trying to force her to drink it, himself.

So many possible reasons behind every look and action happening around her. So . . . interesting, all of it. Every single interaction, every breath, seemed to have something more to it, something not intended to be read, but there, not the less.

Good Lord, but evil people were so intriguing, weren't they?

With a smirk, she took the bottle and nodded. "Of course, Professor. How much d'you recommend for duration of this questioning?"

He arched a brow at her inquiry, clearly surprised that she would still seek his expertise. But then, she'd always been wise for her years, and she'd asked a very pointed question. Clearly, she didn't want to give anyone present the opportunity to take advantage of any left over time during which she'd be unwillingly truthful.

He didn't know if he loathed her foresight and cleverness, or admired it.

Severus looked to the Dark Lord for permission to answer. Only when Voldemort nodded with a dismissive wave of his hand, did he return his attention to the young witch.

"Two sips should suffice."

Hermione took the opportunity to mirror his expression from a moment ago, arching her brow at him. She held his gaze for a moment, waiting for that gleam of understanding to dawn in his eyes. Once it did, she nodded and took her two sips.

She'd waited for him to realize what her look meant—that if he was lying to her, if just one sip would've done it and she was left in that state of unwilling honesty for longer than strictly necessary, she'd make sure he paid for his deception. When an opportunity presented itself, of course.

"Your full name?"

Hermione's brow furrowed at the simplicity of the first question launched at her. Seemed a bit like when she watched Muggle crime dramas with her parents and the interrogator was trying to set a baseline response for a polygraph machine. Odd, given they could not actually gauge her internal response here. Then again, it was probably something he wanted to verify should he decide her name was needed in use of magical tracking.

'Hermione Jean Granger."

Smirking, Voldemort nodded. "Date of birth?"

"Nineteenth of September, 1979."

"And you want to see your friend Harry Potter dead?"

With a shrug, she frowned, seeming unfazed by the stark jump in topic. "No, not particularly."

A hubbub went up around the table at her answer, but given her bland tone and her lack of visible reaction, she thought, Voldemort held up a silencing hand. He knew the difference, he had to.

"But you want him to lose this war?"

Her brows pinched together as she sighed. Nope, he didn't get it. Yes, she felt like she had something to prove, but that wasn't the heart of it. He hadn't listened at all when she'd been dragged before him the first time.

"I want to be where my capabilities are put to use without any pretense, I don't really care who wins. I only know that having me on your sides increases your odds dramatically."

"And how do I know this isn't a trap?" he asked, repeating exactly the question for which she'd suggested the veritaserum.

Though she expected it, she still granted him a tired eye-roll as she answered. "Because you already realize that I'm too smart to be that stupid. If you even think I'm betraying you for a moment, you won't hesitate to have me killed, or tortured into madness."

"Is that incentive enough to keep your loyalty, Mudblood?"

"Yes."

Voldemort eyed her for a moment before his thin lips twisted in an amused half-smile. He seemed to enjoy her lengthier responses. "Elaborate, if you would?"

"Elaborate? Well, seeing as I rather enjoy my sanity and am not quite as ready to die as I thought when I walked in here? I should say my betraying you is not likely." She glanced around the room, careful not to move her head too much so that Greyback's grip on her neck looked genuine—veritaserum secured truth of words, not actions. "The rest of your lackeys? I couldn't say for sure. The merit of my loyalty to them, individually, would have to be measured individually. Though, if I'm being wholly honest—which, let's face it, I can't exactly help right now—I'd probably be loyal to Draco, sheerly based on the bonding of academic rivalry. Greyback, because he explained something of my lineage to me, and I'd feel obligated to protect a werewolf. And probably Professor Snape, because even though I still haven't quite forgiven him for killing Dumbledore, we do share a grudging respect as former student and teacher."

By the time she finished babbling, Voldemort's naked brows were high on his forehead. That was certainly an elaboration. He noted her gaze roaming about as though curious to see the reactions of his followers, though not wholly interested in anything they might show her.

"Oh, Draco, don't look so surprised. I may dislike you to my very core, but I've always respected your intellect and cleverness."

The Dark Lord actually had to bite back a laugh at her unprompted comment. Keeping his humor at the situation tightly reined, he said, "And, for the last question. I ask that you repeat what you told me earlier. What is it you want out of this?"

"Freedom."

"And if I refuse to grant it?"

"Then I will run. Somehow, some way, I will run. And you will never find me." Arching her brow at him as she had with Severus, she tacked on, "And now you know I believe I can do exactly that. In the days to come, you're going to understand. You're going to realize that if I say I 'can' do something, then I make it true."

His dead eyes narrowing in an appraising look, he considered the young witch quite seriously for a few seconds. Oh, yes. Under the right circumstances, this creature would be a truly terrifying force.

And she had just handed herself over to him.

Stroking his chin, he nodded. "Your proposition is accepted. You are loyal to me, anything I demand you will do, without question."

"Yes." She had a little trouble with it, but she managed to make herself say, "My Lord," without there being too much of a bad taste left in her mouth. Huh. She'd thought her first time uttering those words would feel like she'd just gargled battery acid.

"You may take her away, now, Greyback."

A feral grin curving his lips, the werewolf tightened his hold on her neck—firm, but not as rough as he was making it look. "With pleasure, My Lord."

He turned Hermione and started mock-dragging her from the room. "Thought that would never end," he murmured for her ears, only, sending a flush of heat through her as his tone easily brought back the little taste of what to expect from him that he'd given her in the corridor.

She could hear a few voices laughing behind her as Voldemort called out, "Do remember not to play with her too roughly." Though, she knew, somehow, that if she looked back, she would see at least two of the people not sharing in that laughter would be Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy.

Perhaps there was something to be said for loyalty—even in this den of almost-literal vipers.