A/N: Sorry about the late posting. November has been so busy at work, seriously cutting down on my writing time. Finally, I came around to posting again.
Thanks for the reviews, follows and favourites!
Warning: Remember, this is a M-rated story. *grins*
Please let me know what you think!
Part 10: Road Trip with Granger
On Monday morning, breakfast was awkward. Apparently, Ron Weasley had left for St. Mungo's during the evening, cursing and yelling, clutching his Shrunken bits pitifully, to his sister's and Potter's great shock.
Both watched Granger nervously and carefully, and she was hugging her mug of strong tea, face like a thundercloud, not meeting anyone's eyes. No one dared to say anything, and he quite relished the palpable tension – it was rolling on his taste buds, almost like a savoury sweet.
He hid his smile into his own mug, taking a deep sip of his tea, as the newspaper owls came pecking at the kitchen window. Potter's decrepit, old House-elf hobbled up to the window, letting the owls in with a flurry of feathers and soft hoots. His delivery owl was a pretty, white owl this morning, and it carefully nipped a piece of toast from his hand as he put the Knut in its pouch, while Granger had gotten an overlarge, grouchy barn owl. It landed with a screech on her bacon, taking two rashers in its talons, glaring at her with large, yellow eyes as she paid it with a fierce scowl on her face, before the owls took off.
The paper had a full coverage of the ball, and on the front page, he saw himself dancing with Granger, her resting her head against his chest with a look of bliss on her face. He rather thought they made a dashing couple.
Granger was staring at her own newspaper, and her mouth became a thin line. Potter darted anxious glances from Granger, to Voldemort and to his sister. No one said anything. The only sound was the House-elf humming to himself in his lair.
He picked up the paper, and read the piece. It was a rather slanderous story about how Granger always went for a high profile wizard, being a veritable gold digger, and the author speculated that since he had arrived on the scene, Golden Boy Weasley wasn't good enough for Golden Girl Granger.
After a few minutes, Granger banged her fist into the kitchen table, hissing: "I know it's her, though there's another journalist on the byline."
"Probably," Potter said carefully, like he was trying not to agitate her further.
"Hermione," Ginny said pleadingly, "you know how they are, don't let it get to you. Just … forget about it."
"I would, if it wasn't for the fact that I'm sure Skeeter is behind it all. I can tell she has written this, and she's trying to wriggle out of our deal by not signing the article."
He blinked. Skeeter had interviewed him, and he had found her rather obnoxious. This, however, seemed like there was something more. And ... a deal?
"You have a deal with this Skeeter woman?" he asked, looking at Granger with curiosity.
"Yes," she grumbled. "I haven't told the Ministry about her being an illegal animagus, and in return she's not to write stories on me, Harry or…", she stopped, letting Ron Weasley's name hang unspoken. Ginny Weasley winced a little, looking away from Granger.
"Oh," he said, feeling even more intrigued. A kind of blackmail? This was surprising. He didn't think Granger had it in her. Her blackmailing a reporter was obviously a secret, unpublished fact about the Golden Trio, even though their whole lives must have been scrutinized, published and printed by now. Still, it was sensible to keep such things quiet, and he almost nodded in agreement.
Then Potter said, forcing a laugh: "Though Skeeter had to spend an entire summer in Hermione's jar as a beetle for this deal to go through. No wonder she tries to get out of it."
His eyebrows shot to the roof, and he looked at Granger with a newfound respect. "You kept her in a jar for an entire summer?"
"I did," she said, looking both ashamed and proud. "I captured her in her beetle form, and yes, she sat in my jar all summer. In the end, she was frantic, and I made my terms before letting her out. Then we made the deal."
He let out a breath, not succeeding in holding back his grin. "That's, that's …"
"I know, it's awful," Granger said with downcast eyes, but he interrupted her again:
"No, I mean that's … bloody … imaginative!"
At that, Granger looked up to him, and then she grinned too, her pride showing through. "It was, wasn't it? I fed her with grass and gave her droplets of water, so I don't think she was harmed physically. She was really shaken, though, when she came out, thinking that I had planned to keep her as a beetle for an infinite time."
Now he knew Granger would indeed have done very well in Slytherin. This was … an insidious, fantastic piece of blackmail, with just the right level of cruelty. It most certainly didn't happen often, but right now, Voldemort felt impressed.
Xxxx
Granger blushed a little as she put her arms around him in the back alley, just outside Grimmauld Place. She was Apparating them to Hogwarts, and he still had to Side-Along, because he wasn't supposed to know where the school was situated. Though, he had to say it felt much better to be pressed close to Granger than Potter.
"Allow me," he murmured, doing the sweeping arch of his Stabilias spell, spinning Granger in his arms.
She laughed, and then the sharp Crack! of her Apparition reverberated through him, squeezing them through the tube of space, spitting them out in a clearing, just outside the grounds.
He felt his heart fill with joy at seeing the castle in the distance. Hogwarts, the place where he belonged. His home, his childhood paradise. To be kicked out by Dippet, then denied by Dumbledore, had felt like a fall from grace, the gates of paradise slamming shut behind him. And now, he was back, while they were long dead and gone. He had won.
Feeling elated, he breathed in the fresh, Scottish air, taking in the mist and the light rain. He saw an answering grin on Granger's face, as she looked towards the castle. Schooling his face, getting back into character, he said softly to her: "It's beautiful here."
She looked up at him, and only then, he discovered that he still had his arms tightly wound around her, and that she was embracing him as well. Blushing, she stepped hastily back, answering: "Yes, it is."
They both stared at each other for a while, before he grinned playfully at her. Bumping into her arm deliberately, he took her hand decisively, starting the trek to the gates.
Her hand was very small, warm and dry, and his hand totally engulfed hers. Excitement thrummed through him. Back at Hogwarts, on his way to open the Chamber, even though it was for the benefit of snot-faced little brats, a beautiful witch in tow that belonged to him, like a secret weapon, even though she wasn't aware of it. Indeed, it was a good day for Lord Voldemort.
At the gates, they were met by the resident hulking half-giant, who bellowed: "Hermione! Good ter see yeh!", before embracing her into a bearhug.
She laughed, saying: "Hagrid, it's so good to see you too. How are you?"
"Much the same, Hermione, more peaceful, thou'", and at that, they both laughed hard.
Finally, the bearded man looked down at Voldemort, extending his hand with a nervous twitch to his bushy eyebrows: "Nice ter meet yeh, too, Mr. Riddle."
Hagrid looked much the same as he had done as a young boy, except for the wild beard. And, he was even taller than he had been. Voldemort was by no means used to people being taller than himself, after all, he was a fucking six feet five, but then again, Hagrid wasn't a wizard, he was a half-being. There was no reason to compare himself unfavourably to a mere being.
He was curious though, how Hagrid would react to him, being one of very few people who knew him from his youth. It was strangely fitting too, that Hagrid should be here when he reopened the Chamber. It almost made him snigger.
"Hello, Mr. Hagrid," he said with a smile. "Please call me Tom, just Tom."
"Tom…" the oaf said, tasting the name on his tongue, before shaking his head. "Yeh're looking an awful lot like him, yeh know."
He nodded, letting his smile fade like he was saddened. "I know," he said quietly. "People keep telling me that. Not much I can do about it, though. I hope you won't hold it against me."
"Not jus' in looks," Hagrid continued, frowning, "bu' the way yeh speak, it's yer voice, I reckon."
"I wouldn't know," he said, shrugging politely. "I've never met the man in my life." Merlin, this was expected, and Hagrid's Gryffindor background shone through, blurting out everything to everyone. How come they never understood that knowledge is power? Silly things.
"No, o' course," Hagrid said quickly, "jus' sayin'. I'm sure yeh're a fine lad. No fault o' yer own tha' yer ol' man was a nutter."
At that, he almost laughed out loud. It was preposterous, calling Lord Voldemort a "fine lad," and he was sure no one had done so since his days at school. As for a nutter, well, he quite agreed. The snake-faced him had been mad, utterly crazy.
Hagrid had been vital in bringing his other self down. Wondering idly if this merited some kind of punishment at a later date, he found that he couldn't make himself care. A quick assessment told him that Hagrid was still fairly harmless. Maybe he should be magnanimous. He had, to be fair, already destroyed Hagrid's life before. Now, he had bigger fish to fry.
Lips twitching, he said: "Thanks, I'm looking forward to get to know you."
Granger tugged at his arm, and they waved goodbye to Hagrid.
He asked: "Are there more people here that knew him? I mean, am I going to be swamped with comments on how I look compared to him?"
"I don't know," she said slowly. "The Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, might have known him, though she's about ten years younger. And, well, there's Professor Slughorn." She gave him a wary glance, and inwardly, he cringed.
Slughorn, that bothersome, dreary old man, still here? Hadn't they managed to get a new Potion teacher since the war? That fucking traitor who had betrayed his other self for years, Snape, had held the post for along time, before going on to Defense and then acting as his puppet Headmaster. Surely his rumoured surly disposition couldn't have scared away a generation from the damned subject. There HAD to be people more suited for teaching than Slughorn.
"I'd better steel myself, then," he muttered, meaning it literally. At least, Slughorn was a Slytherin. He might have too much sense to comment. Still, he almost snorted, Slughorn would be prone to actually name-drop his acquaintance with his "father" to him.
Granger squeezed his arm, and together, they entered the courtyard. Inside, he felt like he was finally home, the castle walls embracing him, welcoming him, and his heart swelling with an unfamiliar, strong feeling, threatening to smother his mind, making his throat constrict. He had to admit defeat: He cared for Hogwarts. At least, it was a place, not a person.
Students sat outside in groups, and at the sight of him and Granger, whispering, eager pointing and staring broke out:
"Look, there's You-Know-Who's son, and Granger!"
"Why are they here?"
"Are they together? Did you see the Prophet? What about Ron Weasley?"
"Morgana, he's hot! He's fucking sexy!"
"Granger is so cool, did you know she has the fourth best scores Hogwarts has ever seen?"
"He's supposed to be so powerful, just like You-Know-Who!"
"Say his name, it's not dangerous! It's Voldemort."
Granger ducked her head, clearly not enjoying the attention, but he almost preened. Having everyone's attention was just … delicious.
Entering the castle proper, he stopped, inhaled deeply, feeling the familiar smell of stone, dust and home fill his lungs. Everything looked much the same as it had, and he felt his mouth tugging upward.
"Come on," Granger said softly. "We're supposed to meet the Headmistress in ten minutes, and it's a long walk through the corridors."
Xxxx
The Head's office had gone through some radical changes, though. Gone were Dippet's severe leather chairs, lacquered tables and maps of the wizarding world, and in their place, there was an inordinately amount of all things tartan. He was quite sure that he had never met this McGonagall-woman before, but he couldn't rule out that his other self had met her sometime after 1955.
The wiry, old witch hugged Granger, in a way that belied her formality, and she shook his hand firmly.
"Welcome," she said. "I'm so pleased you agree to try this. I'm sure the Chamber would be a nice acquisition for us, giving the students an opportunity to use it as a practise hall for Defense studies."
"I'm happy to try," he said, giving the witch a tentative smile, "but I'm not sure I'll succeed. I have to say, this is … a little awkward for me, because it really cements the fact that I have a connection to him. I hope this won't make people become afraid and apprehensive."
"Nonsense," the Headmistress said briskly, while snapping her fingers. A House-Elf emerged with tea and biscuits, happily setting up the tea service.
"People will see that you're doing this to help," she continued. "I don't see why they should be scared."
He shrugged. "As I understand, this Heir of Slytherin business isn't exactly something that'll do wonders for my reputation."
She shook her head: "I must impress upon you, Mr. Riddle, this is valuable help for us. I will not hesitate to tell people so."
"Thanks," he said sincerely, "I appreciate that." After all, that was the very reason he'd do something as asinine as opening Slytherin's Chamber for the dirty masses. Getting lots of positive PR was a requirement for taking over as Minister in due time.
Sipping at his tea, he let his eyes roam the office. From the row of the previous Headmaster portraits on the wall, he could see Dumbledore scowl at him, while Dippet was waving happily. Another dark-haired, sour-faced fellow was scrutinizing him, tapping his lip with a finger. That had to be the traitor, Snape. His temper flared momentarily, thinking about how that ugly fellow had deceived his own powers of Legilimency, making a fool out of himself, but he forced the burning licks of anger down. His other self had gotten his revenge, by killing the man brutally. There was no valid reason for incinerating his portrait, at least not without questions and repercussions.
Concentrating on his tea instead, noting it was quite nice, usual Hogwarts standard, he listened to Granger and the Headmistress catch up.
Suddenly Dumbledore broke in, voice surprisingly strong for a portrait: "Minerva, I can't sit still to watch this. There is something wrong with this young man. He's so much like Tom Riddle, it's uncanny."
A shocked silence fell over the room, and he gently sat his cup on the saucer with a small clink. Granger was chewing her lip, frowning at Dumbledore, while McGonagall pursed her lips.
"Albus, what are you suggesting?" she said finally, after a long pause.
"I'm not sure, but this is no normal young wizard," Dumbledore said, blue eyes stern and unforgiving. "Can't you feel it? He's positively reeking of Dark magic!"
Voldemort sighed. He should have guessed it would come to this. He rose from his chair, and walked up to the portrait wall.
"I don't understand," he said, feigning confusion. "Do you suggest there's something wrong with me?"
"I'm suggesting I'm not really sure who you are," Dumbledore said curtly. "And I am stating that you are a practitioner of Dark magic."
Shaking his head, he looked at Dumbledore with an open, earnest expression: "I'm Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle, born to Tom Marvolo Riddle, known as Lord Voldemort and the Muggle-born witch Ileana Caragiale in the year 1973. My mother and I might have been practising some Dark magic on the run to defend ourselves, but I'm certainly no Dark wizard. It's all about the intentions, don't you think? There's a moral demarcation line between dark magic used to attack and the very same spells used for defending." There, the old codger couldn't disagree with him. After all, that was he had preached his whole life, wasn't it?
He carefully hid the glittering triumph from his eyes, as he met the flash of anger in the old man's eyes.
Dumbledore shook his head, and vanished from his portrait to enter the sour-faced man's picture. Touching the man's arm, he said:
"Severus, what do you think? Could he be…?"
Voldemort almost swallowed. Trust Dumbledore to see to the heart of things, with that infuriating ability of him to not be convinced by whatever show Voldemort had tried to put on.
The dark-haired man shrugged, stared hard at him, his eyes black, unblinking and demanding. Voldemort could easily see why this man had been a hated teacher, with such an infuriating glare. But inside, he said smugly to himself: He tricked you, now you trick him.
After a minute, the dark, dead Headmaster shook his head, saying calmly to Dumbledore in a very deep voice: "I cannot say. He is very different from the Dark Lord I knew from the seventies, though that's not to say there is or isn't something wrong with him. Looks can be deceiving, Albus, and we are all reasonably certain that the man is well and truly dead. This young man simply cannot be him. It would defy all logic and laws of magic as we know it."
Headmaster Dippet chirped: "Yes Albus, don't go off on a tangent again. I grant you, this young man looks very much like the young Tom Riddle, but it is not uncommon for sons to look like their fathers. This young man over there looks just like Tom, and has inherited his magical prowess. Why can't you rejoice with us, Albus, to think that finally, Tom's considerable talents will not go to waste like we all thought it had?"
Voldemort almost smiled, but kept his face schooled into a serious expression. Dippet had always been one of his staunchest supporters while he was still at school. Good to see he came through for him, once again.
McGonagall said decisively, with a frown on her stern face: "Albus, you're chasing shadows again. This is uncalled for, and you are insulting our guest. If you cannot keep still, I'll be forced to Silence you again."
Dumbledore vanished from the portraits on the wall, and Voldemort could see several of the portraits roll their eyes.
"He's sulking again," the Headmistress said, shaking her head. "The fact remains, he doesn't like being a portrait. Albus wants act, to make a difference like he did when he was living, and sometimes, he has trouble accepting his role as an advisory portrait."
Granger mumbled: "Why am I not surprised…", with a small, sarcastic eyeroll. He got the distinct impression she might be somewhat critical to the old coot. No wonder, the way the man had manipulated her and her friends. Though, he had come to appreciate the small, cruel streak in Granger's mind.
Voldemort looked at Dippet, then at Snape, nodding slightly, faking a hurt and confused expression. He said slowly, earnestly: "I hope you all will see past my looks, instead judging me by my actions."
Dippet enthused: "Of course, m' boy, of course. Don't you agree, Severus?"
The dark man made a small, arrogant toss of his head, saying: "Let's hope you'll make … good … decisions, then."
Voldemort turned his back on the portrait wall, biting his tongue to keep his angry retort back, before ha sat down with the witches again. Again, he began to fiddle with his tea, seeing the Headmaster portraits whisper among themselves, shaking their heads at Dumbledore's empty frame.
Xxxx
On their way down to the Chamber, walking with a small group of teachers, he overheard the Headmistress saying quietly to Granger as they trailed slightly behind the rest:
"So this is how it is, then. Maybe it's all for the best, Miss Granger. I never saw you as compatible with young Mr. Weasley."
Granger's response was equally low: "It can't turn out any worse than Ron. Besides, there isn't anything as of yet."
"Please!" the older witch scoffed. "The tension between the two of you is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Besides, my dear, you are not a very good liar."
He barely kept his smirk from showing, as he pretended to listen respectfully to this year's Defense teacher, a middle-aged Auror name Conrad Martyn. To his surprise, the curse his other self had cast on the position in the early seventies, was still in effect. The result was a Ministerial decree, commanding every Auror to serve half a year as Defense teacher. In that way, no one died. He rather thought that to be a shame. Maybe if he could tweak the curse just a little to make death a certainty… No, he almost shook his head, it was too much of a risk. Even the Ministry would think it suspicious if the properties of the curse suddenly became altered. Thinking about it, it had to be a fine piece of spellwork, if neither Dumbledore nor the Ministry had managed to remove it in thirty years. He gave himself a mental pat on his shoulder, wondering if his other self had done anything else worthy of note. Probably not, being crazy as a bat, he thought derisively.
Thankfully, Slughorn wasn't present, claiming a stomach ache. Instead, his apprentice, a pretty Dutch blonde in her early twenties, was tagging along, giving him small, appraising smiles. He was willing to bet she took the full workload of teaching, marking and brewing, leaving Slughorn to his Crystallised Pineapple treats. He would love to fuck her at some other time, but right now, Granger was his sole objective, though he loved the attention, surreptitiously checking out the Apprentice's breasts. Not as good as Granger's, though, he noted.
In the girls' bathroom, the small group clustered together, making room for him in front of the sink. It looked just like in the forties, and he silently wondered why the old coot – no, coots in plural, both Dippet, Dumbledore, Snape and now McGonagall – hadn't struck on the idea to improve the plumbing. This only showed that those placed in the Head's position had no sense of practical improvements.
Predictably, that stupid ghost of the Mudblood girl showed up, beaming at him. "Oh hello," she said dreamily in a sing-song voice, fiddling with a lock of her hair, "You're back!"
He almost rolled his eyes. "You mistake me for my father," he said politely.
The ghost narrowed her eyes at him, and he realized she wasn't about to believe him at face value. Quickly, he deliberately insulted her by saying enthusiastically with a happy grin: "You must be Moaning Myrtle, the sad u-bend-ghost! I've read about you. Is it true you stay here sulking, to mourn your life, never venturing out your stalls, seeking the safety you never had in life by remaining in your death-place?"
The ghost sobbed, taking a swipe at him – going through him with an icy shudder – before disappearing into a stall, entering the u-bend with a loud splash, spilling water, making it pool out from the stall. Good. Now she'd be sulking in her toilet for the duration of his visit.
Granger looked at him with surprise, like she couldn't believe him to be this insensitive towards the ghost. He almost laughed out loud. If she knew how "insensitive" he really was, she'd be running. Screaming.
The small Charms Professor, Filius Flitwick, and the Potions Apprentice, Grimelda Narceus, stepped gingerly away from the flooding toilet to avoid threading in the pool, a disgusted look on their faces, as they chattered quietly. He could hear their whispers:
"It's a shame, really, that ghost…"
"Should have been Banished, bathroom useless for close to sixty years…"
Voldemort shut their voices out, concentrating on what he was about to do, or more correctly, on the show he was about to perform. He stood alone in front of the sinks, the rest of the people in a half-circle around him.
The curious mix of elation at being the centre of attention, but also apprehension for speaking Parseltongue in front of all these people coursed through him. No one will understand, he reassured himself, they will not find out. My secret is safe as always. Parseltongue can't be translated, and there are no other Parseltongues here.
Hissing at the sink, he commanded: "Open. Let the Chamber once again open for the Heir."
A disembodied voice hissed back: "The heir is dead. Long live the rightful Heir, returned to life once more."
A clanking sound came from the pipes, and the gaping hole of the opening became visible as the sink swivelled and lifted away from its position. A gasp came from the crowd around him, and he gritted his teeth, steeling himself for the next order: "It is the will of the Heir that the Chamber remains open, until the Heir says otherwise."
The voice replied: "The Heir is sovereign. The Chamber will obey."
The grating sound from the opening came to a halt, the opening shimmered for a moment, before solidifying into a dark, gaping maw.
He turned to the Headmistress: "It is done."
Xxxx
The corridor leading to the Chamber was looking even more in shambles than he remembered, though the bones littered on the ground were still crunching under his feet with a comforting sound. There were crumbling stones all around them, most likely after the mess Potter, Weasley and Lockhart had created with explosion from the Memory Charm gone wrong. The giant, shed skin of his basilisk was sagging in the corridor as well. The snake had been useful, no wonder his other self had bred another at Riddle Manor. Though, having a basilisk around without any safe way to contain it, like the Chamber, was a truly mad and ridiculous idea.
He shook his head, as he walked up to the giant, ornamented doors to the Chamber proper, imagining turning a corner in your house and inadvertently staring a basilisk in its eyes, meeting certain death. Shuddering with the reckless, careless stupidity of it, he snarled to the doors: "Open for the Heir!"
As the door creaked open, he felt Granger take his hand, looking worriedly at him.
"I'm sorry you have to do this," she whispered. "I know it must be hard, acknowledging your blood like this."
Taking a deep breath through his nose – she was so far off the mark and yet so close, because his blood clearly told him that allowing little brats in here was an abomination – he merely stroked her hand, like he was preoccupied.
As the Chamber became visible, he heard a collective whisper of "ooooh" from the teachers behind him.
"This is marvellous!" the Headmistress breathed out. "The students will love this. We're so thankful, Mr. Riddle. You have given Hogwarts a priceless gift today."
"Don't mention it," he said wryly, being painfully aware that Salazar Slytherin probably would have disinherited him on the spot for doing something as asinine like this. Little Mudbloods practising duelling in his halls – the man would be rotating in his grave. Still, Slytherin was dead, and Voldemort was alive. He could do as he damned well pleased with his heritage, and this was a means to an end, like everything else.
The teachers were stumbling about, gawking, and the pretty Potions Apprentice Narceus was squeaking excitedly by the giant corpse of the basilisk, enthusing on how she could utilize both venom, rotting flesh and skin as well as the skeleton as ingredients. He almost huffed, the basilisk would fetch a fortune on the black ingredients market, and the greedy gleam in the Apprentice's eyes showed him that she was very much aware of that fact. If anyone should profit from it, and he unfortunately wasn't in a position to claim the money, it should be Hogwarts itself.
Inching over to the prudish Headmistress, he whispered her a few choice words on how to improve the school's finances. Her beady, blue eyes glittered, and she snapped at Narceus: "We'll discuss how to sell this on the market. The basilisk belongs to Hogwarts, and will be an asset into our economy."
Narceus pouted, but gave him a long, smouldering look, giving him a tingle of anticipation. He had never fucked a Hogwarts teacher. She would do, though she still was only an Apprentice. The thought of bending this pretty slip of a witch over the desk in Slughorn's classroom made him instantly hard. His gaze fell to Granger, and he felt his lips curved wickedly. There was a thing or two he'd enjoy doing while they still were here.
Granger looked up to him, before she whispered: "I'll go and talk to the House-elves now."
"Alright," he replied, his eyes caressing her. "I would love to see the library afterwards. Would you meet me there?"
Xxxx
He was lounging in the Restricted Section, a small, happy smile on his face. It looked exactly like had in the forties. The very same shelves, the rare books and tomes, the smell of old parchment, leather, dry dust, oiled wood and ink – yes, just like home. His home. Taking a deep breath and leaning his head back against a shelf, he closed his eyes, letting the feeling of comfort, the sense of the unique belonging inherent to Hogwarts wash over him.
The Headmistress, the strict, Scottish woman, had invited him back to lecture the students on his travels. He actually looked forward to that, because teaching was, in his opinion, a performance to convince, engage and - of course – recruit. This time, his aim was that the brats would be persuaded to believe that Tom Riddle was a wizard cut out for ruling them all. He was not about to openly recruit obedient followers. This time, the game was a little more subtle than that.
He rummaged through the shelves, pulling out dusty tomes for a quick scan, smiling at old favourites, and picking out a couple of interesting, new books that hadn't been published when he left the fifties.
After a long, enjoyable wait, Granger slinked into the library, and his eyes fell on her luscious form as she walked up to him, her tits bouncing a little by her brisk steps.
"Did you recruit your elf?" he said with a genial smile.
"Yes, eventually," she said, biting that plump, bottom lip. "What are you reading?"
She was clearly trying to avert the line of questioning, proving that she had had some difficulties with the House-elves, but due to his unduly good mood, he indulged her and let the question drop. "This is an unabridged version of Searing Souls: A Treatise on Mind Magic and the Powers of Scouring the Soul," he said happily.
The book was a fairly new one, written in 1976 by an Irish scholar by the name Declan Gaughan, and it outlined a fascinating theory on how the Legilimens could manipulate a powerful Occlumens and vice versa, and he really, really relished the feeling of learning something new.
"Interesting," she said, looking at the book with curiosity. "Did you know that one of the portraits upstairs, the deceased Headmaster Snape, was such an accomplished Occlumens, he actually deceived Voldemort for years? Maybe he had read this book."
"Maybe," he said non-committedly, "that was the sour, dark-haired fellow, right?" He enjoyed the Hogwarts Library so much, not even the shortcomings of his old, stupid self, being tricked by that fucking traitor, could faze him.
"Yes," she said with a smile, before adding: "He wasn't exactly cheerful when he was alive either, poor man."
In his opinion, the traitor had it coming. If he had managed to land himself in an entire lifetime of unhappiness, well, as far as Voldemort was concerned, he couldn't care less.
Looking up at Granger, he took in her appearance. She wore a tight, grey silk shirt, fitted to her waist and chest, showing off her curves in a very nice way, and a tight, black skirt underneath her black work robes. She was sexy, though she still oozed the bright-eyed, innocent young witch that she was.
Oh wait, innocent? Her face was a little flushed, and that look in her eyes – that glint – oh my. Hermione Granger wanted him to fuck her in the library, he could tell. Not so innocent after all, eh? How fitting, that their desire's coincided, then.
Feeling his trousers tighten as blood rushed to his cock, he put down the book, patting the bench beside him.
"Why don't you sit?" he said silkily. She sat down gingerly beside him, peering at him between the locks of her unruly hair. He slid his arm behind her, not touching her hips, and still, she shivered slightly, her breathing becoming more rapid.
Voldemort moved closer, splaying his fingers across the small of her back, making the little witch give a soft, almost inaudible sigh by the touch.
He used his other hand to grip her chin, tilting her head up to him. Looking at her mouth, lowering his head, he heard a small whimper, and she gasped into his mouth as their lips met. The kiss started slowly, but escalated quickly, driving them into a frenzy of battling tongues, moving lips, small nibbles, moans and sighs. He grabbed her hair, leaning her head back, and moved across her chin to her throat.
A small whine came from her mouth, with a sharp intake of breath, and she whispered: "We shouldn't, Tom."
"You're right, we really shouldn't," he murmured, "but we could." He proceeded to cast a very strong Notice-me-not, and she gasped, eyes wide.
"That has got to be the strongest version I've ever seen," she whispered, "from this side, it looks like a shimmering wall of heat."
"From the outside, it'll seem like we don't exist," he said into her ear, his teeth nipping at her earlobe. "But we know the truth. Students and teachers alike could pass within a meter, and they would never know we're here. No sounds, no sight."
She looked at him, a fierce blush rising in her cheeks, and he smiled at her, lazily, predatorily, as he let his eyes run over her form. One hand trailed slowly to the hem of her skirt, lifting it, and his hand moved slowly upwards, tickling the insides of her thighs. Her eyes rolled back, and he fisted the other hand in her hair again, claiming her mouth again, bruising her lips with his kiss.
There, his fingers had reached the apex of her thighs. She was soaked, he could feel it. Slowly, he petted her, feeling the contours of her pussy with his fingers through her knickers and tights, and she twitched in his arms, gasping with a small sob.
"You love this," he murmured into her hair, "you want me to touch you, don't you?"
She nodded, unable to say a word, as his hand caressed her, and his mouth moved along her jawline, making her shudder as he licked a spot underneath her earlobe.
His hand became more insistent, her knickers dampening with moisture, and she made whimpering little noises in his ear. His cock was throbbing, painfully erect inside his trousers, and he made a split-second decision. He would have to secure her firmly – giving her something Weasley wouldn't have managed: A world-class orgasm in a library.
Pinning her in place with his arms on each side of her, he knelt in front of her, bunching up her skirt over her thighs. Looking her in the eyes, seeing her half-open mouth and pink, flushed cheeks, he Divested her of her tights and knickers, making them fold up nicely in a pile beside her.
She blinked, feeling the cold air on her bare legs, and he smiled at her, before shoving her knees apart and diving in with his head.
She smelled good, deliciously lust-filled, and he could see her sex glisten. His tongue darted out, meeting her slit, and she made a shuddering, deep breath, head falling back and her eyes closing. His tongue burrowed into her folds, parting her pussy, and he laid out broad swipes, moving from the hard, distended little nub in front and back to her wet, little hole.
Her whimpers became more high-pitched and frequent, and he twirled his tongue around that hard clit, one hand creeping up underneath to push inside her, pumping her tight hole slowly, curling his finger, moving through that soft, silky wetness inside her. Tremors ran though her pussy, and she thrust her hips to make his fingers rub her wet clit harder. Gasping, she tugged his hair, mumbling incoherently: "Oh gods, Tom, oh Merlin, this is so good, of please, let me come, this is wonderful…"
And then, with a series of hard, pumping movements with his fingers, flitting his tongue over her clit, she came apart, right there in the library, screaming his name, gasping and shuddering, moaning mindlessly: "Tom, oh, Tom, oh, Tom…"
His cock was rock-hard, twitching in his trousers, and he rose quickly, parting his robe, letting his trouser, belt and all fall to the floor with a thud. Then his cock was finally free, protruding into her face, pointing the red, swollen head at her mouth. Smart girl, he thought with a sigh, as she caught the gist, wrapping her small hand around him, squeezing him into a groan, before her tongue lapped at his glistening precum at the tip.
Those soft lips opened, and he sank into her to sucking, wet noises, her mouth was pulling at him, driving him towards the edge, her tongue rolling over his bulbous head, her hands inching him deeper into her mouth. As he hit the roof of her mouth, she gagged slightly, pulling him out again, and he thrust lightly back, while she sucked, rolled her tongue, sucked again, and rolled her tongue over his head in a speeding, delicious rhythm.
His grip on her hair had mussed her up, making her hair into a messy cloud around her face, and her eyes were closed as she sucked his cock with and expression of rapture. She enjoyed it, he was sure. This was no act.
He grunted: "You're doing so well, witch, you look so good with my cock in your pretty, little mouth," and she blushed, smiling around his cock, making him jerk inside her mouth.
The very fact that he had licked her cunt in the Hogwarts library, now getting a stellar blow job himself, made him even more turned on. It was a lovely, dirty thought, this pretty, little witch dripping with her own juices on the library bench, and now she had his big cock in her mouth, with people all around them, and no one was the wiser.
Much to quickly for his liking, he swelled up, hardening further, the familiar tingle down his spine starting, and then he thrust hard into her mouth, going over the edge with a shout, his balls lifting and contracting, spilling himself into her warm, wet willing mouth.
As she swallowed around his cock, her throat constricting and convulsing around him, all he could think of was: Gods, she swallows too. Granger is perfect for my needs.