Tried really hard to get this chapter ready to post *today*, because not only is it the 2 year anniversary of this fic (yes, 12 chapter in 24 months, I can see why you lot hate me), it's also MY BIRTHDAY! Happy reading, and have a great weekend, loves!


Chapter Twelve

She wished she could be numb, again. Numb and empty and hollow, the only relief from her own lifelessness that bittersweet sting of pain when she dragged the edge of a blade across her skin. When she watched the incision she'd made—her choice, her hand holding the blade, an action that, unlike anything else in her life, she was in sole control of—bleed, dripping perfect, almost hypnotic trails of crimson down her arm.

How sad that the new state of her life had become something that made her wish she was still in a place where she'd sought comfort by inflicting self-harm.

As she trailed along behind him down the corridor, she found she couldn't lift her gaze from the toes of the slippers he'd graciously borrowed from one of the other witches for her. Narcissa had absolute fits about the tears across the soles of Hermione's feet as she examined the wounds and carefully re-cleaned and dressed them. Though the blonde witch was still unwillingly mute, as she worked her lips moved rapid fire in what would likely be a string of very unladylike words if she had a voice.

When Voldemort had simply explained away Hermione's injuries as her own clumsiness, with an air as though it was a courtesy for him to provide a reason at all, Narcissa answered with a glare. A glare at the floor, since she so feared what he might do if she showed him how displeased she was with him directly, but still . . . . Hermione was certain if that floor had feelings, it would've wanted to curl up and die from how withering the elder witch's look had been in that moment.

Hermione wondered if she should bother to tell him that his brushoff of the resident medi-witch's concern made him sound like he was covering for being an abusive partner. Though, with the way he'd manipulated her feelings and taken advantage of her disorientation that morning, she was rather certain that wasn't far from the truth.

Still, she felt wretched. Even acknowledging how sly he'd been, how clever, how responsible for the state she was in in the first bloody place, she couldn't ignore her own actions, or her own reactions to him.

She felt sick at the very thought of looking across the dais to meet the gaze of any of her wizards, right now. Sick at the idea of what they'd think if they knew how weak she'd been, letting him touch her like that!

Worse, her own body was betraying her. As sick as she felt in her soul over it, recalling what she'd woken up to this morning—the feel of his mouth between her thighs, of his fingers trailing her skin—sent a sweet, aching shiver through her. Good Lord, she was vile!

Voldemort, oblivious to her inner turmoil, was ecstatic. She could tell, somehow, like some energy was ebbing off of him. Once he stepped into the Great Hall, once he made his way to the dais and took the Headmaster's seat, the students would realize what had happened. They'd see he'd tapped into some power that should not be and soon enough, word would reach their families and filter out into the rest of Wizarding Britain, and the question of just how strong he actually was would be raised anew.

Just how much was he truly capable of; how likely was it that they'd ever find a way out from under his thumb if he could do this?

As he stepped through the doors ahead of her, Hermione could hear the way the conversations of the students—so much less boisterous than they'd been before the horrors of the War—hushed as they watched this unfamiliar man enter the room and approach the dais. She knew they couldn't help but be in awe of the mysterious stranger, for whatever else he was, his surface appearance was painfully beautiful.

It wasn't until she entered, trailing behind him with her head down and her hands clasped before her, that they made the connection about who he was. Their disbelief evidenced itself in how that silence continued, allowing his footfalls to echo through the grand chamber as he walked along, his gaze fixed straight ahead, but she was sure a grin was curving his lips.

That eerie quiet did not break until Voldemort took his seat, and she settled in hers at his side. This was what they'd been waiting for—this simple step that confirmed his identity for them. And then the students all broke into murmured conversation once more. Just as with her wizards, she couldn't bring herself to lift her attention to any of the students.

She could only imagine what sort of looks were flicking across her friends' features at the realization of what Voldemort had accomplished.

The witch didn't realize just how much of a daze she was in until she glanced to her untouched plate and found it already covered in food. Her hands were still in her lap, so how had . . . ? The realization that Voldemort had actually served her food set off a chill in the pit of her stomach. He never lifted a finger to do such things before. Tending her wounds last night . . . seeing to her meal this morning . . . .

Was he . . . actually changing?

When several minutes passed and she had yet to reach for her utensils, he set down his own and turned to regard her. "Are you not hungry?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but nothing would come out. Shaking her head, she cleared her throat and tried again. "Not really, um . . . . I'm still in a good deal of pain. Perhaps I could go back to Narcissa for something to help?"

He exhaled a sharp, thoughtful breath through his nostrils. "Very well." However, if she were hoping the changes in him might mean she would be permitted to wander the corridors unescorted, those hopes were dashed with his next words. "Dolohov? Escort my Mudblood to the hospital wing."

Instantly she felt her eyes well with unshed tears. Holding in a shivering sigh, she forced herself to look up at the three of them. Orias was staring down at his plate as though it had murdered his family, Thorfinn toyed with his food as he tried to keep his gaze from wandering to her, but every now and again, he failed, and Antonin simply watched the Dark Lord, his brows high on his forehead as though he'd misunderstood.

Voldemort repeated himself, his tone short, as he went back to his own breakfast.

Nodding, Antonin set down his fork and stood, rounding his fellow Death Eaters to stand at her shoulder in wait. As she pushed back her chair to stand, Voldemort's free hand slipped around her elbow and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

He leaned close, pressing his mouth to the crook of her neck in a kiss that was both deliberate, and visibly possessive. When he pulled back, he only arched a brow at her look of shock.

Lifting his hand to stroke the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip—she was painfully aware that once more a hush had fallen over the entirety of the Hall at the unexpected display—he smirked. "You realize you are going to be by my side for a very long time. You should get used to everyone who lays eyes upon you knowing you are mine."

Swallowing hard, she forced herself not to respond—fear told her to nod in agreement, while her anger and current pool of loathing and hatred for herself made her want to shake her head, which might only anger him. Instead, she waited in silence for him to relinquish his hold on her and once again return to his meal.

Rising from her seat, she turned and let Antonin guide her from the table. Yet, she could not help herself from casting a fleeting look at the other two left behind. Thorfinn stared after her in shock, clearly wondering what had gone on in the headmaster's quarters after he'd been forced to leave them alone last night. Orias was playing a far more dangerous game.

He was glaring openly at the Dark Lord. His hands were atop the table, fingers gripped into fists so tight it was a wonder he wasn't making himself bleed.

The notion of what could happen if Voldemort caught Orias looking at him like that slammed her heart against her ribs. Antonin caught her fearful expression, but shielded her face from view with a seemingly-oblivious gesture of covering her shoulders with his arm to guide her along.

"Don't worry," he murmured, briefly glancing back, himself, to see that Alecto had caught Orias' angry visage, and its direction. To see how she kicked him under the table, stealing his attention and hissing a whispered warning. Schooling his features, the blond mountain dropped his gaze back to his food. "Strange as it sounds, we've got friends."

She took small comfort in that, as she was perfectly aware of how Voldemort's influence could turn people against each other.

When they were out in the corridor, she remained silent. Antonin took the hint, waiting for her to be the one to speak. It was not until they were nearly to the hospital wing's doors, far enough from the Great Hall that even with the main floor so empty, their voices would not carry unless they shouted, that she stopped, letting out a shuddering breath as she sagged against the wall beside her.

Immediately he moved to hold her steady. "Hermione, are you—?"

"Don't ask me if I'm okay, Dolohov, please don't ask me if I'm okay," her words tumbled out in trembling whisper as she shook her head. "It's awful. I'm awful. I can't even . . . ."

"Did he hurt you?"

God, the anger in his voice was comforting. But it was a comfort she didn't feel worthy of. "No, no, he didn't. That's the worst part."

Scanning the area to assure they were alone, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into a darkened corner, someplace they would not be noticed unless one knew precisely where to look. He settled on the stone floor, cradling her in his lap.

She gaped up at him, her chestnut eyes wide and flooded with unshed tears.

"Tell me what happened."

Shaking her head, she covered her mouth with her hands a moment. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't think I can. But he . . . he was gentle, and that made it all worse than if he'd hurt me."

Antonin's brow furrowed as he watched the pain in her expression. "I don't understand."

Hermione sniffled, frowning. In need of something to distract her as she spoke, she reached up, tangling her fingers in the ends of his dark hair that brushed his shoulder. "I woke up to him . . . touching me. But that wasn't the worst part. Because it was nice. But that wasn't even the worst part either. The worst part was that he told me . . . he told me he'd done it because I had been touching him in my sleep."

His gaze flickered about as he considered the scenario. "You were . . . you were disoriented, and in a state of shock. You probably didn't even realize who you were with!"

Relief shot through her, forcing the tears to fall down her cheeks, finally. Gasping, she buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder. "Oh, my God!" Her voice came out muffled, but she kept talking regardless. "That's what I thought, too! I thought I must've been dreaming that I was with one of you three."

Almost forgetting the gravity of the situation, he chuckled. "Well, then . . . ."

"Oh, Antonin, please don't get cute, right now!" Lifting her head, she gave him a miserable pout. "Does what was going through my head really matter? It still happened! I can't believe I was so weak!"

"You are not weak. And of course what was going through your head matters." He cupped her face in his hands. "You're in a situation where your very life might depend on convincing yourself something else is happening. All so that some day you'll be able to forgive yourself for what you might end up letting him do."

She'd said it herself, hadn't she? That she might have to play Voldemort's sex-kitten to buy time to get them all out of this. But the reality of it was far different.

"But I hate him. Why did it feel good if I hate him?"

"Dear God." Once more, Antonin chuckled. "Spoken like someone who's never had hate-sex."

Her brows shot up as a surprised laugh bubbled out of her. "Excuse me, what?"

Tilting his head to one side, he watched his own movement as he trailed his fingers along her jaw. "Passion is passion. Two emotions make things feel really good. Love and hate. Happiness and anger."

"Really?"

Smirking at how truly innocent she actually was, he nodded. "Remember when I kissed you that day? You were angry with me, yeah?"

Her features pinched as she nodded back and laughed. "So angry."

"And didn't that make it good?"

Meeting his gaze, she offered with a look of realization dawning. "It did."

"There you go."

She couldn't help slumping in his embrace, just a little. So hating Voldemort had the potential to make sexual acts between them feel good? Well, that just seemed so horrifically unfair of a circumstance.

Drawing a calming breath, she asked, "So . . . if you kissed me now? Would it be a happy kiss?"

His features sobered instantly at her question. Blinking slow, he nodded. "Yes, I think it just might be."

A shivering breath escaped her as she smiled. "Good, because I think I just might need a happy kiss right now."

Nodding, he again cupped her face and drew her against him. His mouth closed over hers gentle, the darting of his tongue between her lips, the caress of it stroking her own, stole her breath for how careful, how caring, he was.

Breaking the kiss, he kept his eyes closed and pressed his forehead to hers. "We know what you want us to do. But you have to do something, too."

Her eyes still closed, she felt another damn irritating wash of tears trying to escape. "What?"

"Survive. Just survive. Do what you have to." Leaning back enough to look at her face, he waited for those watery eyes of hers to open before he went on. "Whatever demons come of it? We'll help you fight them. But you have to make it through this. You'll do whatever it takes to live through this. Promise me."

Smiling in spite of her tears, she said, "I promise."

"Good." He climbed to his feet, then, still cradling her petite form in his arms. "Now let's get you to the hospital wing before he has reason to make sure I don't survive this."