Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters and elements from the world of Harry Potter, created and trademarked by JK Rowling. I do not claim ownership over any Harry Potter characters or the Harry Potter world. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and is not claiming to be any part of the Harry Potter canon. Thank you to JK Rowling for letting me play with the characters and not suing me for writing them into a new situation.
Light of the Moon
Chapter 18
After her friends left, Hermione spent quite a while thinking about whether she wanted to take the Mark. It was towards the end of the afternoon when she made her decision.
"Pheme," she called the house-elf to her. "Do you know where the King is at, and when he might be available to meet with me?"
The little elf was wearing something that almost looked like Hermione's Muggle jeans, a sight that made Hermione stifle a laugh.
"Pheme will let the King know that Mistress wishes to speak with him!" she declared in her little high voice.
"It's all right if he's busy," Hermione said, "just let Ioke or Ser Avery know that when he's done for the day, if he could come find me. I might be in the library."
The elf Disapparated so quickly on her mission that Hermione wasn't sure she'd heard her.
The King—Tom—probably had a lot of legal and political issues to take care of, especially with their wedding day so close. She doubted he'd be free until well after the sun went down.
She decided she'd take a quick bath first. Ritual cleansing seemed like a sound idea when you were about to have an important ceremony.
And with Pheme gone, it gave her the chance to prepare her bath herself. She always tried to do things on her own, not being comfortable ordering the house-elf around, but also not wanting to offend her by not allowing her to help.
Hermione quickly filled the ornate tub that sat in the middle of the enormous washroom with hot water and bubbles and settled in for a quick scrub. The light floral scent of the bath salts relaxed her, and made her think of the water and the pebbles in the Heart that she'd been staring at all morning.
"Well, if I'd known you were waiting here for me, I would have come even faster."
The amused voice startled her out of her thoughts and she quickly sat upright before remembering how exposed she was in the tub. She shifted to dip back well below the line of the bubbles. "Yo-your Majesty!" she squeaked.
At his raised eyebrow, she corrected herself. "Tom, I mean."
The smile he gave her was genuine, and looked very much like the one he'd given her last night, when she'd called him by his name.
"Tom, what are you doing in my washroom?" she asked, trying to remain dignified even though she was mentally calculating just how long the bubbles in the tub would last.
"I believe you summoned me," Tom said, far too cheerfully.
"No, no," Hermione denied, watching with alarm as he removed his heavy outer robes in the warm, humid air, and Accio'd a chair for himself. "I would never presume to summon the King. I wanted to speak with you when you had a little time free."
"First off," he began, placing the chair close to the tub and settling comfortably in it, "feel free to summon me to your bath whenever you like. I find the possibility to be particularly invigorating that whenever the Queen calls, I might find her naked in her bath. That thought alone would certainly liven up tedious meetings such as the one you just rescued me from."
His words made Hermione blush madly. Grasping at something to do to distract her from the dark eyes that were intent on her, she scrubbed at her arms. Maybe if she finished quickly, he'd be forced to leave while she got dressed. Although, what if he didn't?
She dropped the soap, and then squeaked again, as she casually tried to find it in the bottom of the tub.
"Secondly," Tom continued, "that's not what I was told. I was informed by a very agitated Ioke that Miss Pheme had been most insistent that Her Ladyship wanted to see the King on a matter of utmost importance. Even the slight, but necessary, delay of a few minutes left my elf quite distressed as he'd apparently promised—unwisely, I might add—that I would be delivered posthaste to the presence of the future Queen." His tone indicated that he found the entire situation to be hugely entertaining.
Hermione wished her house-elf could have been a bit more circumspect in her request. Or that she'd thought to wait for a confirmation or an appointment before hopping into a bath. She hadn't thought he would have walked right in, or that Pheme would have let him without at least announcing His Royal Majesty's presence in the washroom.
Speaking of house-elves, she looked around the room, suddenly concerned that Ioke—or worse, Ser Avery—was standing on guard nearby.
Tom saw her sudden movement to cover up further, and he winked at her. "No need for that, it's just me."
"Yes, well," Hermione paused, unsure of herself. "I did want to speak with you. That is, I was hoping to talk about something important." She looked around the washroom. "Perhaps if you waited for me to—"
"I'm perfectly happy to talk here," he said, taking in the surroundings. "It's warm, comfortable, relaxing." He glanced at the hair piled high up on her head. "Would you like me to wash your hair?"
"No!" she said quickly, the water sloshing as she pressed backwards against the edge of the tub. She couldn't help shivering at the thought of Tom running his fingers through her hair, though. "My hair—it's…particular," she finished lamely.
He grinned at her, as if knowing that she was making an excuse to avoid his touch, but he didn't make any further teasing suggestions and he didn't move any closer than he already was. Instead, he said, "Well, perhaps you could tell me what important subject requires my attention. I am at your service, my lady."
She had expected to have this conversation elsewhere, certainly with clothes on, at the very least. She'd meant to be dignified—regal, even.
But if she was going to be a Queen, she could certainly be one whilst naked in the tub as easily as anywhere else. She gathered her courage and tried to pretend like they were merely in her sitting room.
"The Mark of Ophidia," she began, looking carefully at the King's face to get a clue as to how he felt. "Ser Slughorn enlightened me about the fact that all Ophidians have the Mark tattooed onto their arm."
Tom nodded slowly. "Yes, that's right."
When he didn't say anything more, Hermione took a deep breath and got to the point. "I want to take the Mark."
He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, observing her very carefully. "You know that it is not necessary in order to rise to the position that will be conferred on you by our wedding?"
"I am aware of this fact. I understand your father did not have the Mark of Ophidia," she said, hoping her sources were correct.
Tom's eyes seemed to cloud, and he confirmed very softly, "No, he did not."
"I want—I want—" she started, but she couldn't seem to finish. Suddenly there were several things she wanted, and all of them wanted to come out of her mouth at the same time. Love, family, purpose, influence, justice, progress. This man as her husband. She shook her head, focusing on the mound of bubbles in front of her, and tried to remember what she had been planning to say.
"I want to be more than a Consort," she finally finished. "I want to be a Queen that the Ophidians can respect, can trust, can believe in."
"And you think the Mark will give you that?" he questioned.
"No," she answered firmly. "I will have to prove my worth. But I think if I take the Mark—pledge my allegiance to Ophidia—that I will have a larger window of opportunity to do so. And one less reason for anyone to object to my place at your side."
"I see," he said, carefully. "And when would you like to take the Mark? You know that only the current King or Queen can perform the spell?"
Hermione nodded. "Before the wedding ceremony. I'd like it to be a quiet statement during the wedding that the Mark can be clearly seen on my arm." She raised the arm in question, the space that would be covered with the tattoo currently dripping wet with a layer of bubbles. She ignored the incongruity, though she thought she caught the slightest twitch of Riddle's lips. "But I don't want to have a big ceremony as if to exaggerate the importance of this one tattoo above everyone else's."
He nodded again. "A clever choice. A cunning one that will not go unnoticed or unappreciated by the people of Ophidia."
"I had hoped—" Hermione licked her lips, dropping her arm back into the warm bath water, before starting again. "I had wanted to discuss with you the possibility of doing it as soon as possible. Today. Now, even."
For several long moments, he considered her. "You're certain this is what you want? You will forever be tied to this land."
"Yes," she said, without hesitation.
At her words, he retrieved his wand from an inner pocket of his robes. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him using it, as he was quite proficient at wandless magic. It was long and had a wicked-looking curved point just off the handle.
That reminded her of a question she'd forgotten to ask Astoria. "Wait. Does it hurt?"
"Would it change your mind if it did?" he asked.
"No, of course not," she snapped. "I'd just like to be prepared."
She saw the ghost of a smile on his face again. "Rumor has it that the more devoted one is to country and King, the less discomfort one feels."
Recognizing his non-answer to her question, she asked, "And is the rumor true?"
"It is not. Though it does suit me to allow people to believe it. The Morsmordre can cause a significant amount of pain, as it attaches to a witch or wizard's magical core. But a skillful and careful practitioner can minimize the pain significantly."
Hermione thought this over, imagining generations of school-age children undergoing such a serious spell. She scooted a fraction closer to him, the water making gentle waves around her. "And you are skillful and careful?"
He smiled at that. "I am. I put slightly less effort into it for the refugees, as they frequently see legitimacy in pain. And pain can strengthen the Mark, in some cases. But the children rarely experience any discomfort."
"Was yours painless, then?" she asked, thinking the Queen must have surely expended considerable care on her only son.
He looked at her and then he reached down to his sleeve, carefully rolling it up till it was past his elbow.
She leaned a bit past the edge of the tub to see his Mark and was shocked to see the lines were thick and dark, a black so deep she thought it could be an abyss.
"I screamed for an hour," he said.
Hermione gasped, covering her mouth in horror, not even noticing the sudden slight taste of soap on her tongue. She thought again of the Malfoy boy writhing under the Cruciatus. She imagined a serious-minded boy of 11 with raven hair and dark eyes, and the picture of him screaming in pain brought tears to her eyes.
He appeared unmoved by her concern. "My mother wanted me to be aware, to be familiar with how much pain could be caused if I was careless. The Morsmordre is not simply a vanity, it's a binding spell, and she said I needed to fully understand the severity of it."
"That's terrible," she said, unable to keep from reaching out to his arm. Her hands were wet, but he didn't seem to mind. She traced a finger along the inky black lines that seemed almost to shift under her touch. "It doesn't hurt anymore?"
"No," he said, his voice hoarse. "No, it never hurt again. And as a result, I am very careful."
She thought the bubbles might not be covering her as much in this position, but she didn't want to interrupt the moment to fidget with them.
Thinking about his experience, she asked, "Should mine be done the same way, do you think?"
"No, Hermione," he said, his hand coming up to touch her face as it leaned over the edge of the tub. "For you, painless. I would never hurt you."
She smiled at him, leaning into his touch, thinking how his hand was warmer even than her bathwater.
"Give me your arm, Hermione," he whispered.
A stream of air quickly dried off her arm, and she rested it on the edge of the tub as he leaned over, pressing the tip of his wand against her pale skin.
An intense look of concentration crossed his face as he muttered words under his breath that Hermione couldn't hear. She thought for a moment his eyes seemed to brighten, to glow, drawing her into the darkness at the heart of that light.
Then she felt his hands on her face again, right before she slid into a kiss so warm and light she thought she might float away. For a moment, she forgot everything—the bath, the Mark, the wedding—everything except the feel of his mouth as it caressed hers.
Where with their first kiss he had been rough, taking, plundering—this time she felt an incredible giving. The sweetness of it tingled all through her limbs, and she sighed into his mouth.
Her arms tried to come up to wrap around his neck, not caring at all that she was still wet and naked, but her left arm was weighed down by an intense pressure as if tied down with bands of heat.
Slowly, he pulled back, her lips following his as her eyes fluttered open. For a brief, timeless instant, she felt a bright thread of connection between them.
Gently, he released her back into the water, and drew her arm to where they could both look at it.
The serpent and skull were etched vividly on her skin, but the design was like no other she'd seen before. Where most of the Marks in the books and state flags had heavy and dark lines, the figures on her arm were drawn with very fine detail. Dozens of tiny lines crisscrossed to form the snake twined around the skull, an intricate pattern of scales detailed all along its length. The skull itself seemed a bare outline, spiderlike cross-hatchings giving it shadow and depth. It was somehow delicate, ethereal, beautiful.
She looked up at him in time to catch the look of confusion and wonder that flitted across his face.
"I take it you've never performed the Morsmordre like that before," she said, grinning up at him.
"No," he admitted. "Nor likely ever will again."
His words and the implication behind them thrilled her. She tried to recover the equilibrium she'd lost when he'd kissed her, and said, flippantly, "Well, it was certainly successful at being painless, so that's worth knowing."
"Yes, but I have no intention of kissing any school children in order to spare them pain."
She laughed, playfully splashing a little water his way. "I should hope not."
He leaned over to kiss her again, and she tilted her head up, sighing again at the gentleness of his touch. "I'll wait outside," he said against her lips. "Unless you want me to wash your hair, after all."
She almost said yes, but couldn't bring herself to say the words.
Pheme had been very excited about Hermione's new tattoo, complimenting her effusively on how beautiful the Mark looked on her skin. But when Pheme wanted to choose a gown with shorter sleeves to show it off, Hermione told her she was hoping to wait until the wedding to reveal it to others.
The more common long sleeves hid the tattoo throughout the evening meal in the Hall, and Hermione was careful not to fidget with her sleeves or trace the design under them. She was constantly aware of it, though, and had to make a conscious effort not to slide the sleeve back just to look at it once more.
At one point, she caught Astoria's eye from across the table, and the other woman looked at her thoughtfully. She seemed puzzled, and Hermione remembered that she'd said it was not uncommon to be able to recognize when in the presence of someone who did not bear the Mark. Perhaps she had already noticed that Hermione was now pledged to serve Ophidia.
Hermione hoped that no one else noticed the change just yet.
Curious, as to whether she would have this ability, she set her fork down and concentrated on the phantom tingling she thought she still felt in her arm. She tried to see if she could tell if anyone else at the table didn't have the Mark. For a brief moment, she thought she felt the tiniest of a void, like a hole in a piece of fabric, coming from Luna's end of the table. But the sensation was gone, and Hermione wasn't certain if she'd imagined it, knowing full well that Luna was not an Ophidian.
Looking back up, she noticed that Astoria was still watching her, so she smiled to reassure her, and Astoria's response was a sly wink and a pleased grin.
After supper, the King asked Hermione for the pleasure of her company on a walk about the castle. She didn't hesitate to accept, admitting to herself that she was beginning to crave time with him more and more.
They wandered through some of the courtyards, enjoying the pleasant evening air, as Tom told her about some of the more esoteric Ophidian customs.
When he told her about the training he'd received from his mother, Hermione remembered that she still hadn't been back to the Portrait Gallery to make good on her intention to speak again with Tom Riddle, who had been so pleased to meet her.
To tell the truth, her interactions with the Queen's portrait had made her uneasy, and so she'd been putting off the visit. But with the wedding just around the corner, and with her fiancé at her side, she thought it might be the best time for a visit before she was officially crowned as the new Queen, so she suggested a visit to the gallery.
Unlike before, Merope spotted them immediately and watched them carefully as they made progress down the long gallery, her expression calculating. Tom Sr, on the other hand, seemed nearly oblivious to their existence until they were finally standing in front of the simple silver frames.
"Why, Miss Granger! How happy I am to see you again! When I heard the news, I had told Merope it was surely just a matter of time before you came back to visit with us. Didn't I say so, dear heart?"
The Queen smiled indulgently at her husband. "Yes, my love, you did indeed." Her critical eye took in Hermione's attire, alighting on the arm that was held through the King's own.
Whether the Queen was simply noticing the closeness of the two before her, or whether she was actually aware of the tattoo that now lay across Hermione's skin, she hummed a satisfied sound. "I am so pleased to see you again, little one. How wonderful it was to hear that you had won the contest. You must be very clever."
Hermione attempted to smile demurely, and then remembered that she'd forgotten to curtsy again. Hastily, she dipped her knees, barely refraining from grimacing at the way she'd forgotten most of Astoria's careful lessons. As she straightened, she said, "Your Majesties, I am honored to be standing before you now. I was truly fortunate to have been chosen from among all the Suitors as the next Queen of Ophidia."
The portrait of Tom scoffed loudly. "Pish-posh! If I know my son, fortune had nothing to do with it! He wanted the cleverest witch, and by Merlin, he found her. You must have been quite the impressive sight."
"That she was," the King agreed. "Most impressive."
He placed Hermione's arm back in his, and the move did not go unnoticed by the Queen. Her eyes sparked with something dangerous, and the way the corners of her lips turned upwards left a queasy feeling in Hermione's stomach.
"Truly, little one, you are ever so much stronger than I had thought." Queen Merope spoke to Hermione but smiled widely at her son. "A true blessing for Ophidia. And for its King."
Hermione looked up at the man beside her, noting that the glimpse of fondness she had been used to seeing in his expression was conspicuously absent.
Instead, he stared at his mother impassively. "Ophidia has long been blessed in the Kings and Queens that have served the Great Lady."
"Yes, we have always done our duty," the Queen said. "It is the privilege of House Marvolo. The legacy of Ptolemy." She beamed down at her unsmiling son.
The tension in the air had suddenly grown thick, and seemed to crackle with energy. Uncertain as to the reason, Hermione offered, "House Marvolo is a wonderful noble house, and it will be the honor of my lifetime to join my name to it. I can assure you both that I will do my very best to do live up to that incredible privilege." She might have perhaps been too effusive, but the situation seemed to call for an acknowledgement of her upcoming rise in social and political station.
The Prince Consort nodded his head effusively. "Of course, you will! As if you would give us anything less." He smiled endearingly at her. "I'm ever so excited that you will be here at the castle permanently, so we can exchange stories of our homeland whenever we please."
Conscious of the Queen's gaze still on her, Hermione said, "Actually, my lord, Brittania will always be the country of my birth, but Ophidia is going to be my homeland. I will make my future here, and try to do right by my new country and my new people." She gave Tom—her Tom—a small smile. "And, of course, my new husband."
"Oh, just so, just so." The portrait accepted the correction with good humor.
Queen Merope's voice, however, snapped out like a hiss. "Do you serve the Great Lady, Muggle-born?"
Though she wasn't expecting the sharpness of the question, she was prepared with her answer. "I do, Your Majesty." She wondered whether she should mention about the voice she heard singing in her dreams. Instead, she rolled up her sleeve, so that the Queen could glimpse the tattoo that rested there. "My loyalty is with Ophidia—and to its King."
"Excellent," the Queen said, relaxing her pose, her eyes very bright. "Your power will be an excellent complement to my Son."
Hermione tried to smile back, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the Queen's words were somehow less than complimentary.
Tom Riddle Sr, on the other hand, was entirely sincere in his gushing observations. "My pride, my joy! My only son, the fruit of my dearest love. How it warms my heart to see you take a bride! May you be as happy together as my Merope and I ever were!"
"How could we not, with such an example before us?" was the King's brittle reply.
And though the Prince Consort beamed, and the Queen smiled with glee, their expressions did not fill Hermione with the warmth one would expect.
Later that night, as Hermione sat on her bed and reflected on the day, she decided that she would do her best to avoid another conversation with the portrait of the Queen until after the wedding. There was too much she did not know about the Queen and her interest in her, and she did not have the time to figure it out.
She shook the Heart of Ophidia and observed once again the pebbles arranging themselves on the bottom as the water settled, an action she'd been repeating periodically in the hour since the King had returned her to her rooms.
Something nagged at the back of her mind. It was stronger now than it had been in the light of day, but she was too exhausted to try to puzzle it out.
She set the Heart of Ophidia back on its shelf, closing the glass doors carefully before returning to bed.
In the pitch blackness of her room, she lay awake, slowly tracing the delicate lines of the snake she could feel etched on her arm. She wondered if she would have dreams of the singing woman again. But as she drifted off to sleep, it was to the memory of the feel of the King's lips on hers.
A/N: This is the point in the story where I feel obliged to just remind everyone that this is an Alternate Universe. I realize it LOOKS a lot like JKR's universe, and it is based on it, but this is not simply a story that starts off canon and diverges, this is an entirely different Universe. There was no First Wizarding War. There was no Voldemort. There were no Death Eaters in Brittania. Harry's parents didn't die. There were no Slytherins when Hermione went to Hogwarts. No Malfoys. No Blacks. No Notts. No Greengrasses. No LeStranges. No Averys. No Umbridge. No Carrows. (Because they all lived in Ophidia.) The only Purebloods in Brittania were ones like the Weasleys and the Bones and the Lovegoods.
So in crafting this story, I had to think about how much of these canon characters were a result of their innate personality, and how much was a result of their life experiences. What would Hermione be like if she never had to deal with as much Pureblood prejudice in school? If there was no Gryffindor/Slytherin rivalry? If there was no threat of death hanging over the students? If she didn't have to work so hard to keep herself and her best friends alive? If she just grew up a normal "witch" in Brittania where nothing of any special note ever happened to her? She went to school, she had friends, she did well on exams. There was no dueling club, there were no secret missions. For all intents and purposes, she lived an incredibly boring life. This is possibly the first time in her entire life she's faced such potential for Darkness.
On the other side, how would Tom be different if he grew up as revered royalty, instead of as an abused orphan? What if he had both of his parents alive and they truly cared about him? What if he came from a background where all of his thoughts and ideas on Pureblood supremacy were echoed by everyone he met? What if there was no such thing as "Dark" magic, because nothing was taboo? How would his actions and his confidence and his outlook be different? As well as his expectations of other people? And what about his boundaries and limitations?
I've thought a lot about these things, and hopefully as I've been telling this story, you have, too. My hope is that my readers recognize that these are completely different characters because I've taken away the context in which they existed in JKR's world. They are not the Hermione Granger and the Tom Riddle, Jr, that you've seen before. And yet, they are the same characters, because there is something in their core that is unchanged, no matter which universe they are in, and what name they go by. That's the fun of the 'Alternate Universe.'
S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)