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Brown eyes scanned the dimly lit room as shadows flickered and fell against the smooth, olive walls.
"Hermione?" A voice called to her, chillingly quiet and controlled. She slowly turned her head, her mahogany gaze finally resting upon a pale, lipless man; she swallowed hard. Garnet slits stared back intently. Disgust and longing mingled in a confused heap.

Yes, 'Hermione'... she thought softly, Hermione the bookworm. Nostalgia was slowly twisting her 'round its cruel, inescapable fingers. Hermione the Gryffindor. A sharp pang of regret shot through her insides as she battled for control of her face. Hermione: a concubine of Voldemort.

He perused her fair-skinned visage, completely numbed. He never liked to hurt her face; injuries to it would only hinder those far-too-humorous expressions of hers. Foolish Mudblooded muggle-lovers and their...feelings. He caught sight of a twitching jaw muscle. The lids came down a little on his eyes as he noted how tense her lips were. "Hermione..." It was now a demand.

Offhandedly, he noticed a lump in her throat slide up, and then down, before quickly disappearing. Her lips were still pressed together, their pallor increasing by the second. He absently relished the dull quality of her eyes, though they still glittered dangerously from time to time. He loved it when she was angry. So terribly funny, he thought, to see her futile struggles.

"Hermione!" She quailed visibly, all pretenses forgotten at the suddenly harsh tone of his voice. So much for Gryffindor courage, the brunette mused bitterly. Willing her legs to drag her feet forward, the skeletally thin...creature came closer. "Do you know," he let his cool, unnaturally long fingers trail down from her jaw to her collarbone whisperingly, "whom it is, that you serve?" Momentarily, her knuckles blanched, but she nodded docilely all the same, eyes pinching a little with a poorly disguised, strained look. How dare she deny him his entertainment! He sneered glacially and gripped her neck, digging three nails into her larynx, "Tell me! Whom do you serve, Mudblood!"

Determination is either dead or dormant, he thought as he squeezed harder. Moments passed before she dazedly rasped, tongue lolling, hardly bothering to clutch at his icy hands. "You, my Lord." She hung her head sideways and winced almost imperceptibly, as her mind mumbled, Dead. A rough jerk and she was looking up at him from the floor, inhaling air greedily, the line between thoughts of suicide and murder too blurred at that point.

"Too right, too right." He murmured mockingly, towering over her shaking form. A smirk twisted his lipless mouth horribly as he stealthily slid a hand inside his left robe pocket; sturdy, polished wood met it immediately. His gaunt, sallow face contorted into an expression of pure revulsion, though his high, tundra-cold voice remained deathly calm, "You may have had your uses, but, unfortunately, you are no longer of service to me." He waved his free hand noncommittally as he shook his frightening head in response to her horror-stricken, baffled look, "Honestly, Hermione, I thought you were more intelligent than this! In layman's terms," he brought his nearly nonexistent lips to rest near her right ear and breathed, noting her involuntary shudder with a leer, "You no longer amuse me, Granger."

Brown eyes did not sting as they slowly took in a sleek, dark baton extending from a deceivingly powerful, white hand. Hermione the bookworm. His apathetic, crimson slashes regarded her with something akin to indifference, a hint of sadistic pleasure darkening them a shade or two. Hermione the Gryffindor. His tight mouth opened to speak.

"Avada Kedavra." The words sailed from his mouth effortlessly as lime enveloped her sight. Hermione: a spoil of war. Her battered body crumpled lifelessly to the frigid, wooden floorboards.

-Finite Incantem-