Hermione stepped back from him, as if suddenly realizing what she had
done...she looked down at her wedding dress, at the gold ring on her
finger, and on his...
She upturned her chin, looking into his red, snake-like eyes, in a reptilian pale face, she saw what she had done. She had signed herself off to the Dark Lord...she was now completely in his power...bound to him. And him to her. Magical marriages created a bond, a sacred bond until death, bridging both souls. Which among many things, meant divorce was not possible. Once you were married, that was it. You're done. Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by his high cold hiss cutting across the silence.
"Would you please change out of that ridiculous thing?" he said, glaring at the wedding dress in distaste. Hermione and her lip thinned, uncannily like McGonagall's.
"For crying out loud! It's our wedding night! We should be celebrating! I've fantasized about my future marriage ever since I was six!" Hermione near shouted.
She knew all too well, however, that Voldemort was not someone she desired to be angry at her...even if it was something as frivolous as her wedding dress. His lip curled in a sneer.
"Oh, do shut up," he said irritably, and waved his wand; her dress disappeared, leaving her in the jeans, sneakers, and white shirt she was wearing originally...even the flowers, veil, wedding shoes, and pearl necklace she had conjured for herself were gone. Everything, except the gold wedding band.
"You're impossible," Hermione grumbled under her breath; it was eerie how often she had said the exact same thing to Harry or Ron when they questioned her studying habits or went on about Quidditch...
He smirked and grasped her hand; moments later they appeared outside an old stone – well, she didn't know what to call it – it was bigger than a house, bigger than what she supposed the Malfoy Manor would look like, but it was smaller than a castle...an old stone drafty, forbidding looking place complete with a tower, a rusty iron fence, overgrown vines and ivy choking the sides, and evidence of Gothic architecture in dragon gargoyles running water off the roof and the sloped archway leading to the front door. A dead leaf-less yew tree stood in the front yard, competing with the tower for height, and flanked by several spidery-looking trees. The grass in the yard was overgrown; it looked like an abandoned field. The overall effect was a dark, mysterious, unwelcoming presence looming over the...well, nothing stood for miles. It may have been a beautiful place once, but it looked run- down now...the windows were cracked, the paint peeling off the door and shutters.
She glanced at him; he looked as sinister as the house; scaly alabaster skin, gleaming red snake eyes, a flat snake-like nose with slits for nostrils, a lip-less mouth and fangs, long fingernails, bald, hairless, about two meters tall, thin, dressed in – she noted with pride, the black robes she had construed for him, which now only seemed to serve to make him look more menacing.
His red eyes glinted at fury and his lip was twisted in a snarl, but he didn't seem angry at her...he was glaring at the house as if it had offended him.
"Where are we?" Hermione said in a hushed tone, running her hand through her bushy brunette hair in confusion. This place looked just like the type of place to pop out of the classic Gothic novels she had read over the long summers between years at Hogwarts...Dracula, for one, and Frankenstein in the early movie. It was like a haunted house....only it was bigger than a house – either a very big mansion or quite a small castle.
"My mother's home...back when she was a child. By the looks of things the inhabitants have been dead for years," he said in a strange voice...Hermione couldn't quite place his tone, being unused to the high cold hiss...most of what she knew of him she had read in textbooks, the Daily Prophet, or heard about from Harry, Snape, Dumbledore, Hagrid, Ron, the Order, the Malfoys, and what was left of the Marauders...the ones who's lives he had touched most closely, and allowed to live. For the time being. She pushed these dark thoughts out of her head.
He sounded distressed, if anything, by the emptiness of the house.
Hermione rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Should we go to the Riddle House?" she asked. She remembered hearing about it from Harry describing his visions...Voldemort's father's last home, apparently.
He picked her hand up, as if it was something disgusting, and tossed it off his shoulder, shrugging. Hermione frowned in distaste; it was just the sort of thing
"It's been burned down. 'Probably have your bloody friend Dumbledore to thank for that," he said.
She followed him inside. It was just as bad inside; cold drafts came in through the thin walls, the rugs, tapestries, couches, and chairs were all moth-eaten and threadbare, covered in mildew, the wooden furniture was warped with water, stained and scarred, cobwebs hung between furniture and the walls or in corners, everything coated in gray dust, puddles of water, and a fungus smell.
"What happened to the place?" Hermione asked in a small voice, looking around.
"I'd think even you would notice water damage when they saw it," he drawled.
"Well yeah – but this place hardly looks," Hermione paused. She was about to say 'livable' but she knew that would anger him. It was his mother's house, after all.
"Looks what? Finish your sentence, woman!" He scoffed.
"...like home," Hermione added lamely.
"It was my mom's home, and I advise you don't speak ill of it again, unless you wish to be on the receiving end of an Unforgivable," Voldemort hissed dangerously, an octave lower than usual. Hermione stared at his wand; she knew he wouldn't hesitate to Crucio her...or worse things.
He ran his finger along a vase, covering the tip of his index in dust which he wiped on a handkerchief in his robes.
"Nothing a little magic can't fix," he said, more to himself than anything. "Of course that'll have to wait until morning..."
"And just where are we supposed to sleep?" Hermione said indignantly, tossing her curls back, crossing her arms.
His head turned slowly towards her, and a smirk spread across his face; an expression Hermione didn't like at all, considering the question she had just asked and how many ways he might have interpreted it.
He nodded and looked around, before walking out the door, around into another room, into another, and effectively making a circle around the house ending up where they started.
"I loved the tour but I'm kinda tired," Hermione said. He rolled his eyes.
"Shut up!" he snapped. "I've only been here once – you think I'd know everything by heart?"
Voldemort paced the floor, his cloak swishing about him, before he stopped and nodded to himself. He approached the full length mirror in the far corner in the room and stared into it. At first glance it was just his reflection, but once he got past that, it was like looking into another room. He stuck his hand through it and the mirror's frame enlargened into a doorway. He nodded and gestured for Hermione to come over. She stared curiously at the mirror before coming through also.
The mirror was an enchanted passageway into another part of the house, which was – well, beautiful. It looked untouched at all by age or water or dust, but brand new, clean, and well-taken care of. It was a bit empty though – it looked vacant, as if whoever was there had moved their belongings, or as if they were sold once the last remaining member in the household died. Only the most basic furniture remained, and a few paintings and tapestries cursed to the wall, just like the portrait of Sirius' mother hanging in what was now Harry's home.
The walls were Gothic stone, the floors an ornate wooden pattern, glossed over...
Voldemort knitted his eyebrows together, seeing the completely different atmosphere of the house-within-a-house. The stairs were to his right, next to Hermione...beautiful white marble stairs with an ebony railing, spiraling up into the rest of the house. The house seemed almost like the man himself, in a way...it was fitting. A cold, forbidding exterior, and once you got past that, a warm, friendly interior, only missing certain aspects...it was like viewing his heart – he had set up a stone shell around himself, but within he was a man lacking something from life...
He rudely swept past Hermione, going up the stairs, waiting for her at the top. Hermione mentally remarked how his mood kept shifting – of course she had mood swings as well, but he was no longer the surly teen he had once been – she had only been with him for about two hours, and he had shifted from shock to confusion to near-charming, to civil, to a bastard. For a man whose reputation was built on power, cold unfeeling power, he certainly held a lot of emotion, if that could be blamed for the mood swings.
Sure enough, he stopped at the top of the stairs, tapping his foot irritably in wait for her. Once Hermione reached the top step, he went off down the hallway, looking in the various rooms, until he found the master bedroom at the end of the hallway. He walked in, and stared back at Hermione, raising an eyebrow as if in question.
It was a huge room for sure, complete with a queen size bed, a walk-in closet, a side-bathroom, candle sconces, a fireplace surrounded by paintings, bedside tables, a fluffy carpet, a vanity stand, desk, and chests of drawers. A lone chair stood in the corner....it would have been beautiful, if it wasn't so drab-colored by the same gray dust that covered the first part of the house...it wasn't water damaged, but it looked as if it hadn't been used in more than half a century...which Hermione guessed to be true. It also had a lot more furniture than the rest of the house, as if the owner had forgotten about this room when signing their will. A South- facing window brought in only the moon's light now, but in daylight it would bring in bright rays of sunlight.
Hermione looked around...it looked abandoned, forgotten. Dust and cobwebs coated everything; she couldn't tell what color everything was, particularly in this light.
"So much dust," she muttered, running her finger over the frame of a painting by the door and finding dust caked on her fingertip.
Voldemort turned around sharply, almost as if forgetting she was here.
"I trust you know the most common house-keeping spells?" he said, raising his eyebrows, as if he seriously doubted it...he looked her over, as if skeptical a muggle-born would know.
"Of course I do – I don't know about you, but I don't plan on sleeping in dust," Hermione scoffed, pulling out her wand. Voldemort watched her out of the corner of his eye and pulled out his as well. In sync they performed the Dusting spell at once. A glowing sphere of white light radiated from the tip of each of their wands, combining into one great white sphere, sweeping down the walls in the room; dust and cobwebs vanished from everywhere its glowing light reached. Hermione waved her wand once and the candle sconces were instantly lit. At last, when the room was spotless, the sphere dissipated. The room was lit – it was beautiful, just like Hermione knew it would – a fluffy black carpet, black sheets lined with silver, dark mahogany furniture, and the white marble fireplace with touches of gray, lined by portraits of what looked like the man's ancestors....on his mom's side, of course. Of all portraits, his mother's was absent from the wall, Hermione noticed with a sinking feeling of regret. Voldemort, however, was uninterested in the portraits – he was staring around, as if examining their dusting job.
"It works a lot better with two spell casters...." Voldemort remarked. Many things were like that in magic, as well as just plain life.
"One of the many advantages of choosing a life partner," Hermione said.
Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "To perform anti-dust spells?"
"And other things," Hermione said without thinking.
Both of his eyebrows shot up at her, and he glanced at the bed, and back at her. It was all too clear what was on his mind. Hermione looked at him, unsettled by this news. It was more than she bargained for in marriage...one of the factors she had overlooked.
"I'll be sleeping in a guest bedroom, if you don't mind," Hermione said, trying her best to smile politely and back out of the room. It didn't work; he grabbed her arm, hauling her back into the room.
"We're married," he hissed. "Last time I recall, the wedded couple sleeps in the same room, not across the house."
Hermione blinked. He was right. Last time she recalled too.
She nodded and walked into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her with a charm of her own invention; she didn't trust the old lock that could be easily forced. She stripped down and conjured a pale pink tank top, underwear, and white shorts, not having her pajamas with her. It was too hot to sleep in anything else. She conjured a toothbrush and got ready for bed, including a quick shower. When she walked out carrying her day clothes, He went in when she came out, and she folded her clothes and put them on the seat of the chair in the corner, put her socks in her shoes, and set them neatly on the floor.
At last he came out, wearing a loose black tunic and a pair of loose black boxer shorts he had obviously transfigured his robe into; only his shoes were thrown on the floor. Hermione had done a drying charm on her hair; otherwise it took hours for her bushy hair to dry.
Hermione came over to the side of the bed, which looked a lot better now that it wasn't covered in dust. She carefully placed her wand on the bed table, following his example. He walked over to the other side and flung himself in the middle of the bed, taking up far too much space; Hermione scooted to the edge but he caught her in a vice-like grip on her arm to tug her on the bed. His strength was too much; Hermione soon found herself underneath his weight.
She tried to scream but he clasped a pale hand over her mouth.
"I'm sure you're aware that we haven't consummated our marriage?" Voldemort hissed so close to her she could feel his breath grazing her ear. She bit his hand and he jerked it away.
"A couple doesn't have to if they don't want to these days," Hermione said in a strained voice, thinking of the story her mother told of how she and her father met and got married.
He rolled his eyes; she was pinned beneath him.
"Ah, that would be true if you were muggle. However, witch that you are, you are bound to the traditions of our society...one of which is the medieval practice of finalizing marriage...which is considered necessary to complete the bonding of the two souls," he paused, surveying Hermione's eyes which were locked on his in horror. "There are two ways we can do this," he continued. "The easy way or the hard way."
Hermione tried to wrestle herself out of his reach, but suddenly found she couldn't move her arms; her wrists and ankles were tightly manacled by iron bands and chains to the bed, leaving her spread on her back, facing him spread-eagle, unable to move. Her eyes swiveled in their sockets, wide-eyed as he reached down to tear her tank top off her body.
She upturned her chin, looking into his red, snake-like eyes, in a reptilian pale face, she saw what she had done. She had signed herself off to the Dark Lord...she was now completely in his power...bound to him. And him to her. Magical marriages created a bond, a sacred bond until death, bridging both souls. Which among many things, meant divorce was not possible. Once you were married, that was it. You're done. Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by his high cold hiss cutting across the silence.
"Would you please change out of that ridiculous thing?" he said, glaring at the wedding dress in distaste. Hermione and her lip thinned, uncannily like McGonagall's.
"For crying out loud! It's our wedding night! We should be celebrating! I've fantasized about my future marriage ever since I was six!" Hermione near shouted.
She knew all too well, however, that Voldemort was not someone she desired to be angry at her...even if it was something as frivolous as her wedding dress. His lip curled in a sneer.
"Oh, do shut up," he said irritably, and waved his wand; her dress disappeared, leaving her in the jeans, sneakers, and white shirt she was wearing originally...even the flowers, veil, wedding shoes, and pearl necklace she had conjured for herself were gone. Everything, except the gold wedding band.
"You're impossible," Hermione grumbled under her breath; it was eerie how often she had said the exact same thing to Harry or Ron when they questioned her studying habits or went on about Quidditch...
He smirked and grasped her hand; moments later they appeared outside an old stone – well, she didn't know what to call it – it was bigger than a house, bigger than what she supposed the Malfoy Manor would look like, but it was smaller than a castle...an old stone drafty, forbidding looking place complete with a tower, a rusty iron fence, overgrown vines and ivy choking the sides, and evidence of Gothic architecture in dragon gargoyles running water off the roof and the sloped archway leading to the front door. A dead leaf-less yew tree stood in the front yard, competing with the tower for height, and flanked by several spidery-looking trees. The grass in the yard was overgrown; it looked like an abandoned field. The overall effect was a dark, mysterious, unwelcoming presence looming over the...well, nothing stood for miles. It may have been a beautiful place once, but it looked run- down now...the windows were cracked, the paint peeling off the door and shutters.
She glanced at him; he looked as sinister as the house; scaly alabaster skin, gleaming red snake eyes, a flat snake-like nose with slits for nostrils, a lip-less mouth and fangs, long fingernails, bald, hairless, about two meters tall, thin, dressed in – she noted with pride, the black robes she had construed for him, which now only seemed to serve to make him look more menacing.
His red eyes glinted at fury and his lip was twisted in a snarl, but he didn't seem angry at her...he was glaring at the house as if it had offended him.
"Where are we?" Hermione said in a hushed tone, running her hand through her bushy brunette hair in confusion. This place looked just like the type of place to pop out of the classic Gothic novels she had read over the long summers between years at Hogwarts...Dracula, for one, and Frankenstein in the early movie. It was like a haunted house....only it was bigger than a house – either a very big mansion or quite a small castle.
"My mother's home...back when she was a child. By the looks of things the inhabitants have been dead for years," he said in a strange voice...Hermione couldn't quite place his tone, being unused to the high cold hiss...most of what she knew of him she had read in textbooks, the Daily Prophet, or heard about from Harry, Snape, Dumbledore, Hagrid, Ron, the Order, the Malfoys, and what was left of the Marauders...the ones who's lives he had touched most closely, and allowed to live. For the time being. She pushed these dark thoughts out of her head.
He sounded distressed, if anything, by the emptiness of the house.
Hermione rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Should we go to the Riddle House?" she asked. She remembered hearing about it from Harry describing his visions...Voldemort's father's last home, apparently.
He picked her hand up, as if it was something disgusting, and tossed it off his shoulder, shrugging. Hermione frowned in distaste; it was just the sort of thing
"It's been burned down. 'Probably have your bloody friend Dumbledore to thank for that," he said.
She followed him inside. It was just as bad inside; cold drafts came in through the thin walls, the rugs, tapestries, couches, and chairs were all moth-eaten and threadbare, covered in mildew, the wooden furniture was warped with water, stained and scarred, cobwebs hung between furniture and the walls or in corners, everything coated in gray dust, puddles of water, and a fungus smell.
"What happened to the place?" Hermione asked in a small voice, looking around.
"I'd think even you would notice water damage when they saw it," he drawled.
"Well yeah – but this place hardly looks," Hermione paused. She was about to say 'livable' but she knew that would anger him. It was his mother's house, after all.
"Looks what? Finish your sentence, woman!" He scoffed.
"...like home," Hermione added lamely.
"It was my mom's home, and I advise you don't speak ill of it again, unless you wish to be on the receiving end of an Unforgivable," Voldemort hissed dangerously, an octave lower than usual. Hermione stared at his wand; she knew he wouldn't hesitate to Crucio her...or worse things.
He ran his finger along a vase, covering the tip of his index in dust which he wiped on a handkerchief in his robes.
"Nothing a little magic can't fix," he said, more to himself than anything. "Of course that'll have to wait until morning..."
"And just where are we supposed to sleep?" Hermione said indignantly, tossing her curls back, crossing her arms.
His head turned slowly towards her, and a smirk spread across his face; an expression Hermione didn't like at all, considering the question she had just asked and how many ways he might have interpreted it.
He nodded and looked around, before walking out the door, around into another room, into another, and effectively making a circle around the house ending up where they started.
"I loved the tour but I'm kinda tired," Hermione said. He rolled his eyes.
"Shut up!" he snapped. "I've only been here once – you think I'd know everything by heart?"
Voldemort paced the floor, his cloak swishing about him, before he stopped and nodded to himself. He approached the full length mirror in the far corner in the room and stared into it. At first glance it was just his reflection, but once he got past that, it was like looking into another room. He stuck his hand through it and the mirror's frame enlargened into a doorway. He nodded and gestured for Hermione to come over. She stared curiously at the mirror before coming through also.
The mirror was an enchanted passageway into another part of the house, which was – well, beautiful. It looked untouched at all by age or water or dust, but brand new, clean, and well-taken care of. It was a bit empty though – it looked vacant, as if whoever was there had moved their belongings, or as if they were sold once the last remaining member in the household died. Only the most basic furniture remained, and a few paintings and tapestries cursed to the wall, just like the portrait of Sirius' mother hanging in what was now Harry's home.
The walls were Gothic stone, the floors an ornate wooden pattern, glossed over...
Voldemort knitted his eyebrows together, seeing the completely different atmosphere of the house-within-a-house. The stairs were to his right, next to Hermione...beautiful white marble stairs with an ebony railing, spiraling up into the rest of the house. The house seemed almost like the man himself, in a way...it was fitting. A cold, forbidding exterior, and once you got past that, a warm, friendly interior, only missing certain aspects...it was like viewing his heart – he had set up a stone shell around himself, but within he was a man lacking something from life...
He rudely swept past Hermione, going up the stairs, waiting for her at the top. Hermione mentally remarked how his mood kept shifting – of course she had mood swings as well, but he was no longer the surly teen he had once been – she had only been with him for about two hours, and he had shifted from shock to confusion to near-charming, to civil, to a bastard. For a man whose reputation was built on power, cold unfeeling power, he certainly held a lot of emotion, if that could be blamed for the mood swings.
Sure enough, he stopped at the top of the stairs, tapping his foot irritably in wait for her. Once Hermione reached the top step, he went off down the hallway, looking in the various rooms, until he found the master bedroom at the end of the hallway. He walked in, and stared back at Hermione, raising an eyebrow as if in question.
It was a huge room for sure, complete with a queen size bed, a walk-in closet, a side-bathroom, candle sconces, a fireplace surrounded by paintings, bedside tables, a fluffy carpet, a vanity stand, desk, and chests of drawers. A lone chair stood in the corner....it would have been beautiful, if it wasn't so drab-colored by the same gray dust that covered the first part of the house...it wasn't water damaged, but it looked as if it hadn't been used in more than half a century...which Hermione guessed to be true. It also had a lot more furniture than the rest of the house, as if the owner had forgotten about this room when signing their will. A South- facing window brought in only the moon's light now, but in daylight it would bring in bright rays of sunlight.
Hermione looked around...it looked abandoned, forgotten. Dust and cobwebs coated everything; she couldn't tell what color everything was, particularly in this light.
"So much dust," she muttered, running her finger over the frame of a painting by the door and finding dust caked on her fingertip.
Voldemort turned around sharply, almost as if forgetting she was here.
"I trust you know the most common house-keeping spells?" he said, raising his eyebrows, as if he seriously doubted it...he looked her over, as if skeptical a muggle-born would know.
"Of course I do – I don't know about you, but I don't plan on sleeping in dust," Hermione scoffed, pulling out her wand. Voldemort watched her out of the corner of his eye and pulled out his as well. In sync they performed the Dusting spell at once. A glowing sphere of white light radiated from the tip of each of their wands, combining into one great white sphere, sweeping down the walls in the room; dust and cobwebs vanished from everywhere its glowing light reached. Hermione waved her wand once and the candle sconces were instantly lit. At last, when the room was spotless, the sphere dissipated. The room was lit – it was beautiful, just like Hermione knew it would – a fluffy black carpet, black sheets lined with silver, dark mahogany furniture, and the white marble fireplace with touches of gray, lined by portraits of what looked like the man's ancestors....on his mom's side, of course. Of all portraits, his mother's was absent from the wall, Hermione noticed with a sinking feeling of regret. Voldemort, however, was uninterested in the portraits – he was staring around, as if examining their dusting job.
"It works a lot better with two spell casters...." Voldemort remarked. Many things were like that in magic, as well as just plain life.
"One of the many advantages of choosing a life partner," Hermione said.
Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "To perform anti-dust spells?"
"And other things," Hermione said without thinking.
Both of his eyebrows shot up at her, and he glanced at the bed, and back at her. It was all too clear what was on his mind. Hermione looked at him, unsettled by this news. It was more than she bargained for in marriage...one of the factors she had overlooked.
"I'll be sleeping in a guest bedroom, if you don't mind," Hermione said, trying her best to smile politely and back out of the room. It didn't work; he grabbed her arm, hauling her back into the room.
"We're married," he hissed. "Last time I recall, the wedded couple sleeps in the same room, not across the house."
Hermione blinked. He was right. Last time she recalled too.
She nodded and walked into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her with a charm of her own invention; she didn't trust the old lock that could be easily forced. She stripped down and conjured a pale pink tank top, underwear, and white shorts, not having her pajamas with her. It was too hot to sleep in anything else. She conjured a toothbrush and got ready for bed, including a quick shower. When she walked out carrying her day clothes, He went in when she came out, and she folded her clothes and put them on the seat of the chair in the corner, put her socks in her shoes, and set them neatly on the floor.
At last he came out, wearing a loose black tunic and a pair of loose black boxer shorts he had obviously transfigured his robe into; only his shoes were thrown on the floor. Hermione had done a drying charm on her hair; otherwise it took hours for her bushy hair to dry.
Hermione came over to the side of the bed, which looked a lot better now that it wasn't covered in dust. She carefully placed her wand on the bed table, following his example. He walked over to the other side and flung himself in the middle of the bed, taking up far too much space; Hermione scooted to the edge but he caught her in a vice-like grip on her arm to tug her on the bed. His strength was too much; Hermione soon found herself underneath his weight.
She tried to scream but he clasped a pale hand over her mouth.
"I'm sure you're aware that we haven't consummated our marriage?" Voldemort hissed so close to her she could feel his breath grazing her ear. She bit his hand and he jerked it away.
"A couple doesn't have to if they don't want to these days," Hermione said in a strained voice, thinking of the story her mother told of how she and her father met and got married.
He rolled his eyes; she was pinned beneath him.
"Ah, that would be true if you were muggle. However, witch that you are, you are bound to the traditions of our society...one of which is the medieval practice of finalizing marriage...which is considered necessary to complete the bonding of the two souls," he paused, surveying Hermione's eyes which were locked on his in horror. "There are two ways we can do this," he continued. "The easy way or the hard way."
Hermione tried to wrestle herself out of his reach, but suddenly found she couldn't move her arms; her wrists and ankles were tightly manacled by iron bands and chains to the bed, leaving her spread on her back, facing him spread-eagle, unable to move. Her eyes swiveled in their sockets, wide-eyed as he reached down to tear her tank top off her body.
