Hermione tried to scream...even if she had Gryffindor bravery, this was too
much...she remembered the sorting hat wanting to put her in Ravenclaw and
she reflected if she was placed in such a house, she probably wouldn't be
as close to Harry and Voldemort would therefore not want her for his
wife...and...she tried to shift out of his reach, anything...she tried to
yell enough to alert someone, forgetting there was no one for miles
around...but she couldn't make a sound – all that came out was a choking
noise from the back of her throat.
He ripped off her pink tank top and threw it across the floor... 'I won't be able to wear that again' Hermione thought briefly, before shutting the thought out of her mind...she knew as well as Harry did about Voldemort's Legilimency powers through their last encounter at the end of sixth year – as far as invading minds, he could give Dumbledore a run for his money on that...hell, on just about everything... That last thought...it was almost as if she was supporting him over Dumbledore...a scary thought indeed. What if she were to be the one to bring the rest of the Wizarding world down to the dark side. She found herself staring with horror at the hideous monster on top of her, now pulling his own shirt – his black tunic – over his ugly head.
Hermione winced in disgust...she had never been anything like Lavender or Parvati as far as being guy-crazy or even noticing a guy as 'hot,' but...ugh. Voldemort's chest was so thin – he didn't have the starved appearance with ribs showing, and he had no fat on him, but no muscle either – he wasn't filled out at all, just a long, flat, clammy-looking pasty torso with a few wispy black hairs...
She wasn't that beautiful either – on the short side, with hair so bushy a comb would break if she ran one through it, and she wasn't very curvy, but at least she didn't look like an insult to mankind...
He reached down to tear off her white shorts and underwear...she couldn't take this anymore...this losing her virginity to not Harry like she had dreamed once, but to this psychopath...she had set out to demolish hate in the wizarding world, to break down the barriers, but she hadn't thought of this...if she had remembered this bit about marriage, she would have definitely chose Draco...or at least Snape, over this walking 44 Magnum...she hated him...no, he couldn't – she couldn't...
He threw her torn shorts and underwear over his shoulder, and pulled his boxer shorts off, putting those aside his tunic at the foot of the bed.
She tried to scream again, but he sealed off any sound from her mouth immediately with a simple silencing charm she couldn't break through...
"There will be none of that unnecessary noise...you don't want me to go deaf, do you?" he said coldly. Hermione wanted to nod 'yes,' but that would only make matters worse...right now she wasn't in a position to anger him...literally.
Hermione mouthed 'no' over and over again, as she was unable to speak...anything but this...she was a child still – she still held her innocence, and valued it...and now that was all going to end - this couldn't be happening...
She looked into his unfeeling snake-slit red eyes...and froze - for the love of all things holy, he was grinning – a toothy grin had spread across his hideous face, like a small child holding twenty bucks in a candy store.
She struggled against her bonds, tried to wrench her arms out, pull the bonds off the bed, anything – she wouldn't mind losing her hands – the hands she had wrote down so much research and notes with, the hands she had cast all the spells she had learned with...if she could be free of this terror taking place...she struggled and wrenched on the chains, tried to turn over, but....
And soon enough, it was all over.
At least he had 'cut to the chase' instead of playing with her.
It was all over. She was a woman now. Their marriage was final. She was no longer a virgin...
Once he had finished with her, he had been 'kind' enough to vanish the chains and bonds. And he had put his boxers and tunic back on, and retreat to his side of the bed. But he refused to hand her her clothes – her clothes which were completely ruined. He said he liked her better like that, than in 'those damn muggle things.' The error in his logic, was he was wearing 'those damn muggle things' as well, and he refused to conjure her a robe or something.
Gladly, Hermione got off the bed, exhausted though she was from getting married, all the stress, and struggling against the iron bonds, which were now non-existent. So she got off the bed naked, fully aware of his eyes on her. Oh, how she hated the man, she thought, as she grabbed her wand off the bedside table.
She needed someone to practice a particularly nasty, painful Defense against the Dark Arts technique Harry taught her...oh how she wished she could try it on Voldemort right now...
She walked across the room, repairing the tank top she found by the door and the shorts she found on the dresser, and slipped the tank top on. She searched for her underwear, trying to ignore his amused eyes on her, until she found it hanging off the mirror on the vanity stand – she repaired the rip in it as well and slipped her pajamas back on.
The bastard.
She came back to bed at last, fully dressed, and settled down on her side of the bed, pulling the sheets up to her chin and budging as far as possible to the edge of the bed without falling over.
At least he didn't say anything, didn't do anything to aggravate her further...just let her lie in peace. Or ignore her – whichever it was – as long as she was alone...
Exhausted as she was from the eventful day, she couldn't fall asleep...she kept thinking of their marriage, of what it really meant, about why she chose him in the first place, if it was worth it, if what she wanted from this marriage could ever be achieved....she didn't fall asleep until three.
The next morning, she awoke late – around ten – it may be early for some people, but for one who usually got up with the sun, it felt like noon to her. She had been sleeping in a fetal position on her side, but rolled to her back. Voldemort was nowhere to be found – no doubt out killing or torturing someone or holding a Death Eater meeting...she conjured a light cotton bathrobe and slippers on her feet and looked around, wondering where he went. She didn't have to look far; a trail of wet footsteps came from the bathroom back to his side of the bed and out the door. A faint amused smile came to her lips and she walked through the layers of dust lining the floor, following the wet footsteps in the dust.
At eight, Voldemort was downstairs in the kitchen in his boxers and tunic – it was only after he reached the kitchen and looked behind him did he notice that walking around with wet feet on a dusty floor wasn't such a good idea; he picked his foot up to see the sole of his foot covered in a thick layer of gray dust. His lip curled in a sneer as he vanished the dust off his feet. He conjured a menacing black robe and boots on himself, and dissapparated. He appeared moments later in a dark gloomy Scandinavian castle that served as little more than a meeting place, torturing chambers, and holding prisoners in the dungeons. He didn't really like the place – it was old, and crumbling apart faster than magic could heal it up. Scandinavia was cold and wet most of the year, and the occasional tour group heading into his headquarters only made it worse. It would have been the perfect castle, if it weren't for the climate, the fact that it was falling apart, and the damned muggles touring around. He didn't go there that often – the only thing remaining of any importance was Sirius Black in the dungeons.
Sirius Black, who hadn't been killed as previously thought, but merely put into a coma as his cousin had mispronounced the Killing curse – whether her nerves failed her or she had developed a lisp, Voldemort didn't know. In any case, if and when the man woke up, he would serve as valuable bait for Potter...a few visions ought to do it – to lure Potter here...he would do /anything/ for his dear godfather...
But if Sirius was here, he'd probably starve to death, freeze to death, crushed to death, or trampled by eager Muggle tourists.
Also, Voldemort knew he wouldn't be able to tell when he woke up if he didn't live there....so he vanished the rusty iron chains and iron band on the man's neck, held his arm, and dissapparated, appearing moments later in the basement of his mother's house, two floors below where his wife was sleeping.
Quietly, as to not risk his wife waking up and finding out, Voldemort dragged Sirius down a cold stone un-lit passageway to a stone dungeon. He at last found a dungeon room crawling with rats; perfect, once Sirius woke up, he'd surely be /delighted/ to find reminders of his dear turncoat back- stabbing friend...not to mention the likeness to his childhood enemy's Potions classroom... In the middle of the stone dungeon was a rusty iron post with chains dangling off it, and on one end of the chains was a decaying skeleton...perfect. His mother's family as carriers of the Slytherin bloodline had always upheld the pureblood-mudblood racism and were known to occasionally hold prisoners...naturally Voldemort's mother, like Sirius, was against her dark family and was eventually ostracized and disowned. Voldemort chained Sirius with the remaining chains, and wandered back the way he came, ascending the cold stone stairs leading to a door on the main floor.
No one would be able to tell the dungeon floor existed unless they knew where the entrance was – the door was disguised cleverly as a fire-lit torch in the wall – you had to put your hand through the fire to make the door operate, a feat few were willing to do for absolutely no reason.
Voldemort went back to the kitchen and checked the Mickey Mouse watch he had had since his days in the muggle orphanage...9:30. He shrugged and looked around; she still hadn't gotten up yet...he conjured himself some tea and sat down to read the Daily Prophet his trusty black owl had stolen from Fudge, this time...instead of subscribing, which would eventually lead to his place of residence being discovered, he sent out an owl to steal the paper from different people...
He scowled reading the front page. Apparently Dumbledore and the Order had been making plans, interfering with Fudge and his Aurors...all in the fight against him and his Death Eaters. All the politics. Everything was bloody confusing politics... At least Fudge was still his idiot self in denial of the Dark Lord returning, although Voldemort knew the Minister had seen him escape the Ministry more than two years ago. It felt so long ago, but it wasn't really...
His bride chose that moment to come down the stairs. Biting her lip, glaring at him, her bushy hair electrified and frizzing everywhere, spots of pink on her cheeks from blood rushing to her head, tense with fierce energy; judging by the livid expression on her face, she was angry with him about something.
She stopped in front of the table, crossing her arms over the lavender bathrobe she was wearing, staring at him expectantly.
He seemed not to care; he scanned the article in the Daily Prophet and put his index finger to his mouth before turning the page, feet up on the table. He grabbed the cup of tea beside his place and took a sip before putting it back in its saucer.
His wife sat herself across the table from him, seeing as he was ignoring her.
She looked upset with him, but it wasn't like he cared...much. She would offer her services to him, as the filthy mudblood bitch she his food, clean his house, raise his kids, pour out information about Potter and the Order when necessary, and satisfy him whenever he felt the need – he could no longer rape anyone, as the wedding bond prevented that – she would be a combination house-elf and whore in one.
Ah – yesterday he had played a game with her – act nice and charming towards her – nice and charming until the marriage, and civil until the marriage was official and unbreakable. Now she was entirely in his power.
Little did she know any of this.
But as he looked at her, he realized he couldn't do it...he couldn't hurt her. Not like this.
It was looking into her eyes that he made this decision... he could tell so much just by looking into them, and without using legilimency...she was innocent, young, warm, she possessed strength and mentality beyond her years, and her personality...he couldn't do this to her. It would break her. She was perhaps the only one who didn't fear him, apart from Harry and Dumbledore – she was his wife, his bride. /Am I getting soft?/ passed his mind, but he shook it...it was just – she seemed angry at him this morning, no doubt, but she showed no fear of him, or uncertainty about the future – it was as if she was determined of something.
She was angry with him though; he saw how tense she was, how she refused to say a word, keeping her lips tightly pursed together except when eating, he saw her downcast face.
Hermione looked up, hearing her groom lowering the paper, sensing his searching gaze. She couldn't take this anymore....
"What do you want?" she snapped, and left, not catching his eyebrows knitting together in worry.
He found her later in the library, searching the shelves for a book to add to the tomes on a desk.
He paused in the doorway, noting her sufficient job of carefully clearing the dust and everything by magic – it would take awhile, but no matter. He watched her for some time in silence, until she whirled around, finally aware of his presence – he noted with amusement how her tight curls swung around before rebounding back into place.
"Hermione," he hissed, the name sounding strange in his high cold voice.
It took all of Hermione's willpower not to blow up at him in anger.
"I'm sorry," Voldemort whispered...it was mostly lip service, they both knew, but a small part of him felt guilty for what had transpired last night – for raping his wife.
Hermione must have heard the bit of sincerity in his voice, for she relaxed. Knowing her goals for this marriage, all of which started with a loving relationship with him, she threw her arms around him in a hug, and kissed him on the cheek. His skin felt strange; foreign, under her lips; for some reason, the memory of kissing Harry on the cheek as they said their goodbyes at the end of fourth year came to mind. Voldemort was as cool and calm and ever; he didn't flinch, blush, or wrap his arms around her, but stood straight and still. When Hermione broke way, though, he spoke.
"That was unexpected," he said hollowly. "One minute you're snapping at me, and the next you're kissing me."
Hermione cringed inwardly; did he suspect her putting on an act already? She did some quick thinking, seeing him looking at her curiously, expecting an answer.
"Even Dark Lords will never know how a woman's mind works," Hermione retorted. Merlin; Harry didn't know, Ron didn't know, Snape didn't know, Hagrid didn't know, Krum didn't know...poor simple-minded creatures, she thought, amused.
Voldemort rolled his eyes, only to widen them in surprise a moment later, as if he just thought of something. He looked like he was trying to decide on something perplexing...
"What is it?" Hermione said softly, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought and so anger him.
He blinked, as if just remembering she was there.
"Hermione," he said in a voice striving for gentleness, but was unaccustomed to it. "Do you realize that by marrying the Dark Lord, you are now the Dark Lady? Equal to me, but on the same side..."
He studied her for a moment, before walking out. Hermione was shocked; did this mean what she thought it meant? ------------------------------------------ Voldemort went down to the stone dungeons to check on Sirius; nothing could happen to him, considering that he was to be bait for Harry. And indeed, Sirius was awake; he was very weak, but at least he was out of his coma.
Sirius looked helpless and lost beyond words; he was staring at Voldemort with the blank look of someone who sees a vaguely familiar face but cannot place it. Voldemort cackled.
"Ah, Sirius Black – awake at last. A long sleep for you, was it not?"
"Where am I?" Sirius muttered thickly through the sheet of hair hanging in front of his face as he sat on the cold stone ground. "The last thing I recall is dueling my cousin in the Department of Mysteries..."
Voldemort smirked.
"Ah yes – dear Bella failed to pronounce the curse properly, so you were only put in a coma. Not to worry; I had Lucius instruct her in the three Unforgivables, so next time you two duel, she'll kill you for me."
Sirius flexed against his bonds, but failed to wrench them off the wall like he wanted. He raised his head, glaring at Voldemort, although the look was diminished by having to glare up at Voldemort from the floor, and being so weak.
"You're weak, Black," Voldemort hissed. He kicked Harry's godfather painfully in the side, where his kidneys were. Sirius inhaled sharply, but was too weak to flinch or fight back. "Harry misses you," Voldemort sneered. "I see visions of him – locked himself in his room, underfed, ignoring others – he's depressed. Weeping , cutting himself...all for his dear dog..."
Sirius raised his eyebrows; he was worried – he hadn't thought about Harry...Voldemort conjured a bowl of thin soup and moldy bread, letting it fall two feet, landing rudely beside Sirius, far enough away that he'd have to stretch and strain himself to reach it – if he could.
Voldemort turned to go, but stopped at the door.
"I can't keep coming down here for you, Black. Perhaps two of my loyal, ever faithful servants would agree to feed you...Peter and Severus maybe? I'm sure they'd be /delighted/ to have your helpless self in their care...to have your life in their hands..."
Sirius clenched his teeth tightly together and pulled and flexed violently against the bonds. Life as he knew it, would end shortly – down here in the dungeons, he'd suffer a humiliating death at Snape's hands...and there was nothing he could do about it. He fell down against the pillar he was chained to; suddenly he didn't feel so hungry.
Little did he know that he was to be bait...and as such, Voldemort sent a vision to Harry...
-----------------------------------------
Harry was sulking in his room, flipping through the scrapbook of his parents, looking longingly at the best man Sirius...
Suddenly his scar felt as if it was on fire, and he collapsed on the floor.
Visions flashed before his eyes. Darkness. Matted long brown hair hiding a man's face. Fade to darkness. A chained hand slowly clenching into a fist and flexing back to its original form. Fade to darkness. A glimpse of highly-familiar eyes, that Harry couldn't place – once bright brown eyes, now dimmed and haunted and lacking their luster of life. Fade to darkness. Voldemort's high-pitched cold voice hissing "Peter and Severus...delighted...have your life in their hands." Darkness. A bright flash of Sirius sitting alone in the cell, chained to the pillar, flexing against his bonds half-heartedly. Darkness. Voldemort whispering "Sirius Black." Darkness.
Then it was all over. Harry woke up, seeing his room. He was sweating; his scar was throbbing, and his breathing was short and hitched.
Sirius was...alive?
Harry left Grimmauld Place on broomstick, disguised with a disillusionment charm, armed only with his wand, searching for Sirius. Apparating or Flooing, even if he knew where Sirius was, would alert the Ministry to his whereabouts, a risk that he could not afford.
He ripped off her pink tank top and threw it across the floor... 'I won't be able to wear that again' Hermione thought briefly, before shutting the thought out of her mind...she knew as well as Harry did about Voldemort's Legilimency powers through their last encounter at the end of sixth year – as far as invading minds, he could give Dumbledore a run for his money on that...hell, on just about everything... That last thought...it was almost as if she was supporting him over Dumbledore...a scary thought indeed. What if she were to be the one to bring the rest of the Wizarding world down to the dark side. She found herself staring with horror at the hideous monster on top of her, now pulling his own shirt – his black tunic – over his ugly head.
Hermione winced in disgust...she had never been anything like Lavender or Parvati as far as being guy-crazy or even noticing a guy as 'hot,' but...ugh. Voldemort's chest was so thin – he didn't have the starved appearance with ribs showing, and he had no fat on him, but no muscle either – he wasn't filled out at all, just a long, flat, clammy-looking pasty torso with a few wispy black hairs...
She wasn't that beautiful either – on the short side, with hair so bushy a comb would break if she ran one through it, and she wasn't very curvy, but at least she didn't look like an insult to mankind...
He reached down to tear off her white shorts and underwear...she couldn't take this anymore...this losing her virginity to not Harry like she had dreamed once, but to this psychopath...she had set out to demolish hate in the wizarding world, to break down the barriers, but she hadn't thought of this...if she had remembered this bit about marriage, she would have definitely chose Draco...or at least Snape, over this walking 44 Magnum...she hated him...no, he couldn't – she couldn't...
He threw her torn shorts and underwear over his shoulder, and pulled his boxer shorts off, putting those aside his tunic at the foot of the bed.
She tried to scream again, but he sealed off any sound from her mouth immediately with a simple silencing charm she couldn't break through...
"There will be none of that unnecessary noise...you don't want me to go deaf, do you?" he said coldly. Hermione wanted to nod 'yes,' but that would only make matters worse...right now she wasn't in a position to anger him...literally.
Hermione mouthed 'no' over and over again, as she was unable to speak...anything but this...she was a child still – she still held her innocence, and valued it...and now that was all going to end - this couldn't be happening...
She looked into his unfeeling snake-slit red eyes...and froze - for the love of all things holy, he was grinning – a toothy grin had spread across his hideous face, like a small child holding twenty bucks in a candy store.
She struggled against her bonds, tried to wrench her arms out, pull the bonds off the bed, anything – she wouldn't mind losing her hands – the hands she had wrote down so much research and notes with, the hands she had cast all the spells she had learned with...if she could be free of this terror taking place...she struggled and wrenched on the chains, tried to turn over, but....
And soon enough, it was all over.
At least he had 'cut to the chase' instead of playing with her.
It was all over. She was a woman now. Their marriage was final. She was no longer a virgin...
Once he had finished with her, he had been 'kind' enough to vanish the chains and bonds. And he had put his boxers and tunic back on, and retreat to his side of the bed. But he refused to hand her her clothes – her clothes which were completely ruined. He said he liked her better like that, than in 'those damn muggle things.' The error in his logic, was he was wearing 'those damn muggle things' as well, and he refused to conjure her a robe or something.
Gladly, Hermione got off the bed, exhausted though she was from getting married, all the stress, and struggling against the iron bonds, which were now non-existent. So she got off the bed naked, fully aware of his eyes on her. Oh, how she hated the man, she thought, as she grabbed her wand off the bedside table.
She needed someone to practice a particularly nasty, painful Defense against the Dark Arts technique Harry taught her...oh how she wished she could try it on Voldemort right now...
She walked across the room, repairing the tank top she found by the door and the shorts she found on the dresser, and slipped the tank top on. She searched for her underwear, trying to ignore his amused eyes on her, until she found it hanging off the mirror on the vanity stand – she repaired the rip in it as well and slipped her pajamas back on.
The bastard.
She came back to bed at last, fully dressed, and settled down on her side of the bed, pulling the sheets up to her chin and budging as far as possible to the edge of the bed without falling over.
At least he didn't say anything, didn't do anything to aggravate her further...just let her lie in peace. Or ignore her – whichever it was – as long as she was alone...
Exhausted as she was from the eventful day, she couldn't fall asleep...she kept thinking of their marriage, of what it really meant, about why she chose him in the first place, if it was worth it, if what she wanted from this marriage could ever be achieved....she didn't fall asleep until three.
The next morning, she awoke late – around ten – it may be early for some people, but for one who usually got up with the sun, it felt like noon to her. She had been sleeping in a fetal position on her side, but rolled to her back. Voldemort was nowhere to be found – no doubt out killing or torturing someone or holding a Death Eater meeting...she conjured a light cotton bathrobe and slippers on her feet and looked around, wondering where he went. She didn't have to look far; a trail of wet footsteps came from the bathroom back to his side of the bed and out the door. A faint amused smile came to her lips and she walked through the layers of dust lining the floor, following the wet footsteps in the dust.
At eight, Voldemort was downstairs in the kitchen in his boxers and tunic – it was only after he reached the kitchen and looked behind him did he notice that walking around with wet feet on a dusty floor wasn't such a good idea; he picked his foot up to see the sole of his foot covered in a thick layer of gray dust. His lip curled in a sneer as he vanished the dust off his feet. He conjured a menacing black robe and boots on himself, and dissapparated. He appeared moments later in a dark gloomy Scandinavian castle that served as little more than a meeting place, torturing chambers, and holding prisoners in the dungeons. He didn't really like the place – it was old, and crumbling apart faster than magic could heal it up. Scandinavia was cold and wet most of the year, and the occasional tour group heading into his headquarters only made it worse. It would have been the perfect castle, if it weren't for the climate, the fact that it was falling apart, and the damned muggles touring around. He didn't go there that often – the only thing remaining of any importance was Sirius Black in the dungeons.
Sirius Black, who hadn't been killed as previously thought, but merely put into a coma as his cousin had mispronounced the Killing curse – whether her nerves failed her or she had developed a lisp, Voldemort didn't know. In any case, if and when the man woke up, he would serve as valuable bait for Potter...a few visions ought to do it – to lure Potter here...he would do /anything/ for his dear godfather...
But if Sirius was here, he'd probably starve to death, freeze to death, crushed to death, or trampled by eager Muggle tourists.
Also, Voldemort knew he wouldn't be able to tell when he woke up if he didn't live there....so he vanished the rusty iron chains and iron band on the man's neck, held his arm, and dissapparated, appearing moments later in the basement of his mother's house, two floors below where his wife was sleeping.
Quietly, as to not risk his wife waking up and finding out, Voldemort dragged Sirius down a cold stone un-lit passageway to a stone dungeon. He at last found a dungeon room crawling with rats; perfect, once Sirius woke up, he'd surely be /delighted/ to find reminders of his dear turncoat back- stabbing friend...not to mention the likeness to his childhood enemy's Potions classroom... In the middle of the stone dungeon was a rusty iron post with chains dangling off it, and on one end of the chains was a decaying skeleton...perfect. His mother's family as carriers of the Slytherin bloodline had always upheld the pureblood-mudblood racism and were known to occasionally hold prisoners...naturally Voldemort's mother, like Sirius, was against her dark family and was eventually ostracized and disowned. Voldemort chained Sirius with the remaining chains, and wandered back the way he came, ascending the cold stone stairs leading to a door on the main floor.
No one would be able to tell the dungeon floor existed unless they knew where the entrance was – the door was disguised cleverly as a fire-lit torch in the wall – you had to put your hand through the fire to make the door operate, a feat few were willing to do for absolutely no reason.
Voldemort went back to the kitchen and checked the Mickey Mouse watch he had had since his days in the muggle orphanage...9:30. He shrugged and looked around; she still hadn't gotten up yet...he conjured himself some tea and sat down to read the Daily Prophet his trusty black owl had stolen from Fudge, this time...instead of subscribing, which would eventually lead to his place of residence being discovered, he sent out an owl to steal the paper from different people...
He scowled reading the front page. Apparently Dumbledore and the Order had been making plans, interfering with Fudge and his Aurors...all in the fight against him and his Death Eaters. All the politics. Everything was bloody confusing politics... At least Fudge was still his idiot self in denial of the Dark Lord returning, although Voldemort knew the Minister had seen him escape the Ministry more than two years ago. It felt so long ago, but it wasn't really...
His bride chose that moment to come down the stairs. Biting her lip, glaring at him, her bushy hair electrified and frizzing everywhere, spots of pink on her cheeks from blood rushing to her head, tense with fierce energy; judging by the livid expression on her face, she was angry with him about something.
She stopped in front of the table, crossing her arms over the lavender bathrobe she was wearing, staring at him expectantly.
He seemed not to care; he scanned the article in the Daily Prophet and put his index finger to his mouth before turning the page, feet up on the table. He grabbed the cup of tea beside his place and took a sip before putting it back in its saucer.
His wife sat herself across the table from him, seeing as he was ignoring her.
She looked upset with him, but it wasn't like he cared...much. She would offer her services to him, as the filthy mudblood bitch she his food, clean his house, raise his kids, pour out information about Potter and the Order when necessary, and satisfy him whenever he felt the need – he could no longer rape anyone, as the wedding bond prevented that – she would be a combination house-elf and whore in one.
Ah – yesterday he had played a game with her – act nice and charming towards her – nice and charming until the marriage, and civil until the marriage was official and unbreakable. Now she was entirely in his power.
Little did she know any of this.
But as he looked at her, he realized he couldn't do it...he couldn't hurt her. Not like this.
It was looking into her eyes that he made this decision... he could tell so much just by looking into them, and without using legilimency...she was innocent, young, warm, she possessed strength and mentality beyond her years, and her personality...he couldn't do this to her. It would break her. She was perhaps the only one who didn't fear him, apart from Harry and Dumbledore – she was his wife, his bride. /Am I getting soft?/ passed his mind, but he shook it...it was just – she seemed angry at him this morning, no doubt, but she showed no fear of him, or uncertainty about the future – it was as if she was determined of something.
She was angry with him though; he saw how tense she was, how she refused to say a word, keeping her lips tightly pursed together except when eating, he saw her downcast face.
Hermione looked up, hearing her groom lowering the paper, sensing his searching gaze. She couldn't take this anymore....
"What do you want?" she snapped, and left, not catching his eyebrows knitting together in worry.
He found her later in the library, searching the shelves for a book to add to the tomes on a desk.
He paused in the doorway, noting her sufficient job of carefully clearing the dust and everything by magic – it would take awhile, but no matter. He watched her for some time in silence, until she whirled around, finally aware of his presence – he noted with amusement how her tight curls swung around before rebounding back into place.
"Hermione," he hissed, the name sounding strange in his high cold voice.
It took all of Hermione's willpower not to blow up at him in anger.
"I'm sorry," Voldemort whispered...it was mostly lip service, they both knew, but a small part of him felt guilty for what had transpired last night – for raping his wife.
Hermione must have heard the bit of sincerity in his voice, for she relaxed. Knowing her goals for this marriage, all of which started with a loving relationship with him, she threw her arms around him in a hug, and kissed him on the cheek. His skin felt strange; foreign, under her lips; for some reason, the memory of kissing Harry on the cheek as they said their goodbyes at the end of fourth year came to mind. Voldemort was as cool and calm and ever; he didn't flinch, blush, or wrap his arms around her, but stood straight and still. When Hermione broke way, though, he spoke.
"That was unexpected," he said hollowly. "One minute you're snapping at me, and the next you're kissing me."
Hermione cringed inwardly; did he suspect her putting on an act already? She did some quick thinking, seeing him looking at her curiously, expecting an answer.
"Even Dark Lords will never know how a woman's mind works," Hermione retorted. Merlin; Harry didn't know, Ron didn't know, Snape didn't know, Hagrid didn't know, Krum didn't know...poor simple-minded creatures, she thought, amused.
Voldemort rolled his eyes, only to widen them in surprise a moment later, as if he just thought of something. He looked like he was trying to decide on something perplexing...
"What is it?" Hermione said softly, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought and so anger him.
He blinked, as if just remembering she was there.
"Hermione," he said in a voice striving for gentleness, but was unaccustomed to it. "Do you realize that by marrying the Dark Lord, you are now the Dark Lady? Equal to me, but on the same side..."
He studied her for a moment, before walking out. Hermione was shocked; did this mean what she thought it meant? ------------------------------------------ Voldemort went down to the stone dungeons to check on Sirius; nothing could happen to him, considering that he was to be bait for Harry. And indeed, Sirius was awake; he was very weak, but at least he was out of his coma.
Sirius looked helpless and lost beyond words; he was staring at Voldemort with the blank look of someone who sees a vaguely familiar face but cannot place it. Voldemort cackled.
"Ah, Sirius Black – awake at last. A long sleep for you, was it not?"
"Where am I?" Sirius muttered thickly through the sheet of hair hanging in front of his face as he sat on the cold stone ground. "The last thing I recall is dueling my cousin in the Department of Mysteries..."
Voldemort smirked.
"Ah yes – dear Bella failed to pronounce the curse properly, so you were only put in a coma. Not to worry; I had Lucius instruct her in the three Unforgivables, so next time you two duel, she'll kill you for me."
Sirius flexed against his bonds, but failed to wrench them off the wall like he wanted. He raised his head, glaring at Voldemort, although the look was diminished by having to glare up at Voldemort from the floor, and being so weak.
"You're weak, Black," Voldemort hissed. He kicked Harry's godfather painfully in the side, where his kidneys were. Sirius inhaled sharply, but was too weak to flinch or fight back. "Harry misses you," Voldemort sneered. "I see visions of him – locked himself in his room, underfed, ignoring others – he's depressed. Weeping , cutting himself...all for his dear dog..."
Sirius raised his eyebrows; he was worried – he hadn't thought about Harry...Voldemort conjured a bowl of thin soup and moldy bread, letting it fall two feet, landing rudely beside Sirius, far enough away that he'd have to stretch and strain himself to reach it – if he could.
Voldemort turned to go, but stopped at the door.
"I can't keep coming down here for you, Black. Perhaps two of my loyal, ever faithful servants would agree to feed you...Peter and Severus maybe? I'm sure they'd be /delighted/ to have your helpless self in their care...to have your life in their hands..."
Sirius clenched his teeth tightly together and pulled and flexed violently against the bonds. Life as he knew it, would end shortly – down here in the dungeons, he'd suffer a humiliating death at Snape's hands...and there was nothing he could do about it. He fell down against the pillar he was chained to; suddenly he didn't feel so hungry.
Little did he know that he was to be bait...and as such, Voldemort sent a vision to Harry...
-----------------------------------------
Harry was sulking in his room, flipping through the scrapbook of his parents, looking longingly at the best man Sirius...
Suddenly his scar felt as if it was on fire, and he collapsed on the floor.
Visions flashed before his eyes. Darkness. Matted long brown hair hiding a man's face. Fade to darkness. A chained hand slowly clenching into a fist and flexing back to its original form. Fade to darkness. A glimpse of highly-familiar eyes, that Harry couldn't place – once bright brown eyes, now dimmed and haunted and lacking their luster of life. Fade to darkness. Voldemort's high-pitched cold voice hissing "Peter and Severus...delighted...have your life in their hands." Darkness. A bright flash of Sirius sitting alone in the cell, chained to the pillar, flexing against his bonds half-heartedly. Darkness. Voldemort whispering "Sirius Black." Darkness.
Then it was all over. Harry woke up, seeing his room. He was sweating; his scar was throbbing, and his breathing was short and hitched.
Sirius was...alive?
Harry left Grimmauld Place on broomstick, disguised with a disillusionment charm, armed only with his wand, searching for Sirius. Apparating or Flooing, even if he knew where Sirius was, would alert the Ministry to his whereabouts, a risk that he could not afford.
