Title: Incense
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Hermione, Voldemort
Prompt: 012: Orange
Word Count: 523 words
Rating: PG
Notes: For the Fanfic100 challenge.

Her eyes fluttered. She did not know how long she had been lying there, staring at the wood panels of the ceiling. The smoke curled in serpentine mist and billowed as it spread down the walls.

Incense, although the thought wisped away the moment after it occurred to her. It was in her head, filling it and dampening her thoughts. Sandalwood, maybe. And lavender. And jasmine. The scents mingled until they coated her tongue with dust and covered her mind with cotton. Was she sitting up or on her back, on pillows or blankets or stone or fiery coals? Fingers moved in front of her face, cutting through the orange-tinted smoke as though she were discorporeal and the smoke was solid.

"Feels simple, doesn't it?" A voice in the smoke as unintelligible as the flickering of candles. "The better to keep a witch like you sedated without destroying what's in here." She felt a hand in her hair, pushing her head. "We wouldn't want that, but a Mudblood such as yourself can hardly be let free now."

The voice was smoke itself, sinuous and sibilant, and she could suddenly understand it.

Hermione. She thought maybe he was hissing at her, although she did not know or question how she could translate the language. Her breath hitched as the point of a silver knife with the reflection of a candle pressed between her breasts. A few drops of blood grounded her finally, although the incense still worked its magic on her body. The man held the knife before her so that she could see the blood drip into her own reflection. That was her, she was bleeding, that was her.

"Your blood," he explained. "Do you know what a person's blood is used for in incantations or potions?"

"Always blood," she muttered, her tongue heavy and her mouth dry.

"In what?" he asked patiently.

"Control, I... think." She tried to bring her hand to her head to cradle it, shake it clear of the smoke, but she was just... too... tired... and she could not move her arms.

"Yes," he said, like a professor acknowledging a correct answer. "Control. And to control you rather than kill you is easily a more practical option, despite those who question my judgment."

Her blink took forever. "What?"

"The country is burning. Sacrifices for me. Blood boiling and skin crackling with heat. Can you smell them?"

"Are you...? I smell the..." She could not complete her sentence as the man brought the blood-stained knife to the tip of a wand. At least, she thought it was a wand. She could not quite remember the word. "People?"

"People, places, creatures. Even the night sky burns, Hermione. I wish you could have seen your friend as his smoke joined the others. One like everyone else, indistinguishable, undistinguished. It was what he always wanted."

"What?"

"You'll remember when you are under the... proper... restraints." His hand pulled her upright so that her back was against his chest.

The smoke glowed orange and smelled of eucalyptus.

"Voldemort," she murmured, her mind clearing.

"The Dark Lord to you, Hermione."

And the smoke cleared.