POV: Voldemort
I grow weary of Bellatrix and her grating singsong. I consider casting a Silencio at the barmy witch, but I decide she is not worth the energy I might expend by raising my wand at her.
"Bellatrix, cease!" I demand irritably.
I am well pleased to be rewarded with her instant obedience. The echoing silence allows me a return to my previous conflicts as I examine the inner thoughts of the two teens before me.
I sneer at the boy and slit my eyes at the girl, remembering Potter's infuriating words before I left him lying on the floor of the Ministry.
"You're the weak one ... and you'll never know ... love ...
or friendship and I feel sorry for you."
They have haunted me ever since.
Love.
Elusive, this ... love. Yet, these two infants seem to know something of it, and what is worse is that this love seems to have many varying forms. I bare my teeth at the both of them for their innate knowledge of something that is so alien to me.
Once, long ago, I thought I'd discovered how to capture such feelings, to bottle it by somehow stealing it away, but that had proven folly. Now, I have simply eschewed love's very existence. Since I have never experienced such emotion, not once during my long life, I have decided that love must be of no real consequence. After all, my continued existence undoubtedly proves that it is unnecessary for life. I've outlasted even Potter's parents — those who allegedly knew true love. How incredibly easy it had been to take their pathetic, loving lives.
I laugh loudly at the delectable memory.
I delight in watching my masked followers tense at my the reverberating sound. I laugh again at their quaking fear.
Fear. Now, this emotion, above all else, has proven so much more powerful than Potter's love.
I tilt my head to again scrutinize the two before me.
At last inspection, before Narcissa's and Snape's outrageous behavior, I discovered young Malfoy's fear of love. A bleak void surrounds his thoughts of it. As for the girl, love pains her, yet she clutches it close. Confused are her feelings ... complicated, full-bodied emotions ... each slightly different for the three she holds most dear. She desires her love returned. Such a futile wish — to desire such fancies — but she is young.
She must be properly taught not to depend on such capricious things. I am more than happy to tutor her on this count.
Confounding, their thoughts. Despite their negative feelings surrounding this ephemeral sentiment, for each of them the feeling of love is real. Watching the young Slytherin nearly open his mouth to beg this girl for the pain of the Cruciatus, I suddenly realize love's most curious and potential power. It is as much pain and torture as it is comfort. I slit my eyes at this thought. Perhaps, used strategically, such love could be a most effective tool in bringing Potter to his knees. I cackle again at the irony of how Potter's highly touted power will be what puts an end to the Boy Who Lived.
This girl ... Hermione ... is the key. I know it. She understands this love where I cannot. She can wield it as a tool, acting as an extension of me. I know this female Slytherin is fundamental to my victory; I feel this truth down to the very depths of my splintered soul.
I peer into the boy's wide silver eyes and smile at his inner quaking. Clever, this one, much more so than his useless excuse of a father. I enter his mind again, relishing his look of pain which he attempts to hide at my intrusion. I seek it out again, this strange knot of feeling, so deeply embedded in his mind. Love — dark, tumultuous, so full of thoughts of this girl. Gleefully, I leave a message for him to ponder:
This girl is mine. MINE, young Malfoy. Not yours. Never yours … unless I deem it so.
I push out of him with a soundless laugh. His relief is nearly equal my own, so painful had it been to touch his jumbled thoughts of her. I glory in the flare of his livid fury at my departing thought. I stare at him, again, his arrogant chin lifting slightly. I shake my head at his youthful bravado.
"Come here, child," I say softly, turning to beckon the girl near. She startles, anxiety settling in the depths of her dark gaze.
I extend my hand, and she unwillingly takes it. I can feel her warmth, the throb of her pulsing veins, carrying her life's blood that shares a history with mine. I draw her close. She stiffens at my voiceless entreaty. I feel her willing herself to relax.
"You love him," I whisper into the cover of her bushy hair, gesturing with my hand to the boy at my feet. I watch her flick a glance at him, then spy her teeth catch the softness of her lower lip between them. A blush rises to her cheeks.
"I thought I did, my Lord," she admits reluctantly, her voice no louder than a whisper. "I'm no longer certain."
"If, for example, young Malfoy needed to be schooled in the art of keeping secrets, do you suppose you would love him enough to punish him properly ... until he learned his lesson?"
Her eyes round and she drops her gaze to her wand. I can again feel her wonder at the immense power that earlier coursed through her. I place my cool fingers atop hers, and she initially balks at my touch before forcing herself to relax again.
"I would if you deemed it necessary, my Lord," the girl replies shakily, but her diction is clear.
I watch the boy sigh, almost relieved.
Fascinating.
"But why wait for my approval since it is you who believes he deserves punishment, dear girl, not I?" I smile as I speak the words. My scrutinizing stare seeks the glimmer of awareness in her eyes that I'd caught onto her last wisp of feeling she'd attempted to hide from me. "But perhaps you might rather consider a punishment that comes not from your wand?" I say, stroking her hand. "You'll let me take care of the details, won't you?"
I watch her waver, unsure of her answer. It would be easier to Imperius her or force myself into her mind, but I am rather enjoying toying with her.
"Yes, you are perhaps too innocent to conceive of a fitting punishment for your young man. I assure you what I dream up will be so much more pleasant for you." I whisper this to her, bringing my finger up to caress her cheek, then turning my palm to catch up her defiant little chin. I am amused at her attempts to hide her outward revulsion at the feel of my skin against hers. "You are, after all, of my blood, and we do deserve the very best. Hmmm? To him ... why, he believes you are the very best."
There is a flash of shock in her expression, one she hides beneath a demure nod. Smart child, though not surprising considering her forebearers.
"In fact, his unwavering belief in your superiority is one reason he still lives," I say in a lighter tone. "He will honor you and, more importantly, obey you." I pull her closer. She keeps in check her instinct of fight or flight, and I am well pleased with her. I push my face against her ear and whisper conspiratorially, "He also still lives because I know you want him."
She cannot hide her embarrassment from me, and I smile indulgently.
"Yes, I know, my dear," I say, my jaw tightening, as my fingernails dig into the flesh of her cheeks. "Still ... you believe yourself in love with two others, the strength of feeling for each nearly equal to the one you hold for him. Naughty girl." I notice a flash of confusion in her gaze. I wonder momentarily if I'd misinterpreted these dueling emotions in her thoughts. Her befuddled expression is short-lived, however, and almost instantaneously I forget my concern and return to taunting.
"There is one Ronald Weasley, blood traitor, though he can hardly be considered one now since we know your true form. And, of course, the Harry Potter." I spit out the boy's name on a hiss, and she jumps. "You are angry with Potter for his recent behavior toward that one." I move my chin in the blonde's general vicinity. "This anger eclipses your love for Potter." My lips split into a smile once more. "Remember that bit of hatred, child. Do not lose sight of it. Potter can and will betray you again. And yes, I saw all of this in you. You cannot hide from me, my girl. You will do as I command."
Her eyes suddenly glimmer with unshed tears, a protest on her lips. I interrupt her before she can speak.
"– And what I will ask of you is quite simple, really. All I ask is that you continue to love all three, just as you have been, perhaps even a bit more than you do already. Nothing else than that. Would this be so difficult to accomplish for a young, vibrant woman such as yourself?" I let my tongue roll out of my mouth at the words young and vibrant. I feel her slight recoil and catch her desire to grimace, but she stops herself from showing her disgust at my lecherous suggestion.
"No, my Lord," she replies swiftly, though clearly unnerved. I release my tight grip on her chin, which left half-moon indents on her pale cheeks. Then, I pat her shoulder in an almost paternal manner. I spare a glance at Severus, who has at last gotten back to his feet. The look of incredulity etched in his features is thoroughly amusing. "You believe Potter and the other boy, Ronald Weasley, will ask you to accompany them somewhere?"
She nods stiffly. She quickly masked the look of shock of my extensive knowledge of her innermost, sheltered thoughts.
"Do you know where they wish to take you?"
"No, my Lord," she says immediately. My magic strays into her mind to confirm her answer. It appears she knows very little of what I have been most desperate to hide. I am satisfied with her veracity.
"You shall go with Potter and relay events back to me. Through you, I will know where Potter is. He will accompany you." I point my finger at the quivering young Malfoy.
"You are pleased with the generosity of my ... gift?" I inquire, noting her more relaxed stance and the secret smile playing at her lips at my pronouncement. "Good, but you should know, my girl, that your Lord does not grant such favors without first some sacrifice from you." Her eyes again go wide as I absently stroke Nagini's head. The snake's immense mouth is so close to Hermione's trembling self that Nagini's notched tongue nearly touches her lips. I watch this girl, this female Slytherin, curiously. She does not move away, despite her clear distress.
"First," I say, pushing the curious Nagini away. "I need you to demonstrate your unwavering devotion to me, and that despite your soon fleeting feelings for Potter, you will worship no other but me."
My eyes slowly drift beyond her shoulder to catch the young Malfoy's infuriated glare. He can barely contain his hatred of me. It seeps from his very pores. A bemused roar of laughter at his emasculation rips out of my throat. I haven't had this much entertainment in years, not since I'd managed to cure Severus of his ridiculous lust for that Mudblood whore, Lily Evans.
I wrench my thoughts from those of the past to concentrate on the present and turn to the girl. I feel my thin lips curl into a rather slow smile as I gather the power inside of me.
She trembles in my presence. A derisive scoff escapes me as my hand wanders again to stroke her flushed cheek.
"Lift your robes and straddle me."
With tongue extended, I curl it like a finger, beckoning her forward to do my bidding. I take depraved pleasure in watching her mouth drop in horror at my request.
POV: Draco
"My Lord," I call out in a voice far stronger than my heart-stopping fear might indicate. "Is there nothing I can do to help convince you of Hermione's unwavering devotion to you?"
My worst nightmare is playing out in front of my eyes, and when I would, in all honesty, be mute with cold terror clogging my windpipe, I somehow summon up the nerve to interrupt the most frightening wizard in the universe from doing something most horrifying to Granger. I try not to shrink from the weight of the evil glare boring into me from the fearsome sorcerer on the makeshift throne. I wonder just how much of Weasley's bravery I might have ingested from all that polyjuice I'd been drinking these last few months.
"Do you not fear for your life, young Malfoy?" Voldemort inquires incredulously, turning his attention to me, pushing Hermione back to his side.
I let out a small sigh of relief at this minuscule movement. It ensures her safety, if even just for a moment more.
"I do, most assuredly, my Lord," I earnestly reply. "But I am under spellbound oath to protect the female Slytherin heir, no matter the cost to myself."
I force myself against following my instincts to meet Granger's questioning glance. The Dark Lord releases a maniacal roar of laughter at my reasoning.
"Is that so? A dark knight, how amusing. If this is true, then you are still of some use," He says with a reptilian smile. "Perhaps, Draco, I should first ensure that this oath you carry for her will not override your fidelity towards me."
Voldemort's eyes gleam malevolently beneath the hood of his robe. I shudder. "It seems you have learned far more than your father when it comes to duty and devotion, Draco. I regret that your Slytherin brethren cannot be here to witness your rise to my inner circle. But what better time to reward you for your constancy than now, when you have reunited me with my one last remaining and most precious relation? Approach, Draco Malfoy."
I watch Him nudge Hermione further aside as His long fingertips curl, motioning me closer. Again, I feel some relief that I have saved her, even if only postponing a very real and seriously deranged eventuality. I try not to shudder. I know now what to expect for myself. There can only be one reward the Dark Lord can offer his most ardent followers.
POV: Hermione
My heart squeezes painfully as Draco approaches the dais. Guiltily, I am incredibly relieved it is he, and not I, who must withstand this mysterious initiation ceremony that will surely end in some sort of agonizing pain. I sincerely hope it has nothing to do with public violation of the sort that was hinted to me before. The idea is not too far-fetched, though, and I cry out inside as I watch Draco move near. Voldemort's earlier request of me sent a barbaric wave of blood-thirst through the audience of Death Eaters. Their chilling, immobile masks hide the real monsters beneath, each likely capable of bringing to life any one of the many vile scenarios Malfoy had described in hair-raising detail.
I watch Draco with morbid curiosity. He seems to know what is expected without any sort of prompting. He drops to his knees in supplicant genuflection before Voldemort's throne and offers Him his left arm. The eerie chanting from the audience of Death Eaters begins anew.
The Dark Mark. I smother a gasp at my sudden realization.
Voldemort grabs hold of Draco's wrist and places the tip of His wand on Malfoy's inner forearm. Instinctively, I move swiftly to snatch up Draco's right hand. Unthinking, Malfoy grabs hold of my offered hand before Voldemort can begin the incantation. I notice Voldemort glance at our clasped fingers. His lips twitch at the gesture, but nothing more. Realizing I will be allowed to touch Draco as he is Marked, I clutch to his desperate grip and silently offer up a prayer of thanks for tiny blessings. At the close of my benediction, I notice immediately that the bright light of the magic between us does not shine externally but shines bright within me. It acts as a copper-wire circuit in the Muggle world, allowing me to feel the white-hot electricity of Draco's frantic fear. How this emotion never reaches his stoic features, I will never know.
As Voldemort's wand etches the Dark Mark on Draco's previously pristine, alabaster skin, I wish desperately to cry out, but Malfoy's silent, primal howl of pain bursts in my head, and I can do little more than bite my inner cheek until I draw blood and bear it all in silence. I feel the scorching pain of what feels like a thousand fiery needles in my own arm. I catch his watery gaze and see gratitude as we both realize that I am somehow able to magically leech away some of Draco's hurt. Together we weather the Marking, and I see that Voldemort is thoroughly pleased at His discovery of the mysterious magical connection we share.
A mighty roar of approval comes from those gathered at the foot of Voldemort's throne, when the darkest wizard of all triumphantly throws His hand holding His wand high into the air.
"It is done!" He announces to the now raucous crowd of Death Eaters. "Rise, young Malfoy, and stand with your brothers."
Though I can feel him take in a shuddering breath, Draco nods solemnly. His hand reluctantly lets go of mine. I stifle a cry at his parting touch.
"Now, my dear, where were we?" Voldemort's tongue flicks most disturbingly in and out of His mouth as He turns to address me. I can feel Draco's scorching gaze on us. I fight the urge to look his way. I force myself to meet Voldemort's gaze, and what I discover chills me to the core. He means to hurt me, to strike fear, to make me quake in his presence. His eyes rake down my body, and I try not to shiver in disgust at the scrutiny.
"My Lord?" I manage without stuttering.
"Ah, yes," He smiles menacingly. "I remember now. Approach, girl. Lift your robes," his face is enigmatic while patting his lap, "and sit here."
I shut my eyes, praying for another distraction, but none comes. Gulping, I approach, knowing there is nothing beneath but that gossamer Draco's mother had included in my pile of enchanted garments. Being forced to expose myself to a roomful of Death Eaters has my stomach churning, threatening to heave. I urge myself forward, though every cell in my being wishes most desperately to Apparate away. When I can go no further without toppling into Him, I modestly lift my robes only just enough to straddle the Dark Lord's lap and have the material flutter back down to hide myself from those who wish to watch. He laughs.
"Chaste, innocent girl. Such a gift," He murmurs in a pronounced whisper that can be heard across the room. I can't decide if it is sarcasm or something else that is in His tone. Voldemort slides a cold, bony hand beneath the voluminous material that is bunched between us and over my open legs. His hand rests on the outside of my thigh. I stiffen. No one has ever touched me this way, and I can feel my tears threatening. I do not want this, never imagined such foulness, though Draco had attempted to warn me of the possibility.
"Breathe, witch," Voldemort's sotto voce croons, hypnotizing in his attempt at comfort during a most incongruous time such as this. His fingertips move closer to my center, and a whimper escapes despite my desire to mimic Malfoy's impassivity. My abdomen clenches at His vulgar, yet featherlight touch.
"You wish another here," His whisper is for my ears only. I clench my jaw defiantly as I feel the upstroke of his fingertip against the silky material covering my most private of places. "Any one of three, it seems, would be more satisfactory to you than me."
I stare at Voldemort, bewildered, fighting the urge leap away. Again, He hints at some belief that I would allow such intimacies with my two closest friends. His fingers glance against a special bundle of nerves that has never been fondled by another's hands. I bite back a squawk of protest as I feel my body's traitorous response. Bile rises in my throat as I watch a knowing gleam light in His monstrous gaze when He feels my telling dampness. The tears I'd held at bay begin to stream down my face.
"You'll have your wish, my dear, very soon." The tone of Voldemort's promise strangely reminds me of the promises my father made when I was little. The memory flickers, and with its fading I feel the removal of the defiling hand from between my legs. I feel a peculiar slide of muscle against my back, too large to be arms. With some terror I feel Nagini was now wrapped around us, binding me to Voldemort. I am forced to slide closer and am repulsed at the sick arousal that I feel against my belly. To my ultimate horror there is pleasure in His disturbing expression as He stares at me. I quell my impulse to writhe away, worried my movement might inspire more than just this unholy, thankfully-clothed stimulation. I shut my eyes, feeling His acrid breath hit my nostrils and His disgusting tongue come within millimeters of my lips.
"You must be Marked as well, child," He hisses into my ear. "Here," He whispers, running his icy palm against my bare hip and upper thigh. Terrified, I look down and watch Him impatiently shove my robes up to my waist. He motions someone forward.
I try to turn my head to discover the owner of this new set of hands on me, but find I am unable to move. I can only stare at my now bared hip and leg with only a scrap of see-through material. I let out a sound of extreme distress. At the whimper, the other's hand, which holds my robes aloft, moves into view. The long masculine fingers wear a ring I recognize. I dare to relax a little and let out a sigh of relief at the bejeweled S and the well-manicured hand I know so well.
I hear Voldemort's malevolent chuckle against my ear.
"Would you like to hold his hand?" He sneers.
Not believing He would allow it, I whisper my affirmative plea anyway, hoping beyond hope that He might allow me the small comfort and reprieve from the imminent pain which I'd helped Draco bear only minutes before. Voldemort must have assented because Malfoy's other hand finds my left one to grasp.
It's a most awkward position, with the gargantuan snake's body pulsing between us. The more Draco pushes forward to hide my bared self from view, the more I am forced to squirm and arch against Voldemort. The depraved megalomaniac seems to derive perverse pleasure from even my most slightest adjustments.
The first glide of His wand against my bared flesh feels razor sharp, and I scream aloud in pain. Draco's fingers tighten around mine as a burning sensation replaces the cutting feeling at my hip. At a second swipe, I throw my head back, shrieking, and manage to catch Draco's chin with my crown, and I hear his muttered oath. Between each searing slight of Voldemort's hand, I knock the back of my head against Draco's chest.
At last Draco uses the side of his face to capture the top of mine against his, imploring me to stop my thrashing. "Hermione, concentrate on channeling the pain into me," Draco sharply commands.
I snap my mouth shut after his hand more fiercely grips mine. I watch a flicker of amusement in Voldemort's eyes as He witnesses this exchange. The etching of His wand stops, allowing me some reprieve.
"Push the sensations into me," Draco coldly orders, as I take huge gulping breaths. "Stop offering those bastards behind me free wank material."
With my mouth in the shape of a silent "o," I can't stop staring at Voldemort, whose full attention is now focused on Malfoy. His lipless mouth lifts into a malicious sneer.
"Let her ssscream, boy," He hisses. "Allow the heir to fully experience the sacrifice she makes in joining us. Let us hear and exalt in the glory of her gift."
I feel Voldemort shift closer to me, grabbing my hips so that His grind against me. I notice He bears no Mark Himself, and I find that curious. Again, His monstrous face closes in. I wrestle the urge to wrench myself away. Malfoy, however, does it for me, yanking me backwards, causing Nagini to tighten its hold. I exhale sharply at the forbidden friction Draco unintentionally creates. My sharply exhaled breath on the Dark Lord's face seems to reawaken the Dark Lord to His task.
The Marking I receive feels as though it takes twice as long to sear into my skin than Malfoy's. The fiery trails on my thigh are excruciating. As I push the pain into our clasped hands, I can almost feel Draco's face twist into a grimace as he withstands the torturous ebb and flow of my agony. It is even too much for him, since Malfoy accidentally allows his silent bellow to ring in my head.
The Mark that Voldemort engraves onto my side is most certainly larger than the one on Draco's forearm. It reaches from my hipbone to mid-thigh. I grit my teeth and clutch Draco's hand as the last of the dark, invasive magical ink seeps under my skin. There seems to be a collective sigh of ecstasy from behind me, even one slips from Draco.
Fascinated, I watch the tattooed snake do a vulgar slide in and out of the skeleton's mouth, causing an almost exquisite pain. It is a sensation that, one might find nearly addictive in its eroticism. I try to turn my head. Somewhat surprised that I can, I look up into Draco's face. The muscles in his jaw twitch, and his faraway look tells me that he feels it, too. I manage to catch his eyes and through the magical connection we've forged during our Marking, he pushes some of his pleasure back into me. The intensity of Draco's arousal, combined with my own and most clearly that of Voldemort's against my pelvis, is perversity at its extreme.
What exactly was this Mark?
"Do you feel that?" Voldemort inquires, his velvety voice sends shivers up my spine as he gently caresses my hip. The Mark responds to Voldemort's touch; it sends a dark thrill to my very core. From the sounds behind me, the others seem to feel it, too. "That is just a taste of my understanding of Potter's definition of love." He says the last word with a sneer, and I watch His hand slide against Nagini, grabbing up the serpent's tail. I wonder vaguely what Voldemort is doing as He shoves Draco's hands away. I feel the snake's back end drop between us. It slithers and slides between the madman's obvious erection and my open legs. I want to scream against my body's very base response to its movements.
"Judging from your enthusiasm, I believe you'll enjoy the full flavor of what my version of love and punishment has to offer," He whispers darkly as the snake flicks its tail in a maddening rhythm that causes a delicious friction at the juncture of my thighs. I fight the onslaught of unwanted feeling flooding my body from down there. I shudder, disgusted with my fierce reaction to this, and again offer up a renewed prayer of thanks for the thin, but very useful, covering given to me by the Malfoy matriarch from the pile of former dishtowels.
"Your Marking is not yet complete, and in my estimation it seems as though you and he —" I stop breathing when He looks over my shoulder to indicate Draco. "— appear quite compatible for the final part of this most sacred ceremony. You are not usually allowed a choice in partner, but since you are of my blood, it is my pleasure to accommodate your desires."
I balk as His fingers reach out to draw my chin closer. With a whisper of movement his tongue flicks out to touch my lips. I flinch. He laughs.
I know what my desires are, and I know what crossed Malfoy's mind when our Dark Marks had writhed in unison. Seems a sexual union is required for the completion of the Marking ceremony, probably some spilling of blood. Virgin blood, I silently amend. I know I should count my blessings that at the very least I am able to pick who that partner might be and that Draco is not totally averse to me picking him. A horrifying thought enters my mind as I recall the communal aspects of this ritual so far. Already the crowd seems lustful in its excitement at the prospects of being witness to my deflowering. Though I find it more than a little disturbing that I am already resigned to the fact that this is going to happen, I truly cannot have it happen in what appears to be the ceremonial way.
Fear and desperation has me tugging at Voldemort's sleeve like a small child. But when I open my mouth to speak, I find myself too embarrassed to say the words of this most fervent wish. The Dark wizard seems to notice my predicament. I feel the whisper of His repulsive magic enter my mind again.
"... and privacy?" He barks out a dry laugh. "Cheeky, demanding girl." He appears to examine Malfoy, then with a wry, twisted smile He adds, "I'll consider it. After all, he may need it."
Voldemort pats me in an absent, almost fatherly, manner. Then He pushes me off His lap, clearly through with me. He turns to Bella with an outstretched hand saying ominously, "Prepare her. I must speak to young Malfoy."