OKAY, quick warning. Because they use Parseltongue so much in this and it is very repetitive to say "s/he said in Parseltongue" and I use italics as emphasis (which is the grammatically correct way to use them and not bold, a pet peeve of mine), Parseltongue will now be written as ":Hiss".

…

12. Mornings & Spies

Persephone smiled in her sleep, basking in the toasty warmth that can only be achieved from a blanket. She felt arms tightening around her waist and warm, steady breaths against her red hair. She opened her eyes slowly to let them adjust to the light that was pouring through a doorway, realising her position. She was snuggled into Riddle, her head on his chest and his arms possessively around her waist. Her leg was thrown over his, pressing their bodies together.

She blinked, wondering if she should wake him up.

It was times like this that confused her. Who was he? Was he the Lord Voldemort, leader of the Dark side; Lord Slytherin the politician or Tom Riddle a dark, frighteningly intelligent and highly infuriating man?

Since she was eleven, the age most were just starting their education, Persephone believed she had everyone worked out. She could manipulate them, outwit them and could make them defer to her as a superior. She had always felt much older than what she was, looked it too. She had achieve the pinnacle in society and stood far above anyone's reach.

But then there was him. An equal opponent, she had once thought, and he was. But he knew things that she didn't; he had confronted his inner demons while she hadn't. He threw her off balance, made her forget to put her mask up in his presence.

She frowned. She couldn't continually refer to him as the Dark Lord when they were living together, as it was customary to kiss the hem of his robes which she absolutely refused to do. Lord Slytherin similarly was to be curtsied too, and she wished to have full use in her knees in her old age which was highly unlikely if she bobbed into one every five minutes.

Riddle, though she now used it almost affectionately couldn't be used all the time. He was her riddle and the connotations behind it had become personal to her, so much so that she didn't want to explain them, even to him. She preferred to refer to him as this only in her mind.

He didn't look like a Tom. As a child in her mind's eye he did, with pouty lips, floppy hair and chubby cheeks that showed evidence of becoming as defined as they looked today.

That left only Marvolo, a very old name in the wizarding world that spoke of power and elegance. The adult he had become suited Marvolo very well.

She glanced upwards, taking in the planes of his sharp aristocratic face. There were things she hadn't realised before now, like how his mouth that was nearly always tilted upwards in a smirk turned down naturally at the sides, or how long his dark lashes were.

He was her Marvolo, then.

This feeling itself spoke of danger. The last person she had cared for had ruined her the minute she had subconsciously decided to let her in.

":You've already ruined me," she breathed in Parseltongue, pressing a kiss into the hollow of his throat.

He stirred slightly, drawing gradually from his sleep. His ice blue eyes opened drowsily, instantly locating hers. His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek.

"Good morning," he said softly.

"Good morning," Persephone echoed. She snuggled in to his chest. "I'm sorry for waking you," she told him.

"I quite like this way of waking up, actually," he said mischievously. "I might just order you to wake me up like this tomorrow." Persephone blushed unseen into his shirt.

"I might just do that," she whispered. Tom felt victory flooding him at the progress. He nuzzled her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. Lilies, he realised, how ironic.

"We have to get up," he sighed, holding her closer contrary to his words.

"We do?" she said reluctantly. "Why?"

"Deatheater meeting," he replied, "a full one."

"Will my parents be there?" asked Persephone.

"No, it's not that important, nothing they didn't already know or need to anyway. What they are doing in Bulgaria is a much higher priority."

"How did they come to be in your inner circle, anyway? You have hundreds of deatheaters."

"Because they are the grandchildren of both Richard and Druella Rosier, who married Cygnus Black, who in turn are your mother's parents. I went to school with them except Cygnus; he was already gone by then. They were among the first to follow the cause, they were the first to pledge their resources to it and now their families reap the return."

"I forget how old you are, sometimes," murmured Persephone. "You look to be barely twenty-seven."

"Does it bother you?" he asked, his gaze penetrating hers.

"No," she said simply, not knowing how to explain why it didn't.

"Good," he said, claiming her lips. He rolled onto his back, grabbing her leg which had been draped over him and manoeuvring her so she was straddling him causing her nightie to hike half way up her thighs. She was leaning down in order to keep them connected, her flame red hair cascading around them. His hand travelled up her thigh and to her back, his long fingers pressing against her spine, pulling the back of her black nightie with it. The combined feeling of his warm hand, the smooth satin, the cool morning air against her skin and the wonderful workings of his tongue caused her to moan against his mouth.

He chuckled against her switching to small, heated kisses that lasted for barely three seconds, drawing back and returning to her lips.

"Marvolo," she whispered, ":Marvolo".

He groaned and kissed her lingeringly, loving the sound of his name in Parseltongue from her lips. She didn't call him Tom, the name of the father that had left before he was even born, she called him Marvolo. He adored her unconditionally.

He bit her bottom lip, enough to draw blood. The salty, metallic taste invaded both of their mouths as she gasped slightly, kissing him harder. Like so many of the Dark, pain woke her up, improved her senses. He used his teeth to pull her bottom lip into his mouth, sucking it gently until it had stopped bleeding the beautiful crimson that ran through her veins and kept her alive.

Eventually, she eased her mouth from his; shifting so she was sitting upright and not hunched over him. "You're going to be late," she told him.

"One of the perks of being a Dark Lord is that it is not counted as 'being late'," he smirked. "Besides, if anyone called me out for it I would probably kill them for the annoyance."

He ran his hands up and down her body, his thumbs brushing slightly against her breasts until they eventually spread possessively around her waist. She arched an eyebrow at him. "I do need to stand up in order to get dressed, you know," she told him. He sighed and very reluctantly removed his hands from her body.

"Give the vase a quarter turn and walk through the wall. It's the same on your side."

"Okay," she said, glancing around the room and frowning. "What is the extra door to?" she asked, clambering off him and onto her feet.

"Pardon?" he asked as she walked over to the dresser the held the vase.

"You have four doors. One to the balcony, clearly, as it is glass; one to what I am assuming is the bathroom and closet; but what is the third?"

"It's to the lounge that adjoins this. I believe it is mainly there to filter the hidden passage ways, this house is riddled with them."

"Is it really? I will have to find some," she said, giving the vase a quarter turn. A part of the wall turned transparent and Persephone hesitantly walked through under Marvolo's watchful eye.

"Persephone," he called after he as she continued to walk through the passage way.

"Yes," she said over her shoulder.

"Wear your mask."

The Dark Lord wasn't foolish enough to believe that all those with his mark were loyal to him, or that they closely guarded their mouths.

…

"Madame Umbridge is not teaching any spells or in fact anything useful. It is all theory as requested by the Minister," the deatheater said.

"Madame Umbridge," Tom said, reclining in his 'throne'. "The pink toad lady with the annoyingly loud voice and whom always 'ahems'?"

"That would be the one," the deatheater confirmed, fighting an amused smile at his rare show of humour in public.

"It's rather difficult to keep up with who is teaching Defence in that school. They all seem to… resign for rather interesting reasons," the Dark Lord sighed.

"That is very true my Lord," the deatheater agreed. And it was. Within the past four years alone, Quirrel had a most unfortunate accident with a vampire who claimed that Quirrel had stolen his turban.

Lockhart had harassed Professor Sinatra one too many times and she had hexed him so hard that he had flown into the wall, hit his head and had severe memory problems since. She had been drafted to teach for the last five weeks after revealing her wonderful hexing ability before safely returning to her subject. McGonagall had awarded her a Special Services to the School award for 'stepping in' but he secretly believed it was for ridding them of the autographing menace.

The next year, the Minister seemed to get the idea that Peter Pettigrew was after Neville Longbottom, the famous child victim of the Cruciatus curse which Peter had held him under for half an hour when he was just fifteen months old. Peter, of course, had no such plan but the bungling moron who was currently their Minister insisted on placing dementors around the school in order to make it look like he was doing something and win votes. The only reason he was voted in was because everyone in the Houses knew he was easy to manipulate. Said dementors attempted to attack a student and Lupin, the current defence teacher, drove it away. The school had fawned over him until Snape snapped and 'accidentally' let slip that he was a werewolf and Lupin pre-empted any strike against him and promptly handed in his resignation.

The following year, he had ordered Barty Crouch to assume the guise of Alastor Moody in order to infiltrate Hogwarts and rig the Triwizard Tournament. He had long needed 'the blood of a champion' and fate seemed happy enough to provide. At the end of the year, he had narrowly avoided capture and was now happily reaping his reward in the Upper Tier, the stage just below the Inner Circle.

The deatheaters worked in rank. There was the Inner Circle, his closest advisors; next was the Upper Tier, the honoured, talented, powerful and very influential that were not the descendants of those in his original circle; they were followed by the Lower Tier which was filled with those who were strong and smart, those who were average or just above; lastly there were the Neophytes, they were the grunts, the expendables or those yet to prove themselves. Those who were stuck there usually had no brain power to speak of or magical for that matter. They were the cannon fodder, sent in first or as distractions while those in the higher tiers sat back and schemed. Scheming was what Slytherins did best, after all.

"The Minister seems to be trying to discredit Dumbledore, my Lord."

"Discredit him," he said, arching an eyebrow. "It's almost as if they are handing control over to me."

A chuckle ran through the crowd, and Tom stifled the urge to roll his eyes. He knew it wasn't funny. One deatheater standing at the front, short and petite swathed in the customary black robes, cowl drawn, did not. He knew that inside that hood, her face was covered in a silver half-mask with delicate emeralds.

"What else is there?" he asked the room at large, drawing his gaze away from her.

A burly figure stepped forward from the Upper Tier, pulling back his hood to reveal the unmasked face of Marcus Flint Snr. It was not customary to wear masks at meetings, only when on an assignment in fact, but Tom was very protective of Persephone. Until he was sure she could deal with anything thrown her way, she was not going into any dangerous positions without him and every possible protection he could provide her.

"The envoy to the giants was successful, my Lord, despite the Order's interference," said Flint.

"Excellent, I expect the report to be on my desk when this meeting is finished, Flint."

"Of course, my Lord," he replied, bowing as he stepped back.

"My Lord," said a new deatheater as he stepped forward. These monthly meetings would usually drone on for at least two hours. This one had almost gone on for one and a half already, thanks to Rosier's long winded droning for the exact play by play in the way Alistair Moody's (the real one) and Pius Thicknese's argument had played out. Despite his claims that it was all in code, Tom truly believed it was simply over the aurors salaries.

Yet another deatheater stepped forward, readying himself to say his piece when the large double doors were thrown open revealing a deatheater running inside before he made an obvious effort to slow down. The others fingered their wands carefully in case it was a trick as he half walked half jogged down the aisle and fell to his knees in front of the dark lord.

"My Lord," he said heavily as he fought to catch his breath. "Raids one, two and four were successful."

"And what of three, Jugson," Marvolo said dangerously.

He hesitated, his head still bowed. "It failed," he said quietly. "Two dead, three captured, one spy revealed."

His jaw clenched, his hand tightening around his yew wand as his eyes bled into a murderous red.

"Out," he seethed, not wanting to kill any more of his followers than needed, "now. You too, Jugson," he said angrily and Jugson gulped. There was a flurry of movement as two hundred odd people of his English branch began to hurriedly filter out the door, not wanting to be subjected to his ire. Only one, that he could see, stood still.

On instinct, Persephone walked forward and placed her hand on his arm. He relaxed instantly as her skin touched his, his hand reaching inside her hood to cup her face as he stroked his thumb along her jaw line.

"Calm down," she whispered. "You may have gained losses, but you have revealed a spy, probably that no good Dawson. I know you detest any loyal Dark blood to be spilt, but we must pick up and move on."

"I know," he whispered back. "But I still dislike it."

"That's why they follow you, because you are as loyal to them as they are to you. You are returning them to what they have lost; they know that there will be losses."

He smiled, drawing her down for a kiss.

Standing still, concealed in the crowd, Serveus Snape observed with narrowed eyes hidden beneath his hood. He watched as a delicate figure placed a slender hand soothingly on the Dark Lord who detested being touched and was not punished. He watched with no small amount of incredibility as he reached up and stroked the woman's hidden face and finally as he pulled her down only to kiss her lingeringly.

"Move, would ya?" someone said gruffly. "You're holdin' up the crowd, did ya know?"

Snape sneered, turning on his heel and with a sweep of his robes allowed the pushes of the crowd carry him out the door.

….

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure Black," Snape snapped.

"I just can't picture old snake face with a lover," said Sirius, a little awed.

"I guess he has the whole bad boy dark lord image going for him," commented James.

"The Dark Lord also happens to be one of the most charming and charismatic men to walk the Earth."

Black raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're in love with him, Snape?"

"Very," Snape sneered, his eyes flickering to Lily and back to Sirius so quickly no one even notice with the exceptions of the ever vigilant Moody and Dumbledore.

"Why someone would find a murderer attractive I'll never know," sniffed Molly.

"How exactly did you all get onto this subject?" asked Frank Longbottom as he entered with his wife, Alice, and took their seats.

"Longbottom, you were missing from the last meeting," Snape said sneeringly. Frank shrugged.

"Duty called," he said simply, throwing an arm over his wife.

"Hey Frank, guess what?" James said excitedly. "Voldemort got a bird!"

Frank raised an eyebrow. "He's bought an owl?" James huffed.

"Think about the context, Frank. He's got a girl!"

"Really, are you sure?" said Alice.

"Yes, I'm sure," Snape snapped again.

"You have to admire him for it," Sirius said musingly. "How many other Dark Lords have found the time in their busy schedules to get laid every now and then?"

"I hardly think-" Molly said, blushing as her husband attempted to cover up a snicker.

"What I would like to know," said Lily, "is who is she?"

"I don't know," said Snape, not snapping for once.

"Describe her for us then," growled Moody.

"I didn't see her face; she was wearing a hood and a mask underneath that."

"Kinky," Sirius said jokingly. McGonagall sent a stinging hex at him.

"She touched his arm-"

"She touched his arm," repeated James blandly. "I don't think-"

"The Dark Lord hates to be touched!" snapped Severus. Dumbledore nodded with a gleam in his eye.

"That is true. Tom was always frightfully particular about that."

"That doesn't prove that they are, ah, together," pointed out Remus.

"Then he pulled her down and snogged her," Severus finished victoriously.

"But that does," said Remus.

"Damn, he is getting laid," muttered Frank.

"There is more to this than Tom, as you put it, 'getting laid'," Dumbledore began as everyone around him blinked.

"I never thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth, professor," said Sirius, looking as if he was about to get up and hug him.

"What do you mean, Dumbledore?" asked Kingsly.

"As we pointed out before, Tom doesn't like being touched."

"Get to the point, Albus," Minerva told him.

"If he allows her to touch him for comfort, as we have evidence of," he said nodding to Severus, "then we have something entirely different."

"Albus," she said warningly.

"He's in love."

The Order stared at him wide eyed, and then all hell broke loose.

….

Big thanks to apy, Yume and Outofthisworldgal who review regularly. It really is appreciated : ) . Another massive thanks goes to Rubie blakie for suggesting new Fanfic's for me to read. Keep them coming guys!

IMPORTANT PLEASE READ SO I DON'T OFFEND ANYONE IN LATER CHAPTERS I DON'T MEAN TO PLEASE READ = I briefly mention in this chapter that pain wakes up Persephone much like the majority of the Dark. This theme will be explored in more detail later, but the gist of it is they all had crappy lives, pasts or circumstances or were simply raised that way. If pain is something that you associate with freedom, survival or something that has become a regular occurrence (i.e. abusive childhoods) in SOME cases a mental state will occur where this happens. Take Tom for example, he had the crappiest childhood to date. He was obviously never going to become an upstanding member of society. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying this happens all the time or even for the majority, the complete opposite actually, but it does happen. With Tom though, he associated pain with power and when he had power people stopped hurting him and voila, you have a Dark Lord. That and it has also been scientifically proven that people who have been never shown love CAN have their emotions develop differently so that it is extremely hard for them to care about anyone but are severely possessive and obsessive. Sound like anyone you know? *cough* Tom *cough*. Seems like Dumbledore's theory had merit after all. Once again, this usually only happens in rare cases, but for the sake of this fanfic its common since there are only three sides to magic: light, grey and dark.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading. Please review and tell me what you want to see in upcoming chapters!

Electra2Pandora