Back by popular demand! Guys. I cannot thank you enough for the overwhelming support you've shown me over the years and for ALL the reviews asking me to continue this fic. Well… All I can say is… I really hope you aren't disappointed.
…*~*J*~*...
Hermione sprawled out on her back, staring up into the bleak darkness of the bedroom. She hadn't bothered to light a candle, though it was probably well into the afternoon by now. She hadn't bothered to do much of anything today. The will just wasn't there. In fact, the little will she had had left to continue to learn and improve upon herself seemed to be gone. All she had been able to think about, for days, was the strange attraction she felt for the Professor and just how much she wanted to feel him against her again.
She should have been concerned. She knew enough about Muggle Psychology to know that this was bad. And yet… if this truly was Lord Voldemort's world now, and she was but a lowly Muggleborn peon, stuffed away from the world without a wand, how could she continue to expect so much from herself? It was over. They had lost. Perhaps that meant it was time to trade hope for base gratification, to allow her intellect to dull into compliance and subsist entirely on the Professor's affections.
It would be easier that way.
Damn him! For months, or maybe years, she had held onto that hope, needing to believe there was still a chance. And now, probably without even meaning to, he had subjugated her will with the power of mere physical touch. And yet, wasn't touch a need? Wasn't the connection of skin upon skin a physiological necessity? It must have been or she wouldn't crave that connection with every particle of her being right now. She wouldn't be such a slave to that desire.
The door to the outside world slammed shut, harder than usual, and Hermione jolted up on her little cot. She could already tell he was in a mood and the thought was intoxicating. Already, she felt the thrill of his anger racing through her veins; so much better than the dull apathy of her constant solitude. She needed to see him, now.
Through the merest crack between the door and frame, Hermione spied on her Professor. He was pacing anxiously across the length of the living room, scowling at the flagstone floor. It made her heart race, made her breath come quick, made her lean toward him out of desperation. And the door began to creak as she pushed it open.
She gasped.
He froze, his face turning toward her, eyes wide as if he'd been caught. Then he crossed to the door in three long strides and swung it open. Hermione had only enough time to take a step backward before she found herself face to face with the very man who tormented her waking hours… and her dreams.
"Tell me, girl," he began, his voice silky and deep, "do you enjoy being my pet?"
Hermione felt her eyes go wide. "W-what?" she croaked.
He scowled. "'What' is not an answer." Crossing the threshold into the bedroom, he closed the distance between them. She nearly whimpered, but somehow managed to hold her ground. He sneered. "You cannot appreciate how good I have been to you," he began again, "because you have no reference for comparison. But I assure you, were you in the hands of one of my brothers, your wretched life would be worth far less to you."
His eyes dipped down to assess her figure before returning to her face and they latched onto hers as one hand lifted to her hair, snaking beneath it at the nape of her neck. He gripped her riotous locks so swiftly and sharply that she cried out in surprise and pain. "We are going on a little trip tonight and if you are not on your best behaviour… the Dark Lord may see to it that you are placed in the custody of another. Someone more suited… to break you."
Hermione's eyes went wide. Voldemort wanted to see her? Sudden terror blossomed in her chest, arching outward like tendrils of poison or of flame. The Professor tightened his hand in her hair and she cringed, reaching up instinctively to stop him. "You are going to behave yourself, aren't you, girl?" he said. "I would hate to lose my little pet."
"Y-yes," she managed through gritted teeth.
"You will be a good, complicit little slave, won't you?" he growled. "You are going to dance for your Master and perform all the right tricks. And if I think you have done a good job of it… perhaps I'll give you a treat. Would you like that?"
"Yes," she whimpered, desire rising up inside of her, to her dismay.
The Professor released his hold and she dropped to the floor. "Good. Now go and bathe yourself. I cannot have my little gift in such a pitiful state when I take it to the Dark Lord."
The dungeon corridor was very much the same, and yet Hermione felt that she had entered another world. So long she had been locked away that the outside world had begun to feel like a dream. Stepping beyond her little cage set her nerves on edge and sent her heart racing, high in her chest.
The Professor had dressed her in plain, gray robes and had covered her with a hooded cloak. He'd tied her wrists together so that he could pull her by a rope. It was late and the castle was dark and empty, yet he had taken those precautions. She wondered whether he was afraid she would escape.
As they neared the Entrance Hall, the Professor hesitated and Hermione could hear the muffled sound of distant voices. He seemed to consider before pushing her behind him and continuing on. The voices got louder and louder as they approached and Hermione recognized them as Professors Flitwick and McGonagall. Dread gnawed at her soul for her professors to see her in such a sorry state. But she couldn't bear the thought of passing by and not looking upon their faces one more time. So she lifted her head, peeking out from beneath the heavy hood to meet the eyes of her professors. They froze, their mouths hanging open, their skin turning to ash. McGonagall twitched toward her, then backed away.
The Headmaster pulled her past, not stopping in his tracks to acknowledge his fellow professors. And then they were out the double doors and heading through the moonlit night toward the edge of the Hogwarts Grounds.
Tears pooled in Hermione's eyes. The scent of the grass and the trees and the air of the world outside the dungeons filled her nose and inflated her chest with life. The soft swishswish of grass underfoot sent tingles of joy from her toes to the tips of her fingers. She wanted to dance. But then they were nearing the edge of the forest and Hermione knew a dread like nothing else she'd felt in all her time in the Professor's care. Voldemort awaited her and there was nothing she could do.
More keenly than any scent or song, the jerk and twist of Apparition threw Hermione's mind back to a different place and time. She could almost hear Harry and Ron remarking on their newest camping grounds and setting about throwing up their wards. The memory sent an ache of longing through her core, wrenching apart the stony shields she'd built around her heart.
They had landed in front of an enormous iron gate which swung open at the Professor's approach. Beyond, the path led to an enormous house, grander even than Malfoy Manor. Hermione felt her pulse begin to race.
He dragged her to the entrance where they were greeted by none other than Lucius Malfoy. Hermione's breath caught in her throat. The arrogant blond man was dressed in a butler's garb. His hair had been sheared off and his eyes were red-rimmed and dull. He kept them lowered and bowed to the Professor. "Right this way, My Lord," he croaked in a voice that was hardly his own. And as he led away, Hermione noticed that the once proud man now had a limp that made her think of Argus Filch. What had he done to deserve all that?
The house was grand and spotless and beautiful, but cold. Here and there, a servant stood waiting, impeccably dressed, their eyes downcast. She recognized some of them as Ministry employees who had fought on the side of the Light. One face stood out among them: the broken visage of Kingsley Shacklebolt. He caught her eye and abruptly looked away, seeming to shrink in on himself. Hermione's eyes snapped forward, filled with fear.
Lucius led them to a grand study where tables were littered with books and parchments and a figure paced before floor length windows that looked out onto the night.
"M-m-m-my Lord," Lucius began, bowing low and backing out of the way. "Y-your guests… have arrived."
The figure froze and slowly turned toward them and Hermione remembered too late to lower her gaze as the awful visage of Lord Voldemort, himself, was revealed to her. The Professor gave an elegant, dignified bow, and Hermione lowered her head. "Kneel, girl," the Professor growled, kicking her shins so that she fell onto her hands and knees.
Lord Voldemort laughed; a terrible, unnatural sound. He stepped slowly toward Hermione and with every step she felt, more and more, her hatred for this man. This was the man who killed Harry, whose war had led to the deaths of so many of her friends. But there was nothing she could do about that now.
"Hermione… Granger," he said in a slippery voice. "What a proud girl you once were." He laughed again and Hermione shivered against her control. "Look at you now, kneeling before me." He stopped a mere two feet in front of her. "Rise, my child." Hermione balked at the command, but obeyed nonetheless, unsurprised to see blood on the stone floor where her knees had been. Voldemort reached a hand out to her, lifting her chin with two cold fingers. She resisted the urge to jerk away. Only when she was looking into his horrible face did the Dark Lord's gaze turn away from her.
"Lucius," he said, "escort the Headmaster to the library and offer him something to drink while he waits. I want to speak to the girl… alone."
Hermione panicked, turning to look at her Professor with a whimper. The Dark Lord laughed. "She trusts you Severus. Does she think you will protect her… from me?" As if in answer, the Professor smirked and turned to follow Lucius from the room. Now Hermione was all alone with the most powerful dark wizard the world had ever known.
"Look into my eyes, my child," Lord Voldemort hissed. She had no choice but to comply.
His eyes really were red, but more the rusty red of dried blood than the bright red she had pictured. And soon she couldn't see them at all as her mind was filled with visions of the Order of the Phoenix and the echo of a question. Where did they go?
She couldn't answer. She had no answer to give. She didn't know. As far as Hermione knew, everyone was dead. She had no way of knowing who, if anyone, had survived the war…
Then, no one has attempted to contact you? She was shocked by the thought. How could they? To what end? No one knew where she was. Or did they? Either way, she could do nothing to help their Cause. And if you could? Distantly, she heard herself whimper. Hopelessness seeped through the cracks in her mind. She thought of her day spent lying in a puddle of apathy. I am just a peon, she thought. There is nothing I can do.
She knew he was reading her mind, but she was powerless to keep the honest answers from him. The thought dismayed her. What if he asked something she didn't want to answer? Such as? a voice whispered in her mind. Before she could stop herself, she was wondering the same thing. What was she afraid for him to see?
The answer came unbidden to her mind. It took the form of her Professor standing over her, his hand twisted in her hair. 'Do you enjoy being my pet?' he had asked her, and now she could feel the certainty of her answer. Yes. Yes, she did enjoy being his pet and she didn't want it to end. '...if you are not on your best behaviour…' the vision continued 'the Dark Lord may see to it that you are placed in the custody of another.'
Fear blossomed in the cavity of her chest. Now he knew. Now he would take her away. And why was she so afraid of that? She wasn't sure if she was wondering that, herself, or if the Dark Lord was putting the question in her mind. But either way the answer surfaced without hesitation. It came in the form of a memory: her Professor hunched over her naked form, panting as she whimpered with desire. 'Please.' She had moaned. She had wanted him so bad. She had needed him. He was all she had left in the world.
Suspicion prickled in her mind. Voldemort was questioning his subject's loyalty. The concern brought answering images to the surface: the Professor yelling at her, threatening her, calling her to him for his pleasure. Her sad little pallet on the floor. His words to Lucius Malfoy on his visit months ago. Her worries that this was wrong, that it was unhealthy, that it was too strong for her to stop. Yes, it was textbook Stockholm Syndrome. But it was all she had left. She was powerless to make it stop.
The Professor was not gentle with her as he dragged her back to Hogwarts, but Hermione didn't care. She was so relieved to be leaving the Dark Lord that she didn't mind the chafing at her wrists. When they passed the corridor that led to the dungeons, she bit back the urge to ask her Professor where they were going.
The Library. Good Merlin, he had taken her to the Library. "You may pick one," he told her. "And if you choose something that I deem unsuitable, you will get nothing. Choose wisely."
Hermione staggered forward, overwhelmed. He was letting her pick out a book? And yet… how could she possibly choose?
"You have ten minutes," he growled. "Before I change my mind."
Hermione ran through the library, racking her brain for an idea. Everything that came to mind-Occlumency, breaking wards, communication magic-was something he would not permit. She pulled tome after tome from the shelves, discarding them one after another as either useless or unacceptable, until she finally found herself turning in circles, tears rolling down her cheeks. There were so many books! And none that could help her now.
"Granger!" her Professor shouted through the stacks. "Your time is up." Frazzled, she pulled the biggest book she could find from the shelf nearest her and brushed the tears from her face before hurrying back to the Professor. He was waiting with an impatient glare, leaning against the door. "Let me see," he demanded, reaching out a hand to whip the book from her shaky grasp.
It was a rather innocuous book of advanced spells. Hermione had no idea what she might find inside. The Professor opened it to the table of contents and skimmed the three or so pages so be sure nothing dangerous stood out. Then he closed the tome and gave her a suspicious glance before handing it back to her. "Alright," he agreed. "Now let's go. You've already kept me up half the night."
Hours later, Hermione was still awake, stretched out on her little cot, staring into the darkness. Her body thrummed with energy. It wasn't that she had a new book. She had plenty of new books to read now that the Professor had allowed her into his living room. She wasn't even particularly excited about this one. But she had survived an encounter with the Dark Lord and it had left her taut with residual anxiety.
It was probably close to dawn, yet she was wide awake, her mind alert and spinning with incessant chatter. It circled around and around, reciting the new information she'd been given, chewing on the new questions she had, marvelling at surprising fact of her newly awakened appetite for physical touch.
But over and over it returned to one piece of information she hadn't let slip through her grasp. The Dark Lord was worried.
And that meant there was hope.
...*~*J*~*...
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:} llorolalluvia