Thunderstorm
Voldemort poked his poached egg until it broke, sending yolk spilling over his fingerling potatoes. He smeared the yolk with his fork and listened as Sylvie Malfoy asked Hermione,
"And you've got quite an interest in astronomy, have you?"
"I've got an interest in… well, just about everything," Hermione said. Voldemort speared a potato and brought it up to his mouth. He looked up to where Hermione sat beside him. She was cutting into her perfectly cooked steak and sitting up with a straight back at the Malfoys' table. She'd changed into a slightly more elegant red dress for dinner, and she looked quite pretty, Voldemort thought. He swallowed his potato and sipped at his red wine, and he informed Sylvie quite honestly,
"Hermione has read more books than anyone I've ever met."
"Have you? I confess I am not much of a reader." Sylvie laughed and took a sip of her own wine. Abraxas chuckled and chimed in,
"It's true. When I first met her, her English was terrible, and it was all I could do to get her to study the language. But reading books - in French or in English - has never been an interest of Sylvie's. You did read a few books to Lucius when he was little, but I think we mostly outsourced that to Dobby, didn't we?"
Dobby read Lucius Malfoy his bedtime stories. The thought flung from Hermione's mind. Voldemort flicked his eyes to her, and she blinked quickly. She had a lot of memories with Dobby, he knew. She was fond of the creature. She'd witnessed him die; Bellatrix had killed him with a dagger after Dobby had betrayed the Malfoys and tried to save Hermione and her friends. He sniffed a little and took a bite of steak. He took his time chewing it and then said to Abraxas Malfoy,
"We saw Albus Dumbledore today in Diagon Alley. I think you know very well that Dumbledore and I are not friends."
"No, indeed, sir." Abraxas raised his eyebrows. "Was there some sort of confrontation?"
"Erm…" Voldemort tipped his head. Hermione's mind whirled. He wasn't even prying into her head with Legilimency, but he could clearly feel what she was thinking.
Of course there bloody well was a confrontation; that man was inside my thoughts and saw everything. He'll ruin everything.
"We'll need to keep a close eye on the man," Voldemort said tightly. Sylvie stared at Hermione for a long moment, and Voldemort scowled. He went straight into Sylvie's head and interpreted her French thoughts. He translated them, the words and the pulse, and he could feel what she was thinking. This young witch, Hermione Granger, was clearly dangerous. She possessed some sort of ability that Voldemort found valuable. Dumbledore running into Voldemort and Hermione had been contentious in some way. Who was this woman? Was she Voldemort's lover? Was she his slave? His secret weapon, as people had whispered at Sylvie's birthday party? Voldemort slid out of Sylvie's head and glanced to Abraxas.
"Had any letters from Lucius?" he asked lightly. Abraxas curled up his lips and shrugged.
"The boy is utterly enamoured with Narcissa Black, sir. I assume Cygnus and I will be drawing up papers soon enough."
"Don't rush into that," Voldemort warned. "Teenage romances are fleeting. You sign them up to marry now, and by the time they're out of Hogwarts -"
"My Lord," Hermione said quietly. He frowned and looked at her. Hermione swallowed hard and gave him a little smile. Draco. She was thinking of Draco Malfoy; he could see the boy's face in her head. She could see the boy who would go on to kill Albus Dumbledore, the boy who had tormented her in school. Why was she so eager to ensure he was born and protected? She cleared her throat and touched her napkin to her lips. "I think that if Lucius and Narcissa are very taken with one another, it might be wise to hold off writing up formal betrothal documents, but they may well wind up together. If you know what I mean."
"I think I do." Voldemort sighed. Sylvie Malfoy scoffed and threw up a hand.
"With all due respect, Madam Granger, I do not think you are qualified to speak about the betrothal of our only son."
Hermione's eyes went wide as she and Sylvie stared at one another across the table. Abraxas gulped at his wine and set his glass down, sawing into his steak, obviously made to feel very awkward. Voldemort dragged his fingertip over his water glass and advised,
"They're only thirteen years old, Abraxas. Give it two years. If they're fifteen and still in love, write up papers with Cygnus. There's no harm in holding off a contract just a little while longer, hmm? I don't want my friends fighting down the line. I do not want any potential enmity between you and Cygnus; you understand that I've got a vested interest in the two of you maintaining friendly relations."
"Yes. Of course, sir." Abraxas swallowed his bite of steak and sipped some water. He cracked his knuckles together, and Sylvie made a little huffing noise of protest. She said nothing else, though. Voldemort spoke lightly to Abraxas about Quidditch, but his own head was invaded by thoughts from Sylvie and Hermione. They did not like one another, he could feel. Hermione was thinking that Sylvie Malfoy was a haughty, imperious witch who thought she was better than everyone else. Sylvie Malfoy thought that Hermione Granger was some sort of enigmatic Mudblood invader with unnecessarily strong opinions.
So the witches would not be friends, at least for now, Voldemort thought. He pinched his lips as Abraxas recalled a recent Kestrels match to him. Voldemort would need to fix the situation between Hermione and Sylvie, to the best of his ability. If he was going to keep Hermione practically imprisoned in Malfoy Manor, she and the hostess couldn't despise one another. That wouldn't do.
And then there was the matter of Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort fully expected that Dumbledore would go tell his friends that he'd looked into the mind of a time traveller whose thoughts had revealed all sorts of treachery. True, he'd only had a few scant moments to glance through Hermione's head. It wouldn't have been enough to get a clear picture, even for a great Legilimens like Dumbledore. But Voldemort had only needed a few minutes at the masquerade to figure out that the mysterious witch was from the future. Surely Dumbledore could figure out the same thing in the little bit of time he'd had in Diagon Alley. Would he also see that Hermione had come back to save Lord Voldemort and change the course of history? Would Dumbledore now view Hermione as an enemy like he viewed Tom Riddle? Or would Dumbledore have sensed an ability to snatch Hermione away and use her as a weapon of his own?
In any case, Voldemort thought, it was very important to keep Hermione close. It was more important now to keep her closer than ever. She mustn't leave him. It was critical that she remain in Voldemort's use alone. And he had kissed her, and he had touched her. Had Dumbledore seen any of that? Had he -
"So, would you like to go to the match?"
Voldemort blinked. He gulped hard and stared at Abraxas Malfoy, who had just asked him a question. Voldemort mentally backtracked. The Kestrels vs the Harpies. Abraxas had asked him if he wanted to attend the match. Voldemort glanced to Hermione and said firmly,
"You'd have to stay here."
Hermione looked confused, and then she said gently,
"Mr Malfoy's just said that there are enough tickets for all four of us to go, My Lord. In a box."
"Oh." Voldemort frowned deeply. He carefully considered his options, and then he sighed. Should he take Hermione out in public? Would Dumbledore come after them? Would he send someone to hunt Hermione down? Would Dumbledore be as brazen as all that? How was Voldemort meant to build a socially-based movement if he didn't ever go anywhere? He shook his head and said to Hermione,
"You'll have to stay here. I'm sorry."
Her face fell a little as she seemed to realise that she was in a sort of prison here at Malfoy Manor, and she licked her lips, but then she gamely painted a little smile on her face and said warmly to Abraxas,
"Thank you for offering."
"I'll come," Voldemort said lightly. "Invite Avery or Nott or somebody. Fill the box with our old friends."
"Yes, sir," Abraxas said. By then the food had cleared away to make way for little chocolate cakes, and Hermione silently dug her fork into hers. She sipped her red wine and took another bite of cake. Suddenly Voldemort realised he was watching her eat. He was staring at her. He was gazing at her as she dragged her fork through her lips, as she carefully sipped from her wine glass.
There was a vibrant flash of lightning outside the dining room windows then, and an almost immediate crack of thunder. Everyone at the table jumped in their seats, and then the rushing sound of rain whooshed outside the glass. Voldemort felt Hermione's mind thudding with a persistent thought as the storm began to take form outside.
I wonder if he wants me half as badly as I want him.
Voldemort cleared his throat quite roughly and murmured,
"Quite a storm."
"Yes. The Prophet said it's meant to rain all night and all day tomorrow," Sylvie Malfoy said tightly. She set down her fork and said, "I'm off to take a long, luxurious bubble bath."
Voldemort curled up his lip, thinking that that was entirely too much information, but nodded and said,
"Goodnight, then, Sylvie."
"My dear." Sylvie rose and walked over to Abraxas' chair, kissing the top of his silky blond head and rubbing at his shoulders. "Come to bed soon."
Voldemort sneered a bit, turning his face away. Abraxas' cheeks went pink, but he quirked up his lips and whispered,
"Be there soon, love."
Sylvie stalked out of the dining room without another word, and Voldemort let out a very long breath. He glanced between Abraxas and Hermione and finally said,
"We could Apparate straight into the box, couldn't we, Malfoy?"
"Of course, sir," Abraxas affirmed. "If you've got security concerns, rest assured that Cygnus and I -"
"I'm more than capable of handling security concerns myself," Voldemort snapped, and he immediately realised that was true. He couldn't live his life like this, hiding Hermione away like a sheltered animal because they were afraid Dumbledore might show up. If he wanted to take her to a Quidditch match, he was damned well going to take her to a Quidditch match. He glanced to Hermione and asked,
"Kestrels fan, are you?"
She smirked and admitted, "My husband was always much more interested in Quidditch than I was, My Lord."
Her eyes went wide then, as if she knew she'd said entirely too much. A thought thrust forth in her head - Ron Weasley playing Keeper for Gryffindor, with Harry Potter as Seeker. Ron had always looked just a bit off in all the gear; he was gangly and awkward enough without all the leather padding and bulky robes. Hermione looked like she was panicking in the dining room as Voldemort chewed his lip and said smoothly to Abraxas,
"Madam Granger is a widow."
"I'm so very sorry to hear that," Abraxas said warmly. He was curious about the circumstances, Voldemort could tell. He wanted more information, but he wasn't going to get it. He was thinking that Hermione was achingly beautiful. He was thinking that somebody should marry that witch, now that she was available. Or, at least, someone ought to be shagging her. She was lovely and funny, Abraxas was thinking. His pale eyes flicked up and down Hermione's form as he nodded. Voldemort cleared his throat and said,
"We'll both be coming to the Quidditch match on Saturday. Thank you for the invitation. Hermione, may I walk you upstairs?"
Walk me upstairs? Doesn't he want them to see me as more than his whore? Doesn't he want them to see me as his employee, as his weapon?
"I'd like to discuss that tactic with you before we bid one another farewell for the evening," Voldemort said softly. Hermione nodded, rising from her chair. The wizards in the room rose, too, and Abraxas said to the two of them,
"Goodnight, then."
"Thank you for dinner, Mr Malfoy," Hermione said, and Voldemort felt attraction rolling off Abraxas Malfoy like a wave as he studied Hermione and said,
"Must go find Sylvie. Good evening."
He left the dining room, and Voldemort followed, trailed by Hermione. He led her toward the stairwell that went to the second floor, and he tried desperately to stay out of her head. He didn't mean to read her thoughts all the time; she pushed into his consciousness more than he intended for her to do. He walked up the stairs and down the corridor to her suite, pausing outside her door. He turned to face her, and when she stared up at him, he nodded and said quite firmly,
"Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight," Hermione whispered. She blinked. He struggled not to push into her thoughts. It would be so easy, he considered, just to feel what she was thinking right now. But instead he just reached for her cheekbone with his knuckle and stroked a little, bending down to plant a soft kiss on her lips.
"Goodnight."
"Please come inside," Hermione murmured onto his mouth. His breath hitched. His head spun. Had he heard her correctly? Please come inside? He kissed her again, harder this time, and he finally incanted nonverbally, Legilimens.
She was desperate for him. She'd been thinking about this all day; she'd been wondering if she'd be able to convince him to come into her rooms all day. They'd been interrupted by Sylvie Malfoy when Hermione had been grinding atop his lap, and it had felt so damned good to do that. He'd been kissing her neck, and she'd felt his erection beneath her, and he'd played the piano for her… he'd played the piano for her…
Suddenly Voldemort was wrenching open the door of Hermione's suite and dragging her inside, and once they were in, he wandlessly slammed the door shut and locked it. He pulled on her wrist and took her into the black and white bedroom, through a white double door. Hermione let out a little yelp of surprise, but from her mind he felt white-hot need. She was on fire for him, he could feel. A flame had been lit within her when he'd played piano for her, and it had never actually been extinguished. She'd been burning for him ever since then, and she was burning still.
"Please."
He whirled around at the sound of the word, and when he did, he saw that her eyes were welled heavily. She stood staring at him in her pretty red dress, her hair in a braided bun, and she shook her head. Lightning illuminated her face, and then thunder rumbled.
Legilimens.
She didn't know what to do. This was Lord Voldemort. She'd destroyed his Horcruxes. She'd fought against him. She was married to Ron Weasley. But she wanted Voldemort badly - not because he was a handsome young man, but because he was a supremely powerful sorcerer. She wanted him because he had tasted like cake and firewhisky the first time he'd dared to kiss her. She wanted him because of the way he held her jaw sometimes, because of the way he spoke of his ambition, because of the way he could wandlessly and nonverbally perform magic others could only dream of doing. She wanted him because of the way he played the piano. She wanted him because he was intelligent, and strong, and powerful, and because he would win this time. She was his weapon here, and she craved him, and she wasn't sure what to do about that.
"Hermione."
He approached her and wrapped his arms around her. Her eyes fluttered shut as his fingers danced down her back, undoing her buttons one after the other. He moved swiftly, confidently. He was in charge here, but if she told him to stop, he would. He sniffed a little and kissed her forehead, murmuring against her skin,
"Your mind isn't like anybody else's mind. You know that?"
"How do you mean, Master?" Her own hands went to the hook and eye clasps down the front of his black robes, and as she worked at them, he informed her,
"You don't like playing Wizard's Chess, which I find amusing, because your mind is like the most brilliant chess player's. You're always six steps ahead, you know? You've always reached conclusions before anyone else even figures out anything's wrong."
"My Lord…" Hermione tipped her head back, and he bent to push his lips against hers. He brought her dress up over her head, and she wriggled out of it. She wore no bra owing to the cut of the dress, and he just gaped at her bared breasts. They were small but round and perfect, with pert pink nipples that peaked in the cool air. He dragged one thumb over a nipple and caressed the tissue of her breast with his fingers, running his other hand up and down the side of her slim stomach. Thunder rumbled in the distance, far beyond Malfoy Manor.
"Merlin's beard. You are…" Voldemort seethed a little through his teeth and tipped his head as he admitted, "I don't mean to get caught up in the cosmetic, you know, but -"
"I don't mind the compliment," she grinned. Voldemort stared straight into her eyes then, her wide honey-coloured eyes, and he felt a pulsing thought from her.
Almost handsome.
It stung a little. It made his chest ache just a little bit, thinking of how beautiful she was and how ugly he was. He'd been very good-looking, once upon a time. He'd been younger, too, but it had been the Dark magic that had really done him in. He'd done this to himself. He'd brought the drooping eyelid, the smashed cheekbone, the chipped chin, the pale skin, and the scarred lips upon himself. The greying and receding hair he could mostly blame on his age. He pinched his mouth into a line and peeled off his outer robe, wondering what she'd think of him once she saw the rest of him. Would she care about the white lines criss-crossing his shoulders and chest? Would she care how scarred the magic had made him? She'd seen the one scar on his lip; would she mind the one that made it look like a sword had sliced open his bicep?
He gulped hard, his fingers shaking a little as he unbuttoned his black linen shirt. He pulled it off before he could make up an excuse to keep it on, and he tossed it away. He glared at Hermione, daring her to make a snide comment about him. He was lean and toned; that wasn't the problem. The dusting of hair on his stomach and chest was greying, but his muscles were taut. His scars looked like someone had taken hot blades to him, cutting into his skin in random spots. One was just over his heart. One was on his lower abdomen. One was on the top of his shoulder. And one was on his bicep. He blinked quickly as Hermione seemed to study what had happened to him. She finally raised her eyes to him and said softly,
"It must be a very draining process to create them."
"There's that chess player's mind," he said. His eyes burned, for some reason, as he remembered creating the Horcrux with Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem. He'd been lying for days in agonised pain as the sensation of someone driving hot spikes into his flesh had taken over. When he'd come to, he'd had these scars. He shrugged. "My face was mostly spared."
"They give you character, My Lord." Hermione smiled a little. "And, anyway, when I knew you, you were grey and bald with red eyes and no nose. So."
"Hmm." He nodded. "But you are very beautiful."
"I'm glad you think so." Hermione took a step toward him and put her hands on the waistband of his black linen trousers. She eyed him, and he knew what she wanted. Permission. He kissed her forehead, and she began to unbutton the trousers. He felt himself start to flush hard with anticipation, with want; he'd been soft up until now because he'd been so self-conscious. Now, with her fingers moving near him, the blood coursed into his member, and he whispered onto her skin,
"I'll play piano for you whenever you want me to."
"Oh." She raised her eyes, which welled again. "Really?"
"Mmm. Yes." He kissed her square on the mouth as her fingers pulled his cock out, and he grunted a little. She shoved at his trousers, and he worked them the rest of the way down. He stepped out of his dress shoes and pulled off his socks, trousers, and underwear, all the while kissing Hermione. He never let her go, and as soon as he could, he folded his cock up against her belly and stood with his hand between her shoulder blades. The room was briefly illuminated by the white flare of lightning, and then the rain seemed to pick up with the accompanying clap of thunder.
He needed her, he thought. He'd never needed a witch, not ever. He'd wanted a few. One or two had given him supreme carnal pleasure. But he'd never needed a witch. Now he stood with his secret weapon, with one of the most brilliant minds he'd ever seen, with the time traveller who had once fought him but had now come to save him, and he needed her. He kissed her until his lips felt bruised, and when he pulled back, he whispered,
"Bed."
"Mmph." Hermione followed him and climbed up onto the bed with him. Along the way, she must have shucked her knickers, because by the time she lay on her back atop the black and white blankets, she was completely nude. Voldemort hovered above her and immediately reached between her legs, expecting to feel her dry there and to need to work her up. But she was soaking wet, flushed with excitement. She was throbbing with damp heat, and his eyes shut of their own accord as he let the feeling of that wash over him.
… always needed a lubrication charm with Ron, but I don't think I will this time, because I…
He ripped himself from her head, not even realising he'd been inside of her thoughts. His cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment; he felt for some reason like that had not been an idea he ought to have perceived. He opened his eyes and stared down at Hermione as he whispered,
"I'm going to touch you, because otherwise this is going to last half a minute."
"All right." She giggled a little, then sighed and squirmed as he deepened his touch. He made a V shape with his forefinger and middle finger, gliding them along her folds, and gently pressed at her clit with his thumb. He used his other hand to touch the rest of her body - first her breast, squeezing harder and harder until she squealed, then down her ribcage, stroking at her thigh for a while. Lightning flared outside the window, followed by a mighty thunderclap.
"My Lord," Hermione moaned, driving her head back against the pillow. Her fingers fisted at the blankets. Voldemort's face felt very hot indeed as he watched a scarlet flush work its way down in a web over her neck and chest. Her breasts heaved with deep breaths, her nipples at attention. Her fingers curled and cinched, and she bent her knees as her back arched up. All the while, Voldemort's hand moved. He dragged his fingers back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He drew circles on her clit with his thumb. Finally he twisted his two fingers into her body and hooked them a little, and he could feel that she was positively soaked. She was leaking fluids all over his hand, and he panted as he drove his fingers in and out of her. He was careful not to pump too hard; she wouldn't like that, he thought. He stroked with long, smooth pulls instead. He moved his thumb around her clit in firm circles. She slapped hard at the blanket and hissed through clenched teeth,
"Oh, Merlin's beard. Oh, I'm going to…"
… try not to think of the number of times I faked it with Ron and just enjoy this one real…
Voldemort tore himself out of her head, desperate not to read her thoughts just now. He blinked madly as he gulped and stared down at her, watching her nipples peak so firmly they looked almost painful. Her back arched again, and she wrenched at the blankets, and then he felt the walls of her womanhood clenching around his fingers. She moaned desperately as she came, and then she was whispering,
"My Lord. My Lord. My Lord."
"Sorry, but I do need to be inside of you right this very moment," he huffed. Hermione yelped as she came down from her high and mumbled,
"Contraceptive charm!"
"Oh. Right. Erm…" Voldemort brushed his fingers along her lower abdomen and wandlessly incanted, "Nongravidare Maxima. There. That'll last you a month."
Are we going to do this more than once? He could feel that from her before he could stop himself from peering. He cleared his throat, and he pushed her legs apart. He licked his lips and then hesitated. This seemed dull, he thought. She'd been lying on her back this whole time. He coughed a little and said,
"Here. Like this."
He lay down behind her, spooning her, and encouraged her to put her legs tightly together. He tilted her pelvis down a little to give himself access, and when he slid into her slick, incredibly tight entrance, he swore in Parseltongue on accident.
"Hyathasssa nosssa thosss…"
Voldemort wrenched his eyes shut and sheathed himself inside of Hermione. If his use of Parseltongue alarmed her, she didn't give any indication. Indeed, she turned her face just a little, glancing at him over her shoulder, and her eyelids were deeply hooded with satisfaction and arousal. Voldemort began to rock into Hermione, pulsing his pelvis against hers as he curled one arm around her body and squeeze at a breast. He toyed with her nipple and then urged her head to the side so he could kiss at her neck whilst he fucked her.
No. This wasn't fucking. He wasn't quite sure what this was, but it wasn't like the times he'd angrily rutted young witches from behind as a handsome Tom Riddle. This was different; he was a hideous old man with a beautiful and brilliant and very, very complicated witch. He had her wrapped in his arms and he was buried inside of her, cradling her against him as he pumped himself into her over and over. He bent her forward a little and sped up his thrusts, and Hermione whimpered. She liked this, he realised.
… oh, my - if he doesn't stop that, I'm going to come again and I'm going to look like a complete harlot…
"Hermione." He groaned, rubbing at her back as he rocked his hips against hers. She contracted herself more tightly into a ball to deepen his thrusts, and soon he was pushing himself vigorously into her as he held her shoulders for purchase. He ran one hand down her arm and clutched at her fingers, squeezing them as he whispered,
"I can't… it's too much…"
"Mmm… Mmph! Master!" Hermione arched back, into his arms, and his hand clamped around her breast again. She tossed her head back, and he caught her in a kiss. He felt little flutters around his cock and realised she was having a second climax. Legilimens, he incanted rather desperately, and in her mind he read scarlet passion. She was mad for him. She was wildly hot-blooded over him. For some reason, the fact that she was this attracted to him sent him hurtling over an unseen edge, and Voldemort thrust his hips roughly five or six more times before burrowing himself to the hilt and crushing her mouth until their teeth clacked. He compressed her breast until she squealed against his lips, and then he spilled himself inside of her. His come pumped in spurts, filling her and then leaking back out in a little river on their skin.
He kept kissing her, for some reason, after his climax abated. She rolled to face him, and he pulled her against him and kissed her again. She curled her leg over his hips and snared her arm around his scarred chest, and still he kissed her. Finally, finally, his lips felt sore and bruised and he could barely breathe, so he pulled back.
Dizzy. Feel like I'm going to faint. I have never in my life done anything remotely approaching that. Why didn't anyone tell me sex could be anything like that? Why have I spent the last seven years of my life having… well, having what I was having instead of that? That was… that was…
Voldemort tried to pull away. He shut his eyes and told himself that the thoughts she was having right now were a crazed inner monologue that belonged to her, that he ought not be eavesdropping. He slid out of her head and was met with the sound of the thunderstorm outside the bedroom window.
"I should go," Voldemort said suddenly. This felt very intimate, lying here all cuddled up with her in her bed whilst a thunderstorm raged outside. She pushed herself up onto an elbow and gazed at him, and he knew what she was thinking without even peering into her thoughts. Was she his whore? Did he view her like that?
"You're not a whore, Hermione," he snapped. "You are a weapon."
"Yes, Master." She watched him as he moved quickly to pull on his assorted bits of clothing, and once he was buckling up his outer robe, he came back over to her bed and bent to kiss her forehead.
"You're a weapon," he repeated, "and you are a chess player. Your mind isn't like anybody else's. You know that, and I know that, and now Dumbledore knows that. But you're here to fight for me, aren't you?"
She stared for a half second and blinked. "Yes."
He tipped his head and stood. "Then it's Quidditch this weekend, because Albus Dumbledore doesn't tell me what I can and can not do. Goodnight, Hermione."
"Goodnight, My Lord," Hermione said, as Voldemort picked his wand up off the ground and stalked from her rooms.
Author's Note: Whew! They finally did it. And apparently he's way better than Ron. (Sorry, Ron.) But is Quidditch really the best idea? Hmm. Raise your hand if you still hate Sylvie! Many, many thanks for reading and reviewing.