Taken
"This is delicious." Hermione cut into her flaky butternut squash pie and brought the bite to her mouth. She chewed and eyed Voldemort, who was staring at her across the table. He sighed and admitted,
"It's odd. Not being able to sense anything at all from your mind. Your Occlumency is incredibly strong."
Hermione let down the powerful shield she had up in her head, and she pushed forth a thought toward him.
Handsome and powerful and intelligent.
"Flattery." He tipped his head, shaking it. "I was seeking authenticity."
"Those are my authentic thoughts, I assure you," Hermione told him. Suddenly she realised she was telling him the truth. She had come here to destroy him. That had been her mission. She remembered the letter Odysseus Siegel had sent her in 2004.
You have been given this Time-Turner, which is unique and very dangerous, with the belief that you are the only witch alive who possesses the capability to use it properly. During the Second Wizarding War, you made endless sacrifices for the good of the community, for the people you loved. We, who created this One-Way Time-Turner, are asking you to make the greatest sacrifice of all… transferring your future into the past for the betterment of us all.
Think of Molly Weasley, who grieves her son Fred and her wounded sons Bill and George. Think of the students killed at the Battle of Hogwarts. Think of the innocent Muggles turned into Inferi by Lord Voldemort. And then ponder to yourself, 'What if I could keep all of that from happening? What if I could change the past for the improvement of the future?' Would you, Hermione Granger, give deeply of yourself for the wizarding world again?
On the 5th of October, 1968, Lord Voldemort will be at Avery Hall in Yorkshire at a Masquerade Ball. Go there and introduce yourself to him. Ingratiate yourself to him; he will be looking for interesting friends and allies. You may surprise yourself, Hermione, with how much change you can bring about from within.
Suddenly Hermione realised something. She had not been explicitly sent back to destroy Lord Voldemort. She had been sent back to change the past. She had been sent back to keep her lived experience from happening. But she had not been told by Odysseus Siegel, the creator of the One-Way Time-Turner, to come to 1968 and demolish Lord Voldemort's chances of success. She had not been told to destroy his Horcruxes and kill him. She'd been told to find him at a Masquerade Ball and ingratiate herself to him, to bring about change from within.
That was a different mission entirely, Hermione considered, from what she'd initially thought. When she'd stood in the bathroom she'd shared with Ron Weasley and turned her Time-Turner back over and over again, she'd thought she was on a mission to annihilate Lord Voldemort and impair his movement. She'd thought she was coming back in time to shatter his dreams of success, to butcher his chances of winning. Wasn't that how she would save lives? But perhaps not. Perhaps, she thought, Odysseus Siegel's letter had been very carefully worded.
She had come back in time and she had sought favour with Lord Voldemort. So far, it had worked. As far as Hermione knew, Voldemort did not know that Hermione's initial mission had been to come back in time to destroy him. Now, even she wasn't sure that that had been her purpose in coming back. Perhaps that had just been her perception. Perhaps she'd been wrong about that.
"I eagerly await a response from Odysseus Siegel," Voldemort said, and Hermione couldn't help wondering if he'd seen a wisp of a thought from her. She nodded.
"I'd like to meet him."
"I'm not sure if he'll come," Voldemort said. "It's obvious to me that he saw the same world you saw, a world where I was destroyed and mortal and where the wrong innocents perished. I would like to know how exactly he decided to create the Time-Turner for you, to deliver it to you. I'd like to speak with him."
"And you're going to… to…" Hermione licked her lips. She took another bite of flaky butternut squash pie and sipped her white wine. She sighed. "James Potter."
"Once I have more information," Voldemort sniffed. He took a bite of his own pie and chewed carefully. "It can't come back to me. He needs to disappear."
Hermione knew what she ought to feel. She ought to feel completely horrified by the idea of Lord Voldemort killing anybody. But the rational part of her mind reasoned that James Potter had been murdered even in the timeline Hermione had experienced, and that if he were taken out of the equation earlier here, a lot could be avoided. Harry Potter would never be born, and thus the climactic end of the First Wizarding War would never come to pass. Voldemort would never fade away for years, without a body, letting the wizarding world carry on in complacency. And then he would never come roaring back in his snakelike form, with two new Horcruxes and a vengeance. The Second Wizarding War would never happen. People like Sirius Black, Fred Weasley, Tonks, Remus Lupin, the students who had died at the Battle of Hogwarts, and the innocents who had been killed during that Second Wizarding War would have a chance to live, Hermione thought. If… if James Potter disappeared as a child, instead of growing into the adult father of Harry Potter, so much death and suffering might be avoided. Hermione could see that, with the logical part of her mind. She didn't want to see it, but she could. She wanted to scream at Voldemort that killing absolutely anybody was wrong, that murder was always, always wrong. She wanted to hiss at him that he was a vicious killer who deserved no pity and no mercy, that she had come here to destroy him.
But she had absolutely no confidence anymore that that was why she had come, and she had precisely no strength of mind to tell him that getting rid of James Potter now was the wrong thing to do. Instead, she sipped her white wine, felt her stomach twist, and insisted,
"Please, if you do it, just don't give me any details."
"Harry was your friend," Voldemort conceded, "but he was my staunchest enemy. You must recognise that neither of us can live while the other survives, and so -"
"What did you just say?" Hermione felt cold. She stared right at Voldemort and let down her shield in her head. He frowned, and she felt the push of his Legilimency. She let him in. She showed him what she knew of the prophecy about Harry. She'd only been told about the prophecy, but she'd memorised most of it. She shoved forth the words of the prophecy toward Voldemort in her thoughts.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."
Hermione put her shield back up again - empty skies filled with stars, a mountaintop with snowy winds. Voldemort slid away, and he sipped deeply from his wine, setting down his glass and saying,
"James Potter must go. Sooner rather than later. I shall spare you detail, but know that you have given me more help in this than you could possibly… your loyalty is without question, isn't it?"
He narrowed his eyes at her, and Hermione gulped. She took a bite of butternut squash pie, chewed, and swallowed. Voldemort cleared his throat.
"Hermione."
She looked up. "Master."
"I asked you whether your loyalty had any question," he said, and she took the last sip of wine from her glass. It refilled itself, and she realised she was working on her third glass now. She took a big drink and set the glass down before she met Voldemort's eyes and said,
"I had no idea, My Lord, before I came back in time, what you were going to mean to me. I had doubts, before I left, to be certain, about what I had done and the way things had gone. I came here on a mission to change the past and to alter your course of action. But I did not realise I was going to feel this way about you. No. My loyalty has no question."
Her stomach ached then, and she sipped her wine again. Voldemort reached for her hand, guiding her glass of wine back to the table, and he warned her,
"You'll get drunk."
"Mmm. Maybe," she nodded. He shook his head and warned,
"If you're drunk, I won't take you. I don't partake of drunken witches. It's a step too far."
She nearly laughed at that, at the idea that Lord Voldemort of all people had enough scruples not to take advantage of a drunken witch. But she pushed her glass away and nodded, chewing her lip a bit. She glanced across the violet parlour towards the grand piano and asked,
"Will you play me something, please?"
"I told you I was going to take you upstairs after dinner," he smirked, "and get those clothes off of you."
"Music first. I beg it of you," she whispered. "Master, please."
His lips curled up, and he touched his napkin to his mouth. He pushed his chair back and rose, walking over to the piano and wandlessly moving the bench back. He sat, opening the piano and dusting his fingers up and down the keys a few times.
"What shall I play?" he asked, raising his eyes to Hermione. She felt dizzy as she stood beside the piano and requested,
"Something simple but beautiful."
Voldemort quirked up half of his mouth and nodded. "Schumann."
She was surprised to hear him quote a Muggle composer, and even more surprised when he began to play. His left hand raced in a rapid flutter beneath high chords. Hermione recognised the piece. Fantasie in C. This was beautiful, she thought, but it was not simple. His hands were absolutely flying, his fingers dancing. His little finger of his right hand stretched far as his thumb thudded, his middle fingers flickering. Then his left hand was beating and rippling again. The piece reached a quieter section with softer, lighter chords and more slowly moving lines, and Voldemort swayed.
All the while, Hermione found herself growing increasingly breathless. She stared at his face, and suddenly the word Almost was gone. Almost handsome. Now she found the scar slicing down his mouth to be alluring. His shattered cheekbone and his chipped chin made him look rugged. His pale skin and his greying hair were distinguished. Somehow, he was attractive, this deeply flawed human.
Human.
She would have never considered Lord Voldemort to be human in her old life, she thought. Now he was a man playing the piano. Of course, he'd also spent dinner talking about an old friend who played with time, about plotting murder. He was remarkably Dark. He craved power. He wanted friends among the Pureblood ranks in this time because he wanted to lord over them. He wanted to be supremely influential. He was narcissistic. He was a megalomaniac. He was playing the piano.
His fingers flicked and fluttered, then thudded and thundered. He nodded and rocked back and forth as the piece crescendoed. He had it all memorised, Hermione realised. This grand long piece - he had the entire thing in his mind. It went on for a very long while, for so long that after a time he called up to her,
"Bored yet?"
"Not even a little bit, Master," Hermione replied honestly. He kept playing. The middle of Fantasie in C was a triumphant march, and he pounded out the chords. Hermione remembered seeing this performed with her parents in London once when she'd been small. She remembered being enamoured with the pianist who had performed it, but somehow it hadn't seemed nearly as well done then as Voldemort was doing right now. He was an expert, she thought. He knew every note, every chord, every vibration that the piano needed to emit. His hands moved like creating this music was second nature, like producing this blissful sound was just another form of magic.
The piece swept from a low-key, pianissimo section into a running, elegant adagio finish, and it was completed with three delicate chords. Then, at long last, Voldemort pulled his hands from the keys and cracked his knuckles, admitting quietly,
"I haven't played that piece in probably twenty-five years."
"I'm sorry; what?" Hermione gaped at him, and she shook her head in shock. How could he remember it if he hadn't played it in so long? Was he some sort of prodigy? Some sort of genius? Well, of course he was. Of course he was a genius. He was Lord Voldemort.
"Well." He stood slowly and loomed over Hermione. "You got your piano performance. Satisfied?"
"I got what I wanted," she nodded. "Now it's time for you to get what you want."
She reached between them, sliding her fingers along the front of his black wool trousers. She watched Voldemort's throat bob, and his tongue dragged over his scarred lips.
"Upstairs," he whispered.
"Are you certain?" Hermione took a step closer to him. Her fingers began to work at the buttons on his trousers, and she heard Voldemort's breath hitch a little. His hands went to her hair, and he pulled her face back. He bent down and kissed her hard, and he murmured against her mouth,
"I told you that I was going to get those clothes off of you."
"Isn't there something I could… do to please you?" Hermione offered. "I mean to say, you've just pleased me very much with that piano playing and I should like to make you feel good right here, right now, and I… with my mouth, you know."
Voldemort's breath shook onto Hermione's lips. "Your mouth."
"Yes," she hummed back, shoving his trousers down over his hips a little. Suddenly Voldemort's hand flew up and there was a click at the door behind Hermione. She almost laughed. They didn't want Sylvie Malfoy walking in again. Hermione reached into Voldemort's underwear and pulled out his cock, wrapping her hand around his shaft. She gasped a little against his mouth, thinking to herself that he was so much bigger than Ron had been. Perhaps it was the age difference. No. That made no sense. Ron had been in his mid-twenties; he'd been done growing. But it didn't matter. Ron was gone. Ron wasn't here; Lord Voldemort was here. Hermione was with Lord Voldemort right now.
She kissed him hard on his lips and moaned against his mouth, pumping her hand on his shaft and dragging her thumb over his tip. She'd only done this a few times. Only when she'd been feeling especially generous toward Ron had she ever put him in her mouth. And she'd never really wanted to do it. But she wanted it right now. She wanted this. She descended, lowering herself to her knees and pushing up Voldemort's black tunic. She rubbed at his taut stomach, feeling his smooth scar tissue beneath her fingertips. She caressed him there, brushing her middle finger along a scar and then touching at the dusting of hair that ran from his stomach down toward his cock.
"Hermione," Voldemort choked out. His own fingers nestled in her hair, and he pulled her face back so that she would look up at him. She kept one hand wrapped around him as her other hand massaged his scarred lower abdomen. She gazed up at Voldemort's dark eyes and murmured,
"I want this so very badly."
He huffed and shut his eyes. His throat visibly tightened, and his fingers cinched in Hermione's hair. She stared right at his cock, at the purplish head and the throbbing shaft, and she mumbled,
"I want to taste you. I want to taste your come."
"Hermione." He didn't seem to be able to say anything aside from her name right now. She didn't mind. She kissed the bottom of his tip and pumped her hand on his shaft as her other hand slid up his stomach beneath his tunic. She felt rivers of scar tissue, hard and raised, beneath her fingertips. She pushed her lips over his tip and suckled on him there for a moment, and he groaned. His breath came hard then, and his hands played with her hair.
Hermione began to kiss him then. She used her right hand to cup his balls and hold them gently, and she just began planting kisses all along his shaft and tip. She pressed her lips to him, then licked the places she kissed. She returned her hand to his shaft and dragged her hand down his stomach, grasping at his thigh. Hermione licked him like he was an ice cream cone then, swirling her tongue around his tip and desperately catching the fluid that drizzled from him. She moved her hand up and down his length and suckled on his frenulum, and by then Voldemort was groaning continuously.
"Hermione." This was the third time he'd choked out her name, and now he sounded desperate. His fingers were snared deeply into her hair, and he wrenched her head back so she'd look at him again. Hermione let his cock rest on her bottom lip, let him stare down at her as she worshipped his member. She suckled on him again and gazed up at him, and his eyelids fluttered shut. He shook his head and insisted,
"Feels entirely too good."
"Mmm…" Hermione drove him deeply into her mouth. She pulled his cock straight down her throat, resisting the urge to choke and splutter. She held his hips with both her hands and wrapped her lips tightly around his shaft. She swallowed five or six times, gulping down his tip until it poked at the back of her throat. She was squeezing at him, she knew, and it was taking all she had not to let her eyes water. She needed breath. She pulled back and jerked him hard with her hand, opening her mouth and staring up at him.
"Master," she whispered, and his head fell back. He rolled his hips forward, and his lips parted. His eyes squeezed shut, and he murmured distantly,
"Hermione."
Then he was coming, and Hermione realised it was landing all over the neckline of her black dress. It was missing her face, for it was coming in violent spurts. She laughed just a little at the enormous mess it was making all over her, and as she slowed her hand on Voldemort's cock, she watched him lower his face and scoff,
"Oh, my."
"Oops." Hermione dragged a finger through the disaster, and Voldemort shuddered. He was still mostly hard, and he seemed to still be coming down from his high as he reached into his robes and pulled out his wand. He aimed it at Hermione and incanted firmly,
"Tergeo. Scourgify."
"Thanks." Hermione slowly stood, her knees creaking a little. She'd come alive, wet between her own legs and tingling. She watched as Voldemort tucked himself away, as he buttoned up his trousers and arranged his tunic. He cleared his throat and suggested,
"I can… take care of you. I won't leave you unsatisfied."
"As I said, My Lord, you satisfied me immensely with a half hour of piano playing," Hermione told him. He narrowed his eyes at her and cupped her jaw in his hand, and then he let out breath that shook more than Hermione would have expected. He noted,
"You said that you belong to me."
Hermione's cheeks went hot. She still wasn't entirely sure why she'd said that at the funeral, but now she nodded and specified,
"I am your servant. I have come back in time, giving up my life, in order to assure your success. I do think I belong to you."
"Ah. I see." Voldemort pinched his lips. Hermione's breath shook. Had he wanted her to mean something different? She thought of Bellatrix, of the way Voldemort had moved his hand off of Hermione's lower back and had taken Bellatrix's hand. Her eyes burned a little; she knew full well how Bellatrix felt about Voldemort. Hermione stammered,
"I - I… find myself enormously drawn to you, Master, in a way I had not anticipated."
"As I find myself drawn to you," he nodded, "in a way I could never have foreseen. Hmm. And Abraxas longs for you, too. But he is a married man."
"So he is." Hermione sniffed. "Sylvie is a beautiful witch; I've no idea why Abraxas lets his eyes wander."
"Because he's not blind," Voldemort snapped. Hermione's eyes went wide, and she watched Voldemort chew his lip for a moment as he observed, "Sylvie Malfoy is as cold as an Arctic winter, and as stupid as a mountain troll. She may be pretty, and of pure blood, but she leaves much to be desired. Then you show up, and… well."
"Well." Hermione laughed a little and shook her head. "I confess, My Lord, that I wouldn't see the appeal in me if I were a wizard."
"Don't be self-deprecating," Voldemort said, rolling his eyes. "You're not a fool."
Hermione felt confused. She furrowed her brow. She wasn't particularly pretty, was she? She wasn't especially desirable, surely?
"You are no fool," Voldemort repeated, lowering his hand, "and so I'm sure you understand why it is that wizards find you exceptionally fascinating. You have a brilliant mind. You are confident. You are a powerful witch. And you are indeed very, very pretty. Abraxas Malfoy would be a complete moron to have you living in his house and not want you. I don't blame him a bit. Not that it makes me want to Stupefy him any less."
Hermione coughed out a little laugh. She shook her head. "Master."
"Hermione." He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. He spoke against her skin then and told her, "Any other witch would have lost her mind with jealousy over Bellatrix, but you understand why I did what I did, because you know how critically important it is that I keep her at precisely one arm's length. Don't you?"
"As I said, Master, it isn't my place to be jealous of you, to be possessive over you," Hermione said. She raised her eyes to him, and he sighed. He sucked on his bottom lip and told her,
"I wouldn't mind you being just the slightest bit desirous of me."
She smiled and affirmed, "I am certainly desirous of you."
"Well, then," he said, "I wouldn't mind you being just a little bit selfish about me. Even with the understanding of what I must do."
Hermione wondered just what he was suggesting then. Did he mean that the two of them were… together? She let her lips fall open, and she asked softly,
"What is this?"
"Perhaps I would like it if I could claim to Abraxas that you were more than just a weapon, more than just an employee," Voldemort said a bit sharply. "Perhaps I would like it if you could tell Bellatrix that whilst she's more than welcome to pursue life as a soldier of mine, she can't come chasing after me wanting kisses, because I'm… you know…"
"Taken," Hermione whispered. Voldemort let out a hard breath and nodded.
"Taken."
"I rather like that, Master," Hermione smiled, feeling weak. What on Earth would the people she had left behind say about her being taken by Lord Voldemort? Did it matter? They were all gone. She was here. She was with him. She wasn't even sure now that she'd been sent to destroy him. She gazed right into his eyes and whispered, "Goodnight."
He kissed her forehead again and slid his fingers back into her hair. "Goodnight."
Author's Note: Oh, dear. Hermione is pretty much completely lost to the Dark Side. She's now questioning whether or not her actual mission was to destroy Voldemort (and, let's be honest, now that we're re-reading Odysseus' letter, aren't we all kind of questioning that?). She's head over heels for the guy, and she's taken by him. So will O.S. come to England, and what's going to happen with James Potter? We'll see in the next chapter!
Thank you so incredibly much for the feedback. I do sincerely appreciate it.