I Belong To The Dark Lord
"Good morning, Madame Granger," said Sylvie Malfoy. Hermione looked up from the book she was reading in the library to see Sylvie in the doorway. She shut the book, a tome about goblin history, and stood from her chair.
"Madame Malfoy," she said. "Morning."
"I have come to speak as women," said Sylvie plainly. She shut the door behind her and swept into the library. She was dressed like a peacock, Hermione thought. Her gown, an elegant creation of silk in blue, emerald, and violet, hugged Sylvie's curves and swept around her in beautiful swoops. Sylvie's hair had been drawn up into a smooth updo from which tight curls descended. She'd put on a graceful application of makeup, and she wore a simple but evidently expensive strand of champagne pearls. She was always pretty, Hermione thought, but Sylvie looked even more beautiful today than usual. She made Hermione feel young, though of course Hermione was a fully-grown witch in her mid-twenties, for she was standing in a knee-length brown wool dress with her hair hanging loose and wild around her shoulders.
"What would you like to talk about?" Hermione asked, though she thought she had some idea. She sat back down as Sylvie approached the chair opposite Hermione's. Sylvie sat on the edge of the chair, perched just so, and cleared her throat. She tipped her head and said,
"I know that my husband is attracted to you. It's very obvious."
"I…" Hermione licked her lips and shook her head. "I wouldn't know, Madame Malfoy."
"No?" Sylvie scoffed. "I don't believe that for a moment. I think Lord Voldemort is quite upset about it. Probably, that will fade, once Bellatrix Black comes home for Christmas and is falling all over him. Things are about to get very… messy."
"Messy," Hermione repeated. She narrowed her eyes. Sylvie pinched her lips and said,
"I propose that you and I make a pact, Madame Granger, to keep our wizards in check. You see, I've got a husband falling all over our houseguest, and you've got Lord Voldemort about to be very tempted by a young witch who wants nothing more than to rip off her clothes for him. Yes, Cissy's told us all about the way Bellatrix talks of Lord Voldemort. We are well aware that she desires nothing more than him."
An ugly coil formed in Hermione's stomach. Jealousy. Dominion. She felt like Voldemort belonged to her, at least a little bit, and the idea of him climbing into bed with Bellatrix made her feel nauseated. She read Sylvie's face then as the other witch settled into a rather prim expression and said,
"The next time you get the sense that Abraxas is lusting after you, I would be grateful if you would send him a very clear message that his feelings are not wanted. At all. In return, I will work with my friend Abigail Lestrange. Raddox's wife. Her son Rodolphus is engaged to marry Bellatrix. I'll tell Abigail that it's very important for Rodolphus to properly woo Bellatrix, to show her all sorts of affection and to romance her. And at the grand Christmas party we're hosting, we'll have all three of the Black sisters dance first, with their respective partners. Cissy will dance with Lucius, of course. Andromeda can dance with Avery's boy. And Bellatrix will dance with Rodolphus. I'll dance with Abraxas, as the hosts. You'll dance with Lord Voldemort, as honoured guests. It will set the tone for the holidays."
"Why are you conspiring with me?" Hermione asked. "You hate me, Sylvie."
Sylvie Malfoy sniffed and shook her head. "I do not hate you. That's a very strong word. I feel that it was wrong of Abraxas to so willingly accept an open-ended hosting of a… a…"
"Muggle-born," Hermione finished, glaring. Sylvie Malfoy pursed her lips and argued,
"An unknown witch. None of us know you. But we trust Lord Voldemort. And we all saw you cast the Patronus Charm. And he says you are gifted with your mind. We believe that he knows best. If he cares deeply for you, then let him cling to you and eschew Bellatrix. Let me have Abraxas. I have loved him for twenty-five years; I can not yield him to someone who has come to stay in a suite in our home, crashed out of the sky."
Hermione nodded. "We shall work together, then," she said. "At the Christmas party, I shall dance with the Dark Lord, and you shall dance with Abraxas. Bellatrix will be with Rodolphus. And it will be very clear where everyone stands."
"Very clear indeed," Sylvie said. She hesitated a moment and then asked carefully. "You and Abraxas haven't… the two of you have not…?"
"No. Of course not." Hermione practically spat the words. "My loyalty lies fully with Lord Voldemort."
She realised as soon as she said those words that they were… they were true. Her stomach went cold, and her mind whirled a little. She shut her eyes and repeated,
"I belong to the Dark Lord."
"And my heart belongs to Abraxas Malfoy," Sylvie said. When Hermione opened her eyes, she saw that Sylvie was on the verge of tears. She seemed relieved as she whispered, "Thank you for speaking with me, Madame Granger."
The next evening, Hermione walked into the violet parlour to see that Voldemort was standing at the window, a letter in his hands. He was reading the letter, and he seemed very intent. Hermione stepped into the room, and she heard him say quietly,
"I thought you'd be here twenty minutes ago. Shall I send for the food now?"
"I'm sorry, Master. I got caught up in the book I was reading," Hermione admitted. "I've been reading all day."
"You do so enjoy books." He stared down at the parchment in his hands and huffed a breath. He held the letter out to Hermione wordlessly and said, "I think you ought to read this."
She stepped up to him and plucked the letter out of his fingers. She began to read, and as she did, her brows furrowed deeper and deeper.
Dear Mr Riddle:
My office has quietly but formally opened an investigation to determine the origin of one Hermione Granger. Whilst the Ministry of Magic currently lacks sufficient evidence to force its way into Malfoy Manor, where she is believed to be in residence, it is of the utmost importance that I am able to speak with Madam Granger as soon as possible. Mr Abraxas Malfoy has agreed to meet with me to discuss the particulars of arranging a meeting at Malfoy Manor or to bring Madam Granger to the Ministry. We hope that you will cooperate fully with the investigation, and that Madam Granger shares all relevant information with the Ministry.
Sincerely,
Minister for Magic Nobby Leach
Hermione gulped and stared at Voldemort. "When did you receive this letter?"
"Yesterday," he said. He gave her a hard look and said, "Abraxas Malfoy was in Minister Leach's office today. On my orders, Abraxas Imperiused Leach into drinking a poison I invented and concocted. It will cause Leach to come down with a serious, non-fatal illness that will force him out of office. He will recommend that his place be taken by Eugenia Jenkins, who makes for a much weaker adversary."
Hermione blinked. This was off, but it wasn't completely different. In the history she knew, Minister Nobby Leach had been in charge during the Squibs' Rights marches of the late 1960s, then had resigned from office in 1968 after taking ill mysteriously. There had been rumours, she knew, that Abraxas Malfoy had been involved. But surely it had nothing to do with a time traveller. She scowled up at Voldemort and said,
"This is odd. Leach was forced out of office in my lived experience, too, but not for these reasons."
"Well, perhaps he really does have to go," Voldemort suggested. He shrugged. "By tonight, Leach will be admitted to St Mungo's, where they will struggle to figure out what's behind his array of symptoms. They won't get to the bottom of it. Jenkins will be in office within a few weeks. And Dumbledore has never been close with Jenkins. She won't listen to him when he insists there's a time traveller whose mind he's read."
"How can you be certain of that?" Hermione fretted. "What if she believes Dumbledore?"
"Nott and Avery are visiting her tonight," Voldemort said patiently. "They're going to do a bit of memory work; Avery's especially skilled with it. She's going to have her impression of Dumbledore altered so that she thinks he's a bit of an old crock. Not a lunatic, just… not to be fully believed about matters like this. Jenkins will ignore Dumbledore's ramblings. He'll sound insane if he goes on about it."
"What if one of your friends leaks my name?" Hermione worried. "What if Dumbledore and, say, Bellatrix Black cross paths at the Daily Prophet and say, Oh, yes, there's this Muggle-born witch on Lord Voldemort's arm who's appeared out of nowhere, and Dumbledore's been in her head? The newspaper would eat that story alive!"
"Hermione," Voldemort said quietly. "I've thought about the press. The editor of the Daily Prophet is a Yaxley. I've offered him three thousand Galleons in hush money to never, ever print the name Hermione Granger in the newspaper. He's gladly accepted. And if he does print your name, he's aware he'll be on the receiving end of an Unforgivable. So."
"You're covering all your tracks," Hermione said breathlessly. "The Ministry. Dumbledore. Bellatrix. The newspaper."
"You are going to be my weapon, whether they like it or not," Voldemort said slickly. He snatched the letter back from her and Vanished it, and then he bent down and kissed her forehead. "I'm famished. Shall we eat?"
Dinner was roast chicken and rice with asparagus, a simple but tasty meal that left Hermione full. She sipped at her white wine and eyed the piano. Her Occlumency shields slipped just a little, and she considered that she might like to hear Voldemort play her something.
"Have I told you about the time I played for the couple in the orphanage?" Voldemort asked. He dragged the pad of his middle finger around the rim of his wine glass, and Hermione shook her head, curious. Voldemort picked up his glass and drank, and then he said,
"I was nine years old. Too old, by the standard of most orphanages, to get adopted. Most people want babies. Some will take a five-year-old. But nine? No. You have to really impress them if you want to get adopted at age nine. Well. One day this couple came in and said they would like a playmate for their only child, a boy of ten. He was a burly brute, came in with them. As stupid as a sack of bricks, the boy was. But the couple liked me, because I spoke eloquently and they thought perhaps being around me would make their son more intelligent."
"I don't think it works like that." Hermione gave him a sad little smile. Voldemort shrugged one shoulder.
"To get out of the orphanage, I was willing to try anything. So, I bragged to them that I was particularly good at the piano, and asked if they'd like to hear me play. The orphanage's piano was a bit out of tune; they couldn't afford to get it tuned as often as they should have done. Anyway. The couple and their boy sat down on the divan and listened as I played. Chopin. Nocturne in E Flat Major. And I finished, and the other orphans were watching from the corridor, smiling. And the matrons clapped."
His face was wistful and distant then, and he scoffed quietly. He drank the rest of his wine. Hermione swallowed hard and asked,
"What did the couple and their son say?"
"He just isn't the right fit for our family. Thank you. Good day. And then they left. No matter; I was at Hogwarts two years later."
Suddenly it didn't feel like the right thing to do to ask him to play for her. She just breathed for a moment, let his story settle, and then she noticed something.
"Your lip," she said in disbelief. He shook his head, and she actually pointed right at his face. "Your… your mouth."
"What's wrong with my mouth?" he demanded. Hermione flew from her chair and stormed around the table, seizing his face in her hands and turning his face toward her. He seemed shocked by what she was doing until she whispered,
"Your scar is gone. On your lips."
He reached up and brushed his thumb over his mouth, over the place where the raised white scar tissue had been. He gasped when he felt the smooth lips beneath, and he asked her hoarsely,
"Is it really not there?"
"No. It's gone." Hermione flew back as he heaved himself to his feet and began to peel off his outer robe. She helped him frantically unbutton his linen shirt beneath, and when they pushed it off of his shoulders, her breath shook. The huge gash of a scar that cut through his bicep was gone, as was the deep river of scarring along his lower abdomen. Some of the other white scars were there, but it seemed as though…
"It's like you're healing," Hermione said disbelievingly. She raised her eyes, and she blinked a few times. "Your eyelid isn't drooping nearly so badly as usual. I'm not imagining that."
"I…" Voldemort pinched his lips tightly and shook his head. "Odysseus…"
Hermione's eyes burned as she put her hands to Voldemort's bare chest. "What about Odysseus?"
"Nothing." Voldemort shut his eyes and bent down, reaching for his shirt. He pulled it back on and began to button it back up. "I'm sure the scars will come back. The damage from creating Horcruxes is deep and permanent. My soul is wounded to its core from all the splintering. There's no real healing that can be done."
"Not even when someone cares about you?" Hermione demanded. Voldemort's fingers froze on the buttons of his shirt, and his breath came heavy and shallow for a moment before he finished closing up the garment. Then he whispered,
"I've got something for you."
"You have?" Hermione's chest and stomach were fluttering. She felt queasy for some reason she couldn't articulate. She watched as Voldemort reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out something out in his fist. He reached for Hermione's right hand and pushed something onto the fourth finger, and then she couldn't breathe. He pulled his hand away, revealing a beautiful ring of gold, ruby, and diamond. It was perfect - a round stone surrounded by a halo of diamonds on a delicate gold band. Hermione's eyes welled with tears that boiled over at once, and suddenly she let down her Occlumency shields and pushed forth every thought that was rocketing through her mind.
I didn't come here to fall for you. I came here to change you. To change history. I came here to save people; I didn't come here to want you, to crave you, to need you. But here I am, head over heels for you, mad for you. I never expected to feel anything like this for you. I hope you realise that.
"Hermione." He took her face in his hands and bent as she closed her mind off again, a final scarlet flare of desire coursing from her mind into his. She sank into his kiss, pressing her hands against his chest and realising that his scars were fading as she fell harder and harder for him. The more she cared for him, the less damaged his body and soul were. What did that mean? What did it mean that he was scheming to oust the Minister for Magic to protect Hermione, and she no longer cared about things like coups and assassinations? What did any of this mean?
He kissed her for a very long while, backing her up toward the wall, and she became a little breathless. Finally, they neared the piano, and he pulled his mouth away, whispering,
"Shall I play for you?"
"Yes," she whispered. "All the time."
He pulled his body from hers, moving over to the piano bench and opening the instrument. He cleared his throat and put his fingers to the keys. The moment he began to play, Hermione recognised the piece. Chopin. Nocturne in E Flat Major. It was the piece he'd played in the orphanage. The piece that the couple hadn't cared about when he'd been a talented little boy with an out-of-tune piano.
Hermione cared now, listening to him play Chopin whilst she stared at his face and studied his perfect lips. She examined the place where his scar had been and wondered just how it had disappeared. Was she responsible in any way? She looked to her right hand, to the place where he'd put a ruby ring upon her finger, and she thought that he'd claimed her. She thought back to talking with Sylvie, to how they'd claimed their wizards. They belonged to one another now, she thought.
I belong to the Dark Lord.
She listened to Voldemort finish off the Nocturne with a trill, a descending flourish, and then the final chords. She raised her eyes to him, to his gaze that seemed more clear now than ever, and she whispered,
"I think that I am in love with you."
He curled up his lips and shut the piano.
Author's Note: Welp. One of them had to say it, and we all know he wouldn't use the word first. Raise your hand if you predicted Sylvie and Hermione teaming up? Nobody? Okay. Haha. Let's see how things shape up at the Ministry with this coup against Nobby Leach, and how Bellatrix takes it when she's forced away from Voldemort and into Rodolphus' arms.
Thank you so very much for the feedback on the last chapter. I'm so grateful. I'd love to know your thoughts as you continue reading.