Fic: The Brightest Witch of Her Age | Hermione Granger/Voldemort | R
Title: The Brightest Witch of Her Age
Characters: Hermione Granger & Voldemort
Words: 271
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, dark themes
Author's Note: I'm on some sort of Voldemort kick or something lately. This was written for sortinghatdrabs with the prompt 'Fall'. It's not my favorite thing I've ever written but it took second place so it can't be too bad, right?
She was the brightest witch of her age.
If she'd known what a dubious title that would become she wouldn't have worn it with such pride.
When she'd been forced to kneel before his dark throne, spitting and cursing in ways Ron would never believe she could, the Dark Lord had looked into her eyes and had seen everything. A thirst for knowledge, a drive to prove herself, an encyclopedic knowledge of magical minutiae. A reporter trapped in a mason jar, a snitch with a pock-scarred face, and a bigot driven into the arms of that which she hated most.
The Dark Lord had been fascinated.
Too brilliant to put down like the other mudbloods and mutts but too dangerous to roam free. A curiosity, a pet, a conversation piece.
At first, he tried to woo her, make her see the error of her ways. He'd given her anything she asked for: lavish rooms, delicate equipment, priceless artifacts. Anything but her wand.
They'd found her, wrists slashed with a potions knife, in a pool of her own blood, only just this side of alive.
The Healers had worked night and day to keep breath in her lungs, to save their Lord's precious gem, that rare mudblood that could be suffered to live.
Once they'd finished, the Dark Lord undid it all with one simple word. Only he is allowed to break his toys.
She fought it then, refusing to die by his hand--if not by her own then certainly not by his. And as she spiraled down into darkness--her consciousness fading in an attempt to block out the pain--she hung on to the single thought that anchored her sanity: she would watch him fall.
Characters: Hermione Granger & Voldemort
Words: 271
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, dark themes
Author's Note: I'm on some sort of Voldemort kick or something lately. This was written for sortinghatdrabs with the prompt 'Fall'. It's not my favorite thing I've ever written but it took second place so it can't be too bad, right?
She was the brightest witch of her age.
If she'd known what a dubious title that would become she wouldn't have worn it with such pride.
When she'd been forced to kneel before his dark throne, spitting and cursing in ways Ron would never believe she could, the Dark Lord had looked into her eyes and had seen everything. A thirst for knowledge, a drive to prove herself, an encyclopedic knowledge of magical minutiae. A reporter trapped in a mason jar, a snitch with a pock-scarred face, and a bigot driven into the arms of that which she hated most.
The Dark Lord had been fascinated.
Too brilliant to put down like the other mudbloods and mutts but too dangerous to roam free. A curiosity, a pet, a conversation piece.
At first, he tried to woo her, make her see the error of her ways. He'd given her anything she asked for: lavish rooms, delicate equipment, priceless artifacts. Anything but her wand.
They'd found her, wrists slashed with a potions knife, in a pool of her own blood, only just this side of alive.
The Healers had worked night and day to keep breath in her lungs, to save their Lord's precious gem, that rare mudblood that could be suffered to live.
Once they'd finished, the Dark Lord undid it all with one simple word. Only he is allowed to break his toys.
She fought it then, refusing to die by his hand--if not by her own then certainly not by his. And as she spiraled down into darkness--her consciousness fading in an attempt to block out the pain--she hung on to the single thought that anchored her sanity: she would watch him fall.