(no subject)
Title: "Her color is blue."
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Hermione, Voldemort
Other characters: Rodolphus Lestrange
Prompt: 015: Blue
Word Count: 1562 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She said nothing and stared up at him, desperate and frightened but not by him.
Author's Notes: In honor of fated_addiction's "Blue" universe, with which I have fallen in love, and everyone should read it. You can find it in the NC-17 section of hgtrlv_archive.
She wore a simple blue dress, almost childish but for the form beneath it. She could walk the halls, the grounds, the towns, dressed as a Muggle, and no one would dare to insult her for her heritage she bore so boldly.
When she had been brought before him, her skin was still unmarred, her hair as tidy as it had ever been, her clothes untorn, but she was covered in blood. She held her wand tightly in her hand, tightly enough that the knuckles were white, and she would not let go. Even a powerful Disarming spell could not take it from her. Her eyes were wide and white in shock, and she fell to her knees when the Death Eaters who held her upper arms released her to the mercy of their lord.
She said nothing and stared up at him, desperate and frightened but not by him. She said nothing as her body shook violently. Voldemort's eyebrow rose in bemusement, and he stood, looking from her to his Death Eaters with their gloves stained with the blood from her body. He descended the stairs until he was level with her. His white fingers tangled in her hair so that the crimson of the blood was stark against his skin. He felt the dying magic in that blood and the familiarity of it. He jerked his hand back and stared at the shivering girl at his feet.
He had expected opposition from this little slip of a thing, not alliance.
Her wand clattered to the floor and she held her hands out to him.
"You took too long," she said quietly, the only tremor coming from her body.
For a moment, he was prepared to kill her on the spot - he had no use for a Mudblood in his fold, and she had served her unforeseen purpose. But before he turned to return to his throne and apply the Killing Curse, he paused and stared at her still supplicating hands, her eyes, the wand at the floor.
Then he grabbed her chin and forced her head to stare painfully up at him as he loomed over her, and he pushed into her mind. He was not and did not need to be subtle with his Legilimency. He felt her try to pull away, but he grasped her face tightly enough to bruise the jaw and delved into her motives, careless of the tears he left behind him.
She had not killed Harry for Voldemort or for his cause. She had been afraid of what Harry was becoming. By her logic, she had killed something hardly resembling Harry, a red-eyed remnant of the boy who she loved, someone driven by revenge and losing focus of what he was meant to destroy, someone torn apart by introspection and by Voldemort's gentle influence that he had no idea had taken so well, taking root in Harry's mind so that the clear purpose was twisted from destroying an evil man to conquering him. Voldemort saw Harry hitting Hermione with the back of his hand, the knuckles catching her cheekbone. He saw Harry using magic that Hermione thought only she knew, the kind she had the discipline to know but not to practice. He saw Hermione and Ron Weasley whispering their worries. He saw Harry laughing without mirth. He saw Harry murder a Muggle who got in his way. That was when Hermione really began to contemplate where Harry was in comparison to where he had been. She wondered about possession or just downright natural transformation as a result of his tempestuous past, the final straw. Whatever the reason, Hermione determined that it would be best for Harry as well as the world he was supposed to save if she saved the world from him. Without a specific agenda like Voldemort, Harry was unpredictable and, therefore, dangerous.
She had killed him by Muggle means so that her magic could not be traced. She had seen the surprise in Harry's face when she shot him, had seen the anger as he came at her. She shot him three times before he finally collapsed. She had looked around to make sure that Ron was not around and that no one had heard the shots before taking Harry in her arms and holding him to her, embracing the serenity that was her true friend now that the evil had been exorcised with his death.
Hermione knew better than to linger, and she buried his body with magic before running and enduring rapid Apparition to lose any tail she might catch, still stained with her best friend's blood. When the word from Ron that Harry Potter was dead reached the newspapers, she realized that she was trapped between the wizarding world and her obligation to save Harry when the problem had grown too terrifying. Voldemort felt her horror at her own actions as well as at Harry's, felt her conflict, felt her resignation as she turned herself in to the Death Eaters, rather than the Aurors, looking for her, yielding to her sense of self-preservation - she was more likely to survive Lord Voldemort's pleasure rather than the wrath of the fearful wizarding world.
He pulled out of her, leaving her gasping and white-faced underneath the blood. He beckoned to Rodolphus Lestrange and handed the man Hermione's wand.
"Clean her and give her new clothes. Anything. Then bring her to my chambers. We have too much to discuss that will be satisfied in this room."
Rodolphus hesitated for a barest fraction of a second, cognizant that the child at his lord's feet had supplied the information that would lead Bellatrix to the river for her ostensible suicide, although Rodolphus knew better than to believe the word of the incompetent correspondents. But he knew better than to disobey his lord and brought Hermione to his own modest bathroom in order to clean her. He thought nothing of her body, but she stared ahead as he touched her, eyes blank as glass, as if she were as dead as the boy who lived. As he scraped the blood from her face, he thought he saw tears, but her eyes were dry. She was sweating and her forehead was hot.
After another moment of hesitation, he went to the cabinet under his sink and took out a potion he told her to drink. She took the potion without a protest. Then he was faced with the quandary of dressing her. He would never desecrate Bellatrix's clothes with her body, and his Transfiguration skills were not quite up to par - his specialty was in persuasion and Arithmancy. He searched the wardrobe and found the dress in the pile of trophies he had taken from women he had persuaded in his past before he joined the Death Eaters. It looked like it would fit her, although it would be a little long.
She donned it, again without a word. She let herself be led to Voldemort's chambers. Voldemort was waiting for them, and he took Hermione's wand from Rodolphus's hand. His mask-like face was the reward. Rodolphus bowed before his lord and stood up when Voldemort's fingers stroked the line of his jaw.
"She killed Bellatrix," Voldemort said, knowing the reason for Rodolphus's tension. "It is fitting that she fill Bellatrix's place, although Bellatrix can never be replaced. This one, the assassin of Harry Potter, will be mine, but do you know your duty, then, my servant?"
Rodolphus's temple pulsed with clenched teeth as he looked to the girl who stared at them but did not see. He nodded and took his dismissal with the closing of the door.
Voldemort led Hermione to an armchair and sat across from her to discuss her actions and her reasons for coming to him, as well as the consequences. Her answers were as dispassionate as his questions. He took pleasure in her self-sacrifice - she had destroyed her own principles for those of Harry, and she had become that which she had killed, taking the weight of transformation as a relative unknown. But she had forgotten her power, and Voldemort let it drip into his hand as he took her face in his hands and kissed her indifferent mouth until she finally responded to him. To him. In trembling fear, in trembling desire, in acknowledgment of like hollowness that filled her own.
She did not protest as he carefully pulled the dress from her. He did not want to destroy it, for although it was too long, he liked it on her body. Her color was blue. She moaned for him as he pushed her onto his bed, as she slid his robes over his shoulders and took him into her. The blood of Harry Potter pulsed through his body, exhilarating in its defiance and passion, and the darkness within her purred at the warmth she felt beneath his skin. They came quietly and completely, he above and she beneath, in the darkness.
Voldemort touched her head, understanding the arts she had at her disposal and waiting to teach her. She would wear blue among his masked and hooded Death Eaters. She would be seen, his spoil of war as he rent a path through the wizarding world, understanding his path ripe to be beaten.
They would see him and cower. They would see her and tremble.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Hermione, Voldemort
Other characters: Rodolphus Lestrange
Prompt: 015: Blue
Word Count: 1562 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She said nothing and stared up at him, desperate and frightened but not by him.
Author's Notes: In honor of fated_addiction's "Blue" universe, with which I have fallen in love, and everyone should read it. You can find it in the NC-17 section of hgtrlv_archive.
She wore a simple blue dress, almost childish but for the form beneath it. She could walk the halls, the grounds, the towns, dressed as a Muggle, and no one would dare to insult her for her heritage she bore so boldly.
When she had been brought before him, her skin was still unmarred, her hair as tidy as it had ever been, her clothes untorn, but she was covered in blood. She held her wand tightly in her hand, tightly enough that the knuckles were white, and she would not let go. Even a powerful Disarming spell could not take it from her. Her eyes were wide and white in shock, and she fell to her knees when the Death Eaters who held her upper arms released her to the mercy of their lord.
She said nothing and stared up at him, desperate and frightened but not by him. She said nothing as her body shook violently. Voldemort's eyebrow rose in bemusement, and he stood, looking from her to his Death Eaters with their gloves stained with the blood from her body. He descended the stairs until he was level with her. His white fingers tangled in her hair so that the crimson of the blood was stark against his skin. He felt the dying magic in that blood and the familiarity of it. He jerked his hand back and stared at the shivering girl at his feet.
He had expected opposition from this little slip of a thing, not alliance.
Her wand clattered to the floor and she held her hands out to him.
"You took too long," she said quietly, the only tremor coming from her body.
For a moment, he was prepared to kill her on the spot - he had no use for a Mudblood in his fold, and she had served her unforeseen purpose. But before he turned to return to his throne and apply the Killing Curse, he paused and stared at her still supplicating hands, her eyes, the wand at the floor.
Then he grabbed her chin and forced her head to stare painfully up at him as he loomed over her, and he pushed into her mind. He was not and did not need to be subtle with his Legilimency. He felt her try to pull away, but he grasped her face tightly enough to bruise the jaw and delved into her motives, careless of the tears he left behind him.
She had not killed Harry for Voldemort or for his cause. She had been afraid of what Harry was becoming. By her logic, she had killed something hardly resembling Harry, a red-eyed remnant of the boy who she loved, someone driven by revenge and losing focus of what he was meant to destroy, someone torn apart by introspection and by Voldemort's gentle influence that he had no idea had taken so well, taking root in Harry's mind so that the clear purpose was twisted from destroying an evil man to conquering him. Voldemort saw Harry hitting Hermione with the back of his hand, the knuckles catching her cheekbone. He saw Harry using magic that Hermione thought only she knew, the kind she had the discipline to know but not to practice. He saw Hermione and Ron Weasley whispering their worries. He saw Harry laughing without mirth. He saw Harry murder a Muggle who got in his way. That was when Hermione really began to contemplate where Harry was in comparison to where he had been. She wondered about possession or just downright natural transformation as a result of his tempestuous past, the final straw. Whatever the reason, Hermione determined that it would be best for Harry as well as the world he was supposed to save if she saved the world from him. Without a specific agenda like Voldemort, Harry was unpredictable and, therefore, dangerous.
She had killed him by Muggle means so that her magic could not be traced. She had seen the surprise in Harry's face when she shot him, had seen the anger as he came at her. She shot him three times before he finally collapsed. She had looked around to make sure that Ron was not around and that no one had heard the shots before taking Harry in her arms and holding him to her, embracing the serenity that was her true friend now that the evil had been exorcised with his death.
Hermione knew better than to linger, and she buried his body with magic before running and enduring rapid Apparition to lose any tail she might catch, still stained with her best friend's blood. When the word from Ron that Harry Potter was dead reached the newspapers, she realized that she was trapped between the wizarding world and her obligation to save Harry when the problem had grown too terrifying. Voldemort felt her horror at her own actions as well as at Harry's, felt her conflict, felt her resignation as she turned herself in to the Death Eaters, rather than the Aurors, looking for her, yielding to her sense of self-preservation - she was more likely to survive Lord Voldemort's pleasure rather than the wrath of the fearful wizarding world.
He pulled out of her, leaving her gasping and white-faced underneath the blood. He beckoned to Rodolphus Lestrange and handed the man Hermione's wand.
"Clean her and give her new clothes. Anything. Then bring her to my chambers. We have too much to discuss that will be satisfied in this room."
Rodolphus hesitated for a barest fraction of a second, cognizant that the child at his lord's feet had supplied the information that would lead Bellatrix to the river for her ostensible suicide, although Rodolphus knew better than to believe the word of the incompetent correspondents. But he knew better than to disobey his lord and brought Hermione to his own modest bathroom in order to clean her. He thought nothing of her body, but she stared ahead as he touched her, eyes blank as glass, as if she were as dead as the boy who lived. As he scraped the blood from her face, he thought he saw tears, but her eyes were dry. She was sweating and her forehead was hot.
After another moment of hesitation, he went to the cabinet under his sink and took out a potion he told her to drink. She took the potion without a protest. Then he was faced with the quandary of dressing her. He would never desecrate Bellatrix's clothes with her body, and his Transfiguration skills were not quite up to par - his specialty was in persuasion and Arithmancy. He searched the wardrobe and found the dress in the pile of trophies he had taken from women he had persuaded in his past before he joined the Death Eaters. It looked like it would fit her, although it would be a little long.
She donned it, again without a word. She let herself be led to Voldemort's chambers. Voldemort was waiting for them, and he took Hermione's wand from Rodolphus's hand. His mask-like face was the reward. Rodolphus bowed before his lord and stood up when Voldemort's fingers stroked the line of his jaw.
"She killed Bellatrix," Voldemort said, knowing the reason for Rodolphus's tension. "It is fitting that she fill Bellatrix's place, although Bellatrix can never be replaced. This one, the assassin of Harry Potter, will be mine, but do you know your duty, then, my servant?"
Rodolphus's temple pulsed with clenched teeth as he looked to the girl who stared at them but did not see. He nodded and took his dismissal with the closing of the door.
Voldemort led Hermione to an armchair and sat across from her to discuss her actions and her reasons for coming to him, as well as the consequences. Her answers were as dispassionate as his questions. He took pleasure in her self-sacrifice - she had destroyed her own principles for those of Harry, and she had become that which she had killed, taking the weight of transformation as a relative unknown. But she had forgotten her power, and Voldemort let it drip into his hand as he took her face in his hands and kissed her indifferent mouth until she finally responded to him. To him. In trembling fear, in trembling desire, in acknowledgment of like hollowness that filled her own.
She did not protest as he carefully pulled the dress from her. He did not want to destroy it, for although it was too long, he liked it on her body. Her color was blue. She moaned for him as he pushed her onto his bed, as she slid his robes over his shoulders and took him into her. The blood of Harry Potter pulsed through his body, exhilarating in its defiance and passion, and the darkness within her purred at the warmth she felt beneath his skin. They came quietly and completely, he above and she beneath, in the darkness.
Voldemort touched her head, understanding the arts she had at her disposal and waiting to teach her. She would wear blue among his masked and hooded Death Eaters. She would be seen, his spoil of war as he rent a path through the wizarding world, understanding his path ripe to be beaten.
They would see him and cower. They would see her and tremble.