Chapter Text
Hermione waits until she hears the sound of Ginny’s breathing drift into the slow cadence of sleep before she slips out the door of the safe house, warding it shut behind her. Her breath is choppy, uneven, as it always is before she goes to him, air trapped in her too tight chest, heart crashing against her ribs.
It has been two months now, since she had taken a page out of Regulus’s book, stealing the Diadem from where Harry had hidden it. A hasty breaking of the wards she had helped to cast, a Geminio to create a decoy, and the horcrux had found itself settling into its new home at the bottom of her beaded bag. It still feels wrong, sneaking away in the dead of night, and she reminds herself that her plan is working, that any deception, any lies, are necessary. She makes it to the end of the street and outside the wards before she dissapparates, praying as always that no one hears her, landing heavily in the densely wooded land of Wyre Forest. She remembers hours spent visiting the forest as a child, and though she is loathe to mix childhood memories with her current reality of war, it had been the first location she had thought of when she had been searching for a place she wouldn’t be disturbed.
She shuts her eyes and forces breath in slowly through her nose. The cold air is heavy with the scent of dirt and loam and wet leaves. Winter thin skeletons of ancient oaks tower above her, naked arms stretching towards one another. They cast long shadows in the moonlight that move and twist on the ground like fallen bodies. Waving her hand, she gathers a small pile of twigs and dry leaves, setting the pile aflame with a silent incendio as she pulls her cloak tightly around her, shivering slightly in the late autumn chill. Adrenaline thrums through her like the plucking of a chord deep in her chest. Her pulse is a hummingbird in her throat, skittering, unsteady. It is always like this before she sees him.
The first time, she was so terrified, so wracked with guilt that she vomited. After 5 years of war, and missions, and raids, of killing when she had to, and living in a state of constant awareness, she had thought herself immune to fear like that. But as she had retched into the soft dirt of the forest, hands clenched and spasming around the diadem, she realized that you can never truly kill fear completely. Even when there’s nothing left to be afraid of, even when the worst has already happened, the body never really lets go of the memory of terror, forever using it as a reflex when it faces the unknown. Even now, her body resists her as she unfurls an arm from under her cloak and plunges it into the abyss of her beaded bag, hand knocking against small furniture and stacks of books until it closes around the familiar shape of Ravenclaws diadem. She can no longer blame simple fear for her racing heart, the quickness of her breath. Anticipation unfurls in her belly, creeps across her skin like fingertips until she is flushed, clumsy in her haste to pull the diadem from her bag. She hates herself for it, this eagerness, this perverse desire to see him. But like she has always been, Hermione remains first and foremost, a scholar. A solider she has become out of necessity, war and time have sharpened her into a weapon, but a philomath she will always be, and she has never, never, had a teacher like him.
A pricking of her finger, a few drops of blood sprinkled on the glittering sapphire as it glows, accepting her sacrifice. Eyes squeezed closed, hands shaking slightly, she places the diadem on her head, the corona of her hair wrangled into a long plait that lays heavy between her shoulder blades. The air bites through her thin cloak, wind stirring the fabric around her bare legs, and for a moment, a slow blinking of the universe, she remains suspended in the shadowed night, crown atop her head, waiting. Even with her eyes shut, she can tell the second he appears. A hush has fallen over the night, as if the forest is holding its breath. The air stills, the long skeleton arms of the ancient oak trees frozen, afraid to move.
“Hello, Hermione.”
Her eyes spring open. He stands by the fire, posture preternaturally straight, all height and broad shoulders, hands tucked into the pockets of his cloak in a way that feels expectant, not at all casual. He looks like an effigy of a God, carved lovingly out of wax and set too close to flame- his patrician features slightly blurred, a photograph taken just a hair out of focus. He is just how Harry described him, and yet not at all the same. He is frighteningly handsome, altered not at all by the fact that he is no more than a segment of a fractured soul given corporeal form. She cannot tell how old he his, this version of him, unsure of his exact age when he made the diadem horcrux, although she believes he’s somewhere in his mid to late 30’s, based on her understanding of the timeline. His skin appears bloodless, thrown into stark contrast by the black hair that curls gently against his forehead, framing heavy lidded eyes that shift from black to red with his mood. To Hermione, his beauty is like the edge of a very sharp knife.
“Hello Tom.”
His eyes flash at her from across the fire, like hot coals. She knows he detests her use of his first name, knows what she risks every time she uses it, but still she cannot reconcile the man across from her, with the half decayed dictator whose war has personally torn her life apart. She has played the role of protégé well, only half acting anymore, if truth be told. The magic he has taught her, she has used against him, though he does not know it. To him, she appears a dutiful pupil, while she takes the fruits of their lessons and uses them ruthlessly, securing several victories for The Order with magic he has taught her. But she still cannot bring herself to call him by his chosen name, ‘Lord Voldemort’ curdling on her tongue like milk. So she calls him Tom, when she must, and she prays every time that he will allow it just a bit longer.
His voice is low and dark, tinged with private amusement, spilling out from across the fire.
“Has it been a week already? It seems as though you were just here.” He steps closer, the flames reflected in his marble-sheened skin, the only color she’s ever seen on his face.
Her hands twitch by her sides. “It’s only been three days. I came back early.”
One edge of his beautifully shaped mouth tilts upward. She does not believe he can smile, not really, and this is as close as he gets. This slight quirking of features, the tightening of his jaw.
“Three days? You are eager, aren’t you?” She colors slightly, heart tripping in her chest, as she clears her throat. Tom begins to move slowly around the fire until he is standing before her.
“And have you been practicing, Hermione?” His voice is soft, coaxing, a finger down her spine.
Hermione feels almost insulted. “Yes, of course.”
And she has been practicing. She does not tell him that it is his soldiers that she practices on, his Death Eaters her whetstone, his magic her blade. Better he believes what she has led him to believe, that she has come as a protégé, a willing disciple eager to impress the Dark Lord, a naive girl who does not fully grasp what she’s stumbled upon when she discovered a horcrux.
Tom’s mouth tilts with his almost-smile again, and he hooks a long finger under her chin, lifting her head to meet his gaze.
“Of course. My ever ambitious pupil, How silly of me to even ask.” He murmurs, studying her face intently, his tone slightly mocking, almost affectionate. His thumb strokes the curve of her bottom lip and her breath catches, heat pooling low in her belly, before he releases her. He gestures with a slender hand in front of him, signaling for her to demonstrate. She would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy this part. For all the terror that vibrates inside of her, she cannot resist the pull of showmanship, she never could. There is something inside of her that finds great satisfaction, learning to wield magic that his very disciples have told her she is neither worthy nor capable of learning. Using that same magic to destroy them is a delicious irony, one that she indulges in during her lessons, allowing herself more flourish and embellishment than she ever would on the battlefield.
Their last meeting replays through her mind as she stands before him-Tom’s voice licking across the shell of her ear as he walked behind her, the sussurus of his cloak dragging through the carpet of dead leaves like a snake trail.
“Blood magic requires sacrifice, Hermione.” He cupped his hands together to form a sphere. “You will find that most people are too weak to give of themselves what is required. They can neither stomach the cost nor control the result.”
He opened his hands to reveal a mourning dove sitting gently in the cradle of his palms. The bird cooed slightly, ruffling her feathers as if to preen.
“But those who are willing will find that the rewards are…near limitless.”
A wandless, silent diffindo , the stroking of one long finger against the birds neck, and the white feathers were stained crimson. The dove struggled in his hands, beating its wings haplessly. Hermiones heart had felt like the doomed bird, thrashing against the cage of her ribs. Tom conjured a glass bottle, pushing the soft throat of the frantic dove against the rim until its wings grew still and the bottle was full. He had thrown the discarded bird to the ground.
“Watch, Hermione. Think of what it is to control the very essence of life, to shape it, bend it to your will. This is what power is- to command that which is vital, and it requires power to wield it.”
She watched as the blood in the vial began to vibrate, spilling out of the bottle neck as though it were vapor. It wound itself around his forearm, neither liquid nor solid, oscillating violently until it had shaped itself into a sinuous Adder, jaw unhinging as its tongue came out to taste the air. With a languorous sweep of his wrist, Tom had shaken the blood snake to the ground where it quickly wrapped itself around the discarded body of the dove, squeezing it until the feathers were broken and matted.
“Do you see, Hermione?” Tom murmured. His red eyes had been fixed on her face, watching every swallow, every blink of her lashes. “Think of what is possible. The more blood you spill, the more is yours to command.”
He paused, voice low, breath warm in her ear before he straightened. He stood near enough to her that she could feel the energy between them, as if they were opposing magnets. She had been incredibly aware of the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest, her entire body humming at the sensation, the slight point of contact. He had watched her, through heavily lidded eyes, before stepping away, suddenly brusque and business-like.
“The incantation is anima sangui. Let’s see if you have the stomach for power.”
He had watched her practice for several hours, conjuring small animals and draining them until she could animate the blood without speaking the incantation before turning his back to her. She had taken his dismissal as permission to remove the diadem, and he vanished, leaving her depleted and shaking, surrounded by the drained bodies of small creatures and the hot smell of iron.
Now, Hermione stands before him, undoing the button at her throat so that her cloak falls to the ground. She cannot imagine how she looks, bare legged in only her skirt and jumper, diadem glittering atop the crown of her head, like a child playing dress up. Tom’s eyes rove down her body, though his face remains impassive, and she feels her skin prickle, nipples hardening into buds under the intensity of his gaze. She summons a bowl, and sinks as gracefully as she can to the cold ground. She presses it against the her inner thigh, the tip of her wand dragging against the soft flesh before carefully, carefully selecting the right spot. Hermione slides her wand downward with surgical precision, neatly slicing her femoral vein, just as she had practiced, careful, so careful, to avoid the artery. She can feel Tom’s attention on her, all glittering eyes and intrigue. The forest is silent, save for the musical sound of her blood hitting into the basin.
Minutes pass. She knows she should stop the bleeding and heal herself now, knows she has bled more than enough but still she allows it to continue, until her fingertips grow cold and the bowl is close to overflowing. She closes her eyes as she traces her wand over the wound, the murmured vulnera sanentur an oft-sung song she memorized a year into the war. Her flesh throbs as the bleeding slows, and Hermione rises to her feet, swaying slightly. Tom does not move to help her, though she does not expect him too. His red eyes are fixed upon her, mouth tilted in that beautiful, terrible half smile, and she watches something flicker in his gaze, different from his usual polite detachment, something very much like hunger, and it curls around her like a flame, licking hot across her belly. She holds his gaze, moving her wand across the bowl of blood with a curl of her wrist as hematic vapour spills over the rim, molecules shifting and rearranging into shimmering scales and claws, until the form of a dragon, huge and sanguineous, monopolizes the air between them.
Hermione is seized by a maniacal sort of pride as she watches her dragon unfurl its wings, blotting out the canopy of cachectic trees and turning its eyes to Tom. It is magnificent, in a macabre way, and she stays motionless, watching as it beats its wings against the black sky. She feels exhilarated. Every piece of dark magic he teaches her is one more weapon in her arsenal against him. The implications of what this spell will do on the battlefield are significant. Hermione can picture a field of Death Eaters, the blood of their own fallen used against them. The thought is so beautiful that it makes her dizzy, vision blinking slightly in and out of focus. Wet warmth trickles down her bare leg and she notices she has not stopped bleeding entirely, blood now oozing at a slow but steady rate from where she had incised so deeply. She frowns at the wound, unease stirring in her belly at the realization that she may have pushed too hard, her magic stretched too far to fully heal herself.
A rustling of leaves, and her attention snaps back to her dragon as it digs crimson claws across the ground, leaving deep gouges in the soil as it draws closer to Tom, tail lashing against tree trunks like the cracking of spines. He stands unmoving by the fire, mouth crooked in that wicked smile as they both watch her dragon wreck havoc in the small clearing. Every bit of her attention is channeled on controlling the beast, shaping the swirling form of plasma and platelets held together by nothing but magic and power and sheer force of will. The cold bite of the near frozen ground against her knees tears her focus, and Hermione realizes she has fallen, vision blurred at the edges of her periphery as she fights viciously against her own exhaustion.
“Enough.”
Hermione blinks, and he is standing before her. She forgets sometimes, that Tom, this version of him, is no more than the fragment of a fractured soul made corporeal. He looks so very real, like flesh and blood and bone, and she sways on her knees, falling into him, face against the hard expanse of his thigh. She feels his long fingers cup one side of her face before she is dragged to her feet, and he is behind her, forcing her upright.
“There is old muggle story of a man and his son, who attempted to escape prison by building wings out of feathers and wax. A pathetic attempt at magic really, but considered quite clever by muggle standards. And it worked. The man and his son escaped their prison, soared high above the sea in a feat that ought to have been impossible. But the son, he was ambitious, a showman. He could not resist the pull of the sky, nor the wind in his face, and so, he ignored his fathers warnings and flew ever higher, heedless of his fallible wings, closer and closer to the sun.”
Tom sweeps his arm out in the direction of the clearing, and the form of her dragon breaks apart like vapor, blood falling against the ground like a rain shower. “Do you know what happens next?”
She blinks in shock where her dragon stood a moment ago, the leaves and soil saturated with her blood.
“I-I don’t understand. You should have no agency over my blood-“
His soft laugh interrupts her. “What do you think happens when you prick your finger to wake the diadem each time you visit me, Hermione? To whom do you think that sacrifice goes? Your blood is mine to command.”
There is a ringing in her ears as the weight of his words hit her. The heat of his body is a distraction, her mind stuttering as he jerks his hips against her, impatient for her answer. She can feel him, cock hard against the the curve of her arse.
“I asked you a question. Do you know what happened next, to this fabled muggle and his son?”
His fingertips stroke the side of her face, brushing away strands of hair that have come loose from her plait. Her breath comes in sharp bursts, fear and something dark and hot and insidious sliding into her belly, freezing the words in her chest. Her chin jerks in a nod. In a flash, her braid is wrapped around his fist, back arched and neck straining as he runs his nose along the curve of her jaw, pulling her ear to his lips.
“You flew too close to the sun, little Icarus.”