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Chapter Text

Hadria's thoughts are in Italics
Voldemorts thoughts are in Bold-Italic
"Parselmouth will be spoken in Italics with quotes."

***

PART 1
Voldemort Returns

Hadria's heart pounded against her ribs as she staggered onto the dew-kissed grass, her fingers quivering with the residual enchantment of the Triwizard Cup's transportive grip. The rush of the previous challenge had ebbed away, leaving her lungs grasping for air in short, sharp gasps. Her gaze flitted across the clearing, her vision slowly adapting to the faint luminescence that seeped through the twisted boughs above.

"Where have we landed?" she murmured, her voice a delicate tremor that seemed to dissolve into the stillness of the night. Cedric, just as confounded, stood upright beside her, his features etched with a blend of apprehension and inquisitiveness. The cemetery unfurled around them, its gravestones tilting at odd angles, standing vigil like venerable guardians over mysteries long forgotten.

Cedric shook his head, a silent testament to their shared uncertainty. The familiarity of Hogwarts was nowhere to be found in this somber expanse of the departed.

"I have no idea" Cedric said looking around.

It was dark and there was a light fog around the area preventing them from seeing very far but they could faintly make out what looked to be an old church and a dilapidated house in the distance. The cup rested on the ground at their feet.

Cedric eyes it curiously.

"Did you know the cup was a port key?" He asked looking at Hadria. The reality of what it was had not even occurred to her until he said it.

"I...didn't know" she said looking at it again. She notices Cedric cautiously taking out his wand as he looks around the eerily quiet graveyard so she does the same.

"Something about this doesn't seem right Hadria...I don't feel like this was part of the task" he said beginning to feel a bit nervous.  She couldn't deny what he said. Something about this place felt...dark...

Cedric angled his head, peering through the haze.

"Someone's coming" Cedric whispered.

A short squat hooded figure appeared from the fog carrying what looked like a pile of blankets or...something wrapped in blankets...a child, perhaps?

They quietly watched the figure approach a heavy large marble statue...no...not a statue...a grand headstone. Suddenly Hadria's scar began to burn worse than it ever had before. The pain was blinding and brought her to her knees her wand slipping from her hand to the grass below. Cedric bent down toward her in concern.

Suddenly a raspy whisper broke the eerie silence.

"Kill the spare"

Before either of them knew what was happening the hooded figure turned toward them and raised his wand.

"Avada Kadavra!"

Hadria sees a flash of green and through her squinted eyes the body of Cedric falls motionless before her. She opened her eyes wide and her mouth dropped. It took her only seconds but it felt like minutes to process what had just happened. His eyes were unmoving...his chest never rose...he was dead.

Still in shock she suddenly felt...hands...there were hands on her dragging her away from Cedric toward the tall headstone. Magical cords were conjured and the hooded man began tying her up against the headstone. As she was pulled up next to it she sees the name on the headstone...Tom Riddle....Suddenly the man's hood fell back and Hadria saw his face...Wormtail...

"It's...you!" She screeched in anger and surprise. She had met these man before and knew him to be a traitor to her late father and a follower of Voldemort.

He looks up at her with a smirk as he ran his hands up her legs and body checking the bindings but he was clearly enjoying touching her without her permission. Hadria struggled against the bindings causing him to snicker in amusement. She was thankful that she was at least wearing athletic jogging pants as he took a moment to feel her up. She felt bile rise in her throat.

"Get your hands off me!"

He said nothing as he tied a gag around her mouth with a laugh before walking away and disappearing into the mist.

Hadria struggles against the bindings again as she looks around. She avoids looking at Cedric knowing he's beyond help and fearing she may be next. She looks back at the bundle near the bottom of the headstone...it's moving slightly and her scar is still burning. Suddenly it hits her...she knows what's in that bundle.

She whines against the gag and tries to free herself even more. It's no use.

Suddenly Wormtail is grunting and shuffling back into view pulling a large cauldron to the base of the headstone. Hadria cranes her head over trying to see what's in it. It appeared to be full of water. Suddenly Wormtail had started a fire beneath.

Hadria's heart was racing. She had no idea what he was doing but she knew this was bad. Wormtail removes the the blankets around the bundle revealing a small pale sickly looking figure...hardly even human about the size of a small child. She grunts frantically against the bindings.

Wormtail lowers the...thing...into the cauldron and it disappears beneath the bubbling liquid with a hiss.

Wormtail raises his wand and speaks.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"

Suddenly the ground beneath the headstone cracks and white fragments rise from the ground and are magically directed into the cauldron before Wormtail speaks again.

"Flesh...of the servant willingly given...you will revive...your master."

Wormstail takes a dagger out and winces as he slashed his own hand off and it falls into the cauldron. Hadria's eyes widen in horror. She whimpers against the gag. Suddenly Wormtail is walking toward her.

"Blood of the enemy forcibly taken...you will resurrect...your foe."

She growls in pain against the gag as he cuts into her arm and collects the dripping blood into a small vial. A tear slips down her cheek as he runs back to the cauldron and pours it in. He slowly backs away holding his bloody arm in pain.

The cauldron hissed and bubbled....A thick mist begins rising from it in waves. Hadria trembled as the mist became so thick she couldn't see anything. It slowly starts to condense and warp...the mist twists and turns as it begins to solidify...pale skin...tall...a figure begins to form on the ground a couple feet next to the cauldron and the remainder of the mist falls against him, rapidly weaving onto the body in the form of robes...long wispy black robes.

The figure's arms stretch out...long...longer than a normal man...his long thin fingers curl and stretch...and he reaches up to his face as he explores his new body. There is no hair on the man...his skin is pale white all over and his face is almost skull like and smooth.

Hadria doesn't know how long she had been holding her breath until her lungs begin to burn and she takes a breath as the man opens his eyes for the first time...piercing blue eyes...in any other instance...they might have even been beautiful...the man's nose...there wasn't one...just a flat area with two vertical slits that flare as he takes his first breath.

If death and evil could ever take a form...this surely would have been it. And yet, she had seen this face before in a more human form...he had haunted her dreams whispering in her ear about his resurrection to come...

Lord Voldemort has risen again.

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Chapter Text

(19 YEARS AGO)

Severus Snape slipped into the Hogs Head pub, hood drawn low to conceal his face. His loyalty to Voldemort drove him to gather intel, and Dumbledore's presence here intrigued him. The Headmaster rarely visited this seedy bar in Hogsmeade. Was it merely a stop for a drink, or something more?

"What are you doing here, old man?" Severus muttered to himself. He positioned himself near the door, watching as Dumbledore made his way to a private room in the back of the pub. When he opened the door to enter Severus saw a frail, bookish woman with thick glasses and frizzy hair sitting at the table just inside. The crowded bar buzzed with shady witches and wizards as he slipped inside.

Severus ordered a whiskey at the bar, dropping a few coins before slipping into a table just outside the room. He cast a charm to enhance his hearing, ensuring he could eavesdrop without detection.

The woman was being interviewed for a position at Hogwarts...Divination, it seemed. Severus rubbed his temples wondering how much longer he would ensure this fruitless exchange. Dumbledore didn't seem too impressed; Severus even chuckled at the woman's ridiculous answers.

"You say you believe you have the gift of foresight?" he asked, his skepticism was palpable.

"Oh, yes Headmaster...I have the sight...I can see things...terrible things...before they happen...just as my great-great grandmother, Cassandra Sybill." she said cryptically. He raised his eyebrows, leaning back, steepling his fingers.

"Indeed, and what sort of things have you seen?"

Her gaze shifted beyond the room, as if seeking answers in the very air. Dumbledore's eyes followed hers for a moment and then looked back at her curiously.

"Visions, Headmaster...visions of death and tragedy....I once predicted the demise of a students pet goldfish!"

Dumbledore raised his eyebrow. "A goldfish?"

"Yes," the woman said, her voice quivering. "I saw it....in my crystal ball...floating belly-up in his bowl. A dire omen, surely."

Dumbledore sighed, his patience waning. "Miss Trelawny, Divination is a delicate art. It requires intuition, yes, but also a grounding in reality...tell me, have you ever predicted anything...useful?"

Her eyes misted over as she clasped her hands. "I once foresaw a student dropping a teacup...it shattered you see! A sign of impending doom, I'm sure."

Dumbledore resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "A broken teacup hardly qualifies as useful prophecy," he said, his tone gentle. "Divination must transcend trivialities. Tell me, have you glimpsed anything beyond porcelain fragments? Anything that might guide our path?"

Sybil hesitated, her cryptic demeanor faltering. "I...I once sensed a gathering storm, a tempest brewing in the Forbidden Forest. But the details elude me."

"Miss Trelawney," Dumbledore continued, his voice a blend of kindness and resolve, "I appreciate your time and your...unique perspective. As of this moment, we have not made a final decision regarding the Divination position at Hogwarts. Your application shall remain on file, and should we find ourselves in need of a professor with your talents, we shall be in touch. Thank you, and best wishes to you."

He rose from his chair, robes billowing like the wings of a majestic phoenix. Sybil nodded, her smile timid yet hopeful. Dumbledore turned to leave, his footsteps echoing against the ancient floorboards.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As he reached for the doorknob, Sybil's voice shifted—a subtle transformation that sent shivers down Severus's spine. It was as if two entities spoke through her...one mortal, the other touched by realms beyond.

"The one with the power to conquer the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies....."

Severus's breath hitched. He had dismissed Trelawney as a charlatan, a mere pretender to the art of Divination. Yet now, her words resonated with an eerie clarity. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

He leaned closer, straining to catch every syllable. The prophecy...the elusive thread of destiny...wove itself before him. The seventh month, defiance, a harbinger of doom. His mind raced, connecting dots he hadn't known existed.

And then, as if mocking his newfound intrigue, fate intervened.

"Hey! You're not supposed to be in here, Death Eater!"

The bar's owner materialized, his grip firm on Severus's arm. Annoyance flashed across Severus's face. He had no patience for interruptions, especially when the veil of prophecy hung so tantalizingly close.

The man propelled him out of the pub, and Severus stumbled onto the cobbled street. He straightened his robes, eyes darting back toward the room where Trelawney's voice still echoed. The prophecy...the incomplete revelation...burned within him.

What he did next would haunt him for years to come.

He relayed the prophecy to Voldemort.

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Chapter Text

(Back to the present)

Voldemort reaches into his robes and withdraws a bone white wand. He takes long slow breaths as he slips the wand around in his long spider like fingers as if he has yearned to grip it again for a life time.

He turns to Wormtail and gestures for the man to approach him.

"Hold out your arm" the dark lord says in his soft raspy voice. Wormtail smiles a bit as he holds out his stumpy bleeding arm.

"Thank you Master-"

"The other arm Wormtail." Voldemort says coldly. Wormtail's eyes widen in surprise but he holds out his left arm.

He pulls up the sleeve of Wormtails shirt and eyes the dark mark on his forearm. He presses his finger to the mark and Hadria hisses in pain feeling her scar burn again.

"Now...let us see who will come" Voldemort says looking to the skies. Then he turns to Hadria.

And there she was, tied to a large headstone, her body trembling, her eyes wide with fear. Hadria Potter...the girl who had thwarted him time and again. She was his nemesis, his adversary, and now, she was at his mercy.

"Hello, my dear," Voldemort purred, his voice like silk. "So nice of you...to join us."

His blue eyes bore into hers, and he smiled...a smile that held no warmth, no kindness. He looked down her body, assessing her, calculating. She was lean, curvy...a stark contrast to his own gaunt frame. Her long, thick blonde hair was pulled back, strands escaping to frame her face. Her ocean blue eyes held defiance, but fear lurked beneath the surface. Her button nose and pouty lips were wrapped around the gag, and he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement.

"Standing on the bones of my father," Voldemort continued, his tone mocking. "The muggle that he was...well, he served a purpose anyway. Even if he did abandon my mother when he found out what she was..."

His lips curled into a sneer.

"But no matter...no matter...Hadria..."

He circled her, his gaze raking over her form. She was a puzzle...a mystery. How had this girl, this mere mortal, managed to survive his wrath? He had underestimated her once, but he wouldn't make that mistake again.

"Such a lovely little witch you turned out to be," he mused aloud. "How fun it will be to break you." His fingers trailed down her arm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"You've defied me, Hadria Potter. You've challenged me. And now..." He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Now, you're mine."

Suddenly masked witches and wizards, she couldn't tell, began apparating one by one into the graveyard with them.

"Ah yes...here comes my true family..."
Voldemort says as he turns from her to the figures as they begin arriving.

After a pause he looks at them and speaks again.

"Welcome, Death Eaters," he intoned, his voice like a serpent's hiss.

"Many years it has been...and you still answer the call." His gaze lingered on each of them, assessing, judging.

"And yet...I confess myself disappointed." His tone turned icy. "None of you came to my aid...none of you came looking for me."

His eyes bore into theirs, accusing. "As if...I were a lost cause...as if you did not know what lengths I had gone to...to prevent my destruction."

The air crackled with tension. The Death Eaters shifted uneasily, their loyalty tested.

Voldemort's wrath was legendary, and they had witnessed it firsthand. But now, with their master returned, they stood on the precipice of redemption...or damnation.

He raised his wand, and the incantation slipped from his lips.

"Crucio!"

A curse that twisted reality, that shredded the fabric of existence. A random Death Eater crumpled to the ground, writhing in agony. Voldemort watched, his sadistic pleasure evident, as the man convulsed, bones snapping, nerves aflame before he finally release the spell.

"You will all repay me," he declared, his voice cutting through the night. "In the same years of service that I was gone." His gaze swept over them once more. "Before you will truly be forgiven."

His eyes locked onto Avery, the man who had fallen.

"Get up, Avery!" he barked. "Your penance begins now."

And as the Death Eater scrambled to his feet, Voldemort reveled in their fear, their desperation. They were pawns in his game...a means to an end.

Worthless...all of them...

He walks around the group and turns to Wormtail.

"Even you...you may have helped me get my body back...but you did so, not out of loyalty, but out of fear!"

Wormtail cowers as the Dark Lord approaches.

"Still..."

Voldemort waves his wand and Wormtail's hand reappears on his bloody stub. Wormtail thanks him profusely as he joins the circle of death eaters.

Voldemort walks around the circle confronting each one individually. They stand proud but are clearly in fear each promising to do better moving forward.

He turned back to her, his smile wicked, and she flinched.

"Oh, Hadria, my dear," he drawled, his voice dripping with malice.

"I'd...almost forgotten about you over there." His blue eyes bore into hers. "The girl who lived...the one who is said will...conquer me."

Voldemort's laughter echoed through the night, a chilling symphony that sent shivers down the spines of his Death Eaters. They joined in, their loyalty unwavering, their fear masked by their devotion.

The prophecy...the weight of it...hung heavy in the air. Hadria knew its words by heart: "The one with the power to conquer the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..." She had heard it whispered, feared it, and now, she was living it.

"Would you like to hear a story?" Voldemort asked, his tone mocking. "About how a sweet little innocent witch caused me to lose my power? There was a prophecy of your coming," he continued. "I'm sure you know...so, of course, what choice did I have but to try to undermine its insinuated doom?"

His words were a twisted dance, a web of half-truths and veiled threats. Hadria's heart raced. Her mother's sacrifice...the night Voldemort had come for her.

"Your mother," Voldemort murmured, leaning in until his face was just half a foot below hers. "She cast a powerful protection upon you. Old magic...forgotten magic." His breath ghosted over her skin. "I could not touch you, my dear Hadria. Even if my hand had been forced..."

Another tear slipped down her cheek, and she wondered if her mother's sacrifice had been worth it. The prophecy loomed, and she was caught in its snare...a pawn in a game she hadn't asked to play.

"When I cast the killing curse upon you," Voldemort's voice was a low, chilling murmur, "it was rebounded to myself...ripping me from my own body." His eyes bore into Hadria's, and she felt the weight of his words. "But thankfully," he continued, "because of my own foresight for such an event, I lived. Though robbed of my powers, I retained the ability to possess the bodies of others."

"Years it took me to make my way back, and almost had the Sorcerer's Stone before I was thwarted by you, my dear...yet again."

"It took a lot of time and planning," Voldemort continued, his gaze unwavering. "Some dark magic. But I have risen once again."

His fingers moved to untie the gag, and it fell to the ground. She licked her dry lips, her heart pounding.

"Amazing what a bit of your blood can do, Hadria."

He cupped her cheek with one spidery hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. His thumb dragged along her bottom lip, and she trembled.

"I can touch you now," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. She stared down at him, torn between fear and curiosity.

But then he blinked, and something shifted in his eyes. He narrowed his gaze, tilting his head curiously.

"What is..." he began, his voice trailing off...the more he touched her the more he felt it. His wand waved, and she fell from the headstone. Before she could react, he grabbed her throat, slamming her against the marble, his body pinning hers. His mouth hovered inches from hers, and she could feel his breath.

Fear...undeniable and raw...flickered in his eyes.

"It cannot be," he murmured.

Magic radiates from her...I recognize this...this sensation...the way it vibrates beneath my fingers as if trying to escape her...fighting to mingle with my own...it cannot be!!

"You..." he whispered, his voice a dangerous purr. "Sneaky little witch...do you even know what you are?"

She feels weak with fear and another tear falls down her face. He presses into her mind then searching...searching...the pain it causes her is almost unbearable...it feels like it goes on for hours though it was only minutes...he finally withdraws. Hadria's mind reeled, the intrusion leaving her breathless. Voldemort's probing had been relentless, a violation that cut through her defenses. She felt weak, her knees buckling, but she forced herself to stand. His eyes...hauntingly beautiful...held secrets she couldn't fathom

"Of course you don't..." he chuckled, his voice a dark melody. He supported her, and she leaned into his touch, her mind still reeling from the invasion. "

Voldemort released her, stepping back slowly. He had glimpsed her memories, her fears, her desires. Haunting her dreams had been child's play compared to this. But now, he knew...he could do more. Much, much more.

His gaze bore into hers, calculating. "But what to do with you now, little witch?" he mused aloud.

The prophecy...the tangled threads of fate...loomed over them. Hadria was more than just a girl who lived; she was a vessel, a conduit for ancient magic. And Voldemort hungered for power, for immortality.

He circled her, like a predator... "Perhaps," he said, his voice low, "we'll find out together."

Voldemort's wand rose, and Hadria's breath hitched, her chest tightening as panic surged through her veins. She scanned the ground frantically, seeking her own wand...it lay a mere few feet away, tantalizingly out of reach.

Desperation fueled her movements. With a surge of determination, she lunged toward her wand, fingertips brushing against the polished wood. But then, as if fate itself conspired against her, she heard his voice...a cruel incantation that sliced through the air like a blade.

"Crucio!"

Agony erupted within her, a searing pain that consumed her from the inside out. She collapsed onto the cold earth, writhing, every nerve screaming. Her wand remained untouched, and she knew she was defenseless against the merciless curse.

Through the haze of torment, she glimpsed Voldemort approaching...a specter of malevolence. His eyes, once gleeful, were now narrowed, something unreadable flickering within them. The Dark Lord had changed; he wasn't smiling anymore. His face was a mask of determination, etched with purpose.

And then, mercifully, he released her. Hadria curled into a fetal position, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face. The pain still echoed through her, but she managed to look up at him. His long, bony fingers wiped her tears away, and she flinched at the rough touch. His nails grazed her scalp, and she wondered how she had ended up here...caught in this twisted dance with the Dark Lord...a dance where agony and fascination waltzed hand in hand.

Voldemort's whisper slithered through the air, chilling and commanding. "Grab your wand, my dear," he hissed, as if coaxing a venomous serpent from its lair. "Defend yourself from my attack. Let me see what they have taught you."

Hadria's fingers trembled around the hilt of her wand. She knew—deep in her bones—that she was no match for the Dark Lord. But defiance surged within her, a flame that refused to be extinguished. She would fight, even if it meant her own destruction.

His sinister grin widened, revealing sharp teeth. Voldemort stepped back, allowing Hadria to rise. Her gaze flitted to Cedric's lifeless form, sprawled on the ground...a casualty of this twisted contest. Then her eyes darted to the Triwizard cup, tantalizingly close. Her mind raced, calculating her next move. Survival hung in the balance.

"Don't worry about him, Hadria," Voldemort's voice was a cold whisper. "He's gone. Now come, my dear...I presume they have at least taught you how to duel."

"First, we bow, Hadria," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers. "The niceties must be observed."

He bowed, and with a flick of his wand, forced her to do the same. Hadria's heart pounded. The duel was inevitable, and she knew she was outmatched. But defiance burned within her.

"Now then," Voldemort straightened, robes billowing like a shroud, "let us duel. Ready yourself."

The Death Eaters edged closer, their masked faces eager for bloodshed. But Voldemort's snarl halted their advance. His gaze bore into Hadria's, a predator assessing its prey.

"She's mine!" he spat, and they hesitated, their loyalty wavering. Hadria raised her wand, knuckles white with determination. The wood hummed in response, attuned to her fear and resolve.

And so they dueled...a macabre ballet of light and darkness, wands weaving intricate patterns through the night. Hadria's spells surged forth, fueled by desperation, but Voldemort deflected them effortlessly. His smile was almost...proud, as if he reveled in her futile attempts. Each clash of magic echoed the ghosts of battles past, and the graveyard's silent stones bore witness.

But then he hit her with the Cruciatus Curse again...a searing bolt of malevolence that lanced through her veins. Only this time, it didn't hurt as much. Numbness settled over her, cocooning her senses. Hadria wondered if she was becoming immune to the pain or if her very soul had calcified against the onslaught.

He approached, his robes whispering against the dew-kissed grass. Plucking her wand from her trembling hand, he released the curse. She lay there, gasping, tears streaming down her face.

His eyes bore into hers, predatory. The fractured prophecy danced at the edges of her consciousness—a riddle she couldn't decipher. He stroked her jawline with her own wand, the wood cool against her skin. It was an intimate violation, a reminder of her vulnerability.

"Please..." She whimpered, her voice raw. Fear and defiance warred within her, twin flames flickering in the abyss. He closed his eyes, savoring her fear...the taste of it, the texture of her trembling soul. When he opened them, they gleamed with ancient knowledge. His lips curved, a cruel echo of tenderness.

"Oh...sweet girl," he whispered, "how I love to hear you beg. But that's for later."

He winked, a promise veiled in shadows, and turned away. In that moment, Hadria seized her chance...a heartbeat suspended between desperation and determination. She stood and sprinted to Cedric's lifeless body, her fingers trembling as she clutched him. The Triwizard cup loomed ahead, its golden surface mocking her...a gateway to salvation or damnation.

"Accio!"

The incantation tore from her lips, fueled by raw need. Voldemort spun around, piercing blue eyes narrowing, but it was too late. The cup flew into her hand, its edges biting into her palm. With a desperate cry, she vanished from the graveyard—the world around her collapsing into a whirlwind of colors and fractured memories.

He lowered his wand, rage and frustration boiling within him. The girl had eluded him, slipping through the cracks of his cruel game.

As the graveyard's shadows closed in, Voldemort vowed silently:

I'll punish you for this, my sweet little witch.

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Chapter Text

What happened after that was a blur—a cacophony of blurred edges and fractured memories. Hadria stumbled, disoriented, her senses reeling. The Triwizard maze had spat her out, returning her to the very edge where the task had begun. The cheers from the stands had initially erupted for her...victorious, triumphant...until the grim reality settled like a shroud. Cedric Diggory lay lifeless, his eyes vacant, and the crowd's jubilation curdled into horror.

After that, it was chaos. Screams tore through the air, cries of disbelief and grief. Hadria's legs gave way, and she collapsed beside Cedric's body. She remembered being pulled away carried back into Dumbledore's office...numb, unfeeling...as if her very soul had been wrenched from her chest. Hogwarts loomed before her, its ancient walls a sanctuary she could hardly comprehend.

Dumbledore's hand settled on her shoulder, a comforting weight. His eyes held both sympathy and resolve. She could hardly see through her tears, the world a watery blur.

"Hadria," he said, his voice gentle, "we need to know what transpired in that graveyard."

Severus Snape knelt before her, his usual sarcasm absent. His voice, too, was calm...a balm for her shattered nerves.

"What happened, Hadria?" His fingers tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes bore into hers, demanding answers.

"He's back...Voldemort is back..."

The name tasted bitter on her tongue...a curse, a nightmare. She confirmed what Severus already knew deep down—the truth etched in the lines of his face when he felt the burn of his Dark Mark and saw it darken once again.

She recounted the ritual...the blood, the chilling presence of the man who defied death. The graveyard's shadows clung to her memory...the eerie glow of the Dark Lord's resurrection, the whispers of ancient incantations. Severus's wand traced a healing path over her wound, sealing it. But the scar ran deeper...a mark of survival, of witnessing the impossible.

***

Hours blurred into exhaustion. Hadria found herself in the hospital wing, the sterile white walls offering no solace. Snape's draught had granted her dreamless sleep, shielding her from nightmares. Yet fate had other plans.

A raspy voice cut through the silence, pulling her from slumber...a whisper that seemed to emerge from the very fabric of reality.

"Hadria...wake, my dear."

She stirred, caught between realms, and then opened her eyes. The hospital wing had vanished, replaced by a grandeur she couldn't comprehend. She lay in a four-poster bed—the softest fabrics cradling her like a cocoon. It was as if she were suspended in clouds, drifting between wakefulness and dreams.

The room...no, the chamber...was unlike anything she'd ever seen. Lavishly decorated, it exuded opulence. The walls bore intricate tapestries, their threads weaving tales of forgotten kingdoms and lost magic. A crackling fire danced in the grand fireplace, casting flickering shadows across the room. Its warmth battled the chill that permeated the air...a paradox of comfort and unease.

Hadria sat up, her senses reeling. Moonlight spilled through stained glass windows, painting kaleidoscopic patterns on the dark wood floor.

Only kings and queens have rooms this big, she thought, her mind grasping for context. But where was she? How had she arrived here...from the hospital wing to this ethereal sanctuary?

The room smells of aged wood, burnt herbs, and a hint of decay. It's as if the very essence of dark magic clings to the air molecules. As she inhaled, she picks up the scent of vanilla...unexpectedly pleasant...mingles with the darkness. Is it a cruel trick or a rare mercy?

She looked down and found herself scantily clad in a short dark green silk nightie with a lace hem and delicate spaghetti straps.

Hadria had the distinct feeling she was in a dream. But that shouldn't be possible—the potion Snape had administered should have prevented such wanderings of the mind. And yet, everything around her had a kind of haze—an ethereal quality that made her almost certain it was a dream. But not like any dream she'd ever had before. She felt so...present...not the usual detached feeling that accompanied slumber. She could hear and smell the crackling fire...the warmth battling the chill that permeated the air. She could feel the softness of the bedding against her skin, see every little detail around her—the intricate carvings on the bedposts, the flickering shadows on the walls.

"Let's see...if you can taste as well, my dear"

Suddenly, the bed sank next to her, and she looked over. There he was...Voldemort...sitting next to her on the bed. His presence was both unsettling and magnetic. He held a glass of white wine, its pale hue catching the firelight. His eyebrow raised in silent invitation, he offered the glass to her.

In her groggy, dreamy state, Hadria took it. Her fingers brushed his—warmth, a connection. The glass bore a light layer of condensation on the outside, except where their skin had touched. So many details...the texture of the crystal, the play of light within the liquid.

...hmm...they've got her all drugged up...

"It's just wine...you saw me drink it, Hadria..."
He chuckled softly, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. The fire's glow painted his features...an enigma wrapped in darkness.

"Have you ever had it?" he asked, tilting his head curiously. She swallowed nervously, shaking her head no.

"Nothing wrong with enjoying the finer things in life, my dear," he continued, his tone almost gentle. "Go on...give it a sip...I promise it won't harm you."

Why the fuck should I believe him?

His voice...soft, almost tender...wrapped around her like a silken thread. Voldemort laid a hand over hers, guiding the glass to her mouth.. It's just a dream right? No harm in one sip...He smiles as she begins to tip it back. She feels the wetness and then the taste...a sweet tartness floods her mouth with that first sip. The taste lingered as she lowered the glass, licking her lips.

A small smirk played across his mouth, and a playful glint danced in his eyes. "You like it, don't you?" he murmured, leaning closer. His pale hand settled on her thigh, warmth seeping into her skin.

Voldemort is touching me...
oh...my...god...

He chuckled softly, savoring her surprise. His hand moved further up her thigh, and her pulse quickened. "Now, now, Hadria," he said, his mouth curling into a dangerous smirk. "We shouldn't get too ahead of ourselves...We're still very much in the...getting to know each other stage, now, aren't we?"

Getting to know...we're...what?

"Where am I? Why am I here?" Her eyes narrowed, suspicion mingling with confusion. He smiled...a cryptic twist of lips.

"Oh, my sweet girl," he replied, "not everything is always so black and white. Try not to overthink things...this is a safe place...no harm will come to you here."

He leaned back against the massive dark wood headboard. Only then did she notice the intricate carvings...snakes entwined in patterns of power and cunning. The room pulsed with magic, its very essence alive. He gestured for her to drink more, and against her better judgment, she complied. The wine was delicious, irresistible.

"Besides," he continued, "we may be enemies...but that doesn't mean we can't set our differences aside and have a conversation, does it?" His raised eyebrow held a challenge...an invitation.

She bit her lip, torn between curiosity and caution. Where was she? It couldn't be a dream—too detailed, too vivid. But it didn't feel exactly real either. The veil of uncertainty hung over her, and Voldemort...the enigma before her...was both captor and confidant.

"Why did you kill my parents?" Hadria's voice trembled, the question a blade poised between them.

He groaned, rolling his eyes. "How did I know you would ask that first?" Voldemort's gaze held amusement, a predator toying with its prey. He reached out, his touch feather-light against her cheek...a long, pale finger tracing the contours of her skin.

"I may...explain it to you in detail one day, perhaps," he mused. "For now, let's set that...particular topic aside. There is much you don't know, Hadria...so very much..."

Her sigh echoed the weight of unanswered questions. She stared into the wine glass, its contents a swirling enigma.

”Why Cedric?” The boy's name hung in the air...a ghost seeking solace.

"Cedric was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Voldemort explained, his voice turning cold, harsh. "An easy target. I saw it as an opportunity to punish you for your continued defiance. But there was also another reason. I had to send a clear message to the world...that I was back...and I am not afraid to take lives if I so desire."

He saw the questioning look in her eyes...the turmoil of a girl caught in the crossfire of destiny.

"Death," he continued, "is the most powerful magic there is, Hadria. Through death, we show ultimate dominance over our victims. We become their masters, deciding when and how they will die. There is nothing more satisfying than the moment when a powerful wizard or witch is completely at my mercy."

His voice softened, seductive—a whisper of secrets. "And besides, my dear, there's nothing more intimate than the act of taking someone's life."

Hadria recoiled, horror etching her features. She shook her head, a tear escaping her eye...the memory of Cedric's lifeless form haunting her.

"No, Voldemort...I don't agree with that."

His expression softened slightly, and he leaned toward her...a slight smile playing on his lips. His touch wiped the tear from her cheek...a paradox of cruelty and tenderness.

"I know that you don't," he murmured. "You've always been principled and strong-willed. I admire that about you. Perhaps, with time, we could teach each other our ways. You could show me what it's like to have a conscience. And I could show you the power of what it is to be completely ruthless."

The smile on his face at that point was comical. Hadria laughed...a sound that bubbled from her chest, unexpected and strangely liberating. Why was she laughing? The idea of her teaching him goodness? The notion of him imparting his dark ways to her? Or perhaps it was the excited little smile he wore—the glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. Maybe she was just going mad.

He chuckled softly, savoring the sound of her laughter. What is it about the sound of her laughter that makes me...feel...

"It almost sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?" Voldemort mused, leaning back against the headboard. "The idea of us learning anything from each other. You, with your conscience, and me with no morals whatsoever. But there is still a part of me that finds the idea intriguing. I would love to see you fall from grace and become evil. I would enjoy having you by my side as I brought order to this world."

Her laughter faded, replaced by tears. She shook her head, the wine in her glass sloshing dangerously.

What am I doing here? Why am I listening to this...he killed Cedric!!

Voldemort sighed, taking the glass from her trembling hand. His touch was oddly gentle as she became more emotional.

"No...no, I could never do such a thing," she whispered, covering her face.

He pulled her into him, cradling her like a fragile thing. His fingers stroked her hair, soothing...fatherly. He shushed her gently, a lullaby for her weeping soul. Lying her down, he tucked the soft blankets around her. Her face pressed into his robes, damp with tears. He lowered his mouth to her ear, his voice a seductive murmur.

"Rest, Hadria," he whispered. "Today was a lot, I know. Things will get harder before they get easier. But one thing I can tell you, my sweet girl...is that you could and will do such things...for it begins right now..."

He licks her ear softly and a heat shoots directly to her core. He nips the tender skin on her neck and she feels her body betray her as her nipples harden against the soft silk gown. He grits his teeth as he looks down and sees the evidence of her arousal.

How...responsive she is...how easy it will be to break her...

"Patience sweet girl...rest now..."
He whispers in her ear and soon after...sleep claims her once again.

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Hadria woke the next morning feeling foggy headed. She suddenly remembered the strange dream she had. She looks around. She's in the hospital wing. She is wearing her regular clothes...not the...thing...

"Good morning Hadria."
Dumbledore was sitting in a chair next to her. She blinked a few times making sure she was in fact not in a dream again. It certainly felt normal...as normal as reality can feel after everything she has endured the last 24 hours.

"How are you feeling?" He asked. Hadria laid back on the fluffy pillow. Should she tell him about her strange dream? She blushed remembering how her body had betrayed her when Voldemort had...touched her...why did he do that? Was it just some sort of strange stress dream? More importantly...why had she felt only fear and desire when she should have been repulsed?!

What the hell is wrong with me...

"I'm...feeling a bit better now....thank you." She said with a solemn tone remembering Cedric again. She decided to keep the dream to herself for the time being. She didn't know why...was she...ashamed? Embarrassed? Would he think her crazy?

Dumbledore nodded with a little smile. He stood and walked over to a window looking out.

"The ministry is in complete denial that Voldemort is back...they're refusing to take any action at this point...but not to worry Hadria...we will endure. The school will remain open and the students will be safe here."

"Denial? How can they possibly be in denial?!" She asked angrily. Dumbledore sighed and turned back to her peering over his glasses.

"Fear...mostly...They don't wish to return to the dark times we all experienced. Voldemort's return means fear and war and suffering. They also like to maintain the illusion that they're in control. The Ministry has a vested interest in pretending that Voldemort has not returned, even though the evidence is clear to us. They are hoping that denying the facts will make them disappear."

Hadria sat up all the way and rubbed her temples. She was angry.

"And Cedric's death was...."

"An unfortunate accident...or so the papers will say. That will be their official stance. As I said, Hadria, try not to worry too much. I have many people working on this behind the scenes...what I need you to do, is rest."

He set another potion on the nightstand.

"Another gift from Severus...your friends will be by tomorrow. Take the potion Hadria."

She tried to swallow her emotions and looked at the potion as her tears began to fall.

"I deserve to suffer...I'm the one who told Cedric to grab the cup with me...it should have been just me there."

And then I let him fucking arouse me...

Dumbledore sat on the edge of her bed then and put a hand on her shoulder.

"That way of thinking can lead down a very dark path of bitterness and self destruction. Do not blame yourself for what was beyond your control. Cedric's death lies on Voldemorts shoulders alone."

Dumbledore handed her the potion.

"Drink"

She picked up the potion and drank it down. She laid back against the soft pillow. Soon after she was asleep once again.

Hadria...
Darkness...can't see anything...just feeling... hands...softly rubbing through her hair...down her back...so comforting...so tender...slipping around her belly...soft caresses...she feels a hot breath on her shoulder...tender kisses trace down her neck.

So beautiful...my little witch...
She feels teeth on her shoulder. Biting her...hard....harder....seering pain....

No!...Stop...Please, it hurts!
She suddenly wakes as she hears one word...one ghostly whisper still ringing in her ear...

Mine...

***

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Chapter Text

The hospital wing was bathed in an ethereal glow as Hadria stirred from her restless slumber. The darkness that had enveloped her dreams now surrendered to blinding white light. Squinting against the brilliance, she gradually opened her eyes. Morning had arrived, yet the remnants of her nightmare clung to her like a shadow.

Her shoulder throbbed, a persistent ache that defied the boundary between dream and reality. Pulling down her shirt, she revealed the source of her discomfort...a bite mark etched into her skin. This was no mere figment of her imagination; it was a tangible wound, as if sharp teeth had punctured her flesh.

As footsteps approached, Hadria hastily adjusted her shirt to conceal the evidence. Ron and Hermione entered, their expressions a mix of relief and concern. Hermione settled onto the bed beside her, enfolding Hadria in a wordless hug. Tears welled up, and the two girls shared a silent understanding...the aftermath of Cedric's death and Voldemort's return weighed heavily upon them.

Ron's hand landed on Hadria's shoulder, and she clenched her jaw to mask the pain. "You alright?" he asked, genuine worry etching his features.

Hadria managed a small smile, grateful when Ron finally withdrew his touch. "I'm working on it," she replied honestly, her voice carrying both determination and vulnerability.

Hermione's anger flared. "Dumbledore addressed the entire school this morning," she said, her grip on Hadria's knee seeking solace. "He revealed what truly transpired in the graveyard....the loss of Cedric, Voldemort's resurgence. But the Ministry...they're cowards, denying the truth."

Hadria nodded, her gaze dropping to the nightstand where gifts and floral arrangements adorned the sterile space. The weight of destiny pressed upon her. "They'll have to face reality eventually," she murmured.

Hermione's tearful eyes mirrored the weight of their shared burden. "Everything will be different now, won't it?" she whispered, her voice fragile.

Hadria drew in a deep breath, her gaze shifting between Ron and Hermione. With a subtle nod, she clasped Hermione's hand in hers. "I'm afraid it will," Hadria replied softly. "But we still have each other, and Dumbledore is working tirelessly. Hogwarts remains a sanctuary...for now."

Hermione sniffled, wiping her eyes. "Thank Merlin for that," she murmured, seeking solace in their fragile camaraderie.

***

Released from the hospital wing that day, Hadria moved through the final days of school in a haze. She avoided crowded spaces, unwilling to face the questions and sympathetic glances. Instead, she sought refuge with Ron and Hermione, their silent companionship a balm for wounded souls.

Returning to her aunt and uncle's house for the summer held no joy. Hogwarts was her true home, and as she bid farewell to friends at King's Cross Station, promises of letters exchanged, she clung to the memories of magic and camaraderie.

In the quiet of the taxi ride, Hadria lowered her gaze to the lingering bite mark on her shoulder. It healed slowly, defying normalcy, yet the pain had subsided. No more "dreams" had visited her since that fateful night, but she sensed a shift...a gathering storm on the horizon.

The Dursleys' reception remained cool, though a begrudging respect had settled over their interactions. It wasn't warmth, but it was something.

Petunia's unexpected act of dusting Hadria's room spoke volumes. The vase of flowers and the small, unsigned sympathy card on her nightstand conveyed a message even the Dursleys couldn't ignore...the weight of a student's death, even if that student happened to be a wizard.

Hadria settled onto her bed, her guitar cradled in her arms. Music had always been her refuge, a language for emotions too complex to express in mere words. Years ago, she had scrimped and saved to buy this guitar, envisioning how its strings would resonate with her feelings. Singing in the privacy of the shower had been her initial outlet, but eventually, she yearned for more. An instrument seemed like the perfect companion...one she could carry between school and home.

The old piano in the living room eventually beckoned to her, and Petunia, surprisingly, had granted permission. Basic lessons from her aunt had blossomed into self-taught mastery. Hadria's fingers danced across the keys, revealing a hidden talent. Petunia never voiced approval, but her softened gaze spoke volumes. She even tolerated Hadria's occasional singing, a silent acknowledgment of their shared secret.

Now, as an of-age witch, Hadria wielded magic beyond Hogwarts. With a quick Muffliato charm, she silenced the room, allowing her music to fill the space.

https://youtu.be/ktnOsnWut4o?si=I6sQAMecCAhBQOpX

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so very special
But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here
I don't care if it hurts
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice
When I'm not around
So very special
I wish I was special
But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here
He's running out again
He's running out again
Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so very special
I wish I was special...

She let the weight of the guitar settle in her lap as she wiped the tears from her face.

***

She went to bed early that night, desperate to escape the maelstrom of emotions swirling within her. Tossing and turning, she wrestled with tangled thoughts, each twist of the sheets a futile attempt to find solace. The moon cast a silvery glow through her window, illuminating her restlessness.

With a resigned sigh, she surrendered to the sleepless night. Her back pressed against the cool sheets, eyes wide open in frustration. But as her gaze swept the unfamiliar surroundings, panic surged. This wasn't her room; this wasn't her world. Reality had shifted, and she was no longer where she belonged.

***

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Chapter Text

The low plaster white ceiling had vanished, replaced by a high vaulted expanse of dark wood. Hadria sat up, her heart racing, and took in her surroundings. She was back in the luxurious bed...the lavish room that she had mentally dubbed "Voldemort's chamber."

She yelped when she saw Voldemort sitting next to her and she tumbled out of the bed, landing unceremoniously on the wooden floor. He had been engrossed reading a newspaper. His chuckle echoed through the room as her bottom met the unforgiving surface.

"I don't imagine it's all that clean down there, my dear...I haven't allowed anyone in to dust since I came back."

Hadria narrowed her eyes at him, her fear momentarily overridden by irritation. She peered over the edge of the bed, assessing the situation.

He set the paper aside, his smile lingering. He patted the bed next to him.

"Come back, little witch," he said, his voice a velvet lure. "I won't bite...again."

She didn't move, hesitating between defiance and curiosity. She looked back down at her shoulder and that's when she realized she was in the skimpy silk green nightie again. And the bite mark was of course still there.

"Yes my dear it's still there...it will be for awhile." He confirmed picking up the paper once more.

"Why...did you..."

...bite me...

His raised eyebrow and amused side glance caught her off guard

"Oh sweet girl don't be foolish...you know why...you just haven't accepted it yet." His eyes went back to the paper. She sighed not wanting to address what he meant. Not yet anyway.

"Why am I wearing this...and why is....it green?" She asked annoyed still not moving from her spot on the floor peering over the side of the bed. He didn't answer her but patted the bed next to him again...clearly he was done talking unless she joined him. She slowly made her way back up to him. He smiled as she did.

"So obedient..."
He purred down to her.

"Shut up..."
He laughed then...why was his laugh suddenly...so...pleasant?

He looked back at the paper.

"I like how it looks on you...and do you really have to ask why it's green?" He wasn't looking at her as he spoke but he had a small curl to his lip and an amused glint in his eyes.

She sighed and looked around.
Of course...because he was a Slytherin.

"That's right little witch" he replied as though he could read her thoughts...wait...can he? She looked at him and he winked at her before looking back at his paper.

Fuck.

He chuckled again.

"If you really don't like it...there are others..." he said.

"Others?" She asked. He pointed to an ornate wardrobe across the room.

"Your stuff is on the left."

She tilted her head in confusion.

"My...stuff...?"

He just smiled and just kept reading his paper. Curiosity got the better of her. She cautiously lowered her feet to the ground. The floor was cold. She hadn't noticed it before. She padded her way through the room past the grand fireplace and cushy loveseat. She looked back at him...he was just reading his paper. She opened the top left drawer and her eyes were met with a sea of lingerie and panties of the finest fabrics all in black or dark green. She picked one up...a thong...

She looked back at him glaring annoyedly.

"Really?"

He shrugged.

"I liked it" he said matter of factly. She dropped it back in the drawer and closed it. She opened the next drawer. It was full of night gowns of all styles, all in the finest fabrics and all...black or dark green.

"You have an obsession..."

"Preference, my dear...not obsession..." he said simply.

She shook her head and looked through the clothes for a few minutes feeling the exquisite fabrics between her fingers. Some of them really were quite beautiful, albeit...a bit too spicy for her taste.

"Why do you...have all of this?"

Suddenly he was right behind her and his answer was hot against her ear.

"For you, my dear." She froze and felt his large spider like pale hands slide around her belly as he kissed her neck softly. There was that heat again. Like molten lava had settled in the bottom of her belly. Despite his appearance she found herself oddly attracted to this man...something about him was incredibly erotic to her. She tried to keep her mind clear so he wouldn't know. He set his chin on her shoulder peeking down into the drawer with her.

"Do you like them?"

She grit her teeth and took a shaky breath trying to fight the reactions of her body to him.

This is so wrong...

She didn't see the smile that spread across his face at her thoughts. She looked back down at the clothes in the drawer.

"They're beautiful...but....why..." she didn't know how to finish her question but he knew what she was asking. His fingers flexed across her belly and the heat intensified.

"Because I take care of what belongs to me darling" he said softly against her ear and she felt his tongue trace up her earlobe. Her breath caught and she bit her lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape her throat.

"I belong to no one" she managed to get out in a rather defiant but breathy tone. He chuckled and that's when she felt it...the hardness pressed against her lower back right above her ass...he was aroused.

Oh god, oh god, oh god...

She closed her eyes and held her breath when he nipped playfully at the skin on her shoulder.

"Do you want to change? I got them all for you...I might have had some help picking them out...I'm no expert on women's clothes after all."

She tried to imagine Voldemort...in a lingerie store asking for someone's opinion...suddenly she was laughing.

Gods her laugh...is divine... he had to make it stop.

He slipped one of his hands around her throat. It worked...she stopped laughing and her whole body tensed up. He gritted his teeth and pressed his mouth to her ear.

"You really are...a little tease you know that? I should punish you for it...make you scream again..." he said remembering the night in the graveyard and the pleasure he felt as he tortured her with the Crucio...but it had been a surprisingly bitter sweet feeling as he recalled. And he wasn't sure why...or why he went easier on her the second time he cast the curse...he was convinced it was the same reason he couldn't kill her...yes, that has to be it...

He removes his hand and lowers it onto her shoulder instead. Hadria was still. She wasn't sure if she could be harmed in this place and she didn't want to test it...the bite mark was evidence enough that she wasn't as safe as he had suggested.

"Choose something else, my dear..."
He breath tickled her ear in the most fantastic way.

She took in a deep breath and pulled out a long sleeved button up silk top and found the matching pants.

"I had a feeling you might like those...you're a modest little creature aren't you? I think I like that about you. Not like other witches trying to tempt me with their bodies...no...you're different...better..."

He chuckled and finally released her returning to his spot on the bed. He gestured to a door next to the fireplace with a little smile.

She cautiously pushed the ornate door open. It was the bathroom...the size of about 4 of her bedrooms. Everything was so...fancy...the floors marble, the ceiling white and ornate with delicate details. There was a massive bath tub in one corner and a large built in shower in the other along with all the other necessities of a bathroom. She wondered if there was a more grand bathroom in existence. It was a stark difference from the dark bedroom. Light and airy. She looked at herself in the large mirror over the sink for a moment. It was sort of surreal seeing her reflection in this place. She looked normal enough though.

She pulled off the skimpy gown and changed into the long ones feeling much better being covered. The bathroom is so clean it looks unused.

"Do you even shower or does the Dark Lord not require being clean?" She asked in condescending tone as she buttoned up her top. There was a pause.

"Is that an invitation?" She finally heard him say. She didn't have to see him to know he was smiling when he said it.

"No!" She snipped quickly. She heard him chuckle.

"Maybe next time..."

She rolled her eyes ignoring that comment and walked back into the bedroom. She left the gown on the vanity in the bathroom as she stood at the end of the bed unsure of what to do now. He was still reading the paper.

"Amazing isn't it? How the ministry is in such denial they won't even talk about my return...it's almost...offensive...if it weren't so...expected...but there's a lovely recipe for Treacle Tart and Blancmange if that would interest you."

He finally tossed the paper down on his nightstand.

The audacity of the ministry to shy from the truth...but how deliciously ironic...

"Cowards...all of them...I can't wait to make them bleed." He muttered laying his head back on the headboard with a smile. She didn't even flinch this time. She almost agreed with him...wait, what?

He looked at her then grinning and made a happy little grunting noise with a slight nod.

"You do have a darkness in you, don't you?"

She just glared him in response.

"Nevermind...come..." he patted the bed next to him again. She swallowed and hesitated.

"I'm not going to try anything...not while you're wearing the nuns pajamas anyway..." he said with a snicker.

"Although, you still look stunning...get over here witch before I have to compel you."

She narrowed her eyes at his threat but did as he asked and crawled back up into the massive bed next to him.

"I do so love watching you crawl toward me with that look on your face." He purred down to her.

"There was no look" she said crossing her arms. He smiled and raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and looked away.

"Is that a blush, my dear?"

She ignored his question.

"Why do you bring me here?" She asked instead. He seemed to think on that for a moment before responding.

"I have a proposal for you..."

"Oh?" She asked intrigued. She waited for him to speak again but he didn't.

"Well, what is it?"

He chuckled.

"So impatient, sweet girl...I'm not ready to ask yet..."

She huffed and looked across the room listening the crackling fire. Despite its darkness and size the room felt...warm and cozy.

"What are you planning to do...now that you're back?"

"All will be revealed in time darling...I'm going to have to teach you about patience, aren't I?"

She said nothing but just kept listening to the crackling fire. Suddenly he was right next to her...almost on top of her he was so close. His long fingers snake up her throat but continued instead cradling her cheek and head as he turned her face toward him forcing him to look in his damned piercing blue eyes...beautiful...

"I'm glad you like them dear...I'm quite...fond of yours as well...though there was a time when I might have carved them out of your skull and kept them as trinkets...but no more darling...so much has changed you see..."

He spoke softly. His mouth was so close to hers she was sure he meant to kiss her. She realized with a thought of horror...she wanted him to. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth for just a moment.

He smiled....oh my little pet...soon....

"I quite like how this is all playing out much better anyway...your death...would have been a tragedy..."

She felt a warmth under her fingers. She had brought her hand up to his arm before she even knew what she was doing. His eye twitched and his gaze flicked down to where she had touched him.

No one had ever dared to touch him before without his permission. He gritted his teeth. He felt anger...but also...

...get her out...

He smiled and pressed his forehead to hers gently stroking his thumb over her cheek and she closed her eyes.

"It's time to sleep my sweet girl"

His last words still hung in the air, an echo in the still quiet when she opened her eyes to see the low plaster white ceiling of her bedroom.  She could almost still feel a whisper of his warm breath on her face.

What the fuck...

***

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Voldemort emerged from the dream state, returning to his real room. The bed cradled him as he sat there, contemplating the recent session. Eventually, he rose, moving lazily toward the wardrobe. Pausing before it, he glanced at the bathroom door. It was pristine, just as Hadria had described. Unused, yet not because he refrained from using it.

His mind wandered back to his childhood, when he was known by his true name, Tom Riddle, and resided in Wools Orphanage...a bleak muggle institution. There, he and other children were forced to maintain impeccable bathrooms. Urine, feces, and vomit...muggle filth...had to be scrubbed away, all without the aid of magic. Back then, he didn't even know what he was. Born within those orphanage walls, he could claim a unique origin...one that few could share.

Family love eluded him, and friendships remained nonexistent. He thrived in solitude, preferring the company of his own thoughts. But the memories haunted him...the sickness that plagued him during those bathroom cleanings. The mere recollection made him queasy even now.

As he grew older and mastered magic, he maintained an unwavering commitment to cleanliness. His bathrooms were spotless, a habit ingrained over time. Personal items were never left lying around; communal bathrooms held too many risks. Theft, soiling, or worse...excuses for punishment. He learned to leave nothing behind.

And then there was Hadria. Their mind meetings transported her into his space, a clever illusion based on his room at Malfoy Manor. The nightgown he'd placed on her during their initial encounters...the bite mark...it all felt real to her. A genius trick, indeed. Voldemort allowed himself a rare moment of pride.

Oh I do so love toying with the mind...

The lingering suggestion of ownership...the phantom imprint of the bite...persisted in Hadria's mind far longer than Voldemort had anticipated. Yet, he reveled in the outcome. It was a subtle thread connecting them, a secret bond woven through their shared connection.

Returning to the wardrobe, he retrieved the gown from its drawer. The fabric yielded no trace of her scent, but that didn't deter him. He pressed it to his nose, imagining the softness against her skin. A faint disappointment tugged at him...she hadn't actually worn it, not yet. The chuckle that escaped him was both amused and sinister. Perhaps he'd have to coax her into it eventually.

Stepping back into the bathroom, he pondered where she might have stood while changing. The vanity seemed likely...after all, didn't all women prefer to dress before a mirror? He dropped the gown onto the polished surface, studying it with arms crossed. The room held echoes of her presence, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered how she'd look reflected in the glass.

Then with an annoyed huff he walked away.

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Chapter Text

The weeks slipped by, uneventful yet oddly tethered. Hadria's days revolved around the Dursleys' mundane existence. She toiled in Petunia's garden, her green thumb coaxing life from the soil. When not immersed in earth and blossoms, she retreated to her room...solitude her refuge. There, she penned letters to distant friends, their words a lifeline to a world beyond the confines of 4 Privet Drive.

Petunia remained cool, her demeanor frostier than the winter winds that swept through the garden. Yet, beneath the veneer of indifference, something flickered. Perhaps it was Hadria's knack for coaxing reluctant blooms or the quiet companionship they shared during their gardening sessions. The silence between them held a fragile thread, woven with unspoken gratitude.

Hadria, ever restless, occasionally shattered the quietude. She'd recount school tales, the mundane transformed into magic through her storytelling. Petunia, like a reluctant audience, would nod or even...surprisingly...softly snicker. The girl's presence, her stories, became a curious balm for Petunia's soul, though she'd never admit it aloud.

One day, while rummaging through the Dursleys' neglected garden shed, Hadria stumbled upon an old hammock. Its frayed fabric whispered of forgotten summers. Brimming with audacity, she sought permission to hang it in a secluded corner of the yard. Petunia's acquiescence surprised her...an unspoken thank-you, perhaps, for the garden's transformation.

Vernon, ever the gruff man that he was, grunted at the sight of the hammock. He retreated indoors, eyes glued to the television screen. The hammock swayed gently, cradling Hadria's dreams, bridging the gap between her silent world and the one beyond the garden gate.

Hadria's afternoons unfolded in the hammock...a cocoon of woven threads and dappled sunlight. She lost herself in books or simply gazed upward, savoring the warmth on her skin. The sky stretched wide, a canvas of azure and cotton-white. Here, she was alone, a fragile boundary against the world beyond.

Dudley, her brutish cousin, haunted her existence. When not tormenting her, he roamed with his gang of miscreants, leaving a trail of juvenile chaos. His parents, blissfully ignorant, believed his tales of innocent tea visits. Little did they know...he vandalized, smoked, bullied, and hurled stones at passing cars. A juvenile criminal, hidden behind a cherubic facade.

On her birthday, the hammock cradled her weariness. Chores completed, she sank into its embrace, surrounded by the scent of freshly turned earth. Birthday cards from distant friends lay scattered...inked wishes and promises of reunions. As the sun dipped low, casting golden threads through the leaves, Hadria surrendered to drowsiness. The hammock swayed, cradling her dreams, and she drifted into slumber, the whispers of leaves and the warmth of the day her only companions.

Hadria's slumber shattered, her wand drawn in a heartbeat. The crack echoed through the night, and she sprang from the hammock, adrenaline coursing through her veins. The garden lay cloaked in near darkness, save for feeble solar lights that Petunia inexplicably adored. Their glow barely pierced the shadows.

Following the narrow trail, Hadria approached the door leading from the Dursley home to the garden. Her senses strained, but nothing revealed itself. Had someone apparated? Or was her mind playing tricks? She lowered her wand, fingertips brushing the doorknob.

Then, a voice...a whisper that froze her blood.

"Happy Birthday, Hadria."

Recognition slammed into her. This was no dream. She turned, heart pounding, and there he stood: Voldemort, sinister smile etched across his features. Her breath hitched, and she retreated, back pressed against the door.

"Have you missed me?" His words slithered toward her, a predator closing in. She scoffed, defiance masking her fear.

"I would never," she snapped, but her bravado wavered. His chuckle sent shivers down her spine, yet his eyes softened, revealing a hint of something almost human.

"You're still afraid of me, hm?" He stepped closer, and she gulped, her gaze locked on his towering form.

So tall...

His smile widened.

"Tell me, my dear. How old are you now?" His casual demeanor belied the power that simmered beneath. He wanted to delve into her thoughts, but discretion held him back. Legilimency could wait; he didn't want to chase her away.

"I'm 19 now," she replied, suspicion coloring her curiosity.

Why is he here?

Voldemort's chuckle, a dark symphony, echoed through the night. He saw the question flicker in her eyes...the curiosity, the wariness. From behind his back, he produced a plain brown gift bag, extending it toward her.

"I don't imagine these muggles gift you much, do they?" His voice held a hint of mockery.

Hadria's gaze shifted from the bag to him. She accepted it cautiously, fingers tracing the rough paper.

As she peered inside, he reassured her, "It's not a bomb, I assure you."

Annoyance flashed in her narrowed eyes, yet she placed the bag on a small bistro table near the door.

She reached into the bag, her fingers brushed silk, and recognition dawned before her eyes met the contents. Long silk pajamas...the same she'd worn in his room. A smile, elusive and unbidden, tugged at her lips. Voldemort noticed, his scrutiny unyielding. The bag also held a bottle of white wine.

"If the muggles see it, it will appear as a simple non-alcoholic grape wine," he explained, brushing her hair back from her face. His touch was tender, incongruous with the darkness that clung to him.

How can an evil man be so gentle? Is this manipulation?

Hadria's emotions churned...a maelstrom of gratitude, suspicion, and vulnerability. It was one of the most thoughtful gifts she'd ever received, though her life had been sparse in such offerings. Ulterior motives loomed, yet even as tears pricked her eyes, she wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, there was a sliver of humanity within the monster before her.

"Thank you...but...why...why are you..." Hadria's voice faltered, her emotions a tempest she struggled to contain.

Why are you doing this to me? I'm supposed to hate this man but...why does he make me feel things?!

She rubbed her hand over her mouth, fighting the knot that had formed in her throat.

"Can I be honest with you for a moment?" Voldemort's voice softened, and Hadria's tears retreated, granting her a brief respite.

"I wish you would always be honest," she replied, placing the items back in the bag. His chuckle danced on the edge of something deeper.

"That is a big request indeed...Hadria, I realize you have every reason in the world not to trust me but I'm going to ask something of you first and I need you to listen. What you do after this is your decision...but I implore you not disclose our meetings to anyone...the consequences...would likely not impact me alone...for now, I will say...to your question...I have reasons for not killing you...I have reasons for everything that I do...and I cannot divulge what those reasons are...not yet...but I will say..."

His words hung in the air, laden with unspoken truths. Hadria's gaze bore into his, seeking answers. Voldemort hesitated, grappling with unfamiliar territory.

Why do I feel I owe this girl anything?...Why do I even care if she knows she matters? How can I say what I mean without saying too much?...I shouldn't even be here...DAMN this girl!...

In that moment, he understood he lacked the words. His gaze shifted aside briefly, confounded by his inability to express the turmoil within...Words deserted him...each one failing more than the last. He found himself adrift in a sea of unknown emotions, sinking.

His jaw clenched, arms folded defensively as he sought the right words. For the first time, words—the tools of his power—abandoned him. Her piercing blue eyes sought answers in his, and when their gazes locked, he felt ensnared...his usual poise shattered. A laugh nearly escaped, but it morphed into a frustrated sigh as he glanced down, feeling vanquished. It infuriated and bemused him simultaneously.

What magic is this...that compels me...this little succubus...

"Damnation..."
With a growl, he pulled her close, sealing their lips with fervent urgency. One hand cradled her head, the other snaked around her waist, drawing her flush against him. She stiffened in surprise, but moments later, she reciprocated with equal fervor. It was the single most erotic thing she had ever experienced as their lips parted and tongues entwined, it was as if he were a man famished, and she, the sole sustenance to quell his voracious appetite.

Oh gods...what am I doing?!

Yet, she found herself unable to pull away from him. The kiss was raw, potent, and inexplicably right...Having never been kissed, she was certain nothing could ever match this moment. His tongue led hers in a passionate ballet, teaching her the depths of desire.

He eventually ceased their embrace, his gaze upon her a blend of wonder, doubt, and wariness—a reflection of her own tumultuous emotions. As she parted her lips to speak, his fingers gently pressed against them, silencing her words. She could feel the slight tremor in his touch.

"For when words are not enough...all I can leave you with is this..."

Aware that he was on the brink of revealing too much, of crossing lines he had never meant to cross, he knew he must retreat. He had already divulged more than intended...Something about this girl... Without warning, he vanished into wisps of black smoke, melting into the velvet night.

***

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Chapter Text

After Voldemort's departure, Hadria remained rooted in that spot, her mind a tempest of conflicting emotions. The kiss...the unexpected, forbidden touch...still lingered on her lips. It was as if the Dark Lord himself had branded her, leaving an indelible mark...one that might last even longer than the bite mark which had finally faded for good days ago.

Voldemort...the name alone sent shivers down her spine. A homicidal, power-hungry wizard whose malevolence knew no bounds. His favorite pastime? Perhaps orchestrating the suffering of innocent souls. How could she reconcile this with the fact that she had kissed him back? Was it mere instinct, a desperate need for connection in the midst of chaos?

Nope...No....definitely not ready to answer that question...

She wasn't ready to confront those feelings, to unravel the tangled web of attraction and confusion.

Why hadn't she tried to kill him? The answer eluded her. He was the enemy...the one who had taken her parents, Cedric, and countless others. Forgiveness seemed impossible, especially when he hadn't sought it. Change? Voldemort was an unyielding force, a black hole of darkness.

But then, a nagging thought: Was he capable of affection? Of love? The very notion was absurd, yet she couldn't dismiss it entirely.

Her gaze fell to the bag...the enigmatic gift he had left behind. Sentimental tokens, carefully chosen. Not the grand gestures one might expect from a powerful wizard. No, these items whispered of shared moments. The silk pajamas...their softness against her skin...held memories. And the wine...a moment shared in their first meeting...was oddly intimate.

Did he intend to impress her? Or was it a haphazard bag flung together in hope? She carried the it to her room, its weight both physical and emotional. Undressing, she slipped into the silk pajamas, their fabric cool and luxurious. Sitting on the floor by her bed, she poured wine into a blue coffee cup...a makeshift celebration. Birthdays were rare joys for her, overshadowed by the Dursleys' indifference.

As she raised the cup, she wondered: Could love bloom in the darkest corners? Was redemption possible for a soul so irreparably fractured? Hadria sipped the wine, its warmth spreading through her. Perhaps...just perhaps, there was more to Voldemort than met the eye—a fractured heart hidden beneath the mask of a monster. And in that fragile possibility, she found herself both afraid and strangely hopeful.

Most people would say that the Dark Lord wasn't capable of love. But...at the end of the day...however flawed and broken and....pale...Voldemort is in fact human. It cannot be denied even if he fights it himself. His own desire for power and eternal life is proof in and of itself that he is indeed human. Desire is a human trait...more than needs and wants...it requires knowledge of the thing one seeks to have and the feeling of existence without it. It requires intelligence...it requires...fear. And the only thing that makes attaining a desire even worth the effort is the pleasure that one feels once it has been obtained...and pleasure is also very human.

The problem is in the paradox of desire...we often resist what we need and crave what we do not. What if she could help him overcome this? The way he looked at her after he kissed her...he was fighting it...she could tell...he fought it so hard that for just a moment he slipped and opened up a part of himself that probably no one would ever believed possible. That wasn't a calculated move...he was completely in the moment and...raw.

He was fighting what he needed and has probably been following that path for so long that he couldn't see it for himself.

Then there were his other emotions...anger, annoyance, pride, intrigue and even humor. Voldemort was definitely known to laugh even if it made your skin crawl a bit. He had a sense of humor. He could be suspicious...surprised...the more she thought of it the more she realized just how many emotions he was showing everyone and yet he was still depicted as some kind of mythological monster...he's human!

He clearly wasn't going to kill her...for whatever reason, she hadn't quite figured out. It almost seemed as though he was really trying to bring her to his side...perhaps...perhaps she should let him...or let him think so anyway...let him in a little to see what else she can learn about him...what if she could get him to open up more?

It could be dangerous. Among other things he had been known to also be very compulsive and temperamental. One minute he might be laughing at your joke and the next you might be at the spicy end of his wand...

Hehe...spicy wand....oh damnit!

Hadria chastised herself for the thought. The man didn't even have a nose...she wondered just how..."complete" he really was under those robes...oh for Merlin's sake!

She looked at the wine bottle and realized she'd had entirely too much of it to accompany her musings and should sleep this off before her thoughts start to venture much more. She corked the bottle and shoved it in her wardrobe. She hopped into bed and pulled the blankets over her and wondered just how crazy this idea really was.

But...if she's right...if there is some humanity in him as his emotions suggest...isn't that also worth fighting for? Couldn't that mean there is some sliver of goodness in him? As she played with the silk fabric of her sleeve between her fingers she couldn't stop thinking...is there really nothing in him worth saving?

Maybe it was just the wine talking. But for the first time in a long time it all started to make sense. When she closed her eyes she felt an emotion she hadn't felt in months.

Hope.

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Chapter Text

The moon hung low, casting elongated shadows across Malfoy Manor. Voldemort returned that night, his footsteps silent as he navigated the dimly lit corridors. The library beckoned...a sanctuary of ancient texts, secrets, and forbidden knowledge. Malfoy's collection was impressive, a treasure trove of Dark Magic waiting to be unraveled.

Lucius, ever the observant host, sensed the storm brewing within the Dark Lord. He approached cautiously, but the look on Voldemort's face warned him: silence was the wisest course. Lucius retreated, seeking solace on the patio. Whiskey warmed his insides, and the curl of cigar smoke masked the tension in the air.

At one of the first meetings since his return Voldemort had informed them that Hadria Potter was no longer a target and was not to be touched. Why? The question hung unspoken. Voldemort's motives were inscrutable, his mind a labyrinth. Perhaps he had glimpsed a different future...one where Hadria held a key. Or perhaps he was merely playing a more intricate game, moving pieces on a chessboard none could comprehend. There had been some subtle looks of shock and confusion but no one dared to question to him.

It had been well known that when not attending Hogwarts Hadria was residing with her aunt and uncle in Little Whinging in a home on Privet Dr. under strong blood magic that would prevent anyone with any harmful intent from getting anywhere close to the house much less getting inside (although the Dursleys and their family seemed conveniently immune). They had been working to find out how much longer the blood magic would be in force though.

Voldemort floated a stack of books to a wooden table in the library. He sat down and started his research. He was both intrigued and troubled by the events of the evening.

Nothing had stopped him from visiting Hadria...the blood magic was present...he felt it. But he wasn't harmed or otherwise prevented from being there...he knew why...he had been in denial about it...didn't think it would work...but it did...

He had been in the drawing room earlier that evening when he had received information that the blood magic protecting Hadria was still in effect even with her having just turned 19 that day. He wasn't a sentimental man but it seemed like a good opportunity for his continued...manipulation. Only...if the blood magic were really still in effect then he shouldn't be able to go there...unless...

But when he had apparated right into the Dursleys backyard garden he knew it to be true. He was able to visit her there because the truth of the matter was that he had no harmful intent toward her. He wasn't sure when the shift had occurred and it was more than troubling him...It was frustrating him in a way he wasn't comfortable with.

He stayed up all night and for hours the next day reading through book and after book for a way to safely remove a soul piece from a Horcrux...a living one at that. He was convinced the little witch was tainting his soul through her connection to him. Her purity...her kindness, sweetness and good heart...it was the only explanation for his...well, whatever this was...

He had at first planned to just show up and test the blood magic and maybe give her a little scare. It had been a while since he had pulled her into the dream state. Since he had been...avoiding her somewhat...

I've been busy...

But then something compelled him to bring her...a gift. He was after all a man of tradition...He also convinced himself it was to further his manipulation of her...he had made his way to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of the Malfoys white wine...she had liked it...and then went to his room. He opened the drawer to find the pajamas she had liked. Then placed them in a plain brown gift bag brought to him by one of the house elves on his order. And then he had gone. Disapparated and then apparated right next to the Dursley home...like he shouldn't have been able to do.

It was maddening...text after text and nothing of relevance. He had been at it so long the afternoon sun was beginning to set. He should have known...if anyone had done exhaustive research on Horcruxes it was him.

He took out some parchment and began writing out a list of a few little known libraries or other resources that may be prove more fruitful.

As he wrote he got a sudden feeling of...fear...he shook it off. It was nothing, it was a strange detached feeling in the back of his mind that was misplaced. But it immediately crept up on him again. He sat back in his chair trying to make sense of what was happening. He quieted his inner thoughts, closed his eyes and focused on the emotion.

It wasn't his...he saw a flash of a memory...no, no...not a memory...darkness...fear...cold...then he saw it...a dementor?

Hadria...
He opened his eyes, stood and without a second thought he disapparated.

***

The alleyway lay cloaked in unnatural darkness, a sinister stage for an unexpected confrontation. Hadria, her back pressed against the cold concrete, faced not one, but two dementors. Their skeletal forms loomed, their soul-sucking presence suffocating her.

What the hell are they doing here?

Desperation clawed at her. She had tried to conjure her patronus...twice...but the incantation faltered, slipping through her trembling lips like smoke. The dementors closed in, their icy breath threatening to extinguish her very essence.

And then, salvation. A warmth enveloped her...a body pressed against hers, shielding her.

"Not this one!"

The voice, commanding and familiar, pierced the darkness. Voldemort...the Dark Lord himself...held her, his robes cocooning her fragile form.

His usual calm demeanor shattered. Anger radiated from him, but beneath it, something else...concern. His arms tightened around her, anchoring her to reality.

"Leave us!" he thundered at the dementors, who hesitated before retreating.

Voldemort unwound an arm, studying her. His touch...unexpectedly gentle...cupped her cheek.

"Why did you not use your patronus, Hadria?" His thumb traced her skin, and she stammered, nerves dancing.

"I...tried...I don't know..."

Gods...he saved me...

Her hands remained on his chest, unwilling to break the connection. His breaths were heavy, not from exertion, but perhaps from fear...for her. He leaned closer, their eyes locked in a silent exchange.

"Do you know what those creatures are capable of, little witch?" His stern gaze bore into her. She nodded, unable to tear her eyes away. Her fingers traced the fabric of his robes, a desperate anchor.

He leaned down, proximity stealing her breath. The alley faded, the dementors mere shadows.

Her mind blurred.

"I—" she began, but her words dissolved.

Voldemort's lips hovered over hers, a dangerous promise. The world narrowed to this moment...their shared breaths, the pulse of magic between them.

"Fear," he whispered, his mouth a hair's breadth from hers, "can be conquered."

Her hands slid up his chest, defying fear. Voldemort...Dark Lord, enigma...froze as her fingers wound around the back of his neck. When she pulled him down, he yielded, a statue carved from shadows. Her lips met his, tender, brushing like moth wings. He didn't respond, yet he didn't retreat. The battle within him raged...a tempest of restraint.

Draw him out...open him up...

Her tongue teased his lips, and he clenched his jaw, eyes closing. She kissed his neck, and he steadied himself against the wall, growling.

"You're playing with fire, witch."

"I know," she whispered, nipping at his skin. Her softness unraveled him...the damn teasing succubus.

His body pressed hers against the wall, urgency igniting. He kissed her deeply, a storm of hunger. When he pulled away, she bit his lip, and he seized her hair, kissing her harder. Each break was a torment, yet he couldn't stop. She was intoxication, forbidden fruit.

He finally tore his lips from hers, pulling her close to him. His hand pressed her head to his chest to gain some distance from her tempting mouth.

"If you don't...stop kissing me like that, witch," he gasped, "I can't be held accountable for what I might do."

Her silence was a challenge, a smile curving her lips. His heart raced...yes, he had one. The Dark Lord, vulnerable in the moon's glow, held her against his robes.

"Why do they listen to you?"

He loosened his grip as she looked up at him, curiosity danced in her eyes, and Voldemort welcomed the diversion. The heat of the moment...the alley, the dementors...still clung to him. Ravaging a witch in a muggle alleyway wasn't the image he wished to project, even as a dark wizard.

"I'm not sure, my dear," he replied, honesty threading his words.

"They've always done so in the past. Likely because I am a dark wizard...the only kind they've ever held allegiance to in recorded history."

The dementors remained an enigma, their motives veiled in shadows.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

She nodded with a subtle smile.

"Thanks to you."

Her gratitude...genuine and unguarded...softened him. He grunted, a rare acknowledgment, and kissed her forehead.

"Good. It is rather strange...why they were here to begin with."

"How did you know?"she pressed, and he chuckled.

"So many questions...you're a curious little thing, aren't you? Let's just say, I was in the neighborhood." His gaze lingered, assessing her.

The sky had cleared, darkness settling around them. He released her, a reluctant farewell. His final kiss on her cheek held promises unspoken.

"Do try not to kiss any more floating demons tonight, yes?" he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Only you," she countered, and he stepped away.

"Cheeky little witch." His muttered words trailed after him as he vanished with a resounding crack.

And in the quiet aftermath, Hadria stood alone, her lips still tingling from forbidden kisses. The moon watched, secrets whispered in its silver glow.

***

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Chapter Text

Hadria's footsteps echoed through the quiet street, her heart still racing from the encounter with the Dementors. Voldemort...more enigma than man...had saved her. The kiss, a desperate defiance against the soul-sucking abyss, lingered on her lips. He was evil, yes, but also something else...an intricate tapestry of darkness and hidden threads.

Was she the first to glimpse his complexity? Impossible. The man had existed for what...sixty years, perhaps more? Yet, his face betrayed nothing. No wrinkles etched the mask of his existence.

I kissed an old man...

She shook her head.

And I fucking liked it...

She walked into the house and the Dudley's looked up from their meal.

"Where have you been girl? You should have been back a half hour ago!" Vernon said annoyed. He had sent her to the post office to drop some larger packages off earlier than evening into the drop box. She had gotten there fine. It was the walk back when she suddenly found herself in darkness coming face to face with the dementors.

"Yeah, sorry. I guess my head was in the clouds thinking about school. I took a wrong turn..."

The lie about taking a wrong turn hung between her and the Dursleys, but she couldn't muster a better excuse.

She stepped into the kitchen, where Petunia's culinary efforts lay diminished.

"Your share's on the stove," Vernon muttered, his appetite voracious as ever. Dudley, a mirror image of his father, had already devoured two portions. The remnants of a salisbury steak, a few green beans, and a meager scoop of mashed potatoes awaited her. Hadria poured herself a glass of milk, the liquid a feeble attempt to quell her hunger. The Dementors' presence had left her ravenous.

Seated at the table, she glanced at the Dursleys. Their eyes were glued to the muggle news, oblivious to her near-death experience.

Dudley's gaze, however, lingered elsewhere...on her chest. She rolled her eyes, exasperated. It wasn't the first time she'd caught him looking. Two years ago, she'd noticed the shift—a subtle change in Dudley. Not kindness, but a fraction less cruelty. A mystery wrapped in teenage awkwardness.

Disgusting pervert....

She was thankful when he finally looked back at the television. She started thinking what she should do, if anything, about her current situation. Part of her was starting to feel concern...in a way that she knew she shouldn't...concern for him. If Dumbledore...or whoever else is working with him...succeeds in taking him down...she begins to have doubts about her feelings on it. She doesn't want him to hurt anyone...but she also finds...she no longer wants to see him hurt. It makes her begin to question her own sanity and moral compass but she can't deny her...was she really admitting this to herself now?

I have feelings for Voldemort...

Despite her grumbling belly she is so lost in thought that she didn't realize how she was only picking at her food until Petunia cleared her throat and raised her eyebrow at her in a questioning way...a kind gesture in hindsight...if Vernon had caught her so lost in thought ignoring her meal he might have picked it up from her and sent her to bed.

Hadria shook off her thoughts for now and finished the meal before she headed up to her room. She put on the silk green pajamas and slipped into bed. She couldn't stop thinking about that damn kiss...not just tonite but the one from the night before as well. Who would ever have expected that the Dark Lord could be so...passionate?

She wanted to write to her friends about all this...but she knew she couldn't. Not only would they think her crazy but he had asked her to keep their meetings private. Well, he had suggested she do it but ultimately left it up to her. A part of her wanted to believe he had a good reason for this...that it wasn't just about his own agenda. She knew she was probably wrong...common sense tells her she wrong...but her heart...is an entirely different matter.

She had never been intimate with a man. Perhaps this could all be blamed on him being a powerful smooth talking man who kisses like a God...and her being incredibly stupid, inexperienced and...well...horny...

The way he pressed her up against that wall had made her weak in the knees.

Okay, okay....pros and cons...
Pro...he's hot.
Con...he's evil.
Pro...he's a great kisser....gods he is such a great kisser...
Con...he's unstable...moody...
Pro...he cares about me...he saved my life...but why?
Con...literally everyone I love hates him...he killed my parents......

This isn't helping...

Hadria groaned in frustration. She didn't want to think about the cons anymore. They weren't changing how she felt even though she knew it should. Would she really give up everything to be with him? If she continues down this path there was a possibility that reality may demand this answer from her.

In the beginning he had joked that maybe there were things they could teach each other...was that really so far fetched?

She closed her eyes trying to sleep. Surprisingly tonite she fell asleep rather quickly. She had felt exhausted. Maybe mostly from being near dementors but partly because her brain was tired of all this back and forth. She needed a rest.

***

Just a couple of hours into her restless slumber, Hadria began to experience a terrible nightmare. In this surreal vision, she found herself seeing through the eyes of another...a perspective that was both horrifying and beyond her control.

An older woman lay on the ground, cowering and weeping. But Hadria wasn't herself; she was inhabiting the consciousness of someone else. The voice that echoed in her mind was unmistakable: Voldemort.

"Didn't think I'd ever come back, did you, Millicent?" Voldemort's voice dripped with malevolence.

"Thought I'd taken your...dirty little secret to the grave."

The woman before him was already battered. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, blood streaked across her face and matted in her hair and clothes. Slash marks marred her body, and blood seeped through her torn garments.

Voldemort knelt beside her, his grip on her neck unyielding.

"I have no memory of this! I wasn't there!" she pleaded.

"Lies!" Voldemort's crimson eyes bore into hers. "I saw you! And now...you're going to tell me the rest of the prophecy, or I will end you now."

"I cannot, Voldemort," she gasped.

"Dumbledore thought it safer to obliviate me after that night...to erase the prophecy from my mind. I don't know it! I swear!"

Voldemort tightened his grip, cutting off her breath. "I don't believe you... Legilimens!"

He delved into her mind, searching for answers. Who was this woman, Hadria wondered? What secrets did she hold?

After agonizing minutes, he released her, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"My, my... Dumbledore covers his tracks well, doesn't he?" Voldemort mused. "I bet he thought he was protecting you by obliviating your memory of that night...or was he simply tying up loose ends?...he had to know this day would come...no matter, either way you knew what you were doing then...and now I exact my revenge."

Hadria watched, horrified, as Voldemort raised his bone-white wand. The woman's eyes widened in terror.

"No! No! Please!" she begged.

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort's incantation was cold and final. The woman crumpled, lifeless, and Hadria jolted awake, her heart racing. Her scar was burning intensely.

"Oh gods..."

The room felt stifling, the remnants of her nightmare clinging to the air like a malevolent fog. Hadria's heart raced, and her hands trembled as she stumbled toward the wardrobe. The dream...it had seemed too real, too visceral. Was it merely a nightmare, or something more?

Her fingers fumbled with the wardrobe's latch, and she retrieved the bottle of wine. The glass was cool against her palm, and she uncorked it with a desperate urgency. The liquid flowed freely as she raised the bottle to her lips, bypassing the formality of a glass. The taste...crisp, floral, and familiar...washed over her tongue.

Hadria drank deeply, hoping to drown the echoes of Voldemort's voice and the woman's pleas.

The bottle emptied faster than she intended. Each swallow was a desperate attempt to blur the edges of reality, to erase the images etched into her mind. She wanted to forget, to lose herself in the numbing embrace of oblivion.
An hour later, the room spun around her. The bed beckoned, its sheets cool against her flushed skin. Hadria collapsed onto the mattress, her consciousness slipping away. Sleep claimed her, but even in her dreams, Voldemort's eyes haunted her...a relentless pursuit across realms.

And so, she surrendered to the darkness, hoping that oblivion would be kinder than memory.

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Chapter Text

The headmaster settled into his high-backed chair, the room's dim light casting shadows across his lined face. His gnarled fingers unwrapped a lemon drop, and he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, lost in thought. Severus Snape's revelation had sent a chill through him...an unsettling premonition of events to come.

He popped the lemon drop into his mouth, savoring the tangy sweetness before he spoke.

"Voldemort instructed all of you...not to touch her?"

Severus inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "Indeed," he confirmed. "He did not divulge his reasons, nor did anyone dare question him. I got the distinct impression he wasn't about to share his reasonings regardless. He simply stated that he had some new information that had changed the focus of war from her..."

"Do you truly believe that he knows...the truth of the matter?" Dumbledore's voice wavered, betraying his unease. His palm rubbed nervously against his thigh, a telltale sign of his inner turmoil.

Severus raised an eyebrow, lips pursed almost in amusement. He enjoyed seeing the Headmaster squirm, for all his careful planning he had not accounted for this twist.

"What other reason would he have?" Severus countered. "He could have killed her there in the graveyard as well. I believe...he may have realized it then. Why else would he not have simply ended it when he had the chance?"

Dumbledore rose from his chair, arms folding behind his back. The room seemed to close in on him, memories of battles fought and sacrifices made etched into the very walls. He stepped toward the window, gazing out into the night. The wizarding world had bled, and he couldn't allow it to be in vain.

"Hadria will remain at the Dursleys," Dumbledore declared, his voice resolute.

"So long as the blood magic shields her. Except during her school years, of course. We may not fully understand Voldemort's intentions, but if he indeed knows the truth, then Hadria is...relatively safe there. Perhaps it's best to keep her at a distance, away from our original plans. For now."

Severus nodded, ready to leave, but then hesitated. "After all these years," he said, "you've never divulged the rest of the prophecy to me. Is it not time to...open up on the matter?"

Dumbledore remained facing the window, the moonlight casting shadows on his lined face. The damned prophecy...the words that hung like a sword over their heads. Sybill may be a Seer...but if the rest of the prophecy were to see the light of day then it may stop people from doing what must be done. There was too much at risk to trust it.

"It is best, Severus," he replied softly. "That the prophecy remain unknown. I fear it may risk our success in this war."

Severus wished in that moment he could read Dumbledore's mind. His loyalty to the cause burned with the intensity of a thousand suns...a desire for revenge against the man who had snuffed out the woman he had loved: Lily. But beneath that seething anger, his instincts whispered of deeper currents. Something was amiss, veiled in shadows and half-truths.

"Very well, Headmaster," Severus murmured, his voice as cold as the dungeons. He turned, the hem of his black cape swirling, and slipped out of the room. The door closed behind him, muffling the old wizard's thoughts. But Severus knew...Dumbledore was a master of secrets, a weaver of intricate webs. And this particular thread, the one involving Hadria and the prophecy, was frayed and fragile.

Chapter Text

Hadria's days blurred into a monotonous haze. Silence hung over her like a shroud, and the absence of messages from Voldemort or anyone at Hogwarts gnawed at her nerves. Even Hedwig, her loyal snowy owl, seemed to carry a weight on her wings as she delivered the Daily Prophet each morning.

Two days after that haunting nightmare, an article caught Hadria's attention. The headline sent a chill down her spine, and she read the words with growing unease:

Former Minister Found Murdered
"After an anonymous source tipped off the Daily Prophet's reporters this afternoon, the body of the former Minister of Magic, Millicent Bagnold, was discovered in her home deceased. Authorities have not yet confirmed a cause of death but the scene was said to have been brutal. The Daily Prophet's reporters have already started a thorough investigation into this horrific incident, and will continue to provide updates as this story develops."

Hadria laid the paper down and rubbed her temples. So it was true...Voldemort had killed a retired minister...it was all too much to be a coincidence...But why? She tried to think back on the...vision...he had said something...

"Thought I'd taken your...dirty little secret to the grave."

What on earth was he talking about?

She wanted to talk to him and find out. But to do so would reveal that she had essentially connected with him on a level she wasn't sure he would appreciate. She was certain he wouldn't have meant for her to see what he had done. But to not tell him also had its risks...if he found out on his own that she had been hiding this...

She didn't know who to trust anymore. Voldemort clearly believed he had reason to kill this woman...it was no secret that most of his reasons weren't exactly the good kind. And based on what the woman had said before she died...Dumbledore must know something too. Why did he obliviate a minister of all people on her knowledge of the prophecy? Was there really more to the prophecy than even she knew? Hadria's mind spun, caught in a web of half-truths and veiled intentions.

Why hasn't anyone told me the full prophecy?!

Hadria sat in her dimly lit room, the quill poised above the parchment. Her heartbeat echoed in the silence...a rhythm of uncertainty and longing. The words she was about to write held weight, a bridge between worlds.

"Can I see you?"

The ink dried, and she folded the parchment, sealing her plea with a wax stamp. Hedwig, her faithful companion, perched on the windowsill, feathers ruffled. Hadria pressed the note into the owl's talons, whispering her instructions.

"Take this to Voldemort," she murmured. "Find him, wherever he hides."

Hedwig's eyes bore into hers, as if understanding the gravity of the task. She spread her wings and soared into the sky, carrying Hadria's message across the veil of secrecy.

Why did she trust him? The Dark Lord...the embodiment of terror and malevolence. Yet something deeper tugged at her...a shared vision, a connection forged in nightmares. She couldn't explain it, but her gut and heart aligned, urging her forward.

***

The evening had stretched into a silent, expectant void. Hedwig’s return had been a solitary flutter in the quiet of her room, the owl’s talons empty of any message. It was a silent confirmation, a tacit understanding that he had received her call. With a heart heavy with anticipation, Hadria had surrendered to sleep early, the possibility of his spectral visitation looming in her dreamscape.

As the world around her succumbed to the velvety embrace of night, Hadria’s consciousness wavered on the cusp of reality and reverie. It was in this delicate threshold that she felt the faintest caress, a whisper of touch that swept her hair aside, exposing the nape of her neck to a warmth that seeped into her very soul. Her eyelids fluttered open, not to the familiar shadows of her own chamber, but to an abyssal expanse of black fabric that enshrouded her vision. The scent of ancient tomes and the faintest hint of a storm long passed filled her senses. She was in his domain, the dream place, ensconced once more upon his bed of shadows. His lips, a soft menace against her skin, were bestowing kisses that were both a promise and a peril.

“You were very bold sending your owl to me like that, my dear. Don’t do it again,” he murmured, his voice a velvet threat that caressed her ear. She tilted her head back, her eyes finding his in the dim light, a small, defiant smile playing upon her lips. His presence was a paradox, both comforting and disquieting, and she reveled in the contradiction.

“Well, how am I supposed to tell you when I need to see you?” she challenged, her voice a blend of innocence and mischief. His eyes, dark pools of enigma, narrowed slightly, a predator gauging its prey.

“Need to? Or want to?” he purred, the sound vibrating through her, his fingers weaving a spell as they combed through her hair, each strand singing with the contact.

“Maybe both…” she confessed, her cheeks aflame with a bloom of color that delighted him. His smile was a rare gift, one that acknowledged her effect on him.

Well…this was unexpected…

“Tell me…about the want…” His voice was a siren’s call, drawing her in as he leaned closer, his fingers, pale as moonlight, cradling her face with a tenderness that belied his nature. His thumb traced her cheek, a tactile sonnet that left her breathless. Their lips hovered in a dance of near touches, a magnetic pull that was both terrifying and irresistible.

“I missed you,” she whispered, the admission a fragile thing in the charged space between them. His eyes, usually so guarded, widened with a flicker of something unspoken, and in a moment of raw surrender, his lips found hers, a conflagration of longing that consumed them both. She kissed him back teasing and tasting him with her tongue. He groaned against her mouth and deepened the kiss. His hand ran down her body and pulled her against him.

A soft, involuntary moan escaped Hadria's throat as she felt the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing into her thigh. The sound of her pleasure seemed to ignite a primal urge within him, prompting Voldemort to assert his dominance by rolling his hips more forcefully, seizing control of their intimate dance. Lost in the intensity of their kiss, he was momentarily startled by the pressure on his hip and the unexpected strength with which her leg wrapped around him, pulling him closer between her inviting legs.

He broke the kiss realizing the position they were in. The little minx....a sly smile played on his lips as he kissed her again holding himself up a bit. He moved to kiss her softly on her skin just below her ear and lips ghosted over the sensitive skin of her ear.

"Is this what you desire witch?" He whispered huskily in her ear as he ground his arousal against her sex, the friction of their bodies through their clothes sending a wave of delicious sensation coursing through them, eliciting a fervent groan from her.

In a breathless whimper of need, Hadria's response was laden with longing, "Yes, please."

He continued to trail kisses along her neck, savoring the exquisite pleasure that pulsed between them. A breath of satisfaction escaped his lips, mingling with the heady air of anticipation. Despite his dark allure and power, he couldn't help but feel a surge of youthful excitement, akin to a teenage boy experiencing his first intimate encounter. Was he really about to dry hump this girl?

As their bodies moved in unison, a symphony of desire and passion, Hadria's hips meeting his with a primal rhythm, Voldemort closed his eyes, succumbing to the intoxicating sensation of her warmth pressing against his hardness.

Yes... Yes, I am...

With a sinful playfulness, Hadria nibbled on his earlobe, tracing the delicate contours with the tip of her tongue, sending a shiver of pleasure down his spine as he intensified his movements, driving his hips against her with a fierce urgency. A growl escaped Voldemort's lips as he responded to her teasing, his grip on her thigh tightening as he dug his nails in, marking her with a possessive claim.

"You little... temptress," he rasped, his voice a mixture of desire and exasperation, unable to resist the allure of the enchanting witch beneath him.

Her mischievous smile only widened as she pulled him in for another searing kiss, their lips meeting in a fervent embrace as he continued to press himself against her with a rhythmic precision that set their bodies ablaze. The taste of her lingered on his lips as he pulled away, a soft gasp escaping her as she playfully nipped at his lip.

"You want me, don't you, sweet girl? You ache to feel me inside you," he breathed against her parted lips, his words a seductive melody that stirred a primal hunger within her as he moved faster.

"Yes," she whimpered eagerly, her voice a breathless plea that betrayed her desire and need for him.

Gods she's going to come from this...

"I won't do that to you here... but I'll grant you the release you seek darling," he assured her with a husky promise, his words laced with a dark allure that heightened the tension between them.

She groaned in desperate need as he quickened his pace, his movements becoming more urgent and primal. His tongue traced a path along her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, before he nipped at her skin with a gentle ferocity.

The fabric between them was now soaked with her arousal, creating a slick surface that allowed him to glide across her silk pajamas with effortless friction. Each movement sent a surge of pleasure through them, intensifying the raw passion that pulsed between their entwined bodies.

"Oh gods..." Voldemort's eyes fluttered closed in blissful surrender, his body responding to the intoxicating sensation of her wetness against him. The realization that he could elicit such a powerful response from her ignited a primal need within him, fueling the fire of desire that raged between them.

"My dear, you are soaked," he remarked with a knowing smile, the hint of mischief dancing in his eyes as he captured her lips in a fervent kiss.

"You...you drive me wild... I can't help it," she managed to gasp out, her voice trembling with a mixture of longing and anticipation. Her legs trembled with the intensity of their shared passion.

"Oh sweet girl... yes...gods, witch...let it take you," he murmured against her lips, gripping her hair with a possessive hold, he pressed himself against her with increasing urgency, his movements growing more demanding and primal.

She begins whimpering and moaning. Her sound is like sweet honey in his ear. He is groaning as well. Everything between them feels so slick...so hot...

"That's it darling...think about my cock inside you sweet girl...because it will be...very soon...I'm going to fuck you senseless little witch....now come for me."

His heated words seared against her neck as he pressed his arousal into her, the anticipation of what was to come driving her to the brink of ecstasy. Her body arched in response, a wave of pleasure washing over her as an intense orgasm overtook her, she tenses as she cried out in pleasure and he feels her release...a flood of heat between them.

Witnessing the sheer ecstasy that painted her features, the knowledge that he was the source of her pleasure propelled him over the edge. With a primal groan, he found release, his body trembling as he held her close, their connection deepening in the heat of their shared passion.

Oh shit...

He felt himself throbbing hard as he released inside his robes. He finally stilled his movements and rested on top of her. He kissed her tenderly and ran a hand down the side of her neck, cradling her head. His breath is slowing and he is trying to get back his composure.

"Do you feel better my dear?" He asked with a mischievous smile. Her face is flush but she smiles and nods.

He grunts with a smirk and rolls off of her. He grabs his wand and cleans up all the wetness from the both of them. He noticed the bed had become wet underneath them as well. He was impressed with the intensity of her climax.

"Gods girl...you have no idea how much you tempt me...I should punish you for it." He says with a smile. He brushes her hair from her face. She's suddenly a bit shy from what they had just done. She laughs softly.

"I...didn't plan that despite how it may have seemed." She said looking away. Her cheeks still red. He looked at her for a moment and then sat up.

"Now, tell me about your need."

Hadria had almost forgot the reason she wanted to see him and she was suddenly nervous about this.

"Um...I think...I don't know...or quite understand it. But I think you and I have some kind of connection that goes beyond my understanding..." she started. She was looking down fidgeting as she lay on her side facing him. He narrowed his eyes in interest.

"And what makes you think that my dear?"

"A couple of nights ago I was asleep...and then I had a nightmare...or...what I thought was a nightmare...only..." the more she got into the more nervous she was getting. He was staring at her intensely now. It made her even more nervous. She sat up in the bed.

"Tell me what you saw Hadria" he said in a more commanding voice. His eye twitched.

"I...saw...a woman...being...killed..."

The fucking Horcrux...

Suddenly he reached out and grabbed her throat pulling her close to him.

"Hadria...darling...who have you told about this?" His spoke through his teeth...his gaze was so intense and he was gripping her tightly. She brought a hand to his that wrapped around her throat and shook her head.

"I didn't...tell anyone..." she squeaked.

"Why are you just now telling me this?" He asked coldly. He was less interested in her seeing the murder but more interested in how someone knowing they shared a such a connection could prove dangerous for him.

"I...I was scared...I thought it might have just been a dream...I didn't know what to do. But I swear I went to no one...I wouldn't have..."

He searched her eyes for any sign of deception before loosening his grip. She coughed and he suddenly pulled her into him in an embrace. He said nothing for a moment.

"Why wouldn't you Hadria...why didn't you go to anyone?" He asked a bit softer now.

He looked down at her again and held her gaze as he waits for her answer. She looked scared...even a bit...ashamed?

"I trust you." She said softly.

His eyes widened a bit but he couldn't stop his lip from curling into a smile.

"Do you really think that wise? To trust a wizard like me?" He asked incredulously.

"No..." she answered honestly.

"But I still do...and when I saw the paper this morning...and realized it was more than just a nightmare...I wrote to you."

He closed his eyes and grit his teeth pulling her against him again. This feeling inside of him was foreign and he was damn near about to crawl out of his skin. It was taking every part of him not lose it right then and rip her mind apart in his anger. But there were more important things going on.

"Thank you...Hadria...I need you to continue to trust me." He said softly but sternly.

"You've been lied to your entire life. I'm not going to divulge everything in this moment...that is for your protection...but as you saw when I was speaking to Millicent, there is something about that prophecy that none of us knows...except Dumbledore. And he has gone to some extraordinary measures to keep it secret...even from you. I will be able to tell you more later but...as long as you're under Dumbledore's protection...I'm afraid I cannot tell you much more. Everything you know can be pulled from your mind....which brings me to my proposal..."

She looked in his eyes. She knew what he was going to ask her.

"Will you come with me?"

Chapter Text

"I need you to think this through, Hadria...once you leave there's no going back," he said, his voice a low rumble that resonated with the gravity of the moment. His gaze bore into hers, intense and unyielding, as he tenderly caressed her cheek. The warmth of his touch contrasted sharply with the cold dread that settled in her stomach. She swallowed hard, the sound almost echoing in the charged silence as she considered her next words.

There was an undeniable truth in what he said—she was certain of it. Dumbledore had never told her that there was more to the prophecy, yet here she was, standing at the precipice of revelation. He was even now keeping her in the dark about many things, shrouded in mystery like the dim corners of the room they stood in. If she takes a leap of faith now, she will find even more—more truths, more lies, more of the unknown. Yes, it means trusting a man who is capable of killing her, a man whose hands were stained with the blood of those she held dear. She knew that fact alone should dissuade her, should send her running to the safety of the familiar. But for whatever inexplicable reason, it wasn't.

Her second option was to go to Dumbledore instead. To insist on seeing him, to confront him with what she knew about Voldemort and demand the full truth from him. Yet, her heart had already made up its mind. Dumbledore's path, once illuminated with the light of certainty, now felt like a foreign one to her. It no longer felt like the right path, but rather a trail veering off into a misty and uncertain horizon. But within her, a flicker of hope ignited—she began to see an opportunity to potentially help both sides, to bridge the chasm that divided them.

"I will...but I have conditions..." she said cautiously, her voice barely above a whisper. He nods slowly, his expression unreadable, yet there was a glint of something akin to respect in his eyes.

"Smart girl...I expected no less...what are they?" he inquired, his tone suggesting that he was genuinely interested in her terms.

She thought for a few minutes, her mind racing with the weight of the decision she was about to make. She knew what she was doing. She was going to be with him, to belong to him in a way that was irreversible, and there needed to be a fair trade for her freedom.

"I understand that you want to take over the wizarding world, and I know that I cannot change that. But...the way it is done...I would like to request a few things..." she started, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

"Go on..." he prompted, leaning in slightly as if to capture every nuance of her words.

"No one else will be killed or tortured simply for their blood status. I understand that in war there is death...but if my state of mind matters to you at all...then I have to know that you will do what you can to preserve lives when able...I have to know I am sacrificing my freedom for others' safety...for a better world," she finished, her eyes locked with his, conveying the depth of her conviction.

He sighed, a deep and weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of unspoken thoughts. Leaning back against the ornate headboard, its carvings a testament to forgotten grandeur, he contemplated her request. He needed to keep her around—did that require her happiness? No, not necessarily...but he did value her mental state. The reasons for this consideration were a tangled web he wasn't prepared to unravel at this point...not yet. And as the Dark Lord, he was afforded the luxury of acting on his whims without the need for justification or the burden of inquiry—this would just be another one of those caprices.

She had stipulated that no one could be killed or tortured simply for their blood status...alright, that was manageable. It meant he could still exercise his cruelty for other transgressions. The fate of the 'mudbloods', if eradication was off the table, would need to be reconsidered. He had a few thoughts on the matter, inklings of ideas that had been presented by others in the past—ideas he had quickly dismissed and punished the suggester for their audacity.

He also harbored a preference for not spilling magical blood when it wasn't necessary. He valued obedient followers, and if they were willing to bend the knee, then their lives could be spared. In this way, she had indeed left much open to him with her requests, a canvas on which he could paint his dark designs.

Turning to face her, his eyes narrowed into slits, sharp and calculating.

"Is that it?" he probed, his voice a low growl that filled the room with an undercurrent of danger."One more thing...before I agree to this, I want to know right now...why? Why did you not kill me? Why did you decide instead that you wanted me to...belong to you?" She searched his eyes, probing for any flicker of deception, any shadow of a lie that might dance across his inscrutable gaze.

"I understand you wanting to know this. And I will tell you once you are safely under my care. I cannot tell you until then," he replied, his tone firm yet laced with an uncharacteristic hint of gentleness. "What I can tell you is that even if this reason did not exist...I have...a vested interest in your safety even beyond that. I am asking you to trust me...give me that, and I will agree to your other conditions."

Her eyebrows rose at that, a silent testament to her surprise.

"Wait...really?" she asked, incredulity painting her features with a mixture of hope and skepticism.

"Yes, my dear. I agree. And I will ensure that the Death Eaters follow this as well. You have left surprisingly much open to me, whether you realize it or not. I can work around these requests," he affirmed, his voice a velvet promise that seemed to echo with the power of his position. He looked down at her, closing the distance between them once again.

"It is agreed then?" he asked, his fingers weaving through her hair with a possessiveness that belied the softness of his touch.

"Yes, Voldemort...I agree," she said, her voice quivering with a nervous tremor. She could feel the enormity of her decision weighing upon her like the heavy velvet of night.

"Pack your bags and whatever else you can carry that you need, destroy anything else...leave nothing. You will not be returning. I will meet you in that alleyway that I...saw you in before...I will be there in an hour, Hadria."

He kissed her, a fleeting touch that was gone before she could fully register it, and then, as if it were all a dream, she woke in her room. She rose swiftly, her movements a blur as she donned her clothes and began to pack with a quiet urgency. Her belongings were few, a testament to a life of transience, but each item was imbued with memories. With a deft charm Hermione had once shown her, she managed to fit her entire guitar, snug within its case, into her suitcase.

Her eyes fell upon the sympathy card that Petunia had left after Cedric's death. With a poignant sense of finality, she turned it over and scrawled a simple yet profound message on the back.

"Thank you."

She placed it gently on the kitchen table, a silent farewell to a chapter of her life now closing. Then, with a soft click of the door, she slipped out into the night and made her way to the alleyway.

Once there, she stood enveloped in the quiet darkness, the stillness of the world around her a stark contrast to the turmoil within. She perched upon her luggage, the cool surface of the concrete seeping through her clothes, as she listened to the leaves whispering secrets to the pavement, carried by the gentle caress of the wind. The surreal tranquility of the moment wrapped around her like a shroud.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sharp crack of apparition, and Voldemort appeared. He moved towards her with a brisk, purposeful stride.

He looked down at her, his hands finding her shoulders with an unsettling gentleness.

"I am going to search your mind, Hadria...I need to see what you saw...show it to me," he commanded, his voice a mix of steel and silk.

She closed her eyes, surrendering to his intrusion, her mind an open book to him. He delved into her memories, witnessing everything—the night he killed Millicent, her conflicted thoughts about him, the cherished gifts, her fears for him, and her concerns about Dumbledore's potential actions. She shared not just her mind, but her heart, exposing her soul to him in a way that stirred something unfamiliar within him. Overwhelmed by the intensity of her emotions, he withdrew abruptly from her mind.

"You understand that as soon as you come with me...from this point on, you belong to me, Hadria. You do as I say and do not question me from this point on...This is the act that will keep your friends safe, do you understand?" His words were icy, yet a flicker of warmth in his eyes betrayed an inner conflict. It was this glimmer of humanity that she clung to, the part of him she dared to trust. She nodded, her resolve steeling.

"I'm ready," she affirmed, her voice a soft echo in the alley.

She's so brave...

For a fleeting moment, he cuped her cheek, a touch that spoke volumes, then grasped her arm firmly. Hedwig had already been sent ahead, the owl's flight a harbinger of the change to come.

"Hold on, my dear," he whispered, and with that, they disapparated, leaving behind nothing but the echoes of their departure.

Chapter Text

***

When Voldemort and Hadria had apparated she found herself in a very familiar place. His room. Voldemort's sense her disorientation and his presence enveloped her, his lean form solid and unyielding as he pulled her close. His touch sent shivers down her spine, and she fought to regain her composure. The aftermath of apparition was never pleasant, especially for someone unaccustomed to its abrupt transitions.

"I take it you have not done much apparating," he murmured, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. His piercing blue eyes bore into hers, dissecting her every reaction. She swallowed and fought back the feeling as best she could.

"How does anyone get used to it?" Hadria wondered aloud, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. She had mastered many magical skills, but apparition remained elusive. The sensation of being squeezed through a narrow tube and spat out into a new location was disorienting.

"It's a matter of practice and focus," Voldemort replied, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Much like any other magic, repetition breeds familiarity. But enough about that." He guided her toward a plush sofa near the hearth, its velvet cushions inviting.

"So...where are we exactly?"

"We are in the Malfoy Manor, my base of operations. Here, we are shielded by the Fidelius charm, ensuring our safety even if the Ministry decides to poke around."

"Let's talk."

She left her luggage and sank onto the sofa, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns of the rug. The room held secrets...ones she was about to uncover. Voldemort went to the window and opened it slightly to allow Hedwig in once she arrived and then he joined her on the couch. He had sat a ways away from her with his arm along the back of it.

She scooted closer to him so his arm was behind her. He had an amused look on his face at this.

"You know...if I didn't know better...I'd say you might actually like me," he said, beginning to play with her hair.

"How could I possibly like a man who wants to own me like a piece of property?" She said. She knew she wasn't fooling him though.

"Indeed...now that you are here I would like to keep my end of the bargain. I would like to reveal to you why it is that I...had a change of heart so to speak." he began, his voice a low murmur in the dimly lit room. His gaze was drawn to her, captivated by the intensity in her cerulean eyes. He found it difficult to maintain eye contact, so he averted his gaze as he continued.

"The night I returned in the graveyard, when I laid my hands on you, I sensed a magic I hadn't felt in a long time. A magic that I had only ever experienced when crafting it with my own hands. You carry something within you, Hadria...something that belongs to me. It was placed there magically, and quite unintentionally."

Hadria's gaze remained fixed on him, a flicker of apprehension beginning to dance in her eyes.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Voldemort met her gaze then, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"A fragment of my soul...you are a Horcrux, Hadria."

"A...Horcrux...what is that?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. Voldemort chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, as he rolled his eyes

"I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that Dumbledore wouldn't have educated you on this, especially considering you've already destroyed one. When you allowed me into your mind earlier, I saw that you destroyed my diary. Do you recall this?"

Hadria's brows furrowed in thought, but she nodded.

"Yes."

"My diary was one of my Horcruxes...you see, a Horcrux is a vessel...an object that a wizard, typically one who dabbles in the dark arts, uses to house a piece of his soul. Its creation usually requires a spell and intention...and I suppose on some subconscious level, when I attacked you that night and the killing curse rebounded and hit me instead, it was my soul's desperate attempt at survival to split again and use you as that vessel. You see, the creation of a Horcrux requires an evil act to complete it. This is the first time one has ever been created accidentally. However, I can feel it within you. As can you. If you recall, there was a time when being near me caused my soul piece within you to fight, trying to get out. At some point though, it seems that my soul has become comfortable. Hence, why you no longer feel the effects when we're together...although, when I touch you, I still feel it...by killing you now, I would be destroying a piece of myself as well."

Hadria's eyes widened, her mind racing with the implications of his words. She leaned back on the couch, trying to process this revelation.

"So...you just wanted to get me here...to keep me from dying...to...protect yourself," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. She realized as she stared at the wall, not wanting to meet his gaze in that moment, that she was nothing more to him than a safeguard. Voldemort felt a pang of regret at her words, but his expression remained impassive as he studied her profile. He sighed and pulled her closer, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him.

"Yes Hadria that is correct...that is...was my sole initial reasoning."

She looked into his eyes, a spark of hope igniting when she saw the warmth in his gaze.

"And now?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Now...as I said, I have a vested interest in your safety that goes beyond my original reasoning. It is...something I am still exploring," he replied, releasing her chin and letting his hand rest on the side of her neck.

"Hadria I killed Millicent because she forced my hand the night of your parents murders...I am about to tell you something that I have never told anyone...because...it is...shameful to admit to in that I did not possess the foresight to prevent it. I've never been one to care if I have anyone's understanding of my actions. But there are truths that you deserve to know."

"I had tried many times to bring your mother and father...well, your mother mostly, into my followers. Your mother, despite her...magical origins, she was quite a talented witch...I preferred to have her on my side as opposed to her being a foe. Additionally, she worked for the Order and I saw an opportunity for a double spy. She had always turned me down. However, upon finding out about how her daughter was the subject of the prophecy, I was led to believe she was worried that I would eventually come after her...you. There was of course, merit to that if I'm being honest. I received an owl from her asking me to come meet with her and that she and your father would be considering joining me if protections were afforded to secure your safety while also ensuring the prophecy was not fulfilled. I should have known then but I did not...that I was walking into a trap."

Hadria was mesmerized at this point. She said nothing but listened to him without hardly taking a breath or blinking.

"It was, a late night meeting that was set. Upon stepping on the front porch I was suddenly hit with a spell from behind. What the caster didn't realize was that she had become visible to me...I suspect she was using a cloak of invisibility which she then removed. I saw her reflection in the window pane of the front door. Not in time to do anything to stop her mind you. But at least I knew later who compelled me. Millicent Bagnold, then the Minister of Magic, cast the Imperius curse upon me. At which point, I apparently broke into the home, murdered your father, then went upstairs and tried to kill you first before your mother stepped in sacrificing herself to save you. An act that changed everything. As I'm certain that upon completion of these acts Millicent had likely planned to kill me to make herself out to be some kind of hero. Instead I was taken out by my last action in trying to kill you...while still under the Imperius curse."

Hadria's mind reeled, the revelation crashing over her like a tidal wave. If what he said held any truth, then her entire existence had been a lie...a carefully orchestrated deception woven by those she had trusted.

"Did Dumbledore know this?" Her voice trembled, the weight of betrayal settling on her shoulders. Voldemort's gaze bore into hers, and for a moment, she glimpsed something akin to empathy.

"I cannot say with certainty," he replied, his tone measured. "Whatever it was that motivated Millicent to do this is, as of yet, still a mystery to me. When I searched her mind just before her death I could see only fragments and that day was missing entirely...her memory was clearly tampered with. She also had no memory of the full prophecy. I suspect they were working together but without knowing more that is a theory."

He paused, and Hadria's heart raced. "However," Voldemort continued, "Dumbledore certainly knew you were a Horcrux. He kept you in the dark, biding his time. Eventually, he would have led you right to me, knowing that your destruction would potentially render me mortal. You see, I have other Horcruxes...pieces of my soul hidden away. But if they were all destroyed, as my diary was, it would leave me vulnerable to death."

He was right. She had been lied to her entire life. She was kept to be slaughtered at just the right moment. And the invisibility cloak being used further solidified this. Dumbledore and given her the invisibility cloak stating it had belonged to her father once...so if Millicent was in possession of this it only further supported the theory that Dumbledore had a part in the events of that evening.

A tear slipped down Hadria's cheek, and Voldemort reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle. He wiped it away, his thumb grazing her skin. "He deceived you," he murmured, his voice low. "Kept you in ignorance, all for the sake of his own machinations."

"Hadria, I won't lie to you, there is a chance you would live if you were killed. As it is possible the soul piece within you would die and still leave the host to live. However, it is only a magical theory and has never been proven. The truth is that no one knows for sure. Dumbledore was willing to take this risk. To lose you in order to defeat me."

He pulled her tighter against him again and pressed his mouth against her neck before speaking with a tone of determination.

"I am not going to allow him that chance," he murmured against her throat. His fingers tangled in her hair, possessive and gentle all at once.

"You will be staying in this room with me since it is protected. I will bring you meals for the time being. I need to speak with Severus before the others. I'm sure the Order will find out soon enough that you've gone, though it will take them time to realize where exactly you are. It is very important Hadria, that you not leave this room...do you understand?"

She nodded, her throat too tight for words. Fear and longing warred within her. The weight of her choices pressed down, threatening to crush her. But his touch anchored her, reminding her that she was no longer alone.

He wiped away her tears, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. "Bravery isn't about being unafraid," he whispered. "It's about facing the abyss and choosing to step forward anyway. It is easy to look at the world in black and white...good and evil...but it is not that simple. You are not that simple. Dumbledore never appreciated the complex beautiful little witch that you are. He kept you in the dark...not for your protection but to ensure his success."

"What if I'm not strong enough?" she whispered back.

His smile was a rare thing, a glimpse of vulnerability. "Strength isn't always about power," he said. "It's about resilience, adaptability. You've survived this long, little witch. And you'll continue to do so." He spoke softly and wiped away her tears and kissed her forehead. He stood then and took her hand pulling her up with him.

"Change for bed, my dear. We'll get some rest," he murmured, his voice a low, velvety caress. Hadria nodded, her heart fluttering like a trapped moth. She moved her trunk onto a bench along the wall, opening it to reveal her long silk green pajamas.

"I suppose I should get you more of those," he chuckled, eyes tracing the delicate fabric.

"Can I get other colors?" she asked, a playful glint in her eyes as she headed toward the bathroom.

"Now you're speaking nonsense witch." He narrowed his eyes amusedly at her as he pulled a pair of long black pajama pants out of his drawer.

The Dark Lord wears pajamas?

She smiled as she went into the bathroom and closed the door. She slipped off her shoes and clothing. That's when she noticed the floor wasn't as cold as a marble floor should be...must be charmed...

She went to set her things on the vanity and noticed a dark green silk nightie. Once she had set her things nearly in a pile she picked it up. She realized it was the nightie that he had put her in when he first pulled her into the dream state with him. She smiled a little. She wasn't quite sure why it was there...she had changed out of it and left it on the vanity...but that had been in the dream place...not reality...right? Maybe she didn't understand how it all worked. She left it and changed into her long pajamas.

She used the toilet which was another pleasant experience. Even the toilet seat was a bit warm. While she was there she eyeballed the massive tub and looked forward to her first bath in it.

She finally left the bathroom. Voldemort was reading the daily prophet waiting for her.

"You do like to keep up with your news." She said crawling into the bed. He smiled at her.

"Of course...if you can call it that." He chuckled softly. She had never seen him without robes on. She didn't realize she was staring at him until he put down the paper and she looked up. She blushed knowing she had been caught.

He just grunted in amusement setting the paper on the nightstand and pulled her down into the bed with him.

"Come here you little insatiable temptress. You need rest, Hadria," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "And if you keep looking at me like that, you won't get any."

Her reply was a playful challenge. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Oh yes, my dear," he laughed, a low sound that sent shivers down her spine. "I believe you do."

He shifted, lying on his back, and opened his arm. She moved into his side, her head finding its place on his chest. His heart beat beneath her ear, a reminder that he was still human, still vulnerable. Her hand rested on his lean stomach, and he smiled, a rare softness in his eyes.

Gods it feels good with her in my bed...

He closed his eyes, fingers threading through her hair. Together, they drifted into sleep, shadows and secrets entwined. And though he would never admit it, it was the best sleep he'd ever had.

***

Chapter Text

***
12 Grimmauld Place

Dumbledore sat at the head of a sturdy old dining table in a home owned by Sirius Black, one of the members of the Order of the Phoenix, a group he had organized long ago during the first war to defeat Voldemort. It served as a meeting place for the order and a safe house for any members needing a place to stay. Tonight there was a grim feeling in the room. Everyone had gathered without much talk yet about the events of recent. They were waiting for the official word from Dumbledore.

The old wizard was silent for quite some time before he finally leaned forward and pushed a small card toward the center of the table.

"Hadria...it seems...has voluntarily left the safety of the Dursley home on Privet Dr."

Several members looked shocked. Mrs. Weasley covered her mouth and felt tears sting her eyes.

"Oh no..." she whispered quietly.

The members of the order looked down at the small rectangular piece of plain white cardstock with the words "thank you" written on it.

"At this time the only ones who are aware of her disappearance, are the Dursleys and those within these walls. The Dursleys reported no suspicious activity as of late, only stating she had gone to bed that night and left the residence sometime in the night taking all of her things. That card was left on the kitchen table. Mrs. Dursley immediately notified me upon locating it. The only other item left behind was this. It was found pushed to the back of her wardrobe."

He placed an empty wine bottle on the table. Severus, who was in attendance, recognized this to be a type wine that was kept stocked at the Malfoy Manor...it also happened to be one of Voldemorts favorites. For the time being he decided to keep this information to himself. He was very surprised and confused at the find. This was a very interesting development indeed and he needed to figure out what it meant before alerting anyone. The hesitation was also fueled by his recent feeling of suspicion toward the Headmaster. He still felt as if he were hiding something and his instincts were telling him to hold back.

"For now, until Hadria is located...we continue with our plans."

The rest of the meeting was rather uneventful. Dumbledore simply giving everyone tasks and discussing other issues. Severus was somewhat in his own thoughts. He needed to go see Voldemort and he knew Dumbledore would expect him to do so. The Dark Lord wouldn't take too kindly if he held out reporting on this and he knew Voldemort was aware of this. There were too many signs.

After the meeting he apparated back to his home but would report to Voldemort first thing in the morning.

***

The next day Severus reported to Malfoy Manor. A house elf let him in and led him to the grand dining room where Voldemort was having breakfast with the Malfoys.

"Ah, Severus...I had been...expecting you. Would you like some breakfast before we meet?" Voldemort asked. He was clearly only making a show of mock kindness and his tone told Severus he did not mean for him to take him up on the offer.

"No, my lord, thank you." He said flatly.

Voldemort smiled tightly and stood.

"Very well Severus." Voldemort picked up his plate that he had hardly touched and walked out of the room expecting Severus to follow him. Severus nodded toward Lucius and Narcissa in a polite gesture and followed The Dark Lord out of the room.

Voldemort led him to the study where he set the plate down on a table. He waved his hand over it and Severus noticed a light steam rose from the food...he had reheated it...

"Wait here Severus, I will return shortly." Without waiting for a response he left and closed the study door. Severus inhaled a bit nervously. He looked again at the plate of food and lifted an eyebrow curiously.

Not too long after, Voldemort suddenly apparated into the room. Severus heard the sound and turned to find him standing with a very much alive and seemingly well Hadria Potter. She looked beautiful out of the boring school robes wearing an simple yet elegant black dress. Voldemort smiled mischievously.

"I presume this is why you've come to see me today." Voldemort had already slipped his hand up to the back of her neck possessively. Unless his eyes deceived him the Potter girl seemed to lean into him a bit.

"Good morning, Professor Snape." She smiled nervously. She didn't seem in fear at all though...she didn't flinch from the Dark Lords touch.

"Yes, my lord...the Order had an emergency meeting as to her disappearance just last night. I will say that they only know she left of her own volition." Severus said as he clasped his hands behind his back. Voldemort's eye brow lifted at that. He looked down at Hadria.

"Hadria, my dear go sit down and have some breakfast." He pointed to the food and Hadria nodded up at him and went and sat down at a chair at the table and began eating.

Severus tilted his head curiously. Ensuring she eats...not only that but making sure the meal wasn't cold for her. Voldemort sat down in a chair and gestured for Severus to also sit.

"Why is it they think she left voluntarily?" Voldemort asked curiously.

"She left a note, my lord."

Hadria stopped mid bite. She hadn't even thought of her little thank you note being an issue in any way. Voldemort narrowed his eyes and looked at her.

"I see...what kind of note did you leave Hadria?" He asked coldly. She swallowed nervously.

"I left a small card...it...just said thank you." She said softly looking between the two men. Voldemort took a slow breath and looked back to Severus.

"Anything else?" He asked.

"Yes my lord...an empty wine bottle...but no one knows where it's from...so far." Voldemort's eye twitched as his gaze flicked to Hadria again who was chewing her lower lip nervously. He nodded and looked back at Severus.

"Severus, the first thing I will tell you is that Hadria is in fact here by choice. I would have preferred this to have remained private longer but...in any case...I am glad you brought this before me. There is a conversation that I've been meaning to have with you since my return. I do plan to have a meeting to speak about Hadria joining us since. As of right now, no one is aware of her being here. But, it was important to speak with you first...you see, I value your loyalty...and, as of right now, I don't believe I have it." There was an ominous tone to his voice.

Severus got a suspicious look on his face and his brow furrowed.

"My lord, I remain a loyal ser-"

Voldemort put his hand up to silence him.

"Severus I killed the one woman you ever loved and held dear. And I tell you now, that what you've been told about that night is a lie."

Severus's eyes shifted from Voldemort to Hadria and back again. He said nothing.

"Let me tell you the real story...the one that unfortunately, also reveals that even the Dark Lord can be caught off guard by someone who apparently was well trained on a particular unforgivable curse...I assume you recall that I had tried to recruit Lily and James yes?"

"Yes, my lord..." Severus said with no emotion. Voldemort nodded and began to tell him the true story of what had occurred that night. How he had received an owl to discuss bringing the Potters over in return for safety for their child. Then how the minister had cast the Imperio curse on him before he had a chance to react.

Suddenly Severus remembered how that very same minister had been found murdered in her home only days ago.

"The next memory I had was after my body had already been destroyed...I do not yet know what her motivation was to have me murder the Potters...she could have just as easily have cast the killing curse and spared them...I paid our dear Millicent a visit recently as you may know...it seems...her memory of that evening has been conveniently...obliviated...and in her state of hysteria in the moment before I took her life she let it slip that Dumbledore had also...obliviated her memory of the full prophecy."

Voldemort paused and gave Severus a moment. The potions master seemed emotionless but his eyes conveyed a growing anger that he could no longer deny.

"In all likelihood she had used a cloak of invisibility. Had she simply been disillusioned when she cast the Imperio upon me, I would not have seen her as I did." Severus knew that no one could have used the disillusionment charm there due to the wards that it had been under. Though Voldemort hadn't known that.

Hadria spoke up then.

"Professor...I have a cloak of invisibility that was given to me by Dumbledore my first year at Hogwarts...he told me it used to be my fathers..."

Severus's face remain emotionless but he was gritting his teeth. His mind was racing...connecting the dots...

"She also knows that she's a Horcrux Severus. The man has been lying to her her entire life. I'm quite certain he planned to sacrifice her to bring me down when the time was right...and I think that you were aware of this..."

Severus narrowed his eyes looking at the Dark Lord intensely

"However...given what you thought had occurred that evening...I am willing to overlook this. I have no wish to lose such a talented ally...my hope is that...given this new information you may have a similar change in heart as Hadria...I am nothing if not...a merciful lord..." Voldemort said as he smiled slightly and held Severus's gaze.

Severus stood then and looked away from them placing a hand on the shelf of a nearby bookcase while he processed this information. It was the first time he had felt like he might lose his composure in many years. He gripped the shelf hard.

Hadria looked at him with concern then she looked back to Voldemort.

"My lord...may I tell him? About the...agreement between..." she gestured between herself and him. Voldemort closed his eyes momentarily and nodded in agreement.

Severus turned toward them again his eyes full of emotion. Hadria stood up and walked closer to Severus.

"Professor...I agreed to come to Voldemort for...a number of reasons...but I did so under two conditions...one is that there will be no one tortured or killed any longer simply for their blood status...and two, everything will be done to preserve lives if it is possible."

Severus looked to Voldemort with an eyebrow raised as if he couldn't believe it. Voldemort slowly nodded.

"What she says is true. I have come to value her at my side...for obvious reasons her safety is of utmost importance to me...and I have agreed to these conditions in exchange for her surrender and obedience. She has also proven herself...rather loyal so far." He cast a look toward her that appeared almost to be of pride.

"It will be discussed in the next meeting with everyone else."

Severus was quiet for a moment. There was no good and evil...there was just the lesser of two evils...there was the man who was framed for murders he did not commit even though he committed others and there was the man who had played some part in Lily's death and let him believe all these years that Voldemort had been the one who did it and he had faithfully served him...he had been lied to the entire time. And Lily's death had been the only reason he had even given Dumbledore his loyalty to begin with.

"My lord...may I search her mind?"

Voldemort narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He didn't appreciate the request but after some consideration he decided to allow it. Severus's loyalty could very well prove to be paramount in the coming months and years. Voldemort gestured for Hadria to come to him. She did so and he pulled her into his lap possessively.

"I will...allow it...however, be respectful...of her privacy." He said in an ominous tone. Severus nodded cautiously before casting the Legilimens spell. He was careful to skim for only what he needed to verify the truth and any possible inconsistencies between her truths and what had been said. Voldemort's anger was rising the longer the potions master was in her mind...he felt an emotion he was not accustomed to...jealousy.

After a quick couple of minutes Severus was satisfied. He found none. Not even one inconsistency. He pulled out of her mind. Voldemort looked angry. He had not liked Severus poking around in her mind like this. But he said nothing as Severus's emotions got the better of him and a tear slipped down his cheek. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"My lord...I cannot apologize for nor will I deny my previous shift in loyalty. However...if you are indeed willing to overlook it. I will endeavor to assist you in anyway that I can."

Chapter Text

After the meeting with Severus, Voldemort apparated Hadria back to his dimly lit bedroom. The air crackled with tension as they materialized, and before she could react, he pinned her against the door, looming over her, his eyes ablaze with something she couldn't quite decipher...an amalgamation of anger, curiosity, and desire. His lips curved into an ominous grin, and Hadria's heart raced. She was trapped, pinned and yet, a part of her welcomed the danger.

"Hadria," he began, his voice a calm but stern purr.

"It was not wise to leave traces of yourself behind." His fingers brushed her cheek, and she shivered.

"I told you to take everything."

His proximity was suffocating, and she could feel the heat radiating from his body. If she had been anyone else...he would have already unleashed his wrath. Torture, punishment, swift and merciless. But with her, he held back. For now.

Hadria winced as his fingers tightened in her hair, a painful reminder of her vulnerability. She had never expected her simple note to evoke such a reaction. But then again, nothing was simple when it came to Voldemort.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I didn't mean any harm by the note. I just...figured I'd probably never see them again."

Her family...the Dursleys...were far from warm, but they were all she had. The only remnants of a life she had left behind.

His eyes bore into hers, and for a moment, she glimpsed something beyond the cold facade...a flicker of understanding, perhaps. His grip loosened, and she exhaled, relieved.

Without hesitation, he cast a muffliato charm, ensuring they remained unheard by prying ears.

Voldemort moved with a fluid grace, crossing the room to sit on the couch. His presence was both magnetic and dangerous.

"Come here, my dear," he beckoned, his voice a low murmur. His finger curled, and Hadria hesitated before inching toward him. She settled beside him, her heart pounding. What game was he playing now?

Before she could protest, he pulled her over his lap, his touch both possessive and punishing. His intentions were unclear...punishment or something else entirely...but she couldn't deny the heat that pooled low in her belly.

"You test my patience," he murmured, his breath brushing her ear. "Your defiance intrigues me."

His hand rested on her backside, and she tensed. "But remember this, Hadria: I am not a man to be trifled with."

His words hung in the air, a warning and a promise.

"Wait what-"

"Hadria...the sooner you take your punishment, the sooner it's over." He said calmly with a small curl to his lip.

"You really mean to...to..."

Oh my god...this CANNOT be happening...

He hiked her dress up high revealing her black panties with lace trim bringing a smirk of amusement and desire to his face.

"Oh yes my dear...I mean to." He said softly as he ran his large hand over her bottom.

Gods her body...

She buried her face in her hands when she felt it flush with heat.

"You've been quite naughty darling. You had this coming." He said as he slowly pulled her panties down caressing her bare bottom. The velvet of her skin beneath his fingers caused a stirring in his loins. He shifted and grit his teeth fighting his desire.

"Are you ready my dear?" He asked. She groaned into her hands.

"Just get it over with." She said in a muffled voice of humiliation. He chuckled in amusement.

"As you wish." He brought his hand down on her ass cheeks hard. She squealed in pain. His hand was so big it was hitting both cheeks at once. "That was for running away from me in the graveyard...and this one is for leaving things at the Dursleys."

He struck her again. She let out a whine as her eyes began to sting with tears. She looked back just as he landed another one.

"Oh god!" She cried out in pain and looked away from him. He bit his lip excitedly.

"That's for tempting me...in fact I think you've done that quite a few times..."

She looked back again to protest and winced when she saw him slap her ass again. Her cheeks were getting red. She whimpered as she felt the stinging heat spread across her bottom. He rubbed her reddening skin tenderly.

"Is that hurting darling?" He asked with a sadistic grin. She had tears falling now.

"Please..." she begged.

"Oh I do love when you beg my dear," She whined when his hand made contact with her tender skin again. He leaned down and with with his other hand pulling her chin up to him and kissed her passionately as he slapped her again. She whimpered against his mouth.

"Such a good girl." He purred to her. When he slapped her again a moan escape her throat. She was starting to feel...arousal mixed with the pain.

It was her second day in the manor but Voldemort had been gone most of the time busy with...well, whatever Voldemort does...her meals had been brought by a house elf...last night he had come in and gotten into bed with her and just pulled her close. Two nights they had slept together without him trying anything. She was incredibly horny now. The man has no idea just how attracted she is to him.

He smiled teasingly as he whispered, "Was that...a moan?" Her breath hitched, a silent admission to the pleasure she couldn't deny. Without waiting for her response, he delivered another spank, eliciting a low groan from her lips. His dominance stirred a wild desire within her, igniting a fire that only he could quench.

"You're not supposed to enjoy your punishment my dear," he remarked, his tone laced with amusement as his hand soothingly rubbed the reddened skin.

"I'm...not enjoying it..." her breathless denial a futile attempt to mask her growing arousal.

A chuckle of skepticism escaped him. "Is that so? Well, let's test my theory then." His fingers traced a tantalizing path down to the juncture of her legs, where he found her drenched with desire. The reaslization of her arousal only fueled his own need.

"Gods witch...you..." His groan revealed the magnetic pull she had on him. Her breath caught as his fingers caressed her wet folds, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from her lips. His dark smile hinted at the control he held over her.

"Oh...does my sweet girl enjoy having her cunt touched like this, hm?" he inquired, his voice a seductive whisper. Her nod was a silent admission to the desires that burned between them.

"Yes," she whimpered, her voice barely above a breath. His chuckle was a low rumble as he slid a finger into her eager depths. A gasp of pleasure escaped her parted lips, her body yielding to the sensations that consumed her.

"Spread your legs a bit, my dear," he requested, his voice husky with desire. She obeyed, allowing him a closer view of her glistening arousal. His admiring gaze lingered on her, captivated by the beauty before him.

Fucking Merlin that's beautiful...

"You really get this excited when the Dark Lord touches you?" he inquired, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he continued to explore her. She arched into his touch, a silent affirmation of her desire. His movements were deliberate, each thrust of his fingers driving her further into ecstasy.

"Such a naughty little witch...letting such an evil dark wizard finger you like this..." he teased, lifting her chin to meet his gaze before claiming her lips in a searing kiss. Breaking away, he added a second finger, intensifying her pleasure. Her breath quickened, her body responding fervently to his ministrations.

"How's that sweet girl?" he murmured against her lips, his voice laced with desire. She struggled to form coherent words, her ecstasy overwhelming her senses. The touch of a man was a new and intoxicating experience for her, igniting a fire within that she had never known.

"It's...so good..." she managed to whisper, her voice trembling with pleasure. His chuckle filled the room as he increased the pace of his movements, driving her closer to the edge of bliss. Leaning back slightly, he savored the sight before him, enraptured by her beauty and the raw desire between them.

The crackling of the fire, her muffled moans of pleasure, and the wet sounds of their intimate connection enveloped them in a world of shared passion. As he felt her arousal seeping into his robes beneath her, a primal hunger stirred within him, fueling the flames of desire that consumed them both.

"Merlin witch...the way you get wet for me...fuck..." he groaned, his voice thick with desire. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging her closer as he quickened the pace of his movements. She surrendered to the pleasure, her moans mingling with the sound of their shared desire. She can feel his hard cock beneath his robes...she longs to feel it against her...inside her...

"That's it sweet girl...don't hold back now, I want to hear every little noise of your pleasure," he urged, his touch igniting a wildfire of sensation within her. She begins to moan louder as he pushes her closer to the edge. He gets his thumb wet with her arousal and gently rubs it over her asshole as he fingers her. Her sharp intake of breath signaled her overwhelming pleasure.

"Oh gods...you...my lord..." she gasped, her voice laced with need and desire. Her body writhed with pleasure, her hips moving in sync with his rhythm. With a firm grip on her hair, he whispered into her ear, his voice a husky growl of command.

"Good girl...now come for me, witch." He growls. It's as if he commands her body with his voice alone.

He felt her muscles inside tense before she whined in ecstasy and climaxed. Her body quivers as she releases and wetness spills down his fingers and into his lap.

Oh...goddamn...

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding as he watched her fall apart beneath his hands. He lets her hair go and slowly strokes it instead. She has her eyes closed trying to slow her breaths now.

With a reverent touch, he withdrew his fingers, marveling at the glistening evidence of her arousal.   Meeting her gaze, he saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes as he brought his fingers to his lips, tasting the essence of her desire. An intense, almost primal hunger glinted in his eyes as he savored her taste, the flavor of her overwhelming his senses and eliciting a low groan of pleasure.

"Gods, witch... you taste divine," he rasped, his voice a guttural growl of satisfaction as he lingered over every drop, savoring the intimacy of the moment. Mesmerized by his actions, she watched as he relished her essence. With a deep chuckle, he retrieved his wand, swiftly and efficiently cleaning the remnants of their intimacy from both of them and pulled her panties up.

"Don't expect your punishment to always be so pleasurable my dear...you tempted me this time...next time you may not be so lucky." He spoke sternly but, as so often happens, his eyes betrayed him with a flicker of playfulness and warmth.

She sat up and he pulled her in to kiss him.

"You are...so beautiful Hadria." It slipped out like it was the most natural thing in the world to compliment her. She smiled and kissed him again.

This witch will be the death of me yet...

***

Chapter Text

After her...punishment...that morning Voldemort had left again leaving her in his room. Or is it...their room? She started finally unpacking her luggage that she had been living out of. She placed her clothes into the open drawers on her side of the wardrobe...her side...something about that made her smile.

Could there be a real relationship with Voldemort? The question echoed in her mind. They shared chemistry, an undeniable pull that transcended their roles. He fought it, of course. Played it cool. But she saw through the facade. He was holding back, and it was oddly endearing.

Everything she had ever known about him screamed danger. Evil incarnate. Yet here he was, not a sexual deviant, at least not with her. The irony wasn't lost on her.

I hope there's no one else...

The idea of her being jealous seemed absurd, yet she admitted it: Yes, she was capable of it.

She had somewhat come to terms with the fact that she harbored some affectionate feelings for the man. However surprising it may be. She was an old-fashioned girl, believing in monogamy even amidst the chaos of their world.

Their relationship had yet to cross certain boundaries. They hadn't consummated their connection, but the tension simmered, promising heat and vulnerability. She wondered if he had other partners, other alliances. .

It didn't take her long to get her clothes put away since she didn't have much to begin with. She pulled out her guitar...a reminder of simpler times. She set the case on the floor and slid it under the bed.

Next came the school books from last term. Snape had promised to deliver the additional ones she needed for her seventh year. Voldemort assured her that once they took over Hogwarts, she would have a chance to catch up, to graduate. The thought both excited and terrified her. The halls of the castle held memories...friends, enemies, lost innocence.

As she ran her hand down the worn spine of a potions textbook, Hadria wondered if redemption was possible. If love could bloom in the darkest of places. She glanced at the empty side of the bed...the space Voldemort would occupy when he returned.

She wasn't decided on what she wanted to do after graduation but she had gotten perfect scores on her OWLs...thanks to tons of study sessions with Hermione...so she had plenty of choices. But she wasn't sure how her recent life choices may have played into her options.

She sat in the bed and started thinking about her friends. Ron and Hermione must be worried sick about her...unless they somehow knew where she was...would they hate her once they found out? Could they ever find it in their hearts to forgive her? Would they ever want to see her again?

Suddenly the door opened and Dobby, a bright eyed house elf came in with a covered platter. He was the same one who always brought her food. He wasn't much taller than her knee and always wore rags for clothes...which was typical of house elves.

"Miss Potter, your lunch is ready!" Dobby's high-pitched voice echoed through the room, and he beamed at her, his mismatched eyes wide with eagerness.

Hadria returned his smile. The house-elf never stayed long, but there was something endearing about him—the way he scurried about, eager to please. He seemed like a nice little elf, despite his servitude.

"Thank you, Dobby," she said, accepting the platter of food. "Would you like to sit with me for a bit? Keep me company?"

Dobby's ears twitched, and he wrung his hands. "Oh no, Miss Potter," he replied, his voice a mix of excitement and trepidation. "The Dark Lord was very clear...Dobby is to drop off Miss Potter's food and not dawdle." His eyes widened.

"You truly are the kindest witch I've known. No witch or wizard has ever asked me to sit down with them."

Hadria's frown deepened. "Really? That's terrible," she said. "I don't see why we can't be friends."

Dobby's eyes lit up, and he clasped his hands together.

"Friends? You want...to be friends? With me?" His voice quivered, and tears threatened to spill.

"Of course, Dobby," Hadria said, her heart warming.

"Then Miss Potter and Dobby are friends!" He said beaming excitedly.

They shared a laugh, and Hadria settled back on the bed. "It's good to have another friend," she admitted. "I don't imagine I'll be seeing my old friends anytime soon. I'm...not even sure they'll still want to be friends with me once they find out I came to Voldemort willingly."

Dobby's ears drooped, and he tilted his head curiously. "You came here willingly?" he asked.

Hadria nodded. "I did, Dobby," she confessed.

"Maybe for reasons beyond my understanding. I'm not even allowed to talk about the others. But...I feel drawn to him. Something deep down just tells me I need to be here...with him."

Dobby seemed lost in thought, his large eyes searching hers. "Hearts are a funny thing, I've noticed," he said simply.

She raised her eyebrows, surprised by the wisdom in his words. "They sure are, Dobby," she agreed.

"And sometimes, they lead us down unexpected paths."

As the house-elf shuffled away, Hadria wondered more about what might be possible with Voldemort. Hearts were indeed funny things...capable of forging connections even in the darkest of times.

***

A couple of hours after lunch, Dobby reappeared in the room, his ears twitching with anxiety.

"Miss Potter! The Dark Lord calls on you to come to the meeting!" His voice trembled, and Hadria looked up from her book. The word "meeting" hung in the air, heavy with implications.

"Meeting?" she echoed, her heart racing.

"Yes, Miss Potter," Dobby confirmed. "He has the Death Eaters assembled in the dining room. They've been in talks, but he's asked that you join him."

Hadria's palms grew damp. She had anticipated this moment, but perhaps not this soon. "Okay, give me just a moment," she replied, her mind racing.

"Ohhhh...don't delay, Miss Potter," Dobby warned. "You know the Dark Lord doesn't have patience for delays."

As she prepared to face the Death Eaters, Hadria grappled with her role. What was she to Voldemort? Companion? Consort? Plaything? The last thought repulsed her. If that were all she was, he wouldn't be holding back. There was something more...a connection she couldn't fully comprehend.

She retrieved her black hooded dress from the wardrobe. A simple transfiguration charm turned it dark green...a color she hoped would please him. She changed into it, the fabric clinging to her curves. Underneath, she wore undergarments from the collection he had bought for her...sexier than anything she owned. The dress revealed a fair amount of cleavage...so she hadn't dared to wear it before. She'd fallen in love with it at a store in Diagon Alley months ago, never imagining she'd wear it for a gathering of Death Eaters.

Her black suede boots completed the ensemble, and she fluffed her long wavy hair. The mirror reflected a woman she hardly recognized...a blend of vulnerability and determination. She wasn't just dressing for herself; she was dressing for him. The Dark Lord had awakened something within her...a desire to unravel the shadows, to find her place in this dangerous dance.

"Alright, Dobby, lead the way," Hadria said, her smile genuine. The house-elf beamed up at her, his eyes wide with admiration and a touch of awe.

"Miss Potter, you are one of the loveliest witches I've ever seen," Dobby said sweetly, his ears twitching with excitement.

"Thank you, Dobby. You're too kind," Hadria replied, touched by his sincerity. As she followed him through the corridors, she took in the grandeur of Malfoy Manor.

Every room exuded elegance...the tapestries, the chandeliers, the polished furniture. She felt like an intruder, an outsider in this opulent world. But anyone else would assume she belonged here. She was as beautiful and poised as anything within those walls.

Dobby opened a large wooden door, and Hadria stepped into the room beyond. A long table stretched before her, and at the very end, on the other side, Voldemort sat at the head. His presence was magnetic, and when his eyes met hers, something shifted...a recognition, perhaps. For a fleeting moment, awe softened his features, and Hadria wondered what lay beneath the mask of the Dark Lord.

Gods...She is stunning...the way she makes me feel....

But then it vanished, replaced by the familiar coldness. Voldemort stood, his gaze unwavering.

"Hadria," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Welcome."

She inclined her head, her heart racing. This was the moment...the intersection of shadows and secrets. The Death Eaters watched her, their eyes assessing. She was no longer just a pawn; she was a player in their dangerous game.

He smiled in that sinister way he does. The Death Eaters present shifted in their seats, their eyes fixed on Hadria. Some stared in wonder, unable to believe that she was truly there...the girl who had willingly surrendered to their master. Polite nods came from those who knew her name, while others exchanged glances of surprise. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy shared a silent conversation, their expressions a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Hadria recognized a few faces from the graveyard that fateful night...Crabbe, McNair, and Avery. But there were others she couldn't place, their masks concealing their identities. They were all bound by the same dark allegiance, their loyalty pledged to the man who now stood before them.

"My dear, Hadria," Voldemort's voice cut through the tension, "come...join us."

His gesture indicated the chair next to him at the head of the table. A subtle smile tugged at her lips; he wanted her close. As she made her way to the other side of the table, every eye followed her. The air crackled with anticipation.

The closer she got, the more she saw it...a fire in his eyes, a hunger that threatened to consume her. Her cheeks flushed under his gaze as she approached the chair. But before she could sit, he stepped in front of her, his presence overwhelming.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "If you're trying to tempt me, darling," he whispered, his touch gentle yet possessive, "it's working."

A light kiss on her cheek followed, and then he stepped back, allowing me her to take her place.

Voldemort's gaze swept over the assembled Death Eaters, his presence commanding attention. The room held its breath, waiting for his words to shape their destiny.

"As you can see," he began, his voice a low murmur, "the direction of this war has been...slightly altered as a consequence of Hadria's surrender." His eyes flickered toward her, and she felt the weight of their shared secret.

"She was assured her life would be spared for this act of submission. And in exchange for her freedom, she asked for two things."

The Death Eaters leaned forward, their curiosity piqued. Voldemort's reputation was one of merciless cruelty, yet here he was, granting concessions. The room hummed with tension.

"No longer will we kill or torture a witch or wizard based on blood status alone," he declared. The words hung in the air, a seismic shift in their dark doctrine.

Some shifted uncomfortably, but none dared protest. They knew the consequences of defiance.

Hadria bristled at the next revelation.

"This does not change my views on mudbloods," Voldemort continued, his eyes locking onto hers. "Once we have completed our takeover, they will be marked as second-class citizens. Prohibited from marrying or breeding with any pure or half-blood."

Her anger flared, and he met her gaze unflinchingly. His smirk was both infuriating and intoxicating. He circled the room, predator-like, and she followed his movements. His next words were a slow unraveling of their new reality.

"Additionally," he said, "when in combat with our enemy, we will make efforts to avoid unnecessary death. Incapacitate first, kill only when necessary to prevent serious injury or death to yourself or others."

He emphasized each syllable, ensuring they understood.

Voldemort's blue eyes bore into Hadria's, dissecting her defiance. The flicker of emotion he had glimpsed in her gaze intrigued him. It was a vulnerability he hadn't anticipated, and it both irritated and fascinated him.

The Death Eaters shifted uneasily, their dark robes rustling as they listened to their master's words. The room crackled with anticipation, like a storm brewing on the horizon.

Voldemort's voice, smooth and dangerous, cut through the silence.

"I must agree that I would like to avoid spilling magical blood, my dear Hadria. When able, I prefer our enemies to bend to our will, to be brought into our command." His lips curved into a cruel smile, revealing his sharp teeth teeth.

"However, their fate...whether as obedient followers or permanent residents in Azkaban...will be up to the individual."

The Death Eaters chuckled, their loyalty unwavering. They reveled in the prospect of tormenting those who dared oppose their cause. But Voldemort's attention remained fixed on Hadria.

She broke their gaze, her defiance a silent rebellion. His eye twitched in annoyance. He moved toward her, his footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. With a swift motion, he seized her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes once more. Tears glistened in her irises, and he wondered what emotions churned beneath her mask of indifference.

"Have I not kept up my end of the agreement?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "My dear?"

Her response was curt, icy. "Yes, my lord."

His grip tightened, and she didn't flinch. Instead, she held his gaze, unyielding. Voldemort's mind raced. Was it anger or something else that fueled her defiance? He released her chin, pushing it aside dismissively.

"I should expect more appreciation from you moving forward," he murmured, circling her like a predator. "I can so easily revert to my original tactics if that is your wish."

Her tear-streaked face turned away, and she swallowed hard. The weight of her defiance pressed upon her, threatening to crush her resolve. But she straightened her spine, refusing to break.

"No, my lord," she replied, her voice steady and mocking as she continued. "I appreciate your...mercy."

"...should have known..." She muttered. She spoke the words before really thinking much about them.

His lip curled in disdain. Her continued defiance was making his blood boil, and not in a good way. She had no idea how angry he was becoming in this moment. To openly defy him in such a manner, in front of his followers, after he had so generously directed them all based on her requests, was maddening...if she were anyone else...

I should punish her...the darkness within him coiling like a serpent.

Punish her for all to see. Show them that no one defies the Dark Lord—not even one so beautiful.

In his mind, she was just a Horcrux...a vessel for a fragment of his soul. He could injure her, as long as he didn't kill her. She was nothing to him, and he would prove it.

"You will not defy me again, Hadria," he hissed, the words dripping with venom.

The darkest part of himself reveled in the power surge as he raised his wand. But then her eyes met his once more. Fear flickered in her gaze, and something inside his chest tightened...a kind of pain he had never known. But it was too late.

Chapter Text

***

A Glimpse into the Past

In July of 1942, Tom Riddle embarked on a quest to uncover the truth about his origins. Armed with only his name—Tom Marvolo Riddle—he delved into extensive research hoping to trace his lineage. Despite scouring countless resources at Hogwarts for any mention of his father's name, he continued to hit dead ends.

However, during his investigation into ancient wizarding bloodlines, he stumbled upon the House of Gaunt...the last remnants of the great Salazar Slytherin's descendants. Morfin Gaunt, the sole surviving member of the pureblood family, caught Tom's attention, because his Morfin's father's name was Marvolo Gaunt... was it only a coincidence that his own middle name was Marvolo?

The Gaunts were known for their unique skill: Parseltongue...the ability to communicate with snakes. It all clicked. This had to be his family, as he too possessed this rare gift.

Determined to confirm his legacy, sixteen-year-old Tom set out to visit Morfin Gaunt, hoping to unravel the secrets of his true identity. Little did he know that this encounter would lead him down a dark and twisted path, forever altering the course of his destiny.

Tom Riddle's journey led him to the remote village of Little Hangleton, where the Gaunt family home stood on the outskirts, nestled amidst a thicket of woods. The ancestral home had fallen into disrepair, reduced to a dilapidated shack. Overgrown nettles choked its perimeter, and moss clung to its timeworn walls. The roof sagged, its rafters exposed—a testament to neglect and decay. Even in its prime, this dwelling would never have impressed anyone.

Despite the foreboding sight, Tom's determination remained unshaken. He knocked on the door and pushed it open, stepping into the dim interior. The air hung heavy with dampness, and the kitchen greeted him with chaos. Pots and pans lay strewn about, their surfaces encrusted with months of grime. Rotten, moldy food sat on a plate atop the small kitchen table. Cobwebs adorned the corners of the room, and dust and grime coated every available surface, from the kitchen to the adjoining living room.

As Tom's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed an elderly man with a long, unkempt grey beard and hair. The man had been dozing in a threadbare armchair, surrounded by empty bottles. Startled, he jolted awake, drawing both a knife and a wand as the bottles clattered to the floor.

"It's you! What are YOU doing here?!" The old man's voice crackled with suspicion as he advanced toward Tom.

Tom raised his hands, his heart racing. He spoke in the ancient tongue, the words flowing effortlessly from his lips.

"Stop."

The man froze, his wrinkled brow furrowing in confusion. His eyes widened as he stared at Tom.

"You speak it?" he whispered, disbelief etched across his weathered face.

"Yes, I do," Tom replied calmly, closing the front door behind him. He took a deliberate step toward Morfin, his expression devoid of fear—only disgust and disdain for the man before him, his own flesh and blood.

"Well...you can't be Riddle then...you damn sure look like him..." Morfin squinted, trying to get a better look at Tom.

"I reckon you're too young anyway..." he added dismissively.

Tom feigned ignorance. "Who is Riddle?"

Morfin's eyes narrowed.

"The man my sister Merope ran off with. She thought she was being sneaky, but I found out from neighbors that he was coming to the house when Father and I were serving time in Azkaban. When we got back, she was gone...left a note and stole one of our only family heirlooms when she took off too. He looked just like you back then...he lives in the big house down the way still to this day...the son of a bitch."

Tom clenched his jaw, the weight of his newfound knowledge settling heavily upon him.

"Do you know what happened to her?"

Morfin's smiled and chuckled.

"She tried crawling back here for a spell after he left her, and I closed the door in her face. Said she was pregnant with a damn half-blood kid by him. After that, she disappeared...lucky too. I'd have killed whatever came crawling out of her womb. Ain't no half-blood gonna be raised under the Gaunt family roof. She got what was coming to her...Riddle never did return the Slytherin Locket to us, the thieving bastard!"

The old man sank into a chair, too tired to stand. Tom's anger simmered, and he swallowed thickly, trying to maintain composure.

"And Riddle...he wanted nothing to do with his child?"

Morfin grabbed an open bottle of whiskey from the table, taking a swig as he pondered.

"You're him, aren't ya? The bastard child of Riddle..."

Tom's grip on his wand tightened. Morfin chuckled, amused by this new revelation.

"As soon as he found out she was pregnant, he kicked her out and told everyone she'd bewitched him. He wanted nothing to do with you...His parents forbade it, even if he'd wanted to...nobody wanted you, boy...and they never will."

Laughter bubbled up from Morfin, fueled by bitterness and resentment. Tom's rage surged, and with a flick of his wand, he snapped. The room trembled, and the air crackled with magic. Revenge was within reach, and Tom Marvolo Riddle would ensure that his legacy would be etched in blood.

"Stupify!"

The incantation echoed through the decrepit room, and Morfin Gaunt crumpled to the floor, unconscious. It was the last thing the old man remembered before waking up the next day, disoriented and sore. He assumed he'd simply passed out from drinking too much firewhiskey. But panic soon gripped him when he noticed his father's ring missing from his gnarled hand. His heart raced as he tore through the ramshackle house, searching for the precious heirloom.

Outside, Ministry officials pounded on the door, their stern voices demanding entry.

The truth unfolded like a dark revelation: Tom Riddle Sr. and his parents had been found dead in their home that very morning. The evidence pointed squarely at him. Not only was Morfin the only wizard living in close proximity to the crime scene, but he was also a well-known and convicted Muggle-hater. Most damning of all, Morfin harbored a deep-seated grudge against the Riddle family.

Under questioning, Morfin gave a full confession, his mind clouded by false memories implanted by an unseen hand. He recounted how he'd taken his wand to the Riddle estate. There, fueled by rage and resentment, he'd silenced their pitiful muggle lives.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Tom Riddle headed back to the orphanage, the stolen ring clutched tightly in his hand. His reflection in the tarnished metal revealed a transformation...a shedding of his given name. From that day forth, he would be known as Voldemort. The Gaunt ring, once a symbol of shame, became his first Horcrux...a vessel for his darkest secrets and ambitions.

The legacy of Salazar Slytherin pulsed through his veins, and the path to immortality lay open before him. Tom Marvolo Riddle had vanished, replaced by a force that would shape the wizarding world for generations to come. The air crackled with magic around him. Revenge was within reach, and Voldemort would ensure that his name would echo through eternity, etched in blood and fear.

Chapter Text

BACK TO PRESENT DAY

It was a moment suspended in time, where reality fractured and pain became the only constant. Hadria staggered to her feet, her body still trembling from the Cruciatus Curse that had struck her.

The room around her blurred, fading into insignificance, leaving only the ornate ceiling etched with intricate patterns. How long had she been trapped in this torment? The ceiling tiles...were they meticulously handcrafted or churned out by some soulless factory? Such trivial thoughts flitted through her mind, a desperate distraction from the agony that threatened to consume her.

But Voldemort was lost in his own tempest. He had convinced himself that Hadria meant nothing to him, that she was merely a vessel...a Horcrux...to be preserved. Yet anger, molten and unyielding, surged within him. He unleashed spell after spell upon her, cycling through curses with a feverish intensity. His eyes glazed over, pupils dilated with a lust for rage, and he reveled in her suffering.

The memories flooded back...the raw nerve endings of his past. The framing for murders, the vulnerability to Imperius control, the unspeakable abuse suffered in Wools Orphanage. There, he had toiled like a wretched slave, physically and mentally broken, while others turned a blind eye. And his family...their rejection had seared his soul. They had branded him a mistake, and he had repaid them with death. His grandmother's screams echoed in his mind, a symphony of vengeance....he could still hear it...

No...that's not my grandmother...that's...

Hadria...

Her screams suddenly filled his ears and he stopped. He looked down almost looking surprised or confused for a moment that she was on the ground...bleeding from multiple slashes across her body. He dropped his wand arm to his side.

A sickness clawed at him...an unfamiliar ache. Memories of filth and degradation from his orphanage days resurfaced...the stench of urine, the vomit-slick floors. He had told himself she meant nothing, but now he knew otherwise. His entire body suddenly felt as though it were made of lead rooting him in this spot with a feeling of guilt.

The look of fear, pain and betrayal in her eyes as she lay there nearly unconscious, unable to move...it broke something inside of him. There was a look of disgust on his face that his Death Eaters likely thought was directed at her. They sat in silence as they watched the Dark Lord stand over her quietly as her quick breaths of pain filled the space between them.

Suddenly the simple words they had said to each other over the last few weeks since the first time he kissed her, came back to him in waves.
*
*
"For when words are not enough...all I can leave you with is this..."
*
"Do try not to kiss any more floating demons tonight."
"Only you."
*
"Tell me...about the want..."
"I missed you."
*
"Why wouldn't you, Hadria...why didn't you go to anyone?"
"I trust you."
*
*
He felt a tightness in the bottom of his throat and a feeling that shook him to his core...the taste of power and pain lingered on his tongue, a bitter elixir.

Gods, What have I done?

The question echoed through his mind, ricocheting off the cold wooden walls. It was a whisper of remorse, a crack in the façade of the Dark Lord. For a fleeting moment, he glimpsed the abyss...the void where humanity should reside.

The Death Eaters watched, their loyalty unwavering yet tinged with unease. Voldemort's movements defied their expectations. He bent down, his touch gentle, as if Hadria were spun from fragile glass. She lay there, alive but had fallen unconscious, her body bearing the marks of his wrath. In his arms, she seemed ethereal, weightless...a stark contrast to the brutality he had inflicted.

Lucius Malfoy, ever observant, recognized the shift. The Dark Lord had crossed a line, even by his own twisted standards. Voldemort cradled her against his chest, his trembling hand brushing her cheek. Lucius hesitated, torn between loyalty and concern.

"My lord—" His voice wavered, a thread of uncertainty.

"Get...a healer." The words sliced through the air, ominous and calm. The order hung like a shroud.

Voldemort turned, carrying her away, shielding her from prying eyes. The tear that fell onto her dark green dress went unnoticed...a single drop in an ocean of chaos.

My dear sweet witch...what have I done to you...

***

Chapter Text

The revelation hung heavy in the air, a tangible specter of Voldemort’s darkest fears realized. The wounds were a silent testament to the fury he had unleashed, and now, the consequences lay bare before him.

Marjorie, with her practiced hands, administered a potion to Hadria, its luminescent liquid a stark contrast to the pallor of unconsciousness. Voldemort’s gaze lingered on Hadria, his usual reticence now laced with an uncharacteristic solemnity. The silence was not empty; it was filled with the echoes of what could have been—she could have died.

Voldemort’s departure from Hadria’s side was a reluctant retreat, allowing Marjorie the space to ply her craft. His attention was drawn to a wardrobe, its contents partially revealed by a drawer left carelessly ajar. It was the third drawer down on the left side—her side. Curiosity piqued, he slid the drawer open, revealing the neatly folded garments within. They were modest, unassuming, and spoke of a simplicity that was at odds with the grandeur of the Manor.

I'll get her new ones...all new clothing...whatever she wants...

As he closed the drawer, his hands—pale as death itself—clasped behind him in a gesture of controlled composure. He turned back to the bed where Marjorie worked, her lips pressed tightly, her gaze upon him one of undisguised annoyance. Fear was absent from her demeanor; she regarded him with the confidence of one who had seen too much to be intimidated. His response was a subtle lift of his chin, eyes narrowing with a hint of suspicion, yet he remained silent.

He moved to the opposite side of the bed, his presence a silent sentinel over Hadria.

The room was steeped in a hush, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the faint murmur of incantations. Voldemort’s voice, usually commanding and cold, now carried a hint of vulnerability. “Will she scar?” he asked, his tone barely above a whisper.

Marjorie, her hands steady as she worked, did not pause in her ministrations. “No…I’ll see to it that she doesn’t…but don’t let this happen again,” she replied, her tone laced with a warning that brooked no argument. Her gaze met his for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange of wills, before she returned to her task.

Marjorie was a very wise and very old soul. She knew who Voldemort was...knew everything about him in fact. She knew people believed the man wasn't capable of affection or love...humans are foolish creatures always thinking in black and white. The look in the man's eye right now said it all. She'd seen it before more times than she cared to remember. With a final flourish, she completed the counter curse spell and began the delicate process of bandaging the wounds, ensuring the skin beneath would heal without a trace.

"You know what they say...time heals all wounds..." the woman muttered almost to herself.

Voldemort regarded her, a flicker of contemplation crossing his features. His gaze shifted back to Hadria, his posture one of contemplation, one hand resting thoughtfully over his mouth. Yes, time would heal the marks on her skin. But what of the one he had placed on her heart?

"Do you have something to dress her in?"

Voldemort nodded and went to the wardrobe. He returned with a set of long silk pajamas, laying them gently at the foot of the bed, a silent offering of care.

Lucius discreetly exited, leaving the sanctity of the healing to those within. Marjorie, with a deftness born of experience, used her magic to gently raise Hadria into a sitting position. The pajamas slid over her form, a soft caress against the healing skin. Voldemort remained still, a silent guardian, his presence a quiet force in the room. Marjorie worked alone, her magic deftly securing the buttons, her touch as precise as it was gentle. The scene was one of quiet transformation, the chaos of pain giving way to the calm of recovery.

The quiet in the room was punctuated by the methodical sounds of Marjorie tidying up her healer’s implements, each item finding its place within the cavernous depths of her aged Gladstone bag. The metallic clink of scissors as they descended into the bag was met with an unexpected hiss, a sound that seemed to emanate from an impossible distance within its confines.

Marjorie peered into the bag with a mix of irritation and affection. “You’re fine, Smudge,” she muttered, addressing the unseen occupant with a familiarity that spoke of long companionship.

Voldemort’s eyebrow arched, a silent query at the curious interaction. Marjorie’s eyes flicked up to meet his, a spark of defiance in her gaze as she dismissed the unspoken question with a terse, “Don’t ask…”

With a nonchalant gesture, she secured the bag, her movements betraying a weariness that came from more than just the night’s exertions. She acknowledged Voldemort with a nod, her words a pointed rebuke. “She’ll be fine, no thanks to you…be more careful next time…I’ll leave a few potions and some instructions here on how to use them…she’s already had one for pain and to help her get some rest so she’ll be asleep for awhile. You won’t need to redress the wounds…they will be gone by tomorrow.”

Her steps were heavy as she placed the potions and parchment on the nightstand, her departure from the room marked by the soft thud of her boots and the rustle of her robes. Left alone with Hadria, Voldemort approached the bed with a measured grace, his presence a silent vigil over the slumbering form.

His hand, pale as moonlight, reached out to trace the line of her jaw with a knuckle, an act of tenderness that seemed at odds with his nature. He leaned down, his lips barely grazing her forehead in a kiss that was both a benediction and a plea.

There, in the quiet of the room, he lingered beside her, his touch gentle, his cheek resting against her hair. In the stillness, his voice was a whisper, a soft echo of remorse. “Forgive me, Hadria.” The words were a confession, a vow, a hope. He kissed her forehead once more, a silent promise etched in the gesture, before he rose and departed, leaving behind the echoes of a healing yet to come.

***

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

By lunchtime, Hadria was completely healed, as if nothing had ever happened. The family's healer, whom she hadn't met, must be remarkably talented. The extra potions she had prepared remained untouched; her body had mended itself without their aid. She stowed them away in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, a silent acknowledgment of her newfound well-being.

Dressed in skinny jeans, sandals, and a cropped cream colored sweater, Hadria stepped into the day, her heart still echoing with the mystery of the Dark Lord...the man who held both cruelty and vulnerability within him.

Narcissa's invitation had led Hadria to the grand dining room. As she stepped inside, the memories of the previous day flooded back—the pain, the remorse, and the fragile connection she shared with the Dark Lord. Her gaze swept over the opulent surroundings—the dark wood table stretching before her, the chandeliers casting intricate shadows on the walls.

Swallowing her unease, Hadria offered a polite smile to Narcissa and Lucius, who were already seated. Their conversation halted as they turned their attention to her.

"Oh, Hadria, I'm so glad you're joining us. You look much better, dear," Narcissa's warm smile enveloped her.

The older woman was truly beautiful—her hair a striking blend of platinum blonde and deep black. Hadria had often wondered if it was natural, but either way, it looked exquisite on her. Narcissa always adorned herself in the finest clothing, her makeup impeccable. Poised and elegant, she was the perfect complement to her husband, Lucius. And if a man could ever be called beautiful, it would be him—porcelain skin, chiseled features, piercing blue eyes, and long platinum blonde hair. The Malfoys were simply stunning people.

Hadria returned the smile and settled into her seat across from Narcissa and Lucius. Lucius nodded politely, his hand resting over Narcissa's.

His words, delivered in a flat tone, cut through the air.

"I'm glad to see you're doing well, Miss Potter. You'll learn not to provoke the Dark Lord in such a manner. I imagine he has his reasons for keeping you at his side, but he's not typically one to be very merciful...you're quite lucky."

His raised eyebrow added weight to his statement.

Narcissa's smile seemed to compensate for her husband's tone. Hadria nodded, her gratitude genuine.

"Yes, well...I do hope not to provoke him again. Thank you for inviting me to lunch. I also appreciate being able to stay here in your home. It's quite lovely."

Deciding to tread carefully, Hadria aimed for civility. She knew the Malfoys were merely following their master's instructions, and she didn't want to create unnecessary tension.

"It is a rather impressive estate, is it not?" Lucius leaned back, pride evident in his voice.

"It was gifted to my ancestors by the King of England himself in the 10th century after they migrated from France. It has been in the Malfoy family ever since. Although it was expanded a few times."

Hadria listened, genuinely intrigued by the rich history of the place.

"That's quite impressive," she replied, appreciating the weight of centuries that hung in the air.

Suddenly, the large wooden doors swung open, and the house elves entered, carrying platters of food to serve. Dobby, with his eager eyes, served Hadria her meal, and she rewarded him with a tender smile. A pitcher of water floated over to the table under the elf's direction, filling everyone's glasses.

"This looks fantastic. What is it?" Hadria asked, her excitement palpable. The aroma was intoxicating.

Lucius cleared his throat and spoke up.

"Foraged mushroom rigatoni, autumn truffle, and Old Winchester cheese in a cream sauce," he said simply.

Hadria picked up her fork and took a bite. The cheese was divine, and the flavors melded perfectly. The sauce, rich and creamy, coated her taste buds with silky delight. She couldn't help but emit a contented moan.

"I'm so sorry...but that is amazing."

Lucius's lip curled in an amused smirk, devoid of his usual pretense. He nodded and continued with his meal. Narcissa, too, smiled, perhaps recognizing the shared pleasure in savoring such exquisite food.

***

Lunch had ended up being quite nice. Lucius clearly keeps his walls up but after seeing him break character she was sure with time he wouldn't be so bad either. As she ate quietly though she thought of Voldemort. Despite his rather dangerous tantrum...She missed him...would he still feel the same way about her? Or had this ruined everything? Her heart hurt when she remembered the moment he had looked down at her realizing what he had done.

Voldemort...Where are you?

Hadria, lost in her thoughts, managed to take a wrong turn after leaving the dining room. As she retraced her steps, she passed a music room adorned with a grand piano.

The room's beauty pulled her in. She had never seen such a lovely piano in person. Running her hand along its polished surface, she longed to sit down and let her fingers dance across the keys.

"Do you play?"

Startled, Hadria turned to find Narcissa standing in the doorway. She held her hand to her chest, recovering from the surprise.

"Oh goodness...you gave me a start. I'm sorry, I was lost in thought...yes, I do actually."

Narcissa smiled and walked into the room, settling into a chair in the corner. She gestured to the piano.

"By all means. I love to listen, I've never learned myself."

Suddenly, Hadria felt a bit shy. But she loved expressing her emotions through music. Blushing, she pulled out the seat and sat down.

Unbeknownst to her, Voldemort had heard her thoughts. He immediately apparated back to the Manor, seeking her out. He didn't question why he had heard her call; instead, he stalked through the house, heading for the bedroom. When he heard voices down the hall, he followed in their direction. Seeing the women enter the music room, he kept his distance until they were both inside. Then he quietly stepped up to the door as she began.

https://youtu.be/2nVYdj20_-U?si=SAYPnCnu24Xjc4Y_

"On the first page of our story
The future seemed so bright
Then this thing turned out so evil
I don't know why I'm still surprised
Even angels have their wicked schemes
And you take that to new extremes
But you'll always be my hero
Even though you've lost your mind"

The haunting melody flowed from Hadria's fingertips, her voice weaving through the air like a fragile thread. The piano, a grand instrument of polished wood, resonated with each note. Narcissa felt her eyes sting with tears—the girl possessed an angelic voice, and her playing was exquisite, raw with emotion. She couldn't help but be moved. Then, as if summoned by the music itself, Voldemort leaned against the door frame. Hadria faced the other direction, unaware of his presence. His eyes held a faraway look, as if he were lost in memories.

"Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
Well, that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
Well, that's alright because I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie, oh
I love the way you lie"

"So maybe I'm a masochist
I try to run, but I don't wanna ever leave
'Til the walls are going up
In smoke with all our memories"

"Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
Well, that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
Well, that's alright because I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie
I love the way you lie"

The lyrics hung in the air, their weight echoing the complexities of their shared existence. Narcissa's gaze shifted between the girl and the Dark Lord.

Hadria played the last key, swallowing and taking a deep breath before finally looking up at Narcissa, who was dabbing the corners of her eyes.

"That was...beautiful, Hadria," she said, her voice cracking slightly.

Voldemort shifted away from the door frame, the slight brush of his robes drawing Hadria's attention. She looked back at him, her lips parting in surprise. Words seemed to elude her.

Narcissa stood, wiping her eyes. "I'll give you two a moment," she said, nodding to Voldemort before leaving them alone. He never acknowledged Narcissa's presence, but he remained at the door until she was gone.

He scraped his bottom lip against his teeth as he made his way over to her and sat down, facing away from the piano on the bench next to her. His eyes held a profound sadness, a weight of remorse he struggled to express. There were so many words he wanted to say, but they eluded him.

I'm sorry for what I did...
I don't deserve a woman like you...

It was what he should have said, but instead, he remained silent, his emotions churning within.

Nothing I can say is adequate...

His fingers trembled as he reached up, cupping the side of her face, searching her eyes for the forgiveness he didn't know how to ask for. When a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she spoke next, it was as if she had heard his unspoken thoughts.

"For when words are not enough..."

He pulled her in and kissed her passionately. The kiss was all consuming. It was all the words he couldn't say. It was all the longing, desire, the regret she had needed to hear. He held her closer, reveling in the warmth of her, her breath against his face. It was the first place that had ever felt like home. He wrapped his right arm around her stomach and his other cradled the back of her head as he kissed her deeper. Eventually he pulled her into his lap and took her face in his hands pressing his forehead to hers with his eyes closed.

"Please forgive me, Hadria," he murmured, his voice breathless and hoarse.

"I already did," she replied.

He held her chin, shaking his head. How could this beautiful creature remain loyal after what he had done to her?

"I don't know the words for what you mean to me...let me show you."

Slipping his arms beneath her, he stood, carrying her out of the room.

***

Chapter Text

***

Voldemort stood behind her, next to the bed, enveloped in the dimly lit room, creating an aura of intimacy. He gently pulled her hair away from her neck, planting tender kisses along her skin eliciting a soft shiver that traveled down her spine. She leaned her neck to give him better access. His smile was wicked as his other hand moved across her midsection, slipping under the hem of her sweater, grazing her bare stomach with his long, pale fingers tracing delicate patterns on her skin. He felt her breath quicken as he nipped at her ear, enjoying the sight of goosebumps spreading across her bare shoulder.

With a wicked yet alluring smile playing on his lips, he whispered against her ear, his voice laced with desire, "You respond so beautifully to my touch." His hand moved with purpose, caressing her with a delicate touch. As he leaned in closer, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair, he spoke softly, his words carrying a hint of longing.

His other hand ventured down her side, slipping under her sweater to grasp her hip gently. With a mix of curiosity and desire, he asked in a low, husky tone, "Have you ever been with a man, my dear?"

She was beginning to tremble and her eyes closed when she felt him pull her body against his. His erection pressed into the small of her back just above the curve of her bottom.

"No," she replied breathlessly, her voice barely a whisper. Voldemort's embrace tightened at her response, a low groan escaping him as he gritted his teeth when he hears the confirmation of her purity. As he deftly removed her sweater, revealing the delicate curves of her form, she instinctively crossed her arms in front of her chest, a gesture of modesty that only added to her allure.

A soft chuckle escaped him at her shyness, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured, "You are exquisite." His lips found solace on her other shoulder, planting gentle kisses as his fingers danced along the edge of her jeans, teasingly brushing past her belly button. With a deliberate yet tender touch, he unbuttoned her pants with practiced ease, his other hand gliding up her stomach, tracing higher, eliciting a soft gasp from her as it caressed the fabric of her lacy black bra.

"I see you've chosen one of the pieces I selected for you," he remarked softly, a hint of satisfaction coloring his voice.

She blushed, her cheeks tinged with a rosy hue, as she felt the zipper of her jeans being pulled down, the sound echoing in the room like a promise of what was yet to come. Voldemort's teeth grazed her earlobe. Leaning back against him, she released a breath filled with a mixture of desire and excitement, her body responding to his every touch. Suddenly a nail slithered along the top edge of her bra and slipped in just far enough to rake across her nipple. She whimpered at the contact and instinctively grabbed his arm, seeking both support and a connection in this moment of intimate vulnerability.

His chuckle resonated deeply, a mix of desire and satisfaction evident in his voice as he whispered, "Oh, sweet girl...I'm just getting started." With a deliberate yet tantalizing motion, he pulled down the cup of her bra, exposing her breast to his hungry gaze as he peered down over her shoulder, his eyes filled with a primal hunger.

Licking his lips in anticipation, he gently wrapped his hand around her exposed breast, his touch both possessive and tender as he caressed her perfect pink nipple with his thumb, eliciting a soft gasp from her. Meanwhile, his other hand ventured lower, his fingers slipping into the front of her panties, causing her to shudder at the feather-light touch just above her most sensitive place. Playing with her desires, he teased her with a gentle caress, each movement designed to heighten her pleasure and anticipation, creating an electric tension between them that crackled in the air.

Gods she's so smooth...

He watched with a hunger in his eyes as her mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, her breath hitching in response to his tender caress of her breast. The heat between them intensified, enveloping her in a wave of desire that left her trembling under his touch. Sensing her growing arousal, he clenched his teeth, a primal ache building within him.

A contented hum escaped him as he moved his hands to her back, deftly unclasping her bra. The fabric slipped down her arms, revealing her bare form to him in all its exquisite beauty.

"Remove your sandals, my dear." He commanded in a soft but dominant voice laced with authority that sent a thrill of excitement through her. Holding her hips possessively, he watched as she followed his directive, slipping off her sandals and pushing them aside with a graceful motion of her foot.

Turning her to face him, he noticed her instinctive attempt to cover her breasts, but he captured her wrists in a firm grip, his gaze unwavering as he spoke, "Don't you dare..." A smile played on his lips as he took in the sight of her flushed cheeks, her fierce blush was endearing.

Leaning in closer, he pressed his lips against hers in a tender kiss, a contrast to the simmering desire that pulsed between them. Holding her wrists gently to prevent her from shielding herself, he deepened the kiss, savoring the taste of her lips against his own. Moving closer, his robes brushed against her chest, the friction between them igniting a new wave of sensation that left her breathless, her body humming with arousal as she let out a soft whine against his mouth, a sound that spoke volumes of the desire that coursed between them.

"Let's make you more comfortable, my darling," he whispered seductively, releasing her wrists and guiding her pants down her hips until they pooled at her feet, leaving her standing before him in all her feminine glory. A groaned escaped his throat as his gaze lingered on her, appreciating the curves of her body.

"And the matching bottoms...I must say, they suit you well," he murmured, his touch feather-light as he traced the edge of her panties, his fingers dancing along the delicate fabric with a reverence that spoke volumes of his desire for her.

Pressing his lips to hers once more, his hands roamed down her back, gliding over the curve of her backside before firmly grasping it, a possessive growl escaping him as he pulled her closer, their bodies fitting together like two pieces of a forbidden puzzle. Her light giggle against his mouth only served to fuel his desire, a warmth spreading through him at her playful response.

"A little succubus is what you are, Hadria," he teased, his voice laced with a mix of admiration and desire. With an arm wrapped around her waist, he lifted her effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as their lips met in a hungry kiss, a collision of passion and longing that left them both breathless.

As she pressed closer to him, feeling the hard length of his desire through his robes, he chuckled softly against her mouth, the sound vibrating between them like a promise of what was to come. Gently setting her on the edge of the bed, he gazed at her hungrily, his words dripping with anticipation as he whispered, "Oh I know what you want witch...and you'll be begging for it by the time you get it."

"Lie down on the bed and let me look at you." he spoke slowly, his voice a velvet caress. Flush with a mix of excitement and embarrassment, she complied with his request, settling in the center of the bed and placing her arms behind her head, her gaze fixed on him with a mixture of desire and curiosity.

"You have the body of a goddess my dear," he murmured, his words a reverent tribute to her beauty as he began to undress, allowing his robes to fall to the floor. Hadria bit her lip, her eyes widening in awe as she took in his naked form for the first time, the reality of their intimate encounter sinking in as she marveled at the sight before her.

His skin was a canvas of pale perfection, smooth and unblemished, devoid of any hair, accentuating the elegance of his lean, well-defined physique. His arms and legs stretched longer than those of a typical man, which would explain his height. His body was lean, but perfectly defined...not stocky or muscular but not scrawny either. What captured her attention the most was his cock...granted she hadn't seen any...well, in person...some of the girls in her house had pulled up pictures on their phones in the past when they had their little girl talk sessions. There was that one time she had accidentally walked in on her cousin Dudley in the bathroom. From everything she knew, Voldemort was quite well endowed.

He came around to the end of the bed looking down at her like a predator about to pounce.

"Merlin your body is divine Hadria."

"Spread your legs sweet girl" he said grabbing his cock in his hand and putting a knee on the bed.

She hesitated but did what he asked. He stroked himself slowly looking down her body and taking in the sight of her spread legs...His breath caught seeing the sheen of wetness soaked through the fabric of her panties.

"Good girl...oh you're such a good girl Hadria." He said biting his lip, still stroking himself, looking down at this beautiful witch offering herself to him. He let go of himself after a minute and crawled into the bed smiling up at her seductively as he hovered over her lap.

He placed a hand over her belly, which covered almost her entire stomach, and whispered a spell. She felt the tingle of magic deep inside.

"We wouldn't want any surprises, my dear...at least not yet," he teased, his smirk playful as he met her gaze, a flicker of mischief dancing in his eyes. Caught in the moment, she couldn't help but return his smile, a mix of desire and anticipation swirling between them in the charged air of the room.

His hand lingered on her belly, a trail of anticipation in his touch as he slowly traced downward, his fingers finding their way between her legs. With a delicate caress of his long, spider-like thumb against the damp fabric of her panties, a gasp escaped her lips, her body responding involuntarily to his touch.

Amused by her reaction, he chuckled softly, his gaze locking with hers as he took in her flushed expression.

"Are you a little sensitive my dear?" he teased, a playful smirk playing on his lips as he continued to stroke her through the fabric. Her whimper of pleasure and the nod of her head only fueled his desire, his own arousal evident as he focused on the intoxicating scent that enveloped them, stirring a primal heat within him.

Despite the overwhelming urge to ravage her, he held back, a testament to his desire to make her first time special. He wanted to show her that she was more than just a fleeting moment of passion. She meant something to him, and he was determined to make her feel cherished and desired in a way that transcended mere physical pleasure.

He delicately pulled the fabric to the side looking at her gorgeous smooth wet pussy...her body longed for him in the most intimate way.

Merlin that's beautiful....

He licked his lip as he drug his thumb over her wet folds and she squirmed and grunted. He smiled as he started kissing the inside of her thigh while he touched her. He watched her breathing speed up. She was lightly biting the skin on the edge of her finger watching him. Her innocence turned him on even more. The darkness in him relished the idea of being the one to take it.

When his thumb brushed over her sensitive clit, she jerked in response, a whimper escaping her lips as wetness spilled from her core. His eyes widened at the sight, a primal instinct taking over as he leaned in, capturing the glistening trail on the tip of his tongue and dragging it up her tender flesh.

"Oh god!" She yelped breathlessly but she couldn't move and could only grasp the sheets trying to pull herself away. He had already wrapped his long arms under her thighs and held her still as he licked her again and groaned as the flavor overwhelmed his senses.

"Gods witch! Your taste could drive a man to madness." he growled, his voice husky with desire as he continued to explore her with fervent hunger. With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he captured her clit between his lips, gently sucking on it, each flick of his tongue sending shivers of pleasure through her body.

Hadria burned with desire, her body ablaze as he continued his relentless oral exploration. Her back arched instinctively, a silent plea for more as he intensified his ministrations. Releasing one of her legs, he pressed a long, skilled finger into her wetness, the combination of his touch and tongue sending waves of pleasure coursing through her.

As he flicked his tongue over her clit, she couldn't contain her panting, each breath a desperate gasp for the ecstasy he was bestowing upon her.

He found himself enraptured by her taste, unable to resist the allure of it. With each passing moment, she spilled more of herself for him, a willing offering to his insatiable hunger. In that moment, between the heat of her thighs, he felt like he was in paradise.

Hadria's eyes were glazed over, a haze of pleasure clouding her senses as she experienced a level of ecstasy she had never known before. Each tantalizing slide of his tongue over her tender flesh stoked the fire in her belly, intensifying the heat that consumed her with desire. His intense gaze, paired with his piercing blue eyes, locked onto her as he expertly licked, sucked, and slowly fingered her, sending her spiraling into a realm of overwhelming sensation.

"You...you're gonna make me..." she whimpered. He raised his mouth and spoke to her as he continued fingering her faster now.

"Yes my dear witch...I am..." he affirmed with a smug smirk, his voice laced with a mix of dominance and desire. Leaning down, he flicked his tongue over her with increased fervor, sending tendrils of pleasure cascading through her body, her panting growing more urgent as she clung to the sheets, her gaze locked on him in a mixture of need and surrender. As the heat inside her surged and exploded into a crescendo of pleasure, she cried out in ecstasy, her body trembling with the intensity of her release.

"Ohh goddamn...good girl...Gods the way you come for me witch..." He growled in a husky voice, praising her as she quivered from the aftermath of her climax. Soft whimpers escaped her as he kissed her there, his slow, deliberate movements as he licked up every trace of her essence, leaving her trembling with sensitivity. Feeling him gently slide her panties down her legs, she closed her eyes, her breath hitching as she bit down on her lip, a soft whimper escaping her as she awaited his next move, her body still thrumming with the remnants of her intense pleasure.

"Oh, gods..." she breathed, her voice filled with a mixture of pleasure and astonishment as she tried to collect herself. Her hands instinctively moved to cover her face, a reflex to shield herself from the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

He chuckled softly, a sound that resonated with a mix of fondness and desire, as he moved closer, gently pulling her hands away to reveal her flushed and vulnerable expression.

"You are truly stunning, Hadria," he whispered softly, his gaze tender as he looked down at her with admiration. A shy smile graced her lips as she reached up to wipe his mouth, a gesture filled with a sense of intimacy and connection.

"Oh my...I'm all over you." she giggled playfully, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. He responded by nipping at her fingers in a playful manner, a silent acknowledgment of the shared intimacy between them.

"Just the way I like it." he murmured, his voice husky with desire as he leaned in to capture her lips in a deep and passionate kiss. She could taste the remnants of herself on his lips, a heady blend of their shared passion, but the allure of his kiss was irresistible, drawing her in with an undeniable magnetism.

As he settled between her legs, propping himself up on an elbow, he gazed down at her with a mixture of adoration and hunger, his touch gentle as he swept her hair away from her face, a silent gesture of care and tenderness in the midst of their shared desire.

He lowered his mouth to her breast, his warm breath sending shivers of anticipation across her skin as he tenderly licked her erect nipple. A soft gasp escaped her lips as he took her breast in his hand, his mouth enveloping her as he began to suckle, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her.

She felt the gentle scrape of his teeth against her sensitive nipple, a slight edge of primal desire in his touch that made her pulse quicken. He fought the urge to bite down, to elicit a gasp or a squeal from her, the raw temptation to mark her overwhelming him. A low, guttural moan escaped him as her hand moved up the back of his head, a silent encouragement that fueled his desire even further.

Gazing into her eyes, he saw only desire and adoration reflected back at him, a potent mix of emotions that mirrored his own longing. Leaning in, he captured her lips in a passionate kiss, his need for her palpable in every brush of their mouths.

"I need to be inside you, Hadria," he whispered against her lips, his words a declaration of his desire and urgency. Nibbling at her lower lip, he felt her nod in response, a silent affirmation of the longing that had simmered between them.

With a deliberate shift of his body, he teased her entrance with the head of his cock, the anticipation building between them as they both yearned for the culmination of their shared desire.

"You've seen it, darling... you know it's going to be a shock to your body," he whispered softly against her lips, his breath mingling with hers in a heated exchange. Pressing his body intimately against hers, he trailed kisses along her jawline, his hands moving with purpose as he guided her in the dance of desire.

With a deliberate and sensual motion, he ran his length along her sensitive flesh, a teasing caress that sent jolts of anticipation through her. Aware of his own physical endowment, he had been met with awe and desire from many witches before, each one remarking on his size. Now, faced with his little virgin, he was intrigued to see how she would respond to him.

She eagerly returned his kisses, her desire evident in the hunger with which she met his lips, her hands exploring every inch of his body within her reach. His presence exuded masculinity and dominance, qualities that both captivated and enthralled her, igniting a primal need within her as he pressed against her, asserting his control.

"Tell me you want it, sweet girl," he demanded hoarsely, his voice laced with desire and authority. Her whimpers of need were a clear indication of her longing, her body arching toward him in a silent plea for more.

"Yes... yes, Voldemort, I need it," she groaned, her voice filled with desperation and desire. His smile in response was both wicked and satisfied, a silent acknowledgment of the power he held over her.

Shifting back slightly, he positioned himself at her entrance, the anticipation palpable between them as he teased her with the head of his throbbing length, rubbing it along her entrance. Closing his eyes in a moment of pure ecstasy, he groaned, the sensation of her arousal against him driving him to the edge of control.

"So wet..." he murmurs through gritted teeth, his voice laced with raw desire as he feels her arousal against him. A deep moan escapes him as he teases her, pressing the tip of his throbbing length just slightly into her before pulling back, an act that elicits a soft whimper from her. He repeats the motion, each teasing entry and withdrawal sending jolts of pleasure through her body, building the tension between them to a fever pitch.

"Do you like that, darling?" he whispers against her mouth, his warm breath mingling with hers as he captures her lips in a kiss. She nods in response, her own need mirroring his as she feels herself edging closer to the brink of her desire, her mind clouded with lust and longing.

As the sensations threaten to overwhelm her, she can barely contain her desperation, her plea escaping her in a breathless whisper.

"P...please..." she begs, her voice filled with a mix of need and surrender. The corner of his mouth curls into a smug grin, a silent acknowledgment of the power he holds over her, reveling in the effect he has on her as he continues to push her to the brink of ecstasy.

"Please what, my sweet girl? Tell me what you want...beg for it my dear and I'll give it to you." he coaxed, his voice a seductive whisper as he dipped himself into her with a gentle yet tantalizing motion. A deep ache throbbed in his core, the intense need for release becoming almost unbearable.

"Please..." she whispered softly, her voice laden with longing and desperation, her body arching towards him in a silent plea for more.

"Tell me witch...say it...what do you need?" he demanded, his voice husky with desire as he bit her neck. With another agonizing tease, he dipped into her once more, stoking the fire of desire that blazed between them.

A near sob escaped her throat as she finally found the words to articulate her deepest yearnings.

"Please fuck me Voldemort...please take me and claim me as yours..." she begged, her voice quivering with a potent mix of desire and surrender. Tears of need threatened to spill from her eyes as she laid herself bare before him, her vulnerability a testament to the overwhelming passion that consumed them both.

His eyes widened in a mixture of desire and possessiveness at her words, a fierce determination gleaming in their depths. Her surrender to him was like music to his ears, confirming her willingness to be claimed as his own.

"Oh gods...Yes witch I will make you mine...I will ruin you for any other man..." he declared, his voice a low growl of possession and desire as he vowed to claim her in a way that would forever bind her to him.

Pressing into her once more, he abandoned the teasing motions, this time fully immersing himself in her, a silent promise of the depths of their connection. Moving over her, he cradled her head with one arm while propping himself up with the other, the need to see her face as he took her innocence consuming him.

Biting his lip in a display of restraint, he pressed slowly into her, inch by inch, savoring the moment as he encountered the resistance of her innocence. Sensing her instinctive reaction to pull away, he acted swiftly, grabbing her arms and pinning them above her head, asserting his dominance and control over her.

"Don't move, Hadria," he commanded in a primal growl, his voice trembling with desire as he pressed his weight onto her, ensuring her compliance as she struggled against his hold. With a firm bite to her neck, he increased the pressure until she stilled with a whimper, the mix of pleasure and pain heightening the intensity of their connection.

Removing his teeth from her skin, he kissed her neck tenderly, a gesture of both possession and affection before locking eyes with her once more, the unspoken promise of what was to come shimmering in the heated gaze they shared.

As he felt the resistance slowly give way, a breath of ecstasy escaped him, the overwhelming sensation of taking her purity threatening to unravel his control. She choked back a quiet sob, the mix of pleasure and pain overwhelming her senses as he pressed his forehead to hers, seeking a moment of connection amidst the intensity of their union.

"Sshhh..it's alright my dear the worst is over." His voiced quivered with restraint as he slowly pressed into her deeper. Merlin she's fucking tight!

He tenderly kissed the mark on her neck, a gesture of both possessiveness and adoration, as he buried himself all the way inside her with a slow and deliberate movement. Stilling himself, he allowed her body to adjust to his size, a moment of intimacy and care amidst the intensity of their union.

Moving with a gentleness that belied the raw desire between them, he kissed her cheek softly before capturing her lips in a tender yet passionate kiss. The taste of her on his lips was intoxicating, a reminder of the shared intimacy that bound them together in that moment.

"Are you alright, darling?" he whispered against her lips, his voice filled with concern and tenderness as he sought to ensure her comfort and well-being amidst the raw passion that enveloped them. His gaze searched her eyes for any sign of distress, a silent reassurance that he would always prioritize her needs and desires above all else.

She nodded. He kissed her and released her hands cradling her head again and propped himself up slowly moving out and back in again. His eyes rolled back in a moment of sheer pleasure. It had been so long since he bedded a witch...and never had he bedded such a beautiful pure one. She was like a drug. He pressed into her again slowly. He felt her hips instinctively roll to meet his and he smiled and caressed her face.

"That's a good girl...you like that cock inside you?" He asked in a raspy voice gripping her chin to keep her looking at him as he continued his slow thrusts.

"Yes....gods I love it"
She nodded and moaned as pleasure surged through her. The slickness between then made it a challenge to maintain the leisurely pace but he was determined to draw out the exquisite tension between them...moving slowly in and out for awhile until she began breathing faster and gripping his sides digging her nails in and he knew he had her. She spread her legs wider and groans. Her sounds of pleasure were a trigger for him. He starts to move faster nibbling along her neck grunting.

"That's your cock darling, you feel that? It's only for you...you belong to me now...say it witch!" He hissed.

"I'm yours Voldemort....my body, my heart, my soul...it's all for you!" She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him as he moves against her.

So tight...so hot....so wet...

"Good girl....that's a good girl..." he grunts thrusting harder and faster. Her hips meet his movements and she wraps a leg behind his waist urging him deeper. He happily obliged and is pumping into her now hard and fast.

"Is that what you want witch? To be fucked senseless by your Dark Lord?" He growls deeply as he moves furiously. He feels sweat drip down his temple.

"Yes! I...oh god...I..." her legs are quivering and he feels her tightening around him even more almost to the point of being painful. His jaw clenched in pleasure as he savored the sensation.

"Oh fuck!...yes witch!...That's it darling, come for me!" He is doing everything he can to hold back in this moment for her. He holds her tight and bites his lip hard when he feels her body tighten and arch against him. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry of pleasure and she closed her eyes as the climax ripped though her.

"Voldemort!!"

He felt the warmth of her release surround him and her muscles squeezed him as if trying to milk his release from him. The way she cried out his name, the power he felt in that moment, the way she looked...it was all too much and he slipped over the edge of bliss.

"Oh god," he whispered with a groan, the intensity of the moment overwhelming him as he closed his eyes in surrender. With one final, deep thrust, he buried himself deep inside her, the culmination of their shared passion building to a crescendo.

She was still reeling from the aftershocks of her intense orgasm when she felt the warmth of his release mingling with her own, a potent reminder of their shared pleasure that left her breathless. As he collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting presence, she lay beneath him in a daze of euphoria, their bodies entwined in the aftermath of their passionate union.

For a moment, he remained still, the weight of their intimacy between them almost palpable in the air. Finally, he shifted slightly as he pressed a gentle kiss against her lips. The tenderness of his touch was a stark contrast to the raw passion they had just shared, a silent exchange of affection and connection amidst the haze of desire that enveloped them.

As they lay together, catching their breath in the quiet aftermath, the room seemed to pulse with the echoes of their shared ecstasy, a lingering reminder of the intense bond they had forged in the heat of the moment.

"Gods... my dear, that was... you're incredible," he said with a chuckle, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and admiration as he gazed at her flushed and smiling face. Slowly pulling out of her, he moved to her side, pulling her close against him in a tender embrace.

"You're the incredible one," she murmured, snuggling into the crook of his arm, finding solace in the warmth of his embrace. He held her tight, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her hair and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

"You know, I don't think I can ever get enough of you," he confessed softly, the vulnerability in his words a reflection of the depth of his feelings for her.

"I feel exactly the same way about you."

In that moment, a wave of unfamiliar emotions surged through him, the walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble in the face of their shared intimacy. Instead of resisting, he allowed himself to embrace the feelings that washed over him, a sense of fulfillment and longing that he had never experienced before.

It was different this time. The passion, the tenderness—it was more than just physical desire. For the first time, he had made love to a witch, not out of necessity, but out of a genuine connection that transcended mere lust. And in that moment, he realized he was undeniably addicted to her, to the depth of emotion and intimacy they shared. With a contented smile, he closed his eyes, allowing himself to bask in the afterglow of their shared passion, knowing that he had found something truly special in her.

***

Chapter Text

Voldemort had never felt quite so content. They lay in bed together, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow through the window. His eyes were closed, breaths deep and slow, as he lay on his back. Hadria snuggled into his side, her head resting on his chest. The world outside seemed distant, irrelevant.

She lifted her head, setting her chin on his chest, looking up at him. He opened his eyes slightly, taking in the sight of her. Her face held a beautiful glow, and he made a mental note to make her look like that more often.

"Where did you go?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Hm?"

"After...yesterday," she clarified, her curiosity evident.

He cleared his throat, caressing her face.

"I went to Azkaban, my dear," he admitted. "I had a little...chat with the Dementors. You see, I have quite a few valuable followers who've been there for the last thirteen years. Hopefully, we'll be bringing them home in the next few months."

He closed his eyes, the rhythmic motion of stroking her hair soothing. It was the truth. He had indeed traveled to Azkaban, ensuring that when he called for it, the Dementors would release his followers. The promise of more prisoners in the near future had secured their cooperation. As much as he found himself not wanting to upset Hadria, the reality was that there would be some who would refuse to fall in line. For those, he would relish the opportunity to torture them and throw them into Azkaban.

Afterward, he journeyed back to the abandoned Gaunt Shack. Partly to be alone, but he had been meaning to return anyway to retrieve a particularly important family heirloom he had buried beneath the home. The ring—it was another one of his Horcruxes. After retrieving it, he left a fake ring in its place, cursed to ensnare anyone who dared touch it. Since the Order seemed to be aware of his Horcruxes, he had already begun working to recover them.

Years ago, before his resurrection, Hadria herself had unknowingly destroyed one of them at Hogwarts...his diary.

Voldemort sat in the overgrown, dilapidated home, lost in thought. His mind churned with conflicting desires—to move forward with his plans and yet keep Hadria at his side. It wasn't merely about her safety; he wanted her there, a presence that stirred something unfamiliar within him. No longer could he rely on fear and control alone. This time, he needed creativity, restraint, and softness.

The Dark Lord grimaced at the notion. Softness was a foreign concept—one he had long abandoned. But for Hadria, he would learn to wield it, even if it meant navigating uncharted territory.

He hadn't slept that night at all. His thoughts wrestled with newfound feelings—an unfamiliar vulnerability that grated against his pride. On one hand, he despised it, feeling weakened by this longing. On the other hand, he yearned to be near her, haunted by the knowledge that he was responsible for her pain. Regret...a foreign emotion...twisted within him. For the first time, he felt remorse for hurting someone.

Seated in the dusty study of the old home, he contemplated his conflicting desires. And then, her voice echoed in his mind:

"Voldemort... Where are you?"

He sensed her sadness, her concern, her desire to see him. He stood abruptly, apparating back to the Manor without hesitation. The witch was his weakness; he accepted it now.

Hadria remained silent, absorbing the news of Voldemort's plan to break his followers out of Azkaban. It made sense...the Dark Lord would need all the help he could get to achieve his goals. She suspected Dumbledore was making similar moves, gathering allies for the impending conflict.

Laying her cheek back on his chest, she listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. A soft smile graced her lips. A part of her was making peace with his darkness, accepting it as an intrinsic part of him. Oddly, it bothered her less than she would have expected. The more time she spent with him, the more comfortable she became, despite the danger that surrounded them.

Could it be the Horcrux within her, influencing her feelings? She wondered, but the answer remained elusive. For now, she allowed herself to rest against him, seeking solace in the warmth of his presence.

"I need you to understand something...look at me, my dear."

Hadria tilted her head, meeting his gaze. His words carried weight, and she listened intently.

"It is not my intention to anger you," he began, his voice soft but firm. "As much as I enjoy seeing that fire in your eyes..."

His admission surprised her, and she wondered what else lay beneath his composed exterior.

"However, there will be decisions I make, actions I take, that you may not agree with or like moving forward."

He acknowledged his lack of habit in seeking permission, and she understood. Voldemort was not one to bow to anyone's will. But then he continued, and her surprise deepened.

"I will endeavor to keep you more...in the loop," he said, emphasizing the words. "So that we may discuss such grievances privately."

His authority remained, but the willingness to listen...to consider her perspective...was a significant step. Hadria's mind raced. She had glimpsed vulnerability in him, a side he rarely revealed. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could find a balance...a way to navigate their shared path.

He ran his fingers through her hair and she smiled a little and nodded.

"I understand."

His face softened in appreciation.

"It goes without saying...that this means things said between you and I are strictly confidential unless I say otherwise."

She smiled and sat up looking down at him.

"Are you saying you...trust me?"

He scoffed and looked away.

"I trust no one my dear." He said waving a dismissive hand at her. She laughed which made him look back at her with a smirk.

"Sounds an awful lot like trust to me."

He reached forward pulling her in to kiss him. She giggled against his mouth.

"Think what you like witch...as long as you obey me." He said nipping at her playfully.

***

That evening Voldemort and Hadria took their dinner alone outside on one of the Manors patios. It was strange to Voldemort. He had never spent this much time in the company of one person but he found himself content with Hadria. He enjoyed listening to her talk. Something about her voice was soothing to him.

"You say the Dursleys had you living...in a cupboard...under the stairs?" He narrowed his eyes in anger.

"Well...for a few years yes...it got better though. They eventually moved me into my cousins second bedroom."

Voldemorts eye brow lifted.

"My dear...I might ask for you permission to bury these muggles one day." He said without any amusement as he ate. Hadria couldn't help but smile a little.

"You know...by the end of if it they learned quite a bit of respect for me. Especially after I blew up uncle Vernon's sister that one year and the Ministry had to retrieve her from the sky and obliviate her."

Hadria was laughing at the memory of it. Voldemort chuckled.

"I imagine that would have been a sight to see, indeed."

Suddenly Severus came through the doors of the patio. Lucius had told him that Voldemort was out there but he hadn't been informed that he was dining with Hadria. It seemed a bit...intimate. Severus hesitated.

Voldemort stood and gestures to the empty chair to his right.

"Severus...my faithful servant. Please come...sit for a moment."

Severus had a few books in his hand and some parchment. He nodded and took a seat at the table.

"My lord, her coursework, as requested. Draco assisted me in obtaining the first weeks assignments for the other classes and he will do so moving forward as needed. Of course I'll provide whatever she needs for the Potions assignments and we can set up a space for Potions work in the cellar. Lucius has approved it."

Voldemort leaned back in his seat and nodded.

"Very good Severus...see to that but I will be the one assisting her with the assignments unless I'm away on business then I will call on you...did you find the item I asked for?"

Severus reaches into his robes and retrieved a wooden box and handed it to Voldemort. He opened it and Hadria could see that inside the box was a beautiful silver piece that looked to be a tiara of some kind. Voldemort ran his fingers over to ensure he felt the magic within it. He closed the box.

"And what of the Order? What news?"

"There isn't much just yet I'm afraid. Dumbledore is trying to rebuild at the moment. There's been a bit of change at the school. The ministry sent in Delores Umbridge...to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Dumbledore isn't pleased. It's the Ministry's way of meddling in school affairs and trying to control the narrative...while I may agree with some of her ideals she is rather...obnoxious on a personal level."

"I see...however, she may prove to be a valuable puppet in the future...at the very least she may serve as a distraction. It may work to our favor that Dumbledore is busy dealing with her for the moment." Voldemort chuckled.

"Additionally the ministry is aware of Hadria's disappearance but they're dismissing her as a simple teenage run away at the moment stating she simply was unable to cope with the loss of Cedric and hasn't been in her right mind since."

Voldemort's head tilted and he had an incredulous look on his face. Hadria's eye brows lifted at that the idea. Voldemort glanced at her suddenly amused.

"A runaway you say...that's the best they could come up with for her whereabouts?"

Voldemort chuckled looking at her and rested a hand on her leg. She smiled warmly and blushed at his open affection.

"Oh, my dear, if they only knew." Voldemort smiled mischievously at her as he gave her thigh a squeeze. Severus lifted an eyebrow but continued.

"My lord, one other thing I'd like to mention." He waited for Voldemort to return his attention to him.

"I believe there is something important about the prophecy that Dumbledore is hiding. We know that I was unable to hear the entirety of the prophecy and I've never been able to get Dumbledore to reveal the rest of it."

Voldemort's lip curled in disdain.

"Yes I've suspected as much myself. Unfortunately he seems to be the only one with this knowledge. The only other way would be to break into the ministry and Hadria would have to be there...I'll not risk her safety in that manner. It will have to wait until it is safer to do so."

He gave her thigh a comforting squeeze again without looking at her. She couldn't help the subtle smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

***

Chapter Text

***

That evening, as the water cascaded from the showerhead, Hadria hesitated at the bathroom door. It was the first time she had dared to enter when Voldemort had gone in alone. For days, they had showered separately.

Voldemort glanced over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips as he began to disrobe.

"May I join you?" Hadria asked, her voice timid.

"I thought you'd never ask, my dear," he replied, stepping toward her. His touch was gentle as he helped her undress, and he kissed her forehead before leading her into the spacious shower. The hot water enveloped them, its warmth a balm for tired muscles and frayed nerves.

"You like it hot as well then?" He chuckled.

"I could stay in it all day," Hadria murmured, her voice barely audible over the sound of the water. A content smile crossed her face as she closed her eyes, savoring the moment.

Her eyes wandered to the fancy soap bottles lined up on the shelf. Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash—all neatly labeled. She had always wondered about the purpose of shampoo and conditioner.

It seemed like a mundane detail, but now, with Voldemort standing so close, it felt oddly intimate.

"I've been wondering," she began, her gaze still fixed on the bottles. "What in the world do you do with shampoo and conditioner?"

Voldemort's lips curved into a small smile. "It wasn't for me," he replied, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I suppose they had it for guests."

Hadria frowned as she pumped some of the shampoo into her palm and began washing her hair.

"Your guests?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

He chuckled softly.

"Well, my dear," he said, stepping closer, "had I decided to bring some entertainment back, perhaps. But I think I know where your mind is going with this, sweet girl...so allow me to let you in on a little secret. While I may be far too old too be a virgin, I have previously only bedded women to satisfy a need."

She rinsed her hair, feeling his hands running through the wet strands.

"Anyone I know?"

"My you are a curious creature...and perhaps...a jealous one, hm?"

"Maybe," she admitted. "Don't think I haven't noticed you are too."

He smirked but ignored her comment for now.

"There was one," Voldemort said, his voice low. "One you might know of. And you may as well find out from me now. She will likely not be too happy when she finds out about you."

Hadria reached for the conditioner, her mind racing.

"Alright," she said, her heart pounding. "Who's that?"

"Bellatrix LeStrange," Voldemort replied, his tone devoid of emotion. "She's in Azkaban."

Hadria's hesitated in thought...Bellatrix LeStrange...a name she had heard before. "So is she one of the followers you'll be getting out?"

"Yes, my dear," Voldemort said. "And while she is a very loyal and obedient Death Eater, she is also a bit...infatuated. Most everyone could see it. I never returned her affections, but there were a couple of times I bedded her. It wasn't something I particularly enjoyed."

Hadria turned away from him, her mind racing. She continued to run the conditioner through her hair, trying to process the information. "I think I've heard her name," she finally said.

He seemed to recall it without any fondness which she was thankful for.

"So...just sex then?" Hadria asked still unable to hide her disappointment. Voldemort cupped her face moving closer to her. His piecing blue eyes bore into Hadria's, and for a moment, she forgot about the water cascading down around them. The warmth of his touch lingered on her skin as he cupped her face, his thumb brushing against her cheek.

"Hadria," he murmured, his voice low and intimate. "I never kissed her...never shared my bed with her...never showered with her." His gaze held hers, unwavering. "This...whatever this is that I have with you...is new for me. You have opened up something in me that did not exist before."

His lips met hers, tender and searching. The kiss was a promise...a promise of something deeper, something uncharted. Hadria's heart fluttered, but in the back of her mind, a shadow loomed. Bellatrix LeStrange...an infatuated Death Eater...did not seem like it would be a pleasant dynamic.

She was pulled from her thoughts when Voldemort placed his hand over her belly and she felt the spell. She looked up curiously with a smirk. He had a hungry look in his eye and was pressing her against the shower wall.

"Let's get your mind off of such nonsense my dear."

He seized a fistful of her hair, his grip possessive and hungry, as he devoured her lips with an insatiable desire. Simultaneously, his fingers dipped between her legs, exploring her most intimate depths. A moan escaped her lips, a melody of pleasure that reverberated through the room, as he pressed her into the cold marble wall, heightening the intensity of their connection. His touch was relentless, expertly navigating her body, evoking a familiar tug of arousal deep within her lower belly. Breaking the kiss, he trailed his lips down her neck, nipping at the sensitive flesh, eliciting a whimper from her as her legs threatened to give way beneath her.

With a display of strength and dominance, he effortlessly lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, and pressed her back into the wall. The impact sent a jolt of surprise through her, causing her to yelp, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck to steady herself. A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her as he thrust into her with force, their bodies colliding in a passionate rhythm.

"Oh god," she moaned, her voice a mixture of pleasure and need, as he maintained a firm grip on her thighs, his movements rough and unyielding. His teeth and lips found purchase on her neck and shoulder, marking her as his own, leaving a trail of tingling sensations in their wake.

His mouth moved up to her ear, his voice hissing in Parseltongue, a language that sent shivers of excitement coursing through her.

"You're mine, witch...and I'm yours...I'll not have you forget that," he hissed, his words a possessive declaration that ignited a fire within her.

She tightened her hold on him, her body clinging to him as if desperate to merge their beings. Their lips met once more, a passionate and consuming kiss, a testament to the depths of their desire. As he moved within her, taking her to a world that existed only between them, she ran her tongue up the side of his neck, her teeth sinking into his flesh. The combination of pleasure and pain spurred him on, his movements growing faster and more intense. His nails dug into her thighs, leaving marks of possession.

"Ohh...fuck, witch!" he exclaimed, the steamy tension between them escalating. The warmth of the shower enveloped them, creating a cocoon of desire as water cascaded over their entwined bodies. Voldemort's grip on her hair tightened further, a primal growl escaping his lips. Hadria's heart raced, torn between the sensations of pain and pleasure, her defiance fueling her desire. She felt him shudder, his arm wrapping tightly around her waist, pulling her closer against him.

As the water continued to rain down upon them, Hadria released her bite from Voldemort's neck, the tension between them palpable. But he wasn't finished with her—far from it. Grabbing her chin, he kissed her roughly, a growl rumbling in his throat. Their bodies moved in sync, a symphony of desire and need. He shuddered, his voice dripping with satisfaction and dominance.

"Mmm, that's it, sweet girl...gods, you take me so well..."

In a crescendo of pleasure, she felt her body arch, a whine escaping her lips as she reached her climax. He joined her swiftly, a groaned breath of pleasure escaping him as he released inside her. She held him tight, feeling the warmth of his essence within her, a contented sigh escaping her lips.

Voldemort's voice dripped with playful menace as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Now, we must shower again," he murmured, his words laced with a hint of mischief. "Naughty little witch."

***

Chapter Text

The next day, Voldemort left Hadria at the Manor, engrossed in her studies, while he embarked on a journey to a secluded seaside cave...a place that held secrets darker than the abyss itself.

In his youth, he had stumbled upon this cave, its jagged entrance beckoning like a maw hungry for forbidden knowledge.

But it was not mere curiosity that drew him there the second time; it was vengeance...the sweet taste of retribution against those who had tormented him. Two orphanage bullies, their cruelty etched into his very bones, had become his unwitting companions on this descent into madness when he lured them inside.

Within the cave's damp, shadowed recesses, he had reveled in their suffering. Their screams echoed off the walls, a symphony of agony that fueled his rage. Their fragile minds had shattered like glass, fractured by the horrors he conjured...their torment a canvas for his malevolence.

And when their sanity teetered on the precipice, he had cast the Cruciatus Curse upon them, pushing them beyond reason, beyond humanity. They became mute, hollow shells—broken vessels of their former selves.

But now, as he stood on the precipice of destiny, the cave held a different purpose. It would cradle another Horcrux—a relic steeped in blood and legacy. The Slytherin Locket, once his mother's, had passed through desperate hands, exchanged for survival. It had surfaced in Knockturn Alley, a forgotten gem among the shadows, and Voldemort had reclaimed it with ruthless determination.

The creation of a Horcrux demanded an act of malevolence...an irrevocable fracture of the soul. And so, he had chosen a woman...a pickpocket who pilfered from wizards, her desperation a mirror of his own. Her lifeblood stained the locket, sealing its dark magic.

Behind layers of enchantments and traps, he concealed it within the cave—a secret guarded by ancient spells and whispered curses.

Voldemort's flight through the cave had been swift, fueled by determination and the promise of immortality. Yet, when he reached the hidden alcove where the Horcrux should have rested, he found not the Slytherin Locket but a small wooden box...a cruel jest played by fate.

Inside, a note lay folded, its inked words etched with defiance:

"I have stolen your Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more..."
R.A.B.

Regulus Arcturus Black—the name echoed through Voldemort's mind. A loyal Death Eater turned renegade, Regulus had dared to defy him. He was the sole confidant, besides the Black family's elusive house elf, who knew of the locket's secret. But where was Regulus now? Disappeared, presumed dead, yet no body had ever been found. The house elf remained an enigma, its loyalty veiled in shadows.

With a growl, Voldemort crushed the box, shards of wood biting into his palm. The path to immortality had been thwarted, and rage simmered beneath his skin. Regulus's audacity gnawed at him—an insolent twist of fate.

***

Back at Malfoy Manor, anger still coiled within him. Hadria, her brilliance scattered across the bed—books, parchment, and newspapers—looked up as he entered. Her smile faltered, sensing the frustration in his eyes.

"You're back," she said, her voice soft. "You...didn't find what you were looking for?"

His anger softened, replaced by a tenderness reserved for her alone. He took her chin in his hand, his touch gentle, and leaned down to kiss her.

"No, my dear," he murmured against her lips. "But tell me, how are your assignments progressing?"

He walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down next to her.

Fine so far, actually," she replied, her eyes flickering from her scattered schoolwork to his face.

"You know," he mused, "we have to sleep here..." His gaze swept over the bed, strewn with textbooks, parchment, and newspapers. Hadria's laughter danced...a melody in the dim room.

"Well, if I had a desk..." she teased, her fingers tracing patterns on the parchment.

"I can certainly see about setting up a desk for you in here." His touch—gentle, possessive—trailed through her hair, down her spine. The room seemed to shrink, cocooning them in intimacy.

The Daily Prophet lay discarded on the bed, its pages a window to the wizarding world.

"Catching up on the news?" he inquired, picking up the paper. Delores Umbridge's face stared back at him...a portrait of stern authority.

"Hm? Oh, yes," Hadria replied, her eyes narrowing at the article. "The Education Reform at Hogwarts. That woman looks every bit as unpleasant as Snape made her sound."

Voldemort's attention shifted to the photograph. Something...a glimmer, a twist of fate...caught his eye. He squinted, drawing the image closer. Hadria watched him, curiosity etching her features.

"What is it?" she asked.

He stood abruptly, the paper crumpling in his hand. "Continue your schoolwork, my dear," he said, his voice distant. "I'll be in the study if you need me."

In the study, he retrieved a magnifying glass—a tool of precision. The photograph of Umbridge revealed its secret. A smile tugged at his lips. There, hanging around her neck, was the Slytherin Locket...the elusive Horcrux he sought. How Umbridge had come into possession of it mattered little. All that consumed him was the need for it.

***

Voldemort's summons had reached Severus earlier in the day...a silent command that brooked no delay. He hastened to the Manor after his last class, the weight of loyalty and dread settling upon him. The Dark Lord awaited him in the study, brooding like a storm.

"Yes, my lord," Severus said, entering the room. Voldemort gestured to a chair, and Severus sank into it, his spine rigid with anticipation.

"Thank you for coming, Severus," Voldemort began, his voice a blade. "I will be needing your assistance once more."

Severus studied the copy of the Daily Prophet that lay before him. The photograph captured Delores Umbridge, her neck adorned with the elusive Slytherin Locket...the very Horcrux Voldemort sought.

"I need that locket," Voldemort declared, arms crossed, eyes unyielding. Severus raised an eyebrow, daring to ask the unspoken question.

"Dare I ask?"

Voldemort's lips curved...a ghost of amusement. "I'm sure...if you use your imagination..."

Voldemort stood and circled the desk, his presence looming. "I realize that I'm asking a lot of you," Voldemort continued, "but rest assured, your allegiance is not unnoticed."
The sincerity in Voldemort's words struck Severus...an oddity in their twisted world. He nodded, accepting the weight of duty.

"I will need assistance," Severus confessed. "The locket rarely graces Umbridge's neck. It hangs on a picture frame in her office. But my plan requires a student's involvement."

Voldemort leaned back, suspicion etching his features. "What student?"

Severus hesitated, fingers laced in his lap.

"Hermione Granger, my lord."

"Why not Draco?" Voldemort's question was inevitable.

"In case of capture," Severus replied, "I'd rather it not be Draco." He met Voldemort's narrowed gaze, secrets and shadows converging.

Voldemort leaned forward narrowing his eyes suspiciously with a nod.

"Explain," Voldemort demanded, his eyes like shards of obsidian.

Severus leaned back, his voice measured. "I can create a diversion," he began, "distract Umbridge while Granger retrieves the locket. She'll be under a disillusionment charm, untraceable."

"And how do you know you can trust this particular student?" Voldemort's skepticism cut through the air.

Severus masked his unease. To reveal too much would endanger the girl. "She is...infatuated with me," he admitted, choosing his words carefully.

Voldemort chuckled, a sinister melody. "Is this...a companion, Severus?" His eyes glinted with mischief.

The potions master hesitated, then confessed, "She is."

Voldemort's raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

So the potions master has a little toy...

Severus braced himself for the next question...the one that would shape their fate.

"Her blood status?" Voldemort inquired, disdain curling his lips.

"She is muggleborn, my lord." The words tasted bitter, memories of another muggleborn witch...Hadria's mother...haunting him.

Voldemort looked away, lost in thought. Severus waited, nerves coiled. When the dark wizard met his gaze again, the question hung in the air like a curse.

"How loyal is she, Severus?" Voldemort's hiss was a blade.

"She is under my complete control, my lord," Severus replied, conviction firm. He knew the stakes...the delicate balance of power and vulnerability.

Voldemort leaned back, hands clasped across his stomach.

"She is half-blood," he declared. "When we take over the Ministry, the paperwork will reflect such. Do you understand?"

Severus exhaled, relief washing over him. The muggleborn witches would face uncertain futures, but Hermione Granger would not fall victim to their darkest designs.

"I do."

Voldemort leaned back, his eyes glinting with a sly amusement.

"Don't think I don't know what you did here today, Severus," he murmured. "However, as I've said, your allegiance has not gone unnoticed. And I will grant you this boon for your continued efforts."

His gaze bore into Severus, dissecting every nuance.

"If I'm not mistaken, this is also a friend of Hadria's?"

Severus inclined his head.

"It is."

Voldemort's smirk widened. Secretly, he was pleased that this act would likely bring a smile to his witch's face.

"See that it is done," he commanded, "but let me be clear, Severus. This is your witch, and anything she does is your responsibility. When you bring the locket, you'll bring her with you as well."

"Yes, my lord," Severus replied, the weight of duty settling upon him. Hermione Granger, the muggleborn witch who had ensnared his heart, would be his companion in this treacherous dance.

***

Chapter Text

Months Earlier

Severus had decided to spend another weekend at Hogwarts to do some research and catch up on grading papers. He had been at it for well over an hour when leaned back in his chair pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment of respite. Needing a break from grading he stood to return some books to library. He picked up the stack from the corner of his desk and locked his door wandlessly as his left and walked through the corridors and up the stairs to the library. He moved through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts with the grace of a shadow. His footsteps were silent, a testament to years of practice and a natural inclination toward stealth. The castle seemed to yield to his presence, its ancient stones whispering secrets as he passed.

Madam Pince, the librarian, sat at her desk. A woman of simple charm and a shared love for silence, greeted him with a nod as he pushed the books toward her.

"Thank you Professor," she said politely. "Those new books you inquired about came in a few days ago, they should be on the shelves as long as no one else checked them out but I think I would recall if they had." She smiled and went back to her work.

With a curt nod of gratitude Severus ventured deeper into the library closer to the restricted section. The Hogwarts library was a sanctuary of ancient knowledge that he had been enjoying since his own days as a student. He spent quite a lot of time browsing and reading books either seeking solace or knowledge within the hallowed stacks. As a young man he had always found himself gravitating to Potions when he wasn't trying to find out more about the dark arts.

As he rounded the corner, the dimly lit corridor seemed to conspire against him. There, almost colliding with him, stood a figure he knew all too well...the scent of warm vanilla preceding her like a whispered secret. A scent he had come to associate with one person - Hermione Granger, the embodiment of brilliance and curiosity. Her long wavy chestnut hair cascaded down her back, catching the light, as she remained engrossed in a book, oblivious to his presence behind her.

She had come a long way from her days as an insufferable know-it-all. Although only 19 she was vastly more mature than any other witch or wizard her age. She had blossomed into something far more captivating than any potion he'd ever brewed. He had found himself stealing glances now and then...his eyes tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her lips moved when she spoke. But her beauty was not just skin deep...it was her mind that had truly ensnared him. Her essays were eloquent and articulate...she had a thirst for knowledge that mirrored his own.

"Miss Granger..."

His velvet baritone voice, smooth as the silk lining of his robes, broke the silence. Startled, she fumbled, dropping the book she clutched under her arm. Her eyes widened as she turned to face him. His eyebrow raised, amused at her discomposure. He bent to retrieve the fallen book at her feet turning it over to examine the title - Occlumency Techniques for Beginners.

"Researching the intricacies of the mind, I see." He said handing it back. She cautiously accepted it, her fingers brushing his in the exchange. She squared her shoulders holding the books against her chest.

"Yes, Professor...I believe understanding Occlumency and Legillimency is crucial...especially in these troubled times," she replied, her voice steady despite the surprise.

He studied her, wondering how much she truly understood.

"Indeed," he murmured, his gaze never leaving hers. "But theory alone won't suffice...practical application is essential."

She nodded in agreement, her eyes reflecting the same hunger for knowledge that he saw in himself.

"Well yes, I agree with you. It's unfortunate they don't teach this...I'm surprised they even have the few books that are here."

She was right of course, though the library held a small number of books on the subjects. None of them were very in depth and the school had never taught them as they were seen as too advanced and there were too many ethical concerns. However, if any witch had the intellect capable of grasping the subjects and maturity to properly wield them it would be her. And if it could prepare her better for the future and offer him a chance to see her outside of classes...perhaps...

"No, I'm afraid you're correct Miss Granger," Severus conceded. "It is not a subject taught at Hogwarts." His lips curved into a half-smile, a rare vulnerability slipping through. "However...I happen to be proficient in both."

Her eyes widened, and he watched the war within her...a battle between caution and curiosity. "Are you offering...to teach me sir?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"I am," he replied, his tone low. "Private lessons, discreetly. You have potential, Miss Granger." His heart thrummed, the forbidden promise hanging between them like a fragile potion vial.

She bit her lip, torn between the allure of forbidden knowledge and the risks it entailed. But she had always been drawn to the edge...the precipice where brilliance met danger...and in Severus she sensed a kindred spirit.

"And...what do you gain from this arrangement, Professor?" Her voice trembled, a fragile thread woven between curiosity and caution.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing her cheek...a proximity that sent shivers down her spine. His lips hovered near her ear, and the scent of parchment and ink enveloped her.

"Knowledge shared," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "And perhaps a chance to unravel the enigma that is Hermione Granger...the brightest witch of her generation."

His words held a vulnerability she hadn't expected...the mocking tone absent. Instead, they carried a weight, a longing that echoed her own hidden desires. Her blush betrayed her, painting her cheeks with delicate hues.

"And...if I decline?" she pressed, her heart racing.

"Then we part ways, and you continue your studies alone," he replied matter-of-factly, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of something more...It was that something more that had her hooked, ensnared in the web he wove.

Her decision hung in the balance...a choice between safety and the allure of forbidden knowledge. And as she met his gaze, she knew that this could alter the course of her studies, her life, and perhaps even more.

"Alright," she whispered, her voice steady. "I accept, Professor."

***

Chapter Text

***

Present Day

Severus had returned to Hogwarts after his meeting with Voldemort. He had a strong suspicion that the locket was another one of the Dark Lords Horcruxes.

As if fate reveled in irony, Dolores Umbridge...one of the Ministry's most insufferable witches...had descended upon Hogwarts. Her lack of teaching experience grated on Severus's nerves. He scoffed at the notion that she could evaluate his performance. Yet, he knew her recent audit of him would provide the perfect pretext to confront her. Perhaps even put her in her place.

But there was another motive...an audacious plan that danced on the precipice of danger. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her generation...Severus had orchestrated her inclusion, weaving a delicate web of deception. Under the guise of seeking her assistance, he had drawn her into the fold.

Hermione's presence was both a boon and a risk. She possessed an intellect that rivaled his own at her age, her loyalty unwavering. But it was more than that. Severus's heart...a relic he thought long dormant...stirred. He had vowed to protect her, not merely as a potential ally but as something deeper. Feelings he dared not name.

The Dark Lord was still certainly himself but there was...something else there now...a vulnerability. In the past he might have used it against him. But now he had pledged his faith back into the Dark Lord.

He felt foolish for having shifted from Voldemort's side to begin with. The man may be dark and evil but he had always treated Severus as a valued ally and hadn't lied to him...he wields a brutal honesty that Severus respects.

Dumbledore, the venerable headmaster, was no saint. Secrets veiled his every move. The old wizard played a dangerous game, manipulating pawns on a chessboard of destiny. Severus had once believed in the light, in Dumbledore's vision. But now, disillusionment and betrayal had deteriorated his resolve. The Order of the Phoenix, the supposed bastion of good, harbored its own shadows.

The path was treacherous, fraught with sacrifice. Hermione's safety hung in the balance, her brilliance a beacon of hope.

And so, Severus Snape...the enigma, the double agent...resolved to protect her. Not just for the cause, but for the fragile threads of affection that wove between them. He would navigate this labyrinth of deceit, guided by a heart that beat in clandestine rhythm.

He needed to meet with Hermione to get her up to speed. He hadn't been exactly honest with Voldemort. Severus was indeed aware that Hermione harbored secret affections for him however Severus had yet to reciprocate those sentiments. His heart, once encased in ice, thawed in her presence. She had blossomed into a woman of rare beauty, her intellect a beacon in the murky war-torn landscape.

Yet, ethics shackled him. Hermione was a student...a forbidden fruit dangling before him. The very thought of crossing that line had previously sent tendrils of guilt through his veins. However, it was time to put the ethics aside if he wanted to get her close enough to keep her safe.

Her maturity belied her age, her refined demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos that engulfed the wizarding world. Severus had seen too much, borne too heavy a burden. But Hermione...she was a beacon of hope. Well-spoken, well-read, she embodied everything he desired in a partner...she was everything he would want in a woman. Severus couldn't bear the thought of Hermione relegated to second-class status under the Dark Lord's rule. So, he had taken a chance...a perilous gamble. He would protect her, even if it meant defying every code he held dear.

It was months ago now that Severus had watched her from the shadows, his gaze tracing the delicate curve of her profile. The library's ancient shelves cocooned them, their whispered secrets echoing through the dimly lit room. Occlumency...the art of shielding one's mind...had become their clandestine bond.

He had noticed her that day, the book clutched to her chest like a talisman. The opportunity presented itself...an excuse to spend time with her beyond the confines of the classroom. Severus offered private training, veiling his true intentions. It was more than teaching Occlumency; it was an intimate dance, a vulnerability shared.

Hermione's eyes held questions...curiosity and trust interwoven. She accepted willingly, unaware that he sought more than her mastery of mind shields. He taught her technique, but his heart yearned for something deeper. The stolen moments...their breaths mingling in the hallowed silence...revealed truths he dared not utter.

As Severus delved into her thoughts, he glimpsed fragments of longing. Her feelings mirrored his own...a tempest of desire and restraint. Hermione harbored more than academic fervor.

And so, in the quietude of their hidden sessions, Severus confirmed what he had suspected. Her eyes held the universe—the same universe that spun around him. Ethics be damned; he would protect her, even if it meant unraveling his own defenses.

***

The next day in the Potions classroom the air was thick with the mingling scents of potions and incense. The Potions Master prowled like a shadow, his eyes dissecting each student's work station. Cauldrons bubbled, flames danced, and the room held its breath.

He had little patience for chatter, for the cacophony of students who dared to read aloud. His gaze swept over them, a silent reprimand. Bubbling cauldrons were music to his ears; idle chatter, discordant noise.

But Hermione Granger...she was an exception. A perfect student, her diligence matched his own. Today, he approached her, the dim light casting shadows on her flushed cheeks. She sensed him, her pulse quickening. His proximity was a tempest...a forbidden closeness that set her nerves ablaze.

Severus leaned in, his hand grazing the edge of her workstation as he feigned assessment of her work. The potion simmered...a delicate dance of ingredients. His finger brushed hers...a fleeting touch that sent ripples through her. Hermione fought to appear unaffected, but her bitten lip betrayed her.

His robes brushed against her...a whisper of silk and secrets. Severus's smirk was a promise...a silent invitation. He leaned closer, his voice a velvet murmur that stirred her senses.

"See me after class, Granger."

Severus Snape's departure left Hermione Granger in a whirlwind of emotions. His words...the sharp edge of command...lingered, etching themselves into her consciousness. She watched him stride away, his dark robes billowing, and wondered if he sensed the tremor in her hands.

Flustered, she returned to her potion, her mind a storm. The cauldron bubbled, but her thoughts swirled elsewhere. Occlumency lessons...once a mere skill to master...had transformed. The way he touched her, the stolen glances...they wove a tapestry of intimacy. Hermione's heart danced on the precipice of revelation.

After class, she lingered, pretending to tidy her workstation. The room emptied, but Severus's presence lingered. Deep down, she knew...he felt it too. The forbidden tendrils of affection bound them.

Severus sat at his desk, grading papers with practiced detachment. Hermione hesitated, then approached. His eyes remained on the parchment, but she sensed his awareness.

When everyone else had departed, he drew his wand, sealing the door.

"Come, Granger."

His voice...a velvet command. The portraits on the walls...silent witnesses...were left behind as she followed him into the supply closet. He shut the door and backed her up against a bookcase leaning over her with an arm against the shelf. The scent of parchment, ink, and something uniquely Snape...bitter and intoxicating...lingers in the air.

"Professor?" Her voice trembled, eyes wide as she looked up at him. His hand swept over his mouth...an uncharacteristic nervous gesture. The silence stretched, and Hermione's heartbeat echoed in her ears.

"I...want to protect you, Miss Granger," he confessed, his voice a fragile thread. She tilted her head, curiosity and vulnerability etching her features. The room seemed smaller, their breaths mingling.

"What do..." Her words faltered when she glimpsed the longing in his eyes. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb caressing the skin there, and the world narrowed to this...Severus Snape, the man who guarded his heart like a fortress, leaning into her.

"I'm...not good at this Hermione," he admitted, his vulnerability a revelation. Emotions swirled...a tempest of desire and fear. He had never been adept at baring his soul, but for her, he would unravel every defense.

Hermione's eyes, pools of vulnerability, held him captive. The dim light softened her features, and Severus...the man of veiled emotions...leaned in. His lips brushed hers...a slow, sensual kiss that ignited a thousand stars. Time suspended; the world narrowed to this...her breath, her taste.

He pulled back, his gaze intense.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his thumb tracing her cheek. Hermione's heartbeat echoed in her ears.

"Of course I do," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread.

Severus's confession hung in the air...a truth he had kept hidden.

"This is life," he began, his words deliberate. "Not a silly book. It isn't all black and white, good and evil." His hand lingered on her cheek, and she leaned into the touch.

"However," he continued, "we must pick a side, Hermione. And we've been on the wrong one."

"What do you mean Professor?"

The weight of his title...Professor...made him wince. "Please," he implored, "when it's just you and I...call me Severus."

"Alright, Severus," she murmured with a blush. He loved the way his name sounded on her lips. He took a deep breath to compose himself.

"Everything said in this room," he pressed, "between you and I right now, must remain confidential. Tell me that you understand."

Hermione nodded, her heart swirling with emotion.

"I understand."

"Alright...you should also know that Miss Potter is fine."

"You know where she is?!" She broke from her feelings of arousal in that moment.

"Yes Hermione...she's with Voldemort."

Hermione eyes grew wide and her lips parted. He cupped her face. His voice trembled as he revealed the truth. The weight of his words hung in the air, a delicate balance between revelation and betrayal. The dimly lit room seemed to hold its breath, as if the very walls were privy to the secrets being unveiled.

"Hermione," Snape began, his voice low and urgent, "this is the part where I need you to trust me. Are you listening?"

She nodded, her eyes wide with anticipation. He dropped his hands to her shoulders, the warmth of his touch grounding her.

He proceeded to tell her everything...the unvarnished truth. How Hadria had made a pact with Voldemort. A chilling bargain: her life in exchange for an end to the bloodshed.

"The night of the Potters' murders," Snape confessed, "was not what it seemed.

"Dumbledore, that master of deception, had woven a web of half-truths around me. For almost fourteen years, I believed Hadria was just an accidental Horcrux...a pawn in this wretched war. But the truth is far more complex."

He explained what had really happened that night all those years ago and how Dumbledore had planned on sacrificing Hadria when the time was right in order to destroy Voldemort.

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth, her mind racing to catch up with the revelations.

"Is...but is Hadria okay?" she stammered, her voice barely audible.

"Yes," Snape replied, his gaze unwavering.

"It seems that Hadria and Voldemort have forged an unlikely connection. He values her...more than any pawn or prophecy. They've developed a...fondness for each other, as unbelievable as it may sound."

Hermione's incredulous look mirrored Snape's own disbelief.

"Hadria? And Voldemort?"

Snape's hands fell to his sides, the weight of truth pressing down on him.

"He's different with her," he admitted. "In ways I cannot comprehend. Hermione, mark my words: Voldemort will prevail in this war. Miss Potter's choice to align with him gave him an advantage. But there's a deeper secret...one Dumbledore has hidden even from the most powerful. A prophecy, veiled in shadow, holds the key...Hadria...she is at the heart of it all. I believe it's possible she was meant to go to him."

Hermione crossed her arms in thought for a few minutes.

"What will happen to muggleborns under him?" she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Snape's gaze bore into hers, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "The plan," he replied, "is that they'll become second-class citizens...no deaths, but their rights curtailed. However..." His fingers brushed her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"You, Hermione, are an exception."

"Why?" she pressed, her curiosity unyielding. His smile was a wisp of secrets.

"Because I've ensured it. No harm will befall you. But there's a condition." His voice dropped, intimate.

"You must obey me, follow my every command. In public, we may appear at odds, but when you face him...when you see Voldemort...you'll be under my control. He believes us to be...involved...it was the only way to keep you safe. Can you do that?"

Her eyes searched his, lips chewed raw with indecision. Finally, she nodded...a pact forged in shadows, a dance of loyalty and defiance.

And then, as if fate itself leaned in, Snape kissed her. His lips claimed hers, a fusion of mint and fire whisky...a taste uniquely him. She melted against him, desire igniting like a dormant spell. The world blurred, leaving only the two of them...a Potions Master and a brilliant witch, bound by secrets and the promise of survival.

"So you will join me, Hermione?" he murmured against her forehead.

Her whispered reply echoed through the room, sealing their fate: "Yes, Severus."

***

Chapter Text

***

Just after class ended that day, Hermione moved with deliberate steps back to the dimly lit Potions classroom. She slipped inside, her breath held, ensuring no one noticed her entrance...just as Severus had instructed. The anticipation of seeing him again, fueled by the memory of their shared kisses, danced within her. Yet, beneath the thrill, a nervous flutter took root. Their mission loomed...the infiltration of Delores Umbridge's office.

Severus had orchestrated the plan meticulously. They would rendezvous in his classroom after school. He'd cast the disillusionment charm upon her, rendering Hermione invisible. She would shadow him as he navigates the corridors of Hogwarts toward Umbridge's office. His pretext: a meeting with the professor regarding her recent Performance Evaluation of him.

Meanwhile, Hermione, unseen, would deftly extract the locket from the picture frame atop the filing cabinet behind Umbridge's desk. Their purpose? To return it to Voldemort, threading the needle of danger and secrecy.

As Hermione slipped into the empty Potions classroom, her gaze sought Severus. There he sat at his desk, an enigma wrapped in black robes. The memory of his lips on hers earlier in the potions supply closet tugged at her mouth, coaxing forth a small smile. Respect for him had always simmered within her, but as the years unfolded, it had metamorphosed into something deeper—a full-blown crush. His private lessons on Occlumency had intensified the connection. He'd glimpsed her thoughts, the vulnerability she harbored. And in those intimate sessions, he'd drawn closer, his voice softer, the air charged with unspoken tension. Yet, he'd maintained the boundary of professionalism.
Until today.

In the dimness of the supply closet, after the last bell had chimed, Severus had leaned in, his breath mingling with hers. Nervousness had etched lines on his face, but his kiss had rewritten the script of her world—an instant of vulnerability and transformation. His taste...a forbidden magic...lingered, leaving Hermione suspended between duty and desire, her heart echoing the rhythm of secrets yet unveiled.

Afterward, he revealed the truth—the intricate web of betrayal that had ensnared Voldemort, framing him for the Potters' murders. Severus implored Hermione to join their clandestine cause. Though he now served the Dark Lord, his loyalty harbored a hidden agenda. He couldn't bear to witness Hermione relegated to second-class status as a muggleborn. In return for his unwavering allegiance, Voldemort had bestowed upon her a rare immunity—a shield against the impending laws that would shackle her kind. Hermione became a prized asset, a boon to Severus for his fidelity.

As the day waned, Hermione approached him in the dim-lit classroom. His gaze flickered upward, a subtle smile curving his lips...a gesture that sent warmth blooming across her cheeks. With a wave of his wand, he secured the door, cocooning them in secrecy. Inviting her closer, he drew her onto his lap. Her heart fluttered as his hand threaded through her hair, and his kiss ignited a fire within her...a stolen moment that defied the rules.

"Are you ready for this, sweetheart?" His use of endearment caught her off guard. Never before had he bestowed such intimacy upon her. She savored it, the syllables lingering like a secret whispered across her skin.

"I am," she replied, her resolve unwavering.
Severus studied her—a beautiful, brave young witch perched on his lap. The specter of Lily Potter haunted his past, but Hermione had chipped away at the ice encasing his heart. Could he dare to feel again? To love?

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, a silent promise. Then, with a gentle pat on her hip, he signaled for her to rise. Standing alongside her, he reviewed the plan once more...the delicate dance of deception.

"Let's go over the plan once more. Once you're disillusioned you'll follow right behind me until we're in the office. Once I engage her you'll come around me and take the gold locket off the picture frame. It's on a filing cabinet behind her desk."

His fingers brushed her cheek, a tender caress. "Remember," he murmured, "no noise. I know that will be a challenge for you." His teasing tone masked the gravity of their mission.

"I'm capable of it when needed," Hermione replied, her amusement dancing in her eyes. Severus nodded, his wand poised. With a deft motion, he cast the disillusionment charm upon her.

Next, he retrieved the performance review from his desk, its damning words etched in ink. Purpose driving him forward, Severus strode briskly from his office, Hermione's invisible presence trailing silently behind. She moved with the grace of a whisper, avoiding detection as they wove through the corridors. Students, sensing his foreboding aura, instinctively parted, leaving a respectful berth for the imposing Professor Snape.

Finally, they arrived at Umbridge's office—a saccharine den he knew would be awash in pink and kitten motifs. Severus reached back, finding Hermione's hand, and squeezed it...a fleeting reassurance that everything would unfold as planned. Her comfort radiated through their connection.

He rapped on the door, and the response came in a crisp, chipper tone: "Enter!" Severus swung the door wide, stepping inside to grant Hermione space. She slipped in behind him, her invisible form navigating the room's whimsical decor. The air hummed with tension as he held up the damning review.

"Ms. Umbridge," he intoned, his voice detached, mocking, "I would like a word with you regarding this...performance review."

Hermione, unseen, had already positioned herself behind him, poised to retrieve the locket. Umbridge's mock smile widened.

"Close the door," she purred, "and I'll be happy to review it with you."

Hermione's focus narrowed to a pinpoint...the gold locket, her singular obsession. Their conversation faded into the background, mere white noise as she moved with the precision of a cat stalking its prey. Each step was calculated, each breath measured. She skirted the edge of Dolores Umbridge's desk, her fingertips grazing the polished wood without leaving a trace. Closer and closer, until she stood before the filing cabinet—a monolithic structure adorned with a large picture frame of cats. The locket hung there, its weighty secrets concealed within.

Her gaze flickered back to Severus, who held Umbridge's attention with a masterful blend of disdain and detachment. Gods, how Hermione loved the way he put people in their place...masculine, dominating, unyielding. His voice, a velvet weapon honed to perfection, sliced through the air.

But she tore her eyes from them, her heart pounding. With deft fingers, she slipped the heavy gold locket from its frame, tucking it securely into her bra. The metal pressed against her skin, a secret warmth that fueled her determination. She retraced her steps toward the front of the office, brushing Severus's shoulder lightly...a silent signal that she was ready.

Severus straightened, his eyes locking onto Umbridge's.

"So, my dear professor," he drawled, "shall we discuss the intricacies of your evaluation further?"

Umbridge's gaze flickered to the door, then back to Severus. Her confidence wavered.

"Perhaps another time," she stammered.

"Indeed," Severus agreed, stepping away. He swung the door wide, allowing the invisible Hermione to exit first.

Then, with a final glance at Umbridge, he murmured, "Another time."

The door closed behind him, plunging the hallway into darkness. Severus walked, whispering to Hermione, who remained unseen but sensed by his side. "You got the locket, sweetheart?" he asked.

"I did," she replied softly, her voice tinged with triumph.

They retraced their steps to the classroom. As soon as they entered, Severus locked the door and cast a Muffliato charm. He led her back into the supply closet, where he removed the disillusionment charm. Hermione materialized before him, her eyes shining.

She reached into her bra and produced the locket. His eyebrow arched, amusement dancing in his gaze.

"Well," Severus murmured, his eyes tracing the curve of her waist, "that's one way to keep it close."

Hermione gestured down to her outfit...a fitted jumper and a skirt that clung to her like a second skin.

"I didn't have a lot of options," she laughed, her eyes dancing with mischief. She handed him the locket, and he accepted it with a nod. The gold gleamed in the dim light of the supply closet, a relic of darkness and power.

"Indeed," Severus agreed, his fingers brushing hers. He couldn't resist.. the pull of her lips, the heat of her skin. He pressed her against the bookshelf, the ancient tomes whispering secrets around them. His kiss was a promise, a stolen moment in the shadows...a taste of forbidden magic.

"My brilliant little witch," he murmured against her mouth, his breath mingling with hers. In that hidden space, where affection and danger converged, Hermione wondered if perhaps she'd found something more profound...an enigma unraveling, a heart awakening.

And so, they stood there, lost in each other, the locket forgotten for a stolen heartbeat. The world outside ceased to exist...the war, the danger, the looming darkness. There was only Severus, his lips on hers, and the promise of secrets yet unveiled.

Chapter Text

With her potions assignments clutched tightly in one hand and a leather-bound book in the other, Hadria descended the narrow stone staircase. Narcissa's directions had been precise: follow the hallway to the old wine cellars of Malfoy Manor. There, Voldemort had set up a secluded work station for her...a place where magic and secrets intertwined.

The corridor grew darker, the torches flickering as if reluctant to illuminate this forgotten part of the manor. Hadria's footsteps echoed against the cold walls, and the air smelled of incense and ancient spells. She reached the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall, its iron hinges groaning as she pushed it open.

The scent hit her immediately...a heady mixture of potions and memories. Maybe a hint of old wine, too. The cellar yawned before her, its stone steps leading down into shadow. It was a stark contrast to the opulence above...the Malfoy legacy hidden beneath layers of enchantment.

Hadria hesitated, then stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The air grew cooler, and the torchlight danced across the rough-hewn walls. The hallway leading to the main chamber wasn't large, but it held an air of anticipation...a place where magic thrived.

And there it was...an oddly beautiful scene. The cellar had shed its former purpose, no longer housing wines or vegetables. Instead, it had become a sanctuary for creation. Cauldrons stood on sturdy tables, their surfaces etched with arcane symbols. Shelves lined the walls, laden with jars of rare ingredients and ancient texts.

And at the heart of it all stood Voldemort, his back to her. He was grinding something in a mortar and pestle, his movements deliberate and fluid. Hadria leaned against the cold stone wall, watching him. His pale hands moved with grace—the hands that had wielded power, shaped destinies and brought her pleasure she had never known. He hadn't noticed her yet. His focus was on the potion he was crafting.

Voldemort poured the powdered substance into a small glass jar, his eyes distant. He placed it carefully on a shelf, next to other vials containing rare essences. Then he reached for a larger jar, removing something that looked like Mandrake root. His movements were precise, almost tender.

Hadria found it endearing...the Dark Lord, lost in the simplicity of potion-making. It made him seem more human, less a figure of terror and more a man with desires and vulnerabilities. As he began grating the root she wondered what else drives him...simply the hunger for power, the quest for immortality, or something deeper?

Hadria stepped closer, the cellar's magic hummed around them, a symphony of possibilities. She wanted to touch him, to trace the lines of his face and unravel the enigma. But she held back, content to watch.

He finally looked up, hearing her footsteps. His blue eyes met hers, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

"I see you found your way, my dear," he said, his voice a low murmur but a smile tugged at his lip.

Hadria smiled, warmth blooming inside her as she approached him.

"It's quite beautiful down here," she replied, gesturing to the transformed cellar as she set her things down. "I like it."

His eyes seemed to express an appreciation for her assessment. He tipped her chin up, and their lips met...a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of magic and longing. She melted into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, wanting more.

But he broke the kiss, and reality rushed back. His husky tone held both desire and amusement.

"You teasing little witch," he said. "Is this how you get out of your assignments?"

She laughed, her cheeks flushing. "No, I would never."

He moved away, collecting ingredients for the potions she would be working on. In the dimly lit cellar, they stood side by side, their fingers brushing against each other as they prepared to brew.

The air was thick with anticipation, and neither of them dared to acknowledge the unspoken feelings that hung between them like a delicate thread.

"So you know how to make the Wideye Potion?"
Hadria asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Voldemort chuckled, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. He moved gracefully, selecting various jars from the shelves and placing them on the workstation. His knowledge of potions was unparalleled, and he had already familiarized himself with Hadria's assignments.

"You underestimate me, my dear," he replied, his tone low and intimate. "I have already memorized the recipe for the Awakening Potion long ago. It prevents the drinker from falling asleep and can also serve as an antidote for the Draught of Living Death. You're familiar with that one, I presume?"

Hadria nodded, her heart fluttering. She opened her book to the page containing the Wideye Potion recipe.

"Alright, my dear," he said, leaning in closer. "Let's walk through it together. Make sure you have all the ingredients you need."

Hadria checked the ingredients he had placed on the workstation, her finger tracing down ingredient list.

"I still need...two sprigs of wolfsbane."

Voldemort's smile deepened as he had left an ingredient out purposefully, he retrieved the sprigs from another jar. Wolfsbane, a potent herb, was essential for the potion's effectiveness. He watched Hadria work, her movements precise and focused. She added the necessary ingredients to the mortar, grinding them carefully after dropping the billywing stings into the cauldron.

As she counted silently, her lips moving in concentration, Voldemort's gaze never left her. The tension in the room was palpable, and he wondered if she felt the same magnetic pull he did. The Wideye Potion was relatively simple, yet he savored every moment they spent together, their hands brushing occasionally as they worked side by side.

Perhaps it was the potion's effect, or maybe it was the unspoken connection between them, but Voldemort knew that this moment would linger in his memory forever. Hadria, the girl who challenged him, intrigued him, and made his heart race, was becoming someone very special to him in a way he had never known before.

While the first potion brewed, Hadria moved on to the next. The air in the dimly lit chamber seemed charged with magic, and Voldemort watched her every move with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

As Hadria meticulously chopped the mature Mandrakes and infused the dandelion root, Voldemort leaned against the sturdy counter nearby. His blue eyes bore into her, dissecting her every action. The Mandrake Restorative Draught was no ordinary potion—it was steeped in ancient magic, its origins shrouded in mystery.

"Mandrake Restorative Draught," Voldemort murmured, his voice like a serpent's hiss. "A potion with roots in the distant past. Do you know its true purpose, Hadria?"

She glanced up, her hands trembling slightly.

"Not precisely. I've only read about its practical applications."

He chuckled, a sound devoid of mirth.

"Practical, yes. But there's more to it. The Mandrake, you see, has roots that resemble human forms. When pulled from the earth, their screams can drive a person to madness or even death."

Hadria shuddered, her gaze fixed on the Mandrake roots.

"I've heard of their cries. Petrification victims—"

"Exactly," Voldemort interrupted. "The Mandrake Restorative Draught reverses petrification. But it's more profound than that. It symbolizes rebirth, transformation...a return from the brink of oblivion."

He stepped closer, his gaze unyielding as he traced the curve of her jaw. His lips brushed against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

"And what would you do with such power, Hadria? To restore life, to defy fate?"

She hesitated, her mind racing.
"To heal," she whispered. "To undo harm."

Voldemort's lips curved into a dangerous smile.

"Or to rewrite destiny. To mold the world in your image."

She thought about his words, the weight of them settling deep within her. He was right...the world was malleable, waiting to be shaped by those who held power. Perhaps wielding such magic wouldn't be so bad if it was used for good. But as his lips met hers, Hadria wondered if they were both playing with fire, dancing on the edge of something far more dangerous than any potion they brewed together

As the cauldron simmered, he caressed her cheek. "Brew well, my dear. The Mandrake's song echoes through time. Listen carefully."

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close, and rested his chin on her shoulder. Together, they watched the cauldrons bubble and shift, their energies intertwining like fate itself.

"Potions have always been one of my favorite subjects," he confessed softly in her ear. His voice, usually sharp and commanding, now held a rare vulnerability.

Hadria turned to face him, her eyes wide with wonder. She held him, her touch gentle yet firm.

"I wonder if anyone knows how truly talented you are," she said, her voice filled with adoration. His eyes soften and he runs his fingers through her hair.

"Hadria," he murmured, his voice a velvet whisper. "You know...you really are more than a mere student of potions and spells. You see beyond the surface and you possess a hunger...a thirst for knowledge beyond the ordinary...I can cure that longing."

"What do you mean?"

His fingers grazed her cheek.

"The Dark Arts...the forbidden magic that shapes destinies. I want to teach you, mold you into the witch you were to be meant to be...to stand by my side."

Hadria's pulse quickened.
"But the Dark Arts—"

"Are not inherently evil," he interrupted. "They are power...the raw essence of creation and destruction. Imagine wielding spells that defy life and death, that bend reality to your will."

He reached for her hand, his touch both chilling and electrifying.

"Hadria, you are my paradox...a blend of light and shadow. Together, we could reshape the world."

She studied his face...the lines etched by his long decades of existence, the hunger for immortality.

"And what if I refuse?"

"Then you remain in the light," he said softly.

"Safe, but limited. But with me, you could transcend...become something extraordinary."
Hadria's heart raced. The choice loomed before her: the path of safety or the allure of forbidden knowledge. She wondered if love and darkness could coexist, if they could rewrite their own destiny.

"Teach me," she whispered. "Show me what lies in the shadows."

And in that moonlit chamber, surrounded by secrets and longing, Voldemort leaned down, his lips brushing hers. "Together, we shall dance with darkness," he murmured.

He kissed her again, this time with a ravenous hunger that consumed him. It wasn't just her lips he craved; it was her entire being. Her body, her mind, her soul...all of it. The beautiful little minx had sunk her claws into his existence, leaving marks that went beyond the physical. He was beginning to lose sight of where he ended and she began.

Gods I can never get enough of her...she drives me mad!

As their lips met, he tasted the promise of a future...a future entwined with hers. He couldn't fathom a life without her now. She was the missing piece, the puzzle he hadn't known he needed to solve. And so, he vowed to teach her, to guide her through the labyrinth of darkness and light. He needed her to learn, to surrender to the intoxicating dance they were embarking upon.

She whimpers softly under his hungry attack and felt suddenly weightless as she was lifted onto a nearby table. He pressed his body between her legs and his long spider like hands slid up her thighs pushing up her skirt. His touch felt like fire...Bottles clinked as they were shoved back with the force of the movement. He broke the kiss and cradled her head as he began nipping at the soft skin of her neck.

"I need you little witch" his voice was husky with desire. He needed to be inside of her but he knew his need for her went beyond mere intimacy...it was more than that. She whines and spreads her legs more inviting him to take her. He snakes his cock out of his robes stroking it a few times as he kissed her. He pulls her panties to the side and presses his length into her with ease...she is already so wet.

"Oh sweet girl...you're always ready for me." His voice trembled as he thrust into her. She yelped at the force of his thrust. The sound of clinking glass jars on the table became part of their melody as he moved within her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and nips at his lip as his long fingers slithered around her hips holding her tight against him.

He slammed into her again.

"Oh that's a good girl...gods the way you take me..." he bit his lip as he tried to maintain control.

"Oh fuck.." she whispers breathlessly as he kisses her neck and continues moving, sliding...the heat is building between them and the cellar begins to feel like a sauna surrounded them in a fog of potions and desire.

"You like that witch? You like how I fuck that beautiful little pussy?" He growled in her ear. Her mouth drops open in silent ecstasy as she nods.

"Yes!" She finally mewls as she takes a breath. He's moving faster now and losing control. His fingers dig into her hips forcefully as he pistons in and out of her dripping cunt. He feels her legs begin to tremble and her hips are rolling to meet his movements.

"Oh gods!...Yes...just..please don't stop!" She whines. He smiles and grips her hair forcing her to look up at him.

"You're mine witch." He whispered in Parseltongue wrapping an arm possessively around her pulling her tighter to him and driving himself deeper within her heated depths. Hadria feels a delicious tug in her lower belly from his words and is breathing faster. She begins to pant as her back arches against him.

"That's it sweet girl...come for me..." his deep dominant voice purrs in her ear commanding her body like a puppet master.

"Voldemort!"

The way she cries his name out in ecstasy when she comes makes him groan in excitement as he reaches his own peak. He lets out a primal cry of pleasure as his climax hits him and wraps his arm tighter around her and kisses her deeply as he spills inside her.

Oh fuck she feels so good...

He cradled her head, pressing his forehead to hers as they both slowed their breaths. The cellar walls seemed to hold their secrets, cocooning them in a fragile intimacy. He was still inside her, their connection lingering like an unspoken promise. The warmth of her body seeped into his skin, and he wasn't ready to break free from this spell.

The weight of what she had agreed to hung in the air...a pact forged in the heat of passion. She had willingly stepped into the shadows, into the realm of forbidden knowledge. It wasn't lost on him; it only fueled his desire. She had agreed to let him teach her the Dark Arts, not out of fear or coercion, but out of curiosity and hunger.

His lips brushed against her temple, a silent vow.

"I will teach you everything that I know," he whispered. His voice held the weight of centuries...the secrets, the power, the darkness. And in that moment, he realized that he wasn't just teaching her spells; he was unraveling her defenses, exposing her vulnerabilities.

The world above could wait; they had eternity in this embrace.

Chapter Text

"What is the purpose of this custom?"

The Malfoy garden lay hushed, bathed in the warm hues of late afternoon. Voldemort, the Dark Lord himself, found himself perched on a blanket...a peculiar arrangement, indeed. His robes, usually swathed in darkness, now mingled with the fabric beneath him. The sky stretched above, a canvas of orange and yellow, as if the heavens themselves were unsure how to accommodate this unprecedented event.

He eyed the pile of pillows strewn about, each one fluffier than the last.

Does she intend for us to sleep here? To rest our weary heads and dream of... what? The downfall of the Order? The triumph of darkness? Or perhaps something altogether different?

Hadria settled gracefully beside him, her presence both calming and disconcerting. She had orchestrated this...this "picnic"...with an enthusiasm that bordered on the absurd. Voldemort shifted, crossing his legs under his robes, searching for a posture that didn't scream "I am the Dark Lord, and I do not sit on blankets."

Finally, he settled on an approximation of Indian style, his angular limbs conforming to the fabric. Hadria's smile, like a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds, warmed the air. She had brought a basket...an innocuous wicker vessel that held secrets. The elves had assisted her, their eager whispers revealing Voldemort's preferences. How quaint.

"It's not a...custom per se...just something...relaxing and enjoyable." Hadria said as she sat down on the blanket next to him.

He grunted, watching her arrange herself. The basket sat there, tantalizingly mysterious. What did it conceal? His curiosity, ever the serpent, uncoiled within him.

"I'll be the judge of that, my dear," he drawled, his blue eyes narrowing. "What's in the basket?"

Her blush was endearing, a flicker of vulnerability.

"Dinner," she replied, her voice soft. But she withheld the full revelation, and Voldemort's intrigue deepened. He wondered if she knew...truly knew...the significance of this moment. The Dark Lord, partaking in a picnic.

Hadria produced a ceramic carafe, its surface gleaming. Two glasses followed suit. He tilted his head, intrigued. Black coffee, she had deduced. The elves had whispered it to her...the afternoon ritual he rarely acknowledged aloud.

How peculiar...

As the sun dipped lower, casting elongated shadows across the blanket, Voldemort accepted the glass. The coffee, dark and bitter, mirrored his own essence. He sipped, the warmth seeping into him. For a moment, the world blurred...the garden, the sky, the witch beside him...all softened by the steam rising from the cup.

And Hadria, with her blush and her secrets, became something else entirely. A puzzle, a diversion, a flicker of light in the encroaching dusk. He wondered what other surprises she held within that basket, within her heart.
Perhaps this picnic was more than relaxation. Perhaps it was a spell, woven by her touch, designed to unravel the tightly wound threads of his existence. Or perhaps...just perhaps...it was a simple act of kindness, offered to a man who had never known the taste of such sweetness.

After handing him his cup, Hadria poured her own, the liquid swirling like secrets in the ceramic vessel. Voldemort's blue eyes followed the motion, and for a fleeting moment, he was transported...a child again, lost in the labyrinth of an orphanage.

The memory stirred, rising from the depths of his fractured past. The orphanage, a place of shadows and hunger, where the air smelled of dampness and despair. He had been a wraith there, a specter haunting the corridors, seeking sustenance beyond the meager rations. The kitchens...in the forbidden heart of the institution...had held the promise of salvation.

And one evening, when the matron's back was turned, he slipped through the cracks, silent as a wisp of smoke. The kitchen was a cavern of possibilities: cold stoves, empty pans, and remnants of meals long consumed. And there, on the counter, sat the forgotten pot of coffee...a relic of morning rituals, now abandoned.

He had no idea what coffee was. His young palate had known only gruel, watery broth, and the occasional crust of bread. But curiosity, that insatiable hunger, drove him to pour what remained of the cold, stale brew into a chipped cup from the sink. The liquid was murky, like forgotten memories, and it clung to the sides of the vessel.

He sipped. The taste...a revelation. Bitterness danced with aroma, awakening senses he hadn't known existed. It was a flavor beyond sustenance, beyond mere survival. It was possibility, threaded with caffeine-fueled dreams. The orphanage faded, and he was adrift in a sea of ideas, each one a star waiting to be plucked from the night sky.

Late nights became his refuge. The other children slept, their breaths soft as moth wings. But he sat by the window, cradling the cup, staring at the moon. The coffee fueled his imagination...the stories he wove, the spells he invented. He was a dreamer, even then, before he knew he was a wizard. The world beyond the orphanage walls beckoned...a realm of magic, power, and answers.

And now, as Hadria sat beside him, her own cup in hand, he wondered...did she know that this simple act...the pouring of coffee...was a bridge between two worlds? The Dark Lord and the witch, bound by ceramic and caffeine, sharing secrets beneath the fading sun.

He sipped again, the bitterness familiar, the warmth less lonely. Perhaps dreams were like coffee...dark, elusive, and capable of altering destinies. And in this quiet corner of the Malfoy garden, Voldemort allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. For once, he wasn't plotting conquests or unraveling prophecies. He was simply a boy, tasting magic in a cup, dreaming of a future beyond the orphanage walls.
Hadria's smile, soft and unguarded, held its own enchantment. And for the first time, he wondered if dreams could be shared...brewed together, like coffee, until they spilled over the rim of reality.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked.

The afternoon sun lingered, casting elongated shadows across the blanket. Hadria's question hung in the air, a delicate thread connecting their pasts and futures. Voldemort...no, Tom Riddle, for that was the name of the boy who once roamed the orphanage halls...shifted his gaze from the coffee to her.

Her eyes sparkled, curiosity dancing within their depths. It was a rare occurrence...the Dark Lord, the embodiment of secrets, contemplating vulnerability. But Hadria had a way of unraveling him, one question at a time. He nodded, acknowledging her inquiry.

"I was just remembering how I used to sneak cold coffee from the kitchens back in those days at the orphanage," he confessed. The words tasted like revelation, like the first sip of that murky brew. "I've enjoyed it ever since...though, I no longer drink it cold."

Her smile held appreciation, a silent acknowledgment of the glimpse into his past. How much did she truly know about him? The orphanage...a place of neglect, of forgotten children...had been his cradle. The matron's stern face, the creaking floorboards, the hunger that gnawed at his insides...they were etched into his memory like runes.

"How long were you there?" Her voice was gentle, and he wondered if she sensed the weight of those years...the longing for something beyond the gray walls.

He looked down into his cup, the coffee warm, its bitterness softened by the conversation.

"I was born there, my dear," he replied. "It was my place of residency until I was a young man."

Sadness filled Hadria's eyes, and he wondered if she glimpsed the truth...the boy who had never known a real home, who had grown up with shadows as companions. It explained a few things...the hunger for knowledge, the thirst for control, the relentless pursuit of immortality.

She reached into the basket, her hands deft and kind. Plates appeared between them, and he watched her arrange crackers and an assortment of cheeses. The simplicity of the moment...the sharing of food, the quiet companionship...stirred something within him...fondness. A longing for connection that transcended spells and curses.

"May I ask you more about your past?" Her question hung there, vulnerable yet brave. And for the first time, Voldemort considered it...an invitation to unravel further, to reveal the layers beneath the robes, the masks, the Horcruxes. For the first time, he wondered if vulnerability could be a weapon, if honesty could be a shield.

"That all depends on the question, my dear," he replied, his voice a silken thread of mischief. He reached for a slice of cheese, savoring its sharpness. Hadria's smile...a beacon of warmth...encouraged him. She understood the dance they were engaged in...the steps toward trust, the waltz of secrets.

"Did you know your mother at all?" Her voice was gentle, as if treading on fragile ground. Voldemort's eyes averted her, his gaze skimming the edge of the blanket. The past...the cavern of ghosts...stirred within him.

"No," he answered, the words devoid of emotion. "She died giving birth to me in the orphanage."

The memory was a sepia-toned photograph, edges frayed. His mother...a woman he had never touched, never known. A fragile vessel that had carried him into existence, then shattered.

"I seem to recall being told she died of a broken heart after my father left her."

His father...the elusive Muggle who had sired him and vanished like smoke.

Voldemort's lips curved into a sly smirk. "Further proof that love is a weakness," he added. "Had she left her heart guarded, she would not have succumbed to such a fate."

And there it was...the crux of his existence. Love, vulnerability, the fragility of human connections. His mother's heart, shattered like glass, echoed through the years. He wondered if she had glimpsed his future...the path he would carve through blood and magic. Perhaps she had whispered secrets to the night from her place of eternal rest, hoping they would reach him.

Hadria's gaze held compassion, and he wondered how much she saw...the boy who had never been cradled, the man who had forged his own heart into steel.

"Love can be a weakness...yes...but just as magic has its light and dark, love has another side too...unrequited love is a poison...but what of love returned?"

Her voice held curiosity, like a seeker tracing a forgotten rune. It was a concept he had never considered. Could love be a strength? Could it be more than a vulnerability to exploit?

For a moment, he was speechless. The orphanage, the cold coffee, the forgotten mother...they blurred, replaced by a single word: Hadria. She had become a constellation in his darkness, a point of light that defied the void.

He smiled with a soft grunt of amusement. His fingers traced the rim, and he wondered if she saw the fractures of his heart.

"Perhaps, my dear...perhaps."

She left it at that and continued the meal, serving a spicy pineapple slaw and sushi for the main course, followed by Caviar Canapés. The flavors danced on their tongues, a symphony of sweet, tangy, and briny notes. Hadria had chosen each dish with care, as if weaving a spell to enchant the Dark Lord himself.

He sat there, blue eyes flickering with intrigue, savoring each morsel. The wine...deep and velvety...paired perfectly with the meal. They chatted about nothing in particular, the conversation light and unburdened. It was a rarity...the Dark Lord engaging in small talk. But with her, it was different. Hadria had cracked open a door, and he found himself stepping through.

She was beginning to see a side of him that had remained veiled...a side she was certain had not previously existed. He even allowed himself to lounge back on one of the plush pillows, the garden around them fading into insignificance.

They teased, playfully debating which Hogwarts house had the best Quidditch team historically. Gryffindor's daring versus Slytherin's cunning...the age-old rivalry.

And then, in a moment that no one would ever believe, she scooted closer. Her laughter was a melody, and he tilted his head in a brief hesitation before allowing her to feed him spoonful after spoonful of lemon sorbet. The chill melted on his tongue, and for once, he felt something akin to...contentment.

"My dear," he said, his voice low, "you will just have to accept that Slytherin will always have the most talented witches and wizards." It was a playful challenge. But Hadria shook her head, her laughter contagious.

The romantic moment hung in the air, fragile as spun sugar. And then, like a storm breaking over the horizon, a deep baritone voice interrupted.

"Good evening, My Lord..."

***

Chapter Text

Voldemort had been initially irritated that anyone dared to encroach on this peaceful moment he had been enjoying. However, when he saw Severus his annoyance faded a bit. He had been expecting the Potions Master to make an appearance soon.

Voldemort tilted his head, blue eyes narrowing, when he noticed a witch behind him shyly clinging to his robes and avoiding coming out from behind him. He had requested when Severus returned that he bring his little mudblood companion, Hermione.

"Severus," Voldemort addressed his faithful servant, "I see you've returned...I knew you would not fail me in this task." He stood, robes cascading like liquid night. "Let us see your little witch then."

"Come girl, present yourself to the Dark Lord and pay your respect for his mercy on you."
Severus spoke in his normal emotionless detached voice. Voldemort's eyes creased and his lip curled in appreciation.

Hadria, still seated, watched on not knowing who was with the Potions Master. Hermione stepped out from behind Severus, eyes downcast, her demeanor a blend of reverence and trepidation. Hadria's heart leaped, recognizing the familiar face.

"Hermione!" she exclaimed, rising to her feet. The smile she offered was genuine, a reunion tinged with relief. She had missed her friend dearly, though the circumstances were far from ordinary.

Hermione dared to look up, her gaze meeting Hadria's. A small smile curved her lips before she shifted her attention to Voldemort. The Dark Lord watched her, assessing the tremor in her frame. She performed a polite bow, her voice meek yet rehearsed.

"Thank you, my lord, for the mercy you have shown me," Hermione said. "I seek only to serve you and provide companionship to Severus." The words were scripted, a dance they had choreographed.

Hadria's heart raced...a tempest of conflicting impulses. Hermione stood there, vulnerable yet resilient, and Hadria wanted to run to her, throw her arms around her friend. But the garden held it's breath, and Voldemort's presence loomed...an unpredictable force that could shatter their fragile equilibrium.

The Dark Lord approached Hermione, he tipped her chin up to him, his gaze dissecting her. His face...etched with disdain...betrayed nothing, yet Hadria sensed the currents beneath. She had learned caution in his presence, a dance of survival. So she hesitated, caught delicately between loyalty and trepidation.

"She is quite lovely for a mudblood, Severus," Voldemort remarked. The mischievous grin...the glint in his eyes...hinted at darker intentions. "I presume she satisfies your needs well?"

Severus nodded, his mask firmly in place. "She does, my lord," he drawled. "And she is quite talented for such a young witch."

The Dark Lord leaned closer, and Hadria held her breath. He pressed into Hermione's mind...an intrusion that made her flinch. But Severus had prepared her, weaving fictitious memories into her consciousness. A web of intimacy, a lie they both upheld.

Voldemort's search revealed a memory of Severus bending the girl over a small table in the potions supply closet lifting her skirt, teeth raking across his bottom lip in anticipation, he pulled down her panties.

"Be still girl." Severus a calm but stern command as he worked on his belt and unzipped his pants. He relieved his hard cock from its restrictive confines and wasted no time in sliding into her from behind. The little witch's breath hitched and she moaned as Severus began fucking her, grabbing her hair and groaning as he pressed into her.

Voldemort chuckled as he pulled out of her mind.

"I see you have been enjoying your gift, Severus. This pleases me," Voldemort said, his grin a blade wrapped in silk. The Dark Lord reveled in manipulation, in the delicate threads he wove.

"Or is it perhaps...a well-placed memory..." he added, his smirk aimed at Severus. He released Hermione's chin.

Severus responded without hesitation, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Of course not, my lord. I have no need for such theatrics. The girl is eager to please." His loyalty to Voldemort was unwavering, but guilt gnawed at him. Hermione's vulnerability weighed heavily on his conscience.

Voldemort glanced back at Hadria, and his cruel smile sent shivers down her spine. "We shall see, Severus," he murmured. "Let us make our way to the study...do you have what I asked for?"

The Slytherin locket...the Horcrux that bound them all. Severus nodded, feeling a nervous knot in his stomach. How would the Dark Lord test their relationship? He had warned Hermione of the possibility of performing an act in front of Voldemort...an act to prove their relationship. But guilt clawed at him. To subject Hermione to such scrutiny, to expose her vulnerability, weighed heavily on his conscience.

❤️

Voldemort settled into the high-backed chair behind the desk in the opulent study of the Manor surrounding them in dark wood and velvet drapes. Hadria, her pulse racing, found herself pulled into his lap, his touch like frost and fire. His fingers traced along her bare arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

"The locket, Severus," Voldemort rasped, his eyes never leaving the object Severus produced from his pocket. The Slytherin locket...the Horcrux that bound them all. As the locket was placed on the desk before The Dark Lord he waved his hand, and the study door closed, locking them in. A muffliato charm settled over the room, cocooning them in silence.

"Please, have a seat," Voldemort gestured to the lush couch a few feet away. Severus nodded, taking his place, Hermione perching next to him. The air hummed with the tension of what was to come next.

Voldemort's long, pale fingers snaked up Hadria's neck, turning her ear toward his mouth. His whisper was a rhythm, a beat that sent shivers up her spine.

"This, my dear," he murmured, "will be one of those moments we spoke of...where you will not like what I'm about to do...I implore you, precious...do not defy me or fight me on this...no harm will come to anyone...tell me you understand." His voice was stern but there was a warmth and tenderness there that told her to trust him.

She nodded speaking softly, "I understand."

He ran his fingers through her hair appreciatively. The man Hadria was slowly falling for had many sides...she grappled with the complexities of her emotions. She knew he secretly reveled in the power play about to unfold...the chessboard of manipulation and intrigue.

But her concern lay elsewhere...as happy as she was to see her friend, she wasn't exactly sure how Hermione had gotten pulled into all of this and worried what Voldemort had planned for this meeting.

Hadria wished she could have spoken with Hermione before they entered the study. The girl's eyes held secrets and Severus's role in her life remained veiled to her. What kind of relationship did they truly share? Hadria's heart ached for her friend, caught in a web of loyalty and danger...but the girl's meekness belied a strength...a resilience that mirrored her own.

"Let me see her pleasure you Severus." Voldemort words dripped with malice as he continued caressing his own witches arms.

Hadria quickly turned to him with a pleading look in her eye but Voldemort only returned it with a stern gaze that commanded her obedience and he cupped her cheek placing a tender kiss on her jawline as the other hand slipped onto her thigh.

Severus clinched his teeth and took a breath as he maintained his stoic exterior. He looked at Hermione, his eyes flickered with remorse for what he was about to make her do. Hermione bravely smiled. It wasn't just a show for the Dark Lord...her smile was a genuine reassurance to Severus that she could play her part. She didn't want their first intimate act together to be so grim even if the circumstances were far less than ideal.

"On your knees girl...you know what I like." He purred deeply with a practiced precision of confidence. She knew it was an act but she couldn't help the flutter in her belly caused by his words.

Voldemort grinned with satisfaction as he watched Severus's boon steady her hands on the potion masters knees as she lowered herself to a kneeling position between his legs. The Dark Lord pulled Hadria's dress higher, caressing her thighs as he watched, causing Hadria to fight the heat his touch was building as he traced lightly and teasingly closer to her inner thigh.

Severus internally damned himself for the stirring he felt seeing Hermione in this position before him. She looked up at him with a subtle nod and an almost imperceptible smile prompting him to lean back and unfasten his trousers. Suddenly he sees a look in her eye that caught him off guard...intrigue...hunger. She licked her bottom lip as he pulled himself free, a sight which made him ache...a feeling that had become foreign to him...a harsh reminder of his many years of celibacy. His body betrayed the danger and incredible awkwardness of the situation they found themselves in. He was already painfully erect.

Hadria averted her eyes, cheeks aflame, as if the very air held secrets she dared not witness. But Voldemort, ever the puppeteer, had other plans. He drew her back against him, his touch both possessive and tender. His long fingers found her chin, forcing her gaze toward the couple on the couch...a tableau of intimacy and vulnerability.

"It's alright my dear...watch...I promise it will only be the one time...be a good girl for me Hadria." He whispered in her ear causing heat to pool in her belly. He kissed her neck...her body rewarding him with an involuntary shudder...he chuckled deeply.

Severus watched Hermione who nervously gazed down at the object of her fascination before sliding her hands up his thighs and taking his cock in her petite hand. He wasn't as long as she had seen in videos before but not small either...he was much thicker than she expected. Her eyes immediately met his making sure this was acceptable...her nervousness and uncertainty on full display with Voldemort's gaze safely behind her.

Severus clenched his teeth harder to stifle the gasp of electricity he felt at her touch as she gripped him...a warmth he felt on occasion from own hand but this was entirely different. He exhaled in a short burst unable to stop himself. He tried to ignore the fact that the Dark Lord was watching them. This needed to appear natural...not like the first time...

Hermione's eyes danced with desire under his heated gaze. He wanted so badly to apologize in this moment...to protect her innocence. But protecting her from a future of servitude as a second class citizen was more important.

Hermione's hand began to move up and down slowly. She had never engaged in intimacy with a man but she understood the basics well enough. Having taken Severus's previous warning seriously, when he told her the Dark Lord might make them perform an act, the studious little witch that she was had done her homework. The muggle internet proved to be a valuable, if not surprisingly detailed, reference guide for such...intimate activities.

Severus grunted softly and his eyes fluttered closed for a moment as her hand moved over the taught sensitive skin of his thick hard cock. His hands rested trembling on his thighs fighting the urge to touch her...take her in his arms as show her the passion she deserved...his beautiful little witch.

Voldemort, watching over Hadria's shoulder, purring contentedly in her ear as he pulled Hadria's dress up higher to the crease of her hip as the sight before him stirred his own desire. He nibbled on her ear pulling a gasp from her throat as he parted both their legs spreading her thighs open for him.

"My lord" she breathed in a hushed whisper.

He held her chin firmly as he murmured softly in her ear.

"Sshhhhh...it's alright darling...control isn't always about pain and suffering...it can be intimate and pleasurable...you wanted to see what lies in the shadows..."

He slipped the long pale fingers of his free hand down the front of her panties causing her back to arch in need...her legs pulling on his outer thighs in an involuntary protest but her breathy moan betrayed her instincts...he held his legs firmly spread inside hers preventing hers from closing.

As his fingers dragged across her sensitive bud he continued in Parseltongue this time without whispering.

"Let go of the light for just this moment, Hadria...let me show you what beauty lies hidden in the dark."

Voldemort dipped a long finger into her and he smiled when he felt the heat of her already moistened channel.

"Oh sweet girl...you can fight all you want but your body screams for my touch...the darkness in you betrays every little protest of your fractured moral compass..."

He held her tight against him as he returned his attention momentarily to the scene unfolding on the couch.

"Taste him mudblood...let me see you pleasure your wizard properly." His commanded in a raspy voice.

Severus's eyes shot open and met hers immediately. The guilt cut through him with a knife as he tried to swallow the knot forming in his throat.

"Yes, of course my lord." She said softly. Her gaze moved down to his length. Severus shifted a bit more out of emotional discomfort than anything else.

He gave her a stern nod encouraging her to comply. They both knew it had to be done. His lip twitched with anticipation when she looked down toward his lap and licked her lips. She became mesmerized for a moment noticing a small bead of moisture that had collected on the tip of his cock. She begins recalling the videos she had watched on how this was done but she could not fight her genuine curiosity in this moment...what does he taste like?

She feels a tug in her core as she leaned in and dragged her tongue across the tip. Time slowed in that moment for Severus as he felt a tightening in his lower belly and his eyes glazed over in pleasure...a strangled groan escaped his throat and he almost lost his composure.

His response only fueled her desire more as she stroked him again wanting to replicate the moment. And her efforts were rewarded with yet another bead of arousal. He looked away from her with a blank stare, his pupils dilating with the sudden onslaught of pleasure when she leaned in and languidly dragged her tongue along his tip again.

Snape's body clenched sharply, causing a shudder across his spine in response to her warm tongue on his cock. His breath hitched and his dark eyes closed halfway, trying to retain his composure, but his breath quivered slightly with that small moan that escaped. His eyes flickered open to gaze down at her with a small smirk.

"Good girl...take it all sweetheart...you know what I want." The line between acting and genuine response was beginning to blur as he lost himself in her brown eyes full of desire.

"Yes sir." She whispered innocently but
as he searched her eyes the fire there was undeniable. Her free hand gripped the fabric of his trousers that was threatening to bite into his tender skin and pulled them down more.

Voldemort held Hadria tighter in his clutches slowly finger fucking her as they watched enraptured by the scene. Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue against her ear keeping his words private for only her. Hadria's legs trembled and her breath quickened as Voldemort fondled her holding her chin and neck firmly but not too tight...she had no choice but to watch the scene in front of her.

Hadria's pulse raced. She felt like an intruder, a voyeur in a forbidden dance, the sounds of pleasure echoed in the hallowed silence of the study. Hadria's heart raced, torn between distaste and fascination.

Hermione looked in the Potions Master's eyes seeking approval as she ran her tongue from the base of him to the tip. His hand shot out and grabbed her free one, squeezing it with a sharp inhale. She repeated this a few times before taking him into her mouth completely causing the starved man to bite his lip...his breath quickened feeling the heat of her soft lips caress his cock in the most exquisite way.

His hips jerked as she took him deeper and his eyes rolled back before he closed them completely. Hermione gripped his trousers tighter as she moved.

Hadria's breath quickened as Voldemort coaxed the arousal from her body with his skillful fingers. She watched her friend sucking their potions professor off like a pro...she was certain now that these two were more than mere student and teacher. And she couldn't deny her reaction to watching them as the heat pooled in her core.

"Gods...what have you done to me..." she whimpered in the language of her lover.

Voldemort chuckles deeply as he adds a second long finger into her depth and hisses nuzzling his flat nose against her neck.

"Oh my dear Hadria...you are still as beautiful as ever...my sweet one...do not fear the darkness within...I will always be there for you..."

Severus grit his teeth and his breath began to come quicker. He was losing control quickly as his beautiful little witch began to speed her movements. He opened his eyes just enough to watch her taking him into her mouth over and over. A distant feminine whimper pulled him from his thoughts...his gaze shifted to the Dark Lord. He felt himself throb with an increased surge of heat when he saw the other witches soaked green panties stretched over the Dark Lords hand as he shamelessly fingered her.

The Dark Lords eyes met his and amusement flickered in his gaze realizing Severus was turned on by the state of his witch. Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue in her ear. She opens her eyes and looks at Severus as she begins to pant and softly whines as she draws ever closer to her finish...Severus knew the Dark Lord was about to make the girl come and he hated that it fueled the fire in his belly.

He tightened his grip on Hermiones hand and placed the other on the back of her head.

"Yes, sweetheart...that's it...don't stop" his voice trembled as he wove his fingers through her soft hair....his hips moved with her, his breaths coming in sharp inhales now. He groaned, his body aching to release the tension building quickly inside of him.

His eyes flicker back to the Dark Lord who has captured Hadria's lips against his own as he fingers her faster. Her panties offer meager privacy and the wet sounds of him plunging his fingers into her repeatedly are unmistakable. Her breaths are coming in quick gasps and she whimpers against the Dark Lord's mouth who looks down at her with adoration.

Snape's breath grew sharp and shallow, his head lolling back slightly with the ecstasy he felt within his witches mouth. He groaned softly and a heat radiated through him. His body became taut, his hands grabbing Hermione's head tightly, almost involuntarily...the tension almost too much to bear.

"Sweetheart...you..." he started and his mouth dropped opened as he watched the lust in his little witches eyes flicker as she moved even quicker.

"Oh goddamn witch!" he came out in a growl now as he teetered on the brink of his peak. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her beautiful brown eyes boring into him or her pouty pink lips wrapped around his cock...then the sound of Hadria's climax just a few feet away...his breath caught...tendrils of heat converged in a wave of pleasure and his gaze finally tore from his witch just in time to see Hadria's body shudder as she released, spilling to the floor below.

The moment he slipped over the edge was easily both the most erotic and shameful moment of his entire life. He grabbed her head with both hands as he pulled her in with a deep moan of pleasure, burying himself deep within her throat as he released. She gagged for just a moment before he watched her swallow once and then hungrily milked his cock for every drop eliciting a pained groan from him as he became incredibly sensitive.

Severus slouched back against the pillows in a fog of ecstasy...he breathed heavily through his nose, his voice sounding hoarse when he finally spoke.

"Good girl...that's a good girl sweetheart..." his voice low and soft hung in the air like a whispered spell.

As she finally released him he tilted his head with a flash of remorse in his eyes but he couldn't deny how incredible it had been. He reached out to her. His touch on her chin was gentle, a silent acknowledgment. She rose from her knees, her own emotions a storm. Severus quickly fastened his trousers. He composed himself, eyes closed, and Hadria wondered what secrets he held...the man who danced on the edge of darkness.

Severus cast a look of subtle annoyance toward the Dark Lord who wore a satisfied grin. Hadria was now perched in his lap with her legs crossed daintily. The room crackled with tension before the Dark Lord finally spoke again.

"So...who wants desert?"

Chapter Text

The warm evening air enveloped Hadria and Hermione as they stepped onto the back patio, away from the tense atmosphere of the study. The crickets sang their nocturnal melodies, and the moon cast a gentle glow on the manicured garden. It was a stark contrast to the recent events that had unfolded inside. Voldemort and Severus had remained in the study to discuss business.

Hadria's arms encircled Hermione, pulling her into a tight embrace. They stood there, silent, finding solace in each other's presence. The weight of the encounter still hung heavily in the air, but for this moment, they could forget the darkness.

Finally, Hadria released her friend, leading her over to the wrought-iron patio table. The wooden chairs creaked as they settled down, facing each other.

"We have so much to catch up on, Hermione," Hadria said softly, her eyes searching Hermione's face.

Hermione's expression was a mix of confusion and bewilderment. "Can...can we talk about what just happened?" she stammered, her fingers tracing patterns on the tabletop.

Hadria sighed, leaning in closer. "Alright, let me give you the shortest version of this that I can..." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Voldemort...he's not entirely what he seems. Yes, he's still dangerous, but...he's changing. Fighting against his own nature. That display back there?...A test of Severus's loyalty...maybe a reminder that he's in control, perhaps...Not that it excuses anything, but..."

Hermione's eyes softened. "So he's really not the same Voldemort we've been told about and read about?"

"Exactly," Hadria confirmed. "He's complex, struggling with conflicting forces. Sometimes he does things just to try to prove to himself that he's still...well...Voldemort...anyway...And now, about you and Professor Snape..." She leaned back, a playful glint in her eyes.

"You two seemed rather...into each other, once you got a bit more comfortable. Are you two...a thing?"

Hermione blushed, her fingers twisting nervously. "Well, yes," she admitted. "We're sort of becoming a thing. Hadria, you know how long I've harbored feelings for him. He makes me feel alive, and we share so much in common."

Hadria grinned. "Love in the midst of chaos...it's a story as old as time. Just be careful, Hermione. Sometimes the most unexpected connections are the ones that change everything...but then again...sometimes that's the best kind."

Hermione's voice held a quiet intensity as she confided in Hadria. "Severus had concealed his feelings for a while, but he wanted to ensure my safety...especially once Voldemort assumes control. It seems I'm regarded as a gift to Severus, a reward for his loyalty. Voldemort has promised him to grant me immunity from the restrictions he intends to impose on Muggleborns."

Hadria winced slightly at the reminder of Voldemort's plan. As much as she cared for him, she wished he wasn't intent on making Muggleborns second-class citizens. At least they wouldn't be physically harmed, but the discrimination weighed heavily on her conscience.

"Severus has truly risked everything for you," Hadria said, her voice soft. "His loyalty runs deep. And despite the age difference, you two look good together." She offered Hermione a warm smile.

Hermione's cheeks flushed, and she returned the smile. "Thank you. He's special to me."

Curiosity danced in Hermione's eyes. "So, you and Voldemort...are you really together?"

Hadria's gaze dropped, and she nodded.

"Yes, we are. I made a deal with him...I turned myself over to him in exchange for sparing Muggleborn lives and preserving life whenever possible. It was unexpected what happened after that...in fact, when I think about it I felt something even during our first meeting...the chemistry between us is intense, Hermione. And believe it or not, there's a side to Voldemort that he hides from the world. Tender, passionate...it's like discovering a whole new person...one that I can actually envision a future with."

Hermione's expression shifted, torn between disbelief and curiosity.

"It's honestly difficult to imagine," she admitted. "But I trust your judgment, Hadria. You're a dear friend, and I'm just relieved to see that you're okay. I was shocked when Severus revealed Dumbledore's lies all these years."

Hadria leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.

"I know. Framing someone for murder, regardless of their alignment, is unforgivable. We still don't have the complete story. Even Voldemort doesn't fully grasp what transpired that night. But it seems the Ministry wanted him gone at any cost...even if it meant sacrificing an entire family. I'll never forgive them."

Silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, Hermione broke it.

"So...what now?"

Hadria's smile held uncertainty.

"Voldemort is orchestrating everything. His plan involves eventually taking over the Ministry and the school. I can't reveal too much...I've been sworn to secrecy and there is much even I don't know...but he's focused on gaining more followers first."

Hadria's mind churned with the weight his upcoming endeavor...to break the Death Eaters out of Azkaban. The prison's cold, unforgiving walls seemed to close in on her, and she longed for someone to confide in. But Hermione, her dear friend, was off-limits. Voldemort's trust hung over her like a dark cloud, binding her tongue.

The specter of Bellatrix Lestrange haunted her thoughts. The woman was a viper, venomous and unpredictable. Hadria wondered how Bellatrix would react when she discovered Voldemort's newfound romantic entanglement. The Dark Lord had never returned Bellatrix's advances, using her only to satisfy his desires. But now, with Hadria, it was different...a connection that defied logic and fate.

Hadria shifted her thoughts away from it, refocusing on her friend. The moonlight painted their faces as they sat across from each other, sharing secrets and vulnerabilities.

"I expect I'll be seeing you more often now that you're with Severus," Hadria said. "It seems he's becoming one of Voldemort's most trusted Death Eaters. Odd as it may sound, the closer you are to Voldemort, the safer you become. I'm so glad you're here, Hermione. I've really missed you."

Hermione's smile held warmth as she reached across the table, squeezing Hadria's hand.

"Me too. We've been so worried about you. There are countless whispers about your disappearance...most people think you lost your mind and simply ran away from everything."

Hadria chuckled softly.

"Perhaps, for now, it's better that way. And how is Ron?"

Hermione leaned back, crossing her arms. The mention of Ron's name seemed to stir conflicting emotions.

"Well, he's been trying lately to win my affections. But since I've never returned them, he's grown rather distant. Otherwise, he's fine."

Hadria had an amused smile as she replied.

"You know he's always looked at you like that. I'm surprised he didn't try something sooner but he's just not very confident when it comes to girls." Hadria's lips curved into a knowing smile.

"You're just too different though...Severus is definitely your match."

Hermione's heart fluttered. The forbidden romance between her and Severus had blossomed quietly, like the roses climbing the manor walls.

"I think so too," she admitted. "You know, I told my parents I was staying at Hogwarts this weekend to study. But tonight, after we leave here, I'm going with Severus to spend the weekend with him."

Hadria's mouth dropped open, her amusement evident. "Are you really? Hermione Granger... being a bad girl? I never thought I would see the day!" Her laughter echoed through the night, blending with the distant fountain's soft murmur.

Hermione joined in, cheeks flushed. Yes, she was breaking rules, risking everything for love. As the manor's shadows embraced them, she wondered what secrets the night held...what whispered promises, what stolen kisses.

"I know...but I can't wait to finally get some alone time with him other than making out in the supply closet." She said giggling.

Hadria bit her lip with a grin.

"That's...actually really hot." She laughed before she continued. "Speaking of hot...was that...back there in the study before...was that the first time you two have...done anything.?"

Hermione sighed with a smile.

"Other than kiss? Yes it was...as awkward as the situation was...it was also kind of...well...it was erotic..." Hermione admitted with a wince of shame.

Hadria smiled and shrugged.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe we're both a little naughtier than we realized."

As the moon hung low in the sky, casting its silver glow upon the garden, Hadria and Hermione sat there, laughter fading into the night. The weight of secrets and newfound connections lingered, but for now, they were just two friends sharing a moment.

Hadria leaned back, her eyes tracing the constellations above. "You know, Hermione, life has a way of surprising us. Sometimes it's the unexpected paths that lead to our true selves."
Hermione nodded, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the tabletop.

"Indeed. And love, loyalty...it's all tangled, isn't it? You, me...Severus and Voldemort...We're all caught in this intricate web."

Hadria's gaze softened. "Remember, Hermione, even in the darkest times, there's light. And sometimes, that light comes from the most unlikely places."

They sat there, the night enfolding them, hearts entwined with secrets and promises. As the crickets sang their lullaby, Hermione whispered, "What do you think awaits us, Hadria?"

Hadria smiled, her eyes reflecting the moon's glow. "Adventure, my dear friend. An adventure we never anticipated. And perhaps, just perhaps, a chance to rewrite destiny."

And so, under the watchful eyes of the stars, they sealed their pact...their laughter, their love, and the enigma of a changing Voldemort...all woven into the fabric of their shared existence.

Chapter Text

***

In the blink of an eye, Hermione and Severus materialized within the dimly lit sitting room of Spinners End. The air hung heavy with memories, and the room seemed to exhale secrets.

Severus turned to her, his touch gentle as he placed a hand on her arm. "One moment, Hermione," he murmured, his voice a blend of weariness and determination.

The walls, adorned with ancient books bound in worn leather, whispered forgotten spells and hidden truths. Hermione observed her surroundings...the sagging sofa, the rickety table, and the threadbare armchair. Dust motes danced in the lamplight, and the faint aroma of parchment and cinnamon clung to the air.

He returned, his footsteps soft against the creaking floorboards. His eyes avoided hers, uncertainty etched on his features. He dragged a hand over his mouth, searching for words. The weight of what Hermione had been forced to do weighed heavily on his conscience.

Severus gestured to the worn sofa.

"Please," he said, his voice laden with regret.

"Sit down for a moment." The room held its breath, waiting for absolution...for forgiveness that might never come.

Hermione sank into the faded upholstery, her heart echoing the room's heaviness. Severus joined her on the couch, their shared burden settling between them like a heavy tome.

Leaned forward, he rested with his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor, searching for the elusive words that could somehow apologize for what she had been forced to do...despite the fact that he'd had no choice in the matter.

"Hermione..." His voice wavered, strained with emotion. For the first time in a very long time, Severus found himself unable to articulate what he wanted to say. He sighed deeply, leaning back on the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to hold back the flood of feelings. The weight of his emotions pressed down, sudden and exhausting. Hermione deserved so much better than him...a broken man with a past stained in darkness.

Beside him, movement stirred. When he opened his eyes, Hermione sat right beside him, her warm, beautiful face tilted in concern. Her hand rested on his thigh, a comforting touch that eased the ache within him. He exhaled, closing his eyes briefly, appreciating the solace she offered.

And then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Severus slipped his hand behind her neck, pulling her gently toward him.

Her hair brushed against his cheek, and he pressed his lips to the top of her head, whispering hoarsely, "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

Severus's fingers moved through Hermione's hair, each stroke a silent apology. She nestled closer, her nose brushing against the fabric of his coat. The scent enveloped her...a heady blend of burnt herbs, ancient parchment, and sandalwood.

"You shouldn't apologize, Severus... honestly..." Hermione finally pulled away slightly, her gaze lifting to meet his. Yet, she remained within the circle of his arms. Her eyes held a mixture of understanding and determination.

"I know you want to protect me, but I'm a big girl, and I knew what we were possibly getting into...I even...well, I studied..." Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced away, as if embarrassed by her own admission.

His eyes crinkled with curiosity bordering on amusement. "You... studied?" he asked, a subtle curl to his lip. He met her gaze, unable to hide his incredulity at the unexpected revelation.

"Well...of course I did. We knew he might force us to do something to prove our relationship, didn't we? Did you honestly expect Hermione Granger of all people to go into a situation like that unprepared?" Her amusement bubbled forth, and she couldn't suppress her smile.

Severus stared at her, his initial incredulity giving way to something else. His lip pulled into a full smirk, and then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It started as a chuckle, a low rumble in his chest, but soon let out a full belly laugh. He leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes, taken over by the endearing, beautiful little witch at his side. It was the first time he could remember laughing like that in many years. In that moment, the weight of their shared burden seemed to lift, replaced by the warmth of laughter.

Their laughter intertwined as she joined in, a melody of shared secrets and newfound intimacy. Severus drew her close, his lips seeking hers in a kiss that tasted of vulnerability and promise. After a moment he broke this kiss and spoke again with a gentle tone of admiration. 

"Hermione...you really are something else." His hand cupped her cheek, and for a fleeting moment, he wished time would halt...allowing them to linger in the warmth of that moment.

As their laughter subsided, Severus leaned back, studying her. "Let us not dwell on it then, my dear. But I must say...that as usual...my studious little witch...you passed with flying colors." His voice held a velvety purr, a hint of admiration.

"Oh, did I really?" Hermione teased, her eyes dancing with mischief. Her mischievous grin was a challenge, and Severus's eyebrow lifted in response.

Severus's chuckle deepened, and he raked his teeth over his bottom lip, remembering the intimate moment.

"Sweetheart...you're a natural." His fingers threaded through her hair, anchoring her to him. Her resilience, the way she transformed darkness into laughter and affection, left him in awe. Hermione Granger was no ordinary witch; she was a beacon of light in a world shadowed by war.

He studied her...the curve of her lips, the spark in her eyes. She was more than a match for any challenge thrown her way. And somehow, impossibly, she wanted him. Severus Snape, the brooding Potions Master with a past etched in pain. He felt like the luckiest wizard in the whole world...a man who had stumbled upon a rare gem hidden amidst chaos.

***

Chapter Text

Back at Malfoy Manor, Hadria stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. The air held the lingering tension from the study, where Voldemort had orchestrated an intimate encounter between Severus and Hermione. Now, in the quiet of their private space, Hadria noticed him...Voldemort...sitting on the bed, engrossed in a book.

His eyes flickered up as she entered, a knowing grin playing on his lips. He slid the book into a drawer in his nightstand, closing it with deliberate care.

"Did you enjoy the visit with your little friend?" he asked, his voice low and intimate. Hadria crawled onto the bed, seeking the warmth of his presence. She pressed into his side, craving the closeness.

"I did," she replied, curiosity tugging at her. "But you never told me about the agreement you made with Severus...to grant Hermione immunity."

His eyes softened as he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.

"I wanted it to be a surprise," he said, his confidence unwavering. Hadria's heart fluttered. It was endearing, this vulnerability he allowed her to glimpse.

"Well...thank you...but...that little display in the study?" she prodded. "Was it truly necessary?"

He chuckled, dark and alluring, fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

"It was punishment for Severus's white lie. I know they hadn't been previously intimate. Severus is a talented in the Art of Occlumency and admittedly, has taught her well, but I recognized the fabricated memory."

Voldemort leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. "Besides, my dear, you seemed to enjoy yourself despite your protestations."

Hadria's blush deepened, her gaze avoiding his intense eyes.

"I...that's not the point."

Voldemort's fingers, warm and possessive, tilted her chin upward. His amusement danced in the depths of his gaze. "Are you upset with me, sweet girl?" His touch traced the curve of her cheek, a feather-light caress.

She sighed, torn between conflicting emotions. What had she truly expected? She was entangled with the Dark Lord...a man whose very essence dripped with shadows. Even as he changed, remnants of darkness clung to him. And, if she dared admit it, that darkness thrilled her...aroused her even.

"No," she whispered, surrendering to the pull between them. His smile was both wicked and tender as he leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss. It began softly, a promise of secrets and desires yet unspoken.

"You got so wet for me, my dear...I would venture to guess...that you're in a similar state even now...just thinking of it." His heated breath danced along her neck causing goosebumps down the entire side of her body.

Before she could protest his hand was slipping between her thighs and pulling up her dress. She exhaled in surprised as he nipped at her neck and pulled her panties aside, slipping his fingers between her slippery folds.

He chuckled feeling her tremble beneath his touch.

"Oh my sweet little dark witch...I knew you would be ready for me." He teased as he caressed her, relishing the way her breath quickened under his touch.

I can never get enough of her...she's an addiction...

Suddenly, she surprised him by slipping out of his grasp, her mischievous smile lighting up the room. With a seductive grace, she began pulling off her dress, each movement captivating him further.

"You know," she started, her voice laced with a hint of playfulness as she unclasped her bra under his heated gaze. "You don't always have to be the one in control."

A flicker of amusement danced in his dark eyes as he watched her step out of her panties, his desire intensifying. In the dimly lit bedroom, the air grew heavy with anticipation, wrapping around them like a secret embrace. Voldemort reclined on the bed, his gaze fixed on Hadria, their private universe taking shape.

"Nonsense, witch," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I am always in control. If I am not, it is only because I've allowed it."

Hadria's smile curved, a playful challenge in her eyes. She moved toward him, each deliberate step exuding confidence, her unwavering gaze meeting his. The bed creaked softly as she crawled onto it, closing the distance between them. Her fingers trailed along the edge of his robe, teasing, testing the boundaries of his control.

"Then allow it," she whispered, her voice a seductive invitation. Her fingers continued to explore, finding their target as she grasped his hardening cock through his robes, eliciting a soft groan from him.

Voldemort's normal confident voice gave way to a sensual purr as he watched, curiosity and desire intertwining within him.

"Let us see, sweet girl...what you do with it," he breathed, his eyes locked on her, captivated by the sight of his little witch's fingers working to open his robes.

The fabric yielded, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, his lean stomach, and his long, pale cock already erect with desire. Hadria's gaze remained unwavering as she took in the sight before her. Her fingertips traced the contours of his chest, her touch both reverent and daring. The soft brush of her lips against his collarbone sent shivers down his spine, his eyes locked onto hers, pupils dilating with anticipation. As her fingers dipped lower, exploring the planes of his abdomen, he couldn't help but reach out, his desire to touch her overwhelming.

His fingers entwined in her hair, his touch gentle yet possessive, as his eyes devoured every curve of her naked body. He marveled at the beauty that seemed divinely crafted, a form that stirred a primal desire within him.

Gods, she's fucking beautiful.

However, Hadria couldn't shake the memory of witnessing the intimate act between Severus and Hermione. It reminded her that she and Voldemort had not yet crossed that boundary, nor had he even suggested it. This realization intrigued her, as she had come to understand that oral pleasure was something enjoyed by the majority of men. The embers of longing flickered within her, and she found herself yearning for more, wanting to taste the forbidden fruit.

But as she took his length in her warm hand and began to lean in she felt his grip tighten on her hair like a vice, preventing her from moving. She looked up in his eyes confused and met his intense piercing blue gaze.

Voldemort understood her intent, his eye twitched with indecision...desire warring with decades old habits. It wasn't something he had ever allowed before...although many witches had tried, including Bellatrix. In fact, he had never allowed any witch to have any kind of control in the bedroom. He only used them to satisfy himself, typically taking them from behind to avoid even looking in their eyes when he fucked them. True intimacy was foreign to him...at least, before Hadria. Allowing a witch to take him in this way was a vulnerable act he had never engaged in. However, as the moment stretched between them...he found himself...intrigued...and as he looked into her beautiful blue eyes he found his soul opening to the ocean of passion within them, his grip loosening...a silent invitation.

His eyes softened...only for her.

She smiled and took him in her hands beginning to stroke him slowly, sensually. He was so long compared to what she had seen of Severus...but then again everything was longer on him. She heard him grunt softly as he looked down at her...a mixture of uncertainty but also...unmistakable lust.

Leaning down, she pressed her lips against the tip of his cock, her breath mingling with his intoxicating scent. The arousal that coated him moistened her lips, a delicious taste that lingered on her tongue. With a tantalizing slowness, she pulled away slightly, her tongue darting out to savor the musky, salty flavor that spread across her palate. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the sensations that enveloped her.

The Dark Lords mouth dropped opened at the sight...his body trembled as she tasted him again suckling on the head of his cock, his hips moved involuntarily as if an unseen force were trying to drive him into her mouth.

Possessiveness gripped him, his hand slipping around the back of her neck, a silent claim.

"Oh, sweet girl..." he breathed, his voice laced with a mixture of awe and restraint. Swallowing hard, he clenched his teeth, his gaze fixated on her beautiful lips wrapping around his length, each movement a revelation. She tasted him, savored him, experimented with different pressures and angles, relishing the feel of him against her tongue. The skin there, surprisingly soft like velvet, elicited a shiver of pleasure as she stroked him softly, her exploration thorough and deliberate.

The warmth of a her mouth enveloped him, a sensation he had never experienced before, and he was overwhelmed by the exquisite pleasure that coursed through his veins. As she took him deeper, her lips caressed beyond the head, teasing and tantalizing him with each movement.

His breath hitched in his chest, a mixture of anticipation and surrender. His fingers flexed, tightening around her neck, seeking an anchor in the tempest of desire that consumed him. A strangled groan escaped his throat, a primal sound of pleasure and longing, as she pressed down again, taking him even deeper. In that moment, his eyes closed, and his head leaned back, relinquishing his power to her, allowing himself to be consumed by the intoxicating sensations that pulsed through his body.

"I am yours...take me, you beautiful little succubus," he hissed, his words laced with surrender and desire, spoken in the ancient language of Parseltongue. The sound of his own voice, surrendering to her, fueled her desire further, spurring her on to take him even deeper. With each movement, she worked to open her throat wider, accommodating his length, her determination matched only by her passion.

The pleasure that surged through him surpassed any expectations he had ever held. It was a revelation, a symphony of sensations that left him breathless and awestruck. In that moment, he felt a surge of gratitude, a certain happiness that it was with her, and only her, that he had chosen to relinquish this control. Even if it was just for this moment, he found solace in the knowledge that he had entrusted his vulnerability to her, allowing her to navigate the depths of his desires.

His breaths quickened, a symphony of anticipation and desire, as she skillfully worked her way towards taking his entire length. With closed eyes, she surrendered herself to the moment, her hand stretching over his lean stomach, savoring the tremble that reverberated through his core, a testament to the intensity of their connection.

"Gods, witch," he growled, his voice a low, primal rumble, as she moved, her throat tightening around his cock. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure coursing through him, causing him to shudder in ecstasy. The once-quiet room now filled with his breathy moans, each sound a testament to the pleasure that consumed him. Finally, he released his grip on her neck, his eyes opening to drink in the sight before him. His gaze traced the contours of her body, a mixture of appreciation and possessiveness evident in his gaze, as she continued to pleasure him. His long, pale fingers, rough yet delicate, lightly grazed her skin, leaving a trail of sensation in their wake. They trailed a sharp path, like a painter's brush, towards her breast, tantalizingly within his reach.

He bit his lip, a gesture of restraint and desire, as he played with her, lightly pressing her nipple between his finger and thumb, squeezing it softly. A deep groan resonated from her, sending vibrations of pleasure through him, a tangible connection between their bodies. He hissed in ecstasy, feeling tendrils of pleasure curling out from that point of contact, spreading waves of heat through his entire body. The world around him blurred as he surrendered to the intoxicating sensations that consumed him, his hips jerking involuntarily in response to her increasing pace.

Suddenly, she released him, and his eyes widened in surprise as she crawled over him, assuming a dominant position on top. Anger flickered within him, a reaction to the unexpected shift in power dynamics. "Hadria..." he began, his voice a soft warning, but his breath caught in his throat as he felt her wet sex slide against his cock. She cut him off with a passionate kiss, her hand cradling the back of his smooth head as she mounted him, taking his length into her. A groan escaped his lips, muffled against hers, as he grabbed her hips and pulled her down harder, seeking a deeper connection.

And then, she began to ride him, a slow and sensual rhythm that ignited a fire within them both. His long, pale fingers slipped around her neck with one hand, while the other firmly held onto her hip, guiding her movements. The room seemed to fade away, as if nothing else existed outside the fog of their intimate connection. Shadows clung to the edges of reality, casting an ethereal glow upon their entwined bodies. In that dimly lit space, a Dark Lord had submitted to his Dark Lady, their union crackling with magic, desire, and the weight of decades-old power struggles.

His grip on her neck tightened, not out of dominance, but as an anchor, a desperate plea for connection. Her touch, her audacity, had unraveled something deep within him. He felt vulnerable, exposed, and yet strangely liberated. In that stolen moment, the world revolved around her. Her lips, soft and demanding, her skin, warm against his touch, and the fire in her eyes, a reflection of their shared passion—it consumed him entirely. The lines between power and surrender blurred, and he willingly embraced the vulnerability that came with it, eager to taste the forbidden fruit of true intimacy.

As their lips met once more, the world outside ceased to exist. Time stood still, and the universe held its breath, witnessing the dance of the Dark Lord and his Dark Lady on the precipice of ecstasy. In that moment, they defied fate, unraveling destiny, their desires intertwining in a symphony of pleasure and longing. For a heartbeat, they were equals, bound by their shared desire, and in that unity, they found a fleeting glimpse of transcendence.

She released his mouth, and for a fleeting moment, he caught a glimpse of the fire that burned in her eyes. But before he could fully process the intensity of her gaze, her mouth descended upon his neck, her teeth sinking into his skin. A strangled grunt of surprise escaped his lips, quickly turning into a mixture of pain and pleasure. A shiver raced up his spine, electrifying his senses, and he instinctively grabbed her hair at the back of her head, pressing her even harder against his neck. The exquisite blend of pain and pleasure sent him soaring to new heights of ecstasy, his mind finding solace in the depths of her passion, where she became his only anchor.

Oh, my queen...I am yours...

Her free hand grasped the headboard, anchoring herself as she quickened her pace, the rhythm of their bodies reaching a crescendo. He moaned, capturing her breast in his mouth, his lips and tongue working in harmony to pleasure her, his actions rewarded with her intoxicating whimpers, a symphony of desire that echoed in his ears. He couldn't get her close enough to him, his long arm wrapping around her waist, holding her tightly against him. Her soft, supple body melded with his lean, hard frame, their connection intensifying with every movement. The scent of honeysuckle and rose filled the air, her body a garden of pleasures for him to explore. The flavor of her skin, damp from their passionate dance, ignited his senses, driving him wild with desire.

"That's it, sweet girl... don't stop," he rasped, his voice trembling with anticipation as he neared the peak of pleasure. She could hear it in his voice, the raw intensity of his pleasure fueling her own. He pulled her mouth to his, kissing her deeply, their lips melding in a desperate embrace. A growl rumbled in his chest as his nails dug into her hip, the pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo. And then, with a guttural moan, he closed his eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming heat that shot through his core, hurtling him into a realm of bliss.

"Oh gods, witch," he rasped, his voice stripped of pretense, raw and unguarded. The words slipped out, revealing a vulnerability that he fought to keep buried. In a world where he had conquered wizards and wielded forbidden magic, he found himself craving the touch of a sweet little witch, her power over him undeniable.

In the hushed aftermath of their shared passion, the room seemed to hold its breath, the air heavy with the weight of their unspoken emotions. Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the embodiment of power and cruelty, found solace in the sanctuary of her embrace. Resting his head on her chest, he listened to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, a soothing lullaby that echoed in his ears. His breaths were ragged, his heart pounding in sync with hers, a reminder that he, too, was capable of vulnerability.

Hadria's fingers, delicate and yet possessive, traced the contours of his face, mapping the lines of his existence. Her touch was a gentle caress, a balm to his tormented soul. As she cradled his cheek, lifting his face to meet her gaze, he saw a reflection of his own turmoil in her eyes—a storm of desire, passion, and something deeper, something he dared not name. Voldemort was a master of denial, a puppeteer of emotions, refusing to yield to the depths of these affections... not yet.

"You've taken control of me," he murmured, his lips brushing against her skin, his voice a mere whisper. "Never in my decades of existence did I think I would allow a witch to unravel me the way you do." The weight of his admission hung in the air, a confession he dared not repeat, even to himself.

Hadria's lips curved into a tender smile, a beacon of understanding in the darkness that surrounded them. She knew the stakes, the darkness that clung to him, the blood-soaked history that stained his soul. Yet, she held him, defying reason and logic. Her kiss was a balm, a promise of solace in a fractured world, and he couldn't help but be drawn deeper into her embrace.

"Emotions are not your enemy," she whispered, her breath warm against his forehead, her words a gentle reminder of the truths he had long denied. "And neither am I." Her fingers trailed down his arm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, igniting a spark of hope within him.

He wanted to argue, to retreat into the fortress of his mind, where emotions were mere distractions. But her lips silenced him, claiming his mouth with a tenderness that shattered his defenses. Voldemort surrendered, allowing himself to be consumed by the inferno they ignited together.

Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer, as if neither of them could get close enough. Their bodies sought refuge in each other's warmth, finding solace in the tangled limbs and the shared intimacy. The boundaries of the room blurred, fading into oblivion, as they transcended their roles as Dark Lord and witch. For a moment, they were simply two souls, entangled in a dance of shadows and light, finding solace and redemption in each other's arms.

The depth of their unspoken emotions pulsed between them, a silent promise of something more, something that dared not be named. In the quiet of their tangled embrace, they discovered that the deepest of emotions, the ones that defied categorization and dared not be confined by darkness, could thrive even in the darkest corners of existence.

Chapter Text

***

The next evening, in another part of the dimly lit cellar of Malfoy Manor, where shadows clung to the walls like ancient secrets, Voldemort began his clandestine tutelage. Hadria sat across from him, her eyes wide with curiosity and a hint of trepidation. The air crackled with anticipation, for this was no ordinary lesson...it was an initiation into the heart of darkness.

"Remember, my dear," he began, his voice a low murmur that echoed through the stone walls, "dark magic is not inherently evil. It is merely a force...an ancient current that flows through the veins of our world. Centuries ago, before even I, the Dark Lord, was a whisper in the imagination of any child's darkest dreams, there was only magic."

His fingers traced invisible sigils in the air, invoking memories long buried. Hadria leaned forward, drawn into his words like a moth to forbidden flame.

"Not light, not dark," he continued, his eyes gleaming with knowledge. "Not good nor evil...just magic. A primal energy that defies labels, that transcends morality. It is the witch or wizard who wields it...their intent, their purpose...that shapes its essence."

Hadria's mind raced. She had always been drawn to the enigma of magic...the way it danced on the edge of reason, the way it whispered secrets in forgotten tongues. But this...this was different. This was the underbelly of existence, the hidden tapestry that bound reality together.

Voldemort leaned closer, his breath brushing against her skin. "Dark magic," he said, "is the raw power of creation and destruction. It is the storm that births galaxies and devours stars. It is the echo of forgotten gods, the pulse of forgotten wars."

She shivered, torn between fear and fascination. His touch was both ice and fire...a paradox she couldn't unravel.

"Balance," he murmured, as if revealing a cosmic truth. "That is the key. Light and dark, life and death...they are two sides of the same coin. To wield dark magic is to dance on the precipice, to court chaos and order in equal measure."

Hadria nodded, her mind spinning. She had glimpsed the abyss, and it had looked back at her with ancient eyes.

"Your will," Voldemort said, "will be your compass. Your desire, your North Star. Remember this, my sweet Hadria: Magic bows to no master. It is wild, untamed, and it cares not for our mortal definitions...we can only guide it...we do not create magic itself...it's already exists all around us...it always has."

He stood, robes billowing like wings of night. "Now," he said, "we begin."

As she stood with him he began again.

"Listen closely," Voldemort's voice was a silk-edged blade. "Morsmordre...the incantation that conjures the Dark Mark...our...calling card, so to speak...it is one of the more simple spells to cast, so that is where will begin...some may call it...a symbol of terror...a beacon for Death Eaters...it has many uses so we will not focus on what is whispered of the sigil...we will simply use it to stretch your legs a bit, my dear." He purred to her softly as he traced the back of his fingers down her cheek.

Hadria nodded, her palms clammy. She had heard of the Dark Mark...the skull and serpent. It was both a warning and a promise of malevolence.

"Focus," Voldemort instructed. "Visualize the image...the skull, the serpent. Feel the weight of its malevolence...remember intent is everything...draw on the darkness within you my dear."

He raised his wand showing her, and Hadria mirrored the movement. The incantation hung on her lips, a secret she was about to unleash.

"Morsmordre," she whispered, pouring her will into the spell. The air quivered, and suddenly, there it was...the Dark Mark. A ghostly green skull, its serpent tongue writhing in the upper corner of the cellar. Hadria's breath caught. She had conjured the forbidden.

Voldemort's eyes gleamed with pride, a reflection of the mesmerizing power she had just wielded. How easily and naturally she had cast Morsmordre...the Dark Mark. It hung in the air, both beautiful and terrible, a testament to her newfound mastery.

"Remember," Voldemort's voice was a whisper, a silken thread binding them, "The Dark Mark is your signature, your legacy...it binds you to me, my dear...perhaps soon you will wear it as well."

Her response was soft, a pledge woven into the very fabric of existence. "Yes, my lord." She had stepped into the current, and there was no turning back. The Dark Arts would shape her destiny, unravel her soul.

As the Dark Mark faded, Voldemort's gaze bore into hers. He looked down at her with admiration, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek. "You are no mere witch, darling," he murmured. "You are a harbinger of shadows...the lady of the Dark Lord."

Something inside her stirred...a pride, a warmth. She was his, bound by choice and fate. She wanted to be his, even as darkness whispered promises and danger. He smiled as he watched the revelation dance in her eyes.

Yes, my Queen...oh how beautiful you are...

He stole a soft lingering kiss...a promise unfulfilled. Voldemort's hunger simmered beneath the surface, but he had priorities. Much remained to be taught, and Hadria was his canvas...a vessel for forbidden knowledge.

"Stay here for a moment, my dear," he murmured against her lips. His departure was swift, leaving her in the dim cellar, anticipation humming in her veins.

When he returned, he dragged along a creature...an aberration from the depths of myth. The elf-like being stood at three feet, its features twisted and malevolent. Pointy ears, a pointy face, and eyes that held secrets darker than the abyss. A chain encircled its neck, a leash of submission.

"Stand there, creature," Voldemort commanded, and the it obeyed. Its movements were subdued, but its aura reeked of ancient malevolence. Hadria's eyes widened; she had never seen such a creature.

"What is it?!" Her confusion spilled forth. The creature's evil look clashed with its docile behavior.

"It is an Erkling," Voldemort replied, his voice a blade. "Subdued by the power of the Imperius Curse, otherwise they're quite nasty. They hail from the Black Forest in Germany...a place where shadows breed nightmares. This is no ordinary elf, precious. He would devour a child whole if he got the chance...in fact, that is their favorite meal."

The Erkling...the creature he had brought forth...watched with malevolent eyes, its pointy features twisted by hunger.

"Pay attention, my dear," Voldemort's voice was a low murmur. "Today, you will learn the darkest of spells...the Unforgivable Curses."

Hadria nodded, her breath hitching. She had glimpsed the abyss, and now she would step into it willingly.

"The Cruciatus Curse," Voldemort raised his wand, and the air crackled. "Crucio," he intoned, and the curse shot forth...a bolt of red light that struck the Erkling.

The creature convulsed, its body writhing in agony. Hadria felt the echo of pain, the malevolence of the curse. "This curse inflicts excruciating suffering," Voldemort explained. "It bends the will, breaks the spirit."

Hadria watched as the Erkling's eyes glazed over, its screams echoing in the cellar.

"Remember," Voldemort's voice was a dark whisper, "intent shapes magic. Feel the cruelty, the hunger... this creature kills our most innocent and feeds on them as though they were nothing."

Hadria raised her wand, mimicking the precise movement. Her voice trembled as she uttered the incantation.

"Crucio."

The Erkling dropped to the cold stone floor, writhing in agony. Hadria watched, fascination warring with horror. The curse held the creature in its merciless grip, and she held it longer than Voldemort had anticipated. His lip curled in a twisted grin, pride glinting in his eyes.

Finally, she released the curse, and the Erkling lay still, silenced for a moment before it finally rose again. Voldemort stepped behind her, his breath warm against her skin as he placed a soft kiss on her shoulder.

"Very good, darling," he murmured. "Now, pay attention."

His wand shifted, and the cellar seemed to hold its breath. "Imperio," he commanded, and the Erkling's movements stilled. Its vacant eyes stared ahead, awaiting its next directive.

"This curse grants control," Voldemort explained. "Total obedience."

Hadria mirrored his wand movement, her pulse racing. "Imperio," she whispered, and the Erkling's gaze shifted toward her.

"Command it, my dear," Voldemort purred against her ear. She bit her lip, feeling his hot breath on her skin.

"Turn around and get on your knees."
The Erkling obeyed, its twisted form sinking to the stone floor as it turned around m. Hadria's heart raced...a dance of power and submission. She was no mere witch; she was the lady of the Dark Lord, bound by choice and fate.

"Good, very good, precious," Voldemort's voice was a velvet whisper, his presence a shadow at her side.

"Now...the killing curse."

He demonstrated the wand movement...the elegant sweep that would unleash the darkest of spells.

"You know the words, my dear," he continued. "Think about the intent. You want to rid the world of this murderous creature...the Erkling...who robs us of our most innocent and helpless. They never have a chance to live, to dream, to grow and spread their wings...He feeds on children." His words dripped with disdain.

Hadria's pulse raced. The weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders. She had glimpsed the abyss, and now she would wield its power.

Voldemort stepped behind her, his fingers trailing through her hair. His voice slithered in Parseltongue, a seductive command.

"Kill him."

Her breath hitched. The wand felt heavy in her hand. "Avada Kedavra," she spoke the words, and the curse shot forth. The Erkling crumpled, its malevolence extinguished.

Voldemort's heart sang in that moment. He beamed down at his beautiful little witch, turning her toward him. His fingers tilted her chin, and he kissed her tenderly...overwhelmed with pride and something deeper.

"Instantaneous death," he murmured against her lips. "No pain, no trace."

"I am so proud of you, my dear," Voldemort's voice was a velvet murmur, his eyes ablaze with admiration. "You wield both light and dark magic as a true witch...you are more than worthy to stand at my side."

Her power is so raw, so natural...and she is mine...

He kissed her passionately, and she returned the kiss with equal fervor. His hand cradled her head, fingers tangling in her hair. The boundaries blurred...the teacher-student dynamic shattered. Voldemort shed his mask, revealing the man beneath...the one who hungered for power, for connection, for something deeper.

Their lips met again, and in that embrace, Hadria felt the pull of destiny...the intertwining of light and shadow. She was no longer a mere student; she was his equal, his partner in darkness. The revelation danced in her eyes, and Voldemort's heart swelled with pride.

"Embrace it all," he whispered against her lips. "The magic, the hunger, the legacy. You are mine, my Dark Lady."

And so, in that moment, they stepped into the abyss together...a dance of power, desire, and secrets.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Hadria found herself seated at the elegant desk in their bedroom by flickering candlelight casting shadows on the parchment before her. Voldemort had meticulously arranged the little study tucked in a corner of their room, ensuring it was both functional and aesthetically pleasing. It was a place where she could immerse herself in her studies, away from the prying eyes of the outside world.

The Death Eater meetings had kept him occupied, and Hadria appreciated the solitude. She delved into her schoolwork and her research, poring over ancient texts and unraveling the intricacies of forbidden magic.

The Dark Arts fascinated her...the raw power, the hidden secrets, the untapped potential. Voldemort had become her mentor, guiding her through the labyrinth of spells and incantations that lay beyond the boundaries of Hogwarts' curriculum.

Their mornings had become almost a ritual. In the dimly lit cellar, they brewed potions together, the aroma of bubbling cauldrons mingling with the scent of freshly ground coffee as they sipped their brews and chatted.

Voldemort shared his knowledge freely, revealing the nuances of each potion, the hidden dangers, and the ways to harness their potency. Hadria listened intently, her curiosity insatiable. She learned not only the practical aspects but also the underlying theories...the delicate balance between light and dark, creation and destruction.

There, over steaming cups of coffee, they discussed the Dark Arts. Voldemort's eyes would gleam with excitement as he spoke of  ancient battles, lost spells, and forbidden rituals. Hadria soaked it all in, her mind hungry for more. She wondered if this was how Tom Riddle had felt...the thirst for knowledge, the hunger for power.

During the day, Voldemort plotted. His meticulous plans unfolded like a dark tapestry, threads of ambition and cunning weaving together. Hadria glimpsed the intricate patterns...the alliances forged, the enemies eliminated, the pawns moved across the board. She admired his intellect, his unwavering determination. But amidst the machinations, he always made time for her.

In the evenings, he would come to her, his presence both comforting and electrifying. They would sit by the fire, sharing a simple meal. He insisted on dinner, even when she protested.

"The mind," he would say, "must be fueled and ready for whatever is to come." His voice was low, intimate, as if confiding secrets only meant for her ears.

And then, as the flames danced, he would pull her close. His dreams spilled forth...the vision of a new world, a reign of darkness. Hadria listened, her head resting on his shoulder. She marveled at his ambition, the audacity of his plans. But amidst the talk of conquest, there were softer moments. He spoke of their future...a world where they ruled side by side, where their bond transcended power.

They didn't always need words. Sometimes, they would simply lie together, limbs entwined, the weight of the world forgotten. In those quiet moments, Hadria felt the rhythm of his heartbeat, the vulnerability beneath the mask of Lord Voldemort.

And so, they fell into a comfortable routine....the Dark Lord and his Dark Lady, plotting the downfall of the wizarding world while making space for stolen moments. As the night enveloped them, they would drift into sleep, still wrapped in each other's arms.

Hadria leaned back, her eyes tired from hours of studying. The last assignment was complete, and she yawned, rubbing her eyes. Voldemort hadn't returned yet from his earlier meeting. The room was quiet, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls.

Her gaze wandered to the nightstand...the polished wood, the neatly arranged items. She remembered how he would often be sitting there, engrossed in a book, his eyes scanning the pages. But he would always put the book away before she could catch a glimpse of the title. His secrets were well-guarded, even from her.

Curiosity got the best of her. With a stretch, she padded over to the nightstand. Her fingers brushed against the cool surface as she slowly opened the drawer. Inside, a stack of books awaited her. She tilted her head, intrigued, and pulled some out to see what they were.

As she looked through the titles, her grin slowly widened. All of them were muggle works...tales of mystery, darkness, and forbidden knowledge. Edgar Allan Poe's haunting poems, H.P. Lovecraft's eldritch horrors, Oscar Wilde's decadent prose. And there it was—Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Bram Stoker's Dracula—classics that had transcended time and genre.

It was one of the most adorable things she had ever seen. Voldemort, the feared Dark Lord, possessed an entire nightstand tucked full of muggle books. Sure, they were of a darker, malevolent nature, but it was endearing and eye-opening. Perhaps, in those pages, he sought answers, inspiration, or simply a connection to a world beyond his own.

"The Orphanage didn't have magical texts for young minds..." His voice startled her, and she dropped one of the books. She turned to see him standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed at her.

She felt like a child caught with her hands in the cookie jar. He closed the door and walked over to her, hands behind his back. His expression held no anger, but it was hard to read...was he ashamed?

He picked up the book she had dropped: The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe. He turned it over in his long, pale fingers, studying the worn edges as he spoke.

"Yet if hope has flown away, in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone?... All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream."

His voice held a hint of melancholy, and Hadria wondered what memories those words stirred in him.

A small grin tugged at the corner of his lip as he reached past her, slipping the book back into the drawer and closing it. The worn spine disappeared from view, its whispered secrets safely hidden once more.

"I...I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-" Hadria began, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

He held his hand up, cutting off her apology.

"It's alright, my dear...The orphanage where I grew up had only muggle books, of course. I was a seeker of knowledge from an early age, and they were the only texts available. I would say we were lucky even for that. I never quite shed my fondness for some of the works I came to know during those years."

His admission surprised her. The formidable Dark Lord, once an orphan seeking solace in muggle literature...the contrast was both endearing and unexpected. She wondered which passages had resonated with him, which stories had offered solace in the darkest hours.

He took her hand, leading her toward the bathroom. The air was heavy with steam as he began to run a bath. The porcelain tub beckoned, its clawed feet standing proud against the marble floor.

"I trust you'll keep my little secret between you and I?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. Hadria's eyes followed his gaze to the bath, curiosity dancing in their depths.

"Of course," she replied, her smile warm and genuine.

He looked back to the filling tub, the water swirling in gentle eddies.

"I know you've been wanting to use this since you got here," he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "You look at it quite often."

Voldemort's usually stern expression softened as he watched Hadria's anticipation. The bath, an opulent indulgence had of course always been an available to him at the manor. Yet, he had never once considered using it himself. Baths were for the weak, the frivolous. But now, with Hadria by his side, he found himself reconsidering.

To her it was more than a tub; it was a sanctuary, a place where she could soak away the weight of the world.

Hadria's eyes sparkled, and she nodded eagerly. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "A little piece of tranquility in this chaotic world."

He raised an eyebrow. "Tranquility?" The word tasted foreign on his tongue. "I've never understood the appeal."

She giggled, her fingers trailing along the edge of the tub. "It's more than just cleanliness," she explained. "It's a chance to relax, to let go of burdens. To feel weightless."

He considered her words. Weightless. The concept intrigued him. He had always carried the weight of ambition, of vengeance, of immortality. Perhaps it was time to unburden himself, even if just for a moment.

As he waved his hand, magic swirled in the air. The scent of lavender and chamomile enveloped them, and bubbles danced on the water's surface. Hadria's smile widened, and he found himself mirroring it.

He began to disrobe, the fabric of his robes slipping off his shoulders. Hadria followed suit, her eyes never leaving his. The bathtub was enormous, its porcelain expanse promising warmth and comfort.

He stepped in, his hand reaching for hers, leading her in carefully.

As her feet touched the warm water, she hummed contentedly. As he settled, she nestled against him, her back against his chest, the heat of the bath seeping into their bones. The world outside faded...the war, the darkness...replaced by this intimate moment.

The concept wasn't completely lost on him...he knew many witches and wizards enjoyed bathing and he could tell his witch was one of them. He found himself intrigued...he had let her pull him into a picnic recently that he actually ended up enjoying...perhaps this would be a similar experience? If nothing else it would make his witch smile and that was enough for him.

He had actually never taken a bath before. Showers had always sufficed...quick, efficient. It's also all he'd ever had access to throughout his childhood and young adult life. But now, with Hadria's warmth against him, he wondered what it would be like to soak away the weight of his existence. To feel weightless.

"Is this how it's supposed to feel?" he murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

She chuckled, her head resting against his shoulder. "Exactly," she whispered. "Just breathe, and let go."

He pulled her long hair over her shoulder and kissed her neck tenderly. The water cradled them both, washing away the weight of their pasts. In this stolen moment, Voldemort found solace...Hadria had within her a different kind of magic...one that had nothing to do with power or conquest. A magic that she seemed to possess and wield without even trying.

"Is this what you have been craving, my dear?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

She leaned back against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Her eyes remained closed, but her lips curved into a serene smile. A nod, barely perceptible, confirmed her satisfaction.

He chuckled, the sound echoing off the walls.

Silly little witch...she's so easy to please...

But in this quiet intimacy, he realized that perhaps he was too. For a brief respite, the weight of their pasts dissolved, leaving only the present...the touch of water, the warmth of her body, and the connection they shared.

He had another reason for drawing her into the bath. He wanted to give her attention and ensure she was relaxed...for tomorrow, he would finally take the next big step in his plans: to break the remaining Death Eaters out of Azkaban.

Bellatrix, the devoted follower, had long harbored affections for him...affections he had never returned. Their past liaisons had been mere transactions, a means to an end during his previous reign. But for Bellatrix, it had ignited a fire...a desperate longing that defied reason. Prior to his destruction her infatuation had only grown, fueled by his continued indifference to her advances.

As he trailed his fingers along Hadria's arm, he wondered how Bellatrix would react when she learned of his new entanglement...the one that had nothing to do with power or conquest. Jealousy, he anticipated, would be her first emotion. He would savor it, relish the way it twisted her features.

But Hadria was different. She found no humor in the Death Eaters' infatuation with the Dark Lord. For her, it was a complication...an obstacle to their connection.

Tomorrow loomed, a shadow on the horizon—a day of reckoning. The escape from Azkaban would set events in motion, and the stakes were higher than ever. The remaining Death Eaters awaited their liberation.

But for now, in this secluded chamber, Voldemort allowed himself a rare indulgence. The waters warmth seeping into his bones, washing away the grime of power struggles and dark magic. Hadria, her eyes closed, nestled against him, her trust a fragile thread connecting them.

He caressed her skin softly, committing every curve to memory. The witch in his arms was more than his horcrux; she was his solace, a different kind of magic...one that transcended spells and curses. He vowed to protect her, to keep her safe and happy, even as the world outside churned with chaos.

Loyal or not, Bellatrix would learn her place. The infatuation that had fueled her obsession would pale in comparison to the bond he shared with Hadria. Jealousy would ignite, but he would extinguish it with a cold smile.

***

Chapter Text

***

Azkaban Breakout

In their dimly lit bedroom, Hadria paced, her nerves fraying like the edges of an old parchment. The news had dropped like a stone...the Azkaban breakout was imminent, scheduled for that very evening. Tonight. The weight of it pressed down on her chest, threatening to suffocate her.

Voldemort had asked her to remain tucked away, hidden under the Fidelius charm over their bedroom. It was the safest place for her, he insisted. His caution bordered on obsession when it came to her safety. She understood why...their bond was more than mere loyalty; he cared for her genuinely...and she carried a piece of his soul within her...a secret that still remained between only them and Severus, as far as she knew...well and Dumbledore of course.

Her mind raced. The new dynamic would be treacherous. Freshly liberated Death Eaters, their loyalties untested, would flood into their ranks. And then there was Bellatrix...an inferno of obsession and potential jealousy.

But she trusted Voldemort. He had pledged his loyalty to her, their relationship forged mostly in secret would likely be on full display soon. Yet he had never given her reason to doubt him. So she would continue to give him her trust, even as the world outside churned with chaos and uncertainty.

He had asked her to prepare for a Death Eater meeting upon his return. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, a blend of excitement and trepidation. Voldemort, ever meticulous, had enlisted some assistance, ensuring that one side of their expansive walk-in closet was filled with the most exquisite clothing...all tailored to her size. The surprise had left her breathless, a smile tugging at her lips as she recalled the moment earlier that day.

He had led her into the closet, her eyes obediently closed. The soft rustle of fabric surrounded her, and when he finally allowed her to open her eyes, she gasped. Rows upon rows of dresses, gowns, and ensembles greeted her...a spectrum of possibilities, from casual daywear to opulent extravagance.

"How?! When did you-"

He held up his hand.

"Don't worry about any of that, my dear," he murmured, his finger pressed to her lips.

"The witch who stands as an equal next to the Dark Lord should look like the Queen she is." His lips brushed against hers, tender and possessive, leaving her blushing and breathless.

And so, she perused the wardrobe, her fingers trailing over silks, velvets, and lace. What would convey her status without screaming for attention? What ensemble would say, "I am the Dark Lord's witch," without appearing as if she tried too hard?

The taste of whoever had curated these outfits impressed her. She would look stunning next to him in anything from this collection. Black dominated, as befitting their world, but not exclusively. She eventually settled on a simple but elegant black fitted sleeveless dress. The high neckline and snug fit offered just the right touch of allure with an air of importance. Accessories and shoes spilled from shelves and drawers...choices aplenty.

As she slipped into the dress, her reflection in the mirror revealed a woman poised on the precipice of destiny. The Dark Lord's equal, a queen of shadows, ready to face whatever lay ahead. And in those strapped black heels, she stepped out of the closet ready for the unknown, her heart racing with anticipation.

After what felt like a lifetime, Voldemort opened the door, walking into the room, and Hadria's heart leaped. She went to him, throwing her arms around his neck, catching him by surprise. His chuckle vibrated against her lips, and she kissed him with a fervor born of longing and relief.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asked, looking down at her, his gaze softened.

"Yes..." Her voice trembled, and she blushed, her fingers tracing the contours of his face. "I was just worried."

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. His lips found hers again, a promise and a reassurance.

"You have nothing to fear, darling. I was quite a distance away when the Dementors released them. I was never in any danger. Besides, my dear..." His eyes held hers, intense and unwavering. "...I am the Dark Lord, after all."

His fingers trailed through her hair and down her spine, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"You look beautiful, by the way...my Dark Lady." His voice was a low purr, appreciating the snug fit of her dress. His eyes devoured her, and he kissed her once more.

"Come, my dear," he said, taking her hand.

"The Death Eaters are gathering in the dining hall." His touch was both commanding and comforting. She pushed her nervousness down, feeling more confident in his presence. Walking at his side, her arm linked through his, she knew that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.

As they entered the dining hall together, the voices of the Death Eaters fell silent. Suspicion hung in the air like a heavy fog. Those who had frequented the manor recently had their inklings about Voldemort and Hadria after she had attended a meeting not too long ago...when he had unleashed on her...but since then he had mostly kept her tucked away. Now, she walked at his side...as an equal...something no one had ever witnessed. Especially not those Death Eaters who had just been liberated from Azkaban.

Surprised looks darted across the room, but as usual, no one dared to speak up. Bellatrix, her dark eyes smoldering, sat a few chairs down next to her sister Narcissa. As Voldemort led Hadria to the empty chair placed next to his, Bellatrix's gaze intensified. She wrung her fingers in her lap, seeking solace in Narcissa's eyes. The older sister shook her head slightly, a silent warning.

Narcissa wouldn't dare admit it to Bellatrix but she was thankful for Hadria...since she had come to the manor Voldemort had been a bit different...a world with Voldemort in command and Hadria at his side seemed like a better place for her family than him alone...or even worse...with Bellatrix. Although she and others had their suspicions, she was not aware that Voldemort had bedded Bellatrix in the past...Voldemort had instructed that their liaisons remain confidential.

"Welcome, my friends," Voldemort's voice cut through the tension as he stood next to Hadria's chair.

"It pleases me to see you all free from your shackles. I will endeavor to keep this meeting brief, allowing you much-needed rest and time for personal matters before we delve into other business tomorrow. We are only just getting started..."

He moved about the room with an ominous gait, his calm, raspy tone carrying weight. Hadria listened intently, her nerves humming. But it was hard to ignore the burning glare from Bellatrix, who finally cleared her throat softly.

"My Lord," Bellatrix's voice held a hint of anger. Voldemort's eye crinkled in amusement. He had anticipated her outburst, but its swiftness surprised him.

"Yes, Bellatrix?" His narrowed gaze bore into her. She swallowed nervously, glancing toward the head of the table.

"Who is this witch that seems to have...joined our ranks?" Bellatrix's feigned curiosity masked an underlying anger, and Hadria's pulse quickened. The room held its breath, waiting for Voldemort's response.

Voldemort's blue eyes bore into Bellatrix, his expression inscrutable. The room held its breath, the tension palpable. He had anticipated this moment...the clash of loyalties, the jealousy simmering beneath Bellatrix's facade.

"My dear Bellatrix," he began, his voice a low murmur that cut through the silence. "The beautiful witch before you is Hadria Potter...she is no ordinary witch...She is my companion, my equal...and yes, she has joined our ranks. The prophecy spoke of her as a conqueror...but as we know, those with the full prophecy have kept tight-lipped. Clearly, whatever revelation lies within its entirety threatens the side of the light."

He began to walk around the room again, his steps deliberate, and made his way to Hadria's side. The room held its breath, eyes following his every move.

"I believe they fear what would happen should she and I learn of the true prophecy," he continued, his gaze unwavering. "It is my belief...that she was meant to be here at my side all along."

Bellatrix, her emotions a tempest, watched as Voldemort softly caressed Hadria's face. His adoration was evident, and it sent a surge of jealousy through her veins. But as he looked back at his Death Eaters, his lip curled with disdain.

"And if anyone...threatens her...or harms her in any way..." His voice dropped, a dangerous edge. "...you will feel the full extent...of my wrath." His gaze swept around the room, lingering on each Death Eater, a silent challenge. But it ended on Bellatrix, his eyebrow raised, a promise unspoken.

She meekly looked down at the table, cowering under the weight of his authority. The room remained hushed, the balance of power shifting. In that moment, Bellatrix knew that Hadria was no ordinary witch...and that her place in Voldemort's heart was both coveted and perilous.

Voldemort's voice cut through the room like a blade. "I believe I have made myself very clear on this...there is no need to discuss it further." He took a seat, leaning back lazily in his chair. His arm draped over the armrest, and he entwined his fingers with Hadria's.

"Speaking of the prophecy..." His eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and calculation.

"Lucius attempted to have one of the Unspeakables retrieve it while under the Imperius Curse. That is how we've learned that it cannot be retrieved by anyone other than those about whom it is made. The man was subjected to defensive spells upon his attempt and ended up in St. Mungo's, where he remains...though, not likely for much longer." Voldemort chuckled, recalling their recent anonymous "get well" gift—a potted Devil's Snare sent to the unfortunate wizard.

Around the table, a few chuckles rippled among those who were privy to the incident. But as Voldemort's laughter subsided, the room fell silent, waiting for him to continue.

He lazily stroked Hadria's hand, his touch both possessive and comforting. She glanced around the room, her nerves humming.

"One other thing I will cover for those just joining us this evening..." His tone shifted, becoming more serious. "Moving forward, we will no longer torture or kill...based on blood status alone..."

The newly released Death Eaters exchanged shocked glances. Bellatrix, her bloodlust barely contained, seethed beneath the surface. The rules were changing, and the Dark Lord's words hung heavy in the air...a promise and a warning.

"Once our takeover is complete," Voldemort's voice dripped with malice, "Mudbloods will be relegated to second-class citizenship... and they will be marked as such." His smirk widened, eliciting satisfied smiles and nods throughout the room.

He had squeezed Hadria's hand lightly, a silent acknowledgment that he understood her feelings. This part of the plan still did not sit well with her, but he would not budge.

He continued, his voice unwavering. "They will not be allowed to breed or marry anyone above their status. They will hold no positions of power or leadership."

Bellatrix couldn't tear her eyes away from the way he softly caressed Hadria's hand. As if he needed her...an anchor in the storm of darkness. It was something Bellatrix had longed for, a connection with the Dark Lord beyond loyalty and fear...true affection.

"Furthermore, when we inevitably begin our takeover...as well as other...clandestine operations...we will make every attempt to avoid the spilling of magical blood."

His voice carried a calm confidence, and he paused, ensuring that no one dared interrupt. The room hung on his every word.

"This means that unless you are at risk of death or serious injury...we will attempt to incapacitate before killing, as a means to gain control. I realize this differs from our previous...tactics. However, these measures will ensure we retain a sizable underclass for the lower working-class positions in the new world. And I would much rather see witches and wizards reformed and pulled to our side as loyal followers...when able."

After a slight pause, he continued, an ominous smirk playing on his lips.

"However...for those who refuse reform and remain loyal to the light...they will be tortured...and find a new home in Azkaban. And, of course...if your lives are ever at risk, you are free to defend yourselves and dispatch as needed. I have no doubt that despite our efforts...those who harbor a lust for blood," he looked pointedly at Bellatrix, "will still have plenty of opportunity."

Bellatrix's wicked smile mirrored her enjoyment of his attention. Hadria found amusement in Bellatrix's desperation for any ounce of acknowledgment from him. But she maintained a mask of indifference, unwilling to reveal how deeply Bellatrix's behavior affected her.

Voldemort's piercing gaze swept across the room, his attention shifting from Bellatrix to the assembled Death Eaters. The air hung heavy with anticipation.

"Are there any questions or perhaps...grievances that anyone would like to bring forth?" His voice, cold and commanding, echoed through the chamber.

Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the faint rustle of robes. The Death Eaters remained still, their loyalty unwavering.

"Very well, my friends...remain vigilant as we move forward...the ministry is aware of my return now as I cast our mark above Azkaban before our departure. You are dismissed..." With a dismissive wave, Voldemort signaled their departure. As the others rose, Hadria remained at his side aware that Bellatrix was still watching them. She spoke to him Parseltongue not bothering to lower her voice.

"Watching you command your Death Eaters is such a turn on," she purred, her hunger evident. The room held its breath as she leaned in, claiming Voldemort with a kiss as she openly pressed in against him. His hand caressed her cheek, desire smoldering in his eyes.

"Does it now, darling?" he murmured. "Would you like to retire to our chambers?" His invitation hung in the air, a promise of passion and power. She bit her lip with a mischievous smile and nodded.

Bellatrix had seen enough—caressing, touching, kissing, speaking in their shared tongue. She was livid as she turned and headed out of the dining room. Narcissa followed her, attempting to calm her down.

Voldemort remained in his chair, pulling Hadria into his lap as the room cleared out. His fingers traced the curve of her spine, possessive and hungry.

"You put on quite a display, my dear." His chuckle vibrated against her lips as he pulled her down for a kiss.

"It is no charade, my Lord..." Hadria's voice held a hint of mischief. "...I am yours, and you are mine. I simply want to ensure everyone knows it." She nipped at his mouth playfully, her eyes dancing.

He groaned, desire thickening the air. Pulling her against him, he whispered in her ear, a heated growl, "Time for bed, my queen."

🌙🖤

Chapter Text

Hadria quivered with anticipation as she sensed his presence draw near, the room enveloped in an inky darkness that heightened her senses. The absence of light made every touch, every whisper, feel more intense, more intimate...it was his desire, his twisted game that fueled her excitement.

His voice, a sinister whisper in the silent room, shattered the stillness.

"That's it, sweet girl," he rasped, his words like a dark incantation. "Spread your legs for me."

Hadria, his obedient, devoted little witch, lay naked beneath him. A nervous thrill raced through her as she moistened her lips, feeling the hot breath of the Dark Lord tickling her neck like a forbidden caress.

"Yes, my lord," she replied softly, her voice a breathless surrender, parting her legs even wider at his command. And then, in a sudden rush of sensation, he plunged into her, eliciting a gasp that caught in her throat as she arched her back in pleasure.

He groaned with primal satisfaction as he delved deep into her quivering core, the slick heat of her arousal enveloping him.

"Oh, my Queen...my beautiful, sweet girl," he growled, his words a dark hymn of possession and desire that echoed in the dark corners of the room.

She trembled as his long spider like fingers wrapped around her delicate ankle caressing the skin there with his thumb before trailing teasingly along her skin with a tantalizing touch that sent shivers down her spine. His grip tightened on her hip, a possessive hold that only served to heighten the intensity as he thrust into her once more, a grunt escaping his lips.

With a tenderness that belied his dark nature, he pressed his lips to hers in a soft kiss, their breath mingling in a heady exchange of desire. Hadria couldn't help but moan against his mouth, her surrender complete as his commanding presence consumed her.

"Is this what you wanted, darling?" His voice, a seductive murmur against her lips, sent a rush of heat through her veins as he began to move his hips with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust a blend of pleasure and pain that left her gasping for breath. The gentle cadence of his movements was a stark contrast to the raw passion that burned between them, a dance of dominance and submission that bound them together in a twisted embrace of ecstasy.

"Yes...I crave you, Voldemort," she whimpered between his soft kisses, her voice betraying a mixture of desire and submission. A soft, contented hum escaped his lips in response to her confession.

"Oh, I know you do, sweet girl," he purred, his voice a seductive caress against her skin. "I know you can't resist your Dark Lord's cock buried deep inside you... always so eager, so wet for me." His words, laced with a husky edge, sent a thrill of anticipation coursing through her veins as he moved quicker.

His fingers, tender and reassuring, continued their exploration through her hair, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine as they traced intricate patterns against her skin. The contrast between his gentle touch and the possessive grip on her breast heightened her senses, each sensation merging into a blend of pleasure and pain that consumed her.

"I'll never get enough...I dream of it," she confessed, her words a breathless murmur that lingered in the air like a whispered secret, adding to the intoxicating atmosphere that surrounded them.

He chuckled, a deep and primal sound that reverberated through the room, as he quickened his pace, driving her closer to her peak with each powerful thrust.

"That's a good girl..." he groaned in a labored breath full of dominance and desire that echoed in the darkness. "Take it...oh yes sweet girl...you take it so well."

As he moved faster, his grip tightened on her hair, pulling her closer to him in a possessive embrace, his rough kisses matching the urgency of his movements as he plunged into her with increasing speed.

"Oh gods...you're gonna make me come," she whimpered against his lips, her voice a desperate plea that mingled with his ragged breaths. He sat back on his knees, his hands wrapping around her thighs with a possessive hold, his movements growing more frantic as he drove her closer to the brink of ecstasy.

"Good girl, yes darling..." he growled in a hoarse voice, his pace relentless as he slammed into her with lightning speed. She began to pant and whimper, her body trembling on the edge of release.

"Come for me, sweet girl," he commanded, his voice a primal growl that spurred her towards a crescendo of pleasure.

Hadria's breath hitched as she felt the scorching heat reaching its peak within her, culminating in an explosive release as she whined breathlessly. The force of it left her trembling in his embrace. Voldemort closed his eyes, savoring the warmth that enveloped him inside of her.

"Oh yes, sweet girl...that's it..." he murmured, leaning over her and capturing her lips in a fervent kiss as he continued his movements, drawing closer to his own climax.

"I...I want to taste you again..." she whimpered between kisses.

"Is that what you desire, darling? Do you want me to come in your beautiful little mouth?" he purred, his voice sending shivers down her spine.

"Yes, please," she whispered eagerly. He groaned as he quickened his pace, nearing the peak of ecstasy. With a deliberate motion, he withdrew from her and knelt over her face. She wasted no time in taking him eagerly into her mouth, her lips and tongue working in tandem to please him.

As Voldemort felt the powerful surge of ecstasy building within him, he could barely contain himself.

"Oh, gods..." he gasped in a voice filled with desire, his body trembling with pleasure. As he released into her waiting mouth, he savored the sensation of her soft lips and the eagerness with which she accepted him. A deep groan of pleasure escaped him.

Hadria reveled in the taste of him, savoring the unique blend of salt, musk, and something otherworldly that left her craving more. As she felt it hit the back of her throat, she instinctively took him deeper, swallowing him as if his thick essence was a precious elixir.

"That's it...such a good girl..." Voldemort's voice was thick and trembled with pleasure as he spoke. As she finally released him, he lay next to her and pulled her to him, drawing her close as he kissed her with slow, tender intensity. Their breaths intertwined, gradually slowing as they basked in the intimacy of their shared moment.

As he lay there, feeling relaxed and peaceful in the darkness with his witch at his side, Voldemort reflected on the events that had unfolded. He had strengthened his numbers once again by releasing his loyal Death Eaters, and his work in the background to gain the loyalty of others was well underway. Wizards, giants, centaurs, vampires and even the werewolves...he had been hard at work in the background making connections and negotiating alliances.

He wouldn't admit it openly, but the rules he had put in place due to his agreement with Hadria had ultimately played to his benefit. Many who had been hesitant before had become easier to sway to his side, knowing they would not be essentially committing genocide against Muggle-borns and would take efforts to avoid casualties. It had opened his eyes to how easily others could be manipulated further through the art of diplomacy.

Perhaps the little witch would play a bigger part in the politics of this new world. He may not care for those they stepped on as they climbed to the top, but he could see the value in at least pretending to, to some extent. His charm had worked wonders in the past...even the Grey Lady had succumbed to it, rewarding him with the Ravenclaw diadem.

He relished the twisted games of manipulation he played. The one singular thing in his life that went against everything in his dark nature was the beautiful goddess in his arms. But even she had become a strength. The little minx had clawed her way into his soul and opened his eyes to a world of potential he had never considered.

As he held her close, he knew that their union was more than physical...it was a merging of power, desire, and destiny. And in the quiet of the night, he vowed to protect her, even if it meant defying his own nature. For Hadria was not just his companion; she was the key to a future he had yet to fully comprehend.

He wondered even now what secrets lie within her...he stroked the velvet soft skin of her belly as he listened to her quiet breaths of slumber. He kissed her temple and pulled her closer wrapping a hand protectively around her lean stomach. A smile spread across his face as he dreamt of the possibilities.

***

Chapter Text

In the dimly lit guest bedroom, the air hung heavy with tension. The flickering flames in the fireplace cast wild shadows across the walls, mirroring the turmoil within Bellatrix Lestrange. Her rage was a tempest, a maelstrom of betrayal and fury that threatened to consume her entirely.

Narcissa sat on the edge of the ornate bed, her delicate hands wringing together. She had prepared this room for her sister's release from Azkaban, hoping that the familiar surroundings would offer solace. But solace was a distant memory now, replaced by the storm that raged in Bellatrix's eyes.

"Bella, please," Narcissa implored, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I know you're upset, but let's try to think rationally."

Bellatrix scoffed, her dark hair falling across her face like a curtain of shadows. She stood, trembling with anger. The room seemed to shrink around her, the walls closing in as if they, too, were privy to her wrath.

"Rationally?!" Bellatrix's voice cracked, the syllables sharp as broken glass. "The Dark Lord has been bewitched, Cissy! He must have!"

Narcissa's heart sank. She had hoped for reason, for a semblance of sanity, but Bellatrix's madness was a wildfire consuming everything in its path. She had seen her sister's devotion to Lord Voldemort...had witnessed the way Bellatrix had danced on the precipice of obsession. But this? This was beyond anything she could have imagined.

"Bella—" Narcissa began, but Bellatrix cut her off with a venomous glare.

"Did you know he bedded me?!" Bellatrix's voice rose, echoing off the stone walls. Her eyes bore into Narcissa's, accusing and desperate.

Narcissa's widened, her mind racing. She had suspected, of course. The whispered rumors, the way Bellatrix looked at him and openly flirted with him...they had fueled her suspicions. But confirmation had always eluded her.

Bellatrix had kept it secret...either to protect her marriage to Rodolfus or perhaps at Voldemort's order. More than likely she had kept it private at Voldemorts demand since Bellatrix had never been faithful to her husband.

"When?" Narcissa's voice trembled. She needed to know, needed to understand the depths of Bellatrix's pain.

Bellatrix crossed her arms, her nails digging into her own flesh. The fire danced in her eyes, a reflection of the inferno that consumed her soul.

"Before he was destroyed," Bellatrix hissed, her voice raw. "All those years ago."

The flames crackled, casting eerie shadows on the stone floor. Bellatrix's laughter erupted...a mad, broken sound that echoed through the room.

"He fucked me, Cissy," she spat, her voice a twisted symphony of rage and anguish. "Twice! And then he discarded me like a broken wand."

Narcissa watched as her sister crumbled, a tear slipping down her cheek. The firelight painted her face in shades of torment, and Narcissa wondered if there was any salvation left for the woman who had danced with darkness.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the very air thick with the weight of Bellatrix's anguish. Shadows danced across the stone walls, mimicking the turmoil within her soul. Narcissa watched, helpless, as her sister's rage spiraled into madness.

"Do you know how long I've waited to see him again?" Bellatrix's voice cracked, the words dripping with venom. "How I've longed for his touch? Has anyone ever been as loyal? As devoted as I?!"

Narcissa's trembling hands clutched the edge of the bed. She had hoped for reason, for a shred of sanity, but Bellatrix's fury was a tempest that threatened to consume them both.

Bellatrix stood, her eyes ablaze.

"Where does the bitch sleep?!" Bellatrix's voice echoed off the walls.

Narcissa's took a deep breath. "She...sleeps in his room with him, Bella."

Bella's eyes widened, and she lunged toward the door, her desperation palpable. "You won't find it, Bella," Narcissa warned, stepping in her path. "It's under a Fidelius Charm."

"Where, Cissy...where is it?!" Bella's screech echoed through the room, rattling the ancient tapestries.

Narcissa's arms crossed protectively.

"No, Bella. I won't put my family at risk over this jealousy. This is Voldemort we're talking about...the Dark Lord. I'm sorry if this hurts you, but be honest with yourself. Did he ever give you a reason to think it was anything more than just sex?"

Bellatrix's lip curled, her anger a storm that threatened to tear reality asunder. She sank onto the couch, her fingers tracing patterns on the worn upholstery.

"He would have," she whispered, her voice brittle. "We just needed more time together. We are one and the same, Cissy. He's my soul mate. I've never known a man so dark and twisted...and beautiful."

Narcissa's gaze bore into her sister's, a mix of pity and fear. Bellatrix's obsession had always been her downfall, but this...this was madness.

"I'll kill her," Bellatrix vowed, her eyes unyielding.

Narcissa gasped, her fingers gripping Bellatrix's shoulders. "Bellatrix Lestrange...you'll do no such thing...he would end you...listen to me...he loves her even if he does not realize that yet...we cannot change that." Narcissa's eyes were stern but held a fear in them...a fear not just for her sister, but for her family. If the Dark Lord were to lose the only person he had ever truly cared for, what kind of monstrous wrath would be unleashed upon the world? She dared not think of it.

Bellatrix's gaze almost went through her now, a distant, glazed look in her eyes. The fire that had once burned so fiercely had dimmed, replaced by something colder, more calculating.

"Promise me, Bella," Narcissa pleaded. "Promise you won't—"

Bellatrix blinked, refocusing back on her sister. Her lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Fine...I won't kill her."

She leaned back on the couch, her mind spinning dark webs of vengeance. Oh, but Hadria Potter would wish she were dead. The twisted dance of fate had begun, and Bellatrix Lestrange would play her part with ruthless precision.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat in the Great Hall, the polished wooden table stretching before her, laden with breakfast fare. The enchanted ceiling above mimicked the morning sky, casting a soft glow over the room. She had grown accustomed to the ebb and flow of Hogwarts life...the laughter, the whispered secrets, and the occasional owl swooping down to deliver letters.

But as a 7th year the amount of students who she ever saw read a newspaper was appalling. She sipped at her pumpkin juice as she opened it up. Her eyes widened a bit when she saw the headline, bold and unyielding:

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN:
VOLDEMORT HAS RETURNED!

She stole a glance toward Severus who was engaged in conversation with Professor McGonagall. Dumbledore was standing behind them looking deep in thought as he listened to whatever they were discussing. Severus looked her way as if he had felt her gaze. Their eyes met for a moment and he went back to his conversation. In fact many of the teachers had a concerned look on their faces. She looked back at the paper and started reading the article.

The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban. Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, confirmed that ten high-security prisoners, who all also happen to be former Death Eaters, escaped in the early hours of yesterday evening, and that he has already informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature of these individuals. It is the ministry's belief that the only person capable of having orchestrated an escape of this magnitude would be Lord Voldemort himself as was evidenced by the Dark Mark that was cast by an unseen witch or wizard just prior to the escape. The minister added that on no account should any of these individuals be approached if they are seen.

So, the cat's out of the bag, she thought. She was sure Severus had probably known this was going to happen but she couldn't expect him to be able to give her every detail. She trusted him to keep her as informed as he possibly could while keeping them both safe.

She smiled when she thought about the weekend they had spent together. He had insisted she take the guest bedroom, meticulously ensuring it was clean and comfortable. They had spent most the weekend simply reading and talking. She smiled at the memory of their late-night conversations, the way he listened intently to her thoughts on magical theory and Muggle literature.

She knew that despite the laughter they had shared, he had felt incredibly uneasy with the intimate act that Voldemort had forced upon them.

She was not at all surprised that he had avoided any intimacy with her that weekend despite the chemistry that she had felt between them.

She still felt special just to have been in his company...allowed in the private space of the mysterious Potions Master. He had cooked dinner for her that weekend...simple fare, but delicious. Hermione had watched him move around the kitchen, his hands deftly slicing vegetables, stirring potions of a different kind. She marveled at his skill, the way he balanced precision with intuition. He was just as good at cooking as he was at brewing potions...a man of hidden talents. But oh how she longed to have those hands on her.

She knew he had just needed some time and space to deal with the trauma of that day. He had confided in her, revealing how long it had been since he'd been intimate with anyone. Years, he had whispered, his eyes haunted.

She looked back down at the paper and noticed another article that caught her attention.

TRAGIC DEMISE OF MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER

St. Mungo's Hospital promised a full inquiry last night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderick Bode, 49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a potted-plant. Healers called to the scene were unable to revive Mr. Bode, who had been injured in a workplace accident some weeks prior to his death. Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr. Bode's ward at the time of the incident, has been suspended on full pay and was unavailable for comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the hospital said in a statement, "St. Mungo's deeply regrets the death of Mr. Bode, whose health was improving steadily prior to this tragic accident. "We have strict guidelines on the decorations permitted on our wards but it appears that Healer Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked the dangers of the plant on Mr. Bode's bedside table. As his speech and mobility improved, Healer Strout encouraged Mr. Bode to look after the plant himself, unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but a cutting of Devil's Snare, which, when touched by the convalescent Mr. Bode, throttled him instantly. "St. Mungo's is as yet unable to account for the presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch or wizard with information to come forward."

Hermione shook her head and folded the paper up deciding she had read enough for the day. She stood and headed off to her first class.

"Thank the gods it's Friday," she muttered to herself.

***

In the cool clammy Potions classroom, Hermione Granger's heart raced. The romance blooming between them had ignited a fire within her...a forbidden flame that flickered between the pages of textbooks and the bubbling cauldrons.

Severus hadn't so much as glanced her way all day except for over breakfast that morning. His stern demeanor, his sharp wit, and the way his eyes bore into her soul during lectures all week...it was driving her mad with desire. But he remained aloof, distant, as if the walls of Hogwarts itself conspired to keep them apart. She missed his company terribly.

She chewed on her lip nervously...She wondered if she had the courage to break the rules, to risk his wrath for stolen moments with him. Perhaps detention was the answer...a calculated misstep to draw his attention.

She looked at the glass potion bottle on the edge of her workstation.

Do it...just do it Hermione...what's the worst that can happen?

She drummed her fingers nervously and looked back in his direction. He still looked down with a scowl on his face as he graded papers. She looked back at her potion simmering in the cauldron...just 6 more minutes before it had to be bottled...

Gods just do it already!

She bit the inside of her lip. Severus had been deeply engrossed in grading papers. But now, as she swiped the bottle and it crashed to the ground, his eyes snapped up. Pure disdain etched across his features, he traced the shattered glass back to her station.

His eyebrow lifted and he narrowed his eyes boring into her fearful gaze.

"Whoops...sorry, Professor," Hermione stammered, wincing at her own audacity. His authority still made her weak in the knees.

"Detention, Miss Granger," he declared, his black robes swirling as he headed for the supply closet. "Come get a new bottle."

She followed, heart pounding, and slipped inside. The door partially closed, and he pressed her against the shelf, hidden from prying eyes.

"If you missed me, sweetheart," Severus purred, his gaze softening, "you could just say it."

Her blush deepened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a finger against her lips.

He raked his teeth over his bottom lip tying to maintain his composure as his breath danced along her neck.

He spoke softly, "Is it too late to write home for this weekend?"

She shook her head, feeling the heat of his proximity.

"Do it," he urged, his lips brushing across her neck softly.

"Okay," she breathed quietly nodding. Her trembling fingers found the cool glass of the bottle he'd slipped into her hand. It was delicate, like their secret, and she clutched it tightly.

She started to leave but he pulled up her back to him, kissing her softly, igniting a fire inside her. But as soon as it had started it was over and he released her.

"Do be more careful this time, Miss Granger," he chided loudly sending her on her way as he patted her on the ass with a smirk. He knew he took a risk every time he touched the girl...but some risks were just worth taking.

***

Chapter Text

The Black Lake, with its tranquil waters and whispering reeds, was Hermione's sanctuary. In the late afternoons, when the sun dipped low, casting a warm glow across the surface, she would steal away from the bustling halls of Hogwarts. Here, she found solace...a place to read, reflect, and simply be.

So when Severus whispered an invitation to meet him there after school, Hermione's heart fluttered. She knew he wanted her to accompany him for the weekend so she had already sent word home, claiming another stay at Hogwarts. Her bag was packed, anticipation bubbling within her.

It had turned out to be a decent day at school. With Voldemort's return the Ministry recalled Umbridge back and removed her from Hogwarts. It had the students spirits lifted a bit after the news that morning.

As she approached the water's edge, the breeze tousled her hair. The sun kissed her skin, and the gentle lap of waves against the shore seemed to ground her. She wondered what Severus had in store.

And then she heard it...the deep baritone of his voice, resonating through the air like a spell. He stood there, leaning against a gnarled oak tree, eyes as dark as midnight. His presence was magnetic, drawing her closer.

"Do you have any idea, witch," he began, his voice a velvet caress, "how difficult it is to keep away from you?"

Hermione's breath hitched. She stepped toward him, warmth pooling in her chest.

"Then don't," she teased, her lips curving into a smile. His answering grin was both wicked and vulnerable, a glimpse of the man behind the potions vials.

He kissed her...softly, as if savoring the taste of forbidden fruit. When he pulled away, his obsidian eyes bore into hers.

"Are you ready?" he asked, and she nodded. His hand enveloped hers, firm and reassuring. The world spun, and suddenly, they were no longer by the Black Lake. Instead, they stood in the hallway of his home.

Severus had tidied up, meticulously wiping away the layers of neglect. Cobwebs vanished, surfaces gleamed, and the air held a hint of something new. It was as if he had prepared for her arrival, wanting her to feel welcome, safe.

He gave her a slight grin as he took her things and headed up the stairs. She followed him and saw that he was going to the guest bedroom. She reached out, her fingers grazing his forearm, and he stilled.

"Wait..." Her voice was barely a whisper, but he heard it. He turned, an eyebrow raised...an elegant arc of curiosity. His gaze held hers, unyielding, and she wondered if he could read the tumult of emotions within her.

His eyes, intense and inscrutable, bore into hers. The blush that crept across her cheeks betrayed her nervousness. She licked her lips, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird.

"Do you think...I could..." Her eyes flicked down the hallway, toward his room. His lip curved into a knowing smirk, and her pulse quickened. He leaned against the wall, his shoulder brushing the faded wallpaper. The silence stretched, pregnant with possibility.

"Are you sure?" He asked softly. She smiled, a mixture of confidence and vulnerability. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, knew what she wanted. It was as if she had just raised her hand in class, answering a question with unwavering certainty.

"Very," she replied, her voice steady. The word hung in the air, charged with promise.

This is a bad idea...but it's not as if it's the first one...

He chided himself internally. However, he couldn't deny he wanted it too.

"Very well," he turned and headed down the hall opening the door to his room. He had also tidied up there and ensure the bedding was clean. He had made no assumptions that she would want to sleep in his room but he also wanted to be prepared just in case.

He paused as he stood at the end of the bed and turned to her as he pursed his lips a bit avoiding her eyes.

"Do you...have a preference in sides?" He finally met her gaze waiting for an answer. She smiled amusedly at his consideration.

"No, either side is fine," Hermione replied softly, a glint of affection shining in her eyes as she regarded Severus. She found him endearing, a glimpse of vulnerability beneath his stoic exterior tugging at her heartstrings. Knowing that he had admitted to not being intimate for years, she empathized with the nervousness that seemed to grip him. Being a virgin herself, she wasn't overflowing with confidence in the realm of intimacy either.

As he turned to face her, uncertainty flickered in his gaze. She had been at his home once before, but on that occasion, he had maintained his full robes, never once dressing casually in her presence.

"Would it...offend you if I...dressed down?" he inquired tentatively, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability.

Hermione's smile widened as she approached him, her hands gently resting on his chest. Sensing his deep breath, she sought permission, "May I?"

His lack of verbal response was overshadowed by the way he swallowed nervously, his chin lifting as he momentarily averted his gaze before meeting her eyes again, a silent invitation.

With a playful glint in her eye, she reached for the top buttons of his coat, marveling at how he managed to be comfortable in such a high-collared garment all the time.

"I promise I won't bite," she teased as she skillfully unbuttoned his coat, a hint of amusement playing on his lips as he observed her silently.

After unfastening his coat, she slid her hands up his shoulders, guiding the garments off him. He shrugged them off and turned to hang them in the closet. He started unbuttoning the top few buttons of his white shirt and rolling his sleeves. Hermione's gaze briefly caught the light scars on his forearms and a fleeting glimpse of the Dark Mark, a reminder of his tumultuous past...and present.

Deciding to make herself more comfortable as well, Hermione retrieved lounge pants and a crop top from her bag, the subtle intention to pique his interest not lost on her. She longed for him, and perhaps a hint of seduction and a touch of skin would serve as the catalyst their blossoming relationship needed.

"I'm going to go change," she announced with a warm smile, to which he gestured towards a nearby door.

"You can use mine," Severus offered, his voice a subtle mix of invitation and consideration.

Entering the room, she swiftly changed into her clothes, taking note of the pleasant cleanliness of his bathroom. Tempted to explore the contents of his bathroom, curiosity piqued about the personal items the esteemed Potions Master might use, she decided to save that exploration for another time. Stepping out, she greeted him with a flirtatious smile, feeling a sense of desire wash over her.

A subtle shift in Severus's expression caught her attention as she approached him, his eyes widening as they trailed down her figure. The fitted crop top accentuated her hips and lean stomach, leaving little to the imagination. Closing the distance between them, she wrapped her arms around his waist, the intimate gesture stirring something within him.

"Gods, witch... you'll be the death of me," he murmured, his voice a blend of desire and restraint as he leaned in to kiss her. The initial touch of their lips was tender, a silent promise of affection, but it quickly escalated into hungry passion as his hands roamed up her back, the warmth of her skin igniting a fierce longing within him. One hand found its way into her hair, deepening the kiss with an intensity that left them both breathless.

The ache in his loins intensified with each passing moment, the primal urge to claim her battling against his vow to take things slow. The way she was looking at him...her hips, her soft tanned skin, the sight of her in those revealing clothes drove him to the edge of restraint. She tasted like honey, sweet and irresistible, a temptation he found impossible to resist.

He reluctantly broke the kiss, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain control of his emotions. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Severus raised his gaze upward, a silent plea for composure evident in his furrowed brow.

"Hermione...I..." His voice wavered, a mingling of turmoil and desire as he battled the sensations that threatened to overwhelm him. The fire that burned in his core left him feeling unsteady, teetering on the brink of surrender.

"What is it?" she inquired softly, her gentle touch on his face grounding him as he met her gaze, those enchanting brown eyes drawing him in like a siren's call. In that moment, he felt a sense of vulnerability, a fear of the depths of emotion she stirred within him. No one had ever dared to venture this close to his guarded heart, and the prospect both thrilled and terrified him.

His breath ragged, he cupped her face, his touch tender yet tinged with a hint of desperation, and he claimed her lips in a fervent kiss. The taste of her, the sweetness of her affection, was a balm to his wounded soul, a revelation that shook the very foundations of his self-imposed solitude.

He confessed then, his voice heavy with self-doubt and longing.

"Hermione...you deserve far more than I could ever offer you...I'm...a wretched, broken man, detached from the world...and you are...kind...you are gentle, you are–".

"Yours...I am yours, Severus," she interjected, her eyes brimming with a poignant sadness as she recognized his inner turmoil and his belief in his unworthiness. Determination shone in her gaze as she claimed him with those simple words, a declaration of unwavering devotion and acceptance that left him breathless as she pulled him closer.

"I am yours," she repeated against his lips in a whispered prayer of adoration.

With a renewed sense of purpose, she kissed him deeply, pouring her emotions into the embrace. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him closer, he yielded to her touch, his hands finding her hips and holding her possessively. The heat between them intensified, desire coiling tightly within him as he pressed his lips to her neck, the world fading into a blissful haze of passion and longing.

"Hermione...if you're not absolutely sure about this...please, sweetheart, tell me now," Severus pleaded, his voice laced with desperation and a final warning, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. Her unwavering response, whispered against his ear, was a declaration that stirred something primal within him.

"Don't you dare let me go."

His resolve shattered as her words pierced through his defenses, igniting a fierce passion that he could no longer suppress. With a swift and purposeful movement, he lifted her effortlessly and laid her on the bed, his actions driven by an irresistible force beyond his control. Hovering over her, he captured her lips in a hungry kiss, his hand cradling her head with a tenderness that belied the intensity of his desire.

"Hermione," he breathed her name like a prayer, his lips trailing fervent kisses down her neck, eliciting a soft whimper from her as her nails grazed his scalp in a silent plea for more. As he pushed up her top, revealing her bare skin, he groaned at the sight of her perfect breasts...he kissed them one by one and sucked on her hardening nipples rewarding him with a soft whimper from her, his hunger growing with each passing moment.

Without hesitation, he lavished attention on her, kissing his way down her stomach, worshipping every inch of her soft skin. As he reached the apex of her thighs, he felt her tremble beneath his touch, the anticipation building between them. Pulling her pants down just enough to reveal her smooth, shaved skin, he couldn't help but lick his lips in anticipation, a primal growl escaping him at the sight before him.

"Gods, girl...you are perfect," he murmured with reverence, his lips brushing her with a kiss gently above her clit before finally making contact. The sensation of his tongue on her sensitive bud elicited a gasp from her, a new and exhilarating experience for her. Trapped in a haze of pleasure, she longed to spread her legs wider, but he held her in place, a teasing torment that only fueled her desire. He licked her again relishing the smooth velvet softness of her delicate flesh.

He couldn't help but smile at her reaction, reveling in the way her body responded to his touch. Her hips jerked in pleasure, a physical manifestation of the overwhelming sensation that coursed through her as he continued his ministrations. Chuckling softly, he teasingly pulled down her pants and panties, baring her completely to his gaze.

"Tell me... has anyone licked your pussy before, sweetheart?" he inquired, his choice of words causing her cheeks to flush with a deep crimson hue. With a shy grin, Hermione shook her head, her innocence shining through her bashful admission.

"No, never...I've...never done anything besides kissing," she confessed softly, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

Grinning incredulously, Severus raised a brow in surprise, reveling in the confirmation of her untouched innocence.

"My, my...a virgin...is that right?" he mused, his gaze filled with a mixture of desire and reverence as he beheld her in all her unspoiled beauty. She nodded innocently.

"I am."

With a sense of wonderment and gratitude, he removed his shirt, unbuckled his trousers, and discarded his belt, revealing more of himself to her. The fact that this intelligent and enchanting witch desired him, wanted to offer him her purity, left him feeling like the luckiest wizard in the world. Meanwhile, her eyes traced every scar down his body...each one a story behind the mysterious Potions Master. He was beautiful. She felt a flutter of excitement in her belly as she watched him position himself between her legs, his open trousers forgotten for now in the heat of the moment.

Planting soft kisses along the inside of her thighs, he left a trail of fire with each touch, inching closer to her most intimate center. The heat of his breath on her skin sent shivers down her spine, her anticipation building with each passing second. As he delved into her wetness with his tongue, tracing the contours of her most sensitive areas, he heard her breath catch as she arched her back. He groaned watching her overcome with the pleasure his mouth was bringing her.

He couldn't recall ever encountering a witch whose taste and scent were quite like hers. The delicate blend of a light sweet musk, combined with hints of honeysuckle and vanilla, intoxicated him, drawing him deeper into the moment. Parting her soft folds with feather-light caresses, he continued to explore her with a gentle touch, savoring her every reaction.

Her breath quickened, her body responding to him tasting her as she clutched the sheets. Lost in a haze of pleasure she ran her fingers through his hair. As he felt her grip it in a silent plea for more, he focused his attention on her clit, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and a whimper of delight from her. When she finally looked down at him, her eyes darkened with desire, he felt a surge of satisfaction at her unbridled passion.

"Yes, sweetheart? Do you like that?" he asked softly, his voice a tender caress as he continued to lavish attention on her beautiful pussy.

"Yes," her response came as a breathless affirmation, her body trembling with uncontainable pleasure as he watched her closely, committing every detail of her response to memory.

The overwhelming sight before him, coupled with the taste and scent of her arousal, ignited a newfound passion within him, one that he had long kept buried. Every part of her essence awakened something primal within him, a desire to give her everything he had to offer, even knowing that it would never be enough to truly express the depth of what he was feeling.

His once insufferable know-it-all had blossomed into a stunning, seductive woman, and he was willing to give her the world if he could. But in that moment, all that consumed his thoughts was her pleasure as his tongue delved between her delicate, wet folds, worshiping every inch of her exquisite essence. The ache within him gnawed relentlessly, urging him to push further, to claim her completely. He could no longer resist the overwhelming need he felt for her.

He wiped his mouth moving back over her on the bed and leaned down to kiss her, allowing her to taste herself on his lips. Nibbling and exploring her with fervor, he slid a finger into her depths, ensuring she was ready for what was to come. He was pleased to find she was soaking wet. The intimate moment was charged with anticipation and desire as he held a hand over her belly and whispered an enchantment.

"Infertilitas Protego."

She felt the tingle of magic take hold within her. As he removed his trousers and pants, revealing his hardened length to her hungry gaze, he felt the intensity of her desire mirrored in her eyes, a hunger that matched his own...the same hunger he'd seen when she had sucked his cock.

With a grin, he teased her, stroking himself slowly as he asked, "Is this what you want, sweetheart?" Her breathless affirmation spurred him on, igniting a fire within him that only she could quench.

She nodded and answered breathlessly, "Yes."

Taking her hand, he pulled her closer, removing her top with a smile before kissing her again, reveling in the softness of her unruly hair. Gently laying her back, he positioned himself at her entrance, his body yearning to claim her completely. Despite his primal urges, he held back, kissing her tenderly as he slowly entered her, seeking her approval every step of the way.

"Is that alright, darling? Tell me if it hurts," he murmured softly against her lips, feeling her body respond to his every movement. Her lips parted and she held her breath a moment as he slowly moved more.

"Don't stop," she whispered, running her fingers through his silky hair. He kissed her again and pressed into her more, suddenly meeting a resistance within her. He held her close and cradled her to him when he felt her body tense as she felt him press against the evidence of her purity.

"There you are sweetheart...sshhh, I got you, just relax." He looked in her gorgeous brown eyes and she nodded a little, trusting him with her vulnerability. He felt her tension melt away, allowing him to move deeper within her. He pressed on and his breath trembled when he felt the resistance give way and her eyes closed.

"Oh yes...that's it...Open your eyes beautiful, look at me." He said softly. She opened her eyes and bit her lip as he pushed into her slowly the rest of the way. She whined softly at his girth. She had never felt anything like it. The pain hadn't been as bad as she thought, just for a moment and it was gone. The fullness she felt now, it was foreign to her. He had stilled for a moment and kissed her tenderly.

"Hermione, you beautiful brave little witch," he spoke softly as he kissed her. Then he began to move again and suddenly she felt it...felt the pleasure began to ripple though her as he pressed in and pulled back again, slowly, methodically.

"That's it sweetheart...spread your legs more for me," his request was gentle...his words deep but soft caused an intense heat to pool in her belly. She had always loved his voice, but the way he spoke to her in bed was on a whole other level and yet it carried the same authority. She spread her legs more and he repositioned his hips moving deeper.

Her whimpers of pleasure and his own groans of satisfaction filled the room as they moved in unison, lost in the shared rhythm of their passion. The intimacy they shared was profound, a dance of desire and fulfillment that transcended all boundaries.

"Oh god," she whimpered. The pleasure began to fog her mind. How sexy he was, his voice, his entire being...the Potion Master she had longed for was making love to her...in his bed...she had wanted him for so long...she was in a dream.

"You like that darling?"

"Yes daddy," she words she had only ever uttered in her fantasies of him slipped from her mouth before she even realized she'd said it. He froze and his eyes widened looking down into hers. When he spoke next his voice had become deeper...bordering on a growl.

"Say that again."

A blush spread across her face realizing what she had said but more so, that he'd liked it.

"Yes daddy." She whispered.

He swallowed and groaned as he moved again, this time faster as her breathy whisper turned him on even more. He kissed her neck, hungry for the taste of her skin.

"Again." He growled nipping at her skin there pressing into her faster. She was breathing faster now. Her voice was becoming labored when she spoke again.

"Ye– Yes daddy,"

"That's right sweetheart...that's a good girl..." he kissed her roughly as he slowly slipped into a frenzy. Not a witch alive had ever uttered such a word in bed with him...it was a revolution to him, stirring a hunger he never knew existed.

Hermione's whimpers of pleasure filled the room as their lovemaking intensified. His eyes remained locked on hers, seeking the reflection of pleasure in her gaze as he drove into her with passion. In that moment, nothing else mattered - the war, Dumbledore, Voldemort, Hogwarts - all faded into oblivion as he connected with his beautiful witch.

Their bodies moved in synchrony, a dance of pleasure and desire. He sensed her nearing her peak, her body tightening around him inside responding to his every touch.

Wrapping his arm around her head cradling her he held her close, deepening their intimacy with a fervent kiss. Her hands caressed his sides, her breath quickening between their shared kisses.

"Severus," she whimpered urgently.

"That's its my dear...are you going to come for me?" He murmured softly. She could hardly speak now and nodded as she bit her lip.

"It's alright...you can come sweetheart..." he encouraged, increasing his pace as her body quivered with ecstasy. He kissed her softly over and over watching her fall apart beneath him. This tension inside him had built to a searing fire begging to be released.

"Come for me." His voice deep and husky.

And come she did. Her entire body trembled and her legs shook as she arched against him and let out a cry of ecstasy. He held her close feeling every little shudder and tremor in her body as she reached her peak. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers digging into his skin as her muscles tightened around him exquisitely...the intoxicating sensation pulling him right into his own climax with her.

"Oh gods," he groaned as the tension finally exploded in a moment of pure bliss that had him light headed as he released inside of her. His body shuddered and he let out a trembling breath as her body milked his throbbing cock.

"Fuck," his breath labored in a trembling exhale as he held her tight against him. His forehead pressed to hers for a moment, his eyes closed listening to her soft breaths as he waited for the fog of their passion to clear.

He allowed his body to relax against hers as their breathing slowed. He kissed her tenderly, each touch a silent expression of gratitude for her presence in his life. He caressed her face and stroked his fingers into her hairline softly.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?" he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness.

She smiled, a radiant glow illuminating her features.

"That was...amazing," she said with a shy smile. He chuckled softly and kissed her again.

"Indeed it was, my dear."

As they lay entwined, the outside world faded away, leaving only the two of them in a moment of pure connection and intimacy. He knew that he would have to visit with the Dark Lord this weekend, but for now, it was just him and his beautiful witch.

***

Chapter Text

In the quiet sanctuary of Severus's bedroom, he lay tangled in the sheets, Hermione nestled against him. The morning sun tiptoed through the threadbare curtains, casting a warm glow upon their entwined forms.

Severus's fingers traced the contours of her back, the delicate curve of her spine as if her skin was a canvas of secrets. He marveled at the softness of her, the way her breaths synced with his, as if they were two halves of a forbidden whole.

The night before lingered in his mind...the taste of her lips like a clandestine potion, brewed in the shadows, its potency intoxicating. He had never imagined a life under Voldemort could coexist with such tenderness, but Hermione defied all expectations.

As they lay there, the world outside ceased to exist. The war, the Dark Lord's machinations...they were distant echoes. Instead, Severus focused on the rise and fall of her chest, the rhythm of her heartbeat against his palm. She was both sanctuary and temptation, a paradox he couldn't resist.

They had cooked together, the scent of spices and shared laughter filling the small kitchen. Hermione's eyes sparkled as she recounted tales of her Muggle upbringing, of books and science experiments, of dreams that transcended the castle walls. He listened, enraptured, as if her words held the key to a future he dared not imagine.

He shifted, pulling Hermione closer. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she nestled into his embrace, her breath warm against his chest. He buried his nose in her hair, a cascade of silky strands that tickled his cheek as he inhaled the fragrance deeply. His arms encircled her, drawing her close as if he could shield her from the chaos of the outside world. As he ran his hands down her smooth body, he couldn't help but feel a familiar stir within him, memories of their passionate encounter from the day before flooding his mind.

Hermione stirred as she felt his warm kisses on her neck and his fiery touch against her skin. She groaned softly, pressing her body back against his, the undeniable hardness of his arousal pressing against her.

"Good morning, sweetheart," his deep, husky voice whispered against her ear.

"Good morning," she replied playfully, turning to look over her shoulder as she pressed herself against him once more.

Severus groaned, pulling her even closer as he nibbled on her earlobe.

"You have no idea the effect you have on me, witch," he murmured softly, his hands exploring her body with a gentle touch. A soft whimper escaped her lips as she trembled under his caress.

The intimate moment was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a ghostly blue phoenix into the room. Severus's eyes widened in surprise, and he instinctively threw the blankets over Hermione, although it made no difference. It was only a patronus - Dumbledore's patronus.

"Severus, I require a moment of your time when you're able to return to Hogwarts," the Phoenix spoke in Dumbledore's distinctive voice, delivering the message before vanishing with a graceful flight back through the wall.

Severus gritted his teeth as he pulled the blankets off Hermione's head. "He does have impeccable timing," he muttered irritably as he pushed the covers off himself and rose from the bed, grumbling as he made his way to the bathroom. Hermione couldn't help but cover her mouth to stifle a giggle.

A few minutes later, Severus returned and sat on the edge of the bed next to Hermione, gently caressing her face as he spoke softly.

"Will you stay? You can sleep in. Merlin knows what he needs, but it shouldn't take long."

Hermione smiled and nodded. "Of course. You'll probably find me later in the garden or poking around in your books if that's alright."

He returned her smile warmly. "Anything in the living room or my room is fair game. Just don't touch anything in the basement. That's my workspace, and I can't guarantee your safety without me there."

Leaning down, he kissed her forehead before softly pressing his lips to hers. Then, he moved to the closet to dress in his full robes once again, captivating Hermione with his every movement. She never imagined she would find herself lying in Professor Snape's bed, watching him dress. She felt like the luckiest witch in the world.

Using his wand in a swift motion to button up his coat, Hermione noted that it was much more enjoyable when she unbuttoned it by hand, but she understood the practicality of his method. There were quite a few buttons to fasten, after all.

"It is not polite to stare, Miss Granger," Severus chided playfully as he straightened his clothing.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't be so sexy... Professor," she teased, causing him to wince at the use of his title, knowing he had brought it upon himself by addressing her as Miss Granger.

"You're still as cheeky as ever, aren't you?" he remarked with a smirk, to which she simply smiled and shrugged. As Severus made his way towards the door, he paused and turned back to Hermione.

"Did you just call me... sexy?"

Hermione nearly burst out laughing at the confusion evident in his expression. "Yes... I did," she replied with a chuckle, enjoying the playful banter. Severus's lip curled in amusement as he turned back around and headed down the hallway.

"Silly little witch," he mumbled under his breath as he made his way out of the room.

Headmasters Office

"There isn't much that can be done at this point I'm afraid Headmaster...you had to have known it was cursed, did you not? Why, in Merlin's name would you have touched it?"

Severus stood in the Headmasters office holding Dumbledore's hand...blackened from a dark spreading curse.

"A moment of foolish curiosity I'm afraid...it was a well made duplicate of the Gaunt Ring...I found it buried at the old Gaunt home yesterday...it can only mean Voldemort is in possession of the real one and it is likely a Horcrux."

Severus raised an eyebrow feigning surprise. Although he hadn't known the specifics he did know that Voldemort had begun collecting his Horcuxes almost immediately upon his return.

"I see." He drawled as he lowered the headmasters hand.

"How much time do I have Severus," the headmaster asked, seemingly unaffected by the news of the incurable curse that he had contracted from the ring as he popped a lemon drop in his mouth leaning back in his chair.

Severus paused to consider it.

"Maybe months Headmaster...I wish there was more that I could do," he said softly in a practiced tone of concern. In fact, he felt no sympathy for the man any longer. Not after the truth had all been revealed to him. Dumbledore sighed.

"It seems all our efforts at recovering more of Voldemorts Horcruxes have been thwarted so far...Hadria defecting to Voldemorts side it seems has given him the upper hand in this war. The ministry has finally acknowledged Voldemort's return...but the raid they did on the Manor last night revealed nothing."

Severus took a breath before speaking.

"No, they'll not find anything. The manor is too large, several ancient wards in place and they have parts of it under a Fidelius Charm. Not even I am privy to where Voldemort and Potter are being hidden away...his trust after the first war was shattered. There is much he doesn't divulge these days unless absolutely necessary."

Dumbledore nodded.

"When the time comes I suppose you will be my successor...Severus. Just promise me one thing...do everything you can to keep the students safe."

Severus nods, agreeing with this sentiment. He hopes that he can keep this promise.

"Don't forget Headmaster...she did get him to agree not to kill or torture anyone based on blood status alone. And they'll make efforts not to kill when the time comes...it is...possible to avoid to deaths..though I know that won't be enough for some. They won't give up without a fight."

The headmaster looked away then, seemingly frustrated for the first time.

"There is no reason to believe he will keep any such promises Severus. This is an evil man...he isn't capable of restraint or mercy...the only way to beat him is to destroy him."

Severus looked down in thought. The truth was the Order was at a complete disadvantage. Voldemort had already managed to recover most of his Horcruxes and he was gaining followers quickly...some willingly, some by way of the Imperius.

"There has to be a way to draw him out of hiding." Dumbledore mused.

"Even if we managed it, his Horcruxes are mostly intact...he cannot be destroyed...and he intends to keep Hadria close at his side...his movements used to be driven by arrogance...however, his tactics have changed."

Dumbledore stood and walked over to the window in his office and stood looking out of it with his hands behind his back.

"I had hoped to see an end to this during my lifetime...but it seems, with Hadria at his side he has managed to do the impossible Severus. He is always one step ahead of our efforts...We have word that Amelia Bones was found murdered this morning."

Severus hadn't heard about Madam Bones, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. However, it made sense that Voldemort would see to it she was out of the picture. She was too loyal to ever pledge her allegiance to him so she was have made a poor ministry puppet. If Voldemort had approached her she would have unleashed on him with murderous intent. In the end, her valor was her downfall. For Voldemort had only promised not to spill magical blood if it could be avoided. However, Amelia had been a very strong and gifted witch and certainly wouldn't bend the knee without a strong fight.

"That is...most unfortunate. Who will be her replacement?" Severus asked.

"Likely Pius Thicknesse...I'm not sure whose side he's on. There are whispers of many turning loyal to Voldemort within the ministry. He has even managed to sway the loyalty of the centaurs with promises of expanding their territory and influence."

Severus couldn't ignore the validity of Dumbledore's observations. Severus had discussed it with Voldemort not too long again during one of his visits to the manor. The Dark Lord's newfound interest in diplomacy and engagement, particularly with the centaurs, showcased a remarkable departure from his previous methods.

While Voldemort refrained from acknowledging external influences, Severus couldn't help but suspect that Hadria's subtle guidance played a pivotal role in these strategic alterations. It was becoming increasingly evident to Severus that Dumbledore's perceptions of Voldemort were outdated. While he may still have a ruthless side when needed and maintained his blood purists ideals; the Dark Lord was undergoing a positive evolution, demonstrating adaptability, and a newfound sense of progress that hinted at a brighter future, at least compared to what the old Voldemort would have seen to. He had shown mercy to Hermione even...the simple fact of the matter was, Voldemort was changing.

Chapter Text

Hadria was sitting at her desk engrossed in school work when Voldemort finally showed back up late that morning. He had been gone that night dealing with some ministry business he had said. She turned from her work smiling but her smile quickly faded to an expression of concern when she saw that he was injured. He held a hand to his bloodied robes with an annoyed look which only got worse when he saw the look in her eye.

"Don't look at me like that, Hadria...I'm fine," he snapped, his walking past her toward the bathroom. His annoyance was palpable, but she couldn't tear her gaze away. She followed him, her defiance unyielding.

"Let me look at it," she said insistently with her wand already drawn. He sighed reluctantly and moved his hand looking away. She could see burn marks on his robes and a cut in the blood soaked material. She worked to open his robes and assessed his injury. Her anger flared when she saw the deep slash and the burn marks on his torso.

"Gods...baby, who did this to you?" Her voice trembled with concern as she worked her healing magic that she'd been practicing. The incantations flowed from her lips, weaving threads of light into his torn flesh. He winced, unaccustomed to such care. For him, vulnerability was a foreign territory. He looked away uncomfortably while she worked.

"I paid a visit to the Head of the Department of Magical Enforcement," he explained, his irritation evident. "We need that position filled by someone loyal to our cause. The current witch is too entrenched in the light. When I confronted her, she attacked. She was...a formidable opponent, I'll admit."

Hadria raised an eyebrow, her amusement bubbling forth. "Was?"

Voldemort's lips curved into a rare smile.

"Indeed, my dear. I survived, as you can see. Death holds no allure for me...I've danced that waltz before."

Hadria's wand danced across the fabric of reality, weaving threads of magic into the very sinews of Voldemort's wounded form. Her emotions surged...a potent blend of happiness and vindication. She hadn't cared who had harmed him; her anger had been primal, instinctual. And now, hearing that the witch responsible lay dead, she felt a twisted sense of satisfaction.

"Good," she murmured, her voice steady as she worked. Voldemort observed her with curiosity, his blue eyes tracing her movements. His little witch was evolving, embracing her darker instincts. The transformation excited him...the way her power bloomed like a forbidden flower in the moonlight.

"You're quite good at that, my dear," he acknowledged, pride glinting in his gaze. "Has magic always come so easily for you?"

Hadria pondered his question. "Well...no, actually. It was never terribly difficult, and I was better than the average witch. But since I've been with you, I feel...stronger. It comes more naturally."

His smiled down at her feeling pride in her abilities. He had also experienced a feeling of increased power.

"Amelia Bones was an exceptionally gifted witch. When she attacked me, I deflected, of course. But when she wounded me, I retaliated...I felt more powerful...subtle, yet undeniable."

She put her wand away, wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him softly. "I'm just glad you're alright."

His lips met hers, and he pulled her close. His touch was both possessive and tender, fingers threading through her hair.

"You've nothing to worry about, my sweet girl. With you at my side, I am more powerful than ever." He thought for a moment before he posed a question. "I wonder...are you ready to wear my mark?"

Her grin was wicked, eyes alight with anticipation.

"Of course I will." The Dark Mark...a brand of loyalty and possession...was a symbol of their entwined destinies. She had waited for this moment, craving the connection it would forge. To belong to him, body and soul, was a choice she made willingly.

His smile widened and his heart soared when she agreed. The thought of compelling her had crossed his mind but to have her agree so willingly to wear his mark touched him on a deeper level than even he understood. Within the caverns of his heart, a warmth spread...an unfamiliar ember in the abyss. For a man who had wielded fear as his weapon, this new level of fondness was both unsettling and intoxicating. But as he so often did, when it came to her, he accepted it.

"Let's shower my dear, I will be calling a meeting after we've cleaned up," he headed to the shower and disrobed. Hadria did the same joining him in the hot steamy shower. It had become a bit of a ritual for them in the shower. He would help her wash and condition her long hair and she would usually wash his body. It wasn't something they discussed, it just happened that way and they continued it. He found a certain comfort in having her wash him. She made him feel like a true king.

He closed his eyes as she cleaned him.

"Your little friend will be here today...I sent notice to Severus to bring her when I call the meeting."

Hadria smiled, her eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Oh I can't wait to see her. I wonder if she and Severus have...well...you know," Hadria said with a blush.

Voldemort chuckled and helped her rinse the shampoo from her hair and then conditioned it.

"Severus was a love starved man for years...I don't imagine he would have held out much longer. Although, he does have the restraint of a nun. I watched him turn down many opportunities to bed a witch during my first reign. But I never saw him show any interest in a witch besides your mother until that little one came along. Of course, I can't say I know what he's been up to while I was gone but from what I understand he's avoided romance."

"So you have something in common," Hadria teased, her voice light and playful as she looked over her shoulder at him. His narrowed eyes held a hint of amusement.

"There is a difference though... I didn't avoid it...I simply never had an interest before you," Voldemort's words carried a weight of truth, a vulnerability that only she seemed to evoke in him.

"Ah, so you admit what we have is a romance," Hadria's smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she met his gaze. The banter between them was a dance of wit and desire, each word laden with unspoken tension.

Feeling her hair being tugged gently, Hadria was pulled closer to him, the warmth of his body enveloping her from behind. Voldemort's smirk spoke of hidden desires and a possessiveness that sent shivers down her spine.

"Don't get too cocky, darling, or I'll remind you who's in charge," his voice was a low purr in her ear, the dominance in his tone sending a thrill through her. The line between challenge and intimacy blurred in the steam-filled shower, a silent battle of wills playing out between them.

"You can't threaten me with a good time," Hadria retorted, a playful giggle escaping her lips before she found herself pinned against the cool shower wall, the contrast of sensations sending a thrill through her.

"Is that so?" Voldemort's voice dripped with danger, his grip firm yet possessive as he explored her body with a hunger that ignited a fire within her. The intensity between them was a heady mix of dominance and submission, each feather lite caress against the tender flesh of her apex pushing the boundaries of pleasure.

As he teased and pleasured her, Hadria's breath hitched in anticipation, her body responding to his every touch with a primal need. The raw desire that simmered between them was undeniable, a magnetic pull that drew them closer.

"I do believe you enjoy being dominated, my dear," Voldemort's words brushed against her skin like a whisper, his actions speaking louder than any declaration of love.

"But since you asked so nicely for a reminder...let me indulge you."

"Yes, please," Hadria's soft plea was met with a growl of approval from Voldemort, his words a seductive promise of carnal delights yet to come. The way he possessed her, body and soul, filled her with a heady mix of surrender and empowerment.

Her gasp of pleasure filled the steamy air as he entered her from behind, a slow and deliberate joining that sent waves of ecstasy through her. The rhythm of their bodies moving in unison echoed the deep connection they shared, a symphony of passion and desire that knew no bounds.

"Gods I love when you beg for my cock...and you take it...so well sweet girl..."his words punctuated by the movement of his hips.

With each thrust, each whispered endearment, Hadria felt herself teetering on the edge of euphoria, her senses overwhelmed by the intensity of their union. The dichotomy of dominance and tenderness in Voldemort's touch left her trembling with a need she couldn't deny.

It wasn't long before he held her to him tight as they both reached their peak followed by tender kisses as they washed again. Voldemort hated to ever feel attached to anything but he could not deny his attachment to this beautiful little witch. And now she was about to take his mark as well. The warmth inside of him continued to grow as he looked down at her with pure adoration.

Chapter Text

The grand dining hall of Malfoy Manor lay shrouded in an eerie afternoon light. The air, thick with anticipation. The long, polished table awaited its guests...the Death Eaters, loyal to the Dark Lord. As they filed into the dining hall for the meeting Hadria was leaned into Voldemort's side, he wore a subtle smile as she whispered to him. His eyes followed the procession of those entering as he grazed her cheek with the back of his long pale fingers, the touch both possessive and tender. He turned to her, kissing her gently and whispered back to her.

Bellatrix took a seat further down the table to avoid having to look at them. Voldemort noticed the way she had distanced herself.

He chuckled, low and amused. Her behavior around the manor since she'd returned had been peculiar. He'd half expected her to try to seek him out but she'd actually remained rather aloof seemingly avoiding him. He suspected she was up to something knowing how her vindictive mind works. However, there were more important things to worry about than the petty jealousy brewing in the scorned witch.

Severus, entered next, his hand resting possessively on the small of Hermione's back. Hadria smiled at Hermione, a silent welcome to her friend. She respected her courage as she returned the smile, her eyes gleamed with curiosity and trepidation.

Bellatrix, ever the viper, snarled as Hermione passed. Her disdain was palpable. Severus shot her a warning glance.

"Mind your manners, Bellatrix," Severus muttered, his voice a silk-edged blade. He took the seat closest to Voldemort...an unspoken seat of power. Hermione settled beside him, her fingers tracing the edge of the table. Severus patted her leg in a comforting manner discreetly to calm the nerves he knew she was hiding.

Hadria noticed that Draco was also present sitting next to his father. She had seen him a few times around the manor but he spent alot of his time with his girlfriend, Astoria. She knew he also did tasks for Voldemort at times as well. Draco noticed her look his way and gave her a subtle nod. Since coming to their side Draco had regarded her with much more respect than he had in the past. She wasn't sure if it was genuine reverence or simply fear of the Dark Lord...perhaps both.

Voldemort smiled a bit looking at the full table, the room growing silent as they waited his command.

"My friends," Voldemort's voice slithered through the room like a serpent, "we have much to discuss today." His gaze lingered on the potions master. "But first, I'm to understand...Severus has a bit of good news for us."

Severus inclined his head, his black eyes devoid of emotion. "Indeed, my lord," he began, addressing the room in his usual detached tone.

"Dumbledore attempted to collect an artifact from the old Gaunt home...a relic cursed by our master himself. The old wizard now suffers in a weakened state. The curse festers in his hand and is spreading. He sought my assistance, and I obliged. I slowed its progression, but ultimately..." Severus paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "He will perish from this curse. Perhaps months remain."

The Death Eaters exchanged glances, their lips curling into cruel smiles. Dumbledore, the lead of the Order, weakened and vulnerable....it was a victory, a step closer to their dark dominion.

"Yes, very good news," Voldemort's voice sliced through the air, his blue eyes locking onto Draco. The young man squirmed under the scrutiny, his fingers drumming across the surface the table. "The old vanishing cabinet is still in the Room of Requirement, yes?"

Draco's response was a stammered affirmation. "Yes, my lord. I've ensured it is there. Though it needs some repairs."

Voldemort's nod was imperceptible, a silent acknowledgment. "I trust you will see to this, Draco. We will need this to gain entry into the school."

Determination flickered in Draco's eyes, a spark of resolve. "Yes, my lord," he replied, his voice steadier now. The cabinet...a conduit between worlds...held the promise of their victory, a passage that would allow their forces to infiltrate Hogwarts.

The Dark Lord rose from his seat, the hem of his robes brushing the cold floor. His footsteps echoed as he circled the room, each measured stride a testament to his power. His words hung like a shroud, weaving a web of destiny.

"As many of you may know," Voldemort continued, his gaze sweeping over the masked faces, "the disgraced Minister Fudge has stepped down from his position. Replaced by Rufus Scrimgeour, ex-Head Auror." His lips twisted in disdain. "He is no friend to our cause."

The Death Eaters leaned forward, hungry for information. The ministry...their ultimate prize...loomed on the horizon, a fortress of bureaucracy and influence. Voldemort's plan was meticulous, threads woven through the fabric of power.

"Once the cabinet is complete," he murmured, "we will organize a takeover of both the ministry and the school. The right people are in place, waiting for that day."

Scrimgeour would fall, a pawn in their game of shadows. But Voldemort's gaze shifted, settling on Bellatrix. Her devotion was unwavering, her loyalty absolute. She had danced on the edge of madness, her soul consumed by the Dark Lord's allure. And yet, he cared little for her. She was a tool, a means to an end.

"Bella, my dear," he purred, bending down to meet her eyes. Her pupils dilated, a moth drawn to the flame. "I have a task for you." His fingers brushed her cheek, a fleeting touch. As soon as she heard his voice, her defenses crumbled, and hope flared within her.

She is so pathetically easy to manipulate with just a little attention...

He smiled amusedly.

"Yes, my lord?" Bellatrix's voice dripped with a hint of flirtation, a dangerous dance that played out between them. The room crackled with tension...the unspoken rivalry between two women...Hadria's glare from the other end of the table was a silent warning, a reminder that she saw through the charade. Voldemort's manipulation was transparent, yet it cut no less deeply.

"Miss Charity Burbage," Voldemort's tone turned venomous, "the Muggle Studies teacher at the school, has been corrupting the minds of our youth. Teaching them that Muggles are not so bad, not so different." His lip curled in disdain, and the Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably.

"She even suggested that we should...mate with them." The words hung in the air, a blasphemy that offended their very essence.

Bellatrix's eyes widened, her devotion unwavering. She clung to every syllable.

"Take whoever you need with you," Voldemort continued, his voice a velvet whisper, "and pay Miss Burbage a visit. Let us show her and others what happens when one strays from our path. Ensure she does not return to Hogwarts." His gaze bore into her, a promise and a threat.

"You may toy with her at your discretion but do keep her alive, my dear."

"Yes, my lord," Bellatrix's reply was a seductive murmur. She would carry out his command, relish the violence, and savor the taste of power.

He regarded her for a moment and smiled before walking away. Hadria would not be pleased but she would know it was simply his tactics, he had told her before the meeting that he planned to do it...he still required the witches loyalty and Bellatrix was so deeply entrenched in her obsession with him that she was blind to the truth. He reveled in the ease with which he exerted control over her.

Voldemort handed out a few other tasks to some of the other Death Eaters before making his way back to Hadria's side.

"Now then, the last order of business today will be induction of a few worthy followers into our ranks...Beginning with Draco," Voldemort's voice sliced through the tension, "you have long shown your loyalty and devotion. A desire to become a Death Eater burns within you...Come."

His gaze bore into Draco, who stood, spine straight, eyes fixed on his father. Pride radiated from Lucius Malfoy, a silent affirmation.

Draco approached the Dark Lord, cautious steps echoing. Voldemort extended his hand...a gesture both regal and ominous.

"Hold out your left arm, Draco," he commanded softly. The room held its breath as Draco complied, revealing the pale expanse of skin.
Voldemort's wand glimmered, its tip tracing patterns against his skin.

"Serpentum Obscurus," he hissed in Parseltongue. The wand blazed with an eerie green light, and Draco clenched his teeth against the pain. The Dark Mark...the emblem of their allegiance...etched itself onto his inner arm. It was not a grand ritual, no sacrificial flames or incantations. Instead, it was a searing brand...a connection forged in agony.

Hermione Granger watched, mesmerized. The process defied her expectations. She had imagined ancient runes, secret chants, but this simplicity...the raw magic...stunned her.

Voldemort's sadistic smile held a promise...power, belonging, and the price paid in flesh.

A tear threatened to fall, but Draco endured. The Dark Mark was complete, and Voldemort released his arm.

"Wear it proudly...you've earned it," the Dark Lord murmured. Draco returned to his seat, marked and transformed. Lucius's nod spoke volumes...a father's pride in his son's dark ascent.

Voldemort looked down to Hadria and gestured for her to stand with him. She rose and went to his side.

Voldemort stands before his loyal Death Eaters, their eyes fixed upon him. The air is heavy with anticipation, and the Dark Mark etched on their forearms seems to pulse in rhythm with their collective breaths.

He gazes at Hadria, her eyes a reflection of both courage and vulnerability. She stands by his side, her presence a paradox...a beacon of light in the abyss of his existence. He clears his throat, his voice echoing through the room:

"My loyal followers, now we gather not to revel in darkness, but to witness...a union...a fusion of our cause and the unexpected. Hadria Potter, once an adversary, now stands among us. She has seen the depths of our malevolence, yet she remains unyielding. Her terms were simple: no blood purity vendettas, no needless deaths. And in return, she pledged her allegiance."
The Death Eaters exchange glances, murmurs rippling through their ranks. Some wear skepticism like armor, while others harbor curiosity.

Voldemort continues. "Hadria," he turns to her, his piercing blue eyes locking onto hers, "you have become more than an ally. You are my equal...the delicate balance between night and day. Your light pierces my darkness...tempers my wrath yet your inner darkness strengthens me. Together, we are a paradox...a forbidden harmony."

Hadria's hand trembles slightly as he takes her left hand in his but she stands resolute. Voldemort's words weave a spell around her heart, and she knows that this moment transcends mere magic.

"Today," Voldemort's voice resonates, "I bestow upon Hadria a mark...a mark that binds us beyond loyalty, beyond servitude. It is not the Dark Mark of fear, but a mark of shared existence. A mark that whispers of...adoration, loyalty and sacrifice."

He raises his wand, and the room holds its breath as he pulls up his own sleeve as well...Hadria's eye twitched with uncertainty not yet understanding his gesture...the tip glows, casting eerie shadows on the walls as he begins. The incantation a hypnotic hiss.

"Serpentum Aeternum."

The air shivers, and the mark begins to emerge...a serpent and skull, akin to those etched on other Death Eaters, yet more refined, delicate. Threads of silver and green weave through the design, softening its malevolence. It blooms on Hadria's arm, and simultaneously, on his own. Their pain intertwines...a testament to their union. The Death Eaters watch in shocked fascination; he is marking himself as well, something he has never done.

"Hadria," Voldemort's voice trembles, "this mark is not just a brand...It is a promise...a beacon...When you call, I will come. When I summon, you will heed. Our souls, forever linked." His deep tone masks the pain mirrored in her eyes, yet it sends pleasurable shivers up her spine. She holds his gaze, breathless, desire simmering beneath the surface. They share a heated moment, a forbidden connection.

He grins, a wicked glimmer in his eyes, and winks at her before turning to the Death Eaters. Their gazes fix upon the twin marks...their significance etched into their collective consciousness. Voldemort's words are commanding, fierce.

"Witness this union," he declares. "Understand its significance. Hadria Potter is not merely an ally; she is my equilibrium...my Dark Lady. Her inner light will guide us, and her mercy will temper our wrath. She embodies our paradox...her darkness strengthens my power, while her light shapes our influence. Protect her...as you would protect me."

The Death Eaters rose, their movements synchronized...a testament to their unwavering loyalty. Even Bellatrix, tugged by the currents of their collective reverence, stood and bowed. Hadria's fingers brushed the Dark Mark...the warmth of their shared existence pulsing beneath her skin. She met Voldemort's gaze, a new sense of belonging settling within her. Emotions swirled...an intricate tapestry woven from darkness and light.

He stepped closer, drawing her into his orbit. His whispered Parseltongue caressed her lips before claiming her mouth entirely.

"Hadria," his voice trembled against her skin, "my sweet, beautiful witch...I adore you...more than you know."

Chapter Text

After the meeting Lucius had suggested a small impromptu gathering on the patio to celebrate the new members and the progress they had made. Voldemort agreed when he saw Hadria's smile at the idea of having time to visit with her friend. Most of the Death Eaters remained and headed out to the patio as well. It was a lovely evening to relax outside. A fountain nearby bubbled a soft melody as everyone mingled and relaxed in the quiet warm evening under a blanket of stars overlooking the gardens.

As they settled in the elves appeared...silent attendants, their eyes knowing. Trays of delicate snacks materialized...crystallized fruits, spiced nuts, and tiny pastries. Wine flowed, crimson and rich, in crystal goblets. The clink of glass against glass punctuated the quietude, a toast to survival and ambition.

Hadria sat on the low wall overlooking the garden as she talked to Hermione. Voldemort and Severus stood by listening as Hadria retold the story of the Dementors to Hermione.

"...I couldn't get my Patronus charm to work for some reason. I suppose nerves got me...they were closing in and suddenly there was darkness," Hadria said, her gaze shifting to Voldemort. His blue eyes held hers, a silent acknowledgment. "But it was him. He swooped down, shielding me from the Dementors. He commanded them to leave, and they obeyed. He saved me."

Hermione's eyes widened. She had heard tales of Voldemort's cruelty, his insatiable hunger for power. But this...this was different. A hero emerging from the shadows, a savior with blood-stained hands.

Voldemort's lips curved into a rare smile. "You make me out to be a hero, my dear."

Voldemort regarded her warmly, the flicker of nearby torchlights dancing across her skin, the way her fingers brushed against her wineglass.

Hadria's amusement danced in her eyes. "Well, you are to me," she replied, unyielding. Her loyalty was unwavering, her heart entangled in the dark magic that bound them. Hermione smiled as she stood by Severus.

The elves moved silently, refilling glasses, their eyes reflecting their decades of servitude. The fountain's song continued...a melody of forgotten dreams and forbidden desires.

Hermione's curiosity danced in her eyes as she sipped her wine. "That's quite a story...thank goodness he was there to save you. Have you tried casting it again?"

Hadria pondered for a moment, her fingers tracing the familiar contours of her wand. "Well, no," she replied, her voice laced with determination.

"But I'm sure it was just nerves. Here, let's try." She stood, wand poised toward the lush green lawn. Voldemort observed, his deep blue gaze unyielding. It was the one thing he'd never been able to master...the elusive Patronus charm...which requires thoughts of happiness to cast.

"Come on, Hermione, do it with me," Hadria urged, her laughter infectious. Hermione obliged, wand at the ready.

"Alright, together."

"Expecto Patronum!"

In a shimmer of magic, Hadria's white arctic fox materialized, darting playfully around Hermione's otter. The girls giggled, their spirits lifted by the ethereal creatures dancing in the moonlight. But Hadria's curiosity lingered.

"My lord," she addressed Voldemort, her smile genuine, "what is yours?"

Voldemort's smile held a touch of melancholy.

"My dear," he said softly, "I cannot cast a Patronus. My soul is far too fractured and dark for such a charm." His gaze followed the spectral forms, their blue luminescence weaving patterns in the night.

Hadria's soft words hung in the air like a fragile spell, weaving threads of possibility. "You should try. Perhaps...perhaps things have changed," she murmured, her eyes fixed on Voldemort. His smile, a rare occurrence, danced on the edge of acceptance.

"You'll be sorely disappointed, my dear," Voldemort replied, his voice a whisper of shadows. "But if it would make you happy to see me try, then I shall."

He set down his wine glass, bone-white wand in hand. Hadria stepped closer, her touch gentle yet insistent. She took his arm, her gaze unyielding.

"Think of whatever it is that brings you the most happiness," she instructed, her palm resting over his heart. "It can be anything... whatever makes you feel good...in here." Her words resonated, a plea to unlock the hidden chambers of his soul. Voldemort regarded her curiously, then nodded...a silent agreement between darkness and light.

Severus Snape and Hermione Granger stood nearby, curiosity etched into their expressions. Other Death Eaters, too, had noticed the shift...the moment when the Dark Lord would attempt the impossible.

"Expecto Patronum," he rasped, and the world shifted. Before them materialized a great dark blue dire wolf...an ancient creature, its presence both haunting and majestic. Even Voldemort's blue eyes widened in disbelief. The wolf snarled at Hadria's white arctic fox, and for a heartbeat, the air crackled with tension.

But then something extraordinary happened. The fox, playful and nimble, nipped at the wolf's feet. They circled each other, a dance of opposites and began to play...the fire and ice of their existence. Fear and loyalty collided, and the garden held its breath.

"My lord," Severus broke the silence, his voice edged with curiosity, "a dire wolf...it's intriguing."

Voldemort remained silent, torn between worlds. The dire wolf...an echo of legends, a relic of forgotten times...stood before him. Its very essence invoked fear, yet it also symbolized strength and protection...a leader of packs...

A paradox, as it frolicked with the arctic fox, like the intertwining of light and shadow.

Hermione's gaze lingered on the spectral creatures. "The white arctic fox and the dark dire wolf," she mused aloud. "Cleverness and resilience versus ancient power and fear. Opposites, yet when intertwined, they find balance."

Hadria and Voldemort stood at the heart of this enigma...their souls entangled, their destinies woven. The blue specters finally faded, leaving behind a quiet revelation. Hermione's smile held the weight of understanding.

"They're perfect together," she said, her eyes shifting between Hadria and Voldemort. The Dark Lord remained contemplative, grappling with newfound vulnerability.

Hadria's curiosity hung in the air like a delicate spell, weaving threads of vulnerability.

"What did you think about?" she asked Voldemort, her voice soft, her eyes searching. His gaze finally descended to meet hers, and in that moment, warmth flickered...a fragile ember in the abyss.

He pulled her close, enfolding her in his arms...the Dark Lord, the enigma, the fractured soul. His lips brushed her ear, and his whispered words carried a weight beyond magic.

"I thought of you, sweet girl."

Surprise danced across Hadria's features. She looked up at him, her smile a ethereal bloom in the twilight. And then, he kissed her...softly, as if tasting eternity. Hermione Granger, ever the observer, couldn't tear her eyes away. She saw it...the unspoken truth etched in their shared breaths, the way their souls gravitated toward each other.

Love. It was love, veiled in shadows, forbidden yet undeniable. Hadria and Voldemort...two sides of a fractured coin, drawn together by fate or folly. Hermione wondered if they knew it...the gravity of their connection, the bridge spanning light and darkness.

Severus Snape, standing sentinel, held Hermione's hand. His gaze shifted between the lovers, dissecting the layers. He saw beyond sentimentality, beyond softness. To him, Voldemort wasn't a man softened; he was a predator sharpened. The same ambitions, the same desires...unchanged. But now, there was more...a vulnerability created by his affections that made him both formidable and fragile.

Severus knew then, with a certainty that cut through the night, that if anyone dared harm Hadria, he would unleash hell upon them. The beast within Voldemort remained, dormant yet potent. The dire wolf...the ancient symbol of power and fear...still prowled in his veins. But Hadria...the white arctic fox...was the key. She kept the beast tamed, its fangs turned inward.

Something about seeing Voldemort...happy...brought hope...a glimmer of light in the darkest night. But Severus knew that hope could be treacherous. With more to protect, Voldemort might be more dangerous than ever...yet he couldn't deny the possibility that this unexpected connection might truly be a blessing in disguise. The Dark Lord, once the embodiment of malevolence and cruelty, now stood softened by love.

Chapter Text

***

"Again!" Voldemort's command sliced through the crisp morning air, echoing with a tone of ironclad authority. Voldemort had begun gathering the Death Eaters twice a week for duel training. So that very morning after their coffee over simmering potions in the cellar he had whisked her away for yet another session.

The meadow near Malfoy Manor was shrouded in a mist that seemed to whisper of dark secrets and forbidden magic. Hadria Potter, once the beacon of hope for the light, now stood as a testament to the allure of power. Her eyes, an ocean of blue, flickered with an inner fire as she faced her opponent.

Travers, a seasoned Death Eater, regarded her with a mix of respect and something more insidious. His gaze lingered a moment too long, a smirk playing on his lips as he anticipated the thrill of the duel. Voldemort watched from the sidelines, his interest piqued not just by the display of skill, but by the undercurrents of tension that charged the air. He wasn't sure if he cared for the way the man was looking at her but he said nothing.

The duel resumed with a ferocity that matched the rising sun. Travers unleashed a barrage of curses, each more vicious than the last, but Hadria was a tempest, her movements fluid and precise. She parried and countered, her wand an extension of her will, a conduit for her newfound darkness.

With each spell cast, the meadow became a stage for their deadly dance. The grass, still wet with dew, bore the scars of their magical onslaught. Hadria advanced, her spells carving through the air with lethal intent. Travers, fueled by a mix of desire and desperation, met her attacks with equal fervor.

The clash of their magic was a symphony of chaos, a testament to the power that coursed through Hadria's veins. She was no longer the girl who had lived, but a force of nature, reshaped by the dark arts and the intoxicating influence of the Dark Lord himself.

As the duel reached its crescendo, Hadria's final spell broke through Travers' defenses. The impact sent him flying, his body a ragdoll tossed by the sheer force of her magic. He landed with a thud, the ground trembling beneath him.

Voldemort's applause broke the silence, a slow, deliberate clapping that resonated with pride. Hadria turned to face him, her chest heaving with exertion, her eyes alight with triumph.

Voldemort's gaze shifted to Bellatrix, a silent command hanging in the air. She stepped forward, her own eyes gleaming with a volatile mix of desire and envy. The circle of Death Eaters tightened around them, a collective breath held in anticipation.

Hadria felt the familiar thrill of battle surge within her, the power of the dark arts pulsing at her fingertips. Bellatrix's mocking smile only stoked the flames of her determination. They bowed, a customary gesture belying the enmity that crackled between them.

Bellatrix wasted no time, her wand slashing through the air, releasing a hex that was as vile as it was unexpected. Hadria stumbled, caught off guard, but the darkness within her roared to life, eager to retaliate. She straightened, her counterattack not just a spell but a declaration of her newfound might.

The duel was a tempest of spells and counter spells, each combatant a mirror of the other's ferocity. Bellatrix, driven by jealousy, fought with a wild abandon, her spells a reflection of her turbulent emotions. Hadria, on the other hand, channeled her rage into precision and power, her spells a symphony of destruction.

They moved like dancers in a deadly ballet, their wands directing the flow of the battle. The air crackled with energy, the ground scorched by the fury of their magic. Hadria's spells were a relentless onslaught, each one more inventive and devastating than the last.

Bellatrix, for all her experience, found herself on the defensive, her spells dissipating against Hadria's relentless assault. The older witch's face twisted in frustration as she realized the tables had turned. Hadria was no longer the girl to be underestimated; she was a force to be reckoned with.

As the duel reached its zenith, Hadria unleashed a spell of such power that it seemed to tear the very air apart. Bellatrix's shield shattered under the impact, and she was thrown back, her body wracked with the force of Hadria's magic.

The Death Eaters erupted into murmurs of awe and fear, their eyes fixed on Hadria as she stood victorious. Voldemort's smile was one of dark approval, his nod an acknowledgment of her supremacy.

Hadria's heart pounded with the thrill of victory, her breaths coming in short gasps. She had not just defeated Bellatrix; she had asserted her dominance among the ranks of the Death Eaters. She was Hadria Potter, the Dark Lady, and her power was unassailable.

"Very good precious" his voice a dark melody that resonated with command and possession. He did not spare a glance at Bellatrix, who struggled to rise, her pride wounded more than her body. Narcissa moved to assist her sister, but with a fierce gesture, Bellatrix rebuffed the offer, her eyes burning with humiliation and unspoken rage.

"You have embraced the darkness fully, and it has made you powerful beyond measure...but remember true power is not just about defeating an opponent...it's about commanding the battle."

Hadria nodded, her wand feeling like an extension of her will. Avery, Crabbe, and McNair stepped forward, their wands drawn, faces set in grim lines. They bowed to each other, a mutual respect for the duel's sanctity, despite the darkness that surrounded them. As they straightened, the air crackled with anticipation.

"Begin!" Voldemort commanded. Avery was the first to strike, a jet of light aiming straight for Hadria's cheat. She sidestepped with a dancer's grace, flicking her wand to send a retaliatory curse that sent Avery sprawling. Crabbe and McNair attacked in unison, spells weaving together in a deadly dance. Hadria deflected and dodged, her movements a blur.

She chanted an incantation, and a shield of shimmering light erupted from her wand, absorbing the spells with a resonant hum. With a swift pirouette, she released the energy in a powerful blast, knocking Crabbe off his feet. McNair advanced, his spells more vicious, more desperate.

Hadria felt the strain, sweat beading on her brow, but her resolve never wavered. She was the eye of the storm, calm and deadly. With a final, thunderous cry, she unleashed a torrent of magic that was both light and dark, a swirling vortex that engulfed McNair. When the dust settled, he lay defeated, and the meadow fell silent once more.

Hadria's arm, once rigid with the tension of battle, now fell to her side, the wand slipping slightly as her fingers relaxed. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, reclaiming the breath that the duel had demanded of her.

Voldemort's gaze, sharp and penetrating, softened imperceptibly as he watched her, a rare glint of satisfaction flickering in his cold eyes. He gestured for two other death eaters to train, their presence now an afterthought as he focused on Hadria. With a beckoning curl of his finger, commanding yet intimate, he summoned her to his side. She approached, her steps measured, the remnants of adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

As two other Death Eaters stepped into the clearing, their wands at the ready, Voldemort's attention remained fixated on Hadria. With a fluid motion, he drew her close, his hands framing her face as he claimed her lips in a searing kiss. It was a kiss of dark passion, of ownership, and of deep, undeniable pride for the formidable witch she had become.

"You are more powerful than ever, my dear," he whispered against her lips, his breath a caress that sent shivers down her spine. "Your progress is remarkable, a testament to your strength and will. You have exceeded even my highest expectations... and for that, I could not be more proud."

The words were more than praise; they were an affirmation of her ascent to power, of her place at his side. Around them, the duels commenced, a backdrop to the intimate moment shared between the Dark Lord and his Dark Lady.

Hadria's smile was a rare gem, one that shone with the multifaceted light of triumph and satisfaction. In Voldemort's embrace, she felt an exhilarating sense of completion, a dark harmony that resonated with their intertwined fates. The pride in his eyes was a reflection of her own, a shared acknowledgment of the journey they had undertaken together.

"Thank you, my lord," she whispered, her voice a soft echo in the charged silence. Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of rose, a rare show of vulnerability that only he could elicit. His gaze, intense and unwavering, was a caress that seemed to reach into the very depths of her soul, filling her with warmth.

In his eyes, she saw not just adoration, but a fierce pride that spoke of battles fought and won, of a future that held no bounds. It was a look reserved for her alone, a silent vow that they were entwined in this dance of darkness, forever united in their quest for power and dominion.

The power that surged within them was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to pulse with every heartbeat. It was more than the sinister echo of the Horcrux that linked them; it was the profound connection of two souls that had found unity in purpose and ambition. Hadria often pondered the source of their growing strength...was it the horcrux, or was it the mysterious synergy of their combined wills?

Whatever the origin, the result was undeniable. They had become a formidable duo, their powers amplifying each other's to an extent that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. The Death Eaters sensed it, the magical world would surely come to fear it, and the Order of the Phoenix would soon face the full might of their wrath.

As Hadria stood there, wrapped in the Dark Lord's arms, she envisioned the future they would forge together...a world reshaped in their image, where the old order would crumble and bow before the new. With every spell she mastered, every enemy she vanquished.

As the morning sun crept higher, casting long shadows across the meadow, Hadria stood in the presence of the Dark Lord, basking in the glow of his approval as they watch the others dueling. It was more than mere praise; it was an affirmation of her place at his side, as his equal, his partner in the dark arts, and the one who held his black heart.

***

Chapter Text

The early light of dawn had barely begun to seep through the grand windows of the dining hall when Voldemort called the Death Eater meeting. Hadria, his partner...his Dark Lady, was already at his side, her presence a silent testament to the unity within the ranks of the Death Eaters. As they awaited the arrival of the others, Hadria's gaze flickered with a touch of disdain when Bellatrix made her entrance, her attire scandalously less than befitting the occasion, clearly designed to capture Voldemort's attention. Yet, Hadria's reaction remained imperceptible to all but the most observant onlooker.

Voldemort reclined in his chair, the picture of deceptive calm as he absently traced patterns on Hadria's hand. His nonchalance wavered for a mere moment upon Bellatrix's arrival...a fleeting pause that did not escape Hadria's sharp eyes. She studied him, noting the briefest glance he afforded the older witch, his visage an impenetrable mask devoid of emotion.

Bellatrix, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents, took her seat and began a hushed conversation with Narcissa. Hadria couldn't help but notice the extra effort Bellatrix had invested in her appearance; her corset cinched tightly, accentuating her figure, and her usually wild tresses were tamed into an elegant updo. Choosing to disregard the obvious play for attention, Hadria turned her focus away, her thoughts unvoiced but clear...Bellatrix's antics were nothing more than a desperate bid for Voldemort's amusement.

The assembly grew as more Death Eaters filtered in, among them Severus, with Hermione in tow. A fleeting exchange of smiles passed between Hadria and Hermione, a silent acknowledgment of their friendship amidst the brewing storm. It had been days since their paths had crossed, and the familiarity was a welcome respite.

Severus claimed the seat adjacent to Voldemort, his voice a smooth drawl as he greeted, "Good morning, my lord." The Dark Lord offered a nod, an acknowledgment steeped in the gravity of their shared purpose.

Hermione leaned in towards Hadria, her tone light, "Hey! How's it been going?"

A genuine smile graced Hadria's features. "Great, actually. I fell a bit behind with my studies due to the training, but I've managed to catch up. How about you? How's everything at school?"

Hermione's chuckle was tinged with irony. "It's surreal. The students wander the halls, blissfully unaware of the shadows creeping at the edges of their world."

Hadria's smile held a note of wistfulness. "So, nothing's really changed, then."

Even Voldemort couldn't suppress a smirk at the exchange. The ignorance of youth was a constant, as true now as it had been during his own time at Hogwarts.

With the final member seated, Voldemort rose to his full height, his voice resonating with the power of impending conquest. "The hour of reckoning is upon us, my friends. The vanishing cabinet stands ready, does it not, Draco?" His gaze swept across the room, settling on the young Malfoy.

Draco's response was immediate, "Yes, my lord."

Voldemort's gaze swept across the gathered assembly. "Tonight, we divide our forces. Some to Borgin and Burkes to infiltrate Hogwarts, others to the Ministry." He gestured towards Severus, who stood and began distributing parchments detailing their assignments and the legions they would command.

"Our allies within the Ministry are numerous; I anticipate little resistance there. Once we seize control, Scrimgeour will be detained...if he resists, deal with him as necessary," Voldemort's smile was chilling, a harbinger of the ruthlessness to come.

"Pius will assume his role, solidifying our grip on the Ministry. As for Hogwarts, Dumbledore is to be spared...for now. I have... words for the old man," his tone darkened with the promise of a reckoning long-awaited.

"Upon Dumbledore's removal, Severus will ascend as Headmaster. Alectus and Amycus will join the faculty. The centaurs will encircle the school, ensuring none can escape our grasp. We will transition power with minimal bloodshed—aim to incapacitate, not kill. Should the Order intervene, our swift action will ensure victory before the first light of dawn."

Voldemort paused beside Bellatrix, his hand lifting her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her smile was saccharine, a stark contrast to Hadria's narrowed eyes, a silent storm brewing behind her gaze.

Voldemort's voice was a silken whisper, laced with dark intent as he leaned towards Bellatrix. "My dear, have you attended to our little Muggle Studies teacher?" The words slithered through the air, a serpent's caress.

Bellatrix lifted her gaze, her voice a mixture of reverence and triumph. "Yes, my lord... she has not dared to return to the school since my...visit," she reported. A flicker of satisfaction danced in Voldemort's eyes as he tenderly stroked her cheek, a gesture that belied the cruelty beneath.

"Exemplary," he murmured, his approval fleeting as he released her.

Hadria's breath hitched, a silent struggle to maintain composure. He's just manipulating her...keeping her content, she reassured herself. She understood the game...Bellatrix was but a pawn, a necessary malevolence within their ranks.

Returning to Hadria's side, Voldemort resumed his seat, his aura undisturbed as the Death Eaters poured over their instructions.

"Our ranks are bolstered by a coven of vampires, ready to serve should the need arise...though I do not expect it," he announced, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather rather than the undead allies at their command.

A murmur of consensus rippled through the room, a unified front with no voice of dissent. The plan was set, the pieces in motion, and the night would unfurl their dark tapestry over Hogwarts and the Ministry alike.

As twilight deepened into a velvety night, Hermione stirred from her slumber. With a cautious grace, she slipped from beneath her covers, her movements silent amidst the soft breathing of her dormmates. The common room lay deserted, bathed in the silver glow of moonlight that slipped through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.

The castle's corridors were a labyrinth of secrets, and Hermione navigated them with a practiced ease. The knowledge that Severus Snape was the night's sentinel offered a thread of comfort...a calculated part of their intricate plan, of course. Yet, a whisper of trepidation accompanied her as she descended into the bowels of the school, where the Potions classroom awaited, shrouded in darkness.

The door creaked softly shut behind her, and the blackness seemed to swallow her whole. The potions classroom, usually a place of meticulous order and flickering candlelight, now felt like an ancient crypt, the air thick with the memory of a thousand brewed concoctions.

Her heart skipped a beat as she collided with a shadowy figure. Severus's voice, smooth as aged whiskey, broke the silence. "Good evening, little Gryffindor," he murmured, his arms ensnaring her in an embrace that chased away the chill of the dungeon.

Hermione's laughter was a quiet sparkle in the dark as she gently chided him, her hands playfully pushing against his chest. "You nearly frightened me to death, you know!" she whispered, her voice a blend of mock annoyance and genuine relief.

His chuckle was a low rumble in the quiet room, and he led her by the hand, guiding her through the familiar yet foreign space. The door to his private chambers creaked open, revealing a room that was unmistakably Severus...a sanctuary of solitude where books and potion bottles were the silent witnesses to his solitary existence.

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a single oil lamp, casting a warm light that softened the stern lines of the furniture. Hermione stepped inside, her eyes taking in the spartan elegance of the space. It was a reflection of the man himself—complex, reserved, and layered with unspoken stories.

Severus's gaze held a gravity that anchored her to the spot, his hand cradling her face with a gentleness that belied the strength within. "I need you to promise me to stay in this room, Hermione. No Gryffindor heroics tonight. Your safety is paramount," he implored, each word wrapped in a tenderness that seemed to dissolve the very walls around them. She nodded, her voice a whisper lost in the gravity of the moment.

"Yes, Severus. I understand," she breathed out, her resolve firm despite the tremor in her heart.

His eyes lingered on her, tracing the contours of her form clad in a tight fitted Hogwarts shirt and lounge pants that accentuated every curve of her perfect body. A low growl escaped him as he enveloped her in an embrace, pressing her against the wall. The kiss was deep, born of a hunger that words could never fully capture.

"Gods, witch...you drive me mad," he murmured against her lips, his fingers weaving through her hair, as if trying to memorize every strand. Her response was a soft whimper, a testament to the intensity of their connection.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, the spell between them lingering like the afterglow of a powerful incantation. "Alright, I must take my leave. I have to lower the wards and protective charms," he said, a wry smile touching his lips despite the seriousness of his task. "Stay in the room and don't open the door if anyone comes knocking. I've ensured no one can enter."

With a final, lingering kiss upon her forehead, he stepped away, his silhouette a shadow merging with the darkness of the room as he disappeared out of the door. Hermione moved to the solitary window, her gaze cast toward the night sky, a tapestry of stars veiling her worries. Somewhere out there, Hadria was weaving her own fate into the night's events, and Hermione clung to the hope that their plans would unfold as intended, that dawn would bring victory and not sorrow.

***

Chapter Text

The night was still and silent at Borgin and Burkes, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and fills the void with anticipation. Voldemort's hand was firm on Hadria's arm, a silent command to wait as the last of the Death Eaters disappeared into the Vanishing Cabinet's shadowy depths. The air was thick with anticipation. .

"We'll go last," Voldemort's voice was a mere whisper, yet it carried the weight of command. His eyes never left the cabinet, the portal to their destiny. Since dawn, he had been a statue of concentration, his mind undoubtedly weaving and turning through the intricacies of their plan. Hadria respected his need for contemplation, giving him the space to orchestrate their coup while she attended to her own tasks, her school assignments a trivial matter compared to the history they were about to write but it gave her something to do.

The Cabinet seemed to groan under the weight of their ambition as the last cloaked figure vanished into its confines. Then, it was their turn. The space within was cramped, the air close. Voldemort leaned over Hadria, his presence enveloping her as he shut them in, the darkness complete for a heartbeat before the door creaked open once more.

They emerged into the Room of Requirement, a chamber that now housed the heart of their uprising. Lucius and Bellatrix stood amongst the gathered Death Eaters, their faces masks of eager malice. With a subtle flick of his hand, Voldemort dispatched them forward, silent shadows slipping through the castle's veins.

As soon as they emerged from the room of requirement the portraits on the walls sounded the alarms spreading the news like wildfire, many of them running by from their frames in fear.

They were heading for Dumbledore's office, the sanctum of the man who had long stood as a beacon of resistance against them. Tonight, that beacon would be extinguished. Hadria felt the surge of adrenaline, the electric thrill of the impending storm. She was excited but also a touch of nausea clawed her. This was the night they would seize control, the night they would change the course of history. The night Hogwarts would fall.

As Voldemort and his entourage of Death Eaters moved like shadows through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, the castle seemed to hold its breath. The silence was shattered when a door creaked open, and Professor Flitwick stepped out, wand at the ready. His eyes widened at the sight before him, and with a swift motion, he sent a stunning spell towards the intruders.

The spell was deftly blocked by Bellatrix, who cackled with glee. "You'll have to do better than that, Filius!" she taunted, as she sent a barrage of spells his way.

The commotion drew more attention. Students, roused from their beds by the noise, peeked out from behind doors. Professor McGonagall, with her hair in a tight bun, emerged from around a corner, her expression stern. "This ends now!" she declared, sending a powerful Disarming Charm towards Lucius.

The battle was on. Spells flew back and forth, lighting up the hallways with their dangerous dance. The Death Eaters, skilled in dark magic, used non-lethal spells to incapacitate their opponents. One by one, the teachers and students fell, stunned or bound by magical ropes, but not seriously harmed.

Hadria, fighting alongside Voldemort, felt a surge of adrenaline. She deflected a curse from a brave Hufflepuff student, sending him gently floating to the ground, asleep. Voldemort, the architect of the night's terror, was a specter of power, his spells a force of nature that none could withstand. His presence was a dark star, drawing all into his orbit, his magic a display of terrifying beauty.

"Alectus! Amycus! See to it the captured are taken to the dungeons," Voldemort snapped as they continued down the corridor closing in on their target.

As they neared Dumbledore's chambers, the resistance grew fiercer. The portraits on the walls shouted warnings rose the castle's ancient guardians, the suits of armor that stood sentinel in its halls, were roused to action by the clamor of battle. With a cacophony of clanking metal, they converged upon Voldemort and his followers, their movements surprisingly agile for beings wrought of iron and steel.

Voldemort's lip curled in disdain. "Deal with them," he commanded, his voice cutting through the din of clashing metal.

The Death Eaters responded with a vicious assault, spells flying from their wands in a deadly barrage. The enchanted armors, animated by the castle's magic, fought back with an eerie silence, their swords and shields a blur of motion as they engaged the intruders.

Hadria found herself face to face with one of the armored figures. It lunged at her, its sword aimed with lethal precision. She dodged, the blade missing her by mere inches, and countered with a spell of her own. "Relashio!" she cried, and the suit of armor was blasted backward striking another causing their limbs to lock up as the enchantment that gave them life faltered.

One by one, the Death Eaters turned the tide. Bellatrix's laughter rang out as she danced between her opponents, her spells dismantling the armors with a flourish. Lucius, his face a mask of concentration, directed his magic with clinical accuracy, reducing the once formidable guardians to heaps of harmless metal.

The path to Dumbledore's office was now clear, the last of the armors falling silent at their feet. The Death Eaters stepped over the remnants of their foes, their eyes alight with the fire of victory. They had overcome yet another obstacle, their resolve unshaken, their march towards destiny unimpeded.

Severus came around a corner and joined their ranks as they neared the Headmasters office. He had already incapacitated several students and staff on this way there as well.

Finally, they stood before the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. With a wave of Voldemort's wand and a whispered password, the stone creature moved aside, granting them passage. The battle for Hogwarts had reached its climax, and the fate of the wizarding world hung in the balance.

Voldemort strode into the office, his cloak billowing behind him like a dark cloud. Dumbledore sat at his desk, his wand pointed at his temple. With a flick of Voldemort's wand, the Dumbledore's was sent spinning through the air, clattering against the stone wall and falling to the floor, its master disarmed in an instant.

Voldemort's voice was a low growl, filled with loathing and contempt. "What exactly did you intend to do to yourself, old man?" he sneered, his eyes glinting with malice.

Dumbledore, however, remained the picture of serenity, leaning back in his chair with a composed expression. His fingers were interlaced over his chest, betraying no hint of fear. "Good evening, Tom," he greeted, as if welcoming an old student rather than his nemesis. "I'm sure there's a very good story to be told about how you managed to infiltrate the school."

Without taking his gaze off Dumbledore, Voldemort issued a command to Bellatrix, who was quivering with excitement. "Grab his wand, my dear," he instructed. She moved with a predator's grace, circling behind Dumbledore to retrieve the fallen wand, her smile wide and triumphant as she remained stationed behind the headmaster.

Turning to address the rest of the room, Voldemort's orders were clear and absolute. "Finish taking over the school. Anyone who tries to fight goes to the dungeons." His voice echoed through the chamber, a decree of doom for any who would dare oppose him.

Then, his cold gaze settled on Hadria. "Why don't you go check on your little friend?" he suggested, his tone casual yet commanding.

Hadria's confusion was evident. "You mean Hermione?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Voldemort gave a single, curt nod. "Yes, my dear. We'll be wrapping this up here shortly. I'll meet you back at the manor." His face was a mask, devoid of emotion, as he directed her to leave. Hadria's mind raced, trying to understand his motives. She glanced at Dumbledore, who simply raised an eyebrow in silent communication. Bellatrix's smug expression only added to her unease.

With a hesitant nod, Hadria acquiesced. "Alright..." she murmured, her steps faltering as she turned to join the departing Death Eaters. She left the room, the heavy door closing behind her with a sense of finality, leaving Voldemort, Dumbledore, and Bellatrix in a tense standoff that would decide the fate of the wizarding world.

Hadria's footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, a stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded moments before. The unease in her stomach twisted tighter with each step, a tangible knot of doubt that refused to be ignored. She knew she should trust him, trust in the plan, but the shadows seemed to whisper of betrayal.

Severus Snape moved with a quiet grace at her side. His dark eyes flickered to her, taking in her troubled expression. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, Miss Potter," he said, his voice a low murmur in the dim light. Yet, the slight furrow of his brow betrayed his own confusion at the Dark Lord's orders.

The dungeons loomed ahead, a cold and unwelcoming destination. Their steps slowed as they approached the Potions classroom.

Hadria paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the cool stone wall. "Do you think he's protecting me from something?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Severus considered this, his gaze lingering on the darkness within the room. "Perhaps," he conceded, "it is hard to say...the Dark Lord isn't known for his predictability."

They entered the classroom, the familiar scent of various potions ingredients doing little to comfort Hadria. The cauldrons sat empty, and the shelves were neatly organized, a stark contrast to the turmoil in her heart.

Reaching the door of his room, he waved his wand, and the enchantments that guarded his privacy dissipated, allowing them to enter.

Hermione, who had been anxiously awaiting their arrival, sprang up from her perch on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and relief. She rushed towards them, her arms enveloping Hadria in a tight embrace.

"Oh thank goodness you're both alright. I was worried sick!" Hermione's voice trembled with emotion, her grip conveying the depth of her concern. She released Hadria only to turn to Severus, seeking the same reassurance. He received her with a rare tenderness, his arms encircling her briefly as he planted a gentle kiss upon her forehead.

"Everything went just as planned," Severus assured them, his voice a low rumble of confidence. "I'll be back. I need to assist rounding up anyone who is resisting the Dark Lord's orders. Stay put, both of you," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

With a final, lingering look that held a multitude of unspoken words, Severus stepped out of the chamber.

Hadria's smile was a fragile thing, like the last leaf clinging to a branch in autumn. She settled onto the bed, the soft bedding a small comfort in the tumult of her thoughts. Hermione, ever perceptive, drew near, her brow furrowed with worry.

"Is everything alright, Hadria?" Hermione's voice was soft, a soothing balm in the starkness of Severus's chambers.

Hadria's smile didn't reach her eyes as she responded. "I think it's just my nerves getting to me. But just after we disarmed Dumbledore, Voldemort asked me to come check on you and said he would meet me back at the Manor later... I can't shake the feeling he didn't want me there for some reason. I know I should trust him. He's given me no reason not to. But it's got my stomach in knots." Her words tumbled out, a confession of the turmoil within, as she took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising tide of unease.

Hermione's touch was gentle, her hand cupping Hadria's cheek with maternal care. "You do look a little pale. Perhaps the evenings stress has just gotten to you. You have nothing to worry about...Voldemort's crazy about you. Anyone would be blind not to see it," she said, her voice laced with conviction.

Hadria's heart wanted to believe, to cling to the reassurance Hermione offered. Yet, the shadows of doubt lingered, cold and unyielding.

Hermione's suggestion was a whisper of normalcy in a night that had been anything but. "Come on, let's lie down and rest a bit. Maybe a nap will shake the nerves off. I'm sure Severus won't mind. They'll probably be busy for a bit," she coaxed.

The idea of rest, of escape from the relentless march of her thoughts, was enticing. Hadria felt the exhaustion seep into her bones, the emotional toll of the night's events drawing her down. She nodded, acquiescing to the wisdom in Hermione's words.

"Yes, that actually sounds lovely," Hadria agreed, her voice a weary sigh. She lay down, the bed embracing her tired form, while Hermione settled on the other side. Hadria closed her eyes, willing the doubts to dissipate with each breath. She sought solace in the rhythm of Hermione's breathing, a lullaby of sorts, as she endeavored to trust in the path laid out before her. The darkness behind her eyelids was a canvas, and on it, she painted a trust she hoped was not misplaced.

***

Chapter Text

Dawn's light had not yet pierced the curtains of Severus Snape's chambers when Hadria's eyes fluttered open. A wave of nausea washed over her, so potent it seemed to churn the very air around her. She lay still for a moment, hoping the feeling would pass, but it clung to her, insistent and unrelenting. With a sense of urgency, she remembered the door at the back of the room, its purpose clear in her mind. She needed to reach it - now.

Her movements were swift, a stark contrast to the languid rise of morning. The sudden motion jolted Severus from his slumber. He had fallen asleep in a nearby arm chair with a glass of fire whiskey which now spilled down his coat as he watched the girl run to the bathroom. Hermione who had been asleep next to her woke up as well from the commotion.

"Hadria?!" she called after her concern and looked at Severus confused. The sound of retching filled the room, a harsh symphony that echoed off the stone walls. Hermione's eyes grew wide and she was at her side in an instant, her hands gentle as she gathered Hadria's hair away from her face

"It's alright, get it out," she soothed, her voice a steady presence amidst the turmoil.

Hadria's body convulsed with the effort, her breaths coming in ragged gasps until, at last, she slumped back, the cool stone of the wall a small comfort against her heated skin. Tears, born from the force of her sickness, glistened in her eyes as she reached for the rag Hermione offered, its warmth a fleeting balm.

"You don't feel to have a fever...do you have any other symptoms, Hadria?" Hermione's concern was palpable, her hands now checking for signs of fever. Hadria took a few calming breaths and thought about it.

Her mind raced as she considered the question. "I...well, I don't know. I suppose I've been feeling a bit queasy the last couple of weeks, but I assumed it was from nerves and the training. It's been intense lately, I just feel so tired all the time," she admitted, the confusion evident in her furrowed brow.

Hermione nodded, her voice soft. "Yeah, you did sleep really heavy last night, so we decided not to bother you. Voldemort said to let you sleep," she recounted, watching Hadria for a reaction.

"Is he still here?" Hadria's voice was hopeful, seeking some anchor in the storm of her thoughts.

Hermione shook her head, her own uncertainty a shadow in her eyes. "No, I believe he went back to the Manor," she said and then bit her lip nervously before continuing.

"Hadria...um...have you considered... well... could you be pregnant?" The question hung in the air, delicate as a spider's web.

Silence stretched between them as Hadria processed the words. Memories flickered behind her eyes, moments and decisions replaying in the quiet of the chamber. "I...well, no, I hadn't considered it...I suppose I very well could be. He used to use the charm to keep me from getting pregnant. Then he suddenly stopped...I told myself maybe he had a different way of doing it... but... if I'm being honest...I think I was glad...I think deep down a part of me perhaps wanted that with him," she confessed, her voice a whisper of realization.

Hermione's reaction was immediate, her eyes reflecting the gravity of Hadria's admission.

"Then it's settled. We should find out for certain," Hermione asserted, her voice a blend of concern and practicality. "Knowing the truth will ease your mind, and it might just explain the unease you've been experiencing."

Hadria nodded, the idea of certainty a small beacon in the fog of her emotions. Yet, the absence of Voldemort, the silence he left in his wake, gnawed at her with cold teeth.

"Yes, the hospital wing might have the answers," Hadria agreed, her voice a mere whisper, betraying her inner turmoil.

It was then that Severus's voice, laced with caution, drifted from the adjoining room. "Miss Potter, I don't mean to intrude... but perhaps this is a matter best kept discreet for the moment. If you permit, I can perform the diagnostic charm to ascertain whether you are indeed with child," he offered, his tone suggesting a protective secrecy.

The offer hung in the air, a crossroads of choices. Hadria considered the privacy Severus offered, the walls of his chambers a potential shield from the prying eyes of the world outside. It was a tempting offer, one that promised answers without the risk of exposure.

Hadria's voice was hesitant, a reflection of the turmoil within. "Yes actually... I think perhaps you are right," she conceded, her resolve firming as she stood. Hermione was quick to offer support, guiding her to sit on the edge of Severus's bed, which was neatly made, the dark covers smooth and unwrinkled.

Severus had shed the formal layers of his usual attire, now appearing more approachable in his simple white shirt, the top buttons undone in a rare display of casualness likely due in part to the spilled whiskey. His posture in the armchair was relaxed, yet his eyes remained sharp, ever the observer.

Hadria's gaze turned to Severus, her curiosity piqued by the night's unresolved mysteries.

"What happened with Dumbledore last night?" she inquired, her tone laced with a mix of concern and a desire for answers.

Severus exhaled slowly, the weight of the information he held evident in the brief pause that followed.

"Very little, I'm afraid," he began, his voice steady and measured. "The old man had the foresight to obliviate his own mind of the prophecy and of the night your parents were killed. Essentially, Voldemort found out nothing new. He's been sent to Azkaban for the time being," he revealed, the news carrying implications that rippled through the silence of the room.

The revelation hung heavy in the air, a testament to Dumbledore's cunning and the lengths to which he would go to protect the secrets he held dear. It was a move that spoke of sacrifice and strategy, leaving Voldemort with no new leverage and Dumbledore in the cold confines of Azkaban.

Hadria's nod was slow, heavy with the weight of unfulfilled hopes. The truth of that fateful night remained shrouded in mystery, Dumbledore's secrets sealed away by his own hand. It was a bitter pill, laced with the sting of frustration, yet not entirely unforeseen. The old wizard had always been a master of concealment, his foresight as much a fortress as the walls of Hogwarts itself.

Severus rose, his movements deliberate, the air around him charged with the gravity of the moment.

"Why don't you lie back on the bed so you're a bit more comfortable?" His voice was a gentle command, a soft note in the tense symphony of the chamber.

Hadria complied, reclining upon the bed, her body supported by the soft pillow, her mind a whirlwind of emotion. Hermione, ever the steadfast friend, took her place beside her, her grip firm and reassuring. In her touch was a silent promise of solidarity, a beacon in the storm of uncertainty that raged within Hadria.

Severus, now the arbiter of truth, stood poised with his wand, the instrument of revelation. He uttered the incantation, "Graviditas Revelio," his voice barely above a whisper, yet it resonated with the power to unveil the hidden. A glowing orb materialized, its light a gentle caress as it hovered over Hadria's abdomen. Time seemed to stand still, the room holding its breath as the orb began to pulse—a rhythmic glow that echoed the beat of a tiny heart.

Hermione's smile was a sunrise, breaking through the shadows of doubt. She met Hadria's gaze, and in that look was a world of emotion...joy, wonder, fear, and hope intertwined. Hadria, entranced by the pulsing light, felt a connection to the life within her, a bond that transcended the chaos of their lives. It was a heartbeat, a promise, a new beginning...her child's heartbeat.

Hadria's smile lingered as the magical orb dissipated into the air, its glow a fading memory.

"I must go to him," She rose from the bed, her determination casting a new light in her eyes. The news she bore was not just a whisper of life, but a testament to the love that had blossomed in the most unexpected of soils. She was to have a child with the man who had become her world, and though words of love had never passed between them, their bond spoke louder than any declaration could.

Severus's nod was one of understanding, his dark eyes reflecting the seriousness of the situation.

"Indeed, it is imperative that you speak with him without delay," he concurred, his voice carrying the authority of experience.

"Apparition; however, is out of the question. The risks it poses to the child are too great. We shall use the Floo Network from the headmaster's office. It is a safer passage for you now."

Hermione's embrace was a fortress of comfort, her arms wrapping around Hadria in a protective shield. "Everything will be alright, Hadria. This is a good thing," she whispered trying to reassure her friend.

Severus turned his gaze to Hermione, his hand gentle upon her cheek...a rare gesture of affection from the stoic professor.

"And you, little Gryffindor, " he said stroking her cheek softly. "It's about time you went back to your common room before the others think you've gone missing. The students have all been released back to their rooms but are being restricted to the common rooms for the day to give us time to....sort everything out with the transition."

The stone walls of the Potions classroom seemed to absorb the tension in the air as Hadria, Severus, and Hermione made their way out. The corridors of Hogwarts, usually buzzing with the chatter and laughter of students, were now silent, the quiet so profound it felt like a physical presence. Hermione's departure was swift, her wave to Hadria a fleeting gesture of camaraderie in the midst of upheaval.

Severus, his black robes billowing behind him, led Hadria through the dungeons with a purposeful stride. The portraits that lined the walls, once vibrant with the moving figures of past headmasters and notable witches and wizards, now bore expressions of solemnity and concern. Their silence was a stark reminder of the gravity of Voldemort's takeover, and Hadria felt a pang of guilt for the part she played in it all. Yet, she held onto the belief that the school would recover, that peace would eventually be restored.

As they ascended from the dungeons, Hadria broke the silence with a question that had been burning in her mind. "How did everything go at the ministry?" she inquired, her voice echoing slightly off the stone.

Severus's response was as calm as the surface of the Black Lake on a windless day. "It was taken without much of a fight at all. Pius is already in command as we speak," he reported, his tone betraying no emotion as they neared the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the headmaster's chambers.

With a word, the gargoyle sprang aside, revealing the spiral staircase that led to the office above. They ascended together, the steps seeming to carry them not just upward, but forward in time to a future uncertain and fraught with change.

Inside the headmaster's office, Severus's demeanor softened as he approached the fireplace. His hand on Hadria's shoulder was a rare gesture of support. "Good luck, Miss Potter... and...congratulations," he said, his voice a gentle murmur that contrasted with the usual sternness.

Hadria, her heart a tumult of emotions, nodded her thanks. She reached for the floo powder, the fine grains glittering like tiny stars in the dim light of the office. Standing within the hearth, she cast the powder down, the green flames springing to life as she spoke the destination with a newfound resolve.

"Malfoy Manor," she declared, the words carrying her away in a swirl of emerald fire, towards the man she loved, towards a future unwritten.

The Malfoy's living room was steeped in the quiet opulence that spoke of ancient lineage and power. Lucius, ever the embodiment of aristocratic poise, barely glanced up from his morning paper as Hadria materialized from the green flames of the fireplace.

"Ah, you're back Hadria. I hope you're well?" His casual inquiry about her well-being was as much a part of the decorum as the fine china from which he sipped his coffee.

She smiled, her mind a tumult of emotions.

"Yes Lucius, I was just very tired from the events of the evening I think...do you know where Voldemort is?" she asked anxious to see him. He thought for a moment.

"I believe he was in the study last I saw him," he said as he went back to his paper and sipped on his coffee.

Lucius's nonchalant direction to the study did little to quell the storm within her. With each step towards the heavy oak door of the study, her heart pounded louder, a drumbeat echoing her mounting excitement and dread as she stood outside the door and took a deep breath. But nothing could have prepared her for what happened next.

***

Chapter Text

Hadria stepped into the study and froze. The air thickened, as if the room itself held its breath. Shadows clung to the walls, their edges sharp and accusatory. The flickering candlelight danced across ancient tomes, their secrets etched in faded ink.

Everything inside of her shut down, like a clock winding backward, gears grinding to a halt. Her senses dulled...the scent of parchment, the creak of floorboards, the distant howl of the wind...all muffled, as if wrapped in cotton wool. The world narrowed to a single point: the scene before her.

She felt rooted in that moment, her feet sinking into the very floorboards. The oak planks absorbed her shock, anchoring her to this cursed reality. The study, once a sanctuary of knowledge, now held only betrayal.

Voldemort sat in the chair behind the desk with Bellatrix straddling his lap, her skirts bunched around her thighs...his eyes were closed as he looked up clearly in a state of ecstasy as she rode him, her mouth on his neck trailing kisses along his skin. He groaned as long pale fingers dug into her thighs holding them in place as she moved against him moaning in pleasure.

Hadria's world tilted, the ground slipping beneath her feet. An overwhelming sensation of nausea clawed at her insides, threatening to consume her. The room spun, and she clung to the doorframe, her mouth hanging open in silent disbelief.

The despair that filled her in that moment threatened to swallow her whole. It was more than heartbreak...it was a rending of her very soul. The adoration she had known, the trust she had placed, now shattered like glass. Voldemort, the man she had once believed in, had become a stranger...a monster.

She had tried to speak, but her voice abandoned her. Only a trembling breath escaped, as if her lungs were collapsing. Her hand instinctively sought the life burgeoning within her, a life that was now tethered to a lie. The room seemed to pulse with her shock, the walls closing in, the shadows dancing mockingly.

Voldemort's eyes snapped open, drawn by her shuddering breath. Bellatrix turned, her lips curving into a knowing smile. As if...she had expected this. As if she had planned it all...the intimate rendezvous, the web of deceit.

"My dear," Voldemort's voice cut through the tension, "you've caught us at an inopportune time...I had not expected you would be back so soon." His calmness was chilling, his movements deliberate. He stood, and Bellatrix slid off his lap, adjusting her disheveled dress. Her bitten lip held secrets, a wicked satisfaction.

Voldemort's gaze locked onto Hadria's. His eyes, once mirrors reflecting shared secrets, now betrayed no emotion. His robes closed with a whisper, concealing the evidence of their betrayal.

Hadria's broken eyes pleaded for answers. The room seemed to constrict, air thickening with unspoken truths. Her voice, lodged in her throat, fought to break free. Voldemort's words, like shards of ice, pierced her heart.

"Hadria, my dear," he began, "I sense the questions within you so let me explain. Our paths have diverged in that sense." His voice held no warmth, no echo of their shared past. "The threads that once bound us have frayed," His gaze slid to Bellatrix, who stood nearby...The betrayal was etched in her eyes, a hunger for power and possession.

"Affection," Voldemort continued, "is a fickle thing." His fingers traced the edge of the desk, as if measuring the distance between them. "It shifts, morphs, and sometimes blinds us to the past...to who we really are."

Hadria's tears blurred her vision. She clung to the remnants of their bond...the stolen moments, the whispered secrets, the nights when passionate intimacy had been more than a curse.

"Why?" she gasped, the word a shard of glass in her throat. "Why have you betrayed me?!"

Voldemort's lips curved into a cruel smile.

"Betrayal implies loyalty," Voldemort's voice was a cold, calculated hiss, a sound devoid of any human warmth. "My loyalty to you was never part of the deal, sweet girl," he continued, his eyes piercing into Hadria's, unyielding and sharp as daggers. "You are my Horcrux, Hadria... a vessel for my immortality. Your loyalty to me ensures your safety and that of your friends, not my heart...but do not misunderstand...you still belong to me." His words were a blade, slicing through her illusions, each syllable a nail in the coffin of her shattered heart.

Bellatrix, silent until now, stepped forward, her eyes wide with the dawning realization of Hadria's true significance. She hadn't been aware that Hadria was a Horcrux, and this revelation was troubling, complicating the dynamics of her own relationship with Voldemort. Yet, she couldn't help but revel in the younger witch's anguish.

"He was never yours, Hadria," Bellatrix spat venomously, her arm sliding possessively around Voldemort's waist, claiming her territory. "You're old news."

Hadria's eyes narrowed, twin storms brewing within their depths as her heart raced with a fury that began to shake the very foundation of the room. A deep rumbling sound emanated from beneath them, the ground trembling with the awakening of a primal force. The study quaked, the floorboards groaning in protest, the bookshelves swaying ominously. Ancient tomes and books tumbled from their perches, their pages fluttering open to whisper forgotten spells.

Voldemort spun around, his features etched with confusion as his blue eyes widened in realization. It was Hadria's anger that was causing the upheaval. She, once his confidante, now wielded magic like a tempest, the room straining against the might of her fury.

"Stop this at once, Hadria!" he warned, his voice a blade. But she paid no heed. Her wand materialized in her hand, its wood thrumming with raw power. Hatred blazed within her, a wildfire consuming reason.

The windows shattered, exploding outward as shards of glass spiraled into the air. Pure vengeance radiated from her gaze, a beacon of wrath. Her wand, now an extension of her rage, pointed unerringly at Bellatrix. The woman who had stolen her love, her trust, now stood defenseless before her.

In her blind rage, Hadria cast wordlessly, the magic flowing from her like blood from a wound, primal and unstoppable. Voldemort lunged to intervene, but he was too late. Bellatrix was slashed deeply, crimson lines etching across her chest as she screamed and collapsed, her blood staining the rich carpet.

Voldemort turned back to Hadria, his eyes glowing with a dangerous anger. But Hadria turned from them and ran, her heart pounding like the wings of a caged bird desperate for freedom. The betrayal she had witnessed was a poison, spreading its icy tendrils through her veins, chilling her to the core.

Voldemort pursued her, his presence an oppressive force that seemed to distort the very air around them. She felt as if they were moving in slow motion, a nightmarish dance where every step was a struggle against the suffocating grip of despair.

She eluded him around corners, her breaths coming in ragged gasps, and leaped over the couch in the main living room to the patio doors. Lucius's eyes widened as he watched the chaos unfold. Voldemort tackled her just as she reached the doors, and they both went hurtling through the glass and wood that splintered with a sound like the world breaking apart. Hadria used the momentum of their movements to propel his form off of her before they hit the ground, but he was up just as quickly as her.

Drawing his wand, he sent hexes toward her, each one a dangerous whisper that cut through the air. She weaved through the garden, narrowly escaping each hex. The flowers and statues that had once been symbols of beauty and art now seemed to mock her with their tranquility.

She knew she was at a disadvantage when she ran into the open meadow beyond the garden. The vast expanse offered no cover, no respite from the onslaught. And she heard him, his voice a thunderous command that seemed to shake the very earth beneath her feet.

"Hadria! Stop!" Voldemort's voice thundered across the meadow, a command that once would have halted her in her tracks. But now, it spurred her on, each syllable fueling her desperate flight. She couldn't stop, not now, not ever again. Her tears were a scalding torrent, blurring her vision, as her soul seethed with the flames of his betrayal. The world around her morphed into a kaleidoscope of pain and loss, each step a rebellion against a destiny she refused to accept.

But then, agony unlike any other wrenched her to the ground. The Cruciatus Curse struck her with the force of a thunderbolt, her body convulsing as she fell. The earth beneath her offered no solace; the grass was a bed of needles against her skin, each blade piercing deeper into her being. The curse's relentless torment tore screams from her throat, each cry a testament to her shattered world.

Voldemort's silhouette loomed over her, a dark specter against the backdrop of the meadow, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. The curse he wielded was a chain, binding her to the ground, to the pain, to him. He could feel the tempest of her emotions...a maelstrom of anger and sorrow that radiated from her like the heat from a forge. The cuts on her arms, stark against her skin, were a testament to her fall, her blood anointing the earth that had been the stage of her victories and now bore witness to greatest despair.

The pain was a living thing, a beast that clawed at her insides with fiery talons, driving her to her knees. Her wand, gripped tightly in her fist, was the last vestige of her defiance, the only friend she had left in a world that had become unrecognizable.

"How dare you defy me!" Voldemort's roar echoed through the very meadow where he had trained her, where he had once looked upon her with affection and pride. Now, his eyes bore into her, disdain and hatred etched in every line of his face. The man she loved was now a monster...a puppet master pulling strings of pain and betrayal.

Her eyes fluttered shut, a silent prayer escaping her lips. The incantation that whispered forth was ancient, a language of magic that was old when the world was young. He leaned closer, sensing the raw power in her words. The curse she invoked was a tempest, a force beyond his comprehension, a whisper of ancient magic that predated even the oldest of wizarding bloodlines.

When her eyes opened again, they were pools of brokenness, windows to a soul that had been cracked open. Fear widened her gaze, a raw, naked thing that sliced through his fury...In that moment, somehow he knew...she was about to vanish. He lunged forward, grabbing her arms, and was just a breath away from her when she whispered again, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"Aetherspire Telethrae Sanctuarium Portus ex Nihilo."

The words hung in the air, a whisper of defiance against the chains that had bound her. The meadow trembled, reality bending to the will of her magic. Hadria's spell tore her from his grasp, leaving an emptiness he couldn't fathom, a void where once there had been a connection, a bond forged in darkness and sealed with a piece of his very soul, more profound because it was of his own making.

Rage surged within him, and he brought his fists to the ground in a fit of anger. She was gone.

His Horcrux, one of his own lifelines, had slipped through his fingers like sands in the wind, and he was powerless to stop her. He immediately pressed a finger to his Dark Mark, but nothing happened. As if the magic that bound them together had been severed...something only death should have been able to do.

He screamed in anger, a primal sound that echoed across the meadow and into the darkening sky. Then he shifted and closed his eyes taking deep calming breaths, he regained his composure.

I will find you, Hadria Potter...

***

Chapter Text

The last vivid memory etched into Hadria's consciousness was the fury and astonishment that blazed in his eyes. The spell, a desperate gamble, had hurled her into the void, leaving her unconscious under its relentless force. When she stirred awake, the noxious stench of decay enveloped her senses...like rotten eggs festering in the air. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a murky world. Dampness clung to her skin as she raised her head from the soft, mire-soaked ground. The swamp cradled her, its grassy, mud-laden floor crusted against her cheek. As she sat up, the lingering effects of the cruciatus spell gnawed at her body, but it was the shattered fragments of her heart that weighed heaviest.

Collapsed against the damp earth, Hadria cradled her face in trembling hands, tears streaming through her fingers. The void within her felt like a gaping chasm, a missing piece that had been ripped away. The future loomed, fraught with uncertainty, not just for herself but for the fragile life nestled within her womb. The hollow ache in her chest screamed of love lost.

The betrayal, a venomous elixir, seeped insidiously through her veins, twisting her gut. She had wanted Bellatrix dead when she lashed out savagely slashing her body. Hadria wondered if she had ever truly meant anything to him or if she was merely a fleeting fancy, a passing shadow in his life.

Echoes of heartache reverberated through her mind. She had heard tales of such things...illusions shattered, thinking their love was returned only to have the ground crumble beneath them. She wouldn't be the only woman to have ever endured such betrayal. But this knowledge did nothing to diminish her anguish...she knew his darkness, his capacity for malevolence...but this treachery was beyond anything she had thought possible. The hope that she had clung to...the belief that she mattered...that he had perhaps even loved her...now lay tattered at her feet...a wounded butterfly in a storm.

Hadria's tears, like a torrential downpour, ceased only when her soul was drained. The swamp's eerie silence enveloped her, broken only by the squishy tread of something unearthly. She spun, wand poised, ready to face danger, but instead, her eyes met a bewildering sight: a large brown cow. Its vacant gaze met hers as it chomped on swamp grass. For a suspended moment, they locked gazes, two beings from disparate worlds. Then, with a tilt of its head, the cow uttered a single word:

"Moo."

Hadria's wand arm sagged, and she stared at the absurdity before her. The cow's voice, uncannily human...a woman's voice, echoed in the murky air. Hadria's brow furrowed, and she wondered if the cruciatis had fractured her mind.

Am I loosing it here?

"Did...did you just speak?" she asked, her eyes wide as she stared at the brown cow. The cow, with its large, soulful eyes, regarded her for a moment. Then, in a surreal twist of reality, it nodded, causing the cow bell around its neck to jingle melodically.

"Moo...moo," the cow repeated, its voice eerily human.

Hadria's deadpan expression wavered. "Yes," she muttered, her disbelief palpable. "I've definitely lost my mind." She slowly rose from the swampy ground, glancing around at the murky landscape. In the distance, a muddy road beckoned, promising escape from this bizarre encounter. But before she could take a step, she turned back to the cow, which continued to stare at her with bovine innocence.

"Moo." The cow's monotone voice echoed through the swamp, leaving Hadria questioning her sanity and wondering if perhaps magic had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Hadria shook her head in confusion. A cow vocalizing in a human voice...She had never heard of such. She walked to the muddy road and then cast a quick charm to clean herself up but nothing happened...she tried again and again the charm didn't work. She tried to cast a simple Lumos and got the same result. She put her wand away as the grim reality set in that wherever she was...magic didn't work here.

She noticed a large tall gate down the road. The cow remained steadfast, its gaze following her every move as she walked toward it.

The gate defied her attempts to open it. No visible latch, no discernible mechanism and its length spanned as far as the eye could see in both directions and it had to be nearly 12 ft tall. Hadria wondered if she should even try. The only thing she knew with any absolute certainty was that wherever she was, she was safe from Voldemort's reach.

She looked down at her arm marred with cuts from the glass, her fingers trembled as she traced the twisted contours of her dark mark and tears stung her eyes once again. A knot tightened in her throat...she closed her eyes remembering his words...she could still see the look of absolute passion and loyalty in his eyes...those hauntingly beautiful piercing blue eyes...she could remember it like it was yesterday

"...this mark is not just a brand...it is a promise...a beacon...when you call, I will come. When I summon, you will heed. Our souls, forever linked..."

"Hadria Potter is not just my ally...she is my equilibrium...my Dark Lady..."

Hadria turned away from the gate, her back pressing against its ancient surface. She tilted her face upward, eyes squeezed shut, and drew in a deep, deliberate breath. The swamp's oppressive humidity clung to her skin, but she willed herself to remain composed. Breaking down wouldn't serve her purpose here...not when reality itself seemed to twist and warp. She had to keep her wits about her...not just for her anymore, but for her child.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, expecting more absurdities. But this time, her gaze fell upon a figure up the road...a scraggly old ape. Its black hair, once vibrant, now bore the weight of years, greying in patches. Hadria's mind raced. She had encountered many creatures in her life...dragons, hippogriffs, even the elusive thestral...but never an ape. Not in the wild, at least.

Zoos had been her only glimpse into their world, and even then, they were far removed from murky swamps. Yet here it sat, perched on the muddy road, observing her with eyes that held secrets. The ape's presence defied logic, and Hadria wondered if perhaps she had stumbled into a realm where the ordinary and the fantastical danced a peculiar waltz.

The cow's "moo" echoed in her memory, and now the ape's silent scrutiny added to the enigma. She squared her shoulders, determined to unravel this mystery, even if it meant conversing with a creature that defied all reason.

This is so weird...

Hadria tilted her head, studying the ape with curiosity. Its disinterested gaze held a world of secrets, and when it sighed, she wondered if it, too, bore the weight of forgotten tales. The creature moved toward her, its gait both familiar and otherworldly. As it drew closer, Hadria glimpsed intelligence in its eyes...a wisdom that transcended mere animal instinct.

"Do you also speak?" she asked, her voice tinged with both amusement and disbelief. She felt absurd conversing with an ape, yet the swamp had already shattered her sense of normalcy. The ape met her gaze but remained silent, neither confirming nor denying her query. Instead, it reached out, its rough fingers encircling hers. With a grunt, it beckoned her to follow.

Hadria nodded, her resolve unyielding. "Okay," she murmured, her trust placed in this unlikely guide. The ape led her down the road, its movements deliberate. She glanced back at the cow, now ambling away in a different direction. The swamp enveloped them...the chorus of frogs, the incessant hum of insects, and the distant thunder of an approaching storm.

And then, a haunting cry pierced the air...a bird, perhaps, or a creature born of myth. Hadria hoped it was a harbinger of answers, a sign that her journey through this surreal landscape held purpose. As the ape guided her onward, she wondered what other enigmas awaited her in this murky realm.

She held the apes hand a bit tighter as her nerves got the better of her. She felt a sense of comfort and safety as he squeezed her hand back making her smile. Despite his inability or perhaps his unwillingness to speak, he seemed intelligent and understanding.

They had been walking awhile when they came around a curve and a stick shack suddenly appeared at the end of the road tucked deep into the thick trees and vegetation as if it had risen from the swamp itself. The structure seemed to defy symmetry and logic sitting at an odd slanting angle with a roof thatched with moss and rotting straw. There were no windows, just a small chimney that looked to be made of mud and a crooked door of gnarled wood. Different types of skulls adorned the eaves, their empty sockets whispered of secrets. She noticed a large raven perched in a tree nearby that watched her intently.

A large frog jumped across her path and stopped in front of her looking up at her.

"Ribbet," he croaked in a deep man's voice. The sound echoed through the swamp, resonating off the gnarled trees and tangled vines. Hadria's pulse quickened; she had never encountered a frog that spoke like a weary traveler.

The creature's skin was a patchwork of mottled greens and browns. Its eyes, though amphibian, held wisdom. The frog's webbed fingers twitched, as if yearning to share secrets buried deep within the murky waters. Hadria bit her lip nervously, choosing not to even attempt to engage this strange being.

The frog then looked away, its gaze fixated on something beyond the veil of hanging moss. With a powerful leap, it hopped across the path, disturbing the stagnant air. Each movement seemed deliberate, purposeful.

As the frog disappeared into the dense foliage, she hesitated. The gnarled wooden door of the hut beckoned, its secrets hidden behind twisted grain and centuries-old memories.

The ape let her hand go and gestured to the door of the hut. She bit her lip nervously but she trusted that the wand core had sent her somewhere safe. Surely it wouldn't have sent her to her death...right?

Taking a deep breath, Hadria stepped forward. The swamp seemed to hold its breath alongside her. She slid her fingers around the gnarled wooden door handle, its rough texture grounding her, and she opened it.

***

Chapter Text

"That stupid bitch did this out of pure jealousy...she could have killed me!"

Severus winced as the witches shrill cries echoed through the room.

Severus Snape, his face a mask of detached professionalism, worked his wand in precise, fluid motions over the deep lacerations. "Be still, Bellatrix...it's quite difficult to heal as it is without you writhing around moaning," he drawled, his annoyance thinly veiled. Despite his outward appearance, Severus harbored a secret satisfaction at the sight of Bellatrix's injuries, yet his concern for Hadria's well-being gnawed at him. Her emotional state was fragile, a glass figurine on the edge of shattering, and Bellatrix's silence on the matter only served to heighten his unease.

Narcissa Malfoy sat in silent contemplation, her elegant hands clasped tightly in her lap. The chaos that had erupted in her home was a puzzle with missing pieces, and the image it was starting to form was one she could hardly comprehend. The sound of shattering glass and the thunderous crash that had followed Hadria and Voldemort's violent exit through the patio doors still echoed in her ears. Lucius had been rendered speechless by the scene, his usual composure shattered by the sight of the Dark Lord in such a feral state.

"Bella...exactly why did Hadria attack you?" Narcissa's voice cut through the tension, her blue eyes searching for truth amidst the confusion.

Bellatrix's response was a huff of indignation. "Voldemort and I were...caught in an intimate moment," she admitted, her words dropping like stones into the still waters of the room.

Narcissa's eyes widened, and even Severus paused in his healing, the revelation sending shockwaves through the room. The Dark Lord, who had seemed so captivated by Hadria, now entwined with Bellatrix? It was a twist that none could have anticipated.

"You...you and Voldemort?" Narcissa's voice was a whisper of disbelief, her mind struggling to grasp the implications of her sister's confession.

"Yes, Cissy, why is that so hard to believe? I told you there was something between us. She was just...a temporary distraction..." Bellatrix's words were laced with smugness, her confidence unshaken despite her injuries.

Narcissa's disbelief morphed into suspicion, her gaze hardening as she pressed further. "Bellatrix...what did you do?" The question hung in the air, heavy with accusation.

Severus finished his healing and stepped back, his curiosity piqued. Bellatrix crossed her arms defensively, her posture betraying her defiance.

Bellatrix's declaration hung in the air, her voice a tangled web of defensiveness and barely concealed triumph. "I didn't do anything...I could tell he wanted to be with me," she insisted, her gaze challenging anyone to contradict her perceived reality.

Severus, his eyebrow arching in a silent display of skepticism, regarded her with a cool, analytical stare. "That hardly seems possible given he couldn't be bothered to look in your direction just days ago," he retorted, his voice dripping with incredulity. The notion that Voldemort's attentions had shifted so rapidly was implausible at best, and Severus was not one to indulge in delusions.

Bellatrix scoffed, her disdain for Severus's doubt as palpable as the dark magic that lingered in the room. "I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand, Severus. What do you know of such matters?" she snipped, her words sharp as knives, cutting through the tension that filled the space between them.

Severus's response was a mere roll of his eyes, a silent dismissal of her barb as he turned his attention back to Narcissa. "The Dark Lord asked me to join him in the library once I was done. I take my leave," he stated, his tone devoid of emotion, as if the gravity of the situation was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Narcissa, her expression softening, acknowledged his service with a gentle nod. "Thank you, Severus," she murmured, her voice a quiet contrast to the storm of emotions that had just swept through the room. Severus returned the gesture with a curt nod, his cloak billowing behind him as he exited, leaving the sisters alone with their thoughts.

Narcissa sighed, the weight of the situation settling upon her shoulders as she crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on Bellatrix with a mixture of concern and accusation. The air was thick with unspoken questions and the echo of Severus's footsteps, a reminder that the drama unfolding within these walls was far from over.

Narcissa's voice was a tempest, her words lashing out at Bellatrix with the force of a gale. "Bellatrix...if you think I'm going to believe that Voldemort just suddenly fell out of love with Hadria and decided to have a random...encounter with you...then you're sorely mistaken. I know you did something, Bella. None of this makes any sense. And you've put our entire family at peril with whatever game you're playing!" Her anger was palpable, filling the room with a tension that threatened to suffocate.

The air in the room seemed to crackle with the intensity of Narcissa's fury. The once calm and composed matriarch was now a portrait of wrath, her elegant features twisted in a scowl. The future she had envisioned, one where Voldemort, tempered by Hadria's influence, showed mercy and perhaps even a glimmer of humanity, was crumbling before her eyes. The manor, once a stronghold of power and control, was now a house of cards, trembling with the aftershocks of Voldemort's rage.

Bellatrix, ever the picture of defiance, met her sister's anger with a cold sneer. "I've done nothing, Cissy. It just took him a while to realize who has always been there for him." Her words were a thin veil over the truth, a truth that Narcissa knew was as twisted and dark as the magic that bound their fates together.

The revelation of Bellatrix's betrayal was a poison, seeping into the very foundations of their family, threatening to bring their world crashing down around them. The consequences of her actions were yet to be fully realized, but one thing was certain: the path ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty, and the cost of Bellatrix's ambition might be more than any of them were willing to pay.

***

"Aetherspire.....Sanctum...something....Nihilo"

The library of Malfoy Manor was a cavernous room, its walls lined with ancient tomes and dark artifacts. In the center, a grand table lay strewn with volumes of arcane knowledge, the air thick with the scent of leather and dust. Lucius Malfoy, his face etched with concern, dragged a heavy pile of books to the table, each one a potential key to unlocking the mystery that consumed Voldemort's every thought.

Voldemort sat in a high-backed chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his mind racing to recall the precise words of Hadria's spell. The parchment before him was littered with fragments of incantations, each one a desperate grasp at the elusive spell that had spirited her away. He rubbed his temples, the frustration evident in the tight set of his jaw, his eyes closed as if in silent plea to the fates for clarity.

Severus Snape entered the room, his black robes whispering against the wood floor. He approached Voldemort with a measured tread, his expression unreadable. "My lord, how may I assist you?" he inquired, his voice a calm amidst the storm of urgency that filled the room.

Voldemort's eyes snapped open, his hand gesturing towards the mountain of literature that Lucius had amassed. "Search...we will search every book until we find this spell...it starts with Aetherspire...and ends with Nihilo," he commanded, his voice a low growl of determination.

Severus nodded, his dark eyes briefly scanning the titles before him, but he hesitated, a thought arresting his movements. "Bellatrix has been healed, my lord," he reported, the information hanging between them like a shroud.

Voldemort's gaze lifted to meet Severus's, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Severus," he acknowledged, his attention returning to the parchment as if the words might reveal themselves through sheer force of will.

Severus moved to the table, his hands deftly sifting through the volumes as he joined Lucius in the search. Their eyes met, a silent exchange passing between them. Both men were acutely aware of the strangeness of their task, the weight of the unknown pressing down upon them as they delved deeper into the search for a spell that might not even exist within the walls of the manor.

After what seemed like hours of searching Lucius rose from the depths of ancient texts, his silhouette etched against the towering shelves . With a solemn stride, he approached Voldemort, an air of trepidation surrounding him as he presented the tome that might hold the answers to their relentless search.

"My Lord," he began, his voice steady yet laced with the gravity of their quest. He handed over the Seraphic Grimoire, its cover a faded tapestry of purple, the edges frayed by time and secrets. Voldemort received the book with a reverence reserved for relics of immense power, his fingers tracing the embossed title as he turned to the page marked by Lucius.

"What is it about?" Voldemort inquired, his eyes scanning the ancient script that danced across the yellowed pages.

"My Lord, it is a relic of cosmic origins...it has been in the Malfoy Library for generations. It wasn't considered to contain any real actual magic use," Lucius explained, his voice a mere whisper in the vast chamber of knowledge.

Voldemort's gaze was unyielding as he read the excerpt.

In the beginning, before the dawn of mortal realms, when the cosmos was but a celestial loom weaving threads of existence, the Seraphim - the luminous choir of angels - gathered at the Veil Nexus. Their wings, iridescent and vast, brushed against the fabric of reality. The sang the Song of Eternity, and the Veil trembled.

The Veil Nexus - a place beyond time - exists at the confluence of all dimensions. Here, the threads of existence intersect, forming bridges between realms. The Seraphim, entrusted with cosmic harmony, wove the Aetherspire - a bridge of light that spanned infinity. Its spires shimmered like stardust, connecting worlds unknown.

In an age forgotten, a mortal sage named Elowen sought communion with the Seraphim. She wandered the astral glades, her heart a beacon. The Seraphim, touched by her purity, whispered the lost incantation: Aetherspire Telethrae Sanctuarium Portus ex Nihilo. Elowen etched it upon her soul, vowing to safeguard its power.

Elowen's wand, carved from the heartwood of the World Tree, held the essence of the Veil Nexus. Its core—an iridescent feather plucked from the Archon Phoenix - sang the Song of Threads. When wielded with intent, it could unravel reality itself.

To invoke the Aetherspire, the caster must possess a heart unburdened by malice - a purity that resonates with cosmic harmony. The incantation, spoken in ancient Latin, reverberates through the threads: "Aetherspire Telethrae Sanctuarium Portus ex Nihilo."

The Veil trembles. The caster steps through - a heartbeat between breaths. The world blurs, and the senses fray. The Aetherspire spirals, its spires guiding the traveler. They emerge not where they wish, but where they need to be - a sanctuary beyond the void.

As Voldemort delved deeper into the grimoire, hope waned. There was no map, no compass that would reveal Hadria's destination. The spell was a leap of faith, a journey without a destination, its end known only to the cosmos itself.

He closed the book with a poise that belied the tempest raging within his soul. He leaned back, his thoughts a maelstrom of possibilities and dead ends. "So there is no way to know where she has gone," he stated, the words heavy with the finality of their predicament.

Lucius exchanged a silent, uneasy glance with Severus, who sat in contemplative silence. The tension in the room was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to press upon them all. Severus's nervous gesture, the raking of his teeth over his bottom lip, was the only outward sign of the anxiety that gripped him.

"I'm afraid not, my lord," he finally conceded, his voice a somber echo in the library that had become a tomb of unanswered questions. Voldemort stood, the Seraphic Grimoire clutched in his hand as he left the Library without another word spoken.

***

Chapter Text

The evening shadows had begun to stretch across the room when Voldemort entered, his presence slicing through the quiet like a blade. Bellatrix, who had been teetering on the edge of sleep, felt a surge of adrenaline at the sight of him. His face was a mask of frustration, the lines of anger etched deep into his skin, and his silence was as heavy as the dark velvet of the night.

He moved with a purposeful grace to the other side of the bed, his robes falling away with a whisper of fabric against fabric. "Are you feeling better, my dear?" he asked, his voice devoid of warmth, a stark contrast to the intimacy of the question.

Bellatrix's heart quickened, and she offered him a smile, one that held the triumph of a game well played. "Yes, I'm still sore but the wounds are closed. At least Severus is good for something," she replied, her tone laced with annoyance, yet undercut with a hint of satisfaction at her own resilience.

"Severus is a valued ally, Bellatrix, just as you," Voldemort responded, his voice a low rumble as he settled into the bed beside her. The air seemed to charge with electricity at his proximity, and Bellatrix's excitement was palpable, her eyes reflecting a predatory gleam as she took in his disrobed form.

"Well, perhaps, but obviously I'm different," she purred, her smugness wrapping around her words like a cloak.

He met her gaze with a smirk, which she took as a silent acknowledgment of her uniqueness that sent a shiver down her spine before his hands deftly maneuvered her body, flipping her over with a swift, unexpected motion that drew a startled yelp from her lips.

"Wait, my lord, I'm still healing—" Her protest was swiftly silenced.

"Quiet, Bella," he growled, his impatience palpable as he pushed up her gown and tore off her underwear in a rough, unyielding motion. Wetting his hand with spit, he slicked her entrance before pressing himself into her with a force that left her gasping from the sudden intrusion, her body unprepared for the roughness of his desire. Despite her partially healed wounds aching from the movement, he showed no mercy as he grabbed her hair roughly, using it as leverage as he thrust into her from behind.

She winced, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as he took her with a ferocity that disregarded her injuries. His grunts of pleasure mingled with her stifled sobs, the sharp pinch of his nails breaking the skin on her hips a painful reminder of the intensity of their coupling.

It wasn't long before he pulled out, spilling onto her back with a guttural groan, his satisfaction evident as he released her hair and collapsed on the bed beside her, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. As he reached for her, gently stroking her chin, he regarded her with a mixture of possessiveness and detachment, his gaze lingering on her form as she remained on all fours, still recovering from the raw intensity of their encounter.

"Clean yourself up, my dear, let's sleep," he instructed, his tone firm yet dispassionate as he directed her to attend to herself. With a pout on her face, she complied, using her wand to cleanse her body before slipping back into bed, her flesh now more tender and sore than before.

"We could sleep in your room, love?" she suggested softly, a sweet smile gracing her features. A flicker of something passed through his eyes at the suggestion, a fleeting unreadable moment that quickly vanished.

"No, my dear, I do not allow anyone in my room you know that," he stated simply, his tone brooking no argument as he pulled her close to him, closing his eyes in a silent command for rest.

"But...my lord, you had Hadria-"

"That was different. Do not presume that my affection for you grants you the liberty to question me, Bella. Now, sleep," he commanded, a simmering anger underlying his words that silenced her swiftly. Resting her head against his chest, she pondered his words and the tumultuous encounter they had shared, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions and unspoken desires.

***

The morning sun cast a pale, silvery glow through the high windows of the Malfoy Manor's main living room, where Narcissa and Lucius sat in silence, the only sound being the soft clink of fine china as they sipped their coffee. The opulent room was filled with the scent of rich, dark brew and the faintest hint of Narcissa's floral perfume, mingling with the mustiness of ancient tapestries that adorned the walls.

As Voldemort and Bellatrix strode towards the fireplace, their shadows stretched long and ominous across the floor, distorted by the morning light. Narcissa's gaze lingered on the casual intimacy of Voldemort's hand at Bellatrix's back, a touch that seemed possessive yet absent-minded.

Bellatrix's face was alight with a smug triumph that didn't quite reach her eyes, which remained cold and calculating. The confidence she exuded was almost palpable, filling the room like an unspoken challenge. Narcissa's heart ached with a mixture of suspicion and concern, her thoughts drifting to Hadria, whose absence was like a silent scream in the grandeur of the manor.

Voldemort's voice, when he spoke, was as smooth and cold as the floor beneath their feet, his words echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room.

"Lucius, I have a few items to attend to at the ministry. I shall return later."

Lucius's response was immediate, his head bowing in a practiced nod of obedience. "Yes, my lord."

With a swirl of dark robes, the two figures vanished into the emerald inferno of the Floo Network, leaving behind a tension that crackled in the air like static.

Once they were alone, Lucius turned to Narcissa, his usually composed features marred by a frown of concern.

"Lucius, I know my sister is up to something," Narcissa whispered, her voice barely rising above the crackling of the fireplace. "Voldemort may never have outright said it, but you know as well as I...he was completely enamored with Hadria...Quit possibly in love with her as far as I'm concerned...Something isn't right here."

Lucius's agreement was silent but firm, his own suspicions mirroring hers. "I agree, darling. And I don't see this playing out well for anyone involved if he is indeed under some type of influence. What do you suspect? A love potion perhaps?" His question hung in the air, heavy with implications.

Narcissa leaned back into the plush velvet of the couch, her expression pensive. "Perhaps... Do you think there's a cure for love potions? I don't have much experience in that area," she mused aloud, more to herself than to Lucius.

Lucius's reply was tinged with regret, his knowledge of the dark arts extensive but not all-encompassing. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know, but I know of one person who certainly would."

***

The Headmaster's office, a room steeped in the history and secrets of Hogwarts, was unusually quiet that morning. The walls, lined with portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, seemed to observe the room's current occupants with a mix of curiosity and disapproval. The morning light filtered through the stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the ancient stone floor.

Severus Snape, now the Headmaster, sat behind the grand desk that had once belonged to Dumbledore. His black robes were as immaculate as ever, the buttons on his coat gleaming like polished onyx.

The green flame in the fireplace flared suddenly, startling him so much that he nearly toppled from his chair. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stepped out of the hearth, their arrival as unexpected as it was unannounced.

"Lucius, when I informed you I had opened up my Floo for your use, I assumed you would have known to warn me before arriving uninvited," Severus said, his voice a blend of irritation and relief. He straightened his coat, regaining his composure as Lucius's lips thinned in annoyance.

Across from him, Hermione Granger rose from her seat, her smile a stark contrast to the tension in the room. "I'll be on my way, Headmaster, thank you," she said, her voice warm yet formal, betraying none of the complexities of her relationship with Severus.

Severus gave her a curt nod. "Very well, Miss Granger," he replied, his face a mask of stoicism.

Once Hermione had departed, the Malfoys settled into the chairs in front of Severus's desk. The room seemed to close in around them, the air thick with the weight of their conversation.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Severus drawled, his eyebrow arching with a mix of curiosity and foreboding.

Lucius's hand rested atop the snake head of his cane, his gaze fixed on Severus. "You're aware of the recent shift in Voldemort's affections, yes?" he began, his voice low and urgent.

Severus leaned back in his chair, his expression one of bored resignation. "Yes, I'm certainly aware. And I share Narcissa's sentiments that it is of an unnatural cause," he replied, his eyes moving between the two Malfoys.

Narcissa's voice was laced with genuine concern. "What could it be, Severus? We must do something. My sister has gone too far this time. Voldemort hasn't expressed that kind of fury he unleashed on her since before Hadria came to the manor. And I fear this may only be the beginning. Nothing good can come of this. And I'm so worried about her. No one knows where she is," she confided.

Severus pondered for a moment before responding. "I have considered that she may have used a love potion on him. If you want to know if there is a cure, the answer is yes. It will take time to brew; this isn't something I have in my stores at the present time," he explained.

His tone turned sardonic as he continued. "However, I share your concern and agree with your assessment. No one, not even Voldemort himself, would harbor such strong affection and simply dismiss it so quickly. What he had with Hadria was unprecedented, and I'm not ready to believe it simply washed away with Bellatrix's overwhelming charm," he he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I will send word once I have it ready for you... but Narcissa... be prepared...if the Dark Lord was indeed bewitched...no sooner than his cure takes hold will he undoubtedly unleash his wrath over the one responsible," Severus warned, his eyes locking with Narcissa's in a silent understanding of the gravity of their situation.

Narcissa's gaze lowered, her thoughts a tumultuous sea. "Yes...I have considered this," she murmured, meeting Severus's gaze with a mixture of determination and fear.

"Very well," Severus nodded, the gravity of their situation hanging in the air like a portent of the storm to come.

***

Chapter Text

As dawn broke, the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the Ministry of Magic's grand atrium, casting elongated shadows that danced upon the walls. The light, though weak and pale, struggled to penetrate the gloom that had settled over the place like a suffocating blanket. It was the dawn of a new era, but not one heralded with fanfare or hopeful whispers. The Ministry had succumbed to the darkness, and with its fall, the last vestige of defiance against the encroaching evil had been extinguished.

The once bustling corridors of power were now eerily quiet, with the exception of the few ministry workers bustling about. In the Minister's office, Pius Thicknesse sat, his posture rigid, his hands resting uneasily on the polished surface of his desk. His face, once animated by the vigor of authority, was now a mere façade of composure, betraying none of the turmoil that churned within. He was a marionette, his strings pulled by the malevolent force that had usurped the throne of the wizarding world's governance.

The door to the sanctum of power creaked ominously, its sound a grim herald of the new order that had taken hold. A cold draft swept through the room as he entered—the Dark Lord, Voldemort, the harbinger of fear and the architect of the Ministry's downfall. His piercing blue eyes, gleaming as he surveyed his new domain with a predator's satisfaction.

Trailing just a step behind the Dark Lord was Bellatrix Lestrange, her loyalty to Voldemort unyielding and fervent. Her eyes, alight with fervor, were fixed upon him, her every breath a silent vow of her unwavering devotion. Her presence was a stark reminder of the fanaticism that now gripped the heart of the wizarding world.

Bellatrix Lestrange, his most devoted servant, followed close behind, her expression one of twisted adoration.

Voldemort moved with a grace that belied his malevolence, approaching the desk with a measured tread. The air seemed to congeal around him, heavy with the promise of impending dread.

"Minister," Voldemort hissed, his voice as smooth as silk and as deadly as poison. "We have much to discuss."

Thicknesse's nod was barely perceptible, a testament to the tension that gripped his frame. His voice, when he spoke, was a hollow echo of subservience. "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort settled into the chair with an air of ownership, as if the very seat was an extension of his dark throne. "The Ministry is now under our control, but there is work to be done. We must ensure that our grip does not falter."

The words were spoken not as a suggestion, but as an edict, a command from which there was no appeal. Thicknesse's response was immediate, a reflex born of fear rather than fealty.

"Of course, my Lord," he said. "What would you have me do?"

Voldemort's lips curled into a semblance of a smile, but there was no warmth in it—only the cold calculation of a tyrant.

"First, we will begin with the Muggle-born Registration Commission that we spoke of before. I will leave it up to you to decide who should run it but I would recommend Dolores. It is time we purged the filth from our ranks," he declared, his voice a serpentine hiss that filled the room with malice.

Bellatrix's reaction was immediate, her cruel laughter a sharp contrast to the somber atmosphere. She reveled in the unfolding of their master's plan, her heart alight with the fires of vindictive joy.

"The Mudbloods will finally get what they deserve," she proclaimed, her voice laced with a venomous glee that was as unsettling as it was sincere.

Voldemort's gaze shifted to his faithful follower, and in his eyes shone a glint of dark approval.

"Indeed, Bellatrix."

Pius, ever the diligent bureaucrat, began to take meticulous notes, his quill scratching against the parchment as he recorded the dictates of his overlord.

"It will be my pleasure, my Lord," he intoned, his voice devoid of emotion, a mere instrument of Voldemort's will.

Voldemort's voice was a cold whisper, yet it carried through the room with an authority that demanded obedience.

"I want every muggle-born registered and their wands banded for easy identification," he commanded. The decree was absolute, a sinister policy that would brand an entire class of witches and wizards as lesser beings. "To be found in possession of an unmarked wand or of doing magic outside of their job functions will be a violation of law; minor domestic magic is not a concern but anything more substantial than that will be investigated."

He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in. "I want a sub-committee created that will work on procedures for the best way to mark and track the muggle-borns throughout our world. They will be relegated to second-class citizenship and marked as such. They will hold no positions of power and will remain in working-class positions."

The air in the room grew heavier with each pronouncement, as if the very walls were closing in. Voldemort then turned his attention to the future of magical education.

"Next, we will address the issue of Hogwarts," he said, his tone laced with contempt for the institution that had long stood as a beacon of unity and learning.

"The school will become a tool for our ideology. Snape will do well as Headmaster, but we must tighten our control. There will be no return of muggle studies, and we will implement more blood purist ideals into the education system. Muggle-born students will be removed from the classes until we can form a new school for them where they will be trained for working-class roles. Until then, we will simply have new classes created at Hogwarts, but I want them kept separately from half and pure bloods. They will not share meals, rooms, or classes. They will not participate in Quidditch on the house teams as the muggle-borns will have no houses."

Thicknesse, his face a mask of concern, ventured a question. "What of the staff who resist?" he asked, his voice cautious, knowing the peril that came with such inquiries.

"They will be dealt with," Voldemort replied curtly, his response leaving no room for interpretation. "Replaced by those loyal to our cause."

"And the students?" Thicknesse pressed on, a note of trepidation in his tone.

"They will learn to serve me, or they will suffer the consequences," Voldemort declared, his words a chilling promise of retribution. "Ensure that strict measures are put in place to address students who seek to fight back against it."

A sinister grin crept across Voldemort's face, a silent testament to the malevolent satisfaction he derived from the terror he inspired. "Fear will be our greatest ally," he proclaimed, his voice a dark melody of impending doom.

Thicknesse, ever the obedient servant, nodded solemnly, fully aware of the ominous weight carried by those words. "It will be done, my Lord."

Voldemort's smile widened, revealing a glimpse of his predatory anticipation. "If we need any additional support anywhere let me know. I have thousands of dementors at my disposal who are willing to instill fear wherever it is needed most," he declared, his tone casual as if discussing the weather, yet the underlying threat was palpable. Pius continued to scribble down notes, the scratching of his quill a stark counterpoint to the chilling silence that followed.

The Dark Lord's gaze then turned outward, beyond the confines of the Ministry, to the broader world that he sought to subjugate. "In two months' time, I would like to hold a meeting with the other Prime Ministers, if they have the courage to attend. We will ensure that we have a handle on international relations," he mused, the idea of global domination simmering within his thoughts.

Voldemort's attention snapped back to the present, to the final piece of his grand design.

"Which brings me to my next order of business. Put a muzzle on the Daily Prophet and any other media outlets to make sure we're not allowing them to air anything that would propagate any negative outlooks on our cause. They will maintain the narrative that my rule is just. The wizarding world is in need of reform, and we will ensure that it is done," he commanded, his voice a steel trap that brooked no dissent.

The decree was clear: the press, the last vestige of the people's voice, would be silenced, and in its place, a single, unchallenged chorus of propaganda would sing the praises of a tyrant. The wizarding world stood on the brink of an age of darkness, its fate now in the hands of a despot whose rule was enforced not by love or respect, but by fear and control.

Bellatrix Lestrange sat adjacent to the Dark Lord, her posture erect with an air of haughty triumph. Her lips curled into a prideful smile, the kind that spoke of dark dreams fulfilled and the ascendancy of the one she revered above all. He was the embodiment of the ruthless leadership she had always envisioned, the one who would lead them into a new age of pure-blood supremacy.

Voldemort, sensing the adulation emanating from his most loyal follower, allowed himself a moment of indulgent satisfaction before addressing Thicknesse once more. "Additionally, I need you to see to a reform of the marriage laws," he instructed, his voice carrying the weight of command. "For now, I would simply like to implement measures to ensure that muggle-borns may not marry above their station. No half-blood or pure-blood will be permitted to marry or breed with Muggle-borns."

The room seemed to grow colder with each word, as if the very concept of love and unity were being stripped away, replaced by a regime of segregation and prejudice. "We will revisit the marriage laws again in the future to create more incentive behind it, but that will do for now," Voldemort continued, his gaze fixed on Thicknesse, ensuring his orders were understood.

"I think I have given you enough to work on for the time being," he concluded, his statement hanging in the air like a guillotine's blade—sharp, swift, and final. The future he envisioned was one of division and control, where lineage dictated one's place in the world, and where the purity of blood was law.

Voldemort rose from his seat, the very movement seeming to draw the shadows closer around him. As he stood, he reached into the depths of his robes, producing a piece of parchment that seemed to quiver with a dark purpose of its own.

"Ah, I almost forgot," he murmured, his voice carrying an edge of sinister afterthought. "See to it that this witch is marked as a half-blood. I need it to be undeniable, Pius...make that happen and do not speak of it again after that," he commanded, his words slicing through the air like a knife.

The parchment, when unfurled, revealed the name of a 7th year Hogwarts student, Hermione Granger.

Bellatrix's gaze fell upon the parchment, her eyes narrowing with a mix of suspicion and incredulity. She had not known that Hermione was a muggle-born, and the revelation that the Dark Lord was making an exception for the girl sent a shock of confusion through her. Why would he decree such a thing?

Pius Thicknesse, his hands trembling ever so slightly, took the parchment from Voldemort's outstretched hand. "Yes of course, my lord," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Voldemort's gaze then shifted, settling on a forlorn figure in the corner of the office. Rufus Scrimgeour, the former Minister for Magic, sat bound and gagged, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. A cruel smile played upon Voldemort's lips as he regarded the man who had once stood against him.

"Good morning, Rufus... so nice of you to join us," Voldemort cooed mockingly. "Won't you take a little walk with me?" His voice was laced with venom, a promise of pain hidden within the saccharine words. With a swift motion, he seized Scrimgeour by the hair, yanking him to his feet. The former minister's muffled cries echoed off the walls as he was dragged, his legs flailing in a futile attempt to find purchase.

The procession moved through the corridors of the Ministry, a macabre parade led by the Dark Lord himself. Ministry workers, who had been going about their business, froze in place as the scene unfolded before them. They stepped back, horror etched on their faces, yet they were unable to tear their eyes away from the spectacle. Voldemort, his expression one of manic glee, paraded the disgraced minister through the Atrium, a clear message to all who watched: this was the fate of those who defied him.

The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, once a hub of light and activity, now stood as a silent coliseum to the spectacle of terror about to unfold. The murmurs of the crowd hushed to a deathly silence as Voldemort's voice, cold and clear, cut through the air.

"Let this be a lesson to all," he began, his voice resonating with a power that seemed to make the very foundations of the Ministry tremble. "Loyalty to your new Lord is not merely expected, it is demanded. Defiance will be met not with mercy, but with the full wrath of my displeasure."

Rufus Scrimgeour, bound and broken, was dragged to the center of the Atrium. His eyes, defiant to the end, met Voldemort's without flinching. The Dark Lord's wand was already in hand, the instrument of agony poised with a casual grace that belied its deadly intent.

"Crucio!" Voldemort's voice was a whisper, but the effect was immediate and devastating. Scrimgeour's body arched in excruciating pain, a silent scream etched upon his face as the curse took hold. The crowd watched, frozen in horror, as the former Minister was subjected to the torturous whims of the Dark Lord.

The curse lifted momentarily, allowing Scrimgeour a brief respite, but the reprieve was short-lived. Again and again, Voldemort cast the curse, each time with more intensity than the last. The message was clear: this was the price of defiance.

As the torture continued, a sickening realization dawned upon the onlookers. This was not merely punishment; it was a declaration of the new order. Power through pain, control through fear. Bellatrix giggled with glee as she watched.

Finally, when the point had been made and Scrimgeour's spirit was all but crushed, Voldemort ceased his assault. The former Minister lay gasping on the cold marble floor, his will to resist extinguished. With a flick of his wand and a final, contemptuous glance, Voldemort uttered the killing curse.

"Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light, and Rufus Scrimgeour was no more. His body lay still, a stark reminder of the fate that awaited those who dared to oppose the Dark Lord.

Voldemort turned to the crowd, his eyes sweeping over the sea of faces that had witnessed his display of power.

"Remember this day," he intoned. "Remember the cost of defiance. My reign has begun, and it will be unending. Let loyalty be your guide if you wish to survive in the world I am creating."

With that, the Dark Lord swept from the Atrium, Bellatrix in tow, leaving behind a Ministry that had irrevocably changed in the span of a single, brutal morning.

***

Chapter Text

Hermione made her way down to the basement of Severus's home. The stairs creaked beneath her as she carried the two cups of coffee with her and made her way into Severus's work area, a cavernous space, where shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs. The air was thick with the musky scent of earth and the sharp tang of various potion ingredients. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with jars of potions, dried herbs, and powders that glitter ominously in the dim light. The center of the room is dominated by a vast, wooden workbench, its surface stained with the residue of countless concoctions. Above it, a single, flickering oil lamp hangs casting a warm, but feeble glow, barely illuminating the ancient tomes and scrolls scattered about, their pages yellowed with age.

A small cauldron sits atop a cast iron table top stand with a bunsen burner beneath it. The stone floor is cool and slightly damp underfoot, worn smooth by years of pacing. The air is occasionally pierced by the soft clink of glass vials as Severus meticulously selects each ingredient, his movements precise and deliberate. He looked much more comfortable in his trousers and white button up shirt with his sleeves rolled up.

The atmosphere is one of intense concentration, a silent testament to the art of his passion and refuge. It's a place that feels suspended in time, a hidden sanctum where the line between science and magic blurs into obscurity.

Hermione approached, her expression etched with concern, and placed his coffee beside him.

"I can't believe she's just gone...I'm so worried about her...why didn't you tell me sooner?" Hermione's voice was a soft whisper, laden with anxiety.

Severus paused, turning to her with a gesture of tenderness, his hand cradling her cheek.

"I apologize sweetheart, but I didn't want it to interrupt your studies today. I know I'm asking too much, but try to find comfort in the knowledge that she is in a safe place. She would be in more peril if she were here. Her presence would only invite danger, especially with Voldemort's current unpredictability. I'm not so certain what he would do if he were to find out she's with child," he consoled her, his thumb caressing her skin as he continued.

"Voldemort tortured and executed the former minister this morning...something he would not have done if she were here," he murmured before returning his attention to the potion. Hermione, though still troubled, acknowledged the wisdom in his words.

Severus introduced a bundle of liquorice root and a drop of a dark green liquid from a smaller vial into the brew.

"Extract of Gurdyroot?" she asked. He affirmed with a nod, his smile a blend of affection and pride as he took a sip of his coffee.

"Very good, my astute little Gryffindor," he praised, his voice tinged with admiration. Eager to challenge her further, he queried "And what colors are we waiting for here?"

After a moment's contemplation, Hermione responded, "Well, you only added one bundle of liquorice root just now...which means you must have already added the castor oil. So it will turn purple then red after a bit of simmering...then you'll add more of the extract until it turns green."

Severus's smirk widened, impressed by his little witches potion mastery. He encircled her neck with his arm, drawing her close, their lips meeting in a tender kiss. Hermione's arms wrapped around him, their embrace a mutual solace amidst the brewing storm. He ran his hands through her hair and kissed her on the forehead before he turned back to the potion but kept an arm around her.

He continued to brew mostly in silence after that, both of them deep in thought about Voldemort and Hadria. Everything had been so relatively peaceful before his affections had suddenly shifted from her to Bellatrix. Now no one knew what to expect, but the murder of the former minister wasn't a good sign.

Severus dropped in the remaining liquorice root and sat down on a nearby stool pulling Hermione into his embrace.

"We'll get it all figured out, sweetheart," Severus whispered against Hermione's ear, his words sending a delightful shiver down her spine. The flutter in her lower belly at his soft words was a telltale sign of the effect his deep voice had on her. Severus, unaware of the profound impact he had on her, possessed a velvety baritone that stirred her desires like nothing else in the world.

As she leaned into him, Hermione began to shower his neck with kisses, each touch drawing a contented hum from Severus as he caressed her arms with a tenderness that spoke volumes. Her hands traced a path down his chest, the anticipation building with each passing moment until her fingers reached the barrier of his trousers.

Feeling his breath hitch at her touch, Hermione smiled against his skin as he grunted in response to her boldness. With a teasing touch, she ran a hand over his cock, tracing his length through the fabric of his trousers. Continuing to kiss and nibble at his neck, she slowly lowered the zipper, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from Severus as he willingly released the top button, understanding her unspoken intentions.

"Hermione," he breathed out her name like a fervent prayer, his hand tangled in her silken hair as he pulled her closer to him, craving the intimacy and connection they shared.

With a confident touch, Hermione pulled his length out of his boxers, feeling his hardness already evident from her earlier ministrations. A guttural groan escaped Severus's lips as she began to stroke him slowly, the sensations overwhelming him with desire.

"Oh yes...just like that, sweetheart," Severus's voice thick with longing as he closed his eyes, surrendering to the pleasure that enveloped him. In that moment of intimacy, he welcomed the respite from the weight of his responsibilities, the uncertainties of the future fading into the background as he focused solely on the enchanting witch before him. Her touch, her kisses, had the power to make everything else disappear, if only for a fleeting moment.

"Can I taste you again daddy?" Feeling her nibble on his earlobe, her heated whisper sending a shiver down his spine. His eyes shot open at the delicious filth that spilled from her lips. Her question, filled with unbridled passion, ignited a fire within him, his eyes darkening with a primal lust that mirrored her own.

"Oh yes, sweetheart, you can," he managed to utter, his voice strained and hoarse with desire as he gave in to the intoxicating allure of her request. A seductive smile played on her lips as she kissed him before gracefully moving to her knees before him, anticipation and desire mingling in the air between them.

He watched her intently, his body throbbing with an undeniable need as he beheld her on her knees before him, a vision of beauty and desire that stirred something primal within him. The sight of her gazing at his hard cock in her hands, a smile playing on her lips, sent a surge of anticipation through him as she dipped her head and gently suckled on the tip, savoring the flavor of his arousal that had pooled there.

A strangled groan escaped his lips as he witnessed her slow descent over his entire length, her deliberate movements ensuring that every inch of him was coated in her wet warmth, making it easier for her to glide over his taut skin. With a trembling breath, he found himself tangling his hand in her hair, a silent encouragement as she began to suck him slowly, her mouth moving up and down his cock with a tantalizing rhythm that left him gasping for breath.

Unable to resist the overwhelming desire that coursed through him, he reached for his wand on the nearby work station, swiftly unbuttoning his white shirt with a wave of his hand to remove any obstacles that hindered his view. He wanted nothing to obstruct his vision of her, to fully immerse himself in the sight before him.

A deep moan escaped his lips when she looked up at him, her lips wrapped around his length, her gaze meeting his with a mixture of passion and adoration in those mesmerizing brown eyes. It was a moment of pure intimacy and connection, a silent exchange of desire and trust that bound them together in that shared space of pleasure.

Gently stroking her cheek in a tender gesture of affection, his eyes briefly flickered to the potion simmering on the table, ensuring it was undisturbed before returning his gaze to her, captivated by the sight of her pleasuring him with such skill and devotion. The room seemed to pulse with the intensity of their shared desire, each moment cementing their bond in a dance of passion and longing.

"That's it, sweetheart...suck daddy's cock...just like that," he murmured, his voice strained with pleasure as a wave of sensation washed over him. The sound of his encouragement spurred her on, igniting a fiery passion within her that manifested as a familiar tingle between her legs, a heat pooling where desire made her ache. Despite the growing need to feel him inside her, her focus remained on pleasing him in that moment, her dedication unwavering.

With an increased pace, a whimper escaped her throat as she savored the taste of him, her gaze drawn to the sight of him looking down at her, his features etched with pleasure and desire. The lines of his face, illuminated by ecstasy, fueled her own arousal, intensifying the connection between them.

His palm flexed over her head, his grip tightening in her hair as he momentarily broke their gaze, his eyes fluttering closed in the midst of overwhelming pleasure. "Yes, don't stop," he pleaded in a breathless whisper, his words a symphony of desire amidst the haze of pleasure enveloping them. As she took him deeper, relishing the sensation of him hitting the back of her throat with each descent over his thick cock, a tremor of excitement coursed through her, her hand resting on his thigh betraying a slight tremble.

As she quickened her pace, a soft pant escaped him, his gaze returning to her, darkened by pure desire. "Oh fuck..." he gasped, his core trembling with a building intensity akin to a storm brewing beneath the surface, the raw need between them palpable in the charged air of their shared moment.

"Sweetheart, I...I'm about to..." he managed to warn her, unsure if she desired to take him as deeply as before, as much as he yearned for her to. Yet, her response to his breathless caution was to quicken her movements, her seductive brown eyes locking onto his with an intensity that ignited a fire within him. A surge of desire coursed through him as her hand reached up, gently massaging his balls, eliciting a distinctive shudder that reverberated through his entire being, his free hand seeking a lifeline on the work station as she skillfully pushed him over the edge.

"Gods, witch!" he exclaimed, his eyes closing in bliss as his climax tore through him. The grip on her hair tightened instinctively, slowing her movements as she eagerly tasted his release, her actions drawing out every last drop as he trembled with pleasure, a strangled groan escaping him in the throes of ecstasy.

As his chest heaved in the aftermath, she finally released him, her skilled ministrations leaving him breathless and utterly sated. "My god, Hermione," he uttered incredulously, pulling her up to him in a fervent embrace before capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. "You are entirely too good at that."

A warm smile graced her features as a blush colored her cheeks while she helped him readjust his boxers and fasten his zipper. "What can I say? I enjoy it," she replied playfully.

"You enjoy it?" he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "My dear, I can assure you that my own enjoyment far exceeds yours." The playful banter between them echoed in the room, a testament to the deep connection and shared pleasure they found in each other's embrace.

Her laughter was a melodious counterpoint to his contented smile as he attended to the potion. The brew had achieved the desired tint, signaling the time to extinguish the flame beneath it. They stood side by side, peering into the cauldron's depths, where the potion's gentle swirls held the promise of hope within its cast iron hold.

...is it possible to have an unhealthy obsession with writing fan fiction? If so, I'm afflicted 😭

***

Chapter Text

Voldemort's eyes snapped open, a gasp escaping his lips. Disoriented, he scanned his surroundings, his gaze piercing the gloom that enveloped him. Dark clouds churned overhead, moving with an ominous lethargy that seemed to mock his confusion. He was lying down, he realized, the ground beneath him a tapestry of crunchy straw and withered grass, a testament to the desolation that stretched out in all directions.

He sat up, feeling the coarse texture of the dead vegetation prickling against his skin. The landscape was a wasteland of dry, cracked earth, where life had long since surrendered to decay. To his right, gnarled trees, twisted and lifeless, clawed at the sky, their branches like the skeletal fingers of a long-forgotten corpse.

But it was the figure to his left that drew his attention—a solitary silhouette standing at the precipice of a vast cliff. Hadria. Her back was turned to him, her form draped in a gown of ethereal white that billowed around her like a ghostly flame. Her long, platinum blonde hair, a river of light, danced in the wind, a silent melody of sorrow.

"Hadria!" he called out, his voice a desperate plea carried away by the breeze. "What are you doing?!"

She remained motionless, a statue gazing into the abyss below. Panic surged within him, and he began to move, first walking, then running, his name for her a mantra on his lips.

"Hadria!"

At last, she turned, her face a canvas of tears that glistened like diamonds of grief. His heart constricted, a vice of emotion that he could not comprehend. He ran faster, but the distance between them remained a chasm he could not bridge. She looked once more to the edge, to the void that beckoned.

"Hadria! Don't!"

"My lord..."

His legs pumped with frenetic urgency, his breath ragged as he sought to close the gap, to save her from the precipice that threatened to claim her. He couldn't lose her—not again.

"Hadria!"

"My Lord! Wake up!"

Reality crashed into him as Bellatrix's voice tore through the veil of his nightmare. He was jolted awake, her hands pressing down on his shoulders, her presence an unwelcome anchor to a world he wished to escape.

"Get off!" he snarled, his voice laced with venom as he shoved her away. He slid from the bed, his movements a blur as he retreated to the sanctuary of the bathroom. The water from the faucet was a cold shock against his skin, a futile attempt to wash away the remnants of the dream that haunted him...it wasn't the first one.

"You were calling her name again, My Lord."

Despite his love for her, Bellatrix's voice was a whine that grated on his nerves. He caught her reflection in the mirror, her figure framed by the doorway, her arms crossed in a petulant display of jealousy. He clenched his teeth, anger boiling within him. Hadria was a Horcrux, nothing more, he told himself. Yet the dreams suggested otherwise, leaving him feeling hollow, desperate, and inexplicably angry.

"Bellatrix...it is not your concern," he muttered, avoiding her gaze as he dried his face with a towel.

"How can you say that you love me if you're calling her—"

In a flash of fury, he had her pinned against the wall, his hand constricting around her throat. His eyes blazed with an intensity that burned with unspoken rage. She struggled, her hands clawing at his wrist, her feet kicking futilely as she gasped for air.

"Because that is what I say, witch, and you will not question me!" he growled, the words a growl of dominance and warning. She wheezed out an apology, and after a moment that stretched into eternity, he released her. She collapsed to the floor, a heap of fear and confusion.

He turned away, his black robes a shroud as he dressed, the fabric whispering against his skin like the echoes of a dream he could not escape. Bellatrix watched him but said nothing as he disappeared from the room.

Voldemort turned his back on the scene, his black robes falling around him like a dark curtain, shielding him from the world's prying eyes. The fabric rustled softly, a haunting whisper that seemed to echo the turmoil within his soul. Bellatrix's gaze lingered on his retreating form, her eyes filled with a tumult of emotions she dared not voice. She remained silent, a statue in the shadows, as he vanished from her sight.

The corridors of Malfoy Manor were silent as tombs as Voldemort made his way toward the lounge, his footsteps heavy with a purpose that was as much about escaping his own thoughts as it was about seeking solace in the burn of a strong drink. His mind was a tempest, thoughts crashing against one another, each wave a crescendo of confusion and anger.

It was then that a soft melody caressed his ears, a gentle piano tune that seemed to cut through the cacophony of his inner chaos. He halted, his senses sharpening as he recognized the tune—one that had haunted the edges of his consciousness for what felt like an eternity. Drawn as if by an invisible thread, he followed the sound, each note pulling him closer to its source.

The music room loomed before him, its door ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning him inside. The room was shrouded in shadows, the grand piano a silent monolith in the gloom. There was no one there, no musician to give life to the keys, yet the melody persisted, a ghostly serenade that filled the space with its melancholic beauty.

Memories flooded back to him, unbidden and sharp as shards of glass. Hadria had been there once, her delicate fingers dancing across the ivory keys, her hair a halo in the soft light. She had played that very song, her voice a silken thread weaving through the notes, the lyrics a message meant only for him.

And now, he could hear it again, as vivid as if she were there before him, her presence an ethereal whisper in the darkness. The music swelled, filling the room.

He stood there, alone in the dark, the lord of shadows lost in a moment of haunting confusion. The song was a bridge to a past he could not return to, a reminder of a bond that defied the very nature of his being and no longer made sense. It left him feeling exposed, vulnerable—a sensation he despised.

The tightness in Voldemort's chest burgeoned into an unbearable constriction, a physical manifestation of the turmoil that raged within him. The anger, a smoldering ember since he awoke, now flared into an inferno, consuming all semblance of control. With a roar of fury, his fists descended upon the piano, the force of his wrath shattering the keys, sending ivory shards flying like scattered bones.

His hands, instruments of destruction, latched onto the grand instrument, tearing into the polished wood with a ferocity that was both terrifying and pitiful. The piano, once a source of haunting melodies, now groaned and splintered under his assault. He wanted silence, a void to drown out the echoes of her voice, the music that was a siren's call to a soul he no longer understood.

Voldemort was a tempest, a maelstrom of violence that reduced the piano to a carcass of wood and wire. The splinters bit into his flesh, drawing lines of crimson that marred his pale skin. But the pain was a mere trifle, a distraction from the agony that clawed at his heart. He welcomed it, the physicality of the pain a counterpoint to the spectral ache that haunted him.

He growled, a primal sound that filled the room, resonating with the remnants of the piano that lay in ruins around him. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each exhale a mist of fury and despair. The once immaculate music room was now a scene of devastation, a testament to the chaos that reigned in the Dark Lord's mind.

As the last vestiges of his rage ebbed away, leaving him standing amidst the debris of his own making, Voldemort felt a hollow victory. The silence he had sought was filled with the pounding of his own heart, a relentless drum that spoke of a battle far from over. The destruction of the piano had not brought peace, only a stark reminder of the war that raged within, a war between what he was and what he might have become.

Leaving the wreckage of the music room behind, Voldemort's silhouette cut through the dimly lit corridors of Malfoy Manor. Each step was measured, a deliberate attempt to regain the composure that had been so violently stripped away. The lounge loomed ahead, a sanctuary of sorts, where the burn of aged spirits promised a temporary respite from the relentless storm of his thoughts.

The decanters glinted in the low light, their contents rich and dark, a liquid oblivion that beckoned. He poured himself a fire whiskey, the amber liquid swirling into the glass, a whirlpool that mirrored the one within his own mind.

The first sip was a sharp bite, a welcome sting that grounded him in the present. He welcomed the warmth that spread through his chest, a fleeting comfort against the coldness that had taken root there. He settled into an armchair, the leather creaking under his weight, the glass cradled in his blood streaked hand.

A fire crackled in the hearth nearby, casting a flickering glow that danced across his features, softening the hard lines of his face. For a moment, he allowed himself the illusion of peace, a dangerous indulgence for one such as he.

But peace was a lie, a fleeting shadow that passed as quickly as it came. The echoes of the piano, the vision of Hadria, they lingered, an undercurrent beneath the calm surface. He could destroy a room, he could silence a song, but he could not quiet the whispers of a soul divided.

The night stretched on, the hours marked by the steady ticking of a clock and the slow burn of the whiskey. Voldemort sat alone, the Dark Lord in his darkened realm, a solitary figure wrestling with phantoms that refused to be banished.

***

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered through the high windows of the headmaster's office, casting long shadows across the room where Lucius Malfoy sat, examining a small vial of clear liquid on Severus Snape's desk as he picked it up.

"Is it usually clear?" Lucius inquired, his voice tinged with curiosity, holding the potion up to the light.

Snape, reclining in his chair with an air of nonchalance that belied the gravity of their conversation, glanced at the vial.

"Actually no. Typically, the finalized potion boasts a vibrant crimson hue, accompanied by a distinct liquorice flavor," he began, his tone clinical.

"However, I've employed a blend of activated charcoal and water of Aethiops in this concoction to render it colorless and remove all but the most subtle flavor and smell. It's concentrated; a mere three drops in his afternoon coffee will suffice."

Lucius nodded, the gravity of the situation settling upon him like a cloak. "And if he is indeed ensnared by a love potion, this will free him?" he asked, seeking confirmation.

"Indeed. Should the Dark Lord be under such an enchantment, administering this antidote will initiate a discernible shift from his current state...he may seem confused," Severus affirmed, his gaze steady. "Absent any behavioral change, we must entertain less palatable possibilities... though let us hope that bridge remains untraveled."

With a solemn nod, Lucius secreted the potion into his pocket and settled back into his chair, his cane resting across his lap like a silent sentinel.

"The Dark Lord...he rose in the night, compelled to dismantle the piano in the music room...quite aggressively I might add," Lucius disclosed, his voice a low murmur.

Severus's eyebrow arched ever so slightly, the only sign of his surprise. "Not a fan of the classics, I presume?" he quipped, his face a mask of stoicism.

Lucius exhaled deeply, the weight of their predicament pressing down upon him. "He's teetering on the brink, Severus. Unpredictable is an understatement. A house elf found him this morning, collapsed in the lounge, inebriated to the point of unconsciousness. His arms, his hands... they were lacerated, bleeding. It's as if he's waging a war within himself."

Severus Snape's mind churned as he pondered the disturbing details Lucius had laid bare. His eyes, usually inscrutable pools of onyx, betrayed a flicker of concern.

"And Bellatrix has nothing to say on the matter?" Severus inquired, his voice a low drawl that filled the room with an expectant tension.

Lucius Malfoy's response was a scoff, a sound that seemed to scrape against the walls of the office. He averted his gaze, his eyes finding interest in the ancient stones of the room as if seeking solace in their immutable strength.

"Not in the slightest," Lucius began, his voice laced with a bitterness that seemed to sour the very air. "And yet, he treats her like a mere plaything. On the surface, there appears a façade of devotion, but the reality is far more brutal, far more...transactional."

He paused, the words catching in his throat like thorns. "She arrives at meals adorned with bruises, badges of a twisted affection. And yet, she remains silent, her loyalty unwavering, even as she refuses the confidences of her own sister. Narcissa is met with nothing but claims of their predilection for...vigorous play, shall we say. She professes contentment with their...relationship, if such a term can be applied to their interactions."

Lucius's voice trailed off, the final words spoken with a palpable air of revulsion.

"Is Narcissa truly prepared for what the Dark Lord may do once he has been cured of his affliction? If he has indeed been bewitched...she may have very well signed her own death certificate," he mused, his voice a blend of curiosity and foreboding.

Lucius nodded, the lines of his face etched with the gravity of their undertaking. "She is. She understands the magnitude of the risk with a clarity that is chilling. In her eyes, Bellatrix's betrayal has cast a shadow over us all," he conceded, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of the office.

He leaned forward, his hands clasping the head of his cane with an intensity that mirrored his concern. "Today it was a piano, reduced to splinters and kindling...what next?" Lucius pondered aloud, his words hanging in the air like a dire prophecy. "What might be the target of his wrath when there are no more inanimate objects to bear the brunt of his inner turmoil?"

Severus's nod was slow, deliberate, the motion carrying the weight of countless unspoken fears and hopes. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, fixed upon Lucius with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the veneer of aristocratic composure.

"Indeed," he intoned, his voice a low baritone that resonated with the gravity of their situation. "Let us hope that the cure we seek is nestled within your pocket, Lucius."

***

Lucius Malfoy's return to the Manor was marked by a palpable tension, the small vial concealed within his pocket feeling as though it bore the weight of the world. Its contents, seemingly innocuous, were laden with the potential to alter the course of their fates.

Narcissa sat in the living room, her posture the very picture of anxiety. She was perched on the edge of her seat, a cup of coffee held in trembling hands, her eyes scanning the lines of the Daily Prophet with feigned interest. At Lucius's emergence from the green flames of the Floo, her gaze snapped up, a flicker of hope dancing in her eyes.

"Did you get it?" she whispered, her voice a delicate thread in the tapestry of the morning's quiet. The coffee cup clattered softly as she set it down, her attention wholly fixed on Lucius.

With a cautious glance, Lucius surveyed the room, ensuring the sanctity of their privacy.

"They're not here at the present. He... took Bella with him, claimed some business," Narcissa informed him, her voice barely above a murmur.

Lucius nodded, a silent affirmation. "Yes, I have it...Severus said three drops in his coffee should suffice," he confirmed, stepping further into the room, the vial a secret promise against his thigh.

"Mippy usually attends to his afternoon coffees of late. I shall entrust it to her care," Narcissa declared, a semblance of a plan taking shape amidst the uncertainty that shrouded them.

With a final, surreptitious glance to confirm their solitude, Lucius handed over the vial. He watched, a mixture of admiration and concern etched upon his features, as Narcissa deftly concealed the potion within the sanctuary of her dress, nestled within her bra.

He raised an eyebrow, a silent question that danced with the shadows of risk they were entwined in. Narcissa's response was a flirtatious smile, a momentary reprieve from the gravity of their situation, as she playfully shook her head at him, her resolve as unyielding as the steel of his cane.

Narcissa rose, her movements a graceful dance of determination and fear. She glided through the corridors of the Manor, each step taking her closer to the heart of the home—the kitchen—where she sought the solitude necessary for the delicate task at hand. The room was a sanctuary of sorts, with its hearth and homely scents, a place where secrets could be whispered without fear of prying ears.

"Mippy!" she called, her voice a soft but commanding chime in the quiet of the room.

With a faint pop, the diminutive house-elf materialized before her, her large eyes wide with the eagerness to serve. "Yes, my lady?" Mippy asked, her voice a gentle squeak, her timid smile a testament to her loyalty.

Narcissa crouched to meet the elf's gaze, ensuring their eyes were locked, a silent exchange of trust passing between them. "When the Dark Lord returns and requests his afternoon coffee, I need you to add three drops of this potion into it before you serve him. It is imperative that you speak of this to no one, Mippy. Do you understand?" she implored, her voice a hushed whisper as she entrusted the vial to the elf's care.

Mippy's nod was solemn, her small hands cradling the vial with a reverence befitting its importance. "Yes, ma'am, of course. Three drops in his afternoon coffee, and Mippy shall ensure he remains unaware. Mippy's lips are sealed and it will not be spoken of to anyone," she vowed, her words a sacred pledge.

Narcissa straightened, her gaze lingering on the elf for a moment longer. Mippy had been a steadfast presence in the Malfoy household for years, her devotion unwavering and she trusted her with this task.

***

The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the Malfoy Manor as Voldemort and Bellatrix made their grand return. Narcissa, having just pruned the last of her roses in the garden, felt the thorns of anxiety prick at her as she watched them approach. Her smile was a mask, carefully crafted and positioned as Bellatrix sauntered in, laden with shopping bags from the most exclusive of witches' boutiques.

"Oh Cissy, you simply must see what I got today," Bellatrix boasted, her smug grin a stark contrast to the understated elegance of her purchases. It wasn't the items themselves that warranted such pride; it was the unspoken statement they made. Bellatrix didn't need her husband to indulge her whims when she had the Dark Lord to dote upon her.

Seizing the moment to anchor them within the confines of the living room, Narcissa feigned a spark of enthusiasm. "Yes, Bella, do show me your treasures," she urged, turning to Voldemort, whose expression of boredom couldn't mask the fresh scars that adorned his arms—wounds washed but willfully left unhealed.

"My Lord, might I tempt you to join us for afternoon tea? I was about to partake myself. Mippy can fetch your coffee," Narcissa offered, her tone light, her smile a delicate balance between invitation and indifference.

Voldemort's gaze drifted, disinterested, before settling on Bellatrix with a resigned nod. "Very well, that will suffice...and bring me the Prophet," he commanded, sinking onto the sofa with a languid grace. His arm draped behind Bellatrix, fingers trailing down her spine in a mindless caress as she eagerly rifled through her spoils.

With a discreet nod, Narcissa summoned Mippy. The elf popped into existence with a soft crack, her eyes wide with the silent understanding of the task ahead. "Please, tea and for us, and coffee with a copy of the Daily Prophet for the Dark Lord," Narcissa instructed, her nod laden with unspoken urgency.

"Yes, my lady, Mippy shall return posthaste," the elf replied before disappearing with a faint pop.

Bellatrix, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around her, brandished her new garments with a flourish. "Look, Cissy," she exclaimed, each item unfurled like a flag of victory. Narcissa watched, her practiced eye feigning admiration for the luxurious fabrics and exquisite accessories, all the while her mind raced with the gravity of what was to come.

Narcissa's voice was light, a feather on the breeze, as she admired the necklace Bellatrix held aloft with pride. "Oh, this piece is truly exquisite, Bella. Perhaps it's time to retire that old trinket you've been wearing for this new splendor," she teased, her words a delicate dance to maintain the levity of the room.

Bellatrix, her hands deep within the trove of her latest conquests, responded with a distracted murmur, "Oh, yes, perhaps one day." Her attention was wholly consumed by the treasures she unearthed from the depths of her shopping bags, each item a testament to her favored status.

It was then that Mippy made her entrance, a silent wisp of magic in the room. The house-elf maneuvered with practiced grace, a carafe of tea levitating alongside cups, a steaming cup of coffee, and the day's edition of the Daily Prophet for the Dark Lord. Voldemort accepted his coffee and the newspaper with an absent nod, his focus elsewhere as Mippy attended to the ladies.

Bellatrix barely registered the tea service laid out before her, her gaze ensnared by the lustrous fabrics and gleaming accessories that spilled from her bags. Narcissa, meanwhile, cradled her cup with hands that betrayed none of the storm raging within her. She sipped the amber liquid, each swallow a silent prayer as Voldemort unfolded the paper with a flick of his wrist and brought the cup to his lips, the potion concealed within, mingling with the black coffee.

Bellatrix, with the carefree air of one who has never known defeat, meticulously repacked her treasures, each item a symbol of her triumphs, real or imagined. She lifted her cup from the table, the delicate porcelain barely making a sound as she brought it to her lips, savoring the rich aroma before taking a sip.

Narcissa, meanwhile, was a portrait of strained composure. Her conversation with Bellatrix was a mechanical performance, her words flowing automatically while her mind was elsewhere. She stole furtive glances at Voldemort, her eyes darting to his cup with a frequency that betrayed her inner turmoil. He, oblivious to the undercurrents of desperation around him, appeared content, his attention absorbed by the printed words before him as he sipped leisurely from his cup.

As time trickled by, the absence of any discernible change in Voldemort's demeanor chipped away at Narcissa's hope. With each passing moment, the possibility of the potion's efficacy dwindled, until the stark realization set in. The cup was empty, and with it, their last vestige of hope seemed to drain away. The potion had failed.

A sudden haze enveloped Narcissa's senses, the world around her taking on the surreal quality of a dream...or rather, a nightmare from which she could not awaken. They had placed all their bets on that vial of liquid salvation, and now it was gone, its promise disappearing into the abyss of the coffee's dark embrace.

"Cissy, did you hear me?" The sharpness of Bellatrix's voice sliced through Narcissa's stupor, pulling her back to the present.

"Oh yes, Bella. Forgive me, the sun has left me feeling quite drained today. I think I shall retire to my chambers for a spell," Narcissa replied, her smile a masterful façade that concealed the crushing weight of defeat. Voldemort, finally tearing his gaze from the newspaper, acknowledged her with a nod, his expression unreadable.

"Come, my dear," he beckoned to Bellatrix, rising from his seat with an air of finality. Bellatrix, her arms laden with the spoils of her indulgence, followed him without hesitation, leaving Narcissa alone with the remnants of their shattered plan.

As the pair departed, Narcissa remained motionless, the silence of the room echoing the hollowness within her as she stood and made her way to the lounge to speak with Lucius.

***

Chapter Text

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. "What do you mean it didn't work?" Lucius's voice was a low growl, his eyes darting past Narcissa to ensure the privacy of their conversation. The lounge, usually a place of relaxation, now felt like a stage for their quiet desperation.

Narcissa moved with a purpose, her elegant hands reaching for a bottle of wine nestled within the bar's cabinet. The pop of the cork was a sharp punctuation in the silence that followed her revelation. "He drank the entire cup... it didn't work," she confessed, her frustration seeping into each syllable. The crimson liquid poured into her glass, a rich, dark mirror of their fading hope.

Lucius paced, the click of his shoes against the floor a metronome to their anxiety. "You're sure Mippy did as you instructed?" he probed, his gaze fixed on Narcissa, searching for any flicker of doubt. She took a sip of wine, the taste bitter against the backdrop of their failure, and considered the possibility of the elf's error. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of their plight, she summoned the house-elf.

Mippy's appearance was instantaneous, her small form materializing with a soft pop. "Yes ma'am, how can Mippy be of assistance?" she inquired, her voice a timid whisper.

"Mippy, you did put the three drops of that vial into his coffee, yes?" Narcissa's question was a quiet plea, her eyes locked onto the elf's. Mippy's nod was firm, her assurance unwavering.

"Yes ma'am, Mippy did just as instructed." As if on cue, the vial appeared, conjured from the ether by the elf's magic. Narcissa took it, her fingers tracing the contours of the glass, confirming it was definitely not as full as it had been before. It was a tangible confirmation of their attempt, now spent and useless. She passed the vial to Lucius, who pocketed it with a silent nod of agreement.

"Thank you, Mippy. You're dismissed," Narcissa said, her smile a faint echo of gratitude as the elf vanished once more.

Lucius and Narcissa settled onto the couch, each lost in thought as they nursed their respective drinks—Lucius with his fire whiskey, Narcissa with her wine. The rhythmic drumming of Narcissa's fingers against the leather armrest was a metronome to their ruminations.

"Do you think... I mean, is it possible there was a delayed reaction?" Narcissa's voice broke the silence, her words tinged with a fragile thread of hope.

Lucius' eyebrow arched, his mind entertaining the notion. "Severus stated it should work immediately...however...I suppose...anything is possible," he mused, his voice trailing off into uncertainty.

He could see the gears turning in Narcissa's mind, her eyes alight with the flicker of an idea. "What are you thinking, darling?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

Narcissa hesitated, her suggestion hanging precariously on the tip of her tongue. "Well...I wondered if we should...perhaps take a stroll...down the corridor of her room..." she ventured, her discomfort with the proposal evident in her faltering voice.

Lucius's expression soured, his distaste for the idea clear. "Are you suggesting...we...eavesdrop like a couple of third years spying on the school staff room?" he asked, his incredulity painting his words with a thick brush of skepticism.

Narcissa's cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, her embarrassment palpable.

"No, no, no...of course not...that would be preposterous..." she stammered, the absurdity of the notion settling in like an unwelcome guest.

***

Narcissa's whisper was a conspiratorial hiss, "I can't hear anything...let me get closer over there," as she nudged Lucius with more determination than subtlety. He grumbled under his breath, the press of her body against his both a distraction and an annoyance.

"Darling, that's quite close enough unless you're aiming to consecrate the nightstand..." Lucius's voice was a velvety purr, his words laced with a double entendre that earned him a playful slap and an eye roll from Narcissa.

She pressed her ear back to the wall of the guest bedroom next door to Bellatrix's room, her brow furrowed in concentration. Lucius, ever the dutiful partner in crime, mirrored her actions, his own ear against the cool wooden panels. They stood in silence, a pair of statues poised in an absurd tableau.

Narcissa's breath hitched, "I don't hear anything...do you think they're asleep?" Her whisper was barely audible, a ghost of sound.

Lucius glanced at his wristwatch, his expression skeptical. "It's a bit early for slumber, I'd wager," he murmured. "Perhaps we should—"

"Wait, wait, shush...I hear something..." Narcissa's interruption was urgent, her body tensing as she strained to catch the elusive sounds beyond the wall. Muffled voices teased at the edges of their hearing, an indecipherable murmur that promised secrets just out of reach.

Their eavesdropping was abruptly shattered by Draco's sudden appearance behind them, "Hey, what are we listening for?" His voice was a jolt of normalcy in the midst of their absurdity.

Lucius and Narcissa whipped around, fingers to their lips, shushing him with frantic intensity. Draco's grin was all mischief and mirth.

"Are you eavesdropping on the Dark Lord?" he teased, his amusement clear.

Lucius straightened, his posture all feigned dignity as he adjusted his cuffs. Narcissa, arms crossed, tried to muster an air of offended propriety. "Of course not, Draco, we were simply..." Her protest died on her lips as Draco, undeterred, slipped behind her to press his own ear to the wall.

"Son, what are you—" Lucius began, only to be cut off by Draco's insistent whisper, "Ssshhhhh... Father, I can't hear a thing with you chattering."

With a roll of his eyes, Lucius resigned himself to the farce, and once more, they all leaned in, a trio of Malfoys united in their ridiculous quest for auditory espionage. The silence stretched on, punctuated only by the distant creaks of the manor settling into the evening.

Then, a sound emerged from the quiet, a noise that had Draco recoiling in horror.

"Oh...wait...is that..."

The realization dawned on all three faces simultaneously, a collective look of revulsion replacing the earlier intrigue.

Draco cleared his throat, his voice an octave higher than usual.

"You guys are weird...I'm gonna go...take a shower," he announced, his departure swift and his disgust palpable.

Lucius exhaled a weary sigh, turning to Narcissa with a resigned shake of his head.

"The potion definitely didn't work," he declared, the annoyance evident in his tone. Narcissa nodded, her mind already racing with implications as they retreated to the sanctuary of their bedroom.

Narcissa's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each more frantic than the last.

Lucius Malfoy stood by the window, the fading light casting long shadows across the room. He began to unwind from the day's tension, methodically unfastening his cufflinks with the precision of a man accustomed to control. The soft clicks of the metal echoed in the quiet, a counterpoint to Narcissa's restless pacing.

"Alright...so it wasn't a love potion...but it was... it is something..." Narcissa's voice was tinged with frustration, her steps a metronome to her racing thoughts. She paused, turning to face Lucius, her eyes searching for answers in his composed demeanor.

Lucius set his cufflinks aside and began to remove his watch, the gentle slide of the leather strap through the buckle a whisper in the charged atmosphere.

"Where the hell would she have even picked up the kind of dark magic she must be using?" Narcissa's question hung in the air, a challenge to the silence a she plopped down on the edge of the bed.

Lucius considered this, his gaze drifting to the horizon beyond the window.

"Darling...considering the time she spent in Azkaban, there's no telling what sort of unsavory characters she may have encountered. And you mentioned she's been rather...perturbed since her return. It's entirely plausible she's delved into some ancient, obscure magic or ritual unknown to us. The magic we were taught, the spells we've mastered...they're but a fraction of the arcane arts that exist in this world. That much is painfully clear."

Narcissa watched him, her own hands coming to rest as she absorbed his words. The room seemed to close in around them, the walls a barrier not just to the outside world, but to the answers they sought. Lucius, now more comfortable, moved to sit beside her, his movements a silent invitation to join him in contemplation.

A flicker of inspiration ignited within Narcissa's eyes, a subtle shift in her demeanor as an idea took root. "What about the healer?" she posited, her voice carrying the weight of newfound possibility.

"Miss Batts?" Lucius echoed, his query hanging in the air as he turned to face her, his expression one of intrigue. "What about her?"

Narcissa's gaze was distant, her thoughts already weaving through the tapestry of potential answers. "She's not just any witch; there's a depth to her, an air of wisdom. And her clients...they're not all the sort you find in polite society. Perhaps she's encountered something like this before, something that eludes our understanding," she mused, the idea blossoming with each word.

Lucius inhaled deeply, the gears of his mind turning as he considered the merits of her suggestion. "It's worth a try," he conceded, the words slow and deliberate. "After all, Miss Batts has always been a vault when it comes to her dealings. Her discretion is beyond reproach."

"Then we should go to her," Lucius proposed, already envisioning the missive in his mind. But Narcissa was shaking her head, her decision made.

"No, I should go alone. It would draw less attention, less...speculation," she reasoned, her voice firm. Lucius gave a nod of assent, the unspoken trust between them as palpable as the air they shared.

"Very well, my dear. I shall leave you to it," he said, his lips brushing her forehead in a tender gesture before he retreated to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

Narcissa summoned Mippy once more, the house-elf appearing with the customary pop that punctuated the silence of the room. "Yes, miss?" Mippy inquired, her large eyes attentive.

"Mippy, I need you to send an owl to Healer Marjorie Batts. Request a meeting for me alone, and make sure she knows it concerns Hadria. She had a certain fondness for the girl during her last visit. Tell her we must meet at her establishment," Narcissa instructed, her words measured and clear.

Mippy bobbed her head in understanding, her voice a soft echo of affirmation. "Yes, of course, ma'am. Mippy will see to it right away."

And with that, the elf was gone, leaving Narcissa alone with her thoughts, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the storm of plans brewing within her.

***

The room was steeped in the soft glow of the bedside lamps, casting a serene ambiance as Lucius and Narcissa lay side by side, each lost in the pages of their respective books. The tranquility of the moment was a stark contrast to the turmoil that had gripped their lives. It was within this bubble of calm that Mippy returned, materializing with a soft pop that was as much a part of the manor as the stone walls themselves.

Narcissa set her book aside as Mippy delivered the news. Marjorie Batts, the enigmatic healer with a reputation that whispered through the shadows, had extended an invitation through her floo network—a privilege granted to few.

Lucius's brow furrowed with concern as Narcissa rose from their bed, her movements decisive.

"Darling, do you really intend to go this evening?" His voice was laced with worry, the thought of her venturing into the unknown a knot in his stomach. "I've never been to her home; I won't have any idea where you are."

But Narcissa's resolve was ironclad. "Yes, Lucius, I'm going. I won't be able to sleep with all of this on my mind and our current predicament allows for no delay. Besides, the manor is quiet; Voldemort and Bellatrix are asleep...the timing is perfect."

Pride swelled in Lucius's chest, his wife's courage a beacon in these dark times. He rose, crossing the room to stand before her.

"Alright, but be cautious, my love. And come home quickly. I'll wait for you in the lounge," he said, his kiss a tender promise of his unwavering support.

With a smile that held both warmth and the gravity of the task ahead, Narcissa assured him, "I will, darling." She left the sanctuary of their bedroom, her steps carrying her to the living room where the hearth stood ready to transport her to the healer's abode.

Standing amidst the emerald flames, Narcissa spoke the incantation with clarity, "Marjorie Batts' home."

The floo powder ignited, and she was whisked away, the green inferno a gateway to answers unknown.

The world shifted, and she emerged in a place that breathed with the essence of magic and mystery. Her eyes widened in shock, her breath caught in her throat when she saw who stood before her.

Hadria.

Chapter Text

— 3 Days Earlier —

Hadria stood in front of the hut in the Swamp...the ape let her hand go and gestured to the door of the hut. She bit her lip nervously but she trusted that the wand core had sent her somewhere safe. Surely it wouldn't have sent her to her death...right?

Taking a deep breath, Hadria stepped forward. The swamp seemed to hold its breath alongside her. She slid her fingers around the gnarled wooden door handle, its rough texture grounding her as she opened it.

Before her lay a corridor, dark and richly appointed, an unexpected vein of opulence running through the heart of the swamp. The narrow foyer beckoned, its polished wooden floor reflecting the flickering dance of candlelight from the wall sconces, inviting her into its embrace.

As Hadria descended the steps, the door swung shut with a soft, final click, the chorus of the swamp muffled by the thickening walls. Wooden vines crept across the door in a living seal, binding her to the path ahead. A lump formed in her throat, but she pressed on, each step a descent into a realm where the wild was tamed into luxury, where nature and grandeur intertwined.

The corridor opened up into a living room of vast proportions, a chalet reborn from shadow and splendor. Towering picture windows framed the swamp in a hauntingly beautiful tableau, the sunlight casting dappled patterns across the waters surface. The room was a paradox, a place of refuge and opulence nestled within the untamed embrace of the swamp, a testament to the mysterious magic that had brought her here.

The walls of the home were adorned with a collection of paintings that seemed to defy the very concept of static art. Each frame, ornate and gilded, cradled a canvas where the painted scenes pulsed with a subtle life. The images of swamp flora and fauna were captured in such vivid detail that they appeared to move, a dragonfly's wing trembling or a crocodile's eye blinking, only when one's gaze shifted away. It was as if the boundary between the tangible world and the painted realm was nothing but a delicate veil, easily stirred by the breath of the swamp itself.

Verdant ivy cascaded from the lofty heights of the room, draping elegantly over shelves that were a menagerie of the peculiar. These shelves held a myriad of objects that danced on the line between elegance and the grotesque. Skulls, not mere remnants of life but seemingly imbued with an aura of ancient power, sat with a silent dignity. Their empty sockets seemed to watch over the room, guardians of secrets long forgotten.

At the heart of this sanctuary of oddities was a grand fireplace, its flames alive with an ethereal dance. They cast a warm, golden glow that seemed to embrace the room, wrapping it in a comforting radiance. The mantel above was a display of artifacts that whispered tales of yore, each piece a chapter from a story shrouded in the mists of time.

To her right, the space unfolded into a beautifully rustic kitchen, the sounds of culinary activity suggesting the presence of another. Hadria's curiosity drew her closer, and she found herself amidst shelves laden with jars of herbs, roots, and spices, their labels inscribed with runes that twisted and turned in patterns unfamiliar to her eyes.

Her attention was then captured by the sight of a knife, which moved with a precision that was unmistakably magical, dicing vegetables without a guiding hand. Nearby, a large pot simmered gently on the stove, stirred by a wooden spoon that moved of its own accord. Hadria had witnessed such enchantments before in the Weasley household, where magic breathed life into the mundane, transforming chores into a symphony of spells. This place, she realized, was undoubtedly the dwelling of a witch.

"Trouble in paradise?" The voice, unexpected and sharp, cut through Hadria's musings.

Startled, Hadria spun around to face the entrance of the kitchen. There stood an older woman, her figure robust and her long grey hair framing a face marked by wisdom and scrutiny. Her arms were crossed, her head tilted with an air of knowing. Recognition dawned on Hadria; this was the healer who had tended to her wounds months ago, her presence as formidable as the magic that filled the home.

"Mrs. Batts?!...This is your home?" Hadria's voice was a mix of astonishment and disbelief as she took in the unexpected sight of the woman before her.

The corners of Mrs. Batts' eyes crinkled into deeper folds as a knowing smirk played upon her lips. She ambled towards the stove, lifting the lid of the pot to peer at the simmering concoction within.

"It is, child," she affirmed, her voice rich with the timbre of experience. "But the real question here is how you, of all people, found your way to my swamp?" Her question was pointed, an eyebrow arching inquisitively as she turned to regard Hadria.

The inquiry struck a chord within Hadria, stirring memories she wished to keep dormant. She cast her gaze downward, grappling with the turmoil that threatened to surface. The realization of her intrusion into Mrs. Batts' home washed over her, and the prospect of unloading her emotional baggage seemed suddenly discourteous.

"Ms. Batts," Hadria began, her voice quivering with the weight of her emotions. "I'm... not entirely certain why I ended up here... only that I was in trouble... and I invoked a spell meant to transport me to safety... which led me to awaken in the swamp."

Mrs. Batts observed the girl's fragile demeanor, perceiving the storm of confusion and distress that raged within her—and something more, an undercurrent of something vulnerable yet potent. With a subtle motion, she gestured to a nearby table.

"Take a seat there," she instructed, her tone neither overly gentle nor harsh, but carrying the authority of one who had weathered countless storms. "I've prepared some stew; it's nearly ready. You appear in need of a hearty meal."

Hadria complied, taking a seat at the table where an arrangement of flowers bathed the space in a soft, enchanting luminescence. As she settled in, her eyes wandered the kitchen nook, coming to rest on an antique cuckoo clock. Its gentle ticking filled the room, yet curiously, the hands of the clock moved in reverse.

Ms. Batts placed a delicate cup before Hadria, its surface adorned with golden flowers that seemed to undulate gently, as if caressed by an invisible breeze. The old brass kettle in her hands tipped forward, and a stream of steaming tea cascaded into the cup, the liquid's aroma mingling with the air.

"Your home is... mesmerizing, Ms. Batts," Hadria remarked, her eyes lifting to meet those of her host, a soft smile gracing her lips. The elder witch's features softened almost imperceptibly, a twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth. She found the girl's sincerity refreshing, a rare trait in humans these days.

"I'm curious, child... what spell brought you to my doorstep?" Ms. Batts inquired, her voice carrying across the kitchen as she shuffled back to the stove.

Hadria hesitated, her mind revisiting the desperate moments that led her here. "I've been exploring various magics," she began, her voice a whisper of uncertainty. "There was one spell, a sort of last resort... I wasn't even sure it would work. The incantation was 'Aetherspire Telethrae Sanct—"

"Sanctuarium Portus ex Nihilo," Ms. Batts interjected, her voice confident and knowing. Hadria's eyes widened in surprise.

"You're familiar with it?" she asked, her incredulity clear.

The old witch's chuckle was a low rumble as she settled at the table, cradling her own cup of tea. "Indeed, I am. The Seraphic Grimoire, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," Hadria confirmed with a nod. "But how do you know of it?"

A glint of mirth sparkled in Ms. Batts' ancient hazel eyes, betraying a wisdom that transcended time. "When you've lived as many years as I have, you tend to learn a thing or two. The tome you mention, though scarce, is often dismissed by contemporary mages as mere fiction," she explained.

"So easily are the ancient arts forgotten," she mused, sipping her tea with a reflective air. Hadria couldn't help but smile; there was an undeniable allure to the old woman, a charm that transcended her years.

"So, the fates deemed my care a safe haven for you?" Ms. Batts mused with a soft chuckle, the irony not lost on her. Despite herself, she felt a certain fondness for the girl, and if Hadria could indeed harness such potent magic with ease... "Now, tell me your story."

Hadria reclined into the chair, her breath escaping in a heavy sigh as she mustered the courage to unravel her tale.

"Voldemort... he, well.... everything was going perfectly after you healed me that time before. He was affectionate, tender... we grew very close," she began, her voice a tremulous thread. Marjorie's hand, weathered yet gentle, turned Hadria's arm over, revealing the stark symbol etched into her skin.

"He marked you, did he?" Marjorie inquired, her gaze scrutinizing the Dark Mark. Hadria's nod was barely perceptible.

"Yes, and he bore the same," Hadria whispered, a faint smile gracing her lips at the memory of their shared bond. Marjorie's eyebrow arched, a silent testament to her surprise.

"Did he?" Marjorie exhaled, her breath carrying a note of disbelief. Hadria's smile waned as she recounted the recent sudden shift in their relationship and the harrowing discovery of betrayal that shattered her world.

As Hadria's narrative unfolded, tears welled in her eyes, a dam threatening to break. She brushed them away hastily, unwilling to crumble before the healer. Marjorie observed in silence, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of Hadria's emotions.

Hadria spoke of the other woman, of the rage and heartbreak that fueled her magic, of her flight from the man she believed had loved her. "And then... I awoke in the swamp," she concluded, her voice a whisper of exhaustion.

Marjorie rose, her movements fluid as wooden bowls levitated into her grasp. "You're with child, aren't you?" she asked, her voice carrying the certainty of one who had seen the cycle of life come full circle countless times.

Hadria, taken aback by the healer's intuition, could only nod. "Yes... but how could you know?"

As Marjorie served the stew, golden spoons gliding through the air to land gracefully before them, Hadria marveled at the effortless display of magic. "I'm a healer; I've learned to recognize the signs of a magical child," Marjorie explained, her eyes twinkling with a wisdom that transcended the ages.

"My child is magical?" Hadria asked, awe coloring her tone. Marjorie's nod was accompanied by a knowing smile.

"Indeed, dear. The magic within you both is palpable."

Hadria's hand caressed her stomach, a sense of pride swelling within her. Her child, already touched by magic, promised to be a formidable witch or wizard.

"Does he know?"

She sighed, a gesture of resignation, and shook her head, her eyes downcast. "No... I was going to tell him when..." Her words faded into the silence that enveloped them.

"Ms. Batts, I don't mean to impose upon your hospitality," Hadria began, her voice steadying as she spoke between thoughtful bites. "But it seems Voldemort couldn't follow me here... Our shared Dark Mark should have led him straight to me."

Marjorie's chuckle was a soft sound that seemed to dance with the flickering candlelight. "Not here, child. The only magic that holds sway within the gates of this swamp is that which I permit. The fates that guided you here knew you'd be out of his reach," she explained, her words imbued with an ancient knowledge.

Hadria glanced at her swamp-stained attire and the tangles in her hair, a rueful smile touching her lips. "Yes, I discovered that quite abruptly," she admitted.

Marjorie's gaze lingered on the dried blood and cuts that marred Hadria's arms, her silence speaking volumes.

"I'll offer you sanctuary for a time," she finally said, her attention returning to her nearly empty bowl. "A helping hand would not go amiss around here."

"Ms. Batts... are you certain?" Hadria's question was tinged with a mix of hope and hesitation.

With a nod, Marjorie rose, gathering their bowls and sending them floating towards the sink where water sprang to life and a cloth began its diligent scrubbing. "Come now, let's tend to your appearance," she said, leading the way back into the living room.

Hadria stood and followed, her step echoing softly in the grand space. As they passed a cluster of Ivy it reached out and lightly grazed her.

"Don't worry, it's just merely being friendly." the woman assured her.

Ascending the stairs, they bypassed one door before Marjorie paused at the next. She opened it to reveal a beautiful guest bedroom, a serene haven free from the whimsical curiosities that filled the rest of the house. Hadria stepped inside, enveloped by the room's tranquil embrace.

Hadria's eyes swept across the room, taking in the elegant simplicity that seemed to whisper of peace and refuge. "This is beautiful," she murmured, her voice a soft echo in the tranquil space.

Marjorie, with a knowing nod, pointed towards a door nestled discreetly at the room's far end. "The bathroom is back there. This will be your room while you're here," she said, her tone imbued with a gentle finality. "You'll find an assortment of garments in the drawers—feel free to use whatever suits you. I'll be downstairs."

With a heartfelt smile, Hadria expressed her gratitude, the warmth in her words wrapping around Marjorie like a grateful embrace. The older witch offered a silent nod in acknowledgment before exiting, the soft click of the door sealing Hadria within her new haven.

Drawn to the bathroom, Hadria discovered a space that exuded the same rustic luxury as the rest of the home. She shed her swamp-tainted clothes, leaving them discarded like remnants of a past life, as she stepped into the embrace of the shower. The water cascaded over her, a liquid symphony that seemed to sing away her pain and cleanse her of the swamp's lingering touch. As the droplets traced paths over her skin, the wounds from her ordeal began to close, knitting together as if guided by the water's unseen healing grace.

Wrapped in the steam and the soft patter of water, Hadria pondered her circumstances, half-convinced she had tumbled into a realm of magic and mystery, a world apart from the one she knew. Since her arrival in the swamp, reality had taken on the hues of the fantastical, and she stood at its heart, awash in wonder and uncertainty.

Emerging from the bathroom, Hadria felt the comforting embrace of clean clothes—a simple t-shirt and lounge pants that whispered of normalcy. She stepped out to the balcony overlooking the living room, where Marjorie sat ensconced in the plush cushions of the couch, a newspaper unfurled before her and a tabby cat curled at her side. The warmth of the hearth called to Hadria, and she descended the stairs, settling on the couch to bask in the fire's glow.

"I feel much better, thank you," Hadria offered, her voice carrying a note of genuine relief. The cat meowed in curiosity and sauntered over to Hadria, seeking the affection he felt entitled to. With a soft chuckle, Hadria indulged him, her fingers weaving through his fur, eliciting a purr of contentment.

"That's Smudge... he's a needy little thing," Marjorie remarked, her tone a blend of affection and exasperation.

Hadria's laughter mingled with the crackling of the fire as she watched Smudge lean into her touch, his eyes closing in bliss. She caught a glimpse of Marjorie jotting notes in a little black notebook, the pages filled with her neat script, but she turned her attention back to the fire, not wanting to pry.

"I don't imagine you'll be here long," Marjorie mused, her eyes still locked on the newspaper's print.

"Your pale boyfriend will come to his senses soon enough, that I'm sure of," she added, her focus unwavering. Hadria's gaze drifted to the flames, their dance a mesmerizing ballet of light and shadow.

"Even if he does... how does one forgive such betrayal... such cruelty..." Hadria's words were a soft murmur, lost in the fire's crackle.

"Do you always trust everything with your eyes, child?" Marjorie inquired, setting aside her paper at last. Hadria turned to her, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

"You think there's more to it?" she asked, hope threading through her skepticism. Marjorie's eyebrow arched, a silent acknowledgment of deeper truths.

Hadria's gaze returned to the fire, the old witch's words igniting a spark of doubt. What she had witnessed was a wound yet raw, a memory she had tried to lock away. But Marjorie's words suggested layers unseen, a complexity beyond the surface.

"In a world like ours... I suppose you're right... there is a possibility I guess that there could be more to it," Hadria mused, her gaze returning to the mesmerizing dance of the flames. The fire's warmth seemed to reach out, wrapping her in a blanket of contemplative silence. It was indeed a notion to ponder, a thread of hope in the intricate tapestry of doubt and betrayal. But for today, her mind was weary, yearning for respite from the relentless tide of thoughts and emotions.

For now, she chose to bask in the safety that the gates of the swamp and the enigmatic witch had granted her. The couch, a bastion of comfort in the midst of chaos, cradled her as she leaned back and let her eyelids fall. The world faded away, leaving only the gentle crackling of the fire and the soft purring of Smudge beside her.

As the night deepened and the embers glowed softer, Hadria ascended the stairs to the sanctuary of her room. The bed, with its promise of solace, beckoned. She surrendered to its call, and as sleep enveloped her, her dreams wove a tapestry of their own.

She dreamt of him—of laughter shared in a time that now seemed an eternity away, of whispered promises that echoed in the chambers of her heart. In her dreams, the harshness of reality softened, and for a fleeting moment, she found herself lost in the memory of his touch, the ghost of his smile. Yet, even in the tender clasp of dreams, a shadow lingered, a whisper of the pain that daylight would surely bring.

***

Chapter Text

Hadria's days within the healer's abode had woven a tapestry of solace and introspection, a stark contrast to the tumultuous world beyond its walls. The swamp, once a place of foreboding, had become a sanctuary where she aided Marjorie in harvesting the natural bounty of plants and herbs. The discovery of a greenhouse, a verdant jewel trailing from the kitchen, had been a revelation, a hidden trove of life amidst the murk.

As she toiled, her thoughts often wandered to him, to Voldemort, whose transformation gnawed at the edges of her understanding. There was a depth to his change that she could not fathom, a puzzle that beckoned her weary mind.

It was on such a day, as she delved into a book from Marjorie's library about ancient magic, that the old woman approached with an unexpected missive. "I received an OWL from a friend of yours," she announced, her voice a gentle intrusion into the quietude.

Hadria's heart leapt, the book forgotten as she reached for the note.

"Narcissa..." she breathed.

"Is she someone you trust?" Marjorie's inquiry was pointed, seeking the truth beneath the surface.

With a nod, Hadria affirmed her faith in Narcissa, a bond unmarred by the shadows that clung to her sister Bellatrix. "Yes I do actually...she is Bellatrix's sister but they're nothing alike," Hadria clarified, her words painting a portrait of loyalty untainted by the darkness of her kin.

Marjorie considered this, her wisdom weighing the risks and merits. "I'll grant her entry to the floo to come alone," she decided, her voice carrying the finality of a verdict reached.

"Thank you, Ms. Batts," Hadria expressed, gratitude warming her voice as the healer departed. Most of the time the two shared a companionable silence. She sensed the woman had secrets of her own and didn't wish to pry to much or have her presence become an irritation. She had thought a few times to ask about the odd animals out in the swamp but she decided against it. Not everything needed an answer... not just yet anyway.

***

The hearth's emerald glow heralded an arrival, and Hadria rose from the couch, her heart aflutter with anticipation. As the fireplace expanded, Narcissa emerged from the verdant flames, her expression one of utter astonishment upon seeing Hadria.

"Hadria!" she exclaimed, rushing forward to envelop her in an embrace that spoke volumes of relief and maternal concern. "Are you alright? Thank Merlin you're safe!"

Hadria's smile was a small beacon in the dim room. "Yes, Narcissa, I'm fine... I've been here with Ms. Batts," she replied, nodding towards the kitchen where the healer stood, her silhouette framed by the counter's edge.

"Good evening, Mrs. Malfoy," Marjorie greeted with a nod.

Narcissa's gratitude was palpable as she thanked Marjorie for sheltering Hadria. "We've been so worried about you since you disappeared," she said, her voice tinged with the residual fear of those frantic days. She guided Hadria back to the couch, urgency etched in her every word. "Hadria... we must talk."

"Please Ms. Batts if you have a moment to spare, there was a reason I came to seek your assistance," Narcissa said. Marjorie ambled into the room and sat down at another couch across from them.

"Alright, Hadria I know what you think happened but you have to know that Voldemort is most assuredly bewitched by my sister," she started and already Hadria had an uncomfortable suspicious look.

"Do you really think so?" Hadria questioned, the possibility a sliver of hope amidst her turmoil.

Narcissa's nod was firm.

"Yes I just know he is, I only don't know how. It was evident to everyone around you two how close you were... the evening that Bellatrix returned from Azkaban she confided in me how upset she was about the Dark Lord being entangled with you. I tried to make her see reason but she was blinded by jealousy and was convinced that she was the woman meant to be with him. She mentioned harming you and I told her absolutely not. I thought that was the end of it but then suddenly out of the blue his affections shift to her and he lashes out at you? Hadria, it makes no sense," she insisted.

Hadria, hearing another's perspective, began to see the broader picture. The bond she shared with Voldemort wasn't imagined; it was visible to all.

"Alright... I suppose it makes sense... but how? A love potion? I'm not even sure how she would have gone about it, we were always together and the house elves wouldn't have done such a thing on her order," Hadria said as she thought back to his coffee and meal routine.

"No, it's most definitely not a love potion. We considered that so Severus made a cure and we had Mippy slip it into his coffee just earlier this afternoon and it did nothing. That's why I reached out to you Ms. Batt," she said turning to the older witch who had sat quietly during all of this.

"I just know she's done something. But I'm at a loss on what it could be at this point. And what's worse, Voldemort has become increasingly volatile... he destroyed the piano Hadria... he killed the former minister of magic after publicly torturing him... he seems...at war with himself...we found him in the early hours passed out drunk in the lounge after he ripped the piano to pieces," she said with a worried look on her face. "He was bleeding everywhere from the cuts on his arms... I've just never seen him like this."

Hadria's emotions surged, tears spilling over as the gravity of the situation sank in.

"Voldemort is at war with himself," Marjorie said finally speaking, her voice a beacon in the darkness. Narcissa and Hadria both looked to her desperate for her wisdom.

"There is a deep bond between you and him... I saw it the day I came to heal you. You're bonded on a soul level. So whatever hold she has over him is at war with his very soul. It's a curse, if I had to wager on it, I'd say a blood curse but without knowing for sure it's only a guess." The flickering flames cast a play of light and shadow across her face, lending an otherworldly aura to her words.

"Mark my words... you haven't seen anything yet. Your pale boyfriend is already a dark wizard prone to malevolent thoughts... his behavior will become progressively worse. It will eventually drive him completely mad and he'll destroy anything he can just to try to escape the torture in his mind," she continued, her prophecy hanging in the air like a chilling fog.

Hadria's gaze was intense, her mind racing with the gravity of the situation. Voldemort, was ensnared by a spell so potent that it threatened the very fabric of their world. The room felt cold, the walls echoing with the weight of their conversation.

"There is one way to remove any foreign influences, magical or otherwise, regardless of how strong it is or how it holds him...scroll magic," the Healer said, her voice steady and sure.

"What is scroll magic?" Hadria asked, her voice a mixture of curiosity and desperation.

Marjorie, the healer with secrets of her own, smiled cryptically. "Not all magic comes from the end of a wand, nor does it require a fancy incantation. Scroll magic is quite different but can be very powerful if created and cast correctly. It requires a give and take...and a condition to be met... as well as strong magic to support it...magic that you have inside of you, Hadria. Think of it... as a contract with the Gods... It is an ancient form of magic that has been dismissed over the centuries due to its impracticality in many cases. Yet, its power is undeniable. What you need to know is how it will work. What is the exchange? What condition must be met for the magic to work? And what magic will support it?"

Hadria's mind whirled with the possibilities, the piece the puzzle together. She would have to offer the Gods an exchange of sorts... something valuable enough to grant Voldemort a release from this spell...

The revelation struck like a lightning bolt, igniting a fire of determination in Hadria's eyes. "The prophecy!" she exclaimed, the words tumbling out with the force of her newfound hope. She turned to Narcissa, her gaze alight with the possibility of untangling the web that fate had woven.

"We need to know the rest of the prophecy... the one that says I will conquer Voldemort. Perhaps a clue for what will work can be found in the full prophecy. Can Lucius help me get into the Ministry? I need to get into the Hall of Prophecy."

Narcissa's nod was solemn, her eyes reflecting the seriousness of their quest. "I think perhaps he can...but I will speak with him about it," she affirmed.

Marjorie raised a hand, commanding their attention once more.

"There is one other thing... to make such a scroll, I require payment - "

"Yes, of course. Name your price, Ms. Batts," Narcissa interjected, ready to offer whatever was necessary.

Marjorie's laugh was deep and wicked, sending a shiver down Hadria's spine. "No, my dear... money will not do for this. I live quite comfortably, as you can see. No, for this, I want something else. Bring me something of equal value when you return, and you'll have your scroll."

The air seemed to thicken with Marjorie's words, a silent understanding passing between them.

Narcissa's eyes were resolute, her mind already sifting through the myriad of dark curiosities that Lucius had amassed over the years. Each artifact was steeped in shadowy lore, and she was confident that within their depths lay a treasure that would satisfy the witch's cryptic demand.

"I understand, I will find something, Ms. Batts," she affirmed with a nod, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken promises. She then turned to Hadria, her expression softening.

"Let me confer with Lucius about getting you into the Ministry. There must be a way...we cannot falter now, Hadria...." she paused, her gaze hardening at the thought of her sister. "Bellatrix has woven her own fate with her jealousy and ambition. Though she is blood, the welfare of my son, my husband, and the very future of our world holds sway over sisterly bonds. She has crafted her bed with nettles and thorns, and therein she must lie."

Rising to her feet, Narcissa's silhouette was etched with determination against the flickering candlelight. Hadria mirrored her stance, their hands clasped in a silent vow.

"Thank you, Narcissa... this gesture... it's more than you know," Hadria whispered, her gratitude laced with the gravity of their shared resolve. Narcissa nodded and took a deep breath before returning through the floo.

***

Chapter Text

Narcissa walked through the dark corridors of Malfoy Manor, her footsteps silent. She found Lucius in the lounge, sitting alone in the shadows with a glass of fire whiskey in his hand. When he saw her, he stood up quickly and the sound of ice clinking against glass broke the silence.

"Darling, thank goodness you're alright," he said with concern. "I wasn't sure what you were getting yourself into. What did you find out?" he asked softly. Narcissa motioned for them to sit, scanning the room cautiously before she spoke.

"Hadria was at the healer's home...Ms. Batts...she's... a much more powerful witch that we gave her credit for... she's had Hadria there since she disappeared and some potent wards must guard it since it was beyond even Voldemort's sight."

Lucius's expression shifted from relief to astonishment. "So that's where the spell took her...And she's alright? Good...that's good. Perhaps she should remain hidden. With Voldemort's current affliction... Did the old witch offer any counsel?"

A nod was Narcissa's reply, her voice a whisper of velvet. "Yes, she spoke of scroll magic, an arcane remedy to purge him of these alien bindings. But its crafting requires Hadria's touch. The scroll demands an exchange, a condition, and strong magic to power it. Hadria believes the prophecy might unveil the requisite elements...but—"

Lucius cut in, his tone laced with understanding. "Hadria alone can unlock the prophecy... yes, I'm aware... However, Voldemort has the ministry under much heavier guard now... I will look into it but I can make no guarantees." He paused, inhaling deeply, the weight of their task settling upon him.

Narcissa continued, her gaze unwavering. "There's more, Lucius...the witch seeks compensation...not of gold, but of something with equivalent worth. Your... collection, it might hold the key."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Lucius's features. "So the crone wearies of our coin," he muttered, his lips pressing into a thin line. His mind wandered to the hidden troves of his manor, each artifact a relic of power and peril.

"Perhaps," he mused, "there lies an object within my collection that could tempt a witch of her caliber."

"Come, my dear, while they're still asleep, we can seize the opportunity," Lucius said, his voice a low murmur as he drained the last of his drink and rose to his feet. They navigated their way to the drawing room, their steps hushed, their senses heightened to ensure solitude.

"Guard the door," he instructed Narcissa in a whisper. She nodded in understanding, her posture alert as she stationed herself by the door, her eyes vigilant for any unexpected arrivals. Lucius, meanwhile, lifted the edge of an ornate rug, revealing a loose floorboard beneath. With practiced ease, he removed it, setting it aside with a quiet reverence. Dust particles danced in the air, catching the dim light of a nearby candle as they floated up from the hidden opening.

With a careful hand, he reached into the concealed cavity, extracting a box that barely fit through the opening, its edges scraping against the surrounding panels as he maneuvered it out.

He placed the box beside him on the floor, opening it with a reverence that spoke of its contents' significance. His fingers brushed over an object within the box swathed in a protective cloth. He set it aside, closed the box, and returned it to its secret resting place beneath the floorboards. The loose floorboard was replaced, and the rug was pulled back over it, concealing the hidden treasure trove once more.

"Take this back to the healer...see if she will accept this as payment. It is, without a doubt, the most valuable item in my collection," he said as he approached Narcissa, his voice carrying the weight of the object's importance.

"What is it, darling?" Narcissa inquired, her fingers gingerly enclosing the object as she took it from him.

"It is a Mirror of Souls... similar to the Mirror of Erised, in that it shows one's deepest darkest desires...but the dealer I got it from said it's supposed to have much darker powers having to do with capturing souls...though, he of course had no knowledge of how it works and I'd not had time to look into it more," Lucius explained, his voice a hushed whisper that carried the weight of forbidden knowledge.

Narcissa nodded, her curiosity piqued yet contained, as she refrained from unveiling the cloth to gaze upon the mirror herself.

"Alright, I'll take this to her and see if it will suffice," Narcissa affirmed. With the object secured, she made her way back to the fireplace, the mirror's enigmatic presence a silent companion in her quest.

***

The living room of Ms. Batts' home was a tableau of quiet study, with Hadria immersed in the pages of an ancient tome and the old witch perusing a newspaper, her pen occasionally scratching notes in a small black book. The tranquility was pierced by the emerald glow of the hearth as Narcissa stepped through, the green flames receding behind her.

"Oh, that was fast," Hadria remarked, her smile a bright contrast to the room's subdued ambiance as she set aside her book. Narcissa returned the smile, settling into the shared space with a mix of relief and trepidation.

"Well, the good news is Lucius had an item he believes you may find valuable Ms. Batts," Narcissa began, her hands presenting the enshrouded mirror to the old witch. With deliberate care, Ms. Batts unwrapped the object, her gaze sharpening as the mirror's ethereal sheen caught the light. It was a hand-held silver mirror, its surface shimmering with an otherworldly luster that transcended mere reflection.

"He called it a Mirror of Souls," Narcissa elucidated as Ms. Batts scrutinized the artifact, turning it over in her hands, her eyes tracing the intricate designs that adorned its frame.

A knowing smirk played upon Ms. Batts' lips as she rewrapped the mirror in its protective cloth. "That is quite a rare artifact indeed Ms. Malfoy...consider the scroll paid for."

Narcissa's smile broadened, a wave of relief washing over her as the exchange was deemed satisfactory by the healer.

"Was there bad news Narcissa?" Hadria inquired, her voice tinged with concern. Narcissa's expression clouded with uncertainty as she faced Hadria once more.

" Lucius informed me that Voldemort has increased security at the ministry... he's not certain he'll be able to get you in," she confessed, her features etched with the frustration of their predicament.

Hadria's nod was slow, contemplative. "I suppose he would do that...it makes sense." Her mind was already racing, searching for a path forward. The prophecy beckoned to her, a siren call that promised answers and resolution.

A spark of inspiration ignited within her. "I have another idea..." she said, her gaze lifting to meet Narcissa's.

"What if I could go and speak with Dumbledore?"

" Hadria, even if you could manage to get in...what good will it do? Lucius said he obliviated himself... surely he won't have any useful information. What do you hope to accomplish?" Her plea was a desperate one, seeking to anchor Hadria to reason.

"Yes, that's what they said... but it doesn't mean he may not be able to help Narcissa... we don't know how much time we have before Voldemort does something that can't be forgiven... if he hurts Draco... or the other children at the school? I have to try something...perhaps he may know how I can get into the Hall of Prophecies." Hadria's voice was a beacon of determination, cutting through the fog of uncertainty.

"Only... with the Dementors guarding it..." she trailed off in thought unsure how she would manage to get past them. Even though she had become much stronger with her magic her Patronus wouldn't fight off that many at once.

From the depths of the kitchen, where the alchemy of potion-making filled the air with an array of mystical scents, Marjorie's voice emerged, carrying with it the promise of hope. "I have something you can use to get past the Dementors," she said in a bored tone, her steps measured as she approached the shelves laden with ancient relics and curiosities. With a graceful gesture, she beckoned to a high shelf, and as if answering a silent call, a beautiful antique brass lamp descended into her waiting hands. She passed her hand over it, and the lamp sprang to life, its warm glow emanating from within, accompanied by a plume of glowing orange smoke that rose through the ornate perforations. This was no ordinary lamp; it was devoid of flame, its luminescence born of potent magic.

"It's beautiful... what is it?" Hadria inquired, drawn to the radiant artifact as she and Narcissa stepped closer to the old witch's side.

"It's called a Lightbringer's Lantern," Marjorie replied, her voice steady and imbued with the weight of history. "It was said to have been forged by a celestial being of pure light and goodness, tasked with protecting the realms of mortals from encroaching darkness. Infused with the essence of divine radiance... the light that it emits pierces through shadows and dispels creatures such as Dementors...it has been in my collection for... a very long time... you may use it, so long as it is returned."

As Marjorie placed the lantern into Hadria's hands, the cool brass of the handle seemed to resonate with her very soul, instilling a sense of upliftment and hope that banished all traces of fear.

"Wow," Hadria exhaled, captivated by the ethereal dance of light within the lantern. "And you're sure this will work?"

Marjorie's chuckle was a sound of quiet confidence as she retreated to her brewing cauldron. "Oh, it will work, child..." she assured, her voice trailing off as she returned to her concoctions. "The gates will open for you outside the swamp when you're ready, and you can apparate back to the gates when you return... but once you're beyond those gates, you're no longer hidden from Voldemort's sight..." Her warning was a somber note amidst the chorus of preparations.

Hadria's nod was firm, her resolve unshaken by the gravity of Marjorie's words. She knew this was a risk... all of it was... even apparating while she was pregnant had it's risks... but in the end she couldn't just sit idly by while the man she loved was being slowly driven mad by a curse.

"Alright, I'll walk you out, Hadria," Narcissa offered, her voice a whisper of resignation. Together, they moved towards the home's gnarled wooden door, the living vines parting in silent acquiescence to reveal the path ahead.

As the door swung shut, sealing the warmth of the home behind them, Narcissa cast a glance back at the mud hut that stood in stark contrast to the grandeur it concealed. "Ms. Batts is quite a character," she observed, her smile a fleeting reprieve from the weight of their mission.

Hadria returned the smile, her thoughts adrift. "She is something... I'm not so sure she just an ordinary witch like us... but I don't really know what to make of it either. She was quite surprised that I ended up here using that spell. She actually knew about it though," she mused, her voice a murmur as they navigated the swamp's winding path.

"Really? The spell from that book in our library?" Narcissa's curiosity piqued, a welcome distraction from the looming shadows of their quest.

"Yes, she knew all about the book... she knows about many things come to think of it. It's a little scary how much she knows." Hadria's words were a whisper as she looked back down at the lamp, a testament to the mystery of the old witch.

"Right... she does seem to have something about her very cryptic doesn't she? Well... I guess we all have our own secrets," Narcissa mused, her gaze lost in the distance.

"Probably not quite like hers though," Hadria chuckled, recalling the menagerie of other talking animals she had encountered during her time in the swamp during their outdoor ventures. A moose that bellowed like an old man, a cheetah that chirped with the voice of a young woman and a giraffe that was quite friendly but made no noise at all, a bit like the ape. Marjorie had names for all of them too despite seemingly not having much fondness for them.

Upon reaching the gates, they creaked open magically, bidding farewell to the safety they offered. "Alright Hadria, I'll wait here. Hurry back... and be safe," Narcissa implored, her embrace a fleeting sanctuary. The black raven that she had seen so often in the swamp sat on the old gate now watching them.

Hadria nodded, her words a promise in the twilight. "I'll be back." And with the whisper of apparition, she vanished, leaving only the echo of her bravery behind.

***

Chapter Text

Hadria's arrival on the outskirts of Azkaban was met with the harsh embrace of the North Sea's winds, the ocean's fury crashing against the cliffs with relentless force. The violent motion of apparition churned her stomach, a reminder of the new life stirring within her. She doubled over, retching onto the loose dirt, the bitter taste of bile a stark contrast to the briny air.

As she steadied herself, a scraping noise shattered the rhythmic cadence of the waves. Clutching the lantern, she spun around to find a lone Dementor, its tattered robes brushing the ground as it dug into the earth. The graveyard stretched out before her, a macabre garden of headstones, each marking a life consumed by the prison's despair.

The Dementor ceased its grim task, the shovel clattering to the ground as it sensed her presence. It turned, its hollow gaze fixed upon her, and let out a bone-chilling howl that seemed to suck the warmth from the air. Hadria's pulse quickened, her grip on the lantern tightening as she raised it like a shield. The light flared, a beacon of hope in the oppressive gloom, and the creature recoiled with an agonized screech, retreating into the shadows from whence it came.

Emboldened, Hadria advanced, the lantern's glow warding off the darkness as she approached the fortress. Azkaban loomed above, a monolith of despair, its weathered stones whispering tales of torment. Somewhere within those walls, Dumbledore was tucked away, and time was a luxury she could not afford.

Navigating the desolate graveyard, she sidestepped the remains of a prisoner, his body a testament to the island's merciless nature. The enchantment of the lantern shielded her from the island's curse, its light a comforting presence amidst the pervasive dread.

Ascending the steps to the entrance, she noted the Dementors lingering in the periphery, their usual malice tempered by the lantern's radiance.

The fortress's entrance was a maw of darkness, the iron doors massive and uninviting. Gargoyles sneered from their perches, their stone faces contorted in eternal torment. The sconces on the walls flickered weakly, as if the very essence of Azkaban sought to smother any semblance of light. Hadria steeled herself, the weight of her mission anchoring her resolve as she faced the gateway to the abyss.

As Hadria's hand pressed against the gate, a chill deeper than the ocean's breath swept through her. The Dementors, those soulless guardians of despair, recoiled from her advance, repelled by the radiant aura of the lantern. The sea's roar fell silent, as if in anticipation of the unfolding drama, while she pushed open the ancient doors, their hinges groaning in protest.

Stepping into the entry foyer, Hadria was greeted by a cavernous space, dimly lit and unwelcoming. To her left, a stone counter loomed, its surface cold and unyielding. A lone Dementor, a wraith in the shadows, clung to the farthest wall, its presence felt rather than seen. It was clear—the creature wanted no part of the light Hadria carried.

With resolve, she inhaled the dank air of the fortress and pressed on. The corridor was lined with doors, each a barrier to untold stories of woe. As she passed the second door, it swung open abruptly. A Dementor, burdened with a stack of metallic trays laden with a dismal excuse for sustenance, halted at the sight of the Lightbringer's Lantern. The trays clattered to the floor, their contents spilling, as the creature emitted a shriek of torment and vanished behind the slamming door.

The wails of the imprisoned now pierced the silence, a cacophony of misery that the sea had once muffled. The stench of decay and neglect hung heavy in the air, a tangible reminder of the hopelessness that pervaded Azkaban.

Hadria moved with purpose, passing through gates that stood unbarred—unnecessary when the mere presence of Dementors was deterrent enough. Yet now, as they sensed the lantern's glow, they fled, disappearing into the darkness, desperate to escape the light that spelled their undoing.

The fortress's interior was a labyrinth of despair, but Hadria's light was a beacon, cutting through the darkness, guiding her steps as she delved deeper into the bowels of Azkaban.

The air of the prisoner corridors was thick with the echoes of the damned. Hadria treaded softly, her steps measured and cautious, wary of the grasping hands that reached through the bars. Hollow eyes followed her every move—some filled with a predatory gleam, others clouded with madness. Filthy jeers were hurled at her, mingling with piteous pleas for salvation, forming a discordant symphony that clawed at her senses.

Clutching her hand over her mouth and nose, Hadria fought back the bile rising in her throat, the stench of decay and human waste threatening to overwhelm her. She pressed on, ascending the stone stairs at the corridor's end, each step taking her further into the heart of darkness.

The third floor loomed ahead, a place of shadows and whispers. Despair clung to her like a second skin, yet she pushed forward, driven by a flicker of hope that refused to die. And there, in a corner cell more akin to a monk's quarters than a prisoner's cage, she found him.

Dumbledore's cell was a stark contrast to the others, with its solid walls and semblance of privacy. Sparse furnishings—a threadbare armchair, a rickety table strewn with books—offered a semblance of comfort amidst the desolation. A partition shielded the most basic of facilities, a luxury in this forsaken place. The man himself was a shadow of his former self, his robes tattered, his once-lustrous hair now a braided rope of gray.

His attention was ensnared by the tome in his hands until the lantern's light encroached upon his solitude. His eyes, those wells of wisdom, lifted to meet Hadria's gaze. Recognition dawned slowly, disbelief warring with hope, as if he feared the vision before him was naught but a cruel trick of the mind.

"Hadria?" Dumbledore's voice was laced with incredulity as he peered through the bars at the figure before him.

She nodded, her approach to the cell deliberate and cautious. "Yes, Dumbledore... it's me," Hadria replied, her voice carrying a weight that seemed to echo off the stone walls. Despite the wrongs he had done, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the man who had once been her mentor. She slid a stool across the floor, its legs scraping against the stone, and took a seat, the lantern's glow casting her shadow against the dank walls.

Dumbledore rose from his sparse cot, moving with a grace that belied his confinement, and knelt before her. "What are you doing here, Hadria? How did you even manage to get past the Dementors?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

She lifted the lantern slightly, allowing its light to shimmer in the dimness. "A friend gave me this, it's called a Lightbringer's Lantern. The Dementors are deathly afraid of it," she explained, her eyes leaving his only briefly noticing the blackened curse had spread further up his arm.

"Dumbledore... I know you've done everything in your power to keep the prophecy a secret... but I am desperate for a way into the Hall of Prophecies. Whether or not you believe it, Voldemort was changing... it's a very long story that I don't have time to get into now, but I'll give you the quick version... I went to him because I felt drawn to him. I know now that part of that was due to the Horcrux... but there was more to it. We developed a deep connection... he was beginning to show a more... human side... he had agreed to avoid anymore unnecessary deaths, no more torturing or killing based on blood status..."

Dumbledore's lips pressed into a thin line, his face a canvas of skepticism, and he sighed deeply.

"Dumbledore... not long before we took over the school, he successfully had cast a Patronus... and he gave both himself and I twin marks." She lifted her forearm to the cell, revealing the dark mark that was clearly different from the one all the other Death Eaters wore. His eyebrow raised in surprise seeing the mark.

"A Patronus, you say...and, a different version of the dark mark? My dear girl that is quite unexpected." Dumbledore's voice was tinged with disbelief. The concept seemed to challenge everything he knew about the man who had become the epitome of darkness.

He averted her gaze, contemplating her words before finally speaking again.

"What does this have to do with me, Hadria? Why have you come here?" he asked, his voice steady yet tinged with weariness. Hadria glanced over her shoulder, her attention momentarily captured by the groans of a suffering inmate. She turned back to Dumbledore, her expression grave.

"Because Bellatrix did something, sir... the night that we took over the school, he had completely changed. When he sent me out of your office... that was... it wasn't him. It wasn't something he normally would have done. Everything changed that night. Narcissa said she has bewitched him. He suddenly pushed me away, and his affections shifted to her. He has become aggressive, volatile, and unpredictable..." she recounted, her voice a whisper of urgency.

"I had to run away from the Manor and go into hiding... since I've been gone, he's only gotten worse. We're afraid he's going to hurt someone... my friend, the one who gave me this lantern... she is a very old and very powerful witch... in fact, I'm not even sure she's a witch, but she said it sounds like a blood curse and that his soul is at war with itself," Hadria concluded, pausing to let the gravity of her story sink in.

Dumbledore's eyes widened with shock and concern as he listened to Hadria's explanation. The mention of the bewitching by Bellatrix and the possible blood curse sent chills up his spine.

"A blood curse," he murmured, his voice a mixture of worry and disbelief. "That's extremely dangerous, Hadria."

"Dumbledore... I need to know what the prophecy said. I need to understand. I think this is the time that it spoke of... I don't think anyone ever interpreted it correctly...maybe, if I can-"

"Hadria, I cannot help you to get into the Hall of Prophecy..." he said with some finality.

"But... sir you must know something that can help me. This isn't him... he was changing!" she said desperately, a tear rolling down her cheek, glistening in the dim light of the cell.

"He might not have been the leader everyone wanted but he wasn't going to kill anyone...he wasn't the monster everyone said he was. And I know you obliviated yourself but he didn't want to kill my parents... he just wanted them on his side." Her fingers clenched the cold iron bars, her knuckles whitening with the force of her plea.

"You took fate into your own hands that night Dumbledore... that's why my parents are dead. My entire life was a lie sir," she cried, her voice echoing with the pain of betrayal and loss. He turned his face away, the weight of her gaze too heavy to bear.

Dumbledore's heart clenched at her words, but he kept his expression neutral and his eyes fixed on a spot just above her shoulder.

"Hadria, I am sorry," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with regret.

Hadria slumped back onto the stool, the fight draining from her as she faced the reality of her situation. The old wizard, the keeper of secrets and wisdom, had no answers for her after all. She wiped the tears from her eyes, a silent vow forming in her heart.

"I'll find a way into the ministry... I have to... for the wizarding world, for the man I love, and for our unborn child," she declared, her voice steady with newfound resolve as she stood, the lantern's light flickering like the flame of her determination.

Dumbledore's eyes widened, a dawning realization flickering within them as the weight of Hadria's words settled in his mind. The cogs of his thoughts whirred into motion, aligning with a truth he had long refused to see. He rose to his feet, a sense of urgency propelling him as she began to distance herself from the cell.

"The one with the power to conquer the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..." His voice, firm and clear, halted her retreat.

Hadria turned, her movement sharp, a mix of hope and confusion etched upon her face.

"And the Dark Lord will mark her as his equal... The conqueror prevails not with spells or might, but through the bond of dark and light, the shadowed path shall be forsaken, no blood will spill, no life be taken." The prophecy, spoken aloud, hung in the air between them, a possible key to a future free from the specter of war.

She stepped closer to the bars, her eyes searching his. "You didn't obliviate yourself..." The words were a whisper, tinged with betrayal and disbelief. He sighed, the burden of his choices evident in the weary slump of his shoulders and the shame that clouded his gaze.

He met her gaze head on, refusing to shy away from the weight of the truth he had concealed.

"No," he admitted, his voice steady, though filled with a deep weariness. "I did not obliviate myself, I only led Voldemort to believe I had and he was unable to pull the truth from me."

"I'm so sorry...We were wrong Hadria... so very wrong..." Dumbledore's voice trailed off, the weight of his confession pressing down upon the cold air of the cell. "Minister Bagnold and I, we couldn't fathom the prophecy speaking true—conquering the Dark Lord without violence or death... it was beyond our belief. So, in our folly, we concealed it, tucked it away from the world."

He paused, the memory of those days casting shadows across his aged face. "Your parents, they were brave, valiant. They joined our cause, unaware of the prophecy's existence. They believed, wholeheartedly, that they were acting for the greater good, luring the Dark Lord into a trap within their sanctuary."

Dumbledore's gaze fell to the floor, his hands clasping and unclasping as he recounted the plan. "Millicent... she had everything orchestrated. The moment he would step through the door, she would strike from her hidden vantage, and your parents were to be her allies in the fray. We kept the circle small, to contain the fallout should our plan unravel."

A heavy sigh escaped him, a sound that seemed to carry the burdens of a lifetime. "I remained at Hogwarts, ensuring no alarm was raised. Millicent, with her formidable magical talents, was certain of victory, bolstered by the support of your parents. And I... I cherished her, not just for her skill, but for the fire in her spirit...she was so very brave...it's one of the things I loved about her."

Hadria's reaction was palpable, her eyes growing wide as the pieces of the past clicked into place. Millicent, the woman at the heart of the night's events, had been more than just a comrade to Dumbledore. She had been his lover, and together, they had set in motion a chain of events that would change the course of history.

"But things did go awry that night Hadria... and not in a way we had ever anticipated," Dumbledore's voice was heavy with the gravity of his words. "Your parents wanted to ensure they were doing things for the right reasons. So, when Millicent showed up, they served her a cup of tea laced with veritaserum," he paused, the weight of the past evident in the brief silence that followed. "After that, Millicent revealed everything about the prophecy, and your parents... they were incensed at being deceived. They believed in the prophecy's promise of a peaceful resolution, and they wanted no part in our violent plans. They turned on her... demanded she leave."

Dumbledore's eyes, once a wellspring of wisdom and authority, now evaded hers, filled with the shame of his confession.

"Millicent became desperate then. She yearned to be the savior of the wizarding world, to stand as the vanquisher of Voldemort," he continued, his voice tinged with sorrow. "In her haste, she seized the invisibility cloak that James had proudly displayed earlier during their visit. Concealed by its magic, she waited outside until Voldemort arrived. It was then she resolved to use the Imperius curse on him, compelling him to carry out the very act we sought to prevent, all while crafting an opportunity to eliminate him afterward, thus positioning herself as the hero...she hadn't anticipated he would have destroyed himself in his attempt to kill you...nor had she anticipated that you would live, but with Voldemort destroyed she had no one else she could pin it on so she left."

Dumbledore's remorse was palpable as he recounted the tragic outcome. "I was oblivious to her machinations until it was too late. The world rejoiced, ignorant of the true cost... the loss of your parents was a tragedy never meant to unfold. And when I discovered Millicent's actions, I was torn. In the end, I chose to erase her memory of that night, of the curse, to preserve what peace we had won. I could not bear to face her again after that."

Hadria sat, the silence enveloping her as she absorbed the enormity of his revelations. She inhaled deeply, seeking the strength to focus on what mattered most.

"And why have you broken your silence now, Dumbledore?" The question hung in the air, edged with a bitterness born of betrayal and pain.

"Because we were wrong... you are the one who will conquer the Dark Lord. Not with violence or death, Hadria... but with love. He marked you as his equal, just as the prophecy foretold... it is your love, Hadria, that was changing him. It will be your love that conquers the darkness and saves him now," Dumbledore's voice resonated with a newfound clarity, a mixture of awe and penitence. "The power you possess, the power of your heart, it's what the prophecy spoke of all along. Love is and always has been the strongest magic."

Hadria remained still, the silence around her a stark contrast to the tumult of revelations that now filled her mind. The words echoed within her, a mantra of hope and purpose: Love is the strongest magic... she will conquer him without violence or death... She raised her eyes to meet Dumbledore's, a newfound resolve shining in them.

"I know what I must do." Her voice was steady, imbued with the strength of her conviction, ready to face the path that destiny had laid before her.

***

Chapter Text

Bellatrix lay in the dim light of dawn, her eyes fixed on the man beside her. Voldemort, the formidable man who ruled over the wizarding world, rested nearby...his very presence a stark reminder of the grand future she had envisioned, where his heart would beat as ardently for her as it did for their shared cause. Yet, reality proved harshly different. Voldemort was meant to be captivated by her, utterly devoted. That was her expectation. Despite his declarations of love, their nightly encounters, and his constant proximity, his affections felt hollow, devoid of true tenderness...the stark truth revealed itself in the chill of her bed at night, shared with a man whose heart seemed as distant as the unreachable stars.

His demeanor often turned aggressive, veering into moments of cruelty...devoid of the gentle touch that would make her feel cherished. The way he gazed at her lacked the intensity he had shown towards Hadria, and he stubbornly withheld even the simplest intimacies, like sharing his room or showering with her...it was exasperating. Suppressing her frustration, she knew any display of jealousy or discontent would only stoke his ire. She had experienced his wrath before when she dared question him about saying Hadria's name in his sleep...a nightly occurrence that never failed to unsettle her. Sometimes, he would wake and storm off to the lounge in a fury, seeking solace in drink; other times, he would remain in a dream-laden slumber, his nocturnal visions a locked mystery he refused to share. She wondered when this would all finally dissipate.

Bellatrix, nestled in the hushed dawn, found herself startled by Voldemort's gruff voice. "Why are you awake?" inquired the Dark Lord, his tone laden with menace. A firm grip on her hair followed, forcibly turning her away from his cold gaze as his cold touch pushed up her gown.

She stammered her response, "I don't know... I just couldn't sleep any longer," as her body betrayed her by responding to his touch with an unwanted arousal. A tempest of emotions swirled within her—anger at his callousness, a longing for love and affection, and above all, a desperate craving for his approval—all while trying to hide the turmoil underneath her calm exterior. He had been increasingly volatile and ill-tempered lately, and she had no desire to provoke him further.

His lovemaking was aggressive, lacking the warmth or intimacy she yearned for. He would take her from behind, unyielding and raw, his gaze averted, leaving her feeling unsatisfied and unseen. Her heart ached to know that he did not care for her own pleasure, content to view their encounters as her service to the Dark Lord. Yet, she would willingly submit, grasping for any semblance of connection with her master, while silently praying he would one day reveal himself to her, that time was what he needed for a deeper more open connection.

He pulled down her panties and wet his hand, stroked his cock ensuring he was ready before pressing into her with a moan of pleasure. With each thrust, pain mingled with desire, her whimpers drowned by his own animalistic growls and the sinking of his teeth into her shoulder. Her eyes squeezed shut at the biting intensity; still, she whispered softly, "My lord..." Hoping for a semblance of tenderness or concern, she merely earned a sinister laugh and a cruel grip tightening around her throat.

Her body arched up to meet his brutal rhythm. Blood dripped from his pale nails as he dug them into her hip, drawing a gasp of pain from her lips. But she didn't care about the pain; all she craved was his validation.

"Please...tell me you love me," she begged, her voice hoarse from their previous encounters. She longed for him to whisper those three words against her skin, to look into her eyes and say them with sincerity. But he never did. Instead, his breath whispered hot against her ear as he growled, "Such a needy witch aren't you? You know that I love you...why do you always need to hear it?"

His grip tightened around her throat, choking her slightly as his thrusts became faster and deeper. She couldn't respond, couldn't even gasp for air as he took her with such force. But still, she couldn't help but yearn for more. She knew he cared for her, that he valued her loyalty above all else. But his actions spoke louder than his words, leaving her feeling used and unfulfilled...but still...he was hers...she had won...and so she endured. She would never let him go.

Bellatrix's breath hitched as Voldemort's pace intensified, his length driving into her with a punishing force. His grip on her neck tightened, cutting off her airway and igniting a fresh wave of pain. Her mind reeled, her thoughts drowned by the overwhelming sensation of his body invading hers.

The sound of his panting filled her ears, the rhythm matching the frantic thrusts of his hips. Just as she felt the first tendrils of release coiling within her, a name slipped from his lips, as if carried away by a stray gust of wind. "Hadria," he groaned, the syllables soft and breathy, entirely subconscious.

Jealousy, a bitter poison, flooded her veins, tainting the remnants of pleasure that had begun to course through her. She bit her lip, holding back the scream of anguish that threatened to tear its way free. He remained oblivious to her turmoil, his mind lost in the storm of his own impending release.

With a final, powerful thrust, he pulled out, leaving his seed to mark her backside once again. He sighed contentedly, as if he hadn't just uttered another woman's name in her bed, while he was fucking her. He rose then, his movements languid as he walked towards the bathroom, leaving her to contend with the throbbing pain in her neck and the burning ache in her hips.

The sound of the shower starting was a cruel reminder of his rejection. She lay there, listening to the water rush over his skin, washing away any trace of her. Her mind echoed with the sound of his whisper, a haunting melody that refused to fade. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the agony that clawed at her heart and her confidence, leaving her feeling shattered. This wasn't how this was supposed to work.

Bellatrix remained still as Voldemort emerged from the bathroom, donning his robes with an air of detachment . Seemingly unbothered by the blood that trailed down her hip, he pulled her up, his warm smile belied the chill of his touch as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. The tenderness in his voice was a welcome reprieve from the cold indifference she had grown accustomed to even if she knew it was fleeting.

"Let's rise, darling," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress in the stillness, "we have much to do today." She nodded, savoring the brief moment of affection before he released her.

As she made her way to the bathroom, she carefully tended to her injuries, cleaning the cuts on her hips to prevent infection. But her mind was elsewhere, consumed by Voldemort's behavior. His mood swings left her reeling, aching for a stability that never seemed to come.

Meanwhile, Voldemort had already left the room, a sense of unease settling over him like a dark shroud. He had recovered the Hufflepuff cup from Bellatrix's vault at Gringotts, so Hadria remained the final missing piece of his soul. Yet the search for her had proven fruitless, and the thought of Hadria's betrayal gnawed at his sanity. She had found a way to hide from him but something felt different this morning. He had dreamt of her again. The dreams that haunted his sleep were maddening, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. He would always try to get to her and she was always just out of his reach.

How dare she take my soul from me...How dare she break our agreement...What right does she have to deny me what is rightfully mine?!

His dream last night had been more tangible and vivid than ever. She had been walking through a graveyard, her form barely discernible against the blinding brightness of a lantern she held. As in all of the dreams no matter how fast he ran, he could not close the distance between them, even as she moved with a slow ethereal grace... she had led him up a path to a dark fortress, that looked like...

He halted abruptly... the fortress from his dream was no mere figment of his imagination. It was Azkaban. Without hesitation, he apparated.

As soon as he arrived there he stormed up to the dementor in the foyer of the prison.

"Where is she?!" he bellowed, his voice a menacing tempest.

The Dementor recoiled from the dark wizards fury only able to slowly shake it's head indicating she wasn't there.

"She was here, wasn't she?" he demanded, seething with rage. The dementor's slow nod was confirmation enough.

Voldemort surged through the prison, driven by a singular purpose...he knew who she had come to see...the question on his mind was why? He made his way through the prisoner corridors to the third floor. When he arrived at Dumbledore's cell he found the old wizard in a slumber that was too deep, too still. Glancing down the corridor, he saw a dementor distributing trays of food to the inmates.

"Open this door!" he commanded. The dementor abandoned the trays on the grimy floor and complied, unlocking the cell. Voldemort stepped over the untouched meal and turned the wizard over. His flesh was cold, lifeless.

Dumbledore was dead.

She had been here... Voldemort could sense her magic—dark magic—the very magic he had imparted to her. Dumbledore had been weeks from death, but Voldemort was certain that Hadria's hand had hastened his end. Was it an act of mercy? Or a vengeful retribution for his role in her parents' demise? Whatever her motive, she had managed to evade the dementors and execute her deed before vanishing once more.

Overcome with fury, Voldemort unleashed his wrath upon the cell. He shattered and kicked everything within reach, his screams of rage reverberating so powerfully that it seemed as though the ancient walls of Azkaban trembled with his ire. The sparse furnishings within the cell— a rickety stool, a rusted bed frame— became victims of his wrath, splintering and bending under the force of his dark magic.

He screamed, a primal sound that tore from his throat, raw and powerful. It was a scream that carried the weight of betrayal and frustration, reverberating off the ancient walls as if challenging the very foundation of the fortress. The air itself seemed to tremble, the oppressive atmosphere of despair momentarily giving way to the sheer intensity of his anger.

But even the darkest of storms must eventually subside. Exhausted and spent, Voldemort's rage ebbed, leaving him to collapse beside the lifeless form of Albus Dumbledore. The wizarding legend, once a beacon of hope and resilience for the side of light .

Voldemort knelt there, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he sought to regain control. His chest heaved with the effort to quell the tempest within, to silence his thoughts. He took a deep, steadying breath, the cool air of the cell filling his lungs, a stark contrast to the heat of his fury.

Slowly, he ran his hand over his smooth head, a gesture of self-assurance as he refocused his mind. The chaos around him, the debris of his anger, seemed to fade into the background as he centered himself once more.

A chuckle bubbled up from within him, low and menacing. It grew into a laugh, sinister and devoid of mirth, echoing through the cell. It was a laugh that spoke of dark plans and darker intentions, a promise of vengeance and the relentless pursuit of power.

In that moment, Voldemort stood at the crossroads of fury and calculation, his mind already weaving new schemes, his resolve hardening like the stones that surrounded him. The Dark Lord would not be deterred, and his laughter was a harbinger of the terror that was yet to come.

"Sweet little Hadria... if you won't come out on your own, then I'll draw you out."

***

Chapter Text

As the first light of dawn began to gently illuminate the horizon, casting a soft glow over the murky waters of the swamp, Narcissa Malfoy found herself tracing the same path back and forth, her elegant shoes leaving a distinct trail in the damp earth. Her mind was a whirlwind of concern, her heart heavy with anticipation. It was at this moment, as the sun's rays timidly peeked above the tree line, that Hadria Potter appeared with a soft crack, materializing at the wrought-iron gates that marked the boundary of the desolate marshland.

Narcissa's breath caught in her throat as she witnessed Hadria's silhouette falter. The young witch's knees buckled, sending her tumbling to the ground, her fingers releasing the lantern which rolled away, its light flickering erratically. Narcissa's heart skipped a beat, and she hastened towards Hadria, her robes billowing behind her as she closed the distance with swift, determined strides.

"Hadria, what's wrong?" Narcissa inquired, her voice laced with worry as she knelt beside the distraught figure. She extended a comforting arm, drawing Hadria close, enveloping her in an embrace that sought to shield her from the world's cruelties. Hadria's sobs were a heart-wrenching symphony, echoing through the stillness of the swamp.

"I killed him..." Hadria whispered, her voice barely audible above the chorus of nocturnal creatures that called the swamp home. Narcissa's maternal instincts surged to the forefront, her hands cradling Hadria's face with a tenderness that belied her usually composed demeanor.

"Who Hadria? Who did you kill?" Narcissa pressed gently, her gaze locked onto Hadria's tear-streaked face.

"Dumbledore...after...I spoke with him...after he told me...everything...he asked me...he begged me to kill him." Hadria's words were strained, the pain evident in her voice. The revelation of her parents' deaths and the act of ending Dumbledore's life weighed heavily on her heart. "He said Voldemort would find out I'd gone to him and he would end up torturing him for information...and he was probably right...I'm sure he was...but..."

Narcissa tightened her hold, her voice a soothing balm to Hadria's tormented soul. "Oh, Hadria... you have acted with courage and mercy... even if the pain of it clouds your judgment now. Dumbledore's time was drawing to a close regardless of today's events," she murmured, her hands stroking Hadria's back in a rhythm as ancient as time itself, a gesture meant to convey solace and understanding.

They remained locked in their embrace, two souls adrift in a sea of sorrow, until the waves of Hadria's grief began to ebb. With a gentle coaxing, Narcissa encouraged Hadria to her feet, her words a warm blanket in the chill of the morning air. "Come on...lets get you inside," Narcissa spoke with a sincerity that warmed Hadria's heart. Together, they retrieved the lantern and made their way through the gates.

As they walked, Narcissa's curiosity was piqued. "I guess that lantern worked?" she asked, attempting to lighten the mood. Hadria nodded in affirmation.

"Yes, the Dementors were quite scared of it. It worked like a charm."

"And...Dumbledore...he was able to give you some good information?" Narcissa inquired gently, hope lacing her words.

Hadria took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Yes...he hadn't obliviated himself as everyone thought...He told me everything. The prophecy...and about what happened the night my parents were killed. It's...a long story. But it fills in the missing pieces from what Voldemort told me."

Narcissa considered this for a moment before asking, "What exactly did happen that night?" Her curiosity was evident. "Everyone was told Voldemort simply killed them in cold blood trying to...kill you...and Voldemort has never spoken of it to us."

Hadria sighed, the weight of her knowledge apparent. "I...can't tell you all of the details...at least...not yet...I will tell you that Voldemort never intended to kill my parents...and Dumbledore confirmed that."

"And...the prophecy...did it help? Do you know what may help the scroll work?" Narcissa pressed, eager for any shred of hope.

Hadria nodded once more, a determined glint in her eye. "Yes...I believe I know what to do...I just hope it works."

Narcissa's smile was a gentle touch upon Hadria's tumultuous spirit as they ambled along the verdant path. The air was thick with the scent of the swamp, a heady mix of earth and water that spoke of life's tenacity in the most unlikely of places.

"Me too, Hadria, I'm sure—Oh my!" Narcissa's exclamation sliced through the stillness as an unexpected figure ambled into their midst. A cow, its coat a rich shade of chestnut, stood squarely before them, its large, soulful eyes meeting Narcissa's with an expression of boredom. It chewed leisurely on the swamp grass.

Narcissa's delicate nose wrinkled in distaste at the pungent aroma that accompanied the creature. "Oh Merlin, is that a—" she began, only to be interrupted by a sound most peculiar.

"Moo."

The utterance, so distinctly human in its articulation, left Narcissa gaping at the cow in bewilderment. "Did... did that cow just say 'moo'... in a human's voice?" she queried, her voice laced with incredulity.

Hadria's laughter, light and carefree, broke the tension as she regarded Narcissa's expression of refined repulsion. "Yes, this is Ginger," she explained, her hand reaching out to scratch the cow affectionately behind its horns. "Though I cannot fathom why she vocalizes in such a manner, she is not alone in this odd behavior. This swamp is home to a many creatures, each more bizarre than the last, their animal calls uttered with the clarity of human speech."

With a final pat on Ginger's flank, Hadria sent the cow on its way, watching as it lumbered off, its hooves sinking into the mire with each step. Narcissa observed the departure with a raised eyebrow, her mind no doubt cataloging this oddity among the many mysteries of the swamp.

"That is... most certainly peculiar," Narcissa remarked as they resumed their journey. "Do remember to wash your hands upon our return," she added, the note of concern in her voice unmistakable.

Hadria's smile broadened at Narcissa's motherly advice, a chuckle escaping her lips as they neared their destination.

Upon reaching the hut, they stepped inside to find Marjorie, ensconced in the warmth of the kitchen. The aroma of freshly baked apple pie wafted through the air, mingling with the savory scent of herbs being ground by Marjorie's skilled hands. A pot of soup bubbled away on the stove, promising comfort and nourishment. Hadria's time with the healer had revealed a delightful surprise: Marjorie's culinary talents were as potent as her healing arts, a fact that brought a simple joy to her days in the swamp.

Marjorie Batts, with her eyes that seemed to see through to the very soul, paused in her methodical preparation of herbs and glanced up at Hadria. "Find what you were looking for, child?" she asked, setting her work aside momentarily, her shrewd gaze fixed upon Hadria.

"Yes, Ms. Batts... I think I know how to make the scroll work..." Hadria replied as she stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. She and Narcissa took their seats at the table, the wood worn smooth by years of use.

"Alright, what magic will power it?" Marjorie inquired, resting one hand on the countertop and placing the other on her hip, her posture exuding a mix of curiosity and authority.

"Love... love will power the scroll. And the exchange to cure him of all foreign influences will be the safety of myself and..." Hadria's eyes briefly met Narcissa's, conveying a depth of meaning in that fleeting connection. "...of my child."

Narcissa's expression shifted from composed to one of utter shock. "Hadria! You're pregnant?!" she gasped, her voice a mixture of surprise and concern.

"Yes... but that is the exchange... because the condition that has to be met will put us both in great danger," Hadria explained, her voice tinged with a solemn understanding of the risks involved.

Marjorie's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she processed this information, giving a slow, deliberate nod. "And what is the condition?" she pressed, seeking clarity on the matter.

"A kiss... I must be able to get close enough to kiss him," Hadria revealed, the weight of this requirement evident in her tone.

A flicker of something passed through Marjorie's eyes—was it concern? But she simply nodded in agreement. "Yes... yes, child, that will certainly work... as long as you truly love him, this magic will be very powerful," she affirmed, her voice steady and confident in the potency of such a spell.

"Hadria..." Narcissa's voice trembled, the reality of the situation settling upon her. The thought that Hadria had been carrying her and Voldemort's child all this time was overwhelming. "You... you could die, Hadria..."

"Yes... but the exchange must be more powerful than any possible curse that may be holding him... I understand that now," Hadria said softly, her determination clear despite the softness of her voice.

"You have a gift with ancient magic, Hadria... I had doubted you would be able to construct an effective scroll spell... but I believe this will work just fine. Give me a little time, and I'll return with it... have something to eat while you wait," Marjorie said, her tone conveying a newfound respect for Hadria as she made her way out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

Narcissa's gaze lingered on Hadria, a tumult of emotions swirling within her. She had come to regard Hadria not merely as a formidable ally but as the daughter her heart had always yearned for. Now, the stark reality loomed before them: Hadria was poised to risk everything—her very life and the innocent life growing within her—to confront Voldemort and avert the impending doom he threatened to unleash upon the wizarding world.

Before Narcissa could voice the thoughts racing through her mind, an ethereal blue otter, a Patronus, phased through the ceiling, its spectral form casting a serene glow in the dim room. Hadria's eyes lit up with recognition, and she rose to her feet, a smile of fondness gracing her lips.

"Hermione..."

Yet, the voice that emanated from the otter was not Hermione's. It was Severus Snape's—a voice tinged with urgency and a somber undertone impressing the gravity of his message.

"Miss Potter, I've no idea where you are, but I pray this reaches you... the Dark Lord has commanded me to convey his intentions. He has asked that I gather the muggleborn students in the dungeons... and he intends to execute them this very afternoon unless you present yourself at Hogwarts beforehand... he plans to have several Death Eaters in attendance... I fear his fury has escalated beyond the point of no return...I fear for your safety as I cannot read his intentions...I shall endeavor to stall this atrocity for as long as possible, and should he proceed, I will be left with no alternative but to oppose him... Hermione is safe... hidden at my home in Spinner's End, where I have instructed her to remain. Should I fail to survive this ordeal... inform her... tell her that I love her, and within my desk, she will find that all I possess is bequeathed to her."

With those final, haunting words, the otter dissipated, vanishing into the ether from whence it came. Hadria sank back into her chair, the force of the revelation causing her to collapse with a heavy thud. The enormity of the situation bore down upon her, a crushing weight that threatened to suffocate her resolve. Narcissa's voice reached her, a lifeline amidst the chaos, assuring her that she would not face this trial in solitude—that they would stand united against the darkness.

Yet, deep within, Hadria understood the singular truth that burdened her soul: she alone possessed the power to shatter the curse ensnaring Voldemort. With a heart brimming with love and a will of iron, she resolved to undertake this perilous quest. Whether through triumph or sacrifice, she would liberate the man who had unwittingly captured her heart.

***

Chapter Text

The searing pain of the Dark Mark's summons jolted Severus from his slumber...somehow he just knew it wasn't good news. It couldn't be just a typical Monday morning. The recent message from Lucius had set Severus's mind racing—the potion had failed, and with it, the hope of releasing Voldemort from whatever held him had began to dissipate.

Severus had always been a man of foresight, and his instincts screamed that the tides with Voldemort were turning treacherous. In a quiet act of defiance, or perhaps acceptance, he had penned his last will, leaving everything to her—Hermione. His signature, magically etched, would stand as a testament to his final wishes. He had insisted she remain at his house, away from the storm he felt brewing on the horizon. Despite her protests, he had left her with a kiss—hoping that it would not be their last.

Apparating to the gates of Hogwarts, he was met with the chilling sight of Voldemort, flanked by Bellatrix yet again proudly donning the evidence of the Dark Lords cruelty on her neck.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming, Severus," Voldemort's voice rasped, a cold edge to his words.

"My apologies for the delay, my Lord. How may I be of service?" Severus inquired, his tone measured, deliberately ignoring Bellatrix's piercing gaze.

"Commence the roundup of all Muggle-born students in the dungeon at breakfast. Secure the wards against escape, and silence any attempts at communication," Voldemort commanded, his voice devoid of mercy.

Severus's expression remained impassive, though confusion furrowed his brow. "May I inquire as to the purpose of this action, my Lord?"

A sadistic chuckle escaped Voldemort, sending an involuntary shiver down Severus's spine.

"They will be executed this afternoon unless Hadria surrenders herself to me. I grow weary of her evasions; it is time she is drawn from the shadows. Dispatch a Patronus to deliver the ultimatum. I expect compliance upon my return. Should she dare to bring reinforcements I shall have the Death Eaters at the ready."

Severus nodded, his face a mask of stoicism. Yet, within the recesses of his being, a profound unease took root. His premonitions had been accurate, and despite his hopes to the contrary, the darkness he had anticipated was unfurling before him.

"Is there anything else you require, my Lord?" Severus inquired, his drawl deliberate.

"That will suffice. I will return this afternoon," Voldemort decreed before vanishing with Bellatrix in tow.

Severus retreated to the solitude of his office, securing the door with a flick of his wand. He pondered the message he was about to send, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily upon him. As he summoned his Patronus, an otter burst forth, frolicking with an innocence that belied the darkness of the hour.

The doe, once a constant, had been replaced by the otter—the same as Hermione's. The realization struck him with the force of a revelation long resisted. With a steadying breath, he focused on the task at hand.

"I need the following message to go to Hadria Potter..."

The otter stopped and gave Severus it's full attention.

"Miss Potter, I've no idea where you are, but I pray this reaches you... the Dark Lord has commanded me to convey his intentions. He has asked that I gather the muggleborn students in the dungeons... and he intends to execute them this very afternoon unless you present yourself at Hogwarts beforehand... he plans to have several Death Eaters in attendance... I fear his fury has escalated beyond the point of no return...I fear for your safety as I cannot read his intentions...I shall endeavor to stall this atrocity for as long as possible, and should he proceed, I will be left with no alternative but to oppose him... Hermione is safe... hidden at my home in Spinner's End, where I have instructed her to remain. Should I fail to survive this ordeal... inform her... tell her that I love her, and within my desk, she will find that all I possess is bequeathed to her."

Severus's dismissal of the otter Patronus was swift, its blue spectral form vanishing through the ancient stone as if it were mere mist. He sank into the chair behind his desk, the weight of the impending day pressing down upon him. Hogwarts was stirring to life, the murmur of students outside a stark contrast to the silence of his office. He massaged his temples, seeking solace in the ritual, a silent plea for a reprieve that he knew would not come.

The knock was abrupt, a sharp intrusion that snapped him back to the grim reality. "Enter," he commanded, his voice echoing with authority.

Amycus and Alecto Carrow slithered in, their faces twisted with a malevolence that matched the Dark Lord's own. "Headmaster... the Dark Lord informed us of his plans," Amycus declared, his grin a grotesque curl of lips.

"We stand ready to support you at breakfast, should any of the Professors or students prove... problematic," Alecto added, her tone dripping with anticipation.

Severus rose, his movements deliberate, a façade of composure. "Very well, let us proceed," he intoned, leading the way from the sanctuary of his office with the Carrows flanking him, their presence at this side a dark omen.

Severus's journey from his office to the Great Hall was a silent march through the corridors of Hogwarts. The stone walls, usually echoing with the laughter and chatter of students, now seemed to absorb the sound of his footsteps, as if the castle itself was holding its breath.

As he walked, the early risers who had already eaten among the students crossing his path. Their faces were etched with sleep and the remnants of dreams, unaware of the gravity that the day would hold. "To the Great Hall, quickly now," Severus instructed with a firmness that brooked no argument. The students, sensing the urgency in his voice, hastened their steps, casting curious glances over their shoulders as they headed back ahead of him.

The portraits lining the walls watched in somber silence, their painted eyes following the black-clad figure of the Headmaster. Severus could feel their gaze, heavy with the knowledge of the countless secrets and burdens Hogwarts had borne over the centuries.

He passed by the familiar tapestries and statues, each a silent sentinel to the history they had witnessed. The flickering torches cast long shadows that danced across the floor, mirroring the dark thoughts that flickered through Severus's mind.

As he approached the Great Hall, the sound of gathering students grew louder, a cacophony of voices that were soon to be silenced by the announcement he was about to make. The doors stood open, welcoming the throng of young witches and wizards who were drawn to the warmth and light within, oblivious to the storm that was about to descend upon them.

Severus stepped into the Great Hall, the Carrows at his heels like shadows. The vast room, usually a place of communion and comfort, now felt like an arena. The enchanted ceiling displayed a serene morning sky, a stark contrast to the tension that filled the air.

Professor McGonagall's gaze met his from across the room, her expression a mix of concern and defiance. Severus's look was sharp, a silent message that conveyed volumes. It was a plea for understanding, a warning of the danger that lay ahead, and a strategy all at once. She understood; her slight nod was all the confirmation he needed.

With a deep breath, Severus prepared to address the room, to set in motion the events of a day that would test the very soul of Hogwarts. The Great Hall, with its stone walls and magical ambiance, stood witness to the unfolding drama.

Severus stood before the assembly, his eyes sweeping over the sea of young faces. There was no need to silence the students as they were already all facing him, a nervous energy in the air. "Good morning students, I have an announcement," he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority and a touch of urgency. "There will be a change in today's schedule. All Muggle-born students are to accompany Professor Amycus Carrow immediately as you will begin separate instruction away from the pure and half blood students. This is a change that has been long coming and I expect strict adherence."

He paused, letting the words sink in, his gaze sharp and commanding. "All other students are to continue with their usual schedules. Should you encounter any Muggle-born students unaware of this change, direct them to the dungeons without delay."

The hall was silent, the students exchanging uneasy glances, sensing the gravity behind Severus's words but not the full scope of their meaning.

"In addition," Severus continued, his tone shifting subtly, "I regret to inform you of the passing of our former Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, who died last night in Azkaban. While I understand this news may be unsettling to some...emotional displays regarding this news will be met with swift and severe disciplinary action... I'll not have disruptions in today's lessons."

The announcement hung heavy in the air, a somber note amidst the morning's unsettling directives. Severus's eyes lingered on the students for a moment longer, ensuring his message was clear, before he turned to Amycus. He nodded to him and Amycus began making his way back toward the doors of the Great Hall as he spoke.

"Alright muggle borns, this way," he said. Several students with fear and uncertainty in their eyes stood and began to gather around him. So far it seemed no one was planning on causing any trouble. Severus looked down the staff table. They were a mix of both old and new appointees, each bearing the weight of the current regime in their own way. Some, like Professor Flitwick, wore expressions of deep concern, their eyes darting between Snape and the students, as if calculating the cost of silence against the price of protest. Others, like Professor Slughorn, seemed to shrink into themselves, their usual joviality replaced by a somber resignation.

Professor Sprout's hands were clasped tightly under the table, her knuckles white—a stark contrast to the nurturing warmth she typically exuded.

The newer professors, those who had joined under the Dark Lord's reign, were less inscrutable. Their allegiance was clear, their postures relaxed, almost smug, as they watched the Muggle-born students being led away. They were the embodiment of the regime's ideals, their presence a constant reminder of the dark times that had befallen Hogwarts. In the midst of them all, Professor McGonagall was a pillar of silent strength. Her face was set in a mask of controlled fury, her eyes sharp and assessing.

Severus sighed and turned away from their accusatory gazes to speak with Alecto.

"Remain here and ensure no issues arise, I will see to the wards and make my rounds to gather the remaining students." she nodded with a smile that spoke volumes about her excitement being given this task. The woman enjoyed any opportunity to exact punishment.

As Amycus led the Muggle-born students out of the Great Hall, their procession a somber march to an unknown fate, Severus departed in the opposite direction. His chest constricted with an emotion he dared not show, his face an impenetrable mask as he moved through the corridors, the echo of his footsteps a solitary companion in the unfolding drama.

He hoped Hadria had gotten his message...but more than that he hoped for a miracle.

***

Chapter Text

Back in the healer's home, nestled deep within the swamp's embrace, Marjorie extended her weathered hand to present Hadria with the scroll. It was a delicate cylinder of parchment, sealed with dark red wax that gleamed like blood under the flickering candlelight. The runic symbol pressed into the seal was ancient, its lines and curves holding the secrets of a powerful magic. Hadria received it with a reverence reserved for sacred relics, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as she felt the pulsating energy emanating from within.

"The Healer's Kiss," Marjorie intoned, her voice a whisper that seemed to stir the very air around them. "This scroll need only be on your person when you kiss him. Remember, that this scroll is powered by love. So that must be your intent and focus when it is cast." Her reminder was a gentle nudge, steering Hadria's resolve towards the path of heartfelt sincerity.

Hadria offered a solemn nod, her eyes reflecting the gravity of her task. She tucked the scroll into the depths of her jeans' side pocket, ensuring its safety like a guardian of fate itself. Turning to face Narcissa, her smile was a beacon of newfound confidence, the shadows of fear and nervousness banished from her visage.

"Go back to the Manor... I'm going to be apparating straight to the school," Hadria declared, her voice steady and sure. Narcissa's expression was a complex tapestry of worry and faith, her belief in Hadria's abilities warring with the maternal concern that enveloped her heart. She reached out, her arms encircling Hadria in a protective embrace, her gaze searching Hadria's eyes for reassurance.

"You can do this, I believe in you. I know that everything will work out. Just... be careful Hadria," Narcissa implored, her voice laced with an emotion that shimmered through her composed exterior. The hug they shared was a silent exchange of strength and courage, a momentary refuge from the storm that awaited.

"I will be," Hadria affirmed, her smile unwavering as she returned the embrace, a promise etched in her tone.

Reluctantly, Narcissa released her hold, stepping back with a grace that belied the turmoil within. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, a testament to the depth of her care.

"Lucius, Draco and I...we're on your side," Narcissa vowed, her loyalty an unspoken pact between them.

"I know Narcissa, thank you," Hadria acknowledged, her gratitude sincere and profound.

With a final glance that conveyed a world of unspoken thoughts, Narcissa turned and stepped into the swirling green flames of the floo, her figure dissolving into the emerald inferno as she departed from Hadria's sight. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air charged with the magic of parting and the silent hope for the miracle that lay ahead.

***

                                    
The air was thick with tension, the very atmosphere of Hogwarts charged with a foreboding sense of impending doom. Voldemort stood, flanked by his loyal Death Eaters. Bellatrix, Lucius, Corban Yaxley, Thorfinn Rowle, Gibbon, and Fenrir Greyback just inside the walls of Hogwarts on the northside forming a sinister assembly, their presence a blight upon the hallowed grounds.

Inside, Amycus and Severus were the jailers of the innocent, the Muggle-borns confined within the cold, unforgiving walls of an abandoned dungeon room. Severus was poised, ready to do what he must should the Dark Lord come for the children. The professors, once pillars of wisdom and guidance, were now prisoners as well being kept in the Great Hall by Alecto and a handful of other Death Eaters.

The silence was shattered by the sudden crack of apparition, a sound that turned every head, every wand, in its direction. Voldemort's reaction was swift, his body coiling like a serpent ready to strike. There stood Hadria, a lone figure of defiance, her silhouette framed by the rising sun that painted the sky with streaks of crimson and gold. Her apparition past the protective wards was a testament to her power, a challenge to the dark forces arrayed before her.

The Death Eaters, a sea of raised wands and malevolent intent, stood ready to unleash their fury. Yet, Voldemort's smile was one of dark amusement, a predator amused by the bravery of its prey. He advanced, his movements deliberate, commanding. Bellatrix, ever the faithful servant, moved to join him, but a single glance from her master commanded her to halt.

As he neared Hadria, a strange sensation constricted his chest, an unfamiliar tightness that betrayed the impact of her presence. "Impressive display, my dear..." he purred, his voice a symphony of malice and contempt. His wand emerged, an extension of his dark will. "Unfortunately for you, it will not stop me from carrying out my plans."

His words were a chilling promise, a declaration of intent that hung heavy in the air. "You see, I've given this a lot of thought and it's really not very realistic for me to try to keep you contained...clearly you're too powerful for that. However, I also can't have you running around free with a piece of my soul inside of you either, this connection between us has become a burden... so I've decided to make a sacrifice."

The Death Eaters, a silent chorus of darkness, edged forward, their wands an array of deadly potential. Hadria, her resolve unshaken, began to retreat towards the school, her own wand a steady beacon of her determination.

"Is that so? What is it you intend on sacrificing exactly, Voldemort?" she challenged, her voice a mix of courage and steel.

Voldemort's chuckle was a sound that seemed to crawl across the skin, his blue eyes—once capable of warmth—now icy orbs that reflected nothing but the void within. They bore into Hadria's, seeking to intimidate, to dominate. Yet, within her, a battle raged. Her heart, a vessel of conflicting emotions, clenched at the sight of those familiar eyes. But she pushed aside the surge of sentiment, knowing that in this moment, her clarity, her focus, was her greatest weapon. The fate of all she held dear balanced on the knife-edge of this encounter, and she would not falter.

"Well, you of course," he taunted, his voice a dark melody.

"And you need an entire legion of Death Eaters to take me down? I thought the Dark Lord a little better than that," Hadria retorted, her words laced with scorn, severing the thread of his amusement. His reaction was swift, a sneer of contempt twisting his features.

"Not at all, little one... if one on one is what you seek, then I shall grant you your wish," he declared, his hand raised in a silent command that halted the advance of his minions.

"If you want me... you'll have to catch me first," she challenged, her smile a flash of defiance. With a flourish, her wand summoned a whirlwind, a swirling shroud of dust that obscured his predatory advance. After a brief pause he plunged into the maelstrom, catching but a glimpse of her figure darting through the venerable doors of Hogwarts. A smirk played upon his lips.

She wants a chase, does she?

His followers, eager for a fight, began to surge forward, but with a ferocity that brooked no disobedience, he barked, "Stay back! She's mine," his voice a growl of possession as he pursued her shadow into the heart of the castle.

Bellatrix watched, her unease growing like a storm on the horizon. Hadria's confidence was unsettling, her poise too assured. Voldemort, oblivious to the trap being laid before him, was ensnared in a game of Hadria's making.

The chase commenced with a fury, echoing through the hallowed corridors of Hogwarts. Hadria, her silhouette a blur of motion, darted through the archways and alcoves, her blonde hair unfurling like a banner in the wind. Voldemort, his cloak a trailing shadow of darkness, pursued with a predator's focus, his wand unleashing curses that whispered death and destruction.

The castle, a silent witness to their deadly dance, seemed to breathe with the intensity of their duel. Spells ricocheted off ancient stones, leaving scorch marks as the only testament to their passage. Hadria's deflections were masterful, her shield charms blossoming like spectral flowers, their petals shimmering barriers against Voldemort's relentless assault. She never attacked him, not once.

Each corridor became a new battleground, each stairwell an arena of light and shadow. The air crackled with magic, the very ether alive with the power that surged from Hadria's wand. She was grace under pressure, her movements a choreography of survival, each step a defiance of the fate Voldemort sought to impose upon her.

Voldemort's spells grew more vicious, more desperate, as he found his attacks thwarted at every turn. Yet, with each failed strike, a spark of exhilaration ignited within him. The challenge, the thrill of the hunt, was something he had not felt in ages. It was a feeling he relished, even as frustration gnawed at him. The Dark Lord, the terror of the wizarding world, was being led on a merry chase, and he could not help but admire Hadria's cunning.

They spiraled up towers, their duel a spiraling ascent into the heavens. They plunged into the dungeons, where the chill of the stones was banished by the heat of their conflict. Portraits lining the walls shouted warnings and pleas, but they were mere echoes drowned out by the symphony of battle.

In the midst of their tempestuous duel, Hadria and Voldemort swept through the corridors with such intensity that the world around them seemed to fade into insignificance. They passed the chamber where the students were held captive, their young faces etched with fear and confusion. Severus, a silent sentinel, stood guard, his eyes sharp and calculating, ready to intervene should the need arise. Yet, Hadria and Voldemorts battle had breezed right past them as if they didn't exist. Amycus started to follow them but Severus stopped him with a firm shake of his head.

Hadria's breaths came in ragged gasps, her focus never wavering as she summoned barrier after barrier as she made her way back out of the dungeons. Her mind was a fortress, her will the battlements upon which Voldemort's dark magic crashed and broke. She was the eye of the storm, calm and centered, even as chaos reigned around her.

Voldemort, his eyes alight with a feral glee, pressed on, his attacks a tempest that sought to overwhelm her. Yet, with each spell he cast, he found himself admiring her resilience, her strength. She was not just surviving; she was challenging him, pushing him to limits he had forgotten he possessed.

And through it all, Hadria remained just out of reach, her spirit unbroken, her determination a beacon that shone all the brighter for the darkness that pursued her. It was a chase for the ages, a tale that would be whispered in awe by those who dared to remember, a testament to the enduring spirit that even the darkest of magics could not extinguish.

The chase wound its way into the library, where books and parchment took flight, caught in the maelstrom of their magic. With its towering shelves and endless rows of ancient tomes, it had become a silent arena. The chase had led them here, to this repository of knowledge, where the air was thick with the scent of leather and parchment. Voldemort, his breaths measured, paused amidst the stillness, his keen senses attuned to the slightest whisper of movement.

Hadria had seemingly vanished, her presence a ghostly echo that lingered just beyond perception. The only sound was the soft creak of the wooden floors underfoot, a subtle symphony that played with the tension of the moment.

"Running won't save you, Hadria," Voldemort's voice resonated, a velvet threat that caressed the spines of the books.

Her reply came from the shadows, a tantalizing murmur that seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Who says I'm running?"

He turned sharply, his wand at the ready, but found only the emptiness of the aisle greeting him. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth; the game was afoot, and he relished the complexity of it.

"You can't hide forever," he called out, his voice a low growl that echoed off the walls as he searched.

"Who's hiding? I'm just giving you a chance to catch your breath old man," her voice teased, a playful lilt that belied the gravity of their situation.

A low chuckle rumbled from Voldemort as he prowled the aisles, his steps deliberate as he navigated the labyrinth of shelves in the great game of cat and mouse they played. Each corner he rounded, he expected to see her, to finally close the distance between them. Yet, each time, he was met with absence, her figure a wisp of smoke that slipped through his fingers.

The dance continued, a slow and methodical pursuit that was as much mental as it was physical. Their conversation was a duel in itself, words parried and riposted with the skill of seasoned combatants.

"You're quite the elusive one," he admitted, a note of respect threading through the words.

"And you're quite persistent," she responded, her voice closer now, almost within reach.

He rounded another corner, his heart quickening with the anticipation of her capture. But again, there was nothing. A giggle, her giggle, filled the air, a sound that stirred something within him, a pull that was both oddly familiar and intoxicating. Something inside of him ached.

The chase was no longer just about the hunt; it was about the connection that thrummed between them, a magnetic force that seemed to draw him ever closer to her essence. With each step, with each word exchanged, he felt himself drawn to her, not just as a foe, but as something more profound, more compelling...something he couldn't comprehend.

The library, with its high vaulted ceilings and the soft glow of enchanted lanterns, became a world unto itself, a stage for two souls entwined in a ballet of fate and will.

Voldemort's voice echoed, a haunting call in the vast silence. "Hadria, you cannot escape me," he declared, his tone a blend of command and something akin to desperation.

Her voice, a soft whisper, materialized from the shadows directly behind him. "Who says I'm trying to escape?"

He spun around, his wand at the ready, only to find Hadria inches from him, her eyes alight with an indomitable fire. Before he could unleash his spell, she stepped forward, closing the gap between them with a fierce grace. Her hands reached behind his neck, pulling him into an embrace, and her lips crashed into his in a kiss that was both a defiance of their circumstances and a testament to the passionate history they had shared.

As their lips touched, he felt magic swirl around them and a surge of memories flooded through him, piercing the veil of darkness that had shrouded his heart. Images of their intertwined fates, the intimacy they had shared, the searing pain of their shared dark marks, and the life he had once envisioned with her cascaded through his mind in a torrent of emotion.

Hadria's kiss was a challenge, a battle, and a surrender all at once. Her body pressed against his, a perfect counterpoint to the hardness of his resolve. Her fingers tightened their hold, drawing him deeper into the kiss, while her other hand traced the contours of his jaw, a tactile whisper against his skin.

His wand pressed against her throat, once a harbinger of death, was dropped clattering to the floor, forgotten. He cradled her face, his fingers trembled as he touched her. The cold, hard persona of the Dark Lord melted away under the warmth of her touch. He kissed her back with a fervor born of reawakened love, a hunger that had been suppressed by the shadows now dispelled. His fingers slipped into her hair, cradling her head as his tongue plunged into her mouth hungry and desperate.

At that moment, Bellatrix had rounded the corner having finally caught up to them, her eyes wide with fury and disbelief. The silver Raven skull necklace she always wore around her neck suddenly broke from it's chain. It hit the ground with a sound that seemed to resonate through the very foundations of the castle, cracking and breaking apart. The shards scattered across the floor, the destruction of the necklace signaling the end of the enchantment.

The curse was broken.

Voldemort's senses returned to him fully, the fog that had clouded his mind dissipating like morning mist under the sun's embrace. He pulled Hadria closer, his arms encircling her as if to affirm the reality of her presence, the truth of his returned emotions.

Voldemort, the feared Dark Lord, found himself lost in the intensity of the moment. His own hands, which had known only to take and to harm, now sought to give and to cherish. They roamed her back, tracing the spine that held her so upright against him. His touch was a discovery, a relearning of the curves and edges of the woman who had haunted his conflicted soul.

Around them, the library stood silent, a sacred witness to the rebirth of something thought lost. The books, the silent keepers of stories, added another tale to their keep—a tale of love's triumph over the darkest of magics. And in that moment, within the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, love had conquered all.

Voldemort finally broke the kiss...he felt at peace as he looked in her eyes but he was lost in a storm of confusion. Her eyes, brimming with tears, reflected a soulful depth that pierced his heart. The gentle caress of her hand against his face was a balm to the chaos that had raged within him.

"There you are," she whispered, her voice a soothing melody that seemed to resonate with the very beat of his heart. A tear, a solitary testament to his reawakening, traced a path down his cheek, mirroring her own.

A tempest of confusion and regret churned within him as he gazed into her eyes, his hand trembled as he tenderly caressed her cheek. How had he forgotten this? Why had he almost killed the most beautiful creature that he'd ever encountered, the one who had so effortlessly ensnared his heart? His dark lady, the embodiment of all he never known he desired and needed, and yet, he had nearly been the architect of her demise. This stark realization cut through his soul like a blade, leaving his chest constricted with an anguish that was both foreign and profound.

His attention snapped to Bellatrix, who was desperately scrambling on the library floor for the pieces of the shattered remnants of her necklace...the necklace she always wore. It was her... He had been caught in her web, pushed Hadria away and spent his nights in her embrace... A sneer of revulsion twisted his features as memories of their carnal betrayals flooded back, each one a strike against his very soul.

The truth dawned on him like a bolt of lightning—Bellatrix's jealousy, her dark machinations, had woven the spell that ensnared his mind... She had bewitched him, manipulated his affections with a sorcery that mirrored the accusations once leveled at his own mother. But this was no baseless claim; it was a truth as clear and sharp as the edge of a knife. He knew it with every fiber of his being.

Rage ignited within him, a fiery demand for the truth. He released Hadria, his movements swift as he retrieved his wand from the ground. With purposeful strides, he advanced on Bellatrix, who, sensing his approach, dropped the necklace and attempted to flee. But it was too late; his hand closed around her throat, pinning her to the ground with the weight of his fury.

"Legilimens!"

***

Chapter Text

Voldemort's assault on Bellatrix's psyche was violent, his rage an unbridled storm that ravaged her mind without restraint. The initial memories she presented were a calculated distraction, intimate moments shared between them, but they were nothing more than a ruse to him now. With a visceral snarl, he cast them aside, delving deeper, burrowing into the hidden recesses of her treachery.

His mental journey took him to the bleak and desolate cells of Azkaban, where he witnessed Bellatrix conversing with a withered crone, a notorious figure, Griselda Thornheart. This woman, a relic of dark arts long past, had been condemned to wither within the prison's walls for her heinous act that had brought ruin upon an entire town. Her spell had been a blight, causing a drought so severe that it crippled the land, decimating crops, desiccating rivers, and bringing untold suffering to the magical creatures that depended on them. The famine that followed had been merciless, claiming many lives in its wake.

Now, Voldemort watched through the eyes of memory as Bellatrix sat on the cold, grimy floor of the dungeon, her posture one of feigned reverence as she sought the elder witches forbidden knowledge.

"The time draws near that our lord will release us from this prison," Bellatrix whispered, her voice barely rising above the sound of distant waves crashing against the prison's rocky shores. "Please, I must know of the love spell you once spoke of."

The crone's laughter was a rasping sound, a cackle that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls. "Ahh... so you seek my wisdom after all," she said, her eyes gleaming with a malevolent delight.

Bellatrix's gaze shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. "There have been... whispers... that he met someone," she confessed, her voice trailing off as if the words themselves were traitorous. "I don't know if there's any truth to it. But... if it's true, I cannot allow it..."

The crone's chuckle deepened, a sound that seemed to mock the very foundations of the fortress that held her. "Choose a talisman, child... something you can wear close to your heart," she instructed with a wicked smile. "Anoint it with his blood and yours under a full moon. Do the same with a candle. Light it near the talisman and commune with the gods. Tell them of the love you seek."

Bellatrix listened intently, her expression a mask of desperate determination.

"Then speak the words with conviction," the crone continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cor vinculum, cor captum... per hoc signum, amoris nexum. Blow out the candle and wear the talisman."
             
As the previous memory dissolved, a new clarity crystallized within Voldemort. The scene shifted, transitioning smoothly into another of Bellatrix's memories.

There she was, ensconced on the plush sofa in the intimate confines of her bedroom, with Narcissa as her audience. Her expression was one of fury barely contained, her words laced with a venomous passion. "We just needed more time together. We are one and the same, Cissy. He's my soul mate. I've never known a man so dark, so twisted... and beautiful."

Narcissa regarded her sister with a gaze that was both piercing and pensive, absorbing the tempest of emotions that Bellatrix laid bare before her.

"I'll kill her," Bellatrix declared, the statement hanging in the air like a dark promise.

Narcissa's response was swift, her voice a sharp rebuke that cut through the tension. "Bellatrix Lestrange! You will do no such thing. He would end you... Listen to me, he loves her, even if he does not realize it yet... We cannot change that."

The memory wavered, as if caught in the throes of an emotional storm. Narcissa's plea was earnest, her words a desperate entreaty. "Promise me, Bella... promise you won't—"

"Fine... I won't kill her..." Bellatrix's acquiescence was reluctant, her tone suggesting that while she might have agreed to spare Hadria's life, her schemes were far from over. The depths of Bellatrix's obsession and the lengths to which she would go to claim his heart were chilling.
                                                  
Voldemort's relentless pursuit through Bellatrix's memories continued, each one a piece of the puzzle falling into place. The next scene unfolded in the lush garden of Malfoy Manor, bathed in the soft light of dawn. There, Bellatrix paced like a caged animal, her mutterings a disjointed symphony of betrayal and madness. Her words were indistinct, but the tone—a venomous hiss of treachery—was unmistakable.

Then, a dramatic shift occurred. He saw himself, a formidable silhouette, descending from the sky shrouded in a black mist, a harbinger of the storm that was his presence. Upon noticing him, Bellatrix recoiled, seeking refuge behind a marble statue, her eyes peering out with a mix of fear and fascination.

His form, imposing even in vulnerability, leaned heavily against a patio column, a hand clutching his ribs in a rare display of pain. This memory was etched in his mind—the aftermath of his deadly encounter with Amelia Bones, a victory marred by injury.

Bellatrix, ever the opportunist, remained concealed only until he had entered the Manor. Then, with the stealth of a shadow, she emerged, her eyes scanning the ground with a predator's focus. She found what she sought: droplets of his blood, a crimson testament to the battle he had waged. The wounds had been deep, the blood flowing freely in the moments after the duel.

With a vial procured from the depths of her robes, she acted with a chilling precision, as if this moment had been preordained. Her wand came to life, coaxing the blood from the stone, each droplet rising to join its kin in the glass prison she held. When the vial was filled with the essence of his life force, she sealed it, her movements deliberate, and tucked it away with the secrecy of one who harbors dark intentions.

As quickly as she had appeared, she vanished into the manor, leaving Voldemort with a sense of cold fury and a burning need for retribution. The betrayal was not just personal; it was a sacrilege against the very essence of who he was.

Voldemort's fury was a living thing, a serpent coiling tighter within him as the memory shifted, heralding the revelation that would cement his resolve for vengeance.

The scene was set under the cloak of night, in a secluded corner of the Malfoy garden where shadows danced with the whispers of the unseen. Bellatrix knelt upon the earth, her form a dark silhouette against the silver glow of the moonstone before her. The pendant of her necklace lay atop the stone, bathed in the ethereal light of the moon.

With a ritualistic solemnity, she unsheathed a knife, the blade glinting ominously in the moonlight. A deliberate slice across her finger drew forth a bead of crimson, which she reverently smeared upon the raven figure of the pendant, then upon the wick of a solitary candle that stood sentinel beside it. Her movements were those of one who had traversed the depths of darkness and found solace in its embrace.

Next, she produced the vial, his blood within it—a violation of his essence. With equal reverence, she anointed the pendant and candle with his lifeblood, the two mingling in a macabre union. The candle's flame sprang to life at her command, casting flickering shadows that played upon her features, now twisted in concentration.

She began the incantation, her voice a chant that rose and fell with the cadence of dark magic. "Cor vinculum, cor captum," she intoned. "Per hoc signum, amoris nexum." The words were a sinister melody, a song of binding and possession that sought to chain the will of another.

The air itself seemed to pulse with the force of the spell, the pendant absorbing the blood as if it were a living thing, its surface beginning to glow with a light that was not of this world. Bellatrix's eyes snapped open, the smug triumph in them as chilling as the laugh that soon spilled from her lips. She extinguished the candle with a breath that was both a benediction and a curse, then clasped the necklace around her throat, the raven pendant a dark sentinel against her skin.

Her laughter echoed, a sound that would haunt the darkest corners of the night, a declaration of a victory that was as hollow as the heart from which it emanated. Voldemort watched, his own heart a cauldron of rage and betrayal, knowing that this woman, this traitor, would feel the full measure of his wrath. The memory seared itself into his consciousness, a final piece that completed the tapestry of her treachery.
             
Voldemort's anger was unleashed like a fierce storm, a whirlwind of rage manifesting in pure intensity. He withdrew from the depths of her mind, leaving her reeling from the brutality of his mental assault. Her gasps for air were ragged, the sound of her pain a discordant melody to the symphony of his anger.

His fingers tightened around her throat, the pressure a cruel vise that threatened to snuff out her very existence. "You dare to bewitch me?!" he hissed, each word a venomous barb that punctuated the silence with its deadly intent.

Bellatrix's eyes, wide with terror, mirrored the realization of her impending doom. She clawed at his hands, her own nails drawing blood in a futile attempt to save herself. But there was no mercy to be found in the eyes of the Dark Lord; there was only the cold promise of retribution.

"You thought you could control me? Shape me to your will?" Voldemort's voice rose, a crescendo of rage that filled the room. "I am no one's puppet, least of all yours."

The air crackled with dark energy, the very atmosphere heavy with the power of his fury. Bellatrix's struggles grew weaker, her life force ebbing away under the unrelenting grip of his hands. Yet, he did not relent, his gaze locked onto hers, a predator witnessing the final moments of his prey. He didn't just want her dead...he wanted to watch the life fade from her eyes.

Beside this tableau of impending doom, Hadria stood, an observer devoid of compassion for the condemned. Her gaze was detached, her thoughts inscrutable, as she witnessed the final, desperate throes of a woman who had sown the seeds of her own destruction.

"You have meddled with forces beyond your comprehension," he continued, his voice now a low growl. "You sought to bind me with spells and blood, to chain my heart to your whims. But I am Voldemort. I am the one who commands the shadows, who whispers to the night. You are nothing but a traitor, a footnote in the grand tale of my reign."

Bellatrix's lips moved, a silent plea for mercy, but the words were lost, drowned out by the pounding of her heart and the tightening of his grasp. Her vision began to blur, the edges of her world fading into darkness.

Voldemort watched, his expression unchanging, as the light began to fade from her eyes. This was the justice he meted out, the price of her betrayal. And as her body grew limp, the last vestiges of life fleeing her form, he released her, letting her crumple to the ground.

The deed was done. The traitor had been punished. And as Voldemort stood over Bellatrix, the silence of the room was a testament to the deadly cost of crossing the Dark Lord.
             
In the aftermath of his wrath, a profound sense of satisfaction surged through Voldemort's veins. The life he had extinguished was a testament to his power, a declaration of his liberation from the chains that had bound him. For a fleeting moment, a semblance of a smile flickered within the recesses of his mind, a dark pleasure at the justice he had doled out.

But the triumph was ephemeral, crumbling as swiftly as it had come. The weight of his actions under the curse's influence descended upon him with the crushing force of reality. Bellatrix lay lifeless, her treachery silenced, the curse lifted. Yet, the shame that enveloped him was as suffocating as the darkest night. He, the Dark Lord, the epitome of strength and control, had been ensnared, manipulated into betraying the one whose very essence he had cherished above all.

Her touch was a whisper against his skin, her voice a soft melody that pierced the silence.

"Voldemort."

He turned, the turmoil within rendering him incapable of meeting her eyes. With a movement that betrayed his inner conflict, he drew her close, enveloping her in an embrace that was both a refuge and a prison. His fingers wove through her hair, a silent language of remorse and longing, as words failed him.

The intrusion of Amycus shattered the fragile stillness. His eyes, wide with shock at the sight of Bellatrix's corpse, sought answers from his master. Voldemort inhaled deeply, summoning a calm as eerie as the grave.

"Release the muggle-born students and instruct them to return to their common rooms," he commanded, his voice a cold blade of authority.

Amycus hesitated, confusion etched upon his features.

"My Lord?"

The command was repeated, this time with a growl that allowed for no hesitation. "NOW, Amycus!..and send Severus to me."

"Yes, of course my lord." Amycus quickly retreated as Voldemort held Hadria in silence.

***

Chapter Text

"How did you do it? How did you break the curse?" Voldemort inquired, his voice tinged with a rare hint of curiosity as he held her close, his chin resting gently atop her head.

"The healer, Ms. Batts... she gave me a scroll to cure you of any foreign influence." Hadria recounted, her voice a soft murmur against the silence that had befallen the room.

His eyes, usually so piercing and commanding, now narrowed with intrigue. "Scroll magic, you say?" he probed further, his tone laced with a newfound interest. She offered a simple nod in affirmation.

"Yes."

A hush fell over Voldemort, his hand tenderly caressing her hair in a rare display of gentleness. Words eluded him, a emotions swirling within, emotions that Hadria alone seemed to stir within his chest—emotions that rendered him speechless.

The stillness was abruptly cleaved by the entrance of Lucius. His eyes, upon the sight of Bellatrix's lifeless form, widened in alarm, and he swiftly pivoted to shield Narcissa from the grim scene. "No, Lucius... you needn't shield me... allow me to see her," Narcissa's voice, steady yet laden with an impending grief, emanated from beyond the library's threshold. Hadria released her embrace from Voldemort and approached the entrance to meet her.

Lucius exhaled a weary sigh, stepping aside to grant Narcissa passage. Hadria advanced towards her, her expression somber. "I'm... I'm sorry, Narcissa," she offered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Voldemort remained where he stood, an unmoving edifice, his visage as impassive as carved marble, betraying no hint of regret for the deed he had wrought.

Narcissa afforded Hadria a faint smile, a brief touch upon her shoulder serving as a silent acknowledgment before her gaze drifted past to the fallen Bellatrix. She stifled the surge of emotions threatening to breach her composure and moved towards her sister. Kneeling beside Bellatrix, she tenderly stroked her hair, a final gesture of sisterly love amidst the echoes of tragedy.

"I just wish she would have listened to me," Narcissa's voice broke, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. Hadria, moved by the moment, knelt beside her, offering an embrace that Narcissa accepted with a weary surrender.

"It's alright... she was aware of the risks... I'm just thankful that you're alright," Narcissa murmured, her voice a fragile whisper, her eyes a testament to her sorrow, glistening with unshed tears.

"Rodolphus, wait," they heard Lucius's voice, strained with urgency, attempting to bar the entrance. Bellatrix's husband, however, was not to be deterred and pushed past with a determined force.

"What happened?!" Rodolphus demanded, rushing to Bellatrix's side, his hands searching for a sign of life that was not there.

"She's dead! Who killed her?!" Anger flared in his voice, seeking an outlet for his grief.

"I am the one who killed her," Voldemort declared, his approach measured and devoid of remorse. Rodolphus rose to face him, a tumult of fear and fury in his eyes.

"My Lord... why?"

"Because she was a traitor and a whore, Rodolphus. You should consider it a boon to be unshackled from her," Voldemort replied, his tone icy with disdain. Narcissa, caught in the crossfire of emotions, nervously bit her lip.

Rodolphus returned to Bellatrix, cradling her in his arms. Despite her infidelities and flaws, his love for her had been unwavering. He had clung to the hope that she might one day reciprocate his affection, but that hope was now as lifeless as the form he held. Swallowing the words of protest, he lifted her, tears clouding his vision, and carried her away from the scene of her demise.

Narcissa rose, casting a lingering glance at Hadria and Voldemort, her expression a complex weave of gratitude and pain. Lucius, ever her steadfast companion, joined her side. The other Death Eaters lingered outside the library, a silent assembly awaiting their next directive.

Severus, navigating through the sea of black robes, paused only briefly as Rodolphus passed with Bellatrix's body. His expression unreadable, he continued into the library, his approach to Voldemort deliberate and composed.

"How may I be of service, My Lord?" Severus inquired, his voice carrying the usual tone of cool detachment that was his signature.

"Severus, the time has come to convene the Professors," Voldemort began, his voice steady and commanding. "Inform them that the muggle-born students shall be reinstated in their classes immediately. I expect the school's daily routines to resume as they were."

A subtle shift in Severus's posture betrayed his momentary surprise at the directive, yet his face remained an unreadable mask. The order was unexpected, yet it was a welcome shift from the recent chaos. With a composed nod, he acknowledged the command.

"Indeed, my lord. Shall I attend to any other matters?" Severus queried, his dark eyes searching Voldemort's for any further signs of the change that seemed to be taking hold.

"For now, that will suffice. We will meet again soon," Voldemort replied, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

With a respectful inclination of his head, Severus turned on his heel, his robes whispering against the stone floor as he made his way out of the library. His mind already turning over the implications of the order, he strode towards the Great Hall, where the faculty awaited.

Voldemort emerged from the library, the air of command undiminished by the recent tumult. Hadria remained close, a silent testament to the shift in power dynamics. The assembled Death Eaters, a sea of black robes and masked faces, shifted uneasily, their confusion palpable in the wake of the day's shocking events.

With a lift of his head, Voldemort's gaze swept over them, each Death Eater feeling the weight of his stare. "Let the demise of Bellatrix stand as a stark warning," he began, his voice resonating with a cold clarity that cut through the murmurs. "She dared to weave a curse, an attempt to ensnare my will and commandeer my affections. Such treachery has been met with the only outcome it deserved—death."

A hush fell over the crowd, the gravity of his words settling like a shroud. "Bear this in mind, should any among you harbor thoughts of duplicity. My mercy has its limits, and my retribution is absolute." His declaration was a decree, a law unto itself, leaving no room for doubt or question. The message was clear: betrayal would be met with an unyielding finality.

The Death Eaters, a silent congregation of cloaked figures, stood motionless, their expressions unreadable behind their masks. Not a single whisper disturbed the heavy air as they awaited their leader's next words.

"We're done here, but we will meet again soon. You are all dismissed," Voldemort declared, his voice echoing with finality through the corridor. With a regal tilt of his head, he signaled the end of the assembly.

Taking Hadria's hand in his, they moved in unison, their silence a shared language as they navigated the hallowed halls of the school. Hadria dared to steal glances at him, noting the distant look that veiled his thoughts. She harbored a secret, a new life blossoming within her, yet the time to reveal such news seemed ill-chosen. Thus, she remained silent, her own thoughts a tumultuous sea as they crossed the grounds and passed through the front gates.

Voldemort's gaze briefly met hers, a softness there that was seldom seen. "Are you ready?" he inquired, his voice a gentle murmur amidst the rustling leaves. She understood the question, a prelude to their imminent departure, and offered him a small, reassuring smile before nodding.

In the blink of an eye, they had apparated and stood in the secluded expanse of the Malfoy Manor's back garden. The abruptness of apparition unsettled Hadria, her grip on his robes tightening as nausea overcame her. Turning away, she succumbed to the discomfort, her body convulsing slightly. Voldemort was at her side in an instant, his hand deftly gathering her hair away from her face.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asked, concern lacing his usually stoic voice. She straightened up, wiping her mouth, and offered a nod, her voice tinged with embarrassment. "Yes, sorry... it still affects me sometimes," she managed to say.

He nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, as he led her inside the manor. The room they entered was one he had avoided since her absence; its walls held memories that had been too painful to confront.

He guided her to the couch with a gentle hand, gesturing for her to take a seat before joining her. A heavy silence enveloped them, filled with the unspoken thoughts that crowded his mind. The lifting of the curse had cleared a fog from his consciousness, and he was still adjusting to the stark clarity of reality.

Hadria watched him, her empathy a silent balm to the turmoil she sensed within him. She waited, giving him the space to find the words that seemed to elude him.

"Do you still have the scroll that you used?" he finally asked, his curiosity about the artifact momentarily pushing aside the other thoughts that vied for his attention.

"Oh, yes," she replied, reaching into her jeans to retrieve the flattened scroll, its wax seal broken. She handed it to him, and he examined it closely, his eyes tracing the runic script.

"She gave this to you... just out of the goodness of her heart?" he questioned, skepticism evident in his tone.

"Well, no. She required something of equal value," Hadria clarified.

"A trade, then...a deal...," he mused, his understanding apparent. "What was exchanged?"

"Lucius and Narcissa provided her with a magical artifact known as the Mirror of Souls," she informed him.

His eyebrow arched in interest.

"And where does this healer reside?"

"I'm not certain of the exact location, but her home is nestled within a swamp, encircled by a formidable iron gate. Her protective wards are quite potent," Hadria detailed

"Yes, they must be. I had tried to apparate to you after...." he trailed off, his mind momentarily wandering to the day his actions had betrayed her, the day when he attacked her... the memory filled him with self-revulsion, regardless of the curse's influence.

Returning the scroll to her with a gentle touch, he stood and leaned in to place a tender kiss upon her forehead.

"Take some time to settle in, my dear. I must confer with Lucius. I shall return later," he spoke softly, his gaze lingering on her. The pain in his eyes was palpable, a silent echo of the inner conflict he bore. She nodded in understanding.

"Yes of course," she said, offering him a smile as he turned and departed from the room, leaving her alone with the scroll and her thoughts.

***

Chapter Text

In the hushed stillness of Severus Snape's bedroom in his home on Spinner's End, the night's embrace lingered, shadows clinging to the corners where the dim light failed to reach. Hermione, having received an owl from Severus detailing the days events, had finally surrendered to a restless slumber, her mind teeming with thoughts of Hadria's wellbeing and the relief that Voldemort's curse had been lifted. Severus had let her know that he would be late getting back to the house dealing with private meetings with the Professors, some of the students and even some parents that had shown up after everything settled. With the exception of Bellatrix, no one had been injured thankfully and the muggleborns had been allowed to return to their rooms and would be resuming school just as before.

Hermione had curled up under the heavy quilt, the fabric seemed to absorb the warmth of her body, providing a comforting cocoon. Her breathing was even, the rise and fall of her chest a gentle rhythm in the silence.

The unexpected sensation of the blankets being drawn away jolted Hermione from her dreams. A firm, yet tender grasp encircled her hips, and her heart leapt in her chest. She gasped, a mixture of surprise and anticipation, and rolled over to face the intruder. Severus loomed above her, his presence commanding even in the subdued light that filtered through the curtains.

His eyes, dark and intense, bore into hers with a fervor that was palpable. He had already disrobed and the desire etched across his features was unmistakable, it stirred something primal within her. His mouth descended upon hers with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. The taste of fire whiskey lingered on his lips, a smoky undercurrent that mingled with the faint scent of cigar—a vestige of his evening's indulgences, or perhaps his escape.

As Hermione moaned into the kiss, Severus's hands roamed with a possessive need, slipping beneath her shirt to claim her flesh. He pulled it off quickly. His touch was insistent, his breath heavy with longing. He was ravenous, like a man starved of intimacy he now sought to reclaim with a single-minded determination.

In a swift motion, he divested her of her bottoms, exposing her to the cool air of the room. The contrast sent a shiver through her, heightening her senses as he positioned himself between her thighs.

"I need you," he whispered against the column of her neck, each word a heated brand upon her skin. Hermione found herself bereft of speech, her body already thrumming with desire for him, her mind clouded with the intensity of the moment.

With practiced ease, Severus slid a finger inside her, followed by another, coaxing a series of arching movements from Hermione as he explored her depths. The slick sound of her arousal filled the room, a testament to her readiness. His thumb brushed against her clit, igniting a fire that threatened to consume her whole.

"Mmm, so wet for me, sweetheart...such a good girl," he purred, his voice a velvet caress that resonated within her. Hermione could only respond with a whimper, lost in the sensation of his fingers dancing within her, stoking the flames of her desire.

At last, he withdrew his hand, only to replace the void with something far more substantial. Guiding his thick cock with a firm hand, he pressed into her, each inch a slow burn that melded them together.

"Oh god," she whimpered softly as he filled her completely, the sensation a delicious torment. Severus's eyes fluttered closed as he adjusted their position, lifting her ankles onto his shoulders and wrapping his arms around her thighs to draw her closer. The new angle allowed him to delve deeper, each thrust a searing pleasure that left her gasping for air.

"Fuck," she breathed. Hermione marveled at the depth of their connection, the way he seemed to reach places within her she hadn't known existed. The mix of pain and pleasure was exquisite, a symphony of sensation that became more intense with each of his movements.

He thrust again, then again. His breath coming out in deep grunts until he found a rhythm, a sensual dance that was both tender and fervent. His kisses trailed along her legs, soft and lingering, even as he drove into her with a force that spoke of his barely restrained passion.

One hand ventured down to stroke her, his touch a catalyst that sent shockwaves through her body. Hermione's breath came in ragged gasps, her voice a melody of pleasure that rose and fell with the intensity of his ministrations.

"That's it, sweetheart...god, that pussy is so wet and tight for me," he growled, his teeth gritted against the overwhelming sensation. He moved between her legs leaning over her, his grip on her hair unyielding as he pulled her into a kiss that was both a conquest and a communion, his tongue exploring the depths of her mouth with a hunger that mirrored his physical thrusts.

"You're...you're gonna make me cum," Hermione managed to whisper, her voice a tremulous thread amidst the storm of their coupling.

"No, darling, you don't come until daddy tells you," he commanded, his voice a low growl that resonated with authority. In one fluid motion, he withdrew and flipped her over, positioning her on her hands and knees with a dexterity that belied the urgency of his need. His hand came down upon her, a sharp spank that elicited a cry of surprise and a jolt of unexpected pleasure.

"Shit!" Hermione exclaimed, the word slipping past her lips before she could catch it.

"Such improper language, Miss Granger," Severus drawled, his tone teasing even as he delivered another spank, the sound echoing in the room. But before Hermione could process the sting, his tongue delved into her pussy, a soft, wet invasion that left her crying out in ecstasy.

"Oh my god!" she cried, her voice a crescendo of pleasure as he lavished attention on her with his mouth, his fingers resuming their delicate play against her clit. He was relentless, a master of her senses, driving her to the brink of madness with each flick and caress.

As Hermione hovered on the precipice of release again, her body quivering with need, Severus's fingers retreated from her, leaving a void where waves of pleasure had just crashed. Her response was instinctive, a whine of pure longing that echoed in the charged air between them.

"Severus," she begged, her voice a breathy whisper that was both a plea and an invocation of his name.

With a predatory grace, Severus realigned his body behind her, his hands gripping her hips with a possessive strength. He guided himself back into her, his length filling her to the brim, eliciting a deep, guttural groan from Hermione's lips. The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and the sweetest pain.

"Is that what you were begging for, sweetheart?" Severus's voice was thick with desire, the timbre resonating through her, vibrating along her nerves. It was a sound that promised both torment and ecstasy.

"Yes, daddy," Hermione whimpered, the endearment slipping from her lips in a wanton plea. The word was like a catalyst to Severus; it sparked a hiss of pleasure from him, the sound primal and raw.

He growled, a sound that rumbled from deep within his chest, and his movements became more fervent. His hands roamed over her thighs and back, a reverent exploration of her skin. Every touch was an adoration, a worship of the flesh that bound her to him in this moment of unbridled passion.

"Mmmm, yes, say it again," he growled, his voice a command that brooked no refusal.

"Daddy..." Hermione whispered again, the sweetness of her voice mingling with the carnal atmosphere, driving him to a pace that was frenetic, almost desperate.

"Ohhh, fuck, darling... again!"

"Daddy!"

With each utterance of the word, Severus's control frayed, his rhythm becoming a tempestuous onslaught. He was slamming into her with a reckless abandon that bordered on the divine, his body a vessel for their mutual pleasure.

In the throes of his passionate frenzy, a flicker of rational thought reminded him of the necessary precautions. Without halting his relentless thrusts, Severus reached around Hermione's body, his hand pressing against her lower belly. He whispered the words of the anti-pregnancy charm urgently, like a prayer to the gods of old, his voice barely audible over the sound of their union.

"Come for me, sweetheart," he commanded, his voice a guttural groan that vibrated through her. Hermione could feel the tension coiling within her, a spring wound tight, ready to snap.

"Oh, god, Severus!" she cried out, her voice a crescendo of release. Her entire body trembled, waves of pleasure crashing over her, breaking against the shores of her consciousness.

"Ohhh, darling, yes... yes... fuck..." Severus grunted, the sensation of Hermione's warmth and tightness around him coaxing his own climax from the depths of his being. His movements stilled as he savored the rapture of their release, each pulse of pleasure a shared experience that bound them together in the most intimate of ways.

His hands, now gentle and soothing, stroked her hips and sides, a tender contrast to the fervor of moments ago. Slowly, he withdrew from her.

Severus laid beside her, drawing her into his arms with a care that belied the intensity of their previous actions. He kissed her tenderly, over and over, each press of his lips a soft benediction.

The day had brought with it a shroud of uncertainty, the specter of mortality hanging over Severus like an unspoken curse. The very thought of an existence devoid of Hermione's presence had awakened a dormant fervor within him, a sentiment so profound that it had shaken the very foundations of his stoic heart. He knew that he cared deeply for her, but it was the casting of his matching patronus that had unveiled the undeniable truth of their connection. He could no longer deny it to himself.

As he tenderly brushed the stray locks from her face, his touch was a silent vow, his fingers tracing the contours of her cheek with a reverence reserved for something sacred.

"I love you, Hermione," he confessed, the words spilling from him with the gentleness of a sigh, his fingers weaving through the cascade of her hair as if they were strands of fate itself. The admission hung in the air, a fragile truth laid bare for the first time.

Hermione's response was a radiant smile, a beacon in the shadowed corridors of his past. Her lips met his in a symphony of shared affection, her voice a tender echo, "I love you too." The embrace that followed was a harbor in the storm, a sanctuary from the world outside.

Severus felt a surge of emotion constrict his chest, a sensation so foreign yet so achingly desired. To be loved was a concept so alien to him, it was as if he had discovered a new incantation, powerful and transformative. He had believed himself to be beyond such sentiments, armored against the vulnerabilities of the heart. Yet, Hermione's words, simple and sincere, had pierced through his defenses, igniting a joy within him that outshone the darkest of his potions.

In that moment, as they held each other, the world with all its perils and shadows seemed to recede. There was only Hermione, the woman who had seen beyond the mask of the Potions Master, beyond the façade of the spy, to the man who had longed for a connection that transcended the ordinary. And in her embrace, Severus Snape, the inscrutable, the mysterious, found a semblance of peace, a sliver of hope in a life that had been defined by sacrifice and secrecy. It was a happiness, a contentment, that he had never known, and now, never wanted to live without.

***

Chapter Text

The world outside the window was cloaked in darkness, the kind that whispered of secrets and silent contemplations. Hadria's eyes fluttered open, her mind a whirlpool of exhaustion and lingering adrenaline. The battle with Voldemort had taken its toll, leaving her feeling as though she had been wrung out, both body and soul. Yet, there was a conversation that loomed over her, one of great significance that she could not delay.

She turned her head, seeking the comfort of his presence, but found only the cool, untouched expanse of the bed where Voldemort should have been. With a languid stretch that did little to dispel her weariness, she glanced at the clock. Its hands pointed just past 10 pm, the hour seemingly mocking her with its normalcy in the face of all that had transpired.

The room was a study in shadows, save for the soft glow of an oil lamp on her desk and the flickering candles that spilled their light from the bathroom. She rose, her movements slow, deliberate, as she donned a silk robe over her nightgown, the fabric whispering against her skin like a comforting caress.

Stepping out into the living room, the silence was a tangible entity, wrapping around her in the vastness of the dimly lit manor. Her gaze was drawn to the patio doors, where the faintest hint of movement beckoned. Memories surged, unbidden, of a time when those very doors had shattered under the force of their conflict. She shook her head, dispelling the ghosts of the past. That had been a different Voldemort, one ensnared by dark enchantments, not the man she knew now.

The cool night air greeted her as she stepped onto the patio, where Lucius Malfoy reclined, the epitome of leisure with his feet propped up, a glass of wine in hand, and a cigar perched between his lips. He turned towards her, his expression one of mild concern.

"Hadria, how are you feeling?" he inquired, the smoke from his cigar curling into the night.

"Tired but... I'm well enough," she replied, her voice betraying the fatigue that clung to her. "Do you know where Voldemort is? He mentioned needing to speak with you, but he hasn't returned."

Lucius's brow arched, a silent acknowledgment of the unusual nature of the situation. "I've not spoken to him since our return to the Manor, my dear. However, I did observe him heading towards the lounge earlier," he offered, his tone thoughtful.

Hadria offered a grateful smile, about to seek out Voldemort, when Lucius's voice halted her retreat.

"Hadria..." he called out, a note of hesitation in his voice that piqued her curiosity and concern. What could Lucius possibly have to say that would give him pause? She turned back to face him, her heart a flutter of anticipation for the words that would follow.

"Yes?" Hadria's voice was a soft inquiry, floating into the stillness of the night.

Lucius rose, his silhouette a stark contrast against the backdrop of the starlit sky. He stepped closer, the glow from the patio lights casting a gentle luminescence on his thoughtful expression.

"I cannot claim to fully comprehend the bond you share with Voldemort, nor the turmoil he may be enduring," Lucius began, his voice carrying the weight of empathy and understanding. "But speaking as a man deeply devoted to his wife, I can imagine that if I were ensnared by such a curse... if I had been manipulated into betraying the one I hold dear... I would feel hollow, as though I had not only failed myself but also the one I cherish most. In truth, I might even question whether I deserved her presence in my life after such a transgression."

Hadria's brow knit together, a silent testament to the gravity of his words. She pondered the implications, the depth of what he was suggesting.

"Do you believe... that's what Voldemort is feeling now?" she asked, her concern deepening, her voice barely more than a whisper carried away by the breeze.

Lucius exhaled, a long, contemplative breath that seemed to carry his thoughts across the vast expanse of the manor grounds. He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the darkness met the faintest light.

"It's a distinct possibility, Hadria," he admitted, turning back to face her with a solemnity that belied his usual composure. "Voldemort is a man who has always held power and control in the highest regard. To come to terms with the fact that he was outmaneuvered, to confront the actions he took under the curse's influence... it's a daunting realization. All I suggest is that you afford him patience if he seems distant from the man you knew before," he spoke with a gentleness that was uncharacteristic, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder.

Hadria absorbed his counsel, her nod slow and deliberate. She recognized the truth in his words. While she had emerged from the day's events with a sense of breakthrough, for Voldemort, the ordeal was far from over. For him, the true struggle was just beginning, as he faced the clarity and consequences of his actions without the haze of the curse to obscure them.

"Thank you, Lucius," Hadria murmured, her smile a faint glimmer in the night as she turned to re-enter the manor. Her bare feet whispered across the cool, polished wooden floors, the sound a soft echo in the vast hallway that led to the lounge. It was a space she had yet to explore, its corners still shrouded in the unfamiliarity of unspent time.

She paused at the threshold, her gaze finding him ensconced in the embrace of a large leather armchair that seemed to swallow his form. A whiskey glass, the liquid within a hair's breadth from being depleted, rested precariously on the armrest. His head was tilted back, surrendering to the soft snores that harmonized with the crackling symphony of the fireplace before him. As she navigated the room, her heart sank at the sight of the empty fire whiskey bottle discarded on the floor next to him, its companion nearly joining it in emptiness.

The realization pierced her—the man she loved had not sought counsel with Lucius but solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol. A lump formed in her throat, a silent scream of empathy for his silent suffering. She bit down on her lip, the pain a necessary anchor to tether the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

With a tenderness that belied the strength of her own turmoil, she relieved the glass from his slackened grip and placed it upon the coffee table with a soft clink. Then, ever so gently, she climbed into his lap, her presence a whisper of comfort in the solitude of his inebriation.

His body responded before his consciousness did, his hand instinctively flexing against her thigh, the other arm encircling her, drawing her into the fortress of his embrace. A soft groan escaped him, his eyes—a bloodshot testament to his inner demons—flickered open, only to seek refuge in the familiar scent of her hair.

"What time is it?" His voice was a raspy shadow of its usual command.

"A little after 10," she answered, her voice a soothing balm to the raw edges of his state.

"You should be asleep, sweet girl," he murmured, his fingers weaving through her hair with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the man he was known to be.

"I know, but... I missed you," she confessed, her words barely above a whisper.

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound hollow, devoid of mirth. "What could you possibly miss, my dear?" he asked, his voice dry as parchment.

"You, Voldemort... everything about you... how it feels to be held by you. Your warmth, your voice, your scent..." Her voice trailed off, a litany of love left unspoken.

Silence enveloped them, punctuated only by the soft strokes of his fingers through her hair. Then, as he lifted his head to place a kiss upon her head, a single tear—a rare jewel of vulnerability—escaped him, marking her own cheek with its passage.

She made no move to seek his gaze, understanding the depth of his pain. In that moment, Voldemort was no longer the invincible force he portrayed to the world; he was achingly human, and in profound agony. And as her own tears began their silent descent, they were a mirror to his own—a testament to the love and the shared sorrow that bound them together.

***

Chapter Text

As the first light of dawn crept through the curtains of the lounge room, Voldemort stirred from a restless slumber. The armchair, which had been a makeshift bed, left his body feeling cramped and unyielding, each muscle protesting the awkward angles of the night's repose. His head pounded with the relentless throb of a hangover, the aftermath of the fire whiskey he had consumed in an attempt to drown the tumultuous thoughts that plagued him.

The sensation of warmth and the soft rise and fall of breath against his chest drew his attention downward. Hadria, her presence a comforting weight, lay curled up in his lap, her slumber undisturbed by the light of the new day. He recalled, through the haze of alcohol-induced fog, her arrival the night before, though the details of their exchange were vague...he remembered her telling him that she missed him...

Observing her now, she seemed so delicate, almost ethereal in her peaceful state, a stark contrast to the fierce and formidable woman he knew her to be. Her features, relaxed in sleep, were a canvas of serenity that belied the strength and resilience that coursed through her veins. She was a paradox in his arms, a creature of both grace and might, her beauty not just in her appearance but in her very essence.

Voldemort's gaze lingered on her, the sight stirring something within him—a mixture of admiration and a poignant sense of unworthiness. She embodied virtues he had long since abandoned, if ever he had possessed them at all. Her goodness, her strength, her unyielding spirit—they were qualities he found himself both coveting and revering.

Voldemort gazed upon Hadria, her gentle breaths a soothing rhythm in the quiet of the morning. He remained motionless, a statue of contemplation, fearing that even the slightest movement might disrupt the tranquility of the moment. He yearned for time to stand still, to prolong this peace as long as destiny would permit.

A torrent of unworthiness washed over him. He felt like a fallen being, unworthy of the celestial creature he held. The disparity between them was stark—a being of darkness cradling a being of light. How could he, marred by his own deeds, dare to bind her luminous spirit to his tarnished soul? The very thought of seeking her forgiveness seemed a sacrilege, for what absolution could be granted to one who was not deserving?

The day she had fled from him haunted his waking thoughts, a vivid memory that played over in his mind with cruel clarity. He remembered the way her heart had shattered before his eyes, the way her spirit had crumbled in the doorway of the study. And he, in his cursed state, had felt a perverse sense of amusement, followed by a surge of anger and contempt. He had wanted to inflict pain, to see her suffer.

The recollection was agony, the image of her despairing eyes seared into his memory, a relentless specter that promised to haunt him for eternity. It was a fitting penance, he thought—a just retribution for a soul as damned as his. He deserved no less than to be tormented by the pain he had caused, the pain he had relished in his darkest hour.

From the moment Hadria had entered his world, an infant with eyes wide open to the wonders and horrors alike, Voldemort's destiny had been irrevocably intertwined with hers. She had been the catalyst for his downfall, a necessary yet unwilling prelude to his resurrection. And now, she had become his savior, stepping willingly into the maw of danger to pull him back from the brink.

His fingers traced the outline of the dark mark on her skin, a symbol of his claim, taken by her not out of fear, but of a choice that spoke of a bond deeper than servitude. The thought of severing that connection, of setting her free from what had been forged between them, sent a tempest of doubt through his mind. Could he endure an existence devoid of her presence? The questions haunted him, a relentless echo in the chambers of his heart.

He knew his own desires, selfish as they were, but the consideration of what she truly deserved weighed heavily upon him. She was worthy of a love pure and untainted, a sentiment he felt was beyond his grasp. Love was a foreign concept to him, an emotion that had never graced the cold corridors of his life. Born into a world devoid of maternal warmth or paternal guidance, raised among those who neither understood nor cared for him, he had been shaped by a life devoid of affection.

Never had he experienced the tender gaze that Hadria bestowed upon him, a look he imagined his mother might have once reserved for his father—a love so profound it had ultimately led to her demise. The mere thought of inflicting further pain upon Hadria, of being the architect of her sorrow, constricted his heart with a visceral pain. It was a torment he deemed only himself deserving of, a punishment for the darkness that he had allowed to consume him.

Voldemort's gaze lingered on Hadria's serene face, the softness of her features in repose calling forth a tenderness he seldom allowed himself to feel. With the utmost care, he brushed the back of his knuckle against her cheek, a gesture so delicate it seemed at odds with the harshness of his nature.

In his heart, a storm of regret raged—a tempest of longing to undo the past, to rewind the hands of time and alter the course of events that had led them here. But the immutable truth of time's relentless march forward left him powerless, his transgressions etched into the fabric of their lives with no means to erase them.

Rising from the chair with a fluidity that belied his inner turmoil, Voldemort cradled Hadria in his arms. He moved with a grace that contradicted the darkness he was known for, each step measured and silent as he approached the couch. Gently, ever so gently, he laid her down, arranging her head upon the soft pillow with a care that spoke volumes of the depth of his feelings.

She was the embodiment of exhaustion, her body yielding to the need for rest after the ordeals they had faced he was sure. He watched over her, ensuring that his actions did not disturb her much-needed sleep. A soft groan escaped her lips as she shifted slightly, but she remained in the clutches of slumber, her breaths deepening once more.

Voldemort's gaze lingered on Hadria for a long, silent moment, taking in the peaceful image of her resting form before he turned to leave the lounge. His steps were measured and soundless as he made his way to the dining hall, where the Malfoys were gathered for breakfast. The clinking of cutlery and soft murmur of conversation ceased abruptly as he entered, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Lucius rose swiftly, a reflex of respect.
"My lord—" he began, but Voldemort cut him off with a dismissive gesture, a silent command that needed no words.

"Sit, Lucius, I'll be out," Voldemort instructed, his voice carrying the weight of authority and a rare hint of concern. "Hadria is quite exhausted still; I've left her on the couch in the lounge. Please have one of the house elves check on her in a bit. I'll return later."

Lucius nodded, his movements stiff as he resumed his seat, the unspoken questions in his eyes betraying his composed exterior. Narcissa, her smile a fragile thing amidst the shadows of grief, glanced up at Voldemort. Her eyes, red-rimmed and haunted, spoke volumes of the loss she bore—the death of her sister weighing heavily on her heart.

Draco remained silent, his expression carefully neutral, yet the tightness around his eyes suggested a storm of emotions held at bay. The young Malfoy had always been adept at concealing his feelings, a trait that served him well in the presence of the Dark Lord.

"Yes, my lord," Lucius responded, his voice steady despite the undercurrents of concern that rippled through the room. Voldemort gave a curt nod, acknowledging the obedience of his followers, before turning on his heel and departing.

Voldemort stepped onto the patio, the cool morning air a stark contrast to the warmth of the manor's interior. Today, he chose flight seeking the freedom and solitude it offered. The act of flying, of soaring through the air, was a liberation from the gravity of his thoughts, a momentary escape from the relentless pressure of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

He ascended into the sky, the wind rushing past him with a vigor that matched the turmoil within. The world below became a blur, a tapestry of colors and shapes that held no claim over him. The sensation of weightlessness was a balm to his soul, the closest semblance to peace he could muster in the wake of recent events.

After a time that seemed both eternal and fleeting, he descended upon a quaint muggle street. He approached the house with a sense of purpose, though the act of walking up to a door and knocking felt oddly mundane for a man of his stature and power.

Yet, he found himself doing just that—raising his hand and rapping on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet street. It had been years since he last crossed this threshold, but as he observed his surroundings, it appeared as though time had stood still here.

As he had crossed the boundary into the home's curtilage, the subtle shift in the air had told him that the wards had recognized his presence.

The door creaked open, and Severus Snape's usually impassive features registered a flicker of surprise as he found himself face to face with the Dark Lord on his doorstep. The morning light cast long shadows behind Voldemort, giving him an almost ethereal presence.

"My Lord, please come in," Severus said, his voice betraying none of his initial shock as he stepped aside, the door swinging wide to welcome the unexpected visitor.

"Thank you, Severus. I apologize for the hour," Voldemort replied, his tone even, betraying no hint of the thoughts swirling within. He glided past Severus with a fluidity that seemed to command the very air around him, making his way towards the heart of the home.

The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of the morning, a stark contrast to the tension that now filled the space. Hermione Granger sat at the table, her moment of tranquility shattered as her toast tumbled from suddenly limp fingers. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of respect and caution, followed Voldemort's every move.

"Miss Granger," he greeted, with a slight nod, acknowledging her presence as one might a familiar chess piece on a board long played.

"My Lord, can I get you some tea? Or coffee?" Hermione offered, her composure swiftly returning as she rose to attend to the duties of a hostess. Yet, as she moved towards the counter, a sudden thought arrested her steps, and she spun around, her concern for Hadria etched clearly upon her face.

"Is Hadria alright?" she asked, the urgency in her voice cutting through the formality of their exchange.

Voldemort's lips curved into the semblance of a smile, a rare softening at the mention of Hadria's name. "Yes, she's fine... and coffee, black, please," he confirmed, the simplicity of his request belying the complexity of the emotions he held at bay.

Voldemort's turn from Hermione was deliberate, a pivot that brought him face to face with Severus once more. The living room, a space of dark woods and deeper shadows, seemed to close in around them, holding its breath for the conversation that was to unfold.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, my lord?" Severus inquired, his voice a controlled calm. He had slipped into a robe, the fabric whispering against his form as he moved, a subtle testament to the urgency of the moment.

Voldemort, his presence an imposing force within the confines of the room, dragged a hand across his mouth—a rare gesture that hinted at the internal struggle he seldom showed. His eyes flickered towards the kitchen, where Hermione's presence loomed like an unspoken question. Yet, he realized that her insight, however grudgingly acknowledged, might prove valuable.

"I find myself in need of some... perspective, Severus. You and I... our upbringings were not so different," he began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate with the very walls of the house as he sat down in an armchair.

Severus settled onto the couch, his posture one of attentive stillness, as Hermione re-entered the room. She carried with her the simple offerings of tea and coffee, the mundane act a stark contrast to the gravity of the gathering. Handing Voldemort his coffee, she took her place beside Severus, her presence a silent support.

Severus's eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in contemplation, as he sought to unravel the meaning behind Voldemort's words.

"How so, my lord?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Lacking in... affection," Voldemort admitted, the word hanging heavy in the air. It was an acknowledgment of a shared void, a common ground of emotional barrenness that had shaped them both.

Severus nodded, a slow, understanding motion. The admission bridged a gap between them, a connection forged not of loyalty or fear, but of a mutual recognition of the past's indelible mark on their present selves.

"Yes, that is one way to put it," he conceded, his voice a mere whisper against the backdrop of the morning's stillness. Voldemort took a measured sip of his coffee, the dark liquid a stark contrast to the pale light filtering through the windows.

"I find myself... at a crossroads," he confessed, setting the cup down with a quiet clink. "I am contemplating the possibility of releasing Hadria from the bonds that tie her to me... In light of my recent... tribulations, I am no longer certain of my ability to fulfill her needs."

Hermione's reaction was immediate and visceral. She rose from her seat, her face a canvas of shock and disbelief. "You what?!" she exclaimed, her voice a sharp note that sliced through the tension in the room.

Severus was quick to intervene, standing to intercept her, his body a barrier between her and Voldemort. He whispered to her, his words a stern undercurrent meant only for her ears. Hermione's response was a scoff, a sound laden with anger and frustration as she retreated up the stairs, her parting glance at Voldemort laden with unspoken accusations.

Severus turned back to Voldemort, an uncomfortable clearing of his throat punctuating the awkward silence. "My apologies, my lord," he murmured, retaking his seat with a grace that belied the unease of the moment. Voldemort offered a nod, an acknowledgment of the apology and the complexities of the situation.

A look of confusion etched itself onto Severus's features, his brow furrowing as he sought to understand. "Might I inquire as to why you believe your upbringing has influenced this decision?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Voldemort paused, searching for the words to convey the depth of his internal conflict. "Hadria is... she is deserving of someone capable of loving her," he began, his voice strained with the effort of voicing such personal revelations. "I am not well-versed in the realm of emotions and affections. This entire situation has left me conflicted. My desire for her presence in my life is unparalleled, and yet... I am plagued by the notion that I cannot offer her the level of affection she deserves. I have caused her pain, committed betrayals that I fear are unforgivable."

In that moment of vulnerability, Severus perceived the depth of Voldemort's plight. It was a rare glimpse into the man behind the myth, seeking counsel not as a lord to his subject, but as one soul reaching out to another who might just comprehend the labyrinth of his thoughts.

Severus offered a nod, an unspoken pledge to listen without judgment, to offer insight where he could.

"You question your ability to love and your worthiness of it," Severus stated, his voice a soft echo in the room.

Voldemort met Severus's gaze, a silent communion passing between them, and reclined into the armchair with a weary sigh. "Indeed," he conceded.

Setting aside his tea, Severus leaned forward, his eyes intent upon Voldemort. "My lord, if you believed it would bring her joy, is there any sacrifice you would not make?"

A flicker of contemplation crossed Voldemort's features. "No," he admitted, the word heavy with implication. There was a time when his answer might have been different but that time had come and gone.

"And yet, despite your fervent wish for her presence in your life, you would consider her happiness above your own desires?"

Voldemort paused, a man on the precipice of a profound realization, before inclining his head in silent affirmation. "Yes."

A small, knowing smile touched Severus's lips. "My lord, the curse may have clouded your emotions, rendered you blind to the affections you harbored. The deeds committed under its sway were not of your true self. Blood curses wield a formidable power, rooted in the darkest of magics. But even so, she remained a constant in your thoughts, did she not?"

Voldemort inhaled deeply, the act seeming to draw the shadows around him tighter. "She was ever-present in my mind. I was confounded by it... Haunted by her in my dreams. I was ensnared in an endless pursuit, yet she was always just beyond my reach. It was maddening. Nothing made sense anymore...I felt only confusion and anger," he confessed, his voice a low rumble of torment.

To speak of such personal turmoil was foreign to him, yet the urgency to unravel the tangled skein of his emotions, to act honorably for her sake, compelled him to lay bare his soul. In the quiet of Severus's home, Voldemort sought clarity, yearning for a path that would lead him to do right by Hadria.

Severus's voice took on a philosophical tone, invoking the wisdom of the ancients as he sought to illuminate the path for Voldemort. "You know, perhaps Aristotle captured the essence of it best... 'Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.'"

Voldemort's expression shifted, a brow arching in contemplation at the notion. The irony of the statement was not lost on him, given the literal fragment of his soul that resided within Hadria.

"Perhaps that's an unfortunate analogy in your unique circumstances, since she does indeed carry a piece of your soul," Severus continued, a wry note in his voice. "But consider this... her well-being is inextricably linked to you, my lord, as yours seems to be to hers. And yet, you stand prepared to forgo your own contentment for the sake of hers. Your longing for her is so profound that even under the influence of an ancient blood curse, your spirit endeavored to reunite with her. It was an ordeal that nearly drove you to the brink of insanity, being deprived of the connection to your heart... and you question your capacity for love?" Severus's incredulity was palpable, his gaze piercing.

"I have observed the way you both look at one another... the love between you is evident to all but yourself."

Voldemort's features creased with introspection. Was it possible that he, the Dark Lord, was experiencing the very emotion he had long deemed himself immune to? Could this tumultuous, all-consuming sensation be love? The question hung in the air, a silent maelstrom of newfound understanding dawning upon him.

Severus's voice softened, a rare warmth seeping into his words as he addressed the notion of worthiness. "And as for being deserving? That's immaterial. Love isn't meted out based on merit, my lord. It's a gift that, for some, is bestowed but once in a lifetime. To let it pass by would be the real tragedy," he said, his eyes momentarily losing focus, drawn to the memory of Hermione's ascent up the stairs.

He continued, a reflective note coloring his tone. "I once believed I had experienced all that life had to offer, but it was not until I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to open my heart to that remarkable young woman upstairs, that I truly understood the essence of living. Before her, I was merely a specter, drifting through existence without any joy or real purpose of my own. She has infused a vitality into a spirit I had resigned to desolation. For the first time, I am not just enduring life; I am embracing it with a full heart...I am living...that is what love can do...it can make you stronger...better..."

Voldemort remained silent, the weight of Severus's words settling over him like a cloak. In the quietude of the room, with the morning light casting a gentle glow, he found himself at the edge of an epiphany, pondering the profound truths that had been laid bare before him.

Voldemort's question hung in the air, a whisper of doubt that seemed to echo off the walls of the room. "Do you truly believe it is possible for us to move beyond... my actions under the curse?" The skepticism in his voice was palpable, a rare crack in the armor of certainty he usually wore.

Severus's response was immediate and firm, a testament to his belief in the resilience of the human heart. "Yes, my lord. I am convinced that Hadria's decision to risk everything to liberate you from the curse was not made lightly. She harbors a profound love for you—a love that would not falter easily. To sever the bond you share would not only be a disservice to her efforts but could very well shatter her. She is deeply in love with you, my lord. Such a severance would be devastating to her," he urged, his words a blend of caution and counsel.

The gravity of Severus's conviction left a profound impact on Voldemort, prompting him to consider the possibility of forgiveness and the strength of the bond that tethered him to Hadria. Voldemort allowed himself a few moments of silent introspection while he sipped at his coffee.

"May I rejoin you?" The voice was tentative, a soft inquiry that floated from the shadowed alcove of the staircase where Hermione had likely been eavesdropping. Severus's eyes flicked to where her head emerged, a curious blend of sheepishness and defiance etched on her face. His lips curled into a smirk, the corners of his mouth betraying a hint of amusement at her audacity.

"Finished with your attempts to land us in the Dark Lord's line of fire, are you?" he teased, his tone light but with an undercurrent of seriousness. Hermione exhaled a heavy sigh, her eyes rolling in a display of exasperation as she stepped fully into view.

"Yes," she admitted, her voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and relief. Severus extended his hand, an unspoken invitation to return to the fold, which she accepted with a quiet grace, her fingers slipping into his as she rejoined him on the sofa. Voldemort observed the exchange, a rare flicker of amusement crossing his features. He had to acknowledge the harmony between them; they were indeed a well-matched pair.

Hermione's gaze settled on Voldemort, her eyes sharp with a curiosity that seemed to pierce through the veils of his defenses. "You know... you really ought to tell her," she stated, her words cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

Voldemort's response was a subtle tilt of his head, an invitation for her to elaborate. "And what might that be?" he queried, his voice a low rumble of genuine intrigue.

"That you love her," Hermione declared, her statement hanging between them like a challenge.

Voldemort remained silent, his expression contemplative. The furrow of his brow deepened as he considered her words. They were right, both of them. He did love Hadria, an emotion he had never thought himself capable of experiencing but there was there was no other explanation for it. The tightness in his chest at the prospect of causing her harm, the way she made him feel just by looking at him. He had been prepared to upend his entire existence for her, a testament to the depth of his affection. And she reciprocated those feelings, a fact that bewildered him. How could someone as pure-hearted as Hadria bestow her love upon him?

But she did, and he could not, would not, be the cause of her heartache—not like his father had been to his mother. He would strive to be a better man, for her.

He nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. "Indeed... I believe you are correct," he finally conceded, the words a silent vow to himself as much as an acknowledgment of her suggestion.

***

Chapter Text

As Voldemort departed from Spinner's End, the clarity he had sought enveloped him like the morning mist. The revelation that he, indeed, loved Hadria was not just profound...it was transformative. Love, he had always believed, was a vulnerability, a chink in the armor of the invincible. Yet, as he named the tumultuous emotions that surged within him, he did not find weakness but a sense of liberation. It was an awakening, a fierce acknowledgment that he could feel intensely without losing the essence of who he was...a man far removed from sainthood, yet capable of profound change.

The flight back to the Manor was a contemplative journey. The landscape below, a tapestry of greens and browns, seemed to mirror the tumult and tranquility of his thoughts. This flight was different from the one earlier that day; it was a flight marked by introspection and a newfound acceptance of his emotions. Severus, whose loyalty had been a beacon in the murky waters of his mind, had become more than a servant—perhaps even a confidant. The bond of loyalty was something Voldemort held in high regard, and Severus, driven by personal motives, had proven his fidelity.

Their lives, he mused, were now entwined not just by allegiance but by the friendships they shared—Hadria with Hermione, and now, perhaps, himself with Severus. Hermione, the 'little mudblood,' had earned a grudging respect from him, not just for her association with Hadria but for her unexpected wit.

Landing on the back patio, Voldemort's feet padded across the stone as he entered the manor. The living room was a quiet sanctuary, save for the soft humming of Mippy, the house-elf, as she dusted the furniture with a flick of her magic. Her tune was a simple melody, yet it filled the space with a sense of normalcy.

Mippy jumped at his approach, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and reverence. "Oh! The Dark Lord... how may Mippy be of service?" she stammered, her small form quivering slightly.

"Where is Hadria?" Voldemort inquired, his voice betraying none of the concern that knotted his stomach.

Mippy's eyes darted towards the kitchen, her hands wringing together. "Mippy checked on her this morning, as the master requested. She was unwell, so Mippy assisted her to the ladies' room, so she wouldn't be sick on the floor..."

Voldemort's heart clenched at the thought of Hadria being ill. "She was sick? She vomited?" he pressed, his usual composure fraying at the edges.

Sick again?

Mippy nodded earnestly, her hands clasped tightly. "But she's better now!" she assured him, her voice bright with relief. "She insisted on helping in the kitchen with the other elves," Mippy continued, her smile a testament to her admiration. "She is such a wonderful witch, your Hadria."

A ghost of a smile tugged at Voldemort's lips. "Yes, she is," he agreed, his thoughts momentarily softening at the mention of her name.

He made his way to the kitchen, a place he seldom visited unless the early hours beckoned him for a solitary cup of coffee. Pausing at the threshold, he leaned against the door frame, his gaze finding Hadria amidst the flurry of activity.

There she was, clad in a simple white dress, the fabric catching the light as she worked alongside Dobby, the house elf. They were a picture of domestic bliss, their laughter mingling with the soft sounds of the kitchen as they playfully flicked flour at one another. Around them, the other elves moved with purpose, each engrossed in their tasks, the rhythm of their work a dance of preparation for the meal to come.

Voldemort watched, a silent observer to the scene before him. Hadria, with flour dusting her cheeks and joy in her eyes, was a vision of the life he had never imagined for himself—a life he now realized he needed to remain a part of. In that moment, as he stood on the cusp of a new chapter, he understood that love was not a weakness but a force that could redefine even the darkest of souls.

Hadria's hands moved with a practiced grace as she set the freshly baked bread aside, its crust golden and inviting. Her fingers then reached for a nearby bowl, shrouded beneath a cloth, her movements fluid and sure. "Now, we expel the air and give it form," she announced, her voice a melody of contentment as she unveiled the dough beneath the cloth.

Dobby watched, his large eyes brimming with curiosity. "No magic?" he inquired, his voice tinged with awe.

"Nope!," Hadria replied, a smile playing on her lips. "I didn't even know I was a witch until I was eleven. But my aunt used to make me help her in the kitchen, which I didn't mind at all. I enjoy cooking. Even after I learned I was a witch I wasn't allowed to do any of it at home even once I was of age," she explained, her hands pressing into the dough, kneading it with a rhythm that spoke of years of silent practice. Voldemort observed, intrigued by the simplicity and skill with which she worked, her actions a dance of creation without the aid of spells.

His own revelation of wizardry had come in a different form, a visit from Dumbledore within the stark walls of the orphanage. Their paths, though divergent, shared the common thread of growing up devoid of parental guidance—a realization that now struck him with newfound significance. A smile, unbidden and genuine, found its way to his lips.

He stepped away from the door frame, his presence finally catching Hadria's attention. Her eyes lifted from her task, and upon seeing him, her face brightened with relief.

"There you are," she greeted, her voice a balm to the remnants of his solitude. Her words conveyed the depth of her longing, a sentiment that resonated within him. He approached, his smile a rare gift offered in return.

"May I take my little baker for a walk when she's done?" he inquired, his tone softening at the edges. Dobby, ever watchful, regarded him with a mix of uncertainty and reverence, yet remained silent, offering only a tentative smile.

"Certainly. Let me just put this in the oven to rise," Hadria responded. She deftly shaped the dough into a perfect loaf, placing it upon a pan with care before sliding it into the warmth of the oven. Turning to Dobby, she instructed, "Allow it half an hour, then bake for an equal duration."

Dobby bobbed his head enthusiastically. "Dobby will see it done! Without the use of magic!" he declared, his smile broadening.

Hadria's laughter, light and genuine, filled the kitchen as she wiped the flour from her hands and joined Voldemort's side and let her hair down. His hand found the small of her back, a gesture of intimacy as he guided her through the grandeur of the Manor. They emerged onto the patio, stepping from the stone onto the lush embrace of the garden's grass.

As they wandered through the verdant splendor, hand in hand, Voldemort allowed himself a moment of unguarded affection, his gaze softening as he looked upon her. Hadria, touched by his attention, blushed, a rosy hue that spoke of her delight. His spirits, evidently lifted, brought a sense of gratitude to her heart—a shared happiness in the simple pleasure of their shared presence.

The gardens were awash with the golden hues of the late morning sun, its rays weaving through the foliage to create a mosaic of light and shadow upon the earth. Hadria strolled alongside Voldemort, enveloped in the serene chorus of the natural world, while his gaze, ever sharp and searching, swept over the landscape with the precision of a guardian. Despite the vigilance in his eyes, there was an uncharacteristic tenderness to his movements, a subtle shift that hinted at the contemplations stirring within him.

"Are you feeling better?" he inquired, his tone subdued, carrying a softness that seemed to smooth the edges of his usual austerity. "I was informed you were unwell this morning." His question, simple yet laden with concern, hung between them, a delicate thread seeking to connect his newfound vulnerability with her well-being.

Hadria paused, taking in the sincerity lacing his words as they reached a bench in the shade. She settled onto the bench realizing this was as good a time as any... she trembled with excitement, anticipation and fear. She turned to face him as he sat next to her, her resolve steeling her. "There is a reason for my sickness," she began, her voice steady. "A reason that's both a part of you and me." She looked up meeting his eyes.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his features before he stilled, as if bracing for an impact. "Explain," he commanded, though it came out more as a plea.

"I am with child," Hadria declared, the simplicity of her statement belying the profound significance it carried. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with the magnitude of her admission. She watched him, her lip caught between her teeth, as she braced for whatever tempest her words might unleash.

Time seemed to stop. Voldemort's intake of breath was faint, barely perceptible, a reaction so subtle yet so uncharacteristic that it spoke volumes. His pale face, usually a mask of indifference, was now a canvas of conflicting emotions. Shock, disbelief, and something that dared to resemble joy flickered in his dark eyes.

"A child," he whispered, the term alien yet captivating, rolling off his tongue with a mixture of wonder and reverence. His hand, guided by an instinctive pull, reached out with a tremor of trepidation to hover above Hadria's abdomen, pausing in the air as if the mere touch might shatter the delicate truth of her revelation. His eyes, locked on the gentle rise of her belly, envisioned the life stirring within, then lifted to meet her gaze once more. The acknowledgment of his impending fatherhood crashed over him with the relentless power of the ocean's waves, threatening to upend the foundations of his existence. A child. His child. The notion shone with the brilliance of the dawn's first light, illuminating the uncharted territories of his soul.

"Yes," Hadria confirmed, her voice a harmonic blend of joy and solemnity as she enveloped his hand with her own, guiding it to make contact with the reality of their creation. "Your legacy, our future," she proclaimed, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her smile a radiant beacon amidst the sea of emotions that flooded her.

Voldemort's touch was tentative, but the magic that sparked between them was undeniable. For a man who had defied death, the concept of creating life was the last domain he had yet to conquer. But this will no conquest... it was a gift. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the moment, feeling the magic of the child within, beneath his fingertips. Emotions, long barred from the corridors of his heart, surged forth with the force of a dam breached, awakening facets of his being that had slumbered in darkness.

He opened his eyes with awe as he beheld the amazing beautiful witch before him, not a follower... not just his equal, but the mother of his child. The realization that he had once contemplated severing the tie that bound them now seemed a distant folly. She was the echo to his silence, the clarity to his chaos. In her, he found the luminescence to his shadow, and together, their union was an unbreakable fortress. This truth resonated within him, a conviction as deep and unyielding as the bedrock of the earth itself.

"You have given me... a legacy," he whispered, his voice laced with wonder. It was a gift he had never sought but now realized he desired above all. "Forgive me, Hadria... for all the wrongs between us... I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you... to both of you," he professed, drawing her into his arms, his fingers tenderly caressing her cheek, sealing his vow with a kiss upon her brow.

"I brought you here to tell you something that stands true just as much now as it did before if not even more... a truth that took me some time to realize but I can no longer deny it. You are precious to me in ways that I did not have the words to express. I realize now that you and I are two parts of the same whole... I cannot exist without you, Hadria... and now you gift me with more than just an heir," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "You have given me a reason to look beyond the shadows...and for that and so much more, I... I love you."

The words were a confession, a surrender to the feelings he had fought against for so long. They hung in the air, as delicate and powerful as the rays of sunlight that broke through the canopy above.

Hadria's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and joy reflecting in them. "You love me?"

Voldemort's nod was solemn, a silent affirmation of his deepest sentiments. Gently, he brushed away the tear that traced a path down Hadria's cheek, his touch as tender as the words he was about to speak. In his arms, she was more than just a partner; she was the embodiment of everything he had come to cherish. "Yes," he confessed, the word carrying the weight of his transformation. "It's been a journey to accept this truth, but I can't deny it any longer. I love you, Hadria, with an fervor that surpasses any ambition for power or control."

Hadria's response was a whisper, laden with the raw emotion of her heart. "I love you too, Voldemort," she uttered, her voice trembling with the intensity of her feelings. "I can't imagine a life without you."

A soft smile graced Voldemort's features, a rare display of warmth in the coolness of his demeanor. "You'll never have to face that, sweet girl," he assured her, his voice a low promise that resonated with certainty. "I will always be here for you." In that vow, he offered her not just his presence, but the unwavering constancy of his love and protection.

The world around them seemed to fade into a hush, leaving only the two of them in their own secluded realm. He pressed his lips to hers with a tenderness that belied the strength of his character, his hand gently cradling her womb...a silent promise to the life they had created together. His other hand supported her head, fingers threading through her hair with a care that spoke volumes of his newfound devotion.

The kiss deepened, a slow and deliberate melding of souls, a testament to the journey they had embarked upon together. It was a kiss that sealed their fates, intertwining their destinies in the most intimate of dances. In the sanctuary of their embrace, Voldemort found a peace he had never known, a sense of belonging that surpassed any throne or crown. His entire universe, once vast and unyielding, now fit perfectly within the circle of Hadria's arms.

The garden around them, with its whispering leaves and the soft caress of the wind, bore witness to this pivotal moment. The shadows cast by the sun's slow path overhead played upon their forms, creating a tapestry of light and darkness that mirrored the complexities of their bond.

As they slowly parted, their foreheads remained pressed together, breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath of their union. Words were unnecessary; their eyes conveyed all that remained unsaid. They stood at the threshold of a new chapter, one filled with the promise of redemption, growth, and the uncharted waters of parenthood.

***

Chapter Text

Thank you so much for reading my story! This story was originally published and released per chapter as I wrote it beginning in February on WattPad. I was very pleasantly surprised at how many absolutely loved it and it pushed me to work on it daily. It's been a lot of fun! But there is definitely more to the story so make sure you follow me for those updates! I'm working on a shorter story right now of Severus/Hermione for a contest too. Here are my links if anyone would like to follow me on WattPad or Instagram where I post all the book art plus others that I make just for fun!

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This is my first ever story that I've tried to write. I've been a long time reader and I'm absolutely obsessed with Harry Potter fan fiction. I just LOVE it! The books and movies came out while I was in high school and I've been a fan ever since. But I found the ships of Voldemort (in his dark form) sadly lacking.

Personally, I don't buy Dumbledore's theory that Voldemort is "incapable" of love. Voldemort expresses a wide range of emotions throughout the books and movies ranging from happiness, to amused....from fear to anger... and many others in between. While his sole focus and priority has been power and living forever, I just don't buy that a man could be capable of every emotion EXCEPT love.

Now, I know it's said that Voldemort's mother bewitched Tom Riddle Sr and that’s why he can’t love. But again, it's a theory never a solid fact. Because honestly, how would it be? No one ever got to delve into Merope or Tom Seniors minds and it’s a magical theory that it would even result in the inability to love anyway. My book is based on the some alternative possibilities that remain, in my mind, completely plausible when thinking outside Dumbledore's perspectives and theories.

In reality, if you're capable of emotions then there is that possibility of experiencing them all given the right circumstances. Even an evil man can love. I realize some will disagree and that's okay! But this story was based on that belief. Voldemort is such a complicated character because of how he was brought into this world and how he was raised and I think that's something that's really fun to play with and think about is what really shaped him into the man he became.

For all of you still following along I can't tell you how excited I am that you have joined me on this adventure. If you haven't yet leave me a kudo if you liked the story and feel free to leave all the comments you want! I love waking up every morning and seeing all of your kudos and comments. It's something I look forward to every day and it drives me to keep going with this story.

Thanks to everyone, Y'all are amazing! ❤️