The Secrets of My Heart

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Chapter 4: A Hint of What I'm Thinking

Hermione fell back on her bed, clad in a skimpy nightgown. She smirked to herself. Voldemort didn't really care what she wore to bed, and said as much. So she'd had Madame Malkin get her some silk nightgowns and very, very nice (and sexy, if she did say so herself) ball gowns. She'd also ordered some day clothes, which were the only clothing choices that Voldemort had insisted on helping her with. Most of them were black, of course, but otherwise... Well, they were all dark. She didn't much mind, though. Dark colors had always looked good on her.

She hadn't danced very much, only when Voldemort insisted on it--and that had only been twice. Once with Mr. Legrange, who the Dark Lord had explained was one of his most loyal followers, and Draco Malfoy. It was obvious why he wanted her to dance with him... She assumed he was a prime candidate for her arranged marriage. After all, just her age, and the son of Lucius Malfoy, universally thought to be the next-darkest wizard after Voldemort. She snorted. Yeah, right.

It might have been universally though, but she knew that Lucius was just a conniving, evil, sucker-up. And what Voldemort had revealed to her about her mother had only intensified her dislike for the man. She was only grateful that now Lucius would have no reason to call her "Mudblood," and, of course, that if he hurt her in any way, he would have to answer to her father. She shivered. Even with her new perspective of the man, it still freaked her out that she was his daughter.

She burrowed into the soft linen sheets of her full-size canopy bed, thinking about all her friends from Gryffindor. It had hurt her indescribably, the look Parvati Patil had given her at the ball. She understood of course, but it couldn't lessen the hurt. Finding out that she was the daughter of Lord Voldemort... She knew most people wouldn't give her a second thought after this.

She closed her eyes, trying to block the memory that was quickly coming to her mind.

Hermione concentrated on taking notes, trying to ignore the glares Snape was sending her way every five seconds. She didn't know why he was acting so ... jumpy, she supposed. It was strange, because 'jumpy' had never been a word she would have used to describe the greasy-haired professor. She supposed something had happened with Voldemort. She knew he was a spy. It had been obvious after what Dumbledore had said in her fourth year, as well as what Harry had revealed about the trial in the Headmaster's pensieve.

Suddenly she heard a high-pitched scream. She jerked her head around and saw a girl - what was her name? Ah, yes, Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw, her year - standing in the open door. "Death Eaters," she gasped. "They're...here." Then she ran again, towards the Great Hall.

Snape stood, and said, calmly, "Everyone into the Hall. Quietly and quickly, please." They filed out, all obeying his orders for fear of his wrath. Hermione noticed the Slytherins were going slowly, almost dragging their feet. She resisted the urge to hurry them along. She had a feeling Snape wouldn't like her interference.

They'd only made it to the entrance to the dungeons before they were stopped. A Death Eater stood in front of them and threw down his hood. It was Lucius Malfoy. He nodded to Snape, who stood back and watched as Lucius walked through the sea of students. They were all paralyzed with fear. Harry was near the back, with Ron. They looked like they were debating whether to run or not. Silently she begged them not to.

Neville Longbottom panicked. He tried to run.

Pansy Parkinson pointed her wand at him and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!" In a flash of green light, the forgetful boy, almost a man, was gone. Dead. Hermione choked back a sob. Lucius continued until he reached Harry and Ron. He sneered at both of them before grabbing Harry roughly around his upper arm and started to drag him away.

Ron whipped out his wand. "What do you think you're doing, you bast--"

He never finished the insult.

And he never spoke again. He never laughed again. He never smiled again.

Ron Weasley was dead.

Hermione choked back a sob. She couldn't think about it. She wouldn't think about it! If she did, she knew she start crying uncontrollably, and she couldn't do that anymore. Her best friend was dead.

It had drawn herself and Harry closer together than ever before, both desperate not to lose the other, now that they'd lost Ron. Their relationship had become more than friendly within the first week after the attack.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing fervently that Harry would understand everything that was happening, and not blame her for Ron's death. He had to understand, and not judge her for being Voldemort's daughter. Because if he didn't...

She didn't even want to think about it.

***

Voldemort swept into his chambers, stopping short when he saw the bed. There was a woman in it. He glared at her, silently daring her to say something. When she saw him, she smiled. "My lord," she purred, "I thought you might like some company..."

"Get OUT!" he yelled at her.

She scurried from the room, grabbing her robe where she had thrown it near the door.

Voldemort stared at the bed before walking back into the sitting room and lying on the couch. He hadn't slept with anyone since Rhianna. He knew that it was believed otherwise--wouldn't be surprised if his daughter thought so as well--but he had loved Rhianna with a passion that couldn't be forgotten, and he knew that he would only hate himself if he tried to forget her.

Well, there was also the fact that he just hadn't felt the urge for anyone after her. He laughed to himself. Imagine him admitting that to anyone. Ah, well. It didn't much matter, anyways. No one questioned him. No one ever would.

***

Draco lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Was there really anything he could do about Hermione? Not anymore. She was Lord Voldemort's daughter. She was now connected and protected better than he could offer her. He was glad for her, of course. Glad that she, at least, was free. Or at least freer than the other Gryffindors were. She wasn't completely free of course, just like he was not.

The two months since the Dark Lord had taken Hogwarts had been just that: dark. Everything was silent, cold, and evil. The Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs left all sensed it, even if they weren't entirely sure where it came from. They knew at least not to go near the dungeons without a very good reason.

Flint was one of the worst, one of the most evil. Terrance Higgs, the seeker for the Slytherin team in Draco's first year, probably came in second.

Draco supposed that it was a good thing that he, at least, was not as evil as the rest of them were. He knew that he had to be at least somewhat evil, for not stopping his father somehow. He was weak, and he knew it.

Draco sighed, rubbing his neck. At least he didn't have the Dark Mark yet. But he knew it was only a matter of time before he did.

He knew that his father was going to want to him to marry Hermione. He really didn't have a problem with that, seeing as how that was what he wanted all along, but he didn't want it like this. He knew that it would be an arranged marriage, and he wanted her to marry him of her own free will.

***

Lucius Malfoy was a bastard. Not in the literal sense, of course. His parents had been married when he'd been born, thank you very much. But he was a bastard in the sense that he acted like one; he had been made a bastard because in his heart, that was what he was. If he even had a heart.

His only aspirations were political ones; he wanted power, and lots of it. If sucking up to the Dark Lord were the only way he could get that power, then so be it. He knew he was sucking up--kissing ass, if you will--but he didn't care. So long as he had power to kill, to rape, and to just dominate others in general, he was happy.

His current aspiration was his son. Or rather, his son's marriage. It would be political; that much was certain. Originally, he had wanted Draco to marry Pansy Parkinson--her parents were high on Voldemort's list of allies. But now...Hermione Rhianna Thomasine Voldemort was a very worthy candidate.

The fact that he had spent that last six years calling her "Mudblood," and insulting her friends slipped his mind, of course.

But Draco's betrothal to Pansy Parkinson...yes, it had been a betrothal. That would be difficult to get out of. That meant that he needed Voldemort to want Draco and Hermione's marriage, if Lucius would be able to back out of Pansy and Draco's betrothal agreement. He hoped it wouldn't be too difficult. The Dark Lord did not like it when someone else came up with an idea...

***

Pansy Parkinson sat on her bed, fuming. She'd seen the way Draco had looked at the Mudblood. Although... she tilted her head, thinking. She wasn't a Mudblood anymore, now was she? She was the daughter of Voldemort. That made her extremely high up on the scale. Maybe even the next in line after Voldemort himself.

But it didn't matter where she ranked. The fact was that Draco had looked at someone--anyone besides her--with a look of what she could only describe as lust. And then Lucius had looked at her as well. Luckily, the expression had not been the same. Pansy knew she would probably have puked had that been true.

But Lucius had looked at her with appraisal...and then he had turned to Pansy with the same look. She was almost certain he had found her lacking in some way. It made her blood boil to think that anyone was above her in any way.

Well, if they thought that they could back out of the betrothal agreement--and Pansy knew that was what they were thinking of doing--they had another think coming.

Because she would that didn't happen.

And Draco--as well as Lucius, eventually--would regret ever thinking of getting rid of her.