Bookworm

Hermione lay on the ground, too hurt to move. She knew that there was red carpet right next to her, and if she crawled toward it she would get rid of that stone that was pressing a bruise into her back, but her body was so stiff with swelling and small hemorrhages that she was unable to even roll over.

The room swam across her vision, tilting this way and that. She retched and threw up to the side. Some of the bile was caught in her hair or trickled down her neck and shoulders. She was vaguely aware of people laughing, mostly deep voices, men. One high pitched giggle.

"Enervate," drawled a lazy voice, and her head miraculously cleared. Hermione sat up brushing the previous contents of her stomach away and gagging at the smell emanating from her body. She could not remember much from the obvious torture she had received. Her veins burned with every heart beat, which was doubtlessly the result of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse, and she had probably been hit with the Gut-Wrenching curse as well--it wasn't every day when Hermione could actually feel her intestines. She seemed to remember being pulled around as though she had strings on her body, though her memory blanked on what she had done. Her head ached, the pain focused right between her eyes, which made concentration very difficult.

There were a few murmured words. Most of the damage disappeared though the ache, the dull memory of the original pain, still lingered. Her vision snapped from a blur to a sharp clarity--she was surrounded by Death Eaters. And in front of her, seated on a simply hewn stone chair, sat Lord Voldemort. His withered face was cruel as he stared down at her with half-closed gray eyes. His hair was a steel silver that fell to his shoulder, and his yellow-nailed fingers pushed it out of his face.

"So," the Dark Lord said in a deep baritone. "The little best friend of Harry Potter has been most helpful to us, don't you agree, my Death Eaters?" He looked around at his followers as they sniggered in agreement.

Hermione froze at the Dark Lord's words. Had she betrayed the Order? Had she betrayed Harry? In her mouth she could only taste her bile, and any aftertaste of a Truth Potion had been effaced.

"Oh dear, the little traitor has soiled herself," the Dark Lord mocked. "Evanesco Limpium."

All the dirt and grime from the torture and her vomit was cleaned from her body, and it was then that she realized that her robes were in tatters. The Death Eaters laughed again.

"Well, we must have a reward for her excellent aid. It would simply be impolite not to. She was so tremendously helpful, weren't you, Hermione? Or don't you remember?" He raised an eyebrow knowingly. "Hmmm, let's see. Which of my Death Eaters have been most faithful to me? Not you, Wormtail, certainly. You can't even properly use that hand I've given you. And not you, Lucius, with all your bumbling around and exposing yourself to the Ministry. Ah, Bella, I would give her to you, but that is not the sort of 'reward' I was thinking of." He squinted his beady eyes around at his servants.

With one long wrinkled finger, he pointed at one of his servants whose face was still hidden by his Death Eater mask. "You," Lord Voldemort said imperiously. "You, my faithful servant, deserve a treat like this... piece of ass, I believe you called it, Wormtail."

"My lord," murmured a smooth voice through the mouth hole, "I am truly honored."

"Then take the thing and leave," the Dark Lord commanded, "and dispose of it properly when you're done. Good-bye, Miss Granger. Really, you've been a great help to us all."

The faithful Death Eater to whom the Dark Lord had been pointing glided over to her and set a gloved hand on her shoulder. Hermione stared at it in shock.

"Come, Hermione," the mysterious Death Eater said softly. "Come with me."

His voice was hypnotizingly silky, and it wrapped around Hermione's mind like a scarf, drawing her to her feet. She no longer noticed the nudges the Death Eaters were giving each other or the whispers hissing like a stove fire. She let the man lead her from the hall and into a corridor lit by torches.

"This way," the man said, pressing her shoulder to orient her. He guided her to a fairly ordinary door and pushed her inside. He took care to lock the door behind him, then Banished the key.

They were simple quarters, furnished only by the bare necessities: a flickering fireplace, a desk, a bed, a night table, and a lamp. Along a wall ran a set of bookshelves filled with the obligatory Dark Arts books, but nothing out of the ordinary. Hermione's heart was suddenly clenched by an icicle of fear--she had been malleable then under the influence of the man's voice, but now the reality of her situation weighed upon her, especially since the man had not spoken since his last directive. What had she thought a Death Eater was going to do to her in his own quarters? Frantic, Hermione jiggled the door knob, but it refused to budge. The Death Eater simply watched her useless attempts silently, with an air of amusement. With a surprising elegance, he sat on the bed and beckoned to her. She flattened her back against the door.

"Don't you touch me," she growled.

"When I touch you," the man said matter-of-factly, "you won't be telling me to stop."

"You're awfully confident." Hermione began looking around to see if there was anything she could use against a fully armed wizard.

The man cocked his head and his grin permeated his speech. "I would have thought that a witch as clever as you purportedly are would have known that there is no way out of here. You are trapped with me. And I think you know why."

"Don't you touch me!" she screamed, edging along the walls and feeling for some sort of catch.

"You do realize," the Death Eater continued, "that should there inexplicably be a secret door or passage, it will only lead you to one of the other Death Eaters' rooms, and I doubt they will be as... understanding as I."

He removed his Death Eater's cloak, but left the mask over his face. Then he doffed his outer robes. "Do you know," he began companionably, "I asked him personally if he could let me have you for the night? All the things you've told us tonight... most intriguing, Hermione."

"Don't call me that," she snapped.

"Okay, sweetheart," he obliged.

"Don't call me that either."

"I'll either call you by your given name or a revolting endearment. Which would you prefer?" He was now removing his boots. With a sigh of relief, he returned to the comfort of the bed.

"Neither."

"Then I'll call you what I prefer: Hermione." He stood and came nearer to her.

"Get away from me!" she shrieked.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way--the outcome is the same, we have sex, and you die. Or... perhaps... I might find some way to spare you." The man stroked his chin with one long, thin, sheathed finger.

"Yeah, right," Hermione said, finally reaching the bookshelves in all her scramblings. She grabbed an especially heavy book and held it in front of her like a weapon. "I act agreeable, and you'll just let me go."

"I didn't say that. You could be completely disagreeable and I might... I would be more likely to help you live with your willingness, however." He chuckled low in his throat. "I don't think Dark Arts of the Ancient Times is going to make much impact, Hermione. It didn't when I read it. It merely plagiarizes a much better work called In the Caves."

Hermione lowered the book slightly.

"I've read that," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"I know. It's on the required reading list for the summer before seventh-year Defense Against the Dark Arts if I remember correctly."

"Not everyone reads it, though," Hermione argued. "How did you..."

"You're intelligent, Hermione, the most intelligent witch who has every graced Hogwarts since the original Four. Or so I've heard." He gently manipulated the book from Hermione's hand and maneuvered it back to its place on the shelf. "Why do you think I wanted to have you with me tonight? Do you think I preoccupy myself with any of the Dark Lord's victims? Do you think I let myself upon any young girl? Damned if I won't have a witch in my bed who has not at least read Hogwarts: A History a dozen times."

"You've read it..." Hermione said weakly.

"Twenty two times. I wouldn't be surprised if my name was still in the book." He stroked her hair. "How many times have you read it, Hermione?"

"Nineteen. But..." For some inexplicable reason, her knees could barely support her body. She never ever thought she would find someone who... read as compulsively as she did.

"What does page 457 explain?" the man asked in her ear.

Hermione trembled. "The Chamber of Secrets."

"Page 81?"

"The Founders as they created the different houses."

"Page 1023?"

"The lives of the first five Head Boys. Oh gods, what are you doing to me." Her entire body was shaking with the repression of some alien emotion, some foreign desire that she had never experienced before. It unfurled in the basic center of her being like a water lily, and she clung to the Death Eater's shoulders, who seemed to have a very good idea of what he was doing.

"Now ask me," he murmured heatedly, encircling her waist with his hands.

"Page 886?"

"Secret Passages and their uses."

"Page 4?"

"Introduction by the author."

"Page 4513?"

"Ministry Interference."

He had slipped an arm under her knees and lifted her up to carry her to the bed. He took out his wand and chanted evenly, "Apagio," at the fireplace, and the fire went out, then "Incendio," at a candle next to the lamp on the night table.

"Hermione," he hissed pressing her to his bed. "I bet I know what you received on your O.W.L. exams. And you're going to tell me. Potions." He nibbled gently on her ear.

"Oh," she sighed.

"Arithmancy." He licked the edge of her earlobe.

"Oh."

"Care of Magical Creatures, Transfiguration, Charms, Defense."

"Oh, ooh, ooh, ahhh..."

"What did you get for Defense?" He slipped a hand through one of the rips in Hermione's robes and stroked her stomach.

"Oh," she moaned softly.

"I thought so."

Hermione could not take it anymore--she removed his mask and pressed her lips against his, eyes closed tightly at the sudden rush of lust through the same burning paths that Crucio had once taken. She tightened her legs around his hips and pulled her to him.

Through their kisses, the man recited, "Veela- a siren disguised as a beautiful woman until they become angry. 1824- the year of the first Centaur Revolt. Impedimenta- a spell that momentarily stops the object in its path."

"The number of goblins who participated in the thirteenth Goblin Rebellion- 12,343," Hermione answered back. "The standard ways for Muggles to protect themselves from magical harm- a bracelet of stones, a silver ring boiled during the full moon, a ward for the evil eye, a silver girdle..."

The man pushed the remains of Hermione's robes up over her head and buried his face between her breasts, nipping, laving, and kissing around her nipples and down to her stomach. She arched against him, her hands pressing his smooth head against her skin. His words were not the purr of a baritone that would wash over her like ocean water, but rather like honey cocooning her with its sweetness. Her head tossed from side to side on the pillow as they continued their stimulating recital.

"The magical crystals used for sexual desire- carnelian and ruby. The country where the first vampire was made- Ireland. The number of ways to kill a dragon- three." The man slipped his fingers between Hermione's legs and began to stroke her as his lips returned to hers.

She could barely get out her next words. Her hands slid along the plane of his chest and massaged the back of his neck, making him groan against her mouth. "There are twelve ways to--ahh--spot a werewolf, five way to discern--ooh--whether any poison has been made neutral, twenty ways to placate a--ooh--charging baby minotaur..."

Then neither of them could speak at all.

In the aftermath of love, the man whispered in her ear, "Do you know who it was that gave me to you?"

Hermione looked at his eyes, which seemed black in the dim light. "The Dark Lord, of course."

The man gave a low laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, that was Avery. But then you've never seen me before, no matter how many times your dear friend Potter has. I am Lord Voldemort."