A Simple Twist

A Simple Twist

"Do you think he'll call you tonight?" Caroline whispered.

Hermione said nothing. There was nothing for her to say. She had no control over when she was called and when she was left alone. She lay on her bunk and stared at the ceiling.

The metallic clang of the doors sent a shockwave of fear through the women in the room. His harem. A screech and bang signaled that the door was open.

It was the blond guard. They disliked him the most as he had a tendency to cop a feel when taking a woman to him. Though dealing with the blond guard was easier than dealing with him, it still was not a pleasant experience.

The women waited with baited breath as the guard unrolled a scroll. The crinkle of parchment could be heard at the back of the room.

They had talked about it often. It wasn't so much that they minded being sent to him, it was that he was becoming more violent, darker, as time passed. There were even a few nights when the one brought to him didn't return. Those were the nights the women did not sleep.

The blond cleared his throat. "Hermione."

Hermione felt her pulse leap nervously, but she stood. She did not allow her nerves to show, even after Caroline gave her an impulsive hug. She strode through the room and fell in half a step behind the guard.

Her resolved crumbled a bit when she heard the sound of the door clanging shut reverberate down the stone passageway. For whatever reason, it always seemed colder the closer they were to his chambers. It was something she didn't understand. She didn't like things she didn't understand.

"He's in a mood tonight," the guard told her before opening the door.

Hermione startled. Though she was seemingly his favorite, the guard had never said anything to her before. And the thought of him in a mood turned her stomach.

She turned to the guard and looked at him as if she was seeing in for the first time. The guard's build was very similar to his, lithe and sleek. She noticed for the first time that his eyes were grey. It was a striking contrast to the nearly-white blond hair.

"What's your name?"

He studied her for a moment, a brief head-to-toe scan, then said, "Draco."

Swallowing her nervousness -- and embarrassed realization that she should remember him, despite the years since she'd last spoken to him -- she said, "Thank you for the warning, Draco." Then she entered his room.

The closing of the door behind her didn't startle her. The fact Draco locked it tonight did. She did her best not to flinch, but he saw it anyway.

Though his back was to her, he said, "Welcome, Hermione."

She said nothing. She was not allowed to say anything until he allowed her to speak. It was a painful lesson she'd learned a year ago when he'd backhanded her for speaking out of turn, landing her in hospital for several days since she'd cracked her head on the hearth.

Infrequently, she remembered the time before, before he became what he was, before there were these rules to their interaction. She tried not to dwell on it because it depressed her.

He left her standing there in silence for a good five minutes before a wave of his wand Summoned his owl to take the missive he'd composed.

Only then did he turn to her. She was glad for the warning Draco had given her. His gaze was hard tonight, no softness.

He stood and walked toward her, still in silence. Though her stomach was jumping, she held his gaze. He had nothing against his...captives...looking at him, he just did not appreciate them speaking before allowed.

Humor sparked in his eyes when he finally stood in front of her. He seemed tense this evening, not just "in a mood." But the humor was because she refused to back down. It was a game they played, one of her few acts of rebellion.

They both knew she'd never stir a rebellion in the women's quarters, never do anything that would force him to send her away. It was a guilty knowledge they shared and that he relied upon.

She willed herself to keep her eyes open when he cupped her jaw gently. The calluses he once had from flying were now nothing more than slight ridges. She remembered feeling his hands upon her fresh from a flight high above Hogwarts.

But when she remembered, she always forced herself to shove it aside. It was not her present and only served to depress her. There were many things about this situation that depressed her, which is why she forced herself to avoid thinking about them.

With one thumb he stroked her cheek. At that she had to close her eyes. She didn't want him to see the pain he was lancing through her. He could read her so well that she didn't need to say a word.

"Hermione," he whispered before bringing his lips crashing down upon hers. With nothing more than a simple caress and kiss, she was his for the night.

It was a life she'd become used to, unfortunately.

She did her best not to whimper, whether in pain or desire she didn't know.

He broke the kiss and trailed his lips to her ear. "You may speak," he said softly.

She opened her eyes and gazed into his, trying to read what he might want to hear. She couldn't tell. On this night, she couldn't read his gaze.

"It's the anniversary." She spoke in a low tone, barely above a whisper, but he knew the words. She said them every year. And every year his reply was the same.

"It doesn't get easier."

She often wondered what had broken inside him that night. He never let her stay long enough to figure it out. She still carried the scar, as did he, but the third person, the one they should be sharing that scar with, was dead.

Her lips compressed to a thin line, she looked away. She felt his arms go around her. Shock held her immobile for a long minute. He rarely held her anymore as it meant showing favoritism. He couldn't do that, even for his wife.

She tensed when she felt his lips press into her hair. She didn't know him anymore when he was tender. She'd seen him in so many moods in the last five years, but few of them were tender.

He'd first shocked her when he killed in front of her -- not Voldemort, but an ordinary person. Granted, he had been one of their guards, one who'd gotten a little too friendly with her at one point, but when he killed in front of her it had been to make a point. It was a moral line he'd never crossed before and that night he deliberately stepped over it.

She had been in shock over the events of the evening and had no time to process what he'd done when, still bleeding profusely, he'd stood and cast the Killing Curse at the guard. She knelt at his feet and wept, for both her boys.

For on the other side of him was Ron, growing stiff and cold, dead for his loyalty to a man who'd just become something they despised. Despite it all, she couldn't leave him. She despised herself for it.

From that point, he stepped into the power vacuum left by his -- their -- destruction of Voldemort. The first time she had heard someone called him, "My Lord," she had started badly and had to be escorted out of the room. Until that day, she had been at his side; from that day, she had been relegated to the new "women's quarters" one floor above the dungeons.

Some days the banishment pained her more than others.

He backed away, taking her hand and leading her to the bed. She wasn't entirely sure how to feel about this turn of events. He hadn't taken her to his bed since the night he backhanded her. She knew he'd taken others -- gossip was rampant in the women's quarters -- but not her. He had brought her to his room since then, but not to his bed.

She lay on her back, expecting him to banish her clothing and shed his own. What she was not prepared for was him to lie down next to her and hold her; for him to pull her body against his to spoon behind her, one hand around her waist and resting against her abdomen.

The night he'd backhanded her, sending her into the mantle, had been the night she told him she'd miscarried their child one month before. She hadn't told him she was pregnant.

She lay tense in his arms, completely unprepared for his next move. He was acting in ways that were unpredictable and it sent shards of fear trickling through her.

Her palm, where her scar resided, ached with regret, remorse and power. Always with power. It sometimes seemed to her like they had not killed Voldemort that night, but allowed him to absorb Voldemort. He had certainly come out of the encounter more powerful than before.

Snorting softly to herself, she thought it was as good an explanation as any for his abrupt personality change.

At least ten minutes must have passed before she felt him move, rolling her onto her back and ranging himself over her. When she met his gaze, it took most of her remaining willpower not to flinch at the emotion in those green eyes.

"Hermione," he whispered.

When he shed their clothing with a spell, she wasn't surprised. When he entered her tenderly and brought her to climax, it was unusual but not surprising.

What shocked her was afterward when he dropped his head to her shoulder and wept. Dark Lords did not weep.

But she still said nothing. Though her tongue ached to offer words of comfort, though her hands itched to caress his shoulders, she lay still and silent beneath him.

His gaze was clear once more when he lifted his head. The scar on his chest was an angry red, something she knew was reflected in the scar on her palm. She tried to ignore the tracks of tears on his cheeks, but forced herself not to look away. She would not show weakness.

He studied her face for a moment, then moved off her. Pausing next to the bed, he pulled his trousers back on, not bothering with a shirt or shoes. Then he looked down upon her, almost studying her.

The light played against his face, casting his cheeks and mouth in shadow, highlighting his eyes. Something about his stance reminded her of what he had told her -- them -- about his encounter with Voldemort in the chamber housing the Philosopher's Stone: There is no good and evil, only power.

He exuded power.

Abruptly, he shut himself down. The sensations that had been making her palm throb disappeared as he spun on his heel.

This was her signal to dress herself once again. She made quick work of it, then sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.

He sat once again at his desk. Whereas once she would have taken pleasure in watching his bare back, the shifting of muscles underneath his skin, the idea she could walk up to him and press her lips to that skin, she wanted nothing more than to be allowed to leave.

They both knew this was her most fertile night. Despite the anniversary, she knew it was why she'd been called. Dark Lords need heirs after all and who better than the Dark Lord's wife.

Without looking at her, he waved a hand at the door, unlocking it to admit Draco. Draco entered, then took her elbow. She stood and followed the blond.

She paused in the doorway, looking back at him. Raising her scarred palm, she pressed the mark with her thumb, watching him tense subtly.

Though she despised herself for the words, for the emotion, she whispered roughly, "I love you, Harry," before spinning on her heel and following Draco back down into the women's quarters.

She almost thought she could hear his reply: "I love you, too, Hermione."