To The Victor

To the Victor

\"The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness.\" –Bram Stoker, Dracula

After he slays the irritating Boy Who Lived No Longer, Voldemort generously gives his faithful followers the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix to do with as they choose.

Ron Weasley is slain by Draco Malfoy, who laughs as madly as his aunt Bellatrix. Voldemort watches for a time, hearing the screams and the laughter with a satisfied smile.

He moves through the crowd like Death, eyes narrowed in smug delight as he watches them writhing on the ground, as the sparks of green break the cool summer night air. He should have left him alive for this, but it was no matter. This was not for him—this was for Voldemort’s faithful.

As he walks, he nods once or twice—at Blaise Zabini, struggling with Ginny Weasley over a pile of bodies. Her brothers, perhaps? Zabini has strange tastes, but he has promised to make their desires realized—unholy or not.

He would remove himself from this room of death and debauchery, but he finds he cannot. He is entranced by the sight of a woman with dead eyes watching the crowd and the horrors being enacted in front of her. He watches her, standing next to Lucius Malfoy, and wonders if she cried when Draco killed Weasley.

He does not think she did. She did not cry when he killed her former friend, when his green eyes—so like your mother’s, boy—glazed over in death to the accompaniment of his laughter.

His lover, their spy, the key to their victory. She was his now. She came to him and delivered the coup de grace. She had brought the boy to him, following like an innocent lamb.

Hermione Granger. Just Hermione now.

“My lord.”

Voldemort stops, turning to see the coolly beautiful face of Narcissa Malfoy. Lovely even in her late forties, she has always been a favorite of his. She never took his Mark on that snow white skin, but she had been born with it in her soul. Her husband had been delivered to Lord Voldemort by his graceful, calculating wife. His devotion to pureblood society was nothing without a taste for cruelty so elegantly crafted by Narcissa Malfoy’s devious nature.

“Ah, Narcissa,” he says, fondness in his cold voice that only one of his chosen would recognize. “You are not partaking of the entertainment?”

She shrugs her shoulders, waving a delicate, bejeweled hand. “This is not to my taste,” she says without a hint of censure. “But I would beg a favor of you, my lord, in lieu of my participation, if it is not too forward of me.”

He nods, intrigued. Narcissa Malfoy never asked him for anything.

“My husband…” she looks over where Lucius stands, on guard next to Hermione lest any of her former friends and allies think to harm her. His face shows a faint trace of something close to annoyance as he watches the proceedings.

“My husband would never ask you for what he wants,” she says, eyes calculating. “Yet you know that he has been ever your faithful servant, I am sure.”

Voldemort looks again towards Lucius, who would now and then cut his gray crystalline eyes down at Hermione, his hand solicitously on her elbow as he whispers in her ear. He mistrusted Hermione when she first came to their side, thinking her a spy. However, by the time she took the Mark, Lucius Malfoy held her while the branding was done, smiling proudly.

You have done even as the Dark Lord has and risen above your bloodline.

One of his fellow Death Eaters sneered at Hermione and called her a Mudblood. Lucius killed him for the insult. He praised by the Dark Lord for his actions, and Narcissa had smiled proudly when Voldemort had visited Malfoy Manor.

“I do know,” Voldemort said. “I have no wish to play a guessing game, Narcissa. Either ask me for what it is your husband wishes, or I shall collect Hermione and leave him in your hands for the remainder of the evening.”

Narcissa leans up to whisper in his ear, her hand tugging at his robe. He normally would have killed anyone for touching him in such a fashion, but it was Narcissa. Leaning down, he listens to her honeyed voice whisper in his ear, and his scarlet eyes fasten on his lover and narrow with interest as they settled on the tall, imperious blond wizard who stood next to her.

He pulls back, looking down at Narcissa, and nods. “If he wishes it, then Lord Voldemort shall provide.”

“My lord is generous,” Narcissa smiles. “I shall expect him home later tonight, then?”

Voldemort nods. “It shall be as you wish. Lord Voldemort is generous to those who serve him.” He picks up her hand and brings it up close to his mouth; not touching, a mockery of the polite mannerisms she affected so well.

He turns and leaves here there, beauty in a sea of death. Hermione looks up at him as he approaches. There is no despair in her eyes as she hears her former friends screaming. The Dark Magic took hold long ago, erasing those ridiculous notions of compassion and mercy.

“We are going, Hermione,” he says, and Lucius relinquishes her elbow.

“I shall leave to locate my wife, if you have no further need of my services.”

“I have sent Narcissa home, Lucius,” Voldemort says, fingers tightening on Hermione’s arm. “I have…other plans, for you this night.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrow slightly, but he remains where he is. “Ah…other plans, my lord?” His eyes flicker toward the melee. The screaming has died down somewhat by now.

“Yes,” Voldemort says, not elaborating. “You will accompany us, Lucius.”

“As you wish.” He followed them silently, a quiet ghost amongst horrors more terrifying than any nightmare.

*****
The room is the chamber he shares with Hermione. As one would expect, it is lined with books on every wall.

“Have a seat, Lucius,” Voldemort commands, standing still as he watches Hermione. She moves to the bed, standing silently as she watches them.

“You wonder why you are here,” Voldemort asks quietly.

“Yes, my lord, I do,” Lucius is careful to show no disrespect. His eyes flicker to Hermione, then back to the bed, and Voldemort watches as he flushes slowly, his fair skin stained with red.

Hermione clears her throat. “My lord, may I enlighten Mr. Malfoy as to his presence in our chambers?”

Voldemort nods, eyes on his lover. “You may.”

Hermione moves over to Lucius, reaches out, and takes his hands in hers. With a slight pull, she draws him towards her and the bed as she walks backwards. “You asked for nothing, Lucius, for yourself.” She sits and indicates that he do the same. She does not let go of his hands.

He obeys and sits, ramrod straight, next to her. Voldemort watches quietly and makes no move to join them.

Hermione leans up and brushes a stray lock of Malfoy’s hair behind his ear. “Why? Why did you want nothing? You endured so much for the cause, Lucius. And there was nothing you wanted for yourself?”

Lucius swallows, visibly nervous to be touched so by his lord’s lover. Voldemort sends out his mind, searching his Death Eater’s thoughts easy to read under Hermione’s gentle touch.

Her hands are warm.

“There is something you want, isn’t there, Lucius?”

She watched him, sometimes, noting his resemblance to the son who had tormented her in school. She and Draco had made their peace. He was loyal to her and they were friends of a sort. She thought him handsome, but she did not think that of him in school. Lucius Malfoy, however, she remembered him from Flourish and Blotts a lifetime ago, a cold and terrifying man. She had found him handsome even then.

He was loyal to his wife, he loved her. It was not something obvious, but it was evident in shared glances and in the quiet interludes they shared when they thought no one else was looking. Bellatrix and Rodolphus were in love, too. A mad, desperate passion, to be sure, but love nonetheless. She watched Draco sometimes with Pansy and saw that to love fiercely must be a Black family trait, and to love quietly a Malfoy. Draco had them both.

“I am content,” Lucius says in his clipped voice.

“Narcissa has spoken with us. She knows what you desire, Lucius,” Voldemort interjects softly. He hisses on each s, drawing the sound out. Hermione flushes and he hears a purr in her thoughts. She likes the hiss, the soft sinuous sound of his serpentine voice.

He told him about Hermione, in Parseltongue, as he killed him. This memory alone is his.

Lucius flushes darker, the red creeping up his high cheekbones. “Did she now?” he breathes, and it is finally obvious to him why he is there. Surely not…she would not have spoken of that to him.

“Yes,” Voldemort said simply and nodded at Hermione. “She did.”

She shifted, drawing him to lie back on the bed with hands firm on his shoulders. “Lie down, Lucius.”

He hesitates because of her, because of Narcissa. He does not wish to betray her, even in the chamber with me. He desires me, my Lord has told me that he does.

Voldemort reads her thoughts, the slight wistfulness in them as she realized why he is cold, remote, even as she moves over him. “Lucius,” she whispers. His devotion attracts her; she respects his loyalty, she sees hope in his ability to love even as dark magic has ravaged the goodness from his soul.

Voldemort likes to watch her there, likes to watch the way she moves gracefully to sit atop of him. His Death Eater looks almost comical; Lucius is restrained unless in a temper, and to see him pushed back by Hermione, sprawling on their bed is amusing.

Rodolphus, now, he would have flipped over and made some drawling comment, secure in his manhood and his prowess. Or perhaps, he would have done this before Azkaban. Rodolphus had changed much since Azkaban. Only Bella knew how much, and she had changed, too.

He brought his attention back to them, the two on the bed. Lucius’ hands were fisting on the bed as Hermione moved on top of him, twisting beautifully, hair lose around her face.

“Touch me,” she whispers, sliding hands up his ridiculously formal dress robes.

I cannot.

“You can, Lucius,” says Voldemort, and he makes his voice cold. “And you will.”

Lucius groans as he slides his hands up her back, into her hair. “She wasn’t supposed to tell,” he murmurs; he sounds like a young child being caught stealing candy.

Hermione laughs. “She would not have, if she did not think we would give you what you wanted.” She pulls back from him, and raises her arms.

Voldemort moves silently behind her. He is taller than her, and he pulls the robes easily from her body. He slides his hands across her skin and she shivers.

Your touch is cold, and he is warm beneath me. Your touch is familiar, as dread as it is. His is warm and alive, and I fear it.

Lucius’ eyes are wild, heavy-lidded. He sucks in his breath harshly as he sees her full breasts, crowned with red nipples, the slight pair of black knickers she wears. She leans down to kiss his neck, and Voldemort draws circles with his fingers on the skin of her back. He likes the way the skin shivers beneath his touch—it is welcome, familiar.

“You have too many clothes on, Lucius,” Hermione teases him in a warm voice. She moves off of him and helps him pull his robe over his head; he wears plain black trousers and a white shirt underneath. She helps him with the buttons.

Voldemort steps back again to watch, a voyeur in both body and mind as he delves into their inner thoughts. She reaches up and removes the black silk ribbon holding his hair back.

Hermione runs her fingers through the hair now falling over his shoulders; Malfoy closes his eyes. He likes the caress, would prefer her to pull harder, but he will not ask.

So Voldemort tells her. “He wants you to pull, Hermione,” he says, amused.

Malfoy’s gray eyes open, and he is almost scowling. I had forgotten his ability to do that.

“Apparently,” Voldemort says, and laughs.

Hermione looks over his shoulder at him, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She is not beautiful in a traditional sense, his lover, but then again—neither is he.

She thinks Lucius is beautiful; she runs her hands through that platinum hair—pulling now, as he wanted but would not ask for—darting light touches down his chest and scratching lightly over his pale skin. Perfect and pale, so cold and beautiful but yet so warm…

“You may touch me,” she says, voice warm. Her hands capture his and bring them up to her body, her breasts. She presses herself into his hands, murmuring soft words of encouragement.

His eyes flicker over towards the shadows where the Dark Lord sits, but he complies with her demands and draws long fingers over her breasts, her nipples hardening beneath his touch.

I could be killed for this. Agonizing death, he has promised to any who touches what is his.

Voldemort’s eyes narrow in pleasure as his Death Eater thinks to remember his words, but he does not reassure Lucius. That is part of the excitement, the fantasy—this threat of danger, ever-present, lingering in the room like a fine perfume.

Lucius’ Dark Mark is stark against the fair skin of his arm. She pushes him back so that he is lying with his head on the foot of the bed, and crawls on top of him to caress the Mark with her lips.

Lucius is not the only one who hisses at that, Voldemort enjoys watching her tongue trace the serpent writhing on Lucius’ skin. She bites at the skin and leaves teeth marks on the skull. He likes that, his breathing has increased to pants and yet he remains quiescent beneath her. He will not be the dominant, but he does not mind if she is. It is his fantasy, to be taken by the Lady while his Lord watches.

This he had confessed to Narcissa, and this she had spoken of to the Dark Lord as his reward for services rendered.

Hermione has moved to draw kisses down his chest, biting as she goes. Her thoughts are a warm jumble of pleasure and desire, anticipation and a twinge of amusement that this man who had once despised her would wish this of her now.

Lucius’ mind is slowly slipping to the red haze of lust, thoughts drifting away to be replaced with bright colors and urges for more, more…

Nagini glides into the room pausing at the bed where her mistress is entwined with man who does not sleep there. The serpent rears back, drawing up as if to strike, looking for a way to spare Hermione and bite only the man who was rubbing his hands slowly down her back, fingers biting into soft skin.

Nagini, Voldemort says, amused. That is not necessary. This is sanctioned, acceptable.

The snake turns to him and glides back to his side. She curls around him with the ease of long familiarity, entwining around him even as Lucius Malfoy wraps his body around Hermione, pulling her to him.

You have given her to another? You do not give us away, Nagini said, surprised. Nagini thinks of Hermione as a creature such as herself; companion, trusted familiar, but never a pet.

Never, Nagini, Voldemort assures her. I have given him to her.

Hermione’s thoughts shift and glimmer, a conscious thought peeking through the drowsy haze of passion. I like it when he hisses like that.

Voldemort laughs softly. You have always liked that, Hermione, always. Even when it was a threat, before we were lovers, you liked it.

Why do you say this? He has spoken aloud; Nagini turns to look at him, she has been watching the couple on the bed as well and does not understand why he has spoken. After all, he only usually speaks to her.

Hermione’s hands travel down Lucius’ body to caress his cock, which is pressed hard against his stomach. Her hands wrap around the length and move slowly up and down, Lucius twists beneath her and a moan spills from his mouth.

Merely to add to the experience, Nagini, he tells the snake. She glides off of him and moves to the bed, curling up the post and resting there.

Hermione now twists herself, sinuous as Nagini in her own way, to put her mouth on the head of Lucius’ cock. His hands twist in her hair as he moves her up and down on his length. Voldemort’s eyes are a scarlet fire as he watches.

She is wet, the mistress, Nagini tells him, amused. I can taste her desire for him. Her tongue flickers out to taste the air; Voldemort mimics her in an unconscious gesture.

As can I, Nagini. This pleases me.

Hermione’s thoughts are a sweet mass of trembling nerves and aching senses; Lucius is too far gone in lust, his thoughts are burning red, hot and needy. He pulls her up to him again, licking her neck and growling as he bites, hard. Hermione throws her head back, moaning.

He sheathes his cock in her aching wet heat, back arching as he moves inside of her. Hermione is astride him. Her hands dig into his chest leaving half-moon marks. She pants and bites her lip, hard enough that blood spills out.

Nagini and Voldemort both hiss at the smell of fresh, wet blood. Master…the snake is almost whining.

Voldemort rises from his chair and stalks to the bed; his procession goes unnoticed by the couple writhing on the bed. He stands next to Hermione and his fingers go under her chin; tipping her head up, he licks the blood off her chin.

Nagini’s hiss is a wordless, pleased gesture. Voldemort echoes the sound.

“My lord,” Hermione whispers, fingers unclenching from Lucius’ skin to wrap around his hand. Her eyes are glassy as she meets his gaze, body covered in sweat. Lucius’ hands are on her hips, as he pushes her down harder.

Voldemort drops her hand and grabs one of Lucius’. His touch is cold—Malfoy’s eyes open, the color of molten mercury in his lust. He chokes something out, perhaps a salutation, but Voldemort ignores him. He places Lucius’ hand in the warm, pulsing softness between Hermione’s legs, and then releases his grasp.

“I know how she likes to be touched, Lucius,” he says, the s’s of pronounced, elongated. It happened when he switched from Parseltongue to English, and Lucius’ name is a slow hiss.

Hermione laughs breathlessly. “Yes, he does…” she says, and thrusts her hips forward.

Voldemort remains where he is, watching, ensuring his Death Eater pleasures her properly. “Make her come, Lucius, else you will suffer for such a slight,” he says. He is only half-serious, but Lucius will not know that.

Ah, there. The brief spark of fear is delicious, as intoxicating as the lust, and he tastes it on the air. The fear fades faster as the lust increases; he knows Lucius, and he knows what will drive him mad. Voldemort knows the proclivities of his Death Eaters well, and Lucius has ever liked a smattering of fear with his pleasures.

This is delicious, his serpent tells him, her smooth body undulating as she moves back and forth on the post.

It is indeed, Voldemort answers. Fear and lust, there is nothing better.

His hissing and Lucius’ ministrations combine to push her over the edge; he hears the orgasm in her thoughts before it washes over her, before she cries out in pleasure.

Lucius groans at the sound and thrusts into her one more time, spilling inside of her on a breathless exclamation that might have been her name; Voldemort does not know if it is nor does he care if it is not.

They lie there for a moment, replete, satisfaction heavy in the air around them. Voldemort moves back into the shadows as they catch their breath.

Hermione stirs first, moving off of Lucius and rolling to her side. She props herself up on one elbow and smiled down at him. “Is that what you wanted, Lucius?”

She is beginning to speak like us, Nagini says, amused. Indeed, she has drawn out the s in his name. Whether this is on purpose or not is unknown; she is adept at closing her mind when she wishes.

Lucius smiles. “Yes,” he says, voice husky. “That is what I wanted.”

She laughs again and sits up, drawing her knees into her chest. Lucius rolls from the bed and reaches for his clothing, dressing in silence. Voldemort makes not a sound until Lucius is dressed, wand in hand to Apparate.

“Lucius.”

He turns smoothly towards him. “Yes, my lord?”

“You will tell Narcissa we have fulfilled her request, will you not?”

Nagini has moved down from the post to twine about Hermione’s naked, warm body; she is gently caressing the serpent, who is purring in delight at the touch. She watches him with an amused expression, hands moving lightly over Nagini’s scales.

Voldemort is suddenly impatient for his Death Eater to be gone; and his glowing eyes meet her knowing gaze.

She wants you now, Nagini says, unnecessarily.

I know.

“Yes,” Lucius says softly. “I shall tell her.”

“Do not be vex with her,” Hermione teases, stretching as she continues to pet the snake.

Lucius laughs. “Vex with her? I assure you, I shall not. However, I shall make a note to inquire of her which other fantasies of mine she has arranged to fulfill.”

Voldemort is no longer listening; his eyes are on his lover, her gleaming, flushed skin, and the sparkle in her eyes as she glances towards him expectantly.

Lucius bows to them both and leaves them alone, and Voldemort moves to the bed. Reaching down, he accepts his serpent, who flows like water over him as he stares down at her.

“You are generous,” she says, leaning back. Her body is splayed before him, and he hisses at Nagini to take herself off of him. He moves as sinuously as the serpent as he joins her on the bed.

He extinguishes some of the light in the room, but not because she will be uncomfortable with seeing him.

They are both more at home in the darkness is all.

Finis