Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and its components belong to their creator, the talented J. K. Rowling. Also, the premise for this story was inspired by the French fanfics Plus rien ne compte and Would You Love a Monster Man by Morrigane and . respectively.

Hermione is kidnapped by a Death Eater. Her memory is erased and she falls to the charms of her cruel captor. But what is free will when she cannot remember why she should hate him or that it is wrong? And when she does recall the past, it is too late...
LM/HG Darkfic (with a happy ending – sort of)

Note: This is a dark tale; the relationship described here is more than a little twisted. More twisted than in my other stories. You’ve been warned.

Captive in Love

The girl’s hair hung around her face in sinuous brown tufts as she stared at him in shock and defiance. She was no longer demanding why she was in his opulently furnished home when the last thing she remembered was a jet of red light coming at her just as she was leaving her parents’ house.

The first time he had seen her, in Flourish and Blotts, her eyes had been full of the same defiance, and he had wanted to shove her against a row of books, plunge his fingers into her tousled mess of hair and kiss her …

He had just admitted this to her, which explained the wide-eyed look she was giving him.

“You should be proud … you should feel honoured to be my choice. Stay with me …”

“I will not work for the Dark side!” she shouted, colour rising in her cheeks.

“Do not be such a dreadful Gryffindor, my girl. You are apt to pick the easier path for once. And as I am not asking you to join the Dark Lord …”

She shook her head, glaring fiercely at him. “I’ll never betray my friends.”

“I can place you under the Imperius,” he threatened. “But as I’d strongly prefer that you surrender of your own will and as it is your true self that I desire …”

“No,” she said in a high-pitched tone. Had he been less absorbed in his triumph, he would have noticed the struggle in her eyes. “Harry and Ron rely on me … I cannot sneak on them like that!”

“Then you leave me no choice,” he drawled. “You will be mine, even if I have to – ah – compel you into obedience. And you shall do as I say –” He raised his wand, “– after this. Obliviate!”

He wiped away all memories of her parents and her friends, among other things. He erased all but her knowledge of magic and the wizarding world – he had no desire to deal with a Muggle who would gawk at every manifestation of wizardry.

-

Hermione opened her eyes to see an extremely handsome man standing in front of her. “Who are you? Who am I? Where are we?” she rattled off a series of questions, looking disorientated from trying to recall something, anything, but finding herself unable to do so.

“We are in my house. I am your master and you are mine. My servant.”

“Servant?” she frowned. “Why am I your servant?”

“Because that is nature’s way of things. That is the way it had been in our world for centuries and the way it was always meant to be. Your Muggle blood makes you naturally inferior to me.”

He stared at her until she gave an uncertain nod, which caused a victorious smile to quirk his lips. His eyes glittered as he looked down at her. “You are to address me as Master.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you are below me. You were born to Muggle filth –” he pushed her down firmly, forcing her to sit on her heels, “– and the place of your kind is on the floor.”

“But I’m not a Muggle – I can do magic …” It was the one thing she remembered. She knew everything about the wizarding world, she knew hundreds of spells and potions … but she knew nothing of who she was or whether she had a family, or even what she had been doing yesterday. Her mind was completely blank when she thought of these things.

“Indeed, and that is why you are not fit for death as is the race that spawned you,” he drawled. “You were born to serve me, to be on bended knee before the true wizardkind. You have no past – I erased it and that makes me your rightful master. You have no past, I say; I am your present, and your future is in my service.”

He kissed her harshly, demandingly, pushing his tongue into her mouth and knocking the breath out of her. Unsure of what to do, she returned it hesitantly, clenching her hands on his shoulders.

“When I look into your eyes, I feel truly alive,” he said almost affectionately. “I feel young again … do not deny me this.”

Hermione sighed. “I won’t,” she quietly reassured, “Master …”

-

A month later

“Master, if – if you don’t mind me asking … who was I before – before this? What kind of life did I have?”

“Who you have been is of no importance,” he said coolly. “Servants have no past.”

She was reminded, again, that he was as cruel as he was charming.

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded wordlessly. He didn’t like the sadness that he saw in the radiant brown eyes he so liked to get lost in. He pulled her close and held her against his chest, stroking her hair. Trying to soothe her in the only way he knew, he kissed her …

-

Hermione sat back on the carpet, leaning her shoulder against the velvet of his robes. She rested her head on his knee. His stroked her cheek with his warm hand, and she closed her eyes. She felt comfortable and safe.

She glanced up at him a few times, but dropped her gaze quickly, her cheeks tinged with red.

They stayed that way for hours as the room steadily grew darker.

“Master, it’s cold down here,” she said when the sun had set and a chill had fallen over the drawing room.

Silently, he lifted her up onto the couch and she found herself pressed against his woollen cloak. She moved her hand over the soft material curiously. “May I have one like this?” she implored.

“What is your preferred colour?”

“Green,” she said faintly.

“Yes, it would indeed suit you,” he decided.

She thanked him, an inquisitive sparkle in her eyes. “Why … I mean, how did I end up here?”

“Curious still, my sweet Mudblood? I foresaw that you would make agreeable company, as I had been feeling lonely in my mind, living by myself in this grand house …”

“Don’t you have a family?”

“My wife was killed by Aurors while I was in Azkaban,” he said stiffly. “She was sighted with her sister, a known Death Eater … she futilely fought to prevent them capturing Bellatrix. Both were subjected to the Killing Curse.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione.

He nodded impassively. “Draco died soon afterwards. My son botched an awfully important mission for the Dark Lord, and when the Dark Lord found him incapable of casting the Killing Curse on an enemy …” He said no more.

Hermione looked at him with compassion. He had suffered so much … his whole family murdered, spending a year in the frightening place that was Azkaban, not to mention everything that came with serving under the infamous Dark Lord …

He had genuinely cared about his wife, she knew, and her loss had affected him the most.

“You remind me of her,” he murmured. “She was my consolation, before … before you.”

Who was she to deny him happiness? If he found pleasure in her body, who was she to deny him that?

She was his consolation. And she couldn’t find anything wrong with it.

He needed her. She wasn’t selfish enough to refuse.

“Master, how can I please you?” she whispered.

-

He Apparated into the drawing room where she was waiting for him like countless times before, whenever he would leave abruptly during the night to answer the call of the Dark Lord.

He was still wearing the cloak and mask of the Death Eaters and there were stains of blood on his black robes. “It isn’t mine,” he said as though to reassure her.

“Where have you been?” she asked, seeking his eyes behind the black mask that haunted the nightmares of so many.

“Having fun at the Dark Lord’s command,” he replied indifferently.

“Why do you do that?” she said suddenly. “Why do you murder people? It’s not right!” As soon as the words had left her mouth, she wished she could take them back.

Something cruel glittered in his eyes. “How naïve you are,” he said maliciously. “There is no right and wrong, Mudblood. There is only power, but as some – such as yourself – are too weak to seek it, they were meant to be led. Such is the order of nature, and those who refuse to acknowledge it deserve death.”

She looked pensive for a few moments. “Oh,” she said finally, in some semblance of understanding, “I didn’t know.”

She was dressed in a simple silk nightdress. He stepped forward to embrace her, regarding her with avid eyes. “Sweet Mudblood …” His tongue twisted the foul word into a term of endearment. “My sweet, oblivious Mudblood …”

She shivered – not entirely from cold – in his arms.

-

Two months later

“… I don’t remember … why can’t I remember?” she said desolately. “What is wrong with me, Master?”

Some unexpected emotion flickered in his cold grey eyes. She thought, for a second, that it looked like guilt or regret.

“Because I erased your memory,” he said softly.

She looked shocked. “But why’d you do that, Master?”

“Because you would never have accepted this – me – otherwise,” he said flatly. “You were too preoccupied with what others would think.”

“I think you’re wrong, Master,” said Hermione. “I can’t recall anything specific, but I’m sure I knew you before … and I had feelings for you in the past, Master. I remember this.”

“I wouldn’t know – you never told me,” he said wryly. “You swore you would never cooperate voluntarily … if what you say is true, you never behaved accordingly.”

“Why didn’t I, Master? Was I a coward?”

He did not answer.

“Could I really have been such an idiot, Master?” She looked up at him with wide, troubled eyes. “Is that why you made me forget? Because I was so narrow-minded that you thought there was no other way?”

He couldn’t stand to see her like this, so forlorn and confused.

He kissed her in a silent apology.

And she forgave him.

-

She watched him as he stood by the fireplace, noting how his hair gleamed iridescently in the light of the dying flames. She looked forward to feeling his smooth skin against hers again, his strong body pressing her down on satin sheets. It thrilled her, when his pale face would flush in pleasure and in an altered voice, he would repeat how pretty she was and how much she pleased him.

Gradually, he had started treating her better, almost as though he was apologising for everything he had done and continued doing to her. He gave her gifts, jewellery, luxurious robes and dresses of the likes she could only dream of. He even granted her access to the ancestral Malfoy coffers of gold and gemstones.

He hadn’t really hurt her, not in the physical sense, except the one time he had used the Cruciatus on her in his anger. That day, she had rebelled at the wrong moment, when he had been already in a bad mood after a meeting with the Dark Lord. He had held her afterwards, stroking her trembling back as she cried. He had even apologised, said he hadn’t meant to do it but had lost control in his anger …

With no one else to talk to, he had started to confide in her, and she comforted him the best she could. It pained her genuinely to see him despondent, and she did her best to cheer him up.

He told her of how Voldemort took out his anger on his followers. It was to her that he raged against the brutal punishments of his demanding master and the incompetence of his fellow Death Eaters.

He still called her his ‘sweet Mudblood’, but she found that she did not mind. She couldn’t remember that she ever had.

-

His eyes were drawn to the diamonds sparkling against her creamy skin as she moved around the room.

He enjoyed seeing the family jewelleries on her. There was simply something magical about how they glinted against her skin in the dim light of the bedchamber, circles of glittering diamond around her slender neck and wrists when he pulled away the cloth covering her body and the necklace and bracelets remained the only things she was wearing.

They added a refinement to her rather plain beauty, and he was almost reminded of Narcissa. Dearest Narcissa who had been so devoted to him … but so was this young woman, a fiery, brunette Narcissa.

He told her as much. She smiled timidly at him in response. “Why did you choose me for this, Master? I mean, I look really ordinary … there are loads of girls who are prettier than me …”

“I have always found you pleasant to the eye,” he disagreed. “My desire to touch your alluring little body has grown ever more powerful over the years …”

She blushed endearingly. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Very much so,” he assured her.

It did wonders to her self-esteem, to be told she was beautiful when all she saw in the mirror were clots of wild hair and common brown eyes. “Thank you, Master.”

-

Hermione traced her hand over the skull and snake painted in gleaming red on his skin. “You told me … you told me there’s only power and those too weak to seek it.”

“That is exact.”

There was a puzzled glint in her warm brown eyes. “But then … that means … are you weak, Master?” she asked bluntly.

His eyes narrowed into angry slits. He swung back his hand to slap her, but she caught his wrist in a gentle grip.

“I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t mean to disrespect you.” She found herself feeling remorseful out of a misplaced respect for authority. He was legitimate authority, as far as she knew.

“So you do respect me?” he demanded.

“Very much, Master,” she said. “It’s just … I can’t understand … there’s something that doesn’t make sense.”

“And what is that?” he prompted.

“You told me that those who aren’t strong enough to seek power have to be led by someone stronger. But if you aren’t weak,” she paused, “then why do you allow yourself to be led? Why do you serve this Dark Lord?”

He looked thoughtful. “I joined him on a quest for power,” he said, fleetingly touching his left arm. “The Dark Lord is not an average wizard … no one can compete with his power. He is willing to share some of it with his servants …”

“How can you be sure?” she argued. “As long as no one has actually tried to compete with him, you can’t know if he’s all-powerful or not.”

“You do not understand,” he said. “The Dark Lord has taken certain – measures – to ensure that he can never be vanquished. He is immortal.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to follow him. He wants unquestioning obedience … like what you require of me. Is that power?”

“I have much influence with the Dark Lord,” he objected. “He listens to my opinion whilst making plans … I hold more sway over him than any other Death Eater.”

“Do you?” she said. “From what you’ve told me, it doesn’t sound that way. The Dark Lord doesn’t seem like someone who’d want to share his power, even less his immortality. I mean, isn’t there a means to reverse whatever he did? There must be a way …” She hesitated, then added in whisper, “He killed your son … I think you’d like to avenge him. I’m sure you can find a way …”

He actually appeared to consider her words. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “but as I fail to find one at this moment … let us speak of this no more.”

She did not insist.

-

He sank tiredly into an armchair, flinging his velvet cloak onto the nearest piece of furniture. Hermione caught it and carried it over to the wardrobe, where she hung it diligently.

“Master, are you all right? Is something wrong?” Her voice was full of concern as she hurried to kneel at his side. Clasping her hands together nervously, she laid them on his knee in an attempt to appease him, but did not dare to go further.

“The Ministry is getting closer to tracking us,” he said. “They are searching for you …”

“Me?” she said in surprise, “Why would they be looking for me?”

“I – broke the law – by keeping you here,” he admitted. “Your friends want you back.”

“My friends? I had friends?”

He frowned. There was a risk that once she found out, she might not want to stay anymore, or even try to escape, and he liked it much better when she was here in some semblance of freedom. But she deserved to know the truth, especially as they were going to take her back eventually and then she would learn it anyway. He reasoned that honesty was the better path now. Perhaps she wouldn’t hold it against him as much, if she found out through him. And he could present the truth from a more favourable viewpoint …

“Indeed. Close friends you were too, I’ve heard – you were dangerously under their influence. They repeatedly brought you into peril …”

Hermione did not like the sound of this. That wasn’t what she would call friends. “Then I’m glad you took me away from them, Master,” she said. “And thank you for telling me the truth.”

His lips quirked in a mocking smile as he played with a strand of her bushy hair. “No doubt they believe I have killed you, by now, or that I keep you confined in the dungeons of the manor, starved and in chains. I am – er, the enemy, after all, and their weakness for heroics would not allow them to rest until they rescue you from my evil clutches …”

She smiled at his joke, though it was a smile tinged with sadness. “I doubt they’d want me back like this, when I can’t even remember who they are …”

-

“You are worried, Master,” she said matter-of-factly.

He nodded. “I know they will locate us soon. Hermione – your name is Hermione – I apologise if I ever hurt you,” he said softly. “I was never my intention to cause you pain.”

She knew he was referring to the day he had used the Cruciatus Curse on her, a long while ago, when she had refused to abide by his every word. She guessed that he had to be worried about her possibly wanting to leave.

“I don’t hold it against you, Master,” she reassured him. “You have taught me not to. You’ve trained me to forgive you everything …”

The guilt in his eyes drowned out everything else at that moment. The man who committed murder without a flicker of remorse found a semblance of conscience awakened by the unconditional acceptance of a girl who didn’t know right from wrong. When he had cast the Memory Charm, he had ended up taking away not only her memories, but also her freedom of thought …

“You do not need to address me that way anymore,” he said, willing to forfeit part of his power over her.

Ironically, she turned down the offer and handed it right back to him. “But I want to, Master.”

“Why?” he said, incredulous.

“Because it makes you happy.”

When he had wiped away her memory, there had been one complication he had not foreseen.

He could not erase what he didn’t know was there.

That was how, remembering nothing but the fact that she was a witch, she had found herself attracted to him the first time she looked up at him in this room. No longer knowing a reason that made the feeling wrong or why she should not act on it, she gave free course to the attraction she had been feeling towards him for a long time. And it only increased when she had to rely on him for survival and companionship …

“Do you – do you care about me, Master?” she asked boldly.

He gave her a piercing glance, and instantly wished that he hadn’t. The kindness and compassion in these warm brown eyes – the exact opposite of what he saw every time he looked in a mirror – nearly made him ill. Though whether it was out of shame, disgust or guilt, he did not know. To him, they felt the same …

Shame for being so weak over a Mudblood mixed with his regret of any harm he had ever done to her. For a moment, he allowed himself to forget the pride and obligations that came with his name, his blood and the mark on his left forearm. He threw it all away to give a truthful answer once in his life.

His face remained expressionless except for a single tear that slipped down his cheek. “Yes, Hermione, I do.”

-

Soon came the day they both knew would arrive, yet both dreaded.

There was a loud hammering on the door that made Hermione jump. Her master’s face went paler than ever. There was a poignant, painful intensity in his eyes as he embraced her almost awkwardly. “It is they … the Aurors,” he said in an emotionless tone. “They are here for you.”

“Magical Law Enforcement,” an amplified voice resonated through the walls. “Open this door!”

In the gaze her master directed at her in these last minutes as they waited for the Aurors to break through the spells and locks on the front door, Hermione saw a plea for forgiveness and an unspoken apology for everything that had happened during the past months. To show him that she didn’t hold it against him, and to ease the pain of their imminent separation, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He returned the kiss with passion, hugging her tightly around the waist.

“Ah, Hermione … I am awfully sorry, my dear,” he sighed. “Go with them. You’ll be happier away from me; you merit it … take back the freedom I stole from you.”

“No, Master,” she said in the same steely tone she had used months earlier to affirm that she would never let her friends down. She drew her wand from her robes decisively. “I won’t abandon you. I won’t let them send you to that horrid prison again.”

“You would fight the Aurors for me after all I have done … after the way I have behaved towards you?” he said in amazement. “I have been harsh to you, yet you would fight to defend me?”

“I would and I will, Lucius.” It was the first and only time she ever called him by his name.

She slipped her hand into his. They walked forward side by side, wands at the ready.

Alas, the fight was lost from the start. There was no way they could overcome fifteen Aurors between the two of them.

“Master, I won’t leave you. I love you,” Hermione pledged, as a torrent of red light was heading towards them at an uncontrollable speed.

“Likewise,” she heard. And then all went black.

Perhaps, if he hadn’t said it, she would have been able to recover, to eventually escape his control. But with that single word, he had bound her with something more powerful than any chains, material or magical, and even when he was locked in Azkaban and she safely but similarly confined at Hogwarts, she would remain spellbound by him.

-

Hermione opened her eyes. “Where am I? This isn’t St Mungo’s …”

The walls were very white and the room was filled with unfamiliar people who were crowded around her bed. There was a bespectacled boy whose black hair stuck up in all directions, another, taller boy with red hair and a lot of freckles, and an older, balding man who looked very much like the boy. A mousy-haired woman was fumbling with some potion vials by her bed while a stern-looking witch with a bun of dark hair looked on, standing next to a tall black man whom Hermione recognised – he had been among the Aurors who had raided the manor. Hermione shrank back from him, her eyes narrowing.

These people were the enemy.

“You are in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, Miss Granger,” said the mousy-haired witch whom Hermione figured to be some sort of Healer.

“Where is he?” she demanded. “Where is my master?”

The bespectacled boy’s jaw clenched visibly. The others looked on with a horrified bewilderment. “The bastard is in Azkaban,” the messy-haired boy answered, looking fierce. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Hermione.”

Hurt me? Hermione’s eyes filled with confusion. What does he mean by hurt me? How has he ever hurt me? She thought of the one time he had cast the pain curse at her and frowned. I deserved it.

“You must tell us what happened, Miss Granger,” said the strict-looking woman. “You need to tell us everything.”

“Why should I tell you?” demanded Hermione, unimpressed. “I don’t even know you – any of you –”

The red-haired boy gave a strangled gasp and his friend’s green eyes flashed behind their spectacles.

“A Memory Charm,” diagnosed the dark-skinned man.

“You’re an Auror, aren’t you?” said Hermione, and all were taken aback by the hatred in her voice.

“Kingsley, isn’t there anything we can do?” said the stern-faced witch, sounding desperate.

“I may be able to break it,” the Auror replied. “We were taught a technique during Auror training … it may function or it may break her mind irreversibly, Minerva.”

Hermione recognised the name, remembering her master mentioning the woman once or twice. “You’re the Headmistress of Hogwarts,” she stated. The others gave her pitying glances, but the elderly witch nodded, her beady eyes glistening.

“Yes, Miss Granger, I am Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and Headmistress,” she said, sounding as though she was trying to keep her voice steady. “To my right is Poppy Pomfrey, the Hogwarts mediwitch, Kingsley Shacklebolt, who, as you know, is an Auror for the Ministry, Arthur Weasley –”

“I know you,” interrupted Hermione, eyeing the red-haired man. “You’ve got no money and are obsessed with everything Muggle. That Arthur Weasley?”

The balding wizard’s face flushed a deep red that clashed hideously with what remained of his hair.

“Yes, definitely a Memory Charm,” confirmed Headmistress McGonagall.

“I’m aware of that,” she snapped to the surprise of the boys crowded around her bed. Her friends? “I don’t suppose you have found a way to undo it?”

“Albus would have been able to break the charm,” said McGonagall, her voice trembling. “He did it several times back when we were fighting Grindelwald … Albus Dumbledore is the deceased Headmaster of Hogwarts, Miss Granger, and he was a very powerful Legilimens,” she clarified kindly, no doubt believing that Hermione remembered nothing at all.

The boys gave her pitying looks again, but she said irritably, “I’m well aware of who Dumbledore was, thank you.”

-

They put her under the Body-Bind Curse. The Auror then cast a spell called “Legilimens” and carefully broke through the Memory Charm. When the unfamiliar images of her past flooded her mind all at once, Hermione lost consciousness.

When she woke again, she burst into tears.

She didn’t know what to think anymore. Her parents had probably worried themselves to death by now; she had caused her friends such grief … but thoughts of the one she used to call Master – and still did, in her mind – did not leave her. With time, with habit too, she had come to love him …

She loved him, the man who had enslaved her and kept her as his captive … she belonged to him.

Everything he had told her, everything she had taken for the established truth turned out to be nothing but the goals of a band of fanatical murderers who wanted to change the order of things. They were people who were naturally her enemies and who had triumphed over her by making her their first target – and she had cooperated and accepted it. She had believed in their ideology. She still did, as a matter of fact. She had grown to accept it as fact.

The memories felt foreign to her. She had lived without them for months and as much as it confused her, as much as it pained her to admit it, she had been happy.

“I bet you’re going to study like mad to catch up for the NEWTs,” chattered the lanky boy with red hair – Ron, she reminded herself. “You can borrow my notes; we’re going to help you and everything will be like before –”

“I’m not the girl you knew,” she cut in. “I’ll never again be who I once was.”

They exchanged an angry look. “No, I don’t suppose you will,” said Harry. “What did that – that Death Eater do to you, Hermione? Oh, when I get my hands on him …”

-

She snuck out of the Gryffindor common room after curfew, concealing herself with the Invisibility Charm he had taught her along with other advanced magic. He had been aware of how she craved to learn new things, and he had indulged her, teaching her everything short of the Unforgivable Curses. He had lavished her with attention; when he was in the house, he had always insisted that she be in the same room as he. He had never ignored her …

It had been a week since she was brought to Hogwarts, and she had been doing this every night. Once the other girls were asleep, she would creep out of her dormitory and to the deserted, closed library. She would spend the night there, slinking around the shelves with a lamp in her hand. She even slept there, on a blanket on the floor, behind a particularly high row of books.

There wasn’t enough time during the day, with classes and homework to do, and she didn’t want to risk anyone seeing what she was researching. She couldn’t risk them suspecting.

She had distanced herself from her friends; she stayed silent in class and barely spoke to anyone. It was as though she did not know them anymore, as though they were complete strangers. They knew nothing about her and they could never understand.

The stacks of books on the floor around her were always on the same subjects. Magical warding and its deficiencies, history of wizarding prisons, ancient wizarding laws, the guards of Azkaban and everything there was to Portkeys and how to make them. She had a scroll and a quill handy to take note of anything that could help her in her quest.

Without realising it, she sat on her knees on the floor. She found the position comforting in its familiarity.

She almost expected to feel her master’s hand stroking her hair, like he had often done while she knelt on a silken rug by his reclining place. A tear rolled down her cheek. God, how she missed him …

With a renewed determination, Hermione wiped her eyes and plunged into her research.

-

Two weeks later and a Portkey hidden in her robes, Hermione walked past the stone gates of Azkaban.

While visitors weren’t normally allowed into the fortress, she had read about an ancient law that entitled the victim of a crime to visit their offender in prison in order to seek ‘closure’. Well, certainly not this sort of closure, but no one knew of her true intentions.

She had slipped out of Hogwarts on a Hogsmeade weekend without telling anyone where she was going. No one knew she was here, except the few Aurors currently on watch, but by the time they would realise what she was doing, it would be too late.

She was aware that from today on, she would be an outlaw in the wizarding world. She didn’t care, because she knew that her master wouldn’t mind. How long had it been since he had been deemed an outlaw by the Ministry?

She approached the cell where she could see him staring into space with absolutely no emotion on his face.

“Hello,” she said shakily.

He turned at the sound of her hushed voice, and there was a flicker of astonishment in his cold eyes as he caught sight of her standing just outside the bars.

“Quickly, Master,” she said, showing him the ordinary-looking quill. “I’ve got a Portkey.”

The disbelief in his eyes gave way to triumph. He got to his feet in a second. “Give me your wand,” he ordered.

Hermione hesitated, glancing down the corridor, where a guard could appear at any moment.

“Your wand, I say!”

Flinching a little, she wordlessly pushed it through the bars and into his pale hand.

“Good,” he said, unlocking the cell from the inside with a simple “Alohomora”. “We cannot allow the guards to remember your presence here,” he explained, steering her through the narrow corridor that led to the hall where the two Aurors were waiting for her.

The Aurors recoiled at the sight of a prisoner with a wand in hand, but they weren’t quick enough to react.

He raised the wand. Hermione shuddered in foreboding, assaulted by the memory of a wand of gleaming black wood being aimed at her and the same incantation being spoken …

“Obliviate!” he said, and the Aurors’ eyes misted up.

Only then did he grasp her arm with one hand and the Portkey with the other. In a whirl of air and magic, they disappeared from the island of Azkaban.

-

The Portkey landed them in the drawing room of the Malfoy Manor.

Hermione felt a flood of memories assail her, triggered by the familiar surroundings. She dropped her gaze to the floor. “Master …” she started, feeling very insecure all of a sudden.

“You did well, my dear,” he drawled. “You did well and I thank you. I had not expected you to remain loyal to me once you regained your memories.”

Hermione’s eyes filled slowly with tears. “I didn’t want to … I should hate you … but I can’t. I don’t know why I did it, but it was intolerable for me to think of you in that place … I couldn’t stand it.”

He kissed her then, raising a caressing hand to her face. She looped her arms around his neck, clinging to him desperately.

He disentangled himself from her. “I appreciate what you did,” he said, “but it is imperative that you return to Hogwarts before your absence is noticed.”

She looked hurt. “Why? I want nothing more than to stay with you …”

“I am aware of this, my dear, but you must do as I say.”

“You’re sending me away?” she said tearfully.

“Only for a while,” he reassured her. Her face clearly asked why. “I have a plan,” he answered the unspoken query, “and I have you to thank for it.”

“How long?” she moaned, “How long do I have to stay away from you?”

“I do not know for certain how long it will take, but when it is time, you shall know … and so will the entire world.”

“How long what will take?” she demanded. “What are you going to do?”

“Something great,” he said cryptically. “Trust your master, Hermione. You will know.”

The smile he gave her was full of malicious anticipation. Whatever he was planning, it was big and it was nothing good. “You will know,” he repeated, and she believed him. “Find me when the time comes and you shall be mine for eternity, with nothing to stand between us,” he promised.

“As you wish, Master,” she said dutifully. The terrible smile on his face chilled her, but she still found herself asking, “Why won’t you tell me, Master?”

His expression never changed. “Do not question me,” he said. “You will know in due time.”

“All right, Master,” she sighed. “Just … please be careful.”

“I shall. I shall indeed be exceedingly cautious.” There was a strange gleam in his cold eyes. He handed her wand back to her and pushed her into the roaring green flames. “You must go now, Hermione.”

-

Months passed. Seventh year ended, the NEWTs came and went, and still Hermione heard nothing from the man for whom she had risked her freedom by attempting the impossible – and succeeding at it.

Just when the Order was giving up hope of finding the last Horcruxes (“They could be anywhere, really – how are we supposed to know where to look?”), Harry began receiving unsigned tips about what objects the Horcruxes were and where each was hidden.

No one was ready to trust the directions, however. “It’s a trap,” was the unequivocal sentiment of Ron, Hermione, Ginny and just about everyone else who knew about Harry’s mission.

But, stubbornly, Harry picked one of the locations on the scrap of parchment that had been brought by an unfamiliar owl and resolved to go there to test it. “It’s our only chance,” he said to justify his reckless actions. “We’ll never know if it’s a trap or not. There’s only one thing to do and it’s to try it.”

“Harry, you can’t seriously be thinking –” started Hermione.

But just like with many other dangerous things Harry had done, no one could dissuade him once his mind was set. Not even Ginny, although she did try.

Hermione was sure he would never come back.

But he did. “It was true,” he said excitedly, rushing through the door into Grimmauld Place the next afternoon and straight into a tearful Ginny’s arms. “It wasn’t a trap! The Horcrux was there. Took me an hour to crack, but I managed to blast the cup to pieces. Whoever sent these notes, they’re helping us so much …”

Following the directions in the anonymous messages, Harry tracked down the remaining Horcruxes one by one.

The Order spent hours and hours trying to understand.

“Maybe it’s a Death Eater who’s secretly helping us?”

“It must be a high-ranking Death Eater too, to know about the Horcruxes …”

But that was where the clues came to a dead end. They were nowhere near piercing the mystery of their secret ally’s identity.

Only Hermione had her doubts.

It had to be someone who knew the gist of the prophecy, that only Harry could destroy Voldemort, and who had something to gain from Voldemort’s defeat. Whoever was behind this, it was extremely resourceful of them to use someone else – Harry – to do all the dangerous work, to get rid of Voldemort for them, leaving them to reap the fruit of victory without having to make the slightest effort for it. It was a scheme of a cleverness that Hermione had to admire.

I wonder, she thought suddenly, and words echoed in her head: I have a plan, and I have you to thank for it.

She still hadn’t figured out what he had been talking about, but she suspected this was part of it. It was this inkling that stopped her from sharing her suspicions with the Order of the Phoenix. For once, Hermione did not rush to show off her knowledge.

The morning after the sixth Horcrux had been destroyed, the owl brought Harry another note. There was an address on it and it was preceded by the words ‘Dark Lord’s hideaway’.

It was a cold, stormy night when Harry went after Voldemort, leaving his friends at the Order Headquarters, obstinate in his refusal to let anyone accompany him. It was his destiny and he alone could do it, he had said to them, and Hermione had been sure she would never see him again.

He surprised them by returning at dawn, his robes torn and spattered with blood, yet his expression calm. “It’s over,” he said simply, hugging Ginny, who had thrown herself at him the moment he had entered the house. “He’s dead. Voldemort is dead.”

No, Harry, Hermione wanted to say, it’s far from over.

-

And that was how, a week later, Harry and Ron stormed into the kitchen of twelve Grimmauld Place at the usual hour that marked the end of the day for those enrolled in Auror training. But today, there was no trace of the carefree mood that had inhabited them since Voldemort’s final defeat.

Hermione looked at the horrified, yet at the same time furious faces of her best friends. “What happened?” she asked.

The two young wizards exchanged a look of what she presumed was irritation.

“Haven’t you heard?” said Harry. “There’s a new Dark Lord on the rise.”

The words caused an ominous silence to fall over the room, even though they were spoken without a trace of fear. Then again, Harry had never really feared Voldemort, so there wasn’t much that could scare him. He looked more angry than anything else at the moment …

It was Ron who continued the conversation, and although his ears were red – a sign of extreme indignation – his voice did carry traces of apprehension. “They found the Minister’s body this morning and there was a message written in blood pinned to it.” Ron sounded disgusted. “It said, ‘This is no end. Lord Voldemort’s legacy shall endure’,” he cited, loathing dripping from every word. He had finally learnt to pronounce the feared wizard’s name, but only after said wizard was dead and his ashes scattered by the wind. But it was not over, no, that was exactly right – it wasn’t, because practically all the Death Eaters were still at large.

Hermione’s eyebrows knit together like whenever she was trying to figure out the solution to a problem. Which Death Eater would dare to use Voldemort’s name like that? “Do you have any idea of who it is?” she enquired, cursing herself for the trepidation she heard in her own voice.

“That is the problem,” said Ron darkly. When he showed no intention of continuing, Harry took over the conversation.

“We do,” said the black-haired youth who, having defeated Voldemort for the final time at the age of seventeen, was in the process of fulfilling his dream of becoming an Auror along with Ron. “In fact, we have a pretty good idea of who it is. There was a sign in the sky above the scene of the crime … but it wasn’t the Dark Mark.”

Harry said no more, trading an unreadable glance with Ron again. They were thinking she was going to faint or something, she realised suddenly. Do they really believe me so weak? she wondered.

Oh, but they don’t know you aren’t, do they?

“Well?” said Hermione. “What was it?”

“It was …” Ron’s voice was hushed, “… the Malfoy family crest.”

“What?” she exclaimed in genuine shock.

But she shouldn’t have been so surprised, really … who else could it be? Who else, among the Death Eaters, would be followed by the others and had enough experience and intelligence to be their leader?

She recalled his words: when it is time, you shall know … and so will the entire world.

Find me when the time comes and you shall be mine for eternity, with nothing to stand between us …

Hermione was no longer listening to Harry and Ron’s explanations. She never heard them swear on their lives that they would protect her at all cost. She was too busy taking a hasty yet monumental decision that would mark her down in history …

… as the only Muggle-born ever to have supported the side of Darkness.

I have a plan, and I have you to thank for it.

She had done this, she realised with a growing sense of pride. She was the one who had led him to question Voldemort’s supremacy. And he had taken her words more seriously than she had ever expected.

So this is where we part ways, the Golden Trio no more. Farewell, my friends … as for me, I have realised that my priorities lie elsewhere.

Next time, they would meet on the battlefield, where the two trainee Aurors would come face to face with their worst nightmare, the Muggle-born Death Eater …

-

In a room lavishly decorated with green tapestries and lit by torches, a bushy-haired witch knelt down in front of a wizard swathed in an elegant black cloak. His silky mane of blond hair gleamed to rival the moon outside the window as it reflected the torchlight.

The dress Hermione was wearing outlined the modest curves of her body; she kept her head bowed, but she could feel his gaze on her, could sense his eyes travelling over her and could almost see the hungry glint in them.

The mere idea of his attention caused a familiar stirring in the pit of her stomach, a dull ache that desperately wanted to be quenched and that only he could quench. The need to be acknowledged by him, the desire to please him … it was part of her nature, a part that had always pushed her to work hard to be found worthy, constantly craving the approval of authority.

She raised her eyes, meeting the cold grey of his, metallic, enchanting, enthralling her so that she could not look away, and a shiver went through her. The power in his bearing, his expression, his very presence was beyond what it had ever been in the past. One glance at this man left no doubt about his rank. The authority, the command in his eyes was terrifying … and beguiling.

A slender white hand grasped her left wrist. Her sleeve was pulled up and the tip of an ebony wand came to rest against the skin of her inner forearm.

“Hermione Jane Granger, do you accept my mark and vow eternal fealty to me?”

Few would have been able to say no. Hermione did not even think of it as she knelt freely, willingly before the new Dark Lord, her knowledge of the past unimpaired by any charm.

She let his power conquer her completely as she spoke. “Yes, Master, I do.”

THE END

Author’s note: I’m going to write a sequel to this story, a oneshot from Lucius’s point of view. Look out if you’re interested – it’ll be published on this site under the title Captor in Love. Meanwhile, I’d love to hear what you liked or didn’t like in this story.