Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and its components, including characters, places and spells, belong to their creator, J. K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended with this work.
A story by SerpentClara
Read the tale of what is probably the most ghastly love affair wizarding history has seen … judging by its colossal consequences.
Set in the Harry Potter universe, His Mistress relates a romantic intrigue between two enemies, namely one of the most esteemed Aurors of the time … and You-Know-Who's right-hand man. It is a tale where love is the most detrimental of weaknesses or the greatest of strengths, depending on which viewpoint you take.
Five years after leaving Hogwarts, Harry, Ron and Hermione have become heroic Dark-wizard-catchers. But when Hermione encounters the Death Eater who had set his eye on her since the Quidditch World Cup and whose attentions had not left her entirely unresponsive, judging by the fact that she had blushed under his gaze … when offered everything she could want in her life, such as unrestricted knowledge and immeasurable power, not to mention love … will she, Harry Potter's second-best friend (after Ron) and the brightest yet least influent member of the Golden Trio, go as far as to betray all she ever knew, even her own blood?
J. K. Rowling once said Muggle-borns "are not allowed to be Death Eaters, except in rare circumstances." Under the guidance of the man she loves, Hermione becomes the most notorious traitor the Light side has ever produced. The valiant Auror becomes a spy for Voldemort … A path that will lead her farther than she had ever dared dream.
You might wonder what gave me the idea for this plot – or this pairing. When I was re-reading book four, a particular segment gave me the hint, and with a little imagination, one can create a hundred possibilities based on a single sentence: Mr Malfoy's eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter Eight: The Quidditch World Cup)
I always wondered … why was he staring at her? He considers Muggle-borns inferior, so he should have barely spared her a glance – that's what people usually do to those they consider second-class! Or could it be because he hates Mudbloods? I think he hates Harry more and yet he barely even looked at him. So, really, I think there's only one other way to explain that behaviour, you know what I mean? And an even greater mystery, why did Hermione blush? We all know how inept Harry is at interpreting girls' emotions, but Harry, let me tell you this: girls do not blush because someone they dislike is staring at them. Quite the opposite, actually. That scene has always puzzled me and after a lot of thinking, I decided to write a story based on the obvious rationalisation.
Please note that this story was drafted before the release of the sixth book. It does not, therefore, take into account the events that occurred in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Please leave a review if you have anything to say; I'm always delighted to read your comments (as long as they are polite).
Warning: This story contains depictions of violence, death, betrayal, D/s, abusive relationships and other potentially disturbing themes. The author does not condone the opinions and practices described in this story.
— CHAPTER ONE —
Hermione Granger, Auror
A young woman was walking quickly along Diagon Alley, her fiery red cloak billowing behind her like a flag, identifying her to the rest of the world. Hermione Granger was an Auror. A talented Auror with observation skills and reflexes honed by three years of rigorous training followed by two years of practice.
Harry and Ron had gone into Auror training upon leaving Hogwarts. Hermione had been unsure about what career she wanted to go into – there were so many possibilities to choose from, many of them so exciting! At the last moment, she had decided to follow her best friends into training. They had become the Auror Trio, and now they were among best in the department, along with a former classmate, Neville Longbottom. The aptitude Neville had shown at Defence Against the Dark Arts back in their fifth year, when Harry had been teaching him with the rest of the DA, had been the beginning. Frank and Alice Longbottom had been among the most respected Aurors of their time before they had been struck by their tragic fate, and their son had inherited some of their talent.
Hermione shuddered as she remembered Neville's parents in the permanent ward of St Mungo's hospital and the heartbreaking way they didn't recognise their son. Now that it was her and her friends' turn to follow in the Longbottoms' footsteps, she knew that the same could happen to her any day. When she had chosen to become a Dark-wizard-catcher, she had been aware of the risks and she had accepted them just as her friends had, eager to become heroes, to join Harry in the noble job of people-saving. Bravery … Wasn't this the reason she had been sorted into Gryffindor? But were all Gryffindors destined to become Aurors, to sacrifice themselves for the cause of fighting You-Know-Who? No. Only the bravest, the best. And she was one of those. She, alongside Harry, was one of the elite.
Being a vigilant person, Hermione tried to avoid venturing outside after the sun had set unless necessary for a tracking mission, and even then, she took precaution seriously. Walking a deserted street alone at night could be dangerous in peaceful times, but it was more so these days, considering the number of times she had been attacked by Death Eaters who wanted nothing less than the demise of one of the most accomplished Aurors of the time. But today, as much as she would have wished to stay in her cosy home, she had no choice. She would be leaving on a mission early tomorrow morning and she needed to fetch some gold from her Gringotts vault before she left. Borrowing money from Harry, or, heaven-forbid, Ron was embarrassing. After the only time she had done it, she had vowed never to borrow gold again.
Between missions to track down dangerous wizards and the preliminary research required for these missions, there was never enough time for an Auror to visit Diagon Alley lately. But luckily for Hermione, the goblins worked well past normal office hours. In fact, Gringotts was open twenty-four hours a day.
It was a chilly September night. Shivering in the crisp autumn breeze, Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around herself and continued her walk towards the white building that was the wizarding bank, unaware of the hooded figure watching her slender silhouette from the shadows.
The route was becoming rather shadowy and she had difficulty seeing the way ahead. Being shrouded by the darkness meant that she would not be noticed by potential attackers, but not being able to see where she was going could be just as risky. She pulled out her wand and whispered, "Lumos!"
Her wand ignited, enabling her to see the path almost clearly, and this boosted her sense of security. However, she knew she had to be particularly careful because she was approaching the place where Diagon Alley connected to Knockturn Alley.
A gust of cold wind ruffled Hermione's clothes and the street suddenly seemed darker. She clutched her wand with chilled fingers and hurried. She had the impression that someone was watching her and had to resist the temptation to turn around.
The Dark wizard watched as magical light illuminated Hermione's slim figure. Is that Hermione Granger, the former prodigy of Hogwarts? She looks more alluring than ever.
Her voluminous brown hair, which had once been bushy and unkempt but had neatened somewhat with age, was falling in wild, bouncy ringlets down to her shoulders; her attentive brown eyes were sparkling, reflecting the beam of light coming from the tip of her wand.
Many times he had paused in a duel simply to watch her in motion, strands of brown hair flying in all directions to the point where it looked like a blur around her.
When he had first laid eyes on her at the Quidditch World Cup, so many years ago, he had noticed that there was something special about the bushy-haired girl. She had an air of superiority not unlike his own.
His son had told him all about her: the perfect marks she got in every test, her non-magical origins, her friendship with Potter and the Weasleys. He had observed the Mudblood curiously. So this was the best student of Hogwarts? He had thought she looked rather insignificant at first glance.
The girl had appeared not to care the slightest about her appearance. Tangled and untidy, her hair had been falling to her shoulders where it contrasted with the beige tone of her skin. She had looked up then and he had seen a pretty face with dark eyes framed by long eyelashes the same shade as her hair. A strange simplicity had been emanating from her, an innocence that, in a woman, could be more seductive than any deliberate coquetry.
He had sensed that there was something different about her because she had refused to look away, while others always looked down from his gaze. But this girl had stared right back.
Her brown eyes had been very expressive: her every emotion had been reflected in them. They had been truly captivating, innocent yet challenging. There had been an almost haughty expression in them that had undoubtedly come from the knowledge of being so much more intelligent than most.
A tinge of pink had appeared on her cheeks, but she had met his scrutiny almost proudly, refusing to show weakness. He had stared into her eyes … And for a moment that had felt like forever, her eyes had looked so deep and velvety that he had been mesmerised … something had lit up in them, some emotion directed at him – and it hadn't been hatred or fear. It had been something close to admiration.
For a second, he had seen the erudite woman behind the haughty girl, the woman capable of great loyalty and devotion … a woman who was enthralled by him.
His eyes had felt glued to hers and it was as though everything around them had suddenly disappeared; he had been lost in her dark eyes, forgetting who and what she was. He had looked away then, troubled by the attraction these magnetic eyes had stirred in him.
The girl could have been really pretty had she taken the time to tame her hair. He had pursed his lips; such looks and intelligence were a waste on a Mudblood. Had she been a pure-blood ... he had been feeling strangely disappointed, all the while knowing that the bewitching brown-haired girl would haunt him for a long time. He hadn't said anything as he turned and walked to his seat, followed by his son and his wife.
During uninteresting moments in the match, his eyes would stray away from the game and to where she sat in the row in front of him, and he would find himself staring at the back of her head.
Later that evening, when the Dark Mark had appeared in the sky and he and the other Death Eaters had been fleeing out of fear, before Disapparating, he had had the time to catch sight of the girl he had looked at earlier that day, her face pale as she pulled Potter into the woods. But what he had also noticed was that she had been looking in interest at the group of masked wizards which he had been leading, and when she had looked up at the sign in the sky, the look in her eyes had been one of fascination as well as fear.
In his mind, the defiant teenage girl had suddenly become a woman with deep dark eyes who was in awe of him and fascinated by the Darkness. The woman who, from that day on, would haunt his dreams at night and plague his thoughts in daylight.
That had been eight years ago. But he had not forgotten her – far from it. True, their encounters had been short and far between, not to mention under far from congenial circumstances …
At the Department of Mysteries, he had happened upon her, where she had lain sprawled on the floor in a corner of the Brain Room, unconscious – or dead? He had felt a twinge of … had that been worry? He had commanded Mulciber to go ahead, hoping that in the meantime, the others would convince Potter to hand over the prophecy.
He could hear his fellow Death Eaters' voices down in the black hallway as he had looked around the room. The Weasley boy had been thrashing against some tentacles that kept wrapping around him and the pale girl with straggly hair had been lying unmoving on the floor next to the Weasley girl, also unconscious.
Pleased by the fact that there was no one to witness his actions, he had quickly walked over to the corner where she had been, her eyes closed and her face deathly pale. He had bent down and seized her wrist, not even thinking about the fact that he was touching a Mudblood. There had been a pulse, weak but nevertheless there had been one and he had felt a startling surge of relief.
He had let go of her wrist and stared at her motionless face. This was the girl he could not stop thinking about since he had seen her at the Quidditch World Cup, the enigmatic girl who haunted him in his dreams. She was his obsession, and once he had come to terms with the fact that he had some sort of sentiments for a Mudblood, he had sworn he would make her his …
On an impulse, he had run a caressing hand over her cheek; he had stroked her soft brown hair … oh, how he had dreamt of doing this to her … this, and so much more.
A whimper from Weasley's youngest son had brought him out of his daze. He had withdrawn his hand and stood up. Only then had he noticed the blood seeping out of a wound on the bushy-haired girl's chest, a bright red patch on her Hogwarts robes.
She had been losing blood at an alarming speed and he had recognised the effects of the Stabbing Curse, the curse Dolohov had used to kill the Prewetts. The Stabbing Curse inflicted wounds that resembled those caused by a knife, only these wounds were deadly because Dark magic prevented the blood from clotting, so that the victim would die from blood loss shortly if they weren't killed outright. It was a wonder that the girl had not been dead yet; usually, the wounds caused by this curse were deep enough to kill instantly.
A malevolent smile had found its way onto his face. Dolohov was in for an unpleasant surprise. He might just find that his house had accidentally caught on fire in the middle of the night …
He had pulled out his wand and cast a spell to stop the bleeding, using magic just as Dark to counteract Dolohov's curse. Her life was no longer in danger; it had been all he could do. He was no Healer and he had to leave … he had had lost too much time already; the Dark Lord would not have been pleased to hear of this. As the Dark Lord's unofficial battle leader, he had been supposed to be in charge of the band … Dumbledore's bunch of friends would find her, or Ministry wizards would – in any case, she wasn't been in immediate danger anymore, he had reasoned to himself as he had hurried through the door that led into the Death Chamber, where the rest of his comrades had been stationed.
Later that night, when the Death Eaters had failed to get the prophecy and Dumbledore had cast the Anti-Disapparation Jinx on them, the ancient wizard had looked directly at him, his expression triumphant, pleased at finally having ruined the reputation of the Malfoy family. So far, the name had still commanded some respect in the eyes of the Ministry, in spite of Dumbledore's efforts. But as soon as word would get out about the head of the family being caught in the company of a group of escaped convicts and known followers of the Dark Lord after having illegally entered a restricted area of the Ministry in an attempt to steal something … well, no amount of gold would get him out of this one, nor did he expect the Imperius excuse to work a second time.
Dumbledore had known this, which was why he had looked so nauseatingly smug. But he had looked back at his enemy with his head held high, refusing to let the old fool see his despair. You may have won today, Dumbledore, he had thought, but I will have my vengeance. And even then, his mind had returned to the bushy-haired girl, recalling the softness of her skin and the outline of breasts he had seen under her bloodied robes, and he had wondered whether Dumbledore's people had found her …
Cornelius Fudge was quick to turn on those he considered friends. One day the Minister had been greeting Harry Potter like an old friend, the next he had proclaimed that the boy was insane and dangerous. It had been no different with him – once Fudge had seen the evidence of his trusted advisor's allegiance to the Dark Lord, his esteem for the 'very old family' that donated to 'excellent causes' had evaporated.
And when he had found himself in Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors, instantly drained of all hope and will to live, the memory of her face had been the only thing that had kept him sane. It had not been a happy thought but more of a painful, desperate yearning, and it had been the only thing he could cling to, as the Dementors could not take it from him. She had been his only link to reality when he had found himself forced to relive his worst memories, to feel every time the Dark Lord had raised his wand against him all over again. It was then that she had truly become his obsession.
When he had caught the same girl in Hogsmeade late one night, in her seventh year at school, he had been determined to claim what was his. He had pushed her against a wall and kissed her. When Dumbledore's crowd had arrived to rescue her and her friends, he had promised to her that it wasn't over and he had fully intended to act on his word.
But once out of Hogwarts, she had disappeared with Potter and the Weasley boy. Auror training was done in a secret location and the trainee Aurors were isolated from the world. More than a boarding school like Hogwarts, the renowned Auror Academy was a yearlong education facility with no summer, Christmas or Easter holidays. And when the girl, now a woman, had returned as a fully qualified Auror three years later, it had become much more difficult for him to seek her out as he would have wished to – he did not want to risk returning to Azkaban and he knew perfectly well what every Auror's duty consisted of: capturing Dark wizards. So he had stayed away and he had thought that his obsession would fade with time …
It did not. Now she was walking alone, at night, in a deserted street? He could not resist this opportunity. I have had enough of waiting, he decided. She was an Auror, yes, but he was sure he could defeat her in a duel. He was the Dark Lord's second, after all. He would simply have to be cautious.
He decided to pursue her.
Hermione was a qualified Auror, and when she caught sight of suspicious Dark activity, she did not run for her life but lingered in the premises to investigate it. So when she heard a rustle behind her, she pretended not to notice it and continued on her way, deliberately slowing her pace and holding her wand tightly.
Raising it high enough to spread the narrow beam of light further on the ground, she turned her head sideways and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a hooded figure creeping up furtively behind her.
It was important to let the person – whoever it was – believe she was not aware of them following her. Then she could have a better chance of catching them unprepared when she would strike.
She walked an entire building block and the stalker was still following her. This meant that it was not merely a stray stroller but undoubtedly a Dark wizard after her, and he was going to attack soon – unless she attacked first. She quickly analysed her options and decided that the best tactic would be to take the initiative. Perhaps she could catch him off-guard, which was unlikely but possible, and if not … well, the confrontation was inevitable anyway.
With the sharp reflexes of an experienced Dark-wizard-catcher, Hermione aimed her wand over her shoulder and muttered, "Impedimenta!"
The spell hit the target ... who deflected it easily, then sent a jet of red light at her. She dodged it and set off a stream of smoke from her wand in an attempt to disorientate her opponent. To her surprise, he aimed a magical burst of wind in her direction in response, resulting in the fumes being blown in her face.
Clever move, thought Hermione as she jumped out of the way, evaluating the possibilities. By all signs she was fighting a skilled duellist, but most Death Eaters, no matter now quick their reflexes and how wide their knowledge of spells, possessed an insignificant amount of magical power, weakened still by the time most of them had spent in Azkaban.
One of the secrets of Hermione's successful capture of so many Dark wizards was a spell she had discovered by accident during a late-night reading in a book on ancient duelling. It was a jinx bordering on the line between Light and Dark magic. It disabled the target by rendering them blind and dizzy for exactly four seconds, and no wizard of average power could counteract it. Four seconds weren't much time, but they were enough to cast a Stunning Spell. It was worth a try.
Like most jinxes that were classified as Dark magic, including the one Quirrel had used on Harry's broom in their first year as well as Snape's counter-curse, this spell did not require a wand, only direct eye contact with the target, without blinking, accompanied by the incantation.
Hermione fixed her eyes on the cloaked form of her opponent and mumbled a string of Latin words under her breath.
To her surprise, the Death Eater dispelled her jinx within a second. She did not know, of course, that the wizard was just as surprised as she, only for a different reason: he had not expected one of the decade's most esteemed Aurors to use Dark magic.
Hermione concluded that it was a powerful opponent, then, if he could fight her spell. No matter, she loved a good challenge. She was not one of the best Aurors for nothing. Little did she know this was one challenge she should not have taken …
She heard another rustle to her left yet could not see anything. Her attacker seemed to have disappeared, but Hermione knew better. Death Eaters did not abandon their endeavours so easily. She stood still, listening. Then –
Her wand went flying out of her hand as she felt someone grab her from behind. The light spell had been discontinued the moment her wand was no longer in her grasp and Hermione found herself in complete darkness, prevented from moving by a wizard she couldn't see. She shrieked and squirmed, trying to throw the aggressor off.
Her angry scream was cut off and she realised the man must have cast a nonverbal Silencing Charm. She tried to kick him, but it was hard to take aim because he was still behind her. Her attempts to get away were futile; the person who was holding her was incredibly strong and apparently had no intention of letting her out of his hold.
Damn. She should have been more careful. Now she was trapped. The last time she had been in a similar situation was back when she had been a seventh-year at Hogwarts, and it had been a very similar situation, at least in the start … Hermione stopped that trail of thought. No, she did not want to think of that right now. She had to figure out a way to get out of this situation alive and, hopefully, unscathed.
She couldn't see her attacker, but she knew it must have been a Death Eater. Who else would creep up on an Auror in a dark, deserted intersection near an alleyway dedicated to the Dark Arts?
Meanwhile, the stalker, who was holding her arms in an unyielding grip behind her back, spoke in a drawling voice.
"Do not squander your energy on hopeless resistance, Miss Granger. You will not wriggle out of this predicament, not this time."
In the shadows of nightfall, Hermione's face went ghostly pale. Yes, exactly the same situation. Only this time, her friends weren't around to save her. She would recognise this man's voice anywhere, despite having last heard it some long five years ago. That smooth, slow speech that oozed arrogance … it allowed Hermione to identify this wizard as the one the Aurors – in whispers – referred to as You-Know-Who's 'right-hand man'. Most people avoided pronouncing the names of Voldemort's high-ranking followers and some of them – Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov and last but not least, he – were feared nearly as much as Voldemort himself.
Gryffindors were known to be brave and fearless. Even more so were Aurors. Hermione could honestly say there was nothing and no one that frightened Harry these days. But she couldn't say the same about herself.
There were two wizards Hermione had ever feared. Lord Voldemort was one. But then, who did not fear Voldemort? Even his followers did. She just had to see their reaction when Harry boldly pronounced his name in their presence. He Who Must Not Be Named was one wizard of whom the Muggle-born Auror had always been afraid.
And Lucius Malfoy was the other. Since that day in Flourish and Blott's when she had been twelve, she felt a deep sense of dread whenever she thought of the intimidating man whose son she hated.
Either he was going to kill her or he was going to kidnap her and bring her to his Master, which was even worse an option, given that she would probably have to suffer torture before being killed. Or maybe not …
Don't be silly, Hermione! she admonished herself.. Aurors and Death Eaters were enemies to the core. If he had not killed her before, he certainly would now that she had become a Dark-wizard-catcher. No, she was going to die, she knew it …
She could hope for no assistance. Her friends weren't here and she hadn't told anyone where she was going … she had even left the enchanted pocket mirror that she could use to contact the Order at home. No, she knew that the outcome of this situation would be decided by the enemy.
He knew it too. In fact, he knew it so well that he did not hurry. "Well, Miss Granger, I would have thought you'd learn from your mistakes – though five years is indeed a long time …"
Hermione would have blushed if she had not been so scared. But as it was, she just stood there, her back straight, her arms tense, an expression of utter fright on her face. She did not make a sound. She waited.
She felt the air vibrate against the back of her head as he said the spell to summon her wand from where it had fallen to the ground. She craned her neck to follow it with her eyes as it zoomed obediently into his hand. He held it tauntingly in front of her face, as though to see whether she would have the nerve to try to snatch it away.
She would have attempted it if he hadn't been holding her wrists securely in his hand. Not for the first time, Hermione wished she wasn't a woman, defenceless without her magical power … she cringed when he intoned, "Lumos!" behind her and the wand lit up inches away from her face. She looked at the piece of wood despairingly, then turned her head as far back as she could to give him an upset, scared look.
She found herself looking into a pair of gleaming grey eyes that stared fiercely into hers. In the beam of her wand, she saw the anticipation in these eyes and the cruel triumph twisting the wizard's pale face. Hermione shivered.
He said "Nox" and the street fell back into darkness. Her wand disappeared into his cloak and the last of her hopes disappeared with it.
"Scared?" he sneered. She could not answer because of the Silencing spell, but the panic in her eyes must have been impossible to overlook. "I will not hurt you unless you struggle," he said softly, releasing her hands.
Before she could do more than wobble in surprise, his hand closed around her upper arm.
"Come with me," he commanded, steering her around the corner into Knockturn Alley.
He wouldn't hurt her? Hermione did not believe a word of this, but she knew better than to rebel. It would have been easy for him to use the Imperius Curse, but for some reason he preferred for her to follow him of her free will, and that thought gave her an ounce of hope that maybe, maybe he wasn't going to kill her after all. He could have already done it had he wanted to, but no, it seemed that he wanted her alive. He hadn't even used the Cruciatus Curse, which was rather surprising, knowing that she was a Muggle-born Auror and he a follower of a man thought Muggle-borns were the filth that needed to be wipe off the face of earth. Astonishingly enough, if she were to disregard the threats and the mockery, he had treated her rather delicately the whole time.
Throwing all second thoughts aside, she followed him into the dirty, dark alley.