I do not own Harry Potter.

For some reason lately I have only been able to read Harry Potter fanfiction that deal with either Tom/Hermione or Voldemort/Hermione, and I decided to give this a go while trying to update my dramoinaise Midnight Madness. Hope you all enjoy my first attempt at a Voldemort/Hermione oneshot.

Warning: Angsty and a little dark.

I know that what I wrote about MORGAN LA FEY is incorrect, but I made it this way so that it would better suite the story!

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Time passed unnoticed by Hermione Granger.

It'd seemed like forever since the Light had lost the war, plummeting the Wizarding World into darkness as Harry Potter dueled Lord Voldemort and lost to the man he'd spent his whole life trying to defeat. The details of the battle were unimportant, they were easily forgotten, and history would only remember the fact that the Boy-Who-Lived had died.

With his only true rival dead by his own wand, Voldemort had taken total control, making Godric's Hollow of all places his central base. Hermione was sure that he'd done it as a last slap on the face to Harry and all those who'd been on his side.

The people whom Hermione had loved with all her heart.

Closing her eyes tightly, the brunette leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the window, wishing, and not for the first time, that she had been one of those lucky to die before Voldemort started his reign. They hadn't had to stand by helplessly and watch as all that they'd fought for destroyed.

They hadn't had to see the massacre of the few faithful remaining, hadn't had to feel the terror that living in a society in which Voldemort and his Death Eaters reigned invoked.

And they hadn't had to live in the castle of their enemy.

Sighing, Hermione opened her eyes and pushed away from the window, still keeping her eyes on the garden below. It wasn't that she enjoyed the view of the dying flowers and lifeless, moss-filled pond. No, it wasn't that.

The reason she refused to look away from the roses and carnations that were wilting like her soul was because if she didn't look at them she'd have to acknowledge the presence in her room, the presence that haunted her quarters during his free moments.

She didn't need to look at him to know that he was there, that he was watching her. He might be silent like death itself, but his crimson gaze was nearly physical as he sat in the chair he so loved in the corner of the room she'd been imprisoned in for so long. He would spend hours in her room sometimes, not making a noise in the dead silence, observing her as she studiously ignored him.

When his visits to her room had first started she'd thought he was there to either rape or kill her. She hadn't been touched after being disarmed in combat and taken to a secure holding facility, and she'd been sure it was because Voldemort had had something worse in mind for her. And yet he'd given her a room filled with the beauty and luxury of wealth, her wardrobe couldn't close properly thanks to the countless exquisite gowns, and the walls were endless shelves of books that she'd never even dreamed that she would ever be able to touch must less read.

She'd been wary immediately. A dank jail cell she would have understood---had expected---and yet here she was in what would seem like the room of her dreams. And not only that, but the Dark Lord himself came to her room and didn't even Crucio her for the hell of it?

Something is wrong here. He's playing with me. But I won't be played with!

When the delectable and exquisite food was brought to her by the House Elves she refused to touch anything much less taste it. Even if the food wasn't poisoned she didn't want to partake of anything that came from that monster. She preferred to starve to death, and she'd told the House Elves just that when they tried to get her to eat.

It was only when he coldly murdered one of the pitiful, defenseless creatures in front of her as punishment did she start to eat. Hermione didn't understand why he cared that she eat. Maybe he wanted her alive for whatever he had planned for her. Maybe it was so horrible she'd die in an instant if she wasn't completely healthy.

That kept her tense and ready, waiting for Voldemort to make his move.

And yet he never did.

Instead he'd come to her quarters in his free hours, and without saying a word he'd go to the darkest corner and sit on the chair that never left that section of the shadows. Silence reigned between them as Hermione ignored the Dark Lord as well as she could, and he either spent his time going over scrolls, reading, or just sitting back and watching her.

It unnerved her how much time he spent watching her. It didn't make any sense. Why would he spend his free time in this room, observing a mudblood, the one creature he despised more than anything else?

Why had he kept her alive?

Why did he keep her living so comfortably?

Why was he always here?

Closing her eyes once more, Hermione tried to think of better times, to try and zone out the fact that she was once more alone with the monster that plagued her nightmares. She tried to think of Ron, of Harry, of Ginny and Luna, of all those who she'd loved and who she'd lost.

In horror she realized that she couldn't see their faces as clearly as she once had. She remembered Ron's freckles, Harry's green eyes, Ginny's grin and Luna's dreamy expression, and yet they were beginning to fade from her memory like a lost dream.

She tried to recall every detail of them in near desperation. She couldn't forget them, no matter how long they'd been gone. She couldn't let them go; she couldn't betray them that way. She had to keep them alive in the only way she knew how.

She had to!

In her desperation to keep her loved ones alive, she forgot all about the Dark Lord in her room for a moment.

And yet it didn't bring her the peace she'd once thought it would.

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When one night Voldemort appeared in her room and ordered her to follow him, Hermione had squared her shoulders and taken a determined breath. She'd been sure that it was time. That death was soon upon her. That whatever reason Voldemort had kept her alive and healthy for had been for such a horrible time as this.

Why else would he come at this hour to her room? He was never plaguing her corner at this hour---he was always busy with the affaires of running his kingdom.

Obviously time had come to deal with her.

Her belief only strengthened when he led her to the throne room, where only the most vile and loyal Death Eaters sat in seats on each side of the large, black, demonic throne that could only be his.

She'd gulped, readying herself for whatever evil she would have to face in front her most hated enemies. And yet she hadn't been ready when Voldemort took his seat on the High Throne and ordered her take her place by his feet.

The young woman had hesitated for a second, not understanding what was happening, and yet she found herself walking to him and suddenly she was seated on the cold ground by his feet. Her back straight and stiff, she knew her face betrayed her surprise and confusion, and yet everyone ignored her as session began and matters of the kingdom were discussed at leisure.

Hours passed and Hermione wasn't less confused as to her reasons for being there. Why had Voldemort taking her from her room and brought her here? Why was she allowed to be in the same room with her enemies and they discussed such vital and confidential information?

Those questions plagued her until the session was closed and with a bow towards Voldemort his most loyal departed. She followed the Dark Lord when he stood and left the room because she didn't know what else to do, and realized that she was not surprised to find that he'd led them back to her room.

The brunette walked in after him and when she realized that he was heading towards his chair, realized that despite the fact that she'd had to sit with him for hours he was still expecting her to tolerate his presence, she collected a book on the origins of magic and sat by the window. Despite his apparent lack of desire to speak to her, much less touch her, Hermione didn't dare go near her bed while he was in the room with her.

Immersing herself in the book, Hermione forgot about Voldemort's presence in her room, instead content to read the fascinating (and once thought destroyed) Only Edition. She curled up in the window seat and tried to sate her endless curiosity with the mysteries revealed in the enchanting read.

During vague intervals she could hear the turning of a page that wasn't hers, and decided that he must have picked a book from her library and was reading as well. The sound of those pages was the only thing that betrayed his presence and yet they were easily ignored.

Sometime during the night a House Elf brought them dinner and they ate it quietly, still reading their literature of choice. Hermione had to admit that she now ate without suspicion or thought as she nibbled on her desert, a cookie, and read Merlin's incredible accounts in the darker, more mystical and banned magic.

She hadn't realized many things, like the fact that Merlin had done more than his fair share of dabbling in the dark arts---or that he apparently had books which he'd filled with dark spells that he himself had created.

Why had this information been kept from the knowledge of the students, she wondered. Didn't they have the right to know that the 'greatest wizard of all times' had been darker than anyone cared to remember?

When she finished the book she got up from her seat, nibbling on the last cookie from her tray, and headed towards the shelves to her right.

Immediately she felt his gaze on her but she ignored him as she put away the volume and began to browse through the titles, trying to find another that might suit her fancy. There were so many interesting ones, but most of them sounded dark in matter and she tried to stick as far from them as possible, even though her curious nature made her hands sweat from desire to pull out a volume and sneak a peak at what they might contain.

Finally she decided on a book written by Morgan La Fey and returned to her window seat, beginning with the Introduction by the Author. She immediately found that she enjoyed the way the well-known witch expressed herself, and in time she was even more intrigued than the book written by Merlin.

Voldemort tarried longer in her bedroom that night than usually, but Hermione didn't notice it, so immersed in La Fey's writings. She did however notice the sound of the door closing when he left, and once she was sure that the Dark Lord had left her room she'd gone to bed and slept with the La Fey volume under her pillow so she could pick it up and read it first thing in the morning.

It never occurred to her that it was the first day since her imprisonment that she hadn't thought once of those she'd lost.

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A new routine was made.

Now instead of Hermione staying confined to her room all day with periodic visits from the Dark Lord she spent most of the day with him as he held court. A large cushion had been placed on the ground by his feet, and she tried not to wonder why her comfort was being taken into consideration and just did as expected.

During the earlier months of her captivity she'd been rebellious, loud and angry. She'd done all in her power to get the Dark Lord to kill her and end her existence, and yet he hadn't raised to any of her barbs and she'd finally fallen into silence and indifferent submissiveness.

In the end she'd stopped caring enough to fight. What was there to fight for anymore? The Order was dead, massacred, all her loved ones were dead as well.

All that was left was the desire to live, no matter how.

And that was what'd led her to this moment, seated by Voldemort's feet, eyes on the latest La Fey book that she'd managed to get her hands on, trying to drown out the screams of the one they'd brought in for treachery against the Dark Lord. Maybe once upon a time Hermione would have tried to help the poor bastard despite the fact that it was a lost cause, but the person Hermione had become now, the person not even she recognized or could stand, just turned the page and continued reading as the Crucios continued to rain down on the man crouched before the throne.

The only time she reacted and tensed was when she felt his cold fingers on the back of her neck as he caressed her, his thumb rubbing her skin softly. He'd begun doing this lately, touching her, especially when he was pleased with how the court sessions were proving to be.

It was nearly a subconscious move on his part to reach out and lay his hand on her shoulder, his fingers either losing themselves in her hair if it were down, or softly caressing the back of her neck if it were up.

No matter what he did it made her nauseas and sick at her stomach, and yet other than stiffen Hermione did nothing. His touch was cold and clammy, it made her shiver with disgust, and yet she suffered it silent, trying to lose herself in La Fey's writing.

She learnt much about the witch, such as the fact that she wasn't the evil, bitter person history made her out to be. Yes, she was a witch who enjoyed the dark arts, and yes, the son she'd had with Arthur had indeed turned against him, but Hermione had never known that Morgan and Arthur's intimacy had been more than a one-time affaire.

Hermione had discovered that La Fey's personal journals were a part of her library, and from those journals the young witch had discovered that Morgan had been Arthur's lover. It'd shocked her to the core and disgusted her, and yet as she continued to read on she realized that it wasn't so uncommon in those days as it was now.

Morgan had truly loved Arthur, in her own way, and much of her bitter ways and dark acts had been made out of jealousy towards the disgustingly superior Guinevere. She believed that despite the fact that Guinevere passed herself off as a muggle, that she was a witch, and that she'd enchanted Arthur into marrying her despite the prophecy that warned him not to.

With each journal she read Hermione began to not only understand the dark witch more, but she began to sympathize with her and her situation. She began to realize why Morgan did the things she did, and for the first time since her capture Hermione wondered if maybe that line she'd drawn concerning good and evil hadn't been somewhat naïve.

She read Morgan's misery at the marriage she was forced to endure, of the agony she felt every time she had to lay in the marriage bed and how she had to pretend it was Arthur touching her when it was in fact her ogre of a husband.

By the end of the journal, when Hermione read Morgan's confession at having killed her husband, the young Gryffindor allowed a smile to grace her face as she shared the feeling of victory and of revenge with the young witch who'd suffered so greatly by the hand of her husband.

She'd committed a horrible act, and yet Hermione was only proud at the young woman for finally taking a stand and defending herself from her brutal husband.

She didn't stop to think about how much her perception of right and wrong had begun to warp or how aghast her friends and loved ones would have been if they'd heard her reasoning.

Hermione didn't think of this at all, the only concern she had was when she finally finished the last of La Fey's books and realized how much she would miss reading the witch's works.

When she found a book by Vivien, the witch mentioned by Morgan as being a brilliant understudy, she hurriedly picked up the book, not realizing how eager she was to read one of the books she'd purposely overlooked due to the fact that it contained seriously dark elements.

The once Gryffindor sat down with that volume and read of the one person who'd been able to best Merlin. She found herself transfixed as she read of the spells and dark magics the book contained, amazed that one young woman had been able to come up with such things, awed.

She forgot why she'd been overlooking more than half of her books, and from then on just continued to read different books each volume she finished recommended as 'further reading'.

She failed to register that each book grew darker…or maybe she just ignored it…

Yet one thing she couldn't ignore was the night the Dark Lord didn't leave her room. She'd known that there was something different about this visit from the moment he'd entered her room, and when he'd started taking off his clothes she'd felt like cowering against the wall and pleading for mercy.

But she'd known that he wouldn't give her it.

She was his property, and he desired her and would have her.

So for her own sake she succumbed to his touch, closing her eyes tightly, gritting her teeth at his invasion, trying to ignore the coldness of his body over hers, in hers, tried in vain to ignore his grunts and moans of pleasure as he moved in her.

It was far too long before he was spent within her and withdrew from her, turning in the bed and falling asleep.

Hermione'd closed her eyes and silently cried herself to sleep.

The next day her things were moved to his room, and Hermione realized in dread that last night hadn't been a moment's release, but that the Dark Lord had established yet another routine between them.

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It took a year for Hermione to stop flinching at his touch, and it took four months more for her to finally accept her position in the Dark Lord's life as his constant companion and as his personal concubine.

It hurt the little bit of the old Hermione within, but the new Hermione, the one who wanted to live no matter what grew used to her new place in life.

Of course, it helped when things changed slightly. Whenever they were in their room he would speak to her. It was mundane really. He'd ask her about the books she was reading and debated her ideas about them. He'd sometimes ask her what she thought about the council meetings, and while she was wary to tell him her thoughts she finally did.

Surprisingly enough he listened to her speak, both spent in bed, his cold arm around her, puling her naked body close, listening as she talked.

Hermione found she enjoyed talking more than she had the silence, but she was still wary with how she expressed herself to him. He might humor her most of the time because she was the only one who the serpent-like creature took to his bed, but she knew that he would kill her if she did push him too far or questioned his ability to rule.

"I wish an heir and you will give me one."

Those words were what was keeping her awake and restless tonight, looking down at the creature whose bed she shared. He'd told her those words while taking her that night, and it'd left her cold in dread.

A child…with him?

Why would he want a halfblood bastard as his heir? She knew Bellatrix would sleep with her beloved Lord if he wished it, would give him an heir with a pureblooded mother, and yet why did he want one with Hermione?

The brunette hugged herself, feeling close to tears.

She didn't want it. Didn't want to be the mother of this creature's child. She didn't want to have his spawn in her, didn't want to feel the love she knew she'd feel for the child once it was created. She didn't want to love anything that was connected to him.

Closing her eyes, the brunette turned away from his cold body and cried softly.

Never before, despite her years of imprisonment, had she felt more trapped.

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Dark, I know, but I was in a dark mood, plus I wanted it to be realistic, and I just saw things happening this way.

Review?