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The Dark Lord considered the years that passed since His ill-begotten son was murdered by the faithless to be of little importance. It was not only His son that He mourned, but the child’s mother. Burnt at the stake when that mortal king – John – had ruled over her motherland. Her hair as red as the flames that had eaten her alive. He had never had interest in love. Such a fleeting emotion, so useless and weak. But He had grown attached to the mother of His son.

It was not only her beauty that enticed Him, but her heart, her strength, and her devotion to His word. Her devotion and love which had been freely given had brought Him back to full strength. Her belief in Him had undid the curse that the false God had put on Him. He was a beast no more, but the pinnacle of angelic beauty, otherworldly in physique. There had never been a being with beauty such as His.

He had not relished His beastly form. When He had fallen from Heaven His False Father had ripped not only His wings from His back but had taken His mortal flesh from His very being. Slowly, painfully, the Dark Lord had lost all of His ethereal beauty until only cloven hooves, wiry hair, and a forked tongue.

Her power alone, her devotion to Him, had lifted the curse. His wings, divine as they were, had never returned. But His body was whole once more.

Even in death, her power was beyond that of a natural witch. she had managed to lay one last curse upon His throne, a curse to end His line. It had come to fruition, of course. No curse laid by a witch with infernal power of Hermione Lovelace’s level could ever fail.

It did not anger Him any less. Sadness, mourning, those feelings were for the weak – the ones who worshipped the false God. Anger, resentment, hate, fueled the Dark Lord. Anger that His favorite toy had been ripped from Him. Resentment that a witch had had a hand in taking her away. Hate for the whole of mortal-kind.

He sowed the seeds of discontent, turning mortal against mortal so He could watch the world burn. With His human form, He set His plan to finally win the war against the False god.

About a hundred years after Hermione’s murder, He watched the mortals burn the way she had burned, the fire melting their skin from their bones, and their blood boiling as they inhaled smoke. But it was not their deaths that pleased Him. It was their loss. They watched their young burn as He had lost His young.

His son.

“Please, My Lord!” the scaled man before Him moaned pitifully, “Have I not served you loyally?”

Dark blue eyes showed little pity, “This sacrifice is a show of your loyalty.” The handsome man smiled, without warmth, “You exist because I allow it. You should be happy to die for me.”

The demon’s sobbing was cut short as his throat was slit. The red liquid slid across the floor and the Dark Lord watched as it ran across the carvings in the stone. The wind picked up, and the symbols on the floor began to glow.

“Soon,” the Dark Lord whispered, kneeling beside the skeletal remains that lay in the center of the ritual circle. “Soon you will rise again, and nothing will stop me from destroying any who oppose me.” He stood, and the servant behind Him held out a folded cloth.

“A hair from those who spurned the dead,” He recited, and placed the hair in a bubbling concoction that shined a brilliant green. He then turned around to meet the eyes of a fearful teenaged girl. She was gagged and bound.

“Do not be scared,” the Dark Lord stated earnestly, “For you will become part of a greater purpose. You were nothing; insignificant until this moment.” He quickly shot His arm forward ripped open the woman’s belly. She screamed, muffled by the gag but feral in her pain.

“The womb of a virgin, untouched by man,” the Dark Lord continued, “stolen in the first blood.” He placed the pink and veiny uterus within the pelvis of the skeleton, and then turned again towards the woman who was unconscious from the blood loss. He pulled her skin back even harder and took her weakly beating heart.

“The heart of a virgin in love, devoted and true.” He placed the heart in the ribs and a smile crossed His lips as He watched the etchings glow brightly. The air became thick, and the bones before Him began to rattle. The ground began to shake, and he watched as the urn that sat at the base of the ribs began to crack and crumble.

“Bring back what was lost, the thing stolen from me. I have given the earth a life for each of her unholy souls. Three have died so she may survive. Rise!” he shouted as the wind became unbearably strong, as the walls shook with intensity.

“Rise before me, virtuous and true, loyal and devoted; my other half!” He plunged His hand into His own side with nary a flinch, pulling a rib from His own body. The wound healed instantly, and He dropped the bloody bone into the potion which was threatening to spill over. He lifted it above His head and then poured it over the skeletal remains.

“Rise, Hermione Lovelace!” He called over the wind, His voice clear, “Rise again, as the blood of my blood. RISE!”
The ground split around the ritual circle and the Dark Lord watched as the bones became more. First the flesh, then the veins, the unblemished skin, and finally, the long red hair. He smiled triumphantly, as the chest abruptly rose, and the body took a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes shot open, and she screamed, inhuman, unholy, ungodly. She coughed and writhed and eventually her knees curled towards her chest as He knelt beside her.

She blinked, her unseeing eyes going from white to cinnamon brown. Her eyes found His immediately, and He saw within them what He had always seen.

“My Lord! You have not forsaken me! I knew you would never leave me in that place-” she cried grabbing onto Him and then moaning in grief, “They killed our baby! They took my baby from me!”

He picked her up, arms under her knees and back. “I am a gracious master. You have served me faithfully, my witchling.”

Tears beaded into her eyes, “I tried to summon You. I tried to escape – Sister Denholm! It was that forsaken wretch – I know she helped them!”

The Dark Lord nodded and then turned them around so that Hermione could see the wall behind them. Hermione’s eyes widened and then a wide smiled came across her face.

There, nailed to the wall in a five-point star was Adonia Denholm. Her skin was carefully cut from her flesh, pinned neatly to the wall. Her body was on display, muscles torn from her chest to expose her lungs, which still moved.

Her eyes were intact, but her mouth was sewn shut. “She will stay there for eternity, locked in this room. She will pay for what she did.”

Hermione took in short breath, and then put her fingers to the Dark Lord’s face, amazed by His chiseled jaw, blue eyes, and waved raven hair. “You are so beautiful,” she wrapped her arms around Him more tightly, “But you have always been beautiful, My Lord.”

He smirked and then walked through the doorway where more servants were waiting. “You!” He snapped, and the young witch ran forward promptly.

“I am yours to command, My Lord.”

“Bathe My Lady. Give her anything she desires,” He turned to the rest of the room, “This is Hermione Lovelace. She is your better in all things. You will do as she says, you will fulfill her every wish. This witchling is my chosen one, the one who will bare me a son.”

The servants were all prone in respect, but the Dark Lord ignored them.

Hermione ran her fingers across His skin, and then eventually her thumbs across His lips. He opened them and lightly bit her finger. “Sleep now, my love. When you wake, we will rule the world.”

Hermione slept peacefully in the four-poster bed beside Him. Everything was going to plan. The humans were making total war, with the mortals dying in droves. He had little interest in what they did beyond their suffering.

This world was vastly different to the one that Hermione had died in. That world had been forsaken the moment it had killed His child. But this world – this one was untouched. The humans worshipped the false God less piously. In this world, the Dark Lord played a part, masquerading as a mortal to collect followers. Magicals had created enclaves, societies where they roamed free, hidden away from the prying eyes of the mundanes. It was ripe for Him to rule.

Hermione shifted beside Him, cuddling closer to Him. There were tear stains tracked down her face. She had wept for hours, mourning their babe, her familiar, and her own tragic end. She hadn’t been able to sleep until He had given her a calming draught the night before. She needed rest, for the future had many difficulties ahead.

This world was foreign for her. She would need to learn how to fit into a world that was as similar as night was to day. He knew she could do it, of course. His Hermione was quite bright, and quick to learn.

In the few days that they had spent together again, Hermione had done her best to acclimate to the foreign world around her. It had helped that the Dark Lord had saved a small piece of home for her by protecting the forest she had lived in, and generously rebuilding her cottage. It was nearly identical to the one the mortals had burned down.

Still, Hermione had been saddened to hear what had happened to her cottage in the elder forest. The mob of mortals had burnt it as they burnt her. She was long deceased by the time the Dark Lord had finally been called to the mortal plane by a frantic Sister Hill. She had tried to visit Hermione and had only found wreckage. Both she and Sister Whitegrove had wept at the Dark Lord’s feet for their friend. The only unblemished items they salvaged from the rubble were the Lovelace Grimoire, which had been protected by infernal magic beyond what the mortals could destroy, and the bassinette that had been warded to protect His son. It was in the room across the hall, along with everything else they would need when His son was born.

Beside Him He felt Hermione stir. “Mmm,” Hermione breathed before opening her eyes. She saw Him and smiled, but when her hand went to the flat of her belly it dropped.

He wished He could flay Adonia Denholm alive again.

She’d woken in the same candle lit room that she had for most of her life. Although Aunt Lindsay had raised her, Hermione knew her mother as though they she had truly met her, all because of her careful entries into the family grimoire.

Aunt Lindsay only knew what Helen Lovelace had told her, and by what was in the family’s grimoire.

The Lovelace grimoire was one of two of the most important items she owned. Within it was her family’s lore. Its pages were thick, and though it looked to be an oversized ornate leather book, it was a traditionally made, enchanted grimoire that had endless pages. They had always been wise, and powerful witches. But Hermione’s power had all come from the planning of her mother. Lovelace women through a series of unholy baptism blessings were gifted quite a few family traits. They were pretty faced, generous of bosom, strong in fertility magic with the same red hair and cinnamon eyes. Every one of the women of her line had been leader of her coven, until Helen’s untimely death. From the beginning, Lovelace mothers taught Lovelace daughters how to strengthen their magic with each generation. It was perhaps for this reason, that the Dark Lord had chosen to bless her with His heir.

Helen Lovelace had eventually met Aunt Lindsay, who had become a surrogate mother figure when Helen’s fertility drugged Lupercalia ritual with the fallen angel Azazel had landed her with a quickening belly. Helen’s pregnancy was dangerous. Witches and fallen angels did not often conceive. It took immense power for a witch to birth a child of a fallen angel, and some witches believed that children who were born as such were far more powerful than the rest. Her mother had survived the pregnancy, but had died in a bed of blood, body too weak from supporting a blessed child and had not survived the night.

Although Azazel was her father, she knew only of Him what other witches knew. As long as she remembered, the only Father in her life was the Dark Lord, who she devoutly believed was the Father of all that was unholy.

“I have failed you,” Hermione had cried when she awoke.

The Dark Lord held her as she mourned the loss of her child. She had been blessed with the heir the Dark Lord Himself. The babe that had moved with her had been destined to finally tip the balance against the False one. And he was gone.

As expected, Hermione took to her new home with practiced ease. She learned how to behave in this different society, and the customs that she had to follow to rule by His side. Their plan would begin in earnest today. The Dark Lord planned to take over this world in a new way. Rather than through violence and force, He would coerce the humans into servitude. When He had enough power, He could take complete control. He found that He enjoyed being exalted and torturing the humans would not give Him the worship He found so pleasing.

“Fascinating,” Hermione mumbled again, examining her wand with a critical eye. “To think that witches have come to the point where they must use a wand to channel their own power.”

The Dark Lord snorted, and then placed a quick peck to her temple. “Come now. We are to hold court on the train.”

Hermione’s face grew into a wide smile, “Of course, Tom.” How simple the name was, nothing like her Lord at all. And yet, it suited His innocent face. Behind them trailed Sisters Annabelle Whitegrove and Elspeth Hill, who had begged to join Hermione as handmaids long ago. They had watched over her bones, and worked tirelessly to prepare for her return. It was perhaps due to both loyalty to the Dark Lord, and friendship with the presumptive mother of His heir that the girls had chosen to serve her.

Tom led them onto a train car and then into a spacious berth meant only for Him. Above the entrance, a golden plaque shined with ‘Head Boy’ embossed. He dutifully put both His and Hermione’s trunks away and was careful not to jostle the carrier that held her demonic friend who had been promptly rebound into a bandy-legged orange feline with blood red eyes. Hermione smiled sweetly at the Dark Lord and reached her arms out expectantly. The Dark Lord opened the hell-cat’s cage and the demon dutifully climbed out and hopped into Hermione’s lap. He bunted his head into her belly and purred as she scratched behind his ears.

“You are the sweetest, my little Crooky!” she cooed at him, “Aren’t you the loveliest little boy a witch could ask for?”

Crookshanks yowled back and kneaded on her before making himself comfortable in her lap.

Tom watched with thinly veiled fond exasperation as Hermione loved on the orange beast that had once taken form of a red eyed shadow demon. He wondered why He felt no jealousy when Hermione chose to give the thing her attention over Him. He thought perhaps it was because

Hermione had sucked His cock thrice when the Dark Lord had presented the demon she had once bound into a cat familiar before her.

“Oi, Tom!” called a tall man with long blonde hair while others within earshot, “How was your summer?” He caught sight of Hermione and put on a charming smile, “Hello, beautiful. What did you say your name was?”

Tom whirled around with near inhuman speed as the door closed and shoved His wand into the man’s throat. “Her name is My Lady.”

Grey-blue eyes blinked, “I apologize, My Lord. I have overstepped.” He then bowed deeply, “I am Abraxas Malfoy, and I am one of My Lord’s Walpurgis Knights.”

Hermione smiled at Tom prettily and then put her left hand out expectantly for Malfoy to kiss, “A pleasure. My name is Hermione Lovelace. I’ve come to Hogwarts this year because I was accepted for an apprenticeship with Madam Proudfoot.” The lie spilled from her lips with practiced ease, and through her painted lips no one would be any wiser.

Abraxas kissed the ring there, a clear red jonquil round diamond set in golden, woven like a flower in the night. It reminded her of the blood red moon she used to pray under in the Elder grove.

“She is my betrothed,” Tom continued, His eyes saying what His lips did not.

Hermione turned away, starting conversation with Annabelle and Elspeth.

Soon after Malfoy arrived, the rest of Tom’s new inner circle appeared. Thoros Nott, who was dark of hair and blue of eye, Orion Black who had hair like night and eyes of silver-grey, Randolph LeStrange who was light of hair and dark in eye, and Ewan Rosier who had brown hair and green eyes.

“My Lady,” Ewan greeted, bowing politely.

Hermione smiled mischievously, “Mr. Rosier – I am so pleased to meet you. Elspeth has told me much about you.”

Elspeth flushed and Ewan smiled, “Good things, I hope.”

“She was quite flattering,” Hermione replied to Elpseth’s embarrassed bemoaning, “It was all very complimentary.”

For the rest of the train ride, Hermione learned as much as she could about her Lord’s servants and their destination – Hogwarts.

What a silly name, Hermione thought.

“Will you take the boats over the lake?” Thoros questioned, “Transfers are allowed to take the boats with the first years. It’s quite the sight to see.”

Tom gave him a dirty look when Hermione looked at Him with pleading eyes. He didn’t relish the thought of Hermione being out of His sight and surrounded by mortals. The last time that had happened – He pushed that thought away.

“Although she is young, My Lord,” Orion began carefully, “My youngest sister will be attending Hogwarts for the first time this year. Perhaps she may accompany Our Lady on the boats.

“Fine,” He acquiesced, and Hermione gave Him a look that promised He would not regret the decision later. He would rather she suck Him off now, but He had little desire for the dirty mortals to see her nudity.

“We’re going to reach Hogsmeade soon,” Annabelle suddenly said, “Shall we ladies go freshen up?”

Elspeth and Hermione nodded and the girls moved to the toilet to change for Hogwarts. Having dressed her earlier, Elspeth and then helping her remove her day clothes. Having someone else do the task of dressing her was one of the many pleasures of life with the Dark Lord. Hermione was not one to over-induldge in luxury.

 Or, she had not been previously. Wealth had little importance to witches. When one lived for hundreds of years, one had many years to accumulate wealth, after all. Hermione had found luxury to be un-interesting. She enjoyed her gardening, her prayer, and her work as a midwife. She’d helped many a witch birth a babe, and just as many mortals.

That said, Elpseth and Annabelle took a very long time to ready Hermione every morning, and Hermione was quite glad to let someone else take on the task of tying her stays dress from neck to ankle.

“I am so blessed to have you both,” Hermione started as Elspeth unpinned her coif, and Annabelle untied the bow sleeves of her stays. She was dressed very smartly in emerald green and black today. She wore a long sleeve stays dress made of velvet over a long sleeve smock of black cotton. She wore her favorite, which was black with silver embroidery. It had taken her fourteen hours to embroider that particular partlet, and the Dark Lord had even praised her skill when she showed it to Him.

“We are Sisters,” Annabelle said, “We signed His Unholy book, the same as you.”

“Yes,” conceded Hermione, turned carefully as her petticoat and bodice, “You are quite right. We have been devout to Our Lord, and so He has blessed us with true friendship.”

“Indeed,” Elspeth grinned, as she waved her wand at the clothes so that they folded themselves up neatly.

“We begged the Dark Lord to take revenge against Adonia No-Name,” Annabelle spat. All three girls quickly cleansed themselves from speaking of Adonia, who had committed such an act as sacrilege against their Dark Lord.

As her Partlet was removed and she was standing in her black linen chemise, feeling her nipples begin to pebble in the cold.

Annabelle finally sniffled angrily, tears welling in the corner of her eyes, “I just wish we had known what that treasonous bitch was up to. I-” Annabelle choked slightly, “What happened to you was the greatest regret of my life.”

They pulled a floor length stays made from a very soft bunicorn wool. It was black for now, but after her sorting, her partlet and stays ties would change color. Once her cloak was in place, Elspeth quickly pinned her hat into place.

“Thank you,” Hermione said gratefully, taking a hand from each girl, “You are the truest friends a witch could ask for.”

Elspeth nodded, “For a witch of our coven to forsake the unholy word of our Dark Lord and commit such atrocities against His bride and child – it is a shame we will always carry.”

Well, that was interesting. No one had ever referred to her as the Dark Lord’s bride before. She was always the mother of His heir, or His most loyal servant, but never bride. That implied that the Dark Lord valued her beyond her womb. Certainly she knew He favored her, but He had never openly mentioned the possibility of marriage, and certainly not with her. Yes, she was playing the role of His bride in this new plane, but He had never asked her to marry Him. Elspeth had to have gotten that idea from somewhere, though, perhaps even the Dark Lord Himself. She filed that information away for later.

Hermione hugged the girls closer, “I know. But I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault,” she said, “I forgive you.”

They felt the train begin to slow and so they meandered back to the berth where Tom was waiting patiently.

“You will call for me if you need anything,” He whispered in her ear as He helped her step from the train. He did not ask His witchling, simply ordered. For no matter the affection He held for her, she was still His to command.

Hermione nodded and the Dark Lord, still disliking her leaving His eyesight for the first time since her murder, patiently helped her step into a boat next to Elladora Black.

“Well met, Miss Elladora” Hermione introduced herself politely to the black haired girl, “My name is Hermione Lovelace. Your brother is a close friend of my fiancé. I would be delighted to be in your care.”

“Hello, Miss Hermione,” the young girl greeted proudly, “I am called Elladora Black.”

 small first years towards the boats. Quickly falling into her role, she offered her hand to the youngest sister of Orion Black as the boats pushed off. The girl smiled at her, and hugged onto her tightly as Hermione pointed out the stars above them.

Crossing the lake was a wonderful experience. The sky was pristine, and the castle before them radiated energy and glowed with magical energy.  It didn’t feel like her Lord’s energy though. This magic reminded her of the fair folk. It felt earthy where the Dark Lord’s felt cloying and sweet.

The boats began to slow gradually until the floated to a halt at the docks. Hermione was interested to see that a few boats ahead was another transfer, a boy. He was probably a year or two younger than her. He was thin, tall, and his skin seemed akin to paper. He looked sickly. But then, mortals always seemed slightly sickly, didn’t they? Their lives were so short and pitiful. Their lives were over in the blink of an eye. Aunt Lindsay had lost count of her age after she had reached a thousand years old, and that had been centuries ago. Witches only died when they were done serving the Dark Lord, and when they were good and ready.

As they exited the boats, a man with auburn hair, not too different from her own stood with a scroll in His hand. He looked at her with an unreadable expression. She supposed this was the one she had to be extra cautious around. The Dark Lord had warned her that it was her duty to behave as sweetly as possible, not to raise any suspicion, and to make anyone and everyone believe that she was nothing more than a kind, and dutiful future bride who was taking an accelerated healing study with the school nurse. She was to be a model student at Hogwarts, pure, and unsuspecting. Hermione had accepted this without question.

“Although I have maintained a perfect cover while at school, there are still some that are annoyingly perceptive,” He had told her, and then He had explained that he’d never been able to shake the suspicion of the deputy headmaster. “You, my little witchling, will make me look fair rather than foul.”

Hermione was unworried about his mind magic. The Dark Lord had placed strong protection there out of an abundance of caution. He may be beyond the magics of these lesser wizards, but Hermione was not, and He had no desire for prying eyes to discover their secrets before He was good and ready.

The spectacled man had the students line up and follow Him through the gates where they waited to be sorted into their houses. Tom had told her she was to make sure she went to Ravenclaw, just like Elspeth and Annabelle because He wanted to keep her away from suspicion that she would surely draw in Slytherin. Though He had chosen to recruit from the house, and therefore entered it Himself, He was well aware that Slytherin house had an ill reputation with the rest of the school. Slytherin, the Dark Lord argued, suited His plans perfectly. They were ambitious, proud to a fault, and they were deeply afraid of the non-magical world. That was a weakness He could exploit. After all, if He played on their fears, and offered them power as His servants, they would bend without hesitation.

By placing Hermione in Ravenclaw, He was able to gain another recruiting foothold. The Hufflepuffs were too kindhearted, He argued, and would be unlikely to join Him, and the Gryffindors were too brash. “I would rather not deal with their foolishness,” He had told her.

Ravenclaw, though, was filled with intellectuals, pureblood intellectuals. Many held the same prejudice as Slytherin, though quietly. More importantly, the Dark Lord knew that the thirst for knowledge could corrupt as easily as the thirst for power.

The walked through the doors and Hermione was amazed by the first thing she saw – the magical ceiling. Such feats of magic were ancient, surely lost to these wand waving fools.

The auburn bearded man – Dumbledore was his name – informed them that transfers would be sorted first. The other boy, Pierre Lavigne went to Hufflepuff.

“Lovelace, Hermione,” the man called, and she sat regally on the stool, back straight.

You! Another one! You do not belong here! The hat seemed genuinely angry at her presence but frustrated too. Hermione supposed it was because the Dark Lord had previously used His infernal powers upon the hat that it could not speak of Him.

If you put me anywhere but Ravenclaw I’ll make sure the Dark Lord leaves you in the pits of Hell to burn for eternity.

“Ravenclaw!”

She hopped off the stool with a sweet smile and joined her Sisters at the table, her uniform colors changing to reflect her sorting.

The first few months of school passed with little fanfare. Hermione attended classes, served Her Lord, and worked to slowly raise influence over Ravenclaw house.

By the time Samhain arrived, Hermione was prepared to do one of the most complex rituals within her family Grimoire.

Necromancy was a very complicated branch of magic. It was easy to make a mistake, or for the magic not to work at all. But Hermione had His bones, and that would make her spell all the easier.

Sister Whitegrove passed the white linen bundle to Hermione, who carefully unwrapped it to reveal the tiny skeletal remains of her unborn son. She choked back her grief as Sister Hill gripped her arms tightly in a show of support.

They placed the remains within the ritual circle of salt and thestral blood. They had gathered branches from elder trees and had arranged them in the unholy inverted pentagram. At the top of the pentagram was an unbreakable glass globe that glittered with white and red smoke. Sister Whitegrove carefully lit the candles that stood at the points of the star and then sat back to wait patiently for Hermione.

“Blood of my blood,” Hermione chanted, cutting her palm, and allowing the blood to drip along the branches.

Sister Whitegrove gently placed a chrysanthemum seed into the belly of the bones.

“Flesh of my flesh,” Hermione continued.

Sister Hill poured fresh ghastly water onto the seed.

“Come to me this unholy night!”

The wind picked up, and the girls joined hands, putting their energy and faith in their words, “Cross the veil, and come within this circle. From dusk to dawn, we call you to walk among the living!”

The seeds began to blossom and from the bones grew flesh and skin. His eyes opened and they were the same stunning blue as the Dark Lord’s. He immediately let out a wail. Hermione broke her hands from her friends to reach for the screaming babe. She picked him up and held him to her chest. He stopped crying immediately, as if knowing that she was his mother from a single touch.

He was perfect. He looked just like his Father, the same beautiful dark hair and His lips and nose. His cheeks were chubby and his limbs were fat just as a babe’s should be. He was everything she had prayed for.

“He’s beautiful,” Annabelle stated, looking at him with sorrowed eyes.

“Perfect,” Hermione corrected, “He’s perfect.”

A hand went to her shoulder.

“My Lord,” she started, looking over her shoulder.

Sisters Whitegrove and Hill carefully looked away to give them privacy but stayed within the circle to keep the ritual active.

“He’s perfect,” Hermione repeated, more to herself than to the Dark Lord “We made the perfect baby boy.”

The Dark Lord sat behind her and put His arms around her, supporting beneath her own arms.

“How can I give him back when I have only just met him?” she cried out, tears falling from her eyes.

“He will live again, my love,” the Dark Lord whispered in her ear, “We have his souls,” He reminded her, looking towards the shining globe. “We will get him back. This I vow to you.” He meant His words, too, because as He said them, the golden magic that marked a magical promise swirled between them.

Hermione said nothing but placed a gentle kiss on the child’s head.

“It still hurts,” she said, “Losing him hurt more than dying. I would burn again if it meant he could have survived.”

The Dark Lord pressed His nose into her hair and breathed deeply, “I had centuries to grieve both you and our son. For you it is still fresh.”

Hermione took another careful breath. “There’s only eight hours until sunrise.”

“Eight hours with our son is not enough,” the Dark Lord allowed, “But soon, we will have an eternity together.”

Hermione nodded and held the baby tighter. He opened his eyes and blinked, opening his mouth in a gummy smile. He pushed his fist into his mouth and Hermione’s heart burst, and she swallowed a watery smile.

“Hello my precious boy. I am your mama. I carried you in my belly and prayed for you each night. I loved you when you were still just a dream.”

The Dark Lord stayed quiet, but He held her close.

“This is your father. He is also our unholy Father. He waited many millennia for you.”

“You will be with us again,” the Dark Lord stated, more for the comfort of His witch than for the babe.

The hours passed and Hermione didn’t even feel the ache in her arms from holding her son through the night.

The sun would rise soon. “I’m not ready,” she cried, stroking his cheek, and trying to memorize his smell, “I’m not ready for him to go back.”

As if understanding that his time was limited, the babe began to fuss and whine.

“Hush now,” Hermione whispered, “Mother is here. Father is here. We will be here the whole time.”

She forced herself not to cry as she watched his skin become translucent. The sky began to turn pink and as soon as the light hit the clearing in the forest, the Dark Lord’s ill-begotten son was bones once again.

Hermione wept.

Hermione did as she had been ordered by her Lord. She was polite, friendly, and kind to every mortal in her house. She had a part to play, and these mortals would respond better to the mask she wore. She was a model student, and a model citizen. She gave the Dark Lord an air of legitimacy with those who had previously questioned whether His reputation at school was a front. After all, if His betrothed was also kind then surely His politeness was true.

At night, she snuck from Ravenclaw tower to the Head Boy quarters. It was barely difficult. Annabelle and Elspeth were the only girls in her year in Ravenclaw, and the young ones were fast asleep by the time she left at night.

“How I wish I could stay here each night,” she complained, her cheek on His chest.

“These mortals are prudish,” Tom replied, His fingers ghosting across her back, “They believe that fornication should only occur after marriage.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You dislike marriage?” Tom eventually questioned. He had little interest in the mortal idea of marriage, even though He understood it was a necessary part of His ascension to rule the world. Men who had families were far better received than those without.

Hermione looked up and folded her arms underneath her upon His chest, their skin warming each other.

“I don’t dislike it,” Hermione replied after a moment, “But there is no man I would bind myself to, My Lord. You are the first in my heart.”

Tom held back a smile, “Yes. You are a devoted witchling.”

She smiled brightly and then slowly slid her hand under the cover to take His member.

“And, in fact My Lord, I like the idea of marriage.”

“Oh?” the Dark Lord questioned, steadily ignoring the movement of her hand, “Is that so?”

She smirked before sitting up, letting the covers fall down her back and exposing her nudity before Him.

“Yes, it is so. But, I would only marry you, My Lord. There could be no one else for me.”

The Dark Lord raised a single groomed brow as His palms shifted to sit on her hips.

“I will never let anyone else have you,” He said, finally. Then, reluctant to show weakness, but in a moment of affection He continued, “And… I have little interest in anyone else.”

Hermione smiled sweetly, “I could not ask you to give up your unholy rights on Walpurgis night and the bridal night.”

“You did not ask,” Tom corrected, bringing His fingers to her nipple in a tight pinch, “I offered.”

Hermione leaned forward, breasts close to His face.

“I would worship My Lord every day,” she breathed into His ear, “I would do anything you ask. I want to please you.” She finished by sinking herself onto Him with a strangled gasp.

His fingers gripped her hips tight enough that she knew they would bruise.

“Yes,” He hissed, slamming her hips onto Him with a brutal speed, “You would. You are mine.”

“Yours,” she groaned, her fingers grasping for His chest as she screwed her eyes shut.

She ground onto Him in the way she knew He liked, riding Him until her breasts were heaving from lack of air. He enjoyed the sight, liked the taste of her skin as it glistened in the cool Scottish air.

“Want a baby,” she moaned deliriously, “Want your baby.”

“There is time yet,” Tom replied, slightly amused, “When we wed.”

She whined, “Please.”

“No,” Tom said, pinching her nipple in punishment for making Him repeat Himself, “Not until we leave this place. It would be burdensome to kill everyone here for disparaging your honor. The last witch to walk the halls with child was ridiculed every day. I would not allow anyone to speak to you in such a way.”

Hermione giggled and kissed Him deeply, “You may say you are not romantic, but I am unconvinced.

Tom chortled, “For you. No one else. Now, ride me.”

And she did; hard and fast, and with an earnest He had never seen from anyone else. He began to use His own arms to make her move faster, and harder and watched as her toes curled and her mouth dropped open in a silent orgasm. He was about to cum and He wanted it to go deeper than it ever had before. He rolled them over and fucked her hard into the bed.

She let out a strangled gasp, her fingers gripped the bed sheets frantically.

“Unholy fuck,” she cried, and then groaned as she felt His release flow into her.

She gasped for air as the Dark Lord fell beside her, pulling her close.

“Once we can, I want our baby,” she demanded sleepily, burrowing her face into His chest so she was slightly muffled.

“You, my little witchling, are a brat.”

She giggled quietly before He silenced her with a kiss.

By the time they took the train away for winter holiday, Hermione had gained followers of her own, just as her Lord had tasked her. She had swayed over a dozen girls from Ravenclaw to join her study hall. The Slytherin girls were in easily her pocket from Tom’s influence alone.

“How embarrassing,” Olive Hornby of Slytherin said, watching a third year Hufflepuff across the library.

“Quite,” replied Patience Crouch, “How troubling it is that these muggle borns dress so… slatternly.”

Hermione looked up, towards the Hufflepuff girl, and noticed she was wearing her uniform under her robe.

“Such a short skirt,” Walburga agreed, “Her ankles are out for everyone to see.”

Patience let out a tsk and smoothed her own skirt, “They need to stop this silliness. Bringing their muggle ways into our society.”

“I heard that the Potters have put forth a motion to include a muggle studies class,” Cynthia Rosier interjected.

“Oh yes,” Olive said, “Father is livid. He’s on the Hogwarts governing board, you know.”

“Abraxas told Tom that his father introduced a counter bill,” Hermione said, “They want the muggle borns to take a Wizarding history course.”

“Why help them? The unhappier they are the easier it is to get rid of them. Let the mudbloods go back to where they belong. Filth,” Walburga spat.

Hermione fixed a frown on her face, “Walburga, you shouldn’t use such rude language.”

Walburge turned her stare towards Hermione, disgust on her face, “Don’t tell me that you believe in this utter tripe.”

“Why yes, I do think it is very important to learn the proper wizarding customs,” Hermione said.

Olive wrinkled her nose, “Surely you don't believe that the mudbloods belong in our wizarding society?”

Hermione folded her hands neatly, “Well, since you asked, I think we should absorb them.”

Walburga’s face turned an ugly shade of puce and she nearly interjected until Hermione continued.

“Magic is magic, my Sisters, just as power is power. If we take them in and allow them into our society, we can absorb their gifts.”

“They have no gifts!” Walburga sneered, “Gifts come from family magic.”

“That is true,” Hermione said patiently, “But magic does not come from just anywhere. It follows our blood, and our lines. These muggleborns come from squibs, most certainly. They may allow us to reawaken the bloodlines we have lost.”

Olive’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Well, of course,” Hermione said primly, “They come from generations of squibs, and then after some time their family magic reawakens and they become witches and wizards. If we absorb them into our houses, our family magic will become whole. And we know that strong family magic leads to more powerful heirs. They have been researching this in the Department of Mysteries for years.”

Even Walburga paused, looking at Cynthia with unsure eyes.

Hermione leaned forward, “Those without magic are the true enemy,” she looked around as if telling a great secret, “They would do anything for our gifts. Certainly, we should strengthen our own communities to protect them from those without magic. Who knows what may happen if these rumors about deadly long range weapons that can pass through warding schemes are true.”

Olive paused, biting her lip. Eventually, she nodded in understanding, “I hadn’t thought of it that way before.”

Hermione leaned back and fought back a triumphant smile as Walburga seemed to deflate and Cynthia looked at Hermione with renewed interest.

Gleefully, Hermione glided towards the seventh floor. Her Lord’s plan was coming together. She rounded the corner and saw her Lord leaning against the stone, book in hand.

“Hello, Tom,” Hermione spoke, reaching for His hand and leaning into His side.

“Good evening, my witchling. I have called you here because I have found a most interesting bit of magic. A room that becomes whatever it must be.”

He walked back and forth across the empty wall until a door appeared and He pulled her inside.

“Think of the ways we could use it, My Lord,” Hermione stated mischievously, watching as a large bed with silken sheets appeared.

“You are a lascivious wench,” Tom replied, grabbing her bum as the bed disappeared, “We’re here to gain magical treasures,” He continued, “I have decided it best to acquire whatever mystical relics we can. Anything we take cannot be used against us.”

Hermione nodded and raised her hands. She felt the magic gather in her arms, the humming in the air. Tom waited patiently, interested in what His witch may find in the room.

“The back left corner,” she finally stated, “I don’t know what it could be, but it feels powerful.”

The pair walked carefully through the narrowed paths until Hermione paused. “There,” she pointed to a wooden box that Tom pulled from atop of shabby desk.

He felt nothing except for pure magic, and as He opened the box, He smiled.

There were few frivolities that Hermione enjoyed. After all, she had been raised in a small cottage at a time when sugar was a luxury. She never thought she would be preparing to dress in such finery for a ball with the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord had sent her to Gladrags in Hogsmeade to have a dress custom made for the ball. Hermione had decided on a lovely periwinkle gown, rather than robes.

She’d woken up thar morning, and to keep up appearances, Hermione, Annabelle, and Elspeth had exchanged Yule presents over breakfast in the Great Hall. Unfortunately, the mortals seemed to have far too much holiday cheer and were talking to her far more than she would have liked.

She had had to fight back an eye roll when one of the muggleborn fourth year Hufflepuffs wished her a Happy Christmas.

“Why thank you, Laurelle. I wish you the same,” she replied carefully avoiding speaking of the false God’s son, “Will you be attending the ball tonight?”

Laurelle nodded her head fiercely, “Jonathan Peaks asked me. He’s in Gryffindor.”

Hermione smiled indulgently, “How lovely. Well, I really must depart so that I can ready myself for the ball. Do stop by to say hello tonight, Laurelle.”

Laurelle flushed and smiled happily, “See you later, Miss Hermione!”

After breakfast, Hermione along with Elspeth and Annabelle, went directly to the Dark Lord’s quarters. One luxury of being Head Boy was the private bath, which the girls wanted to utilize to prepare for the evening’s festivities. The bathroom was vast, with a deep tub that was set into the floor like a pool, water falling from several spouts placed high above the marble.

The Dark Lord was uninterested in their activities, and was occupied with replying to correspondence. He left the witches to their own devices, which they happily took advantage of.

“Your hair is so lovely,” Annabelle sighed towards Hermione as they soaked together in the tub, “I wish mine was easier to style. All it does it stay stick straight!”

Hermione hummed from where she leaned against the wall, carefully not to disturb the rollers in her hair.

“This oil is absolutely intoxicating,” Elspeth commented drowsily, taking a deep breath to inhale the scent.

“I made it,” Hermione said, “I used the beautification mixture that Aunt Lindsay taught me.”

“It’s unholy,” Annabelle agreed, “the Dark Lord won’t be able to keep His hands off you,” she finally giggled.

Hermione opened one closed eye and smirked, “That is the plan.”

“Excuse me, Lady Hermione,” her dressing elf said, “Missies Elladora Black and Caledonia Yaxley are here.”

“Send them in, Mipsy,” Hermione stated.

The girls finished their soak and allowed a few house elves to style their hair and apply their cosmetics.

“I am so honored that you invited me to prepare for the ball with you, Miss Hermione.”

Hermione smiled indulgently. Elladora would most certainly sign the Dark Lord’s Book when she had her first menstruation. She was very eager to please both Hermione and the Dark Lord. Hermione had decided to reward her early loyalty.

Caledonia had proven herself as well, and would be signing the Book over winter break.

“Indeed,” Caledonia, a second year Slytherin continued, “Olive Hornby was terribly jealous that she was not invited.”

Elladora nodded emphatically and then hopped to sit beside Hermione. “Your dressing robe is very lovely, Miss Hermione.”

Hermione looked at the blush pink silk robe in the mirror as Mipsy pulled the rollers from her hair, “Thank you, Miss Elladora.”

The girls chattered as their elves styled their hair.

“Have you gotten a dress for the Malfoy ball, yet?” Caledonia asked.

“I have,” Elspeth said placing her rolled cigarette into its silver holder, “Annabelle and I bought dresses over the summer.”

“I sewed mine,” Hermione announced, “Tom purchased a very lovely fabric for me from Italy for my birthday.”

Elladora nodded approvingly, “A well-bred lady has many skills. My embroidery skills are nowhere near as fine as yours, Miss Hermione. But, my lady mother made me practice.” Elladora leaned forward, “Some of the blood-traitor families don’t even bother to teach their daughters any social graces anymore.”

Elspeth sipped the champagne that had been handed to her by her elf, “You are most correct. Sylvania Bagman lumbers down the hall like a troll.”

Elladora nodded in agreement, “A lady glides. She does not lumber, stomp, or shuffle along.”

Inside, Hermione had to laugh. Centuries had passed since she had died. In her time, witches were all instilled with proper social grace and etiquette. Unlike mortals, who did not bathe, and often lived in squalor, witches were to present themselves with the utmost refinement.

“I saw Honouria Marchbanks earlier,” Caledonia began, “And she was wearing trousers.”

Elladora gasped and Hermione shook her head.

Elspeth’s was done first, standing patiently in her garter, hose, and corset, taking long drags of her herbs. “Your nails ought to be finely painted, Annabelle,” she said, as she stepped into the garnet-colored silken gown that was held before her.

Hermione giggled as Annabelle’s eyes widened.

“Stop it, Elspeth,” Hermione started, and then turned to Annabelle, “Who knows whenever Thoros will present you a ring. It could be tonight, or it could be another night.”

“So your nails ought to be done very well,” Elspeth restated.

Hermione laughed quietly as Annabelle examined her nails critically. She stood and dropped her dressing gown, revealing her garter, hose, and stays.

“Men take too long to ask for marriage,” Annabelle finally said, crossing her arms and stepping into her own silver gown, “If he makes me wait too long, I might find myself a more willing husband.”

Hermione snorted and allowed the girls to tie her into her gown.

Downstairs, the portrait to the Head Boy suite swung open, and the Dark Lord welcomed a few of His followers into His sitting room.

“Are they still dressing?” Thoros asked in exasperation, “Why must witches take so long to ready themselves? My father said my mother was very nearly late for their wedding, she took so long.”

“Embrace it,” Tom said, “They are readying themselves for us, after all.”

“Right you are, My Lord,” Ewan stated, “One must never rush a witch in the process of preening.”

A knock came from the entrance, and with Tom’s acquiescence, opened again.

“Greetings, My Lord,” stated a third-year boy, Antonin Dolohov. Beside him, Cesare Zabini, a second year bowed His head in respect.

“Antonin,” Tom spoke, “Cesare. Welcome.”

A sudden giggle, and the shuffling of skirts alerted the menfolk that the witches had finally emerged from the dressing room.

Elladora came down first, smiling, and curtseying before the Dark Lord before presenting her hand to Cesare Zabini. Caledonia quickly followed suit, smiling proudly by Antonin’s side.

“You look stunning, my love,” Tom said, as He kissed her fingertips and then her cheek.

Hermione leaned in close, allowing Tom to grip her waist and pull her to Him intimately,

“Perhaps you can see what else looks stunning, tonight,” she whispered into His ear.

“Naughty,” He breathed back.

Hermione danced until her feet hurt, that night.

The woods were dead quiet, calm in a way that Hermione knew meant that there was magic surrounding them.

“Do you think there will be traps?” she asked the Dark Lord beside her.

“No,” He stated with finality, “She told me she hid it and was promptly killed.”

Hermione held His hand, and then sighed, “I’ve always wanted to wear a tiara.”

“And you shall,” Tom answered, “That is why we are here, is it not?”

Hermione gripped Him hard, her mouth pulled into a flattered smile, “It’s for me?”

“A betrothal gift,” Tom affirmed, “For my beautiful queen-to-be.”

She tugged His arm and came to a stop under a tall beech tree, “My Lord, have you had the pleasure of a little death today?”

Tom played along, enjoying the look on Hermione’s face, “I have not.”

“Perhaps,” she said, hiking her the skirt of her stays and smock up and exposing her garter and her bare bottom, “We could change that.”

“Perhaps we could,” He replied, pushing her against the tree and moving His hand to cup her behind.

Their coupling was quick and dirty, and Hermione loved it. She felt her Lord’s power course through her, felt His desire upon her own. When they were done, He flipped her skirt back down but tucked her underwear into His pocket.

“Come along, my love,” He stated, “Let us get my little queen a crown.”

It took hours to find the tree that the Grey Lady had directed them to. But when they found it, it was easy to remove the relic. It was a beautiful crown, certainly. It was wrought with fine strands of goblin platinum that came together in an elegant eagle, bright blue jewels sparkling as the moonlight hit the facets of the stone.

“It’s so pretty,” Hermione said with admiration, “I can have it?” she asked again to be certain.

“There is no witch brighter and more devoted than you, my love.” He placed the shining diadem on her head and watched her stagger before Him, grabbing onto His cloak.

“Focus,” He commanded, “Bend it to your will. Force it to obey.”

She gripped Him tight and groaned for a moment before her fingers relaxed and she slowly straightened herself.

“How do you feel?”

Hermione blinked, “I… it is as though every thought I have happens at once, faster than before, more powerful than before…”

He pulled the diadem off her head and Hermione instantly relaxed, “You are most generous, My Lord.”

He pulled her to His side and readied Himself to disappear from the place just as Hermione smiled at Him sneakily, “Are you quite sure you don’t want to fuck in the forest once more?”

He paused and then moved His hand from her waist to her bum, “You are a cock-hungry witchling, hmm?”

“Only for you,” she remarked, “I love you, My Lord.”

As a rule, He never claimed His love back to His followers. But Hermione was no ordinary follower. He still would never say the words but… He did feel His affection swell. This little witchling had broken His confinement to that monstrous form, bore Him a son, and praised His unholy name from the moment she could speak. She was deserving.

“And I you.”

Hermione tied off the braid in Elladora’s hair with a silver ribbon and then placed a kiss gently on her cheek.

“Are you ready, Miss Elladora?”

Elladora smiled, and seemed to jitter in her seat.

“Of course! I am ever so pleased that my blood came before we return to school.”

Hermione helped the first year into a carefully embroidered white smock of linen.

Elladora leaned forward to tell Hermione a secret and Hermione smiled indulgently and nodded encouraging, “I know it is disgraceful, but I was very jealous of Miss Cynthia and Miss Caledonia.”

Hermione smiled widely, “Your secret is safe with me, Miss Elladora. Have no fear, though. When the ritual is done, there will be no need for envy at all.”

Elladora nodded and took Hermione’s hand tightly.

In a moment they were at the rim of a clearing, where dozens of others were gathered in black cloaks.

Elladora squeezed Hermione’s hand and looked up at her once more before smiling.

“Who comes before this coven tonight?” Sister Blackmoon asked, her hood pulled back to show her raven hair.

“This is Elladora Black, a lady flowered,” Hermione answered, walking Elladora closer to Sister Blackmoon before stopping before their sacred altar. Upon it was an ornate book, with the Dark Lord’s symbol embossed. It was thick, and looked older than any book she had seen before. It was covered in precious gems, and even though it was closed, the pages seemed to glow.

“Why have you come before the Dark Lord tonight, Elladora Black?” Sister Blackmoon questioned her, looking straight into Elladora’s grey eyes.

“I have come to sign the Dark Lord’s book,” Elladora rehearsed, “and to do His bidding.”

Hermione smiled in pride as she backed away into the circle. The young girl stood smart and tall.

“Then tonight, Elladora Black, is your unholy baptism. Step before me, now.”

Elladora stepped up and then from behind Sister Blackmoon appeared a shadow of a beast. The darkness crept through, shrinking until finally the Dark Lord stood before her.

“Elladora Black,” the Dark Lord spoke, His voice dark and cloying, “You have come before me to sign my Book.”

“Aye, My Lord” Elladora stated, bowing low.

“Rise, and give me your hand.”

Elladora did so, and watched as the Dark Lord’s sharp nails dug into her left ring finger. The blood began to well.

Sister Blackmoon handed her a quill, and as she had practiced with Hermione, Elladora knelt before the altar and pressed the quill to her finger.

The book flew open, the pages flipping quickly until it reached the most recent entry.

December 29^th 1945 - Caledonia Isadora Yaxley

She put the quill to the page, and in her finest hand signed Elladora Antropia Black.

The moment she finished her name, the date appeared beside it and Elladora looked up at the Dark Lord expectantly.

“You are mine, Elladora Black. You have signed my Book, and promised to do my bidding. In turn I will give you more power than you ever could have imagined.”

He reached out, and placed His hand upon her head.

Elladora’s eyes widened as the felt something entering, a force she could never imagine. Her eyes began to glow, and she let out a cry, overcome with the pleasure of dark magic. She fell to her hands and took in huge gulps of air, her magic settling.

“Well done, Elladora Black,” the Dark Lord said, smirk upon His lips, “You will serve me well.” And with that He was gone.

At that Elladora looked up at Sister Blackmoon.

“Rise,” she said, “Rise and join our circle, Sister Black. Tonight, we celebrate your unholy third soul, and our devotion to the Dark Lord.”

As she stood, Elladora’s white smock slowly shifted to black, and she smiled.

Hogwarts was cold in the winter, but as spring came the frost receded into mud and rain.

“Have you chosen your bridal robes yet?” asked Violet Bulstrode.

“No,” Hermione replied.

“Here,” Violet said shoving a magazine into Hermione’s hands, “My sister got married last summer and she got her robes from the most famous bridal stylist in France.”

“I would prefer to sew my own,” Hermione stated, after flipping through the magazine, “These are very pretty, Violet, but my embroidery skills are nothing to sneeze at.”

Annabelle nodded happily, remembering how carefully Hermione had sewn baby clothes for her son.
Violet on the other hand, pursed her lips, seemingly unhappy that Hermione had rebuffed her.

Elspeth sighed happily from her chair, “I hope to marry Ewan. He’s so very handsome.”

Hermione snorted at her lovesick friend, “Perhaps I should give you this magazine.”

Elspeth leaned back in her chair, “Ewan hasn’t proposed a betrothal yet.”

That surprised Hermione.

“Why?” Violet demanded.

“He says he wants us to graduate and finish N.E.W.T.s first,” Elspeth replied, a frown crossing her lips.

“What a shame,” Annabelle stated, “Thoros presented me with this ring just last night at the Black Lake.”

Hermione took a close look at the silver ring with a halo of diamonds surrounding a flawless trapitche emerald in the middle.

“It’s very pretty, Annabelle,” Hermione complimented sincerely. She could tell the other girls agreed because Violet was eyeing the ring enviously. She did hope for the best for her two handmaidens. It certainly helped that their marriages into the Rosier and Nott families would ensure their loyalty for the Dark Lord.

“Walburga and Orion are getting married the week after graduation,” Elspeth broke in, “But he doesn’t seem pleased about it.”
“Well, she’s a shrew. I wouldn’t be pleased either,” retorted Violet.

Hermione shook her head as if to scold Violet but smiled good naturedly.

“By the way, Hermione,” Annabelle continued with practiced ease, “I heard from Thoros that you’ll soon be resident of a very lovely plot of land in Haddingtonshire”

Hermione smiled proudly, “Yes, it’s a cottage on a lake in North Berwick. My family has had it since forever. I chose it as my dowry, and when Tom saw how much I loved it He moved us from the Little Hangleton mansion immediately.” Hermione had been genuinely delighted by the gift that Tom had bestowed upon her when she had awoken. After her death, the Dark Lord sealed away the place she had once called home. A large, wooded property, the same one that had held her home with Aunt Lindsay for over a thousand years, was exactly as it always had been.

Her Lord had so graciously kept that land a secret from the mundane humans, and therefore, the muggles simply saw nothing at all.

When she had first woken, the Dark Lord had shown her the magical property, and she had cried all over Him. He had very lovingly comforted her. How she loved her Lord in that moment. There under a clear night, she could still lay naked under the stars in her clearing, with just the moon to light her each night.

He had led her to the land and there she had seen the clearing that had been familiar to her many lifetimes ago.

Of course, Tom had created a lovely cottage with practiced ease, similar to the one she had lived in before, but far larger with an impressive greenhouse and an outdoor bathhouse.

The Dark Lord may deny it, but He was more romantic than some may expect.

“Speaking of Tom,” Violet said, with a wave.

“Hello,” the tall man greeted, with practiced politeness. He pressed a chaste kiss to Hermione’s head before standing at the table behind Hermione, “Might I borrow my betrothed, ladies?” He asked.

Violet flushed and Annabelle giggled while Elspeth smiled widely, “Certainly! See you at breakfast!”

Hermione packed up her belongings and gripped the Dark Lord’s hand as He led her towards the entrance hall.

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked curiously, but trusting her Lord would lead her.

“I have prepared a special ritual for us,” Tom explained, caressing Hermione’s cheek. “To ensure that we can have our son back during our bonding.”

Hermione blinked and then smiled excitedly, “So we can have a baby soon?”

“Yes,” Tom answered, pulling Hermione deep into the forest, “We will marry the first Sunday after we leave.”

Hermione’s steps perked up. The was nary two months away.

“This ritual needs to be done during the phlox full moon, which is tonight. I’ve prepared a space for it to occur.”

Finally, they reached a clearing deep within the forest, surrounded by tall trees darkened and cold. His inner circle of knights stood, faces impassive as they saw her enter.

Tom ignored them, but said to Hermione, “They will not look at you, my Love, or they will lose an eye. You are mine.”

Hermione nodded and allowed the Dark Lord to lead her into a small makeshift tent where a white linen smock and a crown of flowers sat. She divested her clothes and pulled on the shift dress. The air was still chilly, and her nipples pebbled against the cloth. She put the crown upon her head and took a deep breath before exiting into the circle.

Each of the men around her held a candle, etched with runes. They were doing their best not to meet her gaze or look at her in any way, which she thought was quite amusing.

Tom pointed to where she should stand, and she moved towards the center of a perfectly drawn runic circle. The clouds began to part, and the moonlight shown upon the clearing. The knights began to chant, and the moonlight began to make her skin glow. Her eyes met the Dark Lord’s and He nodded encouragingly. Before her, Abraxas Malfoy presented a chalice which Hermione dutifully took. She looked to the Dark Lord again and He nodded again. She drank it, whatever it was she did not know.

Suddenly, her fingertips began to tingle, then her toes, her nose, and her breasts.

“Ugh,” she groaned, leaning over from the sensation, from unexpected, pure pleasure.

And she felt it deep within her, a tingling that bled into pleasure which had her falling to the ground with her fingers curled into her hair and her toes stretched.

“It’s too much,” she cried, as the intensity grew. And then she orgasamed as hard as she ever had, falling with her back to the ground, boneless and in a heap.

It pleased the Dark Lord that the others there coveted what they could not have.

The clouds returned and as they did, the glow upon her skin faded.

“You did well, my love,” the Dark Lord whispered in her ear, hugging her close

Hermione smiled into His chest, “I am excited. We’re going to have a baby!”

“Indeed,” He agreed in amusement, and then turned His head towards His knights, “You are to turn around while we finish the remainder of the ritual.”

The other men dutifully turned away, and the Dark Lord began to trail His fingers up her leg until her dress was bunched around her waist. He cut into His hand with His own nail, sharped to a point, and Hermione watched with marked interest as He wrote carefully across her vulva in His blood. When He was finished, He smirked, “This ritual is consecrated with a combination of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.” He unbuttoned His trousers and then fished His manhood, already hard from its confines. “I will fuck you tonight until you have tears in your eyes.” He slid into her, and she was already slick from her earlier orgasm.

“You are perfect,” He whispered into her ear, “I could not have asked for anyone else to give me an heir,” then louder He continued, “Now scream for me.”

And she did.

‘Tom Riddle’ had graduated with the top marks at Hogwarts, and the best test results since Albus Dumbledore had been a student. His betrothed had trailed only a few spots behind, gaining a special certificate in healing. Tom had accepted an offer as the Junior undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, a job which usually took years of ministry work to apply for. Hermione had started a Maternal Medicine fellowship at St. Mungo’s hospital, where she would study midwifery, maternal and magic. But that was the future, and something more important was happening in their lives.

Tonight, they would wed in a ceremony in the Elder grove around their cottage.

Annabelle and Elspeth had helped her finish her bridal robes only two days prior, and she was sitting patiently, waiting for Annabelle to finish tying her hair. It sat in a neat knot at her neck, with strategic curls loose. Her skin had been smoothed and Elspeth quickly pinched her cheeks to help the blood flow create a natural flush.

“You have been blessed,” Elspeth said, hugging her friend tightly, “To know that the Dark Lord favors you to give Him His ill-begotten son.”

Hermione flushed, “I have done my best to be unholy in all matters. I would give anything that the Dark Lord asked.”

Annabelle smiled, and leaned in to kiss her friend’s cheek, “Hail Satan, Sister Lovelace.”

“Hail Satan, Sister Whitegrove.”

She smoothed her bridal robes carefully under her fingers. She had painstakingly handstitched every piece of lace and had embroidered hundreds of tiny fertility runes into the latticework of the cloak. Beneath it was a gown of periwinkle that she had sewn carefully with blessed thread.

If her spell work kept – which it certainly would – they would consummate their marriage, and conceive the Dark Lord’s heir. Perhaps it was too much considering the ritual during the phlox moon, but Hermione was eager to birth the Dark Lord’s heir.

She met Him under an arch of elder wood, surrounded by His followers.

“Who comes into the sacred grove tonight?” asked Elspeth, who was proud to participate in their wedding.

“Hermione Lovelace, a flowered witch, noble and true.”

“Tom Riddle, the last of my house.” the Dark Lord answered, unwilling to share His identity for the few non-members present at the wedding.

Elspeth produced a piece of fine silk which she handed to the Dark Lord.

He leaned towards Hermione and whispered into her ear, choosing to keep His vows private, “I cannot vow you love, nor happiness. But I can vow that you will want for nothing, and that you will have power second only to my own.”

Hermione allowed Him to tie the ribbon onto her wrist, and then took the other half to tie to Him, “I vow to worship you, to obey, to do anything you so desire, My Lord. I will love you enough for both of us.”

Tom’s face looked satisfied as she tied the other end of the ribbon to His wrist. The ribbon began to tighten, and glowed a brilliant gold.

“We are wed,” He said, and then proceeded to pull her in for a hard kiss.

There was happy applause, although none of them had heard any of the exchange between husband and wife.

They celebrated into the night, and nearly until the sky began to turn blood red.

“Let us leave them now,” called Thoros drunkenly, “To the happy couple!”

Cheers were heard followed by a slew of quiet pops that marked the disappearance of their guests.

The ribbon, which had become shorter and shorter, signifying the time left to consummate their marriage, had become tight around her wrist. The two stumbled into the cottage and up the stairs towards their bedroom. Hermione noticed a few bottles of champagne, and a platter of fruits, meats and cheeses in the corner, probably left by Elspeth and Annabelle. They were good friends, she thought, before returning to the task at hand.

“Are we going to make a baby, now?” Hermione asked as the Dark Lord pulled the pins from her hair.

“Is that what my witchling desires?” the Dark Lord replied playfully.

“Yes,” Hermione answered quickly, “But I am afraid.”

The Dark Lord frowned, smoothing His thumb across her lips, “Whatever do you have to be afraid of? There are none who could hurt you.”

Hermione looked at Him mournfully and then towards her feet, “I could not protect Him last time.”

The Dark Lord gripped her chin and forced her to meet His eyes, “You did all that you could. You are not to blame.”

Hermione nodded, but the Dark Lord could tell she was still mourning the loss of what would have been their first son.

“I didn’t even have the chance to give him a name,” Hermione whispered, “I was so happy you chose me, and overjoyed to be His mother.”

“You were lonely,” the Dark Lord stated, vividly remembering her daily prayers to finally have her own family.

With a flick of His wrist, their clothes disappeared, and He pressed her into the bed.

“Tonight, I will give you my seed, and from it shall come our son – the true Prince of Hell.”

Their bodies were joined for hours. The first time they came together, the ribbon disappeared, leaving behind simple golden marks around their wrists.

“Mmmm.” Hermione’s eyes were so heavy. The fifth orgasm had nearly been her undoing. Her body was so sensitive it was painful. Her skin felt like it was on fire. The Dark Lord put His thumb to her clit and her hip jerked.

“Too sensitive,” Hermione whined, her breasts heaving as she tried to catch her breath, “Tired.”

“Once more and you can sleep, my Love,” the Dark Lord bartered, pulling her legs to rest on His shoulder and pressing into her once more.

Hermione groaned. She could feel His cock hitting her cervix. It hurt, but she liked it.

“My sweet little witchling,” the Dark Lord said, slamming His hips against the back of her legs, “You like it, don’t you? You like being mine to use whichever way I so please.”

Hermione let out a moan and then gripped the sheets into her fingers.

“Answer me, slut.”

Her folds were fluttering around Him and then she cried out when He pinched her clit hard.

“Yesss,” she hissed, “I like it. I love it. I love when you fuck me.” She bit on her lip as He began to speed up.

“And why do you like it, hmm?” the Dark Lord demanded, His weight pressing her legs closer towards her chest

“I like being special, being yours. I like making our baby.”

The Dark Lord was erratic now, His measured strokes becoming so hard and fierce that Hermione let out a silent scream before biting down on her pillow with a whimper. She felt it when He climaxed. His essence hit her deep inside, pressing through her cervix.

It wasn’t the normal heat she felt from His release, but something more. She knew this feeling

“I can feel him,” she cried, her legs curled into her chest, and her breasts heaving, her center still filled with the Dark Lord “I feel our son.”

The Dark Lord fell to His side, and pulled Hermione close. Together they looked at the empty jar that had held their son’s souls, and smiled.