The smell of burning flesh and wood filled the air. She could see the flames on the horizon, the Dark Mark in the sky above the carnage.
“The streets run red,” she muttered as she crept through the ancient cemetery, her pure white robe contrasting with the darkness of her surroundings. She could feel magic in the air, teasing and taunting and tormenting.
Beneath the robe, her body was cool and pale; her dusky nipples hard as they pressed against the finest material that wizarding money could buy. A faint flush covered her cheeks and neck, the only sign that she was not one of the statues commemorating the grave of one who fell in times past.
Her feet were bare, the bottoms tinged pink with blood as she stepped on stones and twigs, seeking escape from the screams and scents that overwhelmed her. She liked the fires, craved their warmth, but He did not allow her to get too close for fear she would get burned. There was nothing quite like standing before the blaze, feeling the warmth of the flames nipping at her skin, wanting to get closer, to be burned, to feel once again, but He was always watching.
For Him, she wore virginal white robes, never marred with the blood or ash from the attacks she watched with curious eyes. He allowed her to play, to bring forth a symphony of screams with a few flicks of her wand, her eyes always watching with intensity as she studied her subjects and tested new curses on their unwilling bodies, but never would blood tarnish her palms. He worried, letting her close but not too close during these attacks. Her specialty was gaining information, sought in the walls of the castle He called home, an expert at interrogation and torture.
She found her husband lying flat on a marble tomb, his hands burned from the fires, flesh blistering and peeling. He was breathing steadily, alert, aware that she approached possibly even before she realized who she was seeking. She could hear cries in the cool night air, pleas for mercy none of them knew how to give. If you wanted to survive, you did not beg, you did not run. You stood bravely, you devised ways to ensure you would live to see another day, you made deals with the Devil.
When she reached her husband, her hands unfastened the two buttons keeping her robe together, letting it fall from her shoulders, baring her to his hungry eyes and the shadows of the night. They did not speak; words no longer necessary for them on these occasions. Words were saved for the privacy of their home, spilled from lips parted in rapture, used to tease and excite and arouse.
Privacy. They had no true privacy. He was always watching, listening, coveting, craving, needing. They were His because He owned their souls but they belonged to each other first, something He still found fascinating, that made him jealous, that made him never give them a moment of peace without his attention, needing them just as they needed one another. Theirs, his, the lines blurred so often she knew nothing now except love for her husband and devotion to her Lord.
Crawling onto the marble alter, she sunk down onto her husband, feeling him twitch inside her, his hips arching from cold surface below. He smelled of fire and blood, blistering hands moving over her bare skin, pale no more as he touched and caressed, tinged pink from those he had not let live to see another sunrise.
Their mating was urgent, exhilaration and excitement coursing through their veins as easily as the blood that kept them alive. She tasted fire when she kissed him, squeezing and gripping as she rose and lowered, the moonlight casting them in an ethereal glow. Her fingernails scraped his chest, drawing blood, fresh and warm against her tongue as she licked his skin. Eyes watched them, the true intimacy of their union once again witnessed by Him.
Soft hisses indicated his pleasure, rolling over her body and leaving arousal in their wake. He spoke this language that only she had been given the gift of understanding, one of his first gifts to her upon her pledge of loyalty and support; his first gift being the life of the man beneath her who had sworn his devotion in exchange for having her.
Harder. Deeper. Let me watch you find pleasure, my sweet girl.
Her head fell back, breasts thrust to the heavens above, her eyes staring at the passing clouds and creatures flying overhead, screams getting louder as the fire spread both through the nearby forest and throughout her body. Her husband writhed beneath her, large hands gripping her thighs, his body arching into her, spilling his seed as he moaned his pleasure.
She was so close, head falling forward to see his face, always seeing his eyes when she let go. Her Lord continued to speak, watching them from the shadows, always lurking on the periphery, a reminder that they would never be free of him, not they desired to be, their devotion to Him nearly as great as their devotion to one another.
Now. Let me watch you fall apart, my beautiful angel of death.
Only when she had His permission could she find the sweet release she had been craving all evening. She came with a shudder, a soft cry of her husband’s name followed by His name, hearing Him grunt as He followed her into release. Her husband kissed the mark on the inside of her wrist as she clenched and panted and whimpered above him. Her lips found his mark, kissing it as her body slowly calmed down.
“We must leave soon,” He said as he stepped from the shadows, green eyes raking over them, a slight curving of his lips letting them know his wish for them to come to him that evening in his private chambers. His fingers tangled in her long, curly hair, pulling her head back so his lips could move against hers, her husband tensing ever so slightly as he watched her being kissed possessively by their Lord. She watched through lowered lashes as he repeated the action to the man she loved, the kiss more fierce, always more fierce and rough between them than with her.
“The screams have stopped,” she observed softly, moving from her husband’s prone body. Retrieving her pure white robe, she pulled it on, her Lord fastening it before his fingers cupped her cheek.
“Tonight was another success, Hermione,” he said with the slight smile that always reminded her of an eleven year-old boy with shaggy hair and broken spectacles. She was one of few allowed to look at him in this way, others forced to lower their gaze, not earning the right and privilege of having their Lord’s love and respect. She and her husband were his favorites, his most devoted and loyal, the most feared of all His supporters.
“Soon, those who stand against you will be dead, my Lord,” Charlie replied as he rolled off of the marble alter, pulling his trousers up before moving behind her. His arm went around her waist, pulling her against him, his lips brushing against her neck. “And then there will be no one to oppose you.”
“Us,” He corrected, a smile crossing his lips as he looked at the dragons flying above, waiting for their command from Charlie, the sound of raging fire growing closer. Hermione could smell the scent of blood thick in the air, knew their attack had been a success. Green eyes found them once again as Harry touched their cheeks. “No one will oppose us.”
The End