An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hermione stepped forward, emerald robes trailing, chin lifted.
“My Lord,” she said, voice steady. “I bring you gifts, wrought not of loyalty alone, but of genius—for your reign eternal.”
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with intrigue. “Show me, child.” She presented the obsidian staff. The Serpent’s Voice thrummed faintly, its crystal head glowing like venom in sunlight.
“With this,” Hermione murmured, “your Parseltongue will resonate across miles. Every serpent, every beast tied to their line will answer your call—acromantulas, basilisks, perhaps even dragons.”
Voldemort whispered in Parseltongue, and the crystal flared. From the cracks in the marble, black serpents slithered forth, bowing at his feet. The Death Eaters gasped as the carved snakes along the pillars writhed alive, hissing in chorus.
The Dark Lord’s laughter rang sharp as glass. “You have given me command of the very earth. Magnificent.”
He turned his gaze on her, eyes burning. “You, Hermione Granger, are my jewel. If I fall, the Malfoys and you will carry my reign. My legacy lives in you.”
She bowed again, steady. “Your glory is eternal, my Lord.”
