It was a little after sunset the following night when the Dark Lord summoned his newest Death Eaters.

Hermione, alone, had been singled out to meet with Him before the meeting would begin. As she walked towards Lucius’ office, she adjusted the black and gold robes she’d been outfitted in tonight. They were almost identical to the ones she’d worn the night she took the mark, save for the split sleeves being shorter and the skirt not as heavy.

Nerves fluttered through her stomach, wondering what this first meeting would be like. Earlier, Lucius had explained to her, Draco, Theo, and Blaise that it was an opportunity for those who had not attended the marking ceremony to meet the newest recruits, but more importantly it was also an opportunity for the Dark Lord to display his influence and power over the magical community.

He now had the sole heirs of three of the most important wizarding families under his rule and Potter’s mudblood – though she had been told in no uncertain terms that no one outside of her marking ritual would know her true identity.

Those who had been present had been forced to make an unbreakable vow.

She knocked twice on the door before it opened of its own accord to reveal Lucius and the Dark Lord seated in two of his dark, plush armchairs by the fire. It was a strange sight not to see the Dark Lord seated upon his usual obsidian throne. As she entered, the two stood respectfully – something that surprised Hermione even more. She’d never expected such manners from a monster like the Dark Lord.

“Hello, dear,” Lucius greeted her warmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Since the marking ceremony, her bond with Lucius had intensified until she felt as close to him as she did Narcissa. In many ways, she felt closer to both of them than her own parents (who she still wrote to on a regular basis, though their replies were brief and distant as always).

Lucius had always been kind, supportive, and interested in her, but after the ritual it was as if some final barrier had fallen away. After, in the darkened light of his office as she began her recovery while the boys were marked, she had confided to him her fears about the ritual and what it meant to betray her very first friends. In return, Lucius told her of his own ceremony and how much his fears had echoed her own, though for different reasons and circumstances.

After greeting him warmly, Hermione stepped to the Dark Lord and lowered to a knee.

“My lord,” she said respectfully, bowing her head.

The bony tips of his fingers touched her forehead before cupping her cheek and moving her gaze to his. Those inhuman red eyes stared down at her in satisfaction, every so often flicking to his mark upon her skin. Time spent in the Dark Lord’s presence had helped her to better understand his expressions and it was clear there was something almost… pleasurable about seeing the Dark Mark on the Gryffindor Princess.

Lucius had instructed her what to say upon her next meeting with the Dark Lord and now she placed her hand over her heart.

“I, Hermione Jean Granger of House Malfoy, swear fealty to the Dark Lord above all others,” she vowed.

There was no shimmer of magic dancing around her, no red or golden light to indicate a magical vow. It appeared these words were mainly for show, which strangely soothed her as well as confused her. Why the pretense if the Dark Lord would not require a magical oath of servitude?

A soft chuckle came from above her.

“Welcome, Hermione Granger,” the Dark Lord replied, then offered her his skeletal hand so she could rise. “Of all my servants, new and old, you bore the marking with the most grace and courage.”

Pride surged through her veins as powerful as magic. She continued to prove to him again and again that it was she, a mudblood , that was his greatest servant. Surely this could only mean change within his regime.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said with a dip of her chin.

The Dark Lord turned to Lucius, flicking his fingers in his direction.

“You may join the others.”

Lucius gave him a deep bow before retreating from the space quickly. As the door closed behind him Hermione saw him wave his wand over himself, his Death Eater robes floating around him seemingly from thin air. Idly she wondered if touching the scar was required for the spell or if it was more about intention.

Knife-like fingertips against her left forearm brought her attention back to the Dark Lord who gave her that strange semblance of a smile.

“How was your recovery?” he asked, sliding her hand through the crook of his arm as if he were an old-world gentleman – not the greatest dark wizard of their time.

“It was not bad at all, my lord. I was grateful for my magic to guide me through the ritual and after.”

Slowly, the Dark Lord took her to the door of the office before guiding her through and then down the dark hallway.

Before they reached the drawing room, he stopped, turning to face her.

“From this moment on you are not Hermione Granger, friend of Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord said in a deep hiss. “You are not Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Princess. You are not Hermione Granger, mudblood.”

The tips of his fingertips tilted her chin higher.

“You are Couteau, my protégé, my second in command.”

Her eyes widened at his words. Second in command. How could that be? She wasn’t even a fully qualified witch – wasn’t even out of school yet. She was untested, unproven. Unworthy , a small voice echoed in her mind.

“My… my lord?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“In your short time serving me you have done more than most in the next room and all without blunders or theatrics. A worthy title, if my opinion matters and, sweetling…” A sharp nail scraped the line of her jaw. “My opinion is the only one that matters.”

She nodded her head in acceptance and he smiled once more, his sharp teeth glinting in the light of a nearby torch. From a plume of black smoke, the Dark Lord conjured a long silver tipped dagger, sheathed in black leather.

“For you,” he said, extending the blade towards her.

Hermione’s stomach dropped at the sight of the weapon. Never had she imagined ever wielding a blade, let alone being gifted one by the Dark Lord.

“A blade for a blade,” he continued as she unsheathed the dagger.

Goblin steel, sharp and lethal, glittered in the torch light. She could just detect the curse that laid within the steel, the hum of danger it presented.

“This blade will create a wound that no magic can heal,” the Dark Lord explained. “If a blow is delivered to the right place – say the heart for instance – there would be no recovery.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Hermione replied, replacing it back into its sheath.

“Lucius will teach you. Now, summon your robes and mask,” he commanded.

Without hesitation Hermione withdrew her wand from the small hidden pocket of her robes and touched the tip of it to the skull of her mark.

“ Revelare ,” she incanted and couldn’t help but bask in the shimmer of magic as her robes transfigured themselves.

Sleeves gathered and lengthened, stopping at the end of her wrists. She felt the hood form at her neck slide over her hair. Then, finally, the cold trickle of her mask slid over her face – blocking her features from view.

Peering from behind the mask was as intense as it had been the first time. She had to force herself to quiet her breathing so as to not feel as though she was suffocating and it took a bit of effort to adjust her vision through the eyeholes of the mask. But after a brief second of adapting, it felt more like a second skin.

“Good,” the Dark Lord praised.

He took the blade from her, drawing open the side of her cloak and passing a finger over it until a small pocket appeared. Then, he tucked the blade inside. She knew that now the blade would stay within her Death Eater robes, ready for whenever she needed it.

After the blade was firmly set into place, he took her left forearm in his spindly fingers, drawing back the sleeve.

“It is best for now, that we hide this,” he said, his hand skimming the surface of her Dark Mark. “We don’t want certain people sticking their crooked noses where they don’t belong.”

As his hand passed back over the skull and snake brand, it shimmered before appearing to dissolve into her skin. She sighed with a nod, knowing that it was for the best. The last thing she needed was Parvati or Lavender catching a glimpse of it while she was changing.

The Dark Lord turned towards the oak doors.

Hermione stood a step or so behind him, her arms relaxed at her sides. She knew that behind those doors waited powerful wizards who served an even more powerful master. Wizards that would kill her without a second thought if they knew her true identity.

So she rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

Show no fear, she thought to herself.

With a flick of his fingers, the doors opened.

The drawing room had been magically enlarged to accommodate the large number of people inside. There was no furniture, save for the large dais and obsidian throne set against the opposite wall of the room. Everywhere was a sea of black robes and silver masks that glittered in the candlelight of the ornate chandelier above.

As they opened, those in the room turned towards them. Hermione thought she could see, set closest to the dais, who she thought might be her family – though why she wasn’t sure except for the slight tug of her magic in that direction. Despite their heights and slight differences in robes, they all looked identical.

Not even a murmur rose from the crowd, it was so silent Hermione was sure she could hear the rushing of her blood through her heart, the thrumming of her magic around her.

Then the Dark Lord stepped forward and she followed.

Immediately Death Eaters stepped to the side, forming a path to the throne ahead, and, as one, dropped to their knees.

Heady, this feeling of power. This feeling of specialness as she watched the eyes behind the masks flick over her with curiosity, hunger, jealousy.

Who was she to walk with the Dark Lord?

Who was she, this stranger, who bore his mark and his mask?

She was his dagger, the knife that would pierce the heart of the Order.

His second in command.

Son couteau aiguisé.

Hermione walked behind the Dark Lord, her shoulders back and head held high. She could feel the swish of her robes billowing behind her as they walked, some Death Eaters knelt so close the edges of her cloak caressed their faces. When they approached the steps of the dais, the Dark Lord stepped first before extending a hand to her.

She took it and he guided her to stand beside his throne, where he then took a seat.

She could feel every eye in the room upon her. Could feel the dark magic that hovered in the room from the marking rituals. Could feel the power humming in her veins.

No one moved, no one seemed to even breathe.

“Now,” the Dark Lord announced. “We truly begin.”

[img: https://i.imgur.com/7LEraEy_d.webp?maxwidth=640&shape=thumb&fidelity=medium]

Artwork by Lazy_Dragon_Art