6
Three days had passed since the girl's arrival at The Dark Palace, though Voldemort had scarcely spared her a thought. The Order's movements in the highlands demanded his attention, and there were whispers of unrest in the eastern territories that required... management.
It was only when he caught sight of Antonin directing house elves with additional books toward the east wing that he remembered his new ward. The thought almost amused him – how like a child's toy she was, set aside and forgotten until something sparked his interest again.
"Tell me, Antonin," he called, watching his general pause mid-instruction. "How fares our little mouse in her cage?"
Antonin dismissed the house elves with a gesture before turning to face his master. "Quietly, my Lord. She reads. She writes in that little notebook of hers. She thanks the house elves." His lip curked slightly. "She's rather disappointed the windows don't open, though she's too well-bred to complain about it."
"How... proper of her." Voldemort's voice held a note of mockery. "And has she asked about her future lord?"
"Not directly. Though she did ask Pippy if you might like flowers in your study." Antonin's tone was carefully neutral, though there was a glimmer of sardonic amusement in his eyes. "I took the liberty of informing the elf that the Dark Lord's study was not in need of... decoration."
Later that evening, as Voldemort made his way through the lesser-used corridors of The Dark Palace, a flash of white caught his eye. The sight was so incongruous in his dark domain that it stopped him mid-stride. There, in an alcove near his private library, stood Alice Waters, a vision in white muslin that seemed to glow against the black stone walls. The dress was simple, almost childlike in its modesty, which somehow made it all the more offensive in its purity.
She hadn't noticed him yet, too absorbed in studying one of the enchanted tapestries that lined the walls. Her face was upturned in wonder, lips slightly parted, as she watched the ancient battle scenes play out before her. She was well beyond the boundaries of the east wing, though how she'd managed to wander so far was... concerning.
"I wasn't aware the east wing extended this far," he said softly, his voice carrying the deadly quiet that had made warriors tremble.
Alice turned, startled but not frightened – another strike against whoever was meant to be guarding her. Her eyes brightened with recognition. "Oh! Tom, I didn't expect to see you here." She dropped into a graceful curtsy, then gestured to the tapestry with childlike enthusiasm. "Have you seen these? They're absolutely fascinating. The figures actually move.”
For a moment, Voldemort was struck speechless by the sheer audacity of her casual address. When was the last time anyone had dared speak to him with such unguarded animation? Even his most trusted followers measured every word with careful precision.
"You seem to have strayed quite far from your assigned quarters," he observed, watching her face carefully for any sign of guile or calculation. There was none – only that same innocent wonder that had so irritated him in the garden.
"Oh." A blush crept across her cheeks. "I'm afraid I got rather turned around. The corridors all look so similar, and I was following what I thought was a cat, though it disappeared rather suddenly..." She trailed off, suddenly uncertain. "I'm not meant to be here, am I?"
"Has your mysterious lord not arranged for your entertainment?" he asked, unable to resist the cruel irony. "How... negligent of him, leaving you to wander these dark halls alone."
She looked down, inspecting a button on her sleeve. "Oh, I haven't met him yet. Lord Dolohov says all in good time, but..." She glanced up at him through her lashes. "Sometimes I think they've forgotten about me entirely."
The innocence of her confession – confiding in him about himself – was almost too delicious. "Perhaps," he suggested silkily, "he has more pressing matters than attending to a little mouse in her cage."
“I’m sure," she agreed softly, missing entirely the mockery in his tone. "Though I do wish..." She trailed off, then smiled bravely. "But I shouldn't complain. I'm sure he's very important and very busy."
Voldemort studied her, this incongruous creature in her white dress, glowing like a star fallen into his dark domain. The very sight of her here, in these private corridors, should have inspired only rage. Yet there was something almost... fascinating about the way she unconsciously illuminated the shadows around her.
"Would you..." Alice smiled sweetly, "Would you like to explore with me? The tapestries tell stories, I think, though I can't quite understand them all."
For a moment, cold rage flickered through him at her presumption. Did this slip of a girl think he had nothing better to do than indulge her childish curiosities? He, Lord Voldemort, who had brought both magical and muggle worlds to heel?
And yet...
There was something oddly compelling about her complete lack of guile, the way she looked at him with such genuine hope. When was the last time anyone had simply wanted his company, without ulterior motive or desperate plea?
"Very well," he was surprised to find himself saying. "Though I doubt you'll find the stories... pleasant."
She smiled warmly at his acceptance, and again he was struck by how she glowed against the darkness of his domain. “I’m glad for any story - at the Estate, my teachers were always telling me I was too much of a daydreamer. This one here," she moved to a particularly grim tapestry, "I think it's showing some sort of battle, but the creatures in it... I've never seen anything like them."
As she gazed up at the ancient magical battle with innocent curiosity, Voldemort found himself watching her reactions more than the tapestry itself. How strange, to see his world through such untainted eyes.
"These are thestrals," he explained, indicating the skeletal winged horses that wove through the battle scene. "They can only be seen by those who have witnessed death."
"Oh." Alice studied the creatures with renewed interest. "Then I suppose I wouldn't be able to see them in real life. Though they're beautiful, in their own way. Like living shadows with wings." She tilted her head, considering. "Do they keep them here, at The Dark Palace?"
"They pull the carriages," he replied, amused by how she'd unknowingly revealed another facet of her sheltered existence. "Though most see only empty air moving the coaches."
"How lonely that must be for them," she mused, her fingers hovering near but not quite touching the magical fabric. "To exist but not be seen."
Her innocent observation struck an unexpected chord, and he found himself studying her profile in the dim light. How strange that this slip of a girl, could occasionally stumble upon thoughts that weren't entirely foolish.
"This one," she said, moving to the next tapestry, "what's happening here? The woman in the tower seems to be... oh!" She stepped back slightly as the scene showed the woman's transformation into a dark creature. "I didn't expect that."
"Circe's transformation of Scylla," he supplied, watching her reaction carefully. "The first witch in history, transforming a nymph in a fit of jealous rage."
Alice studied the scene with unexpected intensity, her fingers hovering near the writhing figure in the tapestry. "The power of it," she breathed, and there was something almost hungry in her gaze. "To be able to transform something so completely, to reshape reality itself..." She trailed off, then added more softly, "While I can't even transform my own circumstances."
The bitter self-awareness in her tone caught his attention. Perhaps the little mouse wasn't quite as naive as she appeared.
"You understand more than you let on," he observed, studying her with renewed interest.
A slight, wan smile touched her lips. "Understanding doesn't change anything, does it? Circe could transform others because she had power. Without power..." She gestured to herself, a small, elegant movement that somehow encompassed her entire situation. "Well, one must accept what one cannot change."
Her quiet resignation held an unexpected edge of curiosity, wrapped in clear-eyed understanding that made her... intriguing. Here was no foolish girl dreaming of rescue, but one who saw her cage and seemed to be measuring its bars with careful consideration.
"How philosophical of you," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of dark amusement.
"Not philosophy," she replied, a glimmer of something sharper in her eyes as she watched Scylla's eternal transformation. "Just observation. Though I do wonder..." she tilted her head, letting a hint of challenge color her careful honesty, "what it feels like, to hold that kind of power. To be the one writing the story instead of being written into it."
The hunger in her voice was almost palpable, and Voldemort found himself oddly entertained by this glimpse of steel beneath her silk. How fascinating that his little ward harbored such ambition behind those demure smiles.
Just as quickly as she had revealed that flash of raw desire, Alice veiled it, though not quite as completely as before. A ghost of that hunger lingered in her eyes, making her serene expression more mask than truth. Voldemort watched, increasingly intrigued. It was a skill he recognized – the ability to hide one's true self beneath a façade – though hers was still imperfect, still developing.
"Tom," she said with a smile that held just a touch of daring, "do you think I could learn such magic one day? The kind that transforms?"
Before he could respond, a flicker of cold amusement touched his lips. "Transform? You, little mouse? Perhaps into something more befitting a silly muggle wife." The words slipped out before he could stop them, a cruel mockery of her innocent ambition. He saw not hurt in her eyes, but a flash of defiance, quickly masked, and found himself oddly pleased by it. "Though," he added smoothly, "with the right guidance, perhaps even the most unlikely transformations are possible."
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the corridor. Antonin Dolohov appeared, his expression shifting from professional distance to something warmer upon seeing Alice.
"My Lord," Antonin bowed, his eyes lingering on Alice with poorly concealed concern. "Lady Waters. Wandering the corridors again, I see."
Alice's answering smile held genuine warmth. "Lord Dolohov! I was just getting a history lesson. Tom was kind enough to explain the tapestries to me."
"Was he?" Antonin's tone was carefully neutral, but his protective stance betrayed him. "Nevertheless, it's growing late. Perhaps I should escort you back?"
"Of course," Alice agreed, turning to Voldemort with a perfectly calculated smile. "Thank you for your company, Tom. It was... illuminating."
As Antonin led her back toward the east wing, Voldemort watched her retreating figure with growing fascination. How adept she was becoming at this dance of masks, though she didn't quite realize how much of herself still showed through. It was a dance he had mastered long ago, and now, he found himself curious to see how well she might learn it.
As they walked through the darkening corridors, Alice glanced up at her stern escort, noting the tension in his jaw. "You worry for me," she said softly, not a question but a gentle observation.
Antonin's stride faltered slightly. "The palace can be... dangerous for those unfamiliar with its ways. The wards are for your protection."
"Protection from what?" she asked, her voice warm with a trust she hadn't shown before. "Besides history lessons from…Tom?"
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and something in his stern expression softened. "You're playing a dangerous game, little one."
Alice met his gaze steadily, letting him see both her fear and her determination. "Life seems to be nothing but dangerous games lately," she said softly, then added with a hint of that earlier steel, "I'd rather learn to play them well than hide behind these pillars forever."
Antonin studied her for a long moment, and she saw something shift in his scarred face – respect, mingled with growing fondness. "Brave words," he said finally, his gruff voice gentler than she'd ever heard it. "But remember this: sometimes the most dangerous player is the one who appears to have no cards at all."
They reached the doors to her wing, and Alice turned to him with a smile that held real affection. "Thank you, Antonin," she said softly, dropping his title for the first time. "For seeing me."
His hand moved as if to touch her shoulder, then fell away.
Later, when Antonin returned to the war room, he found Voldemort studying the ancient battle maps with calculated intensity.
"The girl shows an unexpected capacity for discretion," Voldemort remarked without looking up. "Let her wander a bit more freely. It might prove... entertaining to see what draws her attention."
Antonin's scarred face betrayed nothing, though his eyebrow lifted slightly. "The wards, my Lord?"
"Maintain them on the sensitive areas, of course. But the library corridors, the eastern gardens..." Voldemort's lips curved into a cold smile. "Let our little mouse explore her maze. After all, the best way to understand one's pet is to watch what interests it."
"As you wish, my Lord. Though perhaps I should remind the house elves to keep a closer eye on her?"
"No need." Voldemort's red eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "I find myself rather curious to see what she makes of our... hospitality. When left to her own devices."
Antonin nodded, understanding the unspoken command. The girl would have more freedom, yes, but every step she took would be noted, every reaction catalogued. The cage might be larger now, but it was a cage nonetheless – and its primary purpose was to reveal the true nature of its occupant.
After Antonin left, Voldemort found his thoughts returning to the girl's earlier composure. There was something oddly compelling about the way she regarded her cage – where others would rail against their bonds or dissolve into despair, she faced her reality with a remarkable steadiness. It was almost... admirable.
He caught himself in this observation, lips curling into a sneer. And yet... he couldn't dismiss the memory of her in the gardens, taking his offered hand without hesitation. The way she smiled at him in the corridors, genuine and bright, without the usual terror that accompanied his presence. Not from ignorance, he now realized, but from some deeper well of serenity.
She didn't crave power or transformation, didn't plot escape or scheme for advantage. She simply... was. Moving through her designated role with a grace that spoke of understanding rather than submission. How strange to find such quiet strength in one so young.
Antonin had returned, announcing himself with a clearing of his throat, cutting through Voldemort's contemplation.
"What is it?" The sharpness in his tone betrayed his irritation at being interrupted.
"Shall I have Narcissa arrange more suitable activities for Lady Waters?"
Voldemort's red eyes snapped up from the maps, a flash of annoyance in their depths. "Must we revisit this, Antonin? I thought we settled this matter earlier. Let her be. She seems perfectly... capable of managing herself."
Antonin absorbed this reaction carefully, noting the subtle shift in his master's usual indifference toward their "guests." In forty years of service, he had learned to read the minute changes in his master's moods – and something about the girl had caught his interest, whether he acknowledged it or not.
Antonin's scarred face betrayed nothing, and he gave a nonchalant shrug as if to convey he had not cared either way - though something flickered in his eyes at this unusual assessment. Departing silently, he couldn't help but wonder if their steady little dove might prove more significant than any of them had anticipated.