Chapter 2
Lord Voldemort stared at the Mudblood slave in front of him. She was thin, not quite starving and frail, a stark contrast to the fiery, spirited girl she had once been. Her clothes hung loosely around her slight frame, her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her hair was unkempt and limp, and her eyes - oh, those once vibrant eyes - were now dull and lifeless.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asked her, his voice as cold as winter's frost.
She didn't meet his gaze, instead choosing to focus on a spot on the floor. "To serve," she responded flatly.
"Oh, I am afraid the time has passed for that," he replied smoothly, the cruel smile returning to his lips. "In fact, I think your usefulness has run its course entirely."
Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, but he noted a slight tremor run through her as she did her best to keep her composure.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice echoing throughout the stark stone room.
Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her gaze to meet his. There was no fight left in those eyes; only a resigned acceptance of what was to come.
"Any last words?" he asked her, his tone mockingly polite.
For a long moment, she was silent. Then, in a small voice that nonetheless carried clearly in the hollow room, she said "Goodbye, Tom."
His eyes narrowed at the mention of his given name. It had been too long since he had heard that name uttered, let alone from the lips of a Mudblood.
"Goodbye, Hermione," he replied, his voice rich with a poisonous sweetness. He raised his wand, his cold eyes never leaving hers.
He was about to utter the final spell when his need to talk got the better of him. "Do you know what I did to the last person who called me Tom?"
Her body stiffened, but she kept her gaze steady. "You killed him, didn't you?" Her voice was devoid of any emotion - a stark contrast to the trembling fear she had displayed moments ago.
"That's right," Lord Voldemort said, his smile never wavering. "And do you know why?"
When she did not respond, he continued, "Because when I was done with him, he was no longer of any use to me. Just as you are now."
A shudder ran down her spine, but she didn't break the gaze.
"In fact, he was no longer of any use to anyone. A drooling, slobbering mess, he was, couldn't even remember his own name. You see, I don't like leaving behind loose ends." His voice held a note of finality, his icy gaze bore into her. "I find it . . . messy."
A silence fell over the room, punctuated only by the slight flicker of candlelight. Hermione swallowed, her throat dry as sand.
"So it was fitting that he ended a mess, irreparably broken. A pitiful existence, don’t you think?” His words dripped with a malicious glee, seemingly drawing energy from the dread that began to creep back into her eyes. He continued, “A fate worse than death perhaps. But you, Mudblood . . . ” He let the words hang in the air before completing his sentence.
She breathed more quickly.
“You’ll be spared of that wretched existence.”
His cold, tolling laughter echoed through the stone room, a chilling symphony to the imminent end. He enjoyed this part, the theatrics of it all. The power in his hands to completely decide another's fate.
Her shoulders seemed to slump with some relief.
"Yes," he continued, drawing out the word like a predator playing with its prey. "I'm merciful, after all."
"Merciful?" she echoed, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the echoing laughter. The tone was empty, void of any hope or defiance. Just mere acceptance.
He smirked at that. "Oh yes, mercy is one of my many virtues."
The room fell silent again and for a moment they just stood there, under the flickering candlelight, caught in a surreal dance of life and death.
For a split second he swore he saw something flash in her eyes. Not fear. Not resignation. Not defiance. Or perhaps it was his mind playing tricks on him. After all, a bizarre mixture of relief and dread in her haggard face. It was as if she had been preparing for this moment ever since she was brought into this dark place.
Hermione Granger had been broken down, a macabre acceptance of what was coming. Her eyes, those eyes that once shone with the brightness of a thousand stars, were now resigned to the inevitable.
"I am sure I will be last one to call you that."
"Indeed," he murmured, "I believe you are right."
He raised his wand slowly, taking pleasure in the fear dancing in her eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Avada Kedavra."
A brilliant flash of green light filled the room before fading into an eerie calmness that sent echoes of silence through the stone chamber.
Lord Voldemort looked down at the lifeless body lying at his feet. He felt no remorse or pity at the girl who had been his friend since they were eleven years old; only satisfaction at having eliminated another Muggleborn.
A faint smile stretched across his face as he watched the last flicker of life leave her eyes. She had been a worthy friend in her own way, but like all things in his path, she was of no more use to him now.
She was of no more use to him on his path to ultimate power.
Yes. Only satisfaction.
The room felt colder, if such was possible, with the extinguished life. The flickering candlelight danced across her once vibrant face, now a mere shell drained of all vigor. He had seen this sight many times; lifeless bodies were a common occurrence in his line of 'work'.
He looked down at her, her eyes open and staring blankly at the ceiling, as if she were still trying to comprehend what had just happened. A small part of him wanted to close those eyes, those once full of life and now only containing the emptiness of death. But he didn’t. He let them stay open, a chilling reminder of what he had done and what he would continue to do in pursuit of his ambitions.
His regal stride echoed through the stone corridors as he returned to the main hall where Malfoy and Lestrange awaited his return. The tall, pale man and the man with dark, wild hair turned to face him as he entered, their faces alight with hope and fear.
"Is it done?" Malfoy asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Lord Voldemort simply nodded once, his cold eyes gleaming in the dim light. "She is gone."
A collective wave of some emotion seemed to wash over the two men. They exchanged a glance before Lestrange spoke up, his voice a gravelly whisper, "Well done, My Lord."
"Gentlemen," he addressed them, his tone as cool as the stone walls around them, "Dispose of the body."
"The snake?" Malfoy said, swallowing. Lord Voldemort thought he looked a little queasy.
"No," the Dark Lord snapped. Truth be told, he had no idea why he was so angry.
Without a word, he strolled past them, the sound of his cloaked form brushing against the stone walls filled the chamber. Malfoy and Lestrange followed behind him, exchanging wary glances.
* * *
Walking away from them, the former Tom Riddle, who had attended Hogwarts with Hermione Granger, thought hard.
She hadn't begged. Why hadn't she begged?
The cold stone room was left behind in the darkness. His footsteps echoed down the long, narrow corridors of this ancient castle, each step ringing hollow in his ears. She hadn't begged. The thought kept circling in his mind like a vulture over a carcass.
He had expected tears, pleas for mercy, perhaps even a futile attempt at escape or rebellion. But none had come. Only a quiet resolve and a calm acceptance of her fate. And those eyes. Those eyes that met his without faltering.
Indeed, she had surprised him to the very end. But that was largely inconsequential now. What counted was that one page had been turned and he was ready to start another chapter of his grand ambition, closer than ever to his ultimate goal.
Yet as he ascended the winding staircase towards his private chambers, the echo of her final words still lingered in his ears - "Goodbye, Tom". Even in death, she had dared to address him by his mortal name, a reminder of a time he had long since cast aside. It was a whisper from the past, a ghost of a girl he once knew. The name echoing in the cold air gave him a pause. His name, the one he had shunned and erased from his past. 'Tom Riddle' was no more; hadn't been for years. And yet, Hermione Granger had dared to utter it; to remind him of the boy he once was. To remind him of the man he could have been.
The Dark Lord entered his private chambers, the question nagging at his mind. She should have pleaded for her life, wept and wailed in a desperate attempt to stave off her impending doom, like all the others had done before her. But she hadn't. She accepted her fate with an unsettling calmness that forced him to question his own actions.
He sat down on a chair by the fireplace, staring unseeingly into the dancing flames. The room was spacious, filled with artifacts from various parts of the world; trophies from conquests long past. A grand ebony desk occupied one corner of the room, covered in stacks of parchment and an array of quills and ink pots.
A snake sculpture made of pure emerald sat atop a tall mantelpiece, its glowing green eyes seeming to watch him with an unblinking gaze.
The question played in his mind like a torturous sonnet, the haunting echo of her silence ringing louder than any cry for mercy. He had anticipated the pleas, as they were a familiar symphony to his dark deeds; they offered him a macabre satisfaction. But Hermione Granger had given him none.
She hadn’t begged.
He had looked into her eyes, waiting for that moment of human desperation to reflect back at him from within her depths, but all he received was silence. It was as if she had chosen to gift him with one last act of defiance, robbing him of the satisfaction that he craved.
He wasn’t sure if he were impressed or annoyed. Maybe both.
"Why wasn't there fear in your eyes, Mudblood?" he found himself uttering into the deafening silence of his chambers, staring absently at the stone cold hearth.
She had shown terror before, hadn't she? When she was first captured, when he had tortured her. Yes, he remembered vividly. Her screams of pain and the desperation etched in her face were imprinted on his memory. Yet, in her final moments, that fear was absent.
He frowned, leaning back on the chair as his fingers idly stroked the armrest. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, a deafening cacophony that was centered around one haunting image – Hermione Granger's calm, accepting gaze in the face of death.
She had begged for others.
Old school mates, random Muggles, when he had had the brilliant plan to kill the Muggleborn first-years on what was going to be their first day at Hogwarts.
She had actually got down on her knees then, begging him, pleading for their lives. The memory was as vivid as if it had happened only yesterday. It was the last time she called him 'Tom'.
And he had obliged her, hadn't he?
Ever the merciful Lord, he had taken an odd satisfaction in the way her pale face had twisted in relief.
Their old schoolmates alive, while she was . . . dead.
He remembered the scene well, her on her knees, eyes brimming with hopeless tears, voice hoarse with pleas. He had granted her wish then. Not out of mercy, never mercy. It was simply a stratagem for his amusement, to watch her squirm and beg. It was a potent reminder of the disparity that existed between them: the Mudblood begging the Pure-blood for mercy.
He had spared the first-years, too, returning the little brats to their worthless Muggle parents in what he felt was a far less impressive display of power. He thought to himself that he could kill them later when she wasn't watching and derive even more satisfaction from the look of hopelessness that replaced the fleeting relief in her eyes. But today, she hadn't begged. She hadn't pleaded for her life.
Absentmindedly, he rang the bell. One of his random minions appeared, and he ordered him to bring Malfoy.
The minion hurriedly left, the door closing behind him with an echoing thud. Lord Voldemort leaned back in his chair, lost in thought. Moments later, Malfoy entered the room, his face pale and his hands trembling slightly.
"You summoned me, My Lord?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Lord Voldemort regarded him with a gaze as cold as death itself. "Bring me the body."
"The body, M-My Lord?" Malfoy faltered, his pale skin blanching even further,
"Yes, the body. Surely you haven't mislaid already it in the brief time that's passed since we last spoke in the hall?" The Dark Lord's voice was as cold and hard as the stone walls surrounding them. His red eyes bore into Malfoy's, unblinking and menacing.
Malfoy stammered, the pallor of his face growing more pronounced. "But . . . but you said . . . "
"I've changed my mind," Voldemort cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I wish to see her once more."
Malfoy gave him a wide-eyed look, clearly taken aback by this sudden change of decision. Voldemort's orders were never to be questioned, let alone changed, and yet here he was, going against his own command.
Malfoy's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly lowered his gaze to avoid eye contact. "I beg your pardon, My Lord?" he stammered, as if he somehow couldn't believe his ears.
"I wish to view it once more," Voldemort said, his voice as ice cold as ever. The lie came smoothly, a product of years spent honing his skills in manipulation and deceit.
"But . . . the body . . . it's . . . " Malfoy stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked visibly shaken, his normally haughty demeanor crumbling under Voldemort’s cold gaze.
"Is there a problem, Malfoy?" Voldemort asked, his voice dangerously low.
"N-No, My Lord." Malfoy stuttered, averting his gaze. "I shall bring it right away." He bowed low and swiftly exited the room.
Left alone once again in his grand chamber, Voldemort turned his gaze back to the crackling fire. The warm glow did nothing to dispel the chill that had seeped into his bones. It wasn't the cold of the stone walls or the night air that chilled him - it was something deeper, something inexplicable that gripped him tightly and refused to let go.
By the time Malfoy returned, accompanied by two masked figures levitating a lifeless form between them, Voldemort had steeled himself to face the woman who had refused to satisfy his final twisted demand.
The body was laid on the floor at Voldemort's feet, her face a ghostly white under her disheveled hair. He looked down at her, studying her peaceful expression - a stark contrast to the terror he'd seen in others.
"The body of Hermione Granger," one of the figures said in a monotone and ceremonious voice.
"Yes, I went to school with the chit for seven years," the Dark Lord snapped at the minion, his red eyes flashing with contempt. "I think I know who she is."
She looked peaceful, almost as though she were sleeping.
“Leave us,” Voldemort commanded quietly. Malfoy hastily retreated, avoiding looking at either of them, leaving him alone with Hermione Granger’s lifeless body.
He stood from his chair and slowly approached her, his eyes never straying from her placid face. He reached out a pale hand and brushed a stray hair off her forehead. It was an oddly tender gesture for a man who had lost all sense of humanity long ago. His mind was a vortex of swirling thoughts.
Her pale face was serene in death, her eyes closed as if she were merely sleeping. He wondered if she had known peace in her final moments.
The sight of her lying there so still and lifeless was almost surreal. He had seen countless others succumb to his wrath over years past, each one meeting their end in screams and begs for mercy. Yet here she was, no different physically than he remembered her.
Malfoy had not done a bad job as an undertaker, Voldemort noted as he observed the woman. Her matted hair had been smoothed out, skin cleaned of grit and blood, and whatever filthy garments she had exchanged for a snowy white silk nightgown. The Dark Lord wondered if it were Malfoy's wife's. Amusement touched his face as he thought about what Silvia would say about her nightgown being used to dress a Mudblood. Then the amusement faded. Silvia had also gone to Hogwarts with Hermione. Perhaps she had volunteered the gown.
Times had certainly changed since their Hogwarts days.
Voldemort looked back down at Hermione's lifeless form. His mind was awash with memories - shared glances in the library, heated debates in class, the Mudblood standing up to him more times than he could count. Against his will, another memory floated up in his mind - a younger Hermione Granger, defending him from one of his now own followers who'd gotten drunk one night and decided to pick a fight with the new boy named Tom Riddle.
That memory always rankled him because she had been wrong to do so. Back then, he was a nobody, an orphan who had no clue who his parents were or where he hailed from. He, who had the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself in his veins!
Her face was clean, devoid of any sign of the fear or pain he had expected. It was almost as if she had been waiting for this moment, prepared for it. Had she accepted it? Resigned herself to it?
Voldemort felt a strange sensation stirring in him, one that was foreign and yet vaguely familiar. Was it regret? No, that was impossible. He had no cause for regret. This was merely another step in his campaign to rid the world of blood traitors and Mudbloods.
A strange sensation was stirring inside him as he observed her tranquility. He felt robbed. Where was the gratifying satisfaction of witnessing her terror?
Her death should have brought him satisfaction. It should have been another testament to his power and superiority over weak Muggles and filthy Mudbloods. Yet all he felt was an . . . emptiness.
His gaze returned to her lifeless form once more. Perhaps if he just looked a while longer, the answers would come to him. He knelt down beside her body, reaching out once more to caress.
As if they were sitting in the Hogwarts library of old.
But now she was here, lifeless and serene.
Why hadn't she begged?
He rung the bell again. "Bring me Malfoy."
Once again, the minion scurried to do as told. The room fell silent except for the soft whispering of the flames in the fireplace. The Dark Lord did not move from his position beside her body. The minutes seemed to blend together in a haze as he lost himself deep within his own thoughts.
Malfoy returned hastily, appearing at the doorway with a sense of urgency. "You summoned me, My Lord?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of anxiety. He glanced at the lifeless form laid out on the floor, as if he couldn't help himself now, and something akin to pity washed over his features.
"She didn't fight." Voldemort spoke without looking up, his cold voice echoing around the chamber.
"M-My Lord?"
"She didn't fight," Voldemort repeated, his voice louder and more commanding. He stood up and turned to face Malfoy, his red eyes glowing with a chilling intensity. "Hermione Granger, in her final moments, didn't show an ounce of resistance or defiance."
Malfoy was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on Hermione's body. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured. "She . . . she didn't struggle, My Lord? It was almost like she knew it was her time."
Voldemort snorted disdainfully at Malfoy's sentimentality. "It was not her time, Malfoy," His voice raised to a thunderous shout that echoed around the room. "it was mine. I was the one who decided when it would be her time. She had no control over it."
"Of course, My Lord," Malfoy stammered quickly, bowing his head low once again in submission.
"But that is not what I am questioning," Voldemort continued, his gaze returning to Hermione's still form.
"She . . . she didn't have a wand, My Lord," Malfoy said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "She couldn't have fought back if she tried."
"I didn't mean physically," Voldemort replied, irritation creeping into his tone. "It is the look in her eyes. There was no begging or pleading for mercy. Even in her final moments."
Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flickering between his Dark Lord and the still form on the floor.
"But that is not the Granger I remember," Voldemort hissed, placing his hands behind his back as he turned away from the woman. "She was a fighter. She never quit or backed down. Remember when we were first-years and that third-year tried to bully us? She stood up to him."
A rustle of fabric signaled Malfoy's slight shift in position. "Perhaps the bullies got too big for her, My Lord," he suggested softly.
“This,” Voldemort gestured at the lifeless form on the ground with a sweep of his hand, “This is not the Hermione Granger I knew.”
"People change, My Lord," he said tentatively. "Perhaps the war . . . Perhaps it broke her."
His Dark Lord did not answer directly. "You fixed her hair the way it used to be." Voldemort pointed out, silence looming heavy in the room as his words hung in the air.
"Yes, My Lord," Malfoy answered, uncertainty creeping into his tone. His gaze flickered to Hermione's body once more, his face a mask of unreadable emotions. "I can do it another way if you'd prefer . . . "
"No," Voldemort dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "It's fitting. "It seems . . . right."
Except none of this seemed right.
His mind raged with thoughts. Frustration simmered within him, bubbling to the surface like hot lava threatening to erupt.
His eyes narrowed as they traced the contours of her face, so still and calm in death. The Hermione he knew was passionate and fiery - she would have fought - if not physically then with her resounding conviction and strong words.
"She hardly looked like herself at the end, did she?" Voldemort mused aloud, his knuckles turning white from the grip he had on his wand. He was not asking for anyone's opinion, but merely voicing his own. "She should have begged, Malfoy. She should have pleaded for mercy, choked on her fear . . . it's what they all do." Voldemort’s voice was almost a whisper now, but there was a commanding intensity to it that sent chills down Malfoy's spine.
"Should she have, My Lord?" Malfoy ventured, his gaze steady on the Dark Lord. His voice was soft but held an edge of defiance which would have shocked him had he been in a less perturbed state of mind.
Voldemort turned to look at him, curiosity piqued by the challenge in his servant's voice. "Yes," he said firmly, steel hard in his tone. "Her begging would have reminded me of her insignificance, of her place in the grand scheme of things. But now . . . " He frowned deeply, his crimson eyes flickering with confusion before he swiftly reined it in.
"She went out on her own terms," Malfoy remarked quietly, daring to meet the Dark Lord's gaze. "She was never one to bow to anyone's will but her own. She hated that. Stubborn to the last, our Granger."
"It's not just about the begging," Voldemort continued after a moment. His eyes were distant as he stared at an unseen point on the wall. "It's about her spirit. In every interaction we've had, she's been a force to contend with - a fiery will and an unyielding heart. She always fought back, always stood up to me."
Malfoy did not answer.
"Why didn't she beg?" Voldemort demanded, his voice a thunderous echo reverberating off the cold stone walls. He seemed strangely focused on this point, an odd fixation for a man who drove fear into the hearts of others.
"She was a filthy Mudblood, My Lord." Malfoy closed his eyes. "She knew there was no mercy to be had."
"She begged for others, though," Voldemort abruptly retorted, his mind flashing back to those moments of frantic pleadings for her friends that she was so willing to offer.
"Yes, My Lord." Malfoy agreed reluctantly. "She was always . . . selfless."
"She was," Voldemort agreed curtly, his mind inexplicably drawn back to that memory of Hermione standing up for him against that schoolboy. "The nightgown is too big for her," he stated abruptly, his gaze flickered to the white fabric that swathed her small frame.
Malfoy blinked, thrown off by the sudden change of topic. "She was . . . thinner than we remembered, My Lord."
A silence filled the room, the only sound was the soft crackle of the fire from the massive hearth.
Malfoy uncomfortably cleared his throat. "Forgive me, My Lord, the fault is mine. We . . . I should have realized she hadn't enough to eat."
"She had enough to eat!" Lord Voldemort snapped. "I ordered extra rations for her! It should have been more than sufficient."
"Of course, My Lord," Malfoy hurriedly acquiesced, casting his eyes downward once again. "My sincere apologies."
Voldemort turned his attention back to Hermione, disgust and repulsion warring with a strange sense of loss. His gaze lingered on her still form for a moment before he spoke again.
"But she can't have eaten . . . can she?" he murmured, as if speaking to himself rather than to Malfoy.
"Knowing Granger, she probably gave her share to others, My Lord," Malfoy said quietly, risking a glance at his superior. "She always had an irrational tendency to put others first."
Voldemort didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed firmly on Hermione's lifeless form. “She never understood the necessity of self-preservation,” he finally said, an odd note of respect creeping into his voice. “Such a waste.”
Malfoy swallowed hard. "She was . . . different, My Lord," he ventured after a moment of heavy silence.
"Different?" Voldemort echoed derisively. He straightened and turned to face Malfoy, the flickering fire casting eerie shadows across his gaunt and pallid face. "Is that what you call it?"
Malfoy met the Dark Lord's gaze bravely. "She was brave, My Lord," he admitted slowly. "And kind . . . in ways we can't comprehend."
A sneer twisted Voldemort's lips as he scoffed at Malfoy's words. "Weak."
A silence filled the room, the only sound was the soft crackle of the fire from the massive hearth.
Malfoy remained silent, standing stiffly as if he were afraid to move. He seemed to sense that Voldemort was not looking for a response. Instead, the Dark Lord allowed the silence to linger as he continued to study Hermione's body.
She did look thinner, he noted. The last traces of her youthful plumpness had faded away, leaving nothing but an array of sharp angles and harsh lines. Her cheeks were hollowed out and there was a stark prominence to her collarbones that he did not remember.
She had lost far more than weight in her final days, it seemed.
"She called me Tom."
Malfoy looked absolutely sick. "She . . . She did?" he stuttered, his face paling.
Voldemort nodded almost absentmindedly. "Yes. There was no fear in her eyes. No plea for mercy. And she called me 'Tom'." He let out a hollow laugh, the sound jarring in the quiet room.
Malfoy stood frozen, a look of sheer terror on his face. He knew better than anyone how the Dark Lord despised his birth name, and to hear it from the lips of Hermione Granger would have been an affront too great to ignore.
"But why . . . " Malfoy trailed off, confusion taking over his features. Voldemort ignored him, his gaze resting back on Hermione's lifeless form.
A low growl rumbled in his chest. It was not regret. It couldn't be. But the thought of her, so accepting of her fate, so ready to embrace death . . . So ready to leave him.
"What did you do to her for that affront, M-My Lord?" Malfoy swallowed hard. "Only, I saw no damage on her."
"I did nothing, Malfoy," Voldemort answered, his tone flat and emotionless. He turned to face the younger man, his crimson eyes locked on his pale face. "I didn't punish her. I killed her; a quick Avada Kedavra."
"My Lord was merciful."
"She called me 'Tom' . . . " he repeated once more under his breath, his gaze unblinking as he studied her deathly pale face.
"Granger was always brave," Malfoy said softly.
A heavy silence stretched out, broken only by the crackling of the fire and Malfoy's shaky breathing. Voldemort let it linger as he studied her, committing every detail to memory. The curve of her jaw, the freckles on her cheekbones and the way her hair fanned out on the floor around her . . .
Voldemort turned back to her body again, his hand outstretched but not touching. He studied her face one more time, taking in every detail as though he was committing her into memory.
"She should have begged," he finally whispered, almost to himself. It was clear that the absence of fear and defiance in Hermione Granger unsettled him, perhaps more than anything else had ever done before.
"Yes, My Lord," Malfoy agreed quietly, though it was obvious he had no idea what he was agreeing to.
"Didn't I listen to her when she begged for others?" Voldemort mused, his voice distant. His hand still hovered over Hermione's body, but he did not touch her. "When she threw herself between me and whatever old useless housemate of hers? When she begged for those first-years' lives? For other lives?" he mused, tilting his head slightly as he considered this. His eyes bore into the lifeless form on the floor, as if trying to extract some form of answer from her still presence.
Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting around the room. "She was always more concerned for others than herself," he noted, his voice barely audible.
"Are you suggesting that she saw a difference between begging for others' lives and her own?" Voldemort snapped, his tone biting.
Malfoy swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "No, My Lord . . . I just . . . Maybe she knew she . . . she couldn't change her fate."
"Granger always believed she could change the world," Voldemort said, his voice a chilling whisper. His gaze returned to Hermione's still body. "But in the end, she didn't even try to change her own fate."
Silence filled the room again, wrapping around them like a suffocating shroud. Malfoy didn't dare say anything else; he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
Voldemort studied Hermione's body for what seemed like an eternity. He memorized every curve, every line, every hard angle left by starvation and hardship. He remembered when her hair was thick and glossy and her cheeks flushed with health and laughter. He remembered when her eyes sparkled with life and ambition.
"Why didn't she beg?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, and he realized with a start that it was directed more at himself than at anyone else. "Isn't that where Mudbloods belong, Abraxas? At our feet, begging for mercy?"
"Y-Yes, My Lord," Malfoy stammered, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and confusion. Malfoy stammered uncomfortably, "They're known for their stubbornness."
Voldemort ignored the weak explanation, his mind whirling with the unanswered questions. "Why didn't she beg?" he muttered once again, as if he expected the echo of his voice to provide him the answers he sought.
Malfoy was silent for a moment, then finally spoke. "Perhaps she had nothing left to fear, My Lord," he suggested hesitantly.
The Dark Lord turned to regard Malfoy a long moment, then snorted disparagingly. "Fear is an ever-present entity, Malfoy," he said coldly, "and it is quite foolish to believe one can simply run out of it."
He returned his gaze to Hermione's still form. She appeared so peaceful in her final rest, as though she had been released from a great burden. He reached out and ran a single finger down her cold cheek. Such bravery in her eyes before death - defiant till the end.
"Her defiance was . . . endearing," Voldemort confessed, his voice softening once again. His cold eyes roved over her corpse, taking in the crumpled heap that was once the fiercely brave Hermione Granger. "But defiance has its price."
Suddenly, the fire crackled loudly in the hearth, startling them both out of their unnerving silence. Malfoy watched as the flame danced wildly, casting ominous shadows around the room.
"She stood up to every bully, including myself. She defied the entire school by being herself and not giving a damn about those who mocked her." Voldemort's voice dropped to almost a whisper, his gaze distant as memories of their shared past filled his mind.
Malfoy remained silent for a moment before replying, "Yes, My Lord. I remember. She was indeed a fighter."
Voldemort turned back to face him, his gaze severe. "Then how could she have surrendered so easily at the end? Why did she not resist? Why did she not fight?" His voice was barely more than a whisper, the questions hanging in the air like smoke.
Malfoy swallowed hard before answering, "Perhaps . . . Perhaps she knew there was no way out. Maybe she accepted her fate, My Lord."
"No," Voldemort retorted, shaking his head vehemently. His fingers clenched into tight fists at his sides. "That is not like Granger at all. She would not give up."
"But she did," Malfoy said softly.
"But that is not the Granger I remember," Voldemort hissed, placing his hands behind his back as he turned away from the woman. "She was a fighter. She never quit or backed down."
A rustle of fabric signaled Malfoy's slight shift in position. "People change, My Lord," he said tentatively. "Perhaps the war . . . perhaps it broke her."
Malfoy remained silent as Voldemort turned away from him and moved to the window overlooking the vast grounds of the Manor. This night was far from what he had envisioned. He felt unfulfilled, confused even.
"But she . . . she didn't beg," Voldemort repeated again, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. "I want to know why," Voldemort muttered more to himself than to Malfoy. His fingers pressed against the cold glass of the window. "And yet . . . " Voldemort trailed off, a strange look crossing his face. It was not quite regret, nor was it remorse. It was something more akin to . . . bewilderment. "She should have begged," he repeated in a whisper, finally dropping his hand. His red eyes glowed ominously in the semi-darkness. "She should have pleaded for her life."
"Perhaps . . . " Malfoy began hesitantly, "perhaps she knew it wasn't going to make any difference, My Lord."
Voldemort whirled around to face Malfoy, his eyes burning with an intensity that made the younger man flinch. "Are you suggesting that she thought I was incapable of mercy?" he hissed, the words slithering through the air like a venomous snake.
"N-No, My Lord," Malfoy stuttered, his face turning ghostly white. "I was just . . . I . . . "
"Is it not mercy to grant a quick death?" Voldemort continued, ignoring Malfoy's panicked stammering. “Is it not mercy to end her suffering?"
Malfoy didn't respond, too terrified to speak. Instead, he kept his eyes lowered, praying for the conversation to end.
Voldemort turned back to Hermione's lifeless form, his red eyes softening slightly as they traced over her delicate features. "She wasn't afraid at the end," he said more to himself than to Malfoy. "She wasn't afraid of me."
Silence filled the room again as Voldemort lost himself in thought. His gaze was fixed on Hermione even though she could no longer meet it, even though her brilliant brown eyes were forever dull.
"And she called me Tom," Voldemort said, the words sounding almost wistful now. The name rolled off his tongue, reverberating through the room before dissipating into the nothingness of the cold stone walls.
Malfoy kept his gaze lowered and his silence complete, sensing that any comment or movement might shatter the strange calm that had taken over the Dark Lord.
Voldemort remained silent for a long time, his red eyes never leaving Hermione's face. His usually unreadable countenance seemed to flicker with a foreign emotion—confusion? Regret? Or was it something else? The very sight was unnerving to Malfoy who could only stand in silence, waiting for Voldemort's next move.
"And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life," Malfoy quoted softly.
"No one has called me Tom in many years." Voldemort finally spoke again, not hearing him, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes glimmered with an unidentifiable emotion as he stared at the lifeless form of Hermione Granger. "Not since . . . "
He trailed off. "Well, probably not since Granger last called me that last. Why would she call me that?!"
"Perhaps she simply wanted to say goodbye." Malfoy ventured, barely louder than a whisper. "She loved you, Tom." Then Abraxas immediately froze.
Voldemort whirled around to face him, his red eyes ablaze. Malfoy instinctively shrank back, but the Dark Lord didn't attack. Instead, he studied Malfoy quietly, his gaze penetrating and severe.
He had killed enough old friends tonight. He didn't need to add another name to the list.
Voldemort turned slowly to face Malfoy, eyes seeming to pulse with a malevolent gleam. "What did I do, you ask?" His voice slithered through the air between them, as cold and quiet as the grave.
Malfoy swallowed hard, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the chill that permeated the room.
"Nothing," Voldemort said finally, turning back to gaze once more at Hermione’s still figure. "I did nothing."
The unexpected answer hung heavily in the room. Malfoy stood in shocked silence, his mind spinning. He had expected many things - anger, contempt, a brutal recanting of punishment doled out. But not this.
"She died too quickly," Voldemort continued, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. "Her last breath was still warm when she spoke my name. She did not get to see the full extent of my power or feel the wrath that such insolence deserved."
Malfoy shivered involuntarily at the dispassionate account.
"Longbottom betrayed her."
Malfoy's eyes widened in shock. "Longbottom?" he stuttered out, disbelief etched across his face.
"Yes," Voldemort confirmed, his tone icy cold.
"He was the one who led her to you?" A wave of nausea washed over Malfoy. Longbottom, of all people. It was unthinkable. He had always been Granger's closest ally, her ever-loyal friend. "But why would he . . . " His voice trailed off as he tried to process this new information.
Voldemort turned back to Hermione, his gaze once again locked on her lifeless form.
Malfoy nodded slowly. His mind was still trying to process the shocking revelation about Longbottom, though accepting the Dark Lord's words without question. He had always seen the boy as a bit of a simpleton, but this . . . "Maybe it was for power," Malfoy suggested with an uncomfortable shrug. "Or maybe he simply thought he was doing what was right. Longbottom was the one who led her to you?" he repeated.
"No." The Dark Lord frowned. "Longbottom did not lead me to her. No," the Dark Lord snapped. "I did not need Longbottom, of all people to keep me informed of Hermione's whereabouts. Like you said, she loved me. It never even occurred to her to hide from her Tom. No, after my victory he asked for her."
"And you didn't give her to him?" Malfoy said, the words falling from his lips as a statement of fact rather than a question. He stared at Voldemort, unable to keep the shock from his face.
"You ought to have seen what he wrote. Vile things. About her," Voldemort continued, his eyes flashing with anger. "He thought he was entitled to her, that I would deliver her to him like a prize." His voice filled the dark room, echoing off the stone walls. "And when he understood that I wouldn't . . . he just kept writing."
"But . . ." Malfoy began again, only to fall silent under Voldemort's sharp gaze.
"There is no understanding the mind of a traitor." His voice was hard, devoid of any hint of emotion. "Nor should there be."
Malfoy felt sick, a sense of dread twisted in his gut. He knew Neville Longbottom was many things, but a traitor was not one of them. He had fought against Voldemort in every battle, risked his life to save his friends and now . . .
Voldemort's face twisted in disgust, his eyes now dark pits of loathing. "Revolting declarations of what he'd to her, promises to our cause." His voice was like a whip, lashing out and filling the room with a chilling silence.
"But . . . " Malfoy's voice was barely audible now, his mind struggling to wrap itself around the implications. "But Longbottom . . . he was always so righteous, so pure—"
"There is no such thing as pure of heart," Voldemort interjected harshly. "Only power and those too weak to seek it." His gaze flicked back to Hermione's still form, his eyes turning soft again. It was an unnerving sight, this fluctuation of the Dark Lord's emotions.
"Did she love him?" Voldemort murmured almost absently, staring at Hermione as if seeking answers from her lifeless form.
"N-No, My Lord," Malfoy stuttered. He flinched under Voldemort's intense gaze but forced himself to keep speaking. "Granger . . . Hermione always loved you the most." His voice wavered under the weight of his words.
"I showed her the letters."
"She read them?" Malfoy asked, voice barely a whisper. His heart pounded at the thought, a fresh wave of shock slamming into him.
"Yes," Voldemort responded, his voice as cold and emotionless as the stone walls around them. "And she didn't flinch, didn't cry. She just . . . read them."
There was something in the way he said it - something almost admiring. His red eyes remained fixed on Hermione's still face, the barest hint of emotion flashing across his features.
Voldemort's voice was almost a whisper, his hands clenched into tight fists. "I wanted her to see what he'd written. To see what he was capable of." His eyes flickered to Malfoy's, a strange look crossing his face. "She didn't believe me at first."
Malfoy swallowed hard. This was too much, all too much. Longbottom a traitor? Hermione killed by the Dark Lord himself and now this . . . He stared at Voldemort unblinkingly as he continued his dark tale.
"And then?"
Silence filled the room once again, seeming to press in on them from all sides. Voldemort seemed lost in thought, his sharp gaze never leaving Hermione.
"She laughed," he finally said, his voice barely audible in the tense silence. It was a simple statement, but it held an unnerving edge. A dangerous edge.
"Laughed?" Malfoy echoed incredulously.
"Yes," Voldemort confirmed, turning his gaze back towards Malfoy. The younger man recoiled slightly under the burning scrutiny.
"She said: 'Neville ought to have been in Slytherin.'"
Voldemort's words hung heavy in the air, a twisted echo bouncing off the cold stone walls. Slytherin . . . Longbottom – a Gryffindor, a member of the house known for its bravery and loyalty, suggested to be a Slytherin. The idea was unthinkable, but so was his treachery.
Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to process it all, but the shock was still too fresh. He felt like he was drowning in a sea of revelations, each wave larger and more violent than the last.
"And then?" His voice quivered as he asked, dreading yet needing to know what had ensued next.
Voldemort turned back towards Hermione's lifeless form. "And then," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, "she begged me to give her to him."
His words echoed in the barren room, seeming to seep into the cracks of the stone walls. Malfoy's heart stuttered in his chest. "She . . . what?"
Voldemort nodded, a strange look flickering in his eyes. "She begged me to give her to him," he repeated slowly, as though tasting each word. "Said it would buy her some time, that she could control him, that he wouldn't be as cruel to her as he presumed I was." He turned back to Malfoy, the red of his eyes gleaming coldly in the dim light. "I refused."
A shuddering breath wracked Malfoy's frame as he tried to process this new information. Hermione - brave, stubborn Hermione - begging Voldemort – Tom – for such a thing . . . his mind recoiled at the thought. But even as he grappled with the shock, another realization hit him like a punch to the gut. "But Longbottom . . . he loved her," he uttered, staring at Voldemort with wide eyes.
"No," Voldemort retorted sharply, the venom in his voice filling the room with a tangible tension. "He didn't. He lusted after power over her, coveted her, her intelligence, her strength. To him, she was nothing more than a Mudblood in the end."
The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. Malfoy's blood turned cold as he stared at Voldemort in stunned silence, the gravitas of his words sinking into him.
Voldemort's gaze softened as he turned back to Hermione's lifeless form. "She must have known it too," he said quietly. The silence stretched on, amplifying the soft crackling of the fire in the corner of the room.
A chill settled over Malfoy, his mind spinning with confusion and grief. His gaze flitted over to Hermione's motionless figure - the girl who had once been so full of life, now reduced to nothing more than a lifeless shell.
"And yet . . . " Malfoy found his voice again, "she still begged you to give her to him?"
Voldemort nodded, his gaze distant and unfocused. "Yes. She said it was her only way out."
"Out?" Malfoy echoed, looking at Voldemort in bewilderment.
"From me," Voldemort said simply. His tone was flat, devoid of any emotion. He turned his gaze back to Hermione's lifeless form, his expression unreadable.
"She thought . . . she thought she could escape from me by going to him."
Malfoy's breath hitched in his chest, the shock still reverberating through him. Hermione Granger, the proud and defiant witch, seeking refuge in the arms of another enemy. How desperate she must have felt, how utterly crushed . . .
"And you?" Malfoy asked quietly, his gaze flitting between Voldemort and Hermione. "You still refused, My Lord?"
"Granger had no comprehension of what a man intent on doing her harm might do to her." The Dark Lord pressed his lipless mouth together.
"Escape?" The realization was slow, creeping over him like the chill that filled the darkened room. "She feared you."
Voldemort's expression didn't change but Malfoy could have sworn he saw a flicker of something in those cold, red eyes. "She feared what I could do, what she thought I would do," he said quietly. His gaze remained locked on Hermione's lifeless figure as if seeing her for the first time.
"And so . . . she chose Longbottom?" Malfoy's voice was thin, edged with disbelief.
Voldemort nodded slowly, his red eyes finally tearing away from Hermione to meet Malfoy's gaze. "She thought he was the lesser of two evils."
The silence that followed was deafening, a terrible void that seemed to swallow up all sound. Malfoy felt as though the room was spinning around him, or perhaps he was the one who was spinning. He felt sick, bile rising in his throat as he grappled with the awful
Voldemort was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on Hermione's lifeless body as if he could will her back to life by sheer force of will alone. His voice dropped lower still, an eerie calmness sweeping over him. "She claimed she could handle him."
"Handle him?" Malfoy's voice broke on the last word. He stared at Voldemort, his mind racing to comprehend this new information. Hermione, always fighting, always trying to save those around her. Even in death, she had tried to manipulate her fate.
Voldemort gave a curt nod, his gaze never wavering from Hermione's inert form. "Yes," he said softly, almost . . . tenderly? It was a strange inflection in his voice, one Malfoy couldn't quite place.
"But you . . . " Malfoy choked on his words, his throat tightening with unshed tears. "You didn't . . . ?"
"No," Voldemort cut him off sharply, the tender quality gone from his voice now, replaced with the cold hardness that seemed more fitting to the Dark Lord. "I didn't." He turned away from Hermione's body then and walked toward door. "She kept saying it. She could take it, she claimed. She could survive him."
Malfoy felt his knees buckle. "And did you?" The question was a whisper, barely more than a breath. He didn't want to hear the answer, but he had to ask.
Voldemort's gaze was unyielding, his voice colder than the stone beneath them. "No." His refusal hung in the air between them, a tangible entity that seemed to vibrate with an unseen energy.
"But she . . . " Malfoy shook his head, disbelief etched in every line of his face. "She begged you?"
"She did," Voldemort confirmed, his voice a cruel echo of Hermione's earlier pleas. "I refused."
Malfoy stumbled backwards, unable to take it all in. Longbottom's treachery, Hermione's plea . . . It was too much, too fast. His heart pounded in his chest like a drum of war, matching the frantic rhythm of his thoughts.
"But why?" Malfoy breathed out, the words hanging in the air.
"She thought it was a joke, a desperate ploy for attention from Longbottom. She didn't believe him capable of such betrayal until the end. She would always ask if he had written again, laughing at his letters. Then ask if she could keep them."
Voldemort's voice dropped lower, his eyes flickering with an emotion Malfoy couldn't decipher.
"She died laughing at him." His breath hitched ever so slightly, but his eyes remained cold and distant as they traced Hermione's pale form once more.
The confession hung in the air between them, the room falling eerily silent. Shadows danced around them, caressed their forms with a ghostly touch that heightened the oppressive atmosphere.
Malfoy could only stare at Voldemort in shock. He had heard many awful things about the Dark Lord's actions and motives, but this . . . This was something else entirely. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly feeling dry. "That's whose letters she carried over her heart?"
Voldemort frowned. "Must be. She kept them?"
"Y-Yes. They're under her nightgown now."
His words hung in the air, echoing like a resounding gong in the silence.
The flickering ghost of a smile danced upon Voldemort's pale lips. "His last letter . . . She laughed and said it again, louder this time. 'Neville should have been in Slytherin.'"
"And then what?" Malfoy found himself asking, his voice sounding distant and hollow.
"I said that I believed him to be quite serious. She said that in that case she pitied him. She looked at me with those bright, defiant eyes . . . said she had always pitied him," Voldemort continued, his voice thick with something difficult to identify. Regret? Possibly. Anger? Certainly. But there was something else, too – a certain tenderness that Malfoy had never heard from him before. "And she said that she still wanted to be given to him."
"And what of Longbottom now?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
Voldemort turned to face him again, his cold gaze sending shivers down Malfoy's spine. "That was his last letter. When I summoned her for the last time, I suspect she thought another one had come."
"But it hadn't?"
"Obviously not. Then she thought I had summoned her to serve in some other way. I disabused her of that notion. And then I killed her." The casualness in Voldemort's voice was almost sickening. Voldemort’s voice was steely, his gaze on Hermione's lifeless form.
Malfoy felt a shiver run down his spine. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on him like a ton of bricks.
"She didn't cry?" he managed to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.
Voldemort shook his head, a strange look crossing his face. "No tears. No screams. Nothing."
The Dark Lord paused for a moment, staring at Hermione as if he could bring her back with the sheer intensity of his gaze. Malfoy swallowed hard, the lump in his throat painful.
"Is all this really new to you, Abraxas?" Voldemort's voice echoed in the chamber, his piercing gaze now locked onto Malfoy with a newfound intensity.
"My Lord," Malfoy began, his voice shaking as he swallowed hard, "I assure you, I did nothing. I-I didn't even see her after . . . after your command."
Voldemort's cold gaze bore into him, an icy shiver creeping down his spine. "Yet she looked frail, weak," he noted with a chilling calmness, "and she greeted death like an old friend."
Malfoy stood silent, fear constricting his vocal cords. He wasn't sure what answer would save him from the Dark Lord's wrath or whether any answer could help at all.
Voldemort returned his attention to Hermione's lifeless body. His pale fingers brushed against her cold skin, tracing the sharp angles of her face as though trying to understand something that was beyond his grasp.
"I gave her a chance to beg for mercy," Voldemort muttered under his breath
"But you . . . you had her killed?" Malfoy said, the reality of it finally sinking in. The room seemed to close in on him, and he struggled to draw in a breath.
Voldemort gave him a sidelong glance, red eyes narrowing into thin slits. "Indeed," he said, nonchalantly, as he reached out once again to trace the lifeless form of Hermione Granger with his long white fingers.
"But why?" Malfoy's voice shook uncontrollably. "She was . . . she was different from the others. She was one of us . . . She was . . . "
He trailed off, unable to find the words to express the tumultuous thoughts running through his mind. Voldemort spared him another glance before returning his attention back to Hermione.
Voldemort turned around abruptly, his black robes billowing out behind him as he cast one last look at Hermione. "Leave us," he ordered Malfoy, his voice echoing ominously in the large room. "Leave," he repeated. The word was barely a whisper but Malfoy heard it loud and clear.
Relieved, Malfoy bowed and quickly retreated, leaving Voldemort alone with Hermione.
The Dark Lord stood there in silence for several moments, his red eyes fixed on the lifeless form in front of him. His hand twitched slightly, as if wanting to reach out and touch her one last time, but he held it back.
Eventually, though, he relented and crouched down next to her, his fingers lightly tracing along her cheek. She was still warm.
He sighed softly, a sound eerily out of place in the silence that filled the room. "You shouldn't have loved Longbottom. Or me."
* * *
In the pub, Tom Riddle opened his eyes, from the image of Hermione Granger lying dead on the stone floor to seeing her standing very much alive at the bar counter, laughing at the barman.