When Did You Come From?
5 October 1968
Lord Voldemort stalked down Knockturn Alley, wishing to himself that he had the wherewithal to send others to do his shopping for him. He wasn't Tom Riddle anymore; he shouldn't have to run these sorts of piddling errands. Of course, it wasn't as though he were only here for potions supplies and a new pair of boots. He also needed a trim from Podric Batworthy XXIII, esteemed groomer of wizards. That wasn't anything he could send some lackey to do for him.
Voldemort walked into the barber's shop and heard a little bell chime overhead as he shut the door behind him. A wizard in his forties, with a very impressive beard, emerged from the back of the barbershop. Podric had been a Ravenclaw when Tom Riddle had attended Hogwarts, and he'd inherited his family's barber shop after graduating. Voldemort nodded tightly and said to Podric,
"Just a trim this morning."
"You and everyone else going to the Averys' autumn fete," Podric Batworthy sniffed. "Do come in. I'll be quick."
"Quick and careful, I hope." Voldemort raised his eyebrows as he meandered around the counter and made his way to the barber's chair. Podric smirked as he wrapped a black cape around Voldemort's shoulders. He hooked the back of the cape and pulled his wand out from a holster at his hip. He aimed it at Voldemort's head, taking a step back, and incanted with a smooth wave,
"Diffindo. Capillum Fabricavit."
Lord Voldemort watched in the mirror as his dark waves, with little strands of grey, were shortened and neatened. The hair cropped closer to his head, and strands began to fall toward the ground. The hair Vanished into Non-Being as it fell toward the ground. Voldemort's side-parted style began to look more sophisticated, his sideburns tightening up and his receding hairline looking far more orderly. Within moments, it was obvious that Lord Voldemort had had a fresh haircut. He nodded and waited for Podric Batworthy to unlatch his cape, and then he stood from his chair and reached into his pocket. He passed over a few Galleons and muttered,
"Right. Thank you."
"Enjoy the ball, Mr Riddle." Podric flashed a small smile to Voldemort, who narrowed his eyes back and muttered,
"That isn't my name anymore. Good day, Mr Batworthy."
"Sir! Welcome to Avery Hall." Maren Avery, the wife of Voldemort's old compatriot, curtsied in her elegant plum-coloured velvet gown. She held out her hand, and suddenly Voldemort realised he was meant to touch her. He took her hand and bowed a little.
"Madam Avery." He glanced about the Baroque foyer of Avery Hall, which had been adorned with silks and tapestries in purples, oranges, reds, and yellows. He smiled a bit at her and lowered her hand. "Your home looks lovelier than ever this evening."
"Edmund and I are so glad you've come. Aren't we, Edmund?" Maren got the attention of her husband, who was chatting with an ancient masked Shacklebolt witch. Edmund Avery seemed to realise that Voldemort had arrived, and he snapped to attention. He bowed his head and said,
"So good to see you here, sir."
"Avery." Voldemort gave a crisp nod. "How are things in the Department of International Magical Cooperation?"
"It's interesting, with the situation at MACUSA," said Edmund Avery. "The repeal of Rappaport's Law has caused much uproar. It's an exciting time to be in the department."
"I hope you'll keep me apprised of everything happening," Voldemort said quite meaningfully. "I'd appreciate a weekly owl, an update."
"Of course, sir." Avery nodded. He had on a chocolate brown waistcoat and matching dress robe, with a brown silk half mask. He smiled a bit and said, "Do enjoy yourself at the masquerade, sir."
"Thank you. Madam Avery." Voldemort bowed again to Maren, who flashed him a happy little smile and adjusted her lilac-coloured mask. Voldemort moved away toward the ballroom, which was similarly outfitted to the grand foyer. The white walls had been draped with billowing silks in autumnal colours. Falling leaves fluttered from the ceiling, enchanted to disappear before hitting the revelers. In the corner, a string ensemble played beautiful music, and people milled about with drinks and little plates of savoury foods. Voldemort decided to feed himself before socialising, so that he wasn't attempting to network with mouthfuls of onion tart.
He went over to a long table set up along a wall and began filling a small plate with cubes of cheese, grainy crackers, and stuffed mushrooms. Then he picked up a glass of red wine and made his way to a high table, watching the Purebloods laugh and talk.
Cygnus Black III and his wife Druella were very obvious, despite their masks. Druella and Bellatrix looked quite a lot alike, Voldemort thought, though their younger daughters took after Cygnus. Druella was eagerly explaining something to her sister-in-law, Walburga Black, who had come dressed in solemn, funereal garb. Walburga's cousin-husband Orion looked bored, staring over his shoulder at a pretty, younger masked witch who was sipping wine and laughing at something her companion was saying.
Voldemort plopped a mushroom into his mouth and thought to himself that all he wanted was these people's adulation. All he wanted was for them to think he was powerful and mighty the way he knew himself to be. He knew more than any of them could ever dream of learning. He possessed more magical ability than any of them could ever hope to possess. His mother had been from the House of Gaunt. He might have come from a Muggle orphanage, but he had killed his filthy Muggle father and had created Horcruxes. He was no Half-Blood weakling. He deserved to be here. More than that, he deserved a place atop wizarding society. He deserved to be Lord Voldemort, not Tom Riddle. Some of his old friends recognised his new name, but he knew that none of them truly acknowledged what he was destined to become. Abraxas Malfoy came close, but not even he was fully aware of Voldemort's potential.
Abraxas gave himself away at the masquerade with his long, silky blond hair. His wife, Sylvie, was a French witch who had attended Beauxbatons and had been more than happy to marry into the Malfoy fortune. She had her arm around Abraxas' waist, and Voldemort could see that Sylvie's elegant ensemble was distinctly French - far more form-fitting and sparkling than anything the English witches were wearing.
Voldemort's eyes flicked over to where one of those English witches stood alone, clutching a full glass of wine and studying the room. He frowned. Her metallic gold mask covered only her eyes and cheekbones, but even with most of her face visible, Voldemort did not recognise her. She had honey-coloured hair that had been pulled back into a sleek style with a black veil falling from it. Her dress robes were comparatively simple; she wore a high-necked burgundy dress with black lace trim and gold spangles. She did not look nearly as elaborately costumed, nor as confident, as the other witches in the room.
And he did not know her.
Voldemort set down the cracker he'd been eating, and he sipped from his glass of red wine. He set the glass on the table and walked away, off toward the mysterious witch. She seemed to notice him walking toward her, and suddenly she dashed to a nearby table and drank deeply from her wine. Voldemort felt his brows furrow, more confused than ever, and he considered pushing into her mind with Legilimency. But most people could feel the little tingle of invasion, and he wasn't ready to frighten her off. Not yet.
"Good evening," he said as he approached the young witch. She stared right at him, her caramel eyes wide and searching. She locked onto his gaze, realisation coming over her. She recognised him, he could tell. She knew who he was, and it meant something to her. He cleared his throat and bowed a bit. "I know we're all masked, but I confess I can't say that I know you. I would have thought I'd know everyone at a party like this."
"Indeed." The witch's voice shook a little, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes. She was frightened, he thought. She was afraid of him. She seemed to steady herself, and she licked her lips as she told him, "My name is Hermione."
"Hermione," Voldemort repeated. He looked around the room and laughed softly, shaking his head. "I'm intimately familiar with all the members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Hermione, and I don't think you are one of them."
"No. I'm not," she said, "but neither are you… Lord Voldemort."
He felt cold then, and he studied her face for a long moment. He needed to look into her mind, he thought. He needed to see what she was thinking. He pursed his lips and held out his hand.
"Would you care to dance, Hermione?"
"Erm… yes, all right." She very hesitantly placed her fingers onto his palm, and she let him lead her toward the dance floor. He watched as a few other party guests eyed the two of them, their faces warped with bemusement. Nobody else knew her, either, he thought. She was a complete stranger. Who was this witch?
He pulled her into a rather tight dancing stance on the floor, touching his hand between her shoulder blades and wrapping his fingers around hers. They began to sway, and Hermione's breath trembled in her nostrils as she moved with him. He stared down at her and incanted nonverbally, Legilimens.
Hermione was with a scraggly, black-haired boy and a ginger-haired boy in a snowy wood, all of them aiming spells at Salazar Slytherin's locket in an attempt to destroy the Horcrux within it...
She was lying on the ground in the Ministry of Magic, writhing in pain from the spell Antonin Dolohov had ripped through her…
She was watching a colour television in her parents' house whilst her father chatted on a small handheld telephone behind her.
She was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the ginger-haired boy snoozing beside her.
Voldemort pulled out of Hermione's mind and somehow managed to keep dancing. He gulped so hard that it physically hurt to work past the knot in his throat, and he asked her softly,
"When did you come from?"
She sighed.
"When?"
"I can plainly see that you have travelled through time," Voldemort nodded. "You had the locket. You were wounded by Dolohov. You and I become enemies in my future, it would seem. When did you come from?"
Hermione blinked. "Two thousand and four."
Voldemort squeezed her hand a little and compressed his fingers on her back. He struggled to keep calm, not to whip his wand out and murder her right here in front of everyone.
"Give me a very good reason not to kill you," he told her.
"I have come to save you," Hermione told him, and he spat out,
"Liar."
"I have come to save…" Hermione's eyes watered. She blinked quickly. She was about to cry, Voldemort thought, and he panicked suddenly. He couldn't be dancing with a crying woman. That would not do. Hermione whispered, "I made terrible mistakes. So will you."
"Whatever do you mean?" Voldemort snapped. The song ended, and Hermione started to pull away, but Voldemort refused to release her. He growled down at her, "What do you mean, you and I made mistakes? What sort of mistakes?"
"You went too far," she told him, her voice gentle and quiet. She examined his eyes and whispered, "Your eyes are still dark here. They will become red. Your skin isn't grey yet. You've still got a nose."
"What the blazes are you on about?" Voldemort snarled. "Legilimens."
A Killing Curse rocketed toward a towering grey figure, bald and snakelike. The grey, barefoot man with the red eyes and the missing nose let out a small noise and collapsed instantly, slumping in death.
Voldemort pulled out of Hermione's mind and wrenched at her hand. "You destroyed my… the locket and the…"
"I was on the wrong side," Hermione said frantically. "I made the wrong decisions because I wasn't welcome in your ranks. But now I know. We needed you. I was wrong to fight against you, and I -"
"You have come back in time to destroy me before that conflict takes place." Voldemort whirled on his foot and stormed off the dance floor. He wanted her to follow him. He was luring her, enticing her to follow him. Sure enough, he heard the patter of her footsteps behind him as he went to the far side of the ballroom and out into the corridor. He stalked down the corridor and wandlessly flung open the door to a small parlour. He walked inside and then whirled around to see Hermione standing before him. She stared at him through her mask, her mouth open and her eyes desperate. Voldemort reached into his robes and pulled out his wand.
"No one here knows you," he reminded her. "No one will miss you. You've come back for nothing; you think I'll hesitate for even a moment?"
He aimed his wand at her and parted his lips to form the Killing Curse.
"I want to help you win!" Hermione cried, clasping her hands. "Please. You don't understand. My Lord. My Lord! Master!"
Voldemort froze. He blinked. He stared at Hermione and felt his wand shake in his hand. He shook his head a little and mumbled,
"I saw you trying to destroy my locket. You were fighting Dolohov."
Hermione shut her eyes. "My Lord, I was on the wrong side. I am a Muggle-born; you didn't want me. I was given a One-Way Time-Turner so that I could sacrifice my own future to save yours. Please."
Voldemort lowered his wand very slowly, his own breath quaking just a little as he whispered once more, "Legilimens."
The ginger-haired boy was shouting at Hermione that she'd gone mad. They hadn't fought Voldemort together for her to now be saying that The Dark Lord had been right all along. He was going to divorce Hermione over this, he was saying. He couldn't live with a witch who would turn on her closest friends, who would betray everyone they had lost like this. How could she be saying these awful things about the wizard they'd defeated?
Voldemort ripped himself from Hermione's mind and tried to see the lie in her eyes. He could always tell when someone was lying. He was very good at distinguishing lies from truth. But as Hermione stared at him through the metallic gold mask she wore, he saw only desperation. He saw frantic, earnest enthusiasm.
"My Lord," she said again, carefully this time, reaching into her robes and pulling out a shiny silver capsule with a white hourglass inside it, "I used this Time-Turner, specifically made to send me back to you, so that I could save you from the fate you saw in my memories. I was on the wrong side, because I did not feel I had a choice. This time, I have chosen to fight for you. If you will have me, Master."
Voldemort tipped his chin up, adjusting his own black satin mask on his face. He nodded and said to Hermione,
"Put that thing away. It's dangerous. If we're in here too long, people will assume things. Now. Let's go dance some more; we need to figure out a way to get you settled in here, Miss…?"
"Granger," Hermione said, curling up her lips and looking satisfied and relieved. "Hermione Granger."
Author's Note: Well, well, well. Hermione's a little more shrewd and manipulative than we might have given her credit for being. She's tricked Voldemort… for now. Will he get suspicious of her true intentions? Will she crack in her little game? Hmm…
Thank you so very much for reading and reviewing. I'll update as often as possible, but I'm at a water park for the weekend (woo hoo!) so my writing time is a bit more sporadic.