Alone
Hermione stared at herself in the full-length, lacquered black mirror in the bedroom she'd been given. She scarcely recognised herself. She had left Ron, Harry, Ginny, and her parents behind. Now she was in Malfoy Manor - a place she'd despised in the life she'd departed - in a black and white suite she'd been assigned as an 'employee' of Lord Voldemort. This mission was taking every ounce of her being, Hermione thought.
Lord Voldemort had recognised what she'd meant when she'd said that O.S. and friends had sent her back in time. He knew who O.S. was. Hermione wondered whether she would come to find out more about the mysterious person who had crafted her One-Way Time-Turner. Was this an ally of Voldemort's, or an old enemy? Had her secret plan to come back and destroy Voldemort's success been uncovered, or had she been helped by disclosing who had given her the device? She still wasn't certain.
Now she stood before the mirror in her simple blue wool dress, having pulled her hair into one braid over a shoulder, and she wondered whether she was foolish for having put on makeup. Why, she wondered, had she tried to make herself look just a little bit prettier for dinner? She shouldn't care what Lord Voldemort thought of her appearance. After all, he was an ugly old man, and she was here to destroy him.
No, she reminded herself. She was here to ingratiate herself into his good will. She needed him to like her. She needed him to keep her close, as he said he was going to do, so that she could influence him. She thought that perhaps one way of endearing herself to him in a useful manner would be to look pretty, so that he wanted to hear her opinions more freely. After all, didn't most wizards care more about the opinions of pretty witches? It was sad, she knew, but it was true. Hermione had learnt after years working at the Ministry of Magic that if she wanted to be taken seriously by her male coworkers, she needed to at least put in ten minutes' worth of effort in the morning.
So now she walked out of her black and white suite, into the corridor, and felt like she looked halfway decent. She tried not to remember the time she'd come here and had been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, the way the witch had carved the word Mudblood into Hermione's flesh. She tried not to think of Luna being held prisoner in the dungeon here. She tried not to think of the Death Eater meetings that had taken place here, when Lord Voldemort had been a grey-faced monster.
She descended a flight of winding stairs to the first floor and walked past a portrait of a snooty-looking elderly witch who scoffed and said primly,
"What is she doing here?"
"I'm a welcomed guest, thanks very much," Hermione snapped at the portrait. She'd taken more than enough snark from Walburga Black's portrait in her own time. She didn't need another painting smarting off to her. She stalked past the portrait and rounded a corner, thinking that she was meant to meet Voldemort back at his office and would head straight there. But as she turned the corner, a luxuriously dressed witch appeared - Sylvie Malfoy.
"Good evening," said Sylvie, tipping her face up. She wore a flowing black silk skirt and a bodice of shimmering black and silver with fur trim around the collar and wrists. Her hair had been styled in an elegant updo, and she wore shining red lipstick. She smirked at Hermione, flicking her eyes up and down. She appeared to be taking in Hermione's simple wool dress, her basic makeup style, and her single braid. She sniffed after making her appraisal and asked, "Off to dinner, Miss Granger?"
"It's Madam Granger, actually," Hermione corrected her, wondering immediately if she ought to have done so. Indeed, Sylvie's blue eyes flashed in wonder. So Hermione was married. Sylvie seemed to find that very interesting. She brushed her long fingers together and murmured,
"Madam Granger. My mistake. Are your rooms satisfactory?"
"I'm quite comfortable. Thank you again for hosting me."
"Anything for Lord Voldemort." Sylvie pronounced the name with a distinct French accent, the syllables rolling off her tongue like mist. She curled up her lips, her blue eyes narrowing, as she whispered, "We are his dearest friends, Abraxas and I. We pride ourselves in that fact."
"I'm sure The Dark Lord is very grateful for your loyalty," Hermione said, quite meaningfully. Sylvie's eyes gleamed again at Hermione's choice language. Hermione took a steadying breath and added, "I am a devoted servant of his. Very devoted. That's why I'm here. I trust you understand why there can't be… why he told you that there are to be no questions asked."
"You are indeed a witch of great mystery," Sylvie Malfoy admitted. She tapped her thumb with her middle finger as though she were a bit anxious, and she said, "I trust in Lord Voldemort. If he believes you are to be kept close, surely he has his reasons. We wish only for his advancement. We will do our part. We will make you comfortable here, however we can. Do let me know if there is anything you need."
"Merci beaucoup, Madame Malfoy." Hermione bowed her head a little, and Sylvie let out a little laugh. She nodded.
"I won't keep you. Go. Enjoy your meal." Sylvie strode past Hermione, down the corridor and around the corner. Hermione whirled around, intending on heading for Voldemort's office. But then her mouth fell open, because he was striding towards her, coming down the corridor in neatly tailored black brocade robes.
Hermione froze. He looked so… so… intimidating. He was not at all handsome. Indeed, he was almost hideous, with his scarred mouth, his chipped chin, his shattered cheekbone, and his drooping eyelid. His pale face was visibly wrinkled, and his hair seemed somehow even more grey and sparse than it had this morning. He was not a handsome man. What he was was a tall, looming figure walking with all the confidence in the world. He moved smoothly in Hermione's direction, his long legs causing his outer robe to swish about him. He neared her, and Hermione's heart accelerated. She needed to stop thinking about being afraid, she thought. She tried to think things that would convince him of her mission's veracity. She needed to think of something that would convince him she was telling him the truth when she spoke.
I wish he would think I was pretty, Hermione thought frantically, pushing forward the idea. He's terrifying, but I adore him. I just want him to like me. I only want him not to hate me. If I achieve nothing else in all the world but to help him succeed, my life will have been worth a million Galleons…
"Madam Granger," said Voldemort, approaching her. He cleared his throat and said, "We shall be dining in the violet parlour. This way."
Hermione felt surprise wash over her. The violet parlour? What was that? She gulped and followed Voldemort as he turned around his shoulder and walked in the opposite direction. She struggled mightily to keep up with his long strides, trotting in her flat-heeled shoes as she breathlessly put new thoughts into her head. She started thinking that she was so pleased to be dining with him, that she was so honoured to be spending time with her master. Distantly, very distantly, she hoped that he would perceive her enthusiasm.
Voldemort jerked to his left when they reached an open door, and Hermione followed him into a plum-coloured room with bright white moulding and an elegant dark wood table in the centre. There was a white marble fireplace and two armchairs, as well as a grand piano in the same dark wood as the table. Clearly, this was a room intended for playing Gobstones or Wizard's Chess, but tonight it would play host to a dinner. Two place settings had been put upon the table, complete with fine bone china, crystal, and silver cutlery. Hermione swallowed hard, thinking this felt awfully intimate given that she'd destroyed the Horcruxes of this man.
No, she thought desperately, wanting her mission to be a success. She hadn't left Ron behind for nothing. Fred hadn't died for nothing. Neville's parents hadn't been tortured for nothing. She pushed forward the strongest idea she could muster. This is the most amazing opportunity I've ever had - to dine alone with the Dark Lord himself! Even if he kills me, I'll die happy.
"I'm not going to kill you. I've told you, I'm keeping you close for now." Voldemort had plainly been scanning her mind, so Hermione clipped at her own thoughts, knowing she needed to mind them neatly. She smiled weakly at him and murmured,
"How very grateful I am, My Lord, to be able to give you information and be made comfortable in lodging here at Malfoy Manor. It is… it feels too much."
"You said yourself that I made use of werewolves and other Beings in your time," Voldemort sniffed. "Quite clearly, there is use for a time-travelling, Muggle-born witch of immense intelligence and loyalty… one who happens to possess invaluable knowledge. So I am keeping you. Do sit."
He waved his hand, and one of the chairs scraped backward. Hermione smiled again and sat in the chair, watching as Voldemort pulled his hand forward to drag the chair closer to the table. She was amazed by the ease with which he performed wandless magic. She was astounded by him, suddenly. She'd always known, even in her previous life, that Lord Voldemort was one of the most powerful wizards who had ever lived. Even Albus Dumbledore had admitted that much. But he made the most complex magic seem effortless, and she sat staring at him in wonder. He smirked at her, obviously inside her head and enjoying himself there. He snapped his fingers, and the flames on the candelabra in the centre of the table extinguished themselves at once. Smoke rose from the candles as though an invisible breath had blown them all out. Hermione choked out a little noise of astonishment, and then she looked on in wonder as Voldemort sat in his own chair, folded his hands on the table, stared very intently at the candelabra, and sighed. Suddenly all the candles burst into flame again, and Hermione's mouth fell open.
"Parlour tricks. Quite literally." Voldemort curled up half his mouth, but Hermione mumbled,
"Master, you are… I confess that we were enemies, so when I saw your magic at its fullest, I was fighting against it. Still, your power always amazed me. But now I find myself in awe."
"You are hardly a magical weakling yourself." Voldemort tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. "Undetectable Extension Charms and Protean Charms whilst still at Hogwarts? Conjuring better than anybody else. Apparition under great duress. Protective magic that kept out even the most skilled trackers. A fully corporeal Patronus Charm. Inventing a jinx for traitors… and that's to say nothing of your book smarts. Don't sell yourself short just because I can light candles and move chairs."
"Without a wand," Hermione clarified. Voldemort blinked slowly and shrugged. He actually laughed a little then, and Hermione found herself smiling a little. Why was she smiling? She knew why, suddenly. It was because it felt like ages since someone had spelt out all of her accomplishments and abilities. Ron always told her she was brilliant, but sometimes it had come out like an insult, as though he had been embittered about Hermione's intellect. Harry and Ginny never seemed to compliment Hermione anymore… or they hadn't, before she'd left. When she'd told them about her interview in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Harry had reminded Hermione of how easily he'd become an Auror straight out of school, and Ginny had seemed underwhelmed. Hermione frowned now, realising that her parents hadn't understood just how capable a witch she'd been. They couldn't understand. They were Muggles.
"Your mind is elsewhere," Voldemort said smoothly. Hermione jolted to attention and panted a little, panicking. Had she given herself away? She thought rather desperately,
Does he think I'm as intelligent as he says, or is he flattering me for some other purpose? Is he grooming me for something? Preparing me to die?
"For the last time… I am keeping you close for the time being," Voldemort snapped. "Ah. Food's here. Thank goodness."
Hermione looked down to see that their plates had magically filled with food, undoubtedly cooked by Dobby. Hermione picked up her fork and knife and cut into the lemon chicken on her plate. She took a bite and chewed quietly, trying to put into her head a scene in which she and Ron had been arguing. This had been a real argument; she was remembering a time when she and Ron had been fighting because he and Harry had stayed out drinking until almost three in the morning. Ginny had been eight months pregnant, and Hermione didn't think it was appropriate or fair for the boys to be out so late and come home to their wives piss drunk.
"They gave you trouble," Voldemort guessed. "The boy, Harry Potter, and your husband, Ronald."
Hermione raised her eyes to him. She studied his face, letting her eyes linger on the raised white scar that ran vertically through his lips. She flicked her gaze back up to his dark eyes and sighed.
"We were best friends, the three of us," she explained, "but just because you're best friends with someone doesn't mean you ought to marry them. I wish I'd known that. I… erm… I think I married the wrong person."
"The pregnant witch you were shouting about… Ginny." Voldemort sniffed. "The same girl from the diary incident in your second year?"
"Yes." Hermione huffed out a deep breath. "Ron's sister. Harry's wife. We were all sort of… interconnected."
"Everyone here is rather interconnected, too," Voldemort said, spearing a roast potato. "Inbred, some would say."
Hermione let out a biting laugh at that and sipped from the white wine that had filled itself. She shook her head and whispered, "Inbred."
"Well, they are." Voldemort quirked up half his mouth. "I went to a few weddings this summer, and I don't think any of them were more removed than second cousins. It is, admittedly, a bit difficult to harp on about blood purity when the pure blood is a bit… well…"
"Murky?" Hermione tried. "Opaque? Fused?"
He was chuckling now, and he shook his head as he reminded her, "It's better than running off and cavorting with Muggles."
"You're right, of course, Master," Hermione said quite seriously. She tried to tell herself that she needed to be convincing in this mission. She thrust forth an image of her parents staring blankly into their colour television set as Hermione paced behind their divan. It was the summer holidays, and Hermione no longer felt like she belonged in the Muggle world. She preferred magic.
"You're a witch," he told her. "People can say what they like about your origins, but I've seen what you're capable of. You have real power. You don't ever belong in the Muggle world again. Just like I never belonged in the Muggle world after leaving that damned orphanage."
"May I ask you something, Master?" Hermione gulped. She let out a shaky breath and licked her lips. "When Dumbledore told you that you were a wizard, did it… did it sort of explain everything? Did you feel like… as though you finally had an explanation for why you hadn't fit in with the Muggles?"
"Is that how you felt?" he asked, and Hermione smiled a little as she admitted,
"My mother says that I used to make dolls dance, and she thought she was going mad. Once, when I was seven, I was climbing the tree in our back garden and I fell. I somehow stopped myself from hitting the ground, so I didn't get hurt. My dentist parents thought it was a miracle."
"It was magic," Voldemort said plainly, "because you are a witch."
"You didn't want me in my time," Hermione said softly. She blinked. She pulled back the sleeve of the arm that had been wounded by Bellatrix Lestrange, and she revealed the scar there. Mudblood. In her mind, she was screaming as Bellatrix carved the word into her skin with an awful spell. Voldemort squared his jaw and said tightly,
"Well, if I had known Bellatrix Black was going to… I…"
He blinked a few times and then said in a rush,
"You must understand that, in order for me to gain traction and power among the elites of the wizarding world, I must commit entirely to the notion of blood purity. Grindelwald tried a more inclusive approach; he even tried including Beasts and Beings to promote the entirety of the magical world above the Muggle world. It failed him in the end. I am attempting a different approach, a Pureblood-centric approach, because I…"
He trailed off. Hermione flicked her eyes down to her scar, to the word Mudblood on her arm. She slowly pulled down her sleeve and found herself wondering if the reason why Lord Voldemort focused so much on blood purity was because he'd had a Muggle father. Perhaps, she thought, Grindelwald would have been victorious in elevating the wizarding world if he'd only tweaked a few things, if he hadn't tried to be so global, if he'd -
"That's quite enough." Voldemort's voice was low and quiet then, and Hermione stared right at him. His face was hard and angry. He picked up his fork and knife and began sawing into his chicken. He and Hermione ate the rest of their meal in tense silence. She tried to focus her thoughts on things that would not upset him. She thought about missing Ron, but she also thought about arguments she'd had with him. She remembered the time Ron had insisted that they spend the whole of Christmas Day at the Burrow, and only see Hermione's parents on Christmas Eve. It had been a grand fight, and ultimately they'd seen both families, but the sniping had been bitter. Hermione thought of when Ginny had been heavily pregnant and Hermione had been attempting to conceive. She thought of how badly that had hurt, of how much it had wounded her to see Ginny rubbing her belly protectively whilst she and Ron failed month after month. She thought of the drudgery at the Ministry of Magic, and she implanted the idea that she'd pined for the Dark Lord to be in charge instead of the Ministry officials that had taken charge after the war.
"Your ice cream is melting," she heard Lord Voldemort say, and Hermione jolted to rights. She stared down to see a little glass cup of peppermint ice cream sitting before her, and she picked up her spoon. She delved the spoon into the ice cream, and then Voldemort asked her,
"Why did you stay with him, if he made you so profoundly unhappy?"
Hermione realised that Voldemort was unrelentingly inside of her mind, so she shut her eyes and pushed forward a single word. Love.
"Love," Voldemort repeated aloud, sounding amused. "He was your friend, you said. You weren't in love with him."
"I was," Hermione insisted defiantly, but Voldemort narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
"I am a very gifted Legilimens, Hermione Granger. I can see quite plainly how you felt about that boy. Friendship? Yes. Love? Perhaps the sort of love that family members feel for one another, if you've got the right sort of family. The sort of love that comrades feel after fighting a war together, to be certain. But you were never deeply in love with him. Why marry him in the first place, and then why stay with him when he displeased you so much?"
She wondered why he cared. She wondered why he was pressing her on such a personal issue. And then she knew why he was asking her about this. He wanted to humiliate her, to make her feel small. This was a power move. This was him asserting dominance by prying into the most private part of her existence and parsing it out, demanding answers and explanations where he hadn't earned them. Hermione tipped her chin up and said,
"I did not have the courage to leave him, My Lord."
"A Gryffindor lacking in courage?" Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you ought to have been a Ravenclaw, after all."
She pursed her lips. "I had no one else. I had my parents, who were Muggles and didn't understand the world in which I lived and worked. I had Harry, Ron, and Ginny. To a lesser extent, I had friends like Neville and Luna. But if I left my husband, I would have been very alone, and that frightened me. I was a coward, and so I stayed with him for the sake of our friendship and because I was very afraid of being alone."
"Well." Voldemort threw his hands up and smirked. "You're not alone here. You have your lord and master."
Hermione swallowed past the knot in her throat and nodded. "For that, sir, I am very grateful."
"Once you've finished your dessert, you may go up to your rooms and go to bed," he said stiffly. "There is a library if you'd like books to read to occupy your time."
"Thank you," Hermione said. "What shall I do tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Voldemort said, "you begin work."
"Work," Hermione repeated. She felt confused, so she asked him, "What exactly does my work consist of, Master?"
"Tomorrow we go back to the day you got your Hogwarts letter," Voldemort said, "and we move forward from there. I want to know absolutely everything. You'll leave no stone unturned."
"And when I've given you all the information I've got," Hermione said, quite cautiously, "what will become of me, My Lord?"
"That will depend," Voldemort replied, scooping some peppermint ice cream into his mouth. "It will depend on what use I see for you moving forward. I certainly hope I can find a place for you. It would be a shame to dispose of such an intelligent creature as you."
Hermione blinked. Intelligent. Not pretty. She'd put on makeup to try and impress him, but he hadn't said that the reason it would be shameful to kill her was because she was a good-looking little thing he wanted for his own use. No. He wanted to keep her about because she was intelligent.
"Such potential I sense in you," Voldemort said softly, dragging his spoon over his ice cream. "You've already accomplished so much, but of course it was all in the wrong direction. If your magical powers were channeled properly, Hermione Granger, I daresay you could be quite the force to be reckoned with. You could be my most powerful weapon. Yes. I would like to be able to keep you."
"I want to please you," Hermione heard herself say, before she thought of the words. Voldemort raised his gaze, bringing another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He just stared for a moment. Hermione decided to lean in. She nodded. "I want to tell you everything, so that you can win. I want to fight for you. I want to… please, Master. Let me be yours this time. You didn't want me the last time I lived all this, but… I beg of you…"
"Hmm." Voldemort set down his spoon and gave Hermione a very long look. She flooded her mind with thoughts of him, with a distant but thrumming sense of longing. She felt a gurgling sense of need in the back of her mind, unbidden and strange, and she brought it up and let it run loose. His face tightened a little, and he whispered,
"What an interesting witch I find you to be. Perhaps he was right."
He. Who was he, Hermione wondered? She swigged at her white wine and asked softly,
"May I be excused, Master? I'd like to go get a few books from the library."
"Yes. Be in my office tomorrow morning at nine," Voldemort said, flicking his eyes up and down her form. Hermione rose from her chair, and Voldemort stood with her. He loomed over her as she stared up at him, and then he bowed his head and said, far less harshly than Hermione had expected, "Good evening, Madam Granger."
"Good evening, My Lord," Hermione replied, and she turned to go.
Author's Note: Whew! Already got just a hint of tension between these two! But still so much deception! Raise your hand, though, if you think all of this is bringing out some unresolved issues Hermione has with the life she left behind, and if maybe some of her Darker potential may be unleashed here? As always, thank you so very much for reading and reviewing.