Almost Handsome
"Sir, was breakfast to your satisfaction this morning?" Abraxas Malfoy shut the door of Voldemort's office. Voldemort raised his eyebrows and folded his hands on his desk.
"You didn't come to ask me about my eggs and toast, Malfoy."
Abraxas curled up his lips tightly and admitted, "I came to ask about the girl. About… about our mysterious guest."
"I told you that I didn't want any questions about her," Voldemort snapped, but Abraxas licked his lips and said quite cautiously,
"I do hope you find Malfoy Manor a comfortable and hospitable place to stay. Both of you. I hope we make you feel very much at home here. It is an honour to host you, truly."
Voldemort chomped his lip, feeling his scar tissue beneath his tooth. He cleared his throat as he realised Malfoy was making a threat. He was lording his manor over Voldemort, who had been Tom Riddle not so very long ago. It would be rather easy for Abraxas Malfoy to simply evict the man most of the wizarding world still knew as an aspirational Half-Blood. It would be entirely too simple for Abraxas to say he wanted nothing to do with Voldemort's scheming, and in doing so, he'd succeed in shutting doors all over Pureblood society for Voldemort. It was critical that Voldemort maintain Malfoy's good graces, at least for now. He sighed.
"She is a Mudblood," he offered up by way of information, "and she went undetected by the Ministry, so she did not… erm… she has no formal education."
"A Mudblood." Abraxas crinkled his lip in disgust. He was hosting a Muggle-born in his home? He looked like he was going to vomit. He made a wretched little noise and then huffed, "Well, where has she learnt magic, then? Did she steal a wand?"
"I can't reveal the particulars of her life story, Malfoy," Voldemort said sharply. "It's all… classified. Suffice it to say that she possesses a particular skill set I find of special use. Otherwise, obviously, I would not be keeping her so near to me."
"I see." Malfoy narrowed his eyes, obviously confused. What skill set could a Mudblood without a Hogwarts education have that the powerful Lord Voldemort did not? She must be very special, Malfoy was thinking. She must be unique in a way he couldn't fathom. To be undetected by the Ministry at birth, and then lack proper training, yet be powerful enough that Lord Voldemort wanted to possess her as a sort of pet? There was something different about her, something that set her apart from even Voldemort's old school friends. She was… one of a kind.
"She is certainly a rare good," Voldemort said quietly to Malfoy. "A valuable artefact, if you will."
He quirked up a little sarcastic smile then as he referenced his old days working at Borgin and Burkes. He drummed his fingers on his desk and told Malfoy,
"I need her here at Malfoy Manor. It isn't safe for her to be out and about right now."
"I understand, sir," Malfoy nodded. "Erm… does that mean you won't be coming to the dinner party tonight? For Sylvie's birthday? We're having just about twenty people over, you'll recall. Will you be eating separately with her in a parlour, or…?"
"Oh. The damned birthday dinner." Voldemort pinched his lips. He scowled deeply and tried to think of what the best course of action was. He didn't exactly want to make some grand introduction of Hermione to the crowd of Pureblood enthusiasts who would be coming to celebrate Sylvie Malfoy's birthday. Nor did he want to skip the party; he needed the opportunity to make conversation about his goals and mission.
His goals and mission… which were staunchly supported by Hermione Granger.
"I'll… I'll introduce her," Voldemort said cautiously. He flicked his eyes up to Malfoy and shrugged. "You've got a French wife. I'm a Half-Blood; everyone knew where I spent my holidays in school. They won't recognise her name, and nobody will know her, but they'll know better than to pry. And if they do ask, I'll simply say that she's an employee working to further my ambitions. She'll keep quiet."
"I'll have Dobby set a place for her, then, sir," Malfoy nodded. He shifted on his feet and asked again, "So, was your breakfast to your liking?"
"The eggs were perfectly cooked. Thanks for asking." Voldemort rolled his eyes. "You are rather an insufferable busybody, Malfoy."
"I'll leave you to it, then, sir." Malfoy smirked and turned to go. When he opened the door of Voldemort's office, there was a mental pulse - a second mind - and Malfoy said in surprise, "Oh! Good morning, Madam Granger."
"Morning, Mr Malfoy," said Hermione's voice from out in the corridor. "Am I interrupting?"
"No. I was just leaving. Good day." Malfoy walked past Hermione, and she nodded as she came stepping into Voldemort's office. His breath caught just a little as she shut the door and moved into the space. She looked awfully pretty today. He couldn't help but think so. She was a time traveller, and she was someone else's wife, but she looked very pretty in a dark red knee-length dress with a thick black belt around her narrow waist. She had on flat-heeled, knee-high boots, and she'd pulled her bushy hair into a low ponytail with a few stray curls fallen loose around her face.
Oh, help, he perceived from her mind, a desperate whirl of frantic thought. He's studying me. He's looking at my clothes. What if he thinks I'm frumpy or ugly or -
Voldemort ripped himself out of her head and coughed into his fist. He gestured to the chair opposite him, across his desk, and said quietly,
"Sit down."
"Good morning, My Lord," Hermione murmured as she sat. Voldemort chewed his lip and stared at her face for a long while. She had freckles, he saw now. Dainty, faint little freckles dusted across her skin. But she had flaws, too. Her face was so thin it was almost bony, and her hair was wild. Somehow, he didn't mind. He'd always found witches attractive, but he'd never really bothered with them. In school, he'd taken advantage of how handsome they'd found him by taking girls to dances and snogging them afterwards. In the years when he'd worked at Borgin and Burkes, he'd had a few short dalliances with young witches. But once he went to the Continent, he'd focused entirely on his studies. Even the seductive Veela and the most beautiful Dark witch in Spain could not tempt him, for he was so determined to gain knowledge and skill that his corporeal desires were non-existent.
But here he sat, staring at a time-traveller, the wife of a red-haired slob from the future, a witch who had destroyed his Horcruxes and watched him die, and he found her very pretty. He gulped hard and said to her,
"Take me back to the day you got your Hogwarts letter. Legilimens."
He crashed into her mind, and he was immediately met with a scene that seemed intimate and warm. Minerva McGonagall - he recognised her at once - was calmly explaining to Hermione's bemused parents that there was a special school for children just like Hermione, children who could perform feats like Hermione could. At Hogwarts, children learnt how to channel and control their magic, McGonagall was saying. They learnt the history of magic, along with practical magical skills like Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. Little Hermione, an eager-faced child, was enthusiastically raising her hand and blurting out questions. Will I come to live at the school, Professor? Will I make friends there who are people like me? Is there an entire society where people do magic every day? Where are the books I need to learn more about all of this?
Voldemort laughed uproariously, pulling out of Hermione's head. She frowned a little, but he whispered,
"Oh, you really are… is that really how it happened?"
"I think I must have asked her three hundred questions whilst my parents just sat there and stared at the letter." Hermione grinned broadly. She shrugged, her eyes watering a little. "I finally had an answer… why I could do the things I could do. I was being told that an entire world existed for people like me. I was about to leave behind everything I knew, and I was so… I was so…"
"Excited," Voldemort finished for her. Hermione nodded. He licked his bottom lip and asked,
"When did you learn about me?"
Hermione's grin faltered. She folded her hands in her lap and answered a bit anxiously,
"I was reading every book I could before school began. I wanted to be so prepared; I wanted to know everything I could possibly know before ever stepping foot on the Hogwarts Express. I was probably the only Muggle-born who went in knowing the full story. Even Harry didn't know the full story. Anyway. I read about how Lord Voldemort had returned from the Continent in the late 1960s and had begun to amass followers. Slowly, but surely, he started a movement. By the early 1970s, he'd made real enemies of Albus Dumbledore and the Ministry of Magic. A full-scale war began, with heavy casualties on both sides."
Voldemort's blood went a little cold. He swallowed hard and shook his head, muttering,
"This war went on for years?"
"It intensified in the late 1970s, with real battles and full-scale conflict occurring," Hermione told him. "By 1981, the war was at its height. A prophecy was made declaring that a baby born to those who had thrice defied Lord Voldemort, a specific baby, needed to die. And so Lord Voldemort went to the home of Lily and James Potter to kill that baby."
"Harry Potter," nodded Voldemort. Hermione sighed. Her mind was strangely still and quiet, devoid of the turbulent fretting she'd been doing earlier. Now she said softly,
"Harry's mother died, but her sacrificial love imparted protection upon the boy, Harry. When Lord Voldemort tried to kill Harry Potter, the curse rebounded and decimated him. That's… I'm adding detail. I learnt more detail later."
"That's all right," Voldemort said quite smoothly. He dragged his fingertips over his desk. "What happened after that?"
"After that, people assumed The Dark Lord was gone for good," Hermione said. Her face twisted. "They got complacent. When you came back, your body was different, but you were not. You were still… your Death Eaters had abandoned you, save for a few who had been imprisoned. Most rejoined your side out of fear, but the Second Wizarding War was lost because you were fighting with a crippled army. And your enemy was too strong."
"My enemy. You mean you," Voldemort snarled.
"I was brainwashed by Albus Dumbledore!" Hermione declared. She threw her hands up. "He used Harry Potter! He let you kill Harry, a boy, for the sake of the cause, and he knew it was going to happen! He wasn't the glorious gleaming wizard everyone declared him to be! And after he died, secrets came out. Dark secrets. He'd been awfully, terribly close with Gellert Grindelwald. He'd been involved in the death of his sister. He'd manipulated people through the decades of his life, and I was one of those people."
She was crying a little now, swiping at her eyes. She needed a respite from all of this, he knew. He cleared his throat and rose from his desk, walking over to his drinks cart. He searched around the bottles until he found a jug of fizzy cucumber mint water. He filled two glasses with the stuff and corked the jug, carrying the drink over to Hermione. She gratefully accepted it and stared at Voldemort with her teeth dragging over her lip. He peered carefully into her mind and was socked with a strong, vivid thought.
Albus Dumbledore was no better than anyone he ever fought. He acted like a saviour, like he was better than everyone else. But the truth is that he lied. He was just a player at a game of chess. He used people like props, like tools, to achieve his goals. And those goals were not so pure as he led us to believe.
"You have been wounded," Voldemort said, slipping out of her mind, "by the people who professed to care about you. Albus Dumbledore. Your husband, your friends."
"I…" Hermione opened her mouth and then sipped her drink. She finally stared into the clear liquid and said softly, "I left behind that world knowing I would never see any of those people again. I came here to change what happened. I believe that speaks to the level of dissatisfaction I felt. But none of this is about me, My Lord. It's about your success."
"Is that so?" Voldemort set down his full glass of cucumber mint fizz and cleared his throat. "There's a birthday dinner for Sylvie Malfoy tonight."
"Oh. I shall stay out of the way, My Lord," Hermione promised. "I'm sure Dobby can have food sent to my rooms."
"You'll be accompanying me," he said slickly, "as my employee. If anyone asks, you're a Muggle-born of whom the Ministry never caught wind. Therefore, you never received a Hogwarts education. If they keep pressing, tell them you're not permitted to speak any more on the matter. You're a highly valuable weapon in my arsenal. You're a… an ally, a friend of the movement working to promote my goals and my mission."
Hermione's mouth fell open. She nodded and looked alarmed. "Yes, My Lord."
"Do you need to borrow Sylvie's clothes?" Voldemort asked tightly. Hermione's eyes went round, and she shook her head.
"I've got… erm… I've got cocktail attire, Master."
"Right. Well. Just don't let anyone dig too deeply. The point is that you're a Muggle-born who's slipped past detection. You're an enigma. Stay shrouded in mystery. I'd rather them wonder than know too much. Don't get drunk; I don't want you blurting anything out."
"I won't get drunk, My Lord," Hermione promised.
"Good," He nodded. "I'll pick you up outside your rooms at seven to walk you downstairs."
Hermione blinked. Suddenly he felt a surge of thoughts push forth in her mind.
He's going to walk me down from my rooms. He's going to walk me into a dinner party. I am the luckiest witch in the entire world. The Dark Lord himself is going to -
"You are a liability," he snapped, "and I do not trust you to stay alone whilst I fraternise with my friends."
Hermione's face darkened. "Yes, Master."
"Why don't you go get a book off the shelf and read for a while?" He reached for his copy of the Daily Prophet. "I'd like you to stay close."
Voldemort stood outside the door of Hermione's black and white suite and glanced down at himself. Ordinarily, he didn't give a damn about his appearance. To be certain, he pined for the days of yore when he'd been the most handsome boy to ever roam the halls of Hogwarts. But he was in his forties now, and the creation of his Horcruxes had done in his good looks. He was chipped and scarred, pale and grey-haired. His vision was blurry enough these days that he wondered whether he'd have to start wearing glasses soon. He glanced down at the black velvet dress robes he'd put on and hoped he at least looked presentable. If he couldn't be handsome, he could at least be presentable. He wanted these people to admire him, and if he looked ridiculous, they would just think he was some scruffy Half-Blood pretender.
He sighed and walked up to Hermione's door, knocking sharply upon it. He stood back, pulling at the hem of his velvet outer robe to straighten it. He ran a hand over the hair he'd smoothed with Sleekeazy's and wet his bottom lip as he waited for her door to open. When it did, his lips parted in surprise.
She'd appeared to him so far in simple wool and cotton daywear. But now she stood before him in a dark grey dress of floor-length chiffon, with a thin crystal belt and crystal accents at the shoulders of the long sleeves. She'd obviously worked hard on her wild hair; it was coiffed into a stylish updo with perfect ringlets falling down. She had on coral lipstick and loads of mascara, and as she stared back at Voldemort, he felt a strange tingle from her mind.
Almost handsome, she was thinking. His breath hitched. He wasn't sure whether that was a compliment or an insult. Almost handsome? He cleared his throat roughly and said,
"Let's go."
Hermione shut her door and stepped out into the corridor, walking beside Voldemort. She flashed him a weak little smile as they approached the stairs, and it was obvious that she wasn't sure who ought to walk first down the narrow stairwell. He stepped aside to make way for her, and she pattered down the stone steps in her high heels. He gulped as he followed her, watching the soft material of her dress swish around her as she emerged out into the corridor below. He walked with her around a corner and past the portrait of the snobbish old Malfoy witch who always made comments at passers-by.
"She actually looks lovely tonight," the witch crooned, and Hermione rolled her eyes as they passed. For some strange reason, Voldemort's cheeks felt a bit warm as they neared the dining room. Suddenly he wondered whether Nott or Crabbe or Avery was going to try and make a move on Hermione, and he decided he would shut down any attempt at that. She was his employee, after all. He couldn't allow for that.
"Oh! Sir! Good evening." As Voldemort and Hermione walked into the dining room, Abraxas and Sylvie Malfoy rushed over. Sylvie reached for Voldemort's hand and immediately gushed,
"Your gift was so generous, but we had insisted no gifts."
"Yes, well. I didn't listen. Anyway, you've been more than generous," Voldemort pointed out. He'd had Dobby deliver a pair of Australian opal earrings to Sylvie Malfoy earlier in the day, and they gleamed in her ears now. Hermione looked a little confused, but then Sylvie gestured to her ears and cooed,
"Isn't he so thoughtful?"
"Oh! They're lovely!" Hermione grinned, and he could sense that she was wondering where he'd gotten the money for them. What she didn't know was that he'd simply Confounded a Muggle jeweller into handing them over a few days earlier. He'd stolen the earrings, as simply as that, and now they were Sylvie's.
"Do come talk to Lestrange and Avery; they're dying to chat Quidditch," Abraxas said, guiding Voldemort away. He glanced over his shoulder to where Hermione had been left alone with Sylvie. The French witch appeared to be admiring the way Hermione had styled her hair, and Hermione seemed to be giving some sort of explanation.
"So the dunderhead took a Bludger straight to the skull. Knocked him out of the match," Raddox Lestrange was exclaiming to Heston Avery. "The other Seeker had no competition; the match ended two minutes later."
"Lestrange. Avery. So good to see you both," Voldemort said warmly. "Have the two of you been up to anything besides attending Quidditch matches?"
"Just got a big promotion," Avery grinned, taking a swig of firewhisky. "Course, it helps when your father's the department head."
"Ah, yes. Good old nepotism," scoffed Lestrange. "Heston, I've been telling you for years to try and strike it out on your own."
"You could make a name for yourself, Avery, working within my organisation," Voldemort said. Avery curved up his lips and nodded.
"So I've heard. As it happens, sir, I've heard loads of good things since you've come back from the Continent. Interesting things."
"Heard you learnt all sorts of intriguing magic," Lestrange reckoned, and Voldemort cocked up an eyebrow.
"That's information I share with only my closest compatriots… among whom, of course, I should like to count the both of you. Let's meet, the three of us, and discuss this matter in more detail. When can you come to my office?"
"Erm… well. Next Monday after work, I'm free," Lestrange offered, and Avery shrugged.
"Works for me."
"Monday it is," Voldemort purred. "I look forward to it."
He chatted with the Notts and with Cygnus and Druella Black for a while, and then it was time to eat. Hermione looked wide-eyed and helpless, and when he pulled out her seat at the table, Bovary Crabbe said,
"We were just getting to know your… employee, sir. Madam Granger. You simply must tell us more."
"I'm afraid that whatever she told you is likely the extent of what I can reveal, Mr Crabbe," Voldemort said tightly. The meal was a bit stilted and awkward then, as nobody seemed to want anything to do with Hermione after Voldemort revealed she was some sort of dirty secret. More than once, Voldemort heard someone hiss the word Mudblood at the table during conversation, and he scanned thoughts.
Wonder what the blazes he's doing with a Mudblood whore…
She must have some special ability he's hiding.
Clearly she's some sort of weapon. She's strategic. We shouldn't ask.
Voldemort cleared his throat and did not sing along as everyone cheerfully celebrated Sylvie Malfoy's birthday. Abraxas made a very sappy toast about having the best wife in the entire world, the most beautiful wife who had ever crossed the English Channel, and everyone made little noises of happiness as Sylvie and Abraxas pecked on the lips right there in front of everybody. Then Dobby turned on the record player, and people ate cake and chatted, and the dining room began to clear out.
Voldemort considered the party a success, for he'd set up a meeting with Avery and Lestrange and had made exceedingly pleasant conversation with the Notts and with Cygnus and Druella Black, all close allies. He had been able to seize this opportunity to network some more. And it seemed, at least according to the thoughts people were having, that Hermione's presence only added to his mysterious and fear-inducing persona. She was some sort of enigmatic ammunition, they all thought. Well, good. Let them think that.
"Let's go," he instructed her, not for the first time tonight. He stood from the table, and Hermione rose with him. She mumbled a happy birthday to Sylvie Malfoy, and she followed Voldemort out of the dining room.
"I hope I didn't embarrass you, Master," she said as they walked up the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder, down at her as she followed him, and he assured her,
"You did not embarrass me. They all perceived you as some sort of secret weapon."
"Oh. Really? That's marvelous." Hermione's mind pulsed with genuine surprise and happiness, and Voldemort felt his lips curl up a little. He walked down the corridor toward Hermione's rooms, and then he paused. Why had he walked her all the way up here? He frowned.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning in my office, then," he told her. Hermione stared up at him and nodded, her eyes going wide. Her mind rushed with a wild, fleeting thought.
Almost handsome.
Voldemort scowled and snapped quite sharply at her, "You look lovely, you realise."
Hermione shook her head and whispered, "I didn't… I'm sorry if I've…"
He suddenly found himself taking her face in his hands, and he told her, "You say you've come back in time to preserve me. To change history so that I am victorious. What is it that you find so appealing? You're a Muggle-born, and I am hideous. I was in your time, too. So, out with it. What is the appeal for you, you self-loathing, impossibly bookish little -"
"Your power," Hermione murmured, interrupting him. Voldemort gulped. She nodded in his hands, her eyes welling. "You are the most powerful wizard who has ever lived, and I am deeply invested in your success. My Lord. Master."
He bent then, his lips a hair's breadth from hers. His breath and hers mingled, a warm swirl in the air between them as her mind flared with a half-crazed thought.
Lord Voldemort is about to kiss me. LORD VOLDEMORT IS ABOUT TO KISS ME. What am I going to do?
"You should consider kissing him back," he murmured, and he pressed his lips to hers.
Hermione squealed frantically against his mouth, her hands grappling at the front of his velvet robes. Voldemort pulled back, realising at once that he'd gone entirely too far. He'd made a mistake. But when he stared down at her, her cheeks were crimson and her breath was coming in shallow pants as she shut her eyes and whispered,
"Oh. Oh, my goodness."
"I… erm." Voldemort cleared his throat roughly. "I obviously misread that situation."
"No. You did not." Hermione's voice was quite firm then. She raised her eyes to him and stared directly at him. Her mind was a confused jumble. He could see a lot of things, a lot of ideas and memories twining together inside her brain, but suddenly an image of Ronald Weasley jumped forth, and Voldemort knew what the problem was. He licked his lips and nodded.
"Goodnight, Hermione."
He turned around and stalked briskly toward the stairs, and he heard her voice say meekly from behind him,
"Goodnight, Master."
Author's Note: If you wouldn't mind taking a brief moment to leave a comment, I'd be extremely grateful for the feedback. I really appreciate knowing your thoughts on this story!