Revision and Rescript

Hermione Granger lay in bed at Malfoy Manor and stared at the ceiling, tears streaming from her cheeks onto the soft white pillow.

What had happened?

She had relived the moment over and over again - the feel of Lord Voldemort taking her face in his hands, the sensation of him dipping down and the way his breath had mixed with hers. She had run through the way she’d panicked, the way he’d read her mind and then told her to kiss him back before pushing his mouth against hers. 

She ought to have screamed and flailed, she told herself. She ought to have whipped out her wand and cast a Cruciatus Curse upon the most wicked sorcerer who had ever lived for daring to kiss her. But instead, she’d reached out for his robes. She’d held onto the velvet and curled her fingers a little in desperate confusion, thinking distantly to herself that he tasted like cake and firewhisky. 

Now she lay in bed and cried, trying to imagine what Harry and Ron would say if they knew what had happened. Harry would use his wand to blow things up, probably, in a furious rage. He’d stomp about and mutter curses and whip his wand through the air. And Ron? Ron would cry. His pale eyes would well with tears, and his cheeks would go pink, and he’d ask Why? Why had Hermione let Lord Voldemort get close enough to kiss her?

Because, Ronald, Hermione would tell him, I’m here ingratiating myself to him to save all of you. I’m trying to save Fred. I’m trying to save Sirius. I’m trying to save Neville’s parents. All the students who died at Hogwarts in the battle. The Muggles that were turned into Inferi. James and Lily Potter. I’m doing this for them. I’m not a villain. I’m not wicked.

She swiped at her eyes and rolled onto her side, curling up into a little ball and reaching for her wand on the bedside table. She aimed it at her leather handbag and murmured,

“Accio Dreamless Sleep.”

A little bottle came soaring out of Hermione’s bag, and Hermione caught it from midair. She opened the little purple bottle and administered herself one single drop. She put the stopper back in and Banished the bottle back into the Extended bag. She set her wand down and put her head back on the pillow, shutting her eyes. She felt the Dreamless Sleep settling into her veins, and thoughts of Ron and Harry and Lord Voldemort gave way to a deep, peaceful slumber.

It was ten minutes past nine when Hermione frantically knocked on the door of Lord Voldemort’s office. She knocked and knocked until the door swung open, and Voldemort stood before her with his eyebrows raised.

“You’re late,” he noted.

“I’m sorry, Master,” Hermione said quietly. “I took Dreamless Sleep last night, and I overslept this morning. I do apologise for my late arrival.”

“No matter.” Voldemort sniffed lightly as Hermione walked into the office. She’d managed to dress in a black pleated skirt and a mustard-coloured jumper, with her hair pulled back into a low, loose chignon. But she was unglamorous today, she knew. Voldemort shut the door behind her, and there was an instantaneous crackle of magic that Hermione sometimes perceived from dangerously powerful people. She’d felt it once or twice around Albus Dumbledore in crucial moments. It was a discharge of magical power, she thought. Something was troubling him.

“I wish to apologise,” Voldemort said, turning from the door. “I presume you did not come back in time to be kissed.”

“I…” Hermione folded her hands before her and gulped. She pushed forward the strongest thought she could muster. I came back in time for you, Master.

“Sit. I was just finishing off a few letters, and then we shall return to the task of your memories,” Voldemort pronounced. Hermione nodded and joined him at his desk. He glanced to his drinks cart and then frowned. “You won’t have had breakfast.”

“I’m all right. Really.” Hermione gave him a weak little smile, but he scowled and stared at her for a moment.

“Rosemary scones?” He guessed, and Hermione felt her cheeks go warm. She could feel him pulling forth a memory from the recesses of her head. She was baking with her mother in their Muggle kitchen. They were making savoury scones with rosemary, cracking eggs into a bowl and measuring out flour. Hermione’s mother was talking quietly, gently, and Hermione was very young. Her eyes burned a little, and she said,

“They’ve always been my favourites.”

“Hmm.” Voldemort nodded. He turned his attention to his desk then and murmured, “Avery and Lestrange are meeting with me this coming Monday. Tell me… were they helpful to me in the life you knew?”

“I knew Raddox Lestrange’s sons, Rodolphus and Rabastan,” Hermione admitted, “but I didn’t know Raddox. Perhaps he was there. They wore masks, your Death Eaters. I didn’t know a lot of them. I do know that Rodolphus survived the war and was sent back to Azkaban.”

Voldemort pursed his lips and murmured, “Rodolphus is marrying Bellatrix Black once the two of them leave Hogwarts. They’ve been promised to one another for some time.”

“Promised,” Hermione repeated, curling up her lip in mild disgust. She tried to mask her distaste for the ancestral Pureblood tradition of arranged marriage. She dared to ask, “Does Bellatrix actually want to marry Rodolphus?”

“I think Bellatrix would much rather marry me.” Voldemort sounded very amused then, and he drummed his fingers on his desk. Hermione’s mouth fell open in surprise, but Voldemort shrugged and said, “The last I saw of her, before she left for her sixth year at Hogwarts, she was a fawning sycophant desperate for my attentions. Me. A scarred and broken old man. Plainly, she sees my potential. As you’ve pointed out, she turned out to be my most loyal and ardent servant, staying true to me when virtually no one else did.”

Hermione blinked. A strange stab went through her belly, a coil forming in her abdomen that she couldn’t quite identify. She smiled crookedly and said,

“She and her husband Rodolphus were both desperately loyal to you, to be certain. But she was utterly mad when I knew her. Ruined by her years in Azkaban. And she…”

Hermione dragged her fingers over the place on her arm where Bellatrix had carved the word Mudblood into her flesh. Voldemort dragged his tongue over his teeth and said softly,

“Perhaps this time around, it would be beneficial to me to keep Bellatrix for myself instead of marrying her off to Rodolphus. If I kept her closer, closer than even the dearest servant, then I -”

“With all due respect, Master, would it not put her fervent servitude at risk to have her as a lover or a wife?” Hermione posited. Voldemort narrowed his eyes in confusion, and Hermione clarified, “Lovers are easily scorned. Affections fade and turn. Bellatrix, from what I could tell, scrambled after you like a puppy dog running after its master. She was desperate for any bone you would throw her. If you gave her too much…”

“You’re right, of course.” Voldemort nodded firmly. “Tossing her little hints of affection, toying with her every now and then, is much more strategic. She should stay with Rodolphus, but I’ll give her little touches and kisses from time to time, just to keep her hungry.”

Hermione’s mind flared with an ugly sensation. She tried, very distantly, to convince herself that it was just her loathing of Bellatrix putting this negativity into her mind. But there was something else in her thoughts, something Voldemort was pulling out, something wispy and emerald. Hermione sniffled a little and suggested,

“I don’t want to interrupt your letter-writing, Master.”

“As it happens, one of my letters is to Bellatrix herself,” said Voldemort. “Little seventeen-year-old fool that she is, she’s sent me a letter just to see how I am. I was trying to figure out the best response. Your suggestion?”

Hermione gaped. He wanted her suggestion on how best to respond to Bellatrix Black’s letter? Hermione let out a little noise and finally said,

“Erm… here. Try writing this.” Voldemort picked up a quill and dipped it into ink, and he put the nib to parchment as Hermione said softly, “Dear Miss Black, I am quite well. I appreciate your kind inquiry into my well-being, and highly value your communication in general. I trust you are devoting yourself fully to your studies, with the understanding that academic success will be -”

Suddenly Voldemort was laughing, and he looked up from the letter he was writing. Hermione frowned, and Voldemort chuckled,

“Of course you’re lecturing her about academic excellence.”

“I’m not lecturing her about anything, Master; you are.” Hermione grinned. Voldemort shook his head and said,

“The understanding that academic success will be…? Continue.”

“Academic success will be critical to what you will accomplish for me in the future. Wishing you all health and happiness. - LV.”

“That’s quite good.” Voldemort set down his quill and blew on his letter to dry the ink. He rolled up the parchment and began sealing it with wax, and Hermione sighed. She tried to imagine a very young Bellatrix. She was only seventeen here. She was the age Hermione had been when she’d been fighting Voldemort in the world she’d left behind. She was just a girl here. Hermione pinched her lips and wondered if she’d be able to keep her cool around Bellatrix. Of course she would, she told herself. She’d kept her cool around Abraxas Malfoy, around people who would grow into Death Eaters… around Lord Voldemort himself.

Voldemort pulled at a heavy rope beside his desk, which seemed to trigger a silent alarm or alert of some kind. A moment later, Dobby Apparated into the office with a crack, and he bowed so low that he almost tipped over. 

“Take these letters to the owlery and send them off,” Voldemort ordered, handing over three scrolls. “Miss Black’s goes to Hogwarts; Avery’s and Lestrange’s to their homes. Oh, and whip up some rosemary scones and bring them in with some pumpkin juice.”

“I’m all right,” Hermione insisted. “Really. I don’t need breakfast. Thank you.”

Dobby looked from one of them to the other, as though he wasn’t sure who to listen to. Hermione held up a hand and shook her head, flashing Voldemort a little smile.

“I’m all right, Master.”

“It’s no trouble,” he insisted. Hermione huffed a breath and said softly to Dobby,

“Thank you.”

Dobby snapped his fingers and Disapparated with another crack. Once he’d gone, Voldemort rose from his chair, and Hermione instinctively pulled herself up to stand with him. Voldemort began to pace, and Hermione stood before him in the centre of the office.

“Tell me,” Voldemort demanded, “what you know about the Chamber of Secrets.”

Hermione let out a long breath. She shut her eyes and opened her mind to him, feeling a whooshing sensation as he rushed headlong through her memories. She showed him the lesson where Hermione had been taught about Salazar Slytherin putting the Chamber of Secrets in the bowels of Hogwarts. Next, she showed the victims - Mrs Norris, Colin Creevey, and Hermione herself, who had been Petrified after carefully using a mirror because she’d discovered the secrets of the Basilisk using the pipes in the school. She showed him the way she’d been healed up with Mandrake root in the hospital wing. She demonstrated the storytelling that had taken place about Tom Riddle in the Chamber, coming to form and talking to Harry until the Basilisk had been killed, the diary had been destroyed, and Ginny’s terrible predicament had been uncovered. Gilderoy Lockhart’s life in St Mungo’s showed itself in Hermione’s mind. Fawkes’ cry peeled out in her head. Hagrid’s voice boomed; she knew that Tom Riddle had blamed Hagrid and his Acromantula for the Chamber’s opening in the 1940s. She knew about Moaning Myrtle. She knew all of it.

Hermione’s eyes blinked open slowly, and she felt Voldemort slowly slide out of her mind. He nodded and said carefully,

“Quite plainly, I need to prevent that book from winding up in the wrong hands. And it would seem as though opening the Chamber of Secrets was a very foolish endeavour, given everything else going on. Low on the priority list, as it were.”

“It felt rather significant at the time,” Hermione said. “We were children.”

“You figured it out rather brilliantly, didn’t you?” Voldemort raised his eyebrows. “You got to the bottom of my mysterious -”

“I read some books,” Hermione interrupted, “like I always do. It was your magic that practically closed the school. It was your magic that nearly gave you a new form from your Horcrux.”

“But you now think it was wrong to destroy that Horcrux.” Voldemort’s gaze bored straight into Hermione’s, and she tried desperately to clear her mind as she said very firmly,

“Yes, I do. Master.”

CRACK!

Hermione startled and whirled as Dobby reappeared, pushing a little tea cart. He had a plate full of scones on one level of the rolling tray, and the other level had two cups of steaming tea.

“Dobby has brought breakfast for Madam Granger,” he said warmly. “Dobby hopes Madam Granger will enjoy her rosemary scones, Madam.”

“Thank you.” Hermione quirked up half her mouth. She picked up a scone and chewed it, feeling abruptly emotional at the flavour. She chewed and swallowed, nodding. “Delicious.”

“Anything else, sir?” Dobby twined his long fingers together, and Voldemort just shook his head. He was staring strangely at Hermione, and she realised she’d been thinking distantly about just how delicious the scone was, about how she didn’t mind this place as badly as she’d thought she was going to mind it. She’d been thinking, somewhere deep in her head, that this time wasn’t the torture that she’d been expecting.

Dobby disappeared with a pop, and Hermione set down the rosemary scone, brushing her fingers together. She picked up one of the cups of tea and sipped, shutting her eyes and thinking with all of her might,

When he kissed me last night, I wasn’t afraid. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. I should have been disgusted, but I wasn’t. Instead I reached for his robes. He tasted like cake and firewhisky.

“Hermione,” Voldemort said rather firmly. She sipped her tea again but opened her eyes to look at him. She tried not to find him handsome. After all, this was Lord Voldemort. They had been vicious enemies in the life she’d lived. She’d hated him, and she’d fought against him. But now she was here. She was on a mission. And it wasn’t that he was a handsome man; he wasn’t. He was ragged around the edges, pale and sagging and grey-haired. But there was something pulsing from him, a powerful sense of intimidation that made Hermione’s skin prickle. She couldn’t help herself from being taken aback by him. She couldn’t control the way he made her breath catch just a little bit in her chest. It wasn’t that she found his face handsome the way young Tom Riddle had been rumoured to be handsome. That wasn’t it at all. His appeal, that throbbing energy that was coming off of him now, was his sheer force.

“You helped me with that letter to Bellatrix Black,” Voldemort said quietly, “and I think you’re right about her. It will do me better to keep her at just an arm’s length. Close enough for control, but far enough for stability. You’re right, I think.”

“You’ll do what is best, Master,” Hermione assured him, but he glanced away and said in a sardonic sort of voice,

“Plainly, left to my own devices, I do not always do what is best. Your lived experiences are proof enough of that.”

“Well, I shall help you in any way that I am able,” Hermione assured him. He flicked his eyes to her, and suddenly a manic thought flashed though her mind.

He tasted like cake and firewhisky.

She watched his throat bob, and he murmured to her, “You tasted like red wine.”

Her breath began to accelerate in her chest, and she walked rather quickly toward Voldemort. She stopped just short of him, staring up at him, and she whispered,

“You did not misread the situation last night, My Lord.”

“No?” She could hear his breath shake a little then, which surprised her. His scarred lips visibly trembled, and as he loomed over Hermione, she realised she could smell leather and wood coming from him. She sensed leather and wood and sheer power. He was resonating with magic, and Hermione found herself staring up at his dark eyes in wonder. She erased the hate she’d always felt for him; he must not sense that from her right now. She replaced it with awe, with veneration. She let him read reverence in her mind. He was powerful, and she was amazed by him. 

He had tasted like cake and firewhisky.

He licked his bottom lip and whispered,

“You tasted like red wine. And you are very intelligent, I find.”

“Am I?” Hermione’s eyes burned a little. She blinked up at him, and she let her eyes flutter shut as he brushed a knuckle along her jaw. He said quietly,

“You’ve been reading and reading all your life. You’ve fought hard. But before you came back in time, Hermione, you were slaving away in a mundane Ministry position, lost in an unhappy marriage. Now you’re a conscript on a mission to change history. You’re my secret weapon.”

She shivered, remembering that that had been what people had thought of her at Sylvie Malfoy’s birthday dinner. She was Lord Voldemort’s secret weapon. Suddenly Hermione found herself thinking that she had more potential than she’d given herself credit for. Perhaps O.S. and friends had known something, after all. Perhaps they had known what she could do. Perhaps they really had been right to send her back here, even though it meant leaving behind everything she’d known. She was on a mission. She was…

A weapon.

Hermione opened her eyes and gazed up at Lord Voldemort. Her fear had dissipated, somehow. It had been replaced by a resolute, steely sense of determination. She nodded up at him and whispered,

“I’ve come to change what happens.”

Voldemort bent towards Hermione, and his breath was warm against her lips as he hummed,

“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

Hermione shook her head and let her lips brush against his. “Don’t stop, Master.”

She felt a hand press to the small of her back then, pulling her a little closer. His right hand stroked at her jaw, and he pressed his lips to hers. Once, twice, three times. The third time, Hermione parted her mouth, and he dragged his tongue over her bottom lip. Hermione had squealed in desperation the first time he’d kissed her. Now she let out a deeper, more visceral noise against his mouth, and he deepened the kiss. He pulled her lip between his teeth, and his tongue delved more deeply against the roof of her mouth. She twined her tongue with his and felt a solid flush of craving go straight to her core.

She wanted this man. She should have been absolutely disgusted and horrified by the way she felt a warm throb between her legs, but she quickly shoved away any hint of antagonism in her mind, knowing he needed to feel desire from her. She let him feel the way he had lit her body like a candle, the way her blood had gone hot in her veins. She panted through her nose as her hands instinctively went to his biceps, running up and down the sleeves of his woolen robes. He kept on kissing her for what felt like an eternity, until Hermione was so breathless that she thought desperately,

I’m drowning in him. I’m barely alive, and I don’t even mind.

“Hermione.” He pulled back, his scarred lips shining and swollen. His dark eyes glinted madly, one eye drooping a bit as his gaze flicked around Hermione’s face. She was red-cheeked; she could feel the heat flushing through her face. Her own lips felt bruised from the intense kissing. She stared up at him, still holding onto the sleeves of his robes, and felt his hand cinch at the small of her back. He dragged a thumb under her eye and murmured,

“My secret weapon, hmm? Yes, I think so. And there is a use for you, to be certain. Now, Madam Granger, why don’t you go to the library and get yourself some books? There’s going to be a cold rain today; you ought to curl up before a fire with some tea. We’ll dine in the violet parlour at seven.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Hermione whispered. She tried not to think of Ron, and as a thought of her husband eked into her mind, she shoved the idea of him away and replaced it by reliving the feel of Voldemort’s blistering kiss. As she walked out of his office, trembling and touching at her lips, her mind whirled and her stomach fluttered.

He had tasted like peppermint tea this time. He must have had it with his breakfast, she thought. It had been a clear taste. Fresh and cold and heady all at once. She drank in the memory of it and played the kiss over and over in her head as she climbed the stairs up to the second floor. She paused in the stairwell and leaned against the wall, pressing her hands to the stones and shutting her eyes.

She thought of his face, of the smell and taste of him. And then she thought of the way he vibrated with power, the way he exuded magical potential. She was shaken by him, she realised. She was here to destroy his destiny, but she could not bring herself to hate the way he’d kissed her. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that kissing Lord Voldemort was the worst thing Hermione Granger could possibly do, all she could think of was the feel of his hand on her face, of his hand on her back, of his lips on hers, of his power crackling through the room.

She turned and climbed the stairs, wondering just how lost she was.

Author’s Note: Drama with Bellatrix! A real kiss! And Hermione starting to question her own motives! Now, who’s up for a nice trip to Diagon Alley? Nothing could possibly go wrong, right?

As always, thank you so very much for reading and a massive thanks for reviewing!