[The Warlock's Hairy Heart]
Dec. 18th, 2010 11:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ansketilTitle: You Know Who?
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.
Rating: PGR
Word Count: 8,000
Characters: Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in Deathly Hallows.
Pairing: Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means Voldemort, not Tom Riddle).
Summary: What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.
Author's Notes: The fourth chapter in the rewrite. This chapter covers Harry's birthday and the wedding at the Burrow. Meanwhile, Lord Voldemort becomes adept at wand-less magic and remembers a thing or two. There are several scenes which had to be taken straight from the book for this chapter, but it's a long chapter and hopefully I've put in enough material to still make it different and exciting (as well as chucking in some pretty huge dollops of foreshadowing!). I promise that from the next chapter onwards the story will diverge rapidly from the narrative in Deathly Hallows. I should probably point out that, although I know canon!Voldemort is right-handed, in this story he's left-handed - it's just a head!canon thing I have.
Previous Chapters:
CHAPTER ONE: THE SNAKE UNDER THE BED
CHAPTER TWO: THE GARAGE
CHAPTER THREE: HARRY POTTER & TOM RIDDLE
"How do you destroy a Horcrux, anyway?" Ron asks, sitting beside me on Harry's makeshift bed, lounging across the crocheted, red and yellow blankets. He gives me a small nudge and I can feel my heart beat a little faster.
"Well…" I inhale, trying to sort out all the information before I speak. "We know that the snake can't be killed by normal means. But I've been researching the topic and I'm pretty sure that–"
"How?" Harry asks curiously, sitting down across from us, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. "I didn't think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library."
I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks with embarrassment, "There weren't. Dumbledore removed them all… but he – he didn't destroy them."
Ron jerks away from me, his blue eyes shocked, "How in the name of Merlin's pants have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?"
Oh, this is horrible! I never should have pinched those books! But… but… we need to know! I'm sure Dumbledore wouldn't mind! He – he wouldn't, would he? "It…" I manage to choke out, "It wasn't stealing!" But my friends just stare at me. I plunge on, feeling my face get hotter and hotter, "They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves." I reach up to swipe a strand of stray hair off my forehead. "Anyway," I sniff, trying to regain my composure, "if he really didn't want anyone to get at them, he should have made it much harder to–"
"Get to the point!" Ron exclaims.
"Well… it was easy," I explain guiltily, and I can tell my best friends are disappointed in me. Responsible Hermione Granger stealing books from the Headmaster's office! Even if they had been on the shelves – which they weren't – it's forbidden to borrow school library books over the summer. "I just did a Summoning Charm. You know – accio. And they zoomed right out of Dumbledore's study window and into the girls' dormitory."
"But when did you do this?" Harry's voice is incredulous.
"Just after his – Dumbledore's – funeral," I feel so ashamed, "right after we agreed to leave school and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my things it – it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better it would be… and I was all alone in there… so I tried… and it worked. They flew straight in the open window and I – I packed them." I swallow nervously, but they're still staring at me, green and blue eyes full of shock. This is awful! "I can't believe Dumbledore would have been angry," I say imploringly, wanted them to say something and not just look at me like that, "It's…. it's not as if we're going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?"
"Can you hear us complaining?" Ron flashes me an admiring grin and I find myself smiling back conspiratorially, suddenly realising that they're not mad at all. I sag with relief and shove the guilt to the back of my mind. "Where are the books, anyway?"
I lean across to where I'd been sorting through books to bring with us, finding Owle Bullock's Secrets of the Darkest Art hiding underneath Break with a Banshee and Asiatic Anti-Venoms. It's a thick, doorstop of a book, bound in faded black leather with dark, purplish scrollwork encircling the silver lettering of the title. I can hardly believe anyone would ever want to do any of the things Bullock writes about. Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn queasy. I turn back to the boys, "This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. It's a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library… If he didn't do it before he became headmaster, I bet You-Know-Who got all the instruction he needed from here."
"Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he'd already read that?" Ron asks.
Harry leans forward, his glasses sliding a bit down his nose. But his eyes are bright. "He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into seven. Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew about how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you're right, Hermione, that could easily have been where he got the information."
"And the more I've read about them," I shiver, "the more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe he actually made six." It was a very frightening thought, considering just how evil the book was, that Voldemort did things when he was still in school that the darkest of wizards could never conceive of. "It warns in this book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that's just by making one Horcrux!"
I feel a guilty pang of sympathy for the man tied up in Mr Weasley's garage. Harry had told me how Tom Riddle's features had become more and more distorted until he didn't seem human at all... The look of trust in his eyes… "Somewhere safe…" he'd said, his weirdly high-pitched voice a lowered to a silken whisper; his inhuman, crimson eyes staring at me with a kind of wide, blank hope… Owle Bullock hadn't mentioned anything about physical changes, but he never imagined anyone would want to make more than one Horcrux. I was sure the loss of Voldemort's looks was connected to how many times his soul had been divided. It's hard to believe a wizard as gifted as Tom Riddle would do something as foolish as breaking Adalbert Waffling's First Fundamental Law of Magic. I mean, it was in Magical Theory, on our first-year book list! I had it memorised before I even got on the train:
Tamper with the deepest mysteries – the source of life, the essence of self – only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind.
"Isn't there a way of putting yourself back together again?"
All the king's horses and all the king's men… The nursery rhyme comes into my head and I can't help but smile at the ludicrous comparison. "Yes," I answer sadly, "but it would be excruciatingly painful. And he couldn't do it now anyway."
"Why?" Harry takes the book from me, running a hand along the embossed spine before flipping it open where I'd left my bookmark. "How do you do it?"
"Remorse," I sigh, "you've got to really feel what you've done. Not making the Horcrux, exactly, but the murder required by the Horcrux ritual. There's a footnote," I tap the miniscule type with a finger. "Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. But even if he wanted to – which is pretty unlikely – Voldemort can't possibly feel that kind of regret for murders he can't remember committing. Besides, setting aside the fact that he's lost his memory, I don't think he can feel that kind of emotion anymore. The book implies that making a Horcrux costs you some of your humanity, so the more Horcruxes Voldemort made, the less able he would have been able to reverse the process."
"So how do we destroy them?" Ron asks as Harry passes the book back to me. Even touching it makes me feel nauseous.
"From what I've read, what Harry did to Tom Riddle's diary was one of the few ways to destroy a Horcrux. The book warns dark wizards that they had to make sure they cast really strong protective enchantments on them and Voldemort obviously knew what he was doing, as I discovered, so–"
"Wait, you mean we have to stab Nagini with a basilisk fang?" Harry's mouth falls open.
"Oh, well, lucky we've got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then." Ron says, his words dripping with sarcasm, "I was wondering what we were going to do with them."
"It doesn't have to be a basilisk fang. Just something so destructive that the Horcrux can't repair itself and there are few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they're all dangerous to carry around with you. Ripping, smashing or crushing a Horcrux won't destroy it. And in Nagini's case, I doubt a simple Avada Kedavra is going to do the trick. We could try, I suppose, but I don't think it would work. Owle Bullock never considered anyone using a living being as a Horcrux."
"Even if we do… you know… kill the snake," Ron says slowly, his brow pensive, "what's to stop the bit of soul in it just going and living in something else?"
I shake my head, "Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being." Seeing their non-comprehending stares, I rush into an explanation. "Look," I turned to Ron, "if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn't damage your soul at all."
Ron moves his hands to protect his torso from my invisible blade, making a face, "Which would be a real comfort to me, I'm sure!" Harry laughs and even I can't help but give a small smile. It's reassuring that even when we're contemplating evil like Horcruxes, Ron can still be Ron.
"It should be! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive untouched. But it's the other way around with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside of it depends on its container or – in Nagini's case – her body for survival."
"Hang on," Ron sneaks an arm around my waist, causing me to lose my train of thought and start to wriggle away, before deciding it actually feels quite nice there, snug around my midriff – especially when the conversation is giving me chills. "The bit of soul inside the diary was possessing Ginny, wasn't it? How does that work, then?"
"While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside the Horcrux can flit in or out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don't mean holding it for too long, it's nothing to do with touching it, I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary. She made herself incredibly vulnerable. You're in trouble if you get too close to a Horcrux."
"So basically," Harry interjects, "we not only have to hunt down the horcruxes, but something to kill them as well. If only I'd asked Dumbledore how he destroyed the ring…"
"Well, what about You-Know-Who?" Ron asks pointedly, "are we just going to keep him locked in Dad's garage while we go off and destroy all his Horcruxes?"
"We have to make sure he can't escape or hurt anyone while we're away," Harry's tone is one of fevered determination, a tight resolve in his eyes. "Then, when we've got them all… he dies." Ron is nodding vigorously and I find myself nodding too, despite the horrible feeling clawing it's up from the pit of my stomach. It has to be done.
I consider the problem: "The Burrow is almost certainly the safest place, in any case. It's probably the most well-warded private domicile in Britain – definitely safer than Hogwarts right now. We've already proved that Death Eaters can't get in here. The only danger lies from the Ministry, but I doubt they'd ever think Arthur Weasley would hide He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his garage. The only reason they'd look in there would be for bewitched muggle devices, and I doubt those are high on their to-do list right now."
"So that's Snake-Face sorted – what about his pet Horcrux? I don't think Mum and Dad would appreciate that dirty great snake slithering around the garden, especially after the chunk it took out of Dad's leg."
Harry shoots Ron a careful glance, "We could just, you know, not tell them… Hermione did make sure nothing can get in or out of that field."
Isn't there something we're forgetting? "You're forgetting about feeding her."
The boys give me twin incredulous stares. "She's a Horcrux, Hermione," Harry rolls his eyes, "as you just explained, she's not exactly going to starve to death."
"That's no reason to maltreat an animal, Harry! It's not her fault her owner is a psychotic dark wizard who turned her into a Horcrux!" I can feel my face going red again.
"Are we, or are we not, talking about You-Know-Who's twelve-foot, man-eating snake? Honestly, who cares?"
I shake myself out of his embrace and stand up, "I care, Ronald Weasley! Just because we have to kill her eventually, it doesn't mean she should have to slowly starve for what could be months!"
"What are we going to feed her, then?" Harry asks sarcastically, "it's not like we have a ready supply of fresh bodies like Voldemort."
Something is wrong with Ron's face. His freckled face looks to be in the grasp of an unusually deep thought and, slowly, he stands up beside me. "Hermione's right." A warm glow seems to spread across my chest and my heart beats a little faster as Ron's hand settles on my shoulder. "We shouldn't starve an innocent snake." Harry's eyebrows shoot up at the word 'innocent' and he gives Ron a strangely knowing look. "And, you know, the snake seems to have taken a fancy to raw gnome, and we've got a huge infestation, so…"
"Ron!"
"What?"
"Gnomes are sentient creatures!"
"Oh for Merlin's sake, Hermione!" Harry groans, putting his face in his hands tiredly.
"What? You think we should feed her Aunty Muriel? Because that's one old biddy I wouldn't mind–"
I can feel the tears begin to roll down my face. Not wanting them to see me cry, I rush to the door, almost tripping over the books all over the floor. I slam the door behind me, leaning against it. "She's mental…" I hear Ron say in the silence behind the door, which just makes me sob harder. I don't even know why I'm crying… I just… I just… I just don't want to see anyone else die.
L.V.H.G
I have managed to work out that my left arm works as a channel for magical energy and my hand is the long-fingered catalyst. If I focus on my sinister hand, my fingertips come alight with leashed, invisible, buzzing power. I can make my ropes curl and sway in the air like charmed serpents, water fall from the ceiling, I can make the cold floor burn with warmth so it is as though I am sitting next to the crackling comfort of a fire and – most wonderful of all – I can turn abused, bloody, blistered flesh back to unblemished white.
However, there are limitations. I appear to be unable to escape the garage itself which – as I suspected earlier – seems to be imbued with a force that prevents my escape even by magical means. And, try as I might, I am unable to make food appear. I'm sure that, if only I hadn't given Hermione my wand, I would be able to escape. Even if I know nothing about my past or, indeed, my present circumstances, I'd rather take my chances outside than face death at Alastor Moody's hands, or – even worse – slowly starve to death in this place.
I am very much afraid that Nagini has been captured by my jailers. I keep trying to call out to her but she does not hear me. "Nagini… Nagini…!" Nothing. I have only vague notions of how much time has passed since I was imprisoned here. Perhaps a few days – perhaps a week? It is dark outside now. No one has come.
Please let her be unharmed, please let her be safe! Nagini, Nagini… my one true ally – a snake – gone. Something wet touches my cheek and I look up, thinking that the roof might still be dripping. It is not. My eyes are stinging and I realise where the water must be coming from. I choke back a sob and wipe my face, disgusted. Tears won't help me escape this place. Nagini…
…Master? It is a soundless whisper from nowhere.
"Nagini? Where are you?"
In a field… There is a spell that runs around it. I cannot bite through. The words aren't sounded at all, but echo about my head. Suddenly, it is as though I can see the blurred movements of the long grasses rustling above me, my senses bombarded with a plethora of strange smells… I am Nagini, manoeuvring my powerful body across the ground, coiling and striking against the invisible barrier which kept me from gliding underneath the fence.
Yet I am not Nagini and when I fling the full force of my will against the barrier it crumbles like a poorly-built sandcastle in the face of a great wave. I slip underneath the old fence, tasting the air with my tongue. I can smell the trails of tasty mice fleeing through the grass, and feel the distant scuttling of the gnomes just beneath my belly, under the ground. The dirt is vibrating with movements and I can taste humans in the distance.
Two humans move quickly across the yard: the colours of their luminous heat making my mouth water and the breeze tastes of human sweat. I can't make out their faces in the shimmer of their pumping blood, but I've not smelt either of them before. One of them is lame, his leg dragging ponderously. Easy prey. I follow him, keeping to the grasses so they cannot see me. They make their way into a great, shimmering crowd of humans and familiar tastes mixes with the unfamiliar. Harry Potter – I have smelt him before, yes indeed, and there is the tasty flesh of the man from the Department of Mysteries; Mmmmm…
"Sorry to intrude," the lame one I have been hunting across the yard speaks, "especially as I can see I am gate-crashing a party... many happy returns."
"Thanks," I recognise Harry Potter's voice as well as his scent, his blood spiced with anger.
"I require a private word with you, also with Mr Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger." Hermione Granger? What did the lamed human want with Hermione? And now I can taste her: strawberry soap, cotton, spicy sweat, worry, dust and old books; her warm-blooded shape moving over to Potter's, the clearest thing the constant movements of her hair in the summer breeze. But the lame human is still talking: "…When we are somewhere more private. Is there such a place?"
"Yes, of course," and it is the voice of the man from the Department of Mysteries; yes, yes, I remember his delicious smell and it was promised I could eat him and I am hungry… "The, er, sitting room. Why don't you use that?" Fear is in his body, but not as much as before. There had been so much fear. Delicious.
"You can lead the way," the lamed one addresses a different human, maybe the one he called Ronald Weasley? "There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur." Arthur! Yes! Yes! Yes! Arthur Weasley was the name of the tasty one! But I couldn't be caught. Master was counting on me, master told me not to eat the humans – but he did promise. He promised me this one! And I need something more than tiny gnomes, something substantial…
No. I am more than Nagini. I am not Nagini! I will control myself. I will wait. The lame one and the three he called have gone. The humans talk, talk, talk. I will wait. I will wait. Not for Arthur Weasley, no... better than Weasley flesh... tastier… I am not Nagini. Yes, I will wait for all the humans to go to sleep, like birds in a tree, yes, yes! And then… and then…!
Wand.
L.V.H.G
I can't sleep, and I lie in bed staring down at the battered blue cover of The Tales of Beadle the Bard. I can't believe Dumbledore left me the wizarding equivalent of Hans Christian Andersen or Grimm's Fairy Tales! Hope that I find them instructive? I'd skimmed through it already – there was nothing to help stop Voldemort in the book – only a collection of stories for small children. I feel insulted. Is this Dumbledore's way of telling me to 'lighten up' from beyond the grave? I can't understand it.
There must be something I've missed. Dumbledore must surely have had a good reason to give me the book? I open it discontentedly, on a random page, my wand-light low so as not to wake Ginny:
…There was once a handsome, rich, and talented young warlock, who observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love, gambolling and preening, losing their appetites and their dignity. The young warlock resolved never to fall prey to such weakness, and employed Dark Arts to ensure his immunity...
I can't help but imagine the warlock as the young Tom Riddle, with the handsome face I'd seen in the 1943 Slytherin Yearbook and, as the story progresses, I am eerily reminded of Secrets of the Darkest Art.
...The young woman herself was both fascinated and repelled by the warlock's attentions. She sensed the coldness that lay beneath the warmth of his flattery and had never met a man so strange and remote...
The blank crimson eyes swim into my mind and beneath them an almost mechanical smile. I shiver and draw my quilt closer.
… Bidding her follow, he led her from the feast and down to the locked dungeon where he kept his greatest treasure. Here, in an enchanted crystal casket, was the warlock's beating heart. Long since disconnected from eyes, ears, and fingers, it had never fallen prey to beauty or a musical voice, to the feel of silken skin. The maiden was terrified by the sight of it, for the heart was shrunken and covered in long black hair. "Oh, what have you done?" she lamented. "Put it back where it belongs, I beseech you!"
Seeing that this was necessary to please her, the warlock drew his wand, unlocked the crystal casket, sliced open his own breast and replaced the hairy heart in the empty cavity it had once occupied. "Now you are healed and will know true love!" cried the maiden, and she embraced him–
–The floorboards outside Ginny's room creak, making me look up from the book. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I put the book down on my pillow and creep quietly toward the door, opening it a crack and peering out into the hallway, chasing away the darkness with my wand. No one.
"Hermione?" I jump at the sound of Ginny's tired voice behind me. "Are you okay?"
I get back into bed, tucking my wand under my pillow. "Fine, I just thought I heard a noise…"
She groans in the dimness and adjusts her blankets. "This house creaks like Merlin's backside… well… goodnight."
"Goodnight, Ginny."
L.V.H.G
Where are you? Where are you? It's somewhere close. I know it's somewhere close… The house is warm and full of warmer bodies. So many tastes on the air – all of them distracting; I slide across the floorboards, pushing a door ajar with my head. A human is lying on a bed, his chest rising and falling, his radiant heat is almost hypnotic this close – when I have not had a proper meal in so long. Yes, there is no warmth one of his legs. It must surely be Alastor Moody. And yes, there is – dimly, dimly… yes…
Come, wand, come, come! The wooden flooring vibrates with a heavy movement, the sound of metal locks turning: clink-clinka-clink-clinka-clink! The noise comes from a large, indistinct box-shape that tastes of old silver, greasy polish, dirty trails and magic fire. As the fifth lock opens there is a flash of movement and something sails out of the box to be caught neatly between my teeth. Rolling it against my tongue delightedly, I can feel the hum of its power in my mouth. Oh yes! This is much better than a Moody-snack. It is all things good: dry scales, yew wood, a glowing hearth, ancient magic alive with the power of the cold visions! I coat it all-over with my saliva – trying to rid it of the sweaty-old-leather-Moody-boots smell which besmirches it.
I tap the door gently closed with my tail and slide my body down the steep stairway. Even the tasty Weasley-flesh does not tempt me. Master must get his wand. I must get my wand! There are several humans – their heat glowing in the yard – but they do not see me. They are looking for tall creatures like themselves, their keen eyes trained far above me.
The low building is waiting, its squat stones smelling of rubber and horrible muggle contraptions that make me feel ill. Last time I could not enter but now – now I have the wand! Around the back of the building, near the gnome tunnels, I spark it against the stone. Just a little hole, no one will notice a little hole… The magic tries to strike back at me, like a wounded creature, but I am stronger! The stone surface sizzles, its blunt magic burning along with it, but there it is! I push the wand through with my nose, hearing it thud – yes, yes – against the stone floor on the other side…
Me – me – me – me! Not Nagini! Not Nagini!
But there is darkness and nothing else.
L.V.H.G
I examine myself critically in Ginny's mirror. I'd used massive amounts of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion to make my hair fall into gentle curls instead of the usual one big tangle. Now I'm worried I used a bit too much; hopefully I won't end up looking like Professor Snape by the end of the evening. The floaty, lilac dress I'd originally bought for this year's Seventh-Year Hogwarts Graduation Ball looks really good, even though it makes me sad to think that I'm never going to sit my N.E.W.T.s and graduate.
Maybe I could apply to sit my exams by correspondence when the war was over? I'd spent some time early last year eyeing up the list of witches and wizards who'd won the Barnabas Finkley Prize in their year – awarded to the student with the highest N.E.W.T. scores. Of course, everyone knew that Albus Dumbledore had won it and I wasn't all at surprised to see that the winning student in 1945 had been a certain Tom Marvolo Riddle. But there had been a few surprises too – for instance, I had no idea that Bill Weasley had been awarded the prize, not to mention Lily Potter… I'd desperately wanted my name on that list for 1997…
I sigh and peer at my make-up. Ginny had lent me the use of her eyeliner and enchanted lip-gloss. The over-all effect was quite pretty, though Ginny herself looked much more beautiful, like something out of one of her Teen Witch magazines. Pulling on the strappy little sandals I'd charmed to match the dress, I was confident that the whole effect would make a big impression on Ron and guarantee I looked half-decent in the wedding album, provided I didn't do anything too embarrassing.
More importantly, I now had everything packed so that Harry, Ron, and I could leave straight after the wedding and Mrs Weasley wouldn't suspect a thing. I smile and pose, holding the small, beaded clutch-bag against the lilac chiffon of my dress. Pretty clever stuff, Granger, even if I do say so myself…
One more once-over to make sure everything is packed and I clatter happily downstairs in the fancy sandals–
–almost crashing into an old woman in a huge, feathered pink hat. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you alright–?"
"Watch where you're going, young lady!" she snaps, her pink dress-robes and red-rimmed eyes – along with the feathers – making her appear rather like an ancient, plump, very irritated flamingo. "Well?" she draws herself up to her not very considerable height. "What do you call yourself?" She looks about a hundred years old.
I'm absolutely mortified. "Hermione Granger… look, I'm really sorry for–"
But she interrupts my apologies again, giving me an appraising glare: "Oh dear, the muggle-born?" She clicks her tongue. "Hmm… bad posture and skinny ankles…" she mumbles, as if I'm not standing right in front of her.
I try to breeze through it, face hot. My posture is fine! "You must be Ronald's great-aunt…?" Ron told me she was a rude old bag!
"Yes dear, now if you'll excuse me, I have to lend my tiara to the bride. Goblin-made, you can always tell the difference, it's been in the Weasley family for generations. Very old family, the Weasleys…" She brushed past me, clinging to the bannister, continuing to mumble. She's almost as rude as Kreacher. No wonder Ron suggested feeding her to Nagini.
"Hey Hermione!" Ron calls across the yard from over the garden fence. He's very tall and handsome in his dress-robes and embroidered waistcoat – not at all like the velvet horror he wore to the Yule Ball. Both the boys I've liked have been tall: Viktor and Ron. I walk over and a curious sight meets my eyes. About a dozen gnomes are stumbling around in a small pen, as though completely stoned, clutching their large, potato-shaped heads and their gruff voices making little "ooooh" sounds. "I've drugged them," Ron explains, grinning apologetically. "Fred gave me a potion. They won't feel a thing when we feed them to the snake. It's much better this way. More humane." The whole thing is suddenly absolutely hilarious: one of the gnomes reels off a string of awe-stuck obscenities, like some drug-addled rock star, and Ron gazes at me adoringly like I'm some sort of humanitarian saint, "You look really good in that dress…"
I laugh and grab his arm, "Let's go, you moron." my cheeks are very pink, I'm sure, "otherwise we're going to be late for the wedding. We can feed Nagini afterwards."
L.V.H.G
…The late evening air was cooling. I suppose it was almost the end of summer as I walked beside the hedgerows. The fine manor house awaited me atop the hill. But I could afford to take my time. The trees were beginning to trill pleasantly with birdsong, as the avian population settled down for the night. Morfin Gaunt had told me all that I needed to know about my father, the filthy muggle who had left me to rot in a London orphanage...
"…Tom Riddle? Why… he's a handsome lad… but Michael is… here, perhaps you'd prefer a younger boy…?
We were lined up, youngest to oldest while a couple strolled up and down. I did my best to appear cute and lovable. We all did. We all wanted to leave. But somehow I was always passed over – although they often liked my handsome face…
... The broken memories stir and twist bitterly as I continue up the road. This muggle had condemned me to a place where everyone considered me a freak, punished me, and tried to starve my "abnormality" out of me. I had wanted so badly to be taken home with one of those muggle families. But Mrs Cole always turned them against me, not wanting to inflict such a strange boy on any prospective parents. Eventually, I stopped wanting a family – I would rather not feel than have to watch yet another child be led away by smiling adults. Oh, I hated those smiles so much, knowing that Mrs Cole made sure there would never be smiles like that for me…
I blink up at the ceiling. The vision is still burning it my mind, the sheer emotion of it in my previously blank memory is overwhelming. The hedgerows, the birds, the line of boys and girls in worn clothes and the beaming adoptive parents – all of it is so familiar – so real! It cannot be anything but a shard of memory returned to me. A jumble of despair, bitterness and righteous anger assaults me, hollowing out my heart. Tom Riddle… so it is my name after all. Hermione did not lie. Yet I still cannot think of myself as Tom. The boy who stood in line was perfectly human, as was the young man who strode purposefully up the road. How did this happen to me?
Slowly, the strength of my recollection fades, leaving only a dull sadness in its wake. I can hear loud music – a folk band – beyond the walls of my humble prison. There is a great swell of voices, louder than any I have heard outside before. "Here's to Fleur's husband!" I can hear a man shout "the luckiest wizard alive!" This is followed by a great round of raucous cheering. I strike the floor with my fist – furious at being locked up and burdened with such bitterness while the unknown crowd outside celebrates.
Then my eyes alight on the length of dark, polished wood lying inconspicuously beside me. I snatch it up in my left hand, feeling the giddy rush of power sweep over me, sending green sparks into the air. The disturbingly surreal experience of having Nagini (or was it me as Nagini?) fetch my wand from Alastor Moody's trunk, was not a dream as I had first thought! For here it was – my wand! My escape! I bite back a somewhat hysterical laugh and slash my wand diagonally through the air–
–Only to find myself slamming backwards into the hard floor. I growl in frustration and walk over to the door, tapping my wand against the handle: open. There is a dim glow and the click of the door unlocking itself. Someone is walking past: "I'm just going to get some more champagne flutes from the kitchen! Don't transfigure anything while I'm gone – we have more of those enchanted French ones back at the house!"
I stay perfectly still, my hand on the doorknob. I have several choices: I can try to sneak out now; I can wait until the party dissolves into a drunken stupor; or I can wait until it's over entirely and everyone has gone to bed. I tap the knob again: close. My prison seals itself. I think it would be best to wait until it's quieted down and there isn't anyone scuttling back and forth for more glasses or alcohol. I suppose I could… visit Nagini's mind to keep watch outside, but I'm loath to do that again. It was so disturbing and I have a horrible feeling I'd lose control this time and try to devour several guests. Last time I only just stopped myself from eating the man called Arthur Weasley. Next time I might not be so lucky.
I tuck my wand into a pocket of my robes, stroking it with my fingers, telling it to become invisible, which it obediently does, giving me a small pleasure. I gesture with my left hand and the ropes spring up from the ground, wrapping themselves tightly around me. If anyone comes in, their prisoner will seem perfectly secure. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, listening carefully to the noises from outside.
L.V.H.G
Ron keeps throwing Viktor dirty looks, wrapping his arms tighter around me as we dance together. I can't decide whether it's irritating or really sweet. He's a surprisingly good dancer. It's really nice to see Viktor again, but I… I think I want to be with Ron now. Being at a magical wedding is amazing! There's so much colour everywhere and everyone's done fantastic charm-work. Ron's leaning into me and I imitate him, bringing our bodies close as we dance slowly. I think he might kiss me in a second…
His blue eyes are staring into mine and my heart is fluttering. It was so endearingly ridiculous what he did with the gnomes, just because he wanted to make me happy. We'll have to feed Nagini later before the potion wears out…
…His mouth is moving toward mine... wait! "Oh my god! RON!" Several people turn to stare, confused by my outburst. I lower my voice to an urgent whisper. "We haven't fed You-Know-Who!" He's being lying tied up, injured, without food or water, for almost a week! I hadn't even thought about it! And I'll bet nobody else had either! Lupin had been staying with Tonks until the wedding, Arthur Weasley had been busy with the house, and Moody probably wouldn't give a damn if Voldemort starved to death.
Rushing over, heedless of Ron's spluttering, I grab a large plate from the buffet table, piling it up with food, including a large piece of wedding cake, before running out of the marquee toward the garage, almost tripping over in my hazardous lilac sandals in my haste. Voldemort is lying against the wall, his eyes closed, probably passed out. I place the food on the floor and vanish the butterbeer out of my glass, filling it with water instead.
I creep up to him. "Hey… hey… are you awake?" At least the dittany I gave him seemed to have healed his injuries.
He stirs, red flickering into view beneath his eyelids. His face is so skeletal; his cheekbones sweep upward like angular wings, as if his white face is about to take flight. His one word is a weak hiss: "Hermione?"
I press the glass to his dry lips, "Here, I've brought you some water."
Silent gulps drain the glass in a thirsty rush. "Did you bring any food?" he asks at last, with almost no tone in his cold voice, just a request for the facts, as though my bringing food or not concerns him not at all. The only evidence is in how his ophidian nostrils dilate, as though sniffing the air.
"Right here…" I realise with an unpleasant twist in my gut that I'm either going to have to hand feed him or undo the ropes. I ward the door behind me and step back. "I'm going to untie your ropes so you can eat. If you try to come near me or the door, I'll jinx you, and there won't be any more food, is that clear?"
"Yes," he murmurs softly, his large crimson eyes firmly fixed on the plate of food. I wave my wand and the ropes fall away from him. His pale, spidery hands reach toward the plate, while his red gaze turns back to me as he watches me watch him eat. Even though he must be absolutely starving, he doesn't stuff his face like Ron would, but delicately breaks off a small chunk of cake with those absurdly long fingers and inserts it into his mouth. He starts coughing – an ugly, hissing, near-hyperventilation – and I almost abandon my post in front of the door. But it's over almost as soon as it starts and he's wolfing down the food tiny piece by piece, his hands moving unnaturally fast.
Gazing at him, I wonder again how anyone could ever want to turn themselves into such a creature. Who could be so afraid of death that they would pay such a price – and pay it over and over again, until they resembled nothing so much as a freakish serpent-human mutant? Voldemort had doomed himself even more than the warlock with the hairy heart. At least when he died, his suffering didn't carry over into the hereafter.
"You're staring," he says softly, looking up at me from the floor, his voice catching me unawares.
"Oh," I match his quiet tone. I desperately want to ask him about why he decided to make a Horcrux when he was only sixteen, but I know that right now he can't even remember his chosen name. "Sorry…"
He finishes the food in silence and I levitate the empty plate, refilling the glass so that he can have another drink before I leave. Voldemort's movements are eerily graceful in a way that is both fascinating and repulsive. His contrasting reflexes resemble those of a reptile: leisurely ease then lightning fast movement. I don't want to be in here facing his strange countenance any longer; I'd rather still be dancing with Ron. "Who is getting married?" he asks, as I redo his bindings and turn to go.
"Oh, Ron's… um… my friend's brother. I'll… I'll bring you some more food later, alright?"
He doesn't answer as I shut the door. It's a relief. I don't know what to do with his thanks. The last thing I want is from him is gratitude. I make my way back to the marquee, my festive mood spoiled. I glance around, trying to spot Ron and Harry. Viktor gives me a pleased wave from the other side of the dance floor. But just as I'm about to walk over to him, a large silver lynx lands unexpectedly between us, in the middle of the dance floor, causing the dancers to freeze in surprise; the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt booms from the patronus' mouth: "The ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."
It's chaos. Some people are fleeing; others are still sipping their champagne, loudly asking what's going on. An elderly wizard vanishes with a sharp crack, meaning the Burrow's wards have been destroyed. Oh god. Someone grabs my arm and I scream, but it's just Ron. I fumble around in my beaded bag and chuck him his rucksack and Harry's. "Get Harry and disapparate!" I scream. "I'll find you later!"
I sprint back toward the garage and behind me I can hear screams and the vicious crackle of spells. I can't let Voldemort fall into the hands of the Death Eaters! A ball of flame shoots out across the yard and I dive for the cover of the chicken coop where, bizarrely, I knock over Hagrid's wrecked motorbike. But I run on, ducking several stray hexes, making it to the garage and flinging open the door.
Voldemort is gone.
He only had a couple of minutes! How could he–?" I glance around desperately. In the moonlight, I can just make out a dark figure sprinting across the fields and off into the night. "Accio racing broom!" I cry and, as I give chase, a broom somehow finds its way into my left hand. My sandals fall off as I fling myself onto the broom and accelerate over the long grass, screaming because I think I'm going to crash any second, but I've almost caught up with Voldemort. I glance back to see if we're being pursued, causing the broom to dip, sending the handle crashing into the ground. The broom's momentum catapults me forward into the murky swamp with a horrible, squelching splash. But I hurl my body forward through the mud, managing to tackle Voldemort's spindly legs and get a face-full of water just as – before I have time to wonder how or why – he swishes his wand down diagonally and we both leave the Burrow far behind.
~*~
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.
Rating: PGR
Word Count: 8,000
Characters: Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in Deathly Hallows.
Pairing: Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means Voldemort, not Tom Riddle).
Summary: What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.
Author's Notes: The fourth chapter in the rewrite. This chapter covers Harry's birthday and the wedding at the Burrow. Meanwhile, Lord Voldemort becomes adept at wand-less magic and remembers a thing or two. There are several scenes which had to be taken straight from the book for this chapter, but it's a long chapter and hopefully I've put in enough material to still make it different and exciting (as well as chucking in some pretty huge dollops of foreshadowing!). I promise that from the next chapter onwards the story will diverge rapidly from the narrative in Deathly Hallows. I should probably point out that, although I know canon!Voldemort is right-handed, in this story he's left-handed - it's just a head!canon thing I have.
Previous Chapters:
CHAPTER ONE: THE SNAKE UNDER THE BED
CHAPTER TWO: THE GARAGE
CHAPTER THREE: HARRY POTTER & TOM RIDDLE
Chapter Four: The Warlock's Hairy Heart
"How do you destroy a Horcrux, anyway?" Ron asks, sitting beside me on Harry's makeshift bed, lounging across the crocheted, red and yellow blankets. He gives me a small nudge and I can feel my heart beat a little faster.
"Well…" I inhale, trying to sort out all the information before I speak. "We know that the snake can't be killed by normal means. But I've been researching the topic and I'm pretty sure that–"
"How?" Harry asks curiously, sitting down across from us, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. "I didn't think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library."
I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks with embarrassment, "There weren't. Dumbledore removed them all… but he – he didn't destroy them."
Ron jerks away from me, his blue eyes shocked, "How in the name of Merlin's pants have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?"
Oh, this is horrible! I never should have pinched those books! But… but… we need to know! I'm sure Dumbledore wouldn't mind! He – he wouldn't, would he? "It…" I manage to choke out, "It wasn't stealing!" But my friends just stare at me. I plunge on, feeling my face get hotter and hotter, "They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves." I reach up to swipe a strand of stray hair off my forehead. "Anyway," I sniff, trying to regain my composure, "if he really didn't want anyone to get at them, he should have made it much harder to–"
"Get to the point!" Ron exclaims.
"Well… it was easy," I explain guiltily, and I can tell my best friends are disappointed in me. Responsible Hermione Granger stealing books from the Headmaster's office! Even if they had been on the shelves – which they weren't – it's forbidden to borrow school library books over the summer. "I just did a Summoning Charm. You know – accio. And they zoomed right out of Dumbledore's study window and into the girls' dormitory."
"But when did you do this?" Harry's voice is incredulous.
"Just after his – Dumbledore's – funeral," I feel so ashamed, "right after we agreed to leave school and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my things it – it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better it would be… and I was all alone in there… so I tried… and it worked. They flew straight in the open window and I – I packed them." I swallow nervously, but they're still staring at me, green and blue eyes full of shock. This is awful! "I can't believe Dumbledore would have been angry," I say imploringly, wanted them to say something and not just look at me like that, "It's…. it's not as if we're going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?"
"Can you hear us complaining?" Ron flashes me an admiring grin and I find myself smiling back conspiratorially, suddenly realising that they're not mad at all. I sag with relief and shove the guilt to the back of my mind. "Where are the books, anyway?"
I lean across to where I'd been sorting through books to bring with us, finding Owle Bullock's Secrets of the Darkest Art hiding underneath Break with a Banshee and Asiatic Anti-Venoms. It's a thick, doorstop of a book, bound in faded black leather with dark, purplish scrollwork encircling the silver lettering of the title. I can hardly believe anyone would ever want to do any of the things Bullock writes about. Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn queasy. I turn back to the boys, "This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. It's a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library… If he didn't do it before he became headmaster, I bet You-Know-Who got all the instruction he needed from here."
"Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he'd already read that?" Ron asks.
Harry leans forward, his glasses sliding a bit down his nose. But his eyes are bright. "He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into seven. Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew about how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you're right, Hermione, that could easily have been where he got the information."
"And the more I've read about them," I shiver, "the more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe he actually made six." It was a very frightening thought, considering just how evil the book was, that Voldemort did things when he was still in school that the darkest of wizards could never conceive of. "It warns in this book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that's just by making one Horcrux!"
I feel a guilty pang of sympathy for the man tied up in Mr Weasley's garage. Harry had told me how Tom Riddle's features had become more and more distorted until he didn't seem human at all... The look of trust in his eyes… "Somewhere safe…" he'd said, his weirdly high-pitched voice a lowered to a silken whisper; his inhuman, crimson eyes staring at me with a kind of wide, blank hope… Owle Bullock hadn't mentioned anything about physical changes, but he never imagined anyone would want to make more than one Horcrux. I was sure the loss of Voldemort's looks was connected to how many times his soul had been divided. It's hard to believe a wizard as gifted as Tom Riddle would do something as foolish as breaking Adalbert Waffling's First Fundamental Law of Magic. I mean, it was in Magical Theory, on our first-year book list! I had it memorised before I even got on the train:
Tamper with the deepest mysteries – the source of life, the essence of self – only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind.
"Isn't there a way of putting yourself back together again?"
All the king's horses and all the king's men… The nursery rhyme comes into my head and I can't help but smile at the ludicrous comparison. "Yes," I answer sadly, "but it would be excruciatingly painful. And he couldn't do it now anyway."
"Why?" Harry takes the book from me, running a hand along the embossed spine before flipping it open where I'd left my bookmark. "How do you do it?"
"Remorse," I sigh, "you've got to really feel what you've done. Not making the Horcrux, exactly, but the murder required by the Horcrux ritual. There's a footnote," I tap the miniscule type with a finger. "Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. But even if he wanted to – which is pretty unlikely – Voldemort can't possibly feel that kind of regret for murders he can't remember committing. Besides, setting aside the fact that he's lost his memory, I don't think he can feel that kind of emotion anymore. The book implies that making a Horcrux costs you some of your humanity, so the more Horcruxes Voldemort made, the less able he would have been able to reverse the process."
"So how do we destroy them?" Ron asks as Harry passes the book back to me. Even touching it makes me feel nauseous.
"From what I've read, what Harry did to Tom Riddle's diary was one of the few ways to destroy a Horcrux. The book warns dark wizards that they had to make sure they cast really strong protective enchantments on them and Voldemort obviously knew what he was doing, as I discovered, so–"
"Wait, you mean we have to stab Nagini with a basilisk fang?" Harry's mouth falls open.
"Oh, well, lucky we've got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then." Ron says, his words dripping with sarcasm, "I was wondering what we were going to do with them."
"It doesn't have to be a basilisk fang. Just something so destructive that the Horcrux can't repair itself and there are few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they're all dangerous to carry around with you. Ripping, smashing or crushing a Horcrux won't destroy it. And in Nagini's case, I doubt a simple Avada Kedavra is going to do the trick. We could try, I suppose, but I don't think it would work. Owle Bullock never considered anyone using a living being as a Horcrux."
"Even if we do… you know… kill the snake," Ron says slowly, his brow pensive, "what's to stop the bit of soul in it just going and living in something else?"
I shake my head, "Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being." Seeing their non-comprehending stares, I rush into an explanation. "Look," I turned to Ron, "if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn't damage your soul at all."
Ron moves his hands to protect his torso from my invisible blade, making a face, "Which would be a real comfort to me, I'm sure!" Harry laughs and even I can't help but give a small smile. It's reassuring that even when we're contemplating evil like Horcruxes, Ron can still be Ron.
"It should be! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive untouched. But it's the other way around with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside of it depends on its container or – in Nagini's case – her body for survival."
"Hang on," Ron sneaks an arm around my waist, causing me to lose my train of thought and start to wriggle away, before deciding it actually feels quite nice there, snug around my midriff – especially when the conversation is giving me chills. "The bit of soul inside the diary was possessing Ginny, wasn't it? How does that work, then?"
"While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside the Horcrux can flit in or out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don't mean holding it for too long, it's nothing to do with touching it, I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary. She made herself incredibly vulnerable. You're in trouble if you get too close to a Horcrux."
"So basically," Harry interjects, "we not only have to hunt down the horcruxes, but something to kill them as well. If only I'd asked Dumbledore how he destroyed the ring…"
"Well, what about You-Know-Who?" Ron asks pointedly, "are we just going to keep him locked in Dad's garage while we go off and destroy all his Horcruxes?"
"We have to make sure he can't escape or hurt anyone while we're away," Harry's tone is one of fevered determination, a tight resolve in his eyes. "Then, when we've got them all… he dies." Ron is nodding vigorously and I find myself nodding too, despite the horrible feeling clawing it's up from the pit of my stomach. It has to be done.
I consider the problem: "The Burrow is almost certainly the safest place, in any case. It's probably the most well-warded private domicile in Britain – definitely safer than Hogwarts right now. We've already proved that Death Eaters can't get in here. The only danger lies from the Ministry, but I doubt they'd ever think Arthur Weasley would hide He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his garage. The only reason they'd look in there would be for bewitched muggle devices, and I doubt those are high on their to-do list right now."
"So that's Snake-Face sorted – what about his pet Horcrux? I don't think Mum and Dad would appreciate that dirty great snake slithering around the garden, especially after the chunk it took out of Dad's leg."
Harry shoots Ron a careful glance, "We could just, you know, not tell them… Hermione did make sure nothing can get in or out of that field."
Isn't there something we're forgetting? "You're forgetting about feeding her."
The boys give me twin incredulous stares. "She's a Horcrux, Hermione," Harry rolls his eyes, "as you just explained, she's not exactly going to starve to death."
"That's no reason to maltreat an animal, Harry! It's not her fault her owner is a psychotic dark wizard who turned her into a Horcrux!" I can feel my face going red again.
"Are we, or are we not, talking about You-Know-Who's twelve-foot, man-eating snake? Honestly, who cares?"
I shake myself out of his embrace and stand up, "I care, Ronald Weasley! Just because we have to kill her eventually, it doesn't mean she should have to slowly starve for what could be months!"
"What are we going to feed her, then?" Harry asks sarcastically, "it's not like we have a ready supply of fresh bodies like Voldemort."
Something is wrong with Ron's face. His freckled face looks to be in the grasp of an unusually deep thought and, slowly, he stands up beside me. "Hermione's right." A warm glow seems to spread across my chest and my heart beats a little faster as Ron's hand settles on my shoulder. "We shouldn't starve an innocent snake." Harry's eyebrows shoot up at the word 'innocent' and he gives Ron a strangely knowing look. "And, you know, the snake seems to have taken a fancy to raw gnome, and we've got a huge infestation, so…"
"Ron!"
"What?"
"Gnomes are sentient creatures!"
"Oh for Merlin's sake, Hermione!" Harry groans, putting his face in his hands tiredly.
"What? You think we should feed her Aunty Muriel? Because that's one old biddy I wouldn't mind–"
I can feel the tears begin to roll down my face. Not wanting them to see me cry, I rush to the door, almost tripping over the books all over the floor. I slam the door behind me, leaning against it. "She's mental…" I hear Ron say in the silence behind the door, which just makes me sob harder. I don't even know why I'm crying… I just… I just… I just don't want to see anyone else die.
L.V.H.G
I have managed to work out that my left arm works as a channel for magical energy and my hand is the long-fingered catalyst. If I focus on my sinister hand, my fingertips come alight with leashed, invisible, buzzing power. I can make my ropes curl and sway in the air like charmed serpents, water fall from the ceiling, I can make the cold floor burn with warmth so it is as though I am sitting next to the crackling comfort of a fire and – most wonderful of all – I can turn abused, bloody, blistered flesh back to unblemished white.
However, there are limitations. I appear to be unable to escape the garage itself which – as I suspected earlier – seems to be imbued with a force that prevents my escape even by magical means. And, try as I might, I am unable to make food appear. I'm sure that, if only I hadn't given Hermione my wand, I would be able to escape. Even if I know nothing about my past or, indeed, my present circumstances, I'd rather take my chances outside than face death at Alastor Moody's hands, or – even worse – slowly starve to death in this place.
I am very much afraid that Nagini has been captured by my jailers. I keep trying to call out to her but she does not hear me. "Nagini… Nagini…!" Nothing. I have only vague notions of how much time has passed since I was imprisoned here. Perhaps a few days – perhaps a week? It is dark outside now. No one has come.
Please let her be unharmed, please let her be safe! Nagini, Nagini… my one true ally – a snake – gone. Something wet touches my cheek and I look up, thinking that the roof might still be dripping. It is not. My eyes are stinging and I realise where the water must be coming from. I choke back a sob and wipe my face, disgusted. Tears won't help me escape this place. Nagini…
…Master? It is a soundless whisper from nowhere.
"Nagini? Where are you?"
In a field… There is a spell that runs around it. I cannot bite through. The words aren't sounded at all, but echo about my head. Suddenly, it is as though I can see the blurred movements of the long grasses rustling above me, my senses bombarded with a plethora of strange smells… I am Nagini, manoeuvring my powerful body across the ground, coiling and striking against the invisible barrier which kept me from gliding underneath the fence.
Yet I am not Nagini and when I fling the full force of my will against the barrier it crumbles like a poorly-built sandcastle in the face of a great wave. I slip underneath the old fence, tasting the air with my tongue. I can smell the trails of tasty mice fleeing through the grass, and feel the distant scuttling of the gnomes just beneath my belly, under the ground. The dirt is vibrating with movements and I can taste humans in the distance.
Two humans move quickly across the yard: the colours of their luminous heat making my mouth water and the breeze tastes of human sweat. I can't make out their faces in the shimmer of their pumping blood, but I've not smelt either of them before. One of them is lame, his leg dragging ponderously. Easy prey. I follow him, keeping to the grasses so they cannot see me. They make their way into a great, shimmering crowd of humans and familiar tastes mixes with the unfamiliar. Harry Potter – I have smelt him before, yes indeed, and there is the tasty flesh of the man from the Department of Mysteries; Mmmmm…
"Sorry to intrude," the lame one I have been hunting across the yard speaks, "especially as I can see I am gate-crashing a party... many happy returns."
"Thanks," I recognise Harry Potter's voice as well as his scent, his blood spiced with anger.
"I require a private word with you, also with Mr Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger." Hermione Granger? What did the lamed human want with Hermione? And now I can taste her: strawberry soap, cotton, spicy sweat, worry, dust and old books; her warm-blooded shape moving over to Potter's, the clearest thing the constant movements of her hair in the summer breeze. But the lame human is still talking: "…When we are somewhere more private. Is there such a place?"
"Yes, of course," and it is the voice of the man from the Department of Mysteries; yes, yes, I remember his delicious smell and it was promised I could eat him and I am hungry… "The, er, sitting room. Why don't you use that?" Fear is in his body, but not as much as before. There had been so much fear. Delicious.
"You can lead the way," the lamed one addresses a different human, maybe the one he called Ronald Weasley? "There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur." Arthur! Yes! Yes! Yes! Arthur Weasley was the name of the tasty one! But I couldn't be caught. Master was counting on me, master told me not to eat the humans – but he did promise. He promised me this one! And I need something more than tiny gnomes, something substantial…
No. I am more than Nagini. I am not Nagini! I will control myself. I will wait. The lame one and the three he called have gone. The humans talk, talk, talk. I will wait. I will wait. Not for Arthur Weasley, no... better than Weasley flesh... tastier… I am not Nagini. Yes, I will wait for all the humans to go to sleep, like birds in a tree, yes, yes! And then… and then…!
Wand.
L.V.H.G
I can't sleep, and I lie in bed staring down at the battered blue cover of The Tales of Beadle the Bard. I can't believe Dumbledore left me the wizarding equivalent of Hans Christian Andersen or Grimm's Fairy Tales! Hope that I find them instructive? I'd skimmed through it already – there was nothing to help stop Voldemort in the book – only a collection of stories for small children. I feel insulted. Is this Dumbledore's way of telling me to 'lighten up' from beyond the grave? I can't understand it.
There must be something I've missed. Dumbledore must surely have had a good reason to give me the book? I open it discontentedly, on a random page, my wand-light low so as not to wake Ginny:
…There was once a handsome, rich, and talented young warlock, who observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love, gambolling and preening, losing their appetites and their dignity. The young warlock resolved never to fall prey to such weakness, and employed Dark Arts to ensure his immunity...
I can't help but imagine the warlock as the young Tom Riddle, with the handsome face I'd seen in the 1943 Slytherin Yearbook and, as the story progresses, I am eerily reminded of Secrets of the Darkest Art.
...The young woman herself was both fascinated and repelled by the warlock's attentions. She sensed the coldness that lay beneath the warmth of his flattery and had never met a man so strange and remote...
The blank crimson eyes swim into my mind and beneath them an almost mechanical smile. I shiver and draw my quilt closer.
… Bidding her follow, he led her from the feast and down to the locked dungeon where he kept his greatest treasure. Here, in an enchanted crystal casket, was the warlock's beating heart. Long since disconnected from eyes, ears, and fingers, it had never fallen prey to beauty or a musical voice, to the feel of silken skin. The maiden was terrified by the sight of it, for the heart was shrunken and covered in long black hair. "Oh, what have you done?" she lamented. "Put it back where it belongs, I beseech you!"
Seeing that this was necessary to please her, the warlock drew his wand, unlocked the crystal casket, sliced open his own breast and replaced the hairy heart in the empty cavity it had once occupied. "Now you are healed and will know true love!" cried the maiden, and she embraced him–
–The floorboards outside Ginny's room creak, making me look up from the book. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I put the book down on my pillow and creep quietly toward the door, opening it a crack and peering out into the hallway, chasing away the darkness with my wand. No one.
"Hermione?" I jump at the sound of Ginny's tired voice behind me. "Are you okay?"
I get back into bed, tucking my wand under my pillow. "Fine, I just thought I heard a noise…"
She groans in the dimness and adjusts her blankets. "This house creaks like Merlin's backside… well… goodnight."
"Goodnight, Ginny."
L.V.H.G
Where are you? Where are you? It's somewhere close. I know it's somewhere close… The house is warm and full of warmer bodies. So many tastes on the air – all of them distracting; I slide across the floorboards, pushing a door ajar with my head. A human is lying on a bed, his chest rising and falling, his radiant heat is almost hypnotic this close – when I have not had a proper meal in so long. Yes, there is no warmth one of his legs. It must surely be Alastor Moody. And yes, there is – dimly, dimly… yes…
Come, wand, come, come! The wooden flooring vibrates with a heavy movement, the sound of metal locks turning: clink-clinka-clink-clinka-clink! The noise comes from a large, indistinct box-shape that tastes of old silver, greasy polish, dirty trails and magic fire. As the fifth lock opens there is a flash of movement and something sails out of the box to be caught neatly between my teeth. Rolling it against my tongue delightedly, I can feel the hum of its power in my mouth. Oh yes! This is much better than a Moody-snack. It is all things good: dry scales, yew wood, a glowing hearth, ancient magic alive with the power of the cold visions! I coat it all-over with my saliva – trying to rid it of the sweaty-old-leather-Moody-boots smell which besmirches it.
I tap the door gently closed with my tail and slide my body down the steep stairway. Even the tasty Weasley-flesh does not tempt me. Master must get his wand. I must get my wand! There are several humans – their heat glowing in the yard – but they do not see me. They are looking for tall creatures like themselves, their keen eyes trained far above me.
The low building is waiting, its squat stones smelling of rubber and horrible muggle contraptions that make me feel ill. Last time I could not enter but now – now I have the wand! Around the back of the building, near the gnome tunnels, I spark it against the stone. Just a little hole, no one will notice a little hole… The magic tries to strike back at me, like a wounded creature, but I am stronger! The stone surface sizzles, its blunt magic burning along with it, but there it is! I push the wand through with my nose, hearing it thud – yes, yes – against the stone floor on the other side…
Me – me – me – me! Not Nagini! Not Nagini!
But there is darkness and nothing else.
L.V.H.G
I examine myself critically in Ginny's mirror. I'd used massive amounts of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion to make my hair fall into gentle curls instead of the usual one big tangle. Now I'm worried I used a bit too much; hopefully I won't end up looking like Professor Snape by the end of the evening. The floaty, lilac dress I'd originally bought for this year's Seventh-Year Hogwarts Graduation Ball looks really good, even though it makes me sad to think that I'm never going to sit my N.E.W.T.s and graduate.
Maybe I could apply to sit my exams by correspondence when the war was over? I'd spent some time early last year eyeing up the list of witches and wizards who'd won the Barnabas Finkley Prize in their year – awarded to the student with the highest N.E.W.T. scores. Of course, everyone knew that Albus Dumbledore had won it and I wasn't all at surprised to see that the winning student in 1945 had been a certain Tom Marvolo Riddle. But there had been a few surprises too – for instance, I had no idea that Bill Weasley had been awarded the prize, not to mention Lily Potter… I'd desperately wanted my name on that list for 1997…
I sigh and peer at my make-up. Ginny had lent me the use of her eyeliner and enchanted lip-gloss. The over-all effect was quite pretty, though Ginny herself looked much more beautiful, like something out of one of her Teen Witch magazines. Pulling on the strappy little sandals I'd charmed to match the dress, I was confident that the whole effect would make a big impression on Ron and guarantee I looked half-decent in the wedding album, provided I didn't do anything too embarrassing.
More importantly, I now had everything packed so that Harry, Ron, and I could leave straight after the wedding and Mrs Weasley wouldn't suspect a thing. I smile and pose, holding the small, beaded clutch-bag against the lilac chiffon of my dress. Pretty clever stuff, Granger, even if I do say so myself…
One more once-over to make sure everything is packed and I clatter happily downstairs in the fancy sandals–
–almost crashing into an old woman in a huge, feathered pink hat. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you alright–?"
"Watch where you're going, young lady!" she snaps, her pink dress-robes and red-rimmed eyes – along with the feathers – making her appear rather like an ancient, plump, very irritated flamingo. "Well?" she draws herself up to her not very considerable height. "What do you call yourself?" She looks about a hundred years old.
I'm absolutely mortified. "Hermione Granger… look, I'm really sorry for–"
But she interrupts my apologies again, giving me an appraising glare: "Oh dear, the muggle-born?" She clicks her tongue. "Hmm… bad posture and skinny ankles…" she mumbles, as if I'm not standing right in front of her.
I try to breeze through it, face hot. My posture is fine! "You must be Ronald's great-aunt…?" Ron told me she was a rude old bag!
"Yes dear, now if you'll excuse me, I have to lend my tiara to the bride. Goblin-made, you can always tell the difference, it's been in the Weasley family for generations. Very old family, the Weasleys…" She brushed past me, clinging to the bannister, continuing to mumble. She's almost as rude as Kreacher. No wonder Ron suggested feeding her to Nagini.
"Hey Hermione!" Ron calls across the yard from over the garden fence. He's very tall and handsome in his dress-robes and embroidered waistcoat – not at all like the velvet horror he wore to the Yule Ball. Both the boys I've liked have been tall: Viktor and Ron. I walk over and a curious sight meets my eyes. About a dozen gnomes are stumbling around in a small pen, as though completely stoned, clutching their large, potato-shaped heads and their gruff voices making little "ooooh" sounds. "I've drugged them," Ron explains, grinning apologetically. "Fred gave me a potion. They won't feel a thing when we feed them to the snake. It's much better this way. More humane." The whole thing is suddenly absolutely hilarious: one of the gnomes reels off a string of awe-stuck obscenities, like some drug-addled rock star, and Ron gazes at me adoringly like I'm some sort of humanitarian saint, "You look really good in that dress…"
I laugh and grab his arm, "Let's go, you moron." my cheeks are very pink, I'm sure, "otherwise we're going to be late for the wedding. We can feed Nagini afterwards."
L.V.H.G
…The late evening air was cooling. I suppose it was almost the end of summer as I walked beside the hedgerows. The fine manor house awaited me atop the hill. But I could afford to take my time. The trees were beginning to trill pleasantly with birdsong, as the avian population settled down for the night. Morfin Gaunt had told me all that I needed to know about my father, the filthy muggle who had left me to rot in a London orphanage...
"…Tom Riddle? Why… he's a handsome lad… but Michael is… here, perhaps you'd prefer a younger boy…?
We were lined up, youngest to oldest while a couple strolled up and down. I did my best to appear cute and lovable. We all did. We all wanted to leave. But somehow I was always passed over – although they often liked my handsome face…
... The broken memories stir and twist bitterly as I continue up the road. This muggle had condemned me to a place where everyone considered me a freak, punished me, and tried to starve my "abnormality" out of me. I had wanted so badly to be taken home with one of those muggle families. But Mrs Cole always turned them against me, not wanting to inflict such a strange boy on any prospective parents. Eventually, I stopped wanting a family – I would rather not feel than have to watch yet another child be led away by smiling adults. Oh, I hated those smiles so much, knowing that Mrs Cole made sure there would never be smiles like that for me…
I blink up at the ceiling. The vision is still burning it my mind, the sheer emotion of it in my previously blank memory is overwhelming. The hedgerows, the birds, the line of boys and girls in worn clothes and the beaming adoptive parents – all of it is so familiar – so real! It cannot be anything but a shard of memory returned to me. A jumble of despair, bitterness and righteous anger assaults me, hollowing out my heart. Tom Riddle… so it is my name after all. Hermione did not lie. Yet I still cannot think of myself as Tom. The boy who stood in line was perfectly human, as was the young man who strode purposefully up the road. How did this happen to me?
Slowly, the strength of my recollection fades, leaving only a dull sadness in its wake. I can hear loud music – a folk band – beyond the walls of my humble prison. There is a great swell of voices, louder than any I have heard outside before. "Here's to Fleur's husband!" I can hear a man shout "the luckiest wizard alive!" This is followed by a great round of raucous cheering. I strike the floor with my fist – furious at being locked up and burdened with such bitterness while the unknown crowd outside celebrates.
Then my eyes alight on the length of dark, polished wood lying inconspicuously beside me. I snatch it up in my left hand, feeling the giddy rush of power sweep over me, sending green sparks into the air. The disturbingly surreal experience of having Nagini (or was it me as Nagini?) fetch my wand from Alastor Moody's trunk, was not a dream as I had first thought! For here it was – my wand! My escape! I bite back a somewhat hysterical laugh and slash my wand diagonally through the air–
–Only to find myself slamming backwards into the hard floor. I growl in frustration and walk over to the door, tapping my wand against the handle: open. There is a dim glow and the click of the door unlocking itself. Someone is walking past: "I'm just going to get some more champagne flutes from the kitchen! Don't transfigure anything while I'm gone – we have more of those enchanted French ones back at the house!"
I stay perfectly still, my hand on the doorknob. I have several choices: I can try to sneak out now; I can wait until the party dissolves into a drunken stupor; or I can wait until it's over entirely and everyone has gone to bed. I tap the knob again: close. My prison seals itself. I think it would be best to wait until it's quieted down and there isn't anyone scuttling back and forth for more glasses or alcohol. I suppose I could… visit Nagini's mind to keep watch outside, but I'm loath to do that again. It was so disturbing and I have a horrible feeling I'd lose control this time and try to devour several guests. Last time I only just stopped myself from eating the man called Arthur Weasley. Next time I might not be so lucky.
I tuck my wand into a pocket of my robes, stroking it with my fingers, telling it to become invisible, which it obediently does, giving me a small pleasure. I gesture with my left hand and the ropes spring up from the ground, wrapping themselves tightly around me. If anyone comes in, their prisoner will seem perfectly secure. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, listening carefully to the noises from outside.
L.V.H.G
Ron keeps throwing Viktor dirty looks, wrapping his arms tighter around me as we dance together. I can't decide whether it's irritating or really sweet. He's a surprisingly good dancer. It's really nice to see Viktor again, but I… I think I want to be with Ron now. Being at a magical wedding is amazing! There's so much colour everywhere and everyone's done fantastic charm-work. Ron's leaning into me and I imitate him, bringing our bodies close as we dance slowly. I think he might kiss me in a second…
His blue eyes are staring into mine and my heart is fluttering. It was so endearingly ridiculous what he did with the gnomes, just because he wanted to make me happy. We'll have to feed Nagini later before the potion wears out…
…His mouth is moving toward mine... wait! "Oh my god! RON!" Several people turn to stare, confused by my outburst. I lower my voice to an urgent whisper. "We haven't fed You-Know-Who!" He's being lying tied up, injured, without food or water, for almost a week! I hadn't even thought about it! And I'll bet nobody else had either! Lupin had been staying with Tonks until the wedding, Arthur Weasley had been busy with the house, and Moody probably wouldn't give a damn if Voldemort starved to death.
Rushing over, heedless of Ron's spluttering, I grab a large plate from the buffet table, piling it up with food, including a large piece of wedding cake, before running out of the marquee toward the garage, almost tripping over in my hazardous lilac sandals in my haste. Voldemort is lying against the wall, his eyes closed, probably passed out. I place the food on the floor and vanish the butterbeer out of my glass, filling it with water instead.
I creep up to him. "Hey… hey… are you awake?" At least the dittany I gave him seemed to have healed his injuries.
He stirs, red flickering into view beneath his eyelids. His face is so skeletal; his cheekbones sweep upward like angular wings, as if his white face is about to take flight. His one word is a weak hiss: "Hermione?"
I press the glass to his dry lips, "Here, I've brought you some water."
Silent gulps drain the glass in a thirsty rush. "Did you bring any food?" he asks at last, with almost no tone in his cold voice, just a request for the facts, as though my bringing food or not concerns him not at all. The only evidence is in how his ophidian nostrils dilate, as though sniffing the air.
"Right here…" I realise with an unpleasant twist in my gut that I'm either going to have to hand feed him or undo the ropes. I ward the door behind me and step back. "I'm going to untie your ropes so you can eat. If you try to come near me or the door, I'll jinx you, and there won't be any more food, is that clear?"
"Yes," he murmurs softly, his large crimson eyes firmly fixed on the plate of food. I wave my wand and the ropes fall away from him. His pale, spidery hands reach toward the plate, while his red gaze turns back to me as he watches me watch him eat. Even though he must be absolutely starving, he doesn't stuff his face like Ron would, but delicately breaks off a small chunk of cake with those absurdly long fingers and inserts it into his mouth. He starts coughing – an ugly, hissing, near-hyperventilation – and I almost abandon my post in front of the door. But it's over almost as soon as it starts and he's wolfing down the food tiny piece by piece, his hands moving unnaturally fast.
Gazing at him, I wonder again how anyone could ever want to turn themselves into such a creature. Who could be so afraid of death that they would pay such a price – and pay it over and over again, until they resembled nothing so much as a freakish serpent-human mutant? Voldemort had doomed himself even more than the warlock with the hairy heart. At least when he died, his suffering didn't carry over into the hereafter.
"You're staring," he says softly, looking up at me from the floor, his voice catching me unawares.
"Oh," I match his quiet tone. I desperately want to ask him about why he decided to make a Horcrux when he was only sixteen, but I know that right now he can't even remember his chosen name. "Sorry…"
He finishes the food in silence and I levitate the empty plate, refilling the glass so that he can have another drink before I leave. Voldemort's movements are eerily graceful in a way that is both fascinating and repulsive. His contrasting reflexes resemble those of a reptile: leisurely ease then lightning fast movement. I don't want to be in here facing his strange countenance any longer; I'd rather still be dancing with Ron. "Who is getting married?" he asks, as I redo his bindings and turn to go.
"Oh, Ron's… um… my friend's brother. I'll… I'll bring you some more food later, alright?"
He doesn't answer as I shut the door. It's a relief. I don't know what to do with his thanks. The last thing I want is from him is gratitude. I make my way back to the marquee, my festive mood spoiled. I glance around, trying to spot Ron and Harry. Viktor gives me a pleased wave from the other side of the dance floor. But just as I'm about to walk over to him, a large silver lynx lands unexpectedly between us, in the middle of the dance floor, causing the dancers to freeze in surprise; the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt booms from the patronus' mouth: "The ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."
It's chaos. Some people are fleeing; others are still sipping their champagne, loudly asking what's going on. An elderly wizard vanishes with a sharp crack, meaning the Burrow's wards have been destroyed. Oh god. Someone grabs my arm and I scream, but it's just Ron. I fumble around in my beaded bag and chuck him his rucksack and Harry's. "Get Harry and disapparate!" I scream. "I'll find you later!"
I sprint back toward the garage and behind me I can hear screams and the vicious crackle of spells. I can't let Voldemort fall into the hands of the Death Eaters! A ball of flame shoots out across the yard and I dive for the cover of the chicken coop where, bizarrely, I knock over Hagrid's wrecked motorbike. But I run on, ducking several stray hexes, making it to the garage and flinging open the door.
Voldemort is gone.
He only had a couple of minutes! How could he–?" I glance around desperately. In the moonlight, I can just make out a dark figure sprinting across the fields and off into the night. "Accio racing broom!" I cry and, as I give chase, a broom somehow finds its way into my left hand. My sandals fall off as I fling myself onto the broom and accelerate over the long grass, screaming because I think I'm going to crash any second, but I've almost caught up with Voldemort. I glance back to see if we're being pursued, causing the broom to dip, sending the handle crashing into the ground. The broom's momentum catapults me forward into the murky swamp with a horrible, squelching splash. But I hurl my body forward through the mud, managing to tackle Voldemort's spindly legs and get a face-full of water just as – before I have time to wonder how or why – he swishes his wand down diagonally and we both leave the Burrow far behind.
~*~
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Date: 2010-12-30 07:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-30 09:44 am (UTC)The next chapter, The Riddle House, is sitting on 7,000 words and will probably go up to 10,000 - so more story soon! Thank you so much for reading! *hugs*
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Date: 2010-12-31 05:02 pm (UTC)I love the Nagini discussion in the beginning :D
Ah, with your aptitude for spinning fairytales, I bet you could fill a whole book of Beadle the Bard! Interesting choice of story that Hermione was drawn to. Yes, I'm believing this union may have a chance...
hopefully I won't end up looking like Professor Snape by the end of the evening.
LOL
Hehe, what a moment for Hermione to realize that Voldie hasn't eaten!
I should probably stop calling him Voldie. But it's a term of endearment.And oooo a cliffie ending! I hope my delay in reading this pays off with less of a wait for the next chapter :D
Happy New Year, Master!