AUTHOR'S NOTE: I do not own Harry Potter or any of it's characters. That honor belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.
1. Avada Kedavra
Crippling darkness was all around―choking her―threatening to drag her further below until she knew she would never escape. She wanted to scream, to beg for someone to let her go, but when she readied herself to try, no sound would escape her throat. Deep down, even if she had been able to scream, she instinctively knew it would prove fruitless. She knew she was alone.
In the far distance, there came a soft, pale glow. Her legs seemed to take on a life of their own, moving swiftly as they brought her closer and closer to the light. Her muscles tightened as she approached; what would she find when she reached it? She stumbled slightly at this thought, her legs shaking with exhaustion and fear. Despite her lungs burning with each subsequent breath, she forced herself onwards, moving towards the light seeming to be the only option.
Then, she saw him.
He stood with his back to the light, the features of his face barely visible in the all-encompassing darkness around them. He extended an arm and his long, elegant fingers beckoned her forward. Once again, her legs seemed to move of their own accord and his thin lips twisted into a wolfish sneer as he watched her take small, hesitant steps toward him.
"Good girl," he purred in a velvety baritone.
She could feel her bones threatening to melt at the sound of his voice but she willed herself to be calm. "Please," she managed, her voice cracked and wavering, "you have to help me."
The man chuckled at her plea, but the sound settled deep in the pit of her stomach and set her blood aflame. How was he managing to affect her so strongly in this terrifying place? Her limbs quaked with fear but when she drank in his appearance, her body began to respond in the complete opposite way. He was not conventionally handsome; his silky shoulder length hair was such a deep black that it almost appeared blue, which was in stark contrast to the pallor of his almost translucent skin. He had eyes the color of obsidian set deep below his elegant brow and his nose was aquiline, almost entirely too large for his face. The line of his jaw was sharp, almost as sharp as the precise Cupid's bow carved into his upper lip, and the teeth in his mouth were crooked and uneven.
And yet, in this place of darkness and terror, she was utterly mesmerized.
"Princess," the dark angel crooned. "Finally."
She was frozen, not with fear but something else entirely. The man held out his slender hand to touch her face, gently sliding his long, thin fingers down her jaw. Without speaking another word, he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers, placing his large hand against her chest, just above her frantic heart.
"He's coming for you," he said without preamble, his eyes boring into hers mercilessly. "You must let him take you."
"What are you talking about? Who is coming for me?"
"Listen to me," he growled, the sound coming from deep in his throat. "Try not to resist; everything will be much easier if you simply submit to the inevitable. I cannot help you if you fight him."
She furrowed her brow, "I still don't understand—"
His hand slid from her chest to grip the back of her neck, his hold tightening as a warning, "Just listen. We will do everything in our power to get you out but we cannot help you unless you allow him to bring you to us. But I swear to you, we will not allow him to hurt you. Once you are here, we will keep you safe."
Frozen with fear and confusion, she said nothing.
"Tell me you understand," the man hissed, his onyx eyes bordering on desperate. "Tell me you will do as I say."
Unable to deny his request, her voice was small as she said, "I do. I will."
He let out a sigh of what seemed like relief before he pressed his lips gently to her forehead, "Good girl."
It was then that another figure appeared just behind the tall man holding her, shrouded from the light by their billowing black velvet cloak and silver featureless facemask. Before she could even register the presence of another person, she heard a serpentine voice bellow, "Avada Kedavra!"
Surrounded by a flash of green light, she felt the man in her grasp go rigid for a brief moment before crumpling to the ground, his obsidian eyes blank and empty, staring far away into nothing.
"No…" She whispered desolately, reaching blindly for the wand she just now remembered she owned. "No, no, no!" Her hands began to shake as she desperately searched her entire body for the wand she had kept on her person since she was 11. If she could just find her wand, maybe she could bring him back. Maybe she could…
The cloaked figure watched her struggle silently until finally, he spoke again.
"There is no spell to raise the dead, Hermione."
There is no spell to raise the dead.
No spell to raise the dead.
Raise the dead.
The dead.
Dead.
She took one look at the dark angel now crumpled at her feet and started screaming.
x-x-x
Hermione gasped, shooting up out of her bed in a panic. She pushed a few bushy, unmanageable curls out of her face and as her breathing slowed and the tremors in her limbs began to subside, she realized that she'd been having a nightmare…
The same one she'd had every night since her mother died six days before.
"Bloody dreams," she muttered, rubbing her fingers against her forehead. She flopped back gracelessly onto the bed and after reassuring herself that her wand was indeed underneath her pillow, reluctantly closed her eyes, and forced herself to sleep. She would need it; tomorrow was the funeral.
The next morning, Hermione stood next to an arched window in her black, knee-length dress, staring blankly onto the perfectly groomed greenery below her. She couldn't believe that after 16 years of living in the same house with her mother and step-father, Monica and Wendell Granger, it would all be gone in the blink of an eye. Only a week ago, Hermione had been preparing her things to return for her final year at Beuxbatons when she was told there had been an accident. All the Aurors claimed they knew was what they had learned from the Muggle police: her mother had been on her way home from her dental practice when she had inexplicably died.
Hermione certainly was not stupid; the Aurors knew what killed her mother but were keeping an uncharacteristically tight lip on whatever caused it.
"Hermione?" Wendell called from the hall. "Hermione, are you almost ready to go?"
Soon, she knew Wendell would be poking his posh, golden head through the doorway and beckoning her to the car. To be perfectly honest, Hermione wasn't at all ready to leave him. It was obvious why her mum fell in love with him all those years ago. Not only was he strikingly handsome, with his perfectly coiffed blond hair, cerulean eyes, and strong frame, but he was also the kindest man she had ever met. The sad truth was that Hermione's mother and real father had nothing in common, while her mum and Wendell were like two sides of the same coin. Her father, while charismatic, was domineering and demanding, but her mother was easygoing and gentle. In the end, her father had just tried to dominate and control her mother and while she was laid back, she didn't sit well with being commanded about like a child. But Wendell on the other hand—he and Hermione's mum agreed on pretty much everything, not to mention that they were absolutely besotted with each other. They were perfect for each other in every way and since they were so alike, Hermione knew her mother's sudden death would be devastating to him. Her mum was never good with losing people she loved―neither was Wendell.
He appeared suddenly in the doorway, "The funeral starts in a half hour, sweets. We should get going."
Her heart wrenched at the silly nickname her parents often used for her, "Could we just―"
Wendell pressed his lips in a tight line, which he only did when he knew their argument was fruitless, "Hermione, your things have already been sent to your father's house. Delaying the funeral won't stop him from coming to take you. I know you don't want to live with him, but he is your father. I would gladly keep you with me if I could, but Tom already made it clear that he wants you with him. Besides, you're going back to school soon so you will only have to see him on holiday breaks. Once you graduate, you can move anywhere you want, including back here if you want to. Do you really want to go to court over this now? When school starts so soon?"
She chewed her lip anxiously, "I am practically 18… considered an adult in both the muggle world and the magical one. Shouldn't I be allowed to choose my own—"
"You won't actually be 18 for another few weeks, Hermione," Wendell sighed, running a hand over his mouth. "Unfortunately, everything isn't that easy. Were we a magical family living in your world, this wouldn't be an issue; you'd be allowed to make your own choices about where to live. But we aren't and since we live in the Muggle world and abide by their laws, we're stuck. Your mother passed away before we could get your trust fund and all the appropriate legal documents set up properly at Gringotts and now the money and paperwork is all tied up until the lawyers can figure out what to do with it with regards to Muggle laws. As of right now, you are—legally—dependent on your father."
She huffed indignantly. Damn muggles and their stupid laws making everything so complicated.
"Honey, I know it isn't ideal," he murmured, moving across the room to stroke the back of her ridiculously bushy hair in an effort to comfort her like his wife would have, "but you'll get to know him. And you can always write to me from school," Wendell smiled. "Now come on, let's go."
Walking down the long, bright hallway made Hermione's heart ache. Pictures of the three of them hung undisturbed on the mint green walls, seeming to mock her as she passed. Each and every one of them had an ecstatic smile on their faces in every frame; the essence of a true family. She forced herself to look away—it was too much.
Not another word was said as they stepped out onto the front porch. Hermione didn't even turn around to give the house one last glance. She knew better than that.
Wendell ushered her quickly into the car as if he knew she was thinking of locking herself inside the house and never coming out. Driving by the beautiful scenery of the quaint French countryside made the dark resentment for her father rear its ugly head even though she desperately tried to keep it tamped down. How could she deny her anger towards him now? He was taking her away from everything she had ever known and for what?
She was being forced to leave everything behind; her home, her school, her friends.
Her father never cared before. Why start now?
Hermione was startled when Wendell appeared at her door and opened it for her. When had they even arrived? She followed him to the back of the funeral home where everyone was waiting. Numerous friends and family gathered around them as they entered the room.
Among those people was her father.
No one said much at first, they all just let Hermione walk to the coffin at the front of the room in silence. The sight of her mum's body was almost unbearable. She was lying in that awful glossy casket, utterly motionless; her face as waxen as if she had swallowed Death itself. At least she looked somewhat peaceful.
Her Aunt Claire was the first to speak, "Hermione, I am so sorry," she managed, embracing her tightly. "She was my sister but she was your mum."
"I'm sorry too, Auntie," Hermione sighed. After her aunt offered her condolences, everyone else seemed to follow suit; telling her how sorry they were for her loss, how she was a good woman, and she didn't deserve to die so young.
Her father was the only one who said nothing to her or to anyone else.
He remained at the very back of the room with a solemn look over his deceptively handsome face. His dark brown eyes were cold, not angry, but utterly indifferent to the grief around him. Between hugs and condolences Hermione would sneak glances at her father, trying to see if he would deign to say anything at all but every time he caught her stare, he simply looked away. His evasion sent another sharp pang through her already throbbing heart. As if her mother dying wasn't bad enough, her own father, who she was being forced to live with, couldn't look at her for more than a few seconds. How could it get any worse?
After another hour of our friends and family spouting short eulogies for her mum, Wendell put his hand on Hermione's shoulder, whispering in her ear from behind, "Hermione, I think you should go. Your father seems anxious to leave."
"Tom can wait," she hissed quietly.
"Don't be that way," he frowned. "He'll take good care of you, I'm sure. And if he doesn't, you just send me an owl and I'll be right there to take you home."
"Really?"
Smiling, he nodded, "Muggle laws be damned."
Hermione sighed, "Alright, but I would be expecting an owl sometime soon if I were you."
"You're always welcome at my house, Hermione. I love you like you're my daughter."
She could feel the tears threatening to spill over as she clung to her step-father one last time, "I love you too, Wendell. Please take care of yourself while I'm away, okay?"
"Of course," he squeezed her shoulders soothingly, "now go before he gives you hell for taking so long."
The walk to the back of the room seemed to take forever. When she walked up to her father, he gave her a half-hearted, empty smile, "Are you ready to leave?"
She nodded once, not even looking up.
He didn't appear hurt; it seemed like he expected this type of behavior, "Alright."
Hermione and her father left the funeral home and begun walking to the closest Apparition point without exchanging another word. As they walked, she began to mull the situation over in her mind. Since her mother died and she learned that she was to live with Tom, it all seemed rather surreal. Certainly they all discussed it to death, but it never seemed like a real, tangible event until she was walking beside the father she barely knew towards the unknown- towards a new life.
A new life... a clean slate.
Did she really want to start over? Was her old life really so bad?
She couldn't help but feel trepidation over the social aspect of starting at a new school for her final year. She wanted to make friends, but was unsure how to do so simply because she had never moved anywhere before. Hermione had the same friends at Beuxbatons since she was 11. How on Earth was she supposed to make new friends now? She was a stereotypical antisocial bookworm. The only reason she had made any friends at all at Beuxbatons was because she had been lucky enough to find a small group of girls that were exactly the same- always with their noses stuck to the inside of a book. What were the odds of finding another group exactly like that twice in her life? She'd quite frankly felt blessed just finding them the first time around. With a small sigh, she resigned herself to the very real possibility of spending the remainder of her time in school alone.
When they finally reached the Apparition point—a dirty, unlit alleyway behind an abandoned shop a few blocks from the funeral home—her father held out his arm to her without even glancing in her direction. With a final sigh of resignation, Hermione gripped his arm and felt the tug behind her stomach that signaled Side-Along Apparition before they were whisked away into the night.
x-x-x
The dark, empty streets were illuminated by elegantly detailed street lamps, though Hermione could not possibly imagine why street lamps were needed here. They were standing on a sidewalk in front of an empty lot; there was nothing anywhere near that required lighting at all. Without preamble, Tom reached into the pocket of his black Muggle suit and produced a small scrap of parchment that he handed to Hermione. She frowned before turning it over to see what it said.
7 Riddle House, Little Hangleton, England.
An address?
When Hermione looked up to question her father, she noticed that the space in front of them was no longer empty, but rather occupied by a large house reminiscent of the Victorian era, complete with a wraparound porch and peaked windows. The house was a soft beige with accents of dark green around the porch and windows and the greenery around the house was beautifully manicured. Directly to her left was a large tree blooming with pink petals of some sort that fluttered in the soft breeze. Her heart did a nervous little leap; she absolutely adored it.
"Remember the address," he said and without another word, he plucked the paper from her hands and it promptly went up in flames.
Hm, so the house was Secret-Kept. Interesting.
As they made their way up front steps, Tom added over his shoulder, "There are others in close vicinity of this house but their homes are also hidden. If you happen to see them around, do not speak to them. Stay out of their way and they'll stay out of yours."
She frowned at this but nodded her assent.
Through the beautiful, dark green double doors, Hermione's worst nightmares became a reality... she actually liked the place. The walls were a pale green with dark silver borders; the carpets were a pearl-white, and the furniture in every room was all varying shades of amber and black.
Tom turned and regarded her clinically for a moment, "Before I leave you to unpack your things, I would just like to say that I believe it will be mutually beneficial for us to be civil to one another. I know this was not your ideal arrangement but I will do my best to make things comfortable for you."
Hermione barely managed to stifle her snort as she crossed her arms over her chest, "Goodness, don't strain yourself."
He raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, "Excuse me?"
"You just… you astound me, Tom," he didn't seem shocked at the casual use of his first name, rather than a more formal title one's daughter might use. "You want to be civil? You want things to be comfortable for me? Then I just need to speak my mind for a moment." She took a few breaths to steel herself before she glared into his unbelievably perfect face. "Where have you been all these years? Mum and Wendell were the ones who took care of me since I was in diapers. It does not matter in the least why you and Mum divorced, you could have made even the slightest effort to be a part of my life. Instead, you were invisible. I think, out of my whole life, I have actually seen you, in person, twice." Hermione stopped, her voice dropping as she looked down at the carpet. "You want me to be comfortable with this god awful arrangement? Then I suggest we start with the truth. Admit that you were not interested in being in my life. Admit that you found my existence to be nothing more than an inconvenience to you and then we can continue on as if this conversation never occurred."
Her father, emotionless since the moment he came back into her life, seemed to flicker to life minutely, "We will not discuss this. You can have a much richer life here and that is all you need to know."
"That is what you think concerns me? Money?"
His eyes gleamed with something that made Hermione distinctly uncomfortable, "Some riches cannot be measured in currency and are far more valuable."
She was not entirely sure she wanted to know what he meant.
Tom glanced at a clock on the opposing wall for a split second before turning towards the door they just came through, "Much as I would like to speak with you more regarding our new situation, I must leave. Your room is on the second floor, third door on the left at the top of the staircase. You may peruse the rest of the house at your leisure until you find everything you need. Tomorrow, one of my associates will be by to escort you to Diagon Alley so you may purchase your things for Hogwarts."
Already annoyed at her father's controlling manner, she rolled her eyes, "I already have everything I need."
He paused, "Then you are to remain here until classes begin to familiarize yourself with the house."
"Familiarize myself… ?" His meaning suddenly clicked into place. "Aren't I going to Hogwarts with everyone else?" She asked, her brow furrowed. "I was under the impression it was much the same as Beuxbatons, where the students live there during the year."
Her father turned to her and nodded once, "It is. However, no daughter of mine will live at Hogwarts. You will Floo to the school each day for your classes and return home the same way in the evening. You are also not permitted to remain in the school on weekends, but will spend them here as well."
As her father tried to leave again, Hermione jerked forward and caught his arm, "Wait a bloody minute! Why am I being confined to this house?! It feels like you are trying to keep me prisoner here! Why exactly can I not stay at the school with everyone else?"
He smoothly extracted his sleeve from her grasp before surveying her with his deep brown eyes for a moment. When he spoke, it was as if he was simply discussing the weather, "Because you, my child, would never survive there."
With that, Tom turned on his heel and the wards which she had no doubt were all but impenetrable settled softly around the house as he left.
