"The mind in its own place can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven" - John Milton, Paradise Lost
1: Reign in Hell (I wanted to do a soundtrack with this fic. The song for this chapter is Kill and Run by Sia.)
October 21, 1998
I, Hermione Granger, by order of the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, will conduct several interviews over the course of the next nine months with the dark wizard, Tom Riddle Junior, alias Lord Voldemort.
Following his capture at the Battle of Hogwarts, he and his followers were detained and imprisoned in Azkaban. Some have been released, others are awaiting trial or sentencing. It is my hope that these interrogations will give the Ministry a better understanding of how such mad men think, live and are created so we can better defend ourselves against future threats.
A storm buckled at the horizon. Thick, black clouds hovered over crashing waves, spitting and cracking, trapping flashes of lightning within them. Azkaban Prison jutted out of the restless sea like a demon hand reaching from hell.
Hermione Granger swallowed. Hard.
Nervously, she tightened the bun that held her brown hair. One curled strand refused to stay in place, bouncing and flopping in the salty wind. With a roar that shook the ground, an ashen bridge rose out of the ocean, splashing her with cold water. The bridge connected with the rocky shore and Hermione followed its path, angry waves below, to the shrouded, gloomy entrance of Azkaban prison.
When the cold, emptiness of nearby dementors settled across her skin and down her spine, a cold hand of regret gripped down on her lungs. Breaths came shallow and shaken. Had this been a mistake? Dealing with the loss of the war had been damn hard. Nights of screaming terrors, waking up in a cold sweat. Seeing empty rooms and hearing cold silences where voices of people she loved no longer sang and laughed or told her they loved her. It was too late now. She was already here, and she needed answers. No matter how angry she was, no matter how scared.
Several human guards took post at the wizarding prison Azkaban. A wizened old man with a short beard and milky, caramel eyes greeted Hermione at the entrance. She took his frail hand in her much stronger one.
"Miss Granger, I presume?" his old voice cracked. She nodded. He dropped his hand and waved her forward, "This way."
They walked in silence through a narrow corridor sticky with cobwebs and heavy with the stench of rot and mold. Dementors swept through the crossing halls, covered by black veils as they had been before Voldemort controlled them. Shacklebolt had given the awful creatures a choice: return to Azkaban or be imprisoned forever without any human joy to feed off.
They chose the former.
The old man stopped at the end of the hall before an iron door. His little eyes examined Hermione. "You're wearing black. Excellent. Color startles him. I take it you've been informed of how dangerous he is?"
I've been fighting him half my life. Trust me, I know.
"Yes, sir. Thank you," she said quickly, glancing down at her black pencil skirt and chiffon button-up blouse with little capped sleeves. That better be dark enough...
"No use if you ask me; Old You-Know-Who will never talk," he said. "There's nothing human left in him. Dementors don't seem to notice he's even there...well, good luck, girl." With a shake of his head, the old guard hobbled down the corridor and into deep shadow.
She just had to apparate to the other side of the door. Simple, yet impossible. The most dreaded, terrible person in the world stood in that room. The most hated too...
Biting down on her cheek, she forced fear down, down, down until she could manage it. The dizzying grip of apparation surrounded her. In almost an instant, she was in Lord Voldemort's cell.
She gripped onto the dewy wall for support as cold air chilled her neck. There was hardly any room and just a small cot, an iron chair and a dresser. There were no windows. It smelled surprisingly clean, however, making it easier to breath. She ignited the lantern in the far corner of the cell with a flick of her wand.
A shadowy figure turned. He stood by the opposite wall, directly across from her. His red eyes gleamed as he looked her up and down. Blood froze in her veins. Terror bit at every part of her, but she would not let him see it. It was more than terror anyway, it was also bitterness, like a vine twining around her lungs, choking out the oxygen.
Voldemort stepped closer and into the light. Instead of the black robes she'd seen him wear at the Battle of Hogwarts, or even the black-and-white of prison attire, he wore a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt. Someone must have thought it'd be a good joke to dress him like a muggle. It did make him look less menacing than he had the last time she'd seen him but only slightly.
"The dementors are getting prettier." He stood perfectly still as he spoke, his words cold and even.
Hermione swallowed, gripping her wand. "My name is Hermione Granger and I'm here to ask you some questions." She spoke too quickly.
His feet smacked the concrete floor. "It was very stupid idea for you to bring your wand." He lifted his hand, a white spark ignited in his fingers. Voldemort snarled and stumbled back. "Clever."
"I did my research before coming here, Mr. Riddle."
Hermione knew he'd try that and had planned in advance with a spell that would block Voldemort from using her wand. It wasn't easy magic by any means, but she did it, and was very happy to see it had worked. Not that she really doubted herself. She had gone over security measure after security measure with Shacklebolt. Even with a wand, nobody, not even Voldemort, could get out of this place with the amount of protection on it.
His laugh was icy, echoing, and swept over her like an avalanche. "Don't call me by my father's name."
"I'm the one with the wand. I'll call you whatever I want." Her words muddled together. She hoped they at least sounded sort-of confident, even with fear trembling through her. Hermione's wand twitched in her hand. It would be so easy to curse him. She shook away the thought. He might deserve it, but she wasn't here for that. Answers could help her; revenge would just draw her deeper into the darkness already swirling around her.
"I have no reason to answer any of your questions. I've already told the Minister I will not give up my followers."
"You're in luck then. I want to ask questions about you." She gestured toward him. It was strange Voldemort wouldn't speak against his Death Eaters. Maybe he was smart enough to know that all the Minister's talk of lesser sentencing was just for show. The Wizengamot was going to execute him. Still there was something a little respectable about Voldemort's choice.
"What could you possibly want to know about me?" Voldemort was only a few steps from her now. He smelled oddly of sage for someone who hadn't been outside in months. The T-shirt he wore might have been a size too small for the way it gripped the muscles in his arms and his chest. She licked her lips and forced herself to look away.
"Don't worry. I just thought that maybe you could tell me some stories," Hermione said.
"Three brothers were..."
She shook her head. "Not that kind of story. A story about your life."
"What incentive do I have to tell you anything?" he whispered.
Hermione kept her wand pointed at him, her heart pounding. "You have nothing better to do. "
He ran his thin hand over his smooth, white scalp. "Besides plot my escape."
"You can't escape."
Voldemort smiled and she had to look away from its bright darkness, uncomfortable in its impossibility. "Don't make the mistake of underestimating me, Miss Granger."
"Don't underestimate me either, Mr. Riddle." She raised an eyebrow and forced herself to look him in the eye, even though everything inside her screamed not to.
He smirked and sat down the edge of the cot, squeaking the springs. "Why do you want me to talk to you?"
"I, um," Where were her words when she needed them? "I wanted, for the Ministry, that is, to understand -"
"Stop right there, pet," he said. "You should leave."
The words came out fast, but clear, anger rising in her chest. "That's up to me. Not you."
"I know why you're here. You think you're going to get answers to why all these terrible things happened to you. You think it'll give you closure, hope for the future. You want to know why I did the things I did. Some tragic tale of pain and woe and despair that turned me into the despicable monster you see today. So you can make some sense out of the pathetic darkness that is your life. Am I wrong?"
How could he have possibly known?
"Don't-"
"You are wasting your time," he said coldly then spun on his bare heel to face the concrete wall. Hermione stepped far away from him, preparing to disapparate, to give up. This man nearly ruined her life...what did she care?
"Miss Granger?" His ice-voice stopped her movements.
Swallowing, replied, "Yes?"
"You're a mudblood, aren't you?" he turned towards her, arms motionless at his sides.
Hermione bit her tongue. She tried not to let the slur bother her, but it always did. A kick right between the ribs. "My parents are muggles."
The correction didn't faze Voldemort. "Have you ever read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein?" His eyes were a dark, hot red like boiling blood. Hermione couldn't tug her gaze away now despite earlier being so afraid to look at him.
"I have."
He looked down at his hands, examining his fingers. "It's good, is it not?"
Where is he going with this?
"I enjoyed it. Yes. Why?" Did she even want to know? At this point, going home was her best bet, the safest route.
"You just reminded me of it, that's all." He stared over Hermione's head at the iron door. If Voldemort was going to cause trouble, she would get out of here. Call this whole thing a big mistake like her boyfriend, Ron Weasley, said it would be.
"Hmph. Okay. Whatever," she mumbled.
Hermione was about to disapparate out of the room again when Voldemort spoke. "May I propose a trade?" he asked and Hermione shrugged. "I'll give you one of my stories, as you call them, for a copy of Frankenstein."
She could hardly think of a weirder request, but it wouldn't be difficult and if it got her what she came here for then it couldn't hurt, could it?
"You will?" she asked, afraid she sounded too surprised or eager, but he had no obvious physical reaction.
Voldemort displayed a corner of his teeth. "Mind you, it won't make a difference; it won't give you the healing you seek, but I will answer your questions."
What else was there to say? She nodded curtly and, holding her breath, disapparated from the cell.
She shuddered and quickly glanced back. There was something so intimidating about that man...thing...whatever he was. Even in a dark, empty cell, he was still somehow king of that place. It made it difficult to be around him, but there was something else about him too. It reminded her of sitting on her mother's porch, a candle on the steps, watching little summer moths fluttering too close to the flame.
Mesmerizing and dangerous. She hated him for it.
Hermione walked out of Azkaban and into the falling rain. She would not go back; it wasn't worth it. She didn't need answers; she just needed to let go and move forward like Ron had. But when she stepped into the small London apartment she shared with Ron and Harry, there was a brown paper wrapped copy of Frankenstein under her arm.
A/N: So I've been working on this Volmione story for a while, but haven't posted any of it yet. I'm about to have a lot more time on my hands and one of my biggest stories is almost over, so I thought this was a good time to see if there was any interest in this story. The title and the chapter titles come from John Milton's Paradise Lost which is in a nutshell the fall of the world to sin from the devil's POV. It's not really based on the story other than thematically. Thanks for reading. Please review!
This chapter was beta'd by MaiWishes