A/N: I know. I know. I shouldn't start another story. BUT. THE TEMPTATION. CAN'T RESIST IT. UGH. HELP.
I got the idea after watching Downton Abbey and Revenge. Aside from the fact that the two shows are set centuries apart, the two just fuses nicely together. But rest assured, thiswill not be like either of the two shows as the story progresses.
Let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: I don't own HP.
I. The Hunter
"If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?
And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"
— William Shakespeare
Dear Diary,
Celebration still lingered in the air. It was the turn of a century – a time that called for a new beginning, a new start, a new opportunity, a new life.
The unfortunate thing about humans is their small gossamer of unrelenting optimism in the darkest times; they always seem to be holding on to some sort of nonexistent hope—a fleeting dream—that was forever flickering in the distance, and that if they reach far enough, they could feel its glowing warmth.
I love playing with these abstract philosophical musings. But the price one has to pay for deep introspection is a less keen sense of observation; I've became so engrossed in the little world I've created for myself (and in my vain ponderings) that I was beginning to miss the little details that pass me by in life. For example, I had failed to notice that today is my birthday, until I found an old wrinkled birthday card that was dated "3 January 1890" from a box under my makeshift bed.
But that card was from ten years ago. I am now eighteen years old, and a lady. I could now go find myself a husband, bear children, go work in a textile mill, travel the world, ascend the social ladder, obtain "masculine" education, or attend balls. But these aforementioned luxuries are out of my grasp.
In the world I exist in, one could only do so much until he or she tires of society's state of fixation. Nothing was changing. There seems to be an unspoken norm hanging above all of our heads, that we are not supposed to do anything, that to act was to commit a crime. A simple action could shatter the fragile system of order that our ancestors worked so hard to preserve.
Which reminds me, this also marks my fourteenth day spent as a lowly servant at the Malfoy Manor.
I really don't know where the idea of "investigation" blossomed within me. Perhaps it was the anger and curiosity so deep-seated within me that slowly manifested itself in the form of the Snake of Eden, an undeniable temptation that calls to me like a siren. The name 'Granger' sounded hollow now, a passing golden era that was replaced by the next. I could sit at my desk and stare at my reflection in the mirror, reminding myself of my past and my name, but that could not change the fact that I was simply not there. My name has been torn apart, my honor lost, my family gone.
In this world, what would a girl be without her name?
But no matter. That does not concern me now, for I have nothing more to lose. Recklessness was never my favorite pastime, but maybe what they say is true: hardships do change people.
Hermione Jean Granger
3 January 1900
The Malfoy Manor was strategically situated on the rural outskirts of London, where one had access to an never-ending supply of mountains, lakes, freshly cut grass, and occasional lion sightings. Visitors would playfully tell Lady Malfoy that her family garden rivaled that of the Palace of Versailles, and that King Louis XIV was turning in his graves for such a disgrace. All these talks and wordy descriptions among the people and in the newspapers would not do the manor justice, however, until one sets his or her eyes upon the building: an ethereal mansion set erect in a valley of evergreen hills, reminiscent of Aphrodite's ivory palace. Even the Vanderbilts' lavish estates could not compete with its flawless blend of demure elegance and flamboyant extravagance.
Hermione would sometimes look at the manor with envy, and other times with hate. She knew that underneath the gilded exterior of the manor hid a monster's cave, rotten with lies, intrigue, and decadence. When was the last time Lucius Malfoy not associated with bribery, corruption, blackmailing, and infidelity, or not loosely connected to deaths of muggles with suspicious circumstances?
Hermione sniffed bitterly to herself. Despite their shortcomings, the Malfoys still had it all: prestige. That was all that mattered – in both magical and muggle world.
"You may be new," a voice Hermione knew all too well suddenly spoke, "But that is no excuse for slacking off,"
"Yes, Miss," She bowed quickly to the muggle house stewardess, and returning to her task of cleaning the dining table. Out of the corners of her eyes, Hermione could see the other servants hurrying in their duties, their footsteps echoing against the polished marble floor or the hand-knit Persian rug.
She had no housekeeping experience, let ever been in a maid's attire, but she was slowly getting accustomed. With enough observation of the other maids, impersonating servant should be no trouble – but that should be the last thing on her mind. A servant is to be discreet and swift. A good servant is a servant whom nobody notices, and the role's invisibility suited her intentions perfectly.
The plates and bowls go on the left side of the cart, and the knives and forks on the right. She repeated the sentence to herself as she gathered up the silverwares from the kitchen sink, and setting them onto the cart. The mere coat of gold on the knives must have cost a fortune. But to people like the Malfoys, money was simply a means to an end.
She has been in the manor for two weeks now, but little progress has been made aside from knowing the ins and outs of the building. Lord and Lady Malfoy are either attending social events, or in their respective rooms. Their young son, Draco, was off at the high-and-mighty boys-only boarding school, aptly named Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which Hermione thought sounded as ridiculous as its pretentious magical students.
The owners of the manor had left absolutely no opportunity for outsiders to pry upon their lifestyle. The rumors around the manor, however, were to prove otherwise. From what Hermione had heard out of the gossipy mouths of Rita and Delilah ("Useless girls with even more useless blabbering!" the stewardess would comment on the two), the young master was returning soon.
That better be true.
Hermione bit her lips in anticipation and anxiety as she pushed through the doors that led out of the underground kitchen. Patience was never one of her virtues—she much preferred to see results in an instant. But she was learning.
"Grant!"
Pansy Parkinson—what an innocent name masking a hideous monster, thought Hermione humorlessly—was a girl in her early twenties. From what Hermione gathered, the girl was the epitome of a perfect housekeeper. Within Parkinson's first three years at the Manor, she was already the house stewardess' assistant.
The elevated status, of course, meant that Parkinson had absolute power over her inferiors.
She hated playing the part of the obedient peasant – the illiterate, obtuse, uncultured slave who was treated more like an object than a human. But that was the entire purpose of the dehumanizing conditions: it was a popular practice for pureblood families to have muggle servants than House elves, for it showed the wizards' complete dominance over muggles.
"Yes, M-Miss Pansy?" Hermione immediately bowed her head. Her hazel eyes remain fixed on the intricate patterns of the granite tiles, awaiting her doom.
"Jane Grant," Pansy drawled slowly, biting every syllable of the name. "What are you still doing here? The young master is returning within this hour, go change and attend to the reception room," the petite dark-haired girl ordered, crossing her arms angrily around herself. "Mind your duties, will you?"
Duties. Hermione almost scoffed at the word.
"Um, yes, Miss Pansy. Right away," Hermione stuttered. She ran her hand down the white apron. Yes, Hermione swallowed, she was nothing but a pitiful sycophant, abused and overlooked. The bitter realization has haunted her for months now.
She was not meant to be part of this world. Hermione Jean Granger, the English aristocrat, the rumored brightest witch of England (or, used to be), fiancée to the crown prince of Bavaria, was not Jane Grant. But that was the whole point; the naïve and timid simpleton Jane should be the last thing that could be connected to Hermione. "Er, I will just return these dinner-wares to the kitchen and get ready for tonight's events."
Keeping her eyes low, Hermione began to push the cart into the bustling cleaning room, making sure to stumble a few steps along the way. "Good day, Miss Pansy,"
By the time Hermione stood her assigned corner of the grand dining room, it was already early in the evening. The last few rays of the June sunlight poured out from the expansive windows, lighting up the entire space with the welcoming summer glow that seemed to make every single piece of furniture and decoration glimmer, bathing the room in the warmth of the summer. If not for its infamous residents, Hermione would have almost enjoyed the scene at Malfoy Manor. She only thanked Merlin that she was stationed in the section unreachable by the burning sunlight; otherwise, she would have been drenched in sweat like the other servants were.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the imported Spanish vase across the room, she examined the surroundings with her peripherals. If the magical grandfather clock on the wall was correct, in about one minute, the young master and his family would arrive, and she could finally make some progress in her plan. Discreetly, she rubbed her sweaty palms against the cotton cloth of her dress. This was the first time that she would see the Malfoys all gathered into one place.
She has dreamed about this moment the second she arrived at the manor, but she could never have realized that it would be in such an intimate way.
The door slammed open, and Lucius Malfoy strode in with his combed platinum blonde hair flowing behind him. His ornamental cane, a family heirloom worth apparently thousands of galleons, clicked rhythmically against the floor with every step he took in his hand-sewn leather oxfords. Following Lucius was his wife, Narcissa, a slim but intimidating woman with defined features, and a tall nose indicating her Eastern European ancestry. Then came Draco, Malfoy's prized son and the Prince of England's best friend. He looked exactly as he did in the newspapers that Hermione had collected compulsively on the Malfoys: sleek, towering, with a cold gaze and an omnipresent sneer.
All three Malfoys had their trademark blonde hair, gray irises, and nymph-like features. Had Hermione not researched each of their family backgrounds, she would have thought inbreeding was a hobby for those abhorrent excuses of human beings. Not that incest was uncommon for pureblood families, Hermione mused.
After Draco came two other youths his age, both of whom sported dark evening attires that matched their dark hair. One was considerably taller than the other, but there was no doubt they were Draco's pedigreed classmates in school. Hermione did not recognize any of their faces from her memories or in the news. But it wasn't like they mattered, anyway.
As the hierarchical precession ended, and the Malfoys and the guests took their respective seats at the long mahogany dinner table, the male servants clad in ebony suits and snow-white gloves brought out the appetizers. The female servants hurried to the guests, pouring drinks into each cup. Hermione stood between Lucius and Narcissa, her eyes transfixed on the blood-red wine as the liquid flowed into the glasses.
She could smell the musk from Lucius, and the roses from Narcissa, and both scents nauseated her. Hermione left quickly as she had came, retreating back to the solace of her corner.
Hermione took this perfect opportunity to observe her targets. Both Lucius and Narcissa were eating in almost an elegant way, if such a way was possible. Both mirrored each other in their movements of the knives and of the chewing movements of their mouths. It was apparent that everyone at the table had the necessary dining etiquettes, but there is a clear contrast between the three youths and the two elders. Draco ate in much larger portions, and although his face remained passive, there were other physical signs that revealed the tension in him. For every five minutes or so, he would tap his right foot quickly; the other times, he ran his hand through his hair, stealing glances at his two friends.
To Draco's left was the shorter young man, who would poke at his food disinterestedly and dust off imaginary dusts from his lap. On his right breast pocket was a small emblem, which Hermione guessed was their family crest. He looked about her age, but the air around him was much more youthful. There was something awfully childish about the man; it was as if he was the sheltered prince of a distant land – one who never travelled too far from home since his birth. The theory, Hermione assessed, did contain some merits. After all, pureblood families weren't always that keen on letting their precious spawns wander around.
To Draco's right was a taller young man. Hermione raised an inquisitive eyebrow as she analyzed him. There was no doubt that he was…physically endowed. No, it was more than that. It was as if every inch of him was carved by the hands of Michelangelo or painted by Raphael, all molded to absolute perfection. His nose, his lips, his eyebrows, his way of dress, they all glowed with impeccable finesse and perfection. The twinkle of shrewdness in his emerald eyes that were framed by thick lashes and the confidence emitting from him only added to his magnetism.
Hermione breathed out a small scoff of exasperation and jealousy; if there was one thing she learned from this empty society, it was that appearances are deceitful. The boy could be England's most wanted psychopath for all she knew. But yet, it was impossible for a human to have such a symmetrical face. His angelic exterior was dangerously disarming.
"Tom," Draco began.
Tom. What an ordinary name for such an extraordinary individual.
Tom looked up in mild surprise. "How about after dinner, you—" Draco gestured at Tom, "—Regulus—" another gesture at the other boy sitting next to Tom, "—and I go for an evening hunt?"
"Draco, it is rather dark," Narcissa's quiet voice answered the blonde boy before his friends could. Disapproval was laced in her tone.
Silence fell over the dining table. No one dared to defy Narcissa's orders, and especially for the servants, her orders were God's creed. Hermione hated the fact that she has to sell her soul to this literal reincarnation of the devil. Minutes ticked by, and the only sound that could be heard in the dining room was the orderly clitter-clatter of the silverwares. Dining with the Malfoys was definitely not an experience she'd treasure. The Malfoys were even colder than the Manor itself, Hermione noted drily. She peeked at other servants in the room, whom all stood as still as statutes, their bodies as straight and flat as linear lines. She sucked in a deep breath; her lungs welcomed the intake of oxygen.
The first early symptom of the dinner's completion was when Lucius sat down his fork and knife onto the golden plate. He daintily wiped his thin mouth with napkins, and stood up.
"I have some business matters I need to take care of in my office. I apologize for my early leave, but please enjoy the rest of the meals. Regulus, Tom," he nodded at the two boys, "Please make yourselves at home. Oh—and Regulus, send your father my regards,"
"You're too kind, Mr. Malfoy," Regulus murmured quietly. He stood up along with Tom and Draco as Lucius left the table, bowing their heads slightly.
"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," Tom added. The two men sat down once again when Lucius left the room. Narcissa sat, silent. Hermione watched the exchange, slightly amused. Not that she had anything against good manners; she never realized how superfluous they were until she witnessed them as an outsider.
When Narcissa beckoned over her favorite servant, Marcus, onto her side, it was clear that the god-awful feast was officially over. Marcus, who promptly gathered the lady's dishes and silverwares onto the cart, disappeared within seconds into the corridor that led to the kitchen. The rest of the male servants followed suit, approaching the table and collecting the remaining cutlery and food. Meanwhile, the three female servants were to remain to serve drinks and desserts until all guests leave the table. Hermione knew that the progression by heart now. So far, the night had gone smoothly, so convenient for her plan.
She gingerly poured the pinot grigio for Regulus, taking great pains to make sure that the wine reached only three-fourths of the glass. Her position was perfect, for Draco sat directly across from her, and she knew that he would take notice of her – hormone-driven adolescent boys always do, and especially when the other two servants were way past their primetime.
It was repulsive, really, that her plan involved ensnaring the attention of a highbrow twit, even if it was the most practical and convenient method. Six years ago, Hermione would have never imagined that she would stoop so low.
There really was no more dignity left in me, she thought bitterly. Returning to her original position at the corner, she caught the blonde's sideway glance at her, laced with mild curiosity. Hermione averted her eyes quickly, following exactly what she had planned.
Everything was falling into their place, and this both relieved and terrified her. But when she looked up, Hermione never expected to meet another pair of eyes – ominously green and penetrating – that belonged to Tom. His gaze didn't contain the interest of Draco's, nor was it warm or welcoming, nor contained any bit of kindness. Tom's gaze was sharp and cold, just like the steady knife of a surgeon that is about to slice through a powerless animal, and he was studying her, analyzing her like some sort of science lab result.
Hermione looked away, clenching her teeth. She didn't want to admit it, but for a moment, she felt fear.
Dear Diary,
Today marks the fourth week of my little journey at the Malfoy Manor. I'm slowly beginning to get accustomed the route now: wake up, work, lunch, work, dinner, work, sleep, and repeat. Unlike the unpredictability of the Manor's affairs, there was safety in the routine. But still, I can still feel a part of me on the edge, gripping tight onto paranoia and fear. I would be a fool to let my guard down in this hellhole.
My plan is still in its infant stage, though it does not surprise me. I need to bide my time, and tread carefully. Deceiving that Satanic spawn of the Malfoys is not really the easiest—nor the most comfortable—task. I would first have to get him to become dependent on me: to become his confidant, his friend, his advisor.
That's easy, right?
Hah.
He couldn't even look at a mere muggle without twitching his arm as if he was having a seizure, and muttering "Despicable mudblood!" under his breath. Trying to become the Queen of England would be easier than trying to get close to Draco fucking Malfoy.
Now, speaking of the son, I need to think about the real targets: Lucius and Narcissa. To be honest, of the hundreds of times I saw them around the Manor as I was working, I wasn't really expecting my lack of emotional response. It was illogical; I'm supposed to be burning with wrath and madness, or at least be in tears. My own calmness disturbs me. Perhaps, this is a premonition that my revenge will come into fruition? I hope I could keep up my façade. I would imagine the Malfoys would not be too pleased to hear that Hermione Granger is living in their home, not when she has a wand.
Merlin, this is all…disgusting.
I used adore magic; I fell love with its ability and potential. I saw limitless opportunities and exploring a world beyond my own, even if I was a muggleborn. I thought I could compensate for my lack of "magical birthright" through success, to prove to others that intelligence was not determined by blood status or name.
What a fool I was. And my parents – they are haunting my dreams.
I still see them.
Of course, there was no evidence to pin my parents' deaths on the Malfoys, a prominent family that had connections in and out of the muggle world.
The Grangers became nothing but history, unfortunate enough to fall prey to the careless games of the privileged. Their daughter was lost, gone like her father and mother, presumably dead. I guess I was the only one who came out lucky in this game, but now I've got bigger preoccupations.
Regulus and Tom. The two are now becoming a nuisance to my goal. They are always in the Manor, always hanging around Lucius, Narcissa, or Draco. Don't they have homes to go back to?
Regulus, as I have come to learn, is easy to take care of. Granted, the boy was smart, but nothing that was threatening to the plan. I guess you can see my surprise—or the lack thereof—when I learned that he was the son of a pureblood family, the House of Black. Though, I had never imagined one of the heirs to the Black power and fortune to be so…I don't know...free-spirited?
Tom, of course, was the foil to Regulus. The more I see him around the Manor, the more ominous I feel. There is something awfully wrong about that boy. I can feel it. And it's not just his unbelievable good looks or powerful magical aura; there is something wrong with him, as a human being.
It's completely illogical of me to fear him. After all, he hasn't done anything a bit suspicious, but I know that I must have constant vigilance. Call it my intuition, I guess.
And his name: Tom (maybe short for Thomas?). A peasant's name, for sure, not to mention his surname is also curiously ordinary. There was no pureblood family in England with the surname 'Riddle'. I don't know what was more surprising: a non-pureblood wizard is a friend of Draco Malfoy, or pureblood wizards treating a non-pureblood wizard with respect. Both are, essentially, I guess, the same thing.
But the way Regulus and Draco act around him! It was as if they would kiss the ground he walked on if they could. How peculiar.
There is a dynamic that in relationship I have yet to discover. But, I must be patient. One task at a time. Rest assured, I will leave no stone unturned.
Hermione Jean Granger
10 January 1900
A/N: Kudos to you if you can spot the Great Gatsby reference in this chapter!
Anyways, tell me what you think, and whether or not I should continue with this shenanigan.