ANGEL OF A DEVIL
Chapter 2: Ghastly Statue
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters sob or the chapter title. The plot is all mine. As far as I know...
"Good evening Miss Granger."
Hermione looked up into the face of the most evil wizard of all time and fought the urge to scream.
"Or can I call you Hermione?" A cold laugh reverberated through the dark room, echoed by the two dozen masked Death Eaters surrounding them.
"Miss Granger is fine," she replied with as much hostility as she could force into her trembling voice. "Where am I and how did you get me here? There is no way you could have put a Portkey in my house, let alone one which you were certain only I would touch. Unless you wanted Harry?"
Her voice was getting steadily stronger. They hadn't killed her yet, so something was going right for her.
"No, I can assure you Hermione, it was you I wanted to see. And as for your little Portkey theory, well, take a look at yourself."
She was reluctant to remove her eyes from him, it was well known that he had no honour, and no qualms about attacking an unarmed witch or wizard, even if they were distracted. But curiosity got the better of her and she risked a glance down at her body.
Her shimmering, transparent body.
"Am I…dead?" She asked quietly, not quite knowing why.
"Not yet. I just wished to speak to you, and I could hardly do it with the blood traitor and the Potter boy hanging around could I? Don't worry, once I've finished with you you'll be returned to your body, relatively unscathed." He laughed again, a slight edge of madness resonating within the hauntingly cheerless sound.
"So why am I here then?"
Instead of answering her question, Voldemort glided towards her, his long black robes brushing the floor, creating a slithering sound in the heavy silence.
"I will reveal everything to you eventually. How's your mother Hermione?"
"What?" She had almost forgotten who she was talking to as her incredulity leaked into her voice. Voldemort had probably risked quite a lot to bring her here and instead of torturing, maiming or killing her, he was asking about her mother? "Why the hell do you want to know?"
"Have a care girl, I could trap you this way forever. Your body would remain alive, so your spirit would not be able to move on, and if I choose it no-one would be able to see or hear you. You would have to watch all of your little friends go on with their pathetic lives. At least until I kill them all." Voldemort's eyes flashed, their fiery depths somehow cold as ice as they bore through her. "So I will ask you again. How is your mother Hermione?"
"She's fine." Hermione spat out as civilly as possible through clenched teeth.
"And your…father?" A hint of amusement touched his white features.
"He's fine."
"Is he now? Has your mother ever told you about her past?"
Voldemort turned his back on her and walked to a great throne-like chair in the middle of the room.
How utterly…arrogant, Hermione noted, watching him seat himself comfortably on the cold stone seat, her lip curled in disgust. Was this a game? Was he toying with her, trying to get information from her about Harry and the Order?
"I know enough." Her mother never talked about her past. Hermione had never even met her mother's parents. How did Voldemort know this though? And why did he care?
There were so many questions and as another piercing glance shot through her she didn't know whether she cared to wait for answers. Her bravado was fast disappearing as he stared at her, almost appraisingly.
"You know nothing do you girl? I don't believe you even know that your mother is a witch." He watched her reaction, the smirk that had been threatening to appear finally split his face, more like a grimace than a smile.
"She's not a witch. She would have told me if she was a witch. I'm a muggle-born. Didn't you know? I thought you kept tabs on us, makes it easier to plan out who to kill first?" She was mocking him, possibly not one of the wisest decisions she'd ever met, but his words had struck a chord somewhere deep within her memories. Something her mother had said to her father years and years ago, when Hermione was just five years old.
"It's going to happen, Paul. I just know it. You've seen her, you've seen what she can do."
Her mother's face was pale as she tried to hold back tears, Hermione's father wrapped his arms around his wife and tried to soothe her, oblivious of the fact that Hermione was sitting on the stairs watching them through the railing as the open door to the living room spilled out the light that enveloped them. "Shush Lucy. It might not happen." "How can you say that? You know what I am. You know what she is going to become! She's going to get one of those letters and then someday he's going to come for her, I just know it. He's going to come and take my daughter away from me, to punish me for failing to stop it all happening that night." The tears which had threatened to fall now flowed freely down her mother's beautiful face. To Hermione's young mind this was wrong. Her mother was indestructible, like all little girl's parents. "I didn't have enough power to stop him then, that's why I blocked it out, but I didn't think. I was so foolish and impetuous, I never thought. And now I can't protect her. I can't protect my little girl. He's going to take her away and I'm going to have no choice but to let it happen, all because I was too scared to ever use my powers again." Hermione scrambled up the stairs as her mother's frail body was racked with sobs, willing it all to be a dream, hoping that when she woke up in the morning her mother would be just fine, that she would be as strong and happy as she had always been. And she had been indestructible once more in the morning. And the morning after that. And the morning after that. Gradually Hermione had pushed it to the back of her head, another dream in a child's head.
"My mother isn't a witch." Hermione repeated, although her voice didn't sound so calm anymore.
"It's too late, Hermione, I can see the doubt in your face. Potter has no doubt told you about my legilimency skills. I watched the memory flash behind your eyes."
"There's another flaw in your little theory; even if my mother was a witch, my father is definitely a muggle, making me a half blood at the very most. And as I remember you, rather hypocritically, don't hold much regard for those either." She felt almost triumphant at beating down what he was telling her once more.
He grinned once more, a smile that offered pain and tears. "You're right. I despise my father's tainted blood within my veins. But I more than make up for it with Salazar Slytherin's legacy. How can you be so utterly sure of your father? Of yourself? How do you even know that he is your father? You don't know much else about your 'family', it should be hardly surprising if your whore of a mother kept a few extra secrets from you."
"No." If Hermione had been in her body tears would have been coursing down her face, but the tear ducts didn't work in her incorporeal status. "No. He is my dad."
"How touching. The faith a young person puts in her parents nowadays." He sneered, and gave a cackle, echoed by the previously silent audience surrounding them. Well at least he's got them well trained.
"You must have felt it Hermione." All laughter was gone from his voice now and once more his eyes tore at her consciousness. "The darkness within you. It feels so good, doesn't it? The temptation to do something evil. When Malfoy provoked you in your third year and you hit him, you could feel it then. Welling up inside, exacting justice, taking revenge. It felt so powerful." He was leaning forward in his seat, a fervour in his eyes usually reserved for madmen and lunatics as his voice tugged at something deep inside her.
"It's the voice inside that whispers to you to do and say what you please, never mind the consequences because they can't touch you, no-one can get near you, you're too strong. Too powerful for them. It's the sadistic streak that urges you to stand on a persons loose shoelace and trip them, that takes pleasure in dangling a spider in front of the Weasley's face."
"No." She wanted to scream the word, but her voice betrayed her and it was barely a whisper. One little word filled with so much denial and such horror.
The worst thing was not that he was messing with her mind. It was that he was reading her mind. All the wicked little urges she'd worked so hard to contain, to silence.
"You get them from your father, Hermione. You get them from me."
Authors Note - Yeah, I know it comes off a bit Star Wars-esque, sorry about that, it wasn't deliberate, I just hadn't thought it through properly, anyway, hope you all liked it! Review and tell me what you think so that I can improve if it needs improving, or just bask in the glory of my greatness if it doesn't need improving!