Chapter 3

Hermione had to ask someone to lead her to the throne room, where the assembly was held. Miles of corridors sat between her and where she needed to go and she had no means of getting there, or anywhere else without the help of an elf. Her heels echoed off the cavernous walls. She'd given up on trying to memorize direction; it was just too much.

She had dressed finely, grey and russet robes of silk and satin. She wore some of the Nott family jewels around her wrist and neck. It wasn't comfortable looking at herself in the mirror dressed like that, as it wasn't how she saw herself by any stretch of the imagination, but it was expected. She preferred simple, functional clothes, but there was a different standard here, and appearing less than capable was not in her interest.

Tabain had to dress as well and she'd dressed him in a dark suit. He looked adorable, but the purpose was to convey that he was a nobleman, a Nott, and couldn't be swept under the carpet because he was too young to defend himself.

Finally, the elf had taken them to a large set of doors, black lacquered, large enough for giants to enter through if they wished. Livered guards stood at attention by the door and for a moment, Hermione feared they weren't going to let her in.

Would that be so bad? she asked herself. She could flee from here, back to the safety of their estate, but that was the point—she'd be burying her head in the sand and it wouldn't be safe at all. They would come, strip them off the land and just take it. If she had no power, no influence, she would lose everything—and Tabain his future. No, she had to be strong.

The elf directed the guards, who grudgingly opened the doors. It must be quite an art heaving those large doors while still looking regal.

At first, only the throne was in view and he sat there—looking old. He was a fearsome creature, had overturned the whole land in his quest for power and here he was, looking old. She was almost disappointed, but she knew not to underestimate him. He was the most powerful man in the land, and he had magics no one else could match.

As well as looking old, he looked bored and Hermione wondered if ruling, which he'd worked so long and hard to attain wasn't as exciting as he'd expected it to be. He was a creature of war after all, and now he'd run out of enemies.

He sat looking regal in black and purple robes. Purple, because she assumed it was a regal color, the color of royalty. That was what he was now—the king. Bony knees jutted out under his robes and his wrists lay heavily on the arm rests as if it took too much energy to lift them.

The walls behind him were black velvet and a parapet above him. The walls were silver brocade and the floor was white and grey marble, but a lush carpet let up to the throne. The throne was gold, the only gold in the room. For all she knew, it was solid gold. She wouldn't put it past him.

"His Majesty will receive you now," one of the guards said.

Hermione stepped forward and the view widened, bringing in the people around him, countless people dressed as well as money could buy. Silk, satin, jewels covered every surface Hermione's eyes settled on. She felt conflicting instincts. Primary she wanted to keep an eye on Voldemort, but a whole suite of players revealed themselves—most which didn't think she belonged here. No doubt she was sullying the very air they breathed.

Faces she knew were older and more mature. Some faces and bodies had spread with the years as idle bodies turned to fat. Others looked similar but more mature. All attention turned her way and the room quieted. She saw Marcus Flint, looking harsh and uncompromising, but then he always had. His eyes were weasel hard as they followed her progress. Pansy was there, wearing a gown so shiny black it almost looked liquid. Heavy stones sat around her neck and she raised her eyebrows in surprise as she saw Hermione walking in.

Surely it wasn't a surprise that she had been summoned? Or maybe Pansy's surprise had been that she'd had the guts to show up here. A fission of fear ran through her. Was Pansy right? Was it insane of her to show up? Would Voldemort incinerate her on the spot? Or would she end up in one of those horrid prison cages along the road leading here?

Tabain shifted uncomfortably on her hip, not knowing what was going on and unused to seeing so many people in one place. She had to pull her wits together. Her aim today was to be presented. She kept walking, aware of another set of burning eyes on her, the arrogant, blond Draco Malfoy she'd hoped to never see again. Sneaking a glance, she saw his expression was less than friendly. Icy eyes followed her as she steady walked toward the throne.

She wiped those vicious eyes out of her mind and focused her attention on the man ahead of her, who watched with complete lack of expression as she approached. When close enough, she kneeled, at the same time bowing. If he were to kill her, he'd do so now. Along with her, it seemed the whole room was holding its breath. Even Tabain seemed to pick up on the gravity of the situation and was silent, his eyes large with tension.

"So here you are," Voldemort's horrid voice said. "I'm glad nothing unforeseen happened to you on the roads."

She supposed it was fortunate as desperate people did what they had to on the roads these days. Their desperation was so substantial, Voldemort's harsh punishment was something people believed they had to risk. "I had an uneventful journey," she confirmed as she stood.

Voldemort's gaze studied her face. His regard wasn't friendly, but there was mild curiosity shining out of his cringe-worthy eyes. Hermione held her breath. This man had her life in his hands and no one would stand in his way if he sought to take it from her. That included the guards that stood at his back, standing like statues who would spring to attention on Voldemort's command.

His gaze shifted to Tabain. "And the young master," he said, his voice cracking and creaking like old leather. "A beautiful child. It is an inescapable fact that halfbreeds are the most beautiful, is it not? What must one make of that?"

Hermione wasn't sure she was supposed to answer the question. In any sense, she had no idea how he wanted her to respond. Was it a compliment? Voldemort didn't do compliments. Or was she supposed to walk into a trap, to convey her opinion on the false value structures this man had put in place. No, doing so would be a bad idea. As much as she reviled it, it was this man's belief, and his belief was what mattered—on point of death.

"He has been in blessing to us in every way," she finally said, grateful her voice held steady. She could not show how nervous she was—any weakness. Now she had to reply—a statement innocuous enough to not offend.

The man's gaze lingered on Tabain, almost as if he wished to eat him. Hermione felt her heckles rise along her back, zinging energy out through her arms. This man made her skin crawl. Every instinct told her not to be in his presence.

"Well, there is no us now, is there?" Voldemort stated. Hermione couldn't read the meaning of the sentence. "Which places you in a bit of a pickle," he continued with a wry smile. "But we will see how you do." He sounded almost amused now.

Again, Hermione didn't know how she was supposed to respond. She didn't know what he was referring to. It sounded almost as if she was going to be tested.

"You have done well for yourself," he said, looking down his ugly nose at her, his eyes flashing with malice. He made it sound like she had engineered her position.

"I have been very lucky."

He made a noise as if telling her off for being less than truthful. "Luck tend to favor those intelligent enough to capitalize on it. No, you have climbed high—perhaps bitten off more than you can chew, mudblood. But here you are, ready to face my court. Do you think you can survive here?" His eyes traveled around the room surveying his domain with pride. "They might just eat you alive."

What was he warning her of? Why had he summoned her? Was it for sport, for him to watch his court rip her to pieces? No, she assured herself—she was here to represent the family. Every prominent family needed a representative at court. Voldemort was perhaps only acknowledging that this was a tough crowd. If he truly meant her ill, he would have harmed her. More than a few people would, no doubt, enjoy seeing her tortured in front of them as entertainment.

He waved her away dismissively. A tremble threatened to overtake her now that she seemed to be out of immediate danger. Tabain seemed to have the same sense as he now started fussing. Hermione feared he would start to cry, drawing disapproval from every corner. "We're not home free just yet," she told him quietly. He seemed to pick up on her tension and clasped tightly to her.

Voldemort's attention was now on someone else and Hermione stepped back, retreating back into the room. Well, one question was answered. Voldemort hadn't killed or imprisoned her. That was an important discovery, but it didn't really answer what he wanted her here for. Was her summons a kindness, telling her she needed to take care of her patch? She had no doubts he cared nothing for her. He had never been a champion of her kind, but perhaps he felt he owed the house of Nott the chance to defend itself—even if its champion was less than ideal.