A/N: And here comes Granger! Please tell me what you think, it means a lot.
To the guest asking about the Silver Lime wand: Yes, it's because the Legilimency. I'm not making him clairvoyant (that's a bit terrifying to think about, actually. Haha!)
Part 3: The Golden Girl
He had espresso and buttery croissants for breakfast, and read the headline with amusement: OLLIVANDER DIES OF HEART ATTACK". The croissants melted in his mouth, the rich taste of butter rolling on his tongue, and the espresso was strong and scalding hot.
Someone cleared his voice next to him, and he saw another Malfoy, an older one this time, standing beside him. The man had long, silvery hair, and was leaning on a silver cane. What a fop, he thought, this must be Lucius Malfoy. He merely arched his eyebrows at the man. "Can I help you?"
The man seemed to be almost shaking in fright, but said guardedly: "Excuse me, Mr. Riddle, but I do believe I might have some information that would be of interest to you."
"Sit," he pointed at the chair opposite of him, and the man scrambled to sit, fidgeting nervously with his pretentious cane. Voldemort was fully aware of the Malfoy family's involvement with his cause and their treachery, but he hadn't quite grasped how terrified they all were of him. This … had possibilities.
He sipped his coffee, waiting expectantly for Malfoy to speak. When the man seemed to have lost his power of speak, he almost rolled his eyes. "I believe you had something to tell me, Mr…?" he asked, opting for mild curiosity in his voice.
"Ah, well, yes. I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Lucius Malfoy, and I … I was a follower of your late father."
Now that was unexpected. He hadn't believed a fellow Slytherin to be so blunt. Lifting an eyebrow, he said coolly, staying in his role: "Then I don't think I'd wish to hear it, Mr. Malfoy. I have no wish to involve myself with my father's minions."
Malfoy reddened, and he looked down at the table. He took a deep breath, and said quietly: "This isn't widely known, but you have a sister. She's three years old."
His mask and coolness failing, he hissed out, glaring at Malfoy: "What the hell?!"
The man almost fell out of his chair, scooting backwards, whispering frantically: "I don't mean any harm, please, my Lord!"
That brought him up short. Swallowing heavily in an effort to control his temper, Voldemort chugged down the rest of his espresso, snapping his fingers at the waiter for another one. Smoothing his face, he kept a tight lid on his anger as he replied: "You took me by surprise, I'm sorry if I startled you. But please, Mr. Malfoy, please do refrain from calling me Lord. That feels … very … uncomfortable for me."
"I'm, I'm, I'm s-s-so sorry," Malfoy stammered, moving his chair forward again. "You just reminded me so much of your father. You seem to have much of his mannerisms and way of speak. The same … c-c-co-commanding presence. Please forgive an old Death Eater who's had the fear of his Lord Crucio'ed into him."
He sighed, looking down at the table, hiding his obvious satisfaction. Merlin, he had always been a sucker for compliments, it was a weakness. He should purge himself of that trait. Boring his eyes into Malfoy's, he stated: "You must know that I don't see that as a compliment. So, a sister? When, and how?"
"The late Lord Voldemort and my sister in law had the child in November 1997. She's been hidden by my family and some close relatives, the Rowle family."
"Indeed," he said, steepling his hands on the table. Gently tapping his brow with his middle fingers, he felt, for the first time in this new era, at a loss. A child? A three year old daughter? How had that come about? He hadn't left his old body with any means of procreating, taking away his ability to get hard, effectively rendering himself as an eunuch. The snake-faced, inferior him must have siphoned out the seed to impregnate the witch, he couldn't see any other solution. But why? If his old self wasn't dead already, he'd kill that body. This was an unforeseen complication, but it might have possibilities.
"Where's the mother?" he shot at Malfoy.
The man twitched, and replied hurriedly: "She's dead, her name was Bellatrix Lestrange."
Great. Just great. His other self had impregnated someone who, after what he had read, was clearly as unhinged as himself. The child could be positively batty!
Staring down Malfoy, he commanded: "I want to see her. Now, before noon. If she's my sister, I would like to be in touch with her, maybe one day even care for her, after I'm more settled."
Malfoy blinked, and said: "Of course, Mr. Riddle. I'll escort you."
Xxxx
He stared down at the small, blonde child playing on the floor, trying to ascertain if he felt anything for her. Some kind of fatherly affection, perhaps? Even he should feel something for his own child. At the very least, he should feel happy that she was safe and well. Maybe it would come in time. A blood relative – the concept seemed foreign to him, and he wasn't sure what to make of the situation.
She was playing with the toy wand he had brought her, and was happily making small explosions, ruining her toys. He sat down on the floor beside her, long legs crossing, and looked at her. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as he saw her joy in destruction.
"You like destroying things?" he asked the child softly.
"Yep," she said, waving her wand at her stuffed pig, ripping off a leg.
He took her chin in his hand, and entered her mind. It was jumbled, flitting from emotion to emotions, but there was also a keen intelligence, and a thirst for ruining things that he could relate too. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad at all. He had things to teach her. She could be useful in the future, and as for now, a nice accessory to his new, kinder image.
"Delphini, I am your big brother," he said to her.
The child furrowed her little brow, and pouted: "I don't have any brother. I don't want a brother!"
"You do now, surprisingly enough for both of us," he said, giving her a small smile. "Why don't I show you how to Levitate the remains of your teddy bear?"
Xxxx
At dinner, he got an owl from Harry Potter. It simply read, in a rather messy scrawl, If you're available, meet us at the Ministry tomorrow at ten, at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. – HP.
Voldemort grinned. This was according to plan. He couldn't help giving the note an approving nod, because it was prudent of Potter and his friends to meet him backed up by the Ministry. Anything else would have been nothing short of stupid. It really didn't matter, though, it would of course prove disastrous for them in the end. His job tomorrow was to build a foundation for trust. They didn't know it, but tomorrow, the Golden Trio would begin a "friendship" with Lord Voldemort.
Blotting his mouth with his serviette, he motioned for the waiter to refill the glass of champagne in front of them. He lifted his glass to the Minister of Magic and his wife, and said with a studied look of open honesty: "I'm so happy, Harry Potter and his friends have invited me to meet them tomorrow. Do you think they'll forgive me for the sins of my father?"
Xxxx
Voldemort had dressed with care for the meeting. A storm-gray silk shirt, black trousers, and a black robe on top – there was no need to give them the impression that he would ever wear colourful robes. He entered the Ministry, waving to the now familiar faces of the guards at the security stand, and sauntered off to the elevators. The golden doors of the elevator clanged open in front of him, and he entered, pushing the button for level two, for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Fluttering memos entered with him, and the elevator stopped at each floor. As the fourth level was announced, the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, a young, short, bushy-haired witch entered, looking to be in a hurry, as she was tapping her foot impatiently while jamming her finger repeatedly into the button for level two.
Lovely – this was none other than Hermione Granger. He noted that she was pretty in real life too, though she didn't appear to spend as much time dressing or grooming her hair for work as she did for those parties he had seen pictures of. In fact, he'd bet he had spent more time in his closet this morning than her. Her face was heart-shaped, with large, caramel eyes, and that big, brown hair had golden strands catching the light, and he surreptitiously assessed her. He nodded approvingly to himself, she would do very well. In fact, even very nicely, his cock informed him by a small, stirring in his silk boxers.
"It won't go any faster, you know," he said with a smile, looking down at her.
She spun around with a frown, and then her eyes widened as her gaze travelled up to his face. "Shit! It's you!" she blurted out, and he nodded at her.
"Hello, Miss Granger," he said, opting for a neutral tone, but he couldn't help the purr of satisfaction in his voice.
She stared at him for a long moment, before coming to a decision.
"Hello, Mr. Riddle," she said, stretching out her hand. He shook it, noticing that her hand was very small, warm and dry.
"Please, call me Tom," he said, feigning embarrassment. "I've never really claimed that name as my own." It was the honest truth, too, but for now, it had to do.
"Oh, right," she said nervously. "You must call me Hermione."
He gave her another smile, meeting her eyes, before saying: "It'll be my pleasure."
She kept glancing at him, looking suspicious, until the elevator clattered to a halt, and they entered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"To the right," Granger pointed, "the Auror offices are through this corridor."
They passed several offices, and he was pleased to notice conversation stilling as they walked by. Whispers and pointing broke out after them, and he felt his back prickle, like someone was thinking hard about hexing him. Granger seemed to sense the uneasiness, and she took his arm, ushering him along. "Don't bother," she said under her breath, "it's all talk."
He shrugged, but said equally low at her: "Being hunted makes all those instincts for survival bloom."
She shot him a quick grin, and said: "I know."
He supposed she would, as his former self had hunted her for a year. Though, he had been hunted in his childhood, and it had never really stopped. Not in the orphanage, at least. And those first years in Slytherin had been rough, before he showed them who the real predator was.
"In here," she said, rapping with her knuckles on a door.
"Enter!" a young man's voice called out.
"It's Harry," she said, peering at him with curiosity, assessing his reactions with a keen eye. He took a deep breath, and went inside to see his enemy.
Harry Potter was young, fairly handsome and very nervous. He was fiddling with a golden ring, and those green eyes locked on to his face. Potter breathed out: "By gods, you really are his spitting image, aren't you?"
Voldemort allowed himself to wince, and said: "So they say. Not much I can do about that, though."
The two men stared at each other for a moment, before Harry said, gesturing to a chair: "Please sit down. Ron will be here in a minute, he's just getting us tea."
"Thanks," he said, lowering himself into a chair. Granger stood beside him, and he noted with amusement that he was still marginally taller than her, even though he was sitting and she was standing. She wore an overlarge maroon shirt and a black pencil shirt underneath black, plain work robes, but he could still see that even though she was thin, her breasts were decently sized. In fact, he almost got hard by thinking of the fact that he would seduce her, making his mortal enemy plead for his cock, and scream his name as he took her roughly.
Pulling his mind out of those pleasant fantasies, he sat still, keeping an open and honest look on his face. Potter was scrutinizing him, clearly sceptical, and Granger was busy Transfiguring her rickety spindle-back chair into something more comfortable. He noted her technique with interest, and nodded approvingly as she, with a final wave of her wand, got herself an upholstered, comfy chair.
"Good idea," he said, Transfiguring his own chair into something similar. Both of them gasped at the flick of his magic, executed in a blink of an eye, and Potter became stone-faced.
"What?" he said, "did I do something wrong?"
"Impressive," Harry said, "I never saw anyone use wandless and wordless magic like this, except…" The name was left unsaid, but it was obvious.
Voldemort felt like rolling his eyes, but said politely: "I grew up doing mostly wandless magic, but I got myself a wand this week. It's nice, but I'm not sure I need it for everyday magic."
Harry relaxed a little, and then the door banged open, a tea tray came in, and after the tray the large, gangly figure of Ronald Weasley entered. Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw Granger stiffen. It was like that for the moment, eh? he thought with satisfaction.
"Here it is," he said, putting it down on the table. Turning to Voldemort, he gave a tentative smile, and stretched out his hand. "Ronald Weasley, how do you do?"
Voldemort rose from his chair, grasped his hand and shook it, and said politely: "Tom Marvolo Voldemort Riddle. How do you do?"
Harry blushed in his chair, and stammered: "Sorry for being so impolite, I never greeted you properly." He rose, and they shook hands over the table.
Granger took charge of the tea things, pouring him, Harry and herself steaming cups, pointedly leaving Weasley out. Voldemort nodded a thank you to her, giving her an admiring look that made a faint blush creep up her neck. Susceptible, he thought, pleased with himself as he sipped his tea.
Clearing his throat, he said, putting an earnest expression on his face: "I guess you have read my story. The reason why I wanted to meet with you, is merely to say thank you. You saved Britain, but also myself and my mother from our life as refugees. I also wanted to tell you, since I'm planning to stay in Britain for a while, that I have absolutely no hard feelings for the death of my father, quite the opposite. And I hope, sincerely, that you won't hold my origins against me, when the truth is my mother was forced and seduced by my father."
"Of course not," Granger said, her suspicious, sharp eyes suddenly transforming into warm pools of molten chocolate. He had read about her need to defend things, and almost smiled to himself of how she would look if she knew she gave her protection to Lord Voldemort.
Potter looked confused and uncertain, looking to Granger for guidance, and it fit perfectly with his research: Harry Potter went by his instincts, and his instincts were good. Still, he had been rather easy to fool for his old, decrepit snake-like self, what with the Battle of the Ministry debacle. He, of course, would be infinitively better and more convincing than his former self. Harry Potter would come around, he was sure. Weasley just nodded, seeming to be rather carefree and trusting.
Assessing them, he determined that Granger indeed would be his way into the Golden Trio, like he had initially thought, but she was also the one most likely to find him out. Young Potter wouldn't be a real threat. Weasley seemed like a trusting, nice enough fellow, but him famously abandoning Potter and Granger in the woods, plus the stormy, very public relationship with the brilliant Granger spoke of someone with quite a lot of temper. Voldemort risked a quick peek into Weasley's mind, and he almost wanted to shout in glee. The man was a veritable treasure of insecurities, anger and lack of willpower and concentration. He'd be the perfect gunpowder to the Trio, if Voldemort lit the fuse.
First, he needed to find out how to seduce Granger away from her boyfriend. It was important to find out if Granger was a girl who would appreciate a man who was out and about, or if that would be a turn-off for her. For now, he decided he would have to get his pleasures while glamoured, to make sure he didn't botch something with her at this early stage. Or, he speculated, would his own tension due to a lack of release make him more intense and believable to her? Really, it depended on how observant she was. As for now, he rather thought she didn't miss much.
And, right on cue, she asked: "Your English is perfect, really, one would think you had grown up in this country."
He nodded, saying: "I have a knack for languages. I'm fluent in French, German, Italian, Portuguese and Arabic, and I do passably well in Mandarin, Japanese, Tibetan, Russian and Finnish."
Granger looked stunned, saying: "How do you do that? Do you read in these languages too?"
He arched an eyebrow at her, answering: "Of course! That's the whole point, isn't it, to read magical texts without anything getting lost in translation spells. And, it's very useful for travelling and staying in different parts of the world."
She perked up, questioning: "You read a lot?"
"Definitively," he said, letting his eyes rest too long on her. "I read all the time."
Giving him the first, real smile, she replied: "Me too. I love to read."
Weasley snorted, and said contemptuously to her: "Maybe you should get together to read, then."
She bristled, but he took charge of the situation by beaming to Weasley: "It's a brilliant idea! Do you read a lot too?"
The ears of the young man reddened, and he mumbled: "Not really. More of a sports guy, myself."
"Ah. You play Quidditch very well, right? I think I read about that."
"Obviously you read about it," the young Weasley snorted, but he couldn't help giving Voldemort a pleased look. Enjoys flattery, Voldemort duly noted.
"So, you've read about the things that happened here?" Potter asked, still looking guarded.
He sobered his expression, and said: "I wanted to know what happened. I've read all the biographies on my father that exists." Adding wryly, he murmured: "And also some that probably shouldn't have existed."
At that, Granger snorted, and she said humorously: "I assume you're talking about Antonin Dolohov's My Life with the Dark Lord?"
His mouth twisted, and he said, failing at hiding his displeasure at the mention of that dratted book: "Yes. It was an awful read. Who knew the man even knew his letters, the way he behaved?" Belatedly, he added: "According to other sources, he was positively brutal and stupid."
His slip went unnoticed, as Potter grinned, saying: "I've heard he dictated it in Azkaban. There are some people who volunteer to visit the Death Eaters, and there was a girl who wrote down his rantings."
Voldemort quirked his eyebrow, saying: "Poor girl. Why would anyone go to Azkaban, anyways?"
Potter shrugged, and told him with an earnest look: "I did. To get some closure. It was good to see them all behind bars. Maybe you should, too?"
He almost gaped at Potter, before the hilarity of the idea almost bowled him over. Forcing his eyes down, so the Trio didn't see the mischievous amusement dancing in his eyes, he mumbled: "Maybe you're right. I don't know if they trust me enough to let me through, though."
They were quiet for a while, Potter still fiddling with his ring. Then he took a deep breath, like he had made a momentous decision, and looked him straight in the eyes: "I would like to invite you to dinner. Come over on Friday at seven, and you too, of course," he motioned at Granger and Weasley.
Voldemort almost exulted, and he let the emotion through in a wide grin. "Why, thanks!" he said, genuinely pleased. "I'm flattered."
Granger nodded imperceptibly at Potter, and he could see the young man's relief at her approval. Granger was influential. She might be pretty, but she was no easy pushover. He would have to deal with her like the formidable, albeit sexy enemy she was. His cock twitched in anticipation, as Granger gave him a long look.
