Title: You Know Who?

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

Rating: T

Characters: Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in Deathly Hallows.

Pairing: Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means Voldemort, not Tom Riddle).

Summary: What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

Author's Notes: The tenth chapter of the rewrite. There are quotes from The Tales of Beadle the Bard, Chamber of Secrets and Half-Blood Prince in this chapter. I hope you all enjoy the confrontation scene. We're finally getting into the swing of things in this chapter, which is probably why it's just poured out me so fast! Let's just say I've been waiting a long time to pull out some Lovecraftian adjectives. I could have posted this the day before yesterday if the story editor hadn't chosen to start sending me error messages! Grrr!

An issue with the Basilisk: well, in the novel, Harry hears the Basilisk complaining about being really hungry. But the only person it ever killed was Myrtle. In the film we see Myrtle's body covered with a sheet, her hand sticking out. Well, my point is, didn't the Basilisk, you know, eat Myrtle? In fact, why didn't the Basilisk just eat the petrified people if it was that hungry? Do they not taste nice? Or maybe it was just senile and weak from starvation…

Anyway, the Horcrux wiki states that the Horcruxes were destroyed in the order which they had been created and the Myrtle was killed for the first Horcrux. During The Half-Blood Prince we discover that a) Riddle was wearing Morfin's ring when he asked Slughorn about Horcruxes and b) Dumbledore believes that Hepzibah Smith was the next person Tom Riddle killed since his family. So Myrtle had to have been killed before Riddle. Therefore, Tom Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets in 1942, when he was fifteen, and continued into 1943 after his sixteenth birthday in December; Myrtle was killed in early June, just before the end of the school year when Tom asks to stay at Hogwarts during the summer, but is refused, and he kills the Riddles in the summer holidays (which is interesting, no?). This means when Tom asks Slughorn about Horcruxes – in what must be his sixth year – he has two already under his belt, which doesn't make too much sense, really, and certainly doesn't explain Tom's euphoria at the end of the scene when Slughorn tells him nothing he doesn't already know. So, in my version, Tom asks Slughorn about Horcruxes before going home for the holidays in 1943 and so doesn't have the ring.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, all your speculations about Hermione's fate prompted me to get this one written down as fast as I could!

Chapter Ten: The Girl on the Bathroom Floor

It's dark and shadowed inside the tent – the lamps have gone out. Voldemort flings me onto the rug as he strides off into his room. Crouching on the floor, I dare not make a sound, dare not move. I've seen him kill effortlessly and I know now that that deadly impulse is on a hair trigger. One word wrong and I could be dead. The tent thrums with violent magic waiting to be unleashed, the air charged like the prelude to a thunderstorm. I can see the Dark Lord, framed through the half-open door. His white fingers snatch up a glass bottle from beside his bunk and he tips his head back and drains its entire contents. I flinch as he slams it down on the dresser, before picking up a second bottle and draining that too. He sets the second bottle down gently beside the first, as if the pressure of his long fingers might shatter its fragile glass. Voldemort exhales: a sad, prolonged, almost-sigh. And finally, inevitably, turns back to me.

I'm in the eye of the storm; I can feel it, the terrible calm in the centre of a hurricane. He stands in the doorway, towering above me, the cat-like pupils of his red eyes more dilated than I have ever seen them, almost wide enough to appear normal if you didn't look too close. Then he walks past me, slowly, seating himself in an armchair and a bony index finger points very deliberately to the seat opposite. His eyelids droop as if falling asleep but his left hand is wrapped rigidly around his yew wand. His bottom lip is dark with dried blood. He's taken all the Calming Draught I gave him, it dawns on me, enough Calming Draught to knock out a troll. He doesn't want to lose control and have another vision.

It's like being back in Arthur Weasley's garage: alone in the darkness with that strange, waxen-faced creature staring at me fixedly. But now I'm the one with no wand and no idea what will happen. The livid, hypnotic eyes give nothing away. I realise that I haven't been learning how to read his expressions at all: he's been showing me more. The serpentine exterior I've been trying to see past is suddenly all I can see, a snake waiting to strike. I'm going to die. The only sound I can hear is our breathing.

"Why do you deserve to live?" he asks me again, softly.

"I…" I cast about madly for the right answer. "I…"

Silence. He watches me with that terrible blank expression, frozen as if his flat face were carved from ivory.

"I never broke my promise! I promised to aid you to the best of my ability and I have!" It comes out of my mouth in a half-hysterical rush.

No reaction.

"I've told you before: I lied to Harry and Ron, not you. They don't know about the vow I took or… or anything about…" I wave my hands helplessly at our surroundings, "… this! I couldn't keep you contained if I tried! We both know that!"

The cold features are unmoving, but Voldemort's ruby eyes have a dangerous glitter. I'm saying the wrong things. What does he want me to say? What does he think I've done? "If this is about Ron k-kissing me, you're being ridiculous, because I-!"

"Hermione..." His word startles me, making me shrink back, his high voice absolutely calm. "My patience is wearing thin." His wand twitches in his left hand. I'm suddenly aware of an odd tapping noise, like the beating of a tiny, metal heart. I look down. Slytherin's locket is reaching toward its true owner. Slitted red eyes fix on the striving locket and Voldemort puts my wand into his pocket and extends a hand, almost as if afraid of the necklace. I hold my breath. His pale hand looks faintly blue in the dimness as it closes around the golden locket. Nothing happens. Lord Voldemort tilts his head, staring at the object clutched in his right hand. The livid eyes close for a few long seconds, as though affected by its touch. Then the predatory gaze is once again fixed on me and I scream as he suddenly yanks his hand backward, pulling me out of my chair by the neck, onto the book-laden coffee table, scattering tomes everywhere. I thrash, choking, trying desperately to escape the golden noose.

The cold voice is right next to my ear, intimate, making me go still with fear: "I'm going to kill you now, Hermione Granger…" He pulls away and his wand brushes almost tenderly through my hair. Tears are streaming down my face. I'm sorry Harry. Ron… I'm sorry… There's nothing more I can do. The cruel eyes regard me coldly, far above. You idiotic know-it-all, a voice which sounds very much like Professor Snape echoes through my mind, you really thought you could change the Dark Lord? There's no mercy in those crimson eyes, no trace of the shattered man who'd begged me to stay with him forever, the broken thing I'd seen on the floor of the Riddle House. I should have headed the warning Professor Dumbledore left me. The Headmaster's sad voice joins Professor Snape's: The maiden in the story dies, Miss Granger. It is beyond help.

No! I refuse to accept this! "S-stop!" I splutter weakly, "Please! I'll tell you… I'll tell you everything… please!"

Voldemort's glaring eyes narrow, but he lets go of the locket. I curl up on the table, gulping air into my lungs. He sits back down in his armchair, regarding me with cool disdain. "Speak."

"You asked me…" I draw deep breaths, bright spots drifting across my vision, "You asked me if I knew what caused your transformation…"

L.V.H.G

I lean forward, curious despite myself. An answer to the question which had so preoccupied me was worth letting her live a few minutes more. "Yes?"

She clutches the locket in a shaking hand, "This… t-this did. You split your soul… Tore it apart and hid it in objects like this one, so no one could kill you. And… and each time you did it a p-piece of your humanity got ripped away. It's why you survived when your curse backfired on you when you tried to kill Harry and it's why you look like a monster… You broke one of the Fundamental Laws of Magic…" I can see she's struggling to fight down sobs, "Before you showed up in my bedroom, I was going to obliviate my parents… so they wouldn't remember me. They w-were going to move to Australia to be safe… I h-had it all… all planned… because of you. You don't understand who you are. You're the most feared wizard who ever lived... the Dark Lord… everyone refers to you as You-Know-Who because they're afraid that if they even speak your name something terrible will happen. When the Burrow was attacked by the Ministry, it was because your servants had taken it over… They're not hunting you any more: they're hunting me and my friends. You're now the de facto ruler of magical Britain. And my friends are trying to hunt down and destroy the objects which contain pieces of your soul, so that they can kill you. So you'll stop killing people… And I thought… I thought if I agreed to help you, I could learn… where you've hidden the rest of your Horcruxes…" The tears finally spill down her cheeks as I stare at her numbly. "But all I've learnt is… is that I don't want anyone to die, not even you…" It is too many answers all at once. "I thought I could change you… if… if you didn't regain the rest of your memories maybe I could stop you from… from wanting to…" She breaks off, overcome; sprawled across the table in a heap, bawling into her mess of hair.

My love, you are the most powerful, and the most feared, wizard in Europe – or so you have told me, and I have seen enough to believe your words. I had been too distracted to heed Nagini's words, thinking of myself as a fugitive rather than a lord. I hadn't given the servants she'd mentioned much thought. I'd thought of them like a cell of magical terrorists, hunted by the Ministry of Magic and the vigilante group to which Hermione belonged. The ruler of magical Britain? I'd been applying completely the wrong scale to the situation I'd found myself in. I can't say it's an unpleasant development, but it makes me wary, horribly concious of my lack of knowledge.

The haze the Calming Draught exerts over my senses gives me little idea of how to proceed. Hermione Granger had been intending to betray me… but she changed her mind. Her actions had been motivated by… by altruism? I'm standing over her, staring at her shivering body. Her fear… I don't regret my actions – it is her fault for deceiving me. But I do wish… I do wish it had not come to this. I am suddenly conscious of the fact that I have not slept for a very long time. In this state of weariness, I can very well believe myself to be a septuagenarian. Hermione's quiet whimpering draws me in and I move toward her as if in a dream. Should I still kill her for her lies?

It would be a waste, I think. Perhaps… perhaps Hermione could still be the Hermione I wanted? My memories come to me: nightmarish, horrifying memories; memories with no one who would lay down their life for me out of anything but fear, no one who wished me to succeed… where I could depend on no one but myself. But Hermione had stepped in front of me, tried to shield me from the Dementors, just as she had protected me from Alastor Moody and Harry Potter. It was the same choice I had on the road to my father's house… and I found myself reaching the same conclusion: Hermione Granger deserved another chance to prove her loyalty to me. If anyone in the world deserved my mercy, she did. The girl deserved to live. I... I don't want her to die. To my surprise, a string of golden light flickers around my left hand, as though my magic were confirming my decision; my magic… the magic which had brought me to Hermione in the first place. Yes, the shimmering glow told me, she has kept her promise.

I bend down over the spent, whimpering girl, smoothing back the bushy hair to reveal her wet face. "Very well…" I whisper. "I believe you. Traitorous though your motivations were… you were faithful to the vow you made to me." Her mouth drops open in shock – this is clearly not what she expected to hear. "And, as long as this is so, you - Hermione Granger – shall live. You have Lord Voldemort's word." My magic leaps, almost eagerly, once more around my left wrist. Hermione jumps when she hears the name. We both fall silent, listening, but there are no sounds coming from outside the tent. In that moment I had quite forgotten about the Taboo, but either my protective spells are strong enough to allow me to use my name with impunity, or I am immune to the ritual's effects, as Hermione had theorised. I find I do not care – it is empowering to use my name, to affirm the identity I had lost. Lord Voldemort, the ruler of magical Britain…

Hermione's face breaks into a sad grin that is in no way a smile, but a tight, exhausted rictus – a symptom of weary relief rather than pleasure. What will make her trust my decision? I pull her wand out from my pocket and offer it to her, handle first as if I were surrendering a sword. She takes it tentatively, clearly wary. "I'm…" she says at last, sitting up and wiping her nose, avoiding my eyes, "I'm… g-going to go and h-have a shower, if that's a-all right...?"

I have a brief image of her naked shape, surrounded by water, her hair slicked back and the scent of strawberries drifting on the steam. If only she had not lied! I will have to begin again with her from scratch. I reach for the locket, still around her neck, and then stop, deciding to leave it with her. There could be no greater expression of trust. I nod stiffly, stepping aside. "I will see you in the morning and we shall talk further when we have both… recovered." I retreat to my own room, trying to weave together all that Hermione has told me. I do not want to sleep, but I find myself collapsing onto my bunk in any case, chancing remembrances in exchange for rest…

L.V.H.G

I let the water run and run, streaming over me. If this were a muggle shower, I'm sure I would have run out of hot water long ago. I had told Voldemort everything I'd been trying to hide from him. The only thing I hadn't told him were my suspicions about Harry, but I'm not ready to acknowledge that myself yet, not until I had proof. More than anything, the feel of the heat against my skin is proof that I'm still alive. I hug myself, squeezing my upper-arms, longing to bury myself in the embraces of my parents.

I can't stand it! I can't stand living on this knife's edge with a psychopath who is one moment proclaiming his care and threatening me with death in the next. I have no guide, no book which can help me. The only text provided is Dumbledore's ridiculous bequest. I'd read the stupid story so many times I could recite it:

'…The touch of her soft, white arms, the sound of her breath in his ear, the scent of her heavy gold hair: all pierced the newly awakened heart like spears. But it had grown strange during its long exile, blind and savage in the darkness to which it had been condemned and its appetites had grown powerful and perverse.

The guests at the feast had noticed the absence of their host and the maiden. At first untroubled, they grew anxious as the hours passed, and finally began to search the castle.

They found the dungeon at last, and a most dreadful sight awaited them there.

The maiden lay dead upon the floor, her breast cut open, and beside her crouched the mad warlock, holding in one bloody hand a great, smooth, shining scarlet heart, which he licked and stroked, vowing to exchange it for his own.

In his other hand, he held his wand, trying to coax from his chest the shrivelled, hairy heart. But the hairy heart was stronger than he was and refused to relinquish its hold upon his senses or return to the coffin in which it had been locked for so long.

Before the horror-struck eyes of his guests, the warlock cast aside his wand and seized a silver dagger. Vowing never to be mastered by his own heart, he hacked it from his chest.

For one moment the warlock knelt triumphant, with a heart clutched in each hand; then he fell across the maiden's body and died.'

That is the message Albus Dumbledore left for me, unless I'm completely missing the point. The warlock kills himself and the maiden in his denial of humanity.

I lean against the wall of the shower. I am alive! It's giddy, primal relief. My warlock spared me and as long as I keep my promise, he will continue to do so. I have bought Harry's life and my own. Tom Riddle should have been on tranquillisers long ago. But the thought of going on, of continuing to have to live with Voldemort – that terrifying wizard who power is matched only by his unpredictability, scares me. I try to think of one glimmer of hope in the story Professor Dumbledore had given me. The hairy heart was stronger than he was and refused to relinquish its hold upon his senses or return to the coffin in which it had been locked for so long… Maybe, even if Voldemort remembers everything, he will be unable to put aside the all too human needs his amnesia had unlocked? What am I doing? Looking for guidance in a story for children! And what did it mean that I had started to identify myself as the maiden to Voldemort's warlock? I feel so alone... I want my friends... I want my parents...

I peek out the crack in the shower curtain at the golden locket lying on the side of the basin. Voldemort let me keep it. It looks out of place there – gold and emeralds – next to my plastic hairbrush and tube of toothpaste. Now that I have the Horcrux, I can't destroy it even if I had the means to do so. I close my eyes, letting the water flow on, and try not to think about tomorrow.

L.V.H.G

…The twin serpents untwisted at my command, their emerald eyes seeming to glitter with pleasure at the presence of Slytherin's heir, opening the doorway to what must surely be the Chamber of Secrets. I would be the first wizard to set foot inside it since Salazar Slytherin himself! The wall broke smoothly apart and I held my wand aloft, trying to peer within.

Towering stone pillars were visible in the dim, greenish light, around which stone snakes curled upward toward a ceiling lost in darkness. My footsteps echoed loudly off the shadowy walls – the floor was smeared with murky water, supporting my suspicions that the chamber lay deep beneath the lake, much further beyond Hogwarts' dungeons. At the end of the columns was a colossal sculpture of Slytherin himself, carved from the same dark stone as the chamber; an ancient and powerful sorcerer in his sweeping robes. "Here I am ancestor…" I whispered hoarsely, overcome with emotion, offering myself to Slytherin, "your Heir… here I am…" The statue said nothing, immobile, continuing to stare down at me impassively. Perhaps Parseltongue might prove more effective? "Great Slytherin, it is I – your Heir – I have come at last." Nothing happened. I felt every bit a foolish, fifteen year-old boy. It was just a statue.

Then a strange rumbling began – something was moving up there. Slytherin's mouth slowly grated open as I waited, breathless, for him to speak. But no words came out of his mouth. An enormous bright green serpent was spilling from Slytherin's stone lips, winding down his robes toward the floor – its blunt head turning toward me. And before I knew it, I was gazing directly into the great, lamp-like eyes of a Basilisk. And I did not die. "Master!" it hissed, "Master, you have come!"

There were tears in my eyes, yet I was not ashamed of them. My knees went weak as the King of Serpents coiled about me, caressing me with its black tongue. It whispered "Master… Master…" to me and, for the first time in years, I experienced something which could only be described as happiness. "Let us kill, master… let us tear… rip… kill… I have been so hungry… for so long… kill, kill the mudbloods…" I climbed onto its back as it slithered out of the Chamber of Secrets, resting my head against the green scales…

…Secrets of the Darkest Art was very clear about how a Horcrux was created. I stood over the dead girl and immediately began casting the spells. Her worthless life would ensure my immortality. The bathroom door was locked. I clutched the diary very tightly in my right hand as Slytherin's serpent began devouring the girl, her bright muggle blood mixing with the water flooding the bathroom tiles. I began to feel a strange, hot pain, as if something inside me were being pulled apart like a seam of soft fabric. I almost stopped, but I knew that any break in the ritual might prove fatal. My fear drove me onward and I almost screamed as I began to leak strange, luminous strands from my mouth, nose and eyes, flowing down into the book. The diary trembled in my hands. The Basilisk chattered happily, satisfied with its meal while I clutched the book to my chest, gasping, much as I did when I was twelve.

I wrote in the diary for the rest of the year, confiding my experiences secure in the knowledge that no one could read it as my words were absorbed by the Horcrux. It was rather companionable, having another me to converse with. One day, it would lead others to the chamber, even if I had been temporarily forced to abandon Slytherin's noble purpose. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Albus Dumbledore watching me with a frown from the staff table. I couldn't believe that so much was made of the death of one useless Muggle-born second-year. There was even a ceremony. Armando Dippet gave a speech. I sat through it impassively, penning a satirical commentary to share with my Horcrux. No one could have been more horrified than me when the ghostly girl turned up at her own wake. I was sure her eyes would turn on me, that she would point me out among the crowd of students: that's the boy who killed me! But she never did. The only person she seemed interested in tormenting was Olive Hornby, to my extreme relief...

… Professor Slughorn was fingering his glass idly, as the rest of the students left. A wine-mellow smile lingered beneath his large moustache. I would never get a better opportunity to ask him what I needed to know. "Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away…"

I took a breath, carefully modulating my voice, "Sir, I wanted to know if you know about… about Horcruxes?" There. The words were out there, hanging between us. The professor stared at me, his small eyes wandering across the face I knew to be handsome and innocently inviting. Thick fingers caressed the stem of his glass and I knew my instincts had not failed me.

"Project for Defence Against the Dark Arts, is it?"

We both knew perfectly well that Professor Merrythought would never set such a topic. I was not foolish enough to take the excuse he had provided me with. "Not exactly, sir," I said, "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."

He nods, "No… well… you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom. That's very Dark stuff… very Dark stuff indeed…"

I angled my face in the candlelight, appearing very much the ignorant student asking for guidance, my dark eyes wide, my lips slightly parted: "But you obviously know all about them, sir?" I tripped over my words, carefully layering my flatteries, "I mean, a wizard like you – sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously – I just knew that if anyone could tell me, you could – so I just thought I'd ask –"

He looked away, his fingers moving from the stem of his glass to the satin ribbon on the box of confectionary I'd given him, twisting it up and rubbing it between his digits. "Well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course, just so you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul." I wondered whether he was aware his fingers were still tangled up with the ribbons.

"I don't quite understand how that works though, sir." I glanced at the floor, as if embarrassed for not having understood. As if I didn't have a Horcrux among my possessions in the Slytherin boys' dormitory. I know now the professor is going to tell me, that he has the information I need. I wondered if he would ever acknowledge to himself how attracted to me he really was.

"Well, you split your soul, you see, and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But… of course… existence in such a form… few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."

Naturally, Slughorn would never take such a risk. His crawling cowardice showed in his plump face as he winced at his words. But I… I was not afraid. "How do you split a soul?" I'm almost there, almost at the point when I can ask the question I really want to know.

"You must understand that that soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."

Blah, blah… get to the point. A few more necessary questions to deflect suspicion and I would have my answer. "But how do you do it?"

"By an act of evil – the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: he would encase the torn portion –"

"Encase? But how –?" I interrupted him, not wanting or needing a lecture on the procedure itself, but trying to appear curious despite my growing impatience.

The professor shook his head and I realise I may have appeared too eager, too theatrical in my mendacity. I have offended him. "There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know! Do I look like I have tried to do it – do I look like a killer?"

"No, sir, of course not," I tried to amend my mistake – to have come so close only to make such a blunder! "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to offend…" Please, I must know… I must know…

"Not at all, not at all, not offended," he mumbled stiffly, but I saw the hurt in his eyes. He was more concerned with my opinion of him than the motivations behind my eagerness. Shallow. "It's natural to feel some curiosity about these things… wizards of a certain calibre have always been drawn to that aspect of magic." Dark magic, you mean, professor?

"Yes, sir," I agreed. Now, for my question: "What I don't understand, though…" take it slowly, use his word, "just out of curiosity – I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once?" I paused, as if the query was of no moment to me and I had to stop to consider how to formulate it. "Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces? I mean… for instance… isn't seven the most powerful magical number, wouldn't seven –?"

"Merlin's beard, Tom!" Professor Slughorn yelped. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And, in any case… bad enough to divide the soul… but to rip it into seven pieces…" It was possible! Whatever his feeble morals, he had confirmed my theory. It was possible to divide the soul more than once. But he's gazing at me with deep surprise and I can't help but wonder if he's suddenly become suspicious about the Chamber of Secrets incident. "Of course, this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic…"

"Yes, sir, of course," I said quickly, suddenly afraid.

Slughorn seemed to accept this, nodding his head as he shepherded me toward the door. "But all the same, Tom… Keep it quiet, what I've told – that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know… Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it…"

Typical Slughorn: more concerned with his own skin than with any suspicions he might have concerning my interest in Horcruxes. I was a student. I could report him the Board of Governors. In truth – when he laid a fat hand on my shoulder, giving it a fond squeeze, his cloying, pineapple scented breath in my ear – I could report him for more than our innocent little chat. "I won't say a word, sir!" I promised, grinning as soon as I turned away, hurrying out the office, unable to resist a small skip of excitement in the corridor… Six Horcruxes! It was possible!

I awaken to the distant patter of summer rain, the death, the diary, the professor and the serpent eddying in my thoughts. Cold, I retreat further beneath the blankets, closing my eyes. Where is the diary now, I wonder? At least I had been granted positive memories, for once… I feel restless; shifting beneath the covers, but have no desire to expose my skin to the cold air. The good memories have given me something else as well, and I reach a hand down to finger it. My thoughts stray to Hermione and my fingers begin to move instinctively:

…Hermione, her figure exposed… her soft skin made to be touched… her wonderful, wild hair everywhere like a maenad – fierce girl; strawberries, arousal, old books, and wilderness. I put my long fingers between her warm thighs, into her wetness, causing her to whimper softly as my other hand winds into her impossible hair… "Yes…" she whispers, "Voldemort, y-yes…"

…Voldemort...

I shudder, my eyes rolling a little before I shut them tight over my fantasy, increasing the movements of my hand. I let Hermione run rampant across my newly vivid memories: our bodies twining together under the shadow of Slytherin… Hermione visiting me in the boys' dormitory… a nervous smile on her face as she discards her robes… Hermione and I on Professor Slughorn's desk, the fat teacher lying dead on his plush carpet… Oh yes! I move inside her and she cries out again, knocking aside books, unmarked essays and discarded wine glasses… She's mine, now and forever… no one else will touch her… she's given herself to me… my… mine, not Potter's… never Potter's… mine… mine…! Hermione rushes through me like stars for a few lamentably short seconds and then is gone. My hand is cramping. I splay my fingers out and, shivering, remove the sticky substance clinging to the sheets with a flick of my left wrist, not wanting to touch the wand under my pillow until my hand is clean. I wonder if I have ever wanted anyone like this before, I suppose it does not matter, whoever they might have been they did not seek me out in the jungle of my past. Or perhaps this has never happened before. I would like that – it would make this feeling more unique.

Hermione and I are cautious with each other this morning. She is sitting on the sofa reading and eating toast whilst listening to the radio, when I finish in the bathroom. Carefully ignoring me.

"Oh my poor heart, where has it gone? It's left me for a spell…" the woman on the radio croons. Hermione shakes her head at the lyrics and turns a page. "…And now you've gone and torn it quite apart, I'll thank you to give back my heart!"

"Good morning," I wish her tentatively, irritated that her lies have resulted in my having to begin again on getting her to trust me. Nevertheless, I take care to make myself amenable. Soon, she will forget what happened.

"…Morning…" it's an awkward sound, as if she isn't quite sure how to fit her lips around it. Hermione shoots the radio an annoyed glance, "Um… I was… waiting for the news at nine…"

"That was Celestina Warbeck's nineteen-seventy-four hit, My Poor Heart. And now for the news…"

"You're listening to WWN at nine o'clock… Today the Ministry of Magic issued a further warning to the Wizarding Community to stay on the lookout for Mary Cattermole. Mrs Cattermole, a dangerous Muggle-born, is wanted for the brutal murder of the twelve aurors sent to arrest her in the Muggle village of Little Hangleton… Yesterday, terrorists broke into the Ministry of Magic and murdered two Ministry employees, whose names have not yet been released… Mrs Cattermole is believed to have been involved, along with Hermione Granger, another notorious Muggle-born and a known friend of the fugitive Harry Potter, who is still wanted for questioning about the death of Albus Dumbledore…"

Hermione waves her wand and the radio clicks off. "I hope she managed to get out of the country with her husband." She shoots me a nervy glance and then looks away. The locket is there, nestled between her breasts. I like the idea that a piece of my soul sits there. It is a sign, perhaps...

"Are you well rested?" I inquire, finding the words come out rather harshly.

Now she meets my eyes, "As well as can be expected," she answers coldly. "What did you dream of?"

"The Chamber of Secrets," I tell her, just as coolly, knowing she asks to deliberately unnerve me. I hate that it's time to think about food. Since I don't have cooking for her as incentive to make anything nice, I might as well eat anything, really. Perhaps I will simply have toasted bread, like her...?

"You almost killed me with that Basilisk, you know," Hermione states in a falsely conversational tone, "in my second year at Hogwarts."

What? "That is impossible," I tell her plainly "you were obviously at the school much later."

"No, your Horcrux diary possessed my friend Ginny, making her open the chamber and release the serpent. I'm a Muggle-born, so…" she gives an easy shrug. I think of the serpent's fangs sinking into the girl's flesh, but now the girl on the floor has bushy chestnut hair.

I know Hermione intended her remarks to wound, but I did not expect such a blow; a second-year… Hermione… my Hermione! She had almost never reached me, dead by my own actions. Now her invasion of my visions muddies them, turns them septic… Hermione's bright blood spilling out across the bathroom tiles… Hermione being swallowed down like dirty rags and cats' meat as I begin the Horcrux ritual, clutching the diary in my hand…For the first time, I regret my actions. After just coming to terms with the fact that I need Hermione, that killing her is... unacceptable... something in me begins to ache as though a door had suddenly been opened in my spirit. What, oh...! I draw back as though under attack as something terrible rushes through the opening. It claws into me… and I feel as though I am being turned inside out, pulled up toward an unknowable point with a vicious hook. There isn't enough breath in my lungs to even cry out in pain. I can feel something dripping from my mouth. For a moment, it is as if I am being ripped in twain and another hook joins the first, but first is stronger and it impales me completely, tearing me from the sharp barb of the second hook.

A child, raw skinned, its squamous arms flailing, a terrible eldritch keening, pain beyond pain… its red eyes – I scream, struggling to breathe, my arms are weak, small, I try to move – my skin is being flayed, the cold air drives into it like a thousand needles... the pain… blood everywhere… there is nothing but a wall of agony, of separation, as it pulls me toward it… craving… craving… I claw back at it, trying to force it to release me, to shut my magic against its terrible grasp, from this merciless, black vacuum of agony as it begins to slowly tear me from my body, a soft noise like the opening of a seam in a stretch of silk… NO!

Please, it begs soundlessly, its wretched eyes dripping despair, please, please, please, please…! And I recognise its long, fragile limbs, awful wounded skin, and its grotesque face – I've seen it reflected back at me in the mind of Peter Pettigrew – a helpless, ghastly fusion between infant and monster… I cease to struggle. The ripping sound ceases and I am falling out and into of blackness, falling with the thing's limbs wrapped tight around me…

L.V.H.G

By now, I'm used to seeing Lord Voldemort topple over, but this is different. He's clutching his chest and screaming, screaming as though he will never stop as he crumbles to the floor, his tall body curling into a foetal position. I rush over, trying to locate the source of this inexplicable collapse, unlike any other seizure I've seen before. Blood is gushing from his scarlet eyes like tears – dripping from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth, spreading out across the floor. I rush over to him, bathing my hands in hot blood to try and find a wound, but there is none. Voldemort has lost his voice, chocking on so much blood, his mouth open in a soundless wail as he struggles to breathe. Against my chest, I can feel the pounding metal heart of Slytherin's locket, beating wildly.

Dittany won't help – there's no wound to remedy. "Accio Blood-Replenishing Potion!" I can't even stem the blood flow, if I press my hands down on his face he won't be able to breathe. The heavy bottle flies out of my bag and into my hand and I pour it down Voldemort's throat, but it bubbles back up with the blood. I pour more in and hold his jaw shut, my hand over his mouth. The Dark Lord's limbs cease to thrash and his body goes limp in my arms. I give him another dose of potion, praying he can get enough air through his tiny slitted nostrils.

The blood is moving. It pools around us as if drawn by a strong tide. I scream, clutching Voldemort's body, pulling him away as something begins to congeal on the carpet, knitting itself together from the inside: bone, muscle and skin forming out of the glutinous liquid. A toothy maw appears in the mess and greedily swallows down Voldemort's blood as the thing grows larger and larger on its obscene diet.

Its movements are clumsy as it thrashes its over-long limbs helplessly. It makes a pitiful noise, flapping uselessly in the blood that had nourished it. A small, naked child struggling for breath on the floor – it looks as if its skin has been ripped from it, leaving raw flesh open to the air, trying to come toward us and I realise with deep shock that I recognise its desperate red eyes.

I levitate Lord Voldemort into the air and into his room. He's stopped bleeding, but I don't know if he has enough blood in his body to survive. I give him another dose and charm away the red staining almost his entire body. When I'm satisfied he's stable, I walk back into the other room, keeping my distance from the grotesque thing with Lord Voldemort's eyes. It continues to try to shuffle closer to me, but its frail arms cannot shift the weight of its body. I have to swallow down the bile that rises in my throat just looking at it. My instincts scream to flee from it. Gryffindor, I steady myself, Gryffindor, you are a Gryffindor, Hermione, and you can do this. The thing hisses pitifully at me and I know what it wants. It wants me to pick it up. Disturbingly, it makes the same sad, keening noises I heard Voldemort make when he broke down that night in Little Hangleton. Hagrid would pick it up. I think to myself, Hagrid would say it was beautiful… But Hagrid thinks giant spiders and Blast-Ended Skrewts are cute… Oh, Merlin's pants!

I grit my teeth – Gryffindor! – and put my hands around its sticky body, trying not to look at it. It raises its thin arms around my neck and gurgle-hisses at me like an infant, still struggling. It wants Voldemort, that much is obvious.

"Hermione?" the Dark Lord calls weakly from the other room, "Hermione?" I carry the thing into his room. The red eyes go wide when he sees it and he flinches away from its horrible visage. I push it unceremoniously into his arms, glad to be rid of it. He looks as if he might protest, but in his weakened state all he can do is stare in surprise as the creature snuggles into him, hissing softly into his black robes. It's like some perverted scene of mutant mother and child.

"What is it?" I whisper, staring at it as it closes its livid eyes.

"It's…" Voldemort's high voice breaks over the words, "It's… my diary."

Next Chapter: Hermione and Voldemort have to deal with the small addition to their ranks and Hermione begins to see what she has to do.