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 twelfth chapter of the rewrite. So we are officially caught up with the original in terms of chapter numbers! Yay! This one has an excerpt from Goblet of Fire and it's probably my favourite memory thus far, mainly because it was one of my favourite scenes in the book and rewriting it from Voldemort's perspective was great fun. One helpful reviewer raised a good question about rating. Currently the story is T, but I didn't tick the "romance" box for nothing – so yes, at some point things will likely get physical. On the other hand, I feel that any intimacy I write will probably be less graphic than most of the crazy violence that's already happened: pools of blood shaping into horrible creatures, graphic beheading, killing people with spells, boiling things to death, etc… The ratings guide wasn't very helpful, so I ask you all a question: what intimacy ought to be permitted, in your view, under a 'T' rating? Or should my tale go higher simply based on the violence? The ratings guide inform me that 'T' is for people over 13, but the next restriction is at 16 and I feel that's too high. And then there's people taking 7 year-olds to Deathly Hallows Part One, so I've got no clue what's appropriate for my story. What do you guys think? Anyway, that aside, a lot of things have been building up in preparation for this chapter, so I hope you all enjoy it! As always, thank you so, so much to everyone who left a review - it's such a kick to know people are really getting into this story. You guys are brilliant! :)

Chapter Twelve: Snakes and Unicorns

A man with dark eyes, a large hooked nose, and a thin, sallow face bows to me, disturbing my reunion with Nagini. Although his black gaze is respectful, there is a strange intensity to his stare which I do not like. Who is this? I ask Nagini, ignoring the man, unsure of what to say. In silently questioning my serpent, my mind slips behind her eyes for a moment and I see the colour of the man's heat against the cool corridor, the slight movements of his stillness, and his smell: sweat, oil, herbs, dead things, wet soil, and old parchment.

"This human is Severus Snape, my master, my beloved, one of your most faithful servants – or so you have said."

Severus Snape waits impassively for Nagini to finish speaking before regaining my attention. "What news, Severus?" I ask, "Has all been done as I commanded?" It would seem an obvious question. I begin to walk in the other direction, Severus Snape at my side, not wanting him to hear Hermione in the kitchen. I am not at all nervous as I thought I would be: I could easily kill this Severus should he suspect something.

"The Ministry is yours, my Lord… but we did not take the boy…" his breath hitches slightly, as though worried about my reaction to this information. "The Order disguised many of their number as Potter, by the time we had discovered the right one it was too late." I can scent the fear rising off him.

"Such failure, Severus…" I admonish softly, remembering Hermione's directions. Although I had replied to her half in jest, I cannot help but experience a cold rush of anticipation as I twirl my wand between my fingers. We gaze at each other and his dark eyes widen with some indefinable emotion as I point my wand at him, flicking my vicious intent toward him. He lets out a single, hoarse cry and then his jaw snaps shut, his black-cloaked body stumbling sideways, before dropping to his knees before me. "Yes… yes…" Nagini chuckles into my ear, "if not that girl… may I eat him, master?"

I lift the curse from Severus Snape, causing him to shiver, "Lord Voldemort expects better from you in future," I inform him pointedly, enjoying myself. I like the way his body trembles as he attempts to repress his fear.

"Thank you," he whispers softly, his left hand reaching forward to bring the edge of my robes to his lips, "you are a merciful lord…" He looks up at me as though searching for something, his black eyes strangely blank. "Shall we call the others, my Lord?" There is an edge to his voice now. It makes sense that after so long an absence, I would want to receive news from my servants. It is a risk… Tom requires the venom… yet I do not wish to forfeit my position because of this accident I have suffered. There is time enough for this. I am Lord Voldemort, after all. Despite what I told Hermione, it would be waste to let this pass. Besides, I like his deference, this respectful awe preceded by terror. Ruler of magical Britain…

"Yes, Severus, let us call them." I instruct him. Snape nods behind his dark oily hair and draws back the sleeve of his robe, revealing an old reddish tattoo on his left forearm: a snake issuing from the mouth of a skull. I am reminded of the Basilisk sliding out of the mouth of the great statue of Salazar Slytherin, and it surprises me not at all that I would choose to brand my followers with a symbol inspired by my noble ancestor. Serpent-tongued… But Snape seems to be waiting for me to do something. How do I call them? I ask Nagini, perplexed.

You touch the Dark Mark, master, she is concerned. You should not have returned if your mind is still injured, my lord… they will sense it!

I do not like how Snape's eyes assess me as he waits, his arm outstretched. Reaching my hand forward, I press my fingers onto his skin, despite Nagini's warning, an exulting recklessness coursing through me. I will not cower and draw back in front of this man. The tattoo flushes black as though newly inked. And I can feel them… my servants… spread out across Europe, feel their sharp collective intake of breath as the mark which unites them all begins to burn, feeling the adrenalin – the excitement, the terror – that pounds in the veins beneath their tattoos. I sigh into the sensation as Severus Snape grinds his crooked teeth in pain.

I reluctantly draw my fingers away.

L.V.H.G

Just looking at Professor Snape infuriates me. Voldemort is, frankly, insane and it's hard to feel angry at someone who is so clearly missing so much of his mind. It's horror and pity that I feel for him. Something else too… something unquantifiable… But Snape, who I had always defended to Ron and Harry even though he was a horrible teacher who frequently insulted me; I tried to make sure they called him professor and not a number of insulting nicknames he fully deserved. I felt guilty for suspecting him in first year, after I found out he was a spy – a hero, I thought. But he betrayed the Order of the Phoenix and murdered Professor Dumbledore… and now here he is: bowing and scraping to Lord Voldemort. It fills me with disgust. The Horcrux trembles in its sling, as though it can sense my fury. I don't know what to feel when Voldemort casts a non-verbal Cruciatus Curse on Snape. At first, I think he deserves it… but however much I hate him, he deserves Azkaban, not this torture. Watching Voldemort slip so easily back into the man I've heard Harry describe scares me. Is he just acting, or is he really enjoying this? I want to get him out of here as soon as possible: we have Nagini, we should leave.

But it's obvious how someone like Voldemort could desire this ghastly homage. As Professor Snape bends down to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes, I can see the red eyes glitter with pleasure. Here is something far more addictive than Calming Draught. The absolute worst thing for him is people to encourage his disturbed view of the world. I've made some headway in convincing him that he's suffering from a mental disorder, that he needs to listen to me when I tell him the right and wrong things to do, but that could all be lost if he spends time with Death Eaters who will flatter him and accept his psychotic behaviour.

The Horcrux – Tom – shuffles again in my arms, flailing and wriggling about in the sling. I consider giving him… it some Calming Draught, but I don't know if it would be able to digest it. It's difficult to keep a grip on the struggling creature, but eventually I manage to persuade it to calm down, hugging it close and patting it, trying not to look at it too closely. I glance up: Voldemort, Nagini, and Snape have vanished.

Panicking, I rush to the door, looking down the empty hall for any sign of them: the sweep of a cloak or the sound of footsteps. Where have they gone? "Don't worry," I whisper to it, probably more to reassure myself than anyone else and combat my mounting alarm, "we'll find him." My charm is beginning to wear off, as – to my surprise – the creature in my arms gives a soft hiss, as though he understands me. I'd fallen into thinking about the thing like a normal baby which was, I realise, rather silly. But it gives me an idea. "Hey…" I sing quietly, rocking it, "you're a Horcrux, mm?" It becomes agitated at the word 'Horcrux'. "Yes, so you're very, very clever and can tell me which way he's gone, can't you?" I peel back the black material to reveal the flayed, ugly little face staring up at me, ruby eyes blinking. I free one of the sad, delicate arms, only half as thick as my wrist and barely able to support the weight of the long-fingered, skeletal hand. "There we go… now… can you point me which way the Dark Lord went?"

It looks at me blankly. Right, well it was worth a –

"Ss… olsss…" it suddenly opens its mouth, struggling to achieve even a whisper, "o… ol… e… morssss…" Its red eyes are gazing at me determinedly, and through the blankets I can feel its weak chest heaving, struggling to capture enough air to speak. The face is turning from oddly blue to almost purple. I think the Horcrux is trying to say 'Voldemort', but is almost incapable of producing human sounds. I've no idea if the Taboo is active in this place, so it's not such a bad thing he can't say it.

"Yes," I nod encouragingly, "yes, can you sense where he is?"

The hand I freed raises itself tremblingly, its soft bones painfully clear, and the raw fingers point to the locket around my neck. In all of this craziness, I'd forgotten I was still wearing it. "Um… well, yes… that's right… good boy… er… Tom…" I'm beginning to question my sanity, trying to use a Horcrux as a Voldemort-seeking device. "Anywhere else?"

The hand falls, the arm too exhausted to raise it up again so soon, but the fingers spasm, twitching to the left: back the way we came. "Or… o… e… morsss…" it babbles insistently.

"Thank you," I tell it – giving the Horcrux a pat – still not wanting to actually touch it, "you're very helpful."

L.V.H.G

I put my fingers to the window, sliding them down the cold glass. I do not like the contrast of this brightly-lit room with the darkness outside, it makes it difficult to see the figures hurrying down the path toward the house. Severus Snape stands a respectable distance from me, his eyes on the floor. It is a beautiful room: darkly purple carpet and exquisite antique furniture. A large crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, throwing light onto the faces of those attending me. They stand attentive and, whereas Severus Snape's eyes are elsewhere, they watch me. A man with a pointed features and long pale hair brushed back from his face stands beside a blonde woman with high cheekbones. Behind them is a boy, perhaps a little younger than my Hermione, with the same pointed face and grey eyes. It is easy to discern that this is their home from their resemblance to the many portraits decorating the hallway. All of them are very nervous. There is one other with them, a woman with dark curls and darker eyes beneath heavy lids, as well as the same high cheekbones as the blond woman… perhaps a cousin or a sister? Whereas the others stare with thinly-veiled fear, her black eyes shine with a curious lustre. There is an obvious do-not-speak-until-spoken-to rule in effect, which works to my advantage. The dark-haired woman opens he lips to speak, but a glare from me and her mouth closes.

Although I cannot see her, the thought of Hermione's presence calms me. I step away from the window towards the long polished table and the marble fireplace in front of which Nagini coils comfortably. A gilded mirror hangs above the mantle and I gaze into it, watching myself and the cloaked and masked figures tramping into the room behind me. The firelight flickers in my scarlet eyes, lending them a shifting orange glow I rather like. The heat of the flames feels wonderful against my skin. I wait until the room is full of black-cloaked figures and then turn. As I turn away from the mirror, the entire room bows low in reverence.

I smile.

L.V.H.G

I don't try to sneak into the room – it's far too crowded with Death Eaters. What is Voldemort doing? There appears to be a full-on meeting about to begin – it's crazy! We should have picked up Nagini and fled. From what he's told me, Voldemort has remembered very little of his Death Eaters. His memories seem to have been focused around his most painful recollections of his youth and exile. I creep outside, careful not to make too much noise. From the gardens I can see the diamond-pained window into the drawing room shining in the darkness. The estate is protected by the Fidelius Charm – those inside will be trusting no one can spy on them. I adjust the Horcrux in my arms and set my sights on a pretty wooden loveseat beside the fountain. I check that no one is outside in a position to see what I'm about to do. "Wingardium Leviosa!" the bench rises into the air and glides slowly along, settling below the window on top of the rose-beds; the perfect height for me to listen in on the Death Eater meeting.

I step up onto the bench, peering through the glass. Visible over the heads of the Death Eaters by virtue of his imposing height, Voldemort is at the far end of the room cast into silhouette by the fireplace. But his high voice carries easily across the room with a chilling clarity. "…And so, what have you achieved in the absence of Lord Voldemort?"

Deep, uncomfortable silence – and then a sound I remember from the Department of Mysteries: the childish, grating voice of Bellatrix Black. "I have placed the Imperius Curse on Gawain Robards, my Lord," she gloats and I can hear her heels on the carpet, although I cannot see her. "Although Yaxley is dead, we are still in complete control of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Voldemort is silent for a moment – perhaps mentally communicating with Nagini – and then: "And why is Yaxley not with us tonight, Bella?"

"Harry Potter's mudblood girlfriend Granger, Master," if she only knew that it was actually Voldemort who killed Yaxley. I think of his head, resting beside the cabinet, staring at me and cannot repress a shudder. My eyes shift back to Voldemort who paces murderously. "She will pay, my Lord, I swear it. I'll rip her mudblood–"

"Silence!" Voldemort hisses in fury. "I will dispose of Hermione Granger myself. She has earned that… honour." A low chuckle runs around the room. In fact, Voldemort has just ensured that if any Death Eaters find me, they will capture rather than kill me. But the Dark Lord is still mad – even at this distance, I can almost feel the dark crackle of his magic. Oh no… I try to will Voldemort to keep calm, but that explosive temper is in full swing. He raises his wand. "You will not touch–!"

I almost lose my footing on the bench as the Horcrux suddenly begins to thrash and I miss Voldemort's head hit the carpet as I wobble on the loveseat, trying to regain my balance. Bellatrix Black immediately rushes to his side. "Cissy!" she cries, "Cissy, help me wake him!" The two women cast all manner of re-enervative spells, some of which I memorise for future use, but to no avail. The Death Eaters are all talking loudly, unsure of what is wrong with their master. Bellatrix and Professor Snape eventually pick him up – the witch at his head and Snape lifting his feet – and carry him out of the room. Probably using a charm to lift him would be disrespectful.

I jump off the bench and almost reach the door before I realise that it's very possible that Voldemort's powerful invisibility spell ended when he lost consciousness. If only I had Harry's cloak! The Death Eaters are standing in the foyer, now communicating in hushed whispers. I tip-toe closer, staying in the shadows of the hedge and then dashing across to hide behind the fountain, lining up a perfect shot if anyone enters the rose garden. Secure that I can either stun or hide from anyone who comes close, I make a strange noise, hoping to attract the attention of one of the Death Eaters. I still have three vials of Polyjuice Potion.

Sure enough, I can hear the steps of one the masked figures on the gravel as he detaches from the group, behind the hedge and out of sight of the group. The Death Eater enters the garden, the light of his wand turning the white roses to a fragile blue. Testing my visibility, I wave my hand into the air, just above the rim of the fountain. The Death Eater doesn't react. I stand up, wand drawn, ready to hex him. Still no reaction. Relieved at my continued invisibility, I stay still and wait for the Death Eater to leave so I can sneak into the house without anyone hearing my footfalls on the gravel. He prowls around the rose garden, the eyes behind the white mask searching for movement. Satisfied, he turns to leave. I lower my wand, putting it back in my pocket. But just then, the Horcrux begins to cry and I realise belatedly that I should have renewed the Silencing Charm. The Death Eater's head snaps toward us and I frantically fumble to cast a non-verbal spell to cut off its cries. I stand clutching the Horcrux, holding my breath. The Death Eater strides toward me. If he casts Hominem Revelio… He lifts his wand, about to cast a spell, staring right at me.

There is a mournful cry, like something between a bird and a cat, and the Death Eater glances away. One of the peacocks enters the rose garden, its luminous white plumage displayed in a magnificent white fan as it calls again. It is amazingly beautiful in the moonlight, strutting forward to scratch at the gravel. The Death Eater swears and turns on his heel, striding away, muttering about "Bloody birds…"

H.G.L.V

…Had something gone wrong? It was possible that Potter could have failed despite my servant's assistance, or that all the Triwizard Champions had died… All manner of ludicrous possibilities were spinning round my mind. The hour was late, much later than Crouch's estimate and still Harry Potter was not here. Were even the best of my plans to be thwarted by luck and chance? Please, I offered up to the dark sky, let fortune favour Lord Voldemort once more…! I was beginning to tire, my weak form swaddled in the robes I would wear after the transformation. If the boy took any longer I would require feeding again. I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in Wormtail's arms. I did not speak to the rat. I wished to have these moments – the minutes before my rebirth – to myself and forget the servant clutching my feeble body. Thirteen years of failure, despair and madness… Existence in such a form… few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable… No, Lord Voldemort was not a coward who would submit to death! I had survived the interminable years of my exile and now my suffering was about to be vindicated. So long to wait. I was so close… Let him come…

Suddenly, there was a brilliant swirl of magic in the dimness of the cemetery and the thud of flesh striking grass. "Go," I hissed breathlessly at Wormtail, "it is time!" I could not see very well cradled in his arms, my face was angled toward the moonlight as my servant crossed the graveyard toward Potter. But it was two voices I heard, not one.

"… I dunno," said a nervous, boyish voice I did not recognise, "wands out, d'you reckon?"

"Yeah…" replied a voice I did recognise, though it was slightly deeper than I remembered. I had Potter: I had no need for any other student in his stead. "Someone's coming."

I desperately wanted to be able to do it now. Wormtail held me closer and the robes obscured my vision completely. A few moments more and I would be free of this prison of a body but, oh, just the sound of that voice made my entire skin itch with dark magic. Wormtail had halted, perhaps once more paralysed by his disgusting cowardice. "Kill the spare!" I cried, galvanising him into action.

The burst of green light flashed across the firmament and Harry Potter was screaming. Wormtail lowers me onto the grass and I can hear the dull sounds of a struggle and then the muffled writhing of the boy. I wanted to see it! Why was the rat taking so long? I tried to move, to dislodge the cloth that ensnared my vision. My lungs burned with effort as I attempted to turn my pathetic limbs to use, but it was to no avail.

With my own eyes blind, I borrowed Nagini's senses as she coiled over and around the grave of my father. I scented the boy, his hot-fearful-sweaty-leafy-soapy-struggling form trapped like a desperate fly in a spider's web. And the slow-moving, equally fearful, unwashed Wormtail who smelt of tasty rats and the magic-warped-warm-cold-snakeflesh that was me. He wheezed as he dragged the great cauldron slowly across the graveyard. Could he not lift it with his wand, this ridiculous excuse of a wizard? I felt the heat of the cauldron being lit, warm through the robes that covered me; the heat of resurrection. Oh yes! I thrashed, impatient for the ritual to begin, needing to see with my own eyes. What was he waiting for? "Hurry!" I hissed. After so long, mere seconds between myself and that fire were intolerable.

"It is ready, Master," came his nervy, irritating voice, but I had never been more eager for its sound.

"Now…" I breathed. I would have been drained of any strength this form possessed were it not for the adrenalin-graced euphoria shooting through me. The black material was torn away and I could just make out the boy through the thick steam billowing forth from the cauldron. The brilliant sparks dancing on the surface of my destination, illuminated features pale with horror.

I raised frail arms toward my trembling servant as he bent down to lift me and wrapped my vulnerable limbs around Wormtail's neck. He turned his face from me and his hood fell away, his features revealed in fire-lit profile, scrunched up in revulsion. But I did not care: Peter Pettigrew's usefulness was almost at an end. All that mattered was the dwindling distance between me and the shimmering liquid. He paused, holding me above the stone lip. I felt the blistering heat rising from its surface scalding my feeble skin. For a brief moment I experienced a terrible fear that I would drown or be boiled alive within its depths – whichever came first – and clung to Wormtail, who lowered me down into the bubbling cauldron as instructed. I steeled myself to it. I am Lord Voldemort! What is such pain compared to what I have already endured!–?

I was drowning in agony; fire melting my body – everywhere – I cried and the terrible pain came rushing into my mouth. I tried to claw-swim upward, to escape the torturous water that swirled and scorched; tried to breathe – escape – torturous blue. Liquid filled my lungs and I could not choke it out. My heart stopped and the pain shifted from eviscerating heat to the raw agonies of being ripped out from a form that was now a mere ingredient. The world burned crimson as a human hand knocked against the body I had inhabited, cooking in unspeakable liquid.

Then the potion turned white, spinning around me – tighter and tighter – congealing thick and glutinous about my soul, encasing me from the inside out; moulding flesh from torture, weaving skin just as blisteringly white. It was another sort of pain now: a strange sensation of bone and muscle being furiously knit together, as if I were a gaping wound being gradually stitched up by a million needles.

I lay curled against the dry stone, the potion gone. I was entirely new – raw, soft. How could I have once taken such sublime manifestation for granted? I uncoiled, raising myself on forgotten legs, feeling their strength. The night was obscured by the clouds of steam which had issued from the potion. I inhaled the night air, filling my lungs as much as I could and relished the easy flow of my breath and the feel of the slight breeze against my nakedness. "Robe me," I commanded of the pathetic, mewling figure beside me. I extended myself into the dark silk and stepped out of the cauldron, delighting in the smooth feel of the grass against my bare feet.

How to describe the wonder of my own body: the power of its graceful limbs, the sensation of stretching it out; my delight in its movement? I examined my fingers, flexing the long, white digits with exultant pleasure. I moved those fingers up the my face, caressing the features I had lost so long ago, feeling the familiar angles with renewed pleasure. Except last time where I had possessed hair, now there was only soft skin – no doubt the price of Nagini. I did not care. I moved my hands across my scalp, equally wondrous. Then I remembered and reached into the deep pockets of my robe. It brought delighted shivers as I marvelled at how easily my fingers slid along its length – my wand!

I pointed it at Wormtail – how short he was, I had forgotten! – and sent him sprawling against Harry Potter and my father's headstone. I laughed as he clutched his arm, fat tears rolling down fat cheeks. I had suffered more in these few minutes than most do in a lifetime and this fool was weeping over his lost hand. "My Lord… he choked out pathetically, "My Lord… you promised… you did promise…"

"Hold out your arm," I ordered. If I could wait, then so could he.

"Oh master…" the rat gaped, "Thank you, master…"

"The other arm, Wormtail," I said lazily, ignoring his pleadings and reaching down to uncover his Dark Mark. I examined it carefully: yes, my mark had returned with me. "It is back," I breathed softly, "and now we shall see… now we shall know…" Those treacherous servants who had thought me dead, who had never searched for their master… I pressed my index finger into Wormtail's skin and felt them all: the collective horror and amazement at my call. Joy from those imprisoned in Azkaban and fear from those cowards who owed my thirteen years loyal service before they would ever deserve Lord Voldemort's favour… thirteen years of sleepless, endless despair… hoping forlornly that one of their number would find me and perform the spells I could not…

Thirteen years…

…I open my eyes. It is the same room, the same over-soft mattress and marble walls of verd-antique, with new lilies in the same silver vase. Bella Black is leaning over me, her ebony hair brushing across my chest, her darkly-lidded eyes wide and staring. I do not like her gaze. "My Lord…" her words were intimate in their caress, "my Lord…"

"That will do!" I hiss at her, stretching my left fingers to summon my yew wand to my hand. It comes. I become aware that there are others crowding into the room, their masks gone, all staring at me. Hatred spikes for all of these disloyal fools. Where is my Hermione? Where is Nagini? "I require no assistance – get out! Get out!" My wand sparks dangerously and they retreat. I have to force myself to calm down, unwilling to be subject to yet another seizure. Black lingers on the threshold, but she retreats under my fierce glare, shutting the door respectfully behind her. I flick my wand at the door and it glows for a moment as the lock clicks. I will not be disturbed or overheard. I put my head in my hands, reeling from the memory burning in my mind. Eventually, I get off the bed, staring at the room where I began this strange journey. "Hermione?" I whisper, "Hermione?"

The cupboard creaks open – for a second I expect it to be Tom Riddle, bleeding and broken – but it is just sets of black robes in considerable disorder. "Oh," comes the soft reply of my invisible companion, "I thought you would never wake up. I've been crouching here for the last twenty minutes surrounded by Death Eaters. I think my legs have gone to sleep…" I remove the invisibility spell and there she is, sitting dishevelled on the floor of the large antique wardrobe, still clutching Tom. "I'm worried about him – he's stopped moving."

"Give him to me," I tell her, holding my hands out to receive him. His eyes are closed and he does not reply when I talk to him. He remains alive, but only just. It is my foolishness that has brought him to this point – after my vision I have a renewed sympathy for his plight. I set him tenderly down on the bed. Nagini? I call with my mind. My snake slides out from under the bed, raising herself onto the covers. I trail my fingers across her head. "I need to milk you, Nagini. Otherwise this little one will die."

"There is no time," she replies, coiling protectively around Tom, "I must bite the hatchling now if he is to survive."

"Do it," I tell her.

L.V.H.G

I gasp as Nagini suddenly rears up and her enormous mouth opens wide before she sinks her fangs into the Horcrux's raw, fragile skin. She could devour it whole. Voldemort looks on, seemingly impassive, but I know him well enough by now to recognise that terrifyingly blank expression that means he is suppressing very strong emotion. The snake moves back and thing's beady red eyes snap open, crying pitifully, its horrible body twisting in pain as what little blood it has spills down its blackened skin. The Dark Lord gathers it up, murmuring what might be soothing words in Parseltongue, moving his wand across the Horcrux's ugliness, healing the damage inflicted by Nagini's teeth.

I try to stand, but my numb legs fail me and all I do is wiggle a little. I try again, holding on to the side of the dark wood wardrobe. My legs are unsteady, but I manage to wobble forwards. "We need to go." I tell Voldemort in no uncertain terms. I want to be away from here, and I especially want him away from here.

"Yes, of course," Voldemort agrees, not taking his crimson eyes away from the Horcrux in his arms.

"As in now!"

Lord Voldemort extends his wand-arm to the bed and Nagini slithers up onto his shoulders. He looks about the room, his smooth features perplexed. "Yes, yes… how strange that I should be unable to enter this place and yet have left… no matter… come, Hermione, we shall seek unicorns – you, Nagini, and I."

"You can't just apparate thinking of a unicorn," I explain, "The destination has to be firmly fixed in your mind, just imagining a magical creature isn't good enough. You need the three Ds: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation."

Voldemort smiles, "I assure you, Hermione, I possess the second two in abundance. As for the first, how do you think I found you when my mind was blank of any and all destinations but this room I found myself in?"

That's not possible… In my panic, I'd never given much thought to how he'd found my bedroom in the first place. But how… how did he manage to so effortlessly break the laws of magic? I remember his words back at the Burrow: The spell which took me to you… I asked it to bring me somewhere safe. That's why he could leave before. An Anti-Apparition Jinx only counters destination-focused apparition: the spell is cast on the location. House-elves perform spell-less magic and can apparate where witches and wizards can't, is that because they aren't location-focused? I've no idea. I don't like the way my thoughts are turning again – he can't really be that powerful…? And I can't let him slay a unicorn!

He offers me his arm, now his huge serpent is curled about his shoulders like a monstrous scarf. "If my magic could bring me you, Hermione Granger," Voldemort says quietly, "I doubt it will have much issue with a simple unicorn." Despairing and not knowing what else to do, I take his arm. Thinking he senses the cause of my distress, Voldemort smiles down at me. "She won't harm you, Hermione." Nagini's eyes stare at me unblinking, uncannily similar to Voldemort's barring their yellow colour as she continues to wind herself around him, as if saying: this human is mine, find your own. I take a deep breathand everything curls up upon itself –

– To swirl out from blackness amongst the familiar towering trees and dense foliage of what must surely be the Forbidden Forest. I light my wand just as a lovely silvery creature canters away into the leafy darkness. Silver – that means the unicorn isn't even fully-grown. I gasp, recalling my first detention at Hogwarts – how terrified I had been walking with Hagrid in this black and silent place, between the roots of the immense oaks, as the path became fainter the deeper into the forest we journeyed. I had been so worried for the wounded unicorn, its silver blood spattered across the undergrowth and horrified at the thought of whatever monstrous creature had so grievously wounded it.

That gaunt, serpentine creature stands tall and merciless beside me, his wand aimed unerringly at the unicorn I can no longer see – but he has the night-vision of a true nocturnal predator. I know that unicorns are one of the most spell-resistant species of magical creatures, but I've just witnessed Voldemort perform the impossible with his wand – if anyone can curse a unicorn, he can.

Gryffindor, Hermione Granger, you are a Gryffindor… I take a deep breath and step in front of the yew wand, staring up into the crimson eyes which gleam with deadly intent in the wandlight. "Unicorns are sacred animals. I can't let you do it."

To my surprise, Voldemort does not grow angry. Instead, he bends down, allowing Nagini to slide off into the bushes. "I understand you have certain views on death, Hermione," his voice has an eerie kindness to it as he stands back up, "but Tom requires that creature's blood otherwise he will die, and I cannot allow that. Stand aside." He raises he wand in the direction of the unicorn.

"Tom," I glance at the weak, ugly, raw-skinned thing in Voldemort's arms I've grown rather protective of, "doesn't have to suffer the unicorn's curse! There is another way!"

"To remake our soul," the Dark Lord gives me a curious look. "I was under the impression you were not sure how such a thing is to be accomplished?"

Well, um… okay… think… think…! "I think I know how it's done," I say firmly, just wanting him to lower his wand, which he does. The wizard must repent the act which rent his spirit. I desperately try to think of what I'm missing. I remember my words to Ron and Harry before the world went topsy-turvy: But even if he wanted to – which is pretty unlikely – Voldemort can't possibly feel that kind of regret for murders he can't remember committing. Besides, setting aside the fact that he's lost his memory, I don't think he can feel that kind of emotion anymore. The book implies that making a Horcrux costs you some of your humanity, so the more Horcruxes Voldemort made, the less able he would have been able to reverse the process…But he did, he did feel remorse for creating the diary: The knowledge that I almost stripped you from existence, a worthless second-year Muggle-born, is… unacceptable. So I was the catalyst, his unwillingness to lose me was what caused him to feel remorse. But it wasn't enough…

"Hermione…" the cold, high voice rebukes me testily.

"No! I have! I've figured it out!" well almost, "Just give me a second!" Think about the original process – the creation of a Horcrux is a ritual. You need the act of murder and the spells which bind the piece of soul to the object… The wizard must repent the act which rent his spirit… but if making a Horcrux is a ritual then… then… the 'act' is actually a series of steps, not just the murder, which means you have to feel remorse for each step in the ritual! And Lord Voldemort only felt remorse for part of it. And… and… if the Dark Arts is all about intent – intent is just as important as the murder – he needs to regret wanting to make a Horcrux as well! And because he botched the 'ritual' of remorse it… went wrong when the Horcrux attempted to reunite with him. I've got it! "First of all, do you… feel any sort of regret for making…Tom… a Horcrux?"

The red eyes are suddenly melancholy, and Voldemort tilts his head to the side. "He shared his memories of being separated from me… of dying…" He gives a slow blink, "They are not my thoughts and yet they are… no horror I have remembered compares to such agony. I do not quite understand your intent… but if I could feel such a thing for anything, I believe it would be that."

That was even better than I imagined. "That's exactly it! Let's go and–"

"No." the chilly tone slices through my plans. I stare up at Voldemort, suddenly very afraid. The angles of his strange white face are cast with frightening purpose, "Tom is dying. If we are to attempt this, we shall do so now." His tone brooks no refusal.

"In the middle of the–" I catch myself "–of a forest? There could be all sorts of dangerous magical creatures out here!" Trolls, Acromantula, and – oh Merlin forbid! – Centaurs…

Lord Voldemort lifts his wand high, moving it in a deft circle. As with the tent, everything beyond the line seems to fall away into black nothingness, leaving us standing in a small island of trees. "We shall not be disturbed." The crimson eyes are livid, glowing with angry impatience.

"Um… oh… I… I just need to get a book from my bag!" I shove my hand into my beaded bag, rummaging around for Secrets of the Darkest Art amidst the plethora of tomes. "Maybe you should… lie down?" I empty the healing potions out of the bag too, just in case. This could easily go completely wrong, but we have to do this now because I'm just not prepared to let him slay a unicorn, even though I'm really scared I might be about to do something truly horrible to Voldemort. The agony of reuniting the two halves of the soul is said to be such that few have ever attempted it and fewer still have survived… I swallow nervously.

Giving me what I can only describe as a look, Voldemort carefully sits down in the grass, resting his head against the roots of an oak, the Horcrux lying on his chest. "Accio Secrets of the Darkest Art!" The book flies into my hand, out from underneath all the other books. It falls open on my bookmark. I feel ridiculous, like Professor Trelawney, but this is the best way I can think of to ensure he gets it right: "All right… so… c-close your eyes…"

L.V.H.G

I shut my eyes, listening to the rustlings of the trees and Hermione's worried voice. "I'm… I'm going to talk you through this. You have to try to do exactly as I say otherwise something r-really awful could happen, do you understand?"

I sincerely doubt that our ideas of what constitutes really awful are at all on the same level, "Very well, Hermione. Get on with it."

"...I want you to imagine yourself standing in the girls' bathroom. Your diary is in your hand and not yet a Horcrux, but just an empty journal. Can you picture that?"

"Yes," I answer, easily recalling the vision.

"Now concentrate on that terrible sensation of being ripped apart… the pain you can feel Tom experiencing… do you still want to create the Horcrux?"

…Up until that strange, silken feeling I was Tom Riddle. I was the one performing the ritual; I was in control. And then I wasn't – suddenly I had no wand, no skin, no eyes. Instead of these things I had paper and leather – being dragged toward a terrible, blind, naked, silent place… I would have screamed, but I no longer had a mouth with which to scream… It… it… you have to… please… h-h-help me… it h-hurts… I could not go forward, my soul stuck fast on cruel hooks that twisted and twisted… why couldn't I go? I could see them… everyone else… could… rushing past me...why… why it never me…? NEVER ME! Pain… pain… such pain as had never existed… please… please…! He clings to me, his dark, tearful eyes full of true desperation. PLEASE! The screeching cry assaults my senses. I don't w-want to go back… I… won't… go… back… you, y-y-you have to… you have to… help… me! "No…" I whisper hoarsely, "no…" I gasp as I feel that horrific chasm opening in my chest, cruel and barbed things rush in the void and I bite back a scream. I can feel three hooks trying to gain purchase inside me: one of them drives up through my soul and I scream again, the others still trying to rip their way in…

"No matter how much pain you're in, you've got to keep going!" squeaks a distant voice… Hermione… "O-okay, now remember what you felt when we were in the lounge: think about the girl – a Muggle-born… a-a mudblood like me… a second-year like I was when the diary tried to murder me… I almost died… you killed her… you didn't care if you k-killed me!" 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… No! Hermione is mine! She shall not die! I cannot have… I will not tolerate…! She must not leave me! It burrows into me with its vicious claws, tearing apart my insides as the others fall away… "Hermione!" It's squirming and lights flash – still the claws tear into me, slicing deeper and deeper into agony as the void closes behind the iron creature, trapping its wicked blades inside me… STOP! But it doesn't stop, cannot cease; it continues mercilessly grinding my heart…

"Now y-you're casting the Horcrux spells, do you–?"

"YES!" I scream, "Hermione, please – don't!" The pain bursts like a dam, images flooding into me faster that I can see; all of them crystal sharp, the shards running on and on and on, shattering across my mind… "HERMIONE!"

L.V.H.G

He is screaming in Parseltongue, delirious and convulsing in pain. Then he goes still – a pale waxwork figure. I crouch over him, trying to feel for a pulse in that cold wrist. He can't be dead…? The Horcrux isn't moving either. I try his neck – nothing. What if I killed him? Is he a spirit again, is he alright? I peel back one of his pearly eyelids. The glassy red eye beneath is blank and unmoving. I try frantically to re-enervate him, using the spells I know and even the ones I half-learnt off Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Black. This is entirely my fault… I didn't get it right… please don't be dead… please don't be dead! He does not stir. What a stupid thing to do, I knew there was a huge risk, I was only thinking of the unicorn... I begin to cry, trying to shake him awake. It doesn't matter that the man lying dead is Voldemort, a murderer... that doesn't change the fact that I just killed someone... that it was my fault! I feel horribly alone in the middle of the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, staring at the surreal, pale corpse. The only reason he could attempt that ritual was because of me, because he felt something for me... the pain looked excruciating... and all for nothing!

There's a slick sound next to me as Nagini winds her way through the leaf-litter to Voldemort's side, hissing and spitting, moving across his chest next to the still bundle that was once Tom. The Horcrux on his chest suddenly begins to quiver with a strange milky light, filling me with hope. Its skin breaks apart, layer by layer, peeling away bloody flesh and sinew like an onion. It unravels into luminous white and trails upward, like silvery memories out of a pensieve, into his eyes, his mouth, his ears, and his slitted nose, provoking a sudden intake of breath from the previously still figure. He made it! We did it! He did it! Oh, thank Merlin!

Wait - like memories…?

Oh no…

L.V.H.G

Next Chapter: Voldemort has been reunited with a piece of his soul, but what does that mean and how will it affect Hermione?