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 fourteenth chapter of the rewrite. Once more, I apologise for how long it took me to write this. Basically, I had divided up the plot for this story into two sections and the last chapter marked the end of the first section. In my notes I have called the next few chapters "The Interlude" where romantic things start happening. However, I realised that I needed to fill these chapters with some actual well… let's call it plot. So I had a minor crisis and had to restructure things. Thank you to the anonymous reviewer Megs for giving me a polite but firm boot up the arse to get on with it. I'm going to say this to all of you: I solemnly swear that I am going to finish this story. I have even pulled a Rowling and written the epilogue! I love writing this and, seriously, I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. And, of course, a big thank you to all of you lovely individuals who take the time to leave a review – you wonderful, wonderful people!

Chapter Fourteen: The Fiendfyre Basilisk

The tent is very quiet. The only noise is the regular wash of the sea, curling against the rocks. Hermione is – I now realise – still caught in the rhythm of Hogwarts: she awakens regular as clockwork, some part of her mind perhaps expecting to go down the Great Hall for breakfast before class. I, on the other hand, find it difficult to sleep on past five, a strange thing for a man so clearly designed for a nocturnal existence. Yet I have grown fond of this peaceful time when I am alone with my thoughts – small hours I did not value in my childhood.

I slip on my robes, the floor cold against my bare feet, and rub the hollows beneath my eyes: I must have slept for all of one hour. There are so many things in my mind. It feels over-full, disordered, spilling over at the edges and, even though I have knowledge of so little of my life, it would be easy to become lost my own recollections. In that respect this pathetic little tent is useful: its once-bright patchwork quilts, ugly bunk-beds, and the stench of old cat that never quite goes away, are all alien to my memories, offering an oddly reassuring anchor to reality.

Hermione is – as predicted – fast asleep. She lies on her side, lips slightly parted, with her beautiful, mad hair escaping from a loose plait. I feel… so much for her. It astonishes me. Of course, there were girls at Hogwarts who were only too delighted to receive the attentions of a handsome Slytherin prefect. Like all young men I had been curious. I had desired to master this art which could flaw the cleverest girls and denoted such status amongst boys. Yet ultimately my experiments were disappointing. The Basilisk of Slytherin provoked in me more ecstasy than any girl might offer. I assumed that I was above such basic pleasures – that I needed rarer stimulation than carnality.

But here she lies, fascinating even in her sleep. So much of me wishes to forswear her, to flee this dependence, even to break my promise and dispose of her now that I have more of myself. Yet it is impossible – instead I want more of her. She reminds me of serpents; that secret, cold joy of possessing something others do not. I want her to rush to me as she once rushed to Harry Potter, who will experience the impotent, crushing horror of Billy Stubbs staring up at the disembowelled remains of his beloved rabbit – yet this pretty rabbit will be alive even in its death and it will tell Potter it was glad of its sacrifice. I shake my head, was it Ginevra who told me Hermione had buck teeth? I subject her mouth to critical inspection. Her teeth are not over-large at all. What a spiteful little girl you were, Ginny. And all because clever Hermione Granger was the best friend of the famous Harry Potter.

I smile at the thought of inadvertently doing the Weasley girl a favour, provided she has not expired from critical stupidity in the intervening years, and retreat back to the lounge without the Calming Draught I'd entered Hermione's room for. Nagini is curled up on the sofa, one golden eye open toward the entrance, obeying my instructions to guard the tent. Twirling my wand, I tap my left temple, feeling my magic swirl round me, bringing my emotions down to comfortably arctic levels. I have been so foolish regularly dosing myself with a potentially addictive tranquilising potion when dear Nagini told me the answer when I first awoke in this state: you need only your wand. I lean over and run a hand approvingly along her scales. "Come, Nagini, let us go and find you a meal before Hermione wakes." It's hard to believe I was ever disgusted by the idea.

"There is no food here but skinny-noisy-horrid-stinky-birds. Why can I not eat the girl?"

"I intend to mate with her," I inform her strictly, "and you are to protect her as you would Lord Voldemort."

"But, my master, my love…!–?" My snake is angry, jealous and horrified in equal measures. It is quite amusing.

"That is my final word. Now… what do you say to a nice fat muggle?"

L.V.H.G

Voldemort is sitting at the end of my bed, a place of delicious-looking food in those impossibly long fingers. The red eyes are patient and unblinking. I sit up, still shaken by the disturbing dream and uncomfortable with the idea that Voldemort has been watching me sleep. The golden locket is lying innocently on the small bedside table. "What is it?" Voldemort's high voice is not designed to express consideration, but the harsh tone softens to become something rather airy and quiet. I have to think about this first.

"Is that Béchamel sauce?" It smells gorgeous and is a more that welcome excuse not to talk about the locket. I reach for the plate and he nods. And then it occurs to me: I can't believe Voldemort is the first man to ever make me breakfast in bed. Some kind of white fish with heavenly sauce on warm bread; it should be illegal for someone so evil with no ability to taste to make such amazing sauce. "Thank you – did you catch the fish too?" I couldn't even taste the transfiguration this time. Maybe he'd summoned food instead? The bread was freshly baked; he was probably depleting the contents of the Malfoy larder.

"Yes," he gives me one of his coldly mysterious smiles, his crimson eyes glittering. "Do not fret. You can answer my question after you have finished eating." His reptilian pupils flick across to Slytherin's locket and back to me and the thought occurs to me, like a cube of ice sliding down the back of my neck, has he remembered how to do Legilimency?

I take the opportunity to stare at the fish on my plate and do some serious thinking. Don't look him in the eyes. Should I tell him about the locket? Unlike an ordinary dream, the vision has not faded at all. I can still see the waxen mockery of a handsome face leering at me across the desk and hear his cold voice: The Dark Lord has gained the memories of his first Horcrux. The shards must be returned to Lord Voldemort in the order in which he created them. Doing otherwise would be… psychologically inadvisable, not to mention risk halting the process altogether. The door must remain open… So Voldemort has the memories of his diary.

But that means Voldemort can either regain his soul or stay ignorant of his memories – not both. Even as his spirit would grow more whole, he would become more the Lord Voldemort everyone fears. It's hard enough dealing with him now, let alone with all his memories… the door must remain open… What did that mean, his ability to feel remorse? His ability to feel for me? But Voldemort has been having out-of-sequence recollections almost the whole time… Was the Horcrux afraid that if Voldemort absorbed, say, Nagini then he would remember too much to be able to feel any remorse…? The ring and the cup were made when Tom Riddle was still very young. But the locket was selfish, it didn't appear to feel anything for the other Horcruxes; it had sounded disgusted by the fate of the 'poor diary' more than anything else and even more disgusted by Voldemort's feelings for me. The Horcrux might have been telling the truth about Voldemort's sanity, but be betting on us getting that far and then keeping the rest to ensure its immortality. But, of course, that must be its plan! It wanted the authentic Lord Voldemort back, but it wanted to be free more. It probably thought that once it had reunited with the Dark Lord the door would close. It might be right about that too.

I continue to shovel in the delicious fish. Dumbledore destroyed the ring. I don't like the idea of anything suffering like the portion of soul in the diary had; that awful, pitiable, mutilated thing. And if Voldemort and I manage to reunite him with the cup and the locket… then Harry won't have to destroy them… but it means Voldemort will regain his memories – and what will happen then?

"I am disturbed," Voldemort's glacial voice cuts into my thoughts, you can say that again, "what is it that has you so preoccupied?"

If he really has remembered Legilimency then I can't lie. "The locket… it… talked to me last night."

He lifts the plate away from me, placing it carefully on the floor and moving closer as his lean fingers take my hand. "Tell me," he says gently, pressing my fingers beneath his comfortingly, his clear voice hypnotic as the red eyes stare into my own, "tell me, Hermione…"

I tell him all of it. Everything. The words flow out of me and into that crimson gaze as if I had never considered concealing what I'd learnt. "… And I'm worried because Professor Dumbledore destroyed the ring and we don't know where the cup is, but you don't want to remember, and the locket thinks that he'll be able to–"

"What did you say to me?" His terrible voice creates silence. His fingernails dig sharply into my skin.

"The locket thinks…" I repeat and stop talking as Voldemort gives a long, drawn out hiss, his eyes wild. The bed creaks as he stands up, pacing the room furiously. The air is gathered with deadly magic and I don't dare move.

"How many more have been destroyed – how many you have not told me of?–!"

"That's all!" I yelp, "That's the only other one!"

H.G.L.V

"Dumbledore!" I spit out the three disgusting syllables. "Always Dumbledore!" I round on Hermione, who flinches back, as well she should! "Why did you not tell me of this? –!"

"I – I thought – I mean, we've been so busy – I just assumed I'd t-told you!" I wish Dumbledore were alive so that I might kill him. Albus Dumbledore is the greatest sorcerer in the world! Everyone says so… Dumbledore who had always suspected me… Dumbledore had joined with Harry Potter in destroying my precious anchors to immortality… mutilating them… And it comes back – the memories of that terrible white place, trapped in mindless unceasing torture, unable to move, unable to do anything but soundlessly scream. "It will be all right, we can help it, w-we can save it…!"

The chill calming spell keeps me from screaming at her words and instead I am suffused with a deep and terrible dread as the vague possibility arises from my fractured memories – had there been a ring in my hand as I trudged up the lane…? Had I written to myself of a ring…? I could not be sure… but she had said the next Horcrux, and I had planned, that summer I had planned… "Hermione…" I whisper, "Hermione, do you know whose death I used?"

"Your father… it was your father's death."

I bow my head: of course it was. I slowly lower myself back down onto Hermione's bunk as she watches me anxiously. Somewhere beyond there is another piece of myself, Lord Voldemort, most important and precious, which had been attacked, mutilated... Dumbledore had torn it from its vessel, had condemned it to the unspeakable… and Lord Voldemort could not help it. If only I had used some worthless, nameless man like the fisherman I'd fed to Nagini… like the tramp in the churchyard and countless others who were nothing to me. I could sooner forgive Harry Potter than regret Tom Riddle's death. The despicable muggle who did not deserve the honour of siring Lord Voldemort!

Hermione passes me one of the vials of Calming Draught she took from my servants' kitchen. I do not know what I would do were there not ice in my bespelled veins, forcing me to weigh everything with a leaden calm; but even that weight feels to much – it hurts – so I drink, grateful for anything to quell this panic turned ominous dread. A hand settles on my arm. Hermione in her pyjamas gingerly sitting closer to me, "We'll work it out," she tells me. "It's not hopeless… there's always something…" They had seemed so simple, so elegant – so much better than the troublesome Elixir; I would have died that night at Godric's Hollow had I relied on a Philosopher's Stone. It prolongs life, but it does not banish death, could not protect from incendiary bombs or Avada Kedavra. Like unicorn blood, it can keep you alive, but only if you survive in the first place. I do not regret splitting my soul, but if only I had been wiser, more discerning in my choice of the dead who would be honoured with the Horcrux rituals… "The locked seemed to think it was possible…"

I reach across and caress the emeralds. "It has no choice. Why do you think it offered you such incentives? It would not have reached out to you in the first place if it was not desperate." At this moment I do not care if my Horcrux has a theory on my amnesia; I feel besieged, helpless in the face of such an impossible task. I can no more forgive my father than cease to breathe. I glance at Hermione's worried features and slip the golden chain around my neck. "I will keep this – it will bother you no further." I do not like the idea of even another part of myself with Hermione. I take her waist as pull her into my lap, making her squeak. I press my face against the back of her neck, inhaling her wonderful smell. Her breath becomes shallow as my skin brushes against her nape. "You will not keep anything from Lord Voldemort. You will not conceal what you know about my Horcruxes or anything else. Do you understand, Hermione?"

"Yes…" comes the very small reply.

"Good. Now tell me everything Harry Potter knows about the pieces of my soul."

This turns out to be quite a lot, unfortunately. I think of the cave beneath these very cliffs, where little Amy and Denis learned what it meant to cross Tom Riddle; their satisfying, terrified screams in the echoing darkness of the black rocks. And I had apparently placed this locket there, in the secret cave we found when the tide was out. "…We couldn't figure out who it was – R. A. B., I mean – but I suppose the Horcrux knows. Apart from the locket and Nagini the only other one I know of is Hufflepuff's Cup. I've no idea who was killed to make your snake a Horcrux, but the Headmaster seemed to think that the cup was created from the death of the old woman you… stole it from."

Such fabulous treasures – how appropriate that my soul should be encased by such precious objects. Though useful, the diary had been a pauper's Horcrux; a memento fit for Tom Riddle, not Lord Voldemort. A hand strays to the locket around my neck, how long it had spent with those who sought to destroy it! Then to be worn by a horrible Ministry official who knew nothing of its true significance and wore it with her garish pink robes and probably left it during the night in a chintzy jewellery box. I shiver, remembering the desk draw.

As for the sixth, I knew what Hermione did not – how bitter Helena Ravenclaw had confessed to a sympathetic young student where she had hidden the lost diadem of Ravenclaw. Surely I would have made the journey to Albania and followed the instructions I'd so carefully prized out of the lady ghost? Were the two Horcruxes not in my possession still safe? Even if Harry Potter or Dumbledore have not discovered the rest of my secrets, there is still the mysterious R. A. B. who had discovered the cave before ever my old Transfiguration Master or Hermione's friend thought to do so. I have to find my other Horcruxes – I have to be sure.

Where would I hide a Horcrux? Two answers come easily: the Room of Hidden Things and the Chamber of Secrets – two of Hogwarts' rooms I alone had discovered. I push Hermione off me and pass her back her plate. "Finish your breakfast and get dressed, we're leaving."

"Where are we going?" she asks; her brown eyes wide as she stands and reaches for her wand, the fish forgotten on the bed.

"I want them all under my eye, where I can protect them." I tell her fiercely, "We are going to find the cup and the diadem."

She gasps in the information and then lets it rush out again just as fast: "The diadem? …You don't mean the Lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw?"

"Yes," I can't help the bitterness in my voice, even as I detect the shocked admiration in hers, "the diadem." I glance down at the books stacked beside her bunk and one thick tome in particular. "I believe it's mentioned in Hogwarts: A History."

L.V.H.G

I'm worried about him. He moves with terrible purpose, like a feral creature, but there's something wrong – the way in which he glances at Nagini, at Slytherin's Locket and even at me – as if worried we will all disappear if he does not check every minute; this manic instinct despite the serene expression on his flat, white face. "Do you think we should take Nagini with us to Hogwarts, Hermione?" he asks me quietly. "If somehow we are caught – if I have a seizure, and they catch her… yet I do not like to leave her behind…"

"School hasn't even started yet," I reassure him, "there will be hardly anyone there. No one will notice us if we're all invisible." Except Harry, I suddenly realise. If Harry were watching the Marauder's Map then he would see that Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger were at Hogwarts, no matter how invisible we were. But the map didn't show real animals – only people – so Nagini will be safe if she stays out of trouble. I hope Harry won't see us – surely it's hardly likely he'd be watching the map before the start of term? I don't like being afraid of my own friends. I feel like I'm going behind their backs and terrible for not wanting them to know where I am. As far as Harry and Ron know, I've been kidnapped by Voldemort. Every time I think of sending a Patronus something happens and I forget, or I fail to cast the spell properly. It frustrates me that Harry can cast the charm so well and I have hardly managed silvery wisps in the last few days no matter how hard I try. I know I have the technique right, but somehow I can't manage to summon the happiness to make it corporeal. And, at the same time as I desperately want to see my friends again, I cringe at the thought of what they would say if they knew what I was doing. The Order wouldn't understand, couldn't believe, no one could unless they'd seen it all with their own eyes. And Ron… if Ron knew I'd let Voldemort kiss me and… more than kiss me… he'd never look at me again. I set my jaw. It doesn't matter if they don't understand as long as I do what's right. I'm helping everyone. I'm a Gryffindor, I have to be brave.

What happens if I survive all this? I shiver in the sea breeze, brushing my hair away from my face as it blows across my eyes. We stand together in the long, salty grass, staring out at the grey sea. The tent is once more folded away in my bag. Voldemort has his hood up and is wearing his tinted, stick-on glasses, his red eyes sensitive even on a day with such low, heavy clouds. There's something endearing about the way he looks in them, oddly sad, as if he were dressing up for a costume party. Nagini slides through the grass, a large bulge in her belly. Voldemort catches my gaze. "There's a farm a little back from the cliffs – as I understand it, Nagini helped herself to a young cow," he explains distractedly. "Hermione…" he reaches out with long, lean fingers. In the daylight, I can see the heavy veins that show through his pale skin, the dark tinge in his milky fingernails, as if he were suffering from hypothermia. He lifts my chin to meet his eyes. At least I know he isn't yet practising Legilimency, since the possibility of Harry being a Horcrux had haunted me through our conversation, and he had not seemed to – "Hermione," he repeats, more insistently, jogging me out of my thoughts as he bends down and a hand strokes through my hair as his mouth meets mine.

The awful thing is that it feels good to have someone so close to me, kissing me like this. Better than good. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him as any tall man bending down to press against my lips: Ron… or Viktor… or anyone really. And just as that thought strikes me I find myself mirroring his movements. He does have lips: thin and colourless, little more than small rim of liminal skin, but there all the same. My teeth accidentally catch on that rim and Voldemort makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. I press my teeth down again, experimentally, and this time the sound is more drawn out, ending in a breathy hiss. But he pulls away, leaving me feeling appalled at my own behaviour and shocked that for about three seconds, I hadn't wanted it to end.

"We must go, my darling." Voldemort gives a silky murmur in my ear.

"Yes!" I exclaim decisively. "Yes, we o-ought to get moving." I really hope he can't see how red my face has gone through his darkened glasses. "Are… are you going to apparate us into Hogwarts, then? If you can get out of Malfoy Manor and the Ministry, I suppose you could apparate into Hogwarts too."

"No," he straightens, "you are. I want to test to see if what I'm doing is a result of power or technique."

"Are you crazy?" Redundant question, really. "I could splinch us trying to get into Hogwarts! It's completely unsafe and irresponsible! Absolutely not, I won't do it; I could end up dead and you could end up…" I fumble for the right word "…disembodied! Honestly!" Voldemort's mouth twitches and I suddenly feel sure there is an amused glimmer hiding behind the black lenses. "Oh, you… you… git! That wasn't funny!" But somehow I'm smiling, despite my irritation.

"Of course it wasn't." Voldemort agrees gravely, completely dead-pan. He offers me his arm and lets out a stream of Parseltongue, causing his familiar to slither toward us, wrapping her great body around the Dark Lord's legs. I take his hand, struggling to work out what I'm feeling and fighting the smile off my face as everything goes black–

–Magic twists and spits us out into damp darkness. The first thing I notice is the smell; the horrible, wretched, overpowering stench of decomposing flesh. This is supposed to be Hogwarts?-! I gag and clamp my left hand over my nose and mouth and I draw my wand and cold wandlight spills into the gloom. We're in a stone hall, the ceiling vanishing into the shadows, supported by great cyclopean pillars, around which curl beautifully carved snakes, which seem to slither upwards. We're in the Chamber of Secrets, I realise. So the smell must be…

Voldemort takes off the glasses and stuffs them into a pocket and walks forward across the wet floor toward the enormous corpse lying at the feet of a giant statue of Salazar Slytherin which stands at the end of the chamber, his empty eyes gazing far above our heads. The Dark Lord crouches beside the massive skull of the Basilisk, its rotted flesh no longer recognisable as scales, one dirty yellow fang visibly broken off. "They left her body to rot…" his high voice is quiet and disturbingly level. "They didn't even harvest it for ingredients… just… just left her…" There are several dead rodents lying beside the dead serpent – obviously taking a bite of the poisonous corpse was a bad idea. It's hard to believe this was the creature with the terrible lamp-like eyes that petrified me. I could still remember clutching the mirror tightly with sweaty fingers and the abrupt movement in the glass. "Why… why would anyone just leave the Basilisk of Slytherin… she… she deserves respect!"

Oh, well, lucky we've got such a large supply of Basilisk fangs, then… I remember Ron saying back at The Burrow. I shake my head, what complete idiots we were! I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier! That must be why Professor Dumbledore left the Basilisk here just over four years ago, because he knew the other fangs could still be used to destroy another one of Voldemort's Horcruxes! Still… it's completely disgusting.

Spidery fingers touch the head of the snake. Voldemort's eyes are closed and his head is bowed, he seems unconscious of the fact that his long digits are sinking into its putrid flesh. His white skin is luminous in the gloom as he lowers his hood and brings his own serpentine nose close to the beast's own, whispering quietly in Parseltongue.

I feel I shouldn't be seeing this, shouldn't be witnessing the Heir of Slytherin's private moment of grief for the dead Basilisk. But I wonder if Voldemort realises that it's his fault the historic beast of his ancestor is dead, or if he just blames Harry and Professor Dumbledore for the results of his actions? It is rather horrible that the Headmaster left the Basilisk here to rot though, even if he thought it would be useful. I creep tentatively over to stand beside Voldemort, but just as I uncomfortably consider laying a hand on his shoulder or saying something, he suddenly stands, startling me. Gesturing for me to step back, he draws his wand solemnly. The yew wand moves gracefully and flames erupt with a roaring, billowing noise that fills the whole chamber, curling in the air like a clutch of entwined serpents, their dancing fire illuminating the vaulted ceiling far above us and Voldemort's eyes glistening like implacable rubies.

That's Fiendfyre, I realise. It's breath-taking how easily he manages to control such incredibly dangerous Dark magic. The flames merge together into a giant simulacrum of the dead Basilisk, its coils burning away the corpse of its predecessor, twining fittingly around the gargantuan statue of Salazar Slytherin. I have to retreat in the face of the glare and unbearable heat. Nagini slithers back too, watching her master bid farewell to his ancient familiar. But Lord Voldemort does not step back. He stands completely still at the brink of the towering ophidian bonfire, his swirling black robes cast in inky silhouette against the brilliant flames. I don't know how long he stays there, staring up at his fiery recreation of the Basilisk, saying farewell to the monster that once dwelled within this chamber.

Eventually, the fire sinks lower and lower as the Fiendfyre Basilisk settles its head comfortably atop its coils, as if going to sleep. It must have been burning for at least half an hour – my feet are starting to hurt. The flame serpent is little but embers in the ashes of the true Basilisk. I walk over to Voldemort, my footsteps sounding loud against the stone. I clear my throat to say something but the Dark Lord shakes his head, "Sssh – watch." He's staring into the dark ashes.

There's a shifting in the dust and a tiny blunt, pale head appears, its glowing red eyes staring beadily up at us. Then several more pop their heads up through the ashes. Voldemort gives them a fond hiss and the Ashwinders chatter back to him as they slither off in different directions, their grey scales leaving trails in the Basilisk's ashes as they seek secluded corners of the chamber in which to lay their eggs. New life springing from destruction. It's quite poetic… or would be if Ashwinder eggs didn't hatch so much as combust within a very short time after being laid. "Are you planning to burn the whole chamber?" I ask Voldemort.

"Stone does not burn," he answers tiredly. "Besides, what is the Chamber of Secrets now, besides an empty room?"

L.V.H.G

"How did you know there wasn't a Horcrux in the chamber?" Hermione asks as we walk together through the tunnels. I do not wish to apparate, but to travel these ancient pathways one last time.

"I did have that thought at first," I explain, "but then I realised it couldn't be so. I would never have hidden a piece of my soul in a place into which I planned to lead another. The diary was enough." We reach the end of the path, leading to the steep pipe up which I had always ridden the Basilisk, clinging tight to its brilliant scales. I wonder whether it would not be best to abandon my sentimentality and apparate. Then I have a curious, whimsical thought; wishing to test how far my powers stretch the boundaries of magic. I levitate Nagini, who complains bitterly at such undignified treatment, and turn to my companion as we both stare up at the impossible climb. "Do you think wizards ought to be able to fly, Hermione?"

"No spell yet devised enables wizards to fly unaided in human form," Hermione quotes. "It's the first sentence of Wisp's Quidditch Through the Ages." But despite the prompt assurance in her voice, there's a curious expectancy in her brown eyes as she looks at me and then back at the stone pipe and then to me again. It would be a shame to disappoint her belief in Lord Voldemort's abilities to bend the laws of magic to his will. I raise my arms and focus, not as I was taught at school, but in this new way I have learned – demanding my magic execute my intention. And it happens, as it did when I was a child, my power smoothly obeys and I rise into the air. "That could be simple levitation," Hermione points out calmly, "you're only floating about two feet off the ground."

"Well," I answer, offering her my right hand in a suitably gallant fashion that would surely impress any Gryffindor, "there's only one way to discover the truth of the matter."

She gives me a nervy little grin and takes my hand. I raise her into the air and wrap a hand around her waist. And we fly up the tunnel – as quick as any broomstick – Hermione's arms are flung tightly around my neck in a desperate attempt to hold on as Nagini hurtles along behind us, shrieking murder at me. "Open!" I hiss, as we reach the blocked end of the pipe, which opens up to the dull ceiling of the familiar girls' bathroom. I settle Hermione's feet on the tiles and close the entrance to the chamber.

"That was amazing!" Hermione gasps, "we really need to research how it's possible that you're doing all of this. I mean… if you learnt how to do that on your travels, or if you developed the first spell for pure flight and you instinctively remember how to cast it… or if you really are more powerful the Merlin – but surely that can't be the case because why were you matched by Professor Dumbledore? Or has this only happened after your memory–?" She suddenly stops, gazing searchingly around the bathroom. "The floor isn't flooded," she says slowly, "…where's Moaning Myrtle?" We both listen: the bathroom is completely quiet. "Umbram Revelio," she whispers. Nothing happens. "You don't think what we did… could it have let her pass on?"

"Perhaps," I reply, "but it's equally possible Olive Hornby has just died or that Myrtle is merely fortuitously haunting another part of the castle. It is of little concern to us." And I raise my wand again, coating the three of us in perfect invisibility. "We need to get to the seventh floor."

"The seventh floor…" Hermione repeats thoughtfully, finding my hand so that we don't lose each other. "Do you mean we're going to the Room of Requirement?"

"The Room of Requirement?" I echo hollowly, fear quickening my heart.

"Yes – opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. We used it as a secret headquarters in fifth year. Umbridge… the woman you killed at the Ministry… was taking over the school and refusing to teach proper Defence Against the Dark Arts. So me and… w-well anyway, we had the idea to start our own defence club and the Room of Requirement provided the perfect place and hardly anyone knew about it. And Malfoy used it in sixth year…" she descends into brooding silence as we ascend together the deserted shifting staircases, completely robbing me of any feelings of nostalgia as I realise with horror that students have been regularly tramping in and out of my secret room for years. "In any case, all you have to do is think really hard about what you need and walk past it three times and the entrance will appear. A friend once told me that he'd heard the Headmaster had found it by accident because he'd really needed to use the bathroom and–"

"Hermione," I order icily, "just because it is not yet September does not mean the castle is uninhabited. Be quiet."

Which turns out to be fortuitous because at that moment – just as we reach the fourth floor – Severus Snape strides round the corner, his face set in a dark scowl between the curtains of his black hair and his robes billowing about him, forcing myself and Hermione to spring apart in order to let him pass down the staircase without bowling us over. Severus pauses several steps down from us, his head turning slightly as if listening for something and I stay put on the landing, hoping he did not overhear our voices. Hermione will almost certainly not like it if I kill him. But, after a moment, the man continues down the staircase and eventually ought of sight. "What's he doing here? He's wanted for murdering the Headmaster!" Hermione whispers furiously.

So Severus was the lucky man who stole my fantasy. I fumble around for her hand. "You are wanted for murder, Hermione. He who controls the Ministry of Magic controls Hogwarts and Severus is one of my servants. Enough of this, he's gone and we have our own business to attend to." I can't see her, but I feel sure her eyes are narrowed and her wild hair is crackling in annoyance.

L.V.H.G

It is the Room of Requirement he's taking us to. He must have thought he was the only one to discover it – which was probably why he snapped at me earlier. It's… unexpectedly naïve of Tom Riddle to have thought that – and sort of sad, really. I tactfully decide not to say anything as we enter the room. I've never seen it like this although Harry once described it: piled high with all manner of things like a gigantic abandoned attic. There are thousands and thousands of old books and pieces of broken furniture and I can see, partially covered up by boxes, one of the pieces from Professor McGonagall's giant chess set. People must have been hiding things here for centuries!

There's a cold feeling of magic, like someone pulling a sheet off your bed while you're in it, and I see Lord Voldemort beside me also gazing out at the huge piles of stuff. Nagini is still invisible. "I'm guessing a Summoning Charm isn't going to work?" I ask faintly – it will be like finding a needle in a haystack… several haystacks.

He shrugs, "I have no idea which exact enchantments I placed on whatever object might be in this room. I may not have hidden either the cup or the diadem here at all."

"Accio Diadem of Ravenclaw! Accio Hufflepuff's Cup!" Nothing happens. I hadn't really expected any Horcruxes to fly through the air, but it had been worth a try. "Can't you… sense them or something?"

Voldemort glances away, not meeting my eyes. "They have been… separated from me. I cannot sense them at all… I always thought I would feel their destruction, but it seems I was… mistaken. It is different with Nagini but even then I can only see her own memories. I suspect you, since you have not become so accustomed to the aura of Dark magic, have more chance of sensing them than I." He stands taller and glides forward toward one of the small pathways through the jumble. "In any case, let us divide ourselves and begin our search."

I wander down the in opposite direction, trying to remember what the diadem had looked like in the paintings I'd seen of Rowena Ravenclaw and keeping an eye out for anything gold, resisting the strong temptation to have a look at some of the books. There are jewels, hats, broomsticks, Fanged Frisbees and even a huge stuffed Troll! I don't touch anything, wary many of the items might be cursed. The oddest looking bottles and smashed contraptions meet my gaze as I continue to walk what feels like a labyrinth of old junk. There's even an ugly, pockmarked bust of a frowning warlock atop which someone has placed a dusty wig and a discoloured old tiara for a joke… wait… a tiara? "I found it!" I cry out. "I found–!" I yelp and stumble as Voldemort suddenly appears right behind me with a loud crack. Hands reach out to steady me and we both peer closely at what could be the Horcrux.

It reminds me of the Goblin-made tiara that Ron's rude Aunt Muriel lent Fleur for the wedding. It has the same intricate loveliness, even though it's obvious that it hasn't been cleaned in years. For a second, I have a girlish desire to see what it looks like on my head, but then I make out the words engraved beautifully across the metal: 'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.'

"I don't think that's true," I say thoughtfully, staring at the diadem.

"You're not a Ravenclaw," Voldemort answers as he extricates it from the old wig.

"Think about it. People called me the cleverest witch of my year – but I knew even in my first year that there were things that were more important. I was miserable for a lot of that year and yet I had better grades than anyone else. There are more important things than cleverness."

Voldemort is busy charming the diadem clean. "I know, Hermione. I wasn't in Ravenclaw either."

"Don't you think it's interesting that so many of the people who won the Barnabas Finkley Prize weren't in Ravenclaw? I mean, it's the prize given to the student with the highest N.E.W.T. scores – shouldn't more Ravenclaws have won it?"

Tilting his head, Voldemort holds the diadem loosely in one hand and his red eyes seem curiously knowing. "Possibly a Ravenclaw might devote more time to considering the magical concepts he or she was studying than memorising the textbooks and pouring over the honours lists of previous years. The desire for glory is a trait most common in Gryffindors and Slytherins and the list, at least in my day, reflected that." He holds up the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, silvery and perfect, even more beautiful than the Prewett tiara. "Would you like to try it on?"

"I think I've had enough trouble with Horcruxes in the last twenty-four hours, to be honest."

"It won't be able to possess you on the strength of a few minutes atop that marvellous hair of yours. Come!" He beckons me close and moves his wand across my head and I can feel my hair shifting, becoming glossy and smooth like it does when I use half a bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. I feel ridiculous and try to fight off a blush. Finally, Voldemort sets the diadem on my head as if crowning me a queen and conjures a mirror. He's made my hair look like Rowena Ravenclaw's in her most famous portrait. It would look rather regal and elegant if I weren't wearing jeans and a cardigan.

"I don't feel any more intelligent than I did before," I tell Voldemort, who is watching me, red eyes slightly narrowed. I think about the motto on the diadem. Perhaps it didn't actually mean wit, so much as wisdom. I look at Voldemort: one of the most brilliant wizards ever to attend Hogwarts, who could do things no one else could but was unable to understand simple morals; broken, pitiless and wretchedly unhappy. I think about what I told Harry before he went through the flames to confront Quirrel: friendship and bravery. Now I don't think that's quite right. Bravery is important, but friendship is far more so. And Dumbledore said Voldemort had never wanted a friend. I remember him gazing fondly down at the Ashwinders – snakes had accepted Tom Riddle and made him feel special when people had not. I don't think Dumbledore was quite as wise as he thought either.

"It suits you," Voldemort says, "but I think I prefer it bushy and unadorned," he runs his fingers along my curls.

It's the first time anyone has ever said that to me. I look back in the mirror and think of my feelings at the wedding: pleased but resigned, secretly wishing I'd looked as pretty as Ginny or Fleur and her cousins. It isn't me. There are more important things. I take off the diadem and pass it back to the Dark Lord. "So, did you try it on when you first found it?" I tease him, imagining the pretty diadem on that bald scalp.

Voldemort gives me a faint half-smile, "I can't remember." His arms wrap around me and this time my stomach tightens in anticipation –

A familiar voice suddenly sounds from thin air: "Get away from her, you bastard!"

L.V.H.G

Next Chapter: What will happen in the Room of Requirement? Hermione has to confront the consequences of her choices.