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: Well, I've finished my thesis and am able to work on this story again! Hurrah! Just a quick note, please, before you send me messages asking me to update, check my profile. Normally, it's great to have people hassling me to update, but I really couldn't work on my fanfiction when my thesis was due. It will say on my profile whether there is a significant reason why I'm not updating (I hate posting author's note chapters since the disappointment slays me when my favourite authors do it and I get an alert for just a note!). For those of you up on Pottermore wandlore, White Poplar (as far as I can tell) is somewhere between Poplar and Aspen – so think of it as a cross between the two wood types. It's also the tree of the September Equinox and has some other interesting symbolism you can find for yourselves if so inclined. Spending time with the Celtic tree calendar and Greek mythology is fun.

Chapter Twenty-One: The Wandmaker

Terror hangs thickly over the room and I revel in it, inhaling its acrid scent. Hatred too, naturally, but it's impossible for them to bury their fear of Lord Voldemort even in loathing; they are stilled, wild-eyed and tense, like rabbits, clutching their wands before them like muggle crucifixes, as if their pitiful abilities could protect them. I see that same horrified disbelief I remember in Lily Potter's green eyes as I bring them up short with their own mortality and those of their friends – see myself in their imaginations: impossibly tall and bloodless but for my sanguine eyes, and bathed in a green corona of death; a serpent-creature out of nightmare reflected back at me through the myriad facets of their minds. Part of me is longing to abandon everything and bring them all down this very moment. Hermione is quivering at my side and through her arm I can feel her pulse beating rapidly like the wings of a trapped bird. My fingers squeeze tight, impressing my will into her – the feel of her rushing blood even more pronounced – before letting go and shoving her roughly toward Potter. "You shall hand it to her," I declare, watching them all, ready to attack if any of them moves unnecessarily. Six against one and not one brave soul dares move. There's a savage pleasure in watching Hermione stumble forwards, but at the same time I feel as though I should pull her back and prevent her from taking even those few steps toward Potter, that allowing her any closer to her schoolfellows is too much.

Hermione stands between us. Harry Potter is not looking at her, but at me, his face contorted in pain, his teeth grinding. "Harry…" she pleads, "Harry, please…"

"Ron," Potter glances across at his companion before nodding resignedly towards the pocket of his pyjamas, keeping his wand angled at me, while Weasley reaches in and reluctantly draws out the small golden cup and I fight the urge to wince as his undeserving, filthy fingers press against my precious soul. I can feel fury shooting up the nape of my neck, ready to engulf me if I only let it. Hermione holds her hand out to take the cup and whispers something I cannot catch to Weasley. Breath becomes a labour as I forcibly combat the impulse to kill them both before her eyes. It would be so simple… no, no… I cannot… not yet.

Weasley is wandless, green about the face, and trembling, but his blue eyes are fierce with purpose as he holds Hufflepuff's Cup just short of Hermione's grasp. It's laughable – both of them are! As if they were knights facing a dragon instead of worthless schoolboys in their night-clothes. Once again I have the sharp urge to end this now, to squash them like the cockroaches they are, and it is truly painful to resist when my whole body is thrumming with the expectant euphoria of Dark magic. "If we give you the Horcrux, Hermione stays with us." The voice is tense but still strong, a wire stretched taut.

I cannot help the smile that comes to my lips in secret knowledge of this impudent boy's fate. "I hardly think – Ronald – that you are in any position to dictate terms to Lord Voldemort." I laugh at his amusingly pugnacious expression and the flinch that accompanies my name, as I roll my wand deliberately between the fingers of my left hand and return my gaze to Hermione, whose upturned palm is shaking.

"O-oh, yeah?" Suddenly, the cup is lobbed high. It sails over Hermione's head like a golden snitch and I instinctively break my concentration to catch it as it falls toward me.

"Ron – no!" a voice calls out and, as my fingers close triumphantly around my Horcrux, I glimpse the red-head fling black powder into the air and everything goes dark.

L.V.H.G

Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder fills the cottage, making me cough and splutter as I stumble against a couch, unable to see. I know from Ginny that ordinary spells won't penetrate the darkness – we have to find our way out. A warm hand fumbles at my shoulder, pulling me back, and I yelp as I collide with someone in the pitch black, both of us falling over, tripping over what might be a chair, sending it crashing to the floor. I can hear footsteps, yelling and banging as people knock into furniture and each other. A high-pitched shriek of pure fury drowns out everything else and my left foot is on fire. "Hermione," Harry hisses, yanking my arm, "come on!" It feels like layers of skin are being peeled off my left sole, carving it up with a knife, the pain tugging me across the room like a magnet.

"No!" I struggle against my friends, "I can't–!" I try to roll away from them across the floor, "You have to – Voldemort!" All of a sudden there's a loud crack from outside, the murmur of excited voices, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. Oh Merlin, they've renewed the Taboo ritual. "Disapparate! Leave me! RUN!" I cry, fighting harder against Ron and Harry's attempts to pull me away. Green light forks through the blackness like lightning. Harry is yelling something and Ron drags me forward as I try to push him off. Spells roar and crackle in the darkness, and it's Ron who is pulled away, his fingers ripped off me by Bill, just as blinding fire pierces the darkness, consuming the powder along with the oxygen.

Fiendfyre turns Voldemort's bleached skin golden, surrounding him like billowing, wild-burning wings which twist and spit like a nest of serpents. He looks like a demon king in swirling black robes; his glowing eyes alight with crimson rage. I scramble away from my friends and dive behind a couch, slipping on a pencil-like something. A picture frame shatters above my head. Glass flies everywhere and – desperately trying to get out of the way – I see Draco Malfoy's wand from the floor between my feet. I snatch up the wand and, struggling with the wrongness of it in my hand, summon my own wand from upstairs. Lupin, Fleur, Bill and Tonks are holding off the Snatchers, spells zinging between them whilst Voldemort, impossibly fleet-footed, raises his wand at Ron and the room is lit with blinding green light.

I forget to breathe as the perfectly aimed Avada Kedavra rushes to claim my courageous, helpless friend, just as my vine wood wand flies down the stairs toward me. The two meet mid-air and there is a horrible splintering explosion as it is blown to pieces by Voldemort's curse, filling the air with the scent of burnt dragon's blood, giving Ron time to take cover behind a table. The Dark Lord screams again in thwarted fury. His voice is like a Banshee: a deathly, inhuman cry. The vicious serpent-winged flames feed on his anger, growing ever higher until the ceiling begins to burn. He pivots gracefully and extends his arms toward the Order, Fiendfyre rushing forward to do his bidding. "NO!" I aim at the ceiling with Malfoy's wand, between the Order and Voldemort, and yell "Confringo!" with all my might. White plaster explodes between them, debris consumed by the roaring Fiendfyre – all the time Tonks, Fleur and Lupin need to disapparate everyone as Snatchers pour into the room.

The Snatchers' eyes are comically wide and they scatter before the whirling tendrils of cursed Medusan fire which curl furiously around Voldemort, who flies forward, clawing the empty air. Our eyes lock and he lets out a dangerous hiss, not even bothering to glance at the Snatchers backing cautiously away behind him, bowing low. The flames vanish and the Dark Lord stands in the centre of the cottage, his sharp shoulders still shuddering in fury. Those gleaming feline eyes stare for what feels like forever and I meet them defiantly, tears stinging my face, not caring what he sees. Eventually, he simply holds out an imperious, long-fingered hand to me and – too tired and numb for anything else – I obediently walk over and put my hand in his and we twist into the contracting darkness of apparition –

–To be spat out in a book-lined study, lit only by low-burning embers. Nagini is sleeping on the hearth-rug like a monstrous dog. My Dark Mark is still aching, but not as much as my heart. It's only a wand, I tell myself, what's important is that everyone got away, that nobody died – it saved Ron's life! I could not be more proud of my vine wood wand and I hate the wand in my hand, awkward and foreign – still reeking of Draco Malfoy's magic. Angry, I chuck it on the floor, and it bounces near the snake lying curled on the rug. Nagini lifts her head drowsily and tastes the air.

I refuse to speak to Voldemort, even to ask where we are. I feel hopeless, naïve – I've trapped myself with a monster – stupid enough to believe his promises – this murderer who killed Mad-Eye Moody and almost killed Ron just now – who would have incinerated the entire cottage like he murdered the Goblins at the bank. And Ron… I can't believe he was the one who found the way to get everyone out of there alive. It was so brave. My only consolation is that the Order is safe, but even then it's only temporary. Voldemort can find them any time he likes.

The Dark Lord isn't looking at me but the finely-wrought golden cup he places carefully on a desk, facing away, his tall, thin frame bending over the Horcrux, stroking its golden rim with his spidery fingers, murmuring Parseltongue under his breath. I could stun him right now, the thought drifts into my head, he isn't looking… But I can't kill him, no one can, and tying him up wouldn't do anything to stop him. Even as I think about it, a subtle flicker of light licks around my wrist, reminding me of my vow. Oh Merlin, it's hopeless…

The hissing has stopped, Voldemort straightens his back, but he still doesn't turn around, his hands clenching the back of the chair in front of him. I can hear his level breathing and, in the silence, the sound almost drowns me. "I am not an evil creature insensible of virtue..." he whispers finally, releasing the chair. I can see where his milky claws have cut through the dark velvet upholstery. "I always value bravery, intelligence… loyalty – and it is these things that draw me to you far more than your beauty – which is considerable – but common enough in its way." He glides toward me and I remain rooted to the spot as that immense aura of frighteningly dark magic washes over me and I find myself wishing I hadn't chucked Malfoy's wand on the floor as Voldemort nudges it disinterestedly aside with a bare toe.

It's impossible to predict which way his mood will swing next and his red eyes are lit with madness. Skeletal fingers gently find the bone just beneath my ears and caress my jaw, stopping just short of cupping my face, his tone just as delicate as his movements. "Such devotion… such faithfulness… and so wasted on your wretched, worthless friends!" Spittle flecks my face and my ears ring as he screams down at me, his serpentine features contorted in rage.

"How would you know?-!"I yell right back at him, beyond angry now, struggling to shake off his hold. "Who are you to judge my friends?-! You wouldn't know friendship from a - a Blast-Ended Skrewt!"

"Don't be childish!" Voldemort spits, his temper dissolving his controlled, human speech into icy, breathless sibilants, gripping my already bruised skin painfully tight. "Of coursse I know what friendship isss, I–" He pauses, blinking down at me in irritation, "A blast-ended what?"

"EXACTLY! AND, AS FOR CHILDISH BEHAVIOUR, I'VE NEVER MET SOMEONE SO IMMATURE AND HYPOCRITICAL IN MY LIFE–!"

"YOU DARE!" The tip of the yew wand presses hard into my cheek, raw magic licking my skin with white heat and I scream in pain. "You dare…?" He repeats quietly and, as the agony intensifies, tearing viciously through my nerves, he begins to laugh – humourless and insane – a broken, terrifying sound. The crimson eyes glaze over and Voldemort sways, like a reed buffeted by a strong wind, and for a moment I think he's going to have a seizure. "Hermione…" my name is a high-pitched, strangled whimper – as though he were the one being tortured, choking on his own awful laughter. Long fingers pull me close, my senses spinning, and his smooth, cold face presses against my neck and shoulder. Voldemort clings to me like a child, his tall body hunched over and, his sharp claws digging into my skin. "Hermione…" he repeats urgently, as though needing to confirm my existence.

L.V.H.G

"Get off!"

She's trying to push me away, trying to escape. Memories are blossoming in the back of my mind, overtaking me. I try to fight off the seizure pounding in my brain – I had a mouth but it opened into darkness, I had eyes but there was nothing to see, I had a nose but it could smell nothing but the garlic Quirinus kept stuffed in his robes to disguise the aura of Dark magic. It was beyond demeaning, it was – Hermione struggles in my arms. "No!" I cry, "I will not allow it – you are mine – you are mine!" I am Lord Voldemort! The mantra thrums in my blood, suffused with the force of memory – I am Lord Voldemort – through the forest and that meagre, parasitic existence; through disappointment, failure, misery and delirium; through exhaustion, deprivation, destruction, and excruciating torture – those four words have sustained me, and they sustain me now as I battle the rage that would drag my eyes open in the back of Quirrel's head and the claustrophobic darkness of the purple turban.

They always fight me at first. Quirinus Quirrel struggled too, as did the creatures of the forest. It never lasted long – "No – no – not again, please!" he wept and his head lowered, shaking, as he cringed pathetically. As if he knew the meaning of true sacrifice, true agony. How dare he, when he knew how much I needed the unicorn blood? "You would disobey Lord Voldemort?" I seethed, tightening my hold on his pitiful frame – there is a distant noise, muffled as though underwater – deluging his body with pain, twisting my displeasure into his mind. I had not come so far to fail now due to the squeamishness of my vessel. Let him suffer, that pitiful, worthless – Hermione is screaming and, as I draw my hands away, my nails are dripping brilliant red with blood. But the vision bleeds into my mind; memories running together like colours.

Shocked, I abandon my grip and Hermione stumbles backward, tripping over the spitting Nagini, head hitting the side of the desk with a thud. There are tears in her eyes again and, wandless, she crawls away from me, her beautiful hair covering her face, cringing like Quirrel. The spectacle pushes all memories away as my fury dies. I was… has it been to long since my last calmative spell? Or perhaps they grow less effective… have I truly so little control? It is not Hermione's suffering that disturbs me, as she certainly deserves punishment for her impudence, but that my recollection overflowed into the present, my mind swirling in two places at once – that I can lose myself to the past so completely while my body is still conscious. I never intended to go this far – to hurt my precious one so much. Not now, not with Potter's words so fresh in her mind, not until she is mine completely.

I kneel beside her, brushing the curtain of sweet-smelling hair aside, a healing spell at my sticky fingertips. "Hermione," I touch her shoulder, trying to make my tone as gentle as I can, "Hermione… my love…"

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" she screeches like an animal, causing Nagini to rise, mouth open threateningly, baring her fangs at Hermione. "DON'T – D-DON'T TOUCH ME!" One red-rimmed, dark-lashed eye is visible through the quivering curtain of tangled brown curls and, in that eye, staring back at me – as through a shifting mirror – is a mad creature with slitted, crimson eyes, attacking Hermione without mercy, ripping into her soft skin with its vicious claws and scalding her with its furious magic, screaming for her to obey in its awful, high-pitched voice.

"I… I was not… in control, I… m-my love, please…" I am as tongue-tied as Quirinus, helpless in the face of the image her despairing gaze reflects. "I did not mean for it to happen." I reach for her again and she jerks away, shaking her head in helpless retreat, tears rolling down her cheeks. My mouth is bone dry as I watch – struck dumb with horrified fascination – the death of her affection for me. The thoughts and memories flickering in her glassy iris, darkened to earthy black in the dim firelight, strike me with terrible, infinite certainty. Why did she have to anger me? Why could she not see the worthlessness of her associates? "No…" I gasp out, "no, no…" It is the look Amy and Denis gave me at the last. Something inside me cracks to see it in Hermione; I cannot bear the weight of it on my lungs, as I try to frantically suck in air. A stare shared with Wormtail as he fed me Nagini's milk, and Albus Dumbledore, who laced it with disgust, and with my grandparents as they watched me kill my father and turn on them: a mute, sickened horror that something so monstrous should exist.

There is only one solution. Hermione raises her hands instinctively, as if they offer any protection from my wand.

Foolish girl.

"Obliviate."

L.V.H.G

The mattress under me is comfortable, the pillows luxurious; I don't want to open my eyes – just lie here peacefully for a while, tucked under the sheets. My arms and legs ache, exhausted, and all over I feel the prickly sensation of magically healed injuries. I can hear birdsong trilling outside. Maybe I'm back in the girls' dormitory at Hogwarts…? Something cold and soft gently brushes a strand of hair away from my face and I manage to crack open my sleep-clogged eyes.

The heavy curtains are drawn, I can't tell if its morning or sunset. I'm in Voldemort's guest room at Malfoy Manor and the Dark Lord sits beside me on the bed, stroking my cheek with the back of one of those large hands, his bony knuckles caressing my skin. His robes are draped over the back of a chair leaving him in only the loose silk trousers he wore swimming and the emeralds of the golden locket glinting around his neck. I've never seen anyone's skin such a dead white. Close up, his chest is grotesque: his concave stomach and tiny waist set below a swell of ribcage clad with the thinnest layer of sinew to hide the curving bone beneath. He's built like a dancer: the only flesh under that pearly exterior is compact muscle. The smoothly porcelain face gazes down at me, the feral eyes dull and sated, like those of a cat curled in front of a fire. He tilts his head to the side, regarding me curiously as his nails lightly trace my jaw. My mum used to sit beside me like this when I was sick; sometimes she'd sing me something or dad would read aloud from The Wind in the Willows. I miss my parents so much…

Warm breath tickles my face, closely followed by a mouth giving a moment's pressure to my forehead. Then there's a strange, high, quivering noise that could almost be crying, but isn't. The sound of weak, wheezy lungs trying to get out something I can't quite recognise; Voldemort's chilly, sibilant voice eking out a small, breathless melody. Merlin's pants, he's trying to sing… He must have been reading my thoughts when I was thinking about my parents. It's… incredibly creepy and somehow… sweet. The Dark Lord's fingers are still sliding across my face tenderly.

He has to take a gulp of air in between almost every note, and I can tell he's frustrated that he obviously can't sing the way he remembered; Voldemort's voice is well up in the soprano range, rasping and hissy. It's nearly painful to hear his strange, inhuman voice trying to recite a simple song. "It'ss... a… lovely… day… tomorrow… tomorrow… iss… a… lovely… day…" The lyrics sound vaguely familiar, maybe a World War II song? "Come… and… feassst… your… tear… dimmed… eyess… on… tomorrow'ss… clear… blue… sskiesss…" I want to tell him to please stop this agonising performance, knowing what despairing, possessive need must be behind it – for him to try and replace my parents – but I find myself oddly hypnotised by the bizarre sight and sound of Lord Voldemort attempting to sing this sadly hopeful melody for me in a room closed against natural light. "If… today… your… heart… iss… weary… if… every… little… thing… looksss… grey… just… forget… your… troubles… and… learn… to… sssay… tomorrow… isss… a… lovely… day…"

I let him move over me – helpless not to smile in the face of his peculiar recital – my hands petting the sharp ridge of his spine. There's such a tender, unguarded expression on that flat face, as if he's caught in wonder at my very being. He behaves as if, instead of a day, a few years have passed since our last meeting and he'd never expected to see me again. He kisses my forehead once more and this time his mouth moves slowly down between my eyebrows and the length of my nose until it meets my lips. I missed him. I missed this: his deep, clammy kisses that seem to blot out the rest of the world with their intensity, humming with Voldemort's electric magic. "I missed you…" I whisper between his thin lips.

"And I you…" he murmurs in return, his spidery hands trapping me beneath his milky body, an ungarded need shining in his blood-coloured eyes. I could stay like this forever…

Are you just dropping your knickers and hoping for the best? Harry's words sting me again. I need to come up with a plan, a strategy… I can't just let things happen! This is ludicrous; I'm in enemy territory – alone in my quest to reform this insane wizard – trying to think up some kind of plan while snogging. I try to take stock. I'm in Voldemort's bedroom – the Death Eaters must have brought me to Voldemort after the Snatchers almost killed me and Ron at Shell Cottage. At least the Order got away. It's all a bit fuzzy, really. Harry… Harry would never forgive me for stealing Hufflepuff's Cup. I can't believe… I can't believe I did it… betrayed my best friends… "I'm sorry…" the guilty thought leaks into my mouth.

Voldemort glances up and half-closed, slitted, crimson eyes blink at me; again he reminds me of a dozy, hairless tomcat. "You have done nothing to require my forgiveness," he murmurs softly as his body looms above me, "…have you, Hermione?" There's something deadly in his tone and it frightens me even though it shouldn't.

"N-no, I…" I feel for Hufflepuff's Cup, still where I left it in the pocket of my dressing gown, and pull it out. The chalice shines brightly in the candlelight, the lines of the engraved badger so lovely that I can't help but stare, amazed not because of the cup's status as a Horcrux, but because it was once belonged to one of the founders of Hogwarts and somehow I had forgotten that wonder along the way. Helga Hufflepuff once drank from this cup. I'm surprised the Snatchers didn't take it off me... like they broke my vine wood wand. My chest tightens at the thought of my ruined wand. Irrationally, it's as if someone has died and I feel ashamed of telling Ron off about crashing into the Whomping Willow when he was so upset about breaking his in second-year – it's like having a part of me cut away.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" Voldemort traces a long forefinger around the rim. He doesn't snatch the cup off me, as I expect, but puts his hands around mine, pressing my fingers into the gold. "A worthy receptacle indeed for Lord Voldemort's soul – thank you, my love…" He leans down again for a lingering kiss, his tongue sliding delicately around the edge of my lips. "You have done well… very well… I am… most pleased…" Teeth nip playfully at my earlobe, making me gasp even as guilt sinks through my stomach like a stone. "I will kill those who have hurt you – you will not recognise the faces of your attackers by the time I have–"

"No!" I try to give him a reassuring smile; it makes my cheeks feel stiff. "I mean – it's really not – no one deserves that. Please don't hurt anyone – you promised me you'd try, remember?"

Voldemort gives me a strange look, one of his curiously blank expressions that are so hard to decipher. "Of… course," he whispers quietly, "whatever you wish." Even now he clearly doesn't understand why I wouldn't want the Snatchers dead. "I can destroy anyone who has hurt you… perhaps the journalist? It would be a simple matter to find her. Or those who sent you such cowardly letters… everything can be traced with the right magic…" Voldemort's voice is husky and seductive; aroused by the idea of murdering Rita Skeeter and all the anonymous people who sent me hate mail in fourth year.

"Can you stop going through my mind?" I snap, using irritation to cover my fear. "And for the last time I don't want anyone dead!"

Voldemort doesn't miss a beat: "Then what shall I gift you with, my sweet one? Perhaps spell books or jewels?" he takes one hand off the Horcrux to ghost his fingers over my chest where a necklace would lie. "You have returned something precious to me and I can be a generous lord." His eagerness is almost suffocating and his caresses begin to go lower, beneath the collar of my pyjamas.

I don't want anything for betraying Harry. I was under the impression my reward was unhurt friends! But it's hard to say no to his bright eyes, glittering with determined insistence. "Well… I need a new wand, I guess…" I try to wriggle away from his roving hand, uncomfortable.

But, surprisingly, the Dark Lord pulls nimbly away, Horcrux in hand, striding across the room in a few steps, gracefully drawing his robes about himself and donning his cloak. I sit up in bed, looking around for my beaded bag. Voldemort glides back and forth, black silk sweeping around him. He doesn't seem to be speaking to me so much as talking to himself. "Naturally, you require a wand. Unfortunately, Ollivander is unavailable. Still there are other wand-makers. One hears excellent things about Gregorovitch wands…" Distractedly, Voldemort summons my bag and flicks it over onto the bed. There's something obsessive and frantic about his distracted pacing.

I walk through into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, letting out a stream of breath. Glancing up, I catch myself in the mirror: I look tired and pale, my hair a scraggy, knotty mess. And my once fluffy dressing-gown is looks as old and worn as I feel. It's so hard to think with Voldemort right there all the time! Examining my skin, I can't find any injuries, but I can still feel the ache of where they were. Part of me wishes the bruises were still there, just because I want to know what happened to me exactly. After pulling on some clean underwear, my jeans, and buttoning up my blouse, I wonder about trying a couple of spells from Charming Hair Made Easy. It was on the bookshelf in Ginny's room and I only had time to write down a few incantations, not try any of them out. This is stupid – I shouldn't be thinking about my hair of all things, let alone experimenting with new charms! I sigh and force the birds' nest back into a ponytail and then take the opportunity to clean my teeth – which makes me feel a bit more human. Gregorovitch… didn't Viktor mention him to me once?

Lord Voldemort is waiting for me. He can be so still, a reptile's deadly patience. But the ice in his eyes thaws as he turns toward me, his hands running gently up into my terrible hair, making it spill out glossy and smooth, as a scarlet cloak is drawn from thin air to wrap around my shoulders, coming down to my ankles. We kiss again, and I can't help but be endeared toward this mad, wild sorcerer who is trying so hard to make me happy in spite of his mental illness. Then the thin mouth twitches and his wand is suddenly in his left hand, his right arm tight around my waist.

Crack.

L.V.H.G

Hermione appears to have suffered no ill effects from her memories being replaced. I've always had particular gift for that branch of mind-magic. She slept for such a long time and when I saw her awakening on that same bed I did weeks ago, I had a sudden, now laughable, fear that Hermione would suffer the same fate; that I had made some error and she would have lost everything. But she walks beside me in the twilight, very pretty in the bright cloak I conjured to go over her muggle clothes, her hand in mine. The sky is still pale, but the lamps are lit and my magic guides me past quaint houses with triangular timbered gables. His lodging is at the end of the street, almost obscured by an overgrown hornbeam hedge. A simple gesture and the rusted, creaky gate swings open; light spills onto the grassy path from an upstairs window.

"This doesn't look like a shop," Hermione's voice is getting squeaky, "maybe we should come back tomorrow…?"

"Nonsense," I walk confidently up to the door and knock, "you are helpless without a wand. You need one as soon as possible." Footsteps sound inside and I wait with Hermione standing behind me on the steps; she is fidgety with nerves.

A wizened, portly little man with a bushy, white beard opens the door. "Ja, gut–" the welcome dies on his lips as he looks up at me, cringing feebly back, the skin around his dark eyes paling, his own wand trembling in his right hand. His fear inspires nothing in me but impatience.

"You are the wandmaker Gregorovitch?" I inquire pointedly. "I require a wand from you."

"I have it not!" the old man cries, desperately trying to shut the door in terror. I hold it open and step forward, intrigued by his strange response. "I have it no more! Many years ago it was stolen from me! There is nothing for you here!" Is he talking about his shop, what is he trying to hide? He does not look surprised to see me – horrified yes – but not surprised, why is that?

"Please, sir, we're sorry to alarm you, but were under the impression you sold wands?" Hermione is squeakily conciliatory.

Gregorovitch gives her a wild-eyed stare, doubtless shocked at my choice of companion. "I am retired – I have no wand to give! Go away!"

A hand is tugging on my cloak, but I ignore it. "You're lying," I hiss at him, deliberately looming above his bent figure, my own wand ready to curse him if he refuses to cooperate. "You do have wands – they're upstairs in the attic – boxes of them. Do not lie to me, wandmaker! You shall allow Miss Granger to select one of these wands or suffer Lord Voldemort's displeasure." And while Hermione goes through the wands, I shall pick your mind for this mystery.

"We'll pay you!" Hermione adds hurriedly, holding her purse aloft and I find it hard not to snort derisively at her ridiculous antics. Glancing from me to Hermione and back, Gregorovitch eventually lets us in, mumbling something in German under his breath as he leads us up to his attic. I keep my wand trained on him, wary of this senile wandmaker doing anything foolish. The air is full of dust and Hermione sneezes while the muttering Gregorovitch opens up several large trunks with hands gnarled by arthritis.

"What was your first wand?" he barks at Hermione, who is still as nervous as Quirinus once was, wiping her nose on a handkerchief, her eyes watering. "I assume you need a replacement?" Gregorovitch's beady gaze keeps sliding past her towards me and each time I dip a little deeper into his memories, trying to ferret out the answer to why he was expecting Lord Voldemort at his door. His English is really surprisingly good for a man under so much stress.

"Oh, um, yes… vine – ten and three-quarter inches. The core was dragon heartstring."

"Vine wood?" Gregorovitch sniffs "An Ollivander, no doubt!" He rummages around in one of the boxes, "Try – walnut and phoenix feather – ten and a quarter inches." Nothing happens. It takes a long time to find the right wand for Hermione and matters are not helped by the girl herself constantly claiming she has found the right one in order to stop me from continuing to menace Gregorovitch; a futile endeavour, of course. Meanwhile, flashes of insight begin to collect from the wandmaker. A long wand of warm wood and well vanished, decorated along its length with engravings of what look like tiny clusters of berries; a sense of power in Gregorovitch's plump hand, greater than he has ever felt; a blond-haired young man perched on a window-ledge like a giant bird, aiming a Stunning Spell at Gregorovitch and leaping out of the window, with a crow of triumphant laughter. And it is this stolen wand that the wandmaker thought brought me here? I wonder…

A fountain of crimson sparks illuminates the room with sudden brilliance. "Hah!" Even under duress Gregorovitch appears to derive a certain dour satisfaction from his old craft, "White poplar and dragon heartstring – eleven inches – I would not have expected… no, a good wand; A wand for overcoming great trials. Strong." He is giving Hermione an appraising stare I do not like, as if something about her has caught his eye that he did not see before. It looks far more natural than many of Ollivander's, shaped like a simple, pale rod as the ancient wands were, without ornamentation. Then the wandmaker seems to remember himself and his hostility. He throws up his hands. "There! Now you leave me in peace, yes?"

"H-how much?" Hermione is reaching into her purse determinedly, to my amusement.

Gregorovitch mumbles something in reply I cannot quite hear, waving away her coins. Hermione's brown eyes are wide, her mouth pinched in a frown, still holding out her gold. He backs away from us: "Please – go – leave an old man be!"

"Very well, wandmaker. Come, Hermione…"

"But–"

"Come."

She throws the money just as we disapparate, coins striking the old wooden floorboards in a swirl of dust and gold as the world tunnels into blackness.

L.V.H.G

My eyes blink open in the dark. It's late, I know, but I've rested all day because of my injuries – I don't feel sleepy at all. It's hard to feel safe here; I can occasionally hear the movements of Death Eaters in the corridors. Voldemort told me he warded the doorway to his chambers so no one can get in, but it still feels wrong. This is Draco Malfoy's house, and the room oozes Slytherin – it's like a shadowed, silvery forest. Voldemort is asleep beside me, while Nagini is curled up under the bed, her yellow eyes ever watchful, ready to strike an intruder; I know the snake will alert Voldemort if anything disturbs us. I think they sleep in shifts.

It startled me how easily we both assumed we would sleep in the same bed. How nice it is to just lie together under crisp sheets, listening to another heart beat and feeling Voldemort's skin smooth and tepid against mine. All the same, it still makes me nervous, the assumption inherent in it – his possessive behaviour. As if he owns me, signed on the dotted line, and having sex is just a technicality he's willing to forgo until I say I want it. I shift away from him, towards my side of the bed. A soft hiss escapes between his teeth and his milky shoulders shift a little, but Voldemort is sound asleep.

The white poplar wand is resting on the bedside table, next to an empty silver vase.I'm glad to have it, obviously, but it makes me feel bad: not giving myself time to mourn my old vine wood wand. I can still hear the awful, splintering noise in my mind. The new one feels different and I can't make myself think of it as mine yet. I rub my eyes and stare up at the bed's canopy, where embroidered snakes twine among black velvet leaves. A gilded glint in the darkness catches the corner of my eye: Hufflepuff's Cup sitting on Voldemort's desk, visible through the open door to the study.

I don't know why, but I find myself getting up – taking care not to wake the Dark Lord – and tip-toeing through to the other room, quietly shutting the door behind me and lighting the study with a non-verbal Lumos. The cup sits on the desk innocuously and I suddenly feel foolish and turn my gaze instead toward the many books that line Voldemort's study. But just as I move away to take a closer look at the spines, something begins to swirl in the bottom of the Horcrux.

It's like a cross between smoke and water, dark and bubbling in the goblet as if boiling and I have a strange sense of déjà vu, as if I've seen something like it before, though I can't think where. As I edge closer to the golden cup, the misty liquid stills, suddenly limpid, and I can see the ghost of my face reflected in its steaming, mirror-like surface. Then the reflection shivers and I can see the vague outline of a boy – slowly becoming clearer – around my age, with dark blue eyes and wild, jet black hair like Harry's. But his face is nothing like my friend's; handsome and hollow-cheeked. We stare at each other and he mouths something into the silence and I probably wouldn't have been able to figure out what the word was through the obscuring almost-water, had the image of someone else mouthing it not burned into my memory: Hermione… The boy's eyes glitter and he gestures for me to come closer, closer, closer.

Drink. The word arrives in my head. Tom Riddle gives me an encouraging smile. I really don't fancy drinking what looks like essence of evil soul magic. The face in the Horcrux keeps smiling up at me, nodding and mutely calling my name. "I'm not drinking from a piece of someone else's soul," I tell it firmly. The lovely, dark eyes plead and the Horcrux pouts slightly. Drink. "No, I'm sorry; you'd have to be a complete moron to ignore the many reasons why drinking from a Horcrux is a bad idea."

Drink? He mouths something else I can't decipher and, as my face dips still closer in an effort to lip-read, the words stretch into a wicked grin and I'm drawn downward as if by a magnet. I yelp as I fall into that nasty smile like through a pensieve, slipping through smoky void until I my feet land unexpectedly on the thickly carpeted floor of the Hogwarts library.

"That was a dirty trick!" I protest, looking around for Tom Riddle and, sure enough, he's sitting at one of the study tables next to the Restricted Section. He isn't wearing a school uniform though, but a dark suit and a thick, black cloak. He doesn't look like a student at all, in fact. Just as with my meetings with the locket, there's no one else here. So this is what Tom Riddle looked like. He's very handsome; although he's pale, his skin still looks human and his eyes are free of red. I'm so used to his pearly, waxen features that it's quite hard to recognise him as Voldemort at all, except maybe by the high cheekbones and his enigmatic smirk. He's holding a quill, smoothing it idly against his throat and looks to be in the middle of writing out a set of notes.

"We can't all be diaries begging to be written in," he remarks dryly, gesturing for me to sit opposite him at the study table. "Besides, I have no desire to harm you," Riddle treats me to another disarming smile as I sit down, bending over to brush his lips across my knuckles. I pull my hand away. "I merely wished to ask if I could render you any service."

I frown, "What do you mean?"

He raises his eyebrows in cold surprise. "You tried to persuade Potter to spare me and you intend to reunite me with Lord Voldemort. I think it only fair that I offer you something in return."

"Oh!" This has to be the last thing I expected the Horcrux to say. "Could… could you teach me Occlumency?"

He tilts his head thoughtfully to the side. "Possibly, though I do not think such a thing would be advisable. It would take a considerable length of time and I fear I should be tempted to devour you in the process. Of course, I should be glad to attempt to teach you if that is what you want."

"No thank you…" I say awkwardly. "Look, you really don't owe me anything, I did it because–"

"I know why you did it," he interjects, his voice silken, "your motives and general behaviour disgust me. Nevertheless, you have defended Lord Voldemort against those who would seek to destroy him and I will not see such a thing go unrewarded." Wow, they all talk about themselves in the third person.

"I do have one question," I begin tentatively, carefully phrasing what I will say in my head before speaking aloud. "The Locket Horcrux claims it knows why Voldemort lost his memory, but it won't tell me. Maybe you could help me figure it out?"

"That is an interesting question. First, tell me about what you know about the circumstances of the amnesia," he sounds like a doctor with his pleasant, yet formal tone. The Horcrux nods along when I explain things, occasionally asking questions to clarify how Voldemort reacted to certain situations or memories. When I finish, Tom Riddle puts down his quill and leans forward onto long, steepled fingers, his darkly blue eyes looking thoughtfully upwards. He's silent for a long time, completely ignoring me, and just when I think about interrupting his musing, he replies: "I believe I have an idea, though it is no means certain, you understand?"

"Anything you can tell me would be helpful."

He stands up, heavy wooden chair scraping backwards, and perches on the edge of the table. "What is the heaviest sentence the Wizengamot metes out?"

"The Dementor's Kiss," I answer promptly.

"And what are its effects?"

"It reduces a person to an incurable vegetative state by sucking out their soul; they have no awareness of themselves or the world around them. What does this have to do with Voldemort's amnesia? He just lost his memory, he's not catatonic."

"What am I, then?" Riddle pushes himself off the desk, a melancholy look in his eyes.

"You're a Horcrux, obviously!" I roll my eyes.

"I'm a memory, Hermione Granger, a memory preserved in an ancient cup for many years." He looks extremely troubled. "When a wizard makes a Horcrux he encases a portion of his soul inside an object. You have read Secret of the Darkest Art, you know the theory. What is your soul but your sense of self – your memories? And what would happen to the wizard who shed so much of himself so as to verge dangerously close to the victim of the Dementor?" The blue eyes are narrowed and stormy, glinting red. "I always knew it was a risk, but I thought my precautions satisfactory…"

"What precautions?"

He rounds on me, his long fingers gripping the arms of my chair, "Six Horcruxes! Seven pieces of soul! The most magical number, the number of completion, of wholeness, as it were. You see the significance, of course?"

"You mean Voldemort's soul is in more than seven pieces and that's what causing this? So it's true about Harry?"

Tom Riddle steps away from me, his face almost as white as his future self. His eyes are wide, his face slack with fear. "What do you mean... more than seven?" he repeats with dull horror as his shock dissolves the Hogwarts Library around me into nothingness and I'm flung backwards into Voldemort's dark study.

Next Chapter: Fun with Ollivander and the Elder Wand!