Thank you all for waiting so patiently, the last chapters are always the toughest.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I do not make any money from these writings.
Albus Dumbledore how I have come to detest thy voice…
Rufus inwardly groaned as he stared up at the white ceiling above him in a supplicatory manner.
"Albus, did Neswald put you up to this? If so, and I'm assuming he did, you should know that he has been suspended and banned from the case. A background investigation showed that he and Riddle's school years at Hogwarts overlapped for four years during which they were friends. He failed to report this and as a result -"
"That can only help to strengthen his testimony in court. He was his supporter and friend, but now -"
"We can't have him testify in court because the only thing that he witnessed was Riddle snickering and smiling to himself while taking the test which only reaffirms Neswald's initial stance on his inability to stand trial; especially since 'Voldemort'," Rufus quoted with his free hand, "has conveniently been bogarting the body whenever Riddle meets with his barrister. And of course they are now using this to claim fulfillment of the basic clause required to be found unfit to stand trial: the defendant is not able to communicate with his defense counsel. No, Neswald will not be needed, I have decided on a better course of action."
"That would be?"
"It doesn't involve you, Dumbledore."
The pause hung from the conversation like an oversized pendant off an angel hair width-chain. The break was inevitable. But before it occurred on Dumbledore's side, Rufus, the Fallen one, decided to claim it: "I have a lot of work. I will be going now."
Scrimgeour hung up and shook his head wishing he hadn't involved Dumbledore as much as he did. Or given Riddle a trial, for that matter, I should've had him taken care of the first night in his cell. As he sounded out in his head all the different alibis to justify their planned "treatment" of Riddle, a knock brought him out from his insidious thoughts.
"Minister," Monika greeted as she pushed the door open, "Mr. Craine is on the line."
At the mention of who had become the new bane of his life, Rufus was not able to contain his groan. "Tell him I'm in a meeting."
"I told him that last time, Minister," Monika responded sheepishly.
"Bathroom then."
Monika remained silent, but didn't move to carry out Scrimgeour's request. "Rufus, I really think you should take the call. Mr. Craine is not one easily fooled and last time, he made it clear he knew what I told him was an excuse."
Scrimgeour stared at her reproachfully before looking away with a resigned huff. Monika took the nonverbal cue and slipped out of his office to transfer the call. Moments later, his phone rang.
"Rufus, so glad I got through to you, you are just impossible to get a hold of."
George's sarcasm nudged a grim smile onto Scrimgeour's face as he folded his hands over his lap and reclined into his seat.
"What can I help you with, George?"
"When will I have the information requested?"
"By the end of the month, George," Rufus said and continued as soon as the Muggle started to voice his protest, "we have as many households as Muggle London, George, we are not a 15 member tribe that can just come together one full moon and settle all affairs. All surveys have been sent, instructions given, and we have already started getting some back, but like I said, it will take until the end of the month."
"Well, send me the ones you've already received, don't just sit on them!" Craine snapped, "I am not a lone wolf like you, you know, I need to answer to my shareholders. They need to see results." Then his tone softened, and Rufus could distinguish a mockingly patient smile dangling from the other end of the line, "I don't want to pressure you, Rufus, I really don't, but I have people breathing down my neck on an hourly basis, and if I don't act like a ogre and show I'm worth my salary, my head is on the platter." He chuckled. "Oh Rufus! You are so lucky you don't live in the real world."
It was an inadvertent slip, but it betrayed what Rufus had known all along.
"We are as much in the real world as you, Mr. Craine, our society may be different from yours, but that doesn't mean we are uncouth."
The receiver hit the lacquered base with a clank.
"Mona, dearie!"
The pretty receptionist's eyes lit up as the affable older woman came in with a vibrant smile. "Oh Dolores, how have you been? How was Berlin?"
The mousy woman rolled her eyes and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, "I'll take London any day! One can only eat so many sausages a day you know and," she looked furtively around, "between you and I, at moments I wasn't sure if I was still in Europe," she giggled, "that place is crawling with Turks."
"Well, it's same here, only with Indians," Monika whispered, "but we shouldn't speak of this!"
"Of course not! There is nothing less lady-like than prejudice, I always say," Umbridge said cheerily while digging through her bag, "however, the trip wasn't a total loss, because I saw the most beautiful dress, and I instantly knew the girl who it was handmade for…."
She pulled out a lavishly wrapped present that caused Monika to gasp and cover her aubergine mouth with tented hands which then eagerly reached for the gift.
"Oh Dolores, you are always so thoughtful!"
Umbridge smiled to herself and rearranged her white and gold scarf that shone like a light from the rest of her outfit which brought piglets, roses and girls to mind.
"Oh!"Monika stood up as she unfolded the mauve wrap dress and placed it over her imposing frame, "Oh, it's so beautiful, thank you so much!"
Umbridge chuckled as she accepted the girl's earnest hug and tapped her shoulders with her pearl-accented white gloves in return.
"No problem at all, I can't wait to see you wear it."
Monika smiled coyly as she wrapped it back up in the paper. "Oh, but it's too fancy for work…I could wear it to the Christmas party though!"
"Oh yes, not only would it look wonderful, but you would only need a dash of green to get fully into the holiday spirit!"
Monika and Dolores laughed in unison.
"How has our Minister been?"
"The Muggles are breathing down his neck, they call him multiple times a day," Monika said with a grim look. "He keeps making me come up with excuses as to why he can't answer the phone because he doesn't want to tell them that the survey is going to take some time, you know, but today, I made him take the call." She glanced at the closed mahogany door by her side. "He's on the phone with Craine as we speak."
"Oh, poor Rufus," Dolores said lightly as she took off her gloves with measured pensiveness. "I assume they are also bombarding him with muggle mails?"
"Yes, oh! I have to show you this one we got a few days ago." Monika opened up a laptop she'd dug from her desk. "It is absolutely ridiculous, Dolores, the nerve of these people."
"You know what, Mona, why don't you print them and owl them to my office. You know I need the soothing comfort of a nice cup of English tea when dealing with such impertinence. Send me all of the ones you've received… poor Rufus."
Monika nodded as she clicked around on the Ministry's sole computer. "Okay, I'll get those right over."
Dolores smiled. "Thank you, darling."
Clicking of heels over harsh, unfinished floor… absolute darkness punctuated by the occasional weak puddle of light… a masculine hand on her arm, its grip tight over the yielding baby alpaca shielding her from cold. Hermione knew it was probably out of concern for her in her current debilitated state, but she still couldn't discard the possibility of him thinking of her as another prisoner, not your run of the mill one, of course, she had purposely gone out in all finery for this; she'd even gotten her hair done at the salon.
Hermione's eyes fluttered once more as another source of light passed her by, and then they came to a halt. She felt the hand let go of her arm and start unlocking a metal door from which issued a blinding flood that made her blindfolded eyes shut in panic at the brusque change in environment.
"Almost there, Ms. Granger," the Unspeakable said.
"Good," she replied,her curt tone accentuated by her heels' decorous sound.
"Alright, we are here."
Her blindfold off, Hermione threw a rapid glance around her surroundings before being asked for her bag and coat which she handed without further ado to the guard behind the table. Then, her escort nodded for her to follow him towards a plain white door, one which would've blended in with the wall and ceiling had it not been for the handle.
"I'll be right outside, scream if anything happens," the cleanly groomed blond muttered as he held the door open for her with more ease than Hermione would've thought an Unspeakable could exhibit. She barely got to nod when her eyes met their apple: the perfect synthesis of crisp cotton whites and tailored black pants. He sat perfectly poised across the clinical metal expanse of the table laying under his interwoven hands. His frame of composure and dismissive interest in her entrance did nothing to assuage the yearning and outpour of emotional waters that begun trickling in through the newly created cracks of her barely upheld dam.
"Ms. Granger our time in here is limited, I suggest you get to your point."
Hermione's head remained facing him even as her eyes threw a furtive glance at the large mirror on their right, the watchful eyes behind it taking in her rigid stance and straight arms clasped tightly to her sides
There was no use feigning a platonic relationship, Scrimgeour was sure to be there and the Unspeakables that were surely there as well had more than likely been given her secret file prior to her calculated arrival.
"Hello, Voldemort," she said as her heels begun their slow path towards their guarded target.
"Well if it isn't my mudblood whore," he stated whilst leaning back in the chair and looking up at her with disdain. "Come all the way to see me in prison? Weasley's four inches not filling the void I left?"
Hermione's brow contracted and her eyes blinked as if to clear her memory of his disdainful stare and vulgar comment.
"I would change your attitude. I can leave whenever I like, but of course the same cannot be said for you, my lord."
Hermione leaned back and rested her behind on the table whilst turning her suit clad torso towards her sneering audience. Her hand wrapped around the edge of the table as her elbow bent out allowing her to come forward; the thinning air between them grew tepid with every close-range exhalation.
"I manipulated Scrimgeour into letting me in here so I can help break you out. As for the people behind the two-way mirror, they can no longer hear or see us."
Hermione smiled and sat back up motioning for Voldemort to look under the table. There, hanging upside down, was a small device with a faintly glowing button. The Dark Lord looked legitimately confused and the distrust on his face increased as a result.
"What is that?"
"It's a muggle device, a remote control, actually, I brought it up my sleeve and since it's muggle, it didn't raise any alarms. I modified it and infused the low frequency radio signal with the raw energy of the muffling, silencing, containing and refracting spell - oh - and the siren's call, of course, to knock them out."
He paused, his bottom jaw loosely coming unhinged and biting the inside of his mouth with calm, pregnant thought.
"And how did the refracting spell deflect the siren's song from us, but not them?" his eyes were narrowed, but she could tell he believed her and was genuinely intrigued, the thrill of it caused a giant smile to break over her face for the first time in weeks and warmth flooded into her newly revived arteries. "Distance. I programmed it on different wavelengths, so as long as we remain within three feet of it, we'll stay on the same frequency."
"We'll have to stay in very close proximity then."
He swooped down like a Dementor upon her mouth, and Hermione eagerly brought him closer as he kissed her forcefully, each intruding swipe of his tongue bringing her closer towards the house of the living. He was a prodigious kisser, that she had always known, but at that moment, he could've slobbered all over her face, and it would've still felt like her life's crowning jewel. Hermione took a step back towards the table and sat down on it as she spread her legs and tugged on his belt to get him to step between them.
He broke off their kiss at that moment, and Hermione brought her hands up to cup the underside of his jaw.
"What?"
"We don't have time." She could feel his powerful jaw moving side to side as he grounded his teeth with pensive intensity.
Pushing down her disappointment, Hermione brought her hands down and refocused on the mission at hand, carnal pleasures could wait.
"You're right." She pulled her skirt down and took Voldemort's hand as he helped her off the table and then yanked her body towards him, his arms securing her tightly against him. He brought his head down so that his forehead rested against her upturned one.
"There is a man," he whispered, "Edel Cotnoir, you must work with him. Send him an owl requesting a meeting and direct it towards ' ' so that he knows I sent you. You need say nothing more. Meet with him and tell him I have requested for him to tell you everything we have been working on regarding the muggles and Scrimgeour's dealings with them. You can be upfront with him, it is in his best interest that I am in power as well. He is probably already finding ways to break me out."
"Okay," Hermione nodded and her head did a rundown of his words as she tried to come up with questions that may rear their heads later on.
"I involved Ginny."
Fine, vertical lines sprouted over the smooth skin between his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"So I could come here, I had her go to Scrimgeour with a fake diary where I confessed my infatuation with you. She convinced him to blackmail me with it, and when he came to do so, I begged him to let me come see you and he, obviously thinking he could gain information, acquiesced. Draco is on the run and Ginny wants him to come back; she also wants to break you out."
His eyes looked down as he took in this new information. Hermione could see him putting it through the colander of his mind, the holes of which seemed to shrink when the contents were not his own.
"Work with Cotnoir. I trust him."
"No Ginny then," Hermione reiterated.
"Not for now. Stay away from her."
Hermione grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down once more for a kiss. In her mind, she knew she had to break away soon… that she had an important mission to work on, she was his only hope. The last thread binding him to this earth, his life depended on her… lived in her….
Hermione's sob severed their kiss, and she buried her face and her agonized hands into his rapidly crumpling shirt. Her entire body shook as it vengefully freed itself of the articulated calm that had been imposed upon it. She felt his hand on the small of her back; it was hot, unrelenting and steady… he was her keel, he would keep her on course.
"I was pregnant…" she finally muttered while forcefully pressing at the inner corner of her prickling eyes.
His chest became still for a couple of seconds, and then a low rumble from his chest sent vibrations over her right cheek.
"You're not anymore?"
She shook her head and closed her eyes with strength to match that now being applied by his hand on her back.
"It was the day of the trial, when you hit Dolohov… afterwards there was a riot and -" Hermione swallowed rapidly and took a deep breath to steady herself, "I hit my head and fainted. When I woke up, I was at St. Mungo's. Scrimgeour was there, the healers had run a pregnancy test, and it had come out positive; so they'd called him. Ron was also there… his whole family, Harry, Ginny…. Scrimgeour and Ron wanted me to get an abortion, but I didn't want to."
His head once more came to rest next to hers, and Hermione took a break in her story to turn her face sideways and lay her forehead upon the stubble on his cheek, her arms drawing him even closer.
"Scrimgeour knocked me out. When I woke up… it had already been done."
"Use this as a source of strength," he muttered while giving her a kiss, "don't let it bog you down or else the baby will have died in vain. We must get revenge."
Hermione nodded. "Of course. I don't care if I die."
His embrace tightened, and he took her lips with the urgency brought on by a fast-coming finality.
"What will they have memories of once we deactivate your contraption?"
"Us having sex," Hermione muttered, a sheepish smile causing her to bite down on her lips.
He snorted. "Only logical."
They joined lips once more and this time, Tom didn't hold his hands back as they roamed over Hermione's body with rapacious strokes and squeezes. While they were caught up in their amorous interaction, Hermione's hand had gone down below the table and plucked her creation, driving it up her sleeve.
Seconds after, the door was thrown open, and Scrimgeour flanked by two Unspeakables stood looking into the cell where the two lovers, caught in flagrante delicto, now adjusted their skewed garments.
"Well, that went on long enough! Quite a nice show though, huh?" Scrimgeour turned to the Unspeakables behind him who merely nodded their heads in polite acknowledgement.
"Well, Miss Granger," he grabbed her elbow and yanked her towards the door, "Visitation hours are over!" He shoved her one last time into the arms of the Unspeakables who graciously extended their forearms to stem her fall.
Voldemort locked eyes with her once more before allowing himself to slip back into his persona. He felt comfortable now, secure even, he had run out of options after Neswald figured him out, and he had never expected to see Hermione coming to his rescue. She had proven herself most worthy, his mudblood… and his child.
Accusing brown eyes snapped down onto Scrimgeour's electrifyingly golden ones. The Minister had been raging on about something that Voldemort had completely disregarded per his usual modus operandi. His own thoughts were much more satisfying and pressing after all.
Furious at the Dark Lord's usual inattentiveness, Scrimgeour begun searching for his wand in one of his many pockets. Knowing what was to come, Tom decided to make it worth his and Scrimgeour's while.
Taking advantage of the Minister's disregard, he concentrated his fury at Scrimgeour's daring insolence into the one part of his body he had become accustomed to using ever since his wand had been taken away.
The rattling of teeth accompanied the dry reverberating thud of his fist on Rufus' thin-skinned cheek. The man fell, and Tom continued his attack with his rubber-soled shoes. Unfortunately, he only managed to get a few decisive kicks between the Minister's vertebrae and head before the Unspeakables flashed their wands at him, knocking him out midway through a comforting thought that would more than make up for the hell that awaited him upon waking: Scrimgeour yelped like a terrier begging for treats.
"Mr. Youngblood,
I wish to meet with you straight away. Please respond, I am awaiting your message."
Rolling up the parchment, she tied it to her designated owl's leg and sat down in one of the chairs to wait for his reply. Hermione sighed and extracted a book along with a brown, marbled hair clip from her bag. Whipping her blonde hair up into a bun, she clipped it up and tucked the few stray hairs left behind her ears. She no longer went out as Hermione. Ever since Rita's interview, people knew her as Voldemort's whore and even though they held a cool admiration and professed their gratefulness, she could feel their repugnance seeping through their affable gestures.
Ironically enough, her current persona (who she had named Jessica) was known in The Order as Voldemort's actual whore since she had been caught in his bed by Dumbledore.
A few more minutes went by before Hermione was brought out from her reading by the sound of approaching wings. Upon receiving the bird, she roughly undid the black cord holding the new piece of parchment and rolled it out.
"Take the portkey out of the pouch in an hour. "
Hermione folded up the note and stowed away the canvas baggy into her purse. Placing a coin on the owlery owner's desk, she slipped on her sunglasses and Apparated home.
Once in her living room, Hermione tossed her sunglasses onto the couch and sat down next to them. She looked up at the clock, she had ten more minutes before the Polyjuice would wear off. She cracked her bag's lock open and started digging inside to make sure she had everything she needed: wallet, lipstick, cellphone, and most importantly, a voice recorder. Hermione held it up to her eye-line and pressed down the record button.
"Hello, hello, test, test."
She stopped the recording and hit 'play'. Her voice answered followed by mild static. Perfect.
Slipping the voice recorder back into her purse and snapping it shut, Hermione went into the kitchen to prepare herself something to eat while she waited for the hour to pass. Thoughts of Cotnoir entered her mind as she emptied a packet of ready-made oatmeal in a small pot: what plan did he have? If he was in such a hurry to meet with her, he must clearly have something substantial… and above all, who was this man who had gained from Tom what she had long assumed, he did not possess: trust?
What does he have that I don't?
As much as she tried to ignore it, Hermione knew that Tom did not truly trust her. Today in prison he had been distrustful even after she had told him they were no longer monitored: a statement that would've gotten her arrested had it not been true. Yet he had allowed a few seconds after her statement in order to witness the reaction, or rather lack thereof, from the guards and it was only when Scrimgeour didn't come barging down the door that he connected with her.
Maybe he and Cotnoir had known each other for many years…maybe they went all the way back to Hogwarts. After all, she had only entered his good book a little over a year ago, and Hermione could tell that Voldemort was the type to require at least a decade-long spotless relationship which, with his mercurial temperament, would be a nearly impossible feat to achieve, and yet Cotnoir had either achieved this or come closer to it than anyone else.
Well, with me he better cut it down to five years.
Hermione measured a cup of water and then walked it over to the mound of oatmeal flakes, dried fruit and sugar in the small pot. Just as she was tilting her wrist to pour it in, she decided against it. With an impudent, silent smirk, she poured the water down the drain and went to the refrigerator instead. She grabbed the glass milk container and popped off the cover while lighting the stove.
Pushed down by her pouring, the ivory liquid rushed to the funneled opening and provided a pale background packed so densely, that the off-gray lettering on the opaline glass container darkened and became bolded: 'whole milk with cream top'.
After the pensive eating of her rebellion, Hermione went up to her room, chose a book from the bookshelf and lay down on her bed in order to peruse it for the next forty minutes.
At 35 past, Hermione put her book down and went into the bathroom to rearrange her clothes before coming down the stairs and back into the sitting room where she had tossed her bag on her parent's sofa. Sitting herself down, Hermione opened her bag, withdrew the recorder and pressed the circle button, raising the volume, she placed the device back in her bag before withdrawing Cotnoir's tied-up pouch: her fingertips closed over a rounded top, and just as the girl was about to look down at the figurine she was pulling out from its velvet trappings, her location begun shifting.
Hermione closed her eyes at the nauseating carnival of textures and tones, happy to disconnect herself from her senses until she reconvened in a solid place in space.
And what a space she found herself in! Hermione could not help swaying back, her left heel snapped onto the hardwood floor in order to stabilize herself; inadvertently, this also broke through the quiet murmurings in the garishly baroque tea room.
"Oh she's here! Right on time, the scones just came out of the oven, and I'm heating up a new pot of water. Oh come on, dearie, don't just stand there, the tea will get cold, and we have much to discuss, no, Edel?"
"Absolutely."
The man's spartan appearance and demeanor was a stark contrast to the pink, gold and cashmere that decorated the room: his robes were black and his stare frank and modulated like his walk.
He extended his hand. "Ms. Granger."
Hermione was taken back for a moment at being addressed by her name, but quickly recovered. He was to be trusted after all.
"Mr. Cotnoir."
"Edel please," he motioned for her to come to the now vacant Marie-Antoinette style table and motioned for her to take a seat in one of the upholstered Louis XV chairs. Hermione glanced at the white Persian cat embroidered in the circular panel of the back rest. It yawned, waving its curved tail like the proud plume of an oriental warrior.
"Interesting chairs, aren't they?" Edel waved towards the design in his own seat: that of a pair of Siamese cats with cocked heads. When they spotted Hermione watching them, they both meowed and licked their noses in unison.
"Yes," Hermione replied blankly, she had still not recovered from this new revelation. One which had shaken her pedestals to the point of leaving them uprooted and wavering. Just when she had thought she had lost the "blindfold" that her school years and contacts had inculcated in her, once more, the carpet was drawn from beneath her feet.
"What type of tea would you like, dearest?"
Hermione threw a quick glance at Umbridge who was now hovering over her seated form with an open wooden casket displaying a myriad of tea sleeves.
One that's not poisoned.
"Black."
"Alright well there's Darjeeling, Assam, Ceylon, Nilgiri…."
"Assam."
"Lovely choice." Dolores smiled at Hermione with the fondness of a doting grandmother as she went back in the kitchen to prepare the tea.
Hermione remained pensive, the fact that Umbridge was a traitor to the Ministry did not surprise her. She had shown during her time as headmistress that her allegiance followed the fluctuations of power like the maritime tides followed the moon. What puzzled Hermione was the reason why Umbridge would choose to side with Cotnoir, and thus, Voldemort. The Dark Lord was not in power, he was imprisoned and magic-less… so why would Umbridge, who had an enviable sense of political smell, ally herself with someone who was on his way to the grave? Unless there were things in the works that she, Hermione, and perhaps even Voldemort, was unaware of.
"Why is she here?" Hermione looked up and joined eyes with Cotnoir.
"She is helping me," he replied simply, sipping from his cup.
"Why?"
"We will explain everything once she comes back." Edel avoided her eyes as he cocooned the steaming receptacle like a shivering pigeon.
Hermione inhaled deeply and cleared her throat while she begun to look around Umbridge's home; it was exactly as she'd expected.
A replica of her Hogwarts office and an extension of her excessively candied appearance.
"Here we go."
Daintily, Umbridge returned to the table, directing a floating tray with her stubby wand.
Once the tray landed on a small side table, the former High Inquisitor reached for the teapot and filled Hermione's cup. Then, she set the pot between her small, flowered plate and the towering layering of finger sandwiches, tarts and raisin scones set at the center of the table.
"For the jams we have chocolate raspberry and strawberry rose," Umbridge explained, her chubby ringed finger pointing out the different condiments.
"Thank you," Hermione said curtly before turning her gaze back onto Cotnoir, her look reminding him that this was a moment for swift action, not grossly miscalculated attempts at flattery. "Edel?"
"Ms. Granger," he greeted, demurely lowering his chin towards his crisply pressed collar.
The man said no more. Hermione felt mocked, and her eyebrow twitched upwards in refined discontent. "We have sensitive business to attend to, no?"
"Yes, we do… we all do." His eyes met Dolores' as he procured another egg sandwich for his crumb-filled plate. "You went to see the Dark Lord today."
Hermione couldn't help but cast a glance at Umbridge to see what the former Hogwarts tyrant's expression would be; However, Umbridge appeared completely focused on cooling down her steaming cup of tea through purse-lipped exhalations.
"Yes." Hermione's voice gained volume and traction. If facade-Umbridge wasn't going to bring out real-Umbridge, then Hermione would. "I went to see my future husband."
Dolores received this deeper prod with a pensive swirl in her tea-filled checkered pink and white cup.
"What did he tell you about me?" Cotnoir asked.
"That you and him were working on something concerning the Muggles and the Ministry. That you were to be trusted, and that I should work with you in order to free him. He also said to tell you to tell me everything you have been working on."
Edel chewed in silence while Hermione relayed her message with a hint of reserve, her eyes shifting constantly towards the innocently seated woman next to her: faux-Umbridge was blowing gently through raspberry-colored lips, her cup held under her upturned nose. Upon catching Hermione's eyes, her shoulders hunched up, and she gave her a mischievous smile.
"I have to be careful, I burned my mouth last time for being impatient!" She giggled in her characteristic way, "Oh it's such delicious tea and for a good cause… it's a special blend for Breast Cancer Awareness month!"
"Seriously?" Unlike Umbridge, Hermione could no longer mask her irreverent disbelief.
The pink-clad woman took this outburst with the same fluidity as she absorbed all blows in her career - she smiled and cocked her head to the side so that her stiff curls became even more pronounced upon her shoulder. "Yes, dear, it's always good to support charities. Why I made a sizable donation last month to the Werewolf Rehabilitation Center. Poor dears, ever since I drafted my amendment to my original legislation, they have found themselves not just unemployed, but homeless."
"There she is," Hermione snapped while pointing her finger at Umbridge. "Please don't insult my intelligence or my memory."
"Oh, that was never my intention, dear," Umbridge simpered, "but since you made quite the 180 degree turn this past year, I figured you would have gotten off your high-and-mighty pedestal and realized that people can betray the flags under which they labor, deceive those that need to be deceived and break laws and sacrifice their fellows in order to get to their aims."
"I did it for love," Hermione hissed, "you do it for self-gain, there is no point of comparison between us. You are a twisted, duplicitous, ignorant -"
"Hermione, please," Edel's voice cut through the women's mounting tension at the right time: Umbridge finally seemed to be on the verge of loosing her cool, her tiny nostrils were flaring at Hermione who had leaned towards her as her insults gained speed.
"Why is she here, Edel?"
"Dolores has been helping me, Hermione," Edel replied.
"How do we know she's really turned on Scrimgeour?" Hermione shook her head and dismissed her question before turning towards the woman in question. "Oh what am I saying! It's not like your loyalty is ever directed at anyone outside of your own person, what do you have to gain from us that Scrimgeour could not provide?"
"How and why I choose my employers are of no concern to you, Miss Granger, however, know that I am not working for the Dark Lord, but rather for USLC."
"What is that?"
"Utrecht, Samuels, Licht and Cornwall, a Muggle investment bank in London who were given control over segments of the Wizard market by Rufus. USLC offers these as well as Ministry contracts to their Muggle corporate investors."
"Volde -" Hermione had turned to Cotnoir as she was reminded of The Dark Lord's speech in Paris, but cut-off mid-sentence when she remembered that Umbridge was present. However, the now smiling woman picked up the incriminating bundle and carried it to its intended destination: "yes, the Dark Lord was a fervent critic of Scrimgeour's actions, as would be expected of a man who is the leader of a conservative movement with nationalistic ideals."
So now the Death Eaters were a conservative moment with nationalistic ideals? Hermione couldn't have been more intrigued.
Dolores sighed and refilled her cup. "I have been working with the Muggles for a couple of years now. I joined Rufus' cabinet at their behest. Earlier this year, Rufus started neglecting his Muggle business associates, mainly because of the bad press he was receiving about consorting with Muggle capitalists (not that people knew the true extent, of course). Do you remember? Voldemort's open letter sparked it. Anyway, fearing that Scrimgeour was having a change of heart and backtracking on their agreement -"
"As he should," Hermione interjected angrily, "and so should you, it's your own culture and people you're selling out to an imperial power. Name a single civilization that was conquered by a colonizing power and came away improved, let alone unscathed! The Third World came into existence as the direct consequence of these unchecked colonial interests -!"
"Hermione, I understand," said Dolores as her bulbous hands spilled out of her sleeves and onto the lacquered surface of the table. "However, I didn't do this, Rufus did, the ship was already sinking when I was asked to jump into the lifeboat, and so I have. Now, the reason why I came is because Edel told me that the Dark Lord might be receptive to working with us in exchange for his freedom," she cast a glance up at the man, " however, if I am to measure his predisposition towards the matter based on his fiancee's reaction . . . ."
"Dolores," Cotnoir interjected, "the Dark Lord has a mind of his own, but explain yourself fully so that Hermione can see the whole picture."
With a poignant stare, he indicated at Hermione to keep her mouth shut. The latter crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. "Fine. Talk."
"We want to depose Rufus Scrimgeour and install someone who will be our ally. However, because of the strife that was brewing amongst the magical population as a result of Voldemort's incendiary letter, we knew we would have to choose a person very carefully: one who would not be normally linked to us." Hermione's eyes were led down as Umbridge laid her crass brass-latticed hands over the table's surface. "It was because of this that Edel suggested the Dark Lord as a viable candidate. However, we soon realized that Mr. Riddle was in fact the perfect candidate."
Umbridge begun to count off with her protracted red-tipped claws: "He was captured and magic-less: facing a life sentence in a mental hospital, idealistically and a death sentence, realistically. He had a long-documented and well-known history of anti-muggle sentiment and action. He also wrote the open letter to the Daily Prophet's editor to denounce muggle encroachment. To sum up, he is someone who would never be suspected of working for muggle interests. Therefore, the proposal I have been sent here to relay is that USLC is ready to break him out and restore his power so long as he takes an oath to rule with our best interests at heart."
"Are you joking? This is what you finagled?" Hermione snapped at Cotnoir, her voice shaking. "It's extortion! Be our ally or die!" Hermione pushed her chair back abruptly as the reality of being between Scylla and Charybdis deflated the tenuous hold that hope had gained in her heart.
"Hermione, calm down -" Cotnoir was saying, he had gotten up and come around to her. Placing his left hand on the edge of her shoulder. His touch was a velvet proffering of specious reassurance and promise while his other limb, the right, which was hidden from Umbridge's view, found her arm and seized upon it with unexpected force: his fingers imprinting their threat and warning with hydraulic efficiency. Hermione didn't need further notice, she already knew that this decision was not hers to make, but His. "This is what the Dark Lord wants," his whisper caused her to look up at him and the intensity and proud glimmer in his eye laid - to her relief and chagrin - yet another layer of machinations to the already overloaded, quivering stage they were all starring on.
Composing herself, Hermione smoothed her hair away from her face and followed Cotnoir back to rejoin Umbridge. Once there, she addressed the latter:
"I need you to tell me USLC's exact offer, including their expectations. I also want to know how you are planning on breaking him out and restoring his powers. Then, I will require you to help me visit him so I can take your offer to him."
"That last bit won't be a problem, dear," Dolores said with a smile, "It's already been scheduled for tomorrow. You will meet Unspeakable McGreevy at the Leaky Cauldron at 9:30 am, he will take you from there. However, we cannot reveal any of the rest — you will get what I've given you because that's all you and the Dark Lord need to know at this point."
"Ms. Umbridge, I insist you tell me how you plan to break him out and oust Scrimgeour. I know my fiancé will not make a decision until he knows there is a well thought-out plan considering the risks involved." Hermione crossed her arms and stared directly down at Umbridge to let her know that she was not leaving without that.
Dolores stared at her pensively for a few seconds before relaxing her posture. "Fine, Ms. Granger, I will relent." She looked up and her saccharine tone let Hermione know that what she was saying carried special, long-term meaning:
"But only so the Dark Lord realizes that he is dealing with an organization that is just as competent as him when it comes to manipulating power dynamics."
Hermione lowered her chin and narrowed her eyes slightly. "Noted."
The next morning, "Jessica" was at the Leaky Cauldron at 9 am. As anticipated to Umbridge, she wore a clean-cut, yellow A-line skirt that starkly separated her from the black and gray sartorial grunge that pervaded this nostalgia-ridden place. Hermione sipped her morning tea while gazing around her environment at the wizards and witches dressed in gowns that complimented the dark, medieval atmosphere in the pub.
Subconsciously becoming self-conscious, she started rearranging her black, semi-transparent long-sleeve blouse: first brushing her hands over the fabric generously overflowing from the tight grip her skirt had around her waist and ending by patting down the small, gold circles that, like the brass heads of paper fasteners peeking out from an A-4 white, tastefully guided the eye around the edges of her otherwise somber blouse's collar. Black nylons and Gold-bow topped black Varas finished her black and yellow ensemble for the day. She knew He would like it, and with the proposal she was bringing him, anything capable of mollifying him was advisable.
In spite of her relaxed position, her eyes weaved constantly between the newcomers: taking in their dress and especially, their demeanor. Even though she didn't know who McGreevy was or what he looked like, she knew she would recognize him by his comportment.
At twenty minutes past, a white haired-man in a beige trench-coat entered, and unlike the rest of the patrons who'd come before him, he was not here to socialize or rest: he strode in with a solemn purpose. Hermione immediately batted her eyes back onto her drink and sipped from the remaining cold dregs of her tea as she waited for him to approach her.
"Jessica."
She met his eyes, or rather his good right eye. His left one was severely skewed as if at one time, it had swore off its brother, turned its luminous white back to him and forever refused to see what the other saw.
Hermione stood and followed him through the crowd and into the back where she found herself in front of the brick wall: that liminal element that had closed her past and showed her her future at the tender age of 11. Now, here it was once more, and Hermione did not miss the comforting symbolism. Smiling to herself, she waited for her lazy-eyed guide to tap his wand over the bricks and watched with an increased amount of inner peace as the bricks opened to reveal a path well-tread.
As it was early on a weekday and in the middle of the school year, there wasn't much of a crowd on the streets. Meanwhile, her guide was walking with increased vigorousness and Hermione was forced to speed up.
After a short while, they were coming up the Florean's ice cream parlour where a couple sitting at one of the tables were enjoying a shared cornucopia of mauves and greens. To her surprise, McGreevy veered sharply towards the entrance, pushed open the door and held it open only enough time for Hermione to catch it and prevent it from slamming in front of her face.
Florean was wiping down the counter. He looked up briefly, met her unrecognizable eye and smiled politely. He paid no mind to McGreevy who went past the register and into the kitchen. Hermione followed him.
Suddenly, he stopped and looked back at her. "Stay there."
Hermione did so and watched with renewed interest as he went next to the freezer and crouched down. Hermione strained her ears and tried to shift sideways in order to catch a glimpse of what he was doing, however, all she heard was a beep, and then McGreevy backed away, his knees snapping as they straightened up. He looked back at her. "Come."
Hermione obeyed and as she approached the Unspeakable, the part of the wall next to the freezer sunk a few inches and its aseptic white walls gave away to a soft gray mist of faint lights and dark corridors. Slowly, the image came into focus and Hermione followed McGreevy as they stepped into a dark hallway.
The sound of her heels reverberating on the walls and the floors was unmistakeable, she knew where she was, and who she was about to see.
I cannot ever tell Voldemort about this passage, Hermione thought urgently. For Florean's sake….
They stopped at a door, but it was different from the one the day before. "When you're done, I'll come get you," McGreevy said, his words as sparse as the hair on his head. He straightened up like the queen's guard and stood expectantly for Hermione to go in.
Her hand on the knob, Hermione turned it, and she was only slightly surprised when the door opened smoothly into a small, but clean cell. He was laying on the bed, the back of his hand resting on his brow and shading his closed eyes from the nonexistent light in the room.
As soon as she entered however, he was roused by the noise. Hermione closed the door behind her, and as she walked up to him and he removed his hand from his forehead, Hermione was shocked when the shadows around his eyes and cheekbone did not disappear.
"Tom, what happened?" she said coming up to examine his bruised and swollen features. He sat up and swung his legs over.
"Nothing new."
"Who -?"
"Who do you think?" he snapped. "They haven't even fed me since yesterday morning. Scrimgeour is trying to starve me to death! Probably hoping I'll be dead before the trial restarts, but what are you doing here?" His anger gave away to suspicion. "How did you get here? Who let you in?"
"It's fine," Hermione said placing her hand on his clammy one. "Cotnoir arranged it, we can talk."
At the mention of the man, Voldemort noticeably relaxed.
"It's…" how to explain it? "There's a proposal that I've agreed to convey to you from USLC."
Tom's brow knitted. "The Muggle company that's taking over?"
"Yes, basically, they want to get rid of Scrimgeour because he is backing off from their deal. USLC doesn't want to lose this market, and so they decided to get rid of Scrimgeour and put someone else in his place — someone who would work in their favor." Hermione stopped there, she needn't say more, the look on Tom's face told her he had already deciphered their intentions and the implications.
"How will they get rid of him?"
"Reveal their dealings to the Prophet, they'll send a packet out. Umbridge, as his Undersecretary and advisor, had access to all communication from Scrimgeour's end. She's been working with the Muggles for a couple of years. The people will riot when they find out, they'll use that chaos."
He clasped his hands and looked down at his fingers, his countenance deep and saturnine.
"Well, there's not much to debate now is there," he finally uttered. "It's a fait accompli and quite a delicious one at that…" he murmured with a smirk that revealed the thrill of finding a worthy challenge.
"They want an Unbreakable Vow before they'll restore your power."
His eyebrows twitched and then came together giving his forehead the appearance of a tightly corseted waist. "How do they know?"
"Know what?"
"About vows, they're muggles. Cotnoir wouldn't - oh…it had to be Umbridge. You said she's been working for them? So did she join the Muggles before her appointment with Scrimgeour or while she was in his cabinet?"
"Before. She joined his office at their request in order to keep an eye on him -"
No sooner had she started her sentence that Hermione watched him retreat internally: away from her, the fluorescent lights and sterile metal furniture that had become his physical abode the past couple of months. But that was of no consequence to him for his home, his fortress, was always securely cemented atop his shoulders. Once there, in halls well-tread, memorialized and accommodated to ensure him the comfort he'd never found in the outside world, Voldemort surveyed the rapidly morphing landscape before him. It had all sprung on him by surprise. Indirectly he had brought it about of course, but he had never had the prescience to know that they would decide to bring him to their side. It was a a strategic move, one which he himself had engaged in with Dumbledore, but the position it put him in was one of subservience. But there was no room for complaining, he had no other recourse and this opportunity would rid him of his current perilous position. Freedom for the moment is everything.
"Tell Ms. Umbridge that I accept."
From the moment Hermione stepped out with his acceptance at 9:48 am, Voldemort guessed that by 11 he would be hearing back from USLC, Umbridge, Hermione, Cotnoir or any combination thereof. Mootly, his eyes kept wandering towards his wrist, but no matter how many times he was greeted by his chronologically-devoid wrist, he would still look back at it in the next five minutes, or was it two? Or one?
In a metaphysical, unexpected transformation he had gone from being a checkmated king in Scrimgeour's game to becoming his opponent in a temporal, though highly enjoyable ploy that had ended with Voldemort folding back into himself many caruscating and flamboyant times over until he was back to being an inert and helpless piece ready to be taken. Unbeknownst to his knowledge, his vacant seat had been filled by USLC and the clock reset and the game he had initiated, had continued.
Voldemort had expected to be taken, he was a checkmated king, or at least that was the extent of his knowledge at the time. But when Scrimgeour kept his time running, Voldemort had taken a step back: he must only be a checked king, but this opinion was rapidly, although grudgingly as his ego would have it, erased since even if he were in check, once Scrimgeour made his move, the game would be over. Clearly, albeit insultingly so, He must not be the king in this game - Tom was a pawn, an appetizing one, but Scrimgeour's reluctance meant that he was now in the defensive. There was a bigger threat: a more powerful and pressing piece that was in a position to check, possibly checkmate, Scrimgeour's king.
That mysterious harbinger of hope had been revealed by Hermione: it was USLC playing in the black seat Voldemort had vacated, and He, once the master, was now a peon, nay a rook, Tom would be the rook, in the same game that he had so carefully set up over time.
It was an interesting figure. Voldemort leaned his sharp chin on his hand and surveyed the set-up:
It was a discovered attack: His rook, Tom, at h1 and USLC, his queen, at h2. USLC would move to e5 and take Scrimgeour's Queen, the people, by revealing the scandal and the culprit to the press - the scarlet letter placed with a kiss on Scrimgeour's pallid cheek. With this, Tom's way would be left open to put Scrimgeour, the white king at h7, in check.
He narrowed his eyes. No, Tom would take Scrimgeour, for once the scandal was revealed, the masses' support would be taken away and Scrimgeour, as a democratically-elected official, would lose his base of legitimate power. If Scrimgeour looked to escape to g6, he would be taken by the black knight at e7: any attempt by Scrimgeour to forestall his resignation and arrest by barricading himself in the Ministry would end with said knight (or rather ex-knights) running him out into the mob's murderous hands. Moving to g7 was also not viable for Voldemort's slighted queen, USLC, at e5 bared her lipstick-stained canines: if Scrimgeour attempted to save his office through sophistry, he would incite a rebellion due to sheer gall since no amount of rhetoric could argue with the damning paper trail the muggles would have distributed to the press. And as for his third option, well the rank was clear all the way down into Tom's rolled down drawbridge.
Oh no, a small, but unrelenting smile was carefully placed over Voldemort's lips and an orgasmic sigh escaped them as he fell back onto his bed. It was definitely a checkmate.
Chapter 22 will be posted tomorrow night. It's done, but there may be some typos; so I must give it a final read through. Thanks everyone, and I look forward to hearing your comments.