Hermione would never have believed it if someone told her that Lord Voldemort would force her to learn how to fight and protect herself physically, and even provide her with a stack of books to help her do so. She had anticipated him scoffing at anything Muggle, and martial arts was Muggle.
But here she was, practicing the forms while carefully studying the diagrams. Apparently, it was critical for her to be able to defend herself if she was physically restrained. If her wand was lost and her magic somehow suppressed, she would be left with only her body to use as a weapon. Or if someone caught her off guard, as Voldemort did on several occasions.
She was alone in her room, envisioning her foe. She had conjured up a punching bag in the shape of a human, but it was inanimate, and this was a terrible way to learn. The books covered the theory, but without a proper sparring partner, she could never learn how to accomplish any of this.
Despite her extremely hectic schedule, she had read Voldemort's old book on reality distortion. She was certain she would be able to perform the spell she had experienced. Days were spent learning it, and she thought she had mastered it.
She'd secretly cast it on a few students during their detentions, focusing on their feelings of guilt, so they might reflect on why they'd gotten themselves into trouble in the first place. Once they understood how wrong they'd been, she'd cast contentment.
Students have never looked happier as they exited the classroom following detention with her before, and they most likely ascribed it to the bizarrely vivid daydream they had while sitting through a dull detention session.
An odd smile even appeared on Rodolphus Lestrange's face, who was usually very solemn. He was only serving detention because he got into a scuffle in the hallway defending his betrothed, Bellatrix, who didn't receive detention because she was resting in the hospital wing from angry boils that erupted all over her body. That's what she gets for offending numerous Gryffindors at once, but the others who were involved also received detention.
She only used mind magic on three students, but she felt a moral obligation as their instructor not to tamper with their minds, and so she decided she needed a more suitable subject to practice on — someone who could consent to have the spell cast on them. She needed someone more powerful and even skilled in Occlumency. Testing it on students didn't reveal much about her capabilities. However, she could defend her actions by pointing out that the students were being punished and more than likely deserved it in the first place.
Voldemort had high expectations. She's pretty sure she's never been challenged both academically and physically to this extent before. She was eager to get through the martial arts and self-defense books as quickly as possible, so she could work on researching mind magic. She was eager to test her mind distortion abilities by going one step further and create a reality of her choosing for her opponent. It may prove beneficial one day. Obliviation was similar, and she was skilled at it. Instead of erasing a memory, it implanted a fake experience for them in the present. She required additional time to do further research and test her spell theory. Luckily, her knowledge of charms and arithmancy came in handy.
"We're sparring today, without magic," Voldemort announced at the start of their next lesson,
"I only learned the theory. I'm not sure how you expect me to fight like a muggle when I have no prior experience." She hoped she was becoming more adept at deceit. She could only muster so much contempt for the term 'muggle' when she didn't believe muggles were inferior, only different.
Voldemort pointed his wand at the ground. The black marble floor transfigured into a firm foam that resembled textured sparring mats to cushion physical impacts."That's why I'm going to teach you. You won't become an expert overnight, but you won't be completely helpless either."
He started pulling off his clothes, which was a bit alarming. Heavy black cloak first. Then his outer robes. Thankfully, he was wearing a loose, white long-sleeved shirt and black trousers underneath. "Make yourself more comfortable. Your robes have too much excess cloth for physical activity." He smirked at her knowingly as she stood frozen in place. He raked his eyes over her and raised his brows expectantly.
She untied her cloak and set it aside. Then she transfigured her robes to a form-fitting blouse and trousers that allowed unrestricted movement. She made sure the style wasn't too Muggle in nature. He studied her clothing for a second before turning around and walking to the center of the room.
He beckoned her to follow with a tilt of his head. "You can start first. Make an effort to harm me."
"You mean, I can just...punch you? I have limited experience with using my fists." She swept her gaze over his form. He towered over her. She couldn't easily reach his face without losing much of her leverage.
"Yes, well, you can try. And I'm unsurprised you have experience being violent."
She bit her lower lip, then raised her chin. This was Lord Voldemort, and he asked her to try to hurt him. Before she could begin to doubt herself more, she stepped up to him and swung her fist at his midsection.
Her fist didn't land. He had moved out of the way. Something heavy slammed into the back of her legs, knocking her off balance. She fell forward onto her knees as she felt something dig into her spine. A hand had slithered through her thick hair to grasp the nape of her neck, securing her in place.
"Be mindful of your opponent's actions at all times. You were so preoccupied with landing the punch, you stopped paying attention to what I was doing. You need to improve your awareness."
She quickly rose to her feet and stepped away from him.
"Let's try again," he said.
She attempted a different swing. Again, she landed on the floor. This time, her wrist was pinned down while her other arm was wrenched behind her at a painful angle.
Her breath quickened. This was getting frustrating.
She wanted to shake off the discomfort in her arms. He wasn't exactly gentle with her. But he wasn't rough either...yet. "So we've established that I'm fairly bad at this. Is the rest of this session just going to be me landing on the floor in different ways with twisted limbs?" she groaned as she lay on her stomach.
"Patience, Hermione. You need to learn the art of falling." To pin her down, he had knelt beside her, leaning over her. He was close. Too close. Against her will, she shivered. She recalled that time in the library when he ambushed her.
He released her and stood up.
"Try a kick instead," he ordered.
Her frustration had gotten the best of her because she climbed to her feet and threw out her leg, aiming for his shin, without any finesse. Again, he was lightning-quick on his feet. With a swift twist of his body, he clipped her, and she was on the floor again, this time flat on her back.
He peered down at her and said, "This is a lesson in discipline, Hermione."
This carried on for some time. Her body felt bruised everywhere as she repeatedly fell against the cushioned floor again and again, in various ways. Pain, it seems, was the best instructor. Learning the correct way to fall over or take a hit was way more work than it had any right to be.
She was whimpering pitifully on the ground. Voldemort walked over to the potions cabinet and retrieved a restoration potion. "Here, drink this." He tossed the potion to her.
She shot him a baleful glare as she caught and uncorked it. It tasted awful as she quickly swallowed it down, but the aches all over her body began to fade noticeably, and she felt a slight boost in energy.
Voldemort proceeded to demonstrate for her a series of maneuvers that allowed him to gracefully take a strike or fall effortlessly. The vision was surreal. He was much more lithe and athletic than any wizard had any right to be. Quidditch players wished they could move like him.
He reminded her of a viper — sleek, deadly, and ready to strike at any moment. Was this yet another factor that contributed to his superiority as a duelist? His speed and absolute command over every muscle in his body were astounding.
They practiced until she got the hang of it, and her body felt less bruised as she recovered quickly from falls. Voldemort was patient with her, quickly positioning her body into the correct stance, and showing her when to use different body parts to brace for impact.
He watched her, mercilessly, as she lay wrung out on the ground. "More. You are learning how to reduce your vulnerability."
"No more, please," Hermione whimpered. She was on her stomach, plastered against the cushioned ground. For being so active lately with his demanding fitness regimen, she was surprised she was this sore.
Voldemort had crouched down next to her and held out another potion. He wouldn't move until she took it from him.
"You're a sadist, aren't you? She asked impulsively. "You take far too much pleasure in tossing me around like a ragdoll."
"What does that say about you then, Hermione, if you're still here, taking it?"
She scowled. "Are you truly determined that I learn all this in one lesson?"
"Because you lack stamina and discipline, I've chosen to be generous. We'll spend two days at most on this. Drink the potion, and I'll demonstrate a few proper punches and kicks."
"Please, don't demonstrate on me," she rasped.
She cringed when he levitated Jack from its wooden box in the corner over to him. She's not touching the Inferius. Throwing spells at it from a distance was one thing, but no part of her body was coming into contact with that.
She drank the potion and waited a few moments for her body to heal. Malfoy had the most potent potions. Truly top quality. She studied his movements carefully as he methodically demonstrated the moves on Jack, who was remarkably reacting the way a living human would. Voldemort's magic was genuinely formidable.
After she felt rested enough, she stood up and approached him.
"Stop resisting," he called out, seconds before she met the floor again. This time she executed the roll across the ground perfectly and landed smoothly on her feet. She shot him a triumphant smile.
"Good, you're not completely hopeless then," he said, pleased.
"Why couldn't you just show me how to avoid a hit instead?"
"The greatest approach to avoid getting hit is to understand how it feels and how to react if you do get hit.
For the next hour, she tried to imitate his movements as he demonstrated simple, quick strikes. Then he allowed her to attempt those strikes on him, which he blocked and dodged.
Chest heaving, she felt a drop of sweat roll down her neck. She couldn't help but compare herself to her sparring partner. He didn't have a hair out of place. Not even a speck of sweat on his brow.
"We'll continue with self-defense next week. On your own time, work on improving your kicks and punches, so they land."
"I've landed a punch before, on a wizard," she said, a bit petulantly, recalling with satisfaction the way Draco Malfoy clutched his broken aristocratic nose as it spurted blood.
"That wizard must have been completely inept or just didn't expect it." He ignored her irate expression. "I'm curious to know what he did to deserve it, for you to resort to such violence. Though you are quick to anger, so perhaps he didn't do anything wrong at all."
"Aren't we resorting to such violence right now? He was...an arrogant bully."
"And arrogance is something you despise? Have you met yourself, Hermione?" He had a pleasant smile on his face as if genuinely intrigued.
She turned away from him and started to transfigure her clothes back to normal. "You're one to talk, Lord Voldemort. Plus, it's not arrogance. Other people are just... incompetent. Most of the time, I can only trust myself if I want something done properly. I'm self-assured, not arrogant."
She shifted her gaze to him when he remained silent. A faint, enigmatic smile played on his lips. She didn't know what to make of it. She found herself unable to meet his dark eyes and averted her gaze. Today, she had more physical contact with him than she'd ever had with anybody else in her life.
It was all very professional, but she couldn't help but feel her already flushed face burn as she remembered all the times his body came into contact with hers. She was sure, by next week, she'll have gotten used to the idea. She couldn't afford to be so nervous at the prospect of being so physically close to the intimidating wizard.
All week, she had been working on spell creation. It wasn't new to her, but this one involved mind magic. She had to test it on someone. It wasn't as simple as just developing wand movements and an incantation. It required so much intent, skill, and imagination. There was something she needed that she knew Voldemort didn't possess. At least, it didn't come naturally to him. It was like a riddle as she experimented with different theories.
She loved uncovering riddles.
She decided to give her brain and magic a break. She conjured her human-shaped punching bag and some protective gloves and proceeded to vent her frustrations on it. A flurry of controlled punches and precise kicks later, she felt energy surging through her, her fatigued mind refueled.
She felt fantastic. It was precisely what she needed.
Despite all his flaws, Voldemort had some brilliant ideas.
Abraxas didn't know what to make of Hermione Kraus.
She was peculiar. Even that may be an understatement.
He leaned back against one of the plush loveseats in his library, one ankle crossed over his knee. He had turned his head to study the witch, who sat facing him directly, with one foot tucked under her thigh and dangling off the edge of the seat. She looked extremely comfortable, as if she were at home, curled up on the couch and ready to read a particularly gripping book, except the gripping book was him.
She looked especially bewitching today, dressed in flattering robes, in red, first of all — reminiscent of when he first met her that one fateful night. Her glossy curls were tamed into large wavy ringlets. They looked soft. He wanted nothing more than to wrap a curl around his finger. He didn't know where to land his eyes, as everything was worth drinking in.
Because of this, he was instantly suspicious of her motives.
She had an eager, mischievous expression on her face. It was unsettling. Whatever she was going to ask him wasn't going to be pleasant.
"Mr. Malfoy, I was wondering if I can ask for your assistance on something."
"Will it hurt?" He was wary of her requests lately.
"No, of course not. I would never hurt you. You've been the most generous host. I was wondering if you'd let me place a spell on you."
Haven't you already? he thought, ruefully.
"What kind of spell, Miss Kraus?" He knew it must be one of the Dark Lord's obscure spells, and he was instantly on edge.
"It's mind magic," she said.
His eyes flicked towards her and he froze. "What kind of mind magic?"
"The kind that wouldn't hurt. Or leave any damage. No lasting effects, at all," she insisted. "It's completely temporary, and I can make it pleasant."
"So, what do you need from me?" he asked, instantly suspicious.
"I just need your trust and patience. Your consent, most of all. I've done this before. Several times even. I just need your help. Please, you're the only one who could help me," she begged.
He couldn't deny her now. Her earnestness was too charming.
"Explain to me what you're trying to do," he relented.
"I'm going to imagine a feeling. An emotion. And I'm going to encourage you to feel that same emotion, and your brain will conjure an intensely vivid memory that will feel as though you've been transported to that exact moment."
That was not what he expected. "Which emotion?"
"Hmm, I haven't considered that far ahead. I wanted to get your permission first. But I promise you it won't be unpleasant."
Without any further hesitation, he said evenly to her, "You have my permission, Hermione."
She blushed, and she stared at him for a moment, stunned.
"Forgive me, I…" He shifted towards her.
"No! I…I was just caught off guard. Please, call me Hermione. As you know, Kraus isn't my real name." Her wand suddenly appeared in her hand, and she held it lightly, pointed at him.
He held up a hand. "Wait, if I do this, I want you to tell me your real name. Malfoys don't do anything for free."
She lowered her wand and turned away from him. "Fine. But only if you also agree to let me continue after today. I'm...creating a spell, and I'll need your help. I promise I have no malicious intent."
"I'll help you." The Dark Lord would have wanted him to keep an eye on her anyway. See what she's up to outside of her Hogwarts duties. It would be a bonus to discover her true name. Tom would be pleased.
She smiled. "I can't view the memory you are reliving without Legilimency either, which I can't cast during the spell. I promise I won't breach your privacy. I'm going to cast now, Mr. Malfoy."
He nodded his assent. He blinked once. Twice. He was no longer in the library. The transition was seamless. It was as if he had been whisked out of his house and into his garden. Except it was early morning. He was strolling through his rose garden. The air was chilly, but crisp and fragrant. The morning dew clung to the roses. He was here this early in the cold for one reason and one reason only.
He was looking for the perfect rose to give to Miss Kraus — Hermione.
He felt strangely elated. Excited, even. He hadn't felt anything like it for so long. He needed a perfect rose in bloom. The variety of red he had cultivated here matched the gorgeous crimson robes he first saw her in.
He walked around, dismissing several for their minor imperfections until he found the one he wanted. With his magic, he cleanly sliced the rose off its stem and levitated it in front of him.
It was perfect. She'd...
Black smoke suddenly obscured his vision, and he blinked it away, disoriented. Wasn't he in the garden?
Hermione was sitting next to him, with a bright smile on her face. Had he presented the rose to her, here and now? Is that why she was smiling so sweetly?
No. There was no rose here. That was just a recollection. The real rose had been tossed, like rubbish.
"It worked! How was it? Did it feel real?" She was ecstatic, brimming with energy.
"It felt incredibly real, yet not real enough," he said cryptically. He turned away from her. He found he couldn't look at her, this very moment. "Which emotion were you trying to elicit in me, Hermione?"
"Hmm, well it was more a sense of hope — for the future? I'm not entirely sure how to describe it. It's not an exact form of magic."
"Well, it worked," he said bitterly.
"But...you don't seem very hopeful. You appear quite dejected, actually," she said, in a low, unsure voice.
"No, it was cast perfectly. It was perfect," he repeated, without any emotion at all. "So, what is your true surname, Hermione?"
A/N: Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying this story, let me know! I love reading your reviews. :)