The school week had been relatively uneventful, until Hermione walked up to the DADA classroom after breakfast.
A small crowd had gathered outside the door. Was it locked? She assumed she had unlocked it before leaving this morning so that students could start settling in before class.
The chatter and pointing died down when Bellatrix Black stormed up to the door and ripped the parchment that had been crudely tacked onto the door. With so many students loitering about, Hermione hadn't noticed that something was on the door.
Bellatrix studied whatever was depicted on the parchment for a moment and scowled. "Nothing more to see here," she said as she wiped the expression from her face and quickly tucked the item away. She jerked her head in the direction of the classroom, and the other students began shuffling in, frantically whispering to each other.
Hermione wondered what that was all about. She entered the classroom and began her lesson, and noticed that the students were staring at her with rapt attention, but she knew they weren't focused on the subject. They were focused on her. Macnair, in particular, stared her down with an unnerving intensity. When the lesson ended, Hermione called out, "Miss Black, please stay for a moment."
Bellatrix was in the process of shuffling her study material into her bag when she tensed at being singled out.
Hermione couldn't help but notice Macnair's sluggish steps and the venomous glare he shot at Bellatrix when he stalked out of the classroom.
Bellatrix strode up to her desk, haughty as always, with an expectant look on her face.
"You understand why I asked you to remain. What was the commotion outside the classroom this morning about?"
Bellatrix knitted her eyebrows.
"Show me the parchment," Hermione demanded.
"Professor, I don't think that's a good idea. I can take care of it."
"Show. Me," Hermione said, tone firm.
Bellatrix reached into her bag and pulled out the item in question, thrusting it at her.
Hermione slowly unrolled it. Her eyes widened.
It was a work of art. Skillfully drawn.
It depicted a porcelain doll with thick curls and glassy, soulless eyes.
It would have been a lovely depiction…had the head not been torn from its body. It sat on the doll's side, as if waiting to be reassembled. One of its eyes had been gouged out as well. Its right arm was missing, ball joint socket exposed.
The doll was naked.
Hermione's hand shook only slightly when she whispered, "What is this?" Her eyes flicked up, roaming over Bellatrix's curly black hair, and darted down to the drawing again. She studied the doll's wig for a moment. It wasn't quite right...the curls were different. The doll's locks were more fluffy and wavy, rather than tightly coiled.
Bellatrix swallowed audibly and said, "It's supposed to be you, Professor, not me."
"How can you be sure?" Hermione blinked once and tensed when Bellatrix reached out and twirled her finger around Hermione's curls, pulling it over so that it was in her line of sight.
Its texture and curl were identical to the doll's. Hermione twitched her head away in warning, and Bellatrix dropped her hand, giggling.
"Who did this?" Hermione asked in a low, deadly voice.
Bellatrix leaned against the table, coming even closer to Hermione. "Walden Macnair."
Hermione released a shaky breath. "I didn't know he could draw."
"He may look like a total brute, but he's always been very good with anatomical proportions," Bellatrix said. "And this may be a doll, but he doesn't miss any details. When we were children, I found his art book once, and it was the sickest thing I'd ever laid eyes on."
"Must be quite vile, if you were repulsed by it," Hermione replied without thinking.
Bellatrix looked perplexed for a moment and tilted her head curiously, "What do you mean, Professor?"
Fuck. Hermione cleared her throat. "Nothing. Why would Walden Macnair do something like this?" Hermione's voice was hoarse as she continued to scrutinize the drawing. Of her. As a doll with a severed head and just one arm.
"He wasn't thrilled about having to crawl on his hands and reversed knees all the way to the Hospital Wing. It was very cruel of you to confiscate our wands that evening, Professor Kraus. Some of us are quite helpless without magic," Bellatrix said in a low, sing-song voice, as she twirled her own hair. "None of the other Slytherins wanted to help him," she added with unabashed glee.
"Why did you want to hide this from me before class?" she asked, nodding to the parchment in her hands.
"I wanted to deal with him in my own special way. He's had it coming for a long time," Bellatrix confessed. "Don't! Please don't punish me for it. Professor, see, I know a few spells." Bellatrix had an unexpected burst of energy. At the thought of inflicting violence, her eyes lit up, bright and eager. "Wonderful ones, too. I could permanently reduce his manhood to the point where he wouldn't be able to beget an heir," Bellatrix whispered conspiratorially as she arched a pretty dark brow at Hermione.
Hermione was intrigued for a split second before clearing her throat and scowling. "Miss Black, the continued prosperity of the Wizarding world requires pure-bloods to reproduce."
Bellatrix pouted. "He's not even that pure. He pretends to be, but I'm sure he's as tainted by filth as the rest of those presumed pure-bloods. We all know he's not Sacred Twenty-Eight. Besides, he shouldn't be allowed to reproduce. He's insane."
Hermione nearly choked on her saliva and held her tongue. Pot calling the kettle… never mind.
"Miss Black, no more violence. I'll have a talk with Mr. Macnair and make sure something like this never happens again. Do not try to take things into your own hands."
Disappointed, Bellatrix shrugged dismissively. "Fine. Can I leave now? My next class is Potions, and I'm already late. I have enough detention with Sluggy scrubbing cauldrons as is," she fumed.
Hermione conjured a tardiness note for her, "Professor Slughorn," she corrected. "Here, you'll be fine. Thank you for taking this drawing down this morning. You did very well. I'll ask him to shorten your detention to two days."
"What about Rodolphus? He didn't even do anything wrong. He was just trying to protect me," Bellatrix whined.
Bewildered, Hermione stared at the girl across from her. Bellatrix as a sixteen-year-old was a sight to behold.
"Mr. Lestrange will have one day of detention with me," she sighed.
Tossing her long dark hair behind her, Bellatrix nodded. Smirking slightly, she took the note, and left.
Walden Macnair sat across from Hermione. She had summoned him during lunch.
"How are your knees, Mr. Macnair?"
"They're back to normal. Thank you for asking, Professor Kraus."
"Did anyone help you to the Hospital Wing?"
"No. I crawled there, on my hands." he seethed.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps you shouldn't engage in dangerous duels in the hallway. You're lucky I was there to stop it. Something much worse could have happened to you."
"I can handle Bella. I know exactly how she works, sadistic…witch that she is."
Hermione tossed the rolled-up parchment onto the table in front of Macnair. "Describe to me what's on there."
Expressionless, he picked it up and unrolled it, and set it down. He arched an eyebrow at her. "It's a drawing. Of a broken porcelain doll."
"This broken porcelain doll..." she lightly traced a nail against the dried ink flowing through wavy curls, "who is it supposed to be?"
"How should I know? It's just a doll," he shrugged.
She forced a false smile and leaned forward onto her elbows as she leveled her gaze on him. To his credit, he lifted his chin and met her eyes head-on.
"Tell me, Mr. Macnair, did you draw it?"
"I'm flattered, Professor, that you think I'm this talented."
Hermione's gaze cooled. She tilted her head. "I don't have any more patience today for you Slytherins. Did you draw it?"
He shrugged. "No. It wasn't me."
"Let's try this another way. What are your intentions, nailing that to the door of my classroom?"
A sinister light entered his eyes, even as he continued to deny it. He shook his head. "It wasn't me. I…," he began again.
"You're lying. Legilimens," she whispered.
Walden Macnair's mind wasn't like any other she had ever entered. Navigating through it was like wading through sludge.
And the sludge was stained black and red. Blood-red.
Her breath was taken away by the sheer evil in his mind. Disgust gnawed at her insides as she tried to make sense of the muddled mess of blood, limbs, and viscera surrounding her.
She was astounded by his restraint in simply drawing a bloodless, lifeless doll.
She couldn't stay a second longer.
As she pulled out of his consciousness, she swallowed hard, forcing the bile that threatened to erupt back down.
Her thoughts raced. Macnair intended to harm her. But it was difficult to distinguish whether it was simply a fantasy or whether he truly contemplated it.
Someone capable of such evil shouldn't be allowed to persist.
Deeply unsettled, and without considering any repercussions, she aimed her wand at him.
The spell was colorless. An invisible threat one couldn't see coming.
Sum of All Fears.
She clenched and unclenched her fists as she watched Macnair writhe and tremble in his seat, his eyes tightly shut, groaning in anguish. Tears began to leak from his eyes as he breathlessly mouthed, "No, no, no. Please don't."
She cast the counter curse after several minutes of watching him suffer. As he quaked in his seat, he opened his eyes slowly. Through his wet eyes, she could clearly see unabashed terror.
"I don't want to see you misbehave again, Mr. Macnair," she whispered softly, "or it may be even worse next time." She summoned the drawing to her. "I'll keep this safe for the time being. You wouldn't want me to show this to Dumbledore, would you?"
"No, Professor Kraus, of course not. Please accept my heartfelt apologies." He blinked rapidly as tears clung to his lashes. He bowed his head.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. Slytherins. Never trust one.
"I believe you have the potential to be a good student, a good wizard. What do you think?" She lowered her voice, and asked, "Do you believe that I can turn what you envisioned into reality?"
Without meeting her eyes, he nodded vigorously. "Professor Kraus, I can be a model student. So good, I will make the Head Boy look like a delinquent in comparison."
"Excellent, I'm looking forward to it. You may go now," she intoned.
Walden Macnair stumbled out of her classroom.
Fuck. Hermione felt terrible. Like Professor Snape, she abused her position.
She wasn't the Professor Hermione she had envisioned herself to be.
Dropping her head to her hands, she rubbed at her temples wearily and pressed her cold, clammy palms against her burning eyelids. She wasn't cut out for teaching at all. She lacked the patience and temperament for it.
Perhaps she'll obliviate Macnair of the whole unpleasant encounter the next time she sees him. He had promised he'd control his behavior. But how could she believe him when his soul was black beyond redemption?
Who was she to judge?
A smooth, masculine voice caressed her mind — 'He deserved it. He wanted to do much worse to you.'
Hermione breathed deeply and tried to clear her mind. She was sick of his dark influence.
"Hermione, are there any exceptional students in your classes?" Voldemort asked the following Saturday.
Hermione dreaded this question the most.
He continued, "I would like to keep track of the progress of certain individuals. Like Abraxas' son, Lucius. Lestrange's son, as well."
"Slytherins mostly, but that shouldn't surprise you. Perhaps some Ravenclaws, but they don't appear particularly interested in the Dark Arts," she replied. She wondered if by naming specific students, she would doom them to Voldemort's recruitment. She decided to stick with the children of known Death Eaters. "Lucius is proficient. His name and influence in Wizarding society alone will be enough to make him valuable to you. He has exceptional interpersonal skills, especially with other pure-bloods. The students in his class seem to be drawn to him. Rodolphus Lestrange is a quiet, intelligent young man, and a very competent duelist."
"Excellent. I'd like you to assist them in reaching their full potential. Now, I find that I am curious about the Black daughters. Cygnus Black has forever been a thorn in my side. He disagrees with my methods and thus will not publicly associate with me. But it doesn't mean his three daughters can't be persuaded to join my cause."
Hermione schooled her features as best she could. Was this her chance to keep his most devoted Death Eater away from him? Perhaps she was being overly optimistic. Bellatrix was already experimenting with dark spells, and with pure-blood supremacy at stake, it was inevitable that she become his follower.
"I don't think any of the three daughters are appropriate. The youngest daughter is only in her second year, and is just like any other pure-blooded Slytherin girl. The middle daughter doesn't seem to like associating with Slytherins besides her own sisters, and has quite a few Gryffindor friends. The eldest daughter…" Hermione worked hard to keep her contempt for the witch from leaking into her voice. "She appears to be quite mad. She's rebellious and disrespects all authority, and would make a very poor follower."
Voldemort smirked. "Hermione, you seem a little…nervous, talking about her. Bellatrix Black, correct?"
Unease spread through her. Even though Bellatrix was still just a student, he knew her name. But pure-blood society was awfully tight-knit and small, so she couldn't judge him.
"Have you met her?" she inquired lightly. Bellatrix never failed to drive her crazy.
"Not yet."
"She's just a terrible student. Short attention span. Prone to outbursts and unnecessary violence. I've taken scores of house points away from Slytherin for her antics, and she's more than earned all her detentions."
"Miss Black does sound like a problem child at this time, but it doesn't rule out the possibility of her becoming a good follower in the future. I could use someone with the Black family influence in my ranks. So far, they have all been wretched fools — Cygnus, Orion, and Walburga. I can only look to their children for recruitment. Orion and Walburga's sons are still too young at present, but I'll be following their academic careers closely in the future."
Hermione imagined Bellatrix Black, with her passion for the Dark Arts, in her place. Voldemort wouldn't need to waste time and energy persuading her to abandon her morals. Bellatrix must have been everything he could have hoped for in a follower.
Right, it had already happened, in the future. The Bellatrix Lestrange she remembered from her time had Voldemort as her instructor and mentor in the Dark Arts. It was the reason the cruel witch was so formidable.
It was also the reason the witch was so enamored with her master.
A dull ache stabbed into her veins, prompting her to rub at her wrists, where her pulse throbbed. She clenched her jaw.
What a strange, unpleasant sensation.
Hermione decided to drop the subject. The more she tried to keep Voldemort away from Bellatrix Black, the more curious he became, which was the last thing she needed.
She wondered if the Black family refused to follow him because they knew Voldemort was a half-blood, or because they truly disagreed with his methods.
"Anyone else you'd like to bring to my attention?" he asked.
She shook her head slowly, turning away from him.
A long finger fell on her jaw, as he tilted her face back to him. "Something's on your mind. What is it?"
"It's been a long week. I'm just a little tired, that's all."
"Do not lie to me," he whispered, his finger tensed against her skin.
Her eyes snapped to his as she jerked her head away from his touch. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek until she drew blood. One look at him told her he wasn't going to just let it go. She despised how easily he could read her.
Conceding defeat, she summoned Macnair's drawing from her bag and levitated it to Voldemort. She didn't know why she had kept it on her. Perhaps it was to remind her of what evil the human mind was capable of, even in one so young.
He snatched it out of the air, unrolled the parchment, and stared.
She turned away, not wanting to watch his reaction. She didn't need to see the repulsive intrigue that would surely appear in his eyes. Such an artistic display of violence would likely appeal to a dark wizard like himself.
The smell of burning parchment reached her nose.
Startled, her head swiveled to Voldemort. The edges of the drawing had begun to blacken and smolder as he held it in his grasp.
With her magic, she immediately stopped the slow destruction in its tracks. "No! Don't destroy it. I need it, as evidence. As leverage."
"Hermione, what is this? Is this meant to be you?"
"Yes."
"Who drew it? Was it a student?"
"Yes, but I took care of it."
"Who was it?"
"Why? Would you like to recruit the artist? I suppose your organization could use someone this skilled," she seethed.
"Yes, it can, but not when…" he paused, as a muscle ticked in his jaw. "I'd like to compliment them on their artistic skills, that's all. Now, tell me who did this."
The vehemence in his low voice gave her pause. Her attention was drawn to the intensity in his blood-red eyes.
She held up a hand and shook her head. "You need to trust me, when I say that it's been dealt with."
"Nothing short of death will suffice. So tell me, Hermione, have you truly dealt with it?"
"He's only a student. I cast Sum of All Fears on him, and he promised that nothing of the sort will ever happen again."
"What did you do to deserve this?" he asked.
"I took away his wand, and I may have forced him to crawl from the dungeons to the Hospital Wing. On reversed knees, which was hexed by another student."
Voldemort began to smile, and she inwardly cringed as it gradually widened to reveal gleaming teeth. It wasn't, by any means, a normal smile.
Hermione shook her head. "Stop. I'm not a cruel, ruthless person. I regret what happened and didn't take joy in it. You shouldn't look so pleased."
"Look at the detail in this drawing," he pointed out, dropping it unceremoniously onto her lap. "He will kill you unless you kill him first."
"It's just a fantasy. Haven't you ever fantasized about killing people before?"
"Oh, all the time, but my fantasies don't stay as a fantasy for long, and it's the reason I am here in front of you today, alive."
"Are you really, though?" she murmured under her breath. How alive could he be with just a sliver of his soul?
His mouth twitched.
She hastily clarified, "I mean, are you really sure murder is the solution to all your problems?"
"Yes," he said.
She exhaled deeply. "I'm not concerned. He wouldn't dare attempt anything, at least not at Hogwarts, under Dumbledore's watchful eye."
"Hatred lingers for years. Decades, even. It can fester. Your life is no longer yours to gamble with, Hermione."
Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon?"
Voldemort locked his gaze on her, his face as cold as marble. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I would hate to lose my ideally positioned Hogwarts associate, whom I spent so much time training. It would be a shame to have to start again with someone else if you perished as a result of your pathetically soft heart."
"Oh, I see. Wouldn't want to lose your investment then?" she scoffed, feeling oddly bitter.
"You have a responsibility to me to stay alive," he said, turning away to stare at the wall next to them.
She was upset. But she didn't know why. She regretted bringing up Macnair's drawing, but it was on her mind all week, and she was running out of her stash of Dreamless Sleep.
"Little witch, when are you going to realize that some people just deserve to die, and aren't worth bearing on your conscience? Consider all the innocent people you can save, those who will become his future victims. And there will be victims. This drawing was the work of an irredeemable psychopath."
Feeling subdued, her eyes traced his elegant profile, his set jaw. "You would know, wouldn't you?" she asked softly.
Voldemort's eyes were suddenly very close, causing her heart to leap to her throat. So close, the tip of his nose nearly brushed hers. His incisors tugged on his sculpted lower lip, lifting a corner. "Yes," he hissed wickedly. "I suppose I would." His cool breath caressed her mouth.
Spearmint.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
He seemed displeased with her delicate inquiry, but that wasn't quite it, either. Was he indignant? Was it the irredeemable part or the psychopath part that he objected to?
Who was she kidding?
It was most likely because she refused to submit to his questioning.
"Keep your secrets buried, little witch. But know that I will eventually unearth every last one of them," he breathed against tingling lips.
Promises, promises.