She has never seen him so closely in the flesh.
Lord Voldemort sits rigidly, less than two metres from her, spine straight and legs crossed. He is oddly still for someone sitting in a room so cold.
He isn't looking at her, providing the perfect opportunity to take him in, to accustom herself to his quiet yet demanding presence.
His skeletal figure is covered with a thin, black fabric that's visibly fraying at the edges. There are dark rings underneath his eyes, and his skin is weathered, wrinkled around his eyes and mouth, yet somehow stretched taught over his cheekbones at the same time. Though, Hermione isn't surprised by his slenderness. She knows too well that there is room for improvement on the menu at Azkaban.
Overall, Lord Voldemort is... not what she had been expecting. Like the other inmates, Azkaban seems to have worn away at him, and it is an odd reminder that somewhere underneath all of his past horrific actions, he is still, at his core... human.
It's an unsettling reminder, and as the minutes gradually tick by, Hermione is at a loss as to where to start. Eventually, when she can bear the silence no more, she settles for clearing her throat.
At the sound, Lord Voldemort does not so much as flinch.
"Mr..." she pauses, suddenly uncertain of what to call him. Why hadn't she considered what to call him? "Mr. Riddle?"
His body still doesn't move a muscle, yet his eyes snap to hers.
His irises are strikingly red and although they are the colour of passion, of heat, there is only a deep coldness to be found within them.
A sudden, out of place sort of thrill runs through her, and yet, her instincts nudge her, urge her to shrink under his gaze.
Hermione pays them no mind, keeps herself level.
"Let us begin," she says, and her voice is even. It is clear and composed, just as she'd practised in the weeks leading up to this.
Voldemort doesn't say anything in response and simply continues to stare, and so, she goes on. "How are you feeling today?"
Slowly, his skin lifts over his brow bone, and it's almost amusing, how she can plainly tell that he is raising an eyebrow, even though his skin is entirely hairless.
The moment draws on and he remains silent.
"I take it, you mean to say, how do I think you're feeling?" she provides for him. "Well, Mr. Riddle, it is not my place for me to put words in your mouth, so I'd like it if you would begin, please."
He doesn't.
He remains still, watching her with indifference.
She swallows. "You could... perhaps tell me something about yourself, if you'd rather? Something about your day so far, something about your time here, within these walls? It doesn't matter, it can be anything you'd like to discu—"
"Hermione Granger."
Her name is only murmured in a soft breath, and yet, Hermione freezes.
Ten years. It'd been ten years since the battle of Hogwarts, ten years since she and her friends had had to hide, ten years since the verdict that had Lord Voldemort locked up for life.
Ten years... and though they'd never previously interacted, and though she'd grown over the years, he still recognises her, still remembers her name.
At her reaction, his dry lips curl inward, not quite forming a smile.
"The infamous mudblood friend of Harry Potter. Come to see me of all people. How... fascinating." His voice is soft and gentle—peaceful even—but when he tilts his head, the action is snakelike.
Hermione shifts her seat, suddenly feeling like prey, and although she tells herself she's not, she's becoming rattled. "I am not here for a social visit, Mr. Riddle," she forces herself to say firmly. "I am here as a representative of the Ministry of Magic, and I would appreciate it if you would—"
"How is Harry doing?" he interrupts, ignoring her. "After all of these years, would you believe that he hasn't come in for a single visit?" He sighs, his slit-like nostrils flaring. "To be honest with you, Hermione, I'm almost a little bit... offended. I thought we were more to each other."
She takes a deep breath, tries to keep calm, to not allow her increasing blood pressure to get the better of her, but he's mocking her. She puts down her quill. "The purpose of this afternoon's session is to perform your annual assessment of mental wellbeing and progress, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't speak of Harry to—"
"Why did you choose to see me, Ms. Granger?" The question and his sudden shift in tone are abrupt. While he spoke gently moments earlier, now, his words are loud, rigid.
Hermione tucks her hands between her thighs and her chair, and forces herself not to shrink back into it. "I am here as a representative of the Ministry of Magic to assess your wellbeing," she repeats, her own voice hardening to match his, "and I simply would like to do my job."
Lord Voldemort leans in slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Answer me."
Hermione closes her eyes, feels the irritation prickling at her temples. "I didn't choose anything—"
"Liar."
He hisses the word out and despite her best intentions, despite all the time she'd spent practising, it's cold enough that Hermione flinches.
"They would never ask this of you. They wouldn't dare to so much as think of it." He's bending forward toward her across the table now, and had his hands not been restrained behind his back with the shackles that kept his magic suppressed, she was sure he'd be even closer. "Never would they request that you, poor, innocent Hermione Granger, come sit before me, all… alone." He tilts his head to the other side, ever so slightly, eyes her down and back up. "No, do you know what I think?"
Hermione's instincts are positively screaming at her now—look away look away look away—but she can't pull her eyes away from his.
"I think you asked to be here. I think you pushed and fought and stomped your feet until you got what you wanted, and I think what you wanted, was to see me." Voldemort licks his lips, and Hermione clenches her teeth to stop her jaw from trembling. "Tell me why."
Her cheeks are hot, and her heart is thundering in her chest. It's not entirely because she's scared, though that's definitely a factor, but mostly, it's because she's been caught.
She had pushed and she had fought, and yes, she might have even stomped her feet a little bit to get Kingsley to agree to it, but she had to do it. She had to know.
For ten years, she'd wondered. For ten years, she'd pondered the secrets, the knowledge, the power that would die with him when the time came. For ten years, she'd been stealthily poking and prodding at Harry for more until he had no more to tell her. She'd read every book of him she could find, every newspaper article, every mention.
Tom Riddle had become her obsession, and she had to know.
How did he do it?
How was he so in tune with his magic, in a way that only Dumbledore had ever been? What was she missing?
He was undoubtedly the greatest wizard left alive, and she needed to know.
If not his blood, what was it about him that was different?
"I..." His full, undivided attention rests heavily upon her, and she doesn't know why she does it. She knows that she shouldn't, she knows that even voicing it to herself would be bad enough, but something about the way he's watching her has the truth sitting on the tip of her tongue, and now, it's too late. She cannot stop it. "I wanted to meet you."
This time, when Lord Voldemort smiles, he shows his teeth. They are yellowed and blackened where they meet each other, but even still, they are straight. They are shaped nicely, like the pictures that her parents would use to show what a good set of teeth look like, and it is obvious that once, that very same smile could've been disarming.
"Good girl," he says slowly, drawing out the syllables, and though it shouldn't affect her, it does.
She has always been a sucker for praise.
"Now tell me why."