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The snake crudely nailed onto the door of the abysmal shack should have been my first warning to return to London. Serpents were sacred to the house of Slytherin after all. I couldn't shake off the feeling of trepidation that settled in the pit of my stomach. What I assumed was a bad omen, now looking back, was a mark of rebirth.
My second sign was the filthy man who opened the door. He spat at me in outrage, calling me a filthy muggle. Threatening to murder me dare I ever step foot near his land again.
Fury burned through me as I hissed at him in Parseltongue, demanding to know what in Salazar's name he was on about. His surprise at my gift was written across his face. He laughed hysterically, muttering to himself that I speak the language of his forefathers. I refused to believe that this was what the noble house of my ancestor was reduced to, but there it was right in front of my very eyes.
"You must be Merope's bastard. You look just like him you know, Tom Riddle. Same pretty face Merope was so taken with. That traitorous bitch got what she deserved."
My father, a muggle? The noble blood that ran through my veins was that of my pitiful mother?
"Get out you revolting half breed. You're just as filthy as your muggle father. Soiling our pure bloodline. I bet you're just as useless as your mother too, wretched squib she was."
It was all a blur. Morphin Gaunt was on the floor writhing as I barraged him with every dark curse I knew. He was dead long before I ceased fire. I knew this but never did I stop. He did not deserve the ring belonging to Slytherin that he marred by wearing. So I simply took it from his corpse.
I left silently following the path out of Little Hanglelton and would have returned to Wools orphanage that evening had it not been for the sign proudly displaying the residence of the Riddles.
The door to the mansion was unlocked. They sat at the table, a man, a woman and a boy who for a second I thought was me in some alternate universe. Eating dinner in his picture-perfect palace with his picture-perfect family. The man displayed a similar outrage as Morphin at my intrusion though he stopped when he saw his youth painted on my face.
"So the bitch kept the baby. What do you want boy? Is it money?"
I said nothing, taking everything in. Comparing their lavish life with my own at a piss poor orphanage. Me, the last living descendant of the mighty Salazar Slytherin.
"I see you're a freak just like your mother. She tricked me you know. It was a good thing she fled before she died or else I would have killed the whore with you inside of her."
I looked at his son, then at him. Within seconds they all breathed their last breaths.
That night Tom Mavolo Riddle died along with his filthy unworthy kin, a piece of his soul safely stored away in Slytherin's artifact. A new era had begun. One where the world would bow down to the feet of their new dark lord with fear and adoration. The name of Lord Voldemort will leave the lips of people as they sing his praises. I would purge the world of its filth for I have seen the abomination they would become. If Salazar Slytherin caught a glimpse of me that night, he would have held his head high with pride at the man his progeny had become.
Hermione was seated in a plush study. She couldn't help but notice how her dirty hands contrasted the expensive china cup and saucer she held. It seemed to enunciate that feeling of being a regular fish out of water. The armchair seemed to envelop her. It was soft and comfy, yet she couldn't allow herself to relax.
Dark tomes lined the walls from ceiling to floor, the serpent detailing that wove itself through the mahogany shelves added to the forbidding aura. Priceless ancient artifacts that Hermione had only read about were used as decorative knick-knacks. It was grim, and surreal, to say the least.
Then there was the man who was seated behind an impressive writing desk directly across her. He gave off an authoritative air while seemingly carrying himself in a refined nonchalant manner. There was something exceedingly jarring about it.
"What is the matter Miss Granger," his voice had an unnatural posh lilt as if it was learned rather than innate "is the tea not to your liking?"
He smiled at her. The rather typical gesture softened his sharp angular features and exaggerated the fine wrinkles framing the corner of his eyes.
Hermione was unable to decide whether to appreciate the sight before her or to run for her life.
"It's fine, thank you," she whispered, more out of awkwardness than confusion at this time.
"I can assure you that it is not poisoned." he chuckled
As to prove his point, he leaned over, plucked the cup from her saucer and took a sip.
"See." his azure eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned back into his chair.
A flush of anger and annoyance crept up her neck.
Is he toying with me?
Hermione almost threw her tea on his face, but a small voice of reason told her that it was probably a terrible idea.
"Where did you learn that spell?" she asked instead.
His mouth curved haughtily "Learn? Why my dear, I had invented it."
"Oh." She replied lamely.
"Is there perhaps any problem? Are you in any pain?" he inquired politely.
"Not at all. Your healing capabilities are astounding."
Hermione surveyed the massive room, habitually looking for potential escape routes. At first, she had thought her savior was some high ranking healer, accidentally stumbling to her rescue, but something about this man fired her internal alarm bells. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. The element of impending danger was prevalent, and her anxiety showed clearly on her face. The more benign and considerate he was, the higher her apprehension rose.
She avoided his gaze and fired her occlumency shields just in case. If she wasn't studying the shifting mural of a serpent weaving itself through the Tree of Life, Hermione would have noticed his eyebrow twitch.
"You need to relax Miss Granger. I assure you that you are undoubtedly out of harm's way."
Though her eyes found its way back to his form, she still avoided his gaze like the plague. Hermione focused on a lock of chestnut hair that set itself on his forehead. The roaring fire made the scattered grey strands stand out whenever he tilted his head to study her. She attempted to count them as she fought to keep her composure.
"You must forgive me, sir," Hermione uttered scornfully "Voldemort's lapdogs aren't exactly known for their kind hospitality."
"Voldermort?" this time his brow was raised "I had no idea people nowadays dare to utter the Dark Lords name."
Hermione watched him warily as he raised himself from his chair "Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing himself."
"How wise. You clearly are a cut above your peers."
He was behind her now, both of his manicured hands rested on her shoulder.
Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat. She frantically searched for something else to focus her attention on.
"Tell me Miss Granger, whatever would you have done if I had not interceded between yourself and Fenir?"
"I don't know," she admitted, gripping the saucer so fiercely it shattered in her hand.
Hermione gasped as the porcelain buried itself into her skin. Drops of lukewarm tea hit the lavish Turkish carpet with dull thuds. She bit back a curse and latched on to the sight of her split drink, counting the droplets as it fell.
"Greyback would have killed you."
Hermione could feel his gaze boring into her from behind. Without reaching for his wand, the imposing man silently healed her injuries.
"I honestly couldn't care less at this point." she looked down at her hand. He hadn't bothered to clean up the blood.
"Are you not afraid of Death my dear?"
Her eyes darted around the room, fervently searching for another crutch.
"I've made my peace with it a long time ago." Hermione was starting to lose her cool.
There, near the paperweight, a stack of files. No, the books next to the fireplace.
Hermione could feel her arms beginning to stiffen due to hyperventilation. The man, however, was the epitome of calm and collected.
"I suppose that would happen to a person who befriends the infamous Harry Potter."
Triggers are an exceptionally strange phenomena. That is in the sense of it being a spectrum. It varies from individual to individual.
In Harry Potter's case, depending on the severity of his emotional turmoil at that very moment, it's enclosed spaces or a certain shade of emerald green. Both symbolizing abandonment and loss. He might not be aware of it, but somewhere in the innermost depths of his mind, whenever he is confronted with the Slytherin crest, a deep sense of fear mimicking itself as distrust pummels its way to the surface of his consciousness.
To that baby who wailed in his cradle as his mother was brutally murdered, it was the testament of every major trauma that impacted his life in so many different ways. The petrified teen in a graveyard witnessing the murder of his peer by the same man who took away his loving home, it was the catalyst to his newfound home and family being torn apart. Even looking into his own eyes was an ineffable experience. It was a daily battle between gazing into his mothers' eyes or staring down the curse that killed her.
In the case of Hermione Granger, it was Harry Potter. The boy who leaped in front of death at just eleven years old one Halloween night to save her life. She didn't know him all that well save for what she had read in her history books. That day, however, their friendship was forever cemented. They hardly made a move without each other since then. Hermione was his guide and Harry will forever be her strength. She was his first glimpse of family and he was the only family she had left. At just eleven years old, Hermione Granger had decided that come what may she would defend her best friend, her brother, till her very last breath.
Harry's name wasn't even halfway out of the man's mouth when raw emotion blurred all coherent thought.
She aggressively shrugged his hands off her shoulder, waking up so fast her chair hit the floor with a crash.
"Who are you and why am I here?" she demanded, whipping around to face her passive aggravator.
He was full-on smiling now.
"You are here Hermione because I desperately wanted to know why would one of Dumbledore's champions resort to such devious methods of winning?"
Hermione was still taken aback by his use of her first name when he conjured her beaded bag out of thin air and toppled its contents at his feet.
"My oh my. Why I have not seen such a selection since I was about your age mastering the dark arts."
Hermione glanced at the glimmering sword wondering if she would manage to snatch it with just enough time to plunge it into his chest.
"I dare say you remind me of myself. It is too bad your breeding doesn't match up to your outstanding potential."
The impressive double doors burst open causing the man to take his piercing eyes off her for a split second.
Without thinking, Hermione lunged for the sword. In an instant, she was on the ground and back on her feet clutching the weapon. Much to her horror, in the blink of an eye the artifact vanished from her hands
It materialized into the right hand of the man and before she knew it, he had her in a vice-like grip with the pointed end digging into her back.
"Ah Severus," his voice was tranquil "you have impeccable timing. I am sure our guest is aching to know the status of her beloved resistance."
"They are in disarray my lord," the usually proud potions master had his head bowed in submission "Potter is being more overbearing than usual. Dumbledore has no choice but to request a momentary ceasefire to bargain for their captured members."
"Do you hear that Hermione?" he pushed the blade deeper into her skin "Should we concede with your oh so noble leader?"
Hermione's mind fired a mile a minute. She was too overcome with dread to comprehend her captors mocking question or feel her tender flesh tearing open. Nothing at that moment made any sense. A million thoughts raced through her head ranging from mild disbelief to outright denial. Everything she thought she knew about her enemy was shattered before her very eyes as her ally stood there bowing reverently to the seemingly normal middle-aged man. I just couldn't be.
"Voldemort."
A frightfully delighted smile lit up his face as the terrified whisper left her lips.
"Ten points to Gryffindor Miss Granger." Voldemort purred in her ear, retracting the blade from her side and smearing blood across her cheek.