It was mid-July. I remember the thick air of humidity that hung over the cramped rooms of the orphanage. The way our raggedy uniforms clung to our tiny underfed frames. How every patron stared at the tall bearded man in alarm at the outrageous cloak he donned. I should have known at first glance that I was dealing with an insane fool but the naiveite of an eleven-year-old allowed me to be swayed.
He introduced himself as Albus Dumbledore and handed me a letter. I always knew I was of a special sort, for the first time in my short life span I remembered truly being happy. It didn't last very long.
He regarded me with a gentle smile, yet his eyes were filled with anger and distrust.
So overcome with fear at something he didn't quite fully understand that he judged a mere child, broken and left alone in this wretched world, at how he defended himself.
Humiliation washed over me as I apologized to my peers, returning their trinkets, promising to be on my best behavior.
I was too enthralled by this new world he opened up, scared witless to lose this opportunity, to even defend myself when the older children once again choose me to bare the brunt of their accosting.
I was weak. Hopeless. Frightened.
Never did the old fool even consider how difficult it was for a boy like me to be among a different kind. Albus Dumbledore never could look passed his dense halfmoon spectacles at the bigger picture. Once he decided what was best, he enforced his word with no regard of those affected.
He took away something from me that day. He didn't stop taking.
The tension in the room was palpable. Hermione could feel the stares of its occupants bore into her. She felt vulnerable, naked, standing there with her hand out in submission as if Voldemort stripped her bare of all value and self-respect.
In a way he did.
His eyes searched her face with an unreadable countenance "And how do you propose we seal this deal?"
Hermione reluctantly dragged her intent stare from the ground "An unbreakable vow."
Voldemort let out a breath of sardonic mirth "So you can jump off the south tower as soon as I send Miss Weasley back to her Order?"
Hermione tried her best to steer her attention from the girl in question as she fisted the carpet stained by her own blood and tears, in an attempt to fight off the lingering effects of the unforgivable.
"Then what method of binding do you deem fit?" she bit out through gritted teeth.
There was a sour taste in her mouth as if all her self-loathing and dismay manifested itself on the tip of her tongue.
Voldemort drew out the silence, allowing Hermione to stew in her own trepidation at the unknown fate she blindly agreed to. He could have easily punished her with a dark array of curses or even imperioed her to worship the dirt under his boots, but he didn't. Brute force wasn't his style anymore. Not after Harry Potter.
His methods were now purely psychological. After all the mind is mankind's greatest weapon and there's no other instrument Voldemort wielded more formidably than his own. There was nothing he couldn't accomplish if he bent the psyches of his subordinates to his will.
So he did with alarmingly dangerous talent.
He always did have a flair for it. Since his youthful days as Tom Riddle, recruiting dogmatic purebloods to his cause. Even going as far to sway the malleable minds of half-bloods. Yet, aside for a selected few, obedience didn't amount to competence.
When Hermione Granger was captured, he knew that fate had bestowed him a grand favor. Much had been discussed about the girl, she was among their greatest deterrents, she was certainly special. His nature of possessing that of the extra ordinary took over. He desired her under his command and what Lord Voldemort coveted he attained by any means.
It was incredibly simple to him. An intelligent and remarkable individual like Hermione can only be the reason for her own downfall. Backing her into a corner, giving the illusion of a choice, albeit an impossible one, was child splay. She was breaking, slowly, meticulously by his hand.
He didn't give her an answer, watching her squirm under his gaze caused a rush of amusement bubbling in the pit of his stomach.
Hemione watched him in startled discomfort as he flipped his wand into the air, catching it swiftly in a burst of childlike delight.
She looked to his followers standing by the doorway as if to make sure they too are witnessing this burst of utter insanity.
With a lazy flick of his wand, Ginny was stunned, sprawled like a ragdoll near Dolohov's feet. A thin veil of light blanketed her, pulsating ominously.
Hermione watched helplessly as the beam collected itself at her center, twining nimbly to the tip of his wand.
He allowed it to stagnate, the light of Ginny's essence casting a glow on his face, and wordlessly took her outreached hand. The touch of his palm caused goosebumps to crawl up her arm. It was only debilitating fear that made her hesitate to shove off his grasp when he began hissing lowly in parseltongue.
The light turned a deep crimson as it swayed to the eerie melody of an ancient language. Voldemort's smooth hypnotizing baritone made her ears ring and although the room was sufficiently warm she began shivering violently.
In a flash of incomprehensible speed, the beam leapt ferociously. It coiled around the length of Hermione's arm, consequently binding her to Voldemort in a concentrated magical rope.
She could feel the searing heat emanating from its aura. Spirals of black smoke curled from the surface of her skin and the atmosphere of the study was saturated with the odor of charred flesh.
Voldemort hardly flinched.
Barely a second ticked by and with a flash of color the spell absorbed into their skin.
Hermione was on her knees, her scorched arm cradled to her chest. Her breathing was labored as she gingerly ran her finger over the singed watery corner of a serpentine scar.
She tore her eye away from the fanged creature poised for attack, much like the toothy smile Voldemort donned before he fired an especially crafty spell and was greeted by the man himself crouched to her level on one knee.
"A word to the wise Hermione," his teeth glinted in the light "be very wary of defying me else little Ginny Weasley would bear the consequences."
"Take the girl directly to Dumbledore," he addressed Snape as he stood "and don't bother healing her injuries. Let it be a stark reminder that I am not to be trifled with."
With a nonchalant wave they were all dismissed.
Time fused into space. The hallway she walked through stretched out before her with no end in sight. Dusty ornaments melted into the forest green wallpaper. The embroidery on the drawn draperies tumbled over one another and the echoes of her feet on the floorboards harmonized with the feint pounding in her head.
Hermione was vaguely aware of being led somewhere. Her surroundings were blurred around the edges. Everything was entrenched in a sporadic limbo as her mind failed to grasp its basic faculties.
The outline of her new scar was all that existed. She traced over the rare indented skin obsessively.
A faraway click registered in her brain, bringing her neurotic tracing to a halfway stop as she was ushered into a dark room.
Hermione gaped into the distance, completely unaware of a syrupy substance gently being fed to her.
It dripped from her half-opened mouth and passed her chin as she came to her senses. Gradually the specks of dust floating about sharpened and the room came into focus.
The air was stuffy her eyes roamed the area. Empty bottles littered the small space, dusty and turned grey with age. The sofa she was seated on was ripped to pieces and the walls were spotted with numerous dents here and there.
"Welcome back to earth Granger."
Hermione jumped in surprise, swiftly standing to pinpoint the source of her little scare. Her gaze zoned in on the young man seated by the foot of an unmade bed.
Draco leaned on the bedpost, swinging a bottle of firewhiskey back and forth with a stony expression on his worn face. His cloak was abandoned on the floor and two buttons on his liquor stained oxford was undone. He looked the complete opposite of a snobbish, uptight upperclassmen that she knew him to be. In fact, at that very moment, Draco Malfoy's indecorous, shabby appearance staggeringly reflected Hermione's emotional state so damn frightfully that all she could do is gape in astonishment.
"Don't you know its rude to stare?" his voice was low, exhausted, as if he couldn't bear to speak.
She swallowed apprehensively, remembering his embarrassing take down by her hand, and tentatively inched toward the door.
"I'm not going to hurt you Granger," he got up with a heave, staggering to the mini bar and pouring a drink "somebody stole my wand."
He shot her a sneer.
"Besides, father had always emphasized that Malfoy men would never stoop so low as to strike a woman. Even if she is an irritating know it all."
Draco handed her an antiquated glass topped to the brim with alcohol. Hermione warily took it with a look of disbelief.
The young Malfoy chuckled darkly at her expression "That was before lost his fucking head."
Hermione stared at her drink in discomfort, completely out of her depth. So many shockingly awful things happened to her in a short space of time that standing there, sharing a drink with her childhood bully seemed almost normal.
Her finger found its way back to the scar, now clotted and gummy in its early stages of healing. She tried her utmost best to absorb that day's eventful trauma while casually downing her whiskey in one go.
Hermione felt oddly energized while being completely apathetic as she sat there mirroring the nonchalance of her company.
She eyed him with a blank stare, forcing her mind to grind its gears "What did you give me?"
Hermione knew that she ought to be furious, yet she couldn't find it in herself to care about anything. She felt blissfully numbed to the core.
Draco snorted as he kicked off his shoes, once again leaning on the bed post "Didn't know you were blind as well as daft. It's obviously firewhiskey."
He rolled his eyes obnoxiously as Hermione fixated a scathing glare in his direction.
"Fine," he tossed his now empty bottle on the floor "It's my own special take on the Drought of Peace. You're not the only one adept at potions Granger."
She sat there utterly stupefied, attempting to process what he had said. Half an hour passed by until she gathered her mental faculties in order to address him.
"You drugged me?"
Malfoy was spread-eagled on the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling when he turned to answer, "You're welcome."
"Was I that bad?" Hermione flopped sideways into the couch.
Draco's snickering seemed to bounce off the wall "Much much worse."
Peace filled the space as they laid there, lost carelessly in their own thoughts
"Why are you doing this?" Hermione broke the silence, lifting her head to regard him "Help me out like this?"
"Aren't I just a filthy little mudblood to you?"
A dozen emotions flitted in his steely grey eyes, ranging from melancholy to bitter regret. He was silent for a while, as if pondering a befitting reply.
"Because you're just like me Granger," he thought aloud, running his fingers through his white blonde hair.
Hermione grabbed a bottle nearest to her and chucked it at his head. Her motions were floppy and aim entirely off the mark. It crashed against the wall, shattering to jagged pieces among its unfortunate counterparts.
"We're nothing alike. I'm no prejudiced coward."
She wanted to be enraged but all emotion evaded her.
Draco on the other hand had a tone of mad irritation "And contrary to what you think Granger, you know absolutely fuck all."
The clock in the far corner of the room ticked on as they both fell into an intoxicated slumber.