Chapter 2- Education
"Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me." -Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
(Editor's Note- Hermione's last name has been changed to Smith in order to protect her identity.)
It is with both hopefulness and regret that I set quill to paper to write my story. No, not my story at all, as I do not merit a story of my own. I tell you the story of my Hermione, as all my experiences lead simply to her. Hopefulness that I may tell both our sides accurately. Regret that I must tell both our sides accurately.
I am gripped with the question of where to begin, as my usual methodical cataloging is not applicable to this tale. I am aware that some readers will find this account offensive, and I urge this response. While I endorse disgust as the correct response, I will not apologize for anything I have done. I accept all my actions, and will state them as the facts that they are and as plainly as possible. To further theatrically hammer the point; I have no regrets.
I guess the best place to start is at the start. Not our start, mind you, but mine. I am aware that most people, upon the eventual finding and inevitable publication of this manuscript, will be interested in only the "naughty bits" of the story, and I refuse to inflict that indignity on either Ms. Smith or myself. If one wants to read my fall from grace in all its fiery horror, I insist one also takes into consideration the rise, and make all judgments based on the presented information. As stated above, I intend to do my best to present that information in as unbiased a manner as possible.
I refuse to whine about my childhood like some trailer-inhabiting Muggle on a talk show. To be perfectly honest, my childhood was idyllic. I was the only child of parents who loved me and praised my qualities and nature. They were good people, raised me with strict moral guidelines, and encouraged my creative pursuits. In other words, any rumours that they were early supporters of Voldemort, or otherwise people of low regard, are preposterous. If anyone is to blame for my introduction to Dark magic, it is those children who attended Hogwarts with me.
In hindsight, I realize that children will be children, and children are cruel. However, when one is a child, it is impossible to realize that. I do admit I was an awkward child. I was the tall and gangly sort with a nose any bird would be happy to perch on. I preferred to dress in all black under my school robes, simply because it was easier to match clothes in the morning. Needless to say, I was a beacon for ridicule by my classmates, even the members of my own house.
The only subject at which I excelled was Potions. The logical nature of potions and the beauty of the names and nature of the ingredients captivated me. The luxurious pink of the thistle, the way "ampelopsis arborea" rolls off the tongue caressing the palate and teeth, I could continue for hours. I studied everything concerning potion making with a hunger I had never experienced before and, for my obsession, I was mocked even more. Perhaps the greatest humiliation, and a leading cause of my turning away from the light, was the mocking I received on behalf of my intelligence. Letting people know I cared about something only turned that thing into a weapon. To be cast down for my appearance was one thing, to be abashed for my passion was entirely another. I turned into myself to avoid the ridicule, which only served to make it worse.
In the middle of my seventh year, I was approached by a man claiming to be an emissary for a new movement. His name was Nathanial Grey and what I really remember about him were his hands. He had long pale fingers stained yellow from tobacco and they seemed to move with a mind of their own. He talked about a revolution: a movement in which all wizards would be equal and alike. To avoid sounding wistful for the darkest time the Wizarding world has seen, I will simply say that it sounded like a utopia to an emotionally tortured teenager. Grey said I had been recommended by Lucius Malfoy, an influential classmate of mine. I was flattered by the attention and possible friendship by someone as popular as Malfoy. After graduation, I joined the Death Eaters, as they became known.
Serving under Voldemort, at the beginning, was almost like becoming a celebrity. Everyone suddenly seemed to know who I was and wanted to be my friend, even though our identities were supposed to be secret. Women I would never have dreamed of approaching came up to b me /b and asked me to talk about potions. Most of these conversations would end with the lady stubbing out her cigarette and leading me back to her home. For a while, it was a perfect, golden life. A life of popularity and romance that I had only dreamed of at school.
It wasn't until I was in too deep that I realized what Voldemort's true plan was. Part of my job was researching potent poisons that would cause pain but not death. I was told at the time that they would be used to get information from criminals. It was too late that I learned the 'criminals' were just poor Muggle-borns. I remember the first time I saw someone tortured with a potion I created. Her name was Anne, and she had been in my year at Hogwarts. She was the smartest girl in my class, and I admit I had had a bit of a crush on her in my schooldays. I suppose it was because Voldemort knew she was my classmate that he invited me to attend her 'questioning' and I foolishly did as I was told. What I saw there nearly killed me, and I fled back to Hogwarts that same night, imaginary blood staining my hands as it had truly stained Anne's entire body and my robes.
Dumbledore, a great wizard and man, offered me shelter if I would do only two things for him: become Potions master and never tell Voldemort that I hated him and everything he stood for.