The staff of Malfoy Mansion do not tell her anything. They do not tell her about the art show or Mr. Malfoy's whereabouts, they do not even admit the master of the house was in yesterday. But Hermione knows what she saw in the corridor. She knows what she heard from Mr. Malfoy's very lips. He is going to an exhibition tomorrow and he is expecting…something… from that oddly-named artist.
Voldemort.
It's only a name to go on. But Hermione Granger can work with a name.
She flicks through the pages of Wall Street Journal diligently. It has been weeks since she touched a newspaper for any purpose other than looking for employment agencies, but she foregoes the advertisements today for the Arts column. If there is any place for an art show listing, then it is the paper. Now if only there weren't over a hundred galleries and shows in New York every day! she thinks in exasperation.
Hermione throws the paper on the huge pile growing at her feet. Useless. Again, there is no mention of any Voldemort. She looks at the phonebook that she threw in the trash bin after wasting hours of combing through the 'V' section with a magnifying glass, and she briefly considers setting it on fire. But she pushes the urge away. There is only one paper left from the delivery, although she has never heard of it before.
The Daily Prophet. She picks it up with little hope.
The first page is a cooking column: Simple Recipes for Even Simpler Housewives! There is also an enthusiastic ad on the importance of ironing dress shirts for husbands. A wrinkled shirt leads to demotion, but with Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Wrinkle Remover, your crisp shirt can get you a promotion!
"Who writes this poppycock?" Hermione snorts, disgusted, and she rips that page in half. Now it reads, Remove shirt get a promotion! She is about to chuck it in the bin when she notices the article on the other side of Mrs. Skower's advertisement. The name on it makes her heart stop for a second.
…artist of the century, Lord Voldemort...
She pauses at the title. Lord?
The greatest living artist of the century, Lord Voldemort, is slated to return from his two-year retreat in Albania at the annual Malfoy Gala this weekend on July 31st. Many followers of Voldemort's world-famous work await his return with great anticipation, while critics have called the artist's retreat a 'self-imposed act of isolation' and a 'desperate attempt to find the power to live up to his first ground-breaking series' (the series referred to in this article, 'Death Eaters,' was Voldemort's debut in 1942). His most legendary piece, 'Crucio (1945)', famously depicted the Nazis as evil wizard-like figures that tortured victims with magic, and the blend of fantasy-horror and politics sparked controversy across the globe. In an interview with Abraxas Malfoy, he was quoted to say 'the Crucio exhibition astounded me…' and that the work 'is the most important addition to modern art since Picasso's 'Guernica.''
As of 1944, Rita Skeeter quoted Voldemort in an article titled 'He Who Must Not Be Named Goes to Europe!' This is the last interview from the young, reclusive artist, taken a year before his retreat. When Skeeter asked what he hoped to teach future generations with his work, Voldemort replied 'That there is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.'
*The annual Malfoy Gala is sponsored by the Lestrange Fine Arts Foundation and Blacks Costume Institute. It will be held on July 31st at 6:00 sharp, located in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The benefit is black-tie; tickets begin at $100 each.
Hermione's eyes almost pop out of her head in shock at $100. She could pay for a year at Barnard University with that kind of money! At the Malfoy Gala, it will only last her a single night. She doesn't even know where she would begin to find money like that.
Then again, she does live in a mansion now. A mansion owned by a rich, famous art collector. A mansion full of works of art that are probably priceless… Oh, I'm horrible, Hermione thinks, face hot with shame. Here she is in a beautiful palace of a home with servants and food and fine clothes on her back, and she is considering stealing from the man who gave it all to her. The man who has never asked for anything in return from her... The man she has never met.
I bet he would do it.
The thought is unwelcome, a slap in her own face. But it's still true. Hermione puts her head in her hands, growling with annoyance.
He would do it and he wouldn't think twice about it. But I can't do it because I am afraid.
No, no, she doesn't want to steal because she has values and morals – unlike someone she used to know! "Shut up," she says snappishly, as if arguing with the annoying voice in her head will really help at this point. "I'm not stealing," she mutters. Her eyes search the bedroom for inspiration, slowing to a stop on the closet full of new skirts and dresses from Mr. Malfoy.
Slowly, a triumphant smile spreads across her face.
It isn't stealing if it's a gift, is it?
"Let me out here," Hermione says, rapping her knuckles on the back of the driver's seat. The driver, who goes by the name of Stanley Shunpike, stops smoking his cigarette long enough to frown at her.
"Are you sure about that, Miss Granger?" he asks. "We're still two blocks from the park."
"I would like to walk the rest of the way," she says, trying to look innocent. She fans her face with her hand. "I'm feeling rather faint from the heat."
With a shrug, Stanley pulls over on the corner of Madison Avenue. Stanley is one of Malfoy's private drivers, but it was easy enough for Hermione to ask him for a ride to Central Park today. She may not be able to see Mr. Malfoy, but no one said that she wasn't allowed to use his services. As they'd pulled away from Malfoy Mansion in the black Cadillac that Stanley claimed Mr. Malfoy 'favored slightly less' than his prized Rolls Royce, she saw Kreacher spying on them from behind the rosebushes. When she caught the butler's eye, she waved.
If Kreacher had been a garden snake, she thinks that he would have hissed at her.
Stanley takes forever to get to Hermione's side of the cab. She taps her foot impatiently as he stands on the side of the road finishing his cigarette, scratching his bum while the time runs away from her. She wants to leap out and sprint the rest of the way, but she forces herself to wait for Stanley to get the door.
"What have you got there, a picnic?" Stanley asks, nodding at the large bag in her arms. Hermione hugs the bag tighter to her chest at his curiosity. Don't be suspicious, she tells herself, forcing her arms to relax. He could be a spy like Kreacher. Act naturally.
"Yes, it's escargots from the kitchen," she says mildly. "Want to try one?"
"Escargots? You mean snails?" He backs away at her nod, looking sick. "Thanks, miss, but I think I'll pass."
She shrugs. "Suit yourself. I will meet you here at 11 o'clock, yes?"
"Yes, Miss Granger." Stanley is still eyeing the bag in her arms as if it is full of worms, he is likely wondering what on earth would make a person want to eat snails for a picnic. Hermione smiles at him brightly and turns on her heel, waltzing into the throng of people on the sidewalk. She can only breathe a sigh of relief when she has turned onto Fifth Avenue, the danger of Stanley Shunpike far behind her.
She darts a glance into the bag nervously. A bundle of pale blue silk glints at her, she stuffs it back down, hoping that it won't be wrinkled by the time she arrives. If only she had Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Wrinkle Remover now.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art appears in the distance, surrounded by photographers and glowing in the spotlights from the garden. The benefit is supposed to be in the ballroom, but she can't see how she is going to manage to get in with all the media ruckus. All she can see are limousines and the flashing lightbulbs of cameras and panicking valets running around like headless chickens.
Hermione swallows back nausea at the sight. It looks very fancy and fancy things have always made her want to puke. She tries to summon the pompous air of the customers at Madame Pomfrey's old hat shop, sticking her chin in the air and swinging her hips as she walks. She bumps into an old woman in the crosswalk, who yells at her in Italian and thumps her on the knee with her cane. Hermione apologizes to her with a red face, quickly walking away.
Just wonderful, she thinks sarcastically. I can limp into the Malfoy Gala now. She walks into a random coffee shop, going straight to the washroom. She locks the door behind her and stares at herself in the mirror. Blotchy pink cheeks, frizzy hair, and panicked brown eyes stare back at her. She moans in misery.
How is this ever going to work?
AN: This was a short chapter, but the next will be longer, I promise! Thank you to everyone who reviewed, as always, and big thanks to those readers who PM me and remind me not to forget to update. I don't always answer reviews, but I read all of them and I appreciate those of you who point out the errors in my writing as well as those who have been with me since the beginning. 3
If you read the original BHoC and see something in the story that you don't remember; it's not you. I am making significant changes to the story to make it better. Tom Riddle, for example, is a little darker and less forgivable in this version, to parallel the canon Voldemort. Hermione changes for the better, too.
Quick story - The first time I wrote BHoC, I took a big break before writing Part 2 because I didn't know where to go with the story. The parts of the story that were the most fun to write seemed to be when Tom and Hermione were growing up, not when they were grown already. I am rewriting Part 2 partly to finally make the grown-up parts exciting, partly because I can't stand some of the junk I wrote five years ago in high school.
Ok story over! Lots of love from me to you.
ImmortalObsession