AN: Are you ever writing something and you have a plan for how a conversation between two characters is going to go and then they just seem to take off without you, leaving nothing of the original plan left? So that happened to me here.
Dinner was announced promptly at half-past six, accompanied by a controlled scrambling to collect small children and leave behind the ballroom in favor of a medium-sized, formal dining room. The usual long table was present, though a smaller round table had been added towards the end of the room for the younger children.
As Tom led Hermione into the room with his fingertips resting on the small of her back, she took a moment to curiously study the layout of the room and the seating arrangements. While at Hogwarts, one of the things she had done was raid the personal rooms, common rooms, and offices for anything useful to her and commandeer it for her own purposes. It was how she had secured her hair combs and her book on hair charms, and it was also how she had learned all she knew about pureblood comportment.
While finding the elusive entrance to Slytherin House's living space had taken time and effort (and breaking into it even more so,) she had managed. For her stubbornness, she had been rewarded a treasure trove of information on the subject of all things pureblooded through the personal study journals of the Greengrass Family. It seemed that while most pureblood customs and habits were coveted family secrets, the Greengrasses were determined to have the very best of ladies and therefore supplied, through the maternal line, a tome of rules and customs to be passed and updated through the generations. It was closely guarded with blood magic, of course, and could only be opened by a blood relative in theory, however...
Well. 'Blood magic' was really more 'genetic material' magic than anything else (a concept somewhat lost on anyone not passingly interested in the science of muggles) and if Hermione employed a hugely dubious, very grey spell in order to alter a bit of her own blood and combine it with DNA extracted from a hairbrush-
It wasn't as if anyone was hurt by it, nor was there anyone around to scold her for it.
Somewhat illegal means aside, she managed to access the information on how, precisely, to comport herself as the perfect, pureblood princess. However, this was the first time she had truly been able to see some of the group customs play out and she found herself morbidly fascinated as she was seated at the table that had been charmed to seat the exact number of occupants without any empty spaces. The same could not be said for the smaller table, and that was deliberate.
The 'adult' table, as it were, was set up in exactly the same way as the dinner party had been with the exception that they were now joined by Rabastan Lestrange, as the prince of the day, at the head opposite Tom and his betrothed, Evadne Nott. Evadne's chair was draped with the heraldry of the Lestrange house, and in a move that Hermione was unsure whether she found amusing or disturbing, the same could be said of the seats at the children's rounded table.
One of the children giggled happily at a house elf from across the room and she settled on disturbing.
Tom had detailed information for each of his Death Eaters (information he compiled himself as a way to explore weaknesses and strengths) that he fiercely guarded against prying eyes. However, he had made an exemption for Hermione. In truth, he had encouraged her to study his research and learn his lackeys as well as he himself understood them so that she would never find herself at a disadvantage. Hermione was never one to turn down information that could be useful, so she had learned their family trees and who was married to whom, who was betrothed to whom, and now she watched it play out in toddlers.
Cradle betrothals were the done thing in some pureblood circles, even more so in the Death Eaters. They were keeping political power close and in the families and nothing like free will or sexual preferences were going to change that. Bellatrix Black sat stiff-backed and still clearly upset at the round table next to a visibly younger Rolophous Lestrange, her chair marking her as his future bride. As the manor in which they currently sat to eat was that of his ancestral family, he sat as the rather important de-facto head of the table at the stern age of two.
The hierarchy at the adult's table was mirrored at the children's as beside Rodolphous, Mortlake William "Wilkes" Nott, aged three, was present. The seat to his immediate right was unfilled. Once, it would have held Alys Rosier, but she had died in an unfortunate case of cradle death, leaving the subject of his future wife an open one. Evan Rosier, still unattached at two, sat next to the empty seat that honored his sister until another came to take her place.
To Rodolphous's left sat Lucius Malfoy, a beautiful child if Hermione had ever seen one, though the chair to his immediate left was also empty and she was not sure why. Understanding dawned on her as she unconsciously flicked a glance towards Druella Black's swollen belly where Narcissa was as of yet unborn. The poor girl hadn't even breathed her first before being sold off.
Lastly, beside the empty chair, Corvus Avery Jr was seated with Andromeda Black to his left, her chair draped in the Avery heraldry. Hermione bit back a smirk at the realization that at least one of these arranged marriages was never going to happen; Andromeda Black was going to get away from all of this awfulness and marry for love. An immediate affection for the pretty little brunette child bloomed in her chest.
According to the files, Antonin Dolohov was unmarried and therefore without heirs, while Thaddeus Mulciber had been widowed and lost his infant daughter in one fell swoop during childbirth. Hermione had bit back at growl when she had read that. The wizarding world was still woefully behind on things such as medicine and the concepts of c-sections and other interventions to save a woman's life while she brought forth a new one were completely unknown. She wondered if Mulciber's wife could have been saved if hatred for muggles could have just been set aside long enough to benefit from their knowledge.
For now, she brought her attention back to the soup that had appeared in front of her and listened to Rad and Livius argue about an obviously bad call (if the Nott Patriarch was to be believed) that occurred in a very important Quidditch match just last night. If she had hoped that being around evil and dark magic would at least bring her a reprieve from having to listen to debates that involved bloody Chaser techniques and point spreads, she was sadly disappointed.
Dinner passed in five courses with a rather tasty pork roast and savoury apple and herb pudding being, in Hermione's opinion, featured as the highlights and as opposed to the last dinner party with these people she attended, everything was rather cordial. Perhaps it was the presence of children in the room or perhaps it was just rude to try to climb one's way up the pecking order at a birthday party, but the conversation stayed to tame, boring subjects no one could really object to. Abraxas, seated to her left, largely ignored her and Livius across from her was far too caught up in his sports talk. Calliope caught her eye a few times to roll her eyes at her husband but did not comment and Tom, to her right, simply watched the interactions occurring around the table like a king observing his lesser subjects. Which, of course, was precisely what he was doing. Nevertheless, she was left to eat her dinner in peace, which is honestly the very best outcome she could hope for when surrounded by Tom's many loyal followers.
The main course ended and Rad stood up with a proud smile as he moved towards Rabastan. For his part, the boy sat up straighter in his chair, restrained excitement fighting with forced decorum warring on his face. Silence fell on the room as Rad reached his son's side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Rabastan, as is tradition on this remembrance of your birth," Rad began, gazing seriously at the child, "it falls to you to open the dessert course with a fire manifestation."
Angua also stood, moving towards Evadne's chair, before she took the little girl by the hand and together they solemnly left the room.
Rad did not acknowledge their departure but kept his focus on his son. "Are you prepared to bring your desires into reality?" He asked.
Rabastan nodded gravely, the solemnity of his face at fierce odds with his young age. "I accept this honor willingly and humbly," he answered by rote.
At his words, Angua and Evadne returned to the room baring together a large cake topped with golden-colored icing and forest green piping that matched the decorations. The pastry was placed in front of Rabastan and Hermione could not help but begin to lean forward over the table, fascinated to watch the magic at work that up until now she had only read about. While she had of course been to magical birthdays, only traditional purebloods took the time to harvest the sympathetic magic of a birthday wish. The cake had to be baked just so, the candle carved with the proper runes, and it was all quite a bit more power than typical adults were willing to hand over to their children.
'Of course, scions of Sacred 28 houses could always be trusted with magical power, regardless of whether or not they were still being troubled by nappies,' Hermione thought wryly as she suppressed an eye roll.
Tom placed a restraining hand on her thigh and she caught herself just in time from showing far too much interest in the proceedings. Although it was never explicitly stated one way or another, all the Death Eaters surely assumed her blood status was pureblood and being enthralled by what was old hat to them would undoubtedly tip some of them off to her muggleborn origins. Still, it was a fascinating custom and while she forced herself to remain outwardly bland, her entire focus and magic remained firmly on the small ritual occurring at the other end of the table.
If Tom's small chuckle was any indication, he could feel her magic and knew exactly where her focus was, but Hermione ignored him.
Radalphous pulled the special candle from the pocket of his robes and placed it atop the cake, lighting it with a murmured spell as Rabastan lost a bit of his composure and leaned forward eagerly in his seat.
Rad placed a restraining hand on his son's shoulder until the boy glanced up at him, before reminding him softly, "Choose carefully, young man."
Rabastan nodded and fixed his eyes back on the cake, the flame of the candle moving eerily as silence filled the room. He closed his eyes, his small face scrunching up in concentration before he opened them once more and blew. The flame surged upwards and glowed a bright blue for a moment before bending to his will and sputtering from existence. A small surge of magic flowed outward and caressed the skin of the occupants of the room before retreating out into the world.
Rad nodded with a large smile. "Well done, son. Well done, indeed."
Rabastan preened under the praise, flushing lightly as he watched a house elf scurry forward and begin to cut the cake.
Hermione settled back in her chair, watching as the first slice of the pastry floated down to Tom and then herself, before the rest of the party was served. She absentmindedly stroked her fingers across the hand still planted on her thigh, ignoring the smug tilt to her husband's lips as she did so, before taking a small bite of the decadent cake and chewing it slowly.
That had been beautiful. It was unbelievable how different the surge of Rabastan Lestrange's magic at age 8 was from anything she had experienced when up against the man in his adulthood. Truthfully, she had only had cause to duel against Rabastan once, during the chaos of the final battle at that, but it didn't take much to get a sense of the way someone's magic felt. It was natural that magic matured and changed as one grew but the core 'taste,' as it was, stayed the same. Based on her limited experience with Lestrange magic (Bellatrix notwithstanding, as she had always retained much of her Black heritage,) she had assumed the basis of it was murky and dark to the core. Having been around Rad and now feeling Rabastan's childhood magic magnified by the power of the ritual, however, she was struck by how very different it was at its most basic level than what she had expected. It was certainly not light, but rather a grey mixture. Was it possible, probable even, that the time spent in Azkaban with dementors could alter magic's very essence?
That was a disturbing idea.
After dessert, the entire group made their way back into the ballroom where a throne of sorts had been set up on the conjured grass. Rabastan seated himself there while three house elves emerged with a large offering chest to set at his right side as his father sat in a chair at his left.
A line was formed, with Tom and Hermione leading the group, as each family brought forth their gifts for the young scion. The Riddles were greeted with the sight of young Rabastan standing at their approach and sweeping into a low, meticulous bow.
"My Lord and Lady," he said formally, though the tremor beneath his voice showed he was nervous. The awkwardness allowed her to forget who he would (could) grow to be and she allowed herself to see only a little boy who was turning 8 years old, not a future Death Eater.
Tom nodded dismissively and produced their own offering from his coat, unshrinking the package that Hermione had wrapped herself in bright, shining paper. Ignoring her husband's less than appropriate greeting for a child, she took a step forward and urged Rabastan back to standing by the shoulders before clasping his hands in her own.
"Happy Birthday, young Lord Lestrange," she said warmly, reaching behind her for the gift blindly. When nothing met her hand, she turned to her husband and gave him an exasperated look which he met with his own fond smirk.
He took a step towards the boy, his face smoothing away into blankness as he handed the package over himself.
Rabastan, released from Hermione's grip, took the package and carefully opened it, revealing a children's potions set, a combination of common and somewhat rare ingredients, and a leather-bound journal to record his findings. His eyes widened as he studied a gift not traditionally given until ten before he glanced back at his father, who smiled encouragingly.
Turning back to the Riddles, he set the new gifts in his offering chest and bowed once more. "Thank you, My Lord and Lady," he stammered slightly.
"I expect you to use them," Tom said with cold regard. "You are your father's son, after all, so you should be more than capable of this advanced study."
Hermione bit back a sigh at Tom's poor understanding of children and smiled once more at the boy. "Also," she added, "you can make crystals and slime."
Radalphous chuckled under his breath as Tom sent her a warning look that she did not acknowledge. Rabastan nodded again as she took the Dark Lord's hand and led him off to the side, a bit away from everyone so that the rest of the party could present their own presents and they could speak freely.
Tom's displeasure, though mild, was perfectly clear as he pulled her into his side and murmured into her hair.
"Slime, little Gaza?"
"He's 8, Tom," She answered quietly, watching as Evadne Nott presented her own gift of a hand-woven basket filled with specially selected fresh grapes for 'a sweet life.' "What precisely do you think he's going to be doing with that, brewing a Draught of Living Death?"
His fingers tightened on her waist, but he gave no other outward sign of his annoyance.
"What I expect is for the child to learn to be useful and intelligent," he murmured against the shell of her ear, lips quirking up slightly as she unconsciously melted into him at the sensation. "He was promised to me at birth, as most firstborns are. He's to be one of mine, yes?"
Hermione frowned momentarily, considering not answering to avoid the honesty entreaty, but nodded.
"Then it is important," Tom continued, eying the pressed flowers that some of the toddler girls were presenting with barely curbed disdain, "that he be clever and well educated. What will this particular follower do for me, Deliciae?"
Once again, she considered not answering, but Tom bit the lobe of her ear lightly in a rather sensual warning and she sighed as she yielded to him. "If everything were to stay the same, which I doubt very much, Rabastan would grow to be an excellent dueler and a master of battle magics. However, as the wars should NOT be occurring this time around, I'm not entirely sure that these specialties will be useful to you, and therefore whether they will be cultivated or not. Also, I'm unsure how Azkaban molded the man I was familiar with."
He made a low, inquiring noise and Hermione quietly explained her musings about the fundamentals of how the dementors may change magic that she had considered during the dessert course.
"That's an interesting theory," Tom purred in her ear, evidently delighted at the implications of the concept in ways she felt herself becoming increasingly wary of. "Although I'd rather not see it applied to my loyal Death Eaters any time in the near future."
The last of the presents were given by Dolohov before the man made his way over to where they were standing and gave a small bow.
"Tom, Lady Riddle," he greeted, straightening quickly and frowning when he noticed how Hermione stiffened. "Might I speak with you, my Lady, in private now that the formal celebrations are ended?"
Hermione swallowed heavily and bit back her immediate negative response as Tom shifted and offered Dolohov a frigid smile. "To what end do you seek this pleasure, Antonin?"
"I have noticed our Lady is uncomfortable in my presence," he answered bluntly. She was surprised to hear that even after however many years in England, the man still spoke with a Russian accent. "I assume she has 'Seen' something to make this so. I wish only to address any concerns she may have."
Tom tilted his head, regarding the man before him, before leaning down and placing a small kiss in front of her ear. "Your choice, little wife," he breathed loud enough only she could hear it.
Steeling herself with a deep breath and offering a small smile, Hermione nodded. "Of course. Let's take in the air on the balcony."
She crossed her arms and walked towards the doors off to the side of the ballroom, assuming correctly that Dolohov would follow her.
The autumn air caused her to tighten her arms before the heat of a warming charm, drenched in Dolohov's signature, washed over her spine and caused her to shiver involuntarily. Distantly, she noted that his magic felt different than when she knew him after his time in Azkaban as well. She turned to him and braced her feet, trying to seem bigger and braver than she felt.
The man said nothing, simply studied her as they stood alone in the cold, less than twenty feet away from other people who might notice if something were to go wrong and yet so very, very far.
"Well?" Hermione prompted, desperate to hide her discomfort and not doing so very well.
"You are terrified of me," Dolohov said, sounding surprised and simultaneously strangely horrified at his realization.
She inhaled sharply and brought forth just an inkling of that Gryffindor courage. She could not be weak; not here, not in this serpent's nest. To be weak here was to be dead, or at a minimum completely dependent on Tom Riddle for protection, which was arguably worse.
"Terrified is a strong word," she stated with as much calm as she could muster. "I would say concerned. Perhaps wary."
She paused and then decided that maybe a reminder of her husband's feelings on the matter of her safety wouldn't hurt her pride too much. "After all, I'd hate to see your unfortunate demise were Tom to deem you any sort of slight threat to my wellbeing."
"I would not hurt you, kotik," Dolohov said gently, extending a hand almost as a peace offering.
Hermione could not hold back her snort of disdain at that. "Oh really?" she said caustically. "And why is that?"
"Honor," he replied immediately. "I do not hurt women or children. We, here, are bad men, but we have our own codes. That is mine."
She laughed a high scratchy sound that contained very little humor. "I doubt the truth of that very much. I have Seen otherwise."
Dolohov swallowed heavily before running his tongue along his front teeth and looking towards the ground. "And I hurt you, kotik?" he asked quietly.
"Do not call me 'kitten,' for if I am kotik, you will be myshka," she began venomously, "And yes, if all were to stay exactly the same, you would hurt me. I will not tell you more than that; I will not explain to you the circumstances nor how you would do so, but you would most certainly hurt me."
Hermione's eyes widened as Antonin Dolohov, a foot taller and five stone heavier than she, hit his knees in front of her.
"You are right, my Lady. I will willingly be myshka, mouseling, to your kitten," he told her, hands on his knees and head bowed as he sat at her mercy. "I do not know what would cause me to ever offer you harm by my hand or wand; I am no traitor. But if something must change to prevent this, then change it must."
Dolohov reached for his wand, slowly, and Hermione had hers out before his hand was anywhere near his holster. She knew, despite the blood rushing in her ears, that he could have had his wand out much quicker so she allowed the movement, ready at any time for the man to lose his composure and curse her. It wasn't logical, but it didn't really matter. Antonin Dolohov was a thing of nightmares, hers specifically, for years after her 5th year and she could not shake the delusion that even though the incident in the Department of Mysteries would never happen, he was somehow back to finish what he started. It didn't make sense, it wasn't pragmatic, but there it was.
The man presented his wand set across his outstretched palms and brought his gaze up to lock with her own.
"In response to charges laid against my integrity, I offer this as recompense," Dolohov stated formally. "By my magic and honor, I will be to Lady Hermione Riddle faithful and true, and love all that she loves, and shun all that she shuns, according to laws of Magic, and according to the world's principles, and never, by will nor by force, by word nor by work, do ought of what is loathful to her; on condition that she keep me as I am willing to deserve when I to her submitted and chose her will."
Hermione's mouth dropped open as the man once again lowered his head and awaited her verdict.
He was offering an ancient oath of allegiance and protection that would make it completely impossible for him to ever harm her. It was old magic, dark magic, and something that would obliterate his free will entirely when it came to the matter of her person. Not only would he be unable to hurt her, he would also be compelled beyond reason to defend her from harm to his own death and detriment.
She licked her lips and forced herself to think this through logically. She could turn her biggest fear amongst the Death Eaters into a weapon, an ally. Finally, in this time period, she could have someone she could truly trust, someone she could truly rely on, because the magic would compel him to be so. Dolohov had obviously lost his mind entirely in prison, because this man of morals and personal honor codes had not existed in her timeline. As an added bonus, once the magic was in place, the nightmares she suffered and the terror she had about the man would likely go away. The bond would settle into her magical core and affect her just as her bond with Tom did and-
Oh, Merlin: Tom. How exactly would he feel about this?
Hermione's head whipped around to stare into the windows where the Dark Lord was clearly watching the scene outside. There could be no mistaking Dolohov's kneeling posture and offered wand. Tom raised a single eyebrow at her, and Hermione shrugged before thinking better of it. A smirk broke across his face and he looked amused and annoyed and calculating all at once before he offered her the slightest of nods of acquiescence and turned away.
She shut her mouth with an audible snap. Tom Riddle had just given her a gift of one of his followers, should she so choose to accept it, and he was not at all the type to share. This would definitely cost her something later and she wasn't entirely sure how unpleasant the price may be.
Hermione looked back at the man still kneeling at her feet and sighed. She had never wanted anything like this from someone, had never been particularly enthralled with the thought of power over another person. It certainly wasn't anything like slavery or mind control, but it was a promise that the Russian would be magically compelled to keep.
"Why are you doing this, Dolohov?" she asked quietly.
He lifted his head once more to look at her. "I told you, kotik," he answered with the air of a man speaking the absolute truth. "Honor. But do not think me entirely selfless. There is also self-preservation, knowledge of what our Lord will do when he finds that I would hurt you."
"I seriously doubt that Tom would punish you for something that you haven't yet done and, frankly, won't do so long as things continue to change."
Dolohov snorted. "Do you truly think that? You are his favorite, kotik, his very own, and the way he looks at you-" He paused as if searching for the words. "The love of a possessive man; 'Better to destroy everything than surrender her.' He would kill me just for inconveniencing you, let alone for truly being a threat, and our Lord has never hesitated to kill what is in his way before."
"Are you quoting 'Lolita' to me?" Hermione asked, amused in spite of this strange, strange situation. "And Tom does not love me, do not make that mistake. 'The Byronic hero, incapable of love, or capable only of an impossible love, suffers endlessly... If he wants to feel alive, it must be in the terrible exaltation of a brief and destructive action.' Tom may seek to own me, but never to love me."
Dolohov tilted his head, still kneeling at her feet, and considered her. "I would not speak so carelessly about what our Lord is and is not capable of. You may find yourself surprised." He seemed to struggle for a moment, clearly wishing to say more, before deciding against it and looking pointedly at his still outstretched hands. "My Lady, will you accept my allegiance and return to me the honor that my future has taken from me?"
She closed her eyes a moment, wondering exactly what the events of this night would reap for her future. This was not, at all, what she expected to be doing at a child's birthday party.
"It is right that those who offer to me unbroken fidelity should be loved and welcomed into the circle of my heart," Hermione replied with the same formality, slashing Dolohov's right ring finger and her own before pressing them together. "And since such and such a faithful one of mine, by the favor of Magic, comes to me with his devotion and his weapons on offer and has seen fit to swear trust and fidelity to me in the manner of old, I accept with gratitude and pride."
A ribbon of blood-red magic flared out around their touching fingers before knotting and dissolving into both party's skin. Antonin Dolohov and Hermione Riddle shivered at the same time as they felt a magic tendril wrap around their individual magical cores and squeeze.
Lady Riddle, wife of Lord Voldemort and true second in command over the Death Eaters, glanced down at the man who had once tried to murder her when she was only 16 years old, now her protector and ally, and allowed herself one moment to imagine how much simpler it would have been if she had just followed through with her original plan and chosen the brave, brave death she had thought awaited her in 1955. It would be over now and another tie to another man she had feared and loathed would not be tightening as sure as she lived. She was drowning in bad men and grey magic and greyer choices and despite the fact that she was seemingly successful in her endeavors, this world just kept getting more and more complicated.
For a single, forlorn beat of her heart, she yearned for it.
Antonin Dolohov quotes "Lolita" by Vladimir Nabokov, published in 1955
Hermione Riddle quotes "The Stranger" by Albert Camus, published in 1942
Oath of allegiance and protection loosely based on 10th century England, Form of fealty in the Laws of Alfred, Guthrum, and Edward the Elder, from Thatcher: The Library of Original Sources, Vol. IV: The Early Medieval World
Acceptance of oath loosely based on 7th century Antrusian, Acceptance of fealty, from Roziere: Collection de Formules, No. VIII, Vol. I