Chapter Three
Antonin Dolohov hid a frown as he watched the serpentine wizard slurping tea from a dainty little demitasse cup, as though the world's most powerful Dark wizard breaking for tea time was the most ordinary thing in the world. If that wasn't odd enough, the sound he made as he pulled the liquid in between his barely-existent lips was unappetizing enough to make his follower grateful most meal times were crowded by other sounds, just enough to bury the noise.
Unlike just now ... when it seemed to travel through the empty and quiet space of the headmaster's office and echo off the walls, the portraits lining them silenced, so the past headmasters could never disturb Voldemort's plotting.
Typically the Dark Lord had the Mudblood dragged in to join him for this time of day. Such an odd dynamic Voldemort had developed with the young woman. She would sit and quietly drink her tea, perhaps picking a single biscuit from the silver tray set between them to nibble at the entire time.
He would ask her questions that could be best described as conversational and ordinary. How was her work going? Was there anything the library needed that would aid her to better assist the students in their reeducation? She had once answered that she, as the librarian, could do with robes there were not borrowed, and Voldemort had chuckled ... laughing hard, as if she'd told the world's most humorous joke, but did not agree or disagree with this as a requirement.
Antonin looked at her strangely that day, for as he escorted her back to the library, she'd wondered aloud—in her typically lackluster tone—what the Dark Lord's reaction might've been had she mentioned she was in dire need of undergarments. He'd not known if this was intended as a joke, or if she were really so broken that she didn't care who knew she was in the market for new knickers.
Yet every day when Voldemort took tea, she was with him and he would speak to her on any variety of topics and how they might relate to the school and the improvements he was making. Aside from the occasional, lifelessly-voiced quip, she would answer with a nod, a shake of her head, or a non-committal shrug. Antonin had begun to think that, for whatever twisted and indecipherable reason, the Dark Lord actually enjoyed the girl's company.
Today, however, was different. Perhaps because today was the first day of school, and perhaps Voldemort had considered that she was tending students in her role as librarian—though such considerations did not seem in keeping with his character. Whatever the case, the still of the office in her absence even with the abysmal company she made in her state magnified how unsettling watching someone who appeared so very far human dining properly on tea and biscuits truly was.
Finally he could not help himself—he'd arrived here, expecting he would be sent to fetch the Mudblood and bring her here, as the Dark Lord instructed every afternoon, yet no such instruction had been given today. His lord had greeted him and then proceeded to start on his tea slurping and biscuit nibbling, seemingly content to let the Death Eater stand there watching him.
Un-bloody-settling.
"My Lord?"
Voldemort arched a naked brow as he met his follower's gaze. "Dolohov?"
"I do not mean to be presumptuous, but is there some reason you did not ask me to fetch the girl for you today?"
A smile twisted across the Dark Lord's lips before he touched a napkin to the corners of his mouth and set it down beside the tray. "In fact, there is a reason. I am going to the library to see firsthand that she is fulfilling her duties as librarian in my Hogwarts."
Antonin nodded, his brow furrowing. He supposed he understood, though he highly doubted the dead-eyed girl was singlehandedly plotting a rebellion via undermining the students' homework.
He even doubted Mulciber's tale regarding his private interaction with her before dinner last night, which was what angered him so about the Dark Lord's choice for her escort back to the library. He'd wanted to see for himself if she really was still in there—the witch with so much fight in her that she'd survived a direct hit from his specially crafted curse which had killed all others who'd received the full blast of its power.
When they'd met on the battlefield again, there'd been unmistakable fear in those chestnut eyes. Not that he'd particularly relished her fear necessarily, but she'd been a curiosity to him after that night in the Department of Mysteries. He'd wanted to get closer to her, to know what made her tick ... what made her so special. That would not be a thing likely to happen with her dreading him.
And then her eyes changed. They were now so empty that his curiosity had abated in a blink.
Until last night. Even Rowle's telling this morning over breakfast—in yet another hushed conversation—about confirming Mulciber's observations Antonin had not really believed. They'd both known of the intrigue he found in her continued existence before her not terribly exciting capture at the War's end. For all he knew—and for all he would not put past those two—this might be a joke. Or some attempt to get him in trouble with their Lord for their own amusement.
"You will accompany me," Voldemort said as he rose and rounded his desk.
Hiding his confusion, Antonin asked, "My Lord?"
The inhuman shell of a wizard grinned. "If she is doing anything of which I do not approve, she will need to be punished. In that event, I will require you to escort her accordingly."
Antonin nodded as he turned on his heel and followed the Dark Lord from the office—the entirety of the previous four months, Voldemort had not once mentioned punishment for the girl for any reason. Now, he spoke of the concept as though it were old and comforting news.
Despite the strangeness of this, all Antonin said in response was, "Of course, My Lord."
Hermione looked up at the series of dull thuds that resonated through the library. There were not as many students here as she'd expected for the first afternoon of Voldemort's new curriculum, but she heard some whispers through the corridors as she was escorted to lunch in the Great Hall by Thorfinn Rowle—who was careful to watch his hands today given the amount of prying eyes around them, she guessed.
Her tuning in and out to hallway chatter as she passed had gleaned that a few students were determined to trip up the works by being less than cooperative in completing their assignments.
At the very least she expected one or two of her old friends to drop in and try to get through to her. But then she considered that perhaps the new regime running the school had implemented some strict policy about only using the library for research purposes.
How funny that during her time as a student such a ruling would've thrilled her as it would've cut down on all the inane, whispered gossiping that typically accompanied students pouring over homework with their friends. Now she could not appreciate it due to the circumstances which had brought said ruling to pass.
A couple of first years stood before a shelf that had apparently thought to teach them a lesson about idling before the bookcases by spitting its contents out onto the floor at their feet. Either that or Peeves had finally reemerged.
The ghosts—possibly with the exception of The Bloody Baron—rarely made themselves known to the castle residents anymore. The War's outcome, and the school's rerouted purpose, had disheartened them too greatly. Hermione was certain that were she still in touch with her emotions on a regular basis she would quite agree.
The pair of children standing before the scattered tomes met her gaze with apologetic looks.
"We're sorry, Miss Granger," one said, running a nervous hand through the shock of pale hair atop his head. His friend remained silent, looking on with impossibly wide eyes. Huh, perhaps they feared she would think they'd been making mischief and assumed she was under instruction to summon one of the professors to deal with mischief makers.
Hardly as though she would obey such an instruction; her definition of mischief would probably get a bit fuzzy were she ever told such. After all, mischief was a matter of perspective and how was she to know what would be considered mischievous in Voldemort's view?
With a small shake of her head, she rounded the front desk and crossed to where the boys were scrambling to pick up the books—some of which appeared to weigh more than either of them. It was only their first day, using their wands to levitate the books back to their proper location was very likely beyond their abilities, just yet.
Not that Hermione could very well do that either, but extenuating circumstances and all that.
"It's fine," she said, forcing a smile to put them at ease. "You two return to your studies; I'll take care of this mess."
The pair relaxed instantly, nodding as they hurried back to their table.
Hermione started scooping up the books and replacing them, carefully and in their precise order. The last few she bundled into her arms, but as she forced the first and second into their proper place, the final book fell from her hands.
The black leather-bound volume hit the floor on its spine, forcing the front cover open, the pages fluttering about at random as it landed. This was hardly a book she thought belonged in the school library, but then Voldemort's ego knew no bounds.
Picking it up, she shook her head as her gaze skimmed the lines of newsprint, but she didn't really read them. Collecting all news articles detailing Voldemort's exploits over the decades since his time as a student seemed such a Muggle thing to do that this book's very existence was almost laughable.
The only thing which had kept her from commenting as much when he'd asked her if she'd found a place for his book had been that she considered any negative reply on her part might get the elves who'd been tasked with putting the book together punished. She'd never even looked inside it, convinced there was nothing new to be learned about the terrible wizard.
But the picture of Tom Riddle, Jr. staring back at her from beside the writing stopped her from slamming the book shut. Of course the caption identified the man in the image as Voldemort—as he was first rising to power, before Wizarding Britain had felt the need to start referring to him as You Know Who, or the distinctly more ominous He Who Must Not Be Named.
Yet ... the wealth of dark, gleaming curls, bright captivating eyes, and devastatingly charming grin were not the Voldemort with whom she was now so familiar. He didn't even look like the boy Harry had met through the Horcrux in the diary—Harry had described the encounter in vivid detail for Hermione in an attempt to make up for her getting petrified and missing everything. She felt sure she would've been able to tell young Tom Riddle, Jr. on-sight from Harry's retelling.
This Tom, however, this Voldemort, was tall and broad-shouldered with a chiseled jaw and a strong chin ... He'd clearly had the time to grow into himself between being the boy Harry recalled and transforming into the snake-faced creature she was now forced to dine with every day.
Hermione shook her head. Alarming how handsome he'd been once, really. And dear God, why was she still staring at his picture? The man in the image appeared to have been caught in mid-conversation, his pretty lips moving to form words—that grin curving his mouth—and then pausing to turn a wrathful look on the photographer, clearly unaware his picture was being taken at the time.
"Mudblood?"
Hermione started slightly—it was as close to surprise as she exhibited, anymore—and turned, the book still open in her hands. "Yes?"
There Voldemort stood, Antonin Dolohov at his shoulder. In her periphery she could see the handful of the students present looking up from their studies to gape at the Dark Lord.
How ... ? The library was so quiet, she should've heard their footfalls the moment they'd entered. She could not stop herself from glancing toward the picture and back up to the wizard before her as she wondered if she'd not heard them because she'd simply been that distracted by the photograph.
How absurd.
"Something, sir?" she asked when he didn't say anything further.
Voldemort was many things ... stupid and unobservant were not among them. "I am quite unused to startling you," he said, smirking as his gaze traveled from hers to the article, and back.
"The shelves are a bit temperamental today. I was just replacing some—" She tried to close the book as she spoke, but Voldemort snatched it from her hands, cutting her off.
"Is this what held your attention?" He sound both amused and intrigued.
Hermione chewed the inside of her lip as she considered how to answer. Strange how she was so aware that had this happened yesterday, she'd have closed the book without a glance.
But today, after the incidents with Mulciber and Rowle last night ... Suddenly she noticed things.
Things like unreasonably attractive wizards, apparently.
"I'm just surprised every time I remember you were actually human, once," she said, her voice low and bored.
Rather than being angered by her flippant response, his smirk grew. Closing the book, he nodded and handed it back to her. At last she'd shown a crack in her armor.
And he was going to exploit it if he had to go to Hell and back to figure out how.
As she replaced the book upon the shelf, Voldemort turned to Antonin. "I have seen all I need to. I am returning to the headmaster's office. You will return here to escort her to dinner."
Antonin nodded. So perhaps he'd have the opportunity to test Mulciber and Rowle's truthfulness for himself, after all.
Hermione didn't like the parting glance Voldemort cast her over his shoulder as he left, the Death Eater following at his heels. She liked even less the curious look in Antonin Dolohov's eyes.
She knew Mulciber and Rowle had not shared her secret with their Lord—possibly because there was nothing in it for them, whatever the case, it was to her advantage. Dolohov, however, was a wildcard as far as she was aware.
She also thought perhaps he hadn't forgiven her for surviving his curse. Whether or not there was any merit to that notion, she could not be certain he wouldn't tell Voldemort what his cohorts had seen fit to keep to themselves about her.