Hermione remembered falling asleep with Voldemort sitting by her side, yet wasn't surprised to find her room empty the next morning. Since Hermione lay in bed relishing the view of the mountains just outside her window, it took her a few moments to realize Tinkerbell was milling around the room.
"Tinkerbell is so happy mistress is awake. Tinkerbelll was telling Tinkerbell to do what she was told to do, but mistress looks so happy sleeping Tinkerbell couldn't." The little elf was wrought with indecision. Every step toward Hermione was carefully deliberated - before and after Tinkerbell had taken the step. The result was a path that had to double back on itself every other stride. It was painfully slow progress, to say the least.
Throwing the covers off, Hermione leapt out of bed. The day was young; she had a mind full of questions, and was already developing a plan of attack so she could get some answers.
Tinkerbell, visibly startled by Hermione's sudden movement, was spurred into action. "Wait! Hermione, wait!" Tinkerbell skittered in front of Hermione and pushed her palms against Hermione's kneecaps as if to prevent her from taking another step. "Is mistress sure mistress is not tired?" Hermione nodded. Tinkerbell squinted in an attempt to see if Hermione was lying. "Mistress must let Tinkerbell do her work then."
Carefully guided by the small elf, Hermione was led into the bathroom. She couldn't bring herself to hurt the little elf's feelings, for the umpteenth time, so she consented to be ordered around.
Hours passed, or at least that's what it felt like to Hermione. Practically tortured by every known cleansing, exfoliating, hair removal, trimming, clipping, and softening spell known to elf magic, she was finally deemed fit to leave the confines of her room.
Tinkerbell stepped back to admire her work, nodded, and then robbed Hermione in a white kolpos. Hermione tried to smile at Tinkerbell, which turned out to be more of a sneer, before moving to the drawer she thought was most likely to contain under garments. The chest of drawers was close to the door, though, and before Hermione could discern where Tinkerbell was guiding her, she was in the hallway with the door to her room already tightly shut behind her.
Surprises like this one were starting to run par for the course. Admittedly, Hermione was getting better at taking things in stride. Spontaneity if you will.
The naturally illuminated hallway had no fewer than seven or eight doors on either side of Hermione's room. Magically enhanced windows allowed Hermione the chance to get distracted, once again, by the extraordinary views.
'There is something humbling about the massive orogeny that creates mountains. Its like standing neck deep in water on the shore of the ocean, you've already gone too far but there are still many miles to go before you make it to new land. Like learning. Read one book and get a craving, read ten and get a taste, read a thousand more and feel uninformed. When I stand in front of insurmountable odds, I feel like I could spend years in the library and still not be prepared for every contingency. Thank goodness no one seems to prepare, like the chasing the philosopher's stone. Dumbledore is such an idiot. Harry went to save the day and ended up getting Voldemort closer to the stone than Voldemort or any of his followers ever would have been able to without Harry there. That's understandable though, but to be used in exactly the same way again when Voldemort exploited Harry and his connection to lure Harry into saving the day once again. Clearly, Harry has a hero complex. Clearly, Dumbledore didn't read my reports. Clearly, no one read my reports.'
Hermione's inner monologue distracted her enough to meander through the labyrinth of corridors. Contrary to her usual deliberate decisions, she decided to go the opposite direction than her first instinct directed - down a hallway she had never been led, told to take, or even explored out of curiosity. Even now, she couldn't explain what made her feel comfortable enough to take the risk.
'In all honesty the point-of-no-return was passed the moment I stepped out of Grimmauld Place. Maybe before, when I worked harder in Snape's class than any other. If I'm going to play that game, I was a goner the moment I thought it may be better to hide my status in muggle life from the wizarding world.' The endless regression could easily go back to the moment she was conceived and the first cell split in a way that made her darker tendencies more prominent than her goodwill.
The fortress reveled itself more with every footfall, and could be described as no less than extraordinary. Every surface had all the rustic touches of a mountain lodge, but the precision and cleanliness of a modern apartment. Hermione was compelled to run her finger along every engraving, grout crease...everything. Notably absent were the feminine touches of a home: trinkets on shelves, coffee table books - did wizards even have coffee table books?
Hermione was so lost in thought and tuned into her sense of touch, she didn't hear the thick rumble of voices in the room ahead of her. She was too absorbed in the thick-wood paneling now on the walls, the few steep steps leading her into a sunken room - enveloping her in the secure feeling of a cave. The kind of safety that could only be explained by homo sapiens' early caveman beginnings. But, the books. A far cry from the primitive caveman. The books are what held her attention long enough to completely ignore the two, motionless faces observing her.
Antonin Dolohov was the first to call attention to himself. His finger, frozen on the marble queen chess piece, pushed down until the queen lost balance and snapped sideways onto the board. Hermione's head whipped around at the noise.
For an instant, Hermione was frozen in animated surprise. Dolohov had to admit she was beautiful. Her long, dark hair. Large golden eyes. Porcelain skin. She managed to make the bolt of fabric they wore around look good. Really good. The white fabric was opaque in the darkness of the library, but
Dolohov was willing to bet if she stood between him and light, the fabric wouldn't conceal much. Even when opaque, the fabric was kind to his eyes. Her quick turn caused her breasts to jostle just enough to draw his eyes immediately to the stiff points interrupting the fabric's natural drapery. His eyes didn't stop there. A kolpos is essentially a panel of fabric tied at the shoulder and a rope belt keeps the front and back of the panel flush with the body. And what a body it was. The gap running the length of Hermione's leg was not nearly enough to satisfy the curiosity of either man.
Carrow uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to another, effectively breaking the spell that had allowed both parties to inspect the other.
"I'm so terribly sorry, I was just was wandering. I did not mean to disturb you." Hermione's natural instinct was to apologize. Be it her fault, or not.
Dolohov was still dumbstruck; Carrow's eyes darted from Hermione to Dolohov to Hermione and realized Antonin was not going to be the first to speak. "Forgive us. We are not used to company, but, please, stay."
Hermione hesitantly moved toward the chair the Alecto Carrow was pulling out for her. Surprisingly, Carrow was the one being most hospitable. Carrow often appeared in Dumbledore's debriefings, and not in a gentle, hospitable light. Unfortunately, the chair Carrow was reaching for was on the other side of a chess table the second man clearly did not want her sitting at. She was able to remember the man's specialty: viruses. His name: Antonin Dolohov.
Dolohov was staring at her with fire behind his eyes; Hermione had recognized it from her school days. It was hatred only a pureblood was capable of conveying. Hermione was tempted to challenge his gaze, but had to look away after only a few heartbeats. She felt shame. At who she was. At her intelligence with at every person she met dwindled. By her blood.
On the table, the wizard's chess piece Dolohov had knocked over was waging war with his finger that had yet to leave its resting place on the board. Dolohov seemed unfazed by the attack and even without looking - Hermione could still feel his glare boring into her.
Hermione struggled to look anywhere but at Dolohov. Along the edge of the table Hermione found an inscription, "Inventas vitam juvat excoluisse per artes".
She must have mumbled the Latin out loud, because Dolohov finally broke out of his trace.
"It means 'and they who bettered life on earth by their newly found mastery', the phrase is engraved on quite a lot of Isis' things." Dolohov's demeanor had completely changed. As he cleaned up the wizard's chessboard he held none on the animosity he had directed at her only moments before, only a dark intensity.
"I know." Hermione breathed, unsure if she should even respond and risk his glare again. "I was only surprised to have found it here. It is engraved on a medal of my great grandmother's."
At this, both Carrow and Dolohov visibly showed their surprise.
"She won the Nobel Peace Prize, Emily Greene Balch. From my mother's side of the family, but Mother doesn't like to speak of her much so I haven't seen the medal since I was little." Hermione ran her finger over the words etched in the wood of the table.
"Emily Greene. That's interesting. It seems as though greatness runs in your blood." Carrow said more to himself than an audience.
Hermione didn't know if the reference to her blood was supposed to be condescending, but it sure felt like it. "You know of the Nobel Prize?"
Before Hermione could get an answer, Voldemort himself rounded the corner. He paused to take in the tableau: Hermione being curious as always, Carrow thinking deeply to himself, and Dolohov looking a little too interested in Hermione. Voldemort's eyes darted back to Hermione and he noted why. It was more of a guttural feeling Voldemort felt, than a specific characteristic. Something about her had changed.
"Carrow, Dolohov. Get everything ready we're going back to Kensington. Now." The two men left the room quickly. Voldemort's deathly glare bore into Dolohov. When the two had gone, Voldemort had nowhere to look but at Hermione.
That innate sense that something had changed about her hit him full force.
"Hermione, go back to your room. Your parents get back soon and Tinkerbell will have clothes suitable for the muggle world." Voldemort turned to leave but sensed Hermione hadn't made a move for the door yet. "Yes? Are you too weak? I should have known."
"I just don't know my way back to my room. Why would I be weak?" Hermione said defensively.
"Your elf woke you up with a potion. It can't do everything to take away the weakness though."
"Tinkerbell is not mine and she did not use a potion to wake me up. I feel fine."
Voldemort was in no mood for a sparing match this morning. Olli did in fact have to use a potion to wake him up this morning and though he didn't feel weak, he did feel hungover. And now a slight bit jealous of the girl's apparent ability to stabilize her magic level. It corroborated his theory, though, so he couldn't be too bitter on the subject. Voldemort's all-consuming need to rationalize everything would not allow his pride to discount fact.
Hermione wasn't prepared for Voldemort to stalk to her side and immediately side-along apparate them back to her room. So she was even less prepared for the bone tingling feeling spreading from Voldemort's touch. Not a second after the two landed in Hermione's room the sensation stopped and Hermione was left wanton. She looked into his eyes for an explanation as her knees went weak. It had felt amazing. Voldemort's only indication that he had felt something similar was a lingering smirk on his boyish face.
"If only every apparation could feel this...much." Voldemort chuckled. It was an odd sound coming from his mouth. Hermione had copied lots of postoperative statements saying Voldemort cackled, snickered, and all kinds of lewd and derisive celebratory sounds during battles, but never chuckle.
"What. Happened."
"It should not always affect you so much. That was just the first time. Get whatever you want to bring with you together. Tinkerbell should be here with some clothes shortly."
Hermione could hardly even think. It just felt that good. The feeling was that deep kind of wonderful that if felt for too long, it would be painful. But for now, Hermione was content with her small indulgence. And she was already craving her next fix.
What Hermione didn't know was Voldemort was leaning against the wall in the hallway with his hands on his knees. Panting to catch his breath. It did not just feel 'much' it felt pleasurable, gratifying, stimulating. Voldemort could have chosen any number of adjectives to have left Hermione feel less alone, singular in her interpretation of the feeling. Less like her youth allowed her to feel too much and too one-sided. Yet, Hermione seemed to be too lost in her own thoughts a lot today.
'I need to be more aware, who knows how long Voldemort will keep me so I need to learn everything I can as fast as I can and that means keeping my eyes and ears open, I need to look up the origin of that phrase from the chessboard, and I need to look up more about my great grandmother, its suspicious no one ever talks about her and everyone got so jumpy when I mentioned her earlier, and I need to...where is that dang house el-.'
"Tinkerbell is sorry to have frightened mistress. Tinkerbell has clothes." Tinkerbell held up the neatly folded stack of clothes between her small frame and Hermione as half piece offering, half protection from whatever Hermione was going to do to the elf for startling her master.
Hermione, frustrated with herself, nicked the clothes from the little elf's hands and started battling the folds of fabric with shaky hands.
Life back in Kensington was different. The ebb and flow of each day slowly eroded the wall that had been erected between Hermione and Voldemort since the apparation incident.
For days Voldemort would nary say a word to her. Instead sitting on the counter of her make-shift lab flipping through her notes. The first day was the easiest. Engaged in a cosmic dance, inexplicably drawn to each other like poles, and forced apart by Voldemort's unwavering determination to keep from touching.
Even the most innocent situations would draw the two closer than what could be considered necessary. Voldemort reaching over Hermione's shoulder to retrieve a book from the shelf, coincidentally at the same time Hermione would be shifting her weight in her seat. Drawing the pair to unnaturally close quarters.
Voldemort was careful to evade her touch. For once, Hermione found herself craving his touch. It was whorish. Corporal. Common. Subsequently, Voldemort turned from steeled avoidance to experimentation.
The witch who, only a week before, had conjured a maze to represent the physical and psychological barriers between them, was now not only comfortable with his touch, but craving it.
Voldemort's movements were practiced. He would hover so closely the tension was palpable and then draw away. Only to continue alternating the feeling of imminent relief when he was getting closer, with the desperation of moving away.
How Voldemort was able to keep Hermione's senses on edge and return her notebooks full of annotations and corrections as fast as Hermione could quill them, Hermione would never know. Her wand was itching to be put to use, but she was banished to her lab until Hermione made it through all the reading Tom Riddle had completed by her age. And more.
Mrs. Granger, bless her, was so ecstatic to have Tom around. Even if Voldemort stalked up to the back porch, barged in, and declared 'Mrs. Granger. I am Lord Voldemort the most feared wizard of our time – the one who your daughter and her schoolyard friends have devoted their lives to destroying,' Mrs. Granger would giggle and say 'Now Tom. Quit being silly, Hermione really has you spinning yarns. Come, have some tea.'
The whole display Tom put on for the sake of the Grangers was sickening from Hermione's vantage point. From the view of the carriage house, quilling dissertations on obscure magical history. While Tom was having morning tea with her smitten mother. Sickening.
Fed up, Hermione took one last look at her mother showing Tom the greenhouse and hopped the fence.
She crept through the gardens of Isis' house, unsure if any good could come from walking straight up to the front door and knocking. Hermione did just that. Better to have tried and have failed than to get caught sulking in the gardens.
Not surprisingly, the knocker was a large snakehead but felt much lighter to lift than its appearance suggested. The reverberating thud of the knocker was so loud it was sure to draw out anyone inside. And it did. In much less time than the size of the house should have allowed.
Slowly, the metal mechanisms of the door began to unfurl on the other side of the thick plane of wood.
"You."
"Granger."
A third voice from behind Hermione this time, "Now Hermione, I know you have yet to finish the corrections and further reading I suggested on the Goblin Taxation and Accreditation Scheme for Non-magical Folk."
"Looks like you are in luck Granger. Finances are my area of expertise."
"Like. You. Would. Help. Me."