2: His Fatal Throne (The song for this chapter is The Living by Natalie Merchant)
October 30, 1998
During the first visit, Voldemort seemed unwilling to cooperate with the interviews, but agreed to trade his stories for certain items. I had expected him to ask for a magical item and was deeply shocked when he'd wanted Frankenstein an 18th century muggle horror novel written by Mary Shelley. The deal did suggest, however, that Voldemort still seeks to maintain control and leverage despite his bleak circumstances and impending death.
Hermione shared a three bedroom apartment in London near the Leaky Cauldron with her two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, though the latter had become slightly more than her friend over the last few months.
It was a cramped space with too-much furniture, racing brooms leaning against the walls, dirty dishes in the sink (because the boys couldn't manage a simple cleaning spell) and a television which neither Harry or Ron watched. Hermione, however, had a secret penchant for old movies, especially old movie musicals, her boys could just not understand.
The place smelled of waffles, maple syrup and a fresh pot of coffee. She had gotten up early because she had an appointment at Azkaban today, and had been making breakfast all morning. If her stomach wasn't churning so fast, she might actually enjoy the food she'd made.
Ron entered the kitchen from their small outdoor balcony, cradling a large round pumpkin in his arms. "Happy Halloween," he said with a cheerful smile, his ginger hair flopping over his eyes.
Hermione yawned, running her hands through her hair as she sipped her mug of coffee. "It's not Halloween yet."
"Well, it is tomorrow, and I'm celebrating today too." Ron plopped the gourd down on the square grey table, rattling the vase of daisies Hermione had put there as a centerpiece.
Harry came out of his bedroom, pulling on his boots, his glasses crooked. He was bleary eyed and sleepy, black hair messy as always.
Hermione glanced over at Ron, then smiled at Harry. "Happy Halloween Harry."
His brow furrowed. "It's not Halloween." Harry poured himself a travel mug of coffee. If Hermione remembered right, he had a big day at work today. His first case as an auror or something like that.
"Told you so. Ron." She kissed her boyfriend on the cheek. They'd been together since the end of the war, and though they were living together, she didn't really see it as 'living together' because they had separate rooms and Harry was here too.
"You're so cute and ridiculous." He grabbed her waist, spun her and planted a rough kiss on her mouth. She sighed, leaned in slightly, but then pulled away. "So what are we up to today?" asked Ron, jumping onto the counter, rattling the salt-and-pepper shakers.
"I have to work," said Harry, pouring cream into his coffee.
"So do I." Hermione half-smiled, feeling a bit sorry for Ron. He was so excited, then again he was always excited nowadays. He had adjusted much better after the war than she and Harry had. Even with Fred's death.
Ron scowled as he picked up a waffle and took a bite. "By work you mean you're going to Azkaban to talk to You-Know-Who?"
She rolled her eyes as she plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs and slipped on her black-heeled boots. "Can you please not call him that?"
"Fine. Voldemort. Whatever. It's still a stupid idea." Ron stabbed a huge knife into the flesh of the pumpkin with the hand not holding the waffle.
"It's not...look...I know you don't understand, but I do, so can you just trust me?" She zipped up her boots and stood, not in the mood for this same argument with Ron.
"I don't like it," he said sternly.
"I know, but I'll be fine." She smiled and kissed him gently.
Harry groaned, slamming his coffee down on the counter. Ron and Hermione jumped.
"Can we just not. Okay? Can we not talk about him?" Harry's voice cracked. Ron and Hermione exchanged a worried look. Harry was all right most of the time, but there were times when he'd have a sudden burst of anger or disappear into his room for days.
"Yeah, mate. Sorry."
"Look. It's fine. I'm just stressed out about work today. It's the first case where we actually get to contribute." He put on a smile then grabbed his coat from the closet. Harry had been in Auror training since the end of the war. Ron had considered joining up too, but wanted to take some time off to 'appreciate being alive' and 'find himself'. Harry had been furious when they'd assigned him a partner, and it had been Draco Malfoy.
"Have fun with Malfoy." Ron laughed.
Harry opened the door and glared at Ron. "Is that even possible?"
Hermione kissed Ron again quickly. "I have to go to. We'll carve the pumpkins for tomorrow when I get home this evening, okay?" She pulled her wool black coat from the closet and followed Harry outside.
With a knot in her stomach, Hermione walked to Diagon Alley where she apparated to the beach near Azkaban. Cold and foreboding, she swallowed her nerves and walked inside. She nodded to the old guard and made her way down the dark and terrifying corridor and apparated into Voldemort's room.
He sat, back straight on the iron chair, but stood stiffly when he noticed her standing there.
"Good morning," said Hermione pleasantly. Setting a calm, easy tone would be important not only for getting information from Riddle, but also for relaxing her own overactive nerves.
"Is it?" Voldemort drawled, turning to face her.
She sighed. "Good or morning?"
"Both." His lips twitched into a phantom smile.
"It's morning."
"I have no way of telling."
Her brow furrowed. "I never really thought about that..."
Voldemort reached behind his head and scratched his neck. "You don't really until you're trapped in here. I don't even know what day it is."
That sounded awful. Hermione compulsively checked her watch all day; she loved to count the minutes as they ticked by in their perfect, unbroken rhythm.
"Wednesday. Tomorrow is Halloween."
He nodded, stepping forward with this hand out. "Did you bring the book?" he asked. She nodded and handed it to him, being careful not to touch him.
"You can sit." Voldemort flipped open the book, scanning through the pages and then he read, "Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it."
As she sat down on the iron chair, Hermione whispered, "How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery."
He looked up at her, eyes connecting, shaking her insides. "...impressive," he said.
"I said I'd read it." Hermione stared down at her folded hands.
"Yes, Miss Granger, but you did not say you had it memorized."
She paused, swallowed and then answered, "I remember everything I read."
The corner of his lip curled, his chin falling on his fisted hand. "Everything?"
"Yes." Her voice was low and then perked up. "But we're here to talk about you, not me." It was important she kept him on subject and didn't give too much of herself away.
He sat down on his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Of course. Where shall I begin...oh yes, it was late December, New Years Eve-"
"Your birthday," Hermione interjected.
His head twisted to the side, looking intrigued. "Yes, as a matter of fact, it was my sixth birthday. Wool's that's-"
"The orphanage in which you were raised."
If it hadn't been Voldemort, she would have thought he was smiling. "You know quite a lot about me, Miss Granger? Are you sure these sessions are entirely necessary?"
She nodded. "I know facts about you, Riddle. I'm not here to know more facts; I'm here to know you."
He shook his head, but continued. "There were these two older boys. I don't remember their names. They lived in the room next to mine and were always bouncing balls against the wall. Just all day long. If you're searching for a reason I became what I am, I guess you could say it started with those rubber balls."
"Rubber balls?" She was not convinced.
Voldemort sat back, his eyes fogging, as he remembered a time long past. "Yes. Just listen. Well, these balls bouncing against the wall would keep me up all night. If the matron caught them, she'd yell at them, but the moment she left, it would start all over again. Just these stupid balls bouncing over and over for hours. I'd tell them to stop, but they were about twelve or thirteen and weren't going to listen to a six-year-old. So one night, it was about two in the morning, and I just couldn't take it anymore. I laid there in bed and thought and thought and thought about those stupid rubber balls turning into spheres of flame that would burn those boy's hands on every bounce. I fell asleep eventually and the next morning I was woken by the screams of the boys next door whose hands were red, blistered and burned."
Her heart was beating a steady, quick rhythm against her ribcage. "Was that-"
"The first time I ever used magic? Yes. What was your first time?" Voldemort leaned forward again, close enough she could smell his breath. She expected it to be sour or rotten, but it was like fresh mint toothpaste. How is that even possible?
"We're not here to talk about me." She adjusted the skirt of her black dress.
"Indulge me, Miss Granger. I'm a dying man."
Hermione's gaze lingered on him for a moment. It wouldn't hurt to say.
"I was really mad at this girl. She was making fun of me. Her shoe laces tied together on their own, she tripped and rolled down a hill."
"Odd, how magic often presents itself when we're angry."
"It's not just anger. I've read many studies about childhood magic, it usually accompanies some type of strong emotion – anger, sadness, happiness...love." She faltered on the last word. What would Voldemort know of that?
He looked to the dark concrete wall for a pause, then back to Hermione with a deep, intense gaze. A weighted and desperate darkness in his voice, he quoted Frankenstein. "I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."
Hermione stood from her chair, mind tripping over itself, hands sweating. Was that a threat? Was it a – what the hell was that? Merlin, she needed out of there.
"Why are you standing?" he asked, sounding confused.
She swallowed. "I should go. I have work."
"What do you do?"
Hermione willed herself to calm down. "I'm the assistant to the Minister of Magic."
"I was offered that job when I left Hogwarts." Voldemort half-smiled.
"You turned it down to work at Borgin and Burkes so you could find powerful magical objects to make into horcruxes."
He shook his head and looked down at his bare feet. "Have you gotten the story you wanted?"
"Not yet. I'd like to come back," she said, though 'like' was too strong of a word. At least, the wrong word.
"I'd like some clothes that fit, preferably robes," he said softly, a little too softly for a man like him.
Hermione nodded. "I can get you nicer muggle clothes that fit or the regular Azkaban prison uniform. Your choice."
He paused, licked his lips with his slightly forked tongue. "The muggle clothes, if I must. Just remember Miss Granger, I am not a size small."
She bit her lip to stop from laughing. "Clothes for another story. Deal."
"And socks, it gets drafty in here...Happy Halloween, Miss Granger." His voice was as smooth as hot honey, and she had strangest sensation of being trapped in it.
Trying not think too hard about her visit with Voldemort, about his strangely cold, yet intimate way of being, she headed to the Minister of Magic's office where she sat at her small desk and drowned in piles of parchment work.
The wooden door squealed open, letting in the murmur of voices outside as Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped inside.
"Did you get the filing done?" asked Shacklebolt, looking haggard, like he hadn't slept in days. His dark eyes were shadowed and narrowed, shoulders slightly slumped. He only let himself look that way in private, and Hermione didn't mind. They all felt like that.
"Yes," Hermione said, her mind distracted.
"And the sorting?"
She nodded. "Yes, sir."
Shacklebolt clasped a hand on her shoulder and laughed his deep, gruff laugh. "You don't have to call me sir, Hermione."
"Yes, sir." He was Minister of Magic; of course she'd call him sir.
He leaned against the wall. "How's it going with...him?"
"Fine." She swallowed, her throat sticky. Fine wasn't the right word, She didn't know the right word. For once, the English language, in all its glory, had failed her.
Maybe there is a word for it in parseltongue...
"That's it. Fine?"
She sighed, standing up. "I'm not ready to comment on it yet; I don't have enough information."
"Well you only have six months. The execution was moved to April."
Something like pain shook her body; something she didn't quite understand. "You said I'd have nine?"
"That's not up to me. It's up to the Wizengamot."
Hermione groaned. This was not a subject on which many agreed with her. "Who are just listening to popular opinion."
"Shouldn't the public decide?"
Her voice cracked and she was speaking too quickly again. "Should a mob decide whether or not a man should live or die? No, Minister, they should not."
"I'm surprised you hold such opinions about the man who tried to kill you and your friends." He regarded her thoughtfully.
She paused, pressing her lips together then said, "It's not about him. It's about the principle. And the answers I want from him."
"Well, you have six months to get those answers, Hermione." He grabbed his briefcase and opened the door. "What do I have in the morning?"
"Meeting with the undersecretary, then a question and answer session with the Prophet about the new improper use of magic legislation," she said with a tired smile.
"Good night, Hermione. Go home. See your boyfriend." He grinned brightly then disappeared out the door.
"Yes, sir," said Hermione to no one at all.
That was exactly what she needed to do. Go home to Ron, fall asleep in his arms and forget how complicated and unforgiving the world could be.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading and for all the favorites and follows. I love, love, love reviews. Send me any thoughts or ideas or concerns you might have! I do read them all and respond. Thanks again!
From now on, I'll update once a week. Every Monday. (unless something crazy happens, but it shouldn't).