3: Study of Revenge (Your Battlefield, Susie Suh)
November 15, 1998
From what I've seen of Voldemort, his primary skills, without his magic, seem to be manipulation and negotiation. He uses both these tactics to maintain some control over a situation where he would otherwise be powerless. He did however reveal information that suggests he ties anger to magic, and magic to his own sense of self worth and identity. This could be a contributing factor to his violent nature.
There was a small men's clothing store down the street from Hermione's apartment. It was the kind of place where there was more floor and wall space than clothes. The kind of place Ron Weasley wouldn't shop in, even though he now had money. The Ministry had paid all three of them, Harry, Ron and Hermione, reparations, a lot of reparations, for what they had to go through, for what they did. Hermione hadn't used a cent of that money. Until today.
She never asked what Harry and Ron did with theirs, or what they would do. It wasn't her business.
It felt a bit strange using money she'd been awarded fighting Voldemort buying him socks, but it wasn't really about socks, or about him, right? It was about what he could teach Hermione about dangerous people like him, about how they became that way. Maybe they could be stopped before it got this far. Before they destroyed the world.
Before they destroyed themselves.
Hermione shook that thought away.
She grabbed a few t-shirts like the ones Riddle'd been wearing, only larger. Black, green and blue. The blue had looked...no, Hermione, it didn't look like anything on him. Still she grabbed a blue t-shirt, and a blue sweater. She picked up a thick green cotton sweater with a tall collar and brown buttons. Soft, stylish. It would be getting cold soon...
She turned to her left and a voice made her jump.
"Hello, Granger." Draco peered out from behind a stack of dress shirts.
Hermione gasped, putting her hand to her chest. When her body adjusted to the shock, she let out a breath. "Merlin, Malfoy. You nearly gave me a heart attack." What on earth was he doing there?
His face pinched, making his grey eyes shimmer in the light overhead. "Why are you in a muggle men's clothing store? Buying something for Weaselbee?" He snatched the stack of shirts from Hermione's hands. If only he'd just go away...she had no good explanation for what she was doing.
Oh, I'm just buying some new outfits for Lord Voldemort. Nothing creepy or out of the ordinary...yeah, that would go over well.
"Give them back," she demanded. Her patience wore thin. It started thin when it came to Draco Malfoy, even if he was Harry's Auror partner.
He casually flipped through the clothes. "Since when did the Ginger Wonder start liking green so much? It's more my color." Draco held a green button-up cotton shirt under his chin.
"What is your problem?" She snatched the clothes back. He laughed.
Draco put the back of his hand to his forehead in an overly dramatic gesture. "Hermione Granger, buying clothes for a man who's not her boyfriend. What has the world come to?" After all these years, that boy could still drive her crazy faster than anyone.
Maybe a half-truth would make him drop it, and she needed him to drop it. "It's for work."
He stole a silver scarf off a mannequin and wrapped it around his neck. "What the hell kind of work is that?" Draco raised an eyebrow, observing himself in the mirror. He pulled off the scarf and tossed it back on the mannequin.
Hermione sighed. "Malfoy, leave me alone."
"Whatever, Granger. Your secret is safe with me." He grabbed a skinny grey tie and slightly-wider back tie from the rack and held them up to his neck. With a smirk he asked, "What do you think? Grey or black?"
"Grey," she said, defeated. "What? Did you finally convince some poor girl to go out with you?"
He laughed and there was unusual warmth to it. "Not exactly. Working on it though."
That poor, poor girl.
That evening Hermione visited Azkaban Prison again, bringing along the clothes Voldemort had asked for.
She apparated inside the cell, her body and her wand protected from Riddle. Still nerves flooded her, as she had the bag of clothes tucked under her arm. She always left her meetings with the man unsettled, uneasy, like the world was on a slant.
Voldemort was so still, inhuman, as his gaze followed a small spider climbing across the stone. She cleared her throat, and he turned to her like a snake lifting its head from the coil.
"I brought your clothes," whispered Hermione. His white hands took the paper bag from her, almost skimming her pinky. Despite the fact he couldn't actually touch her because of her protective spell against him, her insides hopped.
He slid the clothes onto his cot, and began to thumb through the items. Hermione watched his small, calculated movements. Not one extra, not one unnecessary.
His voice was cool, like dew dripping down her skin. "Green. Excellent choice."
"So I get a story for this?" Wringing her hands and trying to steady her cracking breaths, she sat on the chair.
Voldemort examined the thick green sweater. "Oh, I think you've earned it." He grabbed the hem of a too-tight T-shirt and pulled it off slowly, exposing his back and the sinewy muscles that climbed him like vines. She bit down on her tongue. Hermione tried not to watch him as he turned around, his chest and abs remarkably cut, his hip bones sharp just above the waistband of his jeans. His body rippled as he pulled the sweater on. Voldemort smirked at Hermione. "Much better. Don't you think?"
Heat rose in her cheeks. If only there were a way to hide the flush, "Umm...yes."
"Anything in particular you'd like to know?" Voldemort sat down on his bed directly in front of Hermione, their toes nearly touching. She pulled back and stared down at her hands.
"Just tell me something that matters to you. Something important," said Hermione. He opened his mouth to speak, but the glint in his crimson eyes proved he would not take it seriously. She made her voice stern. "Not your definition of important. My definition of important."
He leaned in. "Do I know what that is?"
"Somehow, I think you do."
"As you wish, Miss Granger." He half-smiled and settled back on his hands. "I was raised in an orphanage as you know. Not a very nice one at that, cold and drafty, like this place. When you've been alone your whole life, the concept of parents isn't an easy one. You can't help but wonder why, why the two people in the world, who are supposed to be naturally inclined to want you, just don't. It's an interesting phenomenon how often children are abandoned by their parents. Love isn't as innate as people like you like to believe it to be...no, but selfishness is."
Hermione was in no mood for a 'love is stupid' lecture. Love had already kicked his ass. She had nothing to prove to him. Still, she couldn't help her self. "It's not about what's innate, what's easy, it's about what a person can choose to be."
He chuckled softly, and it turned her stomach. "Still a wishful thinker, after everything."
She leaned forward. A wave of courage, maybe a little resentment, rushed over her. "We beat you. I won and your mother didn't abandon you. She died."
"How do you know so much about me?"
"Dumbledore told Harry, Harry told me."
"Albus Dumbledore should have minded his own business." His words froze in the air and shattered on the stone floor. She tensed, flashing back to the fear, the loss, she'd felt during the Battle of Hogwarts.
"Don't talk about him. Tell your story or don't," she said calmly, but anger surged through her limbs. She wanted to slap him. Feel the sting against her hand, watch a red print blossom on his cheek.
"It wasn't until after I was at Hogwarts, and I became curious about my magical heritage, that I realized the truth about my father. That he was a muggle and when he found out that my mother—"
"Gave him a love potion and tricked him into marrying her," Hermione said smoothly.
Eerie, quiet stillness fell over the cell. "What did you say?" he hissed.
Hermione had said very much the wrong thing. "That's just what Harry, Dumbledore," she tried to explain, but it fell flat.
Hot contempt blazed in his eyes. Hermione fought the urge to pull out her wand. "That's not what happened. He left her because he found out she was a witch. Just because of that. He was weak, and so was she. So weak she gave me that fool's name."
He'd been wrong about his parents for all these years. How did you even tell someone that? "I'm not sure that's the whole story." Her voice was small, and made her feel stupid. She never felt stupid.
Voldemort bolted to his feet, teeth grinding. "What do you know about it, girl? What Harry Potter told you because that's what Albus Dumbledore told him? They do not know me. You do not know me."
He radiated anger so hot she worried it would burn her skin, but there was another emotion buried beneath the anger and she could see it because she'd seen it in herself. Sadness.
A pang of guilt struck Hermione. She hadn't said what she said because she thought he needed the truth. She'd said it to hurt him, and that was wrong. No matter what he'd done. "I'm sorry."
His heavy breathing stopped. His head tilted, observing like a hawk. "What?"
This she would say because it was the truth... "It's an apology. What happened with your parents was between them. It's none of my business, but at the end of the day, it's not really your business either. They made their choices; you made yours."
Voldemort shook his head and sat back down on the couch. What was that look on his face? Disbelief, maybe? "I thought you wanted an explanation of why I became what I became. To know it all started with them, a poor orphan boy, left to rot by his parents."
She sighed. "I wanted the truth, Tom. Not excuses. Not hiding behind other people so you don't have to take responsibility for what you've done. I never asked for that."
What else was there to say? To do? If he was just going to make excuses, make fun of her by saying what he thought she wanted to hear, then no; Hermione had better things to do. She dusted a piece of lint off her black pants, stood and turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" His voice was quiet.
She looked back at him, his elegant hands folded in his lap. "Home."
"Miss Granger," he asked, looking away. "What are your parents like?"
Don't answer him. Just leave. Leave while you have the chance.
"Good. Very good, as parents go." Hermione never could take her own advice.
His eyes seemed softer now, almost a rosy pink. "Where are they?"
"Gone. After Dumbledore died, around the time you took the Ministry, I hid them. I made them forget me." Hermione folded her arms across her chest. She should not have discussed this with him. What was it about this man that made her talk?
His shoulders perked up. "You removed their memory of you? At seventeen, you erased a lifetime of memories from your parents?"
She sighed, looking over his head. "And convinced them they wanted to move to Australia." It was a good idea; the only idea she'd had at the time. The question was, months later, why hadn't she been to get them? Restored their memory? She hadn't had time, she'd been busy settling in to her new job, her new life, she needed more...someday...there was always an excuse.
"Why?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious which just made her want to laugh and then maybe go home and cry.
Hermione swallowed. "So you couldn't find them and kill them."
Voldemort held her gaze, but his features were soft, thoughtful, as if maybe, all along, he'd never considered going after Hermione's parents. But there it was, in the quick raise of his hairless brow, he would have hurt them had he thought they'd know where Harry was. He stared down at his feet.
I'm just reading too much into this.
Before she could disapparate, his voice filled the damp air with a rumbling like distant thunder. "I never wanted to be like him."
"Like your father?"
"Hermione." His heart skipped as Voldemort used her first name for the first time. "You should find them, your parents I mean. It's time, isn't it?" How did he know she hadn't already? Could he read her that well?
Hermione just nodded, heart playing a nervous melody against her breastbone.
Still Voldemort's voice was quiet, unobtrusive. "Bring me back a souvenir from Australia. I'll provide a proper story when you return."
She disapparated before that could get any weirder...if it were even possible, which it likely was not.
If Hermione waited too long, she probably come up with another excuse not to go to Australia. So the minute she got home, she started to pack. Harry was already asleep, at least his lights were off and his door was locked. And Ron had not come home yet.
She turned on the dim lamp in her room, pulled out her old beat-up leather duffle bag and began sorting through clothes for her trip. Behind her, the front door opened, then locked. Shoes beat on the tile, increasing in volume. The rhythm of Ron's walk was familiar enough she didn't need to turn around.
"Going somewhere?" asked Ron as he came into her bedroom and shut the door. He smelled like grass and sweat.
"Hey, Ron," she said, distracted.
He pulled a red bra out of her luggage. "Hermione, why are you packing a suitcase?" He sounded chipper as always, but she was busy sorting through jeans, and wasn't looking up at him.
"I'm going to Australia."
"To get your parents. I'm glad you finally listened to me. I'll pack too."
Oh no. "Ron..."
"Yeah?" He lay back on her bed, hiding behind her suitcase.
"I really think this is something I should do on my own."
His voice lowered a few octaves. "Um, okay. If you're sure. I just can't wait to meet them."
"You will. In time, I promise." Hermione finally looked up and over her suitcase. What on earth? "Why do you have a tiny golf club?"
He swung the small metal club in the air, the lime green handle nearly smacking him under the chin. "It's called Putt-putt...I went with my father today. The things those muggles come up with."
Is Ron turning into his father? Wonderful.
"Why did you steal the club?"
He sat up, looking bemused. "I didn't steal it. They gave it to me."
"You're supposed to give it back."
He shrugged and stood up, walking behind Hermione. "Really? Oh, well. How long will you be gone?"
"Four days, maybe more, depending on how long it takes for me to find them."
"That's a long time to leave me all alone." His lips pressed against her neck, worked their way down her shoulder. She sighed.
He was so warm, like sliding into a hot bath. Ron spun her around and kissed her. Hard. Wet. Slowly, her hand went to the back of his head, and she shut her eyes. As Ron pushed her back onto the bed, crawled on top of her, kissing and running his uncontrolled hands over her body, fumbling with her clothes and his until they were naked, she kept seeing two red eyes pulsing, somewhere, in the back of her mind.
A/N: Thanks for reading. Please review. I'm going to be without a computer for awhile so I'm updating sooner before I lose my computer. If you're reading my other fics, I am working on all of them, including Personal Sin, but it will be longer now. Sorry about that. Thanks again. I can still see reviews and stuff on my phone I just can't post. Thanks again!