Chapter 19


Hermione was mid-Occlumency fight with Professor Snape when her collar began to heat and the magical power began to flow around her. She cast Snape out quickly, her expression assuredly desperate.

"He's summoning me!"

Snape nodded, lowering his wand. "Calm your mind, Miss Granger, and remember, he needs you. You are safe from him."

She nodded, and vanished.

When she appeared, she was in the library of the Sayre Mansion. Voldemort was sat on a leather armchair, several books on the table yet his blue eyes firmly fixed on her. She scowled.

"You rang?" she sneered.

Voldemort's severe expression flitted away in a moment, giving way to a smirk. "Why of course, my dear. I have had a stressful day dealing with fools and meddlers, and I was missing my favourite little pet."

"So after a stressful day of dealing with people, you decide to summon me?" Hermione said with disbelief. "I clearly haven't been doing my duty. I should be stressing you out more."

Voldemort sat back in his chair and lifted a book. "This is a book from the Malfoy family library concerning the old magics. If you come sit by my feet, it is yours to study."

Her humiliation at the position had left her days ago, but she still didn't relish it. With a sigh, she plucked the tome from Voldemort's fingers and sank next to him on the ground. It took no time at all for his fingers to find the familiar pattern in her hair and for her to lean against his warm leg in support. It took a little while longer before Voldemort showed his true motivation for bringing her back.

"You've been at Hogwarts many times over the past little while, witch," Voldemort said over her, his hands still stroking. "The old man wishes to see you returned as a student."

"I thought I would," Hermione replied hesitantly, unsure where this was going. "I'll come back every night, like I promised. Professor Snape has offered to protect me from the population."

"And you're worried about them?" Voldemort asked, his hands never failing in stroking her.

"There are quite a few Death Eater children at Hogwarts," Hermione admitted sadly. "It takes one person for everyone to know I'm . . . here? . . . A tool? . . . There are people who will do anything to get revenge on you. Not to say that will work, but one word about me being your pet and people might assume I went dark. Some will try to get at me."

"Yet you still wish to return?" His voice was low, incomprehensible.

"I won't beg you," Hermione stated slowly, trying to figure out his motives. "But, yes, I want to finish my schooling."

She heard no response immediately. His hands continued their massages and caresses in her hair, and she stayed bent beneath him, just breathing and waiting.

"I have terms," Voldemort announced, at last. "Firstly, for any Charms or Transfigurations or Dueling, you will not use your wand no matter what the instructors say. Take detention if you must, but refuse them outright. You need to practice your new skills and using that crutch will not help you."

"Alright."

"Secondly, you will allow a house-elf to prepare you each and every morning," he ordered, his voice low. "I'm aware you've been resisting it, little witch, but I will not have myself ill-represented in public. As you said, some people will realize you are mine . . . I want them to see how well I take care for those under my care. I must have you prepared if you want to attend classes."

"I don't think even elf magic could straighten my hair," Hermione offered in weak protest. "They can't even dress me really, since I need to wear uniforms."

"And you will," he agreed. "However, Tible will ensure that every aspect of your form is flawless. Even your hair. Don't concern yourself with your hair; I daresay that any elf who tries to remove your curls will meet a terrible fate, since I'm rather fond of them. Having addressed your concern, I insist you let me have this."

"Fine," Hermione sulked. "Anything else?"

Stroke, stroke, stroke. "The final condition, my pet, is that you return earlier in the evening to the castle to practice your powers in true form under my direction. I wish to begin training you."

Hermione finally smiled, for the first time since coming back. Finally! Finally, she was going to learn about her powers, and she found herself bouncing in excitement.

"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed happily. "Absolutely, I'll come back early every day. What time? When do I start learning? How do you learn exact-OWW!"

Hermione's bouncing and excited bobbing of her head made her curls snap in Voldemort's fingers. Voldemort laughed at the pained look she gave him and slowly untangled her hair from his hand.

"Stay still, witch," Voldemort chuckled. "You do get rather excited, don't you? I've never seen this side of you before … Suddenly Severus' comments about your 'incessant hand-waving' make much more sense."

Hermione blushed in embarrassment. "Don't be ridiculous. I did the ritual to have these great magical powers and right now all I have is one healing ritual, whatever you did, and wandless magic. Of course I'm eager to learn more. Anyone would."

"Although not all would react with such . . . exuberance," Voldemort noted with amusement. With a final tug, and a screech from Hermione, Voldemort freed his hands from her head. "There, better?"

"Much." Hermione felt his hand reappear on her head and felt warm at the touch. She ignored the sensation best she could. "So, when would I return in the evenings?"

"If I begin your training now I will be able to tell you," Voldemort began.

"Yes!" Hermione shrieked excitedly. At his look, Hermione looked away. "I mean . . . I would like that."

Voldemort chuckled. "You may not be so enthused when we begin. I will test you, try you, and if I can stand to teach you more than a little, then I shall allot more time to your future lessons. If you are boring and slow, I may just reject teaching you altogether."

"So if I really impress you . . ." Hermione prodded anxiously.

Voldemort smirked at the impertinent schoolgirl. "What would you like if you do, little witch? What has brought that little glint of mischief in your eyes?"

He couldn't resist. He brought a hand to the side of her face and stroked her cheek, leaning towards her. His proximity brought a delicious blush to her cheeks that once again caused the clenching in his stomach that pushed him towards taking the young girl's mouth against his own. He kept his distance, though, resisting her strange pull.

Hermione had frozen when he came closer, bringing his face closer to hers. She couldn't mistake the direction his comment and physicality were leading her, and she felt the fear she'd been avoiding for days come back. Would he force himself on her again?

"Tell me what you want, witch," Voldemort murmured.

His request unfroze her and she turned away. "An extra Saturday training session?""

It was not the response he wanted. He felt a sting of rejection as the little witch turned her face from his gaze, and he clenched his fist angrily. She was difficult to seduce, that was clear. He retreated to his reclined position in the seat, regarding her.

"It's difficult to impress me, young one," Voldemort told her coldly. "Let's see whether you are capable of such a feat."

He grabbed her wrist roughly and apparated her to the ballroom with a pop. He held her fast as she teetered around for a moment, clearly disoriented. After a moment, he released her roughly and used his wand on the ground of the ballroom.

Hermione watched in mild fear and trepidation as her bipolar keeper moved around. He was clearly upset with her rejection, and that made him dangerous. His anger was affecting the magic as it danced between them, sending jolts through that made her adrenaline spike. Her worry fled slightly as she watched Voldemort work.

She observed on her toes as Voldemort drew a glowing blue and extremely large ritual circle onto the ballroom floor. It was massive in its span, including seven individual circles on the outskirts, three in the middle, and a final one on the inside. She focused on the seventh circle he drew on the outside, the one that was slightly out of the ritual circle. It seemed to be the channel for the power of the circle, and it pointed directly at Voldemort's stone throne.

She got distracted trying to read the runes around that one particular circle and didn't hear Voldemort approach her. He grabbed her shoulder and she yelped at the surprise.

"I will need to touch you during these lessons, Miss Granger," Voldemort murmured threateningly. "You do not impress me by resisting it."

He thrust her forward to the ritual circle. "Use your magic to select one or two of the outer circles. Don't ask any questions, just do it."

Hermione huffed at his rudeness, but complied. She focused on breathing, avoiding her fear and anger and just focusing on the magic that pulsed between the two of them. Listening, she stepped onto the first circle. There was a small response, but she didn't think it was what Voldemort had in mind. She jumped to the next.

She reached the seventh circle without much difference. Finally, stepping onto that jutting circle she felt the runes touch her magic and blend in harmoniously. She grinned.

"This one," Hermione told him smugly.

Voldemort looked perturbed by this, looking at her with a strained look. "No others felt as harmonious?"

"This is the one," Hermione reasserted strongly. "Do I get to know what it means?"

He hesitated. "Miss Granger, the one you have selected is synonymous the power of a person's casting and magic. That is the conduit circle. Every other circle represents a specific branch of old magic, divided into three sub-categories, united into a whole. For you to begin at the conduit as opposed to a specific branch suggests versatility and power. If you would, try the three ritual circles towards the middle. Tell me how you feel."

Hermione did as he bade, her body humming with excitement. Was she special? Was she powerful? She stepped to the middle circles quickly, letting her magic guide. She started to hope that none would be more powerful than the others, but when she reached the second circle the magic enveloped her in a happy harmony.

"This one," Hermione breathed, barely registering the other person in the room. The magic was soothing and sweet, exactly as she wished it to be.

"Fascinating," Voldemort intoned, observing her. "This is either an extreme coincidence, or a fated event. Miss Granger, you observed that both Albus Dumbledore and myself are the only others you can think of who manipulate the old magics, correct?"

"As far as I know," Hermione admitted slowly. "Although, I thought Grindelwald also would have unlocked it."

"Correct," Voldemort affirmed. "What you do not know is that Albus showed an immediate affinity for this ritual circle," he pointed to the one on her right, "whereas Grindelwald and myself favoured that one," he pointed to the one to Hermione's left. "These are the subcategories of change and control. Albus' knack for Transfiguration heralding his affinity for change and Gellert and my use of Dark magic as an indicator of our affinity for control. The one you showed an immediate affinity to is healing."

He regarded her with a subtle intensity in his gaze. "How interesting that of the three old magic users in Great Britain each represents their own subcategory."

Hermione shivered at his dark tone.

"What's next?" she asked.

Voldemort circled the glowing ritual runes until he stood at the head of the seventh circle. "First, we teach you how to use the seventh circle to summon your power. This is usually taught last of all the seven, as the power you're summoning changes with the discovery of the other six types of magic. However, since the circle chose you, it should be the easiest one for you to master and you will simply need to apply each lesson to this circle as it comes. Enter the conduit circle."

He was a good teacher, despite Hermione's reservations with his physicality. Power was where she excelled here, easily activating the power of her old magics. He directed her in exercises to focus her magic next, and that's where she failed. He gave her distant targets to work on her accuracy, but every time she attempted to reach them she gave off a wife-spanned burst instead of a focused shot. Her failure was grating on her, making her short-tempered with the man teaching her.

"Enough!" Voldemort barked. He entered the ritual circle then, grabbing at her shoulders. "You need to focus. You're letting yourself get away with being weak, and you are NOT!"

"Let go of me!" Hermione struggled against his grip, disconcerted by her lack of aversion to his touch. "I'm trying!"

"Miss Granger, focus!" Voldemort snarled. "I will not hurt you, but you need to calm down."

"Why?" Hermione hissed.

"So I can help you!" His blue eyes fought hers for dominance until Hermione gave up and slumped in his grip. "There. Now, I understand you're frustrated, but it is normal for this circle. This circle is all about how you perceive yourself, your skills, and your magic. From what you displayed in power, you are an extremely adept witch and you know this. However, that is different from knowing oneself. If you're the least bit disillusioned with each facet of yourself and, by extension, your magic you will not move on. Right now I'm pushing you into what you believe your magic to be and you are failing, because your vision of yourself is marred."

He halted a protest with a shake of his head. "I have ways to break through your walls when you struggle but you must show some degree of trust, Miss Granger. Can you?"

"You've given me no reason to trust you," Hermione ground out.

Voldemort rolled his cerulean eyes and moved his hands down her arms and gripped her hands in his.

"Look into my eyes, Miss Granger," he murmured, trapping her in his gaze. "I will be putting a thought into your mind, and I want you to follow it wherever it may lead you. Do NOT try to fight it. Understood?"

"Where will it take me?" she whispered, trying to shake the sensations taking hold through their contact. He smelt too good, like spices and water. Invigorating and refreshing.

His eyes probed hers. "Wherever it needs to."

His ambiguous answer had a clear message – will you trust me? Do you want what I have to offer? Decide, Miss Granger, if you want to be worth my time? She was locked into his cold, calculating blue eyes, indecisive and scared. He was dangling knowledge and power in front of her, bringing her to the brink of the Marianna's Trench of old magic knowledge and asking if she trusted him to provide her with oxygen to make the trip to the bottom.

Dumbledore's words now meant everything. He never had a chance, Miss Granger. There is a chance that he is only now capable of deciding what he truly needs or wants. Could it be she had a chance to make this tyrant want something else?

"Make me see what you do," Hermione breathed.

At that, Tom Riddle gave her a full-blown smile. "Good answer."

His magic focused and pushed into her, and Hermione followed it into her own mind.

Everything was black. Her mind was clearly was intently focused on his magic and what he was doing with it, as little else seemed to matter. His magic seemed to lead her along down a path in her mind that felt unused. It started with an image of herself at his knee, smiling and bouncing up and down. She looked beautiful, and it was clear this was how he saw her. By association, some memories came forward. Her in the mirror before Yule Ball . . . Harry, Ron, and her facing the troll . . . Her raising her hand in class . . . The warm hugs of her parents as they comforted her earlier that day . . . Dobby showing up with all her SPEW knitwear . . . Her secret meetings with Firenze in the Forbidden Forest that year . . . The joy at discovering her Animagus form.

Then her mind took her on a darker turn. The memories it pulled to the front of her mind were angry, vengeful. Marietta Edgecomb with the word SNEAK written out in boils on her face . . . A firework shot directly at Filch and pushing him into a broom closet during Fred and George's escape . . . Umbridge carried off by the centaurs . . . the birds she sent after Ron the day he snogged Lavender . . . Hermione resisted then, fighting the train of thoughts she was having. She knew where it would lead, and she couldn't relive it.

'Stop fighting it!' Voldemort hissed in her mind.

'I hate these memories!' Hermione threw back. 'Why do I need them?'

'These aren't memories you hate, little witch, but memories you enjoyed,' Voldemort let his words fly around her mind. 'You fight and you resist, but you felt vindicated, free, and satisfied when your enemies received their dues. You are in the circle that deals with truth, and is blocked by lies, and you . . . you are lying to yourself about your very nature. You are blocking a part of your own magic by denying a very real part of yourself. No person is all good, Hermione. Let yourself be more than perfect … let yourself be REAL.'

After his words, the memories came back. She felt the emotions each scene brought to her, and with the shame a herself also came pride. She had let herself be put down by every single person in these memories, and then she had given them a piece of what she was capable of. The memories continued, nerve-wracking and revealing. Her first piece of accidental magic when she cursed a girls' head bald . . . Sneaking cookies from the jar without her parents' knowledge . . . Everything she never let herself think about flooded back into her memory but one, and she struggled with the feelings of guilt and shame that followed. Her magic nudged her forward on the darkened path, taking the guilt and showing her exactly what it was; the past. The memories she held were her past and the formed who she was now, but they only hold her as much as she let them. Her mind was sifting through them with a rosy lense now, taking her past and categorizing and sorting.

'Very good, pet,' Voldemort's voice came through the din. 'You're nearly there, but there needs to be balance in your magic. You're hiding some painful memories, refusing to bring them to light. In order to accept yourself and all aspects of your magic, you can't keep hidden from your memories. Bring them out.'

'It hurts too much!' Hermione shot back. 'I can't do it, not with you here!'

'Why?'

His question was genuine, but Hermione was scared. Her magic was prying at her mind, trying to find the last piece. Finally, with a resignation that she felt didn't suit her, she let her painful memories come forward. She relived the bullying girls in elementary school … Ron's words which led to the troll-filled lavatory … Snape mocking her buckteeth … Mudblood.

The memories shifted, and she knew the pain was coming. She watched her interactions with Voldemort, the very real and terrifying intimacy with which they interacted… She watched him allow her to be tortured on the ballroom floor… She watched him save her from Rowle… The nights spent stroking her hair and reading by the fire … Then, the main memory of the set came forward … Her stomach clenched.

She watched herself fight and run and try to get away from the red-eyed Voldemort, she felt the pain as he entered her, the horror and disgust as he gave groans of pleasure, and her helplessness to stop him. Her magic soaked it up, and she saw it pull from her memory what it needed; this was what she was like at her lowest point, a low she never knew she had before. It was what rounded out the magic and made it whole.

The scene ended and Hermione was back in the ballroom, her legs giving out beneath her. Voldemort held her up, balancing her. Tears pricked her eyes as the emotional exhaustion set in.

"Was it truly that awful?" Voldemort asked quietly. She looked up into his face, his eyes, looking for what his question was. His eyes were glassy and hard.

"Every second … It was like I had died and gone to hell," Hermione murmured tiredly. "It was every nightmare combined … every irrational fear made rational, even ones I had no idea I had. When people touch me, I flinch. That's what you did to me."

"I saw the memories included when stroke your hair every evening," he murmured quietly. "Does it frighten you when I do?"

Hermione hesitated. How could she tell him anything about her feelings? But she was still holding onto him, letting him hold her up. He needed to have some sort of reasoning. "At first, it had me terrified, but when you didn't do anything … I guess it became normal."

"May I continue to do so?" Voldemort asked. "With your permission?"

Hermione nodded. She didn't trust her words, because if she could she might ruin the very human interaction she was having with the resident Dark Lord. What he was saying now . . . it was almost an apology. Could Voldemort be changing, like Dumbledore said? Was he changing for her?

"We've finished lessons for today, little witch," he told her softly. "Let me bring you to bed."

"No, I want to do it again," Hermione insisted, straightening up in his arms now. "One more chance?"

He regarded her carefully. She knew he thought her exhausted from whatever mind magic he had worked on her. She tried to make herself look strong, ready, determined. She thought he'd laugh at her for it, but instead, he gave her a quick nod and plastered another target on the far end of the room and moved from her front to holding her up from behind.

"This is about having complete control of your magic, my witch," Voldemort murmured in her ear. "We've seen and accessed each of its parts. You are now aware of what makes your magic and yourself. Accept your magic, accept yourself, and focus every single part into one, single, powerful shot."

She tried to gather her magic, but something was missing, something was wrong. She focused on just accepting herself and every aspect of it, but there was still something else missing. She searched her magic for an answer … Followed its threads … And it led her straight to Voldemort himself. She gasped a breath of shock. Of course, it was linked to him as well. She needed to acknowledge and accept that part of her magic was tying her to him.

With that thought, she caressed his magic with hers and brought some of it with her through the contact with his body as he held her up. It felt so intimate to her, warming her heart She gathered every facet and thought of a single lightning strike.

Power ran from her toes to her arm gathered at her fingertips, this time the wholesome energy that held every facet together. It excited her, brought tingles to her fingertips. She focused it … pulled it together … pointed her hands … and shot.

Energy crackled heady and forcefully as she released it. The target sizzled and burned before her eyes. She'd done it.

"Well done, my witch," Voldemort brought her even closer. Her body went limp with fatigue and she rested her head on his chest. "How did it feel?"

"Brilliant," she breathed. "Is it always like that?"

"The rush of power?" he asked. "You become used to it after using your magic consistently. But the sense of oneness, the feeling of being complete with your magic? That never needs to end so long as you keep yourself in balance."

He hoisted her up and lifted her bridal-style in his arms. "The fatigue will pass as well. It is a result of having your magic changed within the ritual circle. Be prepared, this will happen every time you pass a ritual circle."

Hermione didn't care if it happened every time, because it was a tired that left her body warm and happy. Even when he side-along apparated them to their shared bedroom, her dizziness was nothing compared the giddy happiness of getting through the circle, of working through her issues, and of coming out whole. The thirty-or-so year-old Dark Lord deposited her in the bed and looked down on her with incomprehensible eyes.

Voldemort had never felt more conflicted in his entire life as he did when he looked on this young, tired girl. Her memories of her binding to him had been as unexpected as they had been intense. It had been a formative memory for her, and one that would stay with her all her life, and he had made it violent and painful and degrading.

Yet she lay there on their shared bed, letting him lift her and carry her and touch her, letting him even be there. The clenching he'd felt before become full-blown guilt and care for the young witch. He knew, if she asked him for anything in that moment, he would probably give it to her. Anything to stop the agony he felt for her memories of him.

He couldn't help but ask, "Are you alright?"

"Do you care?" Hermione asked in return.

Her earnest question made him pause. She was looking for some sign from him that he had some place in him for her. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His stomach clenched in rejection as she stiffened underneath him.

"Rest, little witch," he murmured to her, not looking her in the eye. "You did well."

His desire to seduce her had steadily faded over the course of a few days, and now as he stood over her in a bedside vigil, he knew he wanted more from the little witch. His Slytherin sensibilities knew that with her powers on his side he would win the war easily, but his feelings weren't there with that plan.

He wanted to fix her memories of him, to replace them with new ones. He wanted her to see the good in his cause. He wanted her by his side with a smile and that mischievous gleam taking over her face as she gave in to her baser instincts to reap her vengeance or tease her friends. In helping her discover herself for the conduit circle, he'd discovered her too and he wanted her.

He could have gone the whole war without an ounce of regret and he would have been better off if that had been the case. Instead, he now felt deeply for the young girl he'd hurt and bound to himself.

Merlin help him.