Hermione was confined to her room for six days in total. She could hear Tom lounging in her living room, listening to the magical radio, coming and going as he pleased. It made her feel ill.
She had created a monster.
During her captivity, Hermione had managed to consolidate an official research proposal. Partially thanks to Voldemort's earlier suggestions, she had also achieved a major breakthrough in her translations which pulled her working concept together.
It was not lost on her that relying on the runic mastery of a future despot was in poor taste, to say the least. But if Voldemort's knowledge could help her decode the inner workings of the Veil, this research could help her devise a way to send him back without destroying her soul in the process.
Not to mention, Hermione thought bitterly, her professional reputation mattered very little now that Voldemort was mortal again.
Late one night, Hermione heard her front door shut, and felt a release of magical energy as the wards around her bedroom fell.
Ever so slowly, Hermione opened the creaking door and tip-toed into the living room.
The room looked exactly how she had left it. Hermione's wand had been placed on the workbench. She clutched it to her chest protectively, vowing to never let it out of her sight again.
Hermione rose from bed the next morning as if nothing had happened. As usual, she brewed a pot of tea and heated up some instant oatmeal the Muggle way. She dusted some rouge on her sallow cheeks, raked her wiry curls into a messy chignon, and dumped a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace.
Predictably, Firestone was furious at Hermione's absence. The irate witch plonked a two-foot-tall pile of parchments onto Hermione's desk, which sent her knickknacks and photographs ricocheting, and commanded Hermione to have them filed by lunch.
Firestone's disapproval would typically send Hermione into a fit of shameful panic, but today it barely registered. All she could think of was that Lord Voldemort was loose in London and it was all her fault.
At lunch, Hermione shuffled through the cafeteria line in a daze. She pulled her cloak over her head and kept her arms close to her chest as if her colleagues' eyes could penetrate through the velvety fabric and detect her sins.
"Hermione!"
The witch turned to see Harry hurrying over to her, a half-eaten sandwich in tow.
"Are you alright? Ginny and I must have Floo called you a dozen times."
Hermione forced a smile.
"Sorry Harry, I've been a bit under the weather. I came down with a mild case of the mumblemumps, but I'm alright now."
Harry's wide, earnest brown eyes pierced her soul. Even now, he could always tell when something was wrong.
"Firestone owled me when you hadn't been to work in three days. I even showed up at your flat but Merlin, Hermione, it was warded like Azkaban."
"Yes, well, I feel safer that way now that I'm living alone. I'm sorry I didn't respond to the floo. I've been resting most of the week."
Hermione hated lying. It took all her strength not to break down and confess everything.
Her Dark Mark twinged as if reminding her to keep quiet.
"I've got to get back to the office. Give Ginny and the kids my love," Hermione said and scurried off before Harry could protest.
Hermione returned to her desk and stayed there until well past sundown, catching up with all the work she'd missed during her absence.
As she packed up her belongings, Hermione eyed the complete research proposal in her purse.
An uncharacteristic surge of bravery overcame her. Without a hint of hesitation, Hermione slipped the file into the outgoing mailbox on her way out.
The next morning, Firestone stomped up to Hermione's desk, sky-high heels clacking.
Hermione looked up in shock. The witch barely noticed her existence unless she needed something.
"Granger, my office now, please," Firestone barked.
Hermione swore under her breath and scrambled out of her chair. She timidly followed her boss into the room and took a seat.
"Is this yours?"
Firestone tossed Hermione's proposal across the dark wooden desk.
"Yes, that's my research proposal," Hermione said, wringing her hands together in her lap.
When did you submit this?
"I'm sorry, I know I should have asked for your approval first. I submitted it late last night after you'd already left."
Firestone narrowed her eyes.
"Yes, you should have," she paused. "But the Unspeakables are very interested."
Hermione blinked incredulously.
"Are they?"
"Yes. They'd like you to join them in the Department Meeting Room immediately. Clara will take over administrative duties while you're gone."
Hermione flushed with joy, genuinely smiling for what felt like the first time in weeks.
"Wow, Melissa, thank you so much. I can't tell you how much appreciate this opportunity."
Firestone pursed her lips.
"Go on, then."
Hermione hurried out of the reception area and into the black-tiled hallways of the Unspeakables' chambers.
"See", said a quiet, sibilant voice in the back of her mind. "You're already burgeoning under my influence."
Hermione stumbled out of the Unspeakable's conference room in a feverish daze.
The meeting had gone well. Hermione had presented her findings to the Unspeakables, along with a proposal for further research, and garnered a warm reception. But halfway through the meeting, her head began to pound, and sweat had soaked through her pale grey blouse.
The sickness could only mean one thing- the bond between her and Voldemort was still intact.
Hermione entered the lift, but rather than return to her desk, she opted to take a break in the Atrium for some sunlight and fresh air.
The delicate gilded doors of the lift opened and Hermione walked into the lobby. She gasped as a sudden wave of pleasure crashed over her like a cool towel sliding across her burning forehead.
Then, she saw him.
The world seemed to slow down. The hundreds of bustling wizards and witches faded away, and the sounds of the crowd seemed muffled.
Voldemort met her eyes across the room.
He stood on the other side of the Atrium, dressed in the same dark robes he had worn the last time she saw him. He was speaking to an older wizard whom she vaguely recognized.
Slowly, Hermione's hand inched towards her holster. She slipped her hand inside and gripped her wand tightly.
After days of lying in wait, wandless and restrained, this was Hermione's first clear shot at Voldemort. Could she kill him?
Voldemort's eyes darted down to Hermione's hand and smiled as if daring her to try.
She gulped.
Slowly, Hermione released the wand.
She would kill him soon. But not here.
Tom winked at her and held the door open for the other wizard. The two stepped into the Wizengamot's office chambers.
Feeling the bile rise in her throat, Hermione ran to the toilets and vomited in the sink.
"I greatly appreciate your taking time to meet with me, Warlock Fawley." said Tom, settling into a leather chair across from the old wizard's desk, "especially during this busy legislative session."
The Warlock's chest puffed in pride visibly.
"Well, of course, Mr. Volos. I always enjoy making the acquaintance of distinguished young wizards such as yourself."
Tom bowed his head in false humility and plastered on the ingratiating smile he had perfected at Hogwarts.
Securing an interview for a mid-level legislative position had been alarmingly easy, at least for what Tom had expected of the new millennium. With just some expertly-placed glamours and a few Unforgiveables, Tom had faked his OWL results, a Durmstrang diploma, and top Wizarding Bar Exam scores.
"So, Volos- what kind of surname is that?"
"It's Swedish, sir," said Tom, stifling a chuckle beneath his saccharine exterior.
The surname Volos- as in, the Nordic serpent god- was a private little joke Tom had come up with. He'd chosen the name as it belonged to one of the larger Scandinavian pureblood families, which intersected with even larger Eastern European families, both of which had more lenient and spotty records of blood purity than Britain did.
"Why, I'd never have guessed. You sound like a proper English wizard, Mr. Volos"
Thank you, Warlock. My mother spend time in the UK and US and was determined to ensure my English would allow me to be competent in any global legal market. I also spent quite a few years traveling in the Caribbean colonies throughout my studies."
Tom had known fabricating his ancestry would be the most difficult part of obtaining a Ministry position. Certainly, a job of this caliber was far more than Tom could have hoped to secure in his day. Though he was more qualified than all his classmates combined, it was close to impossible to even step foot in a Warlock's chambers without the right surname and the right blood. Instead, Tom had been relegated to a glorified shop boy. It didn't surprise him at all to discover that intelligent Hermione was stuck in a low-level administrative role. In fact, this was a highly impressive outcome for someone of lesser blood.
Ironically, Tom deduced, his former self's rise to power seemed to have tempered the extreme culture of nepotism in the Ministry. There were fewer Goyles and Greengrasses around- although not by much.
"Very good, Mr. Volos," said the Warlock after skimming Tom's CV. "Can you tell me about your area of policy expertise?"
Tom had done plenty of research on Warlock Fawley- a stodgy old conservative who liked to feel as if he was in the know. Above all, though, the Warlock was pliable to flattery.
"I fully concur with and admire your commitment to magical research, sir," he said. "We must encourage innovation of novel inventions and ideas in order to compete with the rest of the Wizarding World. With my experience in magical patent law, I believe I can offer this office the technical expertise to draft legislation that will elevate magical Britain to the global sphere."
Warlock Fawley beamed in a way that reminded Tom eerily of Professor Slughorn.
"Why, I must say I like the way you think, Mr. Volos. I think I've heard everything I need. When can you start?"