Hermione heard only part of the conversation from her seat on the couch. At first she paid little attention, but soon Tom's voice rose in clear displeasure.
"Am I your lord or not?"
That caught her attention; she forced herself to remain as she was, though tension knotted between her shoulder blades as her ears sharpened to listen.
"Regardless, you will get it done or you will wind up in the same state as Bellatrix. Do not disappoint me, Nott. I am in a lenient mood, but that extends only so far."
There was a break as the man, Nott, spoke words she could not hear, or so she assumed from Tom's body language.
"Send a handful of Death Eaters." He paused, then tutted. "If they refuse the order coming from you then I shall summon them to me and they will answer for their mistake."
His fingers drummed against his thigh.
"Very well. Good. See it done."
The fire returned to no magical hues and Tom massaged his temple with long fingers.
"Trouble?" Hermione hazarded.
He turned, raised a brow at her. "I suppose you have questions after all that."
The girl shrugged and fidgeted with one of her curls. "I tried not to listen, but…"
"It's quite alright, my dearest. This is your kingdom as well, after all." He had shifted seamlessly from irritation to grace in the space of a heartbeat. It was strange, though reminiscent of his behavior around her boys, especially Harry. "Ask away."
She rolled her lower lip through her teeth and thought carefully on what she'd. overheard. "What are Death Eaters?"
Tom dropped beside her and smoothed a hand over one of her bare thighs in titillating distraction. "Death Eaters are my sworn inner circle. They have proven their loyalty and would do anything for me and my cause, up to and including give their own lives."
"Oh." She wondered what to make of that. "Are there many?"
"A few dozen, no more. I keep the ranks trim to avoid spies or cowards." The hand ran up toward the crease of her hip.
"It's such a morbid name," she complained.
"I think it's rather optimistic," he countered. "It implies that they consume death rather than the other way around. Isn't that a lovely thought?"
She shivered. "It's morbid either way. How do you summon them? Do you send out owls?" It didn't seem the sort of thing one would do for a secret organization.
Tom became sly. "Oh, you will like this. I created a mark using the Protean Charm."
"You what?" She blinked at him rapidly in confusion, not putting together the puzzle pieces.
"I created a mark similar to a magical tattoo. I place this on my servants. They are all connected via a Protean Charm. I then use this charm to summon them or to express my displeasure if they have summarily failed me." He glanced askance at the girl. "I invented it when I was about your age. I thought it was a clever bit of magic."
It was a clever bit of magic, she admitted to herself; Tom must have read the sentiment in her eyes, since his own glimmered with pride and amusement. "Did you draw the tattoo?" She was suddenly curious about that, having never realized Tom might possess artistic talent.
He acceded with a nod. "It's a skull and a snake. I call it the mors mordre . No doubt you find that morbid as well."
Hermione frowned as something tickled at the back of her mind. She could recall hearing something similar once, but it was the description, vague as it was, which tipped his hand. It felt as though something was crawling beneath her skin as she spoke her suspicion. "Tom, are you Lord Voldemort?"
"Where did you hear that name?" Tom's voice was dangerously casual as he said it, his eyes narrowed to slits through which she swore she caught the gleam of crimson.
"In Hogsmeade." She swallowed thickly through her hammering pulse. "The day of the battle, we were in the Hogs Head and–"
"Antonin." The word was hissed despite its lacking sibiliance and she shivered as it snaked across her skin. Then those crimson orbs were on her again and she was frozen as hypnotized prey. "You mustn't use that name, Hermione. Not until you are among my men."
"They said you hated muggles," she whispered.
Tom pursed his lips in irritation. "We've had this discussion, now tell me you understand that you are not to speak this information aloud. You cannot tell anyone my other name— my true name. It must remain secret."
"But Tom, those men attacked children—" Red flashed over her vision as she thought about the third years who had been present, the fourth years and fifth years, Harry and Draco and Ron.
"They hardly hurt students; they were much more concerned with the businesses and with striking fear." He brushed aside her concerns as though they were nothing.
"One of them attacked me—"
"He stopped, did he not? Antonin told me about your meeting and how he recognized that you are mine and left you," he intoned. "You were fine."
"People were hurt," she pressed. He had to see, he had to.
He sighed. "No one important."
"That's not—"
Tom caught her gesticulating hands in his and held her in place. "I cannot reason with you when you are so emotional. Tell me you will not share what you have found out tonight and go to bed. We can speak again later."
Hermione stared incredulously and tried in vain to pull her wrists from his grip.
He was as iron.
Tom was stoking her fury rather than slaking it and she quickly realized they would come to an argument if this continued. Reluctantly, she nodded. Tom's gaze bored into her a moment longer, then his hands dropped. "Then go and get some rest, my love."
"Fine." She rose and dressed, her cheeks scarlet, burning hot with anger and embarrassment and scorned pride, then left his presence.
It was only as she was walking toward Gryffindor Tower than the implications of everything she'd heard began piecing together with the news and slow horror dawned in place of the furor. She was shaking by the time she reached her bed. Hermione closed the curtains of her four-poster around herself and collapsed into her knees, crying.
"What have I done?"
Tom was a monster and she— she had devoted herself to him.
