The River of Lathe

Consumed

Every night as he drifts off to sleep, Agent 27 curses Hermione Granger. It is a childish grudge, one he cannot quite bring himself to own and set down on paper, though the Gods know every other tiny thing that runs through his head gets set down in his daily log. Maybe he is afraid his bitterness will look silly on paper; maybe he is afraid of confining Hermione to a thin two-dimensional sheet. She is so real to him.

He blames her for his current position. Logically, he knows it this is supremely unfair and he would have wound up here eventually. He has been reassigned to the Muggle underclass. From the position of a slick double agent to a cheep common informant basically doing crowd control for the growing Muggle poor; the change was dramatic.

No one can say Lord Voldemort does not learn from the past. After Snape's betrayal, no spy was allowed to stay in a position of confidence or power for long. He knew this was coming but really, did she have to cave into Lord Voldemort so fast? As for his current assignment, well Voldemort has also studied enough history to know that the Muggle underclass was where unrest and rebellion were most likely to grow. And so it is that he, the man once known as Paul Listman and now simply called David has been sent to live on the streets. It could be worse; he could have been put on leave and left with out anything.

Rolling over, he is still to bitter to sleep. Rational or not, he couldn't help but blame Hermione Granger, though if he was honest with himself he would've had to wonder if he was upset over his less than glamorous new lifestyle, which was also temporary, or if it was over, how quickly and easily she went to Lord Voldemort without even showing any interest in him. He at least had a nose.

He has seen her a few times, surrounded by all the power and dark glamour of the Dark Lord's entourage. He knows she is not sleeping on a flea ridden, rock hard mattress. Still, there was something different about her eyes. A deadness or vacancy he had not seen when he spoke to her in her home.

But never mind, she made her choice. She will live with it now.

In the darkness he fears he maybe becoming obsessed.

***

July 29^th notes for the use of Nepenthes

Subject has been off the potion for four days. The first two days saw a gradual but marked increase in both concentration and awareness. Subject was able to hold intelligent, well reasoned conversation, expressed curiosity and drew creative collusions. But showed no signs of regaining memories.

Change occurred the morning of the third day without potion. Subject withdrew into silence. Withdrew does have a different quality then the previous lifelessness from the potion so this cannot be listed as a relapse. Subject is wary and watchful, chooses not to speak but watches the movements of my hands or the formation of wards on Wormtail's lips. There is also a refusal to make eye contact, even when head is forced to rise, subject will shut her eyes.

Perhaps, she is remembering but is having problems coming to terms with memory, so withdraws as a refuge. Will continue to monitor the situation closely.

***

Daily log, Agent 27

There was talk of Hermione around the fire tonight. Apparently, she was featured prominently in some smutty Muggle paper. It is amazing how close to the truth they apparently came, and yet how little they understand. She has been drugged. It must have been a powerful potion indeed. I do not know why I did not see it before. Poor Hermione, she does not know what she has become; how can I be angry with her now?

I couldn't help myself, I asked them to tell me more. Anything. What did she look like in the photo? What did it say? Was she quoted?

"Well, I'll tell you, Davey," said John, the self-appointed leader of this particular illegal fire pit. "She looks like a zombie, or a doll. The lights are on but no one is home."

"Yeah, but she is a doll with great breasts!" chimed in Peter. I have been watching him for deviant behavior and those remarks proved me suspicions! "I would love to get my hands on her. And I don't mind if she don't respond or nothing."

"Ha! Drugged or not, she ain't for the likes of you, now is she. Nah, the only one touching her is that ugly rich old man. Drugged is probably the only way he could get any woman. Did you get a look at him?

But now, look, you have made poor David here uncomfortable. He is blushing like a virgin. "What's the matter, Davey? She your sister or something?"

And I am ashamed to admit I was. But I was not blushing from embarrassment. No, to hear them talk about Hermione in such a way. And then, to picture her in the arms of... of Him! I am a loyal subject but Lord Voldemort is just not natural. And Hermione is an angel!

I know that it is crazy but I must find someway to save her. Or at least to offer her the chance to escape with me. John said there is to be an interview with her next week. Maybe watching it will give me some ideas.

I must see her!

***

August 1 notes for the use of Nepenthes

For the past two nights the subject experienced sleep disturbances. After days of silence she sleeps only to wake up screaming. Narcissa who is watching her throughout the nights, speaks of colic in babies and young children sometimes following this pattern.

This new development is exhausting Narcissa's limited patience. I will have to get a new companion for the nights if this continues.

Narcissa just came to me and there has been an interesting development. The subject was screaming again but this time Narcissa was able to completely wake her. Hermione asked for me.

Bone pale with dark smudges around her eyes, she resembled a skull staring out at me from the tarnished halo of her hair. She sat perfectly still in a knot of twisted bed sheet. Yet, as I slowly approached, those eyes fixed on my own for several seconds before she spoke.

"I see," she breathed and then she rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.

That I would feature prominently in her nightmares does not surprise me but what should I make of her seeming acceptance of the nightmare?

***

Daily log, Agent 27

I have convinced Agent 51 of my need to be reassigned to the interview. It took some explaining but I managed to convince him. I told him a heavily edited version of the campfire talk, making it seem Hermione might be in danger and I, as the one who knows these men, would be the best to protect her.

Now I just have to get her alone. She will come with me, I am sure of it. And if she is still drugged I will just spirit her away and then she will thank me when she comes around. Even living on the streets must be preferable than living with Him.

Or maybe we could go back into hiding near her old studio. Back to a small cozy cottage where she could make her art while I stood guard. And we could even have few kids running around. And a new car, she must miss hers. It would be idyllic. She would smile at me and I would worship at her feet. It would, of course, be the end of m[y] career, but that career really isn't going anywhere now, is it? I will not miss it.

I wonder just how tight a watch Lord Voldemort keeps on her.

***

The Malfoy mansion was a blaze with light as Lucius and Narcissa greeted their guests. From over the shoulder of Dolohov, whom he was trapped in a tedious conversation with, he never would understand why this man was Minister of Magic, Lucius saw Lord Voldemort make his entrance. But the welcoming smile froze on his face as he watched Hermione Granger arrive on the arm of the Dark Lord and looking quite lucid. What color was in his face drained away as she reclaimed her arm and went over to greet his wife like an old friend.

Without even a word of explanation or apology to Dolohov, Lucius moved to stand protectively behind his wife.

"Lucius, thank you so much for having me into your home. It is lovely." Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were hard. She knew she was exposed and unwelcome.

Keenly aware of the attention on their little exchange, Lucius took her pro-offered hand. "Thank you. It has been in my family for years and we are very proud of it. That reminds me, whatever happened to your family? You come from Muggles don't you? Muggle dentists?" Even as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were a mistake. He was seething at this Mudblood who was parading herself around his house like a queen. It was hard enough he had to live with the smell of Muggles at work all day, but to have her here, defiling his ancestral home! He had heard the rumors about the Dark Lord, everyone had, but he had not believed them until now. The doubt scared him and fear was weakness. He was slipping into a rage.

"Oh, they are doing very well, thank you." Firmly she withdrew her hand from his. "They are living in the United States where their new practice is doing quite well."

"Lucius, I need a word with you," hissed a cold voice in his ear. Lucius felt his throat go dry and his anger melt away. Not all fear was weak. Fear of the Dark Lord was healthy. Meekly, Lucius followed Lord Voldemort into an empty room.

"It seems the Malfoy house has fallen indeed. I will give you one change to explain such rudeness to myself and my..." Voldemort paused for a moment, seeming to search for the term he wanted and Lucius felt a moment of hope, "... to Hermione."

"My Lord, you know that it is none of my business who you take into your... service. But since it is plain for all to see that the girl has regained her wits, there has been talk, even among the most faithful, that your... fondness for this Mudbl... Hermione, is a weakness." Even as he spoke, Lucius was arranging himself into a position of both humility and protection. But the blow never came.

Gathering his courage, Lucius raised his eyes to the figure of the Dark Lord staring though the window and into the darkness.

"I believe you are incorrect," he spoke softly and did not glance at Lucius's still bowed figure.

"Then, perhaps you will put her aside, my Lord?"

"I am as fond of her as of any. No, Lucius, I said, I believe you are incorrect." This time there was nothing soft in his tone and the blond man cringed lower still. "Leave. I have kept you from your guests long enough."

"Yes, my Lord." Silently Voldemort turned back to the window and the darkness.

***

It has been two days that I have been locked in this room. I do not know why I am being held. I have not spoken to him since arriving at Lucius's party. We returned to the mansion and he handed me to Wormtail who, without a word, locked me in this room.

And so it has been. I see no one but Wormtail, who shoves food at me, changes the bucket left for my use, and then leaves with out a word twice a day. This time I was also stripped of my want.

But surely he will come soon. The interview is tomorrow evening and he has not even told me what I am to say. Not to mention how desperately I need a bath and to change out of this stupid party dress. At this point, I might as well go out and confirm everything; I should out him for the monster he is! How could I ever have enjoyed the sound of his voice, his learning, his company?

Unless he used the Imperius curse. Oh, God; that is what he is going to do. I know it. But he would not use it on me. Would he? He finds amusement in my intelligence. I would have said he would never have thought he could leave me like this either. I have been deluding myself. I have forgotten who he is... what he is.

No, my sin is far worse. I have believed myself to be special and allowed myself to turn my back on who he is. I have allowed myself to believe...

What use is love? Is it being more content in someone's presence that when they are missing? Is it being able to tolerate someone? But that is just loneliness. There is no lone, there is only acceptance.

There in no shame in accepting the change that has already occurs. Indeed it often seems to take more courage. But these are Slytherin virtues. What have I become?

Dante chose the ninth circle of Hell, as low as you can get, for traitors. And for the worst of the worst, those infamous traitors far beyond the pale of humanity; Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius, he reserves the fate of being eternally consumed by Lucifer himself. I can feel wicked teeth tearing into me even now. I have betrayed everything and everyone. Do I now betray my betrayer?

I must stop this or I shall drive myself mad. And this time without the benefit of a potion or spell. I should do a good job of it as well, I have always been a quick study. Ha!

Focus, Hermione. The room. Glean help from your surroundings, or at least it will give me a task to occupy my mind. There is a bed in the corner with a single flat pillow and rough brown blanket. The frame is iron and firmly fixed to both the floor and wall. No help there... The other corner has the metal bucket and... that is it. The floor is stone and cold. Dust has piled up in the corners. The windowless walls are the same color as the dust and, in places, cracked and flaking.

If I had a quill, I would inscribe the space about the door with "Abandon all hope ye who enter". If he leaves me here long enough, blood will suffice. Let him yell about the graffiti if he wants. The door is thick heavy wood, maybe oak but I really don't know and... the door is opening!

Instantly, Hermione drops to the bed, attempting a position bit nonchalant and defiant. She fails at both.

"This is not about love. I do not know love," the words come out harsh and he leaves them.

"No."

"You will come to my chamber tonight." He turns and leaves then, but the door remains open.