Voldemort Ascendant

Prologue: Hermione

Hermione carelessly lowered her heavy bucket to the ground, unfussed by the soapy, dirty water that sloshed over the edges and washed over her feet. Throwing the mop down beside the discarded bucket, she wiped her hands on her apron and then gave her chipped, filth-rimmed nails a careful appraisal.

'I don't know why I bother," she said softly, and attempted to scrape some of the filth from under her left thumb. 'I could clean and file you to my heart's content, and you'd still be filthy again by morning.' So saying, she walked over to the tap and sink on the far side of the room and proceeded to wash and scrub her hands under the water, heedless to the chill.

How long have I been doing this? One year? Two? she asked herself, running the fingers of her right hand over her caloused left palm. Two years, five months, a prim voice said from within her head. You know exactly how long you've been doing this for, and you'll never stop counting. Hermione sighed and turned off the tap, knowing that no amount of water - no matter how cold nor hot nor soapy - was going to fix her ragged nails, remove the callouses, nor remove the slight tremble that so frequently assaulted her from the wrists down.

Looking over her shoulder to assure herself that she had, indeed, locked the door behind her, she moved to the spotless mirror tucked away in the corner of the room. She knew they could open the door easily enough despite the lock, but at least she'd hear it and have time to look like she was busy.

'Not much to look at these days, my dear,' the mirror said honestly but kindly. Hermione nodded in agreement, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her reflection was drab and untidy, her face thin and sallow complexioned. Deep, dark pouches lived beneath her eyes, and her lips were thin and pursed. The traditional robes of the wizard and witch had been replaced with the more practical knee length skirt and apron of a cleaning woman, her once healthy-albeit-wild hair now hung lankly beneath a stained scarf, knotted at the base of her skull. 'Not to mind, love. It's what's inside that counts,' the mirror offered.

'I know,' Hermione whispered. That's what worries me, she thought to herself. How long had it been seen she'd last had access to a book? Access to a wand? Any wand, never mind her own. She knew she shouldn't care. She knew that there were other things to worry about these days, and that she was never likely to need a wand - nor the skill to use a wand - again. But it still frightened her. The fear was there, an ever present concern, that she was losing that spark that once she'd been reknowned and praised for.

Once upon a time, she'd been Hermione Granger, the brightest witch to study at Hogwarts in well over a century or more. Her skills had grown every day, and she'd even been taken under the private tutelage of Albus Dumbledore himself.

Now, she was "Granger!", more commonly referred to as "You there!", one of a dozen or so former students that now served at the Dark Lord's Academy for the Dark Arts and Black Magic. The school formerly known as Hogwarts.

Covering a surreptitious sniffle, Hermione turned away from the mirror and moved to the window, covertly glancing outwards onto the grounds below. Snow lay on the ground, several inches thick, churned by the footfall of hundreds of students. Soon, fresh snow would fall, and the snow would become a smooth surface once again. Several students, warmly covered in thick black cloaks, briskly moved back and forth, within moments forming themselves into two groups. A student stepped forward from each group, and a tall figure stepped between them. Squinting, Hermione recognised Professor Mulciber. They must be practicing their Imperius curses, she thought, and tried to recognise the faces in the two groups. From the general height of the students, she assumed that they must be either fifth or six year students, at least. Maybe even seventh years? Normally she'd have recognised seventh years students; if she were still a student, she'd be a seventh year student herself. But this year had seen an influx of students from foreign schools, students eager to master the Dark Arts from recognised Death-Eaters such as Professor Mulciber.

Her face pressed up against the glass, her attention focussed solely upon the students, Hermione failed to notice the sound of the door opening and quietly closing behind her.

'You, there! Granger, isn't it?'

Hermione swung about with a guilty gasp, finding herself face to face with a smirking Blaise Zabini. Rolling her eyes, Hermione picked up her bucket and moved towards the sink. 'You know perfectly well who I am, Zabini,' she said, and emptied the bucket's dirty contents down the sink.

'Awfully haughty for a slave, aren't you, Granger?' He taunted, stepping towards her.

'Oh, bugger off, Zabini. As a slave, I don't have time for your stupidity.' So saying, Hermione selected the 'Detergent, floor-mopping' tap, and waited silently as the bucket slowly filled with soapy green water. Zabini watched without saying a word, and Hermione felt herself growing increasingly irritable. When, at last, the bucket was filled, she hefted it out of the sink and sloshed it to the floor, deliberately allowing the hot water to wash over Zabini's feet.

Zabini swore and took a quick step backwards. 'Watch what you're doing, you clumsy cow,' he hissed.

Hermione grabbed her mop and plunged it into the steaming bucket, hiding a satisfied smile as Zabini hastily stepped backwards once more. 'Did you want something, Zabini?' she asked, sloshing the mop from the bucket and starting to mop the floor with broad strokes that sent water splattering through the room.

'As a matter of fact, maybe I do want something,' he replied, and snatched the broom from Hermione's hands.

Too late, Hermione noticed that Blaise had locked the door behind him upon entrance. Noticing where Hermione's eyes were, Zabini allowed his smirk to return. 'That's locked with a wizard's charm. You're not getting out of here without a wand, Miss Granger,' he sneered, and grabbed the front of Hermione's apron.

'Let go of me, Zabini,' Hermione hissed. 'Or else I'll-'

'You'll what? Call for one of your Phoenix friends? Scream for Potter?' he taunted, then burst into sarcastic laughter. 'Your little Phoenix's are all but decimated . . . maybe one or two hidden away off in New Zealand, trembling and crying for their Mama's, but the rest are dead, Granger. And as for Potter,' he spat the name out, a mixture of scorn and satisfaction, 'he's broken and worthless, mindless, with no more will than a pot-plant!' He shook her, hard, then backed her up against a wall and leaned against her. 'But you're not broken, are you, Granger?' he leered. 'I'll bet you're a real fighter, eh?'

Hermione gasped and shoved at him. 'You know you're not to touch the slaves, Zabini . . . you saw what happened to Crabbe when he tried to rape Parvati . . .' she cried.

Zabini hesitated for a second, then quickly laughed. 'He was a fool, cornering her in the hallway in the middle of the day. You're mine, Granger . . . I learnt that door-locking charm from Draco Malfoy himself, and short of him, no-one's going to unlock that door anytime soon.' With that, he tore the front of Hermione's apron away, and Hermione slapped him soundly over the cheek.

Eyes wide with shock, Zabini lifted his fist to strike her.

'My word, this is a surprise,' a cold voice said from the doorway.

Zabini lowered his fist and took a quick step away from Hermione. Shamed, Hermione grabbed the torn edges of her apron and held them together in an attempt to preserve her modesty, then looked at her toes, not daring to meet Lucius Malfoy's eyes.

'Sir, I-' Zabini started, but was immediately cut off by Lucius.

'I can detect my son's door-locking charm from across the grounds. I taught it to him myself, you know. Here I was, expecting to find him in some illicit act with one of his little fangirls. Yet I've found you and . . . just who is that, cowering away in the shadows?' Stepping into the room, Lucius lifted his wand. Anticipating Lucius's actions, Hermione turned her head away. 'Lumos.'

A small beam of light shot from Lucius's wand and illuminated the small room. 'Ah, Miss Granger, I believe?'

'She tried to seduce me, sir!' Zabini cried quickly.

Lucius shot an impatient frown at Zabini. 'Do you really expect me to believe that our prudish Miss Granger tried to seduce a brute like yourself, Zabini? No, of course you don't. Now get yourself up to my office post-haste, Zabini. I'll deal with you anon.'

Zabini ran from the room as Lucius watched. When he turned back, he found that Hermione had scuttled into the far corner of the room, her face still turned away from him. 'What the . . . blast it, child, do you truly think I'm going to finish what he started?' Hermione said nothing, simply remained as she was, clutching the front of her apron in a trembling hand. 'I see,' he said softly. Pointing his wand at her torn apron, he muttered a spell, and beneath her fist the cloth quickly weaved itself together until nothing of the rip remained.

Lucius quietly moved to window and looked down upon the group of students practicing their Imperius curses. A student was running around in circles, barking madly, which brought a slight smile to Lucius's face. 'You could have been down there, Miss Granger. And you would have been one of our best.' He turned to face her, and made an impatient sound when he saw that she still hadn't moved. 'Have no fear, girl. You may be sure that Zabini will never so much as look at you again when I'm finished with him.' Hermione gave a slight nod. 'Finish cleaning this room,' Lucius said, then strode quietly from the room, closing the door gently behind him.

'A most unpleasant affair,' the mirror sniffled ostensibly from across the room. 'First, that little Zabini beast, then that pretentious Mr Malfoy . . . I simply refuse to refer to him as "Headmaster Malfoy"! That's it, my dear . . . you have a little cry. It'll make you feel better, it will. Mark my word, none of this ever would have happened if old Dumbledore hadn't died.'

End Prologue