Abyss

Chapter 9

Voldemort sent a spell that began unraveling Hermione's intestines to wake her up. Hermione bit back a scream as she curled into a ball against the wrenching in her abdomen in places where it never should have hurt. Her teeth drew blood on her bottom lip and the side of her tongue. He lifted the spell only as she began to retch.

With another wave of his wand, the shackles released her ankles. With surprisingly strong hands, he lifted her to her feet.

"Wake up," he said.

Hermione coughed as her intestines rearranged themselves. "You know, it would probably save a lot of time and energy if you just kicked me."

"Where's the pleasure in that?" Voldemort asked just as levelly.

"Well, there's the physical contact, the knowledge that you, rather than magic, is the cause of my pain. Then recovery time is cut in half so that I can glare at you sooner."

Voldemort almost smiled. "Inflicting pain on you will rarely be an act of emotion or reason, so logic is unnecessary, as is practicality. I'll keep your suggestion in mind when I feel a strong urge to beat someone."

"Good. I'll tell you who needs it most."

"The one passing judgment so swiftly is often in dire need of judgment herself," Voldemort replied.

"This verbal sparring is amusing," Hermione said coldly, "but do you have a reason for waking me up, or is it just some other way to annoy me?"

"Now you are being too bold," Voldemort said, narrowing his eyes until they were thin streaks of red against his ivory skin.

In fearful deference, Hermione bent to her knees and kissed his left boot. For the past week, he had done nothing but wake her up in the morning and occasionally go to sleep at night. She had nothing to do but sit and wait for Voldemort's interest in her to wax.

"Good," he purred, guiding her back to her feet. "I intend to take you somewhere. Wear your robe. I don't want people to mistake you for... something else..." He held out the robe. Hermione took it with a furrow in her brow.

Voldemort grabbed her elbow and led her out the room.

"How do you live without windows?" Hermione asked as they went down the corridor lit with dim bubbles of light as well as torches. The walls were a languid rose and the ground was carpeted in a deep beige. Hermione wondered who did the decorating.

They did not pass anyone, but Hermione knew better than to ask where anyone was. According to Voldemort, the building was immense, and it was often empty when Death Eater activities were occurring in Britain. Voldemort's intentional slip first informed Hermione that they were no longer in the United Kingdom.

"Just because you haven't been led by windows does not mean that there aren't windows," Voldemort said. The walls and dim lighting were oppressive and thick, and Hermione almost felt like cringing closer to Voldemort; the walls seemed to be closing in.

But Voldemort reached a door and opened it so that she could breathe a little more. What she saw, though, caught her breath in shock and horror.

Along a room as wide and long as a cathedral draped hundreds and hundreds of women lounging naked upon chaises, poufs, sofas, feather and water beds... Well, mostly women, and mostly naked. Some of the females were clothed in such a way that their clothing was more provocative than nudity.

"It's no wonder you're cold to the naked form," Hermione said. There was not much more she could say. "Don't your Death Eaters tire of it?"

"They maintain it regularly, and the Harem is open to the Black Dogs and Cat's Paws," Voldemort answered. At Hermione's quizzical look, Voldemort elaborated. "Black Dog is the rank below Death Eaters. There are mostly responsible for the arbitrary torture of Muggles and Mudbloods to throw off the Death Eater scent. They are a known organization in the right circles, only loosely connected to me. The Cat's Paws are my spies. They are mostly female. Sex is one of the most useful tools in this world. There are a few males, though, and they focus on expensive affairs with politicians' wives. Frieda was a Cat's Paw until last year when she decided she was too good for them."

"Why did you bring me here?" Hermione asked.

Voldemort slid a hood over his head, and Hermione was strongly reminded of the first day she had seen him in the Forbidden Forest.

"To visit someone," Voldemort said vaguely. He pushed her in by the small of her back, and at their entrance, a number of women swept around in expectation while others tried to hide. At Voldemort's lack of appearance, many women turned back around, ignoring the intrusion. If an anonymous Death Eater wanted them, he could pursue them on his own. The presence of another woman intrigued some of them, and they approached hesitantly.

"My master, have you brought us another companion?" murmured one woman, eyes sultry with keen desire. She seemed more interested in the girl than in the man.

Voldemort shook his head without speaking and set a hand possessively on Hermione's shoulder.

"Where is MacNair?" Voldemort whispered, disguising his voice behind a subtle hiss.

The woman's face fell as she cocked her head to the side. "With Rathna," she said. "Are you sure she is not for us?" she asked hopefully, blue eyes lighting up from behind a curtain of blonde that hid her features. "We haven't taught one in so long. And she looks delicious." A crimson glint fluttered in her gaze.

"She's mine."

"Delicious," the woman crooned, licking her lips.

Voldemort drew his wand, and though the woman growled, she fell to her knees and crawled away.

Hermione was frozen in spite of herself. Voldemort coaxed her to the direction the woman had indicated. "She has vampires in the family line. She's here voluntarily, and she isn't particular."

Hermione shivered.

"Relax, she's yielded claim. Besides, she's not the one you need to worry about."

Behind a curtain, Hermione could hear two cries, one male and the other female, rhythmic and dissonant, still chilling in its combination, like predators on the first kill. Like teenagers scratching a persistent itch.

"MacNair is particular," Voldemort said, waiting patiently for them to finish. "He's captured three women in his full twenty years of service. He remains exclusive with them and lets no one touch them."

Hermione turned around to look at him. "Do you know all your Death Eaters' sex lives?"

She could hear the smile in his voice. "The ones that have one, yes."

"Is copulating all they do with females?"

"It's all you see. There are other methods. And a majority of the girls here aren't previously tortured victims. Many were abducted from the streets: drug houses, prostitution, runaways, abandoned children. The Harem isn't as bleak as Lucius made it out to be. The girls are clean and receive regular meals and comfort. It was Lucius' idea in the first place. And I must admit, it keeps my Death Eaters happier."

"He's such a philanthropist," Hermione sneered.

"The Ministry once thought so," Voldemort said. "Now silence."

Hermione bowed her head. Voldemort was beside himself with pleasure. His own intelligent pet. When he wanted conversation, he could turn to her, but still she was completely under his control.

There was one final coupled shriek for release from within the curtain, then dissipated labored breathing. Hermione colored as she heard muffled murmurings as though a man was speaking through kisses. Why it bothered her, when she was only a third party after her month with Lucius, escaped her.

Then, all of a sudden, the curtain was drawn and a fully dressed MacNair stepped out. Behind him lay an Indian woman. She was not very beautiful, but she had wide, warm eyes and a thin figure and thick hair that fanned over the pillows. Seeing they had visitors, Rathna sat up, and Hermione could see the woman's depth of mind in her countenance. Rathna stared straight into Hermione's eyes and smiled. MacNair, too, showed his delight with a curve of the lips and sparkle in the eye. He bowed low, with great drama but equal sincerity.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" MacNair asked as he raised himself to his considerable full height. He was, to be frank, sinfully handsome, the very description of the perfect male specimen generally only found in cheap romance novels: black hair that tumbled to his broad shoulders, a thin black mustache that was the only adornment on an otherwise smooth, chiseled face with a strong jaw and a nose that was full of character and wide mouth full of sensuality. The muscles of his arms, chest, and legs strained against the fabric of his clothes. He reeked of satisfaction and confidence and sex.

Hermione was immediately wary.

"You must be Hermione," MacNair said, charming as a gentleman, a half smile gracing his face. "I've heard... a great deal about you."

"I know you," Hermione said in response. "You were going to execute Buckbeak."

MacNair raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Hagrid's hippogriff. Four years ago," Hermione elaborated, her eyes narrowing at the memory.

MacNair nodded. "Ah, yes, the half-giant. A friend?"

"Yes," Hermione spat.

MacNair laughed in his throat. "I'll bet you looked up everything for the oaf. His arguments were far too sharp for a simpleton like him."

"He was distraught! Buckbeak should have gotten off. You and I both know that!" Hermione shouted.

"Of course he should have," MacNair conceded. "I don't choose the executions. They give me a beast, I kill it. I get paid whether it's innocent or dangerous."

Hermione tried to draw back, but Voldemort held her firmly. Then she realized why Voldemort had brought her here. He knew. She did not know how, but he knew about her third year. No, she refused to play his game. She stared at MacNair, but did not answer his provocation.

MacNair stepped closer. "I've heard you are quite intelligent."

"Why?" Hermione asked, shifting her body in what might have been a calculated way had she known what practiced subtleties would catch a man's eye--Lucius was always straight-forward. MacNair's eyes drifted to the swell of her hips.

"Why doesn't matter." MacNair's voice had gone considerably rawer, and Voldemort stepped back to allow MacNair to put his hand on Hermione's waist. "The intelligent ones are always the best. They have a sort of... intuition in bed." His hand caressed her hair.

"Let go of me," Hermione said through clenched teeth.

"That's no way for a slave to speak," MacNair murmured into her ear.

Hermione shifted again, aware of her slave status, but also aware of the way she was being played by Voldemort. As his lips drifted toward her mouth, she stiffened, but pressed lightly against his chest in supplication.

MacNair's eyes only deepened in mirth. "I promise I can have you screaming to have me fill you in less than two minutes."

"I'd rather not," Hermione said. MacNair looked up at Voldemort. Voldemort shook his head.

MacNair straightened. "Very well. If that is the case, simply congratulations are in order."

Hermione cocked her head suspiciously. "Why?"

"I never thought Wormtail would ever come, if you know what I mean. He's so awkward, but now... I've heard some wonderful things about his techniques."

"Why, have you tried him?"

"Claws in, darling," MacNair said appreciatively. He turned to Voldemort and gave another bow. "She is a magnificent specimen, my lord. She's perfect for Wormtail. But not for me, however intriguing her potential wit." He retreated back behind the curtain.

"Didn't you say MacNair was particular?" Hermione asked. Voldemort nodded then led her out of the room.

"Don't be vain," Voldemort said coldly. "You're mental abilities only enhance your body in his eyes. He does not care for you to think. And I have another person I want you to meet. He should be here in minutes."

"Another prospect?" Hermione suggested. "Who would have thought your Death Eaters would be so interested in a simple little Mudblood?"

Voldemort grabbed her neck.

"Enough." Voldemort threw her against the wall with unanticipated strength. His voice was even and measured--Hermione doubted whether his pulse rate even increased. "Enough. No, stay down there until I have finished with you." The robe had ridden up her thighs and she felt rather vulnerable with her sex in Voldemort's view, but he paid her discomfort no mind. "You are not Hermione Granger, slave. I choose to call you Hermione, and that is the only appellation you should remember. You never attended Hogwarts, you never had friends, you were never even born. You are just Hermione, my slave, and nothing else. Nothing should clutter your mind except what I allow. You will never be Hermione Granger again." Flashes of memory slid clandestine through her mind: not Lucius or Wormtail, but Crabbe and Goyle, with their mindless domination and unbending will. But Voldemort wasn't touching her or hurting her, and she was willing to take the risk to disagree.

"I will always be Hermione Granger," she said slowly. "I can pretend you won, I can pretend I'm nothing, but nothing short of Obliviate will change who I am." She straightened her robes so that she was covered properly. "I am Hermione Granger. I have two parents and a cat familiar; I've gone through a little more than six years at Hogwarts, acting as prefect fifth and sixth year, and as Head Girl in seventh. I solve the riddles, I read the books. I have two wonderful friends named Harry and Ron in Gryffindor House, and I happened to make a mistake by not having you killed when I have the chance. Forgive me for pitying you and adopting you as my temporary familiar. I am Hermione Granger," Hermione exclaimed. She sat up. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

The fire in Voldemort's eyes now burned rampant with the fervor of a furious dragon, and he crouched down so that his face was level with Hermione's; he covered her legs, exerting his own subtle control of her physical options. With a terrible restraint, Voldemort slowly unsheathed his wand and pressed it against the vulnerability of her throat. The point indented the skin menacingly. Without his fury leaving her gaze, the wand drifted down to the hollow of her collarbone; its track welled red under the tender flesh.

"I want you unspoiled," he murmured. "Your intelligence at times amuses me. Your position must remain as it is. I drop subtle hints as to your Death Eater status to Dumbledore, while from a different source comes a different explanation as to your welfare, or lack thereof. While they worry about you, they are careless in other concerns. It is useful to have you around. I could, however, make you silent. All that mental activity and no outlet."

"I've been silent for the last month," Hermione shot back through trembling lips.

The wand lifted to her mouth. "How does a year sound?"

Hermione took another risk. "Could you live with my silence?"

Voldemort put his face in front of her until he was mere inches away. "The prospect is tempting." But his anger had diminished somewhat.

"And you wonder that I have romantic notions," Carmen muttered a few feet away. "Your position is not exactly prudent."

Voldemort closed his eyes and settled back so that he was sitting on Hermione's legs.

"Have you any sense of timing?" Voldemort asked irritably.

"I'm an old man, my lord. I don't have enough time for proper timing."

Hermione was confused. In all respects, this man did not seem a Death Eater. He was good-natured, by the lines of his face garrulous, and compassionate. His mouth showed his pity as Hermione stared at him, bewildered. His casualness also surprised her. And that Voldemort accepted it as though he was accustomed to it...

Carmen's carpet drifted closer to the floor. "No," he murmured roughly. "I can see now that my notions are incorrect. You are cold, my lord." He turned his gaze to Hermione. "But the lady is not. Are you uncomfortable, my dear?"

Hermione was speechless.

"Do you believe she is supposed to be comfortable, lecherous fool?" Voldemort said.

"What makes you think I'm lecherous?"

"I smell it on you. You're drooling."

"I appreciate beauty," Carmen explained.

Voldemort sneered. "You find this beautiful?"

"My lord, you must as well. We are men of the finer things because we have had very few of them." Carmen nodded sagely. "This young lady would not win Enchantress' most beautiful witch, to be sure, but she has a strong, practical, clever mind, a sturdy, enduring body that is certainly... attractive. And a fortitude you know you must enjoy."

Hermione nearly barked out laughter. Mommy, the Emperor is naked.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed and he stared at Carmen from the corners of his eye, almost in the manner of a snake. Then he said carefully, "You forget your place, Franco Carmen. You presume too much. You presume I am a man. I am more than a mere man, friend. I am more." He stood. He leaned forward. "Never forget what I can do. And what I can do to you."

Carmen stayed near the floor and bent with the support of his arms, presenting the back of his head.

"My lord, I only seek to let you know your own mind as I understand it. Forgive me for my presumptions. At times, we maintain friendly rapport, and it is difficult to remember my status."

"Why did you want me to meet him?" Hermione asked timidly.

Voldemort inclined his head. The coldness made his eyes glitter like false, rough-cut jewels.

"To show you," Voldemort explained, "that even those who once supported Dumbledore have come to me. Carmen is no Death Eater, but he actively thwarts Dumbledore's designs. Your precious Headmaster is fallible after all."

"As you are," Hermione snapped. She could tell Voldemort wanted to kick her, but instead, he reached over and pinched the sensitive skin under her jaw-line. Hermione jumped.

"He is an imperious one, lady," Carmen said with a chuckle. "He likes his way."

"You make me sound like a child," Voldemort said, amused.

"To me, an old man, you will always be a child. It may be why Dumbledore calls you Tom. That was how he knew you." Carmen settled back on his carpet, enjoying the new peace.

Hermione shook her head. "Professor Dumbledore calls him Tom because it is a way to strip V--my lord from his power and standing. It draws him back to a place and time when he was still learning under Professor Dumbledore. He does it to make my lord angry. Tom is an ordinary name, not the name of a Dark Lord."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow and observed Hermione in silence for a long moment. His face was inscrutable. He finally murmured, "Well said."

Carmen, too, looked at Hermione more closely. "Well said indeed. Never would have thought of that."

"You know what goes on in Dumbledore's mind?" Voldemort asked. Possibilities of slight extractions such as the one accidentally made whirled through his head. If she knew Dumbledore's psychology, she could be a great asset apart from torturing the man and Harry Potter. If he could somehow start her talking, perhaps say something so wrong she would have to correct him... the new door opened like it had once concealed a prize and now permitted access to the glory within. He might even be able to give her her wand when he could trust her with it, and she could unwittingly help their cause. He would have to be cunning: she was not the kind of woman to easily be deceived, but she might so be clouded by emotional turmoil, whether positive or negative, that she would like to believe his change of heart was real. No, he would have to think on this one. Sleep on it, perhaps.

Hermione did not like that calculating look that Voldemort was giving her, but she answered, "Of course I don't know Dumbledore's mind. It is merely a logical guess from what I see and what I distinguish and what I understand. I cannot be sure. I'm Hermione Granger, not Albus Dumbledore."

Voldemort sensed the jab sent to him by her use of her full name, and he pinched the sensitive place again. Hermione repressed the instinct to strike back. She turned away, presenting her profile in a half-ignoring state. Harry's face swam in her vision, encouraging.

We're going to rescue you, he said comfortingly. We're going to get you back. But her more cynical side told her they had not found her yet. They don't know where his secret fortress is, she thought grimly. They said so. They're never going to find me. I'm going to be a prisoner forever. I'm going to cater to Lord Voldemort's arbitrary whims for the rest of my likely short life.

Voldemort's thin fingers clasped Hermione's chin, maneuvering her head until she was facing him.

"At least Carmen doesn't want you in his bed," Voldemort said gently. He muttered to Carmen, "You are dismissed."

"Lovely to meet you, lady," Carmen said, taking Hermione's hand and saluting it before heading into the Harem.

"Why did he leave Dumbledore? I haven't read about that happening before," Hermione said.

Voldemort took her wrist and lifted her to her feet. "A number of reasons, none of them good. Strange, actually. He may have mental problems imbedded deep in his skull that he has yet to show, but for now his thought processes seem remotely sane at least." With a deliberation that disconcerted Hermione, Voldemort brushed the hair out of her face, looking closely at her eyes as if they showed him something tremendously important.

"It has been a difficult day for you, hasn't it?" Voldemort murmured.

"You knew it would be," Hermione replied.

"Yes," he agreed.

Without another word, he led her back to the room.

"My lord," Hermione said as he fettered her once more, "why did you get so angry? Isn't that detrimental to the image you want to present to me?"

Voldemort folded his legs lotus-style in front of her again.

Cocking his head slightly, he said, "I suppose I did lose my temper."

"You've lost your temper before, and it has been known to distract you," Hermione said, leaning back against the foot of the bed.

"Before you become comfortable... the robe." He gestured to it. Hermione sighed and removed it. "Yes, to become emotional at the wrong time can thwart one's own designs, but at other times, it can hold a beneficial lesson to its recipient. I will admit to the temper I displayed earlier. Thank you for saving me from potential trouble with myself in the future."

Hermione could hit herself for her curiosity that had originally been meant as a taunt. "You're welcome."

"Hermione, look at me." She obeyed, gazing into his dark red eyes as though gazing at her own blood.

"You will never escape nor be rescued from here. You know that, don't you?"

Hermione dropped her head.

"Look at me."

She did.

"He--they can do nothing for you."

"They will try," Hermione snapped. "And in doing so, they will hurt you along the way."

Voldemort smirked. "What makes you think they will?"

"I may not know what goes through Dumbledore's head, but I know Harry, I know him. Even if he goes alone, he'll find a way," Hermione spat.

"And get himself killed in the process."

"He's been lucky since day one; I'm sure his luck will continue to stand. All he has to show from his struggles with you is a simple scar."

Voldemort's cheek twitched, but he remained calm. He knew her game.

"No, not just a scar. He has no peace, no rest. He can form no true intimate connections without his friends getting hurt. You think kidnapping you rather than simply killing you was random? You were taken because you are--or at least were--a close friend of Potter's. He may have one physical scar, but how many scars do you think he has where you can't see them?"

Hermione was stricken. Voldemort's words brought her back to a conversation she had once had with Harry.

"Hermione," Harry said glumly, "maybe... maybe you should stop being my friend. I mean, you can still fight on the Order's side, but just don't be my friend. Something bad is going to happen to you, I know it. It you're my friend, they'll target you."

"No," she insisted, "ridiculous. I don't care if a thousand Death Eaters curse me to pieces. I'll still scream from those pieces 'I'm still Harry Potter's friend.' It'll be on my epitaph. But don't be stupid. Even if we stage this big fight, the fact that I was one of Harry Potter's best friends would still make me a likely target. And I'm not going to deny you. I wouldn't even deny Ron, not for a million Galleons. It may be unashamedly sentimental, but friends like us, we're going to stay friends for a while."

"It's going to hurt, Hermione, when you get hurt."

Hermione reached out with her hands and grasped the side of his head. "Don't. Don't let it cause you pain. It's not going to cause me pain. Not mentally, that is. I won't let it."

Harry raised his eyes. "What if we're not as strong as we think we are?"

"Harry, Harry, Harry, considering you've survived this long..."

"I said 'we,' Hermione," Harry interrupted. "I've lasted, but you and Ron are the ones who always get hit. Especially you. You've been hit more than Ron. The basilisk..."

"Don't worry, Harry," Hermione insisted. "I decided I wanted to stay with you. And I still do."

Hermione looked up. "You can't hurt me. As long as you can't hurt me, you can't hurt him."

Voldemort sneered. "How Gryffindor of you." Leaning forward, he said, "But just because you suddenly chose to say you weren't affected by anything doesn't mean you have not been affected." He touched her heart. "This has been hardened, but only because it has been hurt."

"Who said it's been hardened?" Hermione countered.

"It's impossible to live here with sensitivity. If you hadn't shielded yourself, you would have fallen long ago. If you ever leave, you shall not be unscathed."

This time, Hermione felt the blow--he had given her a spark of hope that he could crush: a maybe, an 'if.'

The door opened, and both Voldemort and Hermione twisted to see who dared to intrude Voldemort's private quarters.

Wormtail.

When Wormtail saw them both, he cringed. "Forgive me, my lord, I didn't--"

"Expect me to be here?" Voldemort finished for him. "And what would you have done had I not been here, Wormtail?"

"Ah--erm--er--well..." Wormtail stammered, his eyes drifting to where Hermione sat naked in front of the bed.

"Pray that the Interrogation Aurors never get their hands on you," Voldemort said in a disgusted tone. "You wanted Hermione."

"Ah--well..."

"Yes, we've been through all that. But you haven't answered me. Were you willing to brave my wrath for... a tumble with a girl?" Voldemort stood so that he towered over the diminutive Wormtail.

Wormtail trembled. "I-I asked y-you f-f-for her," he said hesitatingly.

"And I said no," Voldemort replied, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't understand..." Wormtail began; his eyes strayed back to Hermione and he involuntarily licked his lips.

"I understand," Voldemort said, composed, "that you are willing to die to have Hermione."

Wormtail's eyes flashed in anger. "You've never had a woman yourself, not really. You wouldn't understand that there are men who spend their entire lies looking for a girl. Don't you understand that?"

Voldemort took his wand form his sleeve and pointed it at Wormtail. "Crucio," he said softly. Hermione saw his face; there was no malice, only the countenance of a teacher chastising his stubborn student. When he finally lifted his wand away, Wormtail panted on the floor, holding himself against the wracks of his body.

"I've had women, Wormtail," Voldemort said. "I remember what it was like. Yet I've remained abstinent for a few decades. Men who chase women for their entire lives, whose purpose in life revolves around sex, are weaker than men addicted to other things. Woman can come for free. At least men wanting substances need to make their connections. I permit the Harem for temporary enjoyment. I occasionally permit mistresses if they do not distract my Death Eaters from their task at hand. You, however, are far too easily distracted."

"How if she were my mistress?" Wormtail insisted earnestly. "If she were mine, she'd be less of a distraction."

Voldemort curled his lip. "I highly doubt that. Your work with me has lately declined in quality."

"A momentary lapse. It will improve, my lord," Wormtail pleaded.

The Dark Lord's eyes thinned into slits. "Yes, it will, with or without the girl." Smiling once more, Voldemort sat a hand on Hermione's hair. "However, the second she commits a horrendous transgression, I will call for you and you can even use my bed--with my blessing."

Hermione closed her eyes and buried her face in her knees to hide the angry and shameful flush on her cheeks, and to avoid Wormtail's lusty glances, for Voldemort had given him, too, hope--hope more probable than the hope afforded her.

Voldemort nodded. "Go, Wormtail. Should anything like this happen again, you'll find yourself in conditioning."

Wormtail's fear was suddenly as thick as molasses.

"Oh, yes, and also if your absolute loyalty to me, and me alone, is tried again..."

"My master, please, no," Wormtail cried, falling to his knees with his hands clasped before him.

"If you do not improve, Wormtail..." Voldemort let the threat trail off emphatically.

Wormtail bowed quickly. "Of course, my lord, yes, my lord..."

He ran from the room.

Hermione revealed her face and muttered, "A man is born from the womb and for the rest of his life finds himself seeking for a way to get back in."

Voldemort laughed, though he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled. "My promise to you and Wormtail still stands, Hermione. Don't test my will."

He went about his business, ready to leave the room.

"My lord," Hermione called.

Voldemort faced her and waited.

"Why were you so kind to me when you were Belthazar?" Hermione had pondered this for her time alone in his room, and the day's events led her to ask him finally the reason for his behavior. Her memories flitted about her sincere affection, the times he had protected her, shared her bed, helped her with her work. This serpent seemed worlds away from the one she remembered.

Voldemort was silent for a moment as he contemplated the question. Finally, he said, "The spell."

Then he left.

Hermione could tell there was something in his mind he did not want her to know.

~888~

"Harry, I summoned you here so that I could confess. I told her, practically ordered her to keep the snake, to keep Belthazar, and I... Harry, I know this will deeply trouble you... I knew the snake was Tom. Yes, I knew. It was the eyes, the blood-red eyes. The Animagus was logical and his presence was unmistakable. I confess it."

"You mean..." Harry began.

"She did not want to keep Belthazar. I thought... maybe... with the snake-charming spell we might have the weapon we needed to defeat him without killing him. He was placid with her. Tame as a kitten. I thought, maybe this is it. I should have killed it then. But I just wasn't sure enough. And that, despite its hatred of you, it also hated everyone else, even the Slytherins, put me off-track. But now... it is clear. Harry, don't look at me like that. I am fallible, too, you know that."

Harry backed away, trembling with rage. "You... you put Hermione into danger? It's bad enough when you put me in the front line, but Hermione, Professor Dumbledore? When you wouldn't even let her into the Order because of the danger, you gave her the responsibility of handling Lord Voldemort... intimately? How could you?"

"Harry, I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, you'd better be," Harry snarled. "What were you thinking?"

"That Tom could be defeated in a different way," Dumbledore said in a low voice.

"Leave the idealistic bullshit to the media. You've been in a war," Harry accused. "You know you can't always do the good thing in a war, only the right thing. Don't you get it? It's him or me, that's what the prophecy says."

Dumbledore sighed, "Even the most air-tight prophecies have been wrong."

"You should never have knowingly put Hermione in that situation without telling her."

"And what if she had joined him!" Dumbledore bellowed. "I was suspicious of her loyalties after her Dark Activities. What if I told her, and she decided to offer our secrets to him? I had to be careful. With the decisions she made, she didn't make mine any easier."

Harry yelled back, "If there is one thing I've learned in this school, it's that every secret we keep leads us further into a mess. If there isn't communication, we know nothing at all. We're blind in Voldemort's maze. We've only made it easier for him."

"I did what I thought was right," Dumbledore said quietly.

"No," Harry disagreed. "You did what you thought was good."