Abyss

Chapter 14

The first thing that struck her was that he was leading her out of his chambers without binding her. And she was still holding his towel around her. They had stepped into the outside corridor when he noticed that she was covered. Without a word, he took an edge of the towel and eased it from her body. Hermione did not protest. She was comfortable with her nudity in front of him because he never stared; he never indicated any interest beyond her as a creature, no different from a cat or a horse.

Holding the towel in his hand, he did not stare, but he looked. He looked at the bruises that had blossomed under Wormtail's hands. He marked them, but did not respond to their presence with any more than the brief acknowledgment.

"Stay here," he muttered, and he went back into the chambers. She was stunned for a few moments that he would leave her alone, unfettered. She almost ran, almost escaped, but the knowledge that she would likely be caught or lost in the forest without a wand or clothes in the middle of winter dissuaded her of the notion. The candle of hope was once again extinguished, and Hermione guessed that this had been the Dark Lord's aim. He was half-smiling when he came back without the towel. Had he been Lucius, he would have smelled of burnt terrycloth, but the Dark Lord clearly did not find her so distasteful as that.

"Good girl," Voldemort said, hand brushing her shoulder. Hermione bristled inwardly at the appellation. Although he had not used Legilimency, his half-smile broadened.

They started down the hall. Hermione did not even attempt to lead like she had with Wormtail. She thought that not being chained was a luxury she should enjoy while it lasted. At any moment, Voldemort's mood could shift, and she wanted to be as blameless as possible with him goading her into protests. After her newfound power over Wormtail, her spirit seemed battered, but stitched back together in something that resembled wholeness.

She would escape when he gave her clothes.

She winced when she realized where she was on the social scale if she thought like that.

Voldemort was leading her down new corridors--less furnished, more and more like the stone and tapestries of Hogwarts, and Hermione felt a stab of nostalgia.

Harry. Ron. The attack.

Panic hit her suddenly, like the shock of being dropped into ice water. She stopped in mid-stride. Voldemort paused a few steps ahead when he noticed he was not being followed. He waited patiently as he drank in her fear. He really was in an excellent mood after drinking the Sanguinarian Strengthening Solution, and Hermione's return to herself was a welcome change as much as the mindless pet had been for its time. The way she began to rub the Dark Mark--her Dark Mark--in irritation pleased him even more. Of all the marks on her body, his would last beyond all the ephemeral indications of Wormtail's ardor. His brand... not Wormtail's or Lucius', or Potter's or Dumbledore's. The only other permanent marks were those she had given herself--the scars from the liliath burn and the acromantula bite, a few other scars here and there, faded with time, the tattoo of the lycanthe. Her marks, his marks--soon, only theirs. The thought of Hermione, friend of Potter and the real mental power of the other side, exclusively his after he had once been exclusively hers gave him a thrill like the first slide of brandy over the tongue.

Hermione could feel his pleasure like a cotton shift, but she was too preoccupied with the idea that Harry or Ron or someone else like Terry, the twins, or the two younger-year girls might be dead, that their magic and life now resided in the Death Eaters and their lord, strengthening their side.

Wait, not Harry--the young Death Eaters would have been ecstatic--Voldemort would doubtlessly have killed her when her usefulness had ended. And not Ron, or else Draco would have rubbed it in her face beyond his usual mocking. And not any members of the Order, or Voldemort would have told her for the sheer enjoyment of her devastation.

She sighed in tight relief, but she had to wait until Voldemort was ready to continue.

He seemed to be leading her deeper, possibly underground. The air was moderate--although the stones were cold--and dry. Torches lit the walls, and the smell of ashes swirled around them--again reminiscent of Hogwarts, of the dungeons in particular. Hermione almost wished that she could hold someone's hand, although the Dark Lord was easily not a candidate.

Harry, she thought again.

Harry, I hope you believe I'm still good, still on your side. I hope...

There was a laugh in her head like dizziness, and Hermione stopped thinking about Harry or home and instead tried to think of the magical components of wands all around the world.

"You are not skilled enough to shield your thoughts from me," Voldemort said, "although your knowledge of wand cores and elements of magically-favored trees is extensive. Any other time, I would allow you to continue your inner recitation. But we're here."

They were standing before a simple, crudely-made wooden door guarded solely by a few locking charms and an impressive Bolt Combination Spell. The key hung by the door, large and black and German, for show if Hermione guessed correctly. Voldemort unwove the spells around the door with a sinuous series of wand gestures. Hermione thought that his castings were amazing to behold, almost like a dance of magic, and in spite of herself, Hermione watched his wand sweep through the air, listened to the purring of his spells as each ward dropped like slit curtains. When the charms had all been stripped from the door, Voldemort took the key and unlocked it.

He knew her question, so he answered before she could ask. "Yes, Alohomora would work just as well, but I have always found his choice of a key quaint and appropriate in its own barbaric way. It is not meant to be serious--more of a habit or a quirk for him, I suppose."

"He?" Hermione asked.

Voldemort felt no need to reply. He simply lit the lantern on the desk and the torches on the wall, and Hermione could see why Voldemort did not have to say anything.

This was Professor Snape's laboratory.

Perhaps laboratory was too specific a word, although study was not quite right either. There were cupboards and cabinets of potions ingredients and finished products as well as a few clean cauldrons and a work table, but on the other side of the room was a desk, a comfortable chair, and a wall filled with book--leather-bound volumes that smelled like heaven. She almost fainted from the assault of the most wonderful aromas on the good, green earth--pine, toad fluids, sage, basil, nightshade essence, snake skin, parchment, ink, dust, and the ever-present smell that seemed permeate Snape's rooms--perhaps the smell of his robes or Snape himself, she never stepped close enough to tell. She expected Snape to sweep through the door like a dark fury, seething and spouting the ingredients of the latest potion.

But Snape was no longer welcome among the Death Eaters, and there was only the Dark Lord, who was watching her reaction, a snake watching a white mouse with pink eyes that trembles but cannot move.

Hermione clenched her hands and held them behind her back. Voldemort spoke again when he was sure that she knew where she was.

"It is truly a shame that Severus felt the need to betray me. He is a genius beyond measure, certainly beyond my own Death Eaters. Like you, he was largely underappreciated. However, his skills with potions-making as well as his startling knowledge of curses at such a young age inevitably caught my attention. Even before the boy became one of my own, it was a pleasure to watch him work over a cauldron. There is not a more beautiful sight than to watch an artful obsession in play. During his first brewing for me, I knew that he was going to become my Death Eater." He caressed the edge of a cabinet. "Only a man of his talents could shield which of his potions were impure and which were true. They looked and smelled exactly the same. We only knew the difference long after they had been unsuccessful. I have other capable potions brewers, but none like Severus. The man is wasted on teaching children who don't want to learn from him."

"I wanted to learn," Hermione said quietly. "But he was not very approachable."

The Dark Lord smiled. "I wouldn't expect so. I suppose that was part of the reason I took such pride in his submissive form as he bowed before me."

"Is that what you enjoy about me?" Hermione asked.

"In a different way," Voldemort said, opening one of the cabinets and taking out a flask. He unstopped the neck and passed the flask under his nose. "Here is one of his other derivatives of the basic Strengthening Solution. Not the Sanguinarian, but still affective, at least temporarily."

He took a drink so that the flask was only half-full. He closed his eyes as he savored the taste, and like watching him create magic, she found herself transfixed at the vulnerable movement of his white throat as he swallowed. For a moment, the Dark Lord was unguarded--he actually permitted himself to be unguarded in her presence. Her clenched hands loosened as he breathed in and the potion took its hold. He jerked slightly, then held the flask out to her, lids opening for the scarlet of his eyes.

Hermione's eyebrows arched in surprise. Why was he offering her a form of the Strengthening Solution? She thought he wanted her to be weak and obsequious--certainly not strong. She shifted nervously.

"It's all right, Hermione," Voldemort murmured, adjusting his sleeve, causing the opalescent solution to shimmer under the lighting. "It cannot be poisoned."

Hermione hesitated before wrapping her fingers around the glass. His fingers brushed hers as he released it, and she drank the rest of the potion. It was bitter and tasted like licorice, but not as revolting as some potions she had been given in the hospital wing. She understood why he winced as the potion just seemed to drop into her stomach. But the warmth simmered and spread like hot chocolate, and she, too, closed her eyes to take in the feeling.

Voldemort took the empty flask from her hand and set it on the work table. He grasped her chin, starting her eyes open.

"An interesting sensation, isn't it?" he said, releasing her. "I take advantage of the vast stock to partake of the potion. Not because it is needed, but for the feeling. So many potions have no stimulation for the palate, but Severus experimented with this one long enough to give it tolerable, even acceptable, flavor."

Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"It is an acquired taste," he said, amused by her reaction.

Voldemort settled into a chair at the work table and indicated for Hermione to kneel at his feet. Hermione obeyed and looked up at him, waiting for the real reason he brought her there.

"I watched you as you brewed the Nightmare Potion," he began finally. His attention was not on her, but on his experience as a snake in the past. "I watched you as you developed the antidote previously unknown to the wizarding world. You were methodical, mechanical, rational, and precise, not at all like Severus. No, in that you were like me. Your wand waving is something you take the time to cultivate, but potions are too volatile for you to waste precious seconds on grace--Severus seemed to have talent for the art, but you and I only have talent for the skill of potions, which is enough in all practical cases."

His hand returned to her hair like it had during Death Eater meetings in the throne room. She tried not to focus on her position and his touch and instead tried to follow where his mind was leading her. He was right when he said she was methodical but not artful in the process of brewing potions. She could invent, but she could not create--not like Professor Snape. Hermione was surprised, though, that Voldemort did not consider himself an artiste of potions. The catalogue of her memory brought out a scene in the trophy room of Hogwarts for her perusal. She could see a page in the Hogwarts public archives as plainly as if she were in her second year.

Riddle, Tom Marvolo N.E.W.T. results

All of them were as perfect as perfect could be. Although she had already planned on earning full marks on her N.E.W.T.s before she saw Riddle's, after she knew that there had been someone that smart in the past, she decided that since Riddle had done it, she would do it, too. When she learned that Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort, her determination only augmented. And now that she was in the possession of said Dark Lord, the prospect of her ambition seemed dim. She almost smiled at the trivial direction of her thoughts.

Still, perfect marks did not signify perfection in every way. And it pleased her that if potions brewing was not an art for her, at least it was not for him either.

"However," the Dark Lord continued, stroking her head, "you do have creative talent in other areas of magic, so the straightforward nature of your potions brewing should not cause you undue concern in your quest for utter mastery. What you do is mastery."

Compliments. He was giving her compliments. The thought immediately sprang to her mind: What does he want me to do?

"Believe me, Hermione," Voldemort said, running the smooth side of a nail down her jaw line to recapture her attention. "I do not say any of these things lightly. In fact, I would not say them at all if even a fraction of it were not true. And this truth... none of my Death Eaters, or Cat's Paws, or Black Dogs, can compare with you, which frustrates them to no end, particularly the old, wizarding families. To them, you are an anomaly that disproves everything on which pureblood philosophy prides itself.

"However, I welcome all who would join me willingly if I can use their skills. My followers cannot do the things that you can do. And with the one esteemed potions brewer among my followers no longer under my influence and command, I am left with incompetence. There are a few adequate brewers for what I need, but Severus had an eye for subtlety to brew the things I want. Things like this derivative of the Strengthening Solution or several temporary lust potions, and even the Nightmare Potion. I can brew, but it takes far too much time--time that I cannot sacrifice. Also, Severus was thorough in his privacy. The potions in this cabinet are clearly and truthfully marked, as well as those in the chest here. The cupboards hold potions labeled in Severus' hand, but faded or in some sort of code of his with which I am unfamiliar. Given a day or two, I could crack the code, but... I've decided to leave that to you."

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly. So he wanted to use her intellect for his own ends, did he? She opened her mouth to protest.

"Not yet, Hermione." He laid his index finger against her mouth, only the barest of contact. Yet it was not his gesture but the way his neck curved that silenced her. Unnatural. Sinuous. Like when Belthazar was staring at her with one eye from his position curled around her shoulders. The movement reminded her that though he might look and act like a man, he was not quite human. He had bits of the snake about him still--the result of Nagini's milkings, maybe Naga rites. She wondered if he was amused or annoyed at his Animagus form.

"Accio SS's Writings," Voldemort said, pointing his wand at the wall of books. A heavy tome of hand-bound parchment came to his outstretched hand. He opened it upside-down on his lap so that she could see it. He kept his eyes on her.

Hermione looked down at the book. Like his smell in the room, Professor Snape's familiar, spidery script sent a pang through her. Even though his comments on her essays were biting and, at times, even insulting, she found that she had missed it. She could smell him more strongly on the pages, as though his essence was caught in his words--words that were not intended to cut but intended only to record, perhaps dry, perhaps eloquent, she could not tell. They were a tangled thread of meaningless letters. Hermione was surprised that Professor Snape had managed to keep this work from Lord Voldemort, even with his skill in Occlumency.

Voldemort answered her unspoken question, although Hermione had not sensed him in her mind. "The only reason I never noted his obvious intension to prevent any sort of intrusion on his notes was because I never looked, never suspected. It was only after his... abrupt retirement that I went through his books."

Her eyes flit over the intelligible lines, trying to find an immediate pattern. Then she sat back on her heels.

"If his laboratory is here," Hermione mused, "then why can't the Order find your fortress? And why can't Professor Snape group-Apparate with the Order?"

"The wards don't let anyone through by Apparition without a Mark that I give them. Only Wormtail and I know where the fortress is, and not even Wormtail would be able to find it on his own due to a well-cast Confundus and Obliviate. The fortress is Unplottable, hidden and protected. Recruits without a Mark come by select Portkeys to the training center in the woods--never within my fortress--and they are cursed into secrecy until they officially become a follower and no longer wish to divulge the location. Or they're dead. There are, of course, other ways in only for my Death Eaters, but I have sealed Severus from the fortress now that he has seen you and the seeds of suspicion have been sown." He raised an eyebrow. "A cursory glance will give you no insight, Hermione. No more than it gave me."

"I am not going to do this," Hermione said, jerking back from the book. She shook her head violently even as her mind continued to try and translate.

Voldemort lifted the book from his lap and set it on the table. Taking a deep breath, he stood, walked around Hermione, took out a similarly bound book, and set it next to Professor Snape's, opened to a blank page of parchment.

"You will, Hermione," Voldemort said simply. There was no derision, no secret humor, only plain knowledge. "You've sat around and waited long enough. You've been a good, little, obedient pet. But you've tired of that now. You were not made to be a whore or someone's lap dog, though you played the part for a while, and well. No, in the end, you are a brilliant mind and a skillful witch. What was it that Lucius gave you for a reward? Erotica? Escapist fiction? What kind of 'mental stimulation' is that for someone like you?"

"You want me to help you," Hermione said, standing in indignation. "You want me to decipher his writings so that you can know what was going on in his head, what kind of mutinous thoughts and actions that he had. You want me to betray the Order, my friends, everything I believed in... for you."

Voldemort held his head higher. "Yes."

"No."

Voldemort went to the desk, took out two ink bottles, a quill, and an extra scroll of parchment.

"I am giving you a fair choice," he said. "You can do nothing, which incidentally doesn't thwart me in any way. Or you can translate the text, which I would eventually do myself given the time."

"Time that would take you away from the war," Hermione replied.

Voldemort brought the supplies to the books.

"You will do this for me, Hermione," he repeated. "Why fight the inevitable?"

"Fighting you is all I have left," she said desperately. "I'm here with you, and all I can do is fight. That's what I was trying to do at Hogwarts, and I'm certainly not going to stop now."

Voldemort looked at her. "I wondered when you were going to bring in your vaunted Gryffindor bravery and persistence." He twisted his countenance in disgust. "You are no Gryffindor, Hermione. You may have been one in the past, but a true Gryffindor would have died so long ago. A true Gryffindor would never have submitted to such an extent as you have. My dear girl," he said with a mirthless laugh, "you have become more like a Slytherin. A Hufflepuff would have broken into a shuddering mass of tears in the first week of my possession. A Ravenclaw would have taken her life. A Gryffindor would have angered me or my Death Eaters until she died in blazing glory as best befits a pure heroine. But you... a Slytherin knows when submission is beneficial. A Slytherin knows when secrets must be kept from all."

He reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of trinkets that he set next to the writing supplies: her bracelets and rings, the ones that she had worn starting sixth year when she decided to learn the Dark Arts to counter them--without Harry or Ron. The protection talismans and the string of leather for Belthazar's teeth. Hermione's stomach tightened.

As she stared at the evidence of her secrets, Voldemort opened one of the three cupboards and took out a set of robes. He came behind her and wrapped the fabric around her body. The robes were cut for a much larger frame; they pooled at her feet and fell over her hands. Voldemort adjusted the length and did up the buttons with his wand--That must be how Professor Snape manages with all those buttons every day, Hermione thought irrelevantly.

"You aren't a proper Slytherin," Voldemort murmured into her ear, almost as though he was speaking directly into her mind, "and you never will be. But there is no reason to continue this charade, no need to pretend you're still a Gryffindor." He grasped her shoulders and bent even closer.

"You fool yourself if you think you could have continued your study of the Dark Arts without consequences. Eventually, you would have found a spell, a potion, a theory that caught your eye. You'd try it on yourself--or maybe on one of your Gryffindor friends--in a strictly experimental capacity, of course. But the power you would find--the ability to manipulate a being or state through sheer will--would intoxicate you; you would grow addicted to the heady sensation of control--a feeling that I think you've already experienced with Wormtail, no?"

She did not answer. Voldemort did not expect one.

"So begins the steady spiral into darkness... into me. The Dark Arts should never be practiced as casually as you presumed to. It deserves fear, Hermione, respect, respect that you never gave it because you believed yourself immune when your curiosity itself was your undoing."

She shivered, but not with cold. His words were like icicles being driven into her brain like frigid spears.

"Hermione," he whispered, "it would have only been a matter of time before you came to me of your own desire to learn."

Hermione stepped away from the Dark Lord. She restrained the urge to cover her ears against the onslaught of venomous words.

"Not all of us are like you," Hermione said, whirling on him. "Professor Snape was redeemed, wasn't he? Aurors have to study the Dark Arts; specialists at St. Mungo's have to study the Dark Arts. They don't..."

"Severus still has a taste for the dark, Hermione," Voldemort interrupted. "He can fight it every day of his life, but even Dumbledore knows that although his loyalties have changed, he can never be innocent or good. Aurors, for all the popularity and idealism attributed to their profession, are no better than my followers, if you insist on thinking in terms of good and evil. They flounder in peacetime. They torture, initiate illegal interrogations, itch for something to kill once they stick their nose in their first slaying and smell the blood--they justify it with self-righteousness, but they lie to themselves. They are Dark wizards who chose a different side. And those in the medical profession who specialize in countering the Dark? They lose what soul and humanity they had before they saw a true victim. They become empty, and the Dark Arts fill the empty spaces. They ignore it with the vacuum that was once their emotion, borne of pain. You've never seen a real specialist, have you? You've only seen nurses, caregivers, go-betweens. When you see a specialist, look at the glassy hollows of his or her eyes. The Dark Arts, when they are unacknowledged despite submersion, turn you into something new. You would not have avoided the same fate; the Arts would have consumed you. Your power would have been called to mine, and you would have come to me."

He touched her cheek gently.

"I am all you've got, Hermione."

She twitched away from his touch. "I think you underestimate our loyalty, my lord. Harry and Ron..."

'If Harry bloody Potter is not cursing your name now," Voldemort shouted, "what do you think he will do if he ever sees your Dark Mark?!"

"I'll tell him it was forced on me..."

"And you think he'll trust you implicitly," Voldemort sneered. "Even a Hufflepuff would have doubts after everything you've done. So much for loyalty when secrets must be kept from the Order, from your best friends, when you couldn't even tell Potter about your Dark activities. He will see the Mark on your arm--your arm will be the first thing they want to see. When they see my brand, they'll assume the worst, and your protests will not be heard as you're sent off to Azkaban for treason." Voldemort smiled now, composed. "Hogwarts' own Head Girl in Azkaban for being a Death Eater. That might point a certain amount of suspicion at the Headmaster of such a school. Welcome to a Slytherin world, where appearance means more than justice. If I ever let you out of here, Hermione, you would never be trusted again. Everyone would think you were mine, that you had freely done my will."

"No," Hermione said.

"You might as well do something. Translation is harmless, Hermione. I simply do not wish to waste the time myself."

"No," she repeated.

Voldemort sighed. "Still insisting that you're an unsullied Gryffindor? Very well. You will understand your place in time. Until then, however..."

He summoned a set of shackles from the floor at the sides of the chair, much like the ones at the foot of his bed that would conveniently extend their chains if she needed to use the lavatory. He pushed her into the chair and clasped the shackles around her wrists.

"Just in case you change your mind and the temptation is too great..." Voldemort said. He kissed her forehead. "I'll have the house-elves send your meals here. There is a bed in the other room, but unfortunately, your chains cannot go there--and you can't take anything from Severus' shelves either. So it's this or nothing. Enjoy yourself, my own."

And she was left staring at gibberish and a blank page.

"I won't," she said childishly to no one.