Ascent

Chapter 7

The Knights think that they have never seen my face. Even those I once called friends have forgotten Tom Riddle and remember only Voldemort, only the name. My transformations are not yet complete. I need the Knights in their entirety in order to weave the spells into a dome. It will deprive them of magical energy for a few days, but they know that they are safe around me as long as I am only seen as a political opponent. Playing the charming Voldemort reminds me of the old days, and although Dumbledore still discredits me with "ill-founded accusations," as the Prophet calls them, I remain the favorite among both the aristocracy and the middle class. They are all that really matter at the moment, and as long as the Chamber stays quiet, and as long as my experiments continue unnoticed, there is a good chance that I can insinuate into the Ministry with a peaceful coup. Lucius assures me that his funds will support us until then, and beyond. He is faithful, if conceited, and his fervor is useful to me. I look forward to consuming his magic and looking through his mind. His aura will be ever so delightful after filtering through my own. And Bellatrix, sweet young Bella, with her zeal and skill at death, will be like chocolate, I know. So young and so corrupted. She and Rodolphus will do nicely for one another. Maybe I will put them next to each other in the circle to taste the energy that crackles about them, that so obsessive hate.

First my Knights, soon to be my true Death Eaters, with my Mark. Then the people who worship me yet do not know me. They will soon see the true colors of Lord Voldemort.

Hermione knew that she would have to run to the feast, but she was in no hurry to meet the Death Eaters again, and she was even less eager to meet her old schoolmates. She was dressed in her formal Medicus robes of navy and gold like she had been upon her entrance into the fortress, but she sat on her couch, Voldemort's book on her thighs and her notebook perched on the arm of the couch.

Her fingers followed the lines of text in feverish deliberateness. She did not want to miss a single word. Every detail, every nuance of his structure and line of thought, introduced her to Voldemort in his entirety, from the spells upon his physical body to the mental disciplines to which he subjected himself. She jotted down notes, not the thought out prose that Voldemort wrote, but quick shorthand that she had always used for her primary notes. After every section, she would go over her own notes and arrange them in some semblance of order. Hermione marveled that Voldemort managed to do this in his head.

She was so caught up in the notebook that the house elf, Gumma, had to constantly remind her to eat, sleep, bathe, but at least she did, which was a change from before. It seemed that as long as she delved into Voldemort's mind this way, safely, she could shut the rest out and just relax in a way that she always had before. Words were what she knew, and when they swirled about her head in copperplate and smooth words, she had control. She did not have to touch him to know him.

She felt his eyes on her now. Not always literally - she was beginning to connect the hum in her Dark Mark with the way she felt when he looked at her with that quiet intensity, the kind that seemed to seep into her skin until she was almost comfortable with his presence. He did not come to see her often, maybe once or twice between her collapse and the feast. She pointedly ignored him. If he was not coming in with an arrow through his stomach, his problems were not yet pressing, and since the Dark Lord was not prone to open discussion, a mental approach to healing would have to be reserved for the future. She admitted to herself that, for now, she preferred the arrangement, just waiting for them to become more comfortable with each other, if ever. She was dreading the point when she finished her work on his notebook and had to address the man himself.

C. draws i/ other nrg fr DEs and civies. what spells? does C. have nrg aft BWL? when Knights DEs?

She arrived a few minutes late again. Voldemort waited for her outside the door; when he saw her coming down the corridor, he entered the dining room without her, his displeasure evident by the way his eyes narrowed into crimson slashes against his face before turning his back. She came in a beat later, hair a little disheveled, but otherwise, she was not out of place among the array of Death Eaters that sat at the table and milled about the room.

"Welcome, lady," Carmen said, floating over to her and offering a hand. "I was wondering when I would see your lovely face again."

He led her to the seat in which she sat last time, and Hermione could feel the attention upon her as she sat in the chair at Voldemort's right hand. She looked up when Carmen floated to the other side of the table, and she almost asked him to come back - the seat next to her was where he sat last time, and she wanted him to be next to her because she could rely on him to act like a gentleman.

Bellatrix slid into the chair next to her, Rodolphus next to Bellatrix. Bellatrix smirked and stared at Hermione through hooded eyes before turning to Rodolphus and whispering in his ear.

The Death Eaters slowly sat in their places. Hermione looked at Carmen as she tried not to look at the others out of the corner of her eyes, those that she recognized from her school days.

"Hello, Granger," Draco whispered in her ear. Hermione anticipated the attempt to rattle her and did not humor him by responding. "We've missed you. Has the Dark Lord not put you in chains yet or do you save that for nights like you used to do?"

"We much prefer the knives, although most of the time, we don't bother with toys at all," Hermione said, watching the way that Voldemort paced, his eyes always on her.

"Good to hear," Draco said. "After all, eight years, must be some pent up energy that you were unable to release around all those oppressively good people. Unless old Professor Lupin or Professor Snape have stuck their hands in the cauldron."

"I suppose it was too much to expect that you had grown up a little," Hermione said, twisting around to face him.

"So you've come back," Draco murmured, cocking his head as he studied her. "I was right to support our lord in his decision to free you. You've crawled back on your hands and knees, finally. I knew a bitch like you always comes back to her master."

"It pays to listen," Hermione said evenly, standing so that she was closer to Draco. "After all, you were given two ears that never close and a mouth that does. That must say something. No one else is insulting me, although they seem to be paying very close attention to our interaction here.

"You're twenty five, I'm sure you can figure out why I'm wearing nice clothes, I'm clean, and none of the Death Eaters are joining you, as they might have had I come in on my hands and knees. As a pureblood wizard, it should not take you too long," Hermione said. "After all, you're cultured and know all your wizarding history. Dazzle me, Draco, with your knowledge."

Draco was growing steadily more uneasy. He took in the colors, the ink-stains on her fingers, and finally, the Medicus crest on the collar of her robes. His normally pale face turned ashy.

"For whom?" he asked.

Hermione sat down again.

"I am her client," Voldemort said, pulling back his chair and joining his Death Eaters at the table. The feast appeared in the platters, plates, and bowls, and Draco was left staring at Hermione and the Dark Lord and the line of Death Eaters who stared back with countenances ranging from resignation to agreement with him to outright ignoring him.

"Wait," Draco said.

Voldemort looked up from his small meal, setting down his fork, his thin mouth an even line and his mood impossible to interpret. This should have been the first side.

"You need a... Medicus? You need a Medicus?" Draco asked.

Voldemort whipped out his wand, but instead of the Cruciatus Curse, he said, "Sensitimperio."

"You are to treat my Medicus with respect, Draco Malfoy," Voldemort said softly as Draco knelt and bowed before Hermione's chair. "She is an extension of me now, and all memory of her original position here is to be erased from your memory. You were absent with the others from the meeting when I told my Death Eaters that I required a Medicus. Although Medicus Granger's appointment was... surprising... possibly questionable, I would prefer the first choice Medicus rather than taking on a Medicus who is not compatible to my needs."

Hermione looked under the table in shock as Draco crawled to her feet and removed one of her shoes. He nuzzled the arch of her foot before running his tongue along the sole, a harsh remembrance of when she had to do the same to Voldemort. She jerked her foot away from him, and Draco began to cry like a little boy.

"Enough," Hermione hissed at Voldemort. He was smiling, watching the boy with the curve of lip that she was once so familiar with. He continued with his humiliation.

"Should you question the reason for a Medicus and my request for one, you will find yourself the example before all of my Death Eaters, like your father, that my power is still strong." Draco gouged red furrows in his cheeks, slapping himself, and Hermione had to look away at the self-flagellation.

"Please stop," Hermione whispered.

"Never forget that I am still your Dark Lord and master, Draco," Voldemort said. "It is my Mark on your arm, a Mark that you accepted willingly. You know the consequences for disloyalty or betrayal: you are given to Nott to play with. Do you understand?"

Voldemort released him from the spell, and Draco collapsed, his face a filthy smear of tears, blood, and snot. He was shaking, struggling to get to his feet. Hermione reached out to grasp his shoulder in aid, but she pulled back when she thought that the last thing that Draco wanted or needed was the touch of a Mudblood. He stumbled to his place at the table, next to Lisa and his father. Neither he nor any of the Death Eaters around him attempted to heal him.

Hermione looked at the food on her plate. She was not very hungry anymore. Carmen watched her, slowly cutting his chicken. She poked at her food with a fork as the Death Eaters around her lapsed into conversation. She was only half-listening as she ran over the hovering words from Voldemort's notebook, words that she had read but had not yet commented on.

Torture. Both on myself and on others, observing my Knights' methods and my own. It is interesting how we differ in execution and emotion. I feel nothing but a sense of contentment - occasionally, satisfaction. Bella orgasms, and Rodolphus, only when he tortures with her, comes as well. Macnair becomes anxious and excitable after a good kill, while it is simply duty to me. Yet I enjoy it so, and I hesitate to kill only because every person who crosses my path might be useful, no matter what the creature. Even the Muggles provide entertainment before the torture and the kill. Their pleads grow more and more desperate as a wand or a knife comes closer to their flesh, and the energy that charges their fear, however slight, increases my power.

Carmen hid a smile as he watched her slip into that half-trance typical of people deep in thought. The consciousness in Hermione's eyes slowly glassed over, and it was all he could do not to chuckle at the way she was holding her fork just above the plate. He remembered when Voldemort still fell into those periods of introspection; he didn't anymore - he had finally learned to think on several different levels in order to avoid being caught unawares.

"Yes, my lord," he muttered. "This one is for you."

Voldemort noticed how red and slightly swollen her right hand still was, and the way that the fingers curled and shook. He was intrigued by the way the black of the ink and the flush of swollen skin contrasted with the smoothness of tan flesh along her palm and wrist and the white tips of her nails. She did not seem to notice the swelling, so there was no reason to mention that she was killing her hand. Not yet. Murtlap essence was easy enough to come by, and she probably had her own among her potions materials

Wounds had always been a point of interest for him. Pain. Suffering. Even when he was a boy and scraped his knees on the pavement, he would observe the slow draw of the dark red blood to the surface, the way the flesh was ragged, the process of healing from wet scab to rough scab to smooth pink or pearly white scars. He would also note bruises and the different colors that graced the pale skin as it disappeared. When his followers began to torture victims that he once had to torture on his own, he had a singular opportunity to just look at the gaping stomachs, bloody mouths, and wide, marble eyes. Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Macnair were the best for that, although Avery and Nott left behind interesting remains of children when they were through with them. He remembered how eager his younger self was with a more hands-on approach to his Death Eaters and victims alike - the Muggle in him, he supposed, although many of his Death Eaters didn't mind the approach themselves.

It had been so long since a personal touch to his attacks. The war, for all the seething emotion inherent, had turned into strategy and almost staged attacks, always guerilla tactics on his side, although they were remarkably effective considering the circumstances, strengthened by his growing numbers. Some of his followers that claimed sanctuary in the fortress had never even seen him before. The recruits that the younger Death Eaters found would have to be culled and sorted into their places among his ranks - perhaps it was time to let them see their master and know him as someone to respect while their opinions were still impressionable. Not the weakening tyrant that they were beginning to believe he was, at least the newest arrivals. His Death Eaters and Black Dogs knew better, even if they doubted his abilities in their minds, but his Cat's Paws were growing restless, and his miscellaneous followers and refugees did not really understand what he was about. He should set them on a task, an assassination, an attack, a raid, to introduce them to the real agenda rather than just the ideology. But he could use their resources, and their energy filled the fortress and the spells surrounding it with power that he could practically drink. With that power, the ward spells remained solid and strong.

"Macnair, Crabbe, Goyle," he called, his softer tone carrying over the murmur of conversation. "Bring four into the audience chamber. We will meet you in a minute."

"My lord, the recruits are dining in..." Macnair said.

"I know."

"Yes, my lord." Macnair jerked his head at the other two men, and they left the room for the dungeons. The other Death Eaters were all looking at him, their meals finished or forgotten.

Voldemort stood. "My Death Eaters," Voldemort said, "would you like to play?"

There was a rush of noise, like an ecstatic sigh, and Bellatrix nipped Hermione's ear as she and Rodolphus joined the rest of the Death Eaters walking out of the room, glints of something dangerous in their eyes. Hermione started from her visual memory, and she reflexively pressed a hand to her ear. She felt a few smears of blood, nothing serious, but she stared after Bellatrix, who blew her a kiss before turning into the corridor. Carmen flew over the table and offered her a hand with quiet permission from Voldemort. Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion, but she took Carmen's hand.

"What...? Where...?" Hermione stammered as Carmen led her out the door. Voldemort preceded them to the audience chamber and held the door open. As Hermione passed him, their gazes locked, connected, and she felt the silver thread, a giddiness, the hum of the Mark. That connection, that bubble of pleasure, faded when she looked away, stomach twisting in protest - she was unsure what it was protesting, the connection or the withdrawal.

Hermione froze when she saw what waited in front of the throne.

They were not witches or wizards - their clothes were too modern, styled in the Muggle fashion, and in the midst of despair, there was a sort of curiosity in their eyes at the clothing and setting of their surroundings. They were posed like toads on the ground with their hands bound behind their back, their heads bowed, just the whites of their eyes rolling to stare about them. Muggles. Muggles who looked as though they had been in the dungeons for several weeks, clothes, faces, hair filthy. There were two men, one of about twenty eight and the other around forty five, one woman of about thirty, and a boy of thirteen.

"No," she whispered under her breath, the word a choked gasp.

Shackles around her wrists. Naked at his feet.

"God, no."

Spat in her face. Death Eater whore. Wormtail's toy. Dark Lord's bitch. Present.

"I-I-I'm leaving," she said quickly, whipping around and starting out of the door, but Carmen kept hold of her hand with a grip tighter than expected for a man of his age.

"Stay, Hermione," Voldemort said, closing the door in front of her. "I'm afraid I insist. It has been too long since my Medicus has seen what it means to be close to me. She may have grown complacent in those years of recovery."

"I remember," Hermione said. "These things don't leave a person so easily."

"Perhaps complacency would not be remiss in my Medicus," Voldemort continued, taking the wrist of her free hand and pulling her with Carmen to the front. "At least a degree of callousness. Use your finely honed mind and understand why apathy might be a valuable asset to you in your work."

I hesitate to kill only because every person who crosses my path might be useful, no matter what the creature.

"Nonpartisanship, lady," Carmen said. "I've known the Medicus Order. I had one rehabilitate me after the war against Grindelwald. Sometimes..."

"Nonpartisanship is political, Carmen. I'm sure your Medicus was not best friends with the other side or once part of the other side and a victim of her client, which makes this personal," Hermione said as Voldemort stood her next to his throne, where she once sat chained to the chair. "I've discussed this with the Elders. But... now's not the time. Lord Voldemort... I shouldn't..."

"Now," Voldemort said. He did not let go of her wrist even as he turned to his Death Eaters and the new people that the younger Death Eaters recruited while they were gone as well as some civilian followers, Black Dogs, and Cat's Paws.

"Welcome." The murmuring around the audience chamber, particularly among the recruits, settled into silence as Voldemort's cold voice cut through the noise. Hermione could see a few green faces, but more excitement than she would have liked - or rather, than the Order would have liked.

"By coming here to me, you have made a decision, a decision that is difficult to rectify should you change your mind. You have been adequately warned by my representatives, and here you are, in my hands, in my fortress, in my parlor, if you will. For those of you with whom I am less familiar or to whom I am a stranger, you will go through training in order to discover your strengths and where you belong among my ranks. Should your aptitude lean toward becoming one of my Death Eaters, we shall know each other extremely well by the end of your training. The interaction will not be pleasant, but it will be necessary - you will understand when the occasion calls for it.

"You are also here because you share an idea with me - I don't know which you favor, the purification of the wizarding world, loathing the Muggle world, conquering the Ministry and creating a new order. But we do share this idea. And you have to be prepared for the actions necessary to execute that idea.

"Before you are four Muggles, chosen for your enjoyment and as a demonstration. My Death Eaters will show you what it means to be my true, loyal, obedient follower. You will see just how far we go in our campaign for supremacy - then you will be set among some of our Muggle prisoners in the dungeons, and we will see how you fare.

"Let me tell you what I want," Voldemort said, deliberately walking down the steps and approaching the child. He clenched his hand in the boy's hair and pulled the boy's head back. "I want to observe the fine art of torture -patience, creativity, and discernment. I want to see you abandon yourself to all the darker desires you harbor in the back of your minds. I want you to harness that wild spirit and use it to destroy. I want you to see the goal - a greater, more powerful magical community that is unafraid and unashamed of its place in this world. I want to swim in a sea of blood until they all fall to their knees. We heal and hurt and heal and hurt until they prostrate themselves before us. This is what I want."

He drew his wand and held it to the boy's white neck. With a few murmured words, the boy was Levitated and unbound, his arms and legs stretched out to the sides as though he were on an invisible rack. Hermione winced at the boy's joints were pulled out of their sockets, starting from the feet and ending at the head. The screams that rang against the stone walls and floors for an entire thirty minutes suddenly stopped.

"Bella, Rodolphus, Macnair, Lucius, deal with the others. Show them your art," Voldemort hissed, red eyes dark with pleasure.

"No."

The voice was no longer lost in the past, but grounded in the present, and Hermione's face was flushed as she strode down the steps to where the Muggles cried on the floor.

"I'm your Medicus," Hermione said, "but I'm also a Medicus. I simply... this is... I cannot possibly condone this."

"You can, and you will," Voldemort replied, facing her with his eyes still dark. "I have read Medicus regulations as closely as you have. This is a war, Hermione, and I am on one side of it. This will understandably be difficult, but you know that I don't care. I am concerned about my welfare and my welfare only. These," he spat toward the Muggles, "are not your concern. They, like many of the people you shall see in the long future ahead of you, are prisoners of war at my disposal. They are casualties. Or they will be. Thus, their deaths, while entertaining personally, are political. You cannot interfere with any political actions. Therefore, your hands are tied when it comes to torture. My hands are tied when it comes to torturing you, but I still believe I have the better half of the deal. So you may as well accustom yourself to my more distasteful habits - there is only so much you can learn from a book, and perhaps seeing me as the true Dark Lord will both teach you to remember your trials eight years ago again and show you who I truly am."

"This isn't who you are," Hermione said, sweeping her hand over the Muggles and the wizards and witches in the hall. "This is what you do, and I've seen enough of that. This isn't necessary..." But the last word trailed off before it finished, and Hermione shut her mouth as she realized that she was wrong in that respect.

"So you have learned a little something in your obsession," Voldemort said, crossing his arms and looking down at her. "I was beginning to think you lost your touch."

"Hardly," Hermione replied. "These Muggles aren't prisoners of war - they are incidental in your political attack. They aren't the other side. If you were torturing the Ministry or Order members or Hogwarts students or whoever was against you, that would be a political act with which I could not interfere. But these are victims, and you can't dress them up as prisoners."

"Our war is against the Muggle world as well," Voldemort said. "It is not yet a direct attack, but they have always been against us, simply as magical people. You cannot deny that."

"My parents weren't," Hermione said quietly. "They supported wizarding traditions, even if they did not always understand them. You killed them anyway."

"For you," Voldemort said. "Still casualties rather than murdered innocents. You and I can twist interpretations all night."

"Then can you kill these Muggles if we're arguing?" Hermione asked.

"I never intended to," Voldemort said smoothly. "The boy was my example. The rest belong to my Death Eaters."

"Then I am not impeding you," Hermione said, taking out her wand, "in impeding them."

Voldemort caught her arm. "They are acting under my orders. Give up and give in, my Medicus."

"This is wrong," she hissed.

"That is not your prerogative. You belong to me, not right or wrong."

"And you belong to me," Hermione said.

Voldemort hesitated for the barest second, not enough for anyone else to see, but enough for her. "Take your place and watch, Hermione. You have lost this round. After this session, you may return to the notebook. Is that amenable?"

"No," Hermione replied, "but I suppose I don't have much choice."