Ascent

Chapter 11

Her laboratory steamed with the smell of herbs and burnt blood, but she did not mind the way it saturated the room with its thickness. A few Freshening charms could fix the permeation in a second. Still, she liked to wander through the sleepy warmth of the fumes as she waited between each instruction for her potions and powders. She forgot about her murtlap essence - her hand eventually healed, and it turned stiffer than usual. However, she did not really notice after months of struggling through it during her note taking. Her fingers were still steady, and she could brew her potions and stir in her ingredients just as easily as she could before.

Voldemort was there. Always there. He hummed through her like electricity, he lingered in the doorway as still as a poised serpent, she could hear his footsteps. He did not speak to her, but he liked to watch as she concocted experiments made for him - his Medicus. His breath frosted the glass of her body, like beryl, the old slightly distorted mirror image. She reflected back to him, closing her mind with metal doors, although he felt the swell and ebb of her consciousness as she slept and woke.

She was uncomfortable at night, drifting about in the pungency of her potions, drawing at her memories and nightmares. When she was asleep, he could catch glimpses of himself... not reflections, though. Swirls of cloak and glowing eyes, a flash of green light juxtaposing on the glittering red, fires and forests and chains. She twitched in her sleep, biting down on her tongue sometimes, eyelids fluttering like mad when he slid into her mind.

When she was awake - in the literal sense of the word - he did not come too close, just far enough for her to be aware, but not to engage. She never walked outside, even though the air was beginning to cool again, fresh and sharp in the breeze. She simply walked through fumes and lost herself in work, like she had before, except this time her work was practical, and Voldemort could not help but take pleasure in her new fervor. Even as he walked through his fortress, marshalling his followings in preparation, he felt the tight coil of her under his ribs. Always in the back of his mind, his Medicus. Constant awareness. He would never admit it aloud, but he was frightened of this preoccupation that seemed to have spiraled out of his control. Her coil. Her reluctant acceptance and service. She was his, but he was the one drawn in to her closed intensity.

But he still had hold on her. He could see that in the way she tensed at the opening of her door, her singular fear of him. No, not singular.

She feared herself. He liked the taste of that.

***

The window was open. She curled under her quilt, shivering like a child, slowly slipping away from sleep under protest. Sweet, cool air from the teasing of autumn broke into the thickness of her misery and stubbornness and cleared her head. There was warmth, scent, but it was diffused through nature, and when she opened her eyes, they were not clouded through the haze.

It made her want to close her eyes and hide under the bed again, but with the light and air coming in, she could not hide within her mind or under her covers. So she went out to the birds, letting the forest air purge the thick tendrils of dark smoke from her lungs. She could watch the flocks of birds come through in their migratory trek. There were always the occasional flock that forgot that the fortress was forbidden territory, and she tried to ignore the litter of burnt carcasses on the edge of the forest from target practice and wards. Autumn would bring protein to the fortress's denizens.

She used to love autumn - not least because the beginning of fall meant that Hogwarts started and she could be with her friends and her professors and her library again. She supposed she still loved it, but the clarity of her mind was something that she did not want - it made the sounds of slowly closing doors and sighs too loud and she could not help but see the hard angle of Harry's jaw before he closed the door after her. When she was lucid, she missed them too much, missed Harry and Ginny and Luna and Remus and Severus and even Ron with his tenuous cold shoulder. And the strange thing was that, despite the fact that she missed them, she was not terribly sad, and this realization was what filled her with the shame that made her want to be drunk. She had tried that once, before Remus took her to the Medicus Order. She was not a pleasant drunk - in fact, she was downright maudlin after drinking - but at least the things she worried about then were insignificant, like a knot in Crookshanks's fur or a chip in paint. Certainly nothing so pertinent as the fate of the world. Or herself.

A tendril of pain in her forehead from the brisk change, and she brought her fingers to her temples to rub them. It seemed to be a beautiful afternoon despite her confusedly stark state of mind and the part of her so deeply disconnected from her situation surfaced - that strong, flinty self that managed to survive fire and brimstone when it put itself to the task. Hermione thoroughly hated that part of herself because when it came up, she felt like she could watch the world burn and go about her business peeling oranges or something mundane and callous like that. A necessary thing, it was, though.

The headache was still there. She sat down on the grass and rubbed harder at the pain. She lay back on the ground and closed her eyes so that the sun glowed dark rose through her lids. A flash of red from the pain.

Oh.

There was a hum, not through her Dark Mark but through her head, like bees buzzing on the other side of the fortress. She had grown so accustomed to his presence around her mind like a sheer scarf that she had not recognized the sharper edge of his need as separate from her own. He never called her this way before, if it was even a call. As she walked up the hill again, she continued to rub against the headache even as she tried to reach out with her honed skills to tell what the trouble was. Unfortunately, her distance was a problem in lieu of the strength of his mental defenses, years of psychic training and mastery of his mind. Of course, Voldemort might have disagreed with her assessment - she would never know how far inside of his mind she really was - but she still believed that her connection to his mind was the shallowest sort of delving.

As she approached their corridor, however, her headache worsened, throbbing dull needles behind her eyes. It was his pain that she was feeling, she knew that; however, she did not want to throw open the door to his chambers and hit him over the head with a plank to knock him unconscious so that she could see properly through her eyes. Vaguely, she realized that her focus was a sign of recovery from her melancholy, but she wanted to get rid of the pain first.

She went through her chambers first, through the thick, hypnotizing scent, like walking through transparent fog. Then through her bathroom and his before she gently opened the door that led to his living area. She heard other voices, Death Eaters, murmurs both harsh and placatory, and she tried to determine their identity from behind. Macnair, that was easily - his shoulders were too broad to be anyone else. Rodolphus and Bellatrix, a rough-and-ready man who she did not recognize, and, oddly enough, Draco. He looked comparatively thin, even though he and Hermione were about the same age and adults by now. There was also a woman, skinny and crisscrossed with new pink and old ivory scars along her bare arms and the glimpses of her pale moon face. But those robes... in the dim light, Hermione could see that the robes were the deep Medicus blue with the silver crest in the corner.

Voldemort turned to her as her hand curled around the door. Tension along his forehead smoothed slightly, and he beckoned her in, continuing his instructions to the Death Eaters. The Medicus on the armchair looked up, timid, but curious. Hermione thought she might recognize the woman, but she could not place a name to the face. She knew that the woman was a werewolf, though - she had known Remus and his squatters too long to not recognize the signs. Hermione also recognized the claim between the Medicus and the shaggy-haired Death Eater who she did not know. Their heads turned around at the intrusion, but Voldemort drew their attention back as Hermione approached them.

Voldemort extended his hand out to her through the small group, a fan and curl of thin fingers, emphatic and subtle at the same time. Hermione accepted the hand and slid between the Death Eaters so that she was behind him, leading him to a chair. He did not stop his instructions on factions in various parts of Britain, but Hermione tried not to listen to him. She sat on the arm of the chair where she pressed him down, and under the gaze of all the Death Eaters, she pulled her wand from her sleeve and pressed it against Voldemort's head. As the warmth replaced their collective headache, they both breathed out with an inaudible sigh. It was only a slight pause in the discussion between the Death Eaters and Voldemort, and Draco talked through the pause.

Hermione noticed that the other Medicus was watching her with a hard light in her eyes from the fire, a spark of understanding. Hermione wanted to look away, go away, anywhere but here where so many eyes flickered with amusement, bemusement, perusal of this dynamic between their master and the girl that they had never seen before. Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Macnair, and the wilder Death Eater seemed to take it as a matter of course, although somewhat entertaining, but Draco watched her intensely, eyes narrowed with what could have been confusion or deliberation.

Let him look as Hermione stood to leave. Let him look as Voldemort grasped Hermione's wrist and made her sit on the arm of the chair again. Let him look as his hand slowly released her. Let him look as she simply sat there, waiting, trying not to listen but listening all the same. The plans that Voldemort laid were impersonal - it was not a vendetta that he pursued, but something terribly practical, attacks here, here, here, and here, undistinguishable from expected or natural disasters, although wizarding authorities would recognize the debris of a faded Dark Mark and other magical patterns unique to Voldemort's cause. Rodolphus would lead in a few dementors and let them feast on souls like truffles - just enough for an impact, but not too greedy - let them see the bodies walking without purpose, eyes like glass, among the broken pieces of humanity around them.

Hermione looked away toward the fire, lost herself in the perpetual, changing movement, but still Voldemort's words and the responses from his followers burned with the fire into her brain. But her mouth stayed shut, and any protest was caught under her tongue as she saw the hard angle of Harry's jaw and heard a door close.

***

As the Death Eaters readied themselves to leave the meeting, the Medicus on the other armchair stood up and handed a stiff piece of parchment to Hermione. A flutter of eyelash as their eyes met, then she followed the unknown Death Eater out of the room.

There was silence as Voldemort moved through the chambers, and Hermione was violently brought back to a time when she was chained to his bed post as he ignored her. The memory was blurred, and Hermione felt it did not have the same impact as it once did. Then she sat on the floor. Now she was upgraded to an armchair.

"Is that all you need, Lord Voldemort?" Hermione asked, feeling prim and awkward on the arm. She was conscious of the way her head inclined so that her eyes followed the swirls of gold in the maroon carpet. Outward subservience typical for her station, but of the sort that seemed both pretentious and deprecatory.

"Do you need anything from me, Hermione?" Voldemort asked. He straightened and looked at her at an angle, pensive.

"No," Hermione said. "It's just... I was waiting to leave. You held me here."

"For Medicus Martin's benefit, not mine. The few Medicus here have been interested in your welfare because they have not seen you with me through the fortress. Katherine was a messenger for them. Like you, she is an exceptional Medicus - she does not have a permanent contract, but it is an indefinite one - which is fortunate for my Death Eater, who, in his line of work, suffers many injuries that could be fatal without a Medicus's hand. And in his condition... well, Medicus Martin is the best Medicus for him. As you have been said to be for me." Voldemort watched her reaction closely, countenance closed and almost old and drawn tight around the eyes and brow.

"So that Death Eater was a..."

"Werewolf. The leader of the Dark creatures who have joined me. It would not do for him to suffer other maladies other than the one he treats as a gift." A sweep around the armchair before halting just behind her so that she had to twist her waist to look up at him. She felt his manipulation, but she was unsure how to counter it other than petulance, which she found harder to come by after the last few months.

"So you are finished with me."

"Of course not."

"For tonight?"

"You may leave if you would like," Voldemort replied.

"I have no reason to leave," Hermione said softly, "but I will retire to my chambers. There are potions that need to be tended to, and I should air the rooms out a bit if I am to continue my work properly. I ap- I've been distant."

As she stood, she felt the powdery brush of fingers against her right temple.

"I take it that your foray into the wizarding community was more trying than you expected," Voldemort said.

"You knew perfectly well it would be, as did I," Hermione replied, facing him again. "There is no point in playing coy with me. I know these games by now - I'm almost insulted you still play them."

"I only play because you still have not learned all the rules or your potential as an opponent," Voldemort said.

"I'm not an opponent," Hermione said.

Voldemort did not answer her, but there was a hint of a curved mouth as she stared thoughtfully to the left of him.

She sighed. "Anyway, if you are really through with me for the evening, I'm going to leave. Although once the potions are ready, I will need for you to set aside an evening for me. You will need time to recover from them."

Voldemort began a measure of sharp hisses, and Hermione jumped, but the dry brush of snake's scales on the carpet alerted her to Nagini's presence. Hermione took that as a sign to leave Voldemort to his odd tasks for the afternoon.

He bent down to lift Nagini to his mouth, but before he engaged in the traditional milking, he stopped Hermione at the door.

"Yes." Just the affirmative, but it spread a sort of warmth and relief akin to the cure of the headache, and Hermione berated herself for such an irrational reaction. She gave a sort of abrupt half-bow and slipped through the door into his lavatory toward her rooms.

Voldemort made a noise in the back of his throat as Nagini latched to his tongue. It could have been a growl or a protest, but it could have also been a hum or a purr. As he staggered to his bed to sleep away the affects of the venom, which were stronger than it used to be nine years ago, he thought that, eventually, he may yet be pleased with his Medicus as much as Hermione.

***

Katherine Martin was spread on Hermione's bed, hands folded on her stomach like a child. Only her eyes moved as Hermione closed the door to her lavatory. Seeing a stranger in her room startled her, but she recovered quickly and waited for the Medicus to explain herself.

"It's in the note," Katherine said, "but I thought I'd come here and eliminate the need for passive reading. You seem like you need some company."

"I don't remember you, but I think I've heard of you," Hermione said.

"Everyone seems to have heard about me. Like everyone knows your name. Both of us seem to be Medicus who don't quite fit in the system. There aren't very many cursed Medicus. I'm one. You're another."

"I'm not cursed," Hermione said.

"Not with magic - not really, anyway," Katherine replied, looking at her left forearm, and Hermione thought she understood. "Is he... are you all right with him? I know how it feels to be... trapped in an awkward place with your client."

"It doesn't... it hurts still, but... not as much," Hermione said, sitting down on her couch and curling her legs under her so that she could arch her back to look at Katherine. "I feel... After I left to get supplies and be with people who I knew before, it was strange to be around people who could smile and talk about Quidditch and what they were going to have for dinner that night. I don't know how Harry goes through life."

"He doesn't live with the Dark Lord or his Death Eaters," Katherine said matter-of-factly. "And despite the Dark Lord's focus on him, he has not been the center of his very unusual attention. I cannot say that your experience is anything like that of Harry Potter's. You have dealt with your turmoil in the way best suited to you. You are a Medicus. He is an Auror now. Friends go down different paths. You know this."

"We managed until I had to come back." Hermione looked out the window at the light blue sky - it was not as vivid as it had been that morning, but it was like a different world, or a screen. "This was never the path I wanted to take."

"Sometimes we don't get to choose, Hermione," Katherine said.

"How can you say that? How could you have decided to come here to a man like... that?"

"A werewolf?" Katherine said frostily.

"Don't put words in my mouth. One of my friends is... was... is a werewolf. What I meant was that he was a Death Eater and a werewolf, which is a dangerous combination, especially if that man is who I think he is?" Hermione felt her arms grow cold. She remembered.

"Because he needed me," Katherine said. Her voice was quiet, not angry like it could have been. Had Hermione still been in the Medicus headquarters, she might have been dragged into a spirited and furious debate, but she sensed that such a thing would not happen here. "Isn't that enough?"

"Don't you wish sometimes...?"

"Yes. When we change. And when he feeds without the change. There are things that I truly hate about him." Katherine sat up in the bed and crossed her legs. "But... there are other things. I suppose you know that. Aren't there things about the Dark Lord that make you still?"

Hermione thought of the cloak and of burning it, and she did not answer. Katherine saw the furrowing between Hermione's eyes. "Doing your duty is nothing to be ashamed of. It's what you are. But hating him is nothing to feel guilty for either. You can hate him and want to help him at the same time. You aren't evil for healing evil. It's like blaming spring for a glut of flies as well as the birth of young animals. You are doing good here. Remember that."

"How can I do good by helping evil? It doesn't make any sense," Hermione said angrily.

"Am I evil?" Katherine asked, mellow blue eyes passive.

"I don't know."

"It's hard to believe that what I do is evil when I can stroke his head to make him sleep. Or when he thanks me. Nothing can be completely evil, if it can even be called evil at all," Katherine said.

"There's evil," Hermione murmured. The library pulsing with magic, the Darkness within her that she fought against, the Dark Mark. "The Dark Lord is evil."

"He is sick," Katherine said, standing. "That is evil. He is waiting for me, and I need to go. But... I know how you feel when you can't go back to your friends. If you need to, you can come to us. Mel and Lillian are often about and easy to find. And where he is in the fortress, I will be - by necessity, I have to be near him."

"Thank you," Hermione replied. She was not sure if she meant it, but there was a sort of tranquility in her head after talking with Katherine, so maybe there was some sincerity.

Katherine touched her forearm gently. "Really - I can understand if you let me. And a Medicus sometimes needs a Medicus of her own." Hermione sensed the pain behind Katherine's statement, and she let the woman touch her without jerking away reflexively.

Before Katherine closed the door behind her, she whispered through the crack, "He's waiting for you."

Hermione looked at the door in which Voldemort sometimes stood. He wasn't there. When Hermione turned back around, Katherine was gone.

Her Dark Mark was humming.