Ascent

Chapter 18

She pored through the stacks of tomes for a third time, filling up her seventh notebook with tiny, precise handwriting. Hermione felt like she was getting nowhere. Since the battle, all she could do was work, but somehow she could not throw herself into it as completely as she had when she had tried to escape Voldemort's insistent, smug presence. Although her heart conflicted over whether or not she should rejoice at her inability to find any further information about Voldemort's condition or a possible treatment or cure, it was all she could do not to start tossing books into the fire. Part of her was convinced, though, that the answer was there - that it was her incompetence as a researcher that caused the answer to elude her. And to that, the only solution was to walk the well-trodden roads again and again and again.

Hermione knew that Voldemort was working on strategy with his Death Eaters for the next battle, this one scheduled for three weeks from the last. It was a vast amount of time for each faction to regroup and consider the strengths and weakness of the opponent - at this point, they were even, with one victory and one loss. The three weeks were not meant to bolster either side, since by Dumbledore's and Voldemort's logic, they were on even footing, and the extra time would not give either side undue advantage. In the meantime, though, the two factions had not agreed on a ceasefire until the battle date, and the Death Eaters resumed their more covert attacks, using what leverage they still had in secret and attacking Muggle sites. The Ministry was working overtime to cover up the attacks and modify memories - with the opponent's resources divided between secrecy and defensive attacks, Voldemort could focus his army's energy more efficiently.

Voldemort rarely joined his Death Eaters for these guerilla maneuvers. This was not necessarily unusual for the last few years, as his ranks had increased to the point where the general no longer had to join his lieutenants. But he also could not attend those for which he actually wanted to make a personal appearance. He wished for everyone outside his fortress to know that he was still a threat to them, that he had not died or weakened nor grew fat and lazy with the time away from the public eye. He also wanted everyone inside his fortress to continue seeing him active and powerful. They may have won the second battle, but that did not mean his followers forgot the first.

After the last battle, Hermione had given Voldemort strict orders to refrain from magic whenever possible, and that meant eschewing attacks outside the fortress. His sour expression was expected, but she had replied, "There is more than one way to show your power. And you have more than one kind of power. Use them." She could tell he bit back a retort as he swallowed instead the explicit compliment freely given.

Hermione shifted again in her seat, squirming against a restlessness she could not put a finger on. She could blame it on spending most of her time in the dark library, with no window to relieve her claustrophobia; or she could blame it on sitting most of the time, although she had taken to walking the corridors when her legs started aching. No longer did she work herself to the bone, no longer did she throw herself so far into her work that she could not see the aim.

Since accepting her position, truly accepting it, she forced herself to take as much care for herself as Voldemort, for she could not be the Medicus that he needed if she lost sight of her own needs, few as they were. She could also blame the restless feeling on the inner thrill that darker place inside her still had when she came into the library and touched, opened, read the books and played with their magicks. She only played with them on parchment most of the time, plying her theories with arithmancy or runes or writing out her thoughts free style. All the Dark Arts wanted from her at this stage was simply to be acknowledged, to be used, if only through quill and ink.

She dropped her quill and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling gently at the roots. Her thighs pressed together, and she rolled her ankles. Pages of the open books fluttered although there was no wind. She marked the pages and closed the books, stacking them neatly next to her ink well. Her notebook she slipped into her robes. Maybe all she needed was another walk. She'd go to the kitchens for something to eat, walk back, then try again.

As she went through the now completely familiar halls, the Death Eaters gave her wide berth - she presumed that the sight of her at Voldemort's side at the last battle had finally done for her status what cursing Lucius had not quite managed. She did not know whether Voldemort's status with them had lowered in the same measure. Given that most of the older Death Eaters had a spark of fear in their eyes when they passed by her, she guessed that their awe for him was mostly restored. After all, they had as much to fear from him if they tried to attack her surreptitiously. The Death Eaters from her generation did not seem to have that same fear, maybe because despite her blood she was still a peer to them.

"Granger," Draco said as she encountered him around a corner. He was alone, and his expression was as it had once been in a potions master's laboratory. The smirk that often shaped his features in the presence of his friends was strangely absent. Instead, he nodded his head to her, gray eyes neutral and level.

"Draco," she responded evenly. Then the moment had passed, and she was beyond him.

Thirty minutes later and her stomach was full, but she still could not shake the restlessness, if that was even what it was. She leaned against the wall outside the kitchens for a minute, rubbing her ink-stained hands over her face and massaging her temples. It was almost like something she had felt before, but it was enough of a shade off that she could not even determine the closest analog. If she had to describe it: it was like that calm, quiet pressure just before a headache.

"Need some help, Medicus?" asked Macnair, in his familiar ironic baritone, coming down the hall from her left. He wore a crimson tunic under his Death Eater outer robes, and with his thin mustache and square good looks, he looked a bit like Clark Gable in a '40s vision of Camelot. "You're looking a touch bothered. You know I can help with that."

She rolled her eyes at him. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure?" he asked. She did not fool herself for a moment that the concern in his expression was sincere. The glint in his eyes was too gleeful. "I am always willing to assist a Medicus, should my particular assistance be needed in that regard."

"I have an icy fountain of water with your name on it, Macnair," she said. "Cool it or lose it."

"So antagonistic, when all I've ever done is support you and your... unique connection to the Dark Lord," Macnair murmured. "Wounds me to my jet black heart."

"I'd be more apologetic if there were anything there at all," Hermione said. She folded her arms over her chest and watched her movements draw Macnair's eyes down. She didn't unfold her arms - she would not give him that satisfaction.

"Mmm, I recognize the fire in your eyes," he said.

"I wasn't aware that was where you were looking."

His lip curved, and his dark eyes met hers. "There was a time when that fire was against the Dark Lord and all who followed him. Oh yes, I remember that fire directed at me. Now it seems to be more productively focused, even if you don't seem to know what to do with it in the meantime."

Hermione raised her eyebrows and stared straight at him. "I'm just doing my job."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"Did you need something?" Hermione snapped.

"I always need something," Macnair said in good humor.

"Hundreds of women in the Harem to choose from, why are you bothering me?" Her left hand closed around the wand at her hip, although she did not think she would have to use it. Macnair was interested, but in nothing more than looking - Hermione could tell he was not serious, just irritating.

"Hundreds of women in the Harem aren't in front of me now. What can I say? I'm an opportunist." He gave a courtly, entirely mocking bow and offered his arm. "Walk with me."

She looked at the crook of his elbow warily, but then she pushed away from the wall with her shoulders and slid her hand inside. Her right hand took hold of her wand this time, just in case.

"Returning back to our master's quarters?" Macnair asked. She nodded. "If it isn't too much trouble, I'd like to take a quick detour."

"Do I want to take this detour?" Hermione asked, narrowing her eyes.

He laughed. "It is not necessary, my dear, but I thought you might be interested in a mystery brewing in the tumescent center of our fortress. Our lord has been made aware, but he says it is none of his concern. I do not think he understands the full function of the Harem. And perhaps it truly is none of his concern, but if it is, I trust that you will impart its significance to him."

For the first time, Hermione thought she had a glimpse of sobriety in Macnair's expression, but it quickly departed in favor of a leer as he added, "I doubt, though, that the troubles of whores are of any real consequence to the success of the Death Eaters. We can always find more."

Hermione bit her tongue - there was no point in arguing with someone who simply could not and would not comprehend an alternative way of seeing the captive men and women used for pleasure. He could play at charming when it was expected of him, but she knew he did not see her as anything but a body to use. It made her angry with herself, but after her previous experience with the Death Eaters, most of which was spent naked, she had learned how fruitless fighting was against those who could not hear her, no matter how loudly she screamed at them.

However, Macnair was one of the few Death Eaters who had not challenged her position as Medicus to Lord Voldemort and was trusted by Voldemort to escort her in the outside world. It would be politick to curry his continued favor. She had to admit she was curious about what he wanted to show her - that most damning of her qualities.

He led her off her well-worn path through the fortress corridors closer to the center of the building and down a few flights of stairs. It had been more than eight years now, but while she felt a moment of disorientation, her surroundings began to look familiar again. Hermione thought she might begin to tremble, but she didn't. Instead, something darker unfurled its black leaves, something like anger except that it did not want to be appeased. Her hand tightened both on her wand and Macnair's arm. Eventually, Macnair did not even have to lead her. She knew where they were going.

"Still have your excellent memory, I see," Macnair noted. "I like that in a woman." He gestured to the ornate double doors. "After you."

Hermione resisted the impulse to glare at him and instead reached for the handle to push the doors open.

It seemed that little had changed. Yes, the sheets had gone through eight years of replacing. Many of the young men and women were new and some of the ones from before were gone, having outlasted their usefulness for Voldemort's followers, who could afford to be particular. And yet for all the changes, it was still the same.

Those without a client to distract them turned their attention to the newcomers in the room. The closed off body language and hooded stare from the woman in Medicus robes signaled them not to approach her like they had when she was first introduced to the Harem, but a few did come to Macnair, regulars by their familiar affectionate gestures. Of the three women, Hermione noticed that only one was sincere - pupils dilated, lips wet, fingers trembling as they traced down the cut of his robes. The other two were blank behind their efforts, dark circles under the eyes of the palest one.

"What happened to Radha?" Hermione asked.

Macnair pulled in the one he knew actually wanted him and kissed her possessively on the top of her head, mussing her hair. He shouldered the others away. They dispersed easily and integrated back amongst the rest waiting - waiting for themselves to be used, waiting to have a reason to shut off completely, waiting for their only purpose in the fortress. By now, they all mostly knew their place. Hermione recognized their submission, their degradation, and the detachment and hollowness needed to survive it. She had shared it once, felt it still in flashes, but those flashes were but memories now instead of visions. It made her spine feel like stone knowing that part of the reason was the determined plunge back into the research that had once almost damned her to this fate.

"Oh, she's still here, I think," Macnair murmured, guiding the girl to the nearest bed, fingers digging into the flesh of her hips with painful pressure. "I don't concern myself much with her anymore."

He looked up at Hermione and laughed as he unwound the translucent gauze from the girl's body. He barely had to look, so well he knew the routine. "You know better than to think any of us has any sort of sentimentality for these girls, even if we sometimes have favorites. Surely you're not so naïve as to think..."

"I don't have to be naïve to be disgusted," Hermione said. "And I didn't come here to watch. Why did you bring me here?"

The gauze fell away from the girl's body, and she had successfully removed his outer robes. Her deft fingers worked quickly on the tunic. Hermione fought the impulse to look away. Macnair noticed, and he almost commented but for the patina of professionalism that descended upon her. He stilled the girl's hands on him. His clothes gaped open over his barrel chest, but he was unfazed as he gave Hermione his full attention.

"We may not have sentimental feelings for the women in our Harem, but we do notice when one of our things is gone," Macnair said. "For the last year or so, it was maybe an extra two or three every few months than the ones we usually dispose of. But just within this last week or so, we've lost one every night. A few of them are missed by some of the Death Eaters - they weren't ready to get rid of them. It's not that we mourn their deaths, if they are in fact dead. But it's certainly a mystery, and we've never had anyone so greedy as to take more than his fair share." His large hand slid between the girl's thighs and grasped the flesh possessively. "Perhaps it's nothing. But I thought you might want to know."

"And you've already told the Dark Lord about this?" Hermione asked. Her eyes went slightly glassy as she considered the information.

"As I said, he considered it beneath his notice," Macnair replied. "I understand his dismissal - the fates of a few toys mean nothing to him. I only wonder if his dismissal is... careless? The Harem was always his concession, not his choice." His hand swept up to knead the girl's breasts, relishing the flesh yielding under his fingers.

Hermione was momentarily captivated by the rhythmic movements, the swell of the girl's pale breasts through his rough fingers. She was even aware that Macnair was watching her watch and giving her a show because of it. He leered at her from her periphery.

"And why did you need to tell me?" Her voice sounded far away.

"I am devoted to my lord," Macnair said. "I do not want him to overlook a possible problem just because he's beyond this kind of carnal need. If it means having to tell you, well, that's just a bonus." He pinched the girl's nipple sharply, and Hermione jumped as though she had been the one pinched.

"Duly noted. I'll discuss the matter with him." Hermione forced herself to look away, her spine tight and her palms tingling. Even the roots of her hair felt on edge now. The rake of nails over her scalp helped a little.

"Care to stay?" Macnair asked. He pulled the girl onto his lap. Her blonde hair spilled over his shoulder as she kissed his neck. The playfulness of the girl's eyes as she glanced at Hermione was tinged with confusion, as though unsure about Hermione's place in the room, whether she was to be regarded as a Death Eater or a fellow captive.

"No, thank you." Hermione took a step back, and that helped her turn around and take another step away.

"Are you sure?" Macnair needled. "I could have sworn I saw..."

The slamming door was answer enough, but Hermione found that the walk back to her quarters was not. It took three turns around the Death Eater wing before she thought she could go back to the library for a few more hours.

v88888v

When she emerged from the library late that evening, Voldemort's room was dark but for the fire through which she walked. She almost expected him to be sitting in one of the armchairs. On the occasions he was in the room at all when she came out, he was almost always cradled in the wings of the chair, hunched in the shadows with his robes wrapped around him for additional warmth, his eyes distant in thought. Upon her entrance, he would return to himself and shift slightly. There were no words shared - at this point, there was no need. But lately his gaze returned to the fire instead of capturing hers in subtle, silent challenge. She did not question him about it, but as with any anomaly, she noted the change.

Standing as she was before the fire, most of the room was shrouded in darkness, and for a second she thought no one else was in the room with her. She started toward her rooms, and that was when she heard the sounds. Heavy breathing, sharp gasps, hiss of movement on fabric, something wet. For a moment, she was transported to part of the time during her captivity she tried most fiercely to forget - body weakened to the very edge of death and comfort in the form of silver hands and sweat and desperate, unwanted affection.

She smelled sex before she saw it, and even then she only saw writhing shadows. He was over her, his white skin ghostly but easier to see than hers. His hand covered her mouth as he thrust inside of her. The gasps were hers, and they were not the gasps of a woman impressing upon a man that she wanted more of him. Through his silencing hand, the girl was trying to scream. As Hermione's eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that Voldemort's other hand braced itself on the girl's throat. His back rose from under the covers, the muscles working furiously as his pace quickened.

Hermione stepped further into the darkness, treading lightly to the bathroom door. All the blood had drained from her face, yet her cheeks felt like they burned. She flinched as the bed creaked, impossibly loud in the enforced silence of the room. Voldemort made a restrained noise almost like a grunt, and his hand slipped away from the girl's mouth even as his other hand tightened momentarily around her throat.

"Please," she gasped, "please." Hermione heard the mucus in her throat and knew that if she touched the girl's cheeks, they would be slick and salty with tears. "I won't tell. Promise. Please."

Then her air was completely cut off, and all she could do was gag, her fingers clutching like impotent spiders at the sheets, at Voldemort's shoulders, at nothing, as though she could grasp the air into her lungs.

Voldemort reached for the headboard as his body found release, jerking into the girl beneath him. Hermione felt the moment of it, and she felt it because of him. Now she recognized all those other strange moments over the last days - or was it weeks - of uncoiled tension. She had thought they were nothing more than a brief period of tentative peace within herself. Her fist pressed against her stomach as though to hold in her ... fear? disgust? Both and neither, she could not understand her own visceral reaction enough for words. All she knew for certain was that she needed to get out of the room. Now.

The girl's dry coughs filled the room when Voldemort released her. "Please," she croaked again. "Won't tell. Please."

Hermione reached the door and turned the doorknob when she heard the rustle of the sheets and Voldemort's emotionless voice intoned, "Avada Kedavra."

She froze, the cold doorknob heating beneath her palms. When she felt her next heartbeat, she cautiously twisted around to see Voldemort slide out of bed and pull on his robe in one sweeping motion, giving the impression of ghost's body disappearing and leaving only the hovering head floating in the shadows.

"Wingardium leviosa." The girl lifted from out of the sheets to float to the middle of the room. "Incendio."

Voldemort saw her over the flaming body, which lit up the parts of the room that the hearth fire did not reach. He didn't say anything as the girl burned, making the room smell sickeningly like a summer backyard party.

His eyes reflected the flickering light, and his expression was completely blank, as though he were truly made of marble and his eyes made out of glass. She could not tell whether he was surprised, embarrassed, or furious that she was there, that she had seen what he did. It would not be the death of the girl nor her immolation that would make him want to hide his actions - it was the sex. Hermione remembered his dismissal of the Death Eaters' sexual exploits, even if he encouraged their indulgence and used it against them. She remembered his complete disregard for her nudity, using it only to shame her, not to take advantage of it himself. She had never known him to be a sexual creature, nor had he indicated any sort of interest in it to her - as a pet slave or as his Medicus. His Death Eaters believed him to be asexual, even scornful of sexual needs, and until now, Hermione would have been inclined to agree.

The light between them grew dimmer as the fire completely consumed the girl's body into ash that drifted lazily to the floor, even reducing the bones to the fine powder.

In the resultant darkness, Voldemort waved his wand. "Evanesco." The mess disappeared, leaving no trace that the girl had ever been there.

He wouldn't kill her - he couldn't even hurt her. Yet she stood there, half turned toward him and unable to move a muscle or look away, barely able to breathe or blink. She did not even know what it was exactly that she feared.

"I think it goes without saying," Voldemort said, filling the silence, "that you are not to tell anyone what you just saw. Not a single solitary soul." Pulling his robes more firmly around him, he came toward her slowly, so slowly.

Hermione swallowed and her dry throat clicked. "You didn't have to kill her," she said.

"If it is irrelevant to my health, you have no place to tell me what I need or need not do," Voldemort replied.

"You strike enough fear into the hearts of your followers and their 'pets.' If you commanded that they keep silent, they would. Or you could have Obliviated her."

"Of course I had to kill her," Voldemort said through clenched teeth. "Under the right situation, even those scared into silence will speak, and the strongest Memory Charms can be tampered with. There is no other recourse to eliminating all evidence." He paused - his eyes looked away for a fraction of a second. "You weren't supposed to see that."

He slid a cold hand over hers and removed her hand from the door knob. His other hand kept hold of his wand. She was strongly reminded of the weeks when Voldemort was powerless to hurt her, back when she had the Snake-Charming spell on him. Now, as then, the way he held his wand was one of the most frightening empty threats she had ever seen. She doubted many wizards could manage the same subtle menace as Voldemort when he had no cards to play against her.

"There are hundreds of rooms in this fortress." Her voice seemed distant as her eyes moved from his wand to his red eyes. As close as he was, she could discern the deep color from what little light was in the room, even though his pupils were completely dilated in the dark. "You could have used any one of them, knowing that I was in the library and not knowing when I'd leave."

"Are you suggesting that I wanted you to see?" Voldemort asked. The words were like velvet, and she felt his fingers tense as though wanting to tighten around her hand. He let her go to avoid that temptation.

"I'm suggesting there were alternatives."

"There is no guarantee of privacy in any rooms but mine and yours - I've put enough wards on them to keep out a house fly. I tried to finish before you came out. You had never come out before when I..." He stopped. His teeth clenched, making his temples twitch with the force of it. With a wave of his wand, the lamps illuminated, and they could see each other plainly.

"I do not have to justify myself to you, Hermione. I killed her, I killed the ones before, and I will kill the ones after. I do this for my own protection, which you as my Medicus should understand. And you will not speak of it, for my own protection."

The light seemed to loosen her muscles, and she felt like she could move again, like she could turn around completely and face him. "Of course I won't tell anyone about this. I don't tell anyone about anything that I do here; I've kept all of your secrets. But that's not the point."

The tip of his wand dented her cheek. "You may think that you're still on the moral high ground, but I know you saw more than the final act of my little encounter. I don't recall you speaking out and telling me I must change my wicked ways when I was fucking the girl. Nor do I remember your dulcet tones when I killed her. Only when I knew that you saw what I had done."

Hermione's mouth abruptly closed. She could not protest because anything that spilled out of her mouth now would be a bitter lie. Voldemort was always wickedly adept at using the truth over a lie. And she wasn't mortified - wasn't mortified that she had failed to stop him from killing the girl when just a few months ago she would have at least tried to stop him; wasn't mortified that he accused her protests of being perfunctory. She wasn't mortified that she wasn't mortified. Instead, she was just a little sad. She lowered her eyes, and Voldemort's wand drifted down to her neck, her collarbone, before leaving her completely.

"Now," Voldemort said evenly, "unless you are prepared to take their place, you have no right to tell me what to do with them. Get out." He turned his back on her and wrapped his arms around his chest as he headed for the fire.

Hermione stood there for a moment, mind whirring madly. "Lord Voldemort," she began, "why...?"

"Get. Out."

He did not have to raise his voice for her to know that now was not the time. She opened the door and made a speedy exit, chest tight with the heady, dizzying mix of confusion and revelation.