Persephone Descending

Chapter 5: Drowning

"Resignedly beneath the sky/ The melancholy waters lie."--Edgar Allen Poe, The City in the Sea

"She will come to me."

He paced in the room that served as his bedroom, although he rarely used it for sleeping. He rarely slept at all, for that matter, in this bed or any other. If he required rest, he slept in the Chamber.

It was a nice room, as far as these things went, a former professor's chambers, most likely. Severus had offered him the Headmaster's chambers, but he'd refused--Dumbledore was dead, and although the thought still sent a stab of pleasure through him, he preferred the chambers in the dungeons.

If my enemies want to find me, let them descend into the darkness.

The room was furnished very simply, with a large four-poster bed with dark green curtains (perhaps this was Severus' former chambers; based on the close proximity to the dungeons and Slytherin House), high-backed leather chairs with a low table before the hearth, and a row of bookshelves on the far wall. The floor had a variety of dark rugs covering the cold stone, though Voldemort would have preferred the stone. There was a large black mirror--wrought iron and ridiculously overdone--hanging on the wall, and sconces hung next to the mirror though he left those empty, preferring the darkness. There was something missing from the room, as if someone had left in a hurry and had removed all personal items that would suggest someone had inhabited the room. The only personal possessions Voldemort had in his bedroom were books and besides the chair, they were the only thing he used.

The hearth was cold, and consequently, the room had very little warmth in it, either. Perhaps that was his only other personal touch, besides the books. The room suited him well.

Voldemort sat in the chair and stared at the empty seat in front of him, thinking of his young nemesis. His plan to break Potter involved the careful application of the images of what he would do to Potter's precious friends when he, Voldemort, was victorious--and the young boy's mind was starting to crumble beneath the Dark Lord's will. The simplicity of the plan had been a thing of beauty--ensure his defeat by showing him images of the aftermath. The stupid boy was more concerned for his friends than for his own safety, and it had been a weakness Voldemort had easily exploited.

Foolish, Potter. You've replaced the family you lost. I killed my own, did you think I would hesitate to eliminate yours a second time?

He did not often think of his family. Certainly not that pathetic excuse for a man who'd sired him. His transformation had destroyed the last vestige of the taint his filthy Muggle father had left in him. Voldemort tightened his hand on the stem of the goblet he held, his breathing slightly shallow. I have destroyed Tom Riddle because he was a half-blood. Lord Voldemort is not. This have I done with the strength of my will alone.

So could she, Potter's Mudblood, if she had the will. All it would take was harnessing the hatred he knew had begun to burn inside of her, and the irresistible lure of the forbidden dark arts. When he was young, had he himself not yearned for the knowledge himself? Had he not struggled to speak to the basilisk that rose to meet him in the Chamber those many years ago, merely to see if he could?

Hermione Granger was facing the complete and utter destruction of the world in which she lived, but so had he, when they threatened to close the school when he was Head Boy. Unable to let that happen, he'd turned in that miserable half-giant moron and saved himself. The power he had wielded had been addictive--he'd been seduced by it, drawn in to the dark flame that waited to embrace him. Surely he had wanted to rid the world of those who were...undeserving...of their magic, but he had been drawn to Albania after leaving Hogwarts for knowledge just as much as he had for power. It was a deadly and alluring combination. What would she be capable of doing, the clever Miss Granger, under similar circumstances?

Sometimes the path to darkness seems to shine with the light of nobility, he thought with a smirk. The further you go, the dimmer the light becomes until you are left alone in the dark, with nothing but yourself and your will to comfort you. She would try and save the world, and he would be there to pull that light away, and then she would stand with him the darkness. Potter will be just a memory.

Voldemort felt something wet on his palm, and looking down, he saw that in his reverie, he'd crushed the stem of the delicate glass goblet and the glass had cut his hand. It dripped slowly, almost seductively, down to fall onto his robes. The color was a brilliant red, nearly the same crimson as his eyes.

It appears I still bleed, after all. He did not feel the pain from the wound, even when he focused his attention on it. Perhaps it is only that I no longer feel the cut. It was a clinical observation, as if he had spent too long experimenting on himself (and a fair few unfortunate victims) to view such occurrences with anything other than curious detachment. Perhaps I shall feel something when I watch her bleed. Settling back in the chair, he felt his eyes drift close and his mind begin to wander, to seek out the girl and craft his shadowy seduction.

ooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooo

He was surprised, when his mind slipped effortlessly into hers, that she was standing in the Riddle house, the house where he had killed his father and where his torch had been forever extinguished, leaving him forever shrouded in the darkness.

"I don't know this place," she said, standing bewildered in the center of a room he remembered well.

"You would not," he said softly, his eyes straying to the gate, and a chair covered in dust. In his mind, he saw himself here years ago with Wormtail.

She looked around with that natural curiosity that was so much a part of her--intelligent eyes scanning her surroundings, mind making connections even in the slumberous world of dreams. She tried to see him, but he remained in the shadows and did not emerge. It was not his plan to return to the light.

"Is this your house?" she asked, walking through the room and peering at the furnishings, liberally coated with dust from years of neglect. He no longer paid a servant to clean for him. In fact, he thought of burning it to the ground in celebration when his victory was attained. Perhaps he would stretch Potter's body out on the hearth or the front steps, as a fitting sacrifice to his ambition.

He laughed his cold, high laugh, and watched her eyes narrow in his direction as she struggled to see him.

"It was," he said, and his mind searched through hers. He saw images of a small house in a typical English neighborhood, small fenced yards and freshly-painted black shutters. A light on in the living room, though no one was home. A house that had been her home, but had become only a house once more since no one lived there.

"Like yours, the family who lived here is gone." He smiled chillingly as he saw her face whiten, her eyes widen and her hand fly to her mouth.

"How did you know?"

"That they were gone? I did not until you thought of it. The comparison between this home and the one you have forever left behind was strong in your mind a moment ago. In a few months, that light in the living room will cease working and dust will gather on all your pretty things, as has happened here."

She was breathing quickly, and the image of her as prey began to dance in his fevered brain as she trembled like a frightened rabbit. He had not felt this intense desire except with Potter, and the only urge he got with the boy was merely to kill. He wanted to kill her, of course he did, but he wanted to stalk, to hunt, to squeeze--he wanted to wrap around her and choke her, until she stared into his eyes and finally understood he was her destiny.

"You have no knowledge of my parents." The words were only slightly breathless, although he could taste her fear in the air.

"I have knowledge that they inhabit your home no longer. Come, girl, tell me where they live now, these Muggles who spawned such a clever witch."

"No!" she said, and shook her head slightly. "This is only a dream," she said, her voice a bit more frantic.

He circled her in the darkness, the room was slowly fading, and he liked to watch her twirl in agitation as she attempted to pinpoint his location from the sound of his voice. It would not work--he controlled this dream, so he imposed his will effortlessly upon her.

"They will all die, you know," he said, delighted as he watched her terror increase. He wanted to know what she was afraid of, what would make the whites of her eyes shine and the pupils dilate and the black swallow the light golden brown of her eyes. He wondered if she would argue, here in the dream world he created. Would she still cling to her belief that she and her pathetic Order would win?
"I know," she said, and he saw that it was not the words he said that frightened her, but rather that the room was drowning in darkness and the light was fading, and still she could not find him. He made an effort to concentrate on his gaze, a soft red glow, and waited for her to turn as he stood behind her.

She did so and wrapped her arms around herself when she saw the slight burn of his eyes in the darkness. "Why don't you just kill me, or ask me about Harry or the Order?"

"I do not need your knowledge to defeat them, girl," he sneered, enjoying the way she trembled before him.

Oh, what joy it would be to have her on her knees before him...his hands itched for the handle of his whip, and he flexed his long fingers as he thought of it.

"I have nothing then, for you," she said dully, and he saw her image begin to fade. Soon, she would waken in her bed and think him a dream.

"I have said before that you do," he said, voice cruel. "I have said you will be kneel before me and you shall."

Her mind flashed with a snippet of a conversation that happened with Potter recently (that fool, Severus, could have had them both if he'd been on top of things---Voldemort would see that Bellatrix made him pay for that), and of the boy telling her what Voldemort had planned for her upon Potter's death. She narrowed her eyes and shook her hair, curls wild around her shoulders.

"You want to kill me, to abase me, to toss me aside broken and used," she hissed, and at her words he tampered down an irresistible urge to embrace her then and there, to frighten her until her frantic heart stopped beating.

"Of course I do," he said, voice cruelly amused. "That is what I do, girl. I destroy. However, I ceased tormenting Potter with images of your imminent rape and torture and eventual death months ago. I have begun to show him how you will kneel before me, how you will submit to me. That has been my favorite image of you to distress him with, of late."

"Harry would never believe me capable," she spat, her eyes furious now. "He would know better than to believe your demented visions if all he saw was me kneeling at your feet."

"Would he now?" Voldemort said softly, tasting her worry and her growing hatred on the air between them. Yes, girl, you shall hate him long before his body is cold. "I wonder why he gave you that advice, to end your life, then? For it was that which I showed him, over and over again, for the last few weeks as he slept. Obviously, he does not have the confidence in you that you claim he does."

"You lie," she said softly, though he could hear the doubt in her voice. "Harry would never believe that of me."

"Why would he disbelieve it when even you doubt it?" He watched her, toying with her, wanting the moment to last. "What frightens you most, Hermione? Tell me. I wish to know."

The image of the Riddle House reappeared suddenly, on fire as he had always planned for it to be, and he skillfully wove the scene of her standing at the hearth next to a body wrapped in a cloak.

She looked down at the body, the thick material a death shroud of sorts, and at the wand in her hand. A hand stretched forth from the cloak, a familiar wand lying useless on the ground next to the limp fingers capable of holding it no longer. "No," she gasped, "I have not killed Harry, I have NOT!"

"Oh, but you shall."

He increased the flames and stepped back as she screamed, trapped in the burning house with the corpse of her fallen friend--dead by her hand. He laughed, high and cold, as she sank to her knees and sobbed.

As he released the link between them, he felt a strange sensation in his palm that caused him a moment of surprise. He found himself staring into the empty hearth once more as he returned to consciousness, and looked down at his hand where the cut from the glass was still red and raw on his white skin.

The slice hurt, throbbing deliciously.

Leaning back in the chair, he summoned Lucius Malfoy, and drew one finger down the red welt on his skin as he enjoyed the brief pricking sensation. When Malfoy appeared, disheveled as he had been asleep or otherwise occupied with Narcissa, he smiled coldly at his Death Eater.

"Lucius," he hissed, "do you know where Miss Granger's childhood home is?"
Lucius blinked his gray eyes a bit owlishly before nodding. "Yes," he said, raking hands through his tousled blond hair. If Voldemort possessed a sense of humor that he wished to share, he would have laughed at the site of the normally impeccable Malfoy so unkempt. "Though we've already checked there, and no one is living there at the moment. Her parents have been shipped off somewhere, and we've yet to find their secret-keeper. The house is abandoned, and our spies have not reported her in the area."

Voldemort looked down again, noticing the dried blood on his robes. "I know." He looked up and met Lucius' eyes calmly.

"Burn it to the ground, Lucius," he said, and leaned back in the chair, a contented smile on his face, as Malfoy nodded and left the room to carry out his orders.