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The Ivory Tower	By : MegiiOfMysteriOusStranger Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 12918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter in any way, shape, or form. I make no profit from writing this whatsoever.

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Hannibal OST-Virtue by Hans Zimmerman—Song for The Ivory Tower

2. Guest of Honor

"Courage, dear heart."

~Aslan to Lucy from Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C. S. Lewis

Hermione Granger was not well. She had brushed so close to death that, looking back, she swore she could feel the wispy, tattered ends of the Veil brushing across her face. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had only just saved her life. That had been a week ago. But like when Ron had been Splinched, healing was not instantaneous and being kept in a dark, drippy, moldy cellar did not do anything to help. In fact, her wounds had become infected. Her palm, where the porcelain plate shard had sliced, was swollen and red, but it was not half as bad as her armpit. The wound there, though cleanly cut, constantly wept watery yellow pus like tears out of a large red eye and left her weak-muscled and fevered.

Still, she was in better shape than she had been upon her arrival—however little it was. She'd seen and heard nothing of Voldemort in the days of her imprisonment, and Death Eaters only appeared to bring food and water and the occasional repetitive insult. Hermione was kept sandwiched between Luna and Ollivander—bedding was not provided, and Ollivander was adamant about keeping Hermione warm so that her fever did not become deadly chills.

Ollivander was a prisoner because Voldemort needed to know things about wands, particularly about the bond between Harry and his wands, and also about the legendary Elder Wand. It was an extreme move, as wand makers were generally neutral wizards—Ollivander might have freely given the information about the wand to a Death Eater had one walked into his shop and asked. Luna's kidnap, on the other hand, was a political maneuver: the Death Eaters had not liked what Xenophillius Lovegood had been writing in his magazine, The Quibbler, and had taken her to shut him up. Luna feared for her father's health; his wife's death had hit him hard and his daughter was his everything these days. Hermione was not sure why Griphook the Goblin was here as he was not forthcoming with any of his personal history, and she was too sick to pry—so unlike her usual nature. She ached to escape, but knew she was in a position where that was impossible. It was amazing how much she missed the sun.

The wound so close to her shoulder burned and throbbed with every heartbeat, making sleep difficult and restless, and moving her arm on that side was impossible. She felt sticky, hot and dirty all over; her hair was fit for nesting birds; heavy and clumped with dried sea salt.

There was a rattling at the gated door, and Hermione blearily opened her heavy eyes to see Wormtail shove that day's nourishment through the bars. Luna stood to retrieve it, as she was the healthiest of their lot, and the movement lightly jarred Hermione's shoulder. She moaned lowly in pain, burying her nose into Ollivander's bony shoulder. He ran his withered hand across her head in what was meant to be a comforting measure.

"Hush, Miss Granger. It's all right." Empty words. She rather wished he hadn't said anything at all. It wasn't all right. Nothing was right at all, except…

Harry. Harry wasn't here, wasn't a prisoner with her, wasn't dead—that was the only thing that was all right. As long as Harry was fighting and free, she could have hope that things would be okay in the end, even if they weren't now.

Luna fed Hermione, switching off between taking a bit for herself and giving some to Hermione. Water, slightly stale bread and some sort of lukewarm soup that tasted strongly of onions were the human's fare—Griphook was granted a raw hunk of meat that looked far less than fresh. The taste of the soup made Hermione's stomach coil in protest and due to the infection she had no appetite, but she forced it down anyway. Allium bulbs, like onions, were used in most healing potions; it would help keep her immune system working.

To her simultaneous relief and disappointment, breakfast was gone quickly. Hermione sagged into Ollivander's side—trapped in feverish daydreams—her eyes hot and aching for sleep. Time was a long, unremarkable string, stretching on and on—there was no way to count the hours.

Today could be set apart from the past ones, however, by the sound of an angry voice echoing through the bars of the cellar. Voldemort.

"…est of care?"

"I-I thought…"

"Thought? You thought? Did you think I was simply blowing hot air when I said that she was to be treated as if she were a guest of honor!"

"N-n-no, my Lord! Of course not, b-b-but we…"

"Silence!"

A terrified quiet arose.

"No… no, my Lord! Please! Please, I beg you!"

"Avada Kedavra."

The leafy green light of the curse flashed through the doorway, making Luna and Ollivander both stiffen.

"Come, Draco," came Voldemort's whispery voice. "Nagini."

Their shadows glided down the steps before them, stringy and abstract against the stairs. Wormtail appeared at the front, shoving a ring of iron keys into the door lock with fumbling hands. He threw the gate open, the rub of iron against iron producing an ear-splitting shriek, and fell on bended knee in the Dark Lord's wake. Beside him slithered the enormous viper, Nagini, and behind him came a white-faced, wide-eyed Malfoy. Hermione had never seen her classmate with such a stricken expression—who had Voldemort killed up there?

"Away, Ollivander, Lovegood," the Dark Lord hissed with a gesture of his arm.

The two stiffened beside Hermione, who felt sickening fear well in her throat. It was bad enough being deathly ill and helpless, but to be helpless before this man! She would not even be able to crawl away in her current state.

Nagini hissed and snapped at them, and Ollivander scrambled away, getting to his feet shakily, looking equal parts terrified and ashamed.

"Stand aside, girl,"

But Luna didn't move.

"Stand aside!"

Malfoy jerked slightly then moved forward, pulling Luna away, though she struggled and shouted.

"No, no, no! Hermione!"

Hermione drew her good arm up to her chest in feeble defense as Voldemort knelt before her. She looked up at him through eyes bruised from illness and exhaustion. Fear wrapped its invisible fingers around her heart, making her breath shallow and erratic. His eyes were so very red, and his pearly white skin seemed to glow against the darkness of the dungeon. Long, spidery fingers reached out to her, and she couldn't stop the distressed noise that escaped her as his hand closed in. She pressed herself back, but there was only wall at her back, no sort of conceivable escape hidden in the brickwork. Her heartbeat drummed louder and louder in her ears until she was sure that it could be echoing through the entire chamber.

Her eyes shut tightly, and he drew the backs of his fingers down the side of her fevered, sweat-slicked face. Her heart gave a terrified little leap, feeling as if it was cracking her ribs in its desperate bid to get free. His fingers continued their invasive, eerily gentle movement downward, nails lightly dragging across her neck. When he drew his fingers over the infected wound, she screamed bloody murder, the world going blue-white with pain. Of its own accord, her good arm lashed out to grip at his wrist, nails scraping into fragile skin, but the pain ended as soon as it began, leaving her sobbing and moaning uncontrollably, tears pouring from her eyes as she curled in on herself.

Voldemort stood, exhaling softly with displeasure. "If she remains in this pigsty much longer, she will die. And you are much too precious to die yet, Miss Granger." He said, pale yew wand appearing in his fingers. His snake coiled around her, making her go absolutely rigid despite the pain, and Hermione rose into the air with terrified hiccup.

"No! No, please! Hermione!" Luna screamed. "Hermione!" She was struggling against Malfoy as fiercely as Malfoy was holding onto her, but he wasn't clinging so desperately just to keep her from getting loose, Hermione noted. His face was pressed into the nape of Luna's neck, and his shoulders shook; he seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.

"Silence her, Draco!" Voldemort hissed as he swept back through the gate. Wormtail's rodent-like face made Hermione's skin crawl, and as she glanced back into the cellar to see Ollivander's worried gaze she saw Malfoy spin Luna round in his arms and embrace her tightly, directing her sobs into the crook of his neck.

Wormtail closed the gate with all the final echoes of a death bell's toll.

Hermione felt herself begin to hyperventilate as they moved up the stairs, and no amount of logical reasoning could get her body to respond against it. The snake coiled around her more tightly, its great, triangular head staring at her from its place upon her rapidly moving breast. When they reached the room above, a twitch of horror pulsed through her at the sight of Lucius Malfoy's dead body, grey eyes still open and staring blankly at the ceiling. It was unreal, unnatural for a body to lie there like that, unscathed by the tools of torment and death, no knife plunged into his chest, no pool of blood growing under him or ruptured organ. The human body was such a difficult thing to destroy… it shouldn't be so easy to snuff out the light of a man with two lonely words!

She whined nasally and began wiggling against Nagini's coils, tears dripping as panic flooded her senses.

The snake hissed something that made Voldemort look at her sharply.

"Calm down."

But she couldn't, and the sight and sensation of his eyes on her only made the feeling of panic increase. She thrashed harder, crying out when her infection protested the movement. Voldemort's frown was a hideous, malformed mockery of the human expression, and she recoiled at the approach of his hand.

"No. No, no, no…"

"Sleep, girl."

He drew his hand over her face, and her eyes closed and she knew sleep.

The first things her mind registered were that she was warm, soft and silken blankets cocooning her from all sides, and that it was dark. Her eyes were closed, heavy and content with the last vestiges of slumber. She awoke slowly, first registering the feeling of her eyelashes resting on her cheek, then the sickly sweet taste of morning breath, silk cloth resting on her clean skin. Her fingers slowly clenched and unclenched, feeling returning to them, and a delicate throb in the crook of her arm.

That made her frown, and in a flash she remembered, sitting bolt upright in bed. The sudden motion made her wounds throb. Wincing, she lifted her hand to her shoulder and found it wrapped in clean, white cloth, her arm cradled in a cotton sling to keep it from moving too much. She felt for infection, and found it gone; her torn palm was almost completely healed, the scars as long and thin as the palm lines she was born with. Well, that was one aspect of divination that was certainly wasted on her now. Her clothes were gone, replaced with a long, old-fashioned nightdress. A deep blush arose, and she tried not to wonder who had stripped her of her jeans and shirt, feeling vaguely violated.

The room she was in was small considering the Malfoys lived in a manor; perhaps three paces from wall to wall. The light color scheme gave it the illusion of being larger than it really was; springy yellows and greens with dark blue, fleur de lis wallpaper and a canopy bed with fat, golden tassels. The carpet was the color of grass, and unbelievably soft—some sort of fine wool. Her toes sank into the cushy fibers like she was standing in moss. There was a window, but when she slipped out of bed to pull the curtains away, she found they were stuck fast and would not open. She groaned in frustration, aching for sunlight. There were doors: one locked and the other leading to a tiny, but luxurious bathroom.

The girl in the mirror cringed. There were dark blue circles around her eyes, her skin was pallid, her hair frizzy and knotted and lips white. She bit her lower lip and watched as blood rose to the area, making it flush pink. She was thinner than before, her bones jutting out at hard angles, stomach painfully concave, cheeks hollow. Her fingerprints squeaked against glass as she drew her fingers down the cheek of her reflection. If she looked this awful now, she shuddered to think how unkempt she had looked before…

A chill shot through her.

Voldemort.

Her legs suddenly unwilling to support her, she swayed and lowered herself onto the toilet seat.

Why had Voldemort seen fit to remove her from the makeshift prison? He needed her to use as bait for Harry—she remembered that much, hazy though the memories were from injury and illness—but did that really require her to be in good health? Perhaps it was a bid at psychological warfare: Harry would be more shocked to see her in good—well, decent health than he would be to see her abused and broken. It was expectedthat he would be cruel, and while he certainly had been, she had been expecting more, not to be left to rot in a cellar for a week then placed in what, by a prison's standards, was a luxurious room. A gilded cage, she supposed.

But this little bird would not sit and sing, morosely eyeing freedom beyond the bars, oh no. She stood and began ripping out the vanity drawers, searching for something, anything that could be used to aid in escape. Like most vanity dressers, this one was full of useless little potions and jewels, hairbrushes and elastic bands, a toothbrush and a tube of paste, a coil of bright blue mint floss. Near the back of one drawer, however, she found an incredible tool:

A bobby pin. Sleek and black, perhaps five centimeters long, the sight and touch of it set hope burning bright in her chest. A key!

Bending one prong of the pin, she carefully slipped it into the lock of the door that wouldn't open and began twisting. She held her breath, listening intensely to the little scratching sounds, feeling for the tiny mechanism that would push the lock out of place. She fiddled for what felt like endless minutes, her ear pressed tight against the door for any noise that might erupt on the other wide. When the lock finally clicked out of place her blood leapt, but her joy was short-lived as the door swung open and she was forced to hurry out of the way or be sharply thunked in the nose.

"Oh," Malfoy sighed, shoulders slumping as he closed the door, "You're finally awake." He looked almost as terrible as she did, his blonde hair limp and stringy, shadows coagulating under his eyes.

Hermione brought up her uninjured arm up to cover her breasts, suddenly feeling very exposed and off-kilter. "How long have I been asleep?"

Malfoy swallowed; his eyes unsteady on her. "Almost a week." His voice was a hoarse whisper.

"A week?" she repeated, stomach shriveling up and disappearing completely. That meant it was already well into January. No wonder she looked like death warmed over. "Who cleaned me up and cleared my wounds?" she asked after a moment.

"House Elves," he said quickly, and held up a hand to stop her outraged reply, "I know how you feel about the subject, but… don't. Just don't.

"You almost died," he continued, "Again. You have no idea how goddamn lucky…" he cut himself short, sucking in a breath and clutching maniacally at his skull. "It's my own fault. I really just wanted to forget you existed, pretend that you weren't a captive in my basement, when I knew-I knew… Merlin! Aren't you supposed to be out with Potter and Weasley doing some mission for Professor Dumbledore to end all this? How did the Dark Lord get a hold of you? You're supposed to be smart!"

"I know!" she shouted back. "Don't you think I know, Malfoy? It was a no-win situation! I had to either sacrifice myself or let him get Harry! And he couldn't-he couldn't be allowed to get Harry." Tears welling behind her eyes, she slowly sank onto the bed. "If Harry dies, everything is lost."

"Don't kid yourself, Granger. I may not like you, but you're worth ten of Potter any day."

The corner of her mouth quivered. She had the strange urge to thank him for the odd compliment, but couldn't bring herself to do so. It didn't feel appropriate. It wasn't right to thank the person helping keep you prisoner.

She took a deep breath that was almost a yawn, and folded her hands together in her lap. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"

He looked very nervous all of a sudden, his hands twitching, black robes stark against pale skin.

"Malfoy…" she growled.

"Y-you have to dine with the Dark Lord. Tonight. No exceptions."

Her insides felt hollow. "No," she breathed, covering her mouth with one delicate hand, eyes looking around at everything but her classmate.

"Yes. He's been waiting for you to wake up and he's been growing impatient. You have to go."

"I won't go!"

Malfoy snapped. "You'll go or you'll be eating with the rest of the Death Eaters, and I assure you that will be horrible in ways you don't want to imagine! I, for one, don't want to be stuck in a situation where I have to see-have to see you molested or raped on my dining room table! So… S-s-so…" He stopped and took a deep, shaking breath.

Her eyes felt watery, and she opened and closed her mouth several times until she was sure she could speak without wavering. "Why does he want to see me?"

Malfoy's greasy locks shook like windblown wheat. "I don't know. I'd guess he wants information about Potter. Merlin knows that you of all people could never be swayed to fiddle with the Dark Arts."

Hermione lifted her eyes to the yellow, geometrically patterned ceiling, sucking in a long breath through her stinging nose, willing the tears back. They retreated with reluctance, clinging to her pupils stubbornly.

"Okay… okay, I get it. B-but Merlin help me, I don't want to…"

"No kidding," the young man muttered. "No sane person would, so at least you've got that… But there's more." He moved like a ghost over to the squat little dresser and forced the top drawer open, lifting out a long stretch of fabric that smelled faintly of mothballs.

Hermione was simultaneously awed and horrified, the little blood coloring her face draining away.

A dress. Ornate and fine, its color was a deep plum crested with fine cream-white embroidery, layered and draping, bunched at the hips and tight about the waist; a neckline that ventured far too low.

"I don't want to wear that," she whispered.

"You don't have a choice. You'll wear it or you go starker's," Malfoy hissed.

"And who'll ensure that? You?" She snarled back.

He threw the dress onto the bed beside her, where it fell softly with a purple flutter like a great, dead butterfly. "Me? No, I have no desire to see what beast you've been hiding under those robes all these years, but it's what the Dark Lord wants, and if you walk in wearing anything other than that dress he'll spell the clothes right off you. There's nothing else in this room besides that and the nightdress you're currently wearing. You-don't-have-a-choice."

'Yes, I do. I can very well go starker's,' she thought grimly, 'it's not much of a choice, but a choice it is.'

She warily stroked the fabric of the dress; crushed velvet. There were tiny pearls embedded in the wispy, cloud-like embroidery.

"When is dinner?"

He swallowed, his eyes drifting to the side as he did some quick math. "Couple of hours."

She let the thought mull over in her head unpleasantly. "I'll be ready."

He visibly slumped with relief. "Good. Good."

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

His face grew stony. "Granger, you're a filthy Mudblood and I hate your stinking guts, but," he added firmly before she could protest, "You are my classmate. Like it or not, we grew up together. It's impossible not to form some sort of sentimental hogwash. Even if I imagined 'putting you in your place' a dozen times, daydreams and reality… They're not the same. And I… I don't want you to actually die. You're brilliant, and you have a lot to give. The Wizarding World would be a poorer place without you in it." He looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon. "And I'm never repeating that again, and if you tell anyone, I'll deny it and have you locked up in the mental ward of Saint Mungos."

She snorted softly. "If I told someone they wouldn't believe me anyhow, so I think your dirty little secret is safe, Malfoy."

He nodded, a slight, reluctant bob of the head, and turned to go, grasping at the cold, brass door handle. He paused however, plucking a thin black object from the lock, and Hermione tensed, every muscle in her shoulder protesting.

He twirled the twisted bobby pin between his fingers and his eyes flickered between it and the girl for a long moment. "Wait three days then try again at nine in the morning," he said quietly, dropping the pin. It made no noise on the carpet. "And make sure you hide it somewhere the House Elves won't find it." And with that he opened the door and began to leave.

"Malfoy," she started, standing on stringy legs. He stopped short, looking back at her out of the corner of his eyes. "I… I'm sorry about your father."

For a moment she thought he was going to snap at her, scorn her for her sympathy, but instead his chin trembled and his eyes grew glassy as two marbles.

"Thank you."

He was gone before she could say anything more.

Hermione didn't move for some time, the events of the last week—no, two weeks—and what was to come weighing heavily down on her. Tears running free, struggling against sobs, she threw herself onto the bed and had a good cry. The feel and smell of the sheets was strange and unfamiliar—feminine and flowery, the silk loosing its heat all too quickly, cold riches that provided no meager sliver of comfort.

After a while she sat up and wiped the salt from her cheeks then retreated to the bathroom, though not before picking up the bobby pin Draco had dropped and stashing it away back where she'd found it—a hairpin would garner no suspicion amongst other hairpins.

The girl in the mirror was a puffy-eyed, pathetic looking little thing, and the rush of hot water over her skin was a welcome sensation. It soaked through her skin, penetrating her muscles and warming her down to her aching bones. She spared a worry for bandage, but when she found that it magically repelled water she scrubbed away freely. The small room filled with white steam and the smell of rosemary, oats, and goat's milk. Though she wasn't dirty, she felt as if the lightly-perfumed soap was washing days' worth of grime down the drain trapped inside fragile, pearly bubbles—she washed her feelings down with the froth.

Fighting things was not going to help Harry or herself right now. She was not going to bow down and lick Voldemort's feet like one of his many groveling dogs, but there was nothing to be accomplished by being dragged to the dining room kicking and screaming either. She closed her eyes, letting the shower spray warmly over her face, and imagined that her fears, insecurities and anxieties were being washed away, leaving behind more than glowing skin—she would face Voldemort with her head held high. She was not a child, no longer a naïve schoolgirl; she was an intelligent eighteen year-old young woman fighting for everything good and just in the world! Even if she were having dinner with the devil she would not let him see how afraid she was.

The girl who got out of the bath looked much better the girl who had gotten into it; her skin now flushed, the circles under her eyes lightened a bit. She began drying herself with a fluffy blue towel, swiping her hand over the mirror to clear away the fog clinging to it.

Two big green tennis-ball eyes stared back at her through the reflection.

Hermione shrieked in alarm, jerking back so abruptly that she bashed her hip harshly into the corner of the vanity and fell back into the tub, sprawling like a stunned spider. Ignoring the hot pain blossoming on her tailbone, she drew back further still until her back was pressed against the tiles of the wall, panting harshly, her eyes wide and shoulder burning as if flame licked along the seam of her wound.

The House Elf gasped. "Oh, Jilly is so sorry, miss! She didn't mean to scare you, please don't be angry at Jilly!"

"Jilly," Hermione repeated, whispering. She licked her lips, panic fading and muscles relaxing with every gasp. "Jilly… It-it's okay, Jilly, you just startled me. N-next time let me know that you're here, instead of just s-sneaking." She lifted one hand to her chest. "Nearly gave me a heart-attack…"

The House Elf shook her head, ears flopping wildly. "Jilly is so sorry, Miss! So sorry!"

"Apology accepted, Jilly," the witch reassured, standing unsteadily and wrapping the towel firmly around her. "Why are you here?"

"Jilly is here to help miss get ready for dinner with the Dark Master!" Jilly said perkily.

Hermione felt her mood darken. Slavery, it was so disgusting! To hold a living, breathing, sentient creature under such a bond was cruel and inhumane—though, of course, Voldemort was certainly cruel and inhumane. Were she not a prisoner herself she would have quickly launched into a passionate argument about getting rights and freedom and wages for House Elves, but she forced herself to hold her tongue. What could the imprisoned say to the imprisoned?

"Thank you," she said, "But I don't need any help. I am perfectly capable of doing things on my own."

Jilly looked absolutely scandalized, planting her twig-like hands on stained, rag-clad hips. "Oh yes, Miss does!" the little creature exclaimed, wagging one long forefinger up at Hermione. "Miss is still recovering from her injury! She will not be able to lace her dress or lift her hands to take care of her hair!"

Her hair? What did she need to do her hair for? She would concede herself to wearing the dress, but she wasn't looking to impress. "I don't care about any of that, so your help is not necessary."

"Miss does! Miss absolutely does! Jilly is not taking no for an answer! Oh no, she is not! Miss will look nothing less than her best!" The House Elf squealed indignantly and with extraordinary bossiness. Jilly clamped a strong hand onto Hermione's towel and dragged her out of the bathroom to shove her onto the springy bed. Hermione tightly clutched at the towel lest it slid down too far and her breasts slip out.

Jilly would not be deterred by the young woman's protests, avoiding hand and ignoring insult, and even going so far as to tell Hermione, "Miss's should not frown! Her face will stick like that!" Which only served to make Hermione's scowl deepen.

The dress was tight against her plump little breasts, heavy on her thighs, and nearly unbearable at the waist. With dexterous fingers Jilly braided the unruly, hart-brown hair at the young woman's temples and pulled it back with a pearl and amethyst clip. Identical jewels were hung around her neck and slung on her wrists and ears. Hermione let them sit there, which pleased Jilly—however when Draco arrived to "escort" her, she tore the pin from her hair, and broke the strings of pearls and gems hanging from her limbs and threw them to the carpet, where they scattered and rolled in all directions. She wiped the cakey lipstick away with her wrist, and left Jilly shrieking in indignation until that her nose resembled a strawberry, high-pitched voice muffled by the wood of the door as Malfoy closed it. His face showed no outward reaction, but his eyes glimmered with some amusement.

Hermione crossed her arms, gently stroking her bandaged wound with her thumb, her eyes fierce and her hair frizzed and defiant against the twin braids that bound it. Malfoy didn't speak and neither did she, the atmosphere was heavy and sticky with a sense of impending doom. They were, in a word, walking into the dragon's lair. She trailed slightly behind Malfoy, unsure of the exact whereabouts of their destination. Malfoy Manor was surprisingly maze-like; hallways skewered off at odd angles and they seemed to double back on themselves more than once. It reminded her of the Burrow, but instead of growing upward like the Weasley family home, the manor expanded horizontally. The walls were surprisingly warm-colored, not dark and oozing blood like something out of a cinema—people obviously lived here. Portraits and antiques dotted the walls—crossed swords, family crests of lines long died out, blonde and brunette ancestors that watched the two youths pass with curious stares (some of them were so old that they didn't move like most Wizarding portraits), and extravagant candelabras. One chain-covered door shook in its frame, the moans of a ghoul emitting from between the cracks.

The dining room and the dining hall turned out to be two entirely different rooms—the hall, obviously, being only used when hosting a large number of guests. Voldemort was waiting in the dining room.

Hermione had hoped for a moment to breathe and steady her nerves one last time, but Malfoy opened the carved oak doors without hesitation.

She had been somehow expecting an extravagantly long table, where Voldemort would be situated far away from her at one end and she at the other, but the table was small, not much larger than the table she had had back home with her parents. It was appallingly close quartered—she would be within reaching distance of the Dark Lord.

Voldemort was not sitting at the table; instead he stood with his back to them, gazing thoughtfully into the fireplace as best Hermione could tell from this angle. His robe was a reddish-black smudge against the light of the fire, the highlights of his face yellowish-gold as if someone had coated him with fairy dust.

"My Lord," Malfoy greeted, bowing deeply.

"Thank you, Draco," the serpentine man said quietly. "You are dismissed. Go back to your mother."

The young man bowed again and turned away, his eyes clashing with Hermione's for a fraction of a second before the door was pulled shut. The lock snapped forebodingly into place. Silence reigned for several long moments. Hermione was unwilling to be the first to speak up, though the smell and sight of the platters of food plucked viciously at her resolve. It was a spectacular offering: brightly colored vegetables, a cornucopia of plump fruits, an entire roasted piglet complete with red apple gag, mashed potatoes, crackers and cheese and caviar, a golden-brown buttered bird she suspected was peacock rather than chicken, warm brown gravy in a silver server, salad and vinaigrette, and a tall bottle of French red wine. She swallowed, unable to keep herself from salivating even with a psychopathic mass-murdering wizard in the room.

Finally, Voldemort made the first move, turning to face her in an elegant swirl of fabric. Hermione's breath hitched as fire-red eyes locked into her own, but she didn't withdraw, instead straightening her shoulders and meeting his stare though her insides quivered with suppressed fear.

"Miss Granger," he said, extending one palm to gesture toward the table. "Sit, please."

His politeness unnerved her, but she did as requested after a moment's hesitance. Her shoes, akin to ballerina flats, tapped softly on the tile. Voldemort, thankfully, was not so chivalrous as to pull her chair out for her, though he did wait until she was seated before sitting down himself. He did not speak again, but began putting food on his plate, and after a moment Hermione did the same.

She feared that the food was laced with poison or worse—Veritaserum, but her stomach would not be denied. She was ravenous enough that any feelings of awkwardness were muted, but she ate slowly, cutting up her chicken and vegetables into bite-sized pieces before slowly chewing them. Voldemort showed no interest in actually eating, picking idly at his food whist staring intensely at her. He poured the wine into two winking glasses, but Hermione did not drink yet.

Finally he spoke again, the suddenness of his voice making her flinch. "There is no need to stand on ceremony, Miss Granger. You have not eaten anything of substance in a fortnight, and there is no one here you need impress."

Hermione regarded him warily, lifting her eyes from her plate. "That's no excuse to eat like a pig. Besides, if I chose to stuff my face I would be more likely to make myself sick than gain any nourishment."

He inclined his head at an angle. "Indeed." he murmured over the wine.

As she lifted another forkful of potatoes to her mouth, she realized something.

"Why are you watching me eat?" she asked, smothering the alarm that arose in her.

He inhaled then, seeming to shiver out of a trance and draw back into reality. The nearly empty glass of wine was set aside, the burgundy pigment stuck to the sides giving it a bruised appearance. "Forgive me," he said, "The sense of taste is just one of several things I had to sacrifice in my journeys as a youth. It… pleases me to know you find the fare palatable."

Hermione found that creepy, and it was odd to learn that the immortal, inhuman Dark Lord missed something as ordinary as flavors. It made him seem… more touchable, somehow, took him off his pedestal and stripped away a small sliver of what made him more myth than man. She didn't like it.

"Oh." There was not much else to be said.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his long, bony hands on the edge of the table as he took her in. "Hermione Jean Granger." he said, enunciating slowly and clearly. His red eyes were eerily lamp-like, as if someone had taken the eyes of a cat and implanted them in his head. "I have been researching you, Miss Granger. You are, I find, a rather fascinating creature. Eighteen years old, top of your class, eleven OWLs—O's in everything but Defense, in which you received an E, and you did not take Divination. It may entertain you to know that you scored higher on your Charms OWL than I did at that age."

Indeed, despite herself, Hermione felt a proud flutter rise in her chest—it was not every day one bested Lord Voldemort in anything (unless your name was Harry Potter), even a young Voldemort—but it didn't live long. With each word he spoke, each fact he threw at her, she grew steadily paler.

Voldemort continued. "Born to Daniel and Emma Granger, both Muggles, both dentists, and you nearly had a younger sister, but your mother miscarried. In your first year you solved Severus' riddle, thus allowing Harry Potter to move forward to the chamber where Quirrell was attempting to retrieve the Philospoher's Stone. In your second year you were petrified by my basilisk, though it is thanks to you that Harry found out what Slytherin's Monster was at all and was able to act accordingly. In your fourth year you were responsible for teaching Harry the spell that enabled him to escape me. In your fifth year it was your cleverness that allowed Harry and all your friends to get into the Department of Mysteries and to get back out, and I hear that you pulled a very Slytherin trick on one Dolores Umbridge that traumatized her for life. In your sixth year you fought against my Death Eaters' invasion, even successfully warding off Fenrir Greyback—a mindless savage, but powerful in his own right and a man not easily impeded by ordinary wizards and witches. And I am also willing to bet good money on it being your mind that enabled Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and yourself to penetrate the Ministry. Would you like me to go on?"

Hermione's mouth opened and closed several times, suddenly dry as if she had swallowed a spoonful of salt. "How do you know all that?" she whispered hoarsely.

"I have my sources, of course, Miss Granger."

"Surely the leader of the Dark has better things to do with his time than look up personal information on a Mudblood."

He chuckled darkly. "One cannot spend all hours of the day strategizing. I have never heard one your kind actually referring to yourself as a Mudblood before."

She jutted her chin out. "I'm a Mudblood and proud of it."

His finger circled his glass, making it ring musically. "Of that I have no doubt. Young Draco has had many an entertaining story to blither on about concerning you. However, having filthy blood is nothing to be proud of."

"I think the question of whether or not my heritage is dirty is a matter of perspective. Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view."

His cat-like pupils narrowed, his eyes sharpening on her acutely, and she fisted her hands on her lap to keep from twisting them anxiously.

"Perhaps." he conceded softly. "Is there anything else you have to say or ask, Miss Granger?" There was a challenging tone in his high-pitched voice, a slight warning for her to be silent and eat her meal obediently.

"Several things," she said. She would not abide his warning tone; Voldemort was not a person she had respect for as an authority figure—the respect she held for him was the respect a person held for a deadly animal; the respect one held for the man robbing his or her home.

"Please, do not hold me in suspense." The Dark Lord said.

"Why am I here?"

He cocked his head. "Certainly you know why I brought you to the manor?"

"Yes, I know why I'm being held prisoner, but I don't know why you've invited me to dinner and provided me with a room instead of leaving me in a cell with the others."

"But you are not like the others, are you, Miss Granger? You're different. Special."

"Because I am Harry's friend," she stated with a slight nod.

"Among other things, but, yes, that is first and foremost. Harry is, without a doubt, expecting you to be tormented and tortured, and while I find that most appealing, it would only serve to make him angry. I am familiar with anger. I know how it can be some men's greatest weakness and others' greatest strength. Unfortunately," his expression soured, "As much as I would like to cause him suffering, Harry's anger is his strength in battle. Desperation only makes him fight harder and is, I realize, a mistake I've made regarding him for quite some time." One long forefinger rose, jutting out of his hand like a broken bone. "Relief, on the other hand is always a weakness. Relief makes a man let down his guard and forget his troubles. Relief is a distraction. One moment of distraction is all I need to kill Harry Potter for good.

"Also, I digress," his hand reached for her slowly, and Hermione froze in fear, her heart rate skyrocketing as he lightly traced his fingertips along the tattered braid at her temple. His fingernails were long, closer to claws than human nails, and up close his skin seemed more a shade of very pale periwinkle than actual white, his veins and arteries deep indigo. "It would be a waste to let such a brilliant mind sit and rot. When I win this war I am sure I can find some use for you, regardless of… opinions concerning blood. That is assuming you survive, of course."

When he pulled away to return to his plate she could finally breathe again, ribs straining against the cage of the dress.

"And…" she began breathlessly, "Why did you bring me to dinner?"

"Curiosity." He replied just as softly.

The still healing wound at her armpit burned. The bodice was not a corset, but it was difficult to get an entire lungful of air. Which reminded her…

"Why did you want me to wear this dress?"

Voldemort's lipless mouth curved into a mocking smirk. "You don't like it? I thought you'd look pretty."

She couldn't keep herself from scowling, even if it risked getting her cursed. "Yeah right. I don't believe that for a second."

His smirk fell and he rose from his seat, making Hermione jerk back in her chair loudly, the wood echoing as it scraped against the floor. Voldemort's hand on the arm kept her from moving back any further, however, and her eyes darted madly between his face and the finger he slowly, sensually, drew down her cheek.

"You wear that dress," he began softly, wrapping his hand firmly around her throat, watching her brown eyes dilate, "Because I say you do. You will wear whatever I say you will wear because you are my prisoner. You wash with the soap I provide; you eat what I put on your plate, and you do whatever I tell you to do because I. own. you, Miss Granger. You will also wear whatever I say you will wear because when setting a trap, one's prey does not step into the iron jaws when what you are offering is maggoty meat. You will be kept lovely, healthy and comfortable at my generosity because even Harry is not so foolish as to fight for an empty husk of a girl."

Her eyes flashed in defiance, rosy pink lower lip puckering outward. "You know, you could have summed that up much more quickly by just admitting to being a control-freak. Aah—!" His hold on her throat tightened, choking her. Fear rang in her ears like bells, water rising to her eyes. She could not stop her instinctive reaction, hands coming up to claw helplessly at his bony wrist.

He hissed, a harsh, windy sound like water being poured on a fire. "You would do well, Miss Granger, not to speak to me in such a disrespectful manner again. You are not so valuable that I will hesitate to kill you if you insist on pushing me." He rubbed his thumb thoughtfully over the cartilaginous ridges of her windpipe.

"Such a lovely neck. It looks so delicate, but…" he squeezed hard for one horribly long moment, and Hermione's eyes rolled up in her head as her vertebrae curved under the pressure. Her larynx felt as if it would snap and cave in. "Yes, it would be quite difficult to break you."

"G-g-go t-to h-he-ell." She gasped.

Voldemort's eyes darkened to a much more sinister red and now he clenched both hands around her throat.

Hermione's head spun. Suddenly hyper-aware of her senses, her vision clouded and she could feel her pulse beating away at his thumbs like there was a ticking bubble trapped under her skin. It felt like the fluids in her brain cavity were sloshing around, and she could suddenly smell the savory food with sharp clarity, hear the crackle of the fireplace roaring in her ears like a beast, and her breath was tinged with the taste of iron that came before bleeding, as if she'd run too far, too fast.

"Do you have a death wish, Mudblood?"

No, she did not really have a death wish; but if she were dead then Harry wouldn't come for her and thus would not fall into Voldermort's trap. She had no desire to die, but if it would allow Harry to defeat Voldemort, if it kept Harry safe then she would gladly welcome Death like an old friend. Oh, Merlin, the Dark Lord's angry eyes were consuming her, drowning her in visions of blood and fire… Harry was the most important thing! As long as Harry was-Harry was—

Then, suddenly, she could breathe again, bosom heaving as she gasped and coughed, reaching up to gently rub the deep bruise circling her neck like a collar. She sagged in her chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut, tears falling in a steady stream onto her lap—they glistened golden, reflecting the light of the fire.

A string of hissing syllables made her look up, trembling violently, and even the sight of the enormous viper Nagini slithering between the platters of food couldn't freeze her in place.

With a Parseltongue command, the snake lunged.

Fangs sank deeply into Hermione's injured shoulder, the propelled weight of the snake sending the chair and the young witch sitting it in falling back. A blood-curdling scream ripped itself from her mouth, her back jarring against the floor horribly as Nagini's mouth contracted, pumping venom into her body. Oh, she could feel it: warm, slippery, and thick like syrup, blazing through her veins—every tiny little branch all the way up to the outermost layers of skin—as if it would eat her through and leave her as biological soup of unraveled cells and proteins on the marble floor.

Nagini withdrew, the removal of its flesh-covered fangs as painful as the tearing of daggers, and left behind two bloody, but comparatively small holes. No matter how abnormally large its size, like any ordinary serpent Nagini's fangs still were designed to leave small puncture wounds to keep venom from leaking… unfortunately.

Hermione curled onto her side, frantically trying to stifle her sobs and shrieks of pain.

"I told you that I would not tolerate your cheek, Hermione. Lord Voldemort does not repeat himself." the Dark Lord said, his voice unnervingly gentle. "Your thoughts are disgusting."

The sound of her name falling from his lips made her shudder. He had no right to speak to her so familiarly, so intimately! She heaved a great, hiccupping sob, feeling nausea rise in her throat. Her mouth tasted of metal. The pain was shortening her breath, limiting her cries down into drawn-out whimpers and wails. She should have remembered to avoid looking him in the eye. She should not have forgotten that he was a master Legilmens, not for one moment.

His foot entered her teary vision and she helplessly recoiled from his kneeling form as he set the untouched wineglass on the floor.

"You have caused me a great amount of trouble, Hermione." He said, sweeping fallen curls away from her face. "Not only did you steal me away from Harry, but you've been the mind behind all that has thwarted me from destroying Potter these past years—but no more.

"Wormtail had something very interesting to tell me the other day: about a unique map in Harry Potter's possession. It seems that this map is of Hogwarts and it displays the true name of everyone within, no matter how well disguised. Although I am sure he will prove simple to capture without you by his side, Harry will have a difficult time locating the Malfoy's Manor all by his lonesome. Whilst I am a patient man I do prefer the path of least resistance. In a few days time, you shall be moved to a room at Hogwarts. Not as a student, of course, but it is certainly only a matter of time before dear Harry spots you on his map and comes running to your aid and into my grasp."

He stood then, the hem of his robe brushing lightly against her, and left her a wretched heap on the floor, his snake following like a loyal dog.

"Do make sure you taste the wine, Hermione. It is a good vintage and it may just save your life."
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The Ivory Tower