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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.

Chapter List
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The Ivory Tower

I didn't intend to post this for a while yet, but I figured a celebratory update was in order! After two years of failed interviews and sitting on my butt, I have a part-time job! Huzzah! Let's hope I can keep it! o.o

3. The Highest Room of the Tallest Tower

Through centuries of scourges and disasters, brought about by your code of morality, you have cried that your code had been broken, that the scourges were punishment for breaking it, that men were too weak and too selfish to spill all the blood it required. You damned men, you damned existence, you damned this earth, but never dared to question your code. Your victims took the blame and struggled on, with your curses as reward for their martyrdom - while you went on crying that your code was noble, but human nature was not good enough to practice it. And no one rose to ask the question: Good? - by what standard?

~Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

It was three days until she saw Voldemort again after the horrific dinner affair. Hermione knew he was coming because the House Elf, Jilly, had popped in and forced her into another extravagant dress—this time of Slytherin green, royal blue, and silver. It was, blessedly, not the pain that the last dress had been, soft and light on her shoulders with an empire waist that it did not aggravate her healing body. Bright shades of violet, crimson, and yellow circled her neck. The area where Nagini had bitten her was a mess, swollen and bright red, hot to the touch and incredibly tender. The punctures oozed clear liquid as fluid swarmed to the enormous haematomic bruise, her lymphnodes so swollen she feared she would choke on them.

Twice as determined as before, Jilly forced silver bangles on Hermione's wrists and ankles, and she knew with cold horror that they were not simple jewelry—they were shackles.

Voldemort arrived with Severus Snape trailing him like a shadow. They entered without knocking, and Hermione's heart fell through the floor—she had no chance to try to use the bobby pin to escape again. Though it had been three days, nine o'clock was two hours away. For now, at least, freedom was lost to her.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," the Dark Lord said with uncanny optimism.

Hermione's eyes flicked to him then to Snape.

The professor did not look well, the curve of his mouth grimmer than she had ever seen it, his hair still stringy but sharply cut. His eyes and cheeks were sunken, his flesh sagging as if it were detaching from his cheekbones. His nose had grown more crooked—surely it had been broken over the past few months, though how she could not guess. The very sight of him, his very presence, made her incredibly angry. This was the man who had murdered Dumbledore. Despite his cruelty in the classroom she had always defended him against Harry and Ron's accusations only for him to turn out to be as nasty and horrible a person as they always insisted. Hermione felt more betrayed by him than Harry or Ron ever could; she had placed her trust and faith in the man whereas her friends had not.

Voldemort's silken voice interrupted her boiling thoughts.

"It is customary to return a greeting, Miss Granger."

She looked at him but turned her gaze away quickly, lips thinning.

"Miss Granger," his tone was warning.

"No," she would not greet him. There was nothing good about this morning and she would not bend to him. She was a Gryffindor, she was brave—the heart of a lion!—and she was stubborn. She was not afraid of pain or of death, and she would fight Voldemort every painful step of the way.

"Say it, Hermione. Tell me 'good morning.'" He hissed.

She remained stonily silent.

From the edges of her vision she noticed his arm move. Alarmed, she turned her head toward the two black-clad men.

Voldemort cast a spell she didn't recognize, and smoky grey and green tendrils snaked from the tip of his wand, twining and growing towards her. She scrambled backwards and lifted her hands warily, defensively. The slithering mist attached itself to the bangles and solidified into a glittering green and silver rope. She swallowed dryly, her wide eyes following the braid up to its tasseled end, which was held in the Dark Lord's spidery hand. He smirked at her and yanked on the cord.

Hermione bit back a yelp, stumbling forward and tripping on the hem of the dress so that she fell to her knees before him, dress folds aflutter. She didn't bother holding back her glare—she wanted him to know how much she hated him in that moment. She stared defiantly into his waxen, alien visage. Leashed and pulled around like an unruly animal! She was a human being, damn it, not a dog!

She trembled with barely contained anger and stood, throwing her aching shoulders back. Snape's dark eyebrows slowly rose as if an invisible string pulled them, though his expression remained carefully blank.

"I am waiting, Hermione, and I am growing impatient." The Dark Lord said lowly.

"Why don't you just do things the easy way and use the Imperius Curse on me?" she asked bitterly.

"Short of making you kill your friends and family I will not break you by using the Imperius Curse; you are too strong-minded. Come now," he grasped her chin to make her look up at him, "Just two words and a name. 'Good morning'…"

She shivered under his touch. His hands were cold and up close she could see that his skin was bizarrely textured—the tiny ridges that should wrinkle one's knuckles and draw lines between individual hairs were patterned like scales on a snake, though no actual scales were to be had. She resolutely kept her eyes away from his slit-pupil stare, focusing on the flat, reptilian nostrils positioned above his mouth. He had lips, after all, she noticed: very thin and pale, nearly nonexistent.

"Say it."

She pulled her chin away, twisting her head as far to the side as the bruised flesh of her neck would allow. He hissed into her ear, breath making her curls fan lightly in all directions. She could smell what he'd eaten that morning, though she couldn't identify it. His presence was almost overwhelming; tall, powerful, and predatory to the point where she felt suffocated just by being in the same vicinity.

"My Lord," Snape interrupted softly, "Forgive me, but I do feel the need to remind you that we are on a schedule. Formidable though they are, I do not trust the Carrows to not let Hogwarts fall into the hands of rebellious students in my absence. That aside, Miss Granger is among the most stubborn and self-righteous Griffindors I've ever come across. Unfortunately, I don't believe you will manage to wrest a morning greeting without the use of one of the Unforgivables on her or on a victim placed before her." She could sense his scornful eyes on her and it made the hair on her arms prickle. His next words were spoken with deep mocking. "She has such a big heart. Using the torture curse on Ollivander or the Lovegood girl could possibly even prove more effective than torturing her directly."

Hermione stiffened, feeling as though someone had poured ice down her back. It was chillingly true, and she hated Snape for reading her so well. It was one thing to be tormented, but to see someone being tortured because of you…

"Well now, that is good to know… isn't it, Hermione?" Voldemort drawled. "How would you like to pay a visit to Miss Lovegood?"

She looked at him in horror, feeling as though she'd been punched in the stomach. His expression was full of sick amusement.

"Ah, but you are right, Severus, we do not have time. I will have to collect my greeting later. Administer the potion."

"Potion?" She squeaked, stepping a step back in alarm.

"It is only a strong Drought of Peace to keep you from making a fuss."

A strong Drought of Peace… why couldn't he just be forthright and call it a tranquilizer?

Snape drew a vial full of turquoise-colored liquid out of his robes. As soon as he pulled the stopper, silvery fumes swirled into the air, and Hermione scampered back like flames were licking at her feet.

"No! No, no, I won't take it!" She cried, but a sharp tug on the rope had her stumbling forward again.

"Yes, you will." The Dark Lord said it as if it were as obvious a fact as the sky was blue.

She fought and thrashed against his hold, but Nagini's bite and the still-healing wound at her shoulder impeded her, as did the shackles at her wrists and ankles as they suddenly snapped together. Unbalanced, she fell onto her bum at the foot of the bed, cushioned by the thick green carpet, and Snape descended on her like the night, nothing but black and a sunken, pale face filling her vision. He pressed her shoulders against the brass bed frame and lifted the Draught of Peace to her lips. Despite its name, she knew it would taste foul.

She closed her mouth against the potion, whipping her head this way and that, but Snape got his thumb and forefinger around her nose, cutting off her air. She held her breath until her ears popped and her diaphragm trembled, but all too soon her jaw threw itself open and the former Potions professor's hand was there, tipping the blue liquid into her mouth. She gagged on the first half as droplets began to slide down the wrong tube and into her lungs instead of her stomach. It was horrible, tasting of fermented valerian and she felt as if she'd inhaled the Vaseline her parents would rub on her chest when she was sick as a child, and she coughed most of the concoction back up.

Snape scowled and shoved his fingers in her mouth to prevent her from closing it again—disgusting! He had knobby knuckles and dirty fingernails; his flesh tasted of herbs, flobberworms, and soap—and poured the rest of the potion down her throat when her coughs lightened. She had little choice but to swallow it. As soon as she did Snape tore himself away, wiping his saliva-covered fingers vigorously on a handkerchief. Hermione spat the remnants of the Draught of Peace onto the floor, trying to rid herself of the foul taste of Snape's fingers and hellbore.

Her chest heaved with the remnants of panic, but already the potion was beginning to take effect, her breath. Her heart rate slowed, anxiety fading to mere nervousness and she knew that soon that too would vanish. Her wounds hurt as much as ever, but she was less concerned about them than before, and the wariness and distrust she held the two men in the spring-colored, fleur de lis-wallpapered room dropped away into nothingness.

Rule-abiding goody two-shoes that she was (usually), Hermione had never been drunk, but she supposed it felt something like how she felt now: numb, blank and an undercurrent of quiet joy seeping through her entire being accompanied by a faintly lingering desire to cry.

"How long until it wears off, Severus?" Voldemort asked.

"Only a couple of hours, my Lord. It is a strong dosage, but not a long-lasting one. It should flush itself from her system when we reach the castle—you did want her to be alert for her… presentation."

"Exceptional work as always. I am pleased, Severus, very pleased. Come, Miss Granger."

Hermione didn't move from her sitting place. She didn't want to move, she was quite content here, thankyouverymuch…

"Hermione, stand up now."

Well, all right, she would stand up. It wasn't as if she minded and he sounded upset. She would not look up at him though, she didn't mind him right now, but that didn't mean she liked him, no, not at all.

As they made their way out of the manor she nearly fell from a misstep on several occasions, only to be yanked upright by a sharp tug on the rope. It took so much energy to try to think that she was sure smoke would be coming out of her ears were it physically possible. The world was muffled and slightly tipsy, blurred at the edges. The shadows seemed darker, the light brighter, her skin warmer.

Those at Hogwarts would not take this well. She knew many members of Dumbledore's Army were still attending. Were they fighting, in their own way? Surely they were. Were they worried about Luna? Did they still have faith in Harry?

Hermione had faith in Harry. Despite knowing it was a burden on his shoulders that he didn't want, Harry was a beacon of hope shining through the darkness that was growing to cover the Wizarding World like a festered scab. Harry would push through because he knew someone had to, and if that person had to be himself then he would take on the challenge rather than letting another struggle through it. Hermione would never lose faith in Harry, never lose hope, not until she held his rigor mortis riddled corpse in her arms and felt for a pulse.

Voldemort lifted the hood of his cloak over his hairless head when they stepped out of the manor, hiding his face in indigo shadow.

Still birthing in the east, the dawning sunlight was a blessing, peeking delicately through the cloudy smears of grey, white, pink and lavender. To the west, deep blue still prevailed, the star Betelgeuse glimmering weakly. Hermione reveled in the sight; were she not drugged she knew would have been aching in relief. How beautiful the sky was! Her steamy-white puffs of breath curled and evaporated in the air before her face, chill temperatures stinging her lungs and snapping at her bare skin.

Snape Disapparated as soon as they crossed the threshold of the gates. Tendrils of black mist clung to Hermione's frame, as if the grounds were reluctant to let her go, but Voldemort yanked her to him, clamping a hand tightly over her bicep. He glared down at her from beneath his hood, and Hermione stared dazedly up into his shadowed face. His eyes were so very red. What creature in the whole wide world had eyes of such an unnaturally occurring shade, save for those in nightmares? His face was as pale as a sun-bleached skull—the pinkness of life long gone, the yellowness of age not yet set in.

The world twisted and vanished, sucking her into a void and then spitting her back out. She pulled away from Voldemort, lifting one hand to cover her face as dizziness and nausea swirled behind her eyes. She had only a moment's reprieve, however, as he began tugging her along again, Snape trailing just before her.

Hogsmeade looked like a gingerbread village, brown walls and iced eaves, candy-bright clothing standing out against the overhanging gloom, peppermint red, mint green, and buttery yellow. But no number of bright colors could drown out the melancholy that permeated the village like a thick fog. People gasped and hushed at the sight of Snape and the hooded Dark Lord, fleeing the streets to cower in alleyways and duck into buildings. Mothers clutched their children close and men leapt apart as if the very act of speaking would condemn them. Death Eaters emerged seemingly out of the woodwork and out of the cracks in stone and bowed reverently. Eyes followed Hermione, some curious, some horrified and others predatory.

They passed most of Hogsmeade's shops as they walked. Zonko's was shut down and boarded up, broken, unmoving toys lingering in the display windows. Voldemort's destination proved to be the Hogsmeade Railway Station, the same station that the Hogwart's Express pulled into several times a year, and where a carriage awaited them. By that time Hermione was visibly shivering against the cold, her teeth chattering as if she'd eaten a box of Ice Mice. She clutched at the skin of her elbows, her shoulders hunched as she tried to retain her body heat.

She had ridden on the back of thestrals twice, but this was her first time being able to see one. Harnessed to the carriage like a common horse, it was hideous, like the blackened, skeletal remains of a bat-winged Pegasus, its eyes a dead, milky blue-white, its teeth fanged instead of flat. Hermione made a stringy noise of distress and pulled against the leash binding her wrists—she didn't want to be near this creature, no matter that logic told her it wasn't a danger. She didn't want to get into the carriage with the vile, evil man that held her captive—but he pulled in return, and she stumbled into the carriage, tripping so that she was half-in half-out. Voldemort hissed in displeasure and fisted a hand in her hair, forcing her to stand on unsteady feet.

He pulled her down to sit beside him, sliding his hand out of her hair and down to caress her neck. His thumb moved slowly, rhythmically, but it was no comforting gesture, it was a threat. He may as well have been dragging the flat of a knife across her skin. She shivered and closed her eyes to block him out, turning her face away.

"The potion is wearing off too soon, Severus. Why?"

"My apologies, my Lord. It seems I have underestimated Miss Granger's magical metabolism." Snape said, seated opposite them. His hands were folded carefully in his lap.

Despite the changes in authority, it was still impossible to Apparate onto Hogwarts' grounds, thus the reason for the carriage. It was going to be a long hour and a half, trapped in here with these two wicked men.

"Of course," Snape continued thoughtfully, "It is possible she simply has a natural resistance to medication. It is not uncommon in witches and wizards with muggle ancestry."

Voldemort seemed more partial to this than Snape's previous observation. Obviously the idea of a potentially powerful Muggle-born was something he'd rather not acknowledge. Not that Hermione found that to be a surprise.

As the carriage grew closer and closer to the castle, Dementors speckled the sky like a murder of crows: black, sharp-clawed, wraith-like figures that sucked the light right out of the air. Hermione noted that the grounds were uncannily pristine, the heavy blanket of snow undisturbed by footprints, sled tracks or snowmen as it had always been in years past. It looked wrong, almost unnatural. It was imperfect in its perfection. Despite the Ministry's insistence that all the occurring changes were for the better, a school ground was not meant to look dead like this, all signs of life and childish joy erased where it should have been abundant. Hogwarts itself seemed darker than it ever had before, its soaring walls foreboding and shadowed. It was more imposing than the Shrieking Shack. Even the ice on the lake shone drearily grey.

The carriage finally stopped at the enormous oak doors of the Entrance Hall. The Drought of Peace had completely worn off by this time, and Hermione was deeply unsettled at how unaware of the world she had been, how little details had escaped her and slipped through her fingers like water. She was an individual that liked to know exactly what was going on, she was, to a degree, a person who liked being in control, though she was reluctant to admit that considering who she was being forced to sit next to. There were surely very few people in the world as controlling as Lord Voldemort, and to fit into a category anywhere near him was disturbing.

The carriage door opened like a footman was waiting on the other side, but of course, there was nothing but empty air. Voldemort waved one thin hand dismissively and Snape stood and bowed gracefully before sweeping out the door. Hermione glared at the dark Headmaster out of the corner of her eye as he went by. As soon as the Potions Master had gone, however, Hermione's chin was taken into a harsh grasp and forcefully turned to face the Dark Lord. Their eyes met and she jerked her head away, but he just held her more tightly, clawed fingers fanning across her cheek. She kept her eyes resolutely on his mouth, avoiding his eyes.

"Ready to see your classmates again, Miss Granger?"

She was silent.

"Now, Miss Granger, we can do this one of two ways: You can walk into Hogwarts on your own two feet, or I can drag you inside kicking and screaming like the wretch you are."

'Kicking and screaming,' she thought sourly. She had promised herself that she would make things as difficult as possible for him, and she would kick and scream and bite and break things… but being brought to the Great Hall throwing a fit like a child would accomplish nothing. She was a proud Gryffindor and for all of her classmates and all the children inside that dark Hogwarts she had to be strong. It was not surrendering to walk in with her head held high and accept what awaited her. Being brave meant looking your fears in the eye and facing them.

She twisted her face out of his hold again and stood. "I'll walk."

"Crucio."

She fell, screaming. Her eyeballs were on fire, her intestines were being torn out of her belly like a long line of rope, her skull was cracking, splitting open where she'd hit it against the floor of the carriage, the bangles on her wrists and ankles were impossibly heavy, so heavy that they were crushing her limbs…

The curse was released quickly, and she gasped for breath, trembling violently.

"You never rise before I do without my say-so, Miss Granger. Never." Voldemort hissed.

'Wow, someone has a complex,' she thought, 'Whom does he think he is, Rama the Fourth?' She shakily pushed herself to her feet, standing on jelly-kneed legs, and stared fiercely up at his glowering visage—for he was standing by now too, towering over her like a marble statue. Mentally, she couldn't help but cringe away, but she kept her feet where they were. They stared each other down for several moments, but finally it was Hermione who looked away, unable to bear looking at him. To look at him hurt her eyes.

"Come." Voldemort commanded, and she stumbled out of the carriage after him, her ankles protesting as burning snow filled her shoes.

"I am not a dog," she said in soft protest, "So stop treating me like one."

The Dark Lord chuckled breathily. "No, Miss Granger, you are not a dog… you are much lower than that."

Hogwarts' halls were silent. It made Hermione's skin crawl. There were no voices, no laughter, no indignant shouts or exclamations of homework assignments remembered too late. No footsteps. No gossiping ghosts nor Peeves the Poltergeist's irritating, mischievous cackle. The doors of the Great Hall moaned as they opened, as if in pain, and the sound of a few hundred murmurs reached Hermione's ears.

So many students were missing. Hogwarts did not have a large student populace, compared to Muggle schools—Hermione's class consisted of a mere 40 students, and the other years did not possess substantially larger numbers. The shrunken size of the Ravenclaw, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff houses was alarming. So many students had been Muggle-borns or had wanted families and were on the run. Even Slytherin was short a good dozen people. There were new faces too in every year—attendance to Hogwarts was mandatory now, not an option. Witches and wizards were not allowed to be home-schooled this year.

Hermione steeled herself with a breath and threw back her shoulders as Voldemort led her into the hall. Sound exploded into being.

"Hermione!"

"It's Granger!"

"Merlin!"

"Oh, my god!"

"Hermione!"

"Hermione!"

"SILENCE!" Snape roared from the teacher's table, and it was as though a Silencing Charm had been cast on the entire hall. Teeth clicked shut, people dropped limply back into their seats, and all became quiet.

Hermione looked over at the clustered remains of Gryffindor House, finding her close classmates immediately. Neville and Ginny stared at her in horror, defeat tainting the edges of their expressions. Hermione pursed her mouth and tilted her chin higher in response. They could not let her imprisonment lower their morale! They had to stay strong, as she would stay strong for them! She stared deeply into their eyes, hoping she could convey her feelings to them without words.

"Never fear, you are not hallucinating," Snape sneered from the Headmaster's chair—Dumbledore's chair. "Hermione Granger is a prisoner of the Dark Lord!" Thus began a rather grand, triumphant speech. Voldemort, to her surprise, did not speak, until she realized it was because very, very few knew what he looked like, and also because it would incite mass panic if the students knew he stood among them. Monstrous though he was, she didn't think causing people to descend into mindless panic, fainting and screaming was high on his list of goals.

She was bound to a stake reminiscent of the historic witch burnings, and the forced position of her arms drew a roar of pain from between her clenched teeth. The mocking message was not missed—Purebloods had never died at the stake during the Middle Ages, they had wands to cast the Flame-Freezing Charm with, but uneducated Muggle-borns had all too often died under fire. Under Voldemort's hood she could detect a hint of cruel smirk. In defiance she gritted her teeth and swallowed her screams. The wound created by Nagini ached and she felt the skin of the still-healing wound at her armpit pop apart like the torn stitches of a ragdoll.

What Snape's speech ultimately boiled down to was this: Those of you who have fought, surrender, for your hope is stolen from you. The ways of the Dark Lord are the right ways; they will lead the Wizarding World into a new and shining era. Anyone who tries to be a hero and attempt to rescue Hermione Granger would be punished severely.

Hermione prayed no one tried to help her; there were already too many faces she could see had been purpled from abuse. Neville looked as though he'd recently come out of the Triwizard Tournament maze.

When Snape had finished speaking the students were herded out of the Great Hall, forced into perfect lines and steady rhythm like an old Hitler Youth Group. Behind the closed doors of classrooms, she knew that they were learning the wizarding equivalent of Nazi doctrines.

Then the teachers went too, as did Voldemort without a word, and she was left alone…

…for hours.

What could she do? Tied to a post and left to rot like a worm on a hook. She was a researcher, not a strategist—that had been Ron's specialty, chess master that he was. And just the thought of Ron brought tears to her eyes, but she stared up at the cloudy ceiling and refused to let them fall. She would not stand there with tear-tracks marring her face for all to see, though time ticked by and her legs grew tired and her thoughts made circles and loops and turned in on themselves. She recited knowledge in her head until the monotone buzz of her own mind was too much to stand any longer. Then she tried to practice meditating and Occulmency, but emptying her mind proved even more difficult than filling it.

The students returned for lunch, shooting her nervous, worried and fearful glances the entire time. A few stares were even triumphant. No one dared get close. Dinner was the same, by which time Hermione was struggling to stay awake, for there was nothing to stimulate her. The smell of food made her empty stomach clench painfully. The Gryffindor's were planning something, she noticed—they were restless.

Neville met her gaze, determination flaring in his eyes, but she shook her head minutely, silently begging him not to do anything foolish that would get him hurt. The fire in Neville dimmed as he stared at her in disbelief. He tilted his eyebrows upward earnestly, and she pursed her lips and shook her head again.

'Please, don't.'

The Longbottom boy's shoulders drooped and with no small amount of reluctance he turned to the table and talked in quick, hushed tones. In the end, they let themselves be ushered away without rebellion.

The Great Hall plunged into darkness.

Unlike most other children, Hermione Granger had never been afraid of the dark. She had never worried about monsters under her bed or phantoms in the closet that waited for her feet to touch the floor before grabbing her and dragging her away to be devoured. She read too much, she knew those childish notions did not exist and so was not affected by such ideas as other boys and girls her own age. The encounter with a transformed Professor Lupin had instilled wariness in her, but to say that fear had developed because of it would have been a stretch.

It was not a stretch to say she was afraid now.

Not a single torch was lit, the starlight of night hidden behind billowing black clouds. It was more than that, however. This darkness was not the same as the nighttime that cloaked bedrooms. This darkness carried something sinister in it. It perfumed the air, condensed cold and wet on her skin like sweat, muffled her ears, and blinded her. She couldn't even tell if her eyes were open or not.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Something or someone was watching her. The worst thing was knowing that she was completely helpless. Wounded, wandless, exhausted, bound like a virgin sacrifice for an angry sea god, if the other presence in the room chose to harm her she would have no way of stopping it.

A pair of enormous red eyes opened, glowing in the dark like two bloody lanterns, and she gasped deeply and loudly as a Sleeping Jinx hit her full in the face and she descended into unconsciousness.

Hermione Jean Granger stood before an enormous, stained glass window. It was twice as high as she was tall and easily two meters wide, split down the middle with a black iron hinge. Bright, wonderful, warming sunlight streamed through the glass, casting a glittering rainbow of color across the young witch's form: gold and red, purple and green, white and blue. It depicted an enormous, multi-colored Celtic knot entrapping a dragon and a laburnum tree. When she had first awoken, the dragon had bared its white teeth and spat orange tongues of flame at her, violet at their cores, but it shortly grew bored and went back to dozing in the sunlight, emerald scales glistening.

She recognized the room as the same tower she and Harry had rescued Sirius Black from at the end of their third year. The window she had unlocked from the outside so long ago rested on the opposite side of the room, much smaller, and its diamond-patterned panes were uncolored. The room was in much finer shape than it had been in their third year, then it had just been an empty cell. It was still a cell, really, though it had now been finely furbished with a bed, fireplace, reading nook, wardrobe and a tiny attached bathroom all set in neutral brown tones. The two windows were the only ways out, and the fall would be far. Without magic, there would be no surviving such a fall.

'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair,' she thought.

The sun was setting on the Forbidden Forest's evergreen rim, dying the sky in shades of peach, grayish-lavender, and gold. The Dementors, whose visible presence seemed to fade in the daytime, were returning to their shadowy, wispy existence, and their black cloaks grew darker with each minute that passed, though they still looked more ghost-like than anything else.

The dark, flying form that split the caging ring of Dementors, however, was another thing entirely.

Lord Voldemort.

Man was not meant to fly unassisted like that. It completely defied logic, even wizarding logic, which was iffy at best. Magic had laws, and Voldemort's flight defied every one of them. As he grew closer she remembered how she had seen the unnatural flight for the first time: when she had been disguised as Harry as they fled Privet Drive in pairs. It seemed a lifetime ago. She had been afraid, so very afraid and determined, and she had only glimpsed the Dark Lord for a moment before he veered away to chase the real Harry, but through her fear there was a twinge of awe and wonder. It wasn't fair that someone so evil should discover something so wonderful.

Now, however, as Voldemort's flying form grew nearer still—his destination obviously her tower—Hermione only felt disgust, filling her mouth with its bitter flavor.

The stained glass window threw itself open violently. Buttery yellow laburnum petals fell from the tree and out of the frame as it opened. The dragon lifted its head, emitting a curl of smoke. Hermione tried to resolve to hold her ground, but the Dark Lord descended like an enormous raptor and she couldn't help but stumble back as he landed, bringing the biting winter cold and smell of pine with him, his robe fluttering softly around his feet.

"Good evening." he said softly.

Hermione averted her eyes and was silent. His red gaze seared the side of her head and her hands sought the still-wet braid that fell over her shoulder.

"We have been through this before, Miss Granger. You will return my greetings." Voldemort said coolly.

"Will you go away if I do?" she asked snappishly.

"No."

"Then I don't see any reason to bother."

He took her chin and lifted her head until their eyes locked. A firm pressure pushed down on her mind.

'Say it.'

She quivered, fighting the command.

'Say it!'

"Evening." she whispered shortly. Satisfaction spread over his face and she pulled away, eyes glistening with shame. If only she was as strong-willed as Harry, she would have been able resist.

"How are you finding your accommodations?"

"You have a strange sense of humor."

Though she refrained from looking at him, she could hear the slight surprise in his voice. "Explain."

"Really, 'the princess will be up the stairs in the highest room of the tallest tower,'" she said mockingly with a wide gesture of her arms, "You even have me guarded by a dragon."

His eyes narrowed. "Unintentional… but the irony is not lost on me, I assure you."

She wrapped her hands around her shoulders, hiding her breasts. The large window was still open, and she was clad only in a powder blue nightdress. Her skin tightened and prickled into gooseflesh. Her ears stung with cold. "I don't understand why you're even here. I'm visible on the Marauder's Map and all you have to do is bide your time until Harry comes for me. I don't see why you're bothering me with your company."

His robes moved slightly before his body did, and she took quick steps backward as he stepped near. "On the contrary, Hermione, I always take care of my possessions."

"I am not something that can be owned, not by you or anyone else!" She hissed.

He loomed over her, an ivory figure clad in black silk. "Denying the truth does not make it false." He chided her as if she were a small child. "You are mine, Mudblood."

Her back hit the doors of the wardrobe, and she wished dearly that it were a gateway to the storybook land of Narnia instead of just an ordinary closet. "You have my physical presence, but nothing else. I am no one's property."

She could feel him staring down at the top of her head, and she kept her eyes fixed on his chest, heart pounding. When he drew his wand, she flinched.

With a twirl of his wand the entire color scheme of the room switched to green. Hermione glowered at the Slytherin shades now adorning every inch of the room from the paint on the ceiling to the hem of her nightgown. It was a more earthy green than the House's usual blazing emerald, but the display of ownership was clear enough.

"Undo it," she whispered darkly.

Voldemort twirled his wand between his fingers. It looked more like a polished splinter of bone than wood. "No, I do not believe I shall."

"Change it back! Undo it!" She cried. She couldn't stand to have his color on her, tainting her as though he'd just branded the Dark Mark into her skin. It made her itch. It made her sinuses burn with shame and disgust.

He wrapped one hand around her neck, freezing her stiff with fear.

"I hear you started a curious organization petitioning for rights for House Elves in your fourth year, Hermione. Continue to push me and you will find yourself without clothes, licking my soles on your hands and knees, and calling me 'Master' like one of those lowly creatures you so sympathize with. Am I clear?"

She sniffed, forcing back tears. "Crystal."

"Good." He released her and crossed the room, settling himself in the lone armchair by the fireplace. With a flick of his wand fire bloomed in the grate, snapping and crackling, and the dragon window snapped shut against the bruised skyline. Though the small window, the sky was growing deeper and deeper indigo, flecks of stars already winking through.

Hermione rubbed her hand over her neck, catching her breath. He had not choked her this time, but his grip was firm and fear had chased the breath from her lungs. Voldemort eyed her over steepled fingers, his brow lowered in thought. She looked away from him and instead stared at the fire, gently rubbing the chill from her biceps.

It had been some time since she'd been brought to Hogwarts. Her wounds had by now healed, though the scar at her armpit still hurt when stretched too far, and the two silvery circles at her shoulder where Nagini had bitten her were occasionally filled with a phantom-pain that she suspected would never truly go away.

The rooms were hers alone. She had no company but books and the regular appearances of Hogwarts' House Elves, who seemed to have been forbidden to speak to her, for they never breathed a word. They carried in her meals and made sure she bathed properly, providing her with soap and trimming her body hair no matter how much she protested; forcefully plucking her eyebrows and scraping the hair from her legs. On three occasions she had torn the rooms apart, ripping the draperies from the walls, kicking ashes from the fireplace across the floor, knocking over the bookcase, and scattering downy feathers from the pillows all over the room, but everything was mended and put back it its rightful place before long.

The bookcase was her one salvation. She found that it would provide her with every book in the Hogwarts Library that she asked for… except anything that would have been of any use. She was even denied recent newspapers, leaving her completely cut off from the outside world and her head filled with useless information.

"Do not forget that I am here, Miss Granger." Voldemort said quietly.

Hermione gave a soft snort. "It's impossible to forget you, Dark Lord."

That seemed to please him. "You may call me Lord Voldemort, but only when I am present. If you say it during other times, you will find one of my Death Eaters paying you a visit, and without my supervision who knows what they might… get up to."

She shuddered, her grip tightening on her elbows. She did not doubt his words, not for a moment.

He regarded her for a moment. "Why do you believe that pathetic creatures such as House Elves should have rights equal to man?"

Her eyes finally flickered over to him skeptically, deeply suspicious. "Why do you want to know? I'm just a Mudblood after all; does my opinion even matter to someone like you? Besides, shouldn't you be torturing me or trying to woo me over to the dark side?"

His eyes glittered in the firelight, flat nostrils flaring slightly with each breath. His large, thin hands rested on the chair arms, stroking the green fabric. "You are Harry Potter's friend, Miss Granger; as enthralling as the idea is I am not a fool to believe that I could ever truly sway you to see things the right way."

She scoffed. "You mean your way."

"My way is the right way." He said smoothly. "And if you wish to be held under the power of my wand until you scream, well…" He drew his wand, rolling it between his fingers and she flinched back. He laughed softly at her, a short expulsion of air so quiet that she almost didn't hear it.

"If I tell you my opinion you'll just curse me."

"I do not intend to curse you for answering a question I ask, but I will curse you if you do not answer."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "Promise you won't?"

"I promise nothing." He said silkily, leaning back.

Oh, there were so many things she wanted to say, things she wanted to spit right in his face and gloat over as his white, reptilian face descended into horror… but she couldn't, no matter how satisfying his expression would be if he knew of Harry's mission. She couldn't ruin Harry's mission to destroy the Horcruxes, not while he was out there fighting and hunting for them. It was her deepest secret. If she'd had a wand she would have Obliviated herself.

She stuck out her chin. "Every sentient being has the right to life, liberty and security of person. Everyone is born free and equal in dignity and rights. No human, wizard or Muggle or otherwise, has the right to take away and suppress others' rights."

He laughed at her. It was a cruel, high-pitched sound that shattered her courage like a brick against glass.

"Stop," she whispered, stricken. "There isn't anything funny about it. T-the Universal Declaration of Magical Rights w-was passed in nineteen forty-seven and is—"

"Nothing but pretty words done in fine ink so as to placate the masses," he cut in, teeth bared in amusement, "So that they can pretend that they are all nice, lovely, good Samaritans who do no wrong."

"That's not true."

"Of course it is."

"It is not," she insisted, voice cracking. "J-just because the people you associate with are war-hungry, prejudiced, hateful people doesn't mean everyone else is!"

"On the subject of House Elf enslavement, Miss Granger, slavery is just a part of human nature, it pre-dates history and is certainly not dead today, even if people would like to pretend that it is. If you wish to bring in Magical Rights into the discussion I certainly will not object. It is a useless contract. Humans are inherently selfish; they are born wicked."

"Well, that certainly explains you, doesn't it?" Hermione bit out fiercely. "Destined murderer from the womb, were you?"

His expression froze, slit-pupils narrowing, and with a start Hermione realized that she'd touched on a sore spot. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, the atmosphere of the room suddenly as tense as a violin string.

"Come here, Hermione." Voldemort said quietly, long fingers beckoning.

She stepped back.

"Now."

He twisted his wand and the young witch found her body hurled forward as if an invisible hand had grasped her nightdress and yanked her across the room to sprawl at Voldemort's feet. The blood drained from her face as she caught sight of his bony ankles, his strangely patterned white skin, and tried to scramble upright. His hand caught her cheek, threatening in its gentleness, pulling her chin up until she faced him and his burning crimson eyes. She quickly averted her eyes, staring at the pale, pale lavender hue of the inside of his wrist.

Her heart pattered tremulously in her chest and tears rose in her eyes. She hadn't imagined how starved she was for human contact and his hand… his hand—!

"Someone has been telling tales." The Dark Lord hissed softly.

Hermione shivered.

"Who?"

She didn't want to tell him. She just wanted to keep her mouth shut and rip herself away from the aching touch of his hand, but she knew that he would pry the truth from her no matter how she fought. He could not be allowed to look into her mind again. He was not mindlessly enraged this time; he wouldn't overlook seemingly insignificant flashes of memory.

"Dumbledore," she rasped, "Told Harry, and Harry told me."

Voldemort made a noise of disgust. "Of course he did. I should have known."

"It d-doesn't matter anyway," she spat. She pulled her face out of his hand, but the memory of his firm, cool fingers felt as if they'd been burned into her flesh. "Humans aren't all born evil. I-if everyone was born evil then there would be no good in the world! And don't tell me that good doesn't exist because it does, it absolutely does!"

Voldemort withdrew his physical presence slowly, resting his shoulders on the back of the chair and allowing Hermione to sit upright. "Good and evil are simply different points of view, Hermione. Do you think my Death Eaters do what they do in the name of evil?"

She bit her tongue. Logically, she knew that Voldemort's followers thought they had the right of things, but for the life of her she could not fathom how they justified terrorism, murder and such blatant racism. It was easier to cope with the horrors of war if she didn't try to think of how they justified themselves. It kept the enemy at a distance, made him untouchable and inhuman, something that couldn't be related to because the idea that "they really aren't all that different from us" was too much to bear.

"Well?"

Oh, he wanted an answer. Hermione swallowed through the lump in her throat, forcing the words out like vomit.

"I suppose not." She said, her voice barely above a whisper. Above her, Voldemort oozed satisfaction like a cat that had caught the canary; hot, sticky darkness dripping from every scaly pore. It made her feel sick inside, jabbing her stomach with knives and prickling her heart.

"My Death Eaters believe that they are right, and your petty little Order thinks that they are right, but history is written by the victors. Since I will be victorious, I am the one who is right."

"You're not right!" Hermione said ferociously, slamming one fist into the floor. "Everyone could start saying that the sky is green tomorrow, but that doesn't make it so! There is nothing right about enslavement and genocide and war, or tormenting people beyond wits end! It's abominable, no matter what a newspaper or textbook might claim! And people know this, they know it in their hearts and souls that these things you're inspiring and doing are wrong!"

She gesticulated widely and wildly with her arms as she spoke, an animate and passionate speaker, and he followed the sweeps of her fingers and thrusts of her palms with his eyes.

The corner of his upper lip lifted slightly into a sneer. "You speak as though my war on Muggles and Mudbloods is a personal attack against you. It is not. I do hate your kind… and I hate Muggles even more, but this blood war is… ultimately it is a means to an end, not the result of a personal grudge against your kind. This is… presently about Harry Potter."

She glared and found that she was not afraid to look Voldemort in the eye now. "Harry will defeat you."

"I will kill your boy-hero before he has the chance. Your faith is utterly misplaced. I will win."

"If this war is about Harry, what was the last war about then?"

"My first war was about seizing power. Mudbloods are just the scapegoats, but it is not as if Purebloods are not justified. You are a blight on Wizarding culture. Mudbloods are unnatural. Magic does not just spring out of nothingness, and you pollute our world with your 'modern' ways and ideals."

"Modern? Every generation seeks to be modern. Humanity is always determined to move forward and defy the bindings of their predecessors to find their independence."

"Modern people seek to eradicate tradition in order to simplify their difficulties, in order to be lazy. It begins with something small, replacing parchment with leaf paper, for example. But, slowly, it escalates and grows until you find the entire system upturned, and its origins lost to texts."

"Perhaps there is something to Purebloods' hate for Muggle culture;" Hermione consented, "Perhaps Muggle-borns are pushing Wizarding culture to disintegrate, but if that is the case it is not the fault of Muggle-borns, but it is the fault of wizards for not being able to adapt like every other species on the planet. Every generation has a tendency to claim its traditions are dying, whether that generation lived sixty years ago or six hundred; humans are constantly on the move.

"Survival of the fittest," she said, "Charles Darwin's theory of natural selection. If there are more Muggles than wizards it is because they are the stronger race."

"Crucio!"

She was on the floor, screaming. Pain flowed through her like it oxygenated her blood, ripped apart her every nerve, clogged her throat, her ears filled with the sound of her own shrieks until she felt her eardrums would burst and bleed. Her spine bent like her bones were trying to tear free from her flesh.

"Cheeky little Mudblood. You are a smart one."

Hermione curled into a fetal position, shaking and crying in the aftermath of the curse. But the pain hadn't put her down, it just served to fuel her hate for this evil man.

"Muggles are vermin, like rats, breeding out of control!" Voldemort snarled.

"Muggles can't reproduce any faster than witches can," Hermione gasped, "One birth a year, no more, no less; one child, occasionally two, and cases of triplets and quadruplets are so rare they make headlines. And because Muggles don't inbreed they have a larger genetic pool, which is beneficial to our species. Human beings aren't like dogs and horses to be bred for a particular niche, though people have tried. Humans think for themselves, the masses won't be contained like that. Wizards are restricting their biological development by restricting their choices in husbands and wives. You can refine what you already have, but you can't branch out and expand. A sheepdog will never make a good hunting hound."

His wand was fixed pointedly at her, crimson eyes burning with hate. "You just said that humans are not animals, do not go contradicting yourself now, Mudblood. Muggles are no better than swine. They are lower than House Elves. They are wicked, selfish, destructive beings and wiping them out would be more of a favor to the earth than a loss."

"They are not. And denying the truth doesn't make it false." She said softly, firmly.

"You dare to turn my own words against me, Mudblood?" he hissed, rising.

"I dare to do a lot of things, Voldemort." She returned, also pushing herself upright. She swayed dangerously as she did so, crystalline tear-tracks marring her pale cheeks, breast heaving. "I dare to inform you that you will go down in history as the greatest war criminal since Adolf Hitler."

Voldemort's lip curled into a sneer. "I remember Hitler. He and his Nazis were always the subject of gossip during my youth, and I agree," he lifted one elegant forefinger for emphasis, "that humans can be brought to a level higher than the common man. But he was a Muggle, he could not even do that right, for all his glorious ideals—those films and photographs of his concentration camps were released and what the world witnessed was horrifying and disgusting, but history is written by the victors. If Hitler had triumphed his methods would be viewed as acceptable and practical."

"How is this any different?" Hermione cried. "How is what you're doing to Muggle-borns, tearing families apart, throwing innocent people in Azkaban, making the students march through the halls like Hitler's Youth—this country is now ruled by fear! Even if you win and your methods are seen as 'acceptable and practical,' countries ruled by fear and strict regiment are always torn down in the end! Always! The people will flee in droves and come back to render you limb from limb! You think the International Confederation of Wizards will stand for this?"

"If I win? There is no 'if,' only when. 'Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.' I will be victorious. It is the strict regiment that I am tearing down; I am the revolution of which you speak! I, Lord Voldemort! I will create utopia for the Wizarding World, the Confederation may be reluctant at first, but they still trade with countries that violate their international Declaration, don't they? They will see the right of things in time." He threw his arms out in a grand, sweeping gesture, as if the world he dreamed was somewhere in the air betwixt them. "Wizards do not bother with such tedious things as farm work and construction, but nor do they realize how vital those things are. Why do you think wizarding buildings are so old? Many are hazardous, but there is no one to rebuild them.

"They arrogantly depend on Muggles for large quantities of such supplies, believing us to be more powerful—and we are! But Muggles are destructive beings at their cores. I was there when the daily papers were freshly printed, the details of the bomb drops in Japan described, thousands of people, evaporated in an instant. The Wizarding World has forgotten what war brings by now, but I have not! What happens to wizards when Muggles refuse to sell their stock, when the Muggles spend all of their energy financing destruction and death? When the enemies destroy, salt, and burn their mills and fields, and level every building in London with flame, Muggle and magical alike? A Flame-Freezing Charm cannot save an entire house and it is useless against Fiendfyre. In times such as those, Muggles do not sell to mysterious buyers and wizards starve, and in modern times it is even more difficult to buy and construct without the proper paperwork, which most wizards lack.

"Wizards like to pretend they are the center of the world, but Muggles outnumber us greatly, and if every witch and wizard were to suddenly vanish overnight the Muggles would not even notice, for it is they who truly control the world! It is sickening. It is wrong for such filthy creatures to hold such position over us!"

His passion was startling, and Hermione was momentarily taken aback, the loud volume of his usually soft voice making her extremities shake. She stared up at him fearfully, her heart a battering ram against her ribs. Though frightened, she thought his face to not be entirely horrifying. In a strange and alien way he beheld a unique sort of beauty; his very presence demanded attention and she was hard-pressed to deny it.

Voldemort had said that though he hated Muggles, his war on Muggle-borns wasn't personal, it was a means to an end. But Hermione thought that, while it may have begun that way, somewhere along the road the Dark Lord had grown to believe his own propaganda. Suddenly she felt very weary, and she stepped back, shaking her head at the floor. In her peripheral vision Voldemort watched her with slight puzzlement, having not expected her sudden defeated countenance.

"I don't want to argue this with you. It's just a waste of my breath. Revolution is wrought by peasants not by nobles, Voldemort, and Utopia cannot exist. People will never be satisfied with it; they are never satisfied. They always want something better; they always want progress. And I believe Utopia would be a very boring place to live. Harry will kill you, no matter what you say, even if he can't manage to save me in the process."

"So very careless with your existence. Do you not fear death? I refuse to turn you into a martyr, Mudblood." He said, running the backs of his fingers along the tendon of her neck.

Hermione whimpered and shied away from his touch, disgusted at the shiver of longing that coursed her spine. It wasn't necessarily Voldemort's touch she longed for; she ached for anybody, anybody besides those quiet, nervous House Elves! Humans were social creatures, but she had never before appreciated or understood how much a simple smile or touch on the arm meant!

Her movements had not escaped the Dark Lord's notice, and a dark, gleeful gleam filled his eyes.

"Are you… perhaps, lonely, Hermione?"

But she would neither speak nor look at him any longer of her own free will, her pink lips tightly shut, her eyes deftly avoiding even his shadows. It was only a minor annoyance to Lord Voldemort, who was quite happy to observe her for a while longer as if she were an interesting insect in a green glass jar; a pleased, wretched smirk curling his mouth.

Finally he grew bored of her and left, a long, languid stroke of one finger down her spine his parting farewell. Her skin leapt at his touch, her entire form rising on tiptoe as every hair on her body stood on end, prompting another brief, cruel laugh.

The dragon window opened wide, tendrils of icy air clutching at Hermione's skirts. Voldemort flew away, his dark form quickly swallowed by the night, and the dragons snapped promptly shut, lock clicking into place. And then—then Hermione allowed herself to fall onto the too soft, too green bed and cried until she couldn't.
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The Ivory Tower