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The Highest of Priests	By : PrettyDesdemona Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 5036 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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THE HIGHEST OF PRIESTS

ONE.

INFERNO

"Through me you enter into the city of woes,

Through me you enter into eternal pain,

Through me you enter the population of loss.

Abandon all hope, you who enter here."

July 28th, 1954.

Crucio.

Do you know what that word means?

It means fucking pain, that's what it means. It means fear and power and ultimate supremacy. Once you have the capability of wielding that power, my friend, you can control anyone. Because what do humans fear most of all? Pain and death. It is as simple as that.

But here is the unfortunate reality of that particular spell: It was created by someone. The torture curse is manmade.

Now, think about that for a moment.

Some sadistic, inhuman bastard woke up one morning and decided that what the world needed was a curse that could cause another human being unimaginable pain, agony worse than they had ever experienced. What does that tell you about humanity? It tells you that it is sick, that it is horrific, that it needs cleansing. That there are certain members of our great global community who do not deserve life. Who deserve to be wiped out.

What an exquisite paradox that makes, don't you think? That spell would not be needed if no one had ever created it, really. But since it was created, it must be utilized. I will not attempt to deny that, while I think the kind of vermin capable of creating it are repulsive, I have great respect for this spell. I am not ashamed to admit that I have and intend to continue showing my fervent respect through its utilization.

And what, you might ask, makes me the one who can provide humanity with the cleansing I speak of? Me? A mere man, a mortal of flesh and blood and bone and sinew? Am I a god?

No. But, to put it simply, I am above mortality. All of it. I am above love and fear and death. And because of that, I'm the only one worthy. Everyday humanity proves that to me. Those who scrabble in the dirt for their validation, for love and money and power. They are unfit.

I know that there are those who would say that I am inhuman, as if this is a deficit, those that would say that I am cruel, immoral, wicked. In fact, I have met many who hold these self righteous opinions of my moral views. But I and those who are loyal to me know that I am pure, mind, body and soul, and that is all I need. I am not one to pander to the wills and constrictions of society, regulated and controlled by lesser minds. I fight for what I believe in, and I always will.

This is my internal dialogue on this crisp July morning, is what runs through my mind as I walk through the streets of this decrepit city. Melbourne.

I journeyed to this country in order to study old magic, magic that the wizards of influence in this time are trying desperately to stamp out. Why? Because they believe it to be wicked. And I am not one to shun wickedness if I have something to gain. After all, power draws power.

It has taken me many years to reach this place. Seven, in fact. It does not seem long to me since I had left Hogwarts and Bourgin and Bourkes, but all at once I feel as if I am changed. I feel my own power growing as tangibly as my body, blooming within me like a great, monolithic structure that rises out of the decrepit wasteland of our world, ever budding towards the heavens beautiful and stronger than the foundations of the earth.

The study of these old magics, those that I had spent almost a decade chasing across the globe, led me to the deepest heart of this country, where nothing grows and the earth lays bare under the sun. The land is red and gold under the bluest sky. I cannot deny that I was enraptured by it. The people who practice this old magic I speak of do not live conventionally, they live off the earth. They do not call themselves witches or wizards, they call themselves elders and they do not hide their capabilities from the Muggles that surround them, instead they lead them, guide them and those Muggles accept their superiority and their wisdom without argument. This is a philosophy that I can sympathise with.

It was with these elders that I have studied for the last two months but, alas, one must return to civilisation on occasion, if only to hear of the goings on in the world. I begin to feel irritated, being so cut off from the wizarding world. It rankles me eventually, and I cannot get comfortable until I hold a newspaper in my hand again. This behaviour, though bothersome, is understandable. After all, what is the saying prevalent in this time? Know thy enemy.

I never do take my eyes off the so called 'light' side for very long.

And so I find myself here in a city that stinks, where everyone, wizards and muggles alike strive to conform, strangled by the restrictions of their own obsessions with propriety, never striving to be different, to rise above, to change the course of history. I am sickened by it. Sickened by the people and sickened by the city. I never did like cities and Melbourne is not a pretty city.

Though, at some hours, it can provide some pretty entertainment.

I do not like being out amongst the muggles, though it is a cumbersome necessity as the train station is three or four blocks from the only area in this awful place that I am truly familiar with. And so my feet lead me to the Wizarding district of Melbourne, a street, eerily like Diagon Alley, called Little Collins Street. The muggles see it only as a stretch of blank wall where the buildings on either side join. They are none the wiser about the magical populace that resides within.

I head, of course, to the only pub on the street that I can tolerate because the music pleases me and the barmaids are pretty. This pub is called The Guernica. It is just dark enough to be fashionable, and clean enough not to be considered repulsive. It also sports a certain level of sophistication that I find agreeable.

When I enter and sit down at the bar on one of the red velvet upholstered stools, the barmaid smiles at me in a way that I am sure she assumes is alluring, I do not smile back.

"What'll it be, Tom?" she asks me in that awful Australian drawl. I am entirely unsurprised that she remembers my face. I do, after all, have a truly remarkable face.

"Firewhisky." I say shortly, giving the same answer I had when I was last here over two months previously. I have a sneaking suspicious that she does this deliberately in an attempt to be playful. If only she knew exactly who she was trying to play with. I am not the friendliest child in the schoolyard.

I take my drink when she set it down on the bar top and sip it casually. I have never understood the need to skull whisky as other wizards do. I would much prefer to savour the taste, to feel it burn my throat and stomach slowly.

As I sit, beginning to lose myself again in the complexity of my own thoughts, I notice a woman coming out of the water closet and surprisingly, she steals my attention. The reason this is surprising is because my attention is not so often stolen by women.

She looks a little scared, her eyes sweeping over the environment as if she has never seen it before and I find myself smiling at her confusion, looking as she does like a little lost animal. Her robes, I realise, are not the conventional type seen in most cities these days, the cut of the collar is lower, and they cling to her figure more prominently. I wonder if she is a prostitute. Not out of any desire to hire her if she was, just with a detached sort of curiosity.

The woman moves over to the bar and sits down several seats away from me. I see her glance in my direction but she averts her eyes quickly, seeming determined to stare straight ahead.

The barmaid approaches her, "Can I help you, miss?"

"Uh… a… a butterbeer, thanks." she responds, her voice quavering.

The barmaid and I both raise our eye brows and I almost rub my hands together in anticipation. Most ladies are not often brave enough to taste butterbeer, and if they are they are usual far rougher than many men. Butterbeer does have an almost cruelly high alcohol content after all. The barmaid shuffles off and returns moments later with a bottle which he sets down in front of her. The woman picks it up and studies it, frowning.

"Is there a problem, miss?" asks the barmaid, attempting to hide a smirk.

"No… I… It looks different." the woman answers vaguely but does not offer any other explanation for why it should be anything other than what she sees before her. She pulls out the cork and takes a tentative sip. Her eyes immediately begin to water as she swallows and coughs. "This is alcoholic!" she splutters in indignation.

The barmaid chuckles, "What did you bloody expect it to be?"

The woman looks at it for a moment before she shrugs and says indifferently, "Fuck it." and she takes another swig. The barmaid looks scandalized at her choice of words but I cannot help but laugh at this strange, new character that has entered the pub where I thought to find nothing but mediocrity.

When I laugh, she looks at me and smiles shyly. I do not smile back but I can see she assumes that I do as I am still laughing. This is a failing on my part. Smiles invite people in. I have no interest in that. I merely wish to observe.

"Hi." she says; so informal, so rough, as if we have been friends for years.

"Good evening." I respond pointedly, with no hint of warmth in my tone.

She looks around for a moment as if surveying the situation before she picks up her bottle and stands, moving to sit closer to me. I am beginning to feel a little put off by this woman, her forwardness is most disconcerting. I am a casual observer; I do not like to interact with people. Especially not one so over eager.

She leans closer to me, "I, uh, know this might sound a bit weird, but could you possibly tell me what year it is?" she asks, her voice low.

"Excuse me?" I am thrown by this question and begin to wonder if this woman might not be entirely sane. Her manner of speech is odd.

"What year is it?" she repeats slowly, as if I might be the stupid one.

"It is 1954." I reply, leaning away from her. I don't like her being so close.

"Oh, good." she says like she's pleased with herself. "1954… 54…" she taps her chin in thought. "So we've already got Elvis; we've had Ernest Hemingway and Cole Porter but not the Beatles or the Vietnam War… Has Kennedy been shot yet? I can't remember…"

She's looking at me expectantly. "I'm sorry, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"I guess not then." she takes another swig from the bottle of butterbeer and turns herself on her stool so that she can face away from the bar and look at its inhabitants. She seems content to sit in companionable silence for a time. Though of course this is decidedly one sided as I am by no means feeling companionable with this obscure person.

"You're British." she points out after a few moments and it is not a question.

Nevertheless I respond, "I am."

"Where are you from?" she asks conversationally.

"London." I reply tightly.

"Did you go to Hogwarts?"

"Yes."

"Me too."

"Fascinating."

She looks at me then, obviously realising that I have no interest in continuing any kind of conversation.

"Alright, I get the message." she says, chuckling, "But before I leave you to your drink, you wouldn't happen to know of any nice places to stay around here would you?"

"There is an establishment down the street, but its prices might be rather out of your range I think." I eye her robes, which do not look in the slightest bit expensive or fashionable, no matter how pleasing they might be to the eye.

"That's no problem." she says brightly and hops off her stool. She turns and gestures to the barmaid. "How much do I owe you?"

"Two knuts." she replies.

From the folds of her cloak, the woman pulls a rather dilapidated beaded bag and plunges her arm into it nonchalantly. My eyes widen. An undetectable extension charm. This is rather advanced magic. She produces a heavy looking pouch and sets it on the bar top.

"I think I've got some Knuts in here… Just a second."

My jaw almost drops as I watch her paw through what looks like over fifty galleons until eventually she withdraws two little bronze coins and hands them to the equally flabbergasted barmaid. My interest is certainly piqued. This young witch is not only bordering on incontinently rich but also practices magic not even taught in traditional wizarding schools. And she cannot possibly be that far past Hogwarts age. She looks physically to be about eighteen or nineteen, but there is a certain maturity in her eyes that speak of an age far greater.

The pouch of gold disappears off the bar top and, without a backward glance, the woman leaves the pub.

It is only when she leaves that I realise I want to know this witch. It might be out of boredom, or some morbid curiosity. But I either way, I want to know her.

For once, I drink the rest of my firewhisky in one rather graceless gulp and slap four Knuts in front of the barmaid before dashing out of the pub after the strange woman. I look left and right before I spot her curly dark brown hair bobbing along amongst the crowd a way up the street.

Without concern, I push through the pedestrians until I can reach out and tap her arm. She turns to look at me, surprise crossing her face at my sudden reappearance.

"I thought that perhaps you might like an escort." I say smoothly, adopting the charm that I know has worked on so many other witches.

She raises an eye brow and smirks, "Why? Because you think I'm rich? No thanks." and she turns away, just like that, as if what she has just done is not incredibly rude.

But I am not so easily cast aside, "I'm sorry but I really must insist." I smile and she stops again, "Besides, you are going the wrong direction. The establishment I spoke of is that way." I point behind myself, down the street. She looks over my shoulder and then gives me a shrewd look.

"Oh, fine then." she exclaims huffily.

I grin and offer her my arm which she looks at suspiciously before looping her own through it.

"I am Tom, by the way." I tell her.

"Hermione." she answers, stubbornly not letting go of her blatant tone.

"And do you have purity on your side, Hermione?" I ask instinctually.

She gives me a long, long look then. It is shrewd, calculating and I can tell that my question has insulted her. She may even like me a little less for asking it. My eyes narrow as she looks at me; I know what kinds of people are insulted by questions like that, mudbloods and bloodtraitors.

"Yes." she says through gritted teeth glaring at me. "You know, I think I can manage on my own from here, thanks." her voice is cold. She withdraws her arm from mine swiftly and begins to walk ahead of me, but I reach out a hand to stop her again.

"Permit me to perhaps call on you a little later, Miss…?"

I know exactly what I am doing, trying to manipulate her into telling me her last name so that I can know her family of origin to confirm her apparent blood purity. And I can tell that she knows as well when her eyes narrow even further before she gives me a slow, slightly daunting smile. "Malfoy. I am Hermione Malfoy."

She holds out her hand to me as my eyes widen and I take it. "I was not aware that Abraxus had a daughter."

"Yes, well my father prefers his son." she says, somewhat bitterly. "Do you know the Malfoy's? I mean… my family?"

"Quite well." I respond giving her a pointed look.

I cannot help but feel suspicious. I could not tell you why but there is something about this woman that does not feel entirely honest, not primarily the fact that she does not have the trademark Malfoy blonde hair…

She might be cunning and secretive, and doing a marvellous job of creating an air of tempting mystery about herself, but I know for a fact that she is not a Malfoy.

I take her arm again and begin to walk further down the street. Her lie has sealed her fate. Whether she wants to or not, I will escort her the entire way now.

"Well, miss Malfoy, how long have you been here in this beautiful city?" I ask, hoping that I can persuade her to open up a little more. Even if it is just with more untruths. The more she lies, the more she reveals how important her identity really is to her.

"Um… just over a year." she replies, but I can tell again that there is something not quite right about her tone and I wonder why she might be being dishonest with me about something so simple, so pedestrian.

"And in that year you have not yet found a place to stay?" I ask smoothly.

"No, I was staying… somewhere else." she says easily, but I can see that she evidently does not wish to pursue the subject so I let it drop and we walk in silence. Outwardly, I appear to look straight ahead, taking in the environment in which we walk, but really I am covertly watching her. There is something about her body language that says she is not comfortable on this street, and the way she looks around herself intently, with an air of fascination, almost makes it seem like she has never seen this place before. Did she perhaps simply apparate directly into the Guernica water closet from somewhere else?

Melbourne bores me. And so, it is for this reason, and the fact that I wish my curiosity to be quenched with information, that I say what I say next, "Would you care to dine with me tonight?"

Miss Malfoy looks taken aback and then, again, suspicious. "Why?" she asks slowly.

I shrug, "Because I would like the pleasure of your company."

She laughs, though reluctantly, "I get the feeling that if I say no, you'll show up anyway."

I smile winningly, she is already enraptured, I can tell. "Quite probably."

"Alright, fine. I suppose I need a friend now…" she looks a little sad for a moment and, as is my traditional response to such fickle shows of emotion, I am slightly repulsed. But I am also, increasingly, intrigued.

Why does this woman speak as if she is from a different time? Why does she claim to be a Malfoy when that is clearly not the case? How did she come to be in the Guernica water closet when she has clearly never set eyes on the city that lies outside the pub?

The only explanation is that Hermione Malfoy is lying to me. And I, Tom Riddle, do not like lies.

That night, I go back, just as I said I would. When I meet Miss Malfoy in the lobby of the Lieu de Brûler, I am surprised to see that she wears the same robes I had already seen her in earlier that day. This perplexes me.

"I assume your things have not yet arrived, Miss Malfoy." I say to her once the customary greetings have been imparted.

She looks a little offended before she chuckles, "Yeah, something like that. So where are we going then?"

"Is there anything that would tempt the lady's pallet?"

She snorts gracelessly and crosses her arms, "I could really go some fish and chips but I'm thinking that might be a little out of reach in a time like this." I can see she notices my perplexed look but waves me down dismissively, "Whatever. You choose."

"Very well." I am beginning to become increasingly frustrated by her tone. Why must she continue to be so relentlessly rude and unpleasant? I have been nothing but gracious and charming and yet, she keeps the boundary up. Yet again, I almost wish I could show her who she was playing with. Perhaps then she would not be so mouthy. Not when she discovers the things that I have done in my life. I'm sure that relentless sarcastic smile would slip when I told her of the murders I have committed and the people I have tortured.

It is this line of thought that leads me to believe that perhaps a more direct approach might be more appropriate and I keep this in mind as we leave the hotel and walk to the restaurant of my choice. I hold it close to my chest as an emergency tactic to play, should she prove too hard to crack.

The conversation that flows forth as we eat is stunted. Though not visibly so. On the outside, we would appear to be two people getting to know one another, laughing and talking easily.

But really, it was a dance of dishonesty. She gave no true answers to my questions and I gave no true answers to hers. Both of us knew it and yet the dance continued, almost like a game of cards. I would bluff about my hand while she upped the bet and visa versa. But there seemed to be no hope that either one of us would fold.

By the end of the meal I am almost maddeningly frustrated. This is out of character for me. I want to take hold of Hermione Malfoy's shoulders and shake her until the truth comes tumbling out. Most alarmingly, there is also an instinct, taking hold of me that is telling me to flee from her. I do not like her mystery. I do not like what it does to my mind.

Late that night, we leave the restaurant. Little Collin's street is dark and quiet, the only light pouring dimly from the windows of the buildings that line the street's upper levels, throwing a roseate glow across Miss Malfoy's face every few steps.

I feel then that it is time to pull out the tactic I had kept as a last resort.

"Miss Malfoy, have you ever killed a man?" I asked blandly, as if we might be discussing the weather.

She stops in her tracks and, after a few paces, so do I. When I look at her, her expression is pure fire.

And the answer she gives almost flaws me.

"Yes." she responds, through gritted teeth.

I think it might possibly be the only honest thing she has said to me since we met.

"You have cast the killing curse?" I ask, my casual tone gone.

"Yes."

"The torture curse?"

"Yes."

"Imperius?"

She juts out her chin in challenge. "Yes."

"My oh my." I say slowly after a moment as a smile creeps up my face. Is it possible that I have met a woman as equally diabolical as me? "Aren't you just a perfect little actress?"

And now I will have the truth, whether she wants to give it to me or not. I raise my wand, still smiling.

"Legillimens." I croon softly.

I am so ready to enter her mind; I have no doubts as to whether or not I will achieve this. But, it seems I underestimate her. The block that I slam up against is so powerful that it causes me to stagger.

Tom Riddle does not stagger.

I am filled then, with rage. How dare she deny me?! How dare she think that she is worthy to withhold the information that I want?!

I advance on her and push her forcefully against a wall, plunging us both into the shadow of a building. She does not make a sound, but her breath is coming out quickly, in ragged gasps, falling sweetly on my face. I can smell her defiance on the air.

"You will tell me who you are!" I order, allowing that old magic I had honed at the orphanage to lace through my tone, compelling her to answer.

"Only if you ask nicely." she snarls.

And then, I am flying backwards through the air and my body crumples painfully onto the cobblestones some ten feet away from her. I had not even felt her move to retrieve her wand and it had not been until the very last moment that I felt it pressed into my stomach.

She saunters forwards to stand over me, her wand still trained in my direction, her face contorted in an animalistic scowl.

"You want to know who I am?" she growls. "I am Hermione Granger, mudblood, of Gryffindor house. I travelled through time to this place from the year 2002 to escape a reality that I no longer cared to live in. A reality in which many of the people I loved had perished in a horrific and bloody war that spanned decades. When it ended, I left England to find my muggle parents in Australia where I had sent them in secret so they would not be harmed, but when I found them, they were dead. There. You have the truth now. So leave me alone."

She does not sheath her wand as she walks away from me.

I can only stare after her dumbly. For some reason, I believe every word she's said.

A/N A fic request for mh21. Will be only 3 chapters in length.

As always, read and review!

xx

Desdemona

The quote at the beginning of this chapter is from Dante's epic poem Inferno. I own nothing.
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The Highest of Priests