Chapter Text
The dungeon walls of Malfoy Manor were cold and wet to the touch, as thin trails of condensation gathered through its cracked surface. The air felt damp, like on a scorching hot and humid day, and the smell… The smell was terribly musty, similar to a soaked cloth that never quite dried.
Hermione's body throbbed painfully, her knees ached and throat felt dry, like sandpaper. She had screamed relentlessly when Bellatrix took her time with her. Purple and yellow bruises spread across her face while dried blood covered her skin, leaving uneven red patterns across her collarbone and shoulders.
But she was breathing. Alive. And listening.
She faintly heard the sound of hushed voices. She knew them—Harry's and Ron's. They were shouting and screaming, but she couldn't make out their words. Her voice was gone, stripped raw by the merciless torture she endured. No longer able call out to them.
Tilting her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes for just a moment, a small prayer sent their way in the hopes it reached them.
The next time she came about, there was a loud scuffle, doors slamming, and a crashing sound coming from the right. They must be here for me, she thought hopefully. Of course, Harry would come, he always did. All she had to do was patiently wait it out.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps, a loud crack, and then…nothing.
Absolute silence.
Her breathing picked up, her throat constricted. A momentary panic settled in her chest when she forgot how to breathe. Grasping her throat with both hands, Hermione let the pressure ground her.
Then, the cold realization came that they had left. Gone, without her in tow.
Hermione knew they had seen her on that first night. Harry had, when she was dragged down the set of stairs. And Ron? He had heard her piercing screams, she was sure of it.
They just left me here, she thought in shock. Was she so easy to leave behind? Wasn't she as important or worth the risk to be rescued?
She swallowed hard, trying her best to keep the tears from spilling out of her. Not from despair, no, but out of rage. Hermione wanted to scream and lash out. But her magic barely responded to her. She couldn't move, her energy and magical core almost depleted.
The air around the room changed, thicker yet colder. A chill ran down her spine. Hermione felt his eyes before she even registered his face. She knew he was looking at her. Through her, as if her soul were an open book. She felt naked under his stare, and there was no way for her to hide from him.
Voldemort.
The man who, until this very second, had felt more like myth than reality.
Hermione narrowed her eyes as he stepped out from the shadows, crimson eyes glowing in her direction. He had a certain look about them, like he could look into the deepest and most hidden parts of your mind.
Hermione finally looked up and what she saw made her breath still.
Voldemort towered over her. He was lean, yes, but there was nothing weak in the way he held himself. His posture felt self-assured, like a serpent poised to strike its prey. His robes were tailored to fit his frame nicely. Elegant and dark, the color of charcoal.
His face was inhuman, that much she knew from hearing Harry speak of his nightmarish visions. But it wasn't grotesque—not exactly. His skin was as pale as parchment paper. He had defined cheekbones, bloodless thin lips, and long slender fingers.
Beautiful.
That's what came to Hermione's mind when she looked at him. It felt wrong. Associating this word with this…creature. He was the devil.
No, he is the Devil.
Yet, there was something magnetic about him. It made her want to seek him out. To uncover what is hiding behind the unnatural darkness seeping from him. Hermione could feel it.
His power. Immense amounts of power.
If only she could…Stop. Don't even finish that thought.
Hermione hated herself for allowing her mind to go there. She wanted to claim that madness had taken over her mind. That she had become weak. Unstable. Yet, she knew better. This was all her. It has always been her.
While lost in her thoughts, Voldemort had stepped slightly closer to her cell. His eyes roamed down to her petite frame, then back to her face. He studied her, as though she were a piece of a puzzle that did not quite fit in.
''At last, Miss Granger. Harry Potter's famous Mudblood witch,'' he said, as if that was supposed to mean something to her.
''Tom Riddle."
''Most call me Lord Voldemort,'' he said smoothly.
''Yes, well… I tend to call things by their given name. Tom, that is your name, isn't?''
Voldemort looked at Hermione with mirth. His mouth twitched, but no smile appeared on his face.
''You are not afraid of me, are you, Miss Granger?''
Looking into his glowing red eyes, Hermione felt a sudden urge to stand up to the impossible man in front of her.
''I don't recall saying that… my Lord,'' she said mockingly.
At this, he narrowed his eyes. He had been warned of the arrogant bite she possessed. But no matter. He paid no mind to her silly taunts.
''You haven't shed a single tear or begged to be let out since your precious… friends have abandoned you in our midst,'’ Voldemort continued.
Hermione's jaw clenched, her fingers pressing hard into the skin of her palms. All she wanted was to stand up and get her hands around his throat. To prevent air from reaching his lungs.
As if he read her thoughts, Voldemort's gaze landed on her hands. Dirtied and bloodied from being thrown around like a rag doll across the halls. Sweat pooled on her forehead, eyes flashing with momentary concern. Had he read her mind?
She adjusted herself, lifted her chin, and put back her mask of indifference.
He smirked, just a little. Like he had just won a game she hadn't been made aware of.
''I have been following you for a long time, Miss Granger. Those nights in the middle of the forest were most telling. You have been quite interesting to watch.''
Hermione glared up at him, ''That’s disturbing. I’m not interested in compliments from the likes of you.''
''The ever hot-headed Gryffindor. One has to wonder if you ever learn from putting yourselves in dangerous situations.''
Voldemort walked slowly, making his way to where Hermione was sitting up, her eyes following his every stride.
Now crouched before her, like one does when speaking to a child, his right hand found the railings of her cell. Glowing eyes flicked over the dried blood at her temple, lingering at the sight.
''Do you know why you are still alive, girl?''
''Because you are a coward. You won't fight Harry yourself. You need me…for whatever sick reason. If you want to kill me, just do it already and stop wasting both of our time.''
His lips curved into something cold, yet amused. ''Your lot is always so quick to defend your beloved Harry Potter. But you misunderstand me.''
He leaned in, his face closer. Close enough that Hermione could see the faint black of his veins beneath his pale skin. ''I kept you alive because you are the only one worth keeping. Only you, little cub.''
She swallowed hard, her throat acid with the bile that had accumulated. ''What are you talking about?''
''Do you think the Potter boy is a threat to me?'' He whispered bitterly. ''He is reckless and emotional. His survival has been nothing more than the result of sheer, dumb luck and the blind devotion of others to the Chosen One. Like yours.''
His hand reached out through the space of her cage, cupping her cheek in a small show of admiration.
Hermione's breath hitched, lips partially parted. She wanted to move away from his touch, from his cold hands. But she couldn't. She was stuck. And she wasn’t sure if it was from fear or awe.
‘'You,'' he continued, his dark pupils blown wide open, ''are the mind behind his incessant triumphs. The one who strategized, who researched. And I am certain you are the one who kept him alive by whispering spells into his ears all these years ago.''
Her heart hammered painfully against her chest. Hermione didn't want to remember. She had given up everything for Harry. Her magic, her power, her life. To help him. And for what?
Still, no matter the hurt she felt, she refused to look away from the Dark Lord's gaze.
''That doesn't change anything,'' she replied with finality. ''I won't be made a pawn again. I will not join you.''
His thumb brushed off a streak of dirt from her cheek, his touch light, almost soothing. But Hermione knew better, she was no fool. That man had the power to snap her neck like a dry twig should she move or say the wrong thing.
''You say that now, little cub. But I know of your hunger. Your thirst for knowledge has been your guide. First and foremost. Always.''
Hermione recoiled, fury in her eyes. How dare he speak like he knew her?
''You know nothing, Tom. You don't—''
Voldemort let out a chuckle, a grin now plastered on his lips. ''Ah, but I believe I do know you, Miss Granger.''
She shivered. Dread slowly crept its way inside the very fiber of her bones. The sound of satisfaction on his tongue felt wrong. A feeling that shouldn't belong between them.
''I will offer you what you seek. A grasp on magic that no other living witch or wizards possess. True power. The kind that offers no limit except those you put upon yourself.''
Hermione's lip trembled, her hands shaking. ''I don't want your power,'' she said weakly.
His smile widened, though it never quite reached his eyes. ''Everyone wants power. At one point or another, they pursue it. And it is never enough. The need grows. It festers. And it asks for more.''
He rose to his full height, his shadow now towering over her chained and shaking form. ''But there is a price,'' he continued calmly. ''This type of magic…it demands flesh. Human consumption. To bind it to your blood, to your core.''
Hermione gagged, retching bitter bile onto the corner of her cell. She could smell the iron and sweat covering her body. She wanted to scream.
Voldemort watched her with particular attention, curious of her reaction. When she finally looked up at him with her tear-filled, blurry eyes, his expression became thoughtful.
''Do not be afraid… while I understand your disgust, it will come to pass. And once it does, you will understand.''
Hermione shook her head violently. ''Go to hell, Riddle,'' she rasped.
''I fear we are already here, dear. But I will make it worth your while—I promise you this,'' he said, as he walked away from her view, into the blackened shadows of the doorway.
Hermione didn't know how long she remained slumped against the stone walls of her cell, knees pulled to her chest. Had it been a few days, or perhaps a week? The only physical sensations she now felt were the gnawing of hunger in her stomach and the ache of thirst cracking her chapped lips.
There had been no visitors, no Snatchers, no Death Eaters.
And certainly no sight of him either.
They left me, she kept repeating in her head. The thought echoed over and over again. Like a cockroach, it kept multiplying—and she could not crush it.
But her mind clung desperately to her last memory of them before the crushing silence swallowed her whole and only blackness remained.
#####
While in and out of consciousness, she heard their sudden shouts, snapping her wide awake. It was barely audible—muffled sounds coming through the thick dungeon walls. But as they grew louder, her breath caught painfully in her chest.
''HERMIONE!'' Harry's voice thundered with fear and desperation.
''RON, COME THIS WAY—HERMIONE, WE'RE COMING!''
Hermione shot up to her feet so fast her vision got spotty, her feet almost giving out as she staggered towards the bars of her cell. She shouted as loud as she could, hoarse and raw from dehydration.
''Harry! Ron! Over here, I'm here! PLEASE!''
She continued screaming until blood filled her mouth as she kept biting into her tongue accidentally. She could hear them, their shouts getting louder as they grew closer, and then… she saw them. Through the narrow window, two distinct silhouettes ran down the corridor with wands raised. Ron looked distraught, sobbing openly, while Harry kept looking behind his shoulder, muttering curses under his breath.
They were so close, she could almost touch them.
But they never turned towards her, no matter how loud she got. Her heart shattered as she watched them pass her cell without even batting an eye.
''She's not here, they must have moved her,'' Ron said shakily. ''Harry, she's gone… Hermione, she's gone—''
Hermione pressed her forehead to the bars, wailing uncontrollably, ''I'm here, I'm right here!''
Her screams echoed against the enchantments preventing them from hearing her. They couldn't even see her.
Harry's voice broke down as he started his retreat, ''We have to go, they'll kill us if we stay any longer. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Hermione.''
#####
Hermione wanted so badly to believe in them. Holding onto the hope that she was wrong and the Order would surely come back to her rescue. But the silence ate away at her certainty, leaving her bitterly hopeless.
They were not coming; she had finally accepted.
In her dreams, she felt too close to death. She often jolted out from her slumber, not wanting to tempt fate by daring to fall back asleep again.
Now wide awake, she heard them. The sounds of unhurried footsteps. Someone was coming down the stairs. And, this time, it wasn't her mind playing tricks on her.
The torches around the dungeons flared to life without a sound.
A wordless spell, she thought. And then, it hit her. When was the last time she saw a speck of magic since her capture? Experiencing magic again had almost brought her comfort.
Until she saw who stood in front of her.
The Dark Lord—the same man who kept her caged here like an animal. But offered her more than she ever bargained for. Their exchange had made no sense. No matter how often she played it back in her head.
As she looked at him, slitted eyes gleamed with quiet admiration as they met hers.
''Good morning, little cub,'' he murmured.
Hermione forced herself to sit straighter, ignoring the burning pain screaming at her to stop moving.
He tilted his head, just a little. Studying her in an unsettling way that left her unnerved and shivering.
''Tell me, Miss Granger,'' he whispered low, ''why did Harry Potter survive so long in the Forest of Dean before your capture?''
Hermione clenched her fists and bit her lower lip to prevent herself from giving away anything. She refused to answer, to give in to his questioning.
His lips twitched into a faint, knowing smile. ''You are the one who cast the protective enchantments, did you not? The repelling wards, the disillusionment charms, the trigger alarms. All of these spells, all your work. Not his, and certainly not the Weasley boy. Am I correct in this assessment?''
She glared at him, her breathing ragged. ''It doesn't matter anymore, does it? I still ended up here.''
''It does to me,'' he sternly replied. He knelt before her, releasing the cap of a vial with the flick of his thumb. Inside of it was fresh water. Hermione could immediately tell. Not a potion, not poison, just simply… water. And she wanted a sip so badly, she would almost do anything for it.
Voldemort held it out for her but didn't move an inch closer.
''Tell me,'' he said softly. Too softly, like he knew he was tempting her. ''Potter was a brave boy, yes…but that is not what kept him alive. It was you, wasn't it? You see, I believe it was your mind that kept him afloat all these years, far longer than he should have.''
Hermione's jaw trembled with anger—she was so exhausted. All she wanted was for these mind games to end.
He looked at her thoughtfully, seeing that she wouldn't answer.
Humming, he extended the water vial a tiny bit closer, taunting her. ''Answer this next question, and I will give it to you. Tell me, what is the most fundamental flaw of your protective wards?''
She swallowed harshly, hating him more with every passing breath. But the hate towards herself continued to grow, too. She was starved—physically, but mentally too. This traitorous part of herself that needed to speak, to engage, to just think. It had been neglected for so long that she couldn't deny it anymore.
She finally spoke out, her voice low and raspy. ''Layered protective enchantments can sometimes interfere with each other. The more wards you cast over the same area, the greater the chance the magic drags on itself, becoming weak over time. Magical reserves are usually finite, and if used continuously or if damage is sustained repeatedly over time, the protection will collapse and ultimately fail.''
The Dark Lord's smile widened, now showing his sharp teeth. ''That is correct,'' he said pleased.
He held the vial to her cracked lips. Hermione reluctantly parted them and drank greedily, water spilling down her chin. As the water went down her throat, she couldn't help but tremble in relief.
''Again,'' he demanded softly, withdrawing a small roll of parchment from his grey robes. Unrolled on the filthy stone floor between them, she noticed the ancient and complex runes that marked the piece of paper.
Voldemort had not missed the look in her eyes. ''Translate this for me.''
Her eyes flicked to his for just a second, then over to the markings. She felt the familiar tug of recognition flaring through her as she took in every complex word.
Her voice cracked, ''Binding of the flesh to the Wizard or Witch… a direct transfer without the need of… no physical separation…'' She faltered, not wanting to continue any further. What this text was alluding to was simply vile and inhumane, something that shouldn't exist. Unholy.
Hermione looked up at him, horror coiling in her body. ''This is a necromantic flesh-biding ritual. They suggest using human bodies to anchor—''
''Yes,'' he said matter-of-factly, cutting her off by raising his pale and elongated index finger at her. ''The consumption of human flesh to bind magic to blood. Our blood. It is ancient, but quite effective. It was used by many lost civilizations, like the Egyptians. Unfortunately, it is now banned by every magical institution, and it has been that way for several centuries.''
She stared at him in disbelief, her stomach revolting and causing her to be nauseous. ''You're insane,'' she gagged.
The Dark Lord's eyes locked on her, looking dangerously like a predator. ''No,'' he replied as he rose to his feet in a graceful motion. ''You will learn this.'' He learned forward, his breath almost reaching her. ''I know you will. Because your mind is now curious. It craves to know more. Even now, as you lay half-starved and in your own filth, you are deciphering the layers behind those runes, aren't you little cub?''
Hermione took a step back and inadvertently hit the wall behind her. ''Never.''
He turned away, a small knowing smile creeping his lips. ''We shall see. But for now, don't overthink it too much.''
With a flick of his wand, he transfigured a small tray of food before her. Nothing too fancy—some bread, pieces of cheese and a large cup of water. ''Eat. I will return tomorrow.''
Hermione didn't utter a word. She didn't even look at him as he left. She wanted to refuse this small mercy, but she was so hungry; her stomach churning from the hunger and pain she felt.
She circled the tray, like she was taking in a suspicious item. But then, the smell of fresh, baked bread hit her nostrils which left her salivating. She told herself that she would never submit to him, to his power. That the race for knowledge couldn't justify the terror and dread behind it.
But as she took her time to chew her first meal in days, her mind began replaying the writings she recalled from memory. Deciphering and rearranging the words.
Because, for Hermione Granger, knowledge was the key to survival, and she was determined to survive.