Chapter Text
It had taken Tom Riddle, better known as Voldemort to the wider wizarding world, almost five years to track down the little brat that had so derailed his plans on Halloween night in 1981. He had tried to focus on rebuilding his power, but the whispers of the so-called boy who lived were driving him mad.
It was beneath him to waste time on something so worthless, but at this point, he just needed to put paid to the whispers.
The location of the boy — Privet Drive made his skin crawl with its overwhelming muggleness, and his hand tightened on his wand.
As he walked up the pavement to the little box house, he amused himself by imagining it all going up in flames. Bellatrix paced at his side like a wild dog, her nose in the air. She irritated him, too, but she was at least useful, so he didn’t want to burn her alive— yet.
Voldemort stopped before the boring brown door, his hands hidden in the folds of his robes to prevent any infection from touching him. Bellatrix stepped forward and knocked harshly on the door.
The door cracked open cautiously. A tall, thin woman with an unpleasant face peered through the small opening. Her muggleness radiated from her like a foul odor. Her eyes widened when she spotted them standing on the step. She pulled back and tried to slam the door shut, but Bellatrix was faster.
She waved her wand at the door, and it slammed backward. The woman was thrown back, hitting the wall with an audible crack.
A fat boy started wailing immediately in the background of the house. Voldemort grimaced as he stepped into the house and silenced him. But it gave only a brief respite to his ears before the woman took up screaming instead.
He silenced her and cut off a finger. The severed digit fell to the floor soundlessly, and blood spurted from the woman’s hand. He stepped back to avoid any splatter. His skin was crawling from being inside this house; he had to get out of this place as soon as possible.. “You will answer my questions immediately, or I will chop off your fingers until I run out, and then I will chop off your arms, then your legs— you get the point—“ he waved his hand airily. “— is that clear?”
Tears dripped down her face as she nodded frantically, clutching her hand. Seeing her compliance, Voldemort removed the silencing spell. Whimpers filled the room as she rocked slowly from side to side, blood all over the front of her homely little dress. Her eyes darted anxiously from Voldemort to the fat child still screaming silently in the corner. Bellatrix grinned maniacally at the scene, her wand clenched tightly as she waited for the opportunity to wreak havoc.
“Where is Harry Potter?” Voldemort asked impatiently.
The woman’s fright twisted into a snarl, “I should have known this would be that freak’s fault—“ She broke off with a scream when Voldemort abruptly cut off another finger while Bella giggled.
“Where is Harry Potter?” Voldemort detested having to repeat himself to this pathetic Muggle. He was going to kill her for that alone.
Shakily, with the few fingers she had left on her right hand, she pointed towards the cupboard under the stairs. Voldemort left the woman to Bellatrix’s care and walked toward the cupboard slowly, his wand out.
The door was locked from the outside with several latches. With a flick of his wand, Voldemort unlocked them, and the door swung open.
Inside was a small boy dressed in a tattered shirt too big for him. His black hair was messy with tufts sticking up. The boy had a solemn expression as he faced Voldemort, unmoving in the darkness of the closet. The tiny bed behind the boy rattled on its own, betraying the boy’s nerves despite his solemn face.
Looking at that small, bereft face, Voldemort was reminded of his own years at the orphanage. Locked away by his caretakers, who were unable to handle his otherness.
He really was going to burn this place to the ground.
“I’m going to kill you.” He told the boy conversationally and raised his wand, waiting for the wailing to start so he could shut him up.
The boy looked at him steadily, unmoving. His green eyes gleamed in the darkness of the cupboard. The boy’s eyes were just like his mother’s.
Even after five years, Lily Potter surfaced in Voldemort’s memory with startling ease. He had despised her, of course—filthy little Mudblood—but she had been something. He fancied himself above such petty notions as attraction, yet something within him had been stirred by the fierce conviction with which she had defied him, shielding her child.
Despite Severus Snape’s plea for him to spare her, Voldemort had always intended to kill her. But seeing her, reading the knowledge of her own death in her dark green eyes. He had, for reasons he couldn’t even fully explain now, given her the opportunity to stand aside. To live. It had been a foolish impulse— as she had been too stupid to take advantage of his generosity anyway. And now five years later, her child stood before him with the same air of resolve. As if it knew he was meant for death at Voldemort’s hands.
“Do you even understand what I said? I’m going to kill you.” Maybe it was too stupid to understand. What did he know of children?
“I know.” The boy said quietly. “I’m ready.”
Amusement filled him at such foolish bravery. Lily Potter had bred true. Voldemort laughed and reached forward to drag the boy out of the cupboard. He’d crush him.
But as soon as his fingers brushed against the skin of the boy’s neck, fire lanced through his nerve endings. Burning, cracking, and racing through his body with pain so intense, Voldemort gasped and pulled his hand back. Touching the boy felt as if he was touching fiendfyre.
“Master?” Bellatrix asked uncertainly from where she stood near the woman missing her fingers.
“We’re taking the boy,” Voldemort announced. He needed to find out what caused that reaction and fix the weakness or harness it to use against others. There couldn’t be anything to that stupid prophecy, and if it turned out to be something — well, he could kill the boy as soon as he became inconvenient.
Bellatrix looked stupidly confused, her mouth half open. “What?”
Voldemort ignored her and gestured for the child to come out. “Tell me one reason why I shouldn’t kill this woman and this fat child.” He demanded of the child, pointing to the muggles.
This seemed to shake the boy from his resolve, and he looked at the muggles, slightly panicked. “Because it’s bad.”
Ridiculous reasoning. “There’s no such thing as bad or good, only what it is in your power to do. Now, why shouldn’t I kill them?” Voldemort asked again.
The boy’s mouth opened and closed several times, and his eyes started to water. It filled Voldemort with satisfaction for it to behave more like he had expected in the first place.
“Avada kedavra.” He said the killing curse quietly with relish. Green light shot from his wand and slammed into the little fat Muggle, flinging him backward. He landed like a broken doll, his arms and legs askew.
The boy drew in a wavering breath. The Muggle woman looked dumbfounded before she started screaming hysterically and ran to the child.
Bellatrix was quick to stop her and wrapped her in chains with a hissed incarcerous.
The boy was completely white now. “You’re like me.” He whispered.
Voldemort sneered at him. “I’m nothing like you, but yes, we have magic. Unlike these pathetic muggles.”
“What’s a muggle?” The boy asked, his eyes still on the fallen child.
“A lesser being without magic.” Voldemort waved his wand, and his magic wrapped around the chained Muggle, jerking her upright. “Now, why shouldn’t I kill her? Do you have a reason not to?”
The boy shook, his entire body trembling as he stared at the Muggle woman. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
With another bored killing curse, the world was free from that Muggle, too. Voldemort turned to the child. “See, now this is your fault; if you had a reason to keep them alive, maybe I would have left them alive.”
Bellatrix burst out laughing behind him. She knew he was never going to leave them alive anyway.
“Bella, get the child, we’re leaving.” Voldemort directed.
“But where are you taking me?” The boy asked shakily.
At that question, Voldemort paused. He wanted to experiment on the child, but at the same time, he didn’t want it close to him. “Bella, your sister has a boy child, doesn’t she?”
Bellatrix grimaced. “With that pathetic dog, Malfoy. He doesn’t have half his father’s power; hopefully, the little brat isn’t as weak as he is.”
Voldemort smirked. Lucius’ weakness is exactly why he liked him — that and his fat Gringotts account. “Now, now, Bella, we mustn’t speak of the future Minister of Magic that way.” Voldemort gestured to the child. “I want you to take it to your sister, tell her to raise him as her own until I decide to come for him.”
“But— “
“Questions, Bella?” Violence oozed from his tone.
“No, my lord.” With that, she took hold of the child and disapparated with a crack, leaving Voldemort with the dead bodies.
Voldemort strolled outside leisurely, observing the neighborhood again. The houses were all in neat little rows, all the same, with similar little vehicles out front. The utter unimaginative uniformity of it all was sickening. He could fix that easily.
He held his wand out, and fire began to pour from it like lava. The magic was hot and thick, growing and expanding. It took the shape of a serpent that hissed and crackled as it darted toward the house Voldemort had just left.
Voldemort laughed as he fed the fire serpent more and more power, letting the fiendfyre snake grow larger and larger— its hunger was voracious as it consumed the house the boy had been in and then ate the next — and the next one to that until the entire street was up in flames. Screams echoed but were drowned out by the roar of the flames.
It was glorious.
He burned up everything that connected the child to the boy who lived — now he would only be Voldemort’s ward — to kill or keep as he so chose.
Eleven Years Later
Ronald Weasley came to get her during her revision period. Ron was in Gryffindor, and Hermione had known for years that he had a crush on her. But he had never understood that simple things like crushes weren’t for her. She had more important matters weighing on her mind.
The summer before school started, there had been an election for a new Minister of Magic. Lucius Malfoy had won. Lucius Malfoy, who hated Muggles and the Muggleborn. The threat to Muggleborns was at an all-time high as Hermione started her seventh year of Hogwarts.
It was an open secret that Voldemort was the power behind Malfoy. Malfoy wasn’t shy about showing off the brand on his arm that marked him as one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. The Wizengamot already had a list of pending legislation for voting that would further erode Muggleborn rights— further erode Hermione’s rights.
Ron stopped by her desk, his blue eyes for once utterly serious as he stared down at her. “Dumbledore wants to see you.” He practically whispered even though no one else was near.
A shiver went down Hermione’s spine. On her eighteenth birthday, she had been inducted into the last resistance to Voldemort - the Order of the Phoenix led by Dumbledore.
The Order was doing its best to obstruct Voldemort’s agenda, but it was hard when almost every witch or wizard of power except Dumbledore seemed eager to fall behind Voldemort. Sometimes Hermione wondered what she was even doing by trying to stay in Britain. She could run to France beyond Voldemort’s power, as several Muggleborns she knew already had.
“What does he want?” She asked. Perhaps it was her own nerves, and it was something simple — something to do with school.
Ron looked around quickly, making sure no one had come any closer. “He has a mission for you.”
Hermione almost felt sick at that. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t feel prepared enough. She was the best at everything except blasted Defense Against the Dark Arts. Briefly, the image of the boy who was the best in that class came to mind.
Harry Potter. With his cool green eyes and competent touch. An enigma wrapped in Slytherin green.
Her enemy.
Hermione swallowed, pushing out thoughts of Potter and throwing back her shoulders. She could do this— this was what she had signed up for after all. She packed up her belongings, putting them carefully into her bag, aware of Ron watching her impatiently.
When she finally slung the bag over her shoulder, he reached out to grab her wrist to pull her along. It annoyed Hermione, but she let it go— it didn’t matter.
She focused inward, her mind scrambling for what she could do for the Order. Obviously, they would want her to fight. She knew the Order had done several raids on known Death Eater hangouts with recruits they had in the Auror division.
Still, she didn’t have nearly as much experience as everyone else involved. Hermione was jerked out of her thoughts abruptly when someone snatched her arm roughly back from Ron.
“What are you doing, Weasley?” Harry Potter’s voice was cutting as he held her arm. He looked at her, and she saw an unreasoning anger in the depths of his gaze. “Was he bothering you?”
“Mind your own business, Potter!” Weasley blustered, falling back a step. Potter hadn’t done anything, but there was always something in the air around him that said he could — easily.
Potter ignored Ron, his gaze focused on her as he repeated his question. “Was he bothering you?”
Hermione licked her lips nervously and shook her head. His eyes followed the movement as his hand on her arm gentled.
“Are you sure?”
“She already said she’s fine!” Ron reached for Hermione’s hand again.
“Don’t touch her.” Potter’s sharp words froze him.
Hermione’s heart was pounding — something that happened frequently in Potter’s presence. “I—I can take care of myself, Potter. We’re going to the headmaster’s office.”
“Of course you can.” Potter agreed easily, his eyes not leaving Ron. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
It was hard to hear him over the rapid tattoo of her heart. “Dumbledore is expecting us; we need to go.”
Potter’s face twisted almost in a sneer. “Wouldn’t want to leave Dumbledore waiting.”
Hermione shook her head even though she wasn’t sure if it was a question. She took a step back from Potter, then another. Then another, before finally turning and walking swiftly to the Headmaster’s office.
After a few seconds, Ron joined her quietly by her side. Neither spoke about the incident as they went into the headmaster’s office.
Many of the members of the Order were standing in a half circle near Dumbledore’s desk. Hermione walked toward them, trying to project confidence, but felt like a fake under their inspection.
Dumbledore looked tranquil and determined, but Professor McGonagall seemed upset, her lips pressed together in a tight line. Alastor Moody, Remus Lupin, and Poppy Pomfrey looked determined, their faces set. Ron stopped next to her, and she looked over at him.
Hermione half thought he would have left. Perhaps they had a mission together. As the silence stretched, Hermione struggled not to fidget as they watched her. She threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin. “You called me, Headmaster?
“Yes, Miss Granger. We wanted to discuss something with you.” Dumbledore glanced at McGonagall before continuing. “Professor Snape told me there was an incident in your potions class.”
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, looking for Snape, but he wasn’t there. “It was nothing.”
It definitely had been something.
Dumbledore gave a small smile, his gaze locked with hers, and Hermione dropped her eyes at his gently reproving look. “Professor Snape told me that Potter stepped in front of you when there was an accident, preventing you from getting burned.”
Hermione said nothing.
“This isn’t the first time Potter seems to have gone out of his way for you.”
Ron threw a quick glance toward Hermione before offering, “Potter stopped us on the way here. He was upset because I was touching her.”
“That’s not — no — he just — you were pulling me— he was concerned.” Hermione stuttered over the explanation.
Potter again. Her heart reacted predictably, skipping a beat. The Slytherin was dangerous — rumored to have been raised by Voldemort himself.
Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow at her. “He seems very interested in you, Miss Granger.”
Not even sure how to tackle that question, Hermione remained silent, cursing Ron at her side.
When Hermione didn’t respond, Dumbledore continued. “We have a mission for you.”
Dread pooled in Hermione’s stomach. “What mission?”
“We want you to get to know Harry Potter, get whatever information you can about the Death Eaters from him — and if possible turn him to our cause.”
“What!” Ron squawked next to her.
“How am I supposed to do that?” Hermione spoke at the same time.
Moody cleared his throat. “He has a liking for you, girl, isn’t it obvious?”
“But he’s the enemy!” Ron blustered, and Hermione sighed. At least one person was on her side in this.
Hermione shook her head, looking to McGonagall pleadingly. “But he doesn’t like me! It’s just — it’s—“ She couldn’t explain the nebulous thing between her and Potter, but liking did not come into it.
Remus Lupin interjected. “Didn’t he get rid of Umbridge after she sent you to detention?”
Hermione remembered fifth year, Harry’s tight hold on her as he inspected her hand before letting her go and walking away. “But— “
Dumbledore interrupted her. “This is what we need in our quiet war against Voldemort, Hermione. You know how important this is— will you help us?”
“Does my mother know about this?” Ron looked at the adults as if they were mental.
“She does Mr. Weasley. And you’re here because we need a third party we can trust to keep an eye on things.”
Hermione looked at Ron skeptically. They essentially wanted Ron to be her backup? They couldn’t have picked someone more problematic.
“But I—“ Ron stumbled in his response, looking at Hermione. She knew from the look in his eyes why he hesitated. They wanted him to back her up while she went after Harry when he had a crush on her.
It was almost as awful as what they were asking her to do.
Alastor Moody stepped forward. “You two are young, but this is war. We all have to do things we don’t like and make sacrifices. Don’t forget what we are fighting for — to protect the magical world from Voldemort’s tyranny. How long do you think you will last in his world, girl?”
In the silence, Dumbledore spoke up quietly. “I don’t ask this of you two lightly. We need Potter on our side.”
Ron made some strangled sound before agreeing so quietly it was barely audible.
Then all gazes were on her. Would she really decline the first mission the Order gave to her? Of course, she wouldn’t.
Hermione bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she remembered the electric feel of Potter’s gaze on her. “Yes.”