Chapter Text
“Dumbledore wants to see you,” a red headed, freckled face appeared at Hermione's cubicle, munching noisily on an apple as he spoke those five little words. A ripple that could change the course of her life forever, all between sweet juice dripping down his chin and loud crunches of canines.
Hermione didn’t even bother to divert her gaze from the extraordinarily dull research paper that Zacharias Smith had stacked on her already substantially work-laden desk. Her head perched on her hand as she silently reprimanded Ron for his incongruous presence among her (albeit cramped) place of solitude.
She had chosen the desk specifically for that fact: it was situated at the back of the dull office, nowhere near a window as if to accentuate the already perfunctory removal of basic human necessities that come with the joys of office work. Hermione, however, continued marching ahead, attempting to make her small sanctum further inhospitable to any who dared pass with books stacked like battlements as a vain attempt to receive a modicum of privacy.
Apparently, it hadn’t worked.
“Come again?” Hermione replied, her eyes scanning the same paragraph on childhood diagnosis of schizophrenia for what felt like the umpteenth time.
A thick swallow. “Dumbledore wants to see you in his office, in about…” Ron craned his neck to spy the ever tick tick ticking clock at the far end of the concrete office. “Five minutes.” He spoke after a great deal of squinting.
Hermione rolled her eyes before chalking the paper up to a loss and shutting it with a dull thud. She leaned back in her chair and peered at Ron curiously, his too-rosy cheeks puffing out with each gargantuan bite of apple he took. It gave him the acute look of a ginger hamster.
“You mean he wants to see Smith,” Hermione huffed. “And I’m going to stand in the corner of the room whilst he gets to talk to the greatest mind of criminal psychology this century and make a total ass out of himself and my research.”
“Exactly,” Ron gulped down his last mouthful before looking at Hermione pleadingly, holding the core in an outstretched palm, pouting. Hermione (once again) rolled her eyes before taking it and dropping it in her bin.
“Well then, best get it over with then, hm?” She bemoaned, pushing herself up from her stiff-back chair and moving around the desk. “I needed a laugh anyway.”
“I don’t know why you put up with him- everyone knows you do all the work anyway.” Ron swiftly caught up with her with a few long strides.
Hermione privately cursed her god-awful heels, making her more a prize mare than an academic. Despite graduating top of her class in criminal psychology, a relatively fledgling field, she was relegated to carrying out errands for her superior, Zacharias Smith. Born of an upper-class family and rising through the ranks of the Department of Criminology due to the ever giving hand of nepotism. He always made sure to comment when her legs were looking particularly shapely, forcing Hermione into thoughts that wouldn’t be out of place in the minds of the serial killers they used for their research.
Yes, it appeared men felt more threatened by a woman daring to use her brain than adorning a closely cropped (but ever modest) jumper and a neat plaid skirt, short enough to give ample appreciation for the womanly figure, but not too short that would be improper.
“Lashing out at my superiors isn’t a luxury I’m afforded, Ron,” Hermione retorted, clipped and frustrated.
“You should really try it sometime.” Ron winked as they reached Dumbledore's office. “Good luck,” he smiled easily, backing down the hall. “And try not to have an aneurysm at Smith.”
"No promises."
Hermione forced a smile, content with the knowledge that Ron wouldn’t be astute enough to read into her tight shoulders, white knuckles and less-than-amused hazel gaze. He was a good officer and a better friend, but when it came to picking up non-verbal queues outside of the interrogation room he fell decidedly short.
Hermione rolled her shoulders, a satisfying crack rang out- unheard over the ticking of the clock perched above the ornate door, the only thing in the office that gave even a hint of grandeur. Hermione took a moment to ground herself, counting the ridges and various chips in the mahogany wood standing in stark juxtaposition with the war-time necessities that barely constituted the general office. Women typed up the odd report, sending a cacophony of rhythmic clicks ricocheting around the room whilst two psychologists engaged in an heated debate over the applicability of rehabilitation versus punishment in the prison system.
It was quieter than usual, Hermione noted almost as an afterthought, with many of their undergraduates having been shipped off to Normandy, ready and raring to drown their innocence in blood and dirt.
She shivered.
Steeling herself, Hermione took the final few steps to the thick door, ornately carved with a phoenix which, when the sun cast it’s light just before it kissed the horizon, it appeared to have the mystical quality of flames, almost as if it were being reborn again.
But perhaps she was just overworked.
A short knock.
“Come in,” An elderly voice replied, faint through the wood.
Hermione pushed open the door, not allowing herself a final second to prepare for what would inevitably be an agonising meeting.
Inside was a small office (indicative of government funding being funnelled toward the war), there was room enough for silver trinkets that littered any available surface as well as Dumbledore’s own personal research collection, compiled over some fifty years of pioneering the field of criminal psychology. Hermione was in awe simply to be in his department, let alone in such close vicinity to the man who had inspired her career path all those eons ago.
However, her eyes swiftly moved from the mountains of books and various models to her superior: Zacharias Smith, thin enough for one to mistakenly believe that he lived on the meagre ration cards allowed by the government rather than great feasts conducted by his family. Possessing a distinctive air about him that, no matter how intelligent, how utterly better one undoubtedly was than him, you would always be looked down upon from a misplaced idea of supremacy. He sat languidly, reactively causing Hermione’s blood to boil as she cursed his flippancy, cursed his nepotism and cursed his sex for forcing her into such a meagre position.
“Ah, Miss Granger!” Dumbledore spoke before Smith was able to cut a sidelong comment about her tardiness. “I’m afraid there are no more seats, but I’m sure that a gentleman such as Zacharias would be amiss to allow a lady to remain standing.” Dumbledore shot a pointed look at Smith who reluctantly rose from his seat.
“Certainly,” Smith stated, a gracious sneer curling his thin lips. “Please, Miss Granger.” He gestured overtly to the seat, allowing a mock bow: as if he wasn’t already being childish enough, Hermione chided silently.
“Thank you, Mr Dumbledore.” Hermione smiled sweetly at Zacharias as she took his newly vacated seat. “Zacharias.” She acknowledged with a brisk nod.
Now sat opposite to Dumbledore she noticed he looked tired, great bags appeared to be accentuated under half-moon spectacles. Though the plain and obvious conclusion would be that the Germans had been ramping up air raids on London in recent weeks, making sleep a thing of the past, Hermione suspected it was not so simple. The acute exhaustion in his eyes was swiftly extinguished as he reached for a slim folder on his (considerably chaotic) desk.
“I suppose you’re both wondering why I’ve asked you here,” Dumbledore began. “Our friends in Scotland Yard have recruited our department in interviewing a serial murderer who has yet to confess to his alleged crimes. He is currently being detained in Azkaban until his trial but, as I’m sure two astutely minded young people such as yourselves have noticed, there is a war going on and Scotland Yard is concerned that the longer they wait to go to trial the more likely the detainee will be to get off,” Dumbledore spoke briskly.
Smith remained an unwelcome spectre, hovering just behind her chair as Hermione continued to digest the information dolled out.
“The accused- and we must refer to him as such as in the eyes of the law he has yet to be proven guilty of any charges- has powerful friends, thus assuring such an arrangement as necessary in the eyes of the police.” Dumbledore continued.
Hermione raised her hand, naively reminded of her school days as tentative fingers caressed the air. Smith sniggered behind her.
“Please sir, if you don’t mind me asking- this isn’t strictly in our department’s purview: it’s…” Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, flesh coming undone between her teeth. “... It’s unprecedented for psychologists to attempt to extract a confession, even more unfathomable when considering the police have failed-”
“What my colleague is trying to say,” Zacharias cut in, hands clasping tightly on Hermione’s shoulders, causing her to repress a growl of frustration. “Is that, though it may be unprecedented, I have never thought to shy away from a challenge, and neither shall my lovely assistant, hm?” The final word was punctuated with a sharp dig into her shoulder blade.
Bastard.
Dumbledore’s eyes darted from Hermione to Zacharias, his gaze inscrutable.
“Please continue, sir.” Zacharias cooed, removing his hands from Hermione’s person.
Another beat of silence, punctuated by the odd whirring of the odd trinket.
“Very well. Your task would be to conduct interviews with the accused, attempting to both acquire a confession whilst also furthering our own research: we would be amiss if we were to allow such an opportunity to pass without seizing it.” His eyes twinkled with something Hermione could hardly name: Ambition? Greed? “Though, of course, your primary goal would be to use your expansive knowledge to push forward the investigation.”
“Of course,” Smith smiled. Hermione could almost feel the slime emanating from him in waves, how swiftly he wished to get started on his new pet project, ethics be damned.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, who is the man we’ll be interviewing?” Hermione watched Dumbledore pointedly, any slight flicker in expression, anything that may let slip just what task this would be.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Dumbledore stated matter of factly, as if simply discussing the weather. He pushed over two copies of the thin folder he had been organising earlier. “Or, as the media have dubbed him, Voldemort.”
“Voldemort?” Zacharias asked. The heat that had been radiating from him just moments before had dissipated as Smith took a step back, knocking over a pile of haphazardly stacked books as he did so. As if the name itself had scorched him as Dumbledore had uttered it. “You want us to interview the Voldemort? The ‘Dark Lord’? ‘He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Bloody-Named’?” His voice had swiftly escalated into almost a screech.
Where Zacharias had shrunk away from the meagre file on the desk, Hermione had moved for it, opening it immediately, lapping up any shred of information she could. Smith was still squawking about the crimes committed, how Riddle had mutilated his victims, some beyond recognition. Hermione paid no mind as she studied the photo of the man himself.
He would have been fairly innocuous, someone you could walk past on the street without giving a second look. He was striking though, yes, striking was the right word. All hard edges and sharp planes accented by a strong nose. Masculine enough to garner respect from those men who appeared to idolise him, juxtaposed with effeminate, full lips which -even through the grainy mugshot- appeared to be quirked ever so slightly upwards. A smirk, the odd upturn of the mouth, something one would miss with a cursory glance. Altogether, Hermione would say that- despite undoubtedly handsome in the unattainable sense of beauty all try and yet never quite succeed in achieving- he was ordinary enough.
That was, until her eyes met his.
The intensity of a shark smelling blood in the water with the same emptiness that accompanied it. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light forcing such unfathomable depths within those pools of darkness, but Hermione doubted it. They appeared to draw in the light, two miniature black holes which would not stop engulfing all light, all purity, all goodness until there was nothing left but sin itself.
No, perhaps not so ordinary after all.
Hermione shut the inadequate file, heart racing, adrenaline pumping, all thought overridden in favour of unfathomable curiosity. Her mother always warned her that her brain would be the death of her.
Well, perhaps it was time to put that to the test.
“We’ll do it.”
***
“You said what?!” Ron exclaimed, standing sentinel at Hermione's desk once again. However, this time, he was came with backup.
“I said we’d do it,” Hermione stated matter-of-factly as she began shuffling various items together into her shabby leather briefcase.
Ron looked at Harry with wide eyed amazement, gesticulating wildly as if to exacerbate the enormity of those three little words.
“Hermione…” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand whilst waving Ron off with the other.
Beneath her determinate curiosity Hermione held a semblance of sympathy for her friends. Yes, their concern came from a place of genuine worry, both of them having worked on the Voldemort case since it was categorised as a serial murder. Yet, despite that fact, it did not give them the right to infantise her, make her a porcelain doll incapable of protecting herself- as if she were the epitome of goodness in this cesspool of filth. Her blood boiled at their masculine notions of protector versus protected, of hunter versus gatherer.
Sinner versus saint.
Hermione slammed her briefcase shut, stopping whatever machinations Harry was about to bestow.
“I know what I’m doing,” Hermione began, looking up at both her friends from where she stood.
“I really don’t think you do, ‘Mione-” Ron began before slamming his mouth shut by the sheer fury in Hermione’s gaze.
“I know you both worked the case, that you saw things,” A hollow huff from Harry. “But that gives you no right to treat me like a child! I could help you, Dumbledore said himself that Scotland Yard called on us specifically for help. You called on us for help. Why are you… you clutching your pearls now you see a woman is involved?” Hermione’s voice slowly climbed in tone, positively shrill by the time of finishing.
“Jesus, Hermione.” Ron decried, turning around and rubbing his temple. Harry advanced toward the desk, sympathy etched in his emerald eyes.
“It’s not about you being a woman, Hermione, it’s just that-” Harry moved in closer, lowering his voice an octave whilst Ron continued muttering obscenities under his breath. “You didn’t see what we saw. Those women…” Voice trailed off, a faraway look. “They weren’t murdered, they were butchered. He butchered them, Hermione.” He implored. “One woman- Myrtle Warren- her uterus was gone when we found her. We still haven’t found it. And- and-” Harry began before glancing back at Ron. A silent shake of the head cut him off.
“What?” Hermione asked, her insides involuntary clenching, bile climbing her throat.
(an inkling of excitement in the darkest corners of her psyche)
“No, nothing,” Harry swiftly backtracked, stepping away from her now clear desk. He raked his finger through his jet black, perpetually messy, hair. “Just- the reason Ron and I are…” He appeared to be choosing his words carefully, perpetually aware of Hermione’s capacity to lash out. “Concerned isn’t because you’re a woman, it’s because you’re our friend. We know what Riddle’s capable of. We saw what he was capable of.”
“Then why don’t you make sure I’m prepared? So I don’t go in blind!” Hermione exclaimed.
“You don’t understand!” Ron whipped about, stalking toward her, his ears tinged as red as his hair. “You think this is just another one of your projects, it’s not. He’s not just words on paper, he’s not just a man. Hermione… what he did to these women: he’s a monster. If you walk into that room thinking any differently he’s already got you,” His outburst had fizzled as swiftly as it had begun, his tone decidedly dejected, resigned. “He’s already got you,” he murmured.
Hermione moved around the desk. Ron was breathing heavily, his eyes lidded as he watched her movements. She lay a gentle hand on his bicep, feeling the pulse through his shirt. He appeared to visibly loosen, a marionette who’s string, held taught, had finally been cut.
“I’ll be okay,” Hermione uttered, carving delicate circles into his skin with apt fingers. “He’s locked up-”
“But he could get off,” Ron countered.
“- And with our help he’ll be put away for life, Ron. Please, trust me. I can do this,” She threw him her most imploring look, all honeyed eyes and fluttering lashes. Feminine sensibilities could sometimes be used to one’s advantage, she supposed.
“Are you sure?” He asked, barely above a whisper.
“Adamant.”
Ron nodded and stood up straight. Hermione allowed her fingers to fall from him, landing awkwardly at her side- she bunched up her skirts, in need of something to do. Harry’s eyes watched the pair warily before nodding.
“Good enough for Ron, good enough for me,” he stated, tipping his head at Hermione.
Ah, Ron’s prize mare: what he says goes. How wonderful. Hermione seethed silently.
However, she was willing to take this as a win, no matter how small, how truly infinitesimal, as tomorrow she would be venturing to Azkaban.
***
“Is this all they have?” Zacharias Smith asked, frustration etched in his furrowed brow. He flipped over the lacklustre file, as if a hidden compartment would reveal Tom Riddle’s life history.
“That’s all they have,” Hermione replied, not bothering to look up, too focused on reading the scant information as they bounced across the cobbles in their squat taxi.
“Bloody hell,” Smith breathed, more to himself than her.
Bloody hell was right, Hermione silently agreed. The file told little of Riddle and his exploits, simply the basic facts of a life written on a blank sheet of paper:
Name: Tom Marvolo Riddle
Alias: Voldemort, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, The Dark Lord
Sex: Male
D.O.B: Unknown
Place of Birth: Unknown
Height: 6’4”
Weight: 81kg
Charges: Aggravated kidnapping, attempted murder, resisting arrest, assault with a deadly weapon, sexual assault, murder
Below the official arrest warrant were personal reports of classmates and professors, all who attested to the quiet but altogether polite nature of the boy. A student who outstripped most in academics, earning the title of Prefect and then Head Boy. Adored by classmates and teachers alike, there was not a single report of any unusual behaviour foreshadowing such heinous crimes. Hermione frowned, trying to look past the words for something that could possibly explain why such a man, admired by all those around him, would resort to murder.
He could have any woman he wanted: adept socially with disarming charisma and a face as sweet as sin, so that ruled out the crimes as a retaliation against women who didn’t want him. After school he’d been offered many opportunities within government due to his model performance (something even Hermione envied) and yet he turned them down in favour for a small, dilapidated furniture shop, located in White Chapel- so that, in turn, ruled out murder for economic means. There was the possibility he killed for a perceived higher purpose, Hermione supposed idly, but somehow she doubted that such an intellectual would lower himself even to God.
No, it was rather a tricky one.
“Here,” Smith said, holding out a small envelope, a slight tremor to his fingers. “Got them last night.”
“What is it?” Hermione asked, gingerly taking the envelope.
“Photos,” Smith stated simply, a slight shrug in a vain attempt to push away the magnitude of that word, like what remained of these women wasn’t simply a few grizzly photos and an epitaph.
Hermione repressed a shudder as she opened the envelope, determined not to allow Zacharias a shred of satisfaction. She felt his eyes watching her closely, peeling back her layers for a reaction, something he could cling to like a life-raft to expose her womanly sensibilities. Adamantly, she ignored it.
Deft fingers removed a photo.
A nude woman sat in an armchair, shoulders straight and legs crossed, the picture of refinement.
She cradled her severed head in her fingers, a grotesque imitation of a mother's love.
Dark stains marred slender hands, what was undoubtedly crimson dripped from the ripped neck down her calves, sickly. The violence of the wound suggested anger, raw, unattainable fury as the perpetrator hacked at her neck until severed. Her face now forever frozen in a perpetual scream, eyes wide in blood curdling fear as she watched her killer dismantle her. The positioning of the body, however, appeared to contradict such anger: the man had taken the trouble to pose her, creating such a position that one could miss the severed head cupped in the woman’s hands.
“What’s that in her mouth?” Hermione asked, lifting the picture closer, squinting at the gore.
“What?” Smith asked, leaning over to get a better look.
“Look,” She pointed. “What did the autopsy say?” Hermione asked, finally meeting her superiors' quizzical gaze.
Brief rustling of papers before Zacharias retrieved the autopsy for one Lavender Brown. His eyes scanned the paper swiftly before what little colour left in his face drained. A slight, involuntary twitch to his eye, a gulp.
“It’s a snake.”
“A what?” Hermione asked, sure she’d misheard.
“A Cottonmouth, apparently.” Smith let out a dry laugh, hollow to its core.
Hermione squinted, looking closer. Indeed, there was a small head in place of a tongue, dark stripes accenting a pointed face.
“Was it still alive?” Hermione asked tentatively.
“No,” Pause. “He’d- uh... stuffed it down her oesophagus and...” He worried his bottom lip.
“What?” Hermione asked, dragging her gaze from the petrified scream, meeting Zacharias’s eyes.
“He’d- well, then pushed the latter end of the snake-” He was blushing, fucking blushing. “Into her cervix.”
Hermione controlled her facial expression carefully, contorting it into that of maud indifference. She chewed the inside of her cheek until she felt the warm wave of metal tang welcoming her senses. She nodded, a small ‘Ah’ before meeting the poor woman’s eyes once again. Never given the opportunity to grow old. Never allowed to see her future unfold. Only remembered by a snake and a scream.
Hermione shivered.
“We’re here,” The cabbie pushed back the divider, drawing her from her reverie.
Hermione peered outside. A huge building loomed before them, a triangular mass that exuded penance for all who entered. Rain beat against the walls, unrelenting. The very building itself had a suffocating aura with bare, chipped cobble and high walls flanking the structure. Being in it’s very presence forced her fight or flight instinct, something carnal begging her to run from the place, run as fast as she could.
“Come on,” Smith stated as he exited the cab. “Madam Umbridge is waiting for us.”
Hermione pocketed the envelope of death and followed Zacharias into the belly of the beast.
***
“Ah, so you’re the one Dumbledore sent to attempt what even our most trained psychiatrists could not, hm?” A small, squat woman, adorned in various shades of fuchsia and pink, questioned. “Madam Umbridge, charmed.” She stuck out her stubby fingers, a slight clatter from her variety of gaudy rings.
Now was one of the few times in which Hermione was more than content to be merely deemed ‘the assistant’, watching Smith lean over and plant a sloppy kiss on Umbridge’s pockmarked hand was more than gag inducing.
“Likewise, Madam Umbridge. Myself and my assistant are more than grateful for the opportunity,” Zacharias plastered his face with the most gracious smile he could muster: thoughts of subject groups and funding most likely making the interaction bearable.
“I should hope so: the doors of our renowned institution are usually shut to outsiders such as yourself.” Hermione vaguely wondered whether Umbridge was talking about the same place in which a man shoved his semen soaked hand through the bars at her. “But needs must, I suppose.”
“If that’s all…?” Zacharias asked, a tentative hope edged his voice.
Hermione was resigned to agree with said hope, the sooner they were out of the presence of this mind-numbing woman, the better. The many eyes of porcelain cats stared at Hermione from plates perched on the wall, feline intensity making her feel acutely like an insect on the stage of a microscope, cut open and dripping, ready for examination.
“Well, no.” Umbridge shifted her piercing gaze to Hermione, smile so sweet it could rot teeth. “Will your assistant be accompanying you into the interview with Mr Riddle?”
“That was the plan, yes.”
“Ah, I would be remiss in my duties were I not to advise you against such action.” Her eyes crinkled in false mirth.
“And why would that be?” Hermione pushed off from the corner in which she had been looming.
“You must understand, Madam Umbridge, that Miss Granger was hand picked by Dumbledore to accompany me when conducting the interviews,” Zacharias was swift to interject before Umbridge managed to croak a retort.
Hermione was grateful for the defence Zacharias instilled, though she had no doubt in her mind that it stemmed more from a sense of distinct fear at the idea of being trapped in a room alone with Riddle than any misplaced respect he may have for her.
A tittering laugh struck Hermione to her core.
“As much as I’m sure that Miss Granger would be an asset to your work, I’m sure you understand my reluctance to allow Miss Granger into Mr Riddle's presence with his…” Umbridge paused, eyes darting between Zacharias and Hermione. “... Self described disdain for women.”
“If you would please, Madam Umbridge, I believe that if we are truly to garner any results past what you and your band of merry psychologists have been able to achieve, a woman's presence is crucial.” Hermione stated matter-of-factly, heat crawling up her neck from the very indignity of the woman.
A coy smile played across Umbridge’s lips, a slight tug at the corners before spreading out into a full row of teeth. Eyes narrowed in glee. Hermione stood her ground, refusing to be intimidated by this awful woman’s sweetened words, steeped in wrath. Umbridge clapped her hands together, satisfied.
“Very well, Miss Granger, if you are so set on this line of reasoning I bear no grudges against you.” Umbridge stood uneven on her feet, weighed down, no doubt, by her grudges. “I shall have guards and doctors onside after your meeting.” Her passive aggression stifled the entire room making it hard to breathe.
“That won’t be necessary, Madam Umbridge,” Hermione shot her most innocent smile right back at the stout woman. “Besides, I'm sure they have patients to attend to in this… what did you call it?” Hermione quirked her brows, erroneous in thought. “Ah, yes: renowned institution.” She smiled widely, baring her canines.
Umbridge’s façade flickered for a second, burning fury marred her gaze, the wrinkles in her face appeared to simply fold away more hate.
Hermione continued to smile.
Zacharias coughed awkwardly, eyes darting between the two women, evidently unsure of the course of action to take.
“Uhm… Madam Umbridge, if you please, would you escort us to the subject?” He asked, his voice sounding very far away, quiet through the fog of wrath coursing between the two women.
“Ah, yes.” Umbridge’s eyes turned to focus on Zacharias, all that resentment seeming to drain away with the pull of a plug as that tooth rotting smile reapplied. “Please follow me.”
The walk from the block of offices to the cells was a long and winding one, no matter how hard Hermione attempted to remember the path they took, the corridors all blended together in a maze of concrete and despair. When entering the detention ward there was the unmistakable sound of screams ricocheting against the blank walls, wails pierced her brain until she wasn’t certain whether it was those behind bars making the sound or Hermione herself.
She would be hearing those sounds for long after the quiet accosted her ears.
They stopped outside of an innocuous door. Two guards flanked it, tall and broad and each clutching nightsticks like their life depended on it. Hermione frowned slightly.
“Here we are then,” Umbridge smiled, her heels clicking against the cold stone. “Please come to my office after you’re finished- I’d be ever so interested to hear how you’ve done.” Her false inclinations of enthusiasm incensed Hermione as much as they appeared to put Zacharias on edge.
“Thank you, Madam Umbridge,” Smith stated, his voice steady, juxtaposed to the anxiety that radiated off him in waves. “That’ll be all for now.”
A brisk nod before the receding click click click of heels leaving them in silence.
“Ready?” Hermione asked, her hands clasped around a notebook. She gnawed at her bottom lip until she felt the welcome tang of metal.
“As I’ll ever be,” Zacharias replied. A slight tremor to his voice. A bob of an adams apple. He rolled his shoulders and a crack swept the air.
There was a silent respect, the same kind one would recognise in soldiers before the final whistle was blown, before climbing the trenches and meeting their fate.
Yes, Hermione thought resolutely as one of the guards pushed open the door, this is a lot like going over the top.
Into death's cool embrace they embarked.
Tom Marvolo Riddle lounged in the straight-back prison chair as if it were a throne, a leg strewn languidly over a knee as he idly picked at the iron chains tethering his slender hands. His eyes shot up at the sound of the bolt being removed and the door opening with a heavy heave. They rested momentarily on Zacharias, a brief catalogue of character as the nervous man moved to take his seat in the opposite chair tucked neatly under the table, walking with all the nerve of a prisoner to the noose.
Whatever Hermione had been able to decipher of Riddle’s character from his mugshot was nothing in comparison to the real thing. He held an air of superiority that stifled the room. Crackled lips curling slightly at the promise of fresh entertainment- fresh meat. His hair, longer now since his arrest, was artfully, effortlessly, curled rather than slicked back as was the fashion of the time. He was more gaunt now, however, all hollowed out cheekbones and dark circles beneath his lashes; and yet, somehow, hunger appeared to have found a companion in Tom Riddle.
Hermione moved to the side of the room, notebook in hand, determined to get a vantage that would allow her a sufficient view of the proceedings whilst not being actively present in the interrogation; the idea was to allow a feminine presence throughout the room whilst not having it be decidedly obvious.
This, however, was succinctly cut down in its stage of hypothesis when Riddle’s stygian eyes locked on her hazel ones.
A slight tilt of the head, a quirk of the brow, and certain emotion Hermione was unable to read etched in the very lines of his face. He looked… pleased? A glint of glee in those pools of darkness making them appear opalescent in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
If Hermione had thought those feline eyes in Umbridge’s office had her pinned to a microscope, Riddle’s made her feel she was nailed to the cross, crucified for her sins, waiting to face judgement by the powers that be.
And in this room, he was that power.
The Devil wore a pretty face, did he not?
“Mr Riddle, I’m Zacharias Smith, chief psychologist in this investigation, and, as I understand, you are charged for multiple murders and a litany of other crimes, correct?” Smith began reading from a piece of paper sat in front of him. Though he was obviously still tense -shoulders knitted together, his jaw grinding his teeth to dust- his voice remained steady.
Riddle’s eyes remained firmly on Hermione.
He dampened his lips.
“Myself and my assistant here,” Smith gestured to Hermione. “Miss Granger,” Riddle’s eyes lit up. “Have been enlisted by Scotland Yard to garner further details of your crimes-”
“Alleged,” Riddle interrupted. His voice was deeper than Hermione had originally anticipated, gravelly from disuse.
“I’m sorry?” Smith looked up, startled. A badger suffocated by a python.
“My alleged crimes. I have yet to be convicted, Mr Smith.” Zacharias’s name curdled on his tongue, spat with disdain.
All the while those beetle black eyes never left Hermione.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, adrenaline pumped through her veins and a fight or flight instinct was pushing her to run run run. Before she had the chance, however, a small voice in the back of her mind murmured: was this how they felt?
All those women, had they felt this bone crushing fear, terror like she had never felt before. Did they want to run? To hide? To find their mother and cry and cry and cry until the monster had moved away. Lavender Brown had been 19, barely a woman, and yet now she would never live to see her third decade. Those bloodshot, glassy eyes caught so delicately in horror would never see the sun rise again.
Hermione steeled herself, looking straight back at Riddle. If he were surprised by her defiant gaze, he did not show it.
“Ah yes, of course,” Zacharias was flustered, shuffling his papers. “Now- uh- did you know any of the victims?” Smith looked up expectantly, pen perched in hand.
Riddle ignored him.
A beat of silence. A sigh.
“Now, let’s see-” Zacharias murmured under his breath after receiving no reply. “When did you start having these murderous- alleged murderous intentions?”
Riddle ignored him.
“Why have you only… allegedly killed women?” Zacharias’s knuckles were white under the table, a steady twitch to his right eye.
Only, Riddle didn’t seem to notice as his gaze was still ever-firmly on Hermione. She wasn’t sure she had seen him blink in all the time he had watched her. Wasn’t sure he had the capacity.
Riddle ignored him.
“Because of his mother,” Hermione piped up, something, anything to fill up the unbearable silence.
Zacharias whorled around, eyes squarely on Hermione. Gratitude and abject frustration etched in the arch of his brows. Hermione nodded slowly before pushing off the wall, her heels echoing around the small room.
A small smile crept on Riddle’s lips.
“What are you-” Zacharias began before a slender, chain adorned hand raised, silencing him.
Encouraged, Hermione continued.
“They’ve all been women, haven’t they?” Hermione asked, continuing forward. “All fairly young, all with dark hair, and all stemming from poverty. Surely, a young, orphan boy would have a penchant for revenge at the woman who didn’t want him,” Hermione stopped in front of the table.
Riddle was positively beaming, all teeth, all sharpened for the kill. He was an animal, a bonafide predator- and she simply the newest, shiniest prey for him to toy with.
An orca with a seal.
A snake with a mouse.
Yes, he had certainly found the art of pleasure in the act of killing.
“My mother died in childbirth,” Riddle replied, so languid, so easily- they were simply discussing the weather. “Some of the wet nurses said she wanted me too much, and that’s why she died.”
Hermione had to stifle the immediate urge to apologise for his loss.
“My point being, Miss Granger,” His tongue caressed her name so nicely, like he was tasting it. Swirling it around his mouth like a fine wine. “Your hypothesis appears to be null and void,” That pink tongue darted out, swiping his bottom lip, smoothing the cracks.
“An anger then, at her weakness.” Hermione argued, just never knowing when to stop.
“Oh?”
“Yes. Why have a child if you can’t stay alive for it? You were angry at her for leaving you in an orphanage, no father, no family and no future. So what better way to prove her wrong but to make yourself infamous.” Hermione had placed both hands on the desk, leaning forward until she was eye level with Riddle. A hare's breath away from him.
He smelt of rain and sweat.
He was smiling widely now, mirth and fury and hunger, such hunger she had never seen, such hunger that he was a starving man and she a great feast, all alight in his eyes.
He was truly a ravenous beast.
“Close,” he murmured. “But no cigar, I’m afraid.”
Hermione almost snarled, she curled her fingers into fists on the metal table.
Zacharias placed a hand over hers. It was the first gesture he had done to garner Riddle’s notice. A heat in his eyes, a briefest hint of violence washed over him before he lent back in his chair, back to his languid pose of indifference.
“Granger,” Zacharias whispered hurriedly. “Come on.” He grabbed her notebook and moved to the door.
Hermione continued to breathe heavily, her lungs determined to escape her cracking ribs. Riddle’s eyes had moved onto Smith, a threat of brutality still lingering in the air surrounding him.
“Now.” It was not a request.
Hermione stood up straight. Riddle turned his piercing gaze back onto her, a lighthouse in this sea of concrete and despair. Or perhaps a plaything, Hermione wasn’t sure. She brushed nonexistent creases from her dress as she straightened, perhaps she just wanted something to do with her hands. She turned to leave.
“I’ll only speak to her.”
Both Smith and Hermione turned to look at Riddle, unsure if they heard him correctly.
“If you want information, I’ll only speak to Miss Granger. No supervision. No guards. Just me and her,” Riddle continued.
Hermione felt her heart drop to the deepest pit of her stomach.
Riddle smiled.
The Devil was finally collecting his dues.
***
She was beautiful, beautiful in the way a blank canvas is: all potential.
From that moment she walked into the room, footsteps pronounced by those sublime heels, Tom Marvolo Riddle knew he just had to have her. Her wild hair in his grip, her hazel eyes fixed on him, her intellect within his grasp.
He needed her not simply as a thing, no, but a possession. Mind, body and soul. Oh, she would be so magnificent caked in crimson.
He saw it when she was perched against the wall, a worried little hummingbird in a sugar trap, fluttering fluttering fluttering until all that sweetness would eat her alive. That fear in her eyes, he had not seen it for quite some time. Perhaps it was because he was an addict in need of a fix, but the way her lip had quivered ever so slightly the longer he had watched her... it was truly something to behold.
Almost erotic.
And then, she had done something more tantalising: Miss Granger had simply stared at him right back. Yes, she had steeled herself for a moment, given herself a deep breath, a little pep-talk, but she had matched his blackness head on, chin tilted upwards in an act of defiance.
My how he needed to make her submit, to bare her throat for him, to bow her head to him.
Perhaps that was what had caused his little outburst, that ever present need for possession, for power. Over the situation, over that snivelling Zacharias Smith, over her.
Maybe it was in reaction to Smith touching her, that familiarity. The way his hand had closed over her small, delicate fingers. A small porcelain doll just begging to be smashed. And yet, he was touching her, after she had spoken so plainly, so desperately to him about his mother- a well thought out hypothesis and yet the answer was truly so much simpler than a generational dispute, a misplaced anger. And yet, she was far closer than any of the others had been.
Tom almost smiled at the thought.
And yet, Mr Smith continued to mar that sublime memory, his grubby fingers on Tom’s plaything. Her pout -yes! She had positively pouted at his analysis of her- and those large, doe eyes that showed far too much, more than she knew. It was almost sensual, looking into those depths and finding all that emotion. At that, Tom smiled and for once it reached his eyes.
Yes, Miss Granger would make a fine addition to his collection.
But Tom Riddle never knew how to play with toys, could never keep them, certainly never share them.
They always ended up broken.