252AN: Hello, AO3 and Harry Potter fans. I do not own Harry Potter but feel free to enjoy this or hate it. If you enjoy it, please leave a lovely comment, if you hate it, then leave some constructive criticism, thanks!
Can You Take the Jump?
Chapter 84
Warning: Gory details will be in the later half of the chapter, including the death of a child
…
She stumbled out of the floo, nearly falling on her face, when a strong hand caught her by the elbow.
"Evans," Lucius's voice sounded worried.
She felt numb, her mind reeling since the briefing. She wasn't sure of what had been said after the words Lucas Griffins is dead. Neville's uncle was dead.
"Lucius?" A quiet feminine voice stood in the foyer.
Narcissa Malfoy's voice was soft and soothing, drawing both of their attention. Soft enough not to startle Hermione's fragile state, but surprised her nonetheless. Neither of them had expected to see her up so late.
Alsephina was squirming in her mother's arms, clearly struggling. Her mouth was open to cry, though no sound came out.
"She's got colic. We're miserable," Lucius sighed as he rushed to his tired wife's side.
Narcissa's long, normally immaculate, hair looked dishevelled, and the ends looked crunchy with what Hermione assumed was spit-up. She noticed some darkness under her eyes. Hermione had also noticed Lucius's unkempt appearance during the briefing but hadn't given it much thought.
"She hasn't been silenced for long." Narcissa immediately became defensive, mistaking Hermione's silence for judgment. "I just needed two minutes of silence before she screamed again."
She watched the new parents fuss over their child, neither knowing what to do with the screaming baby. Slowly the fog from the briefing lifted when a purpose became clear.
"Would you like me to brew something for her?"
Two pairs of desperate grey eyes looked at her with hope.
"Please."
When they entered the brewing room, her eyes caught a light in the back corner, a small candle burning unattended. When she recognized the candle, she hurriedly approached the potentially dangerous flame to blow it out. It was the candle Hermione had lit at his wake, dimly illuminating the photograph of Avery's awkward smile from Slughorn's Christmas party. In fact, when Hermione looked around, she could see that many of the things in the room belonged to Avery, revealing the many hours their friend had spent in this room.
Instead of blowing out the candle, she collected some of its fire to light the kindling under Avery's small copper cauldron. She walked around the space to collect the necessary ingredients for the best potion she knew for infant colic when she noticed how Avery had organized his ingredients. It was meticulous and so very much like her.
He would have made a fine potioneer, even without her.
She worked while Lucius and Narcissa lingered nearby, watching over her shoulder. He shifted baby Alsephina from one arm to the next, bouncing and patting her back as the poor baby slowly cried herself to sleep. Out loud, no longer silenced. He was quite an experienced father now, starkly contrasting to the panicked father she remembered on the night of Alsephina's birth.
Within the hour the potion was complete. She handed Narissa a dropper bottle.
"Two drops under the tongue, same time every day, until the bottle is empty. You should see improvements by the second or third day, but don't stop until the bottle is done."
She nodded as she placed the dropper into her pocket.
"Thank you," she spoke sincerely.
Narcissa looked utterly spent, which was expected for most parents of a newborn or infant, but for very obvious reasons, she never thought the Malfoys would be one of them. She always imagined the Malfoys to be the type of parents who loved their children, but never really parented them. Seeing Draco Malfoy in school, she imagined a posh upbringing that heavily involved House-elves, nannies, or governesses, and the only time he ever saw his parents was in a formal-dressed dinner at the end of the day.
Finally, with a sleeping baby in her arms, she looked marginally more relaxed. Narcissa let out a deep sigh of relief. Now that her baby was no longer wailing, she looked back and forth between Hermione and Lucius.
"Severus is resting in his room," she told them. "It looks like you two still have things to discuss. I'll leave you to it."
Lucius looked torn but rushed up to his wife before she left the room. They spoke with hushed tones, which Hermione pretended not to hear with her Animagus abilities. So, they were still bickering. It ended with Narissa giving him a reluctant nod and looking at her with a frown. He placed a placating kiss on her forehead and another whisper in her ear.
Once Narcissa was gone, Lucius immediately got right down to business. "The muggle girl was placed in foster care for now," he updated. "Her aunt in Zurich is coming to claim her soon."
Hermione nodded, though his words barely registered.
To Wizarding England, it may have been 3 days of horror, but for Hermione and Lucius it was a week of gruelling preparations and little to no sleep to save the hostages.
The muggle girl was logistically the simplest to save. Her broadcasted torture had served its purpose—no one doubted her supposed death. Their fake Killing curse—the one they'd been developing for years—was an ingenious mimicry of the actual green Unforgivable. It momentarily stopped all body functions for approximately 3 minutes, just before permanent brain damage set in from the lack of oxygen. It was just enough time to wrap the muggle girl up and "dispose" of her body, only to actually wipe her mind and leave her at a muggle police station.
Janice Pepper was infinitely harder because Voldemort wanted to leave a body as evidence of their cruelty to the wizarding world.
Plan A was convoluted, involving a freshly dead body that still had all the necessary chemical components of digestion to allow the Polyjuice potion to work. However, they quickly learned that Polyjuice potion worked poorly on bodies that had endured excessive blood loss, which was very likely to happen during Death Eater torture sessions.
Plan B was macabre but effective: a flesh dummy.
Flesh dummies were decidedly not necromancy and functioned more like advanced transfiguration, like the Lapifors spell that turned objects into rabbits, but it was definitely illegal and morally wrong. A mannequin was transfigured into a human body and then glamoured to look like Janice Pepper. Despite its flesh, bones, blood, and skin, the mannequin did not have memories, a personality, or emotions. It couldn't talk. All it did was breathe and blink, occasionally it would jerk a limb or two. They weren't sure if it felt pain, but it never flinched, cried, or screamed. They had to manufacture those reactions into the dummy to make the process of torture realistic.
It was eerie, to say the least.
The real Janice Pepper now lived as Joyce Pennington, who had no idea of her past as a successful author in Wizarding England. Joyce was a muggle recluse with agoraphobia who worked from home as an editor for an obscure publishing company whose main focus was conspiracy theories and the occult.
Finally, tonight Esther Bagnold had been released from captivity and taken back to her friends on her own two feet… after killing her friend with her own hands.
Hermione knew these were flawed plans, but they had little time to prepare after Voldemort had decreed the messages to be broadcast to the nation.
"They're alive, thanks to you." Lucius reminded, breaking her reverie just outside of Severus's guest room.
Hermione's hand hesitated on the doorknob. She turned to him, his eyes tired and heavy, not just from the lack of sleep.
"If we give the women their memories back, do you think they'll thank us for their lives, Lucius? Do you think they'll understand why we did what we did?"
She took his silence as the answer and the end of their conversation.
Hermione opened the door to find Severus lying motionless in bed, resting. His face was pale but peaceful as he recuperated from her Cruciatus curses.
"How is he?" she asked, gently pushing his hair out of his face, careful not to let her cold hands touch his skin.
"He's fine," Lucius promised. "We just gave him some Dreamless Sleep Potion so that he can get a good night's rest. He should be up in a few hours technically, although Winston wants him in bed until morning."
"As much as I'd like for him to get his well-deserved sleep, I need to wake him up as soon as the potion's run its course."
Lucius paused, tension palpable in the air.
"He's promised me a reward."
…
Ministry of MagicDepartment of Magical Law EnforcementDiagon Alley, London
Dear Miss Alice Griffins,
It is with regret that we inform you of the death of your brother, Lucas Griffins, during an official operation conducted on behalf of the Ministry of Magic. Mr. Griffins was killed in the line of duty while contributing to efforts to ensure the safety and stability of our magical community.
Due to the sensitive nature of the operation, further details are classified and cannot be disclosed. However, please be assured that Mr. Griffins' service and sacrifice will not be forgotten.
Should you require assistance with formalities, such as estate matters or final arrangements, please contact the Ministry's Bereavement Support Office at Level Five, Ministry of Magic, during standard business hours.
We extend our condolences to you and your family during this difficult time.
Yours sincerely,Marcellus Weaving
Head of Correspondence
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
…
Lucius left the room to sleep, his eyes barely keeping open despite the news Hermione just dropped. Without Lucius, Hermione and Severus were left to awkwardly sit next to each other with their backs against the headboard of the bed.
"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Severus's inhale was a little too sharp to play off as nonchalant. So, they just sat there in silence, unsure whether they should move on or talk about it. He fidgeted, causing his hand to graze hers.
Ice cold.
He flinched back, he looked down at her hand and then at her. There was no way she couldn't know, but she didn't seem to notice. Hesitantly, he reached out and held her hand, giving it a soft squeeze, trying to transfer his warmth to her.
"Oh, sorry," she tried to pull her hand back, but he held tighter, pulling it under the covers for some extra warmth.
Her mouth opened and closed several times as if any excuse she could come up with would somehow warrant such frigid hands. He saw her struggle to ease his worries and comfort him, so he changed the topic.
"Do you miss her," he asked suddenly. "Lily, I mean. I've missed her a lot lately. I miss seeing her smile, hearing her talk and her laugh. She always had a wicked sense of humour."
"She was the funniest in the family," Hermione nodded. "I…" she hesitated. "Sometimes I think I miss the times we had more. It was simpler when we were younger, less… murder."
"And torture," Severus added. "Dark magic, psychopaths, sociopaths, fear, anger…"
"The list is quite long."
"Too long."
"Honestly, Lily and I, our relationship was rocky near the end. Our bond was severed in too many ways, too many times. By me."
"Well, Lily threw her own punches. She wasn't a cat without claws, you know. Not completely harmless and helpless, or did you forget she called you a monster?"
Hermione hummed at the hurtful memory, "a strong punch indeed. But don't you think it was a little deserved? In my own way, I'd been egging Lily towards it for years. Distancing myself, keeping secrets, making decisions on her behalf, violating her mind by altering her memories, et cetera."
"You did it to protect her."
"Yes, but all without ever telling her why or telling her… anything, really. Everything was practically a notice for her. She was expected to accept it, which she had to, so she did. But then expect her to handle it all with grace as well? I think that's asking too much." Hermione sighed. "Monster… Yeah, it hurt. But if someone I cared about had died like Lyana had, right in front of my eyes… A person I had dreamt of a future with? All those hopes and dreams… Nothing in the world, not even death, could drag me away from that spot before I had my vengeance."
There was a tremble in the air as their surroundings grew oppressive. Severus couldn't breathe, feeling an intense pressure behind his eyes.
"Hermione, sto—" the words caught in his throat. There was burning fire in her tired dead eyes. The determination was chilling, as though she had experienced that kind of loss or was currently experiencing it. Was that what this all was? These crazy plans and this deadly goal? Did someone die? Severus combed through all of Hermione's close correspondents since childhood and couldn't think of anyone that fit her description.
He squeezed her hand as tightly as he could.
Slowly, the pressure lifted from his eyes, and breathing felt easier.
"Sorry," Hermione whispered. "It's been hard to control the Obscurus lately. It acts up whenever. And…"
"And?"
"Severus," she hesitated. Listening to someone who was direct to a fault hesitate, only made him more nervous.
"What is it?"
"I haven't been able to use any magic since I… tortured you."
"What." His face dropped and his gaze shook. "Wait what?"
Hermione stared at her own hands, "I'm magicless."
"That's not… you just did magic. I felt it. The air and the pressure. I felt it, Hermione!"
"That's the Obscurus, not me. It's like unintentional magic that I can't seem to tap into."
"You-Your Cruciatus was powerful. I felt the power! Fuck, I felt the pain!"
"The obscurus helped me with it. It's addiction—my addiction to Dark Magic brought it to the surface and helped me, but that's it. One Cruciatus… That's all it takes to deplete my magic now."
Severus's breathing pitched as panic started to rise. He had noticed that her glamour charms were below average, even by a normal person's standards, but thought it was because none of the Death Eaters would ever bother to ask her about her wellbeing or her quality of sleep. The more he thought about it, the more he was starting to realize the subtle changes she made to her daily life, no more casual wandless magic, no more instant teas, or objects appearing from thin air.
How could he not notice?
"It's new," she reassured, trying to ease his anxiety. "It's very new. No one knows except Lucius. I noticed for a few weeks but only confirmed it when I couldn't properly Obliviate Janice Pepper. My magic came back the next day, but every day it's less."
"But it's a sign. You're…" Severus's voice broke. Deteriorating. Dying.
She nodded gravely, "That's why I have to do this. I need, I need, his soul Severus. But," she took a deep breath, "once I do, I'll need to heavily Occlude constantly."
"You told me to never Occlude that heavily, that it changes people, like severing the connection between yourself and your memories! Your emotions!"
"I know."
"So you're saying you won't be you."
"I'll be me, just… less. The plans are already set, you don't have to do anything. Everything will fall into place."
"What if something unexpected happens?" Severus pulled his hand away, leaving her hand feeling colder than before. "What if I need you to be you?"
"I trust you, Severus," Hermione smiled. "I trust you with my life."
…
Hermione walked up the hill overlooking the small village of Little Hangleton, her gaze settling on the ruins of the Riddle House. Once a grand manor, the firest for miles around, it now stood damp, derelict, its windows boarded up, tiles missing from the roof, ivy creeping unchecked over its decaying walls. It was the very image of a haunted house.
She approached the front door, curiosity flickering in her wide eyes.
"You have such little caution," a voice slithered through the air. Voldemort materialized beside her, his crimson gaze unreadable.
How could he apparate without the sound of a crack?
She smiled, tilting her head. "If my One were to call me to the middle of the Pacific Ocean, I would do so with no hesitation."
A pleased hum escaped him. "What do you think of this place?"
Hermione took a moment to look around, entering the abandoned mansion with a critical eye. "It must've been quite the house, back in its prime. Judging by its primary décor, it was a wealthy home until the 20s to 30s but hasn't been properly maintained in the recent decades."
"The owners were a muggle family called the Riddles," Voldemort said, plucking an old picture frame from a dust-laden table. Within the photograph, a wealthy family was held in a fancy old frame. A well-dressed couple sat in ornate chairs, and a tall and impressively handsome young man stood proudly behind them. Her eyes flickered back and forth noting the undeniable similarities between the man in the picture and the man who stood next to her.
"Yes, my Flower. You see it, don't you?" Voldemort inclined his head. "That man is my father."
"I…" Hermione schooled her features, but her fingers curled into her cloak. "I don't understand why you're telling me this, my lord."
Voldemort smiled, a sharp thing. "Curious. I just revealed to you that I'm a half-blood, and yet you stand there wondering why I've confided in you my deepest secret, rather than reacting to the revelation itself. You do not even seem surprised."
She hesitated before nodding, "I had an inkling." Hermione was careful to explain, worried about triggering the short fuse Voldemort was known for. "I read the Pureblood Directory in Alphard Black's private library. When you began making waves in the news, I did a little research."
Voldemort's eyes followed her as she started walking around the ruined mansion. The old wooden floors groaned under her foot, and each movement sent plumes of dust swirling through the air.
"All Purebloods," she continued, "obsessively document their bloodlines. Their family trees chart every birth and death in intricate detail. Some children are burned off the family tree for being born a Squib, but you, my lord, are too magically powerful for that to be the reason for your absence in the Directory. I knew there had to be another reason."
Voldemort's lips curled in something akin to amusement. "My mother was weak. Even though she carried the blood of Salazar Slytherin, she was weak. She fell for a common Muggle—Tom Riddle." His eyes darkened. "A name so painfully ordinary. How could I be born of something so mundane? And yet, she couldn't even make a simple Muggle fall in love with her. That pathetic woman, so wretched and vile that even this Muggle filth deemed her unworthy."
The anger in his voice was unbridled, the raw venom in his tone making Hermione tense. It was not his abandonment or his father's betrayal that enraged him—it was the frailty of his mother, the sheer audacity of his failure in his eyes.
"My lord," she whispered, "you are nothing like your parents. They did not shape who you are, nor do they define your future. They are… sperm and egg. Everything you've done and achieved is by you. Unlike other pureblood children who stand upon their privileged parents, money, and status, you, my lord, built your empire from nothing."
His cold fingers caressed her face, "And you, my Flower, are nothing like your parents either. I know you resent me for killing them and nearly killing your sister. I'm sure the stress of your allegiance with the man who burned them alive has waged a war in your mind."
"I…" Hermione's breath hitched, and her eyes wavered.
"Shh," he pressed his cold finger on his lips. "You are only human." He nodded as though he understood her turmoil. "I cannot blame you for the love you once held for them."
Her voice was barely above a murmur. "I only live to serve you."
"No, my Seeing Flower," he shook his head gently. "Let us be honest. You do not live to serve me."
A chill shot down her spine.
"Do you fear death, Miss Hermione?"
Hermione's lips parted, but it took a moment before she could speak, "…Yes, my lord. I dread the inevitable. I fear what's coming and what will come after. I fear how little I matter in the grand scheme of things."
He chuckled an unnatural sound.
"You don't live to serve me," he circled her like a predator while he stole the very breath from her lungs from his musings. "Unlike the sycophants who grovel at my feet to feed their ambitions and desires for power, you are here for an entirely different reason. You are trying to survive. Your gift of foresight has granted you the best method of survival; serving me."
"I don't—"
"Do not insult me," he snapped, his long nails digging into her cheeks. "Your words may be flowery, my Flower, but your eyes tell a different story. They speak of fury, barely restrained. Your knees tremble as they bow to me, not from fear, but from resenting anger. So, I ask you now, why do you think I've allowed you to remain close to me?"
Hermione knew that answering correctly right now would mean life or death.
Her heart thundered in her chest, each frantic drum a warning that even he could hear. A wrong answer meant death, but what did he want to hear? A confession? Denial? A reason? An excuse? Flattery? A boast of herself and her abilities? Talents? Her magic? Her power?
"Do you not know?" He smirked held no mirth.
Hermione took two more seconds to think before exhaling slowly. "You trust me."
"Why?"
"You trust my reasons for serving you."
"Which are?"
"My fear of death. My fear of being nothing. My fear of failure."
His smile turned genuine, and somehow, it terrified her more than anything. "The others idolize me, revere me, love me, and must have a part of me. But I have seen many times how quickly that so-called love can turn. People are complicated, you see. Fickle as their love. They all have their hidden agendas. It makes it hard to trust those I surround myself with. Even my closest advisors."
"You trust my instinct of self-preservation more than you trust the love from your followers."
"Precisely, My Flower," he seemed satisfied with her answer. "You may bluff about your devotion to me, but you will never betray me because betraying me means death to you and your beloved sister. A life of failure that amounted to nothing."
Hermione's wide fearful eyes calmed, her heart rate slowed, and her trembles stopped. Soon, a cold expression blanketed her face.
Voldemort threw his head back and laughed, delighted. "This is who you are! THIS! This is the face I've only seen glimpses of! The face that has seen conflict, and the eyes that don't flinch at violence. This is the face I want MORE from!" He looked elated, like a child on Christmas morning.
"More?" Hermione whispered. "You want more?"
His smile became manic, he nodded frantically, "So much more."
"Then I'm afraid you must give me more as well, my lord."
…
The Gaunt Shack lay half-hidden among the tangle of ancient trunks, its presence swallowed by the dense woodland that encroached upon it. Just as Harry had once described, the skeletal trees blocked all light, their gnarled branches casting long, crooked shadows. The decrepit structure sagged against time, its moss-covered walls damp and rotting, the shattered tiles of its roof revealing glimpses of the bleak sky above. Nettles grew in wild, untamed patches, their stinging tips pressing against grime-encrusted windows, as though nature itself sought to reclaim what had long been abandoned.
Voldemort wasted no time on pretense. Without so much as an explanation, he set to work, his movements brisk and deliberate. Hermione had never seen him this physically engaged before. He moved with purpose, arranging the grounds for the ritual with an eerie, methodical precision. He burned candles at precise intervals within a vast, runic circle intertwined with Sanskrit inscriptions and some other old language she did not recognize. Their flickering flames cast grotesque shadows on the shack's decayed walls. Then, with a flick of his wand, he conjured buckets of blood, likely human, although she never asked to confirm, scared of how he had managed to get his hands on such large amounts.
By the time his preparations were complete, the air had turned thick and nauseating, a stifling miasma of burning incense and fresh blood. It clung to the moisture in the night like a sickness, acrid and suffocating, searing her throat and stinging her eyes.
And in that moment, she understood.
The Gaunts were a ruined Pureblood family, their obsession with blood purity—especially in its 'purest' form—led to generations of incest. But their arrogance had come at a cost, each generation born weaker than the last, their magic dwindling into frailty and madness. To compensate, they had turned to Dark Magic, their desperation driving them to commit ever more twisted and depraved acts in pursuit of the power they had squandered. The irony was, that all their bloodline needed was a little fresh blood.
The Gaunt Shack is more than just a crumbling relic of their decay. It was a tomb, a wound in the world where darkness festered and festered, feeding off of centuries of cruelty and desperation. A place tainted with the blood of the innocent, and the worst that magic had to offer. The perfect place to perform the darkest, most unnatural magic of all.
Voldemort stood in the center of his ritual circle, arms outstretched, his voice low and commanding whisper. "Aperiatur Limen Tenebrarum, et Testentur Di Immortui!" Let the threshold of darkness open and let the unliving bear witness.
The evening air shuddered, shadows twisted unnaturally, stretching towards Voldemort and Hermione like hungry fingers. The cold of winter had passed, but this cold was different, bitter and deep, sinking into her bones. The plants in the circle wilted, and insects in the air dropped dead. The candles flickered and then turned a sickly green, illuminating his billowing silhouette.
Something stirred in the blood-soaked earth.
Hermione gasped, clutching at her chest as if something unbearable had settled inside her ribs, an unseen force pressing down her heart and lungs. Voldemort didn't acknowledge her suffering, his crimson gaze fixed in the distance. A snap, a twig breaking in the dark beyond their circle.
Slowly, footsteps approached, several bodies.
Figures emerged from the shadows, men, women, and children. A little redheaded boy, no older than five, clutched the hand of a man beside him, perhaps his father. Their eyes weren't vacant like those under Imperius, but wide and confused. Some looked excited even.
Hermione wheezed out a warning, but it didn't reach them. They walked into their circle with no hesitation.
Voldemort's lips curled, "You look confused, Flower. These are my precious guests."
"Vita Tributa, Sanguis Defluit." Life given, blood falls.
A terrible understanding dawned on her, but before she could act, it was too late.
"NOOOOO!" Hermione screamed as all the people convulsed as though struck by lightning. Their bodies lifted from the earth, spine snapping rigid, veins bulging beneath his skin. Inhuman shrieks tore through all of their throats, but she barely registered the others. Her gaze locked on the little boy as his tiny frame seized, his face contorting in agony, his scream curdling her blood.
"HUGO!" She managed to get up from the floor, despite the tight pain surrounding her heart. She ran to the boy as he fell back to the ground, blood seeping through his eyes, nose, and ears.
"It… hurts…"
"Hugo! Hugo!" Hermione's voice cracked as she held him tightly in her arms. "Hugo! Stay with me, please!" Her wand was already out trying to stop the bleeding, but nothing was working. The blood kept coming, seeping through her fingers, soaking into her robes. She looked up desperately to Voldemort. "Please stop! Please stop it!" She begged, tears streaming down her face. "PLEASE!"
"My dearest Flower," he crouched beside her, his long fingers ghosting her cheek, wiping away a stray tear with unsettling tenderness. "You have the stomach for war, you still feel so much. I will ensure that you never do so again."
She jerked away, cradling the boy's lifeless head into her chest, rocking his small body as he bled out, drowning in his blood.
"Hugo?" Voldemort wondered as if testing the name on his tongue.
"Don't you dare say his name." She snapped her head toward him, her eyes wild.
"They were willing sacrifices, my Flower."
"Willing?! How could they be possibly willing?!"
"You doubt me?" His tone was smooth, almost amused. "You may check for yourself, but I do not lie to you, Hermione."
Her mind reeled. Willing sacrifices? How?
"Explain," she clenched her teeth.
"If I can be a god to my fellow magical folk," Voldemort smirked, "you don't think I can pretend to be a living god to mere muggles?"
Her stomach churned. "What is wrong with you?" she whispered.
The dead withered before her eyes, their flesh shrinking, eyes sinking into hollow sockets. Skin peeled back, curling like old parchment, until nothing remained but husks.
Voldemort inhaled deeply, the iron scent of blood filling his lungs, invigorating him. He turned to her.
She couldn't stop crying.
"Do not weep," his voice velvety, almost kind, pitying her empathy as though it was a disease that plagued her. "This will be good for you."
He lifted his wand, the air thickening once more. "Exspirat Anima, Suscipit Corpus." The soul exhales, the body receives.
He lifted the blood-wreathed wand. Swirling red grew darker, denser, almost black. Then something emerged from the ground, a large and shrouded creature. It was too tall to be human, but it didn't cause depression and fear like dementors either. It was covered in a black sticky tar-like substance that reeked of death and dark magic. It whispered in a voice that sent a sickening sense of familiarity coursing through Hermione's veins.
This was old magick, similar to the Cave of Wishes.
It reached for Voldemort, its skeletal fingers plunging into his chest. He grunted in pain, blood gurgling from his throat. As it removed its hand, something else came along with it—a shard of a soul, writhing, howling, clinging to the magic that bound it. It was Voldemort, and yet it was not. It was madness, agony, hatred given form.
Then the creature approached her.
Hermione scrambled backwards, shaking her head. No. No, no, no. This was a bad idea. This wasn't what she had expected. This wasn't what she wanted. Oh gods.
"No." She whimpered.
The soul fragment lunged.
It didn't enter her; it tore its way in.
She screamed.
The sound was unlike anything human. It was raw, ragged, a tearing of the self, a rending of the very essence of what she was. Her body arched, her eyes rolling back, her hands clawing at her own chest as if she could rip it out.
Voldemort watched, impassive, as her body spasmed, her veins blackening beneath her skin. Her soul and magic were rebelling violently against the foreign soul invading her. Her very being was burned under the absolute corruption of this old dark magick and Voldemort's fractured black soul.
Then, silence.
Hermione collapsed to the ground, gasping, and trembling. Voldemort crouched before her, long fingers tilting her chin up.
"Another step closer to perfection," he whispered, satisfaction curling in his voice. "Mine."