Of Elusive Realities and Convincing Facades

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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I do not make any money from these writings.
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Next thing Hermione knew, they landed on a creaking hardwood floor. Voldemort’s arm immediately came off her body, leaving Hermione even more confused.

“What – where are we?”

“We just Apparated, I trust that’s a concept you are familiar with?” he replied snappily. Hermione felt a sting at his verbal slicing, but was still too confused to care. One moment they had been at the professor’s office, and, in the blink of an eye, at Little Hangleton? Where had the whirlwind of images, the crack, and the squeezing sensation that usually came with Apparating and Disapparating gone?

“For advanced wizards like myself, those nuisances are nonexistent,” Voldemort replied snidely, “of course with the riff raff you surround yourself with, I wouldn’t have expected you to know about such refined practices.”

“Refined practices for you being butchering, raping and killing coming from the crowd you surround yourself with?” Hermione replied just as smugly.

Voldemort sniffed. “You’re a cute kid, but don’t get much cuter lest you want to accidentally find yourself locked in a room with werewolves on a full moon.” His hand reached towards the knob of a door they were in front of and turned it, Hermione looked in and saw a bedroom. “This will be your room. Tomorrow morning I will come get you so we can go to a meeting, and you can do the vow on everyone. As for tonight, a house elf will bring you dinner. Have a good night.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked down the chandelier–lit corridor. Hermione watched him go until he turned a corner, and she then made her way into what was to be her room. It was bigger than her childhood bedroom, heck, it was even bigger than hers and Ron’s bedroom! But of course, Hermione reasoned as she sat down on the bed, she’d never lived in a mansion. The next few minutes were spent unpacking and organizing her closet until she was interrupted by a small knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called out as she folded her multi-colored scarf.

Hermione turned around just as a house elf came in carrying a tray of food; it went up to Hermione’s bed and with a snap of his fingers; a small table appeared onto which he placed the tray with care.

“Thank you,” Hermione said with a smile. The house elf looked startled at first due to her overt friendliness, but soon recovered and made a bow before disappearing. Hermione walked up to the wooden table and took the silver lid off the plate: pieces of meat in a dark brown sauce and mashed potatoes awaited her. Hermione sat down on the bed and got ready to eat the tasty bouef bourguignon; once she was finished, she went back to unpacking and got ready for bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day . . . .
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The next morning, Hermione was woken up by the same house elf whose name she learned was Laurie and requested Hermione get ready so that she could be escorted to the Dark Lord.

“By what time?” Hermione asked as she got out of bed, “I want to take a shower.”

“Later, miss, later, please!” the house elf said rushing out. Hermione felt bad at seeing the poor elf fretting about her making Voldemort wait; however, how was she going to go out in public with her hair the way it was? Throwing herself a disgusted glance in the mirror, Hermione pulled her hair back into a ponytail and did a few charms so as to give her locks more definition. She then changed into brown corduroy bellbottom pants and a fuscia turtleneck. Just as she was applying concealer on a painful cold sore, there was a knock.

“Ah…” Hermione looked at the door, she had been about to say ‘come in’, but what if it was someone she didn’t know? “Who is it?”

“The Dark Lord sent me to bring you to him,” a man’s voice said from behind the door. He didn’t sound very friendly, Hermione thought as she stood up, hands twisting.

“Are you a Death Eater?”

“No, I’m the fucking prime minister,” the man replied, there was a snort and a laugh from a second man.

Hermione blushed and looked around uneasily. “I’m coming,” she found herself saying, cheeks still burning. Why was she acting so stupid? A few seconds later, after taking a few calming breaths; she emerged from her room to meet her escorts: two masked Death Eaters.

“Sorry, I made you wait,” Hermione said trying to sound polite.

“It’s not us you have to worry about making wait,” the Death Eater to the left said as the other Death Eater motioned for her to go down the hallway. Hermione felt a pang of uneasiness at having her back to two Death Eaters, but did as she was told anyway. To ease her worries, Hermione entertained her mind by taking in the décor of the hallway: it was opulent and warm, with carpeted wooden floors, chandeliers on the ceilings and paintings lining the walls. Certainly not what she would’ve expected the Dark Lord’s home to look like.

“Stop,” one of the Death Eaters told her suddenly. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, what were they going to do to her? Then, she noticed that there was a grand mahogany door to her left which she figured was the Dark Lord’s office. One of the Death Eaters knocked, and Hermione was relieved to hear Voldemort’s voice bidding them in. The brunette couldn’t help but be amused at the thought of Voldemort’s voice having become something to look forward to hearing; of course in her circumstance, it made sense since he was the only one under a vow to not harm her.

“You may leave us,” the Dark Lord told his followers who bowed and left while closing the door with a silent click. Hermione fell quiet as she waited for him to begin talking; however, he seemed to be more interested in looking at her with a slightly creased brow. After a few seconds of him staring her up and down, Hermione fidgeted and parted her lips so as to speak, but then his haughty voice surfaced.

“We are going to a meeting after breakfast.”

“Oh, okay,” Hermione said amiably, she smiled.

He did not return the gesture.

“Okay, so you will be changing then? I will allow you to wear that for breakfast, but you will change for the meeting unless you don’t want anyone to take you seriously.”

Hermione was taken back by his snarky comment; she looked herself up and down.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

He sniffed and cocked an eyebrow. “Brown corduroy pants with a fuscia turtleneck and black shoes? Does that even sound appealing?”

“Well… I,” Hermione looked herself up and down again, her outfit matched, wasn’t that what was important?”

“No, it does not,” he stated flatly while coming towards her, “black and brown is a color palette best left for people more experienced in the fashion arena. As for the corduroy pants and the fuscia tutleneck, it would only suit a child, and if you insist on being called a woman, then you better start dressing like one.”

“So what am I supposed to wear?” Hermione replied a little forcefully. Since when was her style any of his concern?

“Well, since you are obviously a lost cause, black robes would do.”

“Fine,” Hermione snapped with a sigh, her hands digging into her pockets.

“Don’t get fresh with me,” he said, eyes cold and penetrating. “Just because I took a vow to not hurt you doesn’t mean I can’t inflict pain upon you through other ways.”

“Are you threatening me?” Hermione replied more out of instinct than rationale.

He glided over to her, hands behind his back; Hermione began growing uneasy. Did he have his wand behind his back? How did she activate the earrings when she was in danger? Hermione tried to look calm as he stopped in front of her and whispered, “I don’t threaten, I warn.” He smirked and laid a hand on her back, Hermione’s breath constricted at this violation of her space, but decided against complaining, she didn’t want to take her chances for Hermione was sure that no matter how many vows Voldemort could take to prevent him from hurting her; if he really wanted to, he would find a way to bypass them. Before long, he was leading her out of his office and down the hallway.

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked in her best attempt at a casual tone.

“Breakfast, I told you.”

“Is anyone else going to be there?”

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t have let you go as you are,” he replied throwing another derisive look on Hermione’s outfit. The brunette pressed her lips together and decided against saying anything. Fashion for Hermione had always been something other people cared about because as far as she was concerned, fashion consisted of making sure she wore matching socks and clean attire.

“How can you be so concerned with fashion if you’re always wearing black robes?” Hermione said suddenly, shyly looking up at him. He sniffed and smirked.

“What makes you think I always wear black robes?”

“I guess because we’ve always seen you wearing black robes,” Hermione said; she couldn’t even picture the Dark Lord in anything other than black robes, but she didn’t want to say that.

“Well, I’m not going to wear my best in battle,” he replied, “not that any of your horrendously directed curses would ever and have ever hit me . . .”

Hermione sniffed humorously, a minute later she scolded herself. Why was she laughing at an insult directed towards her side?

“It’s always good to have a sense of humor about oneself,” he said once more reading her thoughts as they reached a small dining hall. It was decorated in Victorian fashion with a predominantly light color palette except for the rich mahogany furniture. It was very unlike the dark lord.
“This is the morning hall,” he explained, “and just in case you are wondering, the house was like this when I got it. I am not the one to blame for the decoration.”

“It’s nice,” Hermione said earnestly as she looked at the floor-length windows which had the curtains drawn so as to allow the sun to bathe the mahogany table loaded down with freshly-made breakfast food. “But it is unexpected, I admit.”

He took a silent seat and motioned for her to eat. “Please.”

Hermione sat down gingerly. “Why me first?” Only after the words left her mouth did Hermione realize that her thoughts of poisoning were misguided, he had taken a vow after all. Voldemort stared at her dryly.

“I wouldn’t have thought basic etiquette would be a concept foreign to you, but then again you are no lady,” he said reaching over for toast, and placing it on his plate along with scrambled eggs, “so I should’ve known the usual ‘ladies first’ wouldn’t apply to you.”

“Are you always this sarcastic?” Hermione replied, exasperated but amused at the same time.

He shrugged one shoulder in tune with a raised eyebrow while sipping from a cup of tea. “I am British.”

Hermione stared at him for a moment and then sniffed humorously before looking down at her empty plate. “Yes, you truly are the epitome of dry humor.” She served herself orange juice and reached for bread and ham to make herself a sandwich.

“Dumbledore wants us to concoct a potion for him,” Voldemort said without looking up.

“What potion?” Hermione said looking up.

“You don’t know it,” he replied snootily, “it’s dark.”

Hermione placed a hand over her full mouth before speaking. “Can you tell me about it?”

He didn’t reply for he was busy chewing; Hermione took advantage of his silence and swallowed her food just as he did the same.

“It’s the Imperius curse in a potion. It is tedious and complex and advanced for someone your age,” he said shooting her a red glance, “but Dumbles . . .” his voice was tainted with fake affection, “was adamant about your capabilities, and convinced me to give you a chance to prove yourself to me.” He gave her a tight-lipped, nonchalant smile. “So, no pressure.”

Hermione swallowed loudly and stared at him with slightly perplexed eyes. “He said I was capable of that? I haven’t even mastered the Imperius curse, how am I supposed to work on the potion form of it?”

“Not my problem, take it up with the beacon of all that is fair and true.” He smirked again, red eyes shining humorously as he sipped the remains of his tea.

“Thanks for the sarcasm,” Hermione replied mirroring his mirthful countenance.

“Well,” he said with a fake smile, “glad to see you’re catching on, Granger, at least your conversational skills are moving up to the level at which they should’ve been, unfortunately, the same cannot be said for your fashion ones.”

Hermione rouged slightly. Voldemort smirked and stood up from the table.

“The meeting begins at 11. Once you are done stuffing your face, go up to your room; make yourself mildly presentable, and make sure you are ready by 10:50 am.”

He Disapparated.
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She shuddered as the cool breeze of multiple Apparations hit her body like waves breaking on rocks. Voldemort, taciturn as usual, gazed over the black Death Eater shapes like a shepherd over his herd.

“Is it just your inner circle?” Hermione asked silently as the men came forward and began forming a circle around them.

“Yes,” he said, lips barely moving, his eyes on his followers, “they will each administer the vow to their units. Otherwise, it would take too long . . . what with all the followers I have now,” he finished with a small smile, smugness interlaced in his voice as he threw a glance down at Hermione who fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he uttered as the half-circle around them finished forming. “Today we will have a very short meeting because, as you all know, you will only be taking a vow which will be administered by Ms. Granger.” Hermione fixed her eyes on an antique mirror at the far off end of the brightly-lit hall as she felt the Death Eater’s eyes shifting onto her. “You will then be in charge of administering that same vow to your units, and you will report to me when that is done,” he looked down at Hermione and met his red gaze with Hermione’s brown one, “this way Dumbledore knows that I’ve upheld my end of the deal.” She gave him a single nod. He stepped back from her side, hands clasped behind his back as he gave a returned her nod. “I advise you to start right away, Ms. Granger, these are busy men with high-ranked posts who can’t afford to leave their offices in the care of their inept Order member employees.”

The Death Eaters laughed silently; Hermione was too nervous to glare at the Dark Lord, standing by herself in front of menacing-looking wizards who were looking her up and down like snakes sizing up their victim was not a very confidence-boosting experience.

“I have a magical contract that Dumbledore and the Dark Lord crafted,” Hermione said unrolling a scroll, “I will read the vow, and then you can all come up and sign and then take a contract scroll for your units to whom you will apply the same procedure as I did to you.” Hermione sighed silently, as she willed the flush on her cheeks to leave, “ ‘By signing this contract, I am agreeing to uphold the truce between The Order of the Phoenix and Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters as per the term set by both sides’ leaders. I will not plot against the opposing side during this time and will work for a common goal unless it has been shown that the other side violated a term of contract. I also agree not to harm the opposing side’s arbitrator in any way unless my person is at stake.’ ” Hermione looked up when she finished so as to see their reaction; however, they were all wearing their Death Eater masks so she was faced with a little over a dozen poker faces. Hermione conjured up a simple wooden table in front of her where she placed the rolled up contract scrolls piled up next to the contract she’d read from; a quill by its side and stepped back. The group of Death Eaters seemed very hesitant to be the first one to go up, their masks tilted slightly from side to side as they dared each other to go first.

“We wouldn’t want, Ms. Granger to take your hesitance as a threat, my Death Eaters,” Voldemort drawled as he walked up to where Hermione was standing, his footsteps muffled by the silk-woven Persian rugs on the floor. That seemed to do the trick, as if to please their master, the men all stepped up at once and hastily fell into a line. Hermione watched on silently as names were added onto the list and Hermione wondered why they had worn their mask if they knew they were going to be taking a vow and divulging their name. Not to mention that she knew at least half his inner circle. . . speaking of, Hermione thought trying to not let her eyes widen as an idea came into mind, after the inner circle administered the vow to the troops, she would have a list of every Death Eater! Those lists had to be sent out to Dumbledore and then – but Voldemort would never make such a big oversight, Hermione’s rational mind offered. Clearly he must have something in mind . . . . Once all the names were down and the last Death Eater had gone back into the semi-circle, Hermione reached out for the scroll only to be beaten at it by Voldemort who took the scroll and rolled it up. He gave her a smirk.

“You didn’t think you were going to be getting a roster of my followers now did you?”

“I need to send that to Dumbledore,” Hermione interjected.

“And you will,” Voldemort said as he placed his wand against it and muttered a charm before letting it come unrolled, a glowing number ‘16’ shone underneath the vow where all the names had previously been. “Dumbledore doesn’t need to know the identities of the signees, only that they have signed which is what the number is: the number of signatures that were made for the vow; you also witnessed everyone sign the contract; so you can give faith of its validity.” He handed the scroll to her.

“I won’t be overseeing them when they give the vow to their units though,” Hermione said.

“I have already told Dumbledore under oath that I have 16 units each with 25 members plus my inner circle 16. When they each give me the signed contract from their unit, I will translate the names into a number like you saw me do, and that is what I will give to you.”

Hermione looked uncertainly at him. “Dumbledore never mentioned this.”

“Then owl him; you’ll see I’m not lying,” the Dark Lord replied swiftly, “after all what have I gained from this alliance thus far? Nothing, so why would I want to end it?”

Hermione gave a stiff nod and made a mental note to write the headmaster a letter as soon as she got to her room.