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She popped up, seemingly out of nowhere. Poised. Delicate. Burning. Unknown.
She was an enigma. Currying small talk with the ladies of society. Walking the halls of St. Mungos and shops of Diagon with those yet to take a side. Buying questionable items from Knockturn alley. Taking lunch with Minerva McGonagall.
The more he dug. The less he actually found out. Narcissa mentioned that she had been a ward of one of the ladies Black, Cassiopeia, an aunt that lived in France full time. It was questionable, and initially, he mused she was the most recent ploy by Dumbledore. However, she remained politely icy when in public to the Chief Warlock, and the single rebuff that she had given him after an event was enough to send whispers around to those who knew how to listen to them. And he knew how to listen.
Six months. She’d shown up in the British wizarding community six months ago, and it seemed like she’d always been there. And he knew nothing about her. Oh he knew little things, Lucius mentioned her a marvelous conversationalist and how Narcissa had taken on the role of confidant during her stay, but nothing was substantial. Somehow she always seemed to be caught by the society papers at events, wearing the most delightful colors. Drivel. Absolute drivel. Yet his eyes were drawn to the columns as soon as he saw her name or photo. His eyes traced her in public, the distance prohibiting a subtle legilimency sweep.
Her past was simple, boring. Obviously manufactured. He couldn’t find her real past. The story of her pureblood mother and half-blood father, both rather uninteresting individuals who worked with Cassiopeia before dying young, and her subsequently joining the Black family as a ward, and then being sent to Beauxbatons to be a middling student, was in a word, uninspired. He couldn’t imagine it would create a witch that walked through their world as if she belonged there, the surety in her moves as if she had been there all along, as if she was itching to start a duel.
He watched her, it seemed she was slowly infiltrating his thoughts, a ubiquitous reminder that he didn’t know how to account for her, where she stood on the chessboard laid before him. She charmed his generals, she made society bend to her smiles, she discussed academics and policies with the ministry ilk. She moved like a weapon, she refused to tame her hair. It seemed this woman would only serve to be a frivolous distraction, and after the first few months she seemed to settle into society, a bump altering their orbit to include her.
Then. Then the attack on the bridge had been planned to happen. A showing of power. A showing of force, a rebuttal to those who had passed that stupid law. One that he hadn’t accounted for. And She had been there. In Muggle London. Alone.
She’d stopped the bridge failure, and had apparently been spectacular while doing so. Powerful, controlled. Then she’d hushed it up. Well to the greater public at least. Told the responding officials she hadn’t wanted the press, a demurring that fit her image as a delicate, refined lady. Not the font of unbridled, rapturous power that she truly was. She said she was happy for the ministry to take any credit that was needed, and so they did. Downplaying it as an accident and that they were grateful aurors had been on duty to help out. But everyone talks for the right price, for the right pressure point.
Now, now she was not only an enigma, but truly interesting. He knew a precious item when he saw one, he was after all a collector. And powerful creations needed to be appreciated, to be protected, to be nurtured. Therefore, when she stepped through the doors into the Malfoy winters solstice ball, and descended the stairs in that gold dress, delicately adorned with simple emeralds, he had already decided. She was going to be his.
With a flick of his fingers, he got a nod from Lucius and the elegant young man was winding his way through the party. His role as the genteel host on prominent display. Voldemort turned back to his conversation with Dolohov, debating the merits of a new spell he had been toying with that showed great promise if it came to fruition. Knowing that soon enough, the introductions would be made. Soon he would begin to thread the lure, to see how to reel her in.
Hermione was sipping from her coupe, nodding along to Lady Greengrass’ tale when Lucius appeared at her shoulder. Raising an eyebrow at him, she gave her apologies, and Hermione allowed the circle to close around her empty space as she slid out of the conversation to join their host. Something in her behind her navel ratcheted tighter.
“Already?”
Lucius gaze roved the room, talking stock of the people peacocking underneath the glamor of the Malfoy ballroom. “It seems your entrance was enough. I don’t think he’s yet seen the back of that gown you’re wearing. Incredibly gauche, I do hope you realize that you’ve probably given half the Wizengamot heart palpitations. If any of them keel over tonight I will be blaming you.”
Hermione’s eyes danced. “I’ll make sure to tell Cissy where I got it before your next date night, since you like it so much.”She smirked at the subtle flare of his nose. She was here to cause maximum chaos after all. “Am I to be presented to him and his court now?”
Snorting Lucius raised his eyebrow at her. “No madame, I am going to simple make polite introductions when our groups happen to collide.” Humming under her breath she turned, allowing Lucius to make introductions to several people around the room. A flash of movement caught her attention, the notoriously antisocial Augustus Rookwood was loitering in an alcove near the window, and she made a mental note. He was the last of those needed for her plans to work.
The violin chords seemed to swell, and while she knew it was only her nerves, the elegant music was clawing down her back. Hermione made sure to gently take another sip, she was sure no-one else could tell her heart was pounding, a stead thump-tha-thump behind her diaphragm in time to the waltz. Then, Lucius turned her quietly by the elbow. His light touch suddenly tightened, and taking a breath she looked up, her gaze connecting with the devastatingly gorgeous visage of Tom Riddle in his prime. A polite smile crossed her lips as she inclined her head, and stretched out her hand as introductions were made.
He moved exceedingly slowly to bow his head down, placing a featherlight kiss on the back of her hand that broke her out into gooseflesh. It was in that moment where he looked up at her, Hermione swore she could see a flash of red behind his pupils, and all at once all of the careful planning for the future of their world began to fall into place.