the

R A P U N Z E L

C O M P L E X

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- Saeriel -

- Dim Aldebaran -

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Prologue

"Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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I remember…

Those were the words winding around the rim of the Pensieve, letters shaped with a silver that seemed drawn from the resplendent liquid itself and trapped beneath a film of diamonds. She had never expected to find such elegant beauty in a place such as this—but, on the other hand, she had never expected to be here either.

Her eyes traced further along the rim. She knew most of the mainstream languages now; only those who'd deny it out of spite would find fault in her claim. Along the rim that same phrase was printed—French, Old English, Italian, Latin, even Japanese kenji—until it came back to the original.

I remember…

"I remember," she murmured, and closed her eyes. Simple, beautiful words, words that could easily express much more than the memories themselves. She could imagine what lay in the depths of the Pensieve—but, for the first time in her life, she knew that even the vivid imagination a cryptographer needed would fall far short of the mark.

She opened her eyes again and took a deep, shaky breath. Recent years had taken their toll on her body—at the age of eighteen, she had fewer curves than one of Ollivander's wands, and the grueling pace to work and school had only emphasized these bony proportions. The brown, bushy hair she had so proudly never tamed had been cut repeatedly over time until, at chin length, it would not drape itself over her work. Indeed, the only thing she had left of her childhood were those same brown eyes, but unless her anger was sparked one would count them as glintless mud.

In truth, she had never cared for her appearance except on rare impulses, which she could count on her fingers. The number of times she had willingly gone clothes-shopping could be counted on the digits remaining, and as a result, she resembled a street urchin more than the most promising witch of the century.

I remember…

She frowned. Strong words, from the supposed 'Dark Lord'.

Of course, she did not call him 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' in her mind. Such names were foolish, pointless… He called himself Voldemort, and that was what she called him. It was a fitting name; far more fitting than something as generic as the 'Dark Lord', or as common as 'Tom Riddle'.

She smiled to herself. And in her head, she omitted 'Lord'.

Voldemort was Lord over nothing yet.

Whim struck her—the feminine kind, not for low-cut dresses, but the sort Pandora had. What memoryhaunted him so much that it had to be channeled away? Despite everything she—the Order—knew about him, they lacked a motive besides one for power, which only drove the naïve—and Voldemort was not naïve. Perhaps the motive was such that it dwelled too fondly on his thoughts…?

I should wait, she thought to herself, jerking back the hand that had already begun to move towards the Pensieve. Dumbledore hasn't checked it yet—Voldemort would have booby-trapped it—I'm not the one who ought to—

"I'm not the one who ought to," Hermione echoed, pulling both hands firmly into her pockets and continuing with her mental belittling: Voldemort would not have left this on accident—there's something in there, a trap, he's trying to do something—

Her forehead creased. What if Voldemort was expecting Dumbledoreto check it—and had laid a trap within? Hermione had studied some Dark Arts to better understand how to counter them, enough to know certain Mind-Trapping spells were completely undetectable—leaving mental landmines that could envelop one in seconds.

The only reason Mind-Trapping spells were not considered one of the Unforgivables was because they enchantments, not true curses. Of course, they were still highly illegal—the Wizard version of the Geneva Accords had dealt largely with their banishment—but the Death Eaters, having never signed them, had no qualm with slipping them into even simple objects, like a stray piece of parchment or a teacup. Their severity ranged from momentary disorientation to all-out madness… and if Dumbledore was brought to madness…

She shuddered openly. Dumbledore mustn't look into it. He would be biased—he couldn't be objective—he'd be a martyr for the cause—even the greatest could become arrogant in their abilities—he wouldn't stop to think about the consequences—

Listen to yourself, she chided mentally, rationalizing a serious Pandora complex! You mustn't, and you know it. Dumbledore is his own counsel; it would be his risk to take, whether to look into Voldemort's Pensieve or not.

And you are also your own counsel, she found herself arguing back. Think, Hermione, think! You are the brightest witch of the century! What can there be in there that you can't handle that Dumbledore can?

"I am so arrogant" she whispered to herself, shaking her head.

Promising herself she wouldn't look, she allowed her fingers to caress the rim, where the simple letters made stark contrast to the Victorian excess of the room.

O, what a seductive thing this was! She would have hours to look into it, if she so chose—a simple note on the door, and the Order would know she was working on something and not to be disturbed. To pour through the memories of Voldemort—ones that he chose to manipulate the viewer with—would be well worth whatever reprimand would be given to her, even if she was somehow discovered.

Memories within a Pensieve could not be edited to suit the viewer.

Memories within a Pensieve were often deposited accidentally by the user, without their consent.

And even Voldemort made mistakes.

One thing was certain. Once Dumbledore looked in, no one else would be able to, mind-trap spells or no. It was now, or never.

Hermione was not a stupid girl, nor an impulsive one. In fact, one of Snape's rare praises was that her cool-headedness and logical approach to problems was what made her such a good code-breaker.

That, however, had been followed by a scathing remark that had left her baffled—that true genii did not sit and study textbooks all day, just like true wolves never paused to sharpen their teeth before the hunt.

She had analyzed this comment. Though she had never told Harry—or, Heaven forbid, Ron—she always listened to Snape. Beyond the bitter shell that spat and satirized with all the bias of politics, there was the mind of Einstein.

Snape had told that to her after she had cracked a code where he himself had failed. She had been so proud of herself… until Snape had told her that: she was not a genius. Her teeth were dull from misuse, her fur matted with sleep. What wolf could hunt like that, what wolf could prey on the sheep below?

She would prove him wrong. She would sharpen her teeth on the hide of a snake.

She leaned forward and dipped her fingers into the Pensieve.

:i:

She blinked several times, adjusting to the sudden gloom. The first thing that came to mind was the quixotic descriptions of The Phantom of the Opera or even Dracula. The room could have come from either the subterranean lair of Erik, or the secretive castle of the legendary Baron. The Pensieve's room had been heavily draped with melodramatic crimson curtains (like dripping blood, she had thought morbidly); the wall hangings here seemed to drip instead a silver rain, like the silver of the Pensieve—but had instead been frozen in its fall, rendered cold and frozen in a hue of such metallic quality that metal itself had never quite mastered.

The rest of the décor was nonexistent. There were no breaks in the frozen chrome waterfall surrounding her, not even for a door or a fireplace for the Floo network—he must Apparate in and out, for security purposes. One would never know the room even existed if it wasn't for memories, especially if Voldemort had used the same sort of enchantments Wizards used to hide themselves from Muggles, like the Unplottable. The room was, to use in a Muggle context, 'Minimalist'.

The only other items of interest were two chairs, both with decidedly throne-like proportions. Between them was a half-finished game of chess—Muggle chess.

Not Wizard chess…? Ron's set came to mind, eliciting a brief grin. They must not like opinionated pieces giving them suggestions—or maybe he doesn't want anything having records of what goes on…?

Well, whatever the reason, the set was beautiful. The board itself was transparent, levitating over the floor. The black pieces were carved, in that same Minimalist style, from some sort of translucent, dark green gem—perhaps some sort of emerald? The white pieces were perfectly clear, clearer than glass, as if carved from diamond. Given his budget, that was probably the case.

A beautiful set indeed, she thought. Voldemort had sophisticated tastes.

—but how is it used?

After checking to make sure she was alone, she walked across the floor—a strange, silver-laced black marble that caused even her soft-bottomed shoes to echo—and peered at the chessboard. Though neither side had lost a single piece, it was obvious that the game was far advanced. As her eyes took in the game, it became all the more obvious that the players were both masters—every single position had multiple purposes, countering and counter-countering other pieces.

The more she looked, the more she grew fascinated. The players were good—pah! She had a certain fondness for chess herself—she had even beaten Ron a few times, though he had made her swear never to tell anyone because of his bloody ego.

But these people played well beyond her ability level. These people wove webs—no, dances, where one misstep could tip the whole board into upheaval, start a war that would fall so elegantly into place…

She could have spent the entire evening examining the board, had not one of the two players Apparated just behind one of the chairs.

Voldemort was, at best, physically repulsive. Though his all-engulfing black robes hid most of his features, his reptilian features and Occidental red eyes were still grossly conspicuous. His grotesque appearance was further emphasized by the spoiled milk-white skin and the sunken lines of age.

An expression crossed his features as Hermione turned to stare at him. For a terrifying moment, she forgot she was simply in a Pensieve—her hand reached reflexively for her wand, and her heart threatened to implode with fear.

But it had been Hermione's self-discipline that had allowed her to ace the O.W.L.'s and be the first to break the dizzying rotating codes. Her hand was stilled before it even touched her coat pocket, and her jackhammer-of-a-heart clenched only enough to beat in the same steady pace that it had in sleep.

The expression on his face passed, and, with one long-fingered hand tracing the top of the chair, he circled around. Hermione felt a pang of pity as he sat down—that was genuine pain that crossed his face, not censored or hidden behind masks—

But then she thought about the Longbottom's at St. Mungo's, and Neville's face as he struggled not to cry. His pale face, round like bread dough before baking—then crusted tears on his face, and dirt smudges like char marks. That same face, clenched with anger, muttering hexes darkly under his breath. Voldemort had caused enough pain to drive people mad.

Another thought struck her. Voldemort wanted her to see this. He wanted her to sympathize for him.

At this, anger flashed through her, a searing acid through her veins. How dare he presume to suffer—!

Good, part of her thought. I should feel anger towards him—I mustn't forget that, no matter how much Voldemort goes through—

When he had settled, Hermione was filled with the impossible feeling of self-consciousness, which she had always found frustrating, at best. Voldemort was right in front of her, staring through her to the other chair… She had the distinct feeling of being one of the Hogwarts ghosts.

Self-consciousness when one knew it was stupid was the worst of all. She really ought to stop—

That is, until she connected Voldemort's eerie concentration on the chair with its absence of a user.

Someone's coming…

As quietly as she could—Pensieve or not, she was still a wary girl—she moved from between the chessboard and chair to the side of the room. Voldemort did not even blink, which, though certainly reptilian, assuaged her doubts on the reality of the vision.

She did not wait long until the other player arrived. As with most Apparations, there was no dramatic sound or flash of light. One moment, the chair was empty. The next, it was not.

Hermione never quite figured out whom, or what, she had been expecting. Perhaps the tall, brooding sort, with a semi-unibrow and deep, piercing black eyes. Or someone hidden within a dark, enfolding cloak with eyes that would gleam from the depths of the hood, and a nose that would hook slightly at the end. Perhaps a raving madman, his hair long and uncombed, like a briar-patch, and dirt smudged on his cheeks.

The young man before her was certainly none of the above. Though, admittedly, looks were especially deceiving in the Wizarding world, he couldn't have been more than twenty—his skin was pale, healthily so and entirely unlike the spoiled milk of Voldemort's, and unmarred by either acne or lines. The scowl on his face did not continue to pull his skin into a sag after a reserved poker-face slipped on.

How can he be so young?

To add to her confusion, Voldemort smiled—smiled!—as the young man brushed some of his longish black hair from his face. "Show-off."

'Show-off'! Voldemort is saying this to someone a quarter his age! Though, granted, Apparating into a body position other than standing—and without a wand in his hand, which would normally be used to focus the magic for such an exceedingly delicate task—Voldemort said it. Voldemort, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord…?

She continued to stare as the young man leaned forward and moved a white knight. "I know," he said, entirely straight-faced. "It's one of my better qualities."

To her continuing mystification, Voldemort smiled faintly in return. "I've noticed."

'I've noticed.' They talk like friends.

Voldemort isn't supposed to have friends. He's an emotionless, arrogant, power-hungry beast.

Merlin, I need to be more objective about this…

"That wasn't a pleasant move on your part," he continued gravely, staring intently at the board, his reptilian face cupped between his hands. For all his repugnant features, he could have been a chess player in Central Park with his intense yet somehow languid concentration on the game.

The young man smiled again, though he also stared, unblinking, at the chess game. Hermione noticed that his eyes looked tired, though he masked it well—ready to shut them then and there, undoubtedly, had he not an impressive amount of self-discipline. She recognized the expression from her own face, from the too many times when she glanced into a mirror and seen something old and weary there—yes, she was very familiar with that look.

A prodigy wizard, she thought, and a sudden pang of regret came to her. He's my age, and I have never met him… I could have used the competition…

Snape's words came to her. Another wolf. She would have been a far better hunter if there had been another wolf to learn with.

And Voldemort had him, a wolf to sharpen his claws with, to hunt with… wolves are not meant to be alone, they are pack creatures, they need brotherhood, camaraderie…

Am I jealous? she thought to herself, and heard her answer clearly enough: yes. She wasn't on their level, and certainly not on their side, but that didn't stop her from being a lonely wolf.

Harry and Ron weren't wolves. They were nothing more than a distraction from the moment, not wolves at all… they were tamed dogs who sat on their leash and were told what to do.

She laughed humorlessly. And was this wolf looking for a mate? One of the better candidates—no, the best—was sitting not four feet from her, playing chess with her nemesis.

Hermione shook her head of such thoughts. Stay objective, she reminded herself, watching the two players stare at the board. Watch everything now. Analyze later.

The young man suddenly looked up from the board to gaze at Voldemort. Hermione watched as his blue eyes traveled across the Dark Lord's reptilian features and journey downward to where he kept his wand in a pocket, undoubtedly analyzing for threats. A guarded relationship, to say the least.

But even the Dark Lord uses a wand day-to-day, she thought with satisfaction. Many of the powerful Aurors in the Order would not even use their wand except when 'on the hunt', using the more wasteful wandless magic for common tasks. Though she herself certainly kept her wand close to her, she occasionally splurged and didn't bother with the wand for focusing—a bad habit, but one that she made a point of not indulging in often.

Voldemort leaned back from the chess game, resting his head against the hard mahogany of the chair. "You put me in a difficult position."

The young man leaned back as well, his thin lips curving into a decidedly feline arc. "That was the point, Voldemort."

Three things crossed Hermione's mind.

One: He pronounced Voldemort without the t, which was the proper, but overlooked, French pronunciation.

Two: The young man had answered reflexively, indicative of a silver tongue that was used to moving quickly and somewhat recklessly.

Three: He spoke with a faint Irish accent. She hadn't noticed it before since it was, indeed, faint—he obviously tried to hide it, though the result with the likes of the Dark Lord in front of him was questionable.

Whatever extensions she could make on these revelations would have to wait.

Voldemort's red eyes shot open, focusing intently on the man's face. Their gazes locked; had there been a line drawn between them, it would have been vaporized by whatever it was that passed between them.

Play for power…

Voldemort has power issues even with his fellow wolves. Still likes to be in charge.

It was over quickly, whether it was in an exchange of Occlumancy or a standard issue staring-contest. The young man looked down at the board, clearly shaken, like a willow after a windstorm. "Your move," he said, more to the pieces than to his opponent..

Voldemort. He was obviously displeased at the young man, perhaps for treating him in such a flippant fashion. She supposed even the Lord of Darkness had his limits. Especially the Lord of Darkness.

Yet this is as close to friendship either will ever have, she realized suddenly. Bound together by genius, yet torn apart by pride…

Even in a pack, wolves have their disagreements, she thought, and grinned. The metaphor of wolves fit genii well.

Suddenly, she was aware of the dimming of colors in the Pensieve. The black of the man's hair melded with the dark of his cloak; as the colors began to run together, only the crystalline surfaces of the translucent white chess pieces and the red of Voldemort's eyes stood out…

Panic curled around her stomach. She had wasted her time here—she didn't even know the man's name—

"It has been a pleasure, Artemis," Voldemort's voice said, now detached from everything other than the spreading darkness of her mind. "As always."

Strangely enough, it was 'Artemis', not Voldemort's true final words, which echoed in her mind.

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She broke free with a sharp intake of breath.

Artemis, she thought. I have to find someone named Artemis.

Her eyes opened. No one had entered while she was 'gone', even without her customary warning spells. A stupid mistake on her part, yes, but she had not paid for it. Thank Merlin.

I have to find Artemis.

Hr brow furrowed, and her eyes looked past the shimmering depths of the Pensieve, where her mind had wandered scarce a minute ago. Why did she need to find Artemis so much? So Voldemort had found a new confidant—so what?

Potential threat, she thought.

Lonely wolf wants mate, she countered herself, and rationalizes the human urge to be understood and to have companionship. Animals, evidently, aren't as bestial as everyone thinks.

And lonely wolf doesn't like it.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. "You done, 'Mione?" The voice was Lupin's. He was her most obvious mentor in the Order—whereas Snape was all sharp words and a cold demeanor, Lupin was all warmth.

She remembered that first time in an abandoned Death Eater dungeon, scarce four months ago but somehow a lifetime to her… how the stench of rape and murder had driven her out, running away from the righteous horror that rose within her like a tsunami and drowned her.

Snape had seen her tears and told her to be the stoic.

Hermione didn't want to be the stoic—it didn't seem right, dismissing these emotions, as if the atrocities she had so briefly glimpsed had never even occurred. Someone, someone had to remember them…

Hermione went to Lupin.

Lupin—Lupin had told her nothing. However, there was a small patch on his cloak that would remain forever touched by Hermione's tears as he held her close and let her cry the horror away.

"I'm fine!" she said quickly, backing from the Pensieve and attempting to look at least mildly interested in the wall hangings. They really did look like dripping blood—

"May I come in?"

Damn, she thought, running a hand through her hair to get it in a state of more-or-less neatness. She had spoken too quickly; now, no matter what she said, he would check in.

Normally, of course, this wouldn't have bothered her any more than a mosquito would—a distraction, to be brushed aside and ignored, or, at worst, swatted in a quick and efficient manner. The Order members nearby would wait until she was done analyzing the room before coming in with their own team, or occasionally Ministry officials, if their warning system managed to escape the layers of bureaucracy in time.

Her duties had never been well-defined. The first time the Order had ever invited her on a raid, she had, in fact, asked Snape what was expected of her. After a brisk walk down a corridor, he pushed her into a room and locked the door after her. The locking spells he used had been considerably stronger stuff than what alohamora would work against; she had received a magical shock for her escape efforts, and an unpleasant laugh from the other side of the door.

Curiosity had always been her curse, and the room had had so many books…

By the time Lupin discovered her whereabouts from a very reluctant Snape, she had learned more about countering curses than all the stolen time in the DA. Every book had hidden surprises, little jinxes to counter, enchantments to unweave…

Lupin knocked again. "Should I be coming in?"

Hermione did her best to sound mildly annoyed, which wasn't difficult. A large part of her wanted to look back into the Pensieve and sift for more memories. "If you want, but there's a Pensieve in here."

The door opened. Lupin's figure was silhouetted in the relatively bright light of the corridor, effectively stripping Hermione of her night vision. "Anything interesting?"

Hermione stifled another sigh of annoyance—completely real this time. He hadn't heard her first remark. "I think this is Voldemort's Pensieve, and that this," she gestured to the rest of the room, though her mind was in the process of dressing Lupin down for not listening properly the first time, " is his study while here."

Lupin's face darkened as he took in the Pensieve, and he entered the room completely. The door shut behind him, returning the room into its Gothic twilight. "How do you know this?"

She shrugged, turning from her 'inspection' of the wall hangings to face the lycanthrope. "The locking spells on the door bore his signature—literally. And this room has the Drapes." As you should have already noticed.

Lupin looked around appreciatively. "Ah. The Drapes."

The Drapes had appeared in every single room they had uncovered to be Voldemort's own, and had been put down as his favorite décor. Though they varied in color, from black to burgundy, the rooms were otherwise undecorated.

Lupin broke the silence that had begun to stretch between them. "Are you almost done here?"

Dumbledore should know, went unspoken.

She forced another shrug, and folded her arms across her chest. "You know better than to ask that. I could spend the rest of the evening going through the Drapes!"

"Morning," Lupin corrected gently, and smiled at her expression. "You've been at it a long time."

At this, she yawned, eliciting dual grins from herself and Lupin. "I suppose Dumbledore should look at it anyways," she said sheepishly, casting a glance towards the Pensieve. Inwardly, she shriveled at this deception—I'm just as bad as the Death Eaters—dropping hints—implying things—not telling the whole truth—

Self-serving, she told herself. I'm becoming self-serving.

Like Voldemort.

Like Artemis.

Wait, maybe Artemis isn't in it on his own free will—maybe he's acting—

Lupin regarded her gravely. "A Pensieve is a dangerous thing. Voldemort was foolish to leave it behind—though I suspect he may have done it on purpose."

"Booby-trapped," she whispered, playing the part, though inwardly she shrank again. Not booby-trapped when I looked in…

"Exactly," Lupin agreed, and opened the door again. The light was blinding; part of Hermione was mildly annoyed. "Dumbledore is the only one in the Order who could handle Mind-Trapping spells."

Hermione smiled tremulously. "Lucky him," she murmured, and followed Lupin out.

Artemis, her mind whispered traitorously. There's a genius named Artemis on Voldemort's side.

Lonely wolf rationalizes fascination with other wolves as morbid curiosity. Lonely wolf doesn't like it. She grinned to herself. Or does she?

:i:

This was formerly posted under Saeriel's account, but was abandoned due to some time constrains. However, this is now cowritten by both her and Dim Aldebaran.

A note regarding the timeline-

This takes place around 2012. The entire timeline of HP, thus, has been shifted up to a more 'modern' scale to make it coincide with the technology and characters of AF. In particular, this takes place during HBP and will parallel the events therein in an AU fashion. In AF, this takes place approximately five years after the events of AF in 2007.

A further note: do not jump to conclusions about the pairings. This is not anymore a straight AFHG than it is HGLV—the former of which we both dislike, and the latter of which we both adore. You can speculate all you want, but nothing—nothing—is set in stone.

This fic is being used as Dim Aldebaran's entry to the 'War 'n' Peace' prompt in 12LH. It was also shortlisted for the 2005 Orion Awards in "Best Crossover".

The update time for this story is very slow—a 5,000 word chapter every two months or so—and it will be very long, as indicated by its usage for the 'War 'n' Peace' prompt. The current prediction of its length is 250,000 words. At this rate, we'll be done in five years. A pleasant prospect, no? Fair warning.

Constructive criticism is much appreciated. Both of us are terrible at catching typos, so simply commenting on their presence is useless—we know they're there, but we don't know where. However, larger things—the evolution of Hermione's character, the stylistic cadenzas, etc.—are fair game to the fullest extent. We can't promise immediate corrections, but we do go back and edit previous chapters every few months.