Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling.

Hello! I used to write on here years ago but gave it up when I got busy with A-levels, then university, basically life got in the way! Now I'm settled in my own flat with a stable job and thought that instead of moping around doing nothing on my days off, I should get back to writing!

I started writing around the time I decided to abandon fanfiction but have decided to come back to it. This story revolves around the idea that Hermione is left behind during the events at Malfoy Manor in Deathly Hallows, and ends up being in the captivity of Lucius Malfoy. That story line has been done many times before, but I hope that my story brings new elements to the plot. I have a good idea of where this story is going but I'm also open to plot suggestions so would love to hear your thoughts and ideas in the comments!

This is written from Lucius' POV and his internal monologue might seem a bit OOC to some but I like to think that he comes up with these sassy things in his head but is too much of an aristocrat to ever say them out loud.

Thank you, and enjoy.

A Cat with Nine Lives

I am the luckiest man in the world, or more accurately, the luckiest Death Eater in the world. A cat with nine lives, having managed to escape, ah, shall we say certain death, on many occasions. Others have not been gifted with such luck. It would be a lie to say I feel any sort of remorse for them. They knew what came with the title.

Severus, on the other hand, also has nine lives, it seems – or sometimes I'm sure he's got even more. That devious bastard gets away with anything, I swear. He's been the bearer of bad news to the Dark Lord on several occasions, yet I do not recall a time where he has found himself chained up to the wall of his own dungeon.

Unlike Severus, I have lost six of nine lives already. I am now forty-five with three more to go and I do not intend to waste them as dextrously as I may have previously.

I squandered number five of nine when I, unfavourably, was knocked unconscious by a stunning spell during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries and woke up in an unbearably unhygienic cell, surrounded by a number of wands trained upon my person. I suppose I should be thankful that I retained any happy memories, since the Dementors had been replaced with real, living guards by then.

I lost another when I was asked, oh-so benignly, by my Master to give up my wand. He spewed some Hippogriff shite about his and Potter's wand sharing the same cores, subsequently allowing neither to kill the other outright, and so I handed it over with my hands shaking for good measure, and watched as he used it like it was an extension of his own body.

Bastard.

Bloody, fucking, inhuman bastard.

My Lord's remorseless decision to take my wand was like losing a part of me. No pun intended.

Severus plays the Dark Lord like a fine tuned instrument. But, of course, we all know where Severus' true allegiance lies. Now there are several reasons why I would love to tell Voldemort that his most loyal follower is no more a Death Eater than a house elf.

The main reason why I have not, however, is that I would rather eat pigeon shit than see the Dark Lord ruling over the Wizarding World.

I suppose you weren't quite expecting that to be my stance on things?

Well, having spent my entire childhood listening to Pureblood drivel and being led to believe that killing Mudbloods and Muggles is as normal as it gets for someone of such a prestigious heritage, it came as quite a surprise to find that, in fact, I hated killing. Killing a person is not all it's cracked up to be, believe me. Voldemort forget to put that in the small print when I signed up to be a Death Eater. Not having this ability disposes of the aptitude to kill ruthlessly and so I live a false life of debauchery and depravity.

Who would think it, eh? Certainly not an eighteen year old Lucius Malfoy, eager to follow his father's footsteps in becoming a Death Eater!

With these thoughts whirring inside me, I find myself staring into vehement flames of the fire, downing a glass of Ogden's Finest and counting down to the possibility of a final battle. With any luck it will happen sooner rather than later.

My hair is a mess; I've God knows how many days' worth of stubble; and I smell like an accident in the boy's Quidditch changing rooms, and yet here I sit, drinking away my own sorrow. My Father would be turning in his grave. Good thing I took down his portrait months ago.

Could I tell you, right now, that I'm proud of my life? Probably not. I regret joining this madman's club and not having the audacity to at least try to think up a plan to leave it.

"Father?" Ah, here's Draco. He seems to be the only thing I've left to be proud of. Unlike those asinine, dunderheaded fools he calls friends (known to most as Crabbe and Goyle), Draco is rather more reluctant to doing the bidding of Voldemort.

That's where my son and I differ. I may not enjoy the work I do, but I do it to survive.

I swallow the bitterness of the whisky. "Yes, Draco?"

My son gulps hard and I know it's difficult for him to get the words out. I don't blame him for it. I rarely speak to anyone these days. When one's home is under the scrutiny and control of a Dark Lord, one cannot be sure of who might be listening in on things you don't want others hearing. Silence is safe… sort of.

"There's been a message from a group of Snatchers. Aunt Bellatrix has gone to find them. They said they've captured someone important."

It will not be anyone of use then, merely a waste of our time. And time is something I doubt many of us in this household have left. And let me not forget to mention that the mental capacity of any Snatcher is the size of a Knut. When they capture a person it is not because they think they will undeniably be of use to the Death Eaters, no, this is not how the Snatchers work. Rather, it is because they see their captive as a big sack of galleons.

They'll capture anyone for money. I find it quite sickening.

I trace my eyes around the rim of my crystalline glass, unwilling to let my son see the almost defeat in my eyes that are so like his. "Is my presence absolutely required?" Because why would I want to go if I'm not really needed?

"Please, Father."

I cannot ignore the pity in his voice. If this was any other time I would, most certainly, penalise him for it. But as it is, I can't be picky about such.

I pull myself up, feeling the full extent of twenty-seven years of service to the Dark Lord as the ache in my joints and bones seems to have also seeped into my tender muscles. Another drawback of the Death Eater lifestyle. These days I'm not quite as supple as I once was at.

I make my way to my entrance hall in steady pace, avoiding the eyes of the generations of Malfoy relatives who adorn the walls in their portraits. How easy it is for them to get lost in their own painted version of this world, to be able to get lost in conversation with other portraits nearby without having to think about the ins and outs of life. I dare say I almost envy them for it.

Damn my supposed nine lives. Perhaps the sooner they're all up the better?

A door shuts behind me and I realise that Draco is not by my side, in fact he's a few yards behind me, no doubt treading in my exact footsteps, afraid of any booby-traps the Dark Lord may have set. How tragic it is for one to fear death in their own home.

My ears pick up the murmur of voices. It's almost a refreshing change to be able to hear voices other than those I hear daily.

"…found 'em in the woods," someone says, who I presume to be the leader of this particular group of Snatchers. He sniffs the air in a most repugnant manner and continues, "They tried to get away from us. Didn't work though, did it?"

It would seem that he is rather taken with the young girl he has caged in his arms, as he leans his head down to inhale the pale skin of her neck, where her jacket lays slightly open and exposes her flesh. Her face, however, appears to me in the shadow of another Snatcher standing in front, so that I cannot see her fully.

The red head on the left, though, undeniably belongs to the Weasley clan.

Another Snatcher I know to be Fenrir Greyback (of all the possible Snatchers, it has to be this ghastly being) pushes his way through the crowd that seems to have assembled, and dumps what looks to be a swollen sack of flesh onto my floor.

I am presented with a boy, most likely around the same age as Draco, although his fat and puffy face means he could possibly be mistaken for someone far older. A Stinging Jinx. Either that or this boy has a severe allergy to something in the woods. His hands have been crudely tied with a piece of rope and his dark hair sticks to his head with perspiration. Though his hair covers most of his forehead, there's a small patch that isn't and I can see the shiny, swollen outline of a red scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

Fuck.

Harry Potter is in my house. The long awaited and anticipated battle may come sooner than I thought.

Fuck.

Harry Potter's end may also come sooner than most anticipated. And that, I'm certain, will consequently also be my own demise.

Fuck.

This situation is not entirely preferable.

"Draco, you must look closely!" Bellatrix whispers fervently, guiding Draco closer to the swollen figure on the floor. "Is it him? Is it Harry Potter?"

Fuck. Bellatrix has put two and two together. Being one of Voldemort's highest ranking Death Eaters (and let me say that that is no task for an inane individual, Bellatrix's madness, on the other hand, is an entirely different topic) she was bound to sooner or later.

I concentrate on Draco as he takes in the being before him. I've no doubt he knows it's Potter. Fortunately, he's rather more sensible about it than I imagine any other Death Eater would be.

"I can't be sure," he speaks in an almost gentle tone, and turns away from Potter and to Bellatrix. "His face is too messed up to tell."

"Yes, what exactly did happen to his face?"

I've no doubts Potter has been hit by a Hex of some sort. Of course the Snatcher is none the wiser.

"He came to us like that, something he picked up in the forest I reckon."

A blinding flash of silver enters my peripheral vision, and, angling my head, I see the mighty looking sword sticking out of a bag Greyback is holding.

I may be a Slytherin but I know too well just what sword that is. The sword of Gryffindor is in my house and yet I plan to just stand here and act like I've seen nothing.

Let us hope that Bellatrix does not see it. Currently, that sword is supposed to be residing quietly in her vault, I believe, which leads to the obvious question of how the Golden Trio have managed to come across it?

When my sister-in-law turns around and sees just what is poking out of the werewolf's bag, her eyes go wide for a moment and then I find that everything is happening too quickly; Potter and Weasley are dragged to reside in my dungeons for the time being, while the mystery girl who I was unable to identify earlier on is roughly thrown onto the floor.

But I see her now, oh yes, I see her.

Hermione Granger.

Her limbs are spread wide, hands and nails digging anxiously into the floorboards, and I notice how thin and pale they are, childlike in their fragility. Her hair is bedraggled (it surprises me to see it is far worse than before) and her clothes are askew, ripped and stained in places.

"Now," says Bellatrix in that childlike tone of hers that I do so hate, "let's see what this itty bitty Mudblood has to say about this!" She points to sword.

The Mudblood pales. I almost feel sorry for her.

Her first question comes rather calmly, "Where did you get it?"

Hermione Granger looks to be in tears already. "W-we found it."

"Just came across it in the forest, did you?" Bellatrix cackles when the girl does not answer. "I thought as much."

The air is tense but silent.

Then, "CRUCIO!"

And the girl begins to scream – the first of what will be many screams tonight.

I tip the whisky down my throat in hope that drowning my insides with expensive alcohol will drown out the echoes of her screams and Bellatrix's unnecessary shouting.

It works for neither.

"WHERE DID YOU GET THE SWORD FROM, YOU FILTHY MUDBLOOD BITCH? IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE IN MY VAULT AT GRINGOTTS!"

She is on top of the Mudblood now, her tangle of raven black frizz she calls hair falling across the girls face, blocking her face from my view.

"P-please," she pleads, "please, it's a fake. It's not real. We haven't been anywhere near your v-vault. Honestly!"

"Tell. Me. The. Truth."

"I'm – I'm not lying. Please, don't h-hurt me. I'm telling the truth, I s-swear…"

Another scream blasts through my ears.

Then another.

And another.

Another

Another

Another.

God, but this is never-ending!

Next to me, Draco has both hands pressed against his own ears, muffling the sound. On the floor, however, Bellatrix has now taken out her prized knife and the Mudblood's sleeve has been pushed up to reveal creamy, unmarred skin.

In what could possibly be a moving moment, although to me it's just something that shouldn't happen, Hermione Granger's tear stained eyes fall upon my own. She hiccups a sob and I can see into her; her pain, anger, hatred, and all other emotions pour into her soft brown eyes for me to look at freely.

My god, she is as pure as they come.

At this moment, the knife is pressed down onto her arm and her eyes go blank for a moment, before a hoarse, jagged scream leaves from that perfectly formed mouth – the worst one yet.

Still hearing her screams, still feeling them travel through my body in waves of something that feels similar to sympathy. Somewhere in the midst of things, Bellatrix screeches at me to call for the Dark Lord.

Oh God, do I really have to?

I pull up my sleeve up to expose my god awful Dark Mark and signal him.

I wait.

Everyone waits for his dreaded arrival.

We wait in silence.

I close my eyes and wait for it to be over; little hazy red flashes beneath my eyelids.

And then I hear the voices of others. I know instantly that the voices I'm hearing belong to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and I'm even thankful to hear them.

Now I hear more shouting, no, screaming, and a lot of curses zooming in the air above.

One hits me square in the chest. I fly back into the wall behind me.

Then things turn black.

I'm absolutely, positively, certain that I have died and woken up in Hell. Currently the world is deathly black and I'm finding it impossible to collect my thoughts through the screaming that's echoing in my head.

Lord knows I'm too old to be doing this. I'm a man in his mid-forties; mentally I am sound (something any Death Eater should be proud of after nearly three decades of service), but to say my body can cope with the exertion of being thrown through the air at this age would be a lie. I am tired, physically drained of my youthful zeal and heedlessness.

Or perhaps I shouldn't pride myself in my sanity because I can still hear the screaming. It sounds so inhumane, so animalistic, almost like… a girl? Oh yes, I remember Harry Potter and his cronies being in my house, but they escaped did they not?

Oh Merlin, no…

It appears the Granger girl has managed to get herself captured by the Dark side. And I seem to recall Severus (not to forget Draco on so many occasions) telling me how she was the so-called 'Brightest Witch of her age'.

As she gives another bout of screams I open my eyes and am offered a view of the girl writhing in utmost pain. I take in her condition; one black eye; a bleeding nose and split lip; 'MUDBLOOD' carved into her milky white arm. Bella, you depraved hag.

Without further examination I am unable to fully discover the full extent of her injuries. I can only hope that they have not been brazen enough to rape the girl. Fortunately her clothing appears to be in order. A slightly positive sign and I can only anticipate that Fenrir Greyback is long gone from my residence.

I have no doubt, however, that Hermione Granger's ordeal has only just started.

My Lord will be none too pleased that Potter escaped. The fact that the Mudblood is in our hands may ebb his immediate fury, but I'm sure he'll find her to be of little use after just a few days, when her mind and body will be broken with the wrath of… well, wrath.

I had thought that Voldemort would be utterly manic and wrathful towards me, as it was I who summoned him here in hope that we'd have a freshly captured Harry Potter for him to make valuable use of.

After only two rounds of Cruciatus, (I've had more severe punishments for doing much less beforehand, I can't help but fear what more is to come), he withdraws his wand away from me and begins to smile maliciously.

I don't like that smile. Not one bit.

His eyes take on an even more unhuman appearance than normal.

"Your punishment, Lucius, is to take care of the Mudblood whilst she's in our hands."

I gulp. "Care, my Lord?"

"Yes, Lucius." Those sibilant consonants cut my ears like a knife. "This is your home, is it not? Therefore it is your duty to show the filthy Mudblood your hospitality."

Great. Just absolutely fucking great. But surely there must be a catch to this?

"As you wish, my Lord." I answer, unwilling to ask anymore.

And it is with these final words that I walk over to the bloody mess of Hermione Granger, hoist her up enough so that it looks as though I'm dragging her cruelly, and take her away.