Malfoy Marked
Disclaimer:J.K. Rowling still owns Harry Potter, so I own nothing but the plot. I am making no money from this story, and I intend no copyright infringement.
A/N: As always, constructive feedback is most welcome. I intend to make this a multi-chapter story. Although I have it outlined, the story is not fully written yet; however, I aim to post a chapter a week provided readers like my idea. At the end of each chapter I'll ask you questions related to the story. Please be kind enough to let me know your thoughts.
Warnings: I intend for this to get pretty dark with scenes violent and or sexual in nature as well as bad language. If you're not into violence/sexual innuendo/language, then this may not be a story that you enjoy. Some characters' personalities have been altered in that certain traits are heightened or played down. Fans of Lucius Malfoy proceed with caution. Also, this story may contain Ron bashing, but it will be mild. This is canon for the most part but breaks away near the end of Deathly Hallows.
Five in the morning on a Monday was most assuredly not the ideal time to be woken up. Working late shifts recently, Hermione had become unaccustomed to the hours following dawn. Not yet summer, the sky outside would still be dark if she cared to look. That combined with the knowledge that there was a busy day ahead had left Hermione in a foul mood that only promised to get worse as the day wore on. And, Hermione thought with a deep-set frown on her face, if waking up at five a.m. wasn't bad enough, her frequent nightmares of the Second Wizarding War tended to be to what she awoke. Covered in a sheen of cold sweat, Hermione lay there in the dark waiting for her heart beat and her laboured breathing to slow.
At least, she thought with a quick glance around the dark bedroom, she hadn't broken anything this time. Last week, when she'd woken up screaming she'd destroyed a vase Luna had given her as a congratulations gift when she'd first joined the St Mungo's research team. The vase had been a favourite of hers and cleaning the tiny pieces of broken porcelain had been disheartening; the shards had simply been too small for Hermione to even think of using a Reparo. Pity it was gone. After that incident, Hermione had stripped the bedside table of anything that could break should she lash out while in the cloak of sleep.
It was now seven years after the Second Wizarding War, and Hermione had begun to fear there would never be an end to the nightmares that plagued her. During the nights that she awoke screaming, she often relived the steely burn of Bellatrix Lestrange carving her flesh, reminding her she was a 'Mudblood.' Or, she would dream of the Dark Mark hovering over her house only to find her parents dead, eyes glazed over, no blood spilt, no bruises, only terror. Clutching her left forearm, Hermione could feel the raised scars, and hot tears began to leak from her eyes.
Then of course, there was the fear that clutched her when she thought of those few Death Eaters, still at large. Furious that the Golden Trio had defeated their beloved Dark Lord, they had fled vowing to retaliate, but as months passed, the Ministry hunted the solitary Death Eaters and treated them to a Dementor's kiss. Nearly a year after the war, Hermione restored her parents memories and had brought them back to England.
More tears rolled down Hermione's cheek as she remembered with her conscious mind what had happened next. Only weeks after her parents' return to their homeland, the Dark Mark appeared over her childhood home, and Hermione found both her parents dead in the living room. She never found out which Death eater was responsible. Insufficient leads left nothing to track. What did it matter? They were all to blame regardless, each one as vile as the next.
Lost in despair, Hermione withdrew from everyone she knew, even Ron who tried to comfort her in any way he could. Her unwillingness to even hold his hand and let him hug and kiss her, and his lack of understanding about her need to grieve privately placed a rift between them. Their tentative but promising relationship proceeded to crumble and break down after that. Now, any contact between them was sparse. Hermione occasionally asked Harry how her old red-haired friend fared, but she and Ron had severed the lines of communication between them. Even after her break-up with Ron, many of Hermione's close relationships suffered greatly. Only Harry, his wife Luna, and to a slightly lesser degree Neville remained in her wary confidence.
Besides, Hermione thought defensively as she rolled out of bed and grabbed her wand from beneath her pillow, long hours as a researcher at St Mungo's made an active social life near impossible. And since her work soothed her, Hermione didn't complain about working sixty or more hours a week. Surrounded by the smell of worn leather texts and the distinct clinical cleanliness of the archives, Hermione obtained some semblance of peace. She could research for hours on end and had even assisted in creating a charm that would stop an open wound from closing up before it could be properly cleaned to prevent infection. The medical community hailed it as a miracle, but Hermione knew some used it for ill; she could only imagine the deadly effects it would have when combined with the Sectumsempra curse Harry had discovered his sixth year.
Hermione remembered when she first joined the staff of St Mungo's; people assumed she'd become a healing researcher to help those afflicted by the war. It seemed natural that one of the Golden Trio, a war hero—practically a god—would want to serve the people. Unfortunately, this war hero status seemed to imply that privacy was forfeit. People Hermione had never met seemed privy to the most intimate details of her life, but these strangers never realized, never cared that she was still suffering. In the beginning Hermione toyed with the idea of letting in any and all that asked the less palatable side to surviving. With a sigh, Hermione made her bed, fluffed her pillow, and closed the bedroom door behind her. There were, after all advantages to keeping some things private.
As Hermione strolled toward the kitchen, she saw a picture of her, Harry, and Luna. Luna gazed off into the distance dreamily, Harry had his arm around her and Hermione was on the other side of Harry, leaning into him, laughing. Hermione picked up the photograph and watched as Luna's hair blew into Harry's face so that he began laughing. With a smile, Hermione replaced the picture and thought back to how that whole relationship started.
Harry and Luna married several years ago after Harry and Ginny had a violent argument. He'd soon realized that marrying a Weasley was also not for him. Hermione thought Luna and Harry were perfect together, so when she stood next to the blonde girl at the wedding ceremony as the Maid of Honour, she'd smiled, genuinely happy that her two friends were getting married.
Hermione started up her espresso machine and glanced around her neat, but impersonal flat. On the kitchen island sat a book about the Erzulie bloom , the rare and magical flower she'd recently been assigned to study. Needless to say, it had not been a lifelong goal of hers to study the flower, especially since it would require travel to the United States. Yet, Hermione knew she would be thorough; she never took research lightly, even if it was a topic in which she had little interest. As if that weren't enough, her superiors and Harry had reminded her numerous times to find time to relax while in New Orleans. Relax while on a research trip in the United States no less? That was a laughable idea. Nothing would be attained by idling away valuable hours partaking in Mardi Gras.
Pouring herself a cup of coffee from the espresso machine, Hermione glanced at the silver and white clock on the wall opposite her. In a little under an hour, a Portkey would take her to Louisiana. It sat right next to the Erzulie bloom book, a rusty old cigarette case. But, Hermione thought with a frown, her superiors hadn't bothered to mention a return date. Not that it mattered since Crookshanks had died the previous year; her Muggle London flat would simply sit empty until her return. Still, she wished someone would at least give her an idea of how long she would be gone—she did have a life here in England.
Hermione sighed and placed her empty coffee mug in the sink, cast a cleaning charm and padded to the living room, still in her negligee. As she rounded the corner, she saw bright green flames of the Floo. Shit. Hermione clutched her vine wand even tighter, only to lower her hand when she saw that her visitor was Harry.
"Harry James Potter," Hermione scolded, trying to cover herself. Why did she leave her dressing gown in her bedroom? "Don't you know better than to arrive here unannounced, especially at this time of the morning? I might have hexed you."
Harry grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. You know I wouldn't come unless it was important; after all, I'm usually at work myself."
With a sigh, Hermione rolled her eyes. "Give me a minute to get dressed, and then you can tell me why you're here." As she headed back to her bedroom, she called, "There should still be some coffee in the espresso machine. You know where the clean mugs are—help yourself!"
Jumping into the shower, Hermione quickly washed herself and threw on some clothes—a charcoal pencil skirt, a fuchsia blouse, and pointy black pumps—and hurried back to the kitchen to see Harry leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand. He glanced up from the Daily Prophet he was reading to see an out-of-breath Hermione. Harry chuckled, and Hermione huffed in annoyance.
"You know, my mood isn't helped by the fact that I barely slept last night," Hermione grumbled, placing a hand on the green granite of the kitchen island.
A sympathetic look crossed Harry's face. "You had another nightmare last night, didn't you?"
"It was about my parents." Hermione was sure a pained look crossed her face, and Harry set aside his mug and enveloped her in a hug.
Hermione withdrew from his embrace, but Harry left his hands on her shoulders. "Are you going to be okay for this trip?" he asked. She nodded and quickly pushed all her nightmares away and locked them into a corner of her mind. Honestly, she needed a pensieve.
"Never better," she said, plastering a smile on her face, shaking Harry's hands away. "Now, what is it you wanted? You said your goodbyes to me yesterday morning."
As another sheepish smile crossed Harry's face, Hermione groaned inwardly. She would bet anyone ten galleons that he wanted her to do something for him, and Hermione was sure it was something in which she'd rather not be involved.
"Well," he said, shifting his weight, "Molly came to Grimmauld Place yesterday. Arthur and I left her talking with Luna about pudding recipes, and when we returned for our walk, full-scale plans for a baby shower were underway."
Hermione frowned. "Molly's planning Luna's baby shower?"
Harry sighed. "I think part of it is that Molly's been itching for another Weasley get-together—she's taken Luna under her wing ever since we got married, since Luna's mother has died—well, anyway, will you come?"
"Harry," Hermione said, now staring at him in disbelief, "you couldn't have asked me this via owl? Besides, you of all people know that Molly and I haven't gotten along ever since Ron and I broke up."
"If I'd sent this to you via owl, you know you wouldn't have agreed to come. If I'd caught you once you returned from your trip, you would have said you hadn't been given enough notice. And Hermione I know you don't get along well with Molly, Hermione, honestly, I do—but you try saying no to that woman and see how far you get, she's determined to plan Luna's shower—and it's been so long since Luna and everyone else has seen you. It seems you only leave the apartment for work-related reasons anymore."
Hermione felt her body stiffen at Harry's words. "Harry," she said, her voice clipped, "I thought we agreed not to discuss that. You know how busy I am with work."
As Harry tried to hide his pain and pity, Hermione saw the frustration in his green eyes. She knew she'd withdrawn into herself, but it was easier that way. The nightmares were difficult to explain to anyone, and instead of getting better with time, they only grew worse. How could she burden any friend with that knowledge? Harry had threatened to take her to St Mungo's as a patient if she didn't tell him why she slowly stopped calling, stopped owling, stopped going out to parties and bars.
But now, looking at Harry's pleading look, Hermione was torn. Would she rather endure the chilling prospect of such an ordeal or disappoint those that had tried to support her by not going to some stupid party? Hermione snorted inwardly. Some Gryffindor she was, paralysed by the fear that someone might mention events from the war. Bile rose up in her throat at her own cowardice.
"I—I just don't know, Harry. I mean, I'm glad that Luna wants me there, but I'm not sure I could cope with Molly. Last time ended in a shouting match. You may have escaped Molly's wrath after breaking up with Ginny, but for some reason she faults me for my breakup with Ron. Courtesy of that harpy Lavender Brown no doubt. I think that meddlesome bint soured Molly's opinion of me."
Hermione couldn't help but be somewhat resentful, even years later. While she didn't mind that Lavender had always wanted Ron for her own, it angered her that the little whore told Molly Weasley lies in the process. Now, every time she saw the Weasley family, Lavender—Ron's girlfriend—would glare at her, Molly would glare at her, Ginny would glare at her…she just didn't see the point anymore.
"Well," Harry said, after a moment's pause. "Arthur's still very fond of you, Hermione. A word to Molly from him before the shower should smooth things over."
Hermione ignored that comment. "And you will be doing what, exactly? 'Girls only' is the standard policy for this kind of thing. Where will you be when Molly's yelling at me for the millionth time, hmm?" Again, Harry looked sheepish.
"Seamus will be back from visiting some family in Ireland, and he persuaded us into a gathering of our own. He wants us to hit Hogsmeade hard starting with The Three Broomsticks. Merlin knows how much Firewhiskey I'll be forced to consume," he drawled, rolling his eyes. Hermione giggled, and then checked the clock to realize she only had fifteen minutes until her Portkey left, and she still had to grab her beaded purse—which was, with an Undetectable Extension Charm, her suitcase and only baggage.
"Listen, Harry, can we do this when I get back? I'm not trying to be evasive, but I don't fancy missing my Portkey. It was murder getting this one as it was. I'll owl you as soon as I get settled."
"You promise?" he asked, raising a dark brow, and Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes.
"Yes, I do, Harry. You know I wouldn't say something if I didn't mean it."
Harry cleared his throat. "Right. Well, I'd best be off so you don't miss your Portkey." He leaned in to give her a hug, and Hermione, for once, returned it.
Glancing again at the wall clock, Hermione began to fret. Twelve minutes.
"Why do they need to send you to America of all places anyway, Hermione?" Harry asked as they walked to the living room. To anyone else it would seem an innocent and curious question, but Hermione knew Harry wasn't thrilled about her being gone so long.
Eleven minutes. Hermione was going to kill Harry if she missed her Portkey. "The flower they want me to study, the Erzulie bloom, is native to that area and very rare. Muggles are unaware that it exists since its natural aura makes it visible only to people with magical blood. It's like a Fidelius charm without a Secret-Keeper."
Harry sighed. "I know you have to go, but I don't pretend to like it. Having you so far away makes me nervous. Besides, isn't Louisiana full of swamps?"
"Well, yes," Hermione said, glancing up nervously at the clock again, "but I'm headed to New Orleans—that part is a city. The swamps are outside New Orleans."
"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "Isn't that Mardy—erm, that Mardy grey—that carnival thing—over there right now?"
Rolling her eyes, Hermione nodded. "It's Mardi Gras, and yes, Harry, it is, but I've had enough of people walking around in masks."
To tell the truth, she was a bit annoyed that St Mungo's was sending her to this Merlin forsaken place right when hordes of people would don masks, perhaps even cloaks. And while she knew that the Mardi Gras masks were colourful and lively—the complete opposite of the Death Eater masks—the idea of masking oneself reminded her of the dark times that still haunted her dreams.
Harry grimaced. "I can imagine."
Glancing at the living room clock, Hermione bit her lip. "Well, my Portkey leaves in five minutes. I better grab my bag and get ready to go. Look after yourself, Harry, and don't worry about me so."
With a chuckle, he hugged Hermione briefly. "Same goes for you, Hermione, and don't forget about the baby shower! By the way, Luna wants everyone to wear blue. She says the baby will like it since she's convinced it's going to be a boy. And," he said, his expression growing stern, "I'll be waiting for your owl."
"All right," she promised. She kissed Harry lightly on the cheek, grabbed her purse and rushed back to the kitchen to clutch her book on the Erzulie bloom and the rusty old cigarette holder. As she heard a whoosh of flames from the next room, Hermione felt the familiar pulling on her navel as the Portkey activated. With an excited clench in her stomach, she was off to the Crescent City.
A/N: Okay, so here are my questions:
Hermione's deterioration is steady at this point. I'll be making it speed up rapidly in the future since certain events will be a catalyst for a breakdown of sorts. Do you think her emotional state is believable so far?
Once there, what things about New Orleans would you like me to include in future chapters?