AN: I hope that this fanfic lives up to my expectations and yours.
I'm sorry for starting so many things at the same time and it is unfortunate that I have to put some of them on hold. But fear not, I will finish them. Expect regular updates to Reckless and Shadowheart. The other three, Melancholia, Scarring and Invictus are temporarily on hold until I can find inspiration.
This is going to be a dark fic-violent, vindictive, and a lot of things. I planned it for a week and only now I have begun to write it. This will be a fic on my priority list, too, so I will probably write this before I do others.
I hope you like it. Lucius and Hermione are quite unusual, and call me crazy, but this is what I wanted to write so here it is. Please don't hesitate to criticise or praise. I am grateful for both. And I will reply to each review with a PM from now on.
Chapter 1
"My name is Hermione Jean Granger," I whisper, my lips barely moving. "And in this court of law, I swear to speak nothing but the truth."
The cold is insipid—it caresses my parched lips silently and I shudder in my seat.
All around me are people.
There's Harry, sitting beside me in the witness box—Ron and Ginny standing close to support him. I do not meet Ron's eye; we haven't spoken in weeks… ever since I decided to break up with him and moved out of our rented apartment… His flaming red hair is at odds with the black and grey interior that surrounds us.
His face—is reminiscent of so many scars and passions that I am forced to look away.
I won't look.
But there are others, people more distinguished, although no one can be more distinguished than Harry—there's Kingsley sitting in the judge's chair and there's Madame Unger, undersecretary to the Minister—and a whole bunch of people I have never laid my eyes on.
The marble floor is black—so dark and shiny that I can catch my reflection in its depths and for a moment I am besieged with this intense desire to part my lips and dive into its depths, obscuring, waning….
No. What am I thinking? I must stop.
"Please make your statement Miss Granger," the undersecretary begins to speak slowly, in musical tones that remind me of my mother when she put me to sleep every night. She has a fine face—a straight nose and full lips, large almond shaped eyes that give one the impression that she must belong to one of those elven races from the Lord of the rings. "And be succinct, please."
Perhaps this is what it is.
Perhaps you are absolved of your sins when you sleep.
And perhaps my testimony will bring me peace.
Who knows?
But I digress.
I flinch in my seat as Malfoy's father raises his head. I am surprised at the serenity in his expression. His shoulders are hunched and his flawless blonde hair hangs fitfully about his neck but it is his eyes that are most striking—bright silver with a hint of grey in the corners lurking around with just a small touch of madness—that is how I see him. His dress seems refined enough; the cut is plain but elegant and even now, when all of us know that he is a condemned man, he seems to pay no attention to it, choosing to remain floating in his arrogance rather than beg for mercy.
His lips are a thin line, a shade darker than his pallid skin but it is his eyes that I go back to, again and again.
Haunted.
Haunting.
For a long time, I forget to look away and speak. The secretary coughs discreetly in her chair and I glare at Lucius Malfoy.
"Your statement, Hermione," she repeats with a touch of annoyance in her voice.
I train my eyes on her face.
"I declare before this court of law that the man standing before me, Lucius Malfoy, tortured me with a Cruciatus curse while Harry, Ron and I were illegally captured and held at the behest of V—Voldemort—in his ancestral manor."
I want to see this expression on his face—but he doesn't look my way.
"And why did he do this, Miss Granger?"
"They wanted answers—Bellatrix Lestrange wanted answers regarding Harry's whereabouts and I wouldn't give them any." My fingers caress the skin of my forearm idly. "She didn't know that it was Harry they had captured because I used a stinging hex to disfigure his face."
His wife still stands by his side, her arm resting on his shoulder. At my words, her lips purse in disapproval and her eyes narrow.
Draco is conspicuously absent.
"She tortured me," I say the words with such ease, as if I had not lived but merely read them in a book somewhere. Memory makes fools of us all because it teaches us that we can survive anything. "Bellatrix, that is. She carved my arm and—Lucius Malfoy offered to perform the curse on me because he had-—because he said that he was more adept at causing pain, pain that wouldn't drive me to madness."
I stare at the floor for a long while.
People around me speak in hushed voices. I wonder what they are thinking.
Do they pity me, for having suffered so much at my age?
"Does the defence have any questions to ask?"
The small, wispy looking witch sitting apart from the rest of the crowd, closer to Malfoy, looks at me and shakes her head.
She won't even try saving him.
Of course not.
"I see. Thank you, Miss Granger, for your time and trouble. That will be all."
The secretary marks something on the paper and very soon it is time for Harry's testimony. I shift to a nearby chair and watch the duo—Narcissa has been acquitted earlier, owing to Harry's deposition, but I don't believe the same fate holds true for Lucius. Apart from the fact that he broke under Voldemort's pressure and did not really participate in the final battle, there isn't much to redeem him in the eyes of the court.
I tune out the court, choosing only to study the couple in the silence of my mind.
It bothers me.
It bothers me that they survived when men and women much stronger, braver than them—didn't.
After all is said and done, I know that it is unfair for the Malfoy family to have survived without losses—oh they have their losses, yes, but not the kind that matter.
Like losing your parents.
Or family.
Or friends and lovers.
No.
They've only lost their Manor—and social standing, perhaps pride too—although I cannot tell by Lucius's haughty bearing in the court.
It is unfair.
His silver eyes are still serene. No doubt he still believes in the cause although the last disillusioning must have been—hard.
His face gives nothing away.
I decide to leave before Harry finishes his testimony.
He has bigger burdens than me but I have deeper scars.
Deep.
I try to drown the noise of my clicking feet as they walk away from Wizengamot.
I gaze at the empty spaces between my fingers.
The man, whose face looms above me, in the darkening spaces of my room, cannot fill these.
"You okay?" he breathes quietly and I can see sweat beads dripping down from his brow.
Love making is labour.
Although, I shouldn't really call it that, should I?
There is no love, perhaps slight attraction and a little regard—but nothing else.
"I'm fine, George." I twist in my bed, slightly easing my back, and lift up a hand to touch his face. "Just a little tired."
He kisses my neck in answer, a fluttering, sweet something swirls in the pool of my belly and I lift up my legs, burying him deeper inside me.
"So how was the trial?"
He is caressing my sides, his untended nails biting into my skin and he touches something primal, something that is beyond my control or understanding and I gasp in shock, relief, ecstasy...
"Malfoy got six months of rigorous imprisonment," I say and disentangle myself from his grasp. "Narcissa walked free. Oh and they are going to auction the Manor next month—I heard Kingsley mention it to his assistant."
He grunts his response.
The cold air is coiling around my throat and I can feel it tightening its noose, reaching out—
Suddenly, he goes still and rolls off me.
"I can't do this anymore, Hermione," he says and falls heavily into the mattress, by my side.
I look up at the ceiling.
"I know."
What am I saying?
What am I doing?
I breathe.
In.
Out.
"Was Ron—there?"
"Yes."
"Did you-?"
I close my eyes.
"No. We broke up—remember. He doesn't want to see my face, unless it is necessary."
I can hear him breathe, his heartbeat slower now that he isn't—is this all there is to living?
Someone breathes and they are alive?
"I only call you when I'm drunk."
Since this is to be our last rendezvous, I have to be truthful.
"I know." He turns his head my way. "But you never told me—what are you trying so desperately hard to forget—we've all been through war, we're all scarred but no one—"
No one is as broken.
I know.
"There's nothing I am trying to forget, George." Another truth falls from my lips. Gracefully sliding down my tongue. "There's nothing-no heartbreaking story, no catastrophic event that broke my spirit..."
There's this disbelieving look in his eyes that tells me all I need to know—and why should he believe me at all?
Look at me—I would make fine study in self-destruction, wouldn't I?
"Then why do you—this—"
"—why do I sleep with you, a brother of my ex? Why do I call you here, every chance I get, to fuck and grieve—over what, darling?" I sigh. "I don't know. Why do you come?"
"You know why."
"I do—but, humour me."
He doesn't say word. Of course he wouldn't.
He can't admit to himself—his loss.
His brother is dead.
His shop, his work and his life—all lie in tatters.
Why wouldn't they?
He is unemployed, perpetually high on pills that he doesn't think I know of, and Ron hasn't spoken to him ever since he saw us together at Tom's.
I know everything about him.
And still, he lies.
"This ends now, Hermione,"" he says softly, and in the dark I can almost fancy that his whispers are ardent declarations of a young love. "I can't do this—anymore."
"I never stopped you."
He takes hold of my fingers and kisses them lightly.
His fingers don't quite fit in the spaces between my fingers.
Seven months later:
"This has got to be some bloody joke, Kingsley!"
I scream myself hoarse at the man.
I have been doing that for a while now but all it seems to do is fall on deaf ears.
But that's okay.
It's okay.
I need to be reasonable.
I need to—
"It's not a joke, Hermione." He curls his lips in disapproval. "This statute has been under study for some time now and with due process of law, it has been passed with a majority."
"Fuck your majority, Kingsley!"
I throw the papers in his face.
I don't quite know it but I am screaming at the top of my voice again and people have noticed—even though Kingsley's office is huge and isolated—
"I won't surrender to this, Kingsley—you've got to be out of your mind to believe that this piece of crap will be accepted, much less implemented in the society," I say and spit on the ground.
His face is unreadable as he bends down to pick up the papers I threw at him.
A little twinge of guilt surges inside me.
When he turns to face me though, I can see his brows drawn together in anger.
"On the contrary, Hermione—the move has been welcomed by all thinking and well-meaning members of the society. It is the only way—don't you see?" He taps the papers with his quill. "I thought it a good gesture to inform you of this beforehand—but clearly, that was a mistake."
Welcomed?
Accepted?
My lips part in horror.
"You're really going to do this?" My voice is small—a sorrowful squeak that doesn't quite express my dismay or fear or hatred.
"It is already done." He draws himself up to his full height. "As we speak, these papers are being published in the official gazette. Tomorrow, everyone will know. And a week later, lotteries will be drawn."
This is sick.
Sick.
They can't do this.
No civilised society would ever stoop so low; even to save themselves from probable extinction.
Sick.
"I see," I whisper quietly, a dreary storm rising inside my skin. "Be warned though—I, and many other like me, will refuse to surrender to this barbarity. You cannot force us in this. And I will contest this law as an infringement on my fundamental and human rights."
There's this crooked smile in his face that shows all of his yellowing teeth.
How have I not seen this man clearly before?
"The law has provisions to subvert those arguments, Hermione. No amount of litigation would overturn the passage of this law."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I must—it is my duty to preserve what remains of this world, our world—and to that end, the greater good of the masses will overtake individual needs of a few."
The greater good?
The greater good?
What a joke.
I want to do nothing more than slap him in the face.
But I restrain myself.
"And what about those people who do not—participate?"
"This is not a choice, Hermione. It is a lawful compulsion. Anyone who tries to subvert the law or any of its clauses will be imprisoned, with fine, for the duration of his lack of participation." He lowers his voice and smoothens his coat. "And this, dear Hermione, is truly the end of our conversation. I hope to see you at the drawing of lots."
I show him a middle finger in my mind.
They can't do this.
They won't be allowed.
No one would accept it.
The word 'law' has never meant something so dreadful to me—it is such a mockery of natural justice—we humans can twist everything to suit our purposes and the word 'law' has just taken another disturbing meaning in my head.
If worse comes to worst, I will run.
Run.
Yes.
"Oh, and Hermione—don't consider leaving the country. We have traces on every witch and wizard of age, just for precaution."
My voice dries up in my throat.
Automatically, I remove my left shoe and fling it at Kingsley, hitting him squarely in the chest.
"Fuck you, Kinsgley," I snarl at him before closing the door behind me.
Day one.
"I need to check out these books—I know that I have picked up five more than my sanctioned limit but if you could just make this exception for me—just this time, please."
The librarian looks at me with an annoyed expression, lowering her square framed glasses slightly.
"I'm afraid I cannot do that, miss," she replies. "It's the library policy."
"Look, can't you just—overdraw my account this one time? It's urgent—please."
Desperation tinges every word.
She must understand.
I need these—
She shakes her head, pursing her lips in disapproval.
"I'm sorry."
I stare at her.
I need them all with me.
I need them right now.
I haven't got time.
"I'm sorry too," I whisper quietly and draw out my wand. I don't want to do this but—
"Confundo!"
Her blue eyes widen in shock—and I feel guilty but I have to do this—she has pushed my hand and I feel—
Her eyes flutter to close and she seems diverted.
I had to do this.
I make my exit quickly, not looking back at her.
Day three.
We're in Minerva's office.
That's right.
She's the new Headmistress now.
My once favourite teacher.
And now—
"I cannot help you with this, Miss Granger," she says and another little hope dies in my heart. I hear bells—distant and deep and it feels like they're calling to me and I cannot—"I have counselled with the other high-ranking members of the Order and this law must prevail, even if it causes us—distress."
I have not expected this from her .
I have not come to her doorstep just to be turned away empty handed.
"I don't believe this, professor—how can you side with this? It isn't right and you know it—what kind of a society would ever push its citizens into forced marriages? How can you sit there, so suave and unaffected, when you know that this will mean an end to happiness, love and freedom for all concerned? How can you—"
"That is enough, Hermione." Her eyes flash at me and it feels like I don't recognise her anymore.
There is no warmth in her face.
This cannot be real.
"You cannot understand this because you're too young and naïve. It is a practical solution, Hermione, to the alternative of dying out as a race. I do not necessarily condone the methods that the ministry has chosen but the principle is sound. It is a small price to pay for survival."
I look at her in disbelief.
How can she say that?
How can those words fall from her lips?
This is a betrayal of the worst kind—I feel it my bones and a part me wants to lash out at her, scream at her calm demeanour and yell profanities—yes, profanities, for I –
"It's funny and probably naïve that I think so, but I was always under the impression that survival at any cost is a rather bleak philosophy," I say quietly. "And I thought that everyone agreed."
She says nothing and I know that this interview is over.
I have more books sitting atop my desk—I have become a thief after all, and why not? Thievery is a small vice, when compared to all this...
Not that I believe in vices anymore.
Or virtues.
I leave without another word, a small act of defiance perhaps, but it is only the small things I can hold on to while the entire world is collapsing around me.
Day five.
The doorbell rings.
It's Harry.
I hug him tightly, breathing in the soft smell of familiarity.
"You're late," I complain.
"Yeah—I was held up at work—listen, I can't stay long but—"
I wave off his protest and drag him to the living room.
He looks the same as ever—untidy jet black hair spread all over his head, kind green eyes peeping from behind his glasses and a thin lightning shaped scar dividing his forehead into two halves—I haven't seen him in weeks.
It isn't my fault and it isn't his—but we hang out less, and see each other rarely these days—sometimes I am suspicious of Ginny, maybe she has influenced him into thinking the worst of me or perhaps it is Ron—but I must be wrong.
I must.
He isn't the kind of person to be so easily swayed.
He's stubborn and strong and definitely not—
"I'm sorry, Hermione," he says after watching me for a long while. "I spoke to Kingsley, and Arthur—Percy, too, but it doesn't look like there's anything we can do—not unless we go against the law and declare rebellion."
"I know." I run a hand through my tangled hair after handing him a cup of coffee. "I have run from post to pillar, looked for loopholes everywhere—begged, pleaded everyone but—nothing. Today is the fifth day. They'll draw lots on the seventh day and I cannot do anything."
He leans forwards, looking straight into my eyes.
"You could leave."
"I would but—Kingsley warned me against it. Think about it, the law would be a futile exercise if everyone who disagreed could simply leave the country. No, there's more to it than that—"
He tilts his head in understanding.
"You're not considering running, are you?"
"No." It's so surreal, this being with him in my apartment—him sitting on my couch like we did it every day and nothing is strained between us. Nothing. "But I have a year's reprieve—until my Auror training is finished. After that, I'll cross the bridge and decide."
I say nothing and look out of the window.
"And Hermione," he continues. "I know you think it barbaric and believe me, I do too but—"
"But what?"I say sharply.
He flinches.
"But this—I haven't got a great perspective on history but I do know that when push comes to shove, every government imposes decrees and laws that it feels necessary for the survival of itself and its citizens. It's no different from compulsory military service during the last war, is it?"
"Oh you think it isn't different? You think it justified? Let me remind you, Harry, that military conscription is just for a short period of time, for the duration of war or less, or until you die—not something that would affect one's present and future in every excruciating detail—this is madness, and I hate it that no one sees it for what it is. Back in our world, no government, however strong, would be able to push through such legislation. And what's more, citizens wouldn't stand back and let the government do whatever it wants in the name of survival."
I am gnashing my teeth at him, my best friend.
"But they haven't faced such a situation, have they?" he retorts, more forcefully. "And believe you me; they would be just as ruthless and emphatic if they were confronted with this kind of situation. Besides, this is our world, Hermione, or have you forgotten? Have you forgotten that you fought for it too? Or maybe you're hell bent on destroying yourself and every one along with you, like you did Ron!"
He hates me.
I can see it in his eyes.
But he cannot hate me.
Why does he hate me?
He's Harry, one of my best friends.
Ron.
He cannot hate me.
"Don't bring it up now, Harry." I murmur softly.
"Why wouldn't I, Hermione? He was the victim, wasn't he? You were using and cheating on him from start—you didn't even have the courage to tell him that—do you know what that makes you? A coward!" He stands up abruptly and grabs my arms. "You're one of my best friends. Can't you see what you're doing to yourself?"
I clamp my mouth shut before I say something that I will regret.
Ronald?
"Do you know something, Harry, you're my best friend too—and I see you standing here you don't even sympathise with my plight—you—do you know what that makes you?"
"I see everything!" he says vehemently, cupping my chin. "I know how disgusting the law is, I know how much pain it will cause to you and everyone involved and I also see that it's wrong—but my wishing won't change the reality. We've fought a bloody war together, Hermione—we made sacrifices, some more than others—and I'm not going to watch this world, our world, die because we were too squeamish to make more sacrifices."
Something else breaks, a loud crash and thunder—and I swallow.
"You should go," I murmur gently. "Go. I'll deal with it myself—"
"Hermione—"
"Just go, Harry."
Day 7
The wind lashes at my skin and I have to turn my head.
I have not read the paper today. It lies on the floor, rolled as delivered.
I have not taken a bath even though it is almost afternoon.
I haven't eaten or had a drink—what does it matter anyway?
But I have this glass of wine in my hand, the swirling magenta liquid that is so inviting and lovely to behold—
And I have this envelope on the window sill, from the Ministry, dictating my fate.
I have half a mind to throw it into the dustbin and go back to bed.
But that won't do.
I need to know what's coming.
I need to know who's been chosen for me, not that it would matter much—
Not to me.
I look at the bare walls in my apartment—walls that I have blackened with charcoal drawings and writings—and I see my soul bared, stamped upon these naked walls, for everyone to see if they would only look.
But they don't.
And I cannot blame them.
I take a small sip and fling the glass out of the window.
A distant crash tells me that it has landed on the gravel, down in the street below.
A few passers-by look up, in anger and disapproval, but I slam my window shut and tear away at the envelope.
I skip everything.
I skip every letter.
I have studied the law until my eyes were red and sore—it cannot hold any surprises for me.
And so, my eyes skim the surface and land on the one name written therein that would seal my fate-
It is dark and indented, blotched with ink here and there as if it has been written in hurry, which it probably has, and it looks so unremarkable—almost normal.
But there is nothing normal about the name—or the person it belongs to.
Lucius Malfoy
I hope you liked this chapter. Please review and tell me. And I need a beta-so if anyone is interested, please let me know. R&R.
Love,
Lucrece.
