A/N: This is one big one-shot. I was tempted to split it into two parts as a cheap way of getting more reviews but ultimately decided against it. Even though this is currently complete, there is the potential for a longer, multi-chaptered story that I might consider writing in the future if properly inspired and motivated.
A lot of credit for this piece goes to Novocain and her invaluable beta work. Any mistakes that remain are my own.
Now, on with the story.
Animals
"Hate. Mad, burning, toe-curling hate. Do you – have you ever known it? Have you ever wanted to hurt someone, to inflict pain so unimaginable that they wail and thrash and choke on their own blood as their eyes roll to the back of their head and they spit out jumbled cries for mercy? I've felt hate. Oh, yes, I've smelled the skin on hands scorching with the physical need to scratch and dig themselves into flesh, deep as it goes; and it was mine. And it was theirs. It was the whole world's.
So let me tell you about it - of gnawing teeth, of skittish eyes, of death smiling back from the eyes of your foe.
Let me tell you about war."
~ A Retelling of the Events That Led to T. M. Riddle's Downfall, by Unknown
From the first time his eyes rest on the back of her head, he despises her. She is only a kid, some would reason, but not him. Never him. He is relentless like the business end of a steel blade. He makes up his mind about people in less time than it takes a droplet of water to take the plunge and splash itself upon the porcelain sink of one of his many bathrooms, his judgment as swift and final as nature usually reserves for predators alone, deadly creatures pouncing on the weakest prey. Many would call him a fool of gargantuan proportions for being so rash and so steadfast in his opinions, but he is no such thing. God help him, he is no fool. His affinity for all that is extreme stems from a deeply rooted and rather simple core belief - that people are exactly what they look like.
And this one looks like a Mudblood.
He can pick them out anywhere. There is something about Mudbloods that sets them apart and gives them away, and eventually they light up like little red bulbs in his eyes. Maybe it is a smell – he thinks it is a smell. Putrid, perhaps, as though there is a swine carcass in some forgotten cabinet. A contaminating scent that his nose can't smell somehow reaches his thoughts.
There are six of them at the moment. No, seven. He is aware of them in the same way house elves are aware of vermin in their kitchen. They don't have faces or names. Their presence alone bothers him - that they dare be in the same room, that they are being treated as equals when they clearly hardly deserve a claim to magic.
But he knows all the reasons already. He is all the reasons.
The bookshop is crowded today, and he doesn't quite enjoy mingling, but he maintains his pleasantly unemotional façade. It is a gentleman's duty, and no Malfoy has ever proven himself to be anything less than a proud, self-serving gentleman. Next to him, his son seems fixated on something, and he watches as the blond head that reaches just above his waist slowly makes way towards one of the dark, quiet corners of the room. Potter is there, as are the Weasleys, and they are in the company of the Mudblood girl and her Muggle parents and no doubt their Muggle virus.
He follows.
As he talks to the Weasley patriarch, he wears his dislike on his sleeve like an ornate button, precious to him, quite intimately so, simply for being his.
"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear. All those raids… I hope they're paying you overtime?" he says, disdain being his signature.
An opportunity presents itself, then. It is easy – oh, so easy. So he does it. He slips the diary in the daughter's cauldron, and no one notices; they are too busy getting themselves worked up over the sweet little nothings he sends their way, mistaken as they are for venomous provocations.
They don't know true venom, much to his dismay.
"Obviously not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"
His eyes dart to the Mudblood, and he is not impressed. Draco has no excuse for his failings at school if the big villain and antagonist extraordinaire is this girl. She stares at him, and all he can see is a weed demanding space it does not merit. Insolent, resilient, determined. He likes determination. It is galling to see a virtue wasted.
He takes her in, reaches his decision, then puts it all in a box and throws it in the sea, like all the other disposables with which he crosses paths. His gaze does not linger more than it has to; he has seen all there is to see. Still, he comments on her parentage, unable to help himself even if he wanted to. He sees hurt written on more than one face.
He smirks, knowing that he has landed a blow, and it is yet another minor, everyday victory.
When things suddenly get physical, Lucius Malfoy swears under his breath and reprimands himself for attempting even such minor association with worthless, brainless, filthy animals.
She has never cared for Quidditch before, yet here she stands in the middle of it all, caught in a whirlpool of loud cheers and chatter and thinking she will never be able to see so many people exude so much spark again. She can feel it, an odd sensation - the slight chill crawling up her torso that has little to do with the humid, mid-August air and everything to do with the tense excitement running through the stadium like a fire salamander on actual fire.
It is galvanizing.
She smiles a small smile for the magic she is about to share with at least half of Britain's wizarding population, and at this moment Cornelius Fudge's funny-shaped head swims into view. The smile dies a sudden death on her lips when she sees who is in tow: the entire Malfoy family, resident pureblood bigots and sneer enthusiasts. The powerful king, the beautiful queen, and the spoilt prince - a trinity. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Unholy Spirit.
Draco is giving her the stink eye, his face curtained behind his father's robes, which are sweeping down dramatically in a pool of rich satin fabric. She returns the favor.
She sees them for what they are. They are ice sculptures, tall and immaculate and rotten to the core, come to life with the sole purpose to wipe her kind from the face of the Earth.
She won't let them have it their way.
When Mr. Malfoy's eyes sweep over her unworthy Muggleborn existence, this time she is prepared. She wears her strongest expression and wills him to pay attention. Listen, her face says. Watch. I remained unmoved. You will not have this one.
It appears as though the older Malfoy is not as oblivious to subtler forms of war as his beloved son. His eyebrows barely shoot up, but she can feel the air get colder as he looks at her, completely focused on her for the first time. In some other dimension, one where things spring to life and his fantasies of torture are more than just shadows swirling in his eyes, the space between them becomes an ice slide before schisming massively with a rich booming noise. He beckons her to take a step forward, dares her. She goes pink with the effort of shutting off this barrage of stinging contempt, but its intensity is staggering. A million tiny tin soldiers in her head sound the retreat.
It is pure treason. She wavers.
Unmoved? He almost smirks. It is a joke to him. His mother never told him not to play with his food.
Satisfied, he redirects his attention to more interesting matters, like the view from his and his family's much coveted seats. Still, for a short while after, it is written all over his face -
- animals.
Her screams wash over him like warm mud drizzle. They drench him with their volume, their coarseness. Bellatrix is a master interrogator. The Mudblood never stood a chance.
His mind is stretched to include a vision of the Dark Lord in his lair, and all there is to come. If only... If only it would all be forgiven. It can be. It shall be, if they play their cards right tonight. Maybe they will survive this after all. A surge of power rushes through his veins as he establishes that he was right in his original assumption – this is the winning team, and he is on it. The Mudblood has been on the losing side since birth, is a loser by default. She screams again. Draco cowers beside him.
"Crucio!"
It takes her a while to crack but not unusually so, and crack she does. She claims the sword was found, not stolen, and he knows Bellatrix is soon about to get what she wants. More excitement jolts through him, forcing his fists closed, and there is so much excitement that he can barely think straight. This little stunt is about to be over and he is going to summon the Dark Lord. All will be well again. His breath quickens. Less than two yards away, so does hers. She is being tortured again.
Taking into account that the average Mudblood has so little self-respect they spill the beans before the interrogation even begins, this one is fairly resilient. A slightly tougher egg shell, at least.
He likes resilience. Another virtue wasted.
"Crucio, damn you! Crucio!"
"It's fake! Please, it's only a copy..."
"You're not lying to me, are you, filthy Mudblood?" Bellatrix screeches. "Are you? Crucio!"
She scratches the pure white marble floor with nails clipped short, like a child's.
"Unlikely though it may seem, I believe she's actually telling the truth, Bella," he cuts in. The witch lifts the curse with a twitch of her wrist, and the Mudblood's hands and knees give away. She falls on her stomach, completely immobile but for the sharp heaves that strain her lungs.
"Did you enjoy yourself?" His mouth is stiff, the words dripping from it like hemlock goo.
But his sister-in-law is not listening. She is mumbling to herself.
"I have to make sure. I must, I must be sure," she chants. Her head flips towards the figure on the floor, and the girl, as if sensing that something is about to go amiss again, tries to look up. Layers of sweaty hair are getting in the way, but she is too weak to lift a finger.
One look at this pathetic sight is enough to push the older witch into another fit.
"You're lying to me!" she spits. "A copy? Oh, such a likely story!" She circles her victim like a hungry vulture.
"But we can find out easily," he finds himself saying.
Again, he is ignored.
"Crucio!"
Whether it is the unseemly lack of respect on Bellatrix's behalf or the throaty screams and incessant gurgling now starting to grate on his nerves, he is distinctly unamused. "Draco, fetch the goblin. He can tell us whether the sword is real or not," he says, voice raised.
Silence comes a moment too late. He can already feel a headache taking form, so he places his hands on his temples and applies a moderate amount of pressure though strings of long, blond hair.
It is a futile effort.
He relaxes his face for a moment, and in the next minute he has already regretted it because she is looking at him with what almost appears to be... gratitude. Gratitude? Gratitude! If so, it is a primal feeling, an instinct; she does not seem to be registering it. She does not seem to be aware of anything. But she is looking at him as though she sees in him, one of her mortal foes, a savior with a golden fountain of kindness and non-toxic rainbows springing from his nose.
He is a little horrified and very much disgusted. He wants to squish her under his shoe.
"What are you looking at, Mudblood?" he hisses, incensed, and it is a truly sinister sound. "Eyes on the floor! Learn your damned place."
She doesn't blink. Bellatrix laughs at him.
"You too," he throws over his shoulder coldly.
"Oh, now, now, don't act so high and mighty, Lucius. You're hardly in a position to pull that off anymore, am I right? Mmm?" Her smile is wide and teetering on unhinged. Same old, same old. He is haughty enough to roll his eyes but not stupid enough to reply. He knows his current standing. Rather, he is painfully aware of it.
It bothers him still. That girl, that little... maggot; how dare she. How dare she look at him as though she knows something about him when all she has ever seen is the kind of atrocity she needed and wanted to see? It is absurd. No, she is entirely deluded in her assumptions; he has no sympathy for her.
Mudbloods. Animals.
Face set hard, he chances a look, when -
"Good, Draco, bring him over."
The goblin named Griphook is shoved directly into his line of vision. He unbends the sneering line of his mouth and schools his features into a perfect semblance of indifference. Business is business, and now is the time for him to wrap this up and reap the benefits of the Dark Lord's gratitude.
Gratitude.
His eyes are gray like stale water, empty as ever. Any trace of an animal storming through is long gone, if it was ever there to begin with.
He chances another look and – click – quietly grits his teeth.
The Final Battle, a long night that will surely be remembered by history, is nearing its end. She stands in the middle of it all, where things have stopped making sense long ago. The noise of the battle is overwhelming – people yelling, and yelling more, occasionally screaming, all Latin and swears and curses and gut-hollow noise complemented by the clatter of big feet, little feet, giant feet, hooves, the blasts of explosions – she spins around as if on a turntable – and Harry... oh Harry...
Her last and only hope is what she thought she heard before they were pushed into the castle. Was it – could it be Hagrid's rough voice asking after Harry that was ringing in her ears?
The tears haven't dried on her face yet. Or maybe those are fresh tears.
She instinctively raises her right hand, her wand hand, but she has no time to touch her cheeks; a masked figure jumps before her, almost as skittish as herself, and before she can stop to think what spell to use, her lips are moving and she is already sending a bright red curse his way. It hits him in the shoulder, and he tumbles backwards, knocking over the stocky house-elf that is rushing to her rescue.
In her despair, Hermione smiles a watery smile, and helps the little creature up. The elf gives a short bow, a "Thank you, Miss," and off he goes to fight again.
"I knew I was right all along," she mutters to herself and to the dirty pillowcase in the distance, now lurching forward with remarkable ferocity.
The smell of blood and death is tangible. She can almost see it swirl in the air, forming hazy, intricate shapes like smoke; it enters through her nostrils and offends her soul. Then someone shoves a fist in her ribs from behind, and the air is knocked out of her.
She doubles over, trying to clutch the wand in her hand as tightly as possible, but the pain is sharp and pierces her like daggers. She gasps for breath, and as fear starts to get a hold of her, she sees a red head tackle the maskless Death Eater about to curse her into oblivion.
"Ron!" she starts to shout, but it is George's head that has collided with the familiar man's torso. She recognizes the dark, unpleasant features. If she remembers right, which she usually does, his name is Yaxley, and he is a tough son-of-a-bitch with skin thicker than an elephant's.
"Watch out!" George's voice comes strained from the floor where he wrestles the other man for his wand. It shoots out sparks like a fireworks rocket.
"What happened to your w- " But she breaks off, mentally kicking herself. Her wand!
She drops to the floor in search of the magical length of wood she depends on to save her life. She snatches it up, hand faster than a frog's tongue, and then goes for the wand that lies currently masterless in the hand of the Death Eater she has already knocked out, less than an arm's length away. She notices with a hint of revulsion that it is short and splintery before throwing it at George.
He scrambles away from Yaxley not a moment too soon, and within seconds three spells are yelled instantaneously. George ducks and Yaxley sidesteps, while she, the extra number in the equation, fires another spell before he can recover. The jinx she sends his way barely misses him, and he furrows his protruding brow before he starts barking out spells with renewed vigour.
"Have you seen Ron? Stupefy!" George says.
"He was with you and – Expelliarmus! – Ginny when we got split up."
"Damn," he mutters. "Impedimenta!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Stupefy!"
Yaxley is panting, but he is obviously a master dodger.
"You slimy - " George curses. "Petrificus Totalus!"
"What - "
"I think he may have gone after Voldemort!" he suddenly exclaims, fear and worry oozing from his eyes and right into her heart.
"Crucio!"
A quick look around provides her with a way out.
"Lee!" she calls out. A tall, lanky boy spins around, and when his eyes rest on the trio, he runs towards them. She takes off the moment he reaches George's side.
"I'll be back!" she shouts at them, not certain whom she is trying to reassure.
She forces her way through the mayhem blindly, pushing heavily robed figures away, elbowing whoever is in the way, thrusting forward like a marathon runner who feels deep in her gut that the finish line is near.
"Ron!"
She accidentally steps on the stunned body of a Death Eater, too preoccupied to care.
"Ron? Ron! Bloody he – Stupefy!" she says, aiming at Bellatrix Lestrange's elated face. Hate lights up in her insides like a trapped firefly, but she doesn't linger. She ducks and runs before the newly familiar itch in her chest takes over.
Maim. Hurt. Kill. It will have to wait.
She runs, and runs, but Ron is nowhere to be seen. At one point she thinks she has found him in one of the corners of the Great Hall, but it is Percy who fights with agile fury amongst the debris. Her feet take her down the Grand Stairs and into the Entrance Hall. Things are even worse in this part of the castle. The front lines are faltering under the weight of the attack, but more centaurs are coming and flanking the intruders from behind. The stomping of the giants tears though the ground, and for a moment Hermione fears that it is all going to come crashing down, but of course she knows that the castle's stone walls are magical and can withstand any amount of abuse.
"Ron!" she cries desperately, voice ragged, and can't hear her own whisper of "Please be here."
"Hermione," a familiar voice yells. "Over here!"
Relief washes over her like a drying spell. He is fighting a tall woman with hair almost as short as his. He is squinting with the effort of keeping it together and there is ash all over his face. Smudge on your nose, she wants to say, but this is no time for jokes. He lashes out again. She makes to run over and help him, but he lifts a hand and spits through his teeth, "I got this. Bitch almost killed my mom."
"She was asking for it!"
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell hits her in the back, and Hermione is flying through the air. She lands on a wall, head first, and for a few seconds the world is black, pitch black and empty like a space void. She comes to with blood trickling down her nose and what feels like a cement block tied to her forehead. But she has to move; she knows she has to move, for the spell was not misfired. It was directed at her, by neither Ron nor the woman he is fighting. Someone is after her.
Her wand is nowhere to be seen.
She is dizzy, disoriented, and absolutely, terrifyingly defenseless, while Ron is somewhere in the chaos, unaware of what has happened and probably oblivious to anything other than the hard fight in which he is engaged. So she fights through the lapse of consciousness and scurries to her feet, dragging herself out of the Entrance Hall and to the first door she can lay eyes on.
She groans and leans against the door frame, willing it to support her body weight. It is the room they were taken to when they first came to the castle, right before the Sorting ceremony – the waiting room. And she is not alone. Hermione breathes in, out. She doesn't enter but doesn't go back either. The concussion has all but split her head in two, and she struggles to keep herself awake.
" - the fact that we can't find him? How can we not find a freaking body, eh, Narcissa?" an obviously crabby man is saying hurriedly.
She drops to the floor, head resting on the half-open door that is barely shielding her from view.
"I – I don't know. I swear he was dead when I checked," the lofty voice of Narcissa Malfoy says, on the very verge of wavering.
"Listen, things ain't looking much good for you now, so ye'd better not had done what I think you d- "
"No! I swear. I swear. Please, Goyle, you have to believe me. He was dead!" She is panicking. "Maybe someone took his body, or maybe..." she trails off.
Hermione is holding her breath, in pain and feeling hope uncurl in her chest for the first time in a while.
"I was guarding his body, ye hear me? One moment he's there, the next he ain't, and everyone's rushing off into battle. I looked everywhere, the bushes, the way back, everywhere."
"They must have taken his body!"
"Where? When? Damn it. The Dark Lord must hear of this, I hafta tell him."
"No!"
"What'cha doing? You out of your mind? Let me go, or I'll hex ya - "
A group of people come running, loud footsteps, and she quickly slumps to the side, seemingly unconscious. How the mighty have fallen – but what is she to do without a wand?
She only catches a glimpse before she quickly forces her eyes shut, but it is enough to tell her that trouble is brewing. Draco Malfoy rushes in, headstrong. The Carrows lag a few yards behind with twin malicious grins on their face.
Then a suspicious voice rings from inside.
"Mother! What is going on here? Hey, why are you pointing that thing at her?"
The woman, Alecto, lets a small, gurgling laugh at the sight of Hermione's limp body by the door, and then follows inside after her brother.
"My, my, Draco is right. What is going on here?" she says.
Hermione stirs, just as the voices in the room start getting louder and talking over each other.
"It's nothing - "
"It's Potter - "
"Take that thing off her face!" Draco shouts, and Hermione can picture the perpetually choked expression on his.
A deep, slow voice asks, "Potter?" and it is probably Amycus.
"That's right," Goyle says. "He's gone."
"Gone?" a woman who can only be Alecto screeches. "Draco was just telling us how he was killed, how the Dark Lord killed him! This can't be. Are you sure?"
"Well, dead or not, he's gone. Jes' vanished. I swear te God, he was right there, and then he wasn't."
"If he is gone, Goyle," Alecto says, pronouncing every word carefully, "then he was not dead to begin with!"
"That's what I said," he protests. "But the Dark Lord sent her to check if he was dead, and she said he was."
"Her? Narcissa Malfoy?" the other woman says, and her tone suggests that there is something particularly incredulous or ironic about this, like an inside joke. "Narcissa Malfoy, the Non-Death Eater, or is there another Narcissa Malfoy that I don't know about? Perhaps Lucius likes the name and has made a point of marrying as many of them as possible - "
"How dare you! My father - "
"Oh, you tortured little thing - "
" - Don't mock me -"
" - I will do as I want."
"That's enough, Alecto," the older Carrow interrupts. "If the Dark Lord, in his wisdom, chose Mrs. Malfoy for this task, we must not question his decision. Am I correct, Mrs. Malfoy?" he says, and the question comes with its own complimentary Norwegian dragon lurking underneath, dangerous to the core.
"Of course."
"Nonetheless, Alecto, why don't you go and inform him of Potter's... absence? I'm sure he'd like to know. Take Draco with you. Oh, is something the matter, Mrs. Malfoy?"
"N- no," she says shakily.
"Mom..." Draco sounds a little scared, and there is no reply. The footsteps of Alecto and Draco sound, padding past Hermione's prone body, and silence fills the room. Hermione stiffens, attempting not to squirm but tempted to check her head wound and see if it is still gushing blood at the same rate –
The Carrow sister stalks around the corner, her face a painted-on mask of fury. She storms in the room, gasping for breath and with Draco hot on her trail, not two minutes after leaving.
"Back so soon?"
"He's alive! Freaking – bastard – monster - child is alive! He's battling the Dark Lord now. YOU - "
"Don't you touch my mother!"
"Crucio!"
Narcissa Malfoy screams. There is a huge commotion as everyone suddenly springs to motion.
"Don't let her get out!"
"Mom!"
"So it was you. You helped him. You stupid bitch. You defied the Dark Lord, almost cost him... How – how - " Amycus, too, has lost his head now. "Why? Crucio!"
"Draco, make a move with that wand, and Goyle will kill you before you can say traitor."
"Why? Why, why?" Amycus presses on.
Narcissa screams and screams for what seems like ages.
"Dr-co..."
"What was that? Did you say Draco?" Amycus lifts the curse.
"He said... He said Draco was alive..."
"Mom," Draco breathes, so quietly that Hermione almost can't hear him, and it is so desperate that it is almost a sob.
"I see. Let me ask you something, have you got your wand? I'd hate to hex a defenseless woman."
There is silence as Narcissa hesitates.
On the other side of the door, Hermione is biting the inside of her cheek with so much force that she tastes blood. She knows the two Malfoys in there are trapped with wild freaking animals, and she can sense that something is coming; there is a bad taste in her mouth. Now that she knows some of the truth, now that she has been pushed into witnessing such a dead-end, what can she do? She knows that she doesn't have a wand, so she screws her eyes shut and prays, Let it not go wrong. Whatever this family is or has been to her, she doesn't want to see this happen. Let it not go wrong, let it not go wrong.
"I gave it to Draco," Narcissa whispers.
And with that, it all goes wrong.
The Dark Lord lies defeated at the feet of Harry Potter, and he, Lucius Malfoy, has the dubious honour of having fought for neither side. He stands, frowning slightly, one foot in front of a half-collapsed pillar, the other foot on it, and he listens to the thunderstorm of cheers that fills the castle. A sigh escapes his lips, which he feels are flaky and knows that by now look almost as pale as his skin.
Now that the fear is gone and he is stuck where he is, all he can feel is exhaustion seeping under his feet undetected and making its way upwards through every single bone in his body. He rubs the bridge of his pointed nose with shaky fingers. This is not physical exhaustion; it is so much more than that.
But first things first. He left Narcissa in one of the small chambers where trouble was less likely to find her, and Goyle must have checked on her long ago. Narcissa is safe. Draco... He has to find Draco.
He sets off towards where the majority of people come from.
He knows his son was alive as of the start of the battle; searching for him had been one of the first things he did. He remembers it as though it's happening now. They bumped into each other in one of the corridors of the first floor, and as soon as his eyes caught on the familiar, shiny hair, his whole being softened, and Draco dropped the tough guy act for the first time in years and hugged him. Thinking about it now, one side of his mouth tugs upwards in a soft, half-sly grin. The boy shall be embarrassed for a while to come.
They'd parted so abruptly before that Lucius didn't tell him to take care. He wanted to, but Avery was losing to Flitwick, and so he ran to the other side of the corridor to help just as an explosion wrecked the corridor, leaving his ears ringing. A smoking, gaping crater stared at him from where he had been running moments ago, and he caught one last flash of his son on the other side of the hole before they were both sidetracked and lost in the heat of the battle.
It is a miracle that he survived.
But there is no point in thinking about it now. He will have plenty of time to think about everything after he has reunited with his family, and certainly after they have managed to weasel their way out of this mess.
He is just reaching the bottom of the Grand Staircase when he spots an Inferi coming his way. It is obviously not a real Inferi but as good as - after all, she is dragging her feet in a perfect imitation of one. The Granger girl sees him, and her hollowed out eyes widen. She looks horrible, more so than usual, he notices with distaste. There is blood - dry, fresh and matted - all over her face and clothes, but she doesn't appear to be fatally wounded. He purses his lips. Good, he wouldn't want her to fall over and die on his good robes, no matter how tattered and dusty and completely ruined they already are.
She walks over to him and stops a foot away, blocking his passage. Her lips are moving, but there is no sound.
He rolls his eyes.
"Some of us need to leave this place now, so either get out of the way or don't break your worthless skull and spill porridge all over the floor when I do shove you," he drawls.
"I was... looking for you," she mumbles. Tears are running down her cheeks in such quantity that they're washing some of the fresh blood away. He wonders what sordid little affair this is.
"Oh?" He looks past her impatiently.
When she still doesn't speak, he grabs her by the shoulders and pushes her aside, but somehow she still manages to run and catch up with him.
"Come," is all she says, taking the unthinkable liberty of tugging at his forearm. He breaks free of her grasp instantly, jerking his arm away with a sharp, nervous movement that sends her staggering back - only to come back mechanically and do the same. He could use Crucio on her a hundred times, and she'd still try to drag him by the forearm again and again. But why?
"Family," she whispers hoarsely in answer to his unasked question. "The Carrows."
Instead of slapping her dirty - both literally and figuratively - hand away, this time he lets her lead him away. The displeasure is clear as day on his face when they take the right turn, and even more so when they stop in front of the familiar door where he left his wife less than an hour ago. A storm starts brewing in his gut.
His pale blond eyebrows shoot up in question.
The girl's hair is wilder than a hawthorn bush. She hides under it. Her head moves up, down. A nod. She sobs.
He straightens out his hunched back and stands tall as he looks at the dark wooden door with trepidation fluttering somewhere deep inside him, somewhere deep and dark like a matchbox that holds his miniature self.
He gives the door a single hard push and, in the habit of heavy doors, it opens with a drawn-out creak.
There are three bodies. One of them is Goyle's.
He is inside the room, and suddenly his heart has been wrenched out of his chest.
It has been fished by a madman, been fed to a siren.
He is outside the room.
He is an insane, screaming banshee, trying to rip his head out.
He is inside the room.
He is over them, with them, he is them. His throat is hoarse, but he wails and screams until there is nothing left of it, no sound, but a blood red, gaping wound.
He is a withered old man - a fetus - wretched existence. He holds them tightly to himself, as though if he presses hard enough he might give them a spark of his own life force, and then be glued to each other never to be parted again.
A trembling hand stops half an inch from his back. The warmth of it somehow still manages to latch on and creep all over his skin. He has to swallow bile at the offensiveness of the idea of anything existing anymore.
He drops their cold hands from his and silently turns and twists the warm flesh of that other wrist, the one hovering above his black robes, with all his force. It breaks like chicken bone. She is in an excruciating pain, but it is not pain – not really – so he twists more and more, and there are tears rolling down his eyelashes, his dark circles, his colourless cheeks, dangling from his lightly stubbled chin, tears that take the plunge and splash themselves on his lap like droplets on the porcelain sink of one of his many bathrooms. She is crying too, violent sobs rocking her breast, and it is pain from him and hurt for him, and it is simply not enough, not in any sense of the word, not in any dimension.
He is a wild animal. She slaps him with her other hand, fierce and staccato, until he releases her. She looks like she has come across a puzzle she can't put together, and in her puffy face her brown eyes are big and desperate, as scared as they are apologizing. He wants to rip them out with his bare fingers.
She puts the same hand she used to strike him, her good hand, on his shoulder and squeezes just once, only as light as an enchanted feather. I'm sorry.
Then she takes her sobs and flyaway hair and leaves him to himself, because she knows that if she stays too long, she risks death at the hands of a man lost, blinded by hate – for all he used to hate, for all he used to love, for all he used to be.
Pop!
She apparates into a large clearing with short, dense vegetation. The few visible trees are unnaturally tall and huddled together like bards in a king's court near the imposing manor that is beyond the huge, wrought-iron gates running through the clearing.
Hermione eyes the gates with apprehension. The last time she was here, nearly two years ago, she was being dragged up this very path against her will. She remembers less weeds springing from between the stones back then, the way the air smelled so crisp that it almost made her chest ache.
Now it smells of moss and abandonment.
Times change.
She has no idea how to pass through those gates. She comforts herself with the thought that at least some of the protective spells must have been lifted after the War, or else she wouldn't have been able to locate the house again, let alone apparate here. She pats the front pocket on the left of her robe, and sure enough, the envelope is there. It is silly, really, that such a useless little thing has brought her here.
She contemplates knocking, but there is no handle or lock or any distinctive mark on the gate other than the two heavy wings stretching way above her head. She shakes her head, undefeated. What had they done last time?
They had just passed though. They gate had let them in, as though it hadn't even been there in the first place.
But they had been in the company of Death Eaters. Certainly if she attempts to pass now, her nose will meet the hard iron with unmistakable results.
It is King's Cross in the summer before her first year all over again. She braces herself, takes a few steps forward, then tentatively raises her hand and pushes against the gate, trying not to look too much like a fool, although no one can see her.
Nothing. The gate is chilly to the touch but as sturdy as ever. It definitely doesn't seem to give away to her hand.
Almost completely sure of her impending failure, she takes out her wand, points it at the middle of the gate, and spends the next twenty minutes muttering every incantation to an opening, unlocking, breaking, and transfiguring spell she can think of. Again, nothing happens.
Then she tries to talk to the gate. Maybe there is a password.
"I'm a friend, not a foe," is one of the ways she tries to reason with it, but it is to no avail.
She is a fairly patient person by nature, but she is starting to imagine the gate to the Malfoy Manor has darkly amused, hard gray eyes itself, looking down on her condescendingly.
Maybe it won't let her because she is a Muggle-born.
"Really, the nerve - "
"You're one to speak," says someone on the other side of the gate, making her jump and twitch.
He is the owner of the house. Through the iron of the leafy roses, she can distinguish his sharp, pale features. It is not completely dark yet; there is a soft red glow in the western arch of the sky.
She almost admits that he has scared her but that would be stating the obvious.
"Sorry for the late notice. I don't know if you even got it. I just got off work, and the Minister insisted that you get this as soon as possible."
"Ah," he says simply. "Of course. Shacklebolt."
Of course. That explains everything. She sighs.
"I'm sure he'll be glad to know you have returned safely," she says, trying to be as civil as possible, given that he still hasn't let her in.
"I bet he will," he says. He is bitter; she can tell without even knowing him. All she has ever known of Lucius Malfoy is how he makes her feel – like a lowly life form unworthy of any respect or sympathy. Even to this day, it is a jab to her stomach, a jab that wakes every cell of naturally-occurring defiance in her.
"May I – may I come in?" She wants to sound polite but strong. She just sounds like Hermione.
"The purpose of your visit?" he offers in exchange for her politeness.
"I have to give this envelope from the Minister to you personally, inquire after your well-being, and make sure you are provided with any assistance you might need," she explains with a nice easiness, like that of a clock's digit jumping from moment to moment smoothly.
He cocks his head to the side.
"So you're the Minister's new puppet?" he chuckles to himself quietly, but as it turns out, it is not an interesting or entertaining thought for him to linger on. He falls silent again.
"May I come in?" This time, she drops the words like hot stones. "I'm rather curious about this infamous superior hospitality that has the aristocracy constantly boasting." She reels off the rather careless words in a most careful manner. She has learned to deal with people of his kind.
He makes a face like he has just caught a whiff of the world's worst-smelling dung. The lines around his mouth deepen into small canyons.
"You may," he mocks.
She expects him to make a move to open the damn thing, but he just stares at her expectantly.
"Well? Need a hand, my lady?"
Her face clouds over. This is not going to be easy.
To avoid possible pain and embarrassment, she lifts her hand before taking the step forward, but now, unlike last time, she glides right through the gate as though it is made of nothing but air.
Malfoy sports a look of faux-confusion at her feat.
"Amazing," he drawls. "Just like magic."
The words insufferable man flash in her mind, but she keeps her mouth shut as they make their way to the entrance of the manor wordlessly.
She climbs the three stairs to the patio after him and is faced with his back. She notices his robes are a dull green and neither the fabric nor the cut hint at fancy shindigs and blinding silver chandeliers anymore. Of course, neither does the man who wears them.
The entrance to the house is underwhelming and a little depressing, because deep down she knows the Malfoy Manor was never meant to be reduced to such a state. It is a shame. Then again, all it represents has fallen; why should the building itself be any different? Spider webs plague the corners and hang from the roof in all their fine, sticky glory. Dust is piling on every surface, and the garden table is rotting away, forgotten where some house-elf once shoved it, presumably unused.
Inside, the house is musty and dark. Spiders and other bugs have claimed much of the territory in the interior as well, and the dark mahogany floor creaks as he walks with rapid, wide strides towards what she assumes must be the sitting room. Curiously, she notices that her footsteps make more noise than his.
It is unbearably humid in here. She pulls her cloak closer to herself, breathing in the flowery smell of her magical, long-lasting fabric softener as though she has found an oxygen mask. They enter a large room where the furniture has been covered with heavy white cloth, now gray in places - all except for a couch, a chair, and a small liquor cabinet that he is standing next to.
"The blinds are closed," she remarks.
He throws the windows a swift look – once, twice – and doesn't say anything. Hermione gets the impression that he hasn't noticed before.
"Brandy?" he offers, like he's being forced to do so by some bucktoothed old fairy of good manners.
She is unsure whether to refuse or not.
"No, thank you," she says after all, deciding this refusal is worth putting at risk the strained, forced semblance of politeness they are enjoying – a respite, really.
"Suit yourself."
He pours himself a glass of brandy so dark and rich in colour that it is almost guaranteed to also be dark and rich in taste, not to mention older than herself. He leans against the small cabinet, not bothering to conceal the fact that his fine, broad shoulders are slouching.
"Sit, then," he says with a barely-concealed undercurrent of hostily to his suggestion.
She hesitates. Should she sit on the chair or the sofa? Pureblood politics have not been wiped off the face of the Earth yet. She knows that if she was anywhere else, the choice would be clear. She would sit on the chair; she is easy-going by nature and likes to cause as little trouble for her hosts as possible.
So she takes the sofa.
She doesn't know why she can't get rid of all of the spite; it has taken root like a stubborn disease, and there is more than one side to its ugly nature. She wants to see more. She feels the need to push. She wants to see the impact of what she witnessed two years ago, terrifying, shocking, and inappropriate as it was – it raises questions that no one knows the answer to. The wound, the healing... do either exist? Is there anything left?
"I see you've made yourself comfortable."
"Do you mind?"
Short pause.
"Not particularly," he says, somewhat bored. He doesn't look like he cares either way.
He starts pacing the room slowly. The imperious stride is gone but for a trace of it in the way he holds his glass of brandy. He can shed every skin but the last one.
"I trust you have an envelope addressed to me," he says curtly.
"Yes, yes, it's right here." She fumbles with her pockets for a while before producing a folded square of parchment sealed with thick, dark wax, reaching to hand it to him. Next to hers, his hand looks a lot like the surgical gloves her parents use in their dentist's office.
He places the crystal decanter on the cloth-covered coffee table and has the letter open in three seconds flat, skimming the words speedily. His face darkens as he reads on.
As though in sync, hers is progressively blanching.
What exactly has she brought him, she wonders. She had assumed it to be a welcoming letter. After all, it is well-known that Malfoy had left the country immediately after the War and wandered around Central Europe until his return a few days ago.
But he doesn't look as though he has received a kind welcome from the Minister of Magic.
He finishes reading and holds the piece of parchment with so much force that his knuckles pinken.
"What is it?" she asks, grasping her wand in her pocket.
For a second there is no response, and then he throws the crumpled letter at the wall. His lips are thin lines, drawn by a clumsy child with no sense of proportion. She licks her own lips nervously, on edge and ready to make a move as soon as he does.
"Blast it!" he bellows all of a sudden, and she has never seen him lose control so quickly or in such an extreme fashion before.
Except that one time.
This must be it.
She stands smoothly and watches him with a certain degree of wariness from a distance. He looks like he is about to snap a duckling's neck in half.
She decides to leave without saying a word. She should know what is good for her. As she makes to back away, however, she feels a current of wind next to the nape of her neck, and the little hairs on her body stand on end - it can be nothing but an object being hurled at her. She gasps as the mirror crashes into the wall and tiny fragments of glass fly everywhere. One of them makes a shallow cut on her cheek while another grazes her arm through her robes.
Shocked, she turnsback, only to see him on the other side of the room, looking absolutely wild. Wilder than ever. A witch of her standing should not be afraid; she should not be afraid of anything less than wizards of his standing. And she is scared, she definitely is, but not scared enough to run away screaming.
"What is wrong with you? What are you doing!"
A ghost stares back at her.
"How dare they send me such a letter. I – told – them – not – to," he hisses. "I told them, I told them, I fucking told them I want nothing to do with such things."
"What things?"
He laughs mirthlessly.
"Honorary things! Pointless, insipid things."
She tries to comprehend.
"They want to honor them, your wife and s - "
"Don't! Don't mention them," he says too softly, and the way he looks at her makes her hair stand on end.
She tries again with, "They want to honor... them, and you won't allow it?"
He inhales a sharp breath that makes his nostrils flare as he circles around the sofa, nearing her. He stops right before she is forced to back away to avoid collision.
"I just want to be left alone," he says, stressing every word. "Alone."
He compels her to stare into his eyes, to see how deadly serious he is, how fundamental this is for his survival. She opts to look at his ears instead.
He snorts a little and glances away for a beautiful second. "What are you doing here in the first place? They know who I am, and what I've been doing to... people - " He says the word like he doesn't believe it - "all my life. Why send you here? Hm?" He is intense now, in her personal space again and looking her dead-on. He is bordering on deranged.
"I know you're hurting - " she risks saying.
"You what!" he roars, pushing her flat against the wall, his fist slamming into hard stone. She flinches. He smells of blood. "You know nothing." He is breathing heavily in her face, but she won't play this game.
She pushes him away, and although she is not successful at knocking him over, there is no more prickling sensation over her collarbone, no more stinging fear in her gut. She has room to breathe, and as soon as she does, she pulls her wits about her.
She shoves a finger at his chest. It is her turn to say what is on her mind.
"I work for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Unless you consider yourself a magical creature, which I don't think you do even though I sometimes think you should, I have no reason to here. But I am. Because I volunteered. Do you know why? Do you know why I came here tonight?" she says, her voice regaining strength.
"Life is boring? You have a death wish?" he offers silkily, recovering already. Ever the snake, Lucius Malfoy.
"The last time I saw you... I was also witness to something I should not by any means have seen." She knows she is treading on unsteady ground now; his anger is palpable.
She pauses a short while to collect her thoughts and returns his unforgiving gaze as best as she can.
"I didn't think you'd be able to handle their deaths, or shrug your robes and walk past it all as was largely expected of you. Others did, but not I. There were whispers about it, of course," she exhales. "They said, oh, that one? He's a tough man, yes, heartless, rotten to the core; he'll be back in the business of killing children in no time. He's such a monster he very nearly deserves it, some of them even said. But I didn't."
"I see. Would you like your medal now, or will my undying gratitude suffice?" His sarcasm makes flowers wilt like toxic waste and fumes.
"They were wrong. And I knew you wouldn't find a healthy way to deal with it."
"Healthy?" A weird notion.
"Well, Mr. Malfoy, I'm sorry but..." On the opposite wall, there is a nice blank spot to look at. She concentrates on it stiffly. "For starters, you need a fresh change of clothes." She twitches her nose a little to emphasize her point. Air whistles softly through her front teeth when she next breathes out. "I didn't think I'd ever have to say this," she mumbles.
"How ironic," he booms. "Such brilliant advice. And I, Miss Granger, expect the high point of your hygiene to be your daily mud bath, naturally?"
"You're only proving my point." She shuffles her feet. "You're not as scary as you might think. Not after what I saw."
"And what, pray tell, did you see?" he inquires with exaggerated curiosity, but the rest of him tells another story. He knows the answer; he expects it.
"I'll tell you what I didn't see. A monster."
He is not as surprised as he should be.
"Don't pretend you know anything about me, Mudblood."
"But what if I do? What if I do know a little something, even though I never wanted to find out in the first place?"
"Careful, Granger, from what you're saying one might think you want to get to know me better, but, well, let's just say - I don't do interspecies," he taunts.
"Are you going to dismiss everyone and shut everything off in your infuriating, unparalleled arrogance? Ah, yes, because it has served you so well thus far, I see," she says viciously.
"I'll shut you up, you insignificant, ignorant little - "
"Do say Mudblood once more. It's a regulated offense now, you know."
A light goes out in his eyes. In one fluid movement he snatches the wand from her grasp and grabs her by the hair at the temple.
It hurts. She tries to push him away with both her hands.
"Tell me, is this also a regulated offense?" he asks conversationally.
"Let – go - "
She kicks his shin.
"Oomph!"
Instead of releasing her, he pins her down harder.
"Your wife – ah! - and your son are gone – ow! - and there is nothing you can do about it!" Spittle lands on his sleeve.
He stares at her. He burns holes at her skull. He pours acid on her through every pore of exposed skin on his being.
"And," she half-pants, half-whimpers because he hasn't stopped pulling, "you are still alive."
Somehow, this, to him, is the biggest insult of all.
"Shut up!" He presses his forehead against hers with so much force that the back of her head is being crushed against the stone. He shakes her violently, more than once – twice, thrice, she loses count. "Shut up!"
"Damn you, Lucius Malfoy, face it."
"I do. I have! Why do you think I've been in here all these months? Years?"
"You... have?" She gives the room an examining look, her expression morphing into something much graver than before.
He knows what she's thinking.
"I won't make any excuses to you. Not you, for Old Glory's sake. I want to kill you," he drawls.
"You hate me. I know. You've made that pretty clear since the first time you met me and my parents."
"Believe me, Granger, you don't. Your parents were only the beginning, the basis. Once upon a time I would have made you understand very thoroughly... but those days are over now." He looks defeated. "The Malfoy name holds no more value than yours these days. This is what it has been reduced to. I regret this the most."
"Is that really what you regret the most?" she asks in disbelief.
He doesn't reply immediately.
"Believe what you want," he says, languid in speech as he is in motion.
"Then I won't," she says defiantly, and he doesn't look very surprised.
"You need to let go," she adds after a while.
"And you're an insolent child," he replies, his tone not as harsh as his words suggest.
"I meant my hair." She raises her eyebrows. "My hair, see?" She gives another tug at his hand where it is tangled in the thick brown curls close to her ear.
He seems to ponder this grimly, his face framed by long blond hair that has lost its shine. The ends of it swipe over the high cleavage of her robes. He is close; he smells odd. She wants him to go away.
And he does.
She finds herself stumbling to regain her footing after she loses her balance.
"Go," he says simply, and there is no particular inflection to his voice this time. It is blank, plain.
He looks plain. And old.
"You need help with this place," she says matter-of-factly from the doorway, her heart-shaped face stark and devoid of fear.
"The elves are gone," he mutters.
"I can send some."
He throws her a sideways glance.
"If I want house-elves, I'll get house-elves. I don't want any favours from the likes of you."
"Tomorrow is good then?"
A disbelieving look.
"Do you need me to write it down for you, Mud - " He stops mid-sentence, giving it another thought. The word is marked.
"Mud? That sounds like a pet name for a frog. Oh, and I think I'll have that drink after all." She strides over to the table, and in a motion unprecedented by any Granger or otherwise similarly smart, nice, and responsible girl of her nature, she picks up the glass and gulps down half of its contents.
"That's good," she says, a little bashfully when she sees the look he is giving her – like she has just sprouted another head.
"Insolent," he repeats, not so much disgusted as he is resigned. He is as cool as usual, but his feathers are unusually ruffled. "And you're supposed to savor such a vintage, not toss it back like cheap whiskey."
"Okay then, tomorrow at ten. Perfect. Be here." She smiles a fake smile. "Have a good night, Mr. Malfoy," she says, flawless channeling the professional in her, and leaves.
Inside, she feels like she has just crushed into an iceberg.
And in a way she has. She has faced a horrible, bigoted, lone iceberg man with clear gray eyes and dirty gray covers thrown over his furniture, his memories, his soul. An old man set in his ways; an orphan. An evil giant squid. She has seen the iceberg man swim in a sea hotter than the sun, with his purpose shining brightly before him, beckoning him closer like a Veela song, until that, too, melts away. And she has seen him crack.
She shouldn't have gotten involved. She should have been elsewhere that night.
This iceberg... She wants to strip all the layers of hard, unforgiving ice off of it, toss them aside one by one, right to its liquid, elemental core, and then drink it all up from the palms of her hands until there is no sign that anything so convoluted has ever existed, no trace that anything so jading, so jaded has ever seen the light of day.
She is going to break him and let him gush malice, malice and prejudice like he has been ripped in half with a chainsaw, until there is only the skin of a man left, and then she is going to stitch him up and wear him to work, so she can hold his head and wipe his tears away when they fall.
She is going to do this because she hates him.
Thank you for reading! Your feedback is most welcome, as always.