Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using characters and elements from the world of Harry Potter, created and trademarked by JK Rowling. I do not claim ownership over any Harry Potter characters or the Harry Potter world. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and is not claiming to be any part of the Harry Potter canon. Thank you to JK Rowling for letting me play with the characters and not suing me for writing them into a new situation.
This story was originally written for Round 1 of the 2018 Death by Quill Writing Challenge, hosted by The Slytherin Cabal. It was a four-round elimination competition spanning four months during which all stories were strictly anonymous. I'm happy to finally be revealing these stories here on FFN.
The theme for this round was Obliviate (Memory), and the pairing/characters I chose were Hermione Granger & Narcissa Malfoy. All stories had a word limit of 3500 words.
This story won 1st place out of 14 competitors, and allowed me to move on to Round 2. See my other works for my Round 2 Entry.
DEFENSIVE MEASURES
By Maloreiy
"I've healed most of the internal damage, but I'm afraid it's best if we leave the visible injuries, or it will be clear that someone has been here to heal you."
"Wh-why are y-you helping me?"
"I think you know."
"D-does that mean...does he…is he…"
"Obliviate!"
"Wh-who are you?"
"I am Lady Malfoy."
"D-do I know y-you?"
"No, but I've brought you something to eat."
"Ma-Malfoy? I know that n-name, I think."
"Obliviate."
Narcissa Malfoy carefully walked down the dungeon stairs, her back ramrod straight, her steps unhurried. Anyone observing her would have seen the elegant Lady of the Manor in her every move.
As she was in her own home, she technically had the freedom to go wherever she chose. In reality, however, having You-Know-Who in residence meant that she was constantly in enemy territory, and there was no place, even in her own home, that was truly safe.
Down here there were no portraits, no windows, no way for anyone to witness what was happening in the cells below the main house. Having such an area disgusted her, but she was glad, at least, that no one could be truly sure about what happened during her visits to this hellish place.
There was only her own memory to guard, and she was an extremely skilled Occlumens.
And, of course, there was the girl.
The girl was the only one in the dungeons at the moment, and spent nearly half of her time upstairs in a room being 'questioned' by the Master, or by one of his minions. It was better for her when the Dark Lord did the questioning, as he was not interested in her body or in sadistically tearing her apart; he just wanted to know how to find Harry Potter.
But it was better for Narcissa when one of the minions did it, because they were far less likely to stumble upon the nugget of truth that the girl was hiding.
As Lady Malfoy approached the cell door, the shape huddled on the floor didn't stir. From this angle, it didn't even appear to be breathing. The rags covering her body were filthy, covered in blood and who knew what other kinds of body fluids. Not for the first time, Narcissa wondered if it wasn't more merciful—and more convenient, really—for everyone, if she just died.
The long, curly brown hair had long since been ripped out or shorn off, allowing the fine features of her face to show through the layers of dirt and grime.
Narcissa sighed as she gazed at the girl.
She was so young to be involved in this war, much like her own son. Far too young. Not that any of the children really had a choice.
It was the thought of her son, terrified and broken, flinching at every sound in the great big Manor that housed such dangerous guests, that kept her from simply ending the girl's life.
It would be so easy, no one would ever suspect she didn't just die of her injuries. In fact, if Narcissa didn't keep healing her, she probablywould die of those injuries.
But she couldn't do that to another mother's child. Not with the girl so young. Not in her own home.
Not…not like this.
As always, she healed the girl's most pressing injuries first—a few ribs, some internal bleeding, a finger or two. She left the bruises on her eyes and cheekbones, in the futile hope that her pathetic face might eventually move someone to have pity on her.
They never did.
When she deemed the girl sufficiently well enough, a gentle 'Rennervate' woke her.
Patiently, Narcissa waited in her transfigured chair, while the girl took stock of her physical state and then slowly dragged herself into a sitting position. The first few times, Narcissa had tried to help, but her proximity only caused the girl to react like a frightened animal.
Now that the girl was so much filthier, Narcissa chose to consider it a blessing that she didn't have to touch her at all.
Narcissa slowly pushed the food over towards her. Just some bread and water. Anything more than that would cause the girl to throw up.
"Wh-who are you?"
For some reason, that was always her first question now.
"I am Lady Malfoy," Narcissa said, her voice not unkind. "I've brought you something to eat, Miss Granger."
"Do I know you?" The girl squinted up at her through swollen eyes, as if trying to place the older woman with the pale blonde hair in her memory.
That was always her second question.
"No," Narcissa answered, truthfully. The girl knew very little anymore. "But I mean you no harm, and I've brought you some food. Your body desperately needs it, and we don't have much time, so I'm afraid you'll just have to trust me. Eat quickly, now."
As always, the logical reasoning did the trick. Miss Granger tore into the food like she hadn't had anything to eat in days. Since it had been at least two days since Narcissa had been able to get away, it was entirely possible that she hadn't.
While Miss Granger ate the food, Narcissa casually rested her hand on top of the other item that she had brought with her. It laid in her lap, and she slowly tapped her fingers on it, as if politely waiting for Miss Granger to eat her meal.
For several long moments, the girl just sat on the damp ground, chewing her food and staring blankly into the air.
When she switched to staring at Narcissa, she had that same blank expression on her face. It was her most normal expression now.
Narcissa smiled gently back at her, noting the tiredness in her eyes, and how she wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. She wished she could offer her something more comfortable—a pillow, a blanket, a hot bath. But there was nothing she could do about the situation, and even what little she did put them both at risk.
She tapped her fingers again, reminding herself how important her task was. She watched as Miss Granger's eyes slowly pulled toward the movement and then eventually slid away.
Narcissa tried to suppress the hope that rose within her. This was not the first time the girl had failed to notice what she was holding, sometimes she was just too tired, just too broken. Patience was the key to being sure.
"I like books, I think," the girl finally said, and Narcissa felt her heart fall.
Inwardly, she sighed. Then she glanced down at her lap as if just remembering what she was holding. Her fingers traced across the gilded cover. "Oh, would you like to see it? We have just a few more moments."
Casually, she set it down on the dirty floor, knowing from experience that the girl would not take it from her hand. She would do cleaning spells on it later; she always did.
From her position on the floor, Miss Granger should just be able to make out the title, but there was no recognition in her eyes. There had not been for a while now.
"It's yours," Narcissa told her, watching her carefully. "At least, it has your name inside the cover." That wasn't true, but the girl never checked.
Slowly, the girl scooted towards Narcissa's feet, her dirty hands reaching out to touch the book, before drawing away. She looked up, as if confirming that it was still okay for her to touch, and then she reached out again. "Hogwarts: A History," she read, her tone confused. "I know this place."
"Of course you do."
Carefully, the girl flipped through the pages, looking at the moving pictures. Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember why it all looked so familiar. "I know this place," she repeated quietly to herself.
Narcissa was counting. She knew each of those pages extremely well, even upside down, and without needing to see the page numbers. 32…45…61…
Page 84 had no pictures. It was just blocks of text, but the girl stared at it for a long moment. She rubbed her temple and flipped the page over, but then she turned back to the same spot and stared a little longer.
Frowning, a question probably on the tip of her tongue, the girl looked up to find the point of a wand in her face.
"Obliviate."
"I've brought you something to eat, Miss Granger."
"Gr-anger? Is that my name?"
"Yes. Hermione Granger. And I've brought you something to eat."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Lady Malfoy."
"Do I know you?"
"No, but we don't have much time. You must eat. Quickly, before he finds us here."
"Before who finds us here?"
"You-Know-Who."
"Who?"
"You-Know-Who. He wants what you have in your head, and he won't stop until he finds it. We're not safe."
"M-my head? What's in my head?"
"The secret of the book, Miss Granger. The one you've been protecting. We have to hurry."
"Do I know this book?"
"Yes, it's yours."
"It doesn't look familiar."
"Look closely!"
"You're hurting me, I don't know what you want!"
"Look at the book! It's missing an important page. Tell me where it is!"
"I don't know, I don't…no, it's right here. It's here."
"Obliviate!"
Narcissa rubbed at her temple in frustration. She was so tired. Living in fear was taking its toll on her whole family.
She worried for her husband, who was getting deeper and deeper into the Dark Lord's bad graces. She worried for her son, who was slowly wasting away in terror and misery. She worried for herself, because if she weakened, she would not be able to continue hiding the memories.
She had been fortunate—they'd all been fortunate—that the Dark Lord's frustration at his inability to get what he wanted from the Mudblood never turned into a desire for him to prod her for anything else. He was half-crazed with his obsession with finding and killing Potter; nothing else existed for him.
For weeks, she'd stressed over what was in the Mudblood's head. The biggest memories had been easy to remove.
The girl had been surprisingly strong enough to resist Bella's initial Cruciatus. Narcissa had spent the entire time with one hand on her wand, and the other on her son—waiting to see if Bella's murderous gaze turned onto them.
When the girl had been relegated to the dungeons without having revealed Harry Potter's location, Narcissa had wasted no time. Weakened as the girl was by the Cruciatus, and having no training at shielding herself, Narcissa had very quickly and efficiently sliced out everything that could have incriminated her family.
Almost everything.
No matter what she tried, there was still a memory hidden deep inside her subconscious. Despite all of the torture inflicted on the girl daily, and despite all of Narcissa's tricks, it remained there.
Whatever it was, the girl refused to let it go.
Narcissa sighed. "I don't think there's any more I can do. I've tried everything to get her to bring it to the surface—I've used fear, I've used gentleness, I've tried words and pictures. Every time I think I've reached it, I Obliviate it out of her mind, but when I return, I can tell it's still there."
"No one else has ever noticed it. Surely we should be safe by now?"
She didn't need to tell him that as long as that monster was in their house, at large in their world, they could never be safe. "The Dark Lord doesn't believe that she will give him any useful information, and so he rarely tries to look into her mind anymore." More like she was half mad with torture, and as a result of the extensive Obliviating, there was little left there to retrieve, but there was no sense telling him that.
Still, she felt it necessary to offer the slightest reassurance. "It's unlikely, at this point, that anyone will look for whatever she's hiding."
She heard him sigh with relief, and it caused a sharp pang in her heart that she couldn't offer him an assurance of safety, or even the certainty that they were all going to come through this war alive. "I'm sorry, Draco. That doesn't mean we can relax our vigilance, we still have the memories in our own heads. We can never let those shields down around the Dark Lord."
He nodded in understanding, the dark circles around his eyes stark against his pale skin.
"Mother," he began, and she knew what was coming next, "maybe there's a way we could contact the Or—"
"No!" she snapped at him, before he could get more words out, create more memories she had to guard. "The old man was a fool. In the end, he couldn't even protect himself. The rest of them aren't any better. They have nothing to offer us, and especially with that Mark on your arm, this is still the safest place for us to be. Thank Salazar we never went through with that foolishness!"
His face fell at her words, and she felt terrible that she had to constantly remind him of the bitter truths of their lives.
She wrapped him in her embrace, gentling her tone once more. "No, Draco, we're all that we have. We just need to stay alive. When it's all over, we can leave. We just need to stay alive until then."
The violent Cruciatus rippled through Hermione, causing her to arch in pain. Her throat was raw from screaming, as this wasn't the first curse she'd suffered this night. As with the arching, she was no longer able to exert any control over her poor, abused body, and so she no longer even attempted to hold in her cries.
She couldn't remember how many nights this had happened before. She couldn't remember why this was her life, night after night.
Only one thing mattered, and at the first whispered, "Crucio!" from her mad tormentor, Hermione fled from her harsh reality and took refuge deep in the hidden fortress of her splintered mind.
It was tricky to get there, there were so many dense walls and dead ends built up around it. Her own handiwork, she was sure, though she couldn't remember having done it. But the walls were strong; they always held.
Sometimes, she fleetingly wished she was still the witch that had made those walls, because surely that woman would never have allowed herself to come to this. But that person was gone, and all that was left was her. Her and this tiny fortress and the treasure it held inside of it.
She slipped past the barriers with the ease of practice, leaving all the pain behind her along with the faint echo of her own voice screaming. She fled toward the light that called to her. She would spend all her time here if she could, but she was only safe in this spot during the Cruciatus.
She crawled fiercely toward the light, panicking as she always did that she wouldn't be able to fit, that it wouldn't be there anymore, that she wouldn't find the safety she desperately sought.
She squeezed herself into that tiny spot, crying with relief when she found it was still there, much as she'd left it. It had once been large and whole, but sometimes when she was gone, something would chip away at it. She'd return to find broken pieces that she would painstakingly have to put back together.
She couldn't lose her treasure. It was the only thing that mattered. It was the only thing keeping her alive, keeping her sane.
Supposing she was still sane.
The pieces that were cobbled together still glowed warm and bright, and she curled herself tightly around them, letting the warmth soothe her soul while the storm crashed all around her.
"I can't do it. I'm so afraid!" The words are whispered, punctuated by choking sobs that echo in the empty washroom. "I'm going to fail. He'll kill my family, Hermione."
The young girl wraps her arms around the boy, and he leans on her for strength despite being several inches taller than her. His light blond head on her shoulder melds with her curly brown locks in a way that suggests the position is very familiar to the both of them. She holds him while his whole frame shakes.
"I hate him, I hate him so much," he cries.
"Draco, we can get you out. Dumbledore can help, I know he can. I've told you whenever he talks to me, he gives me cryptic messages about protection. I really think he wants me to pass them on to you."
"But he'll kill my family," he repeats, his arms wrapping around her tightly—the gesture just the barest suggestion that he might be including her in that exalted company. "If I don't finish, we're all dead."
"If you do finish, we're all dead, too," she whispers fiercely in his ear. "I'm as good as dead."
He pulls back and shakes his head, though they both know there's no sense in denying reality. On his face is a look of hopelessness and despair.
She holds his face in her hands, and then leans up to press her lips against his. He melts against her, and the saltiness of his tears mingles with the taste of his tongue.
"We can do this," she says, trying to bolster him with her faith. "We'll find a way. We'll go to Dumbledore."
He wants to shake his head, but she's holding it still, looking him firmly in the eye. "We'll find a way to help your parents. We'll do it together. It's the only answer, Draco, you know it is," she says, fiercely.
He wants to believe her, wants desperately to trust in what she's saying, but the fear always controls him. He wishes he could borrow her bravery, her confidence, just for a moment, to make the big and difficult decisions.
"Draco," she says, leaning her forehead against his, "I can't—I can't lose you." Her bravado of moments before appears to crumble. Her voice breaks as tears start to leak from her eyes. "I won't lose you!"
He reaches up to wipe her tears away, cut to the quick whenever she cries. As she leans into the strength of his hand, he thinks what a tragedy it would be for the world to lose that light in those beautiful brown eyes.
And in a single instant, he is fortified. "I can't lose you, either, Hermione." Strength floods through his limbs, shocking him with the power he feels at knowing what the right thing to do must be. "I'll do it. I'll go."
She cries in relief, holding him close, whispering promises to him while his brain works furiously trying to think of all the things he needs to figure out before he can defect from the Dark Lord's service.
"I need a little time," he says, carelessly wiping his nose on the sleeve of his robe, his voice getting high in his nervous excitement. "You can let Dumbledore know I need to speak with him, but give me two days first."
She nods, her heart beating hard at the thought of what they were about to do, to snatch one of You-Know-Who's Death Eaters right out from his grasp.
"Don't look at me, don't speak to me, no one can know that anything has changed," Draco warns her. "I'll send you a message when I'm ready."
"The regular way?" she asks, glancing over to where her copy of Hogwarts: A History lay on the floor. She carried it with her everywhere, because Draco's notes magically appeared as text on the bottom paragraph of page 84, a silly sentimental number she'd picked because it was two numbers that corresponded to their initials—H & D.
"It might be very quick," Draco says, feeling apprehensive once again about the tasks ahead of him. "Check often."
"I always do," she says, softly.
He pulls her in for a fierce, quick kiss. Staring into her eyes, he prays it's not the last time he sees her like this. But just in case…
"I love you," he whispers. "I know you said we didn't need to exchan—"
"I love you, too," she interrupts him, kissing him again, lingering in the precious seconds they have left. She tastes her own tears this time, the bitterness of the goodbye mixing with the sweetness of saying the words she'd been longing to say.
He pulls away reluctantly, glancing anxiously at the door. "I have to go."
"I know. Be as safe as you can, Draco."
"Don't forget to check for my note, okay?"
"I won't forget."
I won't forget.
I won't forget.
A/N: A big thank you to Ariel Riddle, my alpha on this story, who helped me to plot and plan the best way to use these characters with this theme. She was a huge support
S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW), meaning all reviews welcome, including constructive criticism.