– Chapter One –

The Artist's Atelier

Remorse for what we do not have and what we are not any more.

The atelier was blind in the artificial darkness that consumed it. The old, wooden grandfather clock chimed seven o'clock.

The small room was slightly furnished. A big number of portraits took up most of the room's space and the walls were spattered with inks of many colours. In the middle of the room was a rickety, wooden table and near it lay a small sofa with black cushions; a comfortable settee of yellow ochre was next to it. A threadbare chaise longue of burnt sienna stood in the very corner of the room, right next to the window, near a board of drawings.

Long dark linen curtains hung at the small glass window, covering most of their space so that the window was almost out of view.

Then, a young man entered the room. He carried brushes and one big blank canvas. Surprised at the darkness penetrating the atelier, he placed his dyestuff and canvas on the table and draped away the curtains with force. He was not the least surprised to see the girl lying on the settee. Her left hand was on the back of her head as a form of pillow. She was wearing a pale dress, which left her legs and cleavage uncovered. Her gaze was fixed at the ceiling. Her right hand fell lightly upon the black silk-like fabric thrown over the settee. She lay there gracefully, her luscious slender body immobilised but for her stomach, which made small moves in and out as her breath came short and uneasy.

"There, there, Hermione," Pierre consoled the girl. It was an unnecessary approach because she was blank of every feeling. "We've almost gone through the whole of today's Daily Prophet and no word yet on the trial. None at all – oh, no, I take it back," he quickly added, flicking through the pages of the newspaper. " 'At her awaited trial in January 16th, Hermione Granger, currently remanded on bail, was unavailable from the very start when reporters made an attempt to approach her for an interview - '"

Pierre was up to his feet, striding across the room as he was reading the piece of news aloud with the newspaper clutched on his hands. The rain, spattering the windows half-heartedly, continued unabated with a blanket of grey clouds scudding across the dark sky.

"C'est pas ma faute," the girl whispered. She looked pale and drawn.

"Que?"

"N'est-ce pas?"

"It never is, is it?" Pierre said, clearing his dyed hands with a wet towel. "Oh, bien, there's me," he commented and carried on. " 'Her companion, Pierre De Chateaupers, has already asserted that she is not guilty. However, the murder of Draco Malfoy, regarded as one hiding an ulterior motive since he was a runaway Death Eater and the accused a prominent student at Hogwarts, has led to her indictment on allegations of conspiracy, in regard to rumours about her fraternisation with recently discharged Maurice Meik and known Death Eater, Antonin Notek.' " He put the newspaper away and sighed. "We can get you off the hook as far as the guy's murder is concerned but how on earth are we going to justify your intimacy with the other two?"

"They will convict me, Pierre, won't they?" she asked vaguely. Her tone, funnily enough, lack any trace of anxiety or worry.

He turned at her.

"If we act smartly, they won't. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not. The worst is yet to come."

"You will wriggle out of the conviction. I will make sure of that. You are innocent. Or, at least, we will make you turn out as innocent."

"The Ministry won't buy it. A murderer's eyes scream his guilt."

"The Ministry is consisted of blundering fools, incapable of throwing the simplest jinx at a passing pixie!" Pierre scolded hotly and with a movement of his wand, he conjured a glass and a bottle of wine out of thin air. With his wand, he filled the glass with the bottle's content and sipped slowly.

The girl kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Pierre was looking at her intensely.

"I see you are confused," he said, scratching the back of his neck with an old quill. "What's troubling you?"

"What shouldn't be troubling me?"

The man meditated.

"Regarding Shavillion?"

"Regarding everyone."

The man stood there, thinking.

"What's he done this time? Or, rather," he said, "what have you done to him? Don't you think the previous torture was enough? You crave for more?"

At this, the girl glanced at him with icy eyes.

"I never mean it."

"Oh, you never do, love."

He stared at her with a touch of comfort on his face.

"But, unfortunately, it's not what you mean, Hermione. It is the conclusion."

She caressed her hands, looking at them nervously.

"I waited for him yesterday. I knew he wouldn't come but I waited. I stayed up till three in the morning, thinking of him. Hoping he would come."

The man started arranging his boards in order at the wall.

"Well," he said, struggling with the big pictures, "I think you should step over and forget about him. He's dead."

He's dead.

These sharp words stabbed her like a knife. She immediately stood up, as if she had heard of this item of news for the first time.

"He's not dead."

It was a weak whisper with no touch of emotion attached to it. She turned her head at the ceiling once more.

"I refuse to accept it."

The man looked at her in half alarm. He strode towards her quickly and knelt down before her.

"For our sake, you had better accept it. You wouldn't have been accused if he had not been murdered, would you? You would not be at risk of being imprisoned for his death, would you? After all," he carried on roughly, "you killed him."

You killed him.

Her cheeks instantly flushed and a fire of fierce aggravation broke inside her. She stood up.

You killed him.

She tried to control herself, to leave behind any emotional aspect which might hurt her delicate feelings. She listened past those cruel words, not wanting to take the blame.

"Rien ne me touche plus!"

"Nothing touches you any more? But Hermione! You cannot hide your emotions, love. They are bare from your clean eyes. You made a mistake by being with him – we all told you – but the worst you made out of your hurry and blindness was killing him. So, the best you can do is to, at least, acknowledge it. Leave the rest to us."

"The rest?"

"Do you think we will let you be put to jail for that scum? Not to mention how we are all in danger. If they verify you are the criminal behind the case, we are all done for. They will cut our necks like dogs."

"What is the plan?"

At this, the man revealed a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

"We will blame Parkinson for it. She was infatuated with Malfoy, after all, wasn't she? And she was quite jealous of him being intimate with you. Oh, yes, poor Pansy, I remember her telling me. She quite hated you, as a matter of fact. Now this, of course, will turn against her."

"But what about the proof?"

"Oh, not to worry. We have much proof. There is a strong testimony and depending on the way it is told, it will either save our buttocks or lead to our hanging. We will divert the testimony into another direction. If we succeed in it, you are save and Parkinson will be behind bars. Quel dommage!"

"This won't bring him back."

"Would you rather rot in jail?"

"He was only eighteen."

"He deserved what he got, the bastard!"

"I loved him."

The man, as if he did not really know what it was to love, looked at her blankly.

"I hurt him so many times."

He was only eighteen.

"And he would still get over it every time."

He was only eighteen.

"He was a sweet guy, yes," Pierre commented vaguely in an ironic tone, a smirk revealed in the corner of his mouth and the glass of wine clutched at his hand.

"It's been fifteen hours and one day ..."

"Merlin's beard, Hermione ..."

"... since he took his love away ..."

The man approached her with a look of patience in his face.

"My poor swan. You are weak. Go rest. We have an important trial tomorrow."

"Non."

"Hermione!"

It was a brisk command.

"You are in danger and we all are in danger. Grave danger. Do you understand that? Now if you want to risk all, do so, but only to yourself because frankly, I'd rather live."

He strongly caught her in his arms as she was shaking.

"Your weakness is their power and with this they will strike. We are worms, love, but the judges have authority – great authority! We are nothing compared to them. And when you are a worm, you should never complain when they stomp you. We are underworld. We live in night. They squash worms, those judges do, dear. We must be smart and cunning tomorrow. Do you remember the plan? Good. We live in Paris, my dear. This you must understand."

"Mamma used to say, 'Silence will save us from the unfair but will deprive us of the fair'," the girl said, looking at the rain outside the window. "By not speaking, a person is unable to pass misinformation – which is how justice is served – and yet, the truth can never come out. So, if I don't lie and remain silent, there will be no injustice – but still the truth will always be hidden. And if I speak rightly, I will serve the purpose of truth – "

"If you speak rightly ... you mean, if you spun them lies, right?" Pierre interrupted her suddenly. "Because that is the only way we can save you."

Hermione hesitated.

"Yes. Of course."

But that was far from what she really meant.

"Now, Hermione, go sleep. We have been through a rough weekend. Go sleep, dear. For tomorrow, we may sleep six feet under the ground."

Then there was a knock at the door.

Pierre creaked it open. A sliver of a mysterious hooded figure appeared from the small opening. All Hermione could see was the figure passing a very strange parcel to Pierre, who nodded and closed the door shut.

"Who was he? And what was it he gave you?" Hermione asked, although she did not really care. Her mind was always on Malfoy.

The man's eyes gleamed malevolence.

"Nothing, love. But it will be vital for your survival. I hope so, at least."

"Where have you been, my love, my life?

I killed you with a silver knife ..."

"Beautiful song. Nobody can understand the beauty in these songs," she said vaguely. Pierre looked at her in alarm.

"All right, that's it," he said with a slightly trembling voice, "come with me. I'll put you to sleep. This is not normal. Merlin's beard, Hermione, this is not normal! You are going crazy, girl! Mourning all the time like a widow over someone who died! I am sick and tired of it! What's happened has happened and there is nothing anyone can do about it, okay?"

"I KILLED HIM, PIERRE! I MURDERED HIM! I – I – I AM A RUDDY MURDERER! MURDER ME! MURDER ME!"

"Stop – now. Come with me."

He was pushing her hard towards the bedroom's door but she was showing considerable resistance.

"I TRIED TO DENY IT TO MYSELF! I WAS SO BLIND! ALL THIS TIME I HAVE BEEN SO RUDDY BLIND, PIERRE! LOVE BLINDED ME!"

"SHUT UP!"

"I-WANT-TO-DIE! KILL ME! KILL ME! I BEG FOR IT!"

She could not breathe. All the tiredness and anxiety of these past days surfaced. She couldn't handle it anymore – and she collapses onto the floor, trying to breathe. But she couldn't.

Guilt was growing bigger inside her, eating her insides.

Small dribbles of blood prickled from inside her mouth to the frosty floor. Tears were oozing like a river from her eyes and she squeezed her lungs in an attempt to get air.

"Hermione ... love ... come ..."

But anything Pierre would say could not dispel her immense trepidation. He tried to pull her up but her hands clutched the floor fiercely. She was shrieking in pain as blood was pressing against her lungs to erupt from her mouth.

"Here ... now ..." Pierre said and, mustering all his strength, he pulled her up and carried her towards the bedroom, ignoring the small pool of glutinous blood spattered over the floor.

"Pierre," the girl said feebly, her faded blue eyes dry with tears, "tell me he's still here. I need to hear it. Tell me."

"No, love. He's not here."

"Tell me he will come for me. I will wait for him. I will stay up all night – "

"He's dead. You must accept it and this is how you will move on."

"It's a lie ..."

"He's dead. Now, rest. You are very tired."

"It's been fifteen hours ..."

"Now, love."

"... and one day ..."

Her eyes slowly closed and she fell asleep at the man's arms. Her breath was uneasy.

He's dead.

The night was starless. She looked through the window. She remembered a touch. It was raining. It was the same time he had left that fatal night, almost two days ago. Back then she had run through the door, stormed outside and grabbed him as he was leaving. Why did she let go now?

She could not utter a word. Her lips were pale and frozen. It had been days since she had last touched him.

It had been days.

To know she would never touch him again was unbearable to her. It was like she had thought of this as a nightmare and now that it happened, she begged it actually was a nightmare. She could not sleep alone anymore. It was a never-ending nightmare, lying there before her instead of him, punishing her for the things that she did.

There was no escape this time from it.

She stood there, back laid against the bed's wooden side, facing the window with the black rails.

"I am a prisoner already," she said, looking at the rails.

She reached the wooden bedside table, opened it and found a small piece of parchment she had herself written once. She had written it so that she would never forget how she felt back then. In that way, she would seek revenge later on.

I wish I died a hundred deaths

In guilt awashed, in sorrow.

I wish I'd followed the right paths

But the roads of no tomorrow

Had me in sins and loves of just one night

Now it's hard for me to follow the light.

Darkness fell upon her window with a gloomy sort of sigh, coming from within her wounded heart. His thought travelled her mind. She would not lift her eyes, she would not leave a breath, for his love had been lost to her and she had only found it with his death. Yet deep within the darkness, a sort of sparkle flickered over a head of brown hair. The moon went out like a light, as hazel eyes revealed themselves.

You cannot fix what has been done and broken.

Then, she took from the bedside table a silver dagger. She caught it in her arms. It was a familiar feeling. Her hands were accustomed to that dagger. She brought it close to her veins in her hand. She closed her eyes firmly. She swallowed the scream that would have pierced the night deep inside her. Big prickles of blood oozed from her cut and she carried on. With the dagger she cut her hand, forming capital letters. The sound was terrifying. When she had finished, there were whole words formed with the cutting of her hand: I killed Malfoy.

She knew she would soon lead herself to believe she had not done it, as he sub-consciousness would want to be put off the blame so that her soul would rest. But she wanted something to remind her and such a hurtful reminder would certainly not make her forget.

As Pierre had told her and as he had arranged with the others, they would lure the judges in the trial tomorrow with fiendishly corrupted pieces of information and testimonies over Malfoy's death. She had to lie about it.

She had to lie.

But could she? She felt guilty of it. It was not the first time she was lying; she had lied to Kirk and others several times but guilt burdened her like a heavy parasite which writhed and squirmed inside her. Could she now lie?

Sadly the truth will come out!

Eyes filled with determination pierced the night.

Her only chance to survive was to lie. However, she wanted to escape all this mess, all these problems, all these fatalities and tortures and worries.

She will soon be running for the door.

As if the world's concerns and troubles ever came to an end.