Lucius was having an absolutely black day. Nothing had gone right, he growled to himself crossly as he strode to the clearing that housed his prisoner. And the day was hardly yet over.
It had all started in the very early morning. Lucius had awoken to the searing, slithering pain of his Dark Mark erupting on the skin of his forearm. He lit the room magically, the sun not even properly risen yet to greet the day. Donning his garb with haste, Lucius apparated away to the meeting hall. He arrived with a loud crack to the startlement of other arriving Death Eaters; each looked as disheveled as he. Lucius adjusted the collar of his robes, straightened, and donned a look of haughty indifference. He doffed his traveling gloves, folding the leather neatly and pocketing them. He strode through the packof black-robed witches and wizards, grip tight on the silver head of his cane. He nodded curtly in greeting to Dolohov and McNair, but his eyes roved the sea of cloaks. Where was Draco?
"Lucius," purred a cat-like voice behind him, catching him mid-stride. Lucius refrained from rolling his eyes and turned.
"Bellatrix," he returned. Bellatrix Lestrange smiled unnervingly at him.
"Cissy tells me you have a secret," Bellatrix teased, her eyes glittering with undisguised interest and glee. Lucius raised a long eyebrow at her, unperturbed.
"Does she now, Bella?" he intoned placidly. Bellatrix pouted at him beneath her heavy-lidded eyes. It was not a good look, he reflected and repressed his own look of disgust with difficulty. She said nothing as she watched him unblinkingly, until he sighed and addressed her.
"What do you want Bellatrix?" he asked, crossing his arms. His eyes flitted over the crowd again. Where in the name of Merlin was that boy?
"Cissy says you have a secret," Bella repeated, sing-song, "and I want to know what it is." She was practically bouncing on the tips of her toes, and her hands wrung the shaft of her wand so hard a tiny blue spark shot out from the tip.
"Oops," she laughed, as the spark hit Rookwood, singing what was left of his thinning hair. He yelped and spun angrily, but upon seeing his inadvertent attacker, wisely chose to nod and turn his back again. Addled as she might appear, Bellatrix was a heartless witch, and ferocious with hexes and jinxes when it came to dueling. And it did not take much to set her off. No one intentionally got into it with her if they could help it.
On a good day, this kind of diversion would have been enough to distract Bellatrix into prancing away to agitate someone else; but, as Lucius again reflected that afternoon, today was not a good day.
"I want to knowww," she whined, childlike. "Is it to do with that horrible headmistress-y McGonagall?" she chattered excitedly. "No? The Potter baby then? Is it Draco? Is it to do with the ministry? Is it –ahh," she crooned, and although Lucius could swear he had not changed expressions, he saw the triumph creeping across her face.
"It is Draco," she crowed. "Oh do tell me Lucius." She batted her eyelids imploringly at him and grabbed his sleeve. "I want to know. I would to anything to help my precious nephew you know." The lips pouted again in false concern.
Lucius wrenched himself out of her grasp, smoothing the wrinkle of his fabric where her hand had touched him.
"There is no secret, Bellatrix," he snapped irritably, keeping a practiced stoic façade. "There are only your delusions of plot and scheme, and your grievously misplaced paranoia. Give it a rest, woman, for Merlin's sake. And pull yourself together. The Dark Lord is arriving."
And indeed, there was a sudden coldness in the room that signified the arrival of Lord Voldemort, and the candles on the wall flickered in warning. Despite himself, Lucius felt his stomach clench in anticipation.
"Secrets secrets cannot be," taunted Bellatrix to Lucius, "Secrets that you hide I will surely set free!" She ended this rhyme with a malicious cackle, and then tore herself away in a flurry to get to the head of the crowd. Lucius watched her go, relieved that her overwhelming lust for Voldemort's embodiment of power outweighed her desire to pester him.
What had Narcissa told her, he mused. He must address this with her later. It would certainly not do for his wife to be suspicious of him, and it most definitely would not to do have Bellatrix on his case.
Lucius spared no more thought of this however, as a cloud of grey smoke tunneled into the center of the room, materializing Lord Voldemort himself. Lucius bowed with the rest of his contingency, straightening on Voldemort's signal.
"Friendsss," he hissed, snake-like and malevolent. Lucius could tell he was in a dangerous mood. "We have been betrayed," Voldemort informed them gravely. "The group of werewolves recruited to the Dark side have turned!" He paused for dramatic effect before continuing,
"Nott, Mulciber and the Carrows are dead, lured to a gathering and ambushed." This last was uttered with an enraged hiss. Voldemort paused again to let this information sink in to the Death Eaters, who were beginning to murmur with discord.
"They have overthrown and culled Fenrir Greyback," Voldemort persisted, to the chorus of louder murmurs.
Lucius considered this information. The loss of the werewolves was not all that bad, but the loss of not one but four Death Eaters was certainly a blow to put things in perspective.
"They left behind a message," Voldemort continued in distaste.
With reverence, he brought his wandtip to his temple, eyelids drooping to a ptotic position. They re-opened as he withdrew the wand, a silvery stream of memory trailing at its end. With a flick of his wrist, Voldemort sent the image forth; it splashed in a ripple of silvery waves against the stone wall of the along with the other Death Eaters watched as the scene played itself out.
Viewed through snake-slit eyes, Voldemort himself made his way through a wooded copse that gave way to a small clearing. In the pale light of the half-moon, four bodies were perceptible on the grassy ground, their silhouettes those of adult humans. Voldemort's boot nudged one, flipping it flaccidly onto its back. Theodore Nott Senior's visage stared blankly up at them, eyes wide and unseeing. The morbid effect of the scene was heightened by a dagger driven straight into Nott's chest. A note, splotched with red fading to rust brown, was pinned beneath the metal.
Your insult to our kind is irrevocable. Seek us again and we will annihilate you as you intended to do to us. The leaders of the Light will destroy you, with the werewolves at their side.
The short film of memory faded from the stones, to much chattering of the Death Eaters. Lucius mulled this information over silently, considering the message. It was fairly well known through the Death Eaters that werewolves, along with other dangerous magical creatures and half-breeds, would be eliminated once Voldemort had destroyed Potter. For now, it suited them to have powerful allies. But, when all was said and done, it would not do to have rivals for power. Although common knowledge among Death Eaters, it was obviously something of intimate secrecy among them.
Conceivably, the werewolves could have worked out Voldemort's plan themselves. They could have guessed.
Or.
Lucius felt his heart drop forcefully to the level of his navel. He couldn't have. That stupid boy. Where was he? Lucius felt sweat start to bead on his forehead. Did the Dark Lord suspect this also?
"The question is," hissed Voldemort very softly, as if in answer to Lucius' question, "Which of you betrayed our cause? Who is it that tipped them off, that swayed them to join the Light? Who," he seethed, "is responsible for the deaths of four of my followers?"
The room was silent. There was a feeling of general unease. No one stepped forward, understandably. Bellatrix whimpered and sniveled at the head of the crowd, putting on a show – or perhaps truly feeling, Lucius did not know – of profound grief.
Voldemort laid a familiar hand on Bellatrix's shoulder, stroking her as he would a favorite pet. His eyes roved the room, piercing the Death Eaters with a malicious glare. He alighted on Lucius, and Lucius held his breath until he moved on without apparent interest. Just as a knot of anxiety untwisted itself from his chest, Voldemort's eyes darted back to Lucius. Lucius felt dread pour over him like cold water.
"Luciusss," Voldemort called. Lucius stepped forward, heart beating rapidly. He struggled to maintain his composure.
"My lord?" he addressed Voldemort, bowing lowly.
"My old follower, yesss, my friend," Voldemort appraised him with his snake-like slits of pupils. "A loyal servant yesss, but what of your son? Where is Draco thisss morning?"
Lucius felt faintly nauseous, and he skimmed his mind for an excuse for Draco. Before he could speak, however, a silky voice from behind him spoke up.
"If I may, my Lord," answered Severus Snape, inclining his head but maintaining his rigidly severe posturing, "The young Malfoy was unable to leave Hogwarts unnoticed today. He was serving detention under that hawk McGonagall this morning. Cleaning rat cages by hand, I believe, for instigating….and winning," he added with touch of evident pride, "a duel against a Gryffindor seventh-year."
Voldemort gave his version of a half-smile.
"I sseee," he replied, apparently satisfied. "Thank you Ssseveruss." Severus gave another deep nod of his head, his black hair falling across his face, before stepping back in line.
Then, before Lucius could register it, Voldemort had hissed "Legilimens!" and Lucius found himself reliving memories that had no business presenting themselves at a Death Eater gathering. Lucius, giving Draco his first broomstick. Harry Potter, twelve years old and confronting Lucius about Voldemort's diary Horcrux in the hallway at Hogwarts. A muggle family, screaming under the torture of Lucius' wand.
By the time that scene played itself through, Lucius was cognizant enough to suppress his important memories – among them, his own suspicions about Draco and the secret imprisonment of Hermione Granger – and to throw up other memories in deflection. This was not, after all, his first legilimency session with the Dark Lord.
Leading him from one devoted Death-Eating memory to another, adding in a tasteful amount of his and Narcissa's love life for good measure and personal touch, Malfoy locked away his secrets and fed Voldemort an assortment of memories until the Dark Lord was satisfied. He withdrew from Lucius' mind, and Lucius took a dramatic step backwards as if to steady himself.
"Luciuss, please step back in line."
Lucius did so, not looking at Severus. Severus was probably the best liar and Occlumens Lucius knew, beyond himself. If Draco was not serving detention, which was likely, Severus was protecting him in the same way Lucius himself would. Lucius felt a kind of subtle admiration for Snape's due diligence by his son, and he would not cast doubt on Severus' presentation.
Voldemort continued in similar fashion throughout the room, occasionally calling out a name and demanding explanation as to their absence. Lucius resisted the urge to shudder and relieve the tension in his muscles. Mental invasion by the Dark Lord took its toll, and it left him feeling used and tired.
"Avery!" the Dark Lord seethed at last, "Where isss Avery?"
"In St. Mungo's," piped up McNair, "I reckon that last giant's left him a permanent dent in the head." McNair recalled the memory with a look of something akin to amused joy. "Ah, er," he continued, more seriously, "that giant is now in with our lot. I figure that's the majority of them now, with just a few weakling stragglers joining the Light."
The meeting adjourned after an hour and a half interrogation that yielded no answers, no traitors, and much to Bellatrix's dismay, no punishments.
And so here Lucius was, at the edge of the clearing of the wood, the glittering red and gold marble in hand. He pocketed the Portkey safely. It was not even midday and yet thought Lucius, his lips thinning resolutely, it was already a foul day. And it was about to get worse.
Hermione sighed as she scratched the seventh line into the wall with her bit of mortar. Seven days.
Seven days of monotony, of anxiety. Six nights of Lucius Malfoy, of his unforgiving stare and his steely cryptic words.
In seven days, she had managed to acquire one bar of soap and one towel from Malfoy. Tonight she hoped to finagle a toothbrush out of him, as her teeth felt uncomfortably filmy and unclean. At first Hermione had been hesitant about asking Malfoy for anything, but their mutual desire for cleanliness had won out over either believing it to be a concession on their part. Showering was a generally quick procedure, as it was chilly and uncomfortable in the cell; moreover, she had to take time to shimmy her jeans and underwear down the length of the chain as she could neither afford to get them wet nor take them off entirely with the chain's obstruction.
Afternoons were warmest, and as the sun drove itself directly down into her prison, Hermione hopped beneath the lukewarm tap water. She was just done washing her hair when she felt the chain start to shake and shiver, its sign to her that it would start to reel itself in. She frowned in confusion, for surely it was only early afternoon yet. Lucius shouldn't be due until nightfall. Hurriedly, she wrapped her towel about her torso, tucking it in neatly at the top to form a makeshift dress. She darted to stand in the corner beside the bed before the invidious chain had the chance to knock her sideways. She felt the now-familiar drain of energy that the chain incurred when it was activated, and took a deep breath to stave off dizziness.
She drew an apprehensive breath as she saw Lucius' shadow over her door, heard the groaning creak of the massive slab of wood bending its hinges, and watched the dark wizard descend.
"Mr. Malfoy," she greeted nervously, unable to keep the quaver from her voice. Her hair was dripping wet, and water ran in icy rivulets down her shoulders. She shivered. Unconsciously she wrung her hands together.
Malfoy didn't return the pleasantry but eyed her levelly as he stood with his arms crossed. Hermione shifted her weight on her feet, causing the wretched chain to sound off its customary jingle.
"Mr. Malfoy," she tried again, licking her lips, "What are you – er, I – what brings you here so early today?" She proudly held his black stare. He sighed.
"Go to the corner, Granger," he said, sounding almost tired, or so Hermione thought.
"But the – oh!" and she realized that the chain obliged her movements as she sidestepped towards the bed.
"Not that one, girl," Lucius bit out. He pointed beneath her shower spigot. Hermione paused, wary of crossing him.
"Why? Malfoy, what is going on?" She hugged her arms around her towel, self-conscious of her scant attire. She was shaking with adrenaline now, her body perceiving a very distinct and unknown danger. Lucius regarded her for a moment as she watched him choose his words.
"The players of our game are not behaving as I had hoped," he answered silkily. "They require…encouragement." He let the implicit explanation hang.
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face and the panic burst in her chest. She took a dizzying breath, trying to prepare herself for what she knew was to follow.
"You will hurt me," she whispered.
"Yes."
Hermione sunk to the floor, flattening herself against the unyielding stone behind her.
"Not there, Ms. Granger," he chastened sharply, pointing again to the corner under the shower, "Move."
Shaking and all at once unable to form coherent thought, Hermione grabbed blindly for her clothes as she forced herself to comply.
"Don't bother," Lucius said pragmatically, "They will only get soiled." Hermione nodded dumbly, holding her breath as she passed the Death Eater. She stood shaking in the appropriate corner beneath the shower spigot. Her bare feet pressed into the grate of the drain beneath her wet and slick still from her shower.
"Lie down, girl."
Tears of apprehension and fear fell unbidden from her eyes as Hermione stared confusedly at him. Lie down? Why? What exactly was he planning….she shuddered violently and closed her eyes tightly against sudden new fears.
"Lie down Ms. Granger," and Hermione imagined there was a gentler inflection of his tone now. "Most people fall instantly under the Cruciatus curse. I will not have you harmed unnecessarily from a sustained concussion."
Hermione couldn't help the hysteric laughter that bubbled out from her mouth. "Unnecessarily?" she choked scornfully on that word as she lowered her body to the cold floor. Lucius at least had the decency to nod in acknowledgement.
"I assure you Ms. Granger, I do nothing without necessity. As I promised you in the beginning. Everything I do is for the good of my family. The protection of what is mine."
Hermione barely had time to register this profound statement before she was hit with a pain so intense it knocked the breath from her lungs. She curled in on herself, blind with the consumption of agony that lasted an eternity.
Hermione was aware of a dull thud in her ears as she awoke, a throbbing of her body as it worked hard to supply oxygen to her damaged body. She ached, oh how she hurt! She cracked her eyes open, blinking. Her cell was dark, indicating night had fallen. She was alone. Quaking, she propped herself up on one unsteady arm, surveying her naked body. Well she looked intact anyway, despite feeling as though her innards had been eviscerated twice over. Groaning, she shifted to lean her back against the wall, hissing as the cold stone met bare flesh.
She was aware of the scent of urine, and realized that she would need another shower. Her hair was still damp from earlier. In fact, she felt the residue of sweat all over her body, and she grimaced at the effluvium of uncleanliness. Her towel was thrown to the opposite corner of the room, although she had no recollection of moving it there. Maybe Lucius did. She shuddered at the memory of his visit.
Crawling back to the shower spigot, Hermione cataloged her injuries, noting several large bruises blossoming on bony prominences. Likely a consequence of her earlier convulsions, she thought bitterly. With shaky hands she turned the spigot. The water that poured out was significantly warmer than it had been before; in another circumstance it would have been a welcome upgrade, but in her postictal state the liquid hit back like fire, as though her skin was hypersensitive to any form of touch. She cried out audibly, the sound echoing off the cell walls. Hermione finished as quickly as she could, trembling with the effort, and then stumbled back to her bed. She barely managed to towel off adequately and wrap her hair in the towel before she collapsed on her cot, shivering. She pulled the threadbare blanket up to her chin and sank into a fitful sleep.
Lucius paused as he steeled himself for his routine visit to the Mudblood girl tonight. He was anticipating a myriad of states she could be in, but certainly fear and anger would feature in all of them. He glanced around dourly as he passed through the wards on his property, reassured by the sudden appearance of the prison door in the field's center. He could imagine the pull of the chain about her ankle as his entrance stimulated its retraction. Such a nifty contraption really, though it unsettled him somewhat to think of such powerful magic used a slip of a girl – no, a Mudblood, he reminded himself forcefully, and the troublesome girl had forced his imprisonment of her anyway.
He snorted softly, recalling the instantly compliant effect the memory of Hermione's torment had had on Draco. A Malfoy besotted with a Mudblood. Lucius frowned at the notion, then brushed it off. The ploy had worked, and Draco's fancies of switching to the Light were harshly retracted.
He had been furious, yes, at first when he viewed the memory. The memory was even more vivid and convincing than Lucius had really hoped for. How docilely she obeyed him, he thought; how destitute and frightened she looked, there on the floor in nothing but a towel, eyes streaming with tears. It was perfect, really. He had let the scene close on Hermione's motionless and naked body alone on the floor.
Draco's fury had subsided to angry fear and anxiety after several explosive and fruitless minutes, and then they had serious deliberations. Lucius briefly relived the volley of admissions between the two of them this evening.
Yes, Draco had admitted bitingly to Lucius, it had been he who informed the werewolves last night.
Yes, Lucius had revealed threateningly, Hermione was still alive. For now.
Yes, Draco had begrudgingly promised, he would be obedient and subservient to his Lord. In exchange for her protection.
Yes, Lucius had sworn, he would continue to hurt her if Draco did not comply.
Whatever you want me to do, Draco had answered.
Lucius snorted at his son's own folly. But still, it was Lucius who was here in the clearing, his conscious forcing him to care for the Mudblood's welfare.
Lucius checked himself over once before opening the trapdoor. Appearances were everything to a Slytherin, and he approved the standard severe dark clothing that clashed with his pale skin and blonde hair. Donning a smooth façade to match his attire, Lucius descended into the stone prison.
He found her standing at her post as expected, the chain not allowing even a centimeter of leeway. She was bleary-eyed with sleep and quite obviously exhausted, with the blanket wrapped around her body and the towel falling from her head. She worked to straighten herself out, clutching the displaced towel against her body and allowing frizzed ringlets of hair to escape down over her shoulders. She shook with chill and confusion, but her chin was held high in paradigmatic Griffyndor bravery. The look was unquestionably satisfying, alluring even. To see such an inherently courageous creature so forcibly submissive. He watched as she took in his appearance, as she worked her jaw to form a question. He let her suffer a pregnant pause as she drew up the courage to question him.
"Again?" her voice rasped, and he watched as she realized that she had screamed herself hoarse from earlier. The waver in her voice belied her apparent bravery.
"No." He answered quicker than he would have liked. Lucius was no stranger to enjoying the discomfort of others, but there was something in her pitiful appearance that urged him to assuage her obvious fear in this particular moment. He frowned to himself and saw her shrink away from him in response. The mistrust in her eyes was plainly evident, and he sighed.
"Ms. Granger, your performance," and he drawled the word intentionally to watch for that spark of anger to flash across her face, "from earlier was entirely adequate. Hopefully an encore will not be needed."
He heard an audible breath release with clear relief, but then watched as her brow creased again in a frown of worry. For whom then, he wondered. For Draco? Ah, likely for her friends. Let her worry. He glared at her, and again she pressed herself seemingly further into the stone wall away from him. He schooled his features again.
"I have brought your food," he said by way of conversation. With a flourish of his wand he conjured a bowl of restorative broth in addition to her normal stipend. He did not miss the violent flinch Hermione gave at the motion of his wand, but he did not comment.
The savory scent of soup permeated the air, and he heard her stomach protesting its denial of food. She blushed prettily, shifting her grip on her makeshift linen dress. From his vantage, he now noticed the discolored bruises that were surfacing to her elbows, knees and shins.
She was so small, he thought with a negligible pinch of regret. The lack of sunlight had not done her any favors, and he noted faint circles under her eyes, stark against pale skin. How imprisonment had changed her, weakening her body by the day. Likely the social isolation was more devastating to her than it was to most, he reflected. The sad daily tally etched into the stone beside her bed caught his eye. A week, and look what he had done to her.
The sound of the short chain clinking drew his eyes back to his prisoner. The sound was unreasonably irritating, and he scowled at Hermione. She was shifting her feet, not meeting his eyes, as if indecisive about something. He knew her energy stores must be severely depleted, between the chain's power and the curse he had unleashed on her earlier. His own stomach turned at the memory; he himself was not unfamiliar with the reception of that Unforgivable, and he knew it was pride alone that kept her upright before him now. A spark of admiration for the Mudblood blossomed, and he stamped it out with difficulty.
"I will return tomorrow," he nodded to her in dismissal.
"Wait," Hermione's voice followed him as he half-turned to leave. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her.
Hermione's voice was stronger now, and he marveled somewhat at her resilience. She looked matter-of-fact, like she was settling a promise to herself to carry out a mission.
"I would like a toothbrush." Her attempt at a haughty demanding tone failed spectacularly in her state.
Lucius regarded her. He supposed she had earned it, he thought with idle amusement. With a decisive flick of his wand, tooth cleaning powder and a wooden toothbrush materialized on her bed.
"Thank you." Her words were terse, but he also recognized the true appreciation at being granted this prize. It sickened him slightly to hear her gratitude after the torment he put her through today.
"Eat. You need it." He ignored the brief look of surprise as he turned his heel and ascended upwards through the trapdoor.
Lucius wasn't sure precisely what prompted him to do so, but he returned to Hermione's cell hours later. He could not stop thinking about her all evening, those brown eyes staring at him every time he closed his eyes. It drove him to the point of insomnia. And so, when Narcissa was fast asleep, he crept off to his study to take hold of the gold and red marble.
On arrival, he deactivated the chain-shortening spell temporarily so she wouldn't be aware of his presence. He wasn't sure he wanted her know he was visiting for the third time in one day.
He stood over the trapdoor for several minutes, listening to the sough of leaves through the trees, listening for any sound of movement below him. Silence met his vigil, and with a whispered Silencio he opened the trapdoor, affording him a better view down below. He could make out her form just barely in the moonlight, wrapped tightly in the thin blanket he had provided and sleeping, albeit fitfully. Lucius frowned. The air was growing cold and in fact, an early frost had started to form tonight. His look blackened as he realized finally that she must be freezing at night. Why had she not said anything?
He recalled her stalwart demand for a toothbrush today. Stupid Gryffindor pride, he groused silently. It wouldn't kill the Mudblood to beg, but going on like this surely would. His anger towards her masked his own guilt at denying her such basic needs.
Well, as a well-dressed aristocrat himself, Lucius' fabric-conjuring skills happened to be up to par. With a complicated flourish, he materialized a fine comforter. Too fine for a prisoner really, he surmised, and with careful thought and a well-executed charm, the blanket transformed into something somewhat lumpier, far less lush, and just appropriate enough for a prisoner. He levitated it downwards, setting it on the corner of the bed. Upon second thought, he unfolded the comforter and draped it over her body, careful not to disturb her slumber. Satisfied with this outing, Lucius closed Hermione's door and retired for the night, pleased that finally this day had drawn to a close.