A/N: Teehee. David-El reviewed my story and gave it high praises. I'm so happy. I hope everyone else likes my story as well so far, and there is more to come.
In this chapter, there is no Hermione. Instead, Lucille interrogates her two new captives and the flashback shows Lucille getting her Hogwarts letter. The link between the two scenes is weak but I guess if you squint, you'll see it.
Rated for torture and gore, so if you don't like that, then skip to the flashback part.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Chapter 7 - What Is and Isn't Fair
She questioned the muggle first, which she knew would be much easier as Patrick said he was already giving information. She followed Patrick into the interrogation room, which looked more like a small breakroom for an office building. There was an untouched pot of coffee in the corner.
Upon her entry, the muggle who was inspecting the four beige walls turned to her. He looked very odd with his scarred, dirty skin and shabby clothes in the clean space. He ran up to her, causing Patrick to jump in front her but instead of attacking, he fell at her feet, almost crying to be let free.
She chuckled sheepishly and Patrick freed her from the man and sat him in one of the chairs. She then took a spot across the table with Patrick on her right.
"So Mr..." she began.
"Johnny. Now let me out of this place. I don't get you and your powers, but don't do anything to me. I've told you what I know. I've gave you people's names and addresses."
"How do I know those girls are actually where you say they are?" she asked, quirking her eyebrow at the man.
"Well I would have no idea what happens to them after, would I? All sales are final and confidential," the man replied with a smirk. She fixed him a glare, and he cleared his throat nervously, then repeated, "I told you all I know."
She smiled at him and Patrick proffered the sheet of paper with the information Thomas and Grant had written up. She looked down at the names, recognizing many of the purebloods as well as something peculiar about the girls.
"I see here you mentioned something about the men wanting the 'pretty blonde ones' the most?"
The man got a far away look in his eyes, "Yes, they were always the prettiest, mesmerizing almost. But as soon as I brought them out, the man would shackle them and then they'd change into scary witches. I just thought it was another freaky fetish thing."
She pursed her lips, made a mark on the paper and handed it back to Patrick.
"You're in luck today, Johnny. I will take your word for it that you've given me all I wanted. But if I do release you, how will I know something like this won't happen again? I'm sure someone like yourself knows how to adapt, change their name and go even deeper under the radar. I don't want to know more girls are being sold if I can stop at least one man."
The man spilled forward onto the table, grabbing her small hands and pleading with her again. She was almost surprised how he switched from smug to grovelling in seconds. "I won't do again, Ma'am. Don't do any freaky experiments on me. Please don't hurt me. Let me go, please."
She probed his mind, siphoning through his memories. She saw the faces of the all the girls, their pain and tears as they were just sold like cattle. She saw the faces of pureblood, lustful but with apparent disgust on their face. They hated her kind but were not above sullying themselves for pleasure. Such hypocrisy. She saw and felt Johnny's emotions during every transaction. He was numb to the girls' pain, only thinking about the sale and the money. He sold these girls into horrible fates and he was just as bad as the purebloods in his callousness.
She delved into Johnny's past: his muggle schools, where he seemed to be a ringleader of small gang; his mother, who only wanted the best for him but he didn't realize until later in life; and all the girlfriends he had that he ended up abusing.
She pulled out. She did not like hurting muggles, but this was a rotten man and a toxic individual, irredeemable and unable to be saved. If she released this man, he would definitely go back to his ways, but she had no use for him here. She had made her decision.
"I'm sorry, Johnny, but I don't believe you." She rose from the table, Patrick getting up behind her.
The man tried to get up to follow her as well, but realized he couldn't. He was stuck in his seat at the table. "Ma'am! Ma'am! Please!" he pleaded, but she did not turn back.
Outside the boardroom, two guards had been stationed while she had been inside. She turned to one and said, "Please take care of my guest as quickly as possible." He nodded and the pair went into the room. There was a flash of green from the room but she did not see. She continued with Patrick into the closest office on this floor. "Please, call Thomas and Grant. I want to go over their plan and add what I've learnt."
After finishing up with Thomas and Grant, she walked down to the holding cells, this time followed by Matthew. Mr Thwaites had been deemed dangerous and had to be restrained for his interrogation after being knocked out. She entered the cell, the man sitting at metal desk with his hands and legs held to the floor by invisible restrains. He shifted uncomfortably in the stiff-backed chair, his head moving only slightly with the invisible shackle around his neck which held him to the wall behind.
She and Matthew sat on the other side of the table and she offered the man a warm smile which he did not return. She began, "Mr Thwaites, I heard some of the nasty things you have been saying to my friend here."
The man regarded her with a cold look, obviously still seething at his lost of dignity, but he was quieter than he had been with Matthew, quiet, as in, not saying a word.
"I just spoke to Johnny and he mentioned having sold girls to you before, and how you seem to keep them like a collection," she continued.
Again, the man was silent, his expression unchanging.
She continued prodded him, asking questions from various angles, but he would say nothing in his defence or offence. She was growing incredibly impatient and a bit unsure of what to do next. They were usually more vocal once they were caught, most times spitting, but vocal nonetheless.
"You sully yourself with dirty blood on a regular basis, using the girls and discarding them as you see fit. I wonder what Mrs Thwaites, your wife and your mother, would think about this."
"They are both dead," the man finally said, his words clipped.
Ah. "So without them to reign you in, you do as you please. That must be a wonderful life - you dishonouring their legacy by inviting mudbloods into your home," she said nonchalantly. He almost looked regretful, his face a bit paler, as if he had never thought about it that way, but she was not interested in his remorse now. "I could take them all off your hands. The damage is already done but maybe you could redeem yourself in their eyes, though I doubt they would be very forgiving."
His fear and regret then turned into anger. He made to jump from the chair and at her, but the restraints tugged him back forcefully in his chair. He hissed in pain and said, "You know nothing about them, filth. I wish I could have added you to my collection. I would definitely break that pretty mouth of yours."
She tutted, and gave him another smile, "Of course you would, but that is not the world we live in. Currently, you are in my holding cells and you are the one in my 'collection'. Now there isn't much I really require of you, for what you know I could easily find out on my own. But it would be much easier if you just told me: I want to know of your collection."
He was quiet once more, his rage having died out. Her patience was thin. The sooner she found out where they were, the sooner she could find them. She probed his mind: she found his home, his cellar, his bedroom and all the acts performed on this girl by him and his friends, their wide grins and the girls' pained faces. She saw the vacant eyes of the girls, those that were broken on the inside and out. She saw the girls after they had expended their usefulness, their bodies mangled.
She pulled out in rage, sickened by what she saw and uninterested in anything further. She growled at him and he jumped back a bit, the sound unexpected. Her hand shot out like a bullet towards the man and she pushed her magic outwards.
The man's eyes rolled to the back over his head and started convulsing. His hands beat against the table, his feet stomping the floor, and his throat babbling. Blood rushed out of his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears. Matthew called her name, not knowing what she saw but knowing it was definitely terrible to inspire such a reaction from the usually calm woman.
But she was far beyond hearing Matthew, far beyond stopping. The man continued to shake before her, his hair matted with sweat and blood, and she found herself marvelling at his pain. She was avenging all those girls he tormented, humiliated, raped, dismembered and discarded like rotten meat.
He eventually fell forward onto the metal table, brain matter and blood leaking from his orifices, but she knew the table would not stain. She was breathing harshly, the only sound heard in the small room. The copper-iron smell rose from his limp body, mixed with the smell of regurgitated food. She didn't see Matthew's pale green face or hear him retching onto the floor.
She left the room in great strides, her chest still heaving. Matthew was slower to follow. Again, guards were outside the door, their faces pale from hearing the events within the room. She shrank a bit from her expression and she was sure she must have looked like a lunatic: her hair standing on end, sweat on her brow and her blue dress from this morning splattered with blood that was not her own.
She swallowed hard and then said to the guards, "I need a cleanup crew in there. Matthew, call David and we'll start the plans." She hoped to never do that again, but that was wishful thinking.
She sat in the tub, after scrubbing her skin raw of the man's blood. She had already discarded her clothes, requesting them to be burnt and not wanting to ever see them again. She closed her eyes, trying to calm her still frantic heart.
She should probably put those horrid memories in the Pensieve, but she would shoulder these sins. She knew she had to carry this burden because she deserved it for her actions, because those purebloods deserved it for their actions, because those muggleborns deserved it to acted on.
Her mind ran across the girl she had saved, the girl that had led her to these men in the first place. It wasn't her fault those men had died and she had probably saved those other girls from horrid futures. She wished she could be like that girl and not have to worry about matters such a this.
But life doesn't work that way. Life wasn't fair: it wasn't fair to her, wasn't fair to muggleborns and maybe what she did to those men wasn't 'fair', but it was too late for that.
She slipped a bit further into the water, hoping to wash these thoughts away.
Lucille envied the muggleborn girl. She was normal, with normal muggle parents who loved, probably went to a normal muggle school and was excited to find out she was a witch. She was someone who was happy to receive her letter and just have the opportunity to prove herself as more, to prove that someone from a non-magical background could be great.
She was the girl she had hoped Jaime would grow up to be, with her as the proud parent.
That was not the girl Lucille had been. As the new muggleborn 'Abbot', she was mistreated and abused, treated no more than a common house slave. It was harder for her to work among the elves; she did not have the powers they did and had to do her chores by hand. If she misbehaved or hadn't done her work properly, she was beaten and kicked. They never used spells against, but they hurt her just the same.
There was no one she could tell. No one would ever listen to the little mudblood girl who lived with the elves. She cried herself to sleep most nights as they tended to her wounds. She knew there was no hope for her really to escape these people, for she was legally their 'daughter'.
Then hope came in the form of a letter - her Hogwarts letter. The letter that would allow her to use magic. She would become a full-fledged witch. She could prove that she was more than just a waste of space. In her naive, young mind, she thought that maybe if she was really good, just maybe the Abbots would let her out of the elves' quarters.
Lucille walked quickly through the house towards her parents' study with her letter clutched in her hand. Yesterday was her birthday, not that her foster parents had cared. She had a quiet birthday party with the elves and they even came together and made her a card. It was currently pasted on the wall next to her little cot. The best present was a letter Dotty had given her from Hogwarts itself which she intercepted from the delivery owl.
She knocked softly on the door two times before she waited with her hands behind her back. Then the door was wrenched open and her 'mother', or as she was to call her, Marissa, stared down at her. "What do you want girl? Shouldn't you be preparing afternoon tea?"
Lucille bowed low, her long hair brushing the floor. No matter how much Marissa would cut it, it always grew back to the correct length, until she just gave up. Lucille spoke with her head still down, "I got my Hogwarts letter yesterday."
Marissa stepped out of the study and snatched the letter from her hands clasped behind her back. She ripped open the envelope saying, "I didn't even know you were ten and now you're eleven." Her eyes scanned the letter briefly before she looked back down at the crouching girl. "Girl, look at me."
Lucille raised her head and couldn't hold back the hopeful look in her eyes. She had always wanted to go Hogwarts, ever since she heard of it from the matrons at the orphanage.
Her mother smiled down at her, "Lucille, Lucille, Lucille. You won't be going to Hogwarts, girl. You have to stay here and work with the elves." Before Lucille could say anything, Marissa took the letter and envelope in both hands ripped it right down the middle, then into fours. "So throw any notions out of your pretty little head. Clean this mess up and I expect tea within the next five minutes."
Marissa trotted back into the study before shutting the door in Lucille's face. Lucille bent down and picked up the torn pieces with tears in her eyes. Her parents didn't want to spend money on her or needless school supplies. Living with them was already a gift. She shouldn't be greedy asking for more. She already knew what happened when she did that.
She scuttled off with the pieces and into the kitchen to prepare tea. She should have kept the letter to herself.
More letters kept coming, and everyday Marissa would rip them up, making sure that Lucille saw. Eventually it led to this small cramped cupboard of the kitchen. All because she was magic. All because she was dirty in their eyes. And from the people who attended Marissa's parties, they thought her that way too. Marissa was so caring and compassionate to take one of them in.
Now Lucille had never hated anyone before. She never hated those boys for hurting her parents, she never hated the orphanage and she had never hated her foster parents. It just wasn't in her to hate. But now she sat in the cupboard, she had started to entertain the idea of hatred. She started to understand the concept of unfairness and being unjustly treated.
Lucille scratched at the side of the cupboard, deeper than she intended. She had been here for three days now, the house-elves forbidden to give her any food until the letters stopped coming. She was beyond hungry now, her stomach eating itself as it grumbled, but she felt no pain. All she wanted was to be set free.
Then the cupboard opened and shielded her unadjusted to the bright light from beyond. A kind face appeared in the space, mostly shadowed by the light behind him. "Lucille, my child," he said kindly, "please come out of here."
He reached his hand out and gently pulled her from the cupboard. All the house-elves were looking at this man in awe, but quickly came around when she came out. She saw the Abbots standing in the doorway to the elves' quarters with deep frowns on their face. She cowered under their gazes and the old man noticed.
He turned to the Abbots, "Marissa, Florean, what have you been doing to this girl?"
Marissa put on her prettiest smile and approached the old man, the elves parting in her wake, "Nothing at all, Albus. But she was being a bit disobedient so we put her in... a time out."
"Ah, I think a better place for a time out would be her room and not a cupboard," the old man said.
Marissa stammered a bit before saying, "I raise my child how I see fit, Albus. And she seems to have learnt her lesson, right dear?"
The question was directed her at with another pointed look and Lucille quickly nodded.
The old man looked at her and then back at Marissa, "You are indeed correct, Marissa. I don't have the rights to tell you how to raise your child, but I do have the right to report signs of abuse."
Florean spoke up, "That won't be necessary, Albus. I'm sure the girl will never act out again. Lucille, please go to your room."
The girl looked down at her bare feet and slowly walked towards a small door at the back of the elves' quarters. The old man asked, "Where are you going, child?"
She was going to answer when Florean said, "Yes, Lucille, don't you remember? Your room is on the second floor." He held out a hand towards her.
Could this really be true? But Lucille knew not to believe them too easily. She had been tricked before. She walked back over to the Abbots and stood in front of Marissa, who put a tentative hand on the girl's shoulder.
The old man reached into his long purple robes and pulled out an envelope and handed it to her. "Now I believe this is yours, and yours alone." He spoke to Marissa, "Someone will be here to take her for her supplies on August 31, which is in two weeks. Please make sure she is ready to go at 10 o'clock."
The old man made to leave the room and Lucille felt the grip on her shoulder tighten. He said one last thing to the Abbots, "Remember what I have said."
She had hoped that her parents would have been scared of the old man. He seemed to radiate power, possess vast wisdom and commanded respect. Was life finally being fair to young Lucille?
Not a chance in hell. Although the old man had warned her parents, nothing had changed in the Abbot household. She was still abused, still mistreated and still attending to her parents' needs as a magicless house-elf. Only one good thing came from this: she had been moved from the elves' quarters and given a room on the second floor. It was bare save for a small four-poster bed, a set of drawers and a mirror.
Lucille would be happy with the small miracles. She would live her life, accepting her place in the Abbot family, but unknowingly harbouring her hatred of them, and all purebloods, for the next few years until everything fell apart.
