Chapter 14: Paint Me as a Villain
Tom's appearance in the Great Hall was met with an instant hush that blanketed the room, reducing them all to silence in the wake of his elongated stride. Pansy, startled by his unexpected arrival, shifted abruptly from stifled apprehension to heart-pounding terror as Tom paused beside Harry, moistening his lips.
"Ah, Lord Henry," Tom said, forcing something that was only a smile in that the motion bore his teeth. "Poliakoff," he acknowledged, nodding to the men at Harry's table, "Krum. Isn't it a pleasure, being among so many faithful compatriots?" he asked, gesturing to the goblets in their hands and leaning into the words. "Perhaps we should have a toast. Where is my Queen?"
He looked up, meeting Pansy's eye across the hall, and she half-froze, panicked, before her well-trained legs, noble of birth and peerless in stature, erupted her forth from her throne, shakily making their way towards him. She felt the sound of her uneven breath and the static pattern of her shoes ricocheting through the room as she reached him, handing him his goblet, and he gave her long, studious look.
"My Queen," he ventured, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer, "do you have any thoughts on how best to delight our guests?"
She avoided Harry's eye, sensing him as he watched her; she felt the heat of his gaze sear ruthlessly into her waist, his unguarded stare set darkly where Tom's hands touched her.
"Perhaps to their good health," Pansy suggested, clearing her throat. "An expression of gratitude, of course, for their - " she trailed off, swallowing hard. "Friendship."
"Ah, yes, friendship," Tom agreed, glancing down at the Durmstrang dignitaries. "Such as your Queen Olympe bestowed upon me, don't you think?"
At the entry to the Hall, a few of Tom's nobles had filtered in, and Pansy caught the motion of Karkaroff smiling mockingly from afar as Poliakoff and Krum averted their gazes.
"You know, my Loyalists can attest that I take very good care of my friends," Tom continued lightly, his fingers burning through the fabric of Pansy's gown. "Quite good care, actually. So yes, as my Queen has said, to friendship," he offered, raising his glass. "To the many fruitful friendships you have made here," Tom announced, and the men at the table tentatively followed, picking up their goblets and raising them unsteadily in the air.
"May they be aptly rewarding," Tom murmured, and Pansy's stomach lurched, burdened by the way her husband's eyes drifted worryingly to Harry's. Rather than consent to drink, though, Tom paused, glancing down at Pansy. "Oh, but one more thing," he ventured abruptly, and the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. "I'm afraid I'd be quite impolite if I didn't mention your families. I must also thank them for enduring in your absence, that I may profit from your presence here at court. Sisters, correct?" he asked, turning to Krum. "And an engagement, I believe. And you, Poliakoff," he added, turning to him. "Brothers? Cousins? Even a bastard son, I hear," Tom murmured. "A pity to leave a little one behind, and yet - "
He trailed off, and Pansy watched both men's faces drain of color.
"But nobody is ever too far, are they?" Tom continued. "Our loved ones are never quite . . . out of reach," he said, a quiet edge of meanness reaching his voice as he pulled Pansy closer, yanking her firmly against his side. "Are they, sweetheart?" he asked her, his blue eyes settling on hers.
Her chest constricted, and she barely managed a nod.
She recalled that Hermione had slipped out before Tom's reappearance; did she know?
Did Tom know?
Pansy's breath tore violently from her lungs as Tom turned back to Harry, once again lifting his goblet in the air.
"How about this, then? To good fortune for our friends, and righteous justice for our enemies," Tom called heartily, his gaze dropping to Harry's again. "And above all, to the wisdom to know the difference."
He tilted his glass against his lips, taking a sip, and the other men followed; all but Harry, that is, whose brow furrowed with displeasure as he pointedly slammed his goblet against the table, making a show of his disobedience.
"Don't," Pansy let out on a muted breath, but Harry rose to his feet, facing Tom.
"Your Majesty," he said through gritted teeth, "you sound as though you have a message to convey. Perhaps it would be better if you spoke it - or is it a Gaunt tradition to hide behind deceit?"
Tom bristled momentarily, but returned with a cutting smile.
"How clever to remind the court who is a Gaunt, and who is a Peverell," Tom said. "Perhaps you'd like to remind yourself which family's emblem drapes above your head," he ventured coldly, gesturing to the snake on the banner above, "and at whose mercy you remain at court, Your Grace."
"Mercy?" Harry echoed furiously, and Pansy felt Tom's arm tighten around her, his touch a warning that tore into her heart. "You call this mercy? This is imprisonment in its most cowardly form," Harry snarled. "You fear me enough to keep me here, to trap me here, and were I n- "
"That's enough," Pansy inserted roughly, conscious of the eyes that had swiveled from every corner of the room. At the sound of her voice, Harry's tongue stilled, his green eyes wide as he blinked fury back from his gaze. "Your Grace, you forget yourself," she warned flatly, drawing her spine aloft and yet hating every gap that manifested between her vertebrae. "You disavow my husband's favor, and such behavior cannot be tolerated here at court."
Harry stared at her, betrayed, and faltered.
"Your Majesty," he ventured, bowing his head. "Perhaps I got carried away - "
"Then I would advise you to be a bigger man than your tempers," Pansy cut in, "and leave such inadvisable volatility to myself and my ladies."
It was too far; the statement too dry, too familiar. Harry stared at her, and Tom, she noted with a shudder of fear - with a whisper of warning, striking far too late - eyed her just as closely, his gaze narrowing as it traveled between her face and Harry's to land, ominously, on the wavering distance between them.
"Interesting," Tom murmured under his breath, and Pansy instantly turned to face him, re-setting her mask and coquettishly permitting a retreat, bowing her head.
"Begging Your Majesty's pardon," she offered, "but I'm afraid it pains me too greatly to fail to come to my King's defense, and I must ask your forgiveness rather than suffer any passivity on your behalf."
"Forgiveness granted," Tom said, amused, and Harry's expression soured.
"And I apologize also, Your Majesty," Harry ground out, clearing his throat. "I'm afraid I've had too much to drink," he offered in clearly false explanation, "and perhaps we're all tired out from the unequaled merriment of your court."
Pansy took a breath; trapped it.
For a moment, Tom stared between them, contemplating something.
"My, my, how well behaved we all are," he commented eventually, and Pansy's heart plummeted, her lungs overfilling, her chest swelling, and -
"Pettigrew," Tom called over his shoulder, turning to his aide as the bubble of fear in Pansy's ribs paused just short of bursting. "Perhaps we should all retire for the evening, given how exhausting the day has been. Our friends will surely have a number of concerns for us in the morning," he added, "and so deserve a rest, I think."
"Yes, of course," Pettigrew returned, and immediately, people around the room began to shift, returning to their dinner plates and pretending not to have seen the small instance of war that had waged in the hall. "And," Pettigrew added, dropping his voice as he approached Tom's side, "shall I also fetch - "
"Yes, when you see Lady Hermione, send her to my chambers," Tom muttered to him, his brow creased in thought. "And - "
He turned, glancing at Pansy.
"You too, I think," he told her, and behind him, she saw Harry's fists clench.
Rather than ask questions, though, Pansy forced a curtsy.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she said, dropping to the ground, and when she looked up, Tom was gone, and in his place only the pained gaze of the rogue left standing.
Hermione held the glow of Draco Malfoy's life in her hands, eyeing it closely. She'd asked Tom what she possessed of Rabastan after she'd stolen it, and he'd replied simply that it had been his consciousness. This, she presumed was similar. She eyed it with fascination; Draco's being, or whatever it was, looked no different than Rabastan's, but it pulsed with a newness she hadn't yet encountered.
"You tried to trick me," she commented again, glancing down at Draco where he struggled to remain on his knees. She paused, peering down at him. "Why?"
He glared up at her, struggling to speak, and she brought the white glow of him to her lips.
"Tell me," she whispered to it, and she felt him shudder, cursed with obedience.
"I no longer trusted Rabastan," he said. "I suspected your involvement, but I never thought - " he groaned slightly, shaking his head. "I thought your influence was unnatural, but not unholy."
"Oh, don't pretend at devotion," Hermione told him impatiently, and again he shuddered, held captive by her restraints. "You fed him false information to lead me on a track of what, exactly? You risked your life for what?" she demanded. "Tell me the truth," she added sharply, lest he give her an answer as unsatisfactory as the ones before.
His tongue did her bidding, but he smiled recklessly first.
"That you would be humbled," he replied, and she tightened her grip on him, prompting him to drop to his hands, head bent before her.
"Humbled," she echoed angrily, shaking her head. "How ironic that you would believe yourself capable of invoking anything of the sort. Perhaps you are the one who should be humbled," she mused, tightening her grip again, diminishing him to anguish. "How's this, for a start?"
He coughed out something incoherent, choking on a strangled breath.
She sighed, finding it all painfully mundane.
"Do you know how easy it would be for me to kill you?" she ventured musically, eyeing the glow in her hand. "Effortless. Even less just to control you," she added, "though you should know, I think, that my hold over your father is natural. Pity you couldn't be as useful as he is," she added, and Draco glared up at her, defiant.
"You want me dead?" he seethed. "Do it, then. Kill me."
She scoffed.
"You value your life too much to be sincere," she warned, arching a brow. "Don't taunt me."
"What's the purpose of a life when it's in your hands?" he countered. "If I have to live on my knees, it won't be to serve you, so if that's your plan, just kill me. You say it's easy," he added, dragging his gaze up towards hers. "I've taken lives before, Granger, and I can promise you it's never once been easy. So prove it," he spat. "Or else how can you possibly win?"
She indulged a pause, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reflexive answer.
"Valid point," she permitted.
He grimaced.
"How do you do it?" he asked her, more taunting than curious. "A curse? A magic spell?"
So when you take a life, she heard herself ask Tom, you do it with a piece of yours?
"Nothing quite so inelegant," she replied.
If I did not imbue something with a piece of myself, she heard Tom reply, what power would I have over it?
"Then do it," Draco said, and bent his head again, staring resolutely at the floor.
And yet -
Just because you can control something, she heard herself lament, doesn't mean you should.
She eyed the piece of him, contemplating it; contemplating her own troubled thoughts. Rabastan's life had felt dull and flat and unfaceted but this, whatever this was in her hands, it pulsed with something she might have guessed was tension. It swirled, in motion, undergoing constant shifts and changes, and it was harder just to hold, much less to fully possess. She bit her lip, concentrating; invaded it for a moment, the way Tom had once invaded her, and schooled her breathing, closing her eyes.
She had let Rabastan into her blood and it had been easy enough, but now it seemed her veins spun with volatility, with motion and with conflict. She let a piece of her drift, injecting it momentarily; at her feet, Draco shivered violently, flooded with a chill.
She understood now what Tom meant about killing, about giving or taking enchantment or life; she could close off the piece of herself she'd given Draco, and it would extinguish him forever. She was bigger, sharper, and there was no doubt in her mind that between what existed of him and what held sovereignty from her, he would surely lose.
She made the mistake, though, of opening her eyes.
Of seeing him at her feet.
Of disliking him most this way.
Of loathing him more prostrate than she had ever hated him on his feet.
Just because you can control something -
She yanked him up, shoving the piece of him back into his chest and waiting as he gasped, staggering forward; his hands met her hips, steadying himself as he slumped forward in her arms.
"Why do you hate me?" she asked, not quite relinquishing her hold on him. Not yet. "Tell me the truth."
He struggled, tried to fight her, but the words still spilled out.
"I cannot control you," he said bitterly, "and I cannot defy you, and I - "
"You cannot want me," she realized, blinking. "It would cost you everything. Your conscience," she said, "your riches, your status, your father's love, the approval you need so desperately from those around you - " She faltered, staring at him as he managed to raise his head, glaring down at her. "You want to destroy me so that I won't destroy you."
His eyes narrowed, furious, and then she knew it was true.
Not that he seemed inclined to agree.
"You romanticize it," he spat. "Can I not hate you unencumbered?"
"You can," she said. "But you don't."
"You're wrong," he snapped, but she, struck with the bubbling urge to laugh, only shook her head.
"I'm not," she said, and to prove it, she pulled his head down to hers, trading a deliberate, calculated breath between her lips and his before tilting her chin up, brushing them lightly to touch.
Instantly, he stiffened; he inhaled so sharply he stole the motion from her mouth, too, and she felt his breath as fully as if she'd taken it herself. She waited, counting silently to three as their lips touched, motionless; and then, after the taste of the wine from his lips had soaked fully to hers, bleeding between them, he swallowed heavily, deepening the pressure.
She hadn't wanted to make a comparison, but it was inevitable. Tom took his kisses forcefully; snatched them. Draco, on the other hand, wandered gradually into this one, exploring the shape and feel of her lips against his with motions that grew more and more certain, more and more desperate; and then, like he'd been ignited, he yanked her closer, pulling her against him with his fingers wrapped tightly in her hair.
The moment the kiss turned frantic, turned tempting and alluring, she shoved him away, meeting his eyes with triumph.
"Tell me I'm wrong now," she challenged him, and he looked as though he would strangle her with his bare hands.
"Even if I did, it would mean nothing," he returned, glaring at her. "You've stripped me of any autonomy, haven't you?"
She stepped back then, withdrawing her hold on him, and bore her palms plainly, hands out for his inspection as she purposefully put distance between them.
"Tell me I'm wrong, then," she invited. "Tell me you hate me."
He didn't answer.
"Why did you do it?" he asked instead.
"That you would be humbled," she replied easily, setting her jaw. "Now," she beckoned, "tell me you hate me, or suffer a crippling loss, Malfoy."
"Those are my only choices?" he drawled, stalling.
She paused, weighing the worth of the opportunity she held in her hands.
"No," she said. "But are you a man who follows orders, or a man who takes what he wants?"
Draco stared at her, his brow twitching with confusion; he knew it was a trap - she hadn't bothered to hide it - but still, it was a choice between catastrophic errors. Down to the unerring steadiness of her hands, though, she knew which one he would choose.
"I fucking loathe you," he snarled, and gathered her in his arms, kissing her roughly again.
"Your Majesty," Harry called, chasing after her from the Great Hall as she headed back to her chambers to undress. "Please - "
Pansy tilted her head, arching a brow at Daphne, who permitted a wary nod.
"Lady Hannah, Lady Lavender," Daphne beckoned quietly, gesturing down the corridor. "We'll ready the Queen's nightclothes for her."
Lavender frowned. "But - "
"Come now," Daphne urged, quickening her step. "Do as you're told."
Lavender nodded, hurrying to follow, and Hannah did the same, neither woman looking back as Pansy stepped wordlessly into an alcove, Harry following after her.
"Listen," Harry whispered desperately, his hand floating towards her arm. "I know it looks like things have gone wrong, but - "
"Gone wrong?" Pansy echoed, glaring at him. "Why would you taunt him, Harry? What did you possibly have to gain by baiting him?"
Even in the shadowed alcove, she could see his expression darken, old grudges and ancient history carving lines around the smooth edges of his mouth.
"Tom thinks he's above the law," Harry replied. "He thinks he can go unchallenged, that no one will ever defy him, but - "
"So let him think that!" Pansy snapped. "What do you have to gain by showing him your hand?"
"Everything," Harry retorted. "I have everything to gain. His court isn't happy," he reminded her brusquely, still bristled with temper, as if she might have stupidly forgotten how things had long been. "You're not the only one who's lost faith in him, and every opportunity that I have to stand against him is a reminder that they don't have to do his bidding. He is King by his nobles' support only, and nothing else."
"But every moment you defy him, you put yourself in danger," Pansy countered, feeling shattered at the thought. "You put everyone close to you in danger, Harry, and you won't be the one to suffer." She broke off, bringing a hand to her mouth. "Your friends will be the ones to die for your defiance," she reminded him hoarsely. "Any family you have, any allies, they will - " she stopped. "We will - "
She swallowed hard, and he stepped forward, taking her face in his hands.
"I will never let him harm you," Harry swore. "I won't let any harm come to you, Pansy, I promise you - "
"You can make no such promise, Harry. He is calling me to his chambers tonight," Pansy reminded him, her voice thick with fear. "He could kill me and you would have nothing, nothing to say, and no means to stop him - "
"Then don't go to him," Harry urged. "Stay with me. I can get you passage with Poliakoff," he added. "I can get you out of here - "
"And spend my life running from a man whose reach is limitless?" Pansy demanded. "No, Harry. I can't afford to play your games, or I will lose my head. I'm only valuable so long as I give him what he wants," she said helplessly, "and the moment I do not, he will happily be rid of me for Herm-"
"Pansy," Harry cut in soothingly, his hand caressing her cheek. "Pansy, don't you see? Your life would be better without him," he murmured. "Don't you see I want a better world for you? For us? Without the King, without Tom, your life would - "
"My life," Pansy realized slowly, taking a cautious step back, "has no significance."
The moment she said it, let the words cross her tongue, she felt an illusion shatter. She saw the pieces fall from the board, dropped one by one by the whims of a man capable of playing them all; of a King - two Kings - who were the only pieces capable of ending the game, much less managing to withstand it.
Harry blinked. "What? But - "
"You don't need me," Pansy told him, a wave of recognition washing over her with a forceful, terrifying blow. "Your claim to the throne is strong enough that you could rule without me, Harry. Isn't it?" she asked, waiting, and he paused, biting his tongue.
"I would never - "
"But still, you could," she pressed. "If Tom kills me, you can still take the throne. If Tom dies, then the throne is yours, whether I breathe or not."
The game could stand to lose a Queen, she knew.
It was incomplete, however, without one King to check the power of another.
"I am not a queen at all," she realized, pressing the palm of her hand to her perilously thudding heart. "I am a pawn."
She looked down, looked away, looked lost; Harry reached for her, desperate.
"Pansy," he said, holding her like she might slip through the cracks in his fingers. "Pansy, please, don't lose faith in me now - "
"Lose faith?" she asked in disbelief, shutting her eyes. "Harry, my faith was misplaced from the start. I knew you would be the death of me," she said, her hands shaking. "I knew it, and shortly Tom will know it, too. If you are caught, if you're convicted of treason - "
"Pansy," Harry begged, but she shook her head.
"I will burn beside you," she forced out, her eyes snapping open. "We are not a well-kept secret, Harry, and all it takes is suspicion. All it takes is one word, one mention of you pursuing me - a story from a trustworthy noble of you walking with me in the garden, or you disarming me in the courtyard, or - " she trailed off, panicked. "A word from Draco Malfoy, who hates you and would be glad to see you gone, and then I'm implicated in your schemes - "
"None of that is proof of treason," Harry cut in forcefully. "I've kept you out of all of this - "
"No, you haven't," Pansy returned, her voice low and dull; a vacant, empty throb of pain. "You let Poliakoff and Krum appear at my side, you encouraged them to court my favor. All of these things will get back to Tom, and he knows," she rasped. "He knows they betrayed him, and he will know you betrayed him, and then it will only take one piece of gossip to paint me as a traitor, too."
Harry's face paled, his mouth opening and closing on words that couldn't salvage what had already bled out.
"What would you have me do, then, Pansy?" he asked her instead, pulling her close again and pressing his lips firmly to the top of her head. "Would you have me be silent? Say nothing, stand for nothing? Remain at the fringes of court and watch him make a wreckage of the world I love?"
Yes, she thought, yes, isn't it obvious?
"I would have you by my side," she whispered, her hands drawing up the length of his spine and burying her fingers there; anchored there by him, harboring him in her space. "I would trade my wealth, my jewels, my title if it meant I could live a fearless life with you - "
"Stand with me, then," he told her, his voice quiet in her ear. "I don't fear death, Pansy."
That's because you won't be the one to die, she didn't say.
"I love you," he promised her, his arms wrapped longingly around her waist, and she shuddered with devastation.
"Come to me tonight," she said, forcing a deep breath. "We'll figure this out, won't we? Save both our lives," she added weakly, attempting a smile as she looked up at him. "Do you love me enough for that?"
"I love you enough for several lifetimes," he swore. "I love you beyond every risk."
She drew back, stroking her thumb along his cheek, and nodded.
"I only wish I deserved it," she whispered, brushing his lips once before hurrying back to her chambers.
Draco pressed her back against the table, his hands delving without reservation to her waist and digging in more painfully than the corset that cut into her ribs. Hermione fumbled for the ties at his trousers, yanking them down, and he hurriedly lifted her back on the table, the motion of his touch rough and artless against her legs as he drew her gown hurriedly up her thighs.
She leaned back, pulling him towards her, and he slid her hips forward, laying her back against the table; the fire crackled and danced, the flash of it behind them reflecting in the beads of sweat on his forehead as he slid his thumb against her cunt, stroking her, and then slid himself inside her. She let out a sharpened groan, inhaling roughly, and he thrusted again, harder; she arched her back, lifting it from the table as he held tight to the jut of her hips, keeping her close. He leaned forward, his hand reaching up to close slightly at the base of her neck, and she turned her head, baring it for him; he pressed a kiss to the base of her throat, then another, traveling up the side of her neck until his tongue darted around the lobe of her ear, ending in a sharp, malicious bite.
He leaned back to watch her face, staring down at her, and opened his mouth as if he would say something; she swallowed, staring back at him, and then he paused, leaning forward to catch her lips with his again. She kissed him back, delirious and violent, and then he pulled her upright, pressing her chest to his as he continued to fuck her, rhythmic and desperate and filled with a horrible, twisted devastation, as though the hatred they'd set alight between them had taken on an abhorrent life of its own. She came with fury, with rage, biting down on his shoulder and wishing to tear apart the muscle with the edges of her canines; he followed with a groan of madness and pain, his nails sunken into the sides of her thighs as the marks of his lips and teeth raged, like tiny, militant welts, across the exposed skin of her chest.
For a moment they remained frozen, panting, and then he slowly looked into her eyes, the grey of his own sparking with panic.
"What have we done?" he asked hoarsely, his face bloodless with terror. "What have you done?"
He withdrew, fumbling with his trousers, and she adjusted her skirt, feigning a tranquil indifference that she decidedly did not feel. She flexed her fingers, drawing stillness from them, and slid her hands coolly against the surface of her gown.
"You will not tell him. You cannot," she said emphatically, "because he will never trust you again."
"Nor you," he accused furiously, swallowing, and she shook her head.
"He'll take my word over yours," she promised him. "In a heartbeat."
His eyes widened, disbelieving.
"This is a dangerous game you're playing," he said, licking his lips, and finally, she managed to harden her expression, forcing a mocking smile.
"Oh, it certainly is," she agreed, sliding down from the table. "Now I have one of your secrets, Draco Malfoy, and that is more dangerous a fate for you than you can possibly imagine. If you cross me again," she whispered, taunting him with a forward step, "he will know of this, and he will kill you."
"I know one of your secrets, too," he returned coldly, his hand floating impulsively to his chest. "If you think this court won't condemn you for sorcery, for heresy, for witchcraft - "
"You can try to accuse me," Hermione shot back. "But if you do, I think you'll find yourself dead before you open your mouth to speak."
He stared at her.
Gauged her; weighed her threats.
"Now you're gambling," he commented, and she gritted out a laugh.
"Is it really a gamble when I know the players so well?" she prompted. "You won't tell a soul - I know you can't afford to. Perhaps you can play a long game, Malfoy, but I can end this here and now. The King will listen to me," she assured him, though by the look on his face, he knew it already. "If I tell him you forced yourself on me, your head will roll."
"Why wouldn't you, then?" he demanded. "Why would I bother believing you'd keep this secret, knowing that's precisely your goal?"
"What, and lose the entertainment of your weakness? No," she scoffed. "Stay alive, Malfoy. Live a long life of loyal service to me, and see how well I wear your favor."
For a moment, she felt a rush of triumph, having trapped him in the confines of a game she knew he was ill-equipped to play.
Only for a moment, though, until his grey eyes abruptly narrowed.
"You didn't kill me because you can't," he mused, prompting her to scowl. "I told you it wasn't easy, and it isn't, is it?" He laughed callously, watching her tighten a fist with irritation. "You don't actually want me dead, do you, Granger?"
Instantly, she wished she had killed him.
Still, she hadn't fully ruled it out.
"An adorable quality of yours, underestimating me," she returned tangentially, knowing that that, at least, would remind him not to make the same mistake twice. "You risked your life that I would be humbled, and look how spectacularly you failed," she pronounced, gifting him a mocking bow. "Was it worth it, Draco?"
Again he stared at her, measuring her, and then he took a step. She struggled not to falter, her hand flying back to rest on the edge of the table, but he bent his head without hesitation - without tentativeness, without calculation, without pause - and roughly kissed her again. It was less biting this time, less tainted with venom, but still there was anger to it, and wrath, and Hermione, having held the whole of his being in her palm once before, felt it again when her hand flew up to rest against his chest. She felt the staggering weight of his refusal to perish, the hardened edges of his soul as it carved itself beneath her fingers, all of it drifting like waves beneath her hand; she felt him and condemned him, feeling him spark against her touch.
For a moment she blinked, feeling something rise up again in the recesses of her mind; a snake, she thought, and a lioness, passion and blood and bone. A touch in the darkness, the sputtering of a candle flame, the hollow glow of a raised crown, a strike of steel against gold - a brash darkness, a bright paleness -
Was it worth it? she had asked, and wondered what answer he'd give when he finally tore his lips from hers.
"You tell me," he said bitterly, and turned to leave, slamming the door behind him just as the fire behind her flickered, abruptly swallowed up.
Tom paced the floor of his chambers as Pansy stood before him, his fingers tightly gripping the emerald-laden hilt of a dagger. She was dressed for bed, but saw that any such activity was not in her husband's plans; instead, he merely tore back and forth across the floor, not meeting anyone's eye.
Hermione, still in her gown for the evening, rose to her feet, approaching him. She placed a hand on his arm, steadying him, and he turned, slamming the blade of the dagger into the table before him. Even at a distance, Pansy could see what he had done; the edge of the blade tore through the letters Grimmauld where they were curled, scripted, along the northern regions of the map of Diagon.
"Breathe," Hermione warned him, her expression colder than Pansy had ever seen it. The other woman's frame was rigid, unmoving, and where Pansy had once hated her for her lack of bend, she now felt increasingly awed, knowing Hermione's control over Tom was perhaps the most powerful weapon that either woman possessed. "Suppress your temper," she added quietly, and Tom stiffened, the tension in his shoulders slowly drifting at her touch until he exhaled slowly, the unknowable mania slowly leaving his gaze.
No wonder he wanted her, Pansy thought.
The woman was clearly a witch.
"The Duke of Grimmauld is receiving funds from Queen Olympe," Tom said flatly, and neither woman betrayed surprise at the information. "I suspect Poliakoff and Krum have been involved. I've dispatched Mulciber and Snape to take care of the issue," he added icily, his gaze swiveling to Pansy. "Do you know what I mean when I say that, wife?"
She blinked.
"They will no longer be a problem to your reign," she ventured, trying to phrase it as a question and failing, her certainty of her husband's nature getting the better of her.
Tom's mouth twitched, accommodating a darkened smile.
"No," he agreed. "They will not. Do you believe the Duke of Grimmauld has allies, Hermione?" he asked, turning to her, and her expression, artfully stilled as it already was, decidedly did not waver.
"He must," she permitted, her hand smoothing across Tom's shoulder and ending with her lips near his ear. "As do you," she said softly, the words nearly inaudible from where Pansy still waited across the room. "You would be wise to uncover them."
Tom's blue eyes darkened, turning glacially cold.
When they fell on Pansy's, she felt her heart stop.
"Do you agree, Pansy?" he invited. "You appear to favor Harry," he added, daring her to disagree, though his voice remained unnervingly neutral. "Unless I'm misinformed."
"I," Pansy attempted, and swallowed, suspecting outright denial would be unwise. "Favor is a strong term," she began, but Tom didn't seem interested in the rest of her answer.
"We must be a unified front, you know," Tom told her. "Or Harry's campaign, pitiful as it is, will gain momentum. You would be a powerful ally for him," he added carefully, "given the proximity of your lands, and the sway you hold with the Loyalists."
Pansy caught the minute stiffening of Hermione's fingers, but neither woman said a word.
"Do I need to ask you where your loyalties lie, Pansy?" Tom asked her, taking a step towards her to deliver himself from Hermione's reach. For a moment, Hermione's displaced hand wavered in the air before floating down to her side, and Pansy's heart rose up in her throat, his proximity dangerously looming.
"No, Your Majesty," Pansy forced out, half-choking on the words. "You are my husband and my King, and I do not forget that."
He gave her a moment; a few steady beats of time.
Then he smiled.
"Good," Tom pronounced crisply, turning back to his desk to glance over the map as the emeralds of the dagger's hilt glinted in the firelight. "Tomorrow Poliakoff and Krum will receive unpleasant news of their families in Durmstrang," he informed both women, his voice mockingly indifferent. "I suspect they will take their leave shortly after. I suspect, also, they will feel a certain sense of urgency to confess, and therefore whatever sources have conspired against me will likely be revealed. Remember, Pansy," he added, glancing over his shoulder, "it is always possible to lose everything. Even when one believes there is nothing left."
Pansy nodded numbly, feeling her knees weaken.
"But," he continued, turning to face her, "I need you. So long as you remain loyal, you are useful to me. Perhaps more useful than I thought," he added, "should Harry make any false steps. And he is so wont to step falsely, isn't he?" he remarked, chuckling, before stepping towards Hermione, bending to press a greedy kiss to the back of her neck.
Hermione and Pansy locked eyes, both women stiffening.
Then Pansy forced a nod, blinking away the image of Tom's hands closing around Hermione's shoulders.
"May I be excused, Tom?" she asked. "I'm afraid it's been rather a long night."
"Yes, of course, and a long day tomorrow," Tom agreed, the sound of it muffled mockingly into Hermione's skin. "Sleep well, my Queen."
Pansy nodded, curtseying, and turned to the door before pausing, her hand resting on the handle.
"I wonder," she began, turning slowly to glance over her shoulder at Hermione, "might I have my lady to assist me this evening? I suspect my other ladies might have gone to bed," she began, aiming for detachment. "I dismissed them for the evening, having considered their services unnecessary due to Lady Hermione's presence."
At that, Hermione's brown eyes narrowed, a flash of something terrible and cruel manifesting in them as her mouth snapped open, but it was Tom who spoke first.
"Of course," he said. "She'll be right there."
The moment that Tom permitted her service to his estranged wife, Hermione suffered an unexpected jab of something ruthlessly sharp, and far worse than pain; a realization, she thought with horror, of something she had foolishly failed to see.
Tom still had a use for his wife, she realized; far more than he had previously let on. And when Hermione battled back her temper - her fury at his ease in carelessly relinquishing her to Pansy - she found with curdling displeasure that despite her opposition, she could clearly see why.
Pansy was born to be a Queen, and carried herself without doubt; whatever wit she possessed that Tom had discounted or ambition that Tom had felt she lacked, her pedigree would never be questioned, and her popularity never scrutinized. She was a woman blessed with the right blood, the right birth, and who had borne her privilege with painstaking care; and as such, Pansy would always be valuable to Tom as long as she lived.
Hermione's power, by contrast, was checked by the Queen's very existence; Hermione's possession of Tom's favor, no matter how unwavering - and clearly, it was not - would never be enough to keep her safe so long as the King continued to see a need for another woman. The nobles did not truly care for Hermione, she knew; they were either threatened by her influence or, in the case of Draco Malfoy, actively plotting against her. Olympe's displeasure had already been made obvious, and Karkaroff was no reliable ally - so what, then, did she have?
The King, she thought; the winning piece, but only so long as she held him resolutely in her hand. Shamefully, Hermione suffered again, knowing such a realization had only one logical conclusion.
Her station would never be secure until the Queen of Diagon was gone.
Pansy walked quickly beside Hermione, putting distance between them and Tom's chambers as Daphne's voice resounded in her mind.
If Harry's plot has advanced to this point, it's only a matter of time until the King connects you with him, Daphne said firmly. And then you are in danger, and -
She had broken off, hissing sharply, and Pansy had struggled to help her sit.
You must do everything possible to survive, Pansy, Daphne begged her, flinching as she held her hand to her stomach. And we - we will have to -
Not we, Pansy said, shifting to sit beside her on the bed as she soothed her friend's pains. I will fix this myself. You've done enough already.
Daphne had nodded regretfully, her anguish doubled by fear, and Pansy had resolved to take matters into her own hands.
I will fix this myself, she thought again now, glancing askance at Hermione.
The Act
Two women exist in a battleground of conflict, their minds clouded with doubt. They walk quietly in silence, bearing their burdens separately, until they finally turn to face one another. One is a queen diminished to a liar; the other is a pauper who climbed to a thief.
The Liar turns to The Thief, her crown glinting from the torches that line the halls.
Begin scene.
oOo
The Liar: "Lady Nott is with child. It seems to pain her more than normal."
[The Thief turns slowly to face The Liar, sparing the other a glance as they pause in the silent corridor. The silence is rich, humming with things yet unsaid; while some silences are thin with disinterest or meager with fear, this one is thick, and laden with conspiracy.
The Thief blinks, as though torn from a thought, or traveling from another world entirely. The Liar persists.]
The Liar: "I don't wish to involve her in the things I'm about to say. May I presume you would not wish harm to come to her either?"
[The Thief pauses, considering the turn of events, and nods. She is surprised not by the question, but by future things; by the promise of motives that have not yet been shared.]
The Thief: "I have nothing against Lady Nott. She has been far fairer to me than any of the others, and I wish her no ill will."
The Liar: "Good. Then I must ask you to keep this between us."
[The Thief knows better than to say anything; she is practiced in her clever heists. She waits.
The Liar, by contrast, lacks familiarity with truth. She struggles.]
The Liar: "I know you know more than you said in there. Much as I regret having to say it, I have to thank you for that, but - " [She pauses.] "I have one more favor to ask you, first."
[The Thief stiffens. The light from the torches catches for a moment in her hair, and for what feels like the span of a perilous heartbeat, The Liar forcefully blinks, clearing away the image of a circlet of gold above the other woman's head.]
The Thief: "I'm listening."
[The Liar closes her eyes, steadying herself.]
The Liar: "I'll give you Harry, but you have to do something for me in exchange."
[The Thief pauses. She is not nearly as certain as she claims that her latest gambles have successfully strengthened her hand, and given what she has recently come to realize about her position, this is a tempting offer.
Still, she trusts nothing but the power she steals for herself.]
The Thief: "I could give the King information myself that would ruin you. Why would I need you to aid in your own destruction?"
The Liar: "You could have ruined me already. But you don't wish to."
[Both women nod. They already know as much.]
The Thief: "You know you are in danger, then. Even without my help."
The Liar: "Yes. I know."
The Thief: "And you don't trust your lover to keep you safe?"
[The Liar pauses. A confession awaits, and it is truer and more damaging than anything else she will say to The Thief this night.]
The Liar: "I trust that I am more use to the men of this kingdom dead than I am alive. I trust your cunning more than I trust my own fate."
[The Thief sees in The Liar's eyes how much this statement pains her. She knows The Liar will follow her heart to the ends of the earth, though whether The Liar is aware of this herself is less clear.
The Liar waits, paralyzed, for a response; she is bereft now of falsehood.
The Thief accounts for one more theft, but she borrows a skill she has learned from The Liar, and keeps this part of her plan to herself.]
The Thief, who is now The Puppeteer: "I will help you."
The Liar, who is now The Traitor: "I leave it in your hands."
oOo
End scene.
Begin devastation.
When Harry enters her chambers, Pansy faces away from him, and hears him stop in his tracks; she knows he is warned by the stiffness in her shoulders that all is not well in this room, nor in this world, nor in this love they've so negligently dreamt up between them.
"What is about to happen will feel like a betrayal," she says, "and for a moment you will hate me."
She turns to face him, her beautiful mouth lined with sorrow.
"Try not to let it last."