II. Toujours Pur
The next morning, Hermione still didn't feel up to facing Lucius again – he was a madman among madmen – so she headed to the Ministry to review her notes. She could have stayed at home to do that, but going to the Ministry let people see that she was doing something.
Mad-Eye had devised a schedule for them, which went like this: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday were spent doing physical, magical, and mental training with Moody, which left the weekend and Monday free. Ideally, the Aurors-in-training would spend some of their free days at Azkaban interviewing their chosen prisoners.
It was now Sunday. So when Mad-Eye saw Hermione walking to her cubicle, he called out to her.
"Granger!"
She turned slowly. "Yes, sir?"
"What are you doing at the Ministry? Shouldn't you be interrogating Malfoy?"
"I was thinking that I should devote today to examining my notes thoroughly, and I could visit him tomorrow. He's got a very convoluted mind, sir," she explained glibly. It wasn't exactly a lie, for which Hermione was glad, because she couldn't lie to save her life – especially not to someone like Moody.
"Ah." Mad-Eye regarded her for a while. "Not a bad plan. Good thinking, Granger."
"Yes, sir." Hermione nodded to him respectfully, and he walked away.
The cramped, but neat cubicle Hermione sat in was shared with Emma, but she was apparently at Azkaban today. Hermione was thankful; she didn't want to discuss Malfoy with any more people.
On the roll of parchment she'd taken to Azkaban was a good foot or so of small, meticulous handwriting that strongly resembled her own. Another parchment was taken out of a drawer and deposited to the first one, and Hermione also took out a quill and a bottle of blue ink.
Loading her quill with the blue ink, she began to read what the Quick-Quotes Quill had written.
The way he had treated her in the beginning puzzled her as much as it had back in the cell. Knitting her brow, she scribbled, "Initially behaved in a civil manner."
Further notes included such observations as:
"Kept remarkably cool and composed until end."
"Did not use term 'Mudblood' until thoroughly enraged."
"Answered every question, if not cooperatively, except for request that he describe second capture."
"Why did he love his wife but not his son?"
"What sort of relationship did he really have with Narcissa?"
On and on it went. When Hermione finally stopped an hour later, she was left with no clearer a picture than when she had started. He did not appear wholly mad, as she had first thought, but he was a little unstable. The Order had already suspected as much, but it seemed that the instability had been better concealed – or controlled, as it were – when he had not yet been imprisoned.
What unnerved her the most, Hermione decided, was his composure. She could not understand how someone as proud as Malfoy could stand the humiliation of Azkaban and the defamation of his family name as calmly as he had seemed to.
Suppressing a shudder, Hermione took all her things and left the Ministry. She would take a break for today – maybe go shopping or something. Too much Malfoy could be dangerous for one's health.
***
At 3:00 in the afternoon the next day, Hermione Apparated to Azkaban again. The break she had taken yesterday had done wonders for her state of mind.
In the front room, Hermione showed the thin man a badge issued to all in her group that granted them access to the prisoners at all times. He nodded curtly at her, and pressed a button on the wall.
A guard entered from a side room. Hermione recognized him as the one from yesterday. They began walking down the corridor.
"How is Malfoy?" she asked.
The guard grunted. "He's fine. We've got several Patrol members well trained in Healing, so his cuts were healed in a minute. Damned if I know where he got that knife from, though."
"So you don't know?" Hermione repeated incredulously.
"We're investigating it," he demurred. "Don't worry, it won't happen again, Miss."
"Oh." That was all Hermione could think of to say. Personally, she agreed with Mad-Eye Moody: Azkaban still didn't seem like an extremely secure prison.
It was sunny that day, so the gloomy air was dispelled – somewhat.
When Hermione entered Lucius's cell, he was again sitting on the bed.
"You're not to do anything dangerous or threatening like that again, Malfoy," the guard warned him. "Or we'll throw you to the dementors."
Lucius simply stared contemptuously at the man as if he were not important enough to require that Lucius deign to respond.
The guard made an irritated noise, conjured a table and two chairs again, and went out. Hermione was glad.
Once he was gone, Lucius moved to sit down. His movements had a fluid grace in them that Hermione marveled at involuntarily.
She sat down as well.
"Allow me to apologize for my behavior yesterday, Miss Granger," said Lucius, sounding as if he were proclaiming that gold had been found in South America.
His voice was so arrogant and his attitude obviously non-repentant that Hermione only nodded in response. In essence, she acknowledged but did not accept the apology. If it could be called that.
Like before, she placed the Quick-Quotes Quill poised over a roll of parchment. That done, she began.
"I asked you yesterday, Mr. Malfoy, how you liked Azkaban, but you never answered," she stated evenly.
"Was that really a genuine question? I thought it was a bit of rhetoric sarcasm," he drawled.
"It's a serious question," she confirmed, watching him closely.
"What's not to like?" he asked sarcastically. "I've got a fantastically Spartan bed," he motioned to the austere bed in question, "a lovely little window in the door where anyone can watch me defecate in the corner," he glared with loathing at the dirty toilet in the back, "and if I'm lucky, sometimes the guards feel generous and give me their newspapers to alleviate the boredom.
"Of course," he added, "recently, further amusement has come in the form of a pretty little Mudblood who asks me prying, personal questions."
"It's my pleasure," she muttered.
Lucius smiled crookedly, but his eyes remained cold.
"Tell me how you feel about your surroundings," she continued.
"Feelings again? I never would have guessed that you could care so much."
Hermione shrugged. The morbid little episode of the past day had restrained her temper considerably.
"I'm writing a thorough report on you, Mr. Malfoy. I need the information. I'm writing about two other people as well," she added.
"I see. I'm flattered. Well then, I suppose I'll supply you with several useful adjectives. They're disgusting. I loathe them. It's exceedingly degrading."
"So," Hermione prodded, "you feel that you are above these surroundings. Do you think they are appropriate for Muggle-borns?" She wanted to explore his feelings of pureblood supremacy.
He was supremely disdainful. "Obviously."
"Why are purebloods so superior to Muggle-borns and half-bloods?"
"For one thing, you can always be sure of a person's worth if they come from centuries of selective breeding," he declared, his face turning into an ugly mask of hatred and contempt.
"Wouldn't you say the term 'inbreeding' is more accurate, sir?" Hermione attempted to correct him.
Lucius was dismissive. "Accuracy is not important. Those who are not pureblood come from long lines of haphazard rutting. Illegitimate children, whorish mothers, and lecherous fathers ensure that there are no half-bloods alive who have no disgraceful blood in them. As for Mudbloods," his lip curled in contempt, "they are far worse. They hover between the Muggle and Wizarding societies, belonging to none. They can never understand true wizards, and yet they are not satisfied with the stink of their Muggle origins. A Mudblood is an aberration. An anomaly." He kept his mocking gray eyes trained on her throughout his offensive speech.
"Surely it does not matter what someone is born as?" persisted Hermione, staring determinedly back at him and fighting down the urge to slap him. She was not thirteen anymore. "Wouldn't you agree that what someone grows up to be is more important than their parentage?"
"That is the logic typical of the fool Dumbledore, yes, I recognize it. And do you know, it would make sense, except for the fact that purebloods always grow up to become adults superior to Mudbloods and half-bloods." Lucius smirked, confident in his reasoning.
Hermione thought from his second sentence that she might have a chance at forcing him to see sense.
"Tell me honestly," Hermione demanded, "who made a better adult, Vincent Crabbe or me?"
"You consider yourself an adult?" Lucius retorted.
"Then who would have made a better adult?" she insisted.
Lucius scowled. "Crabbe. If only by virtue of his pure bloodlines."
"Okay. What if we were both purebloods?" Hermione asked, feeling that she was winning this round. His scowl did not escape her, and it puzzled her, for no doubt Lucius was an accomplished liar and could easily have fooled her into thinking that he truly thought much more of Crabbe, idiot though he was, than of her.
"I could never pretend that you were pureblooded," he answered insolently.
"Can you pretend that Crabbe and I were both Muggle-born then?"
"Perhaps," he allowed grudgingly.
"Then who would be better?"
"You, Miss Granger."
"You place too much importance on the purity of blood!" Hermione cried, her point having been made. "If you didn't know that I was Muggle-born, you probably would have thought more highly of me than Draco!"
"How do you know I didn't already think that?" he murmured swiftly.
That threw her. She stared at him. "What?" she demanded.
"Purity of blood is everything, Miss Granger," he said smoothly. "I can tell what type of blood someone has. Always. I can smell it." Something dark and sinister loomed in his eyes.
"You said something before that," Hermione said. "I'm asking you what you said."
Lucius looked at her with amusement and lazily slid his slender fingers under her chin. He tilted her head up and whispered, "You are not in a position to ask me anything, dear girl."
That hideous endearment again. Hermione opened her mouth to protest but abruptly closed it. She had fooled herself by thinking that she was in charge, but Lucius was a devious Slytherin, and too formidable an opponent for her. She had relinquished control the moment she'd stepped into his cell.
Lucius laughed and withdrew his hand. "Dirty blood smells like decay and corruption. It stinks of the filth and the abhorrent fornication from whence it comes. It is a subtle, insidious stench that no perfume or magic can ever conceal. Never." He smiled. Then he wiped his hand fastidiously on his robes.
"They took my gloves," he explained in a childishly mournful tone, though his expression was derisive.
Hermione was resolved to continue her work with Lucius, but now she could never forget that Lucius dominated their interactions.
"Why did you support a half-blood in the war?" Hermione challenged feebly.
"The Dark Lord . . ." mused Lucius. "He was powerful. And the heir of Salazar Slytherin. But he lost. If he had been pureblooded, it would have been different."
"You groveled at his feet. You have made it clear that you think half-bloods and Muggle-borns are to be despised and exterminated. You are inconsistent, Mr. Malfoy."
"It was not his fault," said Lucius, shrugging elegantly. "His mother was quite pureblooded, but the father . . ." His voice trailed off, making it clear that Tom Riddle's mother deserved a fate worse than death for marrying a Muggle. "He was so close to being a pureblood."
"That is still incongruous with your other beliefs," Hermione repeated.
Lucius refused to speak.
Knowing when she was fighting a losing battle, Hermione reluctantly decided to drop that subject. "Did you grieve his loss?"
"It was disadvantageous for me, personally, of course. But I had no sentimental attachment to him," scoffed Lucius, who pushed a strand of white-blond hair which had fallen forward back behind his shoulder.
"I see." Hermione glanced over at her parchment, which was quite full with black scrawls, and the quill showed no sign of slowing.
"Another Dark Lord will rise again," Lucius stated matter-of-factly. "It's only a matter of time."
"That may be true," conceded Hermione cautiously. "And you think he will help you escape from Azkaban?"
"He will of course have heard of me," said Lucius superciliously. "With my reputation of having been in the Dark Lord's inner circle, my substantial financial assets, and my skills, which are rather impressive, if I do say so myself – any future dark lords would be foolish to overlook me as a useful subordinate."
"On a side note, why are you content with the position of subordinate instead of master?" Hermione wondered. It seemed another inconsistency in Malfoy's character.
"Because authority figures are always at greater risk," Lucius elucidated.
That sounded like something Moody had said before, Hermione thought.
"And like the first time Voldemort fell, you can always get back into the public's good graces by saying you were forced to aid the fallen dark lord against your will," Lucius went on.
"Very shrewd," Hermione commented.
Lucius gave her a crocodile smile.
"And what if no second Dark Lord rises during your lifetime?" she questioned.
"Then I'll rot here and assist him from hell. The devil shall whisper in my ear and I will whisper in his."
It was horrid how Malfoy's teeth never showed, even when he was smiling his crocodile smile. Hermione suddenly decided that no matter how intimidating he became, she would not cease trying to take control of the situation or yield. Sometimes the vaunted Gryffindor courage really was useful.
Hermione was feeling the strange foreboding way she had felt before Lucius had pulled out a knife and slashed himself last time.
"There will be no second Dark Lord," she asserted, more to herself (for her own comfort) than to Lucius.
"You think so?" Lucius's gray eyes were sparkling with mirth; he seemed to find this extremely funny.
"You are very wrong, Miss Granger." And he tilted his head back and laughed.
Hermione instantly rose, knocking her chair backwards with the violence with which she moved. The rich, deep laughter reverberated throughout the room and Hermione shrieked, her wand in her hand emitting red sparks profusely.
The burly guard stormed in again, and bellowed, "Petrificus Totalus!"
Lucius's body froze up and the awful laughter stopped, but Hermione could see his eyes and they were still laughing. She hurriedly stuffed her quill and parchment back in her bag.
The guard, who had bent over Lucius, stood up and looked upset. "I'm sorry, Miss, I don't know what's got into him lately. He's usually quiet."
"It's okay. I'm fine," she assured the guard. "I'll just . . . be leaving now."
He nodded and she strode from the room, shuddering. The laughter was just as frightening as the knife incident, and Hermione seriously wondered whether she shouldn't give up on him. In itself, the laughter was not hysterical or maniacal, but it scared her all the same. His erratic and disturbing (not to mention somewhat dramatic) manner, coupled with the fact that he was always in control, upset her very much.
As Hermione nodded to the thin - receptionist, as it were – her hand went up to the tender spot under her chin where his pale fingers had rested, and she closed her eyes in horror.
The horror resulted not only from his touch, but also from the realization that she was fascinated with Lucius and wanted to see him again – a horrified fascination, yes, but fascination nevertheless.
Hermione wondered if Lucius had intended his actions to have this effect. He had said something to the effect of her being an interesting diversion – and she did not doubt that Azkaban was intensely dull.
He was exceedingly confusing.
He was dreadful.
He was fascinating.
She hated him.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I've never written Lucius/Hermione before, so all feedback is greatly appreciated.
To those who mentioned that my fic is like The Silence of the Lambs, thank you for pointing that out. I must look like a terrible thief now; I've nicked the title from a Sylvia Plath poem, and it looks like I've stolen the plot from Silence. Well, I've admitted that the title isn't mine, but I have never read Silence or seen the movie. I really hope that when I read it (which I will ASAP), more similarities don't crop up between my story and that one (I've written pretty much the entire story now). If it does, I'll feel like a plagiarist . . . *shudder* It would mean a lot to me if someone tells me how the second chapter compares to Silence.
The next morning, Hermione still didn't feel up to facing Lucius again – he was a madman among madmen – so she headed to the Ministry to review her notes. She could have stayed at home to do that, but going to the Ministry let people see that she was doing something.
Mad-Eye had devised a schedule for them, which went like this: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday were spent doing physical, magical, and mental training with Moody, which left the weekend and Monday free. Ideally, the Aurors-in-training would spend some of their free days at Azkaban interviewing their chosen prisoners.
It was now Sunday. So when Mad-Eye saw Hermione walking to her cubicle, he called out to her.
"Granger!"
She turned slowly. "Yes, sir?"
"What are you doing at the Ministry? Shouldn't you be interrogating Malfoy?"
"I was thinking that I should devote today to examining my notes thoroughly, and I could visit him tomorrow. He's got a very convoluted mind, sir," she explained glibly. It wasn't exactly a lie, for which Hermione was glad, because she couldn't lie to save her life – especially not to someone like Moody.
"Ah." Mad-Eye regarded her for a while. "Not a bad plan. Good thinking, Granger."
"Yes, sir." Hermione nodded to him respectfully, and he walked away.
The cramped, but neat cubicle Hermione sat in was shared with Emma, but she was apparently at Azkaban today. Hermione was thankful; she didn't want to discuss Malfoy with any more people.
On the roll of parchment she'd taken to Azkaban was a good foot or so of small, meticulous handwriting that strongly resembled her own. Another parchment was taken out of a drawer and deposited to the first one, and Hermione also took out a quill and a bottle of blue ink.
Loading her quill with the blue ink, she began to read what the Quick-Quotes Quill had written.
The way he had treated her in the beginning puzzled her as much as it had back in the cell. Knitting her brow, she scribbled, "Initially behaved in a civil manner."
Further notes included such observations as:
"Kept remarkably cool and composed until end."
"Did not use term 'Mudblood' until thoroughly enraged."
"Answered every question, if not cooperatively, except for request that he describe second capture."
"Why did he love his wife but not his son?"
"What sort of relationship did he really have with Narcissa?"
On and on it went. When Hermione finally stopped an hour later, she was left with no clearer a picture than when she had started. He did not appear wholly mad, as she had first thought, but he was a little unstable. The Order had already suspected as much, but it seemed that the instability had been better concealed – or controlled, as it were – when he had not yet been imprisoned.
What unnerved her the most, Hermione decided, was his composure. She could not understand how someone as proud as Malfoy could stand the humiliation of Azkaban and the defamation of his family name as calmly as he had seemed to.
Suppressing a shudder, Hermione took all her things and left the Ministry. She would take a break for today – maybe go shopping or something. Too much Malfoy could be dangerous for one's health.
***
At 3:00 in the afternoon the next day, Hermione Apparated to Azkaban again. The break she had taken yesterday had done wonders for her state of mind.
In the front room, Hermione showed the thin man a badge issued to all in her group that granted them access to the prisoners at all times. He nodded curtly at her, and pressed a button on the wall.
A guard entered from a side room. Hermione recognized him as the one from yesterday. They began walking down the corridor.
"How is Malfoy?" she asked.
The guard grunted. "He's fine. We've got several Patrol members well trained in Healing, so his cuts were healed in a minute. Damned if I know where he got that knife from, though."
"So you don't know?" Hermione repeated incredulously.
"We're investigating it," he demurred. "Don't worry, it won't happen again, Miss."
"Oh." That was all Hermione could think of to say. Personally, she agreed with Mad-Eye Moody: Azkaban still didn't seem like an extremely secure prison.
It was sunny that day, so the gloomy air was dispelled – somewhat.
When Hermione entered Lucius's cell, he was again sitting on the bed.
"You're not to do anything dangerous or threatening like that again, Malfoy," the guard warned him. "Or we'll throw you to the dementors."
Lucius simply stared contemptuously at the man as if he were not important enough to require that Lucius deign to respond.
The guard made an irritated noise, conjured a table and two chairs again, and went out. Hermione was glad.
Once he was gone, Lucius moved to sit down. His movements had a fluid grace in them that Hermione marveled at involuntarily.
She sat down as well.
"Allow me to apologize for my behavior yesterday, Miss Granger," said Lucius, sounding as if he were proclaiming that gold had been found in South America.
His voice was so arrogant and his attitude obviously non-repentant that Hermione only nodded in response. In essence, she acknowledged but did not accept the apology. If it could be called that.
Like before, she placed the Quick-Quotes Quill poised over a roll of parchment. That done, she began.
"I asked you yesterday, Mr. Malfoy, how you liked Azkaban, but you never answered," she stated evenly.
"Was that really a genuine question? I thought it was a bit of rhetoric sarcasm," he drawled.
"It's a serious question," she confirmed, watching him closely.
"What's not to like?" he asked sarcastically. "I've got a fantastically Spartan bed," he motioned to the austere bed in question, "a lovely little window in the door where anyone can watch me defecate in the corner," he glared with loathing at the dirty toilet in the back, "and if I'm lucky, sometimes the guards feel generous and give me their newspapers to alleviate the boredom.
"Of course," he added, "recently, further amusement has come in the form of a pretty little Mudblood who asks me prying, personal questions."
"It's my pleasure," she muttered.
Lucius smiled crookedly, but his eyes remained cold.
"Tell me how you feel about your surroundings," she continued.
"Feelings again? I never would have guessed that you could care so much."
Hermione shrugged. The morbid little episode of the past day had restrained her temper considerably.
"I'm writing a thorough report on you, Mr. Malfoy. I need the information. I'm writing about two other people as well," she added.
"I see. I'm flattered. Well then, I suppose I'll supply you with several useful adjectives. They're disgusting. I loathe them. It's exceedingly degrading."
"So," Hermione prodded, "you feel that you are above these surroundings. Do you think they are appropriate for Muggle-borns?" She wanted to explore his feelings of pureblood supremacy.
He was supremely disdainful. "Obviously."
"Why are purebloods so superior to Muggle-borns and half-bloods?"
"For one thing, you can always be sure of a person's worth if they come from centuries of selective breeding," he declared, his face turning into an ugly mask of hatred and contempt.
"Wouldn't you say the term 'inbreeding' is more accurate, sir?" Hermione attempted to correct him.
Lucius was dismissive. "Accuracy is not important. Those who are not pureblood come from long lines of haphazard rutting. Illegitimate children, whorish mothers, and lecherous fathers ensure that there are no half-bloods alive who have no disgraceful blood in them. As for Mudbloods," his lip curled in contempt, "they are far worse. They hover between the Muggle and Wizarding societies, belonging to none. They can never understand true wizards, and yet they are not satisfied with the stink of their Muggle origins. A Mudblood is an aberration. An anomaly." He kept his mocking gray eyes trained on her throughout his offensive speech.
"Surely it does not matter what someone is born as?" persisted Hermione, staring determinedly back at him and fighting down the urge to slap him. She was not thirteen anymore. "Wouldn't you agree that what someone grows up to be is more important than their parentage?"
"That is the logic typical of the fool Dumbledore, yes, I recognize it. And do you know, it would make sense, except for the fact that purebloods always grow up to become adults superior to Mudbloods and half-bloods." Lucius smirked, confident in his reasoning.
Hermione thought from his second sentence that she might have a chance at forcing him to see sense.
"Tell me honestly," Hermione demanded, "who made a better adult, Vincent Crabbe or me?"
"You consider yourself an adult?" Lucius retorted.
"Then who would have made a better adult?" she insisted.
Lucius scowled. "Crabbe. If only by virtue of his pure bloodlines."
"Okay. What if we were both purebloods?" Hermione asked, feeling that she was winning this round. His scowl did not escape her, and it puzzled her, for no doubt Lucius was an accomplished liar and could easily have fooled her into thinking that he truly thought much more of Crabbe, idiot though he was, than of her.
"I could never pretend that you were pureblooded," he answered insolently.
"Can you pretend that Crabbe and I were both Muggle-born then?"
"Perhaps," he allowed grudgingly.
"Then who would be better?"
"You, Miss Granger."
"You place too much importance on the purity of blood!" Hermione cried, her point having been made. "If you didn't know that I was Muggle-born, you probably would have thought more highly of me than Draco!"
"How do you know I didn't already think that?" he murmured swiftly.
That threw her. She stared at him. "What?" she demanded.
"Purity of blood is everything, Miss Granger," he said smoothly. "I can tell what type of blood someone has. Always. I can smell it." Something dark and sinister loomed in his eyes.
"You said something before that," Hermione said. "I'm asking you what you said."
Lucius looked at her with amusement and lazily slid his slender fingers under her chin. He tilted her head up and whispered, "You are not in a position to ask me anything, dear girl."
That hideous endearment again. Hermione opened her mouth to protest but abruptly closed it. She had fooled herself by thinking that she was in charge, but Lucius was a devious Slytherin, and too formidable an opponent for her. She had relinquished control the moment she'd stepped into his cell.
Lucius laughed and withdrew his hand. "Dirty blood smells like decay and corruption. It stinks of the filth and the abhorrent fornication from whence it comes. It is a subtle, insidious stench that no perfume or magic can ever conceal. Never." He smiled. Then he wiped his hand fastidiously on his robes.
"They took my gloves," he explained in a childishly mournful tone, though his expression was derisive.
Hermione was resolved to continue her work with Lucius, but now she could never forget that Lucius dominated their interactions.
"Why did you support a half-blood in the war?" Hermione challenged feebly.
"The Dark Lord . . ." mused Lucius. "He was powerful. And the heir of Salazar Slytherin. But he lost. If he had been pureblooded, it would have been different."
"You groveled at his feet. You have made it clear that you think half-bloods and Muggle-borns are to be despised and exterminated. You are inconsistent, Mr. Malfoy."
"It was not his fault," said Lucius, shrugging elegantly. "His mother was quite pureblooded, but the father . . ." His voice trailed off, making it clear that Tom Riddle's mother deserved a fate worse than death for marrying a Muggle. "He was so close to being a pureblood."
"That is still incongruous with your other beliefs," Hermione repeated.
Lucius refused to speak.
Knowing when she was fighting a losing battle, Hermione reluctantly decided to drop that subject. "Did you grieve his loss?"
"It was disadvantageous for me, personally, of course. But I had no sentimental attachment to him," scoffed Lucius, who pushed a strand of white-blond hair which had fallen forward back behind his shoulder.
"I see." Hermione glanced over at her parchment, which was quite full with black scrawls, and the quill showed no sign of slowing.
"Another Dark Lord will rise again," Lucius stated matter-of-factly. "It's only a matter of time."
"That may be true," conceded Hermione cautiously. "And you think he will help you escape from Azkaban?"
"He will of course have heard of me," said Lucius superciliously. "With my reputation of having been in the Dark Lord's inner circle, my substantial financial assets, and my skills, which are rather impressive, if I do say so myself – any future dark lords would be foolish to overlook me as a useful subordinate."
"On a side note, why are you content with the position of subordinate instead of master?" Hermione wondered. It seemed another inconsistency in Malfoy's character.
"Because authority figures are always at greater risk," Lucius elucidated.
That sounded like something Moody had said before, Hermione thought.
"And like the first time Voldemort fell, you can always get back into the public's good graces by saying you were forced to aid the fallen dark lord against your will," Lucius went on.
"Very shrewd," Hermione commented.
Lucius gave her a crocodile smile.
"And what if no second Dark Lord rises during your lifetime?" she questioned.
"Then I'll rot here and assist him from hell. The devil shall whisper in my ear and I will whisper in his."
It was horrid how Malfoy's teeth never showed, even when he was smiling his crocodile smile. Hermione suddenly decided that no matter how intimidating he became, she would not cease trying to take control of the situation or yield. Sometimes the vaunted Gryffindor courage really was useful.
Hermione was feeling the strange foreboding way she had felt before Lucius had pulled out a knife and slashed himself last time.
"There will be no second Dark Lord," she asserted, more to herself (for her own comfort) than to Lucius.
"You think so?" Lucius's gray eyes were sparkling with mirth; he seemed to find this extremely funny.
"You are very wrong, Miss Granger." And he tilted his head back and laughed.
Hermione instantly rose, knocking her chair backwards with the violence with which she moved. The rich, deep laughter reverberated throughout the room and Hermione shrieked, her wand in her hand emitting red sparks profusely.
The burly guard stormed in again, and bellowed, "Petrificus Totalus!"
Lucius's body froze up and the awful laughter stopped, but Hermione could see his eyes and they were still laughing. She hurriedly stuffed her quill and parchment back in her bag.
The guard, who had bent over Lucius, stood up and looked upset. "I'm sorry, Miss, I don't know what's got into him lately. He's usually quiet."
"It's okay. I'm fine," she assured the guard. "I'll just . . . be leaving now."
He nodded and she strode from the room, shuddering. The laughter was just as frightening as the knife incident, and Hermione seriously wondered whether she shouldn't give up on him. In itself, the laughter was not hysterical or maniacal, but it scared her all the same. His erratic and disturbing (not to mention somewhat dramatic) manner, coupled with the fact that he was always in control, upset her very much.
As Hermione nodded to the thin - receptionist, as it were – her hand went up to the tender spot under her chin where his pale fingers had rested, and she closed her eyes in horror.
The horror resulted not only from his touch, but also from the realization that she was fascinated with Lucius and wanted to see him again – a horrified fascination, yes, but fascination nevertheless.
Hermione wondered if Lucius had intended his actions to have this effect. He had said something to the effect of her being an interesting diversion – and she did not doubt that Azkaban was intensely dull.
He was exceedingly confusing.
He was dreadful.
He was fascinating.
She hated him.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I've never written Lucius/Hermione before, so all feedback is greatly appreciated.
To those who mentioned that my fic is like The Silence of the Lambs, thank you for pointing that out. I must look like a terrible thief now; I've nicked the title from a Sylvia Plath poem, and it looks like I've stolen the plot from Silence. Well, I've admitted that the title isn't mine, but I have never read Silence or seen the movie. I really hope that when I read it (which I will ASAP), more similarities don't crop up between my story and that one (I've written pretty much the entire story now). If it does, I'll feel like a plagiarist . . . *shudder* It would mean a lot to me if someone tells me how the second chapter compares to Silence.