IV. Tell Me, Darling
A/N: If you've been wondering why this is rated R, this is the chapter where you get your answer. You have been warned. And may you enjoy. ^_^
During the next four Lucius-free days, Hermione got around two more feet of report written, which pleased her immensely, but she still hadn't even begun to choose her other two subjects. Everyone else had at least started on his or her second person.
This bothered her, but she didn't want to focus on anyone else right now, not while Lucius kept haunting her thoughts. Another psychotic fiend was more than she could handle right now.
This was reinforced by Moody's recent criticism during training.
"Concentrate, Granger!" he had bellowed. "I don't know what's on your mind all the time now, but you had better get straightened out!"
Hermione winced every time she thought of that.
Emma hadn't been much more helpful. "You look really . . . preoccupied lately," she had told Hermione.
On Sunday, she appeared at Lucius's cell at four o'clock, a bit later than usual. She brought Lucius's file back; she had finished with it.
Before Seward had opened the door, Hermione saw through the window that the faucet on the sink next to the toilet was running, though Lucius seemed to be doing nothing other than staring at the water.
She stilled Seward's hand, which had gone to his wand in order to unlock the door.
"What is he doing?" she asked.
Seward snorted. "Sometimes he just lets the water run and watches it, to amuse himself, I guess. The water supply is magicked here, so we don't try to stop him. Don't blame him. Some of the prisoners in here go mad of boredom, poor devils."
Hermione recalled reading somewhere that flowing water had a hypnotic effect. Her parents had taken her to America when she was a little girl, and they had visited Yellowstone. She still remembered the waterfalls there.
As soon as she stepped in, Lucius turned the tap off. "Good afternoon, Hermione."
He crossed to the table and sat with the air of a child expecting expensive gifts on his birthday.
"Hello, Lucius. How are you feeling today?"
"I thought we'd left feelings behind," he sighed, making a wry face.
"Indulge me."
"I feel . . . resigned, because you are going to question me relentlessly no matter how I resist. I feel mildly curious about what we are going to be covering today. Depressed and frustrated because of a prolonged exposure to dementors and stay in Azkaban," he expounded, moving his hands about restlessly. "Disgust at the presence of a Mudblood."
"You certainly describe your emotions thoroughly when I convince you to." Hermione glared at him.
Lucius shrugged gracefully.
"I saw you watching the water. Would you tell me what else you do during the day when I'm not here?"
"I told you before that I read when Seward or some other fool is good enough to give me interesting material. Otherwise, I lie or sit on my bed and think. I walk around my cell frequently so I don't become completely sedentary. There's not much else except for the water." Lucius grinned absently. "I have glorious, wet fun."
Hermione raised her eyebrows at the statement, which, when taken out of context, could have a rather perverted meaning.
"You know," Lucius remarked thoughtfully, "this is fairly therapeutic. Have you taken any classes in psychology, Hermione?"
"No," she said, puzzled as to why he was acting like a daydreaming schoolboy. He was smiling dreamily out the window. She temporarily forgot her anger. Lucius had such variable moods; it was unsettling.
"It must have been very hard to adjust to living in Azkaban, Lucius," she ventured at length. "What do you miss most about your normal life?"
His gaze wandered around to her again. "You ought to know better than to ask a formerly wealthy man what he misses most from his vast horde of treasures," he admonished mockingly.
"You're still wealthy," Hermione pointed out. "Just somewhat hampered from putting that wealth to any personally beneficial use."
"Mere technicalities," he said carelessly.
"Surely there are some things that you miss more than others."
"My cane," he conceded. "I feel . . . almost vulnerable without it."
A crocodile smile graced his features again. It suited his face, Hermione thought.
She secretly agreed that it was unusual to see him without it, as it had complemented his snobbish patrician look quite nicely, and it had had his wand concealed within. However, it was her opinion that Lucius could never be vulnerable unless he was dead or unconscious.
"Then there are all the things everyone would miss in Azkaban," he continued. "Books, good food, fine wine, proper clothing . . ."
Again Hermione privately dissented with him: only a rich bastard like Lucius would be thinking about fine wine in Azkaban.
"Freedom most of all, of course," he added, his fingers steepled before him. "Very inconvenient, as you so cleverly pointed out, to have so much money and be able to use it only for certain . . . petty things."
With a faint feeling of triumph, Hermione noted that he had been bribing the guards for hygienic/beauty supplies.
"I took a look at your file yesterday," Hermione revealed. "Your wife – she wasn't a Death Eater, was she?"
Hermione had not forgotten Lucius's insane display the first time she had asked prying questions about Narcissa, but she felt that this was significant.
"No."
"Why was that?"
"I was in the Dark Lord's service, as was her sister Bella, and Draco became one in his seventh year. Narcissa supported the Dark Lord, but we saw no need to make it a family affair," he murmured.
"Did she not want to be one?"
"Narcissa was a flower plucked from the Garden of Eden. She was fashioned too delicate for the Dark Lord's service. It fell to me to protect her," Lucius said softly.
Though Hermione would never know how Lucius had come home late at nights from Dark Revels, how he stole into the manor quietly and headed for the bathroom to manually wash away the blood and death from his hands before going to lie with Narcissa in the bed they shared, she knew that Lucius was telling the truth and she marveled at his love for her.
"And what about -," Hermione faltered and glanced at the notes taken by her quill. "What about Bellatrix Lestrange?"
Her question had not been specific – Hermione only wanted to hear what Lucius had to say about his sister-in-law.
He seemed to understand, and he replied in a low voice, "Dear Bella . . . I suppose I loved her second only to Narcissa."
At this statement, Hermione drew her eyebrows together severely. "You . . .?"
"Slept with her, yes."
"What?" After his poetic declarations of love for Narcissa, Hermione could not believe that Lucius would betray his wife like that. "Why?"
"Bella shared my taste for blood and pain, which were things that Narcissa could not give me and which Rodolphus could not bear to inflict upon Bellatrix. I needed those two things; Narcissa understood."
"And Rodolphus?" she asked, her eyebrows still raised so high that they were hidden in her hair.
"Bella was like a void," he said. "She was vast and empty and she devoured everything around her – no single man could have been enough for her. Rodolphus understood that."
"Ah." Hermione stared at her notes.
"How is your assignment going?" he inquired suddenly after a few moments of thick silence.
That was unexpected. "Well enough," said Hermione, eyebrows raised, but not at the stratospheric level they'd been at previously. "We've barely started – it lasts six months, I've told you."
"No, no. I meant with your other subjects."
"How do you know that I'm supposed to study other people?" Hermione demanded.
"Seward," he said simply.
For a while, there was silence. Then Hermione spoke abruptly.
"I've had brief meetings with the other two already," she lied.
"Seward told me that you haven't seen anyone else," Lucius contended.
"Why has he been telling you so much?" Hermione asked forcefully, ignoring his last comment.
"I asked him to clarify the situation for me," Lucius said. "Surely I have a right to know exactly why you are seeing me?"
"I told you why."
"I wanted details."
"If you knew I hadn't seen anyone else, why did you ask how it was going with my other subjects?" Hermione snapped.
"To see if you've even chosen two other people yet. Apparently not," Lucius said maddeningly. "It's interesting that you chose to lie to me."
That riled Hermione. The way he spoke – as if he were the one studying her! It was not to be borne.
Just as she opened her mouth to answer rudely, he continued glibly, "Don't be offended. It's actually quite flattering that you're so interested."
Hermione glared at his smirk. She didn't want to struggle for control anymore – not at the moment, anyway. She was supposed to be steering their conversations, and he was supposed to give answers to her questions obediently.
Her formidable intellect had always guaranteed her some degree of authority before – especially with Harry and Ron – and she was used to the great degree of influence she had held with them, even if Harry had been their implicit leader. Lucius was able to manipulate her so subtly and skillfully that she only realized it when it was too late.
She hated that and was completely set against the idea of lying back and allowing him to do so. Add the fact that he had insinuated she found him – what, extremely attractive or something? He was a complete bastard.
Consequently, this latest exchange left her unable to converse further with Lucius without giving in to her base, puerile instincts to smack him around the face.
"That's it for today," she announced harshly, stuffing her quill and parchment into her bag. The wooden chair she had been sitting on made a loud scraping sound as she stood abruptly.
Lucius made no move to get up.
"Touched a nerve, have we?"
Hermione stormed out and indicated to Seward that he ought to go in to Vanish the furniture and lock the door.
When he was finished doing so, Hermione said, "If you still have that list of prisoners available for training interrogation, could you please bring it to me? I haven't chosen my other two people yet – three are required."
"Sure." Seward led her through the intricate passageways to the front room again, where he left her to go in the side room she had often seen him emerge from. He soon came out with the list.
"Thank you."
"Will you be wanting to see them today?"
"Yes, both."
Running her finger down the list, Hermione noticed that about fifteen more people were left. Basically at random, she chose Clifton, Chloris and Dupin, Michael.
"Let's go see Michael first," she said to him.
"Okay, he's in cell 418 . . . follow me."
Dupin turned out to be a sadist notorious for his extravagant use of the Cruciatus Curse. He was an independent criminal, with no purpose other than to cause people pain.
All told, Hermione found him quite pathetic and excessively melodramatic. He attempted to frighten her by acting like a maniac and grinning terribly with his teeth bared, but Hermione only thought that he was a mere shadow of Lucius at the art of intimidation.
She left after half an hour and prayed that she would not have to endure many more sessions with him.
Clifton was, thankfully, much more interesting. Chloris reminded her of Bellatrix, actually: though not a Death Eater (most Death Eaters had been given the Kiss; she had been convicted of using the Killing Curse on a woman her husband had been having an affair with), she was aggressive and crafty. With her masses of burnished copper hair and long-lashed hazel eyes, she had no doubt been beautiful once (like Bellatrix), but Azkaban had colored her skin sallow and drawn it tightly across her face, and it had shaded dark circles under those brilliant eyes.
Like Lucius, Chloris professed intense love for her spouse (who seemed to be an asshole named Robert, as far as Hermione was concerned.
Hermione rather expected she'd be able to write a novel about Azkaban prisoners involved in romantic entanglements when her assignment was over.
Azkaban was a sad, scary place, and Hermione truly appreciated just then how appropriate it was for Auror training.
***
The next week wore by slowly, and Hermione could not get Lucius out of her mind. Even the conversations she'd had with her new subjects were not fresh or interesting enough to drive him from her thoughts. Her hatred for him, which had lain dormant for a while, flared up again.
It wasn't enough, she thought furiously, that he dominated their exchanges, but he had to dominate her mind as well? She wanted to reduce him to a puddle of tearful, shuddering flesh, and these uncharacteristically violent urges he inspired in her only caused her to resent him even more.
This strange, unwilling obsession interfered with her state of mind so badly that Moody had really let loose on her that week, even remaining unsympathetic when she had lied that she was having family problems.
Her colleagues had been more compassionate, but Hermione was jealous that none of them were so severely affected by their dangerous subjects. Supposedly everyone on the list was equally deviant and criminal.
Every time Lucius loomed up in her mind, forbidding and evil, she screamed silently at him to go away, that she would not lie back to let him domineer their discussions and that she hated him. This frightening obsession lasted until Friday.
That night she had a nightmare.
Hermione dreamed that she was in a black dungeon somewhere, naked and bound to the wall by very painful handcuffs. She was horribly cold.
Ominous footsteps echoed throughout the dungeon and grew louder as their owner drew closer.
It was Lucius. He was wearing his haute couture robes, and his flaxen hair was bound neatly in a black satin ribbon. He even had his snake head cane.
"L-Lucius. What are you doing?" She could not keep her voice from trembling.
Lucius towered in front of her and rapped his cane smartly in the palm of his other hand.
"I want you to relax and obey me," he said softly, his rapacious eyes boring into her. "If you bear in mind that I am in control, you will not suffer. It should be painless."
He left unsaid what would happen if she did not do as he said.
Without warning, he struck her fiercely with his cane. Hermione cried out and a scarlet welt rose on her skin as if it had been hiding underneath all that time and Lucius had called it to the surface, bringing with it a resonant pain.
"You are fighting me," Lucius whispered, caressing his cane with a monstrously tender grace. "I have told you not to. I shall make you a proposition, dear Hermione: if you count my strokes up to twenty, I will stop."
"No!" she yelled up at him. "I won't give in; I won't play by your sick, twisted rules!"
He smiled gently at her, his eyes glittering. "Remember that the pain will stop when you acknowledge that I am in control."
"Shut up, you fucking bastard!" Somewhere in the back of her mind, she dimly registered that she never used that word, and that she really hated Lucius.
"You are screaming nicely now - I shiver with anticipation to think how you may shriek later . . .."
Hermione was sure she had never seen him smile more charmingly.
Lucius began raining blows mercilessly on her, and she screamed so hard that her throat grew hoarse quickly, but that didn't stop her from screaming. He was fucking strong, and that bloody cane was so heavy. The exposed curving fangs of the snakehead didn't help.
He allowed a short pause after each strike, in order to give her an opportunity to start counting. His manner was almost lazy; his demonic eyes were the only thing that betrayed his merely slightly amused expression. Hermione was sure that she'd rather die than give in.
Red welts and hideous bruises appeared all over her body, and she was sure that some of her ribs were fractured. Hermione drew her knees up to protect her torso, her arms being restrained and wholly vulnerable, but he struck her knees and it goddamn-oh-holy-shit-it-hurt.
Crucio couldn't hurt much worse than this, Hermione was sure, her wrists were rubbed raw, and there was blood everywhere. Her muscles were strained to the point of snapping, from her tortured writhing on the hard ground.
She alternated between screaming like there was no tomorrow and biting her tongue. Soon it was bleeding copiously and it felt as though it were about to sever completely.
It hurt so much that she was wondering when she would faint from the pain; she even hoped for it. Once blackness overtook her, but she opened her eyes again very soon, too soon, and saw Lucius pointing his wand at her. Apparently he had revived her, and he, smirking, replaced his wand in his cane.
The blows began anew.
Lucius murmured something that Hermione could not hear over her screams, but she'd had enough, and she gasped through a mouthful of blood, "One!"
Delight lit his face, and he began hitting with renewed vigor, making it more difficult for her to count. She half expected that he would up the number just because he was an absolute sadist.
At twenty, Hermione woke at once.
Hurriedly, she threw her arms over the covers, expecting to see fearful bruises and cuts all over them. They were unmarked, but she would have sworn that she felt stinging, broken, and numb all over. She passed her hands over her face and neck in a feeble attempt to still her quickened breathing.
The clock at her bedside read 8:22. It being Saturday, Hermione had a choice of going to Azkaban to carry on with her research, or taking a break.
That ghastly nightmare still fresh in her mind, anyone would have thought that Hermione would have chosen to stay at home. Hermione herself realized that the nightmare was a twisted metaphor for her dealings with Lucius. That didn't change her resolve to go and see Lucius immediately.
As Harry and Ron would have told you in an instant, you'd have to all but kill Hermione Granger to tear her away from her work, especially a case as grueling and fascinating (dangerous and scary, call it whatever you like, but it was still intriguing) as that of Lucius Malfoy. Thus, no explanation is needed for why Hermione ate breakfast and washed up as quickly as she could before going to see Lucius.
In Azkaban, Seward raised an eyebrow at seeing Hermione so early, but wordlessly accompanied her to cell 289.
"Hermione!" Lucius cried, yawning ostentatiously. "It's quite flattering that you're so eager to see me, but couldn't you have waited until I was properly awake?"
He had been standing at the chipped sink, evidently in the middle of washing his face, for glistening droplets lingered on his skin. The resulting glowing effect made his pale face look quite ethereal. Watery morning light filtering in from the tiny barred window only served to enhance this effect.
"Good morning, Lucius," Hermione said neutrally, watching him with wary eyes.
If she had expected him to start displaying signs of the extreme violence he had shown in her dream, she was disappointed. He merely crossed the room to sit at the table.
"Do you plan to be here long?"
"Possibly."
"Would you summon Seward for me?"
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"I want to tell him to bring breakfast later. It's served at nine o'clock, but I don't want to eat while talking to you."
Somewhere in the back of her mind Hermione wondered whether that was some pureblood supremacist doctrine he was following, but she said, "I'll tell him for you."
Lucius said "Thank you" haughtily as she crossed the room to tell Seward.
"Now then," said Lucius as she sat down again, "I assume you've come here early because you've thought of something of grave importance that you must ask me?"
"No, not exactly," she said hesitantly. In the excitement of the morning, she hadn't thought about what to tell him. Certainly not that she had dreamed of him.
"Then what?" he asked, narrowing his steel-gray eyes.
"I'd like to talk with you. About anything, really. You can decide."
Moody had told them that for these interviews, they were allowed to use Veritaserum or any other suitable spell on their subjects (at their discretion) to ensure they received accurate, truthful answers. Hermione had briefly considered using such methods, but in the end she had decided that she wanted to hear Lucius's responses uninfluenced by any magic. Personally, she had doubted that Lucius would lie to her, and she had been right so far, it seemed.
At her words, Lucius had raised an eyebrow elegantly. He seemed to do everything elegantly. Hermione thought it must be an aristocratic thing.
"Since you've been learning all about me," he drawled, "why don't you give me your own autobiography now?"
Hermione had expected something like this, and she did not object. If that surprised Lucius, he hid it very well.
After she gave her own life story in as terse a fashion as Lucius had, he began asking her various probing questions, many of which made her uncomfortable, but which she answered nevertheless.
All of his questions accurately hit on a topic which Hermione could give a long, interesting, and revealing answer to – meaning all were questions she'd rather not have answered, given a choice. Privately, she thought to herself that Lucius would probably have made a better interrogator than she was. Also, she thought that Lucius must have been tremendously pleased – she yielded to his questions as docilely as a pliant reed before a breeze – though of course he showed no such pleasure.
In between the lines of his acutely inquisitive questions, Hermione could read an odd sort of hunger. It read like this:
I want your first love. I want the hollow at the base of your neck where Ronald kissed you, and you told him that you could never be. I want Harry's anger. I want Parvati's ravishing ebony locks. I want your copy of Hogwarts: A History. I want Lavender's perfect skin. I want the tears that sprung to your eyes when Professor Snape said he saw no difference. I want the stormy clouds that serenaded you when Grandma died. He wanted the world, and she gave it to him.
Her consuming obsession ended that day.
A/N: Thanks again to all who have reviewed! I'd just like to add that I have a major problem sticking with multi-chaptered stories, so I keep mine short. Meaning that this will be coming to an end next chapter. Keep the love coming! ^_^
Special mention of thanks to Raven, who was good enough to draw a lovely illustration of my story. Her webpage can be found at this url: beepworld.de/members5/thornbird.