Note:

Thanks, spadeginsu and chalseali for following the story! Thank you, une-papillon-de-nuit, for your energetic and encouraging review!

Please excuse any typos or weird sentences—this was written between eleven at night and two in the morning.

Again, all, I am sorry for the update delay... this is the week of the play, so I have been pulling some very late nights (not to mention getting in and out of character), and have little time off—much of which must be used for essay writing. I hope you can forgive the strange gaps in updates, and by November things should pick up speed (knock on wood)!

Around the middle of this chapter, Lucius receives a summons from the ministry by owl. This letter is regarding Buckbeak's trial (after the creature 'injured' Draco at the beginning of the term). This event is always getting mixed up in canon-in the books it takes place around April, but in the films Hagrid already knows that Buckbeak has been sentenced to death by the winter Holidays. I've decided to take this liberty and have it happen in February for the sake of this story's timeline.

A much shorter update, this time! I really couldn't manage a 10,000 word behemoth, and wanted to get something new out to you as soon as possible! I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling the Utmost Venerable.

Chapter Seven Totally Optional Cast (in order of appearance)

Anya Taylor-Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alice
Jack Gleeson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fynn Malfoy
Timothee Chalamet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Corbin Willoughby
Elizabeth Moss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eloise Wickham
Jason Isaacs / Lee Pace / Harry Lloyd . . . . . Lucius Malfoy

VIII | Dimly

January, February 1994
The Malfoy Manor / A Series of Houses

The day of her return to the Manor is light grey, with a miserable heaviness hanging in the air—black birds etched against the motionless sheet of clouds like unsteady handwriting.

At first, her mind is plagued by a constant, pressing fear that Lucius will find cruel means by which to punish her for leaving Fynn asleep in the tower. But there is no such punishment, and after two days of silence have passed, she wonders if Professor Snape had possibly given a good report. Perhaps, he isn't really as menacing as she had perceived him to be.

For a time, Alice allows herself to believe she's safe. She continues to ride Corbin's beloved horses at a leisurely pace around the snowy grounds, concocts new games to play with Fynn, and joins Eloise and the other maids in the kitchens to help make meals in the mornings and evenings.

She comes to realize that Draco had been right about Lucius; she is grateful that he doesn't lift a hand—or his cane, for that matter—to his son. But this doesn't stop her from being saddened by the fact that he doesn't pay any attention to the boy whatsoever. To pay Fynn back as best she can for the years of neglect he'd experienced before her arrival, the girl spends every spare moment with him, often sleeping on the rug in his room beside his bed, not able to imagine being away from him. She is sure that she feels towards the child the way a mother would towards her son, and it no longer bothers her when Fynn calls her as such.

For an entire month, life is simple. Lucius turns a blind eye to the happenings around the household, and not a glimpse of him can be caught on the grounds or in the corridors.

But then, one evening, he does return, and a house elf is sent to Alice's chambers late at night, after Fynn has already been put to bed, to tell her that her presence has been requested in the master's study. A wave of worry washes over her, but the girl keeps her head held high: something inside of her tells her that he will not be able to hurt her.

Outside the frosty windows in his chilled study, the grounds are dark, and her eyes can only make out the blurry outline of the deep blue woods against the solid, washed-out sky. Even the white of the snow, and the icy surface of the lake, is unlit by any sign of the moon, and the white beacon of the albino peacock's feathers cannot be seen anywhere among the barren tree trunks.

The green flames flicker and hiss quietly in the fireplace, and for just a moment she thinks she sees Remus's face in them, but then it is gone as the door of the study closes behind her: a cruel trick of the light and the time of night, played upon her anxious eyes.

Lucius sits in his black, tall-backed chair, facing the fireplace. The entire room has been reorganized since she was last inside it: the desk has been moved to the opposite side of the room (Alice cringes to imagine how the house elves must have labored under its weight to move it—Lucius takes great enjoyment from seeing the creatures use muggle methods to perform physical work). The surface is piled high with documents, files and books, barely organized.

The wizard himself is surprisingly disheveled, a number of his white hairs lying out of place against the wrinkled collar of his robes. The green flames' shadows dance across his face, making his eyes look deeply set in his skull, and giving his skin an eerily pallid shade. He looks both diminished and powerful in body; an uncomfortable juxtaposition of superiority and mortality that makes Alice's heart speed up dangerously.

"Draco," he says slowly, his voice full of icy thought, "wrote me to say that he thinks you're an excellent servant. I'm sure you felt watched during your time at that school—and that is because you were; and thoroughly so. I've been assured that you acted as a model extension of my intentions."

"Thank you, sir," says Alice meekly, taking a risk by speaking so soon, and unbidden. But Lucius makes no move to lash out, his face still for a long moment, before he nods his head minutely, and proceeds.

"However, I do not approve of the fact that you've made it a habit to keep the company of Harry Potter, his Weasley friend, and that incorrigible Mudblood girl."

Alice feels her forehead crease in confusion as to the unfamiliar term, 'Mudblood,' and she thinks of possibly asking the wizard to tell her what it means, knowing that to make herself subordinate in such a way might serve to protect her from any possible wrath he might be planning to expose her to.

But she'd been too late to concoct such a shield against his intentions before she'd even walked through the door. And she realizes this quite sharply with a sudden change of demeanor in the man: he sits up straighter, his jaw setting stiffly against the flames, and for the first time, he looks directly at her, his eyes almost pitch black in the absence of light.

"Come," he demands after a moment, his voice dark and cold.

She does so, having no other option, her stocking feet quiet but unbearably heavy as she makes her way across the floor, standing by the arm of his chair. His eyes are on her now, boring icily into her face, her lips, her paling cheeks, as she diverts her gaze and looks longingly into the fire, wishing for a moment that Remus might appear and rescue her, but then taking it back as a chill rushes over her at the thought of him witnessing her meekness under Lucius's demands.

"Sit," says Lucius.

"Pardon me?" Alice manages.

But he only has to look at her for her to do it, slowly maneuvering herself to sit down on his thigh, her feet leaving the ground dangerously. She hates herself for it, but her mind is already starting to pry itself slowly away from her body, as it had become adept at doing before the holidays. But another part of herself holds onto hope: maybe this will be different; maybe he won't touch her; maybe he'll change his mind; maybe he'll suddenly become disgusted with her and send her and Fynn away forever.

But these are foolish hopes. The wizard takes her chin in his hand roughly and kisses her grossly on the mouth, his tongue invading swiftly, threatening to make her gag. She holds her head still against his intrusion, and tries to send herself away to some grey, red-brushed field in autumn, tries to send herself away to a beautiful yellow and green wood, to a foggy place in cold, calm nature, tries to feel Remus's hand around hers. But she can't do it—the images are fleeting and weak, and only leave her more disgusted by the hands that are on her in reality: climbing from the sides of her head to her chest and the rest of her body like spiders.

A moment arrives at which she realizes, with a pang of horror, that she is not going to be able to escape her body this time, and there is such an element of terror in this realization, that she starts to fight back, against her better judgement—her hands suddenly pushing of their own volition against the wizard's unyielding chest, her face attempting to turn away from his locking mouth. Though her power begins to surge inside of her body, she fights even harder to remain silent: the thought of Fynn hearing her cries is unbearable.

"Shut up, little bitch," hisses Lucius, breaking away from his soliciting kiss, somehow whispering and roaring at once. "You don't want to have to explain yourself to the boy, do you?"

And Alice is suddenly certain that he had, indeed, read her mind—the way Remus had done on that day at Hogwarts. Quickly she erects what she hopes might serve as a barrier around her innermost thoughts, but still, she does as he'd told her, and as she'd told herself, staying silent in the face of his continued molestations. There is no one in the manor who can help her—except for, perhaps herself. But though her mind hasn't gone away, her strength most certainly has.

She keeps struggling, though, unable to help the instinct as Lucius's hand bunches up the skirt of her nightgown and painfully grips her womanhood. That's when she sees it—for a split second, when she's pulling on the sleeve of his coat, bunching it up along his forearm, and begging him quietly to have mercy on her. The mark. Or, the tip of it—a slight black curl of ink... but more than ink. She is startled by it, and almost looks further, her fingertips making contact with the chilled skin of his arm.

But just as soon, his sleeve falls again, and she is being thrown to the floor with a hard shove that leaves her body burning, her face pressed viciously into the freezing floor, her cheekbone on the verge of shattering, already, as Lucius straddles, settling his heavy, cold weight on top of her. She knows this feeling too well—but this time, there is a new angle to his actions, to the movements of his body. Something so familiar that she feels, suddenly, that she will be trapped on the floor forever, as he continues to force her down, more roughly than ever before, her face feeling as though it might fracture into a million pieces, like the head of a very old and tired doll.

He increases the pressure upon her skull as he leans down, but still her head withstands his assault as his freezing, snake-like breath trickles into her ear. "Don't let obtaining a glimpse of the light," he whispers frigidly, "trick you into thinking you're in it. That is a fool's mistake. And you'll thank me someday for warning you about it."

The thought flits into her head, that Lucius Malfoy must be a sad man to believe such a thing. But promptly she cuts herself off. Empathizing with the monster atop her is not an option. She must think of Fynn, must think of Remus and Draco and Harry... but her mind won't settle on anything other than the feeling of the frigid air against her skin as her skirts are pulled up.

She is entirely stuck in the miserable vessel of her corporeal self, as he brutally shoves himself into her, invading more than her body with his sharp thrusts. His hand covers her mouth, smothering her, and her cheek becomes burned as it is ground repeatedly into the floor, the wetness of her tears making the friction ever-harsher.

At the end of it (though, really, it isn't an end, only the beginning of a short hiatus until the next round of misery), he pulls her to her feet with such speed that the blood rushes violently to her head, rendering her momentarily blind. She is sent back to her chambers without the house elf from before as an escort—for which she is grateful, for the silence of one of the poor creatures always makes the coldness of the house more intense.

On her journey up the great quiet staircases, and across the frigid dark corridors, she feels her body being inducted into the age of the house, her limbs stiffening and her heart slowing to a point at which she is forced to kneel down on the floor until she can bear to rise again.

Back in her chambers—incapable of looking in at the precious sleeping face of Fynn, for fear that she will somehow hate him, or find him changed in a demonic way—she eases herself down onto the floor next to the long-dead fire, and prays for Remus to appear there. Not only his face in the gravelly embers, but a real, solid arm, outheld to pull her through the floo network to safety. But no such rescue appears.

She sits there for hours, feeling herself diminish like a piano chord, until the early morning, when suddenly, beyond the cold glass windowpane, the moon reveals itself: full, a perfect white disk, casting away the veil of grey clouds which had inhibited its light. She looks up at the sensation of cool light on her face, and crawls on all fours to the window, gripping the windowsill for dear life as she observes the celestial body, her lips open and trembling: the lips of a water-deprived traveler at the sight of a well.

This, she knows, is a message for her—Remus's consolation to her, from somewhere faraway, and yet, nearby.

From beneath her pillow she draws her wand, feeling its energy warm her thin, drained hand, and with trembling knees she whispers, "Expecto Patronum," her breath fogging against the frigid glass. A comforting flourish of blue, pulsing sparks emanates from the tip of her wand, and soon, two little wolves the size of glass ornaments appear in the air above her, dancing, chasing each other around in circles. She looks up at them, the ghost of a smile passing across her lips and her exhausted eyes, the sight keeping her aloft, if only barely.

She can only maintain her outward strength for so long before Fynn begins to notice her battered state. Eloise and Corbin have long since been aware of her various injuries, both of the body and of the mind, but Fynn, upon seeing them first, is so shocked that Alice, too, is forced to look at herself in the mirror and remind herself that such markings are not normal.

The boy almost cries at first sight of her wounds (the rash on her cheek, the bruises on her shoulders, collarbones and elbows, the red spots on her jaw and neck from Lucius's ruthless mouth, and the perpetual, fall-induced limp she suffers from), and so Alice is compelled to conceal them magically, more afraid that Fynn might become upset by or afraid of her, than she could ever be afraid of the damage being done to her own person.

Nightly, she is called to Lucius's study, nightly she is pinned down, nightly evil is hissed into her ear while he forces his manhood into her body. Her disgust and loathing for all things, but mostly herself, is unmatched at the moment when he releases himself into her, and in the minutes that follow, when the product of his twisted relief rolls down the insides of her thighs throughout her miserable, stiff walk back to her cold, lonesome chambers.

Yet she continues to bear it, incapable of running away for Fynn's sake, knowing that to try to rationalize the cruelty would mean falling into madness. Dumbledore's promise to help her escape by spring grows more and more distant as the machine of time cranks out week after week, though something within her still retains a spark of hot fire, her magic alive and well behind the strong, tall walls of an impeccably-built fortress.

In the middle of February, an owl arrives just after noon, carrying a summons for Lucius from the Ministry of Magic. The bird is quite dignified, landing on the mantel above the green-flamed fireplace rather than on the desk, and doesn't leave feathers anywhere, or squawk irritatingly: Alice knows it's a Ministry bird.

Lucius, without explaining the letter, takes off in a self-satisfied storm of wine-red robes and sharp white hair, the serpent-head handle of his staff shining cruelly in the meager grey light of the morning. Alice watches him go down the walkway, reaching the gates and then apparating off the grounds with a flourish of his robes and a dramatic crack, which she's come to know he prefers to accompany his departures and arrivals—unless he intends to unpleasantly surprise the household with a silent return.

A kind of heavy relief descends upon her like a drugged sleep once he has left, and she breathes out quietly, her breath fogging against the glass of the mullioned window. For a minute, she stands there, unbothered, looking out at the fog-blanketed grounds. But soon enough, her numbness is interrupted by the sound of sharp footsteps clicking against the floor behind her, and she turns around to find the maid, and her closest friend at the manor, Eloise Wickham, standing at the door into the corridor.

"Hurry up," she says to Alice, her eyes wide and bright with anxiety. "We don't know how much longer we have until he comes back. This could be one of his tests."

"Why? What's going on?" says the girl, something in Eloise's tone making her suspicious of ulterior motives.

"Dumbledore," whispers the maid under her breath. "I'm the agent. The network he spoke to you about, it's ready—they're prepared to take you, now, but we must hurry." The woman reaches out her hand to Alice, her hand steady though her voice trembles. "Please, Alice. There might not be much time."

The maid can see quite clearly in the girl's eyes that a wary excitement has arrived in her soul, and soon enough the girl has crossed the room and taken the woman's hand, allowing herself to be led out into the corridors and down multiple flights of stairs as Eloise continues to explain the situation: a pair of wizards involved in the ploy are stationed on a muggle residential street at the border of the Malfoy estate, and will take her to the first location in the complex network, built to distract the ministry and Lucius from tracking her down, by this very night.

It's not until they've reached the door down into the servants' quarters (from which Alice assumes they will escape using the cellar door into the tunnel that lets out several meters from the rear of the manor) that a flash of worry cuts across the girl's consciousness. "What about Fynn?" she says breathlessly, her heart suddenly dropping out of its intended seat in her pounding chest.

Eloise's own heart sinks, a part of her rearing up in spite for Albus Dumbledore. She's known him to often leave emotionally loaded elements of his plans for other people to execute on his behalf, but this has reached a new level entirely. "That is the cost," she says to the girl, nodding her head and breathing in, retaining her composure.

At all costs, Dumbledore had said.

"It would be too much of a risk to bring his child along with you," she explains, her voice thickening with pain as she watches the implications of her words dawn on Alice's face. "This is the way it must be done."

Alice, it goes without saying, resists. Eloise knows that she must act, knows that this is of utmost importance, not only to the girl, but to the world.

At all costs, Dumbledore had said. And the maid repeats the words to herself, now, inside her head, knowing the fate that awaits her if she does what she knows must be done, and knowing she will do it, nonetheless. She must. At all costs. At all costs.

"What are you doing?" says Alice, her voice tight and panicked, as Eloise tightens her grip around the girl's wrist, and removes her wand from her pocket.

Premonition races across the younger witch's face.

"I'm sorry," says Eloise, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye.

But Alice doesn't act fast enough.

"Imperio," the maid whispers.

Spells used in this chapter:

1. "Expecto Patronum," the Patronus-casting spell
2. "Imperio," one of the three unforgivable curses, used to manipulate whoever it is used on

I had to listen to Sam Smith throughout the entire writing process for this chapter, just to get into the right headspace to portray Alice's development accurately—there was just no other way. It was very difficult to write, even if it was quite a bit shorter than my usual updates are.

I really started this story because I wanted to explore the detrimental impacts of the pureblood aristocracy in the Harry Potter universe upon women who are trapped in that system. The very first line of this fanfiction, "No one notices the maid," is a big reflection of that, and I think that one of many reflections of this theme is found in this chapter when Eloise uses the Imperius curse on Alice. This was a very powerful moment, and even if its full impact won't be known until later, when things start to collide and line up more, I still hope it struck you guys, in a way.

Thank you for not plagiarizing my writing!

On_Errand_Bad

3,875 words

Saturday 24 October, 2020